“That was the first time in my life I was happy…the happiest I ever would be. And I never told you.”

There’s always one moment in life that passes without you saying what you really wanted — needed — to. For Ruth that day came after the death of her beloved husband Trip.

She and Trip had fitted together perfectly, right from the very start, and their marriage was filled with love, happiness and adventure. Determined to leave nothing unspoken, Trip has left nine letters, taking Ruth on one last adventure - scattering his ashes in ten locations that have meaning for them both.

The letters take Ruth on a journey across the world, but also back through her marriage, and the life she thought they had shared.

They had been so happy. Hadn’t they?

At once heart-breaking and uplifting…

Farewell Trip is a must read. Prepare to smile through your tears!

Farewell Trip

Karin Dixon & Gary Twynam

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013

Copyright © Karin Dixon & Gary Twynam 2013

Karin Dixon & Gary Twynam asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2013 ISBN: 9781472074256

Version date: 2018-07-23

Karin Dixon & Gary Twynam

They’ve been married for years, just not to each other.

She lives in Bristol. He lives in Shropshire.

She has three children. He has none.

She’s a bit chick. He’s a bit lit.

They both like Neil Diamond.

You can see our journey towards publication and onwards at:

http://garytwynamandkarindixon.blogspot.co.uk/

catch Gary’s musings on life at:

http://www.garytwynam.com/

or follow us on twitter

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Endpages

About the Publisher

A huge thanks to all those friends who provided valuable feedback and support along the way - including Jo and Mike Berry, Catherine Barnes, Constance Fleuriot, Ally Kessler, Hazel Grian, Christabel Smith and Gracie Dixon. Not forgetting Karin’s wonderful children, Ellie, Izzy and Malin.

Simon True and Jenny Philips, for reasons known only to themselves, each made it their personal mission to see the book published and without them we would still be touting it around agents and publishers, with little hope. We wish all unpublished authors out there such devoted and determined friends.

Finally, many thanks to the lovely people at HQ Digital, especially Lucy Gilmour.

To Mark

and

To Anne

CHAPTER ONE

Lampeter, January 2010

I should wash you off me. It wasn’t as easy to scatter your ashes as I’d imagined. There was spillage. And I wish I’d considered the wind direction. At the very least I should wash my hands before I eat this panini, which is what a cheese and onion toastie is called in Conti’s these days, apparently.

On the plus side, the coffee hasn’t gone upmarket. No shiny chrome espresso machine here. It’s even in the same glass mug. It tastes like University.

How many mornings did I come here for one of these?

Practically every day for three years, and always on a Sunday; nothing else was open then, especially not the pubs. If I could be bothered I’d work out how many of these coffees I drank.

You’d do it, Trip, if you were here, wouldn’t you? In your head; and tell me how much it cost too.

I can’t believe Mr Conti is still here. He seemed close to retirement in those days, yet here he is thirty years on, looking exactly the same. I swear he used to wear that shirt when we were here.

I shouldn’t have expected him to recognise me. After all, how many students have passed through his doors since then? You’d have worked that out, too. But, well, I thought I’d stood out when I was here … obviously not.

So, here I am in Lampeter, just like you asked me. Doing as I’m told, for once. At least no one’s around to see it and take advantage. Sat here with what’s left of your ashes, and your box of letters.

It’s just a box; a flat, plain box. You could at least have found a nice box, Trip, for your final present: nine plain envelopes. The top one says, Letter 1: Lampeter. Then eight more envelopes, and pages and pages of timetables, itineraries, and a larger brown envelope saying, Do not open until instructed.

I can’t believe you did this. When did you do this, and why? Why on earth would you? I know we spoke about this but I never took it seriously. How come I never knew?

Drive to Lampeter. Stay in The Falcondale. Walk to the top of Magic Mushroom Mountain and open the first letter. I can’t believe it’s a month since I first read that instruction. We often discussed what should happen to us after our deaths, didn’t we? It’s never bothered me much — just tip me in a cardboard box and bury me under some trees, I won’t be around to see it.

But you, you were always quite specific.

‘I want my ashes scattered in places that have meant something to me, staging posts; lots of places, actually. You’re going to have to go round the world, scattering me bit by bit.’

‘A limb here, an eye there, that’s very touching. How do you imagine me doing this, pray? And where shall I put your willy?’

‘Steady on. Let’s see. How about Penistone or Cockfosters? Ooh, no, I know: Cockermouth. Perfect. Pretty please; if you loved me you would.’

‘Go on then. I’ll do it, and I’ll bring a date.’

Of course, I’ve looked at all the envelopes so I know the itinerary: Lampeter, Siena, Cornwall, Paris, Sydney, New York, Shropshire, Bristol, Reigate.

Some of it half appeals. Some of it is obvious. Only some of it, though; and some of it worries me: Shropshire. Why there, Trip? And Reigate. What, I’m going to have to go to your parents’? And Sydney — surely not?

I don’t know why I’m talking to you like this, like you’re here with me. You want to know something, love? I had no intention of coming. The thought of coming back here was too much. I wanted to do what you’d asked but, well …

In fact, whilst you’re taking my confession, this isn’t the first time I’ve read this letter. I read it a week ago, at home, drunk.

When I found the letters I decided to read them all, one after the other. But then I read the first one and I could hear you talking to me, so real. It felt like I had a piece of you back. Part of me wanted to tear open all the other letters and devour them, but a bigger part of me was ashamed that I hadn’t done what you’d wanted. So I came here, to start again. To see how it went. And now you’ve made me want to carry on, do them all.

So here I am, Trip, in Conti’s. Doing as you wanted. God, I need a tissue. I’ll have to use the paper napkin. I’m not going to cry again. I’m not. Not in Conti’s. Not in front of Mr Conti.

Concentrate on something else. Read your letter again.

Letter 1: Lampeter

Allow me a guess. You’re not on top of Magic Mushroom Mountain, are you? I knew it. Allow me two more guesses. You’re either:

a) at home, three quarters of the way down a bottle of Malbec, and couldn’t help yourself,

or

b) in Conti’s. You meant to walk up the hill but it was raining and you didn’t have the right shoes on and besides, there it was as you walked past and you hadn’t been there in at least twenty years and, whatever, you fancied a coffee.

