Читать книгу: «Coming Home», страница 3

CHAPTER 8

It turned out that Mum had a pretty good idea where Dad’s will might be, after all. As I sat downstairs the next morning, knitting my way through the East-to-West jetlag that had had me up at 4 a.m., I heard her clomping awkwardly down the stairs.

‘Uh,’ she grunted, kicking open the living room door and depositing four sturdy box files on the dining table. Despite the early hour, she was already dressed, coiffed and scented while I—having been up for half a century—was still in my dressing gown.

‘I think the Will might be in here,’ she said. ‘Your dad kept all his papers in these. It’s a blessing that he was such an organised man. Now. Have you had breakfast?’

Before I could reply, she carried on.

‘We’re due at the funeral place at eleven. We can’t sort this out too quickly as there are waiting lists. Poor Lily had to wait two weeks for her brother’s funeral.’

And so, after taking a shower, I hunched over the dining table and, feeling as if I might be about to open a Jack-in-the-box, released the catch on the first box. I didn’t share Mum’s confidence in Dad’s organisational skills, but no horrors jumped out; there was no explosion of random papers, just a series of fat folders, each containing what looked like the year’s statements from various bank accounts and a couple more folders of credit card statements.

Encouraged, I opened the second box and found another series of neatly labelled folders, these appearing to contain receipts and guarantees for everything that my parents had bought in the last few years, from clothes and electronics to work done on the house and car.

The next two boxes told a similar story. Dad had meticulously filed all of the paperwork essential to keep my parents’ lives running smoothly, from utility bills and insurance papers to the tax returns, invoices and payment slips for every little piece of work he’d done.

I smiled a thank you to the sky. It could go either way with historians, I’d found—some of Dad’s colleagues had been so disorganised I used to wonder how they managed to dress themselves in the morning, but others, like Dad, got pleasure out of documenting their lives; creating their own historical records, I suppose.

Flicking through the folders, I stuck a Post-it on each thing I thought needed attention—companies that needed to be told of Dad’s death; accounts and bills that needed to be transferred into Mum’s name; and those that could be closed down. As I put the most recent bank statement back on top of the pile, something caught my eye. A debit of £22,000 made just last week. Strange, I thought, sticking a Post-it on that too. I’d look more closely at it later.

CHAPTER 9

‘How was it when you went back to school?’ asked Miss Dawson. ‘It was after the summer holidays, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘So … six weeks? Do you think that was long enough?’

I sighed. How should I know? I sat back in the armchair and ate my biscuit. School was difficult, but home wasn’t much easier. Graham had been the only pupil from our school ever to have died and no one knew what to say to me, his kid sister. On my first day back, everyone had spoken in clichés. ‘Don’t worry. He wouldn’t have known what hit him,’ they’d said, way too graphically. ‘He’s in a happier place now. He’s looking down on you from heaven.’ My classmates repeated what they heard the adults say. A boy in Graham’s class even said, ‘Don’t worry. He’d have been happy that it was a BMW.’

Dazed, I’d nodded at people as they spun around me, all ‘Graham this, Graham that’.

‘When someone dies,’ I said to Miss Dawson, ‘why is it all about them? They’re not there any more. Graham couldn’t hear them saying all those things. I could. Why didn’t anyone ask how I was? I’m the one who’s still alive!’ I knitted a row furiously. ‘And now no one talks to me about Graham at all. It’s like he never existed. But sometimes I just want to talk about him.’

‘That’s what these sessions are about, Evie. You know I’m here to try and help.’

I forced myself to smile but my mouth wobbled. I looked down at the knitting on my lap. Miss Dawson hadn’t known Graham. How could she talk about him? I wanted to talk about him with someone who remembered the silly pranks he used to play, what his favourite food was, the fact that he was scared of Doctor Who.

‘I’d talk to Mum, but …’

On my first day back at school, I’d come home and, out of habit, I’d pushed open Graham’s door. The room had still smelled of him, as though his dusky boy-essence had permeated the carpet, the curtains and the duvet that Mum still hadn’t stripped from his bed. I’d lain down on his bed and hugged his pillow. For the first time since he’d died, I’d fallen into a deep and natural sleep.

