Widows

‘Don’t touch!’ he snapped. He put on white forensic rubber gloves, removed the watch and turned the face over to reveal the faded inscription.

‘To Harry — love, Dolly — 2/12/62,’ whispered Dolly. Somehow she managed to maintain control. ‘That’s my husband’s,’ she said. ‘That’s Harry’s.’ And her world collapsed.

‘We took it from the wrist of a dead body.’ The lead detective paused to gauge her reaction. ‘The charred, dead body of a man.’

Dolly grabbed the watch, backing away from the detective until she hit the far wall of the room. The female officer came after her, hand held out.

‘That’s evidence!’ she said. ‘Give it here!’

Dolly held on to the watch with all her strength. Shock had made her lose all inhibition. ‘You’re lying!’ she screeched. ‘He’s not dead. He’s not!’ As Harry’s precious watch was pried from her fingers, she hissed, ‘I want to see him. I need to see him!’

The female officer had had enough. ‘There’s nothing left to see,’ she said coldly.

All the way home in the police car, Dolly kept telling herself that it could not have been Harry, even though the voice in her head kept whispering to her... She’d given that watch to him on their tenth wedding anniversary. He’d kissed her and promised that he would never take it off. Dolly had loved the way he would glance at it; would hold his arm out straight, turn his wrist and watch the light catch the diamonds. He was never without his Rolex — even in bed. For their next anniversary, she had bought him a solid gold Dunhill cigarette lighter engraved with his initials. He’d laughed and told her that, like the watch, he would always carry it with him.

But, even so, she could not accept that he wouldn’t be coming home.

Audrey had arranged Terry’s funeral. It was a quiet family affair, just a few drinks back at the house, nothing special; besides, Shirley was still in such a state that it was all Audrey could do to get her dressed.

Greg, Shirley’s punk brother, helped out as best he could, but he was still very young and couldn’t cope with his older sister’s outpouring of emotion. When Shirley had tried to jump into the grave on top of the coffin, he’d been so embarrassed he’d walked off and attached himself to a completely different and far more dignified funeral party.

No headstone had yet been ordered because Audrey hadn’t liked to ask for money, but she planned to arrange something as soon as Shirley was back on her feet. She had high hopes of Shirley going back onto the beauty queen circuit; with her stunning looks, Audrey thought her daughter could make it through to the Miss England heats. In fact, she had already put her down for Miss Paddington... she would bring that up later, when Shirley wasn’t crying so much.

Linda was in the living room of the crowded Pirelli family council flat. All Joe’s relatives had been invited to the funeral and wake and were howling and carrying on in voluble Italian, dressed from head to toe in black. Her mother-in-law, Mama Pirelli, had been cooking for days, preparing a feast — pasta, pizza, salami — you name it, it was on the table. Linda was an orphan and had no family of her own to invite. As for friends, the lads from the arcade where she worked never really knew Joe, so Linda was getting very drunk on her own. She could sense the guests watching her, shaking their heads at her bright red dress. She didn’t care.

Looking round the sea of tearful faces, Linda suddenly spotted a woman at the far end of the room and recognized the little blonde slag she’d seen with Joe a few weeks ago. Blazing with fury, she pushed her way through the guests toward the weeping woman.

‘Who the hell invited you?’ Linda screamed. She’d give her something to remember him by! She threw her glass of wine over the girl and would have laid in to her if Gino, Joe’s younger brother, hadn’t pulled her away in time. Holding Linda tight as she sobbed, Gino whispered soft comfort in her ear, and casually placed his drunken hand on her right tit.

Consumed by grief, Dolly Rawlins had barely eaten. She felt as if night and day had blurred together, but somehow, on autopilot, she had agreed to bury her husband. She sat in the living room wearing a neat black suit and black hat with a small veil. She smoothed her black kid-leather gloves over and over, feeling her wedding and engagement rings through the soft leather. Wolf sat on the sofa beside her, his little warm body pushed against her hip.

Even today, Dolly was a strikingly composed figure; her sandy hair was immaculate, her make-up was discreet and her manner was businesslike. She was a woman determined to let no one share her very personal and very private grief. They couldn’t possibly understand and the last thing she wanted was anyone suggesting that they did.