Fair play to you either way; we know that if it was me I’d have opened the last envelope and read the last page, just like I did with every book I ever read. Trust me, Ruthie, don’t do that. It’ll be fun. You love this sort of thing. Go with it.

Indulge a dead man.

I did a Top Twelve originally, of places to be scattered, which is just silly. Obviously, it should be a Top Ten. And I realised two of the places were for me, just for me: Fulham Football Club, Craven Cottage — the place you ventured into that one time and swore you’d never visit again — and Wimbledon Common, my own little escape from London life. The others are for us, about us. Celebrate us.

So, if you don’t want to play, don’t. But, if so, scatter me somewhere just for me. I’d be happy at Craven Cottage. Or dump me in the Queen’s Mere on the Common.

But if you want it to be about us …

See, only on page one and already you’ve been blackmailed from beyond the grave. How about that?

Everyone’s supposed to remember the first time they saw the love of their life, aren’t they? Well, I’ll be honest, I can’t. In my defence, I was drunk. I’m not even sure about the place. It was at one of those student parties in a hall of residence, but I can’t for the life of me remember which one.

You don’t even remember this as our first meeting, do you? You always say we first met watching Brideshead Revisited, so I guess I’m allowed a little latitude. Besides, we’re both right. Our memories of our first meeting are correct as our own individual memories — which is the thing with memories.

I didn’t spot you across a crowded room. It wasn’t love at first sight, but it was certainly something. You were in a green dress that matched your eyes and you had the reddest hair I’d ever seen, tumbling over your shoulders. Every few seconds you had to sweep it out of your eyes, not like one of those girls who do it as a look-at-me gesture, but as a quite unconscious habit. I fixated on your hands as you did so. It was the first time in my life I’d noticed someone else’s hands. Your fingers were so long and beautiful. Your nails were less so, bitten right down.

So, I was staring at you and you were preparing to throw yourself into an argument from halfway down the corridor, all red hair and indignation, and I watched from afar. I have no idea what the argument was about. I think it was politics or sexual relations or something. The rugby club, in true caveman style, were giving Sally — or Yellow Jumper, as I knew her — some stick.

She was outnumbered and you were the cavalry. It was High Noon, cleaning up Dodge. You were Shane but, to be honest, a scared Shane. It wasn’t what you said that stayed with me; it was the brief look of terror on your face as you prepared to launch yourself into the fray. And the catch in your voice, and the way you said, ‘Fuck’. I really liked the way you said fuck. It sounded right. It wasn’t, how shall I say, common? As though every sentence was going to contain at least two tired fucks until the day you died. And it wasn’t a posh fuck either. It was a drunk fuck, with just the right mix of trepidation and anger. A good fuck.

And then there was that exam walkout. I appear to be spotting a pattern.

We were sitting in that room below freezing, beyond freezing, each of us thinking: this is ridiculous. We can’t be expected to do an exam in this cold.

You stood up, moved to the door, looked around and we followed. Bloody Hell; we all followed the girl with the hair and the cute arse right out of there.

I thought, um, what did I think? I thought ‘Yowser’.

You once read one of your self-help books and for years were full of this line, ‘What’s the most important criterion for friendship?’ You’d make people answer and they’d say, loyalty, or kindness, or one of a hundred abstract nouns.

You’d let them finish and, with a look of victory on your face, you’d go, ‘No … proximity.’

There’d be silence, or a groan and someone would change the subject. And that’s about right, but the more I heard you say that, the more I’d get it. Nearly all our lifelong friendships were forged in that small university town in the middle of nowhere. Where, hopefully, you are reading this.

I’ve thought all through this undertaking that you’re more likely to simply open all the envelopes and read the letters, without actually bothering to go to each place. I could hardly blame you. It does seem a lot to ask, a bit much. But if you’re there — perhaps just to try the first one, to suck it and see — if you are there, how’s it going so far?

Lampeter was our great good fortune, wasn’t it, proximity-wise? The size of the place meant we got to know everyone. Other universities, all other universities, may be bigger; but I bet it’s much easier to become isolated in the crowd, end up meeting far fewer people. We were allowed to grow up in a nice, safe environment — on a full grant, in your case. A three-year pupation from adolescent to adult, and it certainly was for you; a maturing, a growing.

I’m not sure I changed much. But then, as we know, I was born older than you.

Still, the point is we were ideally proximate. We had three years in a place where we didn’t have to hang onto the first people we came across for fear of crushing loneliness. We could take the whole university and grow friendships wherever we felt comfortable. We could pick and choose. And that’s what I think you were doing during our college years, Ruth, I think you were choosing.

Choosing your future life …

I don’t think you were fully aware of it at the time, but some part of you knew you weren’t going back home afterwards, so you had to be going somewhere new. And you didn’t want to do it alone. So the three years had an element of a selection programme about them and, looked at that way, eventually I was the one.

And I always thought: why me, Ruth? Why me?

* * *

Why indeed? You’re right, though I hate to admit it, and I’d never have told you. I did choose you.

The first time I saw your face I knew you were someone special. There was a voice that said, ‘He’s the one’. Although, to be fair, I had that voice about other people too. As though I had a list, which I suppose I did in a way, and you were definitely on it from that moment. Pow! Toby ‘Trip’ Masterson, in with a bullet. You went to the top of the list, Number 1 on my internal league table, right from the start.

Oh, you were good-looking for sure, with all that dark, too long hair flopping into your wide blue eyes. And the fact you didn’t know it was appealing. But it wasn’t your looks that got me. There was something about you.

I’ve never really been able to define what it was, not entirely, but I think part of the pull was your sheer happiness; so different to me, all Shropshire wilderness, like the Stiperstones in winter. You reminded me of my dad’s laugh. It’s quite pleasing you thought I made the choice. It implies a sense of control and decisiveness, as if I knew what I wanted, went out and grabbed it.

The reality couldn’t have been more different. And the choice seems even more accidental now. You were attracted to me because of the exam walkout?

