I didn’t tell anyone at work. And I felt fine. Sometimes I’d think about him, at the undertaker’s in a coffin, his face strange. They do things to you, don’t they? Make you look nice. Waxy like Red Delicious apples used to be. He still existed in the world but he couldn’t move. He was like a stopped watch, one of the ones with wavy edges around the face and a leather strap, pretending to be more expensive than it is. When Mum said or did something to me, he’d pat me on the head after. He knew how I felt. He just didn’t do anything.
It was warm. I worked as fast as ever – faster than some days. The sun came through the high windows and in the afternoon the light bathed my station. We were working on Grace, a wedding shoe, white satin with a diamanté buckle. Spoils easily. I had to take one or two back to the sewing machines to show Helen and Karen. Most of them were fine. I matched them up, this with that, that with this, rearranging them so they made perfect pairs. Put them on the trolley for Tracy to wrap and box.
On the way home my cigarette tasted of ash and I thought that’s what a dead body tastes like. Right there, next to the kerb, I was being sick. It was hours after I’d eaten, so only a bit of water came out, frothy and sour. I got myself straightened up and looked round, but no one had seen or cared. I wiped my mouth, swallowed and carried on down the road.