My dear Isobel/Howard

The two emails, identical apart from the name, arrived at exactly the same time, and bore the same subject heading of My Last Request. They were sent from the email address of a solicitor called Robert Hampstead, but he was not the one who had written them.

My dear Isobel/Howard

Robert has promised me that he will see to this for me when the time comes. Oh, how they love that phrase on those rather tedious adverts for life insurance. Well, my time is coming and I know it. You both do as well, and I thank you both for not assuring me I’ll be fine or even, as my neighbour Nora (who is a good woman but can annoy the hell out of me!) does, telling me that I’m looking really well. I’m not. I’m looking like someone who is in the final stages of ovarian cancer and if it were not for the wonders of palliative care, I would be in unbearable agony.

But that’s not what I’m writing about. Well, I suppose, in a way it is, of course. If I were hale and hearty I wouldn’t be writing this letter (okay, this email, but old habits die hard and as I will never be old enough to completely get away with such things, I might as well cease my chance.

I’ve made arrangements for my funeral, and it’s all paid for. Irritating as those ads can be, they have a point. I was seriously tempted by one of those ultra-simple ones – you must have seen the ads for THEM, those animations on an idyllic beach in a glowing sunset. But in the end (yes, that phrase has a new resonance now) I know there are people who want to say goodbye, and have a little chat and sing a couple of hymns, though I have made it absolutely plain that “Abide with Me” is forbidden!

It will be a simple affair though, and it goes without saying that you are both invited and I dearly hope you will come.

But my dears, I am asking you rather more than that. I won’t insult you by asking you to be polite to each other, as you are both far too decent and dignified to be anything but. No, what I am asking is for you not to just exchange a cursory nod and “How are you?” before taking your seats on opposite sides of the church. I want you to sit next to each other. And after the service is over, I want you to talk to each other, to talk properly, for at least a quarter of an hour, though I don’t expect you to use a timer!

Don’t misunderstand me. I am not trying to use some kind of emotional blackmail to try to get the two of you back together again and threatening to haunt or disinherit you if you don’t! Mind you, concerning the latter, as you both know perfectly well, I have left most of my estate to the Red Cross and Age Concern, but there are a few personal bits and pieces I hope you will like. Robert will be contacting you about that, too.

You must only do what feels right for you and make your own decisions. But please humour me by at least doing this.

You have both been true and good friends to me, and I don’t need to tell you how much I love you and how much I wish you well, whatever happens and whatever you decide.

I wish you all the happiness you both deserve so much.

Goodbye, my darlings.

Your friend Susanna

Isobel Parker did not try to blink back the tears that trickled down her cheeks. The news was not unexpected, by any means. Unlike Nora the Neighbour (and she thought Susanna was being too charitable about her) she had never deluded herself, not for the last six months, that Susanna looked well, and knew she would never look well, or be well, again. The last time she had visited her was two weeks ago. And the time before that, she had never seen anyone look so gaunt, their skin like tissue paper. But they could – and could look worse.

Susanna Hollis was not related to her, even distantly, but it was often hard to remember that. She had been their neighbour, the good kind of neighbour, when Isobel was growing up. She felt guilty about it, but although she was quite close to her Grandma and her Granny (and woe betide anyone who mixed up which one was which!) and got on well with the auntie who lived nearby, apart from her Mum, of course, the woman young Isobel most loved was Susanna. She could be quite strict, and wasn’t even especially cuddly, but she never spoke down to Isobel, knew all about her favourite authors and TV shows (and she didn’t pretend to like them if she didn’t, but she always took an interest) and had an almost uncanny instinct for realising when she was down in the dumps even if she was trying not to show it. And the thing was, she didn’t always try to jolly her along! As Isobel re-read the email she remembered one incident when she must have been nine or ten. She’d grazed her knee, a girl at school had been nasty to her, and she had knocked over her water when she was painting. “They say things come in threes,” Susanna had said, “Though I’m never quite sure who “they” are supposed to be. Anyway, let’s hope “they” are right! But there’s absolutely no obligation to cheer up if you don’t want to. I don’t think I’d be especially cheerful after a day like that!” And the thing was, that made Isobel feel much better!

Howard Martin cleared his throat several times as he read the email. Though he had never fallen into what he involuntarily termed “the Nora trap”, he had clung to some hope that Susanna would be invited to participate in a trial for some new wonder drug, or offered a different treatment. But he also knew what her feelings on the subject were. Only the last time he had seen her, just over two weeks ago (she told him that Isobel had visited the previous day but didn’t elaborate on it, to his relief) she had said, “You know, Howard, if those three wishes and those genies really existed, world peace could just wait until there was a cure for cancer – all cancers, of course, but I’m only human and thinking of mine in particular. But we all know they don’t. And what I don’t want is one of those therapies that would cost the NHS millions of pounds and might give me a couple more months, quite possibly hooked up to a machine or feeling nauseated all the time instead of being in my own home, though I could never manage without Irena,” (Irena was the nurse provided by the Hospice at Home service, a quiet, insightful young woman – they had hit it off at once). “Some feel differently. That’s fine.”

So it seemed that Susanna had died peacefully in her own bed, as she would have wished.