I didn’t know that.

I didn’t even realise you were in the room because we never discussed it. Thank God. Because your memory is almost completely wrong. The whole episode was an innocent mistake, a question of timing. It was nothing to do with me. Even before the exam the hall was full of would-be rebellion.

There were a few empty threats, ‘Let’s strike’ and the like, but I was just, well, an unwitting catalyst, to be honest. I actually put my hand up to ask to go to the toilet — like a schoolgirl — and was on my way to the door. But it was so early on that other people must have assumed I was walking out. I reached the doors and heard a scraping chair behind me as someone stood up and I looked around to see what was happening. And for some reason, some weird reason, everyone took that look as a signal to get up and go. Everyone. It was mad.

As for the first time we spoke, oh, that I remember. Even at the time it felt like the start of something, though it wasn’t much of a start. There you were, waiting for Brideshead Revisited in the TV room, with a bottle of white wine secreted under your seat because you thought it was against the rules to take in alcohol.

Warm Liebfraumilch.

What a wanker, I thought, trying to pretend to myself my tummy wasn’t flip-flopping all over the place. Then Laura pointed you out. ‘What kind of a twat,’ she muttered, ‘drinks wine in the TV room when everyone else brings a couple of cans of beer?’ Sally gave her a big elbow shove. ‘Sshhh, they’ll hear you.’ But Laura just laughed.

You were dismissive of the programme before it even began, you and your friends. But, in spite of the wine and your running criticism, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. You were so relaxed, so confident, so at home. You laughed and laughed, that’s what I noticed: the sheer glee with which you inhabited the world.

It was magnetic.

I spent the entire hour concentrating more on the back of your head than I did on Sebastian Flyte. And I didn’t watch the final ten minutes at all, being completely occupied in trying to think of something clever to say to you then trying to summon up the courage to actually say it. All I could manage in the end was some inane comment to Laura about public schoolboys not recognising their own kind when they saw them.

You heard, though, and you knew I was talking about you, didn’t you? You turned round, grinned your grin and offered me a swig. ‘Hallo, Totty, want to come to the bar so I can put you right about my schooling?’ You sounded quite, quite posh to me. And so arrogant.

Of course, it turned out you weren’t arrogant at all, just young and clumsy and full of warm white wine. And you weren’t nearly as posh as I thought you were, just well brought up and well educated. But for a village girl from the back of beyond you seemed the height of sophistication. You might have landed from another planet. And though it didn’t appeal in itself, it didn’t put me off either. I had to pretend it did though, and I said something stupid, spluttered it really, about not being totty and then realised what I’d said and blushed and had to drag Sal and Laura off before I made even more of a fool of myself.

We went to the bar, obviously.

My heart hurts. I can feel the sound of your voice deep inside me. Nothing seems to make it better, and I keep catching myself rubbing my chest in public like I could make it better — makes me feel like an idiot. No one tells you about missing a voice, its timbre, its particular phrasing.

I can hear you so clearly here, here where we met, as if you’re back in your room at college waiting for me. As if the words in your letter have brought you back to me. Maybe I will open all the letters, right here, right now. If I open them, you’ll be here, you’ll talk to me.

If I shut my eyes I can imagine you sitting in the plastic seat opposite, stirring a second crafty sugar into your coffee, making the noisy clinking of teaspoon against cup that gets on my nerves. Your hair will be too long and you’ll have a cut on your chin from shaving. I want to hear your voice. I want to see you.

Student Union Bar, Lampeter, October 1981

She ducks into the Ladies, pretending she needs a pee, and peers at herself in the mirror, frowning. One friend produces a hairbrush and the other a tube of mascara which she uses, feeling a bit better about the whole effect. When they go in he’s leaning back against the bar waiting to be served, watching the door. She blushes as their eyes meet and pulls her glance away, but her friend pushes her towards him and she walks over to queue beside him. He turns to her with a big smile, pleased she came over.

‘So, you have a name, I suppose?’

‘Of course, but I don’t give it to every Tom, Dick or Sebastian; especially if they refer to me as totty.’ She knows she should be outraged by the term.

‘Easy, tiger, Totty’s your nickname. Didn’t you know? We’ve got no clue what your real names are, so we make them up so we can talk about you behind your backs. They’re just identifiers, an age-old tradition. Frankly, Totty’s rather a good one, I’d say, since we might well have christened you Ginger. And it could have been worse.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, your friend over there is Yellow Jumper. And the other one’s Mrs Muck.’

‘I like that jumper of Sally’s. Sally, that’s her name. I’m Ruth, Ruth Britten. And Mrs Muck, well, that’s Laura and I wouldn’t say that to her face if I were you.’

‘Hallo, Ruth. No offence. In fact, can’t remember how she got that name, nothing to do with me. Tom’s the one with the love-hate thing going on with her. Or Dick. Or maybe Sebastian. No, definitely Tom. I think it’s something about her looking down her nose at us; turns him on, apparently. That, and the way she walks as though she’s got a broom stuck up her arse. Actually, I quite like that too … so, Totty, I mean, Ruth, nicknames aside, what’s your beef with public-school boys? Not that I am one, of course.’

‘What? Apart from the fact they don’t know when to shut up and let the rest of the room watch the TV in peace?’

‘Ah, yes, sorry about that. Braying, not attractive is it? Mea culpa. That’s Latin. For my round, I think. What you having?’

‘Oh, well … Carpe diem and all that. Snakebite, please. Only … no, don’t bother, Laura’s going to get served ahead of us, she’s getting me one. What’s your name anyway?’

‘What, I don’t have a nickname? Oh, now I am disappointed,’ he says, pouting.

‘Trip.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Your nickname, because I saw you once — I mean, we saw you once and … oh, never mind.’ She blushes, aware that he now realises she’s noticed him before.

‘Trip. Well, Ruth-Totty, my name’s Toby, Toby Masterson. Toby Trip Masterson. Pleased to meet you.’ He holds out his hand, not noticing the beer splashing over him.

‘And that’s another thing about public-school boys. You shake hands.’

‘Of course, training for the corporate world. How was it, firm and manly? But with a hint of gentleness, trust and compassion?’

