Adam and Eve and Pinch Me Read Free Page B

feeling, love? D’you reckon you’re starting to get over it?”
    Minty wondered if she should tell about the ghost but decided against it. A woman customer had once said she’d seen her mother in a dream and in the morning got a phone call to say she was dead. She’d died at the precise time of the dream. Josephine had said, quite rudely, “You can’t be serious,” and laughed a scornful laugh. So better say nothing about it.
    “Life has to go on, doesn’t it?” she said.
    Josephine agreed. “You’re right, it’s no good dwelling on things.” A big, full-breasted woman with long legs, she had bright blond hair as long as an eighteen-year-old girl’s, but a kind heart. Or so everyone said. Minty lived in fear that a flake of the dark red varnish she wore on her fingernails would chip off and fall in the coffee. Josephine had a Chinese boyfriend who couldn’t speak a word of English and was a cook in a restaurant in Harlesden called the Lotus Dragon. They’d both met Jock when he picked her up after work.
    “He was a lovely chap,” said Josephine. “Life’s a bitch, when you come to think of it.”
    Minty would rather not have talked about it, especially now. She finished the fiftieth shirt at ten to one and went home for an hour. Lunch was free-range eggs scrambled on white toast. She washed her hands before eating and again afterward, and her face as well, and put the washing in the dryer. The flower-selling man had set up his stall outside the cemetery gates. It wasn’t really spring yet, it was still February, but he’d got daffodils and tulips as well as the chrysanthemums and carnations that had been around all winter. Minty had filled an empty bleach bottle with water and brought it with her. She bought six pink tulips and six white narcissi with orange centers.
    “In remembrance of your auntie, is it, love?”
    Minty said it was and it was nice to see the spring flowers.
    “You’re right there,” said the flower-selling man, “and what I say is, it does your heart good to see a bit of a kid like yourself remembering the old folks. There’s too much indifference in the world these days.”
    Thirty-seven isn’t a “bit of a kid” but a lot of people thought Minty much younger than she was. They didn’t look closely enough to see the lines coming out from the corners of her eyes and the little puckers round her mouth. There was that barman in the Queen’s Head who wouldn’t believe she was a day over seventeen. It was her white skin, shiny about the nose, and her wispy fair hair and being as thin as one of those models that did it. Minty paid the man and smiled at him because he’d called her a kid, and then she went into the cemetery, carrying her flowers.
    If it weren’t for the graves it would have been like the country in there, all trees and bushes and grass. But it was no good saying that, Jock said. The graves were the reason for the trees. A lot of famous people were buried here but she didn’t know their names; she wasn’t interested. Over there was the canal and beyond it the gasworks. The gasometer loomed over the cemetery like some huge old temple, commemorating the dead. Ivy was the plant that grew most plentifully in here, creeping over the stones and slabs, up the columns, twining round the statues and pushing its tendrils through the splits and cracks in tombs. Some of the trees had black, shiny, pointed leaves, like leather cutouts, but most were leafless in winter, their bare branches sighing and shivering when the wind blew but hanging now limp in stillness. It was always quiet, as if there were an invisible barrier above the wall that kept out even the traffic noise.
    Auntie’s grave was at the end of the next path, on the corner where it met one of the main aisles. Of course, it wasn’t really her grave, it was just the place where Minty had buried her ashes. The grave belonged to Maisie Julia Chepstow, beloved wife of John Chepstow, who departed this life 15