I didn’t hear Mum come in but I’ll never forget the sound that came out of her mouth when she saw someone asleep in Graham’s bed. It was feral, animalistic and seemed to go on forever. Mum had grabbed handfuls of books from Graham’s shelf and hurled them at me, screaming ‘Get out! Get out! How dare you? How dare you try to fool me? Do you think I’m STUPID? Do you think I don’t know my SON IS DEAD?’ She’d collapsed on the floor and I’d slunk out, a part of me wishing it was me who’d died.

‘I’d talk to Mum,’ I told Miss Dawson. ‘But it’s not always easy.’

CHAPTER 10

10.45 a.m. saw Mum and I walking up the road towards the High Street in a light drizzle. She was smart in a beige raincoat and headscarf (‘I don’t have anything black,’ she’d said. ‘Do you think it matters?’), while I was wearing the warmest thing I’d been able to find in the wardrobe—a brown coat of Mum’s that had, frankly, seen better days. It wasn’t my finest fashion moment.

As we trudged up the street, Mum pointed out all the things that had changed since I’d last been home, and passed on little snippets of gossip. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I had no idea who she was talking about. The walk was slightly uphill and into the wind, and I soon became breathless with it, so I let her ramble on—I think she was enjoying having me there to talk to.

‘Oh and number forty-two applied for planning permission for an extension, but we lobbied the Council to block it,’ she said. ‘It would have looked so ugly! You can’t mess with these Victorian houses! And this—a conservation area! And look at that ridiculous sports car that Mr Olsen’s bought. I mean! How old does he think he is? Twenty-one again? I remember when he was knee-high to a donkey! He’s mad to leave that parked outside, anyway—I bet it’ll get stolen, just like what happened to that silly Mercedes at number nineteen. Oh look! There’s Richard!’

I looked up and, indeed, there was Richard walking towards us, returning from the High Street. Much to my disappointment he wasn’t dressed as a pop star, but was wearing a dark green anorak, hood up against the drizzle, and what looked like the same brown cords as yesterday. The jute shopping bag he held seemed heavy. Mum instinctively patted her hair, forgetting perhaps that it was mostly tucked under her headscarf. Her fringe, wet from the drizzle, was plastered against her forehead.

‘Off to the High Street?’ he asked, once pleasantries were exchanged. Mum took a breath to answer but before she had a chance, a police car screeched past us, its siren deafening. As Richard and I jumped in shock, Mum slapped her hands over her ears and started to shout ‘la-la-la-la!’ at the top of her voice, like a child pretending not to hear her parents. I knew about Mum’s extreme reaction to sirens but I hadn’t seen it happen for many years. Mortified, I looked at Richard but he suddenly had Mum in his arms, his hand patting her headscarf, her face on his wet lapel. It’s OK, he mouthed over her head to me.

Then, as suddenly as they’d started, the sirens stopped, Richard sprang back and Mum’s hands dropped back down. She smoothed down her coat and gave herself a little shake.

‘Shopping, I wish!’ she said. ‘We’re off to the undertaker’s to sort out the funeral.’

‘Well, good luck with that,’ said Richard, unfazed. He picked up his wet shopping bag. ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’

I looked at Mum, expecting an explanation, but she angled her body purposefully back up the street, leaving me standing with my mouth open. Richard had obviously seen her act like this before, but his dealing with it so smoothly left me feeling uncomfortable, like I’d just witnessed something I shouldn’t have.

I hurried to catch up with Mum and, as we rounded the corner, the familiar old High Street hove into view. While much had changed in recent years, many of the landmarks of my childhood were still there. The Indian restaurant where I’d insisted we go for my twelfth birthday because it felt ‘so grown up’; the pet shop where I’d bought my only ever pet hamster; and the hidden gem of an Italian restaurant in which I’d had many first dates. People stood huddled as ever at bus stops, puffs of their warm breath mixing with clouds of cigarette smoke. Outside McDonald’s, a group of teenagers dipped their hands in and out of brown paper bags—I recalled the warm comforts of a cheeseburger and a bag of hot fries while waiting for the bus in the exact same spot.