She can’t help but laugh. ‘And only very slightly damp. Just why do you shake hands? It’s an old man’s thing.’

‘Hmm, yes, I suppose it is. I have a theory. It may be mine, it may not. But my theory is that people are actually born at a certain age. You know, within them somewhere their clock is set at a certain year. And their life is either building up to that age, or falling away from it. And you can tell with some of us because it’s obvious we aren’t at our age yet. Me, I’m thirty-five; always have been. Have always felt I’m treading water till I get there and then, finally, I’ll be comfortable. I’ll fit myself. Do you like older men?’

‘As long as they don’t have damp palms, or hairy ones for that matter.’

‘Or a hairy back. I’d draw the line at that, if I were you.’

They stand there thinking of what to say next, neither wanting the conversation to end. ‘So, you’re thirty-five? Why that age?’ It’s his shirt that makes her ask. Every other male in the bar wears a T-shirt, but he has on a rumpled blue shirt, now with damp, beery patches. She wonders if it’s an affectation.

‘Actually I don’t know. Plucked it out of the air one day to explain how I felt and it stuck. Seemed old at the time, ancient. Not sure it is really, is it? I may be very much older. Not sure I should have mentioned it now…’

Head to one side, she studies him. ‘I think it’s OK. I can see you at thirty-five, actually. It’ll suit you.’

‘Well, if we still know each other when we’re thirty-five you can say I told you so.’

‘Ha, as if … Look out, Laura’s coming back. That’s an awful nickname. And she doesn’t really look like she’s got a broom stuck up her arse.’

‘Looks like she wouldn’t mind one though … Oops, sorry, drink talking. Besides, she’s not my type.’

‘Rubbish, Laura’s everyone’s type.’

‘Nah. Too self-possessed. Scary. I think you’re a bit in awe of her. You shouldn’t be. And don’t think you have to copy her either.’

‘Who, me? I don’t copy her!’ She looks over at her friend and blushes again. She knows she does. ‘I’m just … anyway, she is pretty and there’s no need to be mean to her.’

‘True. No need for meanness, ever. You missed your cue, you know, back there.’

‘What cue?’

‘The bit when I said she’s not my type.’

‘Oh … well … who is your type?’

He leans in, eyes sparkling. ‘Ah, too late, Totty, too late.’

CHAPTER TWO

Putney, February 2010

‘Unbelievable!’ Ed shakes his head and pours the last of the wine into his glass. ‘You took that box to Lampeter and hoiked it all the way up Magic Mushroom Mountain and then tipped some out?’ His glasses slip down his nose again making him look even more like the Milky Bar Kid than usual. Well, an elongated, middle-aged version.

‘What was I supposed to do? He left a list,’ I say. ‘Dear Ruthie, remember those conversations about dying we had? Well, these are the places I want to be scattered,’ starting with Lampeter. And you know what? He says he wrote ten letters, like a Top Ten Places To Be Scattered. That’s so him, a league table for everything. But there are only nine. He must have changed his mind. It’s all very well to want to be scattered all over the world, but he didn’t think it through properly. It’s bloody heavy, that box, apart from anything else.’

‘He did think of quite a lot though,’ says Sally, looking at the carefully printed page headed Siena. ‘Look, you just have to book a flight from Heathrow to Pisa — EasyJet — and he’s told you which online car-hire company to use. Not one I’ve heard of, but I’ll bet it’s the best. You know what he was like. He says you need to remember to book a satnav. And here, see, he’s even put little boxes so you can tick off when you’ve packed all the important things.

First, find all the essentials, he says, don’t worry about matching your shoes to your outfits, Ruthie, not at this stage. Hmmm, what does he know? You need matching shoes if you’re going to Italy. Anyway … Get out the important things and tick them off the list below. Then he gives you the list. Passport. Print-out of boarding pass. Credit cards. Mobile. Italian translation app. Driving licence …

‘Oh, God, I’m going to have to drive the car right out of the airport rental place! How am I supposed to do this all by myself? Get on a plane, find the right car rental desk, drive on the wrong side of the road, navigate all the way to Siena, park the car, find the hotel. Trip did the driving, he hated being a passenger. I can’t do this by myself. I’ve never been on holiday on my own.’

‘Is it even legal to take six pounds of dead-person ash into international air space?’

‘Ed, you’re not helping.’ Sally shoots him as stern a look as she can manage, which is surprisingly effective considering she’s five foot three with blond curly hair and still has freckles on her nose. People underestimate Sal. ‘Although, thinking about it, you might have a point. He’ll have to go as hand luggage. You know airlines can’t be trusted to get your luggage to the same destination as you these days. There’s no way you can check in the box even if you hide it in a suitcase.

What if the suitcase went missing? Mum’s luggage didn’t arrive that time they went to the States. It ended up in Gdansk. Gdansk! What if Trip ended up there or Panama or Delhi or Timbukflippingtu? How would you explain to the airline why it’s so desperately important to trace one suitcase? Excuse me, sir, but you appear to have lost my husband. No, he’ll definitely have to go as hand luggage.

‘He can’t go as hand luggage! Think about the EasyJet rules — one piece of hand luggage and that’s it! If I take him like that I’ll not even be able to take a handbag. Where will I put all my stuff?’ I get up and head for the kitchen. I need some more wine.

I pause at the door. ‘Are you hungry? I’ve got some chocolate. You know the worst thing about all this is I’m going to have to do it all over again. And again. And again. He wants to go to all these different places. Granted, not all of them are abroad, so I wouldn’t have to go into international airspace each time, but still — all sorts of things can happen on trains. What if I got off at Padstow and left him by mistake? He’d end up in a siding at Penzance! How would I get him back then?’

Sally and Ed stay silent.

I find three big bars of Fairtrade chocolate in the cupboard and grab another bottle. Look at me. Chocolate and wine. I haven’t even been in the kitchen since December except to find another packet of biscuits. It’s all your fault, Toby Masterson. I’m going to be as fat as a house soon. Fat as a house with crap hair and wearing tracksuit bottoms. I haven’t put on make-up for weeks. Believe me, there isn’t anything glamorous about being a widow.

