In Edinburgh, '93

Andy dies at 11.12pm. I know, because I look at the clock above the
kitchen door. At 11.13, his dad comes in and says, you ought to see the
new crop of tomatoes. He takes me into the greenhouse in the garden and
he picks the ones that look reddest and gives them to me and we eat
some of them and then we go back inside. I say, does anyone want a
tomato, but no-one does.

Andy's dad is called John. I don't think he knows any of our names
yet.

The two nurses come downstairs and say everyone has to have a cup of
tea or coffee with sugar in it, so I pick up some cups from the
draining board and line them up along the counter. I have a spoon in
one hand and a jar of Nescafe in the other and I realise I don't know
what they are or what they are for. One of the nurses comes up and
takes them away and says I am in shock so I say sorry and go back into
the garden and have a look at the fence.

The coffee might have been before the tomatoes.

Andy's aunt puts her arm round me and says I should go and see him now
so I go up the stairs and into his room. He is still lying in the bed
and I can see him twice because the wall opposite is one big mirror.
He's not crying any more, though. I say sorry, although I'm not sure
what for. I don't know if I am talking to Andy in the bed or if I'm
alone in the room and talking to myself.

Everyone is crying and hugging each other downstairs but I don't feel
like crying and I don't really want to hug anyone. I go back in the
garden so I can think. It's quite cold. Andy's cousin comes out to talk
to me. He is also the undertaker. He says that Andy's body is a serious
health hazard and they must take it out of the house and they have to
do it within the hour because of infection, but they don't want Andy's
mum to know they are doing it and so they are going to try and give her
a sleeping pill.

Inside, Liz has taken the pill but she doesn't want to sleep on her own
and asks if I will stay with her. Much later, I suppose I think this is
odd. I wait for her to fall asleep then get up and open the curtains. I
am very very tired and I am rubbish at staying awake and I am scared
that I will scream or snore or something and wake her up and that she
might hear the undertakers so I sit up in the bed and scratch my hands
as hard as I can and watch the street light shaking and listen to them
taking Andy away and sealing up his room. They're very very quiet. When
I wake up, the backs of my hands are scored and red and swollen and
Andy's mum isn't there.

People are leaving today. Mainly back to London. They peel off slowly
for the station. They'll be back for the funeral, with reinforcements.
We cut food up and cook it and smoke cigarettes in the garden. We
dismantle the dormitory in the living room. We don't eat the food and
nobody says much. In the afternoon, Andy's dad takes me to Andy's
favourite place, some trees and a river. There's a pair of ducks
floating around together and watching their ducklings learning to fly
and he tells me how ducks stay together for life and die of sadness if
they lose their mate. We throw coins in the river; one for John, one
for Liz, one for me, one for Andy's boyfriend, Antony, two for Andy's
brothers. For a few years after that, I throw fifties and pounds into
any good water, to give Andy a different view. It's much better than
candles.

There's a beach in Edinburgh. I didn't know that. Ant and I go for a
long walk along it so the family can be alone when Andy comes home. He
is ice-eyed but talkative. We cover sex and hospitals and college and
homelessness and green beans. We stay out as long as we can.

The bed's gone and there's a coffin, open, and a vase of pink and
yellow flowers above the fireplace. I look round the door, but I can't
go in. I have to have make-up. I put it on in the bathroom, very
carefully, like a date. So now I am ready. So I go in and say
goodbye.