He had often envied Isobel for having known her when she was a child. Not that his own childhood had been in any way unhappy, but he decided that any childhood would have been improved by having a Susanna in it. But they met when he was in his twenties, and like Isobel, starting off his postgraduate studies. True, when Isobel had first said, “You must meet Susanna” he had not been without misgivings. He was inclined to be wary of people whom you “must meet”. They often turned out either to be boring (which made him feel guilty) or determined to be “characters” (which was even worse). Susanna was different. She was one of those people who can make you laugh, cry, and think, within a few minutes, and whom you knew you could trust completely. She might not always say what you wanted to hear, but was one of the kindest people he had ever known, with a quiet, unshowy kindness that was practical and profound at the same time. Much as he liked and respected Isobel’s parents, he saw the “Susanna Test” as more important, and realising that he had passed it made him think that the expression “warm glow” wasn’t just a figurative cliché after all.

Neither he, nor Isobel, nor Susanna, ever actually used the expression, but it did seem as if everything started to go wrong at the same time. Susanna was asked to come back for more tests after a routine medical examination, and said herself, half joking, “I should have known if they poked around for long enough, they’d find something.” Isobel and Howard were concerned, of course, but at first not unduly. Nobody enjoyed perfect health their whole life long, and Susanna was a strong woman, wasn’t she? And didn’t she joke herself about being in her prime and maturing like good cheese, though hoping she didn’t end up smelling like it!

Howard was “let go” from his job at a publishing firm. “I hate that expression!” he exclaimed to Isobel. “It sounds as if I was trapped and should be grateful, and I loved every minute of working there and HATE the thought!”

“They did give you a brilliant reference,” she said, but knew it was scant consolation. Even in troubled times, it shouldn’t be too difficult for him to find another post, but as she also knew, that wasn’t the point. Howard had never been one of those people who was a slave to routine, and in his personal life he was often spontaneous and surprising, but even though, as he said, he should have heard the alarm bells ringing, he loved his job and the environment, and would have been happy (though he never said it in so many words) to do it until he retired.

Not long after that, their house suffered some flood damage. It wasn’t that catastrophic, and they were covered by insurance. They knew that compared to those who weren’t insured, or who had suffered severe damage and an inundation of what was (perhaps not so) euphemistically termed “brown water” they were still relatively lucky.

The truth is, it wasn’t so much the flooding that heightened the tensions between them – it was the aftermath. Howard wanted things to be restored more or less exactly as they were before, but Isobel saw it as a chance, although plainly it didn’t come in the way they wanted, to have a bit of a makeover

Susanna now knew just how seriously ill she was – but although they had initially tried to keep it from her, she also knew how seriously things were going wrong between Howard and Isobel. In the end they had to admit it and began coming to visit her separately.

We will have to respect her wishes, thought Isobel.

We will have to respect her wishes, thought Howard.

Susanna had left what she termed “guidelines” about how people were to dress at her funeral. Typically for Susanna, they were firm in their very flexibility. She preferred people not to wear black. But nobody was to feel compelled to wear bright colours to prove a point if it didn’t sit easily with them.

Isobel was wearing a dark trouser suit with a little flash of colour in a violet scarf that had been a present from Susanna – it was a colour they both loved. She arrived at the church – a quiet stone church on a quiet tree lined road – before Howard, but somehow knew when he had arrived, without needing to look round. He was wearing a tie, and at one and the same time she thought that Susanna knew how much he hated wearing them and would have gently chided him, but also been quite touched that he made the effort. He came to sit beside Isobel on the polished wooden pew. They exchanged a few pleasantries. The organist was already playing, soft strains of Bach filling the church with challenge and consolation.

The service itself was just solemn enough. As she had indicated in her guidelines about clothing, Susanna had grasped the fact that more or less commanding people to be joyful and not to grieve too much was just as bad as expecting weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. There were a couple of Bible readings, and a couple of poems.

“It was a lovely service,” Isobel said, as they settled down to the little conversation they were having, respecting Susanna’s wishes. Then she gave a shaky laugh. “That sounds like a line from one of those life insurance ads that got on her nerves.”

“It was,” Howard agreed. “Shall we sit here for a while?” There was a little gathering in a nearby pub, but nothing formal or with compulsory ham sandwiches and cheap sherry. The pub had a garden – a beer garden, really, but at the moment there was nobody else there, and the two of them sat down on a bench underneath a mature sycamore tree. “As much for what WASN’T said. I was half dreading that poem about someone stepping into the next room.”

“I know,” Isobel nodded. “Some find consolation in it, and I don’t begrudge it them, but I first heard it at a Great Uncle’s funeral when I was a child, and it freaked me out.”

“And though I know Susanna wasn’t really a churchgoer, though she certainly had her beliefs, the vicar really made an effort to find out about her and not just come out with platitudes.”

“The Reverend Hansen, yes. He’s related to Simon, at work, you know, and he always spoke very well of him.”

As it happened, Isobel knew that Howard had finally found another job, though he wasn’t really happy there, not yet, but she also knew he referred to his old job. They were silent for a couple of minutes, but the silence, though pensive, was not really sad, and was not at all uneasy. Almost without realising it, they had linked hands as they sat under the sycamore tree. “What did you think of the email?” Isobel asked, finally breaking it.

“That is was – so typical of Susanna! Leaving us with our options, but making sure we knew exactly how she felt.”

“But how do YOU feel?”

“That – she was right.”

At that moment, Nora came out of the pub, and tried to attract their attention. Afterwards they agreed that they had heard a vaguely irritating noise in the background, but were far too concerned with each other, and the loving embrace they were caught up in, to be bothered about it. And they also agreed, that although Susanna might not have slipped into the next room, she had her arms round them too.