I sigh and glug wine into our glasses, musing, ‘I guess at least the box’ll get lighter every time I have to dump a bit of him out. It would be much easier if he was in nine convenient packages.’

‘Well —’

‘Ed! Don’t even think about suggesting what you’re about to suggest.’ Sally frowns at him. He’s sprawled, gangly legs akimbo, in your seat on the other sofa or she’d have kicked his shin.

‘What am I about to suggest?’

‘You know very well."

‘Anyway,’ I interrupt ‘whoever thought of it, it’s a good idea. I can just take one little container to each place instead of the big box. No worries about hand luggage and no chance of him ending up in Prague.’

‘Gdansk.’

‘Panama.’

‘Delhi.’

‘Timbukflippingtu.’

The more I think about it, the better the idea becomes. There’s only one thing and I don’t think it’s a problem, not really. Ed will soon tell me if he thinks it is. He knew you so well. I look at him.

‘Trip wouldn’t mind. Would he? I’m pretty certain he wouldn’t.’

Ed shakes his head. ‘He wouldn’t mind.’

Just like that, I’ve decided.

‘I think we should do it. In fact, let’s do it now.’

‘Good plan! What are you going to put him in?’ and ‘What? Now? Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ say Sal and Ed at the same time.

‘Jamjars. Well, jars anyway. Let’s check the recycling box.’

The recycling box isn’t a great help. In fact it’s an embarrassment. Luckily Sally and Ed are too sensitive to comment. The recycling lorry comes every two weeks and isn’t due for another five days. Even so, there are already eleven wine bottles in there, thirteen now actually, with the two we just finished. But only three jars. It didn’t use to be this way, did it? Surely we used to generate more tins and jars, not just bottles? But then I haven’t been able to cook anything proper, not since December. I just … can’t. It’s more than not being bothered to cook for one.

Cooking has always been my default setting. Stressed, on edge, fed up; it doesn’t matter, I just cook something. Spend the afternoon making four or five little dishes of garlicky Mediterranean pleasure. Tasty smackerels, as you would call them.

How could that fail to make a person feel better?

Except it doesn’t, not now, there’s no comfort in this beautiful kitchen that I dreamed about and planned, and that we saved so long for. I’ve got no one to be pissed off with, to be fed up about, to celebrate with. I’ve got no one to cook for.

Like I said, I eat a lot of biscuits these days. They go with the greasy hair.

Ed’s voice pulls me back to the moment.

‘Pesto, marinated black olives and Marmite. Nice combo, but not a lot of help with the project in hand — the Marmite jar’s no good, too small. And while we’re at it, who’s ever seen an empty jar of Marmite before? Ridiculous.’ He shoves it back in the recycling box. ‘We need more receptacles.’

‘We could empty all the jars in the fridge?’ says Sally doubtfully.

Ed’s head is already in there. ‘Actually,’ he says ‘It hasn’t got any to empty.’

Then I remember the jam-making box in the pantry. Soon Ed’s head is in the jam-making box, rummaging around.

‘You’ve got all sorts, Ruth. What do you want?’

‘Not peanut butter, the plastic lid isn’t dignified. They shouldn’t put plastic lids on organic products, it’s just not right. But brinjal pickle’s a definite yes; never met a man who liked it as much as Trip. That roasted red pepper jar is good, and honey. Honey for my honey.’

‘Ah, that’s nice. How about marmalade?’ asks Sally. ‘There, that’s nine. Marinated olives, marmalade, honey — honey for Ruth’s honey — brinjal pickle, pesto, roasted red peppers, blackcurrant conserve and these two. No labels, but they’ve got those nice red and white gingham lids.’

‘OK, so now we fill them up. Unless … Should we sterilise them first, do you think, like with jam?’ I study the jars. They look like a group of people standing all crowded together on the kitchen island. Ed shakes his head.

‘Nah, it’s not like you’re going to eat any of it.’

The thought hangs in the air.

‘Do you think it’ll look like wood ash from the fireplace — Trip’s ash, I mean?’ Ed muses. I look from him to Sally. It’s clear neither of them know what a person’s ash looks like. ‘I mean, do you think there’ll be bits?’

‘Bits?’ The horror on Sally’s face says she hasn’t considered there might be bits. Strangely, this makes me feel better.

‘Teeth?’ he clarifies.

‘Oh, fuck it.’ I pop the catches. ‘Here goes,’ I say and flip open the lid. Ed peers in.

‘Wow. It does look like wood ash.’

Sally trembles on the other side of the kitchen. ‘There aren’t any teeth, are there?’

I push a cautious fingertip a little way into the detritus. It’s soft, powdery. This soft, powdery mass is you.

Was you.

‘All right, Ruthie?’ Sally squeezes my shoulder.

I nod, dash a hand under my nose. Silly, there’s nothing to get upset about. Time for action. ‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we?’ I grab a jar.

‘Hmmm, well, yes, bloody easier said than done, actually. How are we going to get six pounds of ash into eight jars?’

‘Use a spoon?’ Sally has retreated to the other side of the room.

‘That’ll take all night. And, well, it’d go everywhere.’

Then I remember the funnel I use for filling the jars when I make jam. It must be in the box. Perfect. Though I doubt I’ll be using it to make jam again anytime soon … or ever. Right, compose yourself. This is going to be simple. Just put the funnel in the brinjal pickle jar and pour.

‘Here, let me hold it,’ says Ed. I tilt it. My arms are trembling. The box knocks against the jar, and would have tipped if not for Ed’s steadying hands.

‘Careful! Careful!’ Sally warns from across the room. ‘Don’t spill it!’

‘Shut up, Sal,’ says Ed.

A little stream of ash trickles down the funnel into the brinjal pickle jar. I’ve got my tongue between my teeth, judging the fill. The box is heavier than I thought it would be. Still, the jar is almost full. Then Ed’s pocket rings loudly.

‘Oops, phone.’ He lets go, automatically fumbling to find the phone. My hands jerk, knocking the now unsteady funnel which overbalances the jar, and …

‘Shitfuckshit!’

