The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

body

mortgage. While I summoned the willpower to raise fork to mouth, I watched my neighbor’s cat Winston, a sturdy ginger tom, meticulously grooming himself on my terra-cotta paving tiles. I’m not usually fond of cats; I dislike the way they scuttle under parked cars or squeeze through railings when you make friendly overtures. Winston, though, is an exception. He stands his ground when you approach him, and tolerates stroking and petting until he’s had enough, at which point he yawns, stretches and pads away at his leisure. He’s intimidated by no one and feels no need to ingratiate himself. He calls to mind Kipling’s “The Cat that Walked by Himself,” one of my favorite stories as a child. I remember my father, in his more lucid moments, sitting me on his

they will at The Bull’s Head. She wouldn’t’ve wanted china teacups and polite conversation.” “That’s exactly what she would’ve wanted. That’s the sort of person she was. She wasn’t a pints-of-beer-and-a-knees-up kind of woman.” “Well, that’s what it’s going to be, Suze, and everyone’s going to have a

chance, I repeated the folding exercise with a lightweight gray trench coat and placed it between the shoes. After adding a black linen skirt, a charcoal T-shirt and a thin gray cotton sweater, I rolled up my underwear and fitted it into the remaining gaps. As I locked my front door and turned to wheel my suitcase to Clapham North

to myself. I leaned forward. “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I live in London, and this happens all the time. Not usually for this long, but I promise there’s nothing to worry about.” “How can you possibly know that for sure?” snapped the doom-monger. “You can’t. You don’t know any more than we do. I just want to get off this train right now.” I often wonder why I bother. “Once again, sorry for the severe delay, which I’ve just been informed is due to the preceding train breaking down outside Tottenham Court Road station. The engineers are in attendance, and we hope to have you moving again shortly.” The announcement seemed to shatter the general mood of forbearance, and everyone started talking at once. “I’ve got a train to catch from Euston in fifteen minutes.” “I’m supposed to be meeting a group of overseas students at the British Museum

down Blackthorn Road, past the other neat 1960s semis and occasional self-effacing detached

which she approved, and the goings-on at number 18, of which she didn’t. Afterward, I washed the dishes and my mother dried, then I phoned for a cab. It came sooner than expected. I gave her a quick peck on the cheek before hurrying down the path. My last sight

work.” “You must be Rob. I don’t believe we’ve met.” “Oh, yeah we have, a few times, when you were going out with Phil. It was before, you know, the accident. So it must’ve been years ago.” He picked up the kettle and filled it at the sink. “I noticed there’s some herbal tea if that floats your boat.” “I know what my mum keeps in the cupboard. I’ll make my own

morning, so...” Sickened by the sight of the room, and unsettled by the presence of Edward’s friend, I edged past, picked up my suitcase and went upstairs. The door to my mother’s bedroom was ajar. I put down my case and pushed it open. Immediately the familiar smell hit me; a mixture of camphor, lavender bags and lily of the valley eau de toilette. Mercifully, the bed had been stripped, but other than that the room looked exactly as I assume it had done on the night she died; there was still a half-full glass of water on the bedside table, along with my mother’s pill case, a National Trust magazine and her reading glasses. I began to feel light-headed, so I perched on the edge of the Lloyd Loom chair, across the back of which my mother’s balding pink chenille dressing gown laid abandoned like a shed skin. The bedroom was dominated by the six-piece bird’s-eye maple suite of which she was excessively proud. I remember her telling me that it cost

a silver-framed photograph of the four of us standing in front of a traction engine. I walked over and picked it up. In it, I looked about nine years old and Edward looked about seven. My parents were in the center of the picture; I was holding my father’s hand and Edward was holding my mother’s. We were all smiling, just like a fully functioning normal family. I replaced the photograph on my mother’s dressing table, next to a dish of potpourri, and drifted to the bay window behind it. Pushing back the net curtain, I saw my mother’s navy blue Volkswagen Polo approaching the house and turning into the driveway. For a moment, I felt a spasm of guilt at the prospect of being caught by my mother snooping in her room, and then I remembered. As I watched through the window, Edward got out of the car, stretched, hitched up his black jeans and reached across to the passenger seat for his trademark

unpacking the shopping, and Rob—who had changed into jeans and a T-shirt—was leaning with his back to the sink. The CD had been changed; there was now some discordant modern jazz assaulting my ears. Edward stood, screwed up the carrier bags and threw them into the corner by the bin. “Hi, Suze, looking a bit peaky. Been making yourself at home?” he said. “I’ve got just as much right to as you.” “Touchy. I didn’t say you hadn’t, did I?” I walked over to the kettle, reboiled the water and made myself a cup of peppermint tea. “We’ve got things we need to talk about, Edward. In private.” “Shall I make myself scarce?” Rob asked. “No, you’re fine where you are. I’m not getting into anything heavy now.

road.” * * * The slow, inching journey to the crematorium passed in complete silence. I could have challenged Edward there and then about the ghastly wreath, but I was determined to maintain the decorum of the occasion. An argument in the back of the funeral car would be unseemly. Edward, who took the view that the seat belt laws didn’t apply to him, was leaning forward, picking at the skin around his fingernails. I sat back on the cold leather seat and observed the parade of high-summer city life. When I was a child, I remember people stopping what they were doing and bowing their heads as a funeral procession went past. It was clear, however, that no one was paying us the

slightly

at the local registry office and nine months afterward gave birth to my cousins Wendy and Christine. The builder, Uncle Frank, despite his unpromising beginnings, turned

bottle. “Wendy, Chrissie, looking as luscious as ever,” he slurred, leering at them. “You’d

medium brown hair was neither too long nor too short; his build was neither muscular nor slight; his eyes (which held my gaze as an equal) were a modest hazel; his skin had a wholesome glow; he was taller than me, but not excessive in height. His way of dressing

relinquish my seat for the elderly on public transport, often prompting feelings of shame

underground and train that morning. There was

fundamentalist group with a less-than-believable cover story.

another reason why it’s imperative that I secure my

that the stubborn creature would follow me. I contemplated barricading the door,

day for each employee. This would enable Trudy

wriggling into the most impractical swimwear I’d

possible to achieve when your forehead’s been