The Kicking the Bucket List: The feelgood bestseller of 2017. Cathy Hopkins

       1

      Tuesday 1 September

      The offices of Wilson Richardson solicitors were on the first floor in a block on the main road through Chiswick in London. The carpeted stairs smelt musty and I noted that the reception area on the first floor was in need of a lick of paint. Rose, my neat, petite sister, was already there, not a hair of her dark bob out of place and still dressed in black though it was almost eight weeks since Mum had died. I’d decided against funereal clothes and, it being a warm September day, had dressed in grey trousers and a pale green kaftan top. We were spared the awkwardness of our meeting because we barely had time to greet each other or sit before we were ushered into Mr Richardson’s office by a receptionist with blonde hair pulled back severely from her forehead. My youngest sister, Fleur, used to call the style the Dagenham facelift, back in the days when we were still speaking to each other.

      A tall, bald man with glasses was seated behind a heavy oak desk. ‘Mr Richardson,’ he said.

      ‘I’m Rose and this is Dee. You may have her written down in your papers as Daisy,’ said Rose.

      ‘I am here and can speak for myself,’ I said.

      Rose sighed. ‘Go ahead then. I was only being helpful. Your two names can be confusing for people.’

      I focused on Mr Richardson. ‘I’m Daisy, Dee. Most people call me Dee but my mother liked to call me Daisy.’

      ‘As I said,’ said Rose.

      Well this is a great start, I thought, as the solicitor gestured to three chairs that had been placed opposite the desk for the reading of Mum’s will. ‘Please, have a seat,’ he said.

      ‘My sister Fleur will be with us shortly,’ said Rose as she sat down.

      ‘She’s always late. She’ll be late for her own funeral,’ I said, then half coughed and cursed myself.

      As we waited, I felt as if I was back at school and had been called in to see the headmaster. I wanted to get the reading over with and get home. Rose’s left foot was twitching so I reckoned she was feeling the same. She was the most in-control person I had ever known, but that foot gave her away; it always had, as if she wanted to be up, out and anywhere else. Out and away from me, away from Fleur, I imagined.

      I don’t know about her life at all any more, I thought as Rose checked her watch. I wonder if she’s happy. How are she and Hugh getting on? What will she do with her share of the inheritance, and does she need it as badly as I do? Probably not.

      We already knew that Mum would have left us equal shares of her money; she’d told us all years ago. The house in Hampstead, where we grew up, had belonged to Dad’s parents back in the 1950s and Mum and Dad had inherited it when they died. Victorian, four bedroomed and near the Heath, it had accumulated in value over the years. Mum did shabby chic before it was trendy, and the house had an old-fashioned charm about it, with original features, fireplaces and wooden floors so, despite being in need of modernization (the estate agent’s word for falling down) and the ancient plumbing and life-endangering electrics, it still went for just over two million when Mum sold it and moved to a retirement village. My share would be more than enough to sort out my finances, have a good pension pot and some to help my daughter, Lucy if she needed it. No substitute for having Mum here, though, I thought as a wave of grief at her loss, still so raw, hit me.

      We didn’t have to wait long. Five minutes later, the receptionist ushered Fleur in. Her skin was brown and her hair a sun-kissed blonde as if she’d been away. She had also decided against black and was dressed in a crepe summer dress with tiny coral and cream flowers and red kitten heels that looked like they cost a bomb. I tucked my scuffed M&S loafers under my chair as Mr Richardson indicated that Fleur should take the empty seat.

      ‘Traffic was awful …’ she began but didn’t continue when Rose sighed heavily to express her disapproval. Part of Rose’s anal personality was that she was obsessively punctual and disapproved of anyone who wasn’t on time. Fleur must have realized that we’d heard it all before, even if it was a long time ago. She took a seat with a brief nod to me.

      Mr Richardson cleared his throat and picked up some papers from his desk. ‘So let’s get on, shall we? Your late mother, Iris Parker, instructed me to invite you all here today. She left her will, which I’ll get to, but she asked that I read a letter to you first. Shall I go ahead?’

      Rose glanced at Fleur and me. ‘Letter? When was it written?’ she asked. She was clearly put out that she didn’t know about this. Hah, I thought, good. Though I hadn’t known about it either.

      ‘April of this year,’ Mr Richardson replied.

      ‘Three months before she died,’ Rose commented.

      Mr Richardson nodded. ‘That would be about right. Shall I begin?’

      ‘Please,’ said Rose. Answering for all of us, I thought. Nothing ever changes.

      Mr Richardson began to read.

      ‘“My dearest girls, for girls are what you will always be to me.

      ‘“I’m writing a few things I want you to know when I am gone.

      ‘“First of all, remember me but don’t be sad. I’ve grown weary of late and am ready to go and be with your father, who I am sure will be waiting for me. Remember me but think of me with you as I used to be when I was in better health and let those memories bring you comfort.

      ‘“Secondly, don’t feel guilty about my last chapter. It’s a waste of time. I tried to tell you all but you were all so wrapped up in it that I don’t think you heard. Guilt is an indulgence and – like anger – it eats away at you. Let it go. Hear what I have to say next and take it in. I was happy to go to the retirement village. I made good friends there, had good care and maintained my independence, which was important to me. Much as I love you, I think we’d have driven each other mad if I’d come to live with any of you. We’re all grown women and each have our own way of doing things. To sell the family home and move was my choice. Mine. I’d outgrown that lovely old house in Hampstead. It was way too much for me to manage. I wanted to simplify my life and my responsibilities and had felt that way for some years. So despite all your thoughts about my best interests and where you thought I should have been, let it go. I was where I wanted to be.

      ‘“Daisy, you especially. What would I have done in Cornwall? I don’t know anyone down there, apart from you. It would have been like living in a foreign country for me, and I’d have missed my dear Jean and never have met Martha, who has become such a good friend these last few years. It turned out for the best.

      ‘“As I write this, I don’t know when I’ll go or which of you will be with me, if any of you so I wanted to say, so all of you can hear this and take it in, that most of us can’t choose the time or circumstances of our passing. Don’t feel bad if you don’t make it to my side. I have a lifetime of memories with each of you, as you do of me. Remember and cherish those and don’t cling on to my final weeks or months. They are only part of my journey. Remember the whole. I’ve had a good and full life. Let me go. Just as with birth, none of us can predict how the end will be. Remember, Daisy, you had your plans for a home birth with Lucy. You had the birthing pool, your CD of that god-awful music with dolphins squeaking in the background (heaven