‘Ed!’ screeches Sally, launching herself across the kitchen. The half-empty jar rolls towards the edge of the granite worktop and lands on the tiles with a loud crash. Sally lurches against me, the box goes flying and when it hits the floor the smash reverberates. A cloud of soft white powder rises into the air.

I sneeze.

‘Ooops’ says Ed.

‘Oh, God! Oh, God!’ Sally’s hands are over her mouth and nose. ‘Don’t breathe. Don’t breathe.’

I stand there, rooted to the spot, and ash falls gently onto my skin.

Siena, Summer 1985

‘Shall we have a drink?’

They have found the Piazza del Campo after a long, hot hour of taking wrong turnings. Her feet hurt and she wishes she had worn her comfy flip-flops instead of the fashionable leather sandals, however touristy they would have looked.

He raises his eyebrows. ‘A drink? Already? I suppose we don’t have to have a drink drink. We could have coffee. Pardonnez moi, café au lait. That café over there looks nice. Perhaps we should go inside. The Rough Guide says real Italians take their coffee inside and mostly stand up at the bar too.’

‘If you have to stand up and drink at the same time you’ll spill it. That one does look nice though. I like its yellow umbrellas. Can we sit outside, even if it isn’t authentic? I want to look at the people. And really, café au lait? We are in Italy, remember.’

‘Ah, yes — Italian — how does that go again? I did look on the plane. Uno, due, tres. Signor. Buon giorno. What’s good afternoon?’

‘I can’t remember, but I’m pretty sure that due vino rosso per favore will get us a couple of glasses of red wine. And I really do need to sit down.’

‘Excellent, you’ve got the lingo, after you.’

She hesitates in front of a jewellery shop window at the edge of the square, pushing him towards the café.

‘I’ll just have a look in this shop. You can order. See you in a sec.’

‘Ha, that old trick. “You first.” You’re just chicken. Or pollo, if you prefer.’

‘Quack, quack. No, that’s a duck. What do Italian chickens say?’

‘I surrender …’ He raises his hands.

‘Ooh, cultural joke, clever. Surrender accepted, off you go. Think of it as taking your place in the pantheon of romantic male heroes, forging ahead, easing the way for your lover. Besides, look, a waitress, you can charm her.’

‘Oh, God, come on then.’ He grabs her hand, marches her towards the café and they sit down at the nearest free table. The white-aproned waitress comes over immediately and he gives her a big smile. ‘Bonjour, I mean, buon giorno. Due vino rosso, per favore. Thanks.’

‘My hero.’ She leans over and plants a kiss on his cheek. ‘What’s on the itinerary for the rest of the day then, Heathcliff?’

‘Well, when we see what this is going to cost us, I’ll be spending the rest of the day working out how much we have left in the kitty. Remember, we agreed on twenty quid a day for lunch expenses and we overspent yesterday; and on dinner — but that veal was worth it. We need a quiet day to get back on track, or else I’ll have to recalibrate the rest of the week. What does the Rough Guide say?’

‘I don’t know, you look. Maybe we should just go back to the room … take a bottle with us and, well, you know …’ She wiggles her eyebrows at him.

‘Blimey, give a guy a break. Unlike you I need time to reload.’ Despite his words, he is seriously considering her suggestion. Then he notices the guidebook she has taken out of her bag and remembers their original plans. ‘Besides, things to do, places to see.’

‘Good grief, it’s like On The Town. You know, Frank Sinatra wants to see all the sights and what’s-her-face wants to get him up to her place.’ She sings with gusto. ‘My place, come up to my place.’ People at the tables nearby look over.

‘Harmonies, darling. Now, guidebook — let’s see. I circled all the good stuff. Took out all the churches and boring religious stuff obviously. Right, Siena, what have we got? Palio, Tower, Square, umm, that’s it. So, drink, then campanile and back for a snooze.’

‘I think you pronounce it “campaneelay” actually.’

‘Are you sure? Good lord, what is it about Italians, they seem to pronounce all their letters?’

‘It’s Latin, idiot. So much for your vaunted education. What did they teach you for all your dad’s money? Certainly not how to recognise great art or good literature. At least they beat good manners into you. You’re the only man I know who holds the door open and you always send a thank-you card to your mum. It’s rather sweet, I think.’

‘Ah, well — to the manner born you know, to the manner born. Anyway, you know I’m not posh, just a Surrey boy. And I can’t see what harm manners can do. Now, let’s get to the serious stuff. How many famous Italians can you name? . You’d better get your brain working because you can’t afford to lose this one — you’re two down. Don Corleone.’

‘He’s American! If we’re in Italy we should do real Italians.’

‘I’m joking. Anyway, you start.’

‘OK then, Romulus and Remus.’

‘Weren’t they wolves? Let’s see, Paolo Rossi.’

‘Who? Sandro Botticelli.’

‘Oh, yes, I like his films. Sophia Loren. Scorchio.’

She rolls her eyes at his cartoon Italian accent. ‘Oh my God. How about Modigliani, have you heard of him?’

‘Of course, midfielder, 1970 World Cup. Robert De Niro and Al Pacino.’

‘Oh my God, Trip! You are such a cheat. We said real ones, have you no idea at all? I’m going to thrash you easily. For example, I bet you haven’t even heard of Leonardo da Vinci, have you?’

‘Of course I have. Invented the helicopter, the original polymath. Algebra, geometry, calculus, all that other stuff — oooh, got one. Michael Angelo.’

‘What?’ She throws her hands into the air, nearly knocking over her wineglass. ‘It’s Michelangelo! Not Michael Angelo. Michel. Rhymes with pickle.’

‘Michel Angelo? Don’t be silly, that’s not a name. Michael’s a name. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. And Michael. Sorry — confusing myself there, thought he was a book of the New Testament for a second. Ah, I know. St Michaels. Marks and bloody Spencers. You know, Mike. Michael Angelo.’ He sits back, pleased to have made a winning argument.

‘I give up. You’re such a philistine. What’s the point? Do you know any Italian people who aren’t footballers? Artists or sculptors or, though I really don’t know why I bother to ask, any poets? Just one?’

