It’s the middle of the bank holiday weekend, and for the first time in many months I am in the garden without having to do anything about the garden. It’s all finished; it only remains for the plants to grow a bit. I stand and stare, willing them to hurry up.
The day turns warm – record-breaking warm. A neighbour drops round for a drink on her way elsewhere. We sit outside, listening to the birds and the leaf blowers, while my wife indulges in one of her favourite pastimes: listing all the things she would do if I died.
“The thing is, if Tim sadly passed,” she will say, with a strange light in her eyes. She will then name some of the men she would sadly go on to marry. Sometimes she’ll talk about sadly chucking out all my stuff, or sadly buying a horse, as if my continued existence were the only barrier to such a plan.
Today, however, we are discussing the difficulties involved in re-entering the singles scene in middle age.
“The thing is, if Tim sadly passed, I’m not sure I could be bothered with all that,” my wife says.
“Sadly passed?” our friend says.
“It sounds hideous, having to go out and meet strange old people,” my wife says.
“Who are actually your age,” I say.
“Exactly,” she says. “I think I’d rather be alone.”
“You’ll still have The Archers,” I say.
“That’s true,” she says. “That’s all I need. Hang on.” She gets up and walks into the kitchen. A light breeze drags the last of the cherry blossom to earth. Tiny butterflies loop drunkenly through the freshly planted beds. A few houses along, someone is hard at work with an angle grinder.
“I’m fine, as far as I know,” I say.
“That’s good,” our friend says.
“Unless she’s opened a letter from the GP or something…”
“More wine!” my wife says, emerging with an open bottle.
After another glass of wine my wife’s prospects for future romance in the event of my demise seem to brighten: she names a name. Then another.
“Actually, if you were to sadly pass, I might have to marry him,” she says.
“He’s already married,” I say.
“Obviously she would have to sadly pass as well,” my wife says.
“Are they aware of this arrangement?” I say.
“They know.”
“I have to go,” says our friend.
“I never think about what I’m going to do when you sadly pass,” I say.
“Don’t you?” she says. “I do.” It turns out she has a mental file of women I should marry next, in ranked order.
“To be honest, I always imagined I would use the time to catch up on my reading,” I say.
“Seriously, if I were to sadly pass, you could do a lot worse than…”
“Just put the list on the fridge or something,” I say.
After our friend leaves, my wife decides it’s too hot to sit outside, and goes upstairs for a nap.
I decide I might enjoy sitting in the shade with an iced coffee, but there is no shade, or ice, or coffee. The youngest one walks into the kitchen, looking bleary-eyed. In one hand is his phone, which is playing a YouTube video at top volume. His other hand, I notice, is holding an iced coffee.
“Did you just put an empty ice tray back in the freezer?” I say.
“I did indeed,” he says.
“That’s a sin,” I say.
“But is it, really?” he says.
“People go to hell for less,” I say.
I fill the ice tray with water, and settle for an inch of cold wine in a hot glass and a seat in the scorching sun. In the garden next door, people are having lunch outside. From the other direction I hear the bright laughter of small children. Directly behind me someone is having the sort of party that combines a barbecue with the repeated use of a pneumatic tyre changer. I look down at my reddening arms, and for a terrible moment I feel utterly alone: alone with my thoughts, my inch of wine and my ever-changing moles. I hope the moment passes before I do.