How to Say Goodbye - Katy Colins

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      I bowed my head as they filed past.

      ‘Grace? Thank you.’ Mrs Oakes had come up to me and was now gripping my elbow. Her mascara had smudged and her voice trembled with emotion but she was doing a remarkable job of holding herself together. I wondered how long she would cope, keeping up this pretence.

      ‘You’re more than welcome. I hope everything went well?’

      She let out a loud sniff. I subconsciously patted in my back pocket for the packet of tissues I always kept with me. She kept in the threat of tears and gave my arm a rub.

      ‘He would have been delighted. I noticed the red ribbons. A lovely touch. I didn’t know we’d mentioned him being a Liverpool fan – he was mad for them.’ She flicked her eyes heavenward and smiled sadly. ‘We were driven past his favourite pub on the way here, where he used to go and watch the games on the big screen. The landlord and the staff all lined up as we went past. It was very touching. I didn’t even know they’d been told the news.’

      I’d go and thank the team for pulling that off. I’d had a long chat with the landlord, who’d insisted he do something to mark the passing of one of his locals.

      ‘I’m so pleased it all went to plan. You had quite the turnout too. Your husband was clearly a much-loved gentleman.’

      Mrs Oakes blinked at the guests still making their way out from the ceremony room. For a second it seemed like she’d forgotten why she was here. ‘He was.’

      ‘I won’t keep you, but if there is anything else you need then please don’t hesitate to give me a call.’

      She smiled and sniffed again. Her game face going on. ‘Oh and thank you for your lovely note, it was very thoughtful.’

      I had popped it through her letterbox yesterday evening, wanting to let her know that I was thinking of her. The night before you bury your husband was never going to be a pleasant one.

      ‘You’re welcome. My phone number is on there if you ever can’t get me at work. Take care of yourself, Mrs Oakes.’

      I left her surrounded by her family and friends and allowed myself a slight rush of pride as I walked over to my car. Another success. Mrs Oakes and the other families that I helped would never know the lengths I went to in order to deliver on the day. I was proud of the unseen ways in which I ensured a personal and heartfelt tribute to the people in my care. I took it upon myself to see the side of people that others don’t see. I knew how important this was. It made the late nights, extra work and long shifts worth it – knowing I had done as much as I possibly could.

      This was not a dress rehearsal, after all. You only get one chance at the perfect goodbye.

      ‘Morning, Mrs Craig. Can you believe it’s Friday already?’ I sang, opening the door.

      Mrs Craig stayed silent.

      ‘It’s set to be another cold one this weekend. I just hope we don’t get the snow that they’re predicting. Can you believe it, snow in March? I wouldn’t want that to ruin your big day.’

      There was still no sound from Mrs Craig.

      ‘Right, I’m going to put the kettle on.’

      Leaving Mrs Craig to it, I settled at my desk to have my breakfast, first making sure to pop out the tiny white pills that must be taken on an empty stomach, just as Doctor Ahmed prescribed. I opened the newspaper and allowed myself ten minutes before the day properly began. Flipping straight to page thirty-four, I checked that all the names had been spelled correctly and the text was free from grammatical errors. I still remembered the waves of nausea when I’d noticed they had printed a colon instead of a semi-colon for Mrs Briars back in 2015. I glanced at the clock. I had ten minutes before the rest of the team would be in, so I decided to quickly do a last-minute check of Facebook and Instagram before any interruptions. I tried my hardest not to use those sites at work, but I’d been so busy that I was finding it tough to stay on top of things.

      When the doorbell went, I didn’t need to check the video monitor to know who was waiting on the doorstep. There she was, a vision in beige. Ms Norris’s visits were like clockwork: every Friday morning, the same for the past nine months.

      ‘What is with this weather?’

      The plump woman tutted, readjusting the flowery chiffon neck scarf that had twisted in the howling gale. It was severely tangled around her saggy, powdered jowls like some sort of butterfly-patterned noose.

      ‘I’m sure I never heard that nice weather man with the funny accent say anything about a hurricane this week. I just don’t know if I’m coming or going. One moment they’re saying it’s warmer than average and the next it’s like living in the North Pole. Bring on summer, I say!’

      I stood up and hurried to help close the door behind her, crunching on leaves that had blown in like fallen confetti around her sensible black shoes. I’d have to get the Hoover out the minute she left. Tan-coloured tights bagged at her swollen ankles.

      ‘Morning, Ms Norris,’ I smiled.

      Her normally sleek porcelain grey bob now resembled tousled candy floss.

      ‘I wasn’t expecting you to brave it out in this weather.’

      ‘It’ll take a bit more than Storm Elmo or whatever ridiculous name they’ve given this one to keep me indoors. Purdy doesn’t watch the weather report, so it doesn’t matter one jot to her if it’s glacial or a heatwave. When she needs a walk, she needs a walk.’

      I peered past Ms Norris, now taking off her thick beige pea coat, to see Purdy tied up to the railings outside. The flat-faced pug, also beige, was shivering dramatically.

      ‘Er… will she be OK out there?’

      Ms Norris wafted a liver-spotted hand, red-lacquered nails flashing in front of my face. ‘She’s the ultimate drama queen, that one.’

      I nodded uncertainly. The pug had, thankfully, stopped shaking and was now more interested in the leaves skittering across the small drive.

      ‘Linda not in yet?’ She glanced over at the empty chair and blank screen of Linda’s computer. The first day Ms Norris had come in to the office she had originally been booked in with Linda, but after a series of ‘creative differences’, i.e. a bit of a personality clash, she was placed with me and we’d been working together ever since.

      ‘Not yet.’

      ‘Hmph. I should have a word with Frank about her timekeeping… Shall I just go through, dear?’ Ms Norris asked, already on her way down the corridor to the only meeting room. ‘I’ll have a cuppa, if you’re making one.’

      I snapped back to attention. ‘Oh, of course, the kettle has just boiled actually.’

      ‘So, I’ve been thinking about songs.’ Ms Norris cleared her throat before I had the chance to put down her well-thumbed file and sit down opposite her.

      ‘Songs?’

      ‘Yes. Songs.’

      I flicked a thumb through the many papers, frowning. ‘I thought we’d covered music?’

      Ms Norris adjusted herself in the teal-coloured armchair. ‘Well, we had, but I’ve been thinking about my song choices and, well, I’ve changed my mind.’

      I forced myself to stay impassive. This was the third time Ms Norris had been ‘thinking about her song choices’ in the last month. Not that it was a problem to amend the details, it just worried me that she would change her mind yet again before her big day.

      ‘Sinatra.’

      ‘Sinatra?’

      ‘I know it has been done to death but I think we should go back to “My Way” and

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