‘Poets. Um. Ooh yes, wossname. You know, the circle of hells bloke, what’s his name?’

‘Dante. Thank God! All is not lost.’

‘What about Ezra Pound? He sounds Italian.’

‘In a minute you’ll be telling me that TS Eliot came from Rome. This wine is good. Shall we have another? Before the campanile?’

‘Ha, yes — encore du vin. TS Eliot, as well you know, came from Bloomsbury.’

‘You know, I find that strangely erotic. The fact you know TS Eliot lived in Bloomsbury, I mean, not the wine. Which is good.’

He stares at her for a few moments, then slowly reaches over to touch her hand. ‘I’ll tell you something else about TS Eliot. He’s an anagram of toilets.’

Siena, February 2010

I made it to the top of the campanile this time. I might have had to swallow hard and hold on to the handrail with both hands all the way up, but I made it. It seemed a fitting place to read your next letter. I know you meant me to find ‘our’ bar — all those instructions and directions — but I walked round the square three times and couldn’t find it. I’m pretty sure it’s gone, Trip.

There’s a restaurant on the corner that could be the place, but maybe not, I’ve got such a terrible memory. If I wasn’t going to be able to sit in the same place, at the same table, I thought maybe the tower would be more special. And I so wanted to prove to myself that I’ve learned a little courage in my life.

I’m not sure it was courage that got me up those eleventy hundred steps, more like pride. I kept remembering how pathetic I was when we came here together and how I got up here, but you had to talk me down. You made me close my eyes and led me down by the hand one slow step at a time. You didn’t even laugh at me, though looking back now, I was laughably pathetic. Fancy not being able to walk down a spiral staircase.

Shit, I don’t even want to think about that …

You know, I brought the marinated olives jar with me. It seemed appropriate to the location. Do you remember going to the market, our first Italian market? We were truly amazed wandering through the stalls, seeing stalls just selling olives. Wide, flat trays of fleshy green olives and tiny black pungent ones. Herbed mixes and chilli-flecked versions. More varieties than I could ever have imagined even though I was working in Pasta Pasta then with its red-and-white tablecloths and empty Chianti bottles sprouting candles. I thought I knew what authentic Italian food was. How wrong I was.

In the spirit of adventure, we bought several different kinds for lunch with bread, cheese and slices of mortadella. I ate them. The first taste had you pulling a face like a kid eating brussels sprouts. But I made you persevere.

‘You just don’t like them yet,’ I kept telling you. ‘It takes at least ten tries of a new food until your palate gets used to it.’

‘Where do you get these pretend facts?’ you moaned. But you ate the olives anyway and got to like them, eventually.

I can’t seem to get beyond all these memories. I can’t think of what comes next. People keep asking and I can’t answer. It’s too dangerous, the subject of what comes next, I just can’t go there.

How can I think about the future when I can’t believe what happened in the past? My life isn’t real, not any more. It feels like a story, someone else’s story. And yet, it must be real because you’ve gone. I thought I’d lost you.

I couldn’t feel you anywhere, not even in our bed. If anywhere, you would surely be there. Sprawled on your tummy spreading onto my side, making the teddy-bear snuffle — that sub-snore that meant you were fast asleep. I’ve tried to touch you, kept trying to convince myself you’re still here by curling up in the dip on your side of the mattress and pressing my face into your pillow, but you weren’t there. But now I can hear you. It’s as though you’re back. And I’m not sure that’s not worse.

I want to read your letter, want to badly. To suck it down. Want to read about me. About how important I am to you. Was to you. God, that sounds terrible. But I’m desperate to hear from you, how vital I was, how I affected you, how central I’ve been to your life. And I guess there’s some fear too. Are there things I don’t know, dreadful secrets?

But I need to hear your voice, your words, the certain, familiar phrasing that is yours alone. To feel you close to me. Reading that letter in Lampeter was like a drug. I can’t wait any longer.

Talk to me, Trip, talk to me.

Letter 2: Siena

I hope the bar’s still there. I tried to find it on Google but have no idea what it was called. Anyway, assuming it is, and assuming you’re sat there reading this, do you remember being here in 1985? The first time we came here.

This is the place where we had that ludicrous argument about whether it was pronounced Michael Angelo or Michelangelo. We were drinking coffee and we were planning our time, sorting out something suitably touristy and arty-farty and I’d committed the apparently treasonable sin of calling him Michael.

You corrected me. I disagreed. We raised our voices a bit too much and people looked at us. I stood my ground. But you had the whole of Italy and a guide book on your side, and you tried to tell me it was Michel, rhymed with pickle because of TS Eliot.

Well, truthfully, I’m still not sure I see where he fits in. I’m not much of a reader, and you know I never get what you would call ‘literature’. And poetry? Can’t be doing with it, to be honest.

Talking of rhymes, I remember the first time I said, ‘I love you.’ You’ve spent most of your life trying to erase it from your memory. Our final year at Lampeter; our moment in the spotlight as the director and star of Fiddler on the Roof, which even now seems a startlingly original version. What with the Russian Jews becoming teepee-dwelling hippies in Wales. And all the male parts being played by women and vice versa. And you were great in the Topol role. I loved ‘If I Were a Rich Girl’. All those lyric changes we had to make. You were brilliant at all that. And managed to offend just about everyone.

We poured ourselves into that for weeks, didn’t we? All for one glorious night, capped by a wonderfully improvised climax. When the Fiddler fell off the Roof.

Once we were sure I hadn’t broken any bones and the curtain had come down on us, literally, we were the only ones left. You were tending to me.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘if we ever make another musical together …’

‘Promise me, we won’t.’

‘Well, if we ever do, there’s gonna be a few changes.’

‘Like what?’

‘No sheep, for starters.’ We laughed. Well, I laughed. You had tears in your eyes. ‘You know, Ruthie, it really wasn’t that bad. No one walked out. They laughed all the way through. In the wrong places, admittedly. But you were great. Really. I was so proud’

And then I said it. First time ever. To anyone.

