Memento Mori

I do the route quite often. I'm a delivery driver, you see. Computer
spares. Anyway, a few weeks ago, I was on the run into Beeston, just
outside Nottingham. Not a remarkable place, and the route I take is
pretty dull, too. But this particular day, a Thursday it was, I had to
stop at a set of traffic lights, and for some reason, there was a
hold-up. I think a tractor or a digger or something had snarled
everything up. Well, while I was waiting, I happened to notice, just to
my right, several bunches of rather bedraggled flowers, tied to the
railings running along the central reservation separating one side of
the busy road from the other.

I was close enough to the railings, and therefore to the flowers, to be
able to read the cards that accompanied them, even though the rain had
smudged the various samples of handwriting. "To Dad. We miss you. Love,
Sarah and Luke"; "To David. All my love, now and always, Karen";
"Goodbye, Son. You will always be remembered, and missed. Love, Mum
&; Dad."

It was pretty clear what had happened. This man - called David,
evidently - had been killed crossing the road, at more or less this
exact spot. Very sad. Plainly, this David was a family man, and his
family was mourning him. The fact that the flowers were drooping both
because they were past their best, and because of the recent heavy
rain, somehow made the sight all the more poignant. Maybe it was that
which caused it to stick in my mind, I don't know. But stick it
did.

It was about four days later when I saw the newspaper article. It made
the front page of the local paper. "Man killed at accident blackspot.
Police hunt for driver."

"Police today confirmed the identity of the man killed on Derby Road
last Saturday night. He was David Andrews, of Queen Elizabeth Drive,
Beeston. Mr. Andrews died when he was hit by a speeding car whilst
crossing the busy road. The driver of the vehicle did not stop, and has
not come forward. Police are appealing for witnesses to the accident,
and are looking for the driver of a blue Vauxhall Vectra seen later
that evening in the Nuttall Road area. Mr. Andrews leaves a wife,
Karen, and children Sarah, nine, and Luke, seven."

Well, straight away I knew they'd made a mistake, because I'd seen the
flowers days before Saturday. I looked up from the paper and shouted
through to Doreen, my wife, who was in the kitchen, making the tea.
"Another misprint in the Post, Dor. They say this accident happened on
Saturday, but I saw the flowers. Must have been the Saturday before
last. And that was the end of that.

About a week later, I was on my way to Stapleford, another nondescript
town a few miles from the city centre. That's one place where there
always seems to be roadworks, and this day was no exception. Temporary
traffic lights were in place, and seemed to be permanently set on red
against me. As I sat in the queue, I idly looked around, and noticed a
row of flowers outside one of the shops along the high street. Looking
up to the top of the windows, I saw that it was Hughes the butchers. I
don't really know the town, except for the computer shop I deliver to,
so this meant very little to me. In fact, I would probably have
forgotten about it very soon afterwards, had it not been for the
article in the Post several days later. "Local businessman dies after
long battle against Cancer."

"Stapleford butcher Harry Hughes, MBE, died yesterday aged 63, after
losing his four-year fight against cancer. Mr. Hughes, whose shop on
Ilkeston Road has been the centre of the local community for over
twenty years, raised thousands of pounds for Imperial Cancer Research,
and was given his commendation by the queen in 1999. He leaves a wife,
Gloria, and two sons, Gary and John."

I knew that the central heating was on, but suddenly I felt a bit
chilly. When Doreen came in, I showed her the article in the paper. "I
passed that shop last week", I said. "There were flowers outside it
then. I can't believe this, they've got it wrong again."

Doreen read through the article, then looked at me. "Are you sure it
was the same shop, Tom?"

"Of course. Hughes' butchers, Ilkeston Road, Stapleford. I'm telling
you, there was a row of bouquets. That'd be Friday. According to this,
he didn't die until yesterday, Tuesday. How can they get something like
that wrong?"

Doreen didn't know. And to be honest, she wasn't all that interested.
Why should she be?

The next one was about five days later; a delivery in Bramcote. I had
to walk past a cemetery to get to the shop. On my way back, I could see
over the wall, and I noticed that there were fresh flowers strewn over
a newly covered grave. Perhaps, if things had been normal, I
wouldn't've noticed the name on the cards. But given what had happened,
I most definitely did notice it. Alice Williams. Various flowers from
various relatives and friends. Seems she was a popular lady. There was
no gravestone, obviously. The burial had clearly only taken place a day
or two previously, the earth and the flowers still fresh.

You know what I'm going to tell you next, I'm sure. That's right. It
was in the death notices in the evening paper a week later. "Alice
Williams, 80, of Sandiacre, passed away on Wednesday morning. Much
loved wife, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. Will be sadly
missed by all her family and friends. The funeral will take place on
Friday morning at 10:00am at Sandiacre Parish Church, the interment
afterwards at Bramcote Cemetry."

Needless to say, the date of death quoted was several days after I had
seen the flowers on the grave. This time there was no blaming the
newspaper. One such mistake was entirely possible; two, just about
conceivable. Three? No way. But, if not simple printing errors, then
what?

I tried to speak to Doreen about it; but, you see, we're simple people.
We've never had time for all this hokum about ghosts and UFOs and
goodness knows what else. She said, as she usually does when such
things come up, that it was just "one of those things." The panacea for
all problems of incomprehension.

I started to get paranoid, looking round everywhere I went for patches
of colour that might be collections of cut flowers. Over the next three
weeks, I saw two more sets of flowers. Another group at the side of a
winding country road I had taken to avoid a traffic jam, and one set
outside a school. That was sad. Little girl had died of leukaemia. I
read it in the paper the following week. I'd seen the flowers four days
before she died.

~*~

I still don't have any explanation for it; I can't tell you that it
went away, or that I found some deeper meaning to it all. Because it
hasn't, and I didn't. All I can tell you is that I am, at this moment,
sitting in my delivery van, at the side of the road, shaking like a
leaf. Why? Because of what I've just spotted at the crossroads at the
end of our street.

Three bunches of flowers, two whose cards I couldn't see. And the
third? "To my beloved husband Tom. I will love you forever. Doreen."
Fuchsias, they were. Funny. Doreen has never liked fuchsias. I've
always loved them, though.