Where was I? Ah, yes, Siena. Italy. Our first holiday together. Our first foreign holiday, that is. Our first proper holiday as a proper grown-up couple. Italy, 1985. Hardly enough money to get by, and a hotel room so small you couldn’t actually use the toilet without leaving the door open.

Still, it was the first time I saw you out of the confines or context of Lampeter or our flat in Bristol where you always seemed so at home and in charge. And it was strange to see you not as confident as you usually were. It seemed like I had to do everything.

I had to be the one who spoke dodgy Italian with desperate hand signals, asking for a table in the trattorias and talking to the waiters, buying food from market stalls, asking for directions, booking into the hotel.

You lingered behind me. I assumed at first it was just because I was the man, assumed it was the role I saw for myself and so I adopted it. But then I realised you were hanging back on purpose, waiting for me to take the lead. Going down to breakfast that first morning you actually pushed me ahead.

The thing is, I liked it. Liked being the man with the trousers, the one in charge, the strong shoulder. Which I suppose is one reason why I took to planning everything thereafter. That, and because, if I didn’t, who would? And OK, yes, I can hear you, because I like planning, particularly holidays. The planning’s part of the anticipation and the anticipation is nearly always better than the reality. But also because it was one role I could play where I was in charge.

Anyway, Siena. It was a good holiday, wasn’t it? The enthusiasm of youth, everything a new experience. Long before we were jaded or had seen so much that the thrill of the new was replaced by marking life’s experiences and putting them on some sort of world leaderboard. ‘Umm, yes, nice restaurant, but not as good as that one in Sicily.’ ‘That’s the third skyscraper we’ve been up that says it’s the tallest in the world.’ ‘The Great Ocean Road. It’s all right, I suppose.’

And the sex. Here’s why Siena made it onto the Top Ten. Onto my death-letter leaderboard. Onto the great splash-the-ash road-trip. Not the Palio, which of course wasn’t on when we were there. Nor the Piazza del Campo itself, magnificent though it is. Not even the bell-tower, though if I can digress for a minute, and just have a long giggle about you freezing with fear halfway down the wooden steps from the very top of the campanile. Marvellous. You actually lost all feeling in your legs. Thought we’d be stuck up there for ever. Or you would.

No, the reason it’s in the top ten is because Siena is where I found your clitoris. And I’m sure you will remember, because strangely it seemed to be the first time you’d found it as well. I still can’t quite believe it took us that long to work it out. It must have stowed away with us, or perhaps you caught it on the flight over.

Still, it certainly spiced things up. It was no longer only about holes. It was strange, Totty, wasn’t it, that we sort of learned sex with each other? On each other. Found things out. Slowly, admittedly. And accidentally, in this case. I still have no idea what I thought I was doing, I hadn’t a clue what I’d found, had no idea why I started fiddling with it, and was slightly alarmed at the reaction at first. Thought you were having a fit.

We were useless at talking about sex, that’s for sure. Useless at letting each other know what we wanted or liked. These days sexologists would have us talking to each other. Don’t they suggest a safe word for sado-masochistic stuff? We had our own feedback mechanism — ‘euurgh.’.

We were more like children playing doctors and nurses. Fumbling about in the dark hoping things worked. It’s a strange way for a couple to come together (or, more likely in our case, not). Still, once we’d found it, years later than we should have done, we did spend most of the week playing with it. And that’s no bad way to spend a holiday anywhere.

Of course, I’m being disingenuous. There’s another reason why this place is on the list. Let’s get back to that argument over Michelangelo. Here’s what I remember. There was a small glass of flowers on the table. I’ve no idea what they were, small blue flowers on top of a thin slender stem. Anyway, whilst we were arguing you took one and twisted it in your fingers whilst you talked. Were you aware of this? Did you do it on purpose? Were you channelling TS Eliot? See, I do remember. Portrait of a Lady. ‘Now that lilacs are in bloom she has a bowl of lilacs in her room and twists one in her fingers as she talks. You do not know, you do not know …’ Or something.

The thing is this. I know I’d already been telling you for years that I loved you, and I’d meant it. Ever since Fiddler on the Roof. But there and then, in Siena, as you twisted the flowers in your fingers. I properly fell in love with you at that moment.

* * *

It’s so strange. These words, these letters, they sound just like you. I can hear you saying them in my head. But, at the same time, it’s so unlike the Trip you were when you were alive. You weren’t one to wax lyrical. You never called me darling or sweetheart or anything like that. Mostly when I told you I loved you, you’d look rather smug and reply, ‘I know, Totty.’ I knew you loved me, of course, there was never any doubt in my mind about that. And, though you were about as romantic as a Valentine’s Day card on February 15th, I always felt … I don’t know, cherished, I suppose.

And we talked about everything, didn’t we? Maybe not about love or our hearts, but about everything else. I could say anything to you and know you’d have a view, a point, an answer that would illuminate. I loved that about you.

What I loved too was how we just fitted together, right from the very start.

I mean, we talked in the bar that first evening and you kissed me. You insisted on walking me back to my room and we stood outside in the corridor. It would have made a fabulous movie kiss. You wound your fingers into my hair, bent your head so slowly, looking right into my eyes the whole time, and then you kissed me.

I actually went weak at the knees and had to lean back against the door. I wanted to invite you in right there and then, but was so scared of looking like a slapper that I didn’t. But we agreed to see each other the next day, didn’t we? You came to my room that afternoon and never really left.

That was all it took to create us.

I didn’t take a lot of wooing, for sure. But, equally, you weren’t running away leaving me to chase you. We found each other and somehow realised immediately what we’d found. Boy Meets Girl. Boy Kisses Girl. Boy and Girl Live Happy Ever After. There was no ‘Will they or won’t they?’ There were no games, no high-tension drama. We just knew we were better together than apart. We’d still be better together than apart …

And, oh, Trip. Eliot. You quoted Eliot.

After all the years … you remember so much. So much that I don’t. What we were drinking, what we were talking about, blue flowers. You remember that I was playing with a blue flower.

I properly fell in love with you at that moment.

Oh, God, I’m going to have to wipe my nose on my sleeve.

You bugger, Trip, you bugger.

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