We continued on, past charity shops, takeaways and a new crop of pawnshops and cash-converters I hadn’t seen the previous summer. On the left, the top end of the double-parked street where Miss Dawson had lived. I remembered the feeling of walking down that street to her house for counselling sessions, which continued even in the school holidays. To this day, Miss Dawson’s street still featured in my dreams. I didn’t even know if she still lived there.

Mum turned abruptly into the doorway of a dark-fronted shop that sat discreetly next to WHSmith. A bell rang in the hushed interior, and a tall, pale man in a dark suit appeared from a back room. ‘You must be Mrs Stevens,’ he said softly. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

‘If you can guide us through whatever we need to do, that would be helpful, thank you,’ said Mum.

I wondered if her brusqueness was masking her grief; her upper lip was so stiff you could have stood an army on it. The silence of the undertaker’s was oppressive and suddenly I felt clammy and a little light-headed. Two days ago, I’d been living my life in Dubai, that month’s magazine about to go to press; a champagne brunch booked for the weekend. How was I now sitting here, in a suburban high street, asking a stranger’s advice on what sort of box to put my dead father in? I sat down heavily.

The man showed us a catalogue of coffins. As he joined us at the desk, I caught a waft of his cologne and breathed it in: he smelled of Dad, and suddenly I was playing hide-and-seek in the garden, Graham and I both hunting for our father. As we’d stood next to the raspberry bushes, regrouping after a long and fruitless search, I’d caught a whiff of Dad’s signature scent: Eau Sauvage.

‘He’s here!’ I’d squealed, digging into the raspberry bush, red juice smearing my fingers. ‘I can smell him!’

‘I’m thinking closed coffin,’ Mum said, moistening the tip of her finger with her tongue as she flipped through the pages. ‘People don’t want to see him, do they?’

‘It’s your decision, Mrs Stevens,’ said the man.

‘That’s a nice one, don’t you think, Evie?’ Mum asked, stopping at a grand-looking box, rectangular, with six handles. ‘Dad would have liked that, I think. And maybe with a sky-blue lining? Or yellow like the sunshine? What do you think, darling? I don’t suppose it really matters if it’s not pure silk—it’s going to be burnt to a cinder anyway.’

‘Excuse me!’ I scraped the chair back and dashed out of the shop.

Around the corner, I leaned heavily against a wall. Dad had gone forever. I breathed in deeply, enjoying the sting of the cold air in my lungs. It gave me something to focus on while I gathered myself.

‘Evie? Is that you?’ The voice was cautious but familiar. I knew even without looking to whom it belonged.

‘Luca.’ I ran a hand through my hair, wished the ground would swallow me up. This wasn’t how any first meeting with an ex was supposed to be.

‘Evie! How are you?’

I nodded and tried for a smile. Words wouldn’t come. Luca and I had been one of the only couples to have ‘gone steady’ at school for the entire two years of the sixth form. I’ve never since had my life so sorted as when he and I were going out. It’s funny how we know it all at sixteen—and then what happens? How does it all fall apart?

Standing within touching distance of him now, I remembered almost viscerally the lunchtimes we’d spent sitting on the bench by the tennis courts at school, his arm draped over my shoulder while we talked about our future. We’d talked about what we’d do when we were married: where we’d live, how many children we’d have and what their names would be. The funny thing was, it wasn’t just me leading this fantasy life—Luca had been even keener on it than I was.

Back then he’d worked on Saturday and Sunday lunchtimes in a chichi pub in Chislehurst, where he cleared dishes, washed up and sometimes even waited tables. When I’d turned eighteen, he’d presented me with a tiny solitaire ring he’d saved up his wages to buy and asked me to marry him. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I’d said no. He’d thought I was joking at first. ‘No. Seriously, Luca. Maybe if we’re both still single when we’re thirty,’ I’d quipped, handing the red velvet box back to him.

It had been the beginning of the end. The relationship had limped on until we left school a few months later, but the magic had gone. We’d gone to different universities and we hadn’t stayed in touch.

‘It’s been—what?—nearly twelve years?’ Luca said. ‘So what are you up to these days?’

‘My dad just died.’ The words fell out of me. ‘I’ve just come back to help Mum. For a bit. I live in Dubai.’

Luca touched my arm then pulled his hand back quickly. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. I remember your dad … Look, if there’s anything I can do?’

‘We’re just in the funeral directors now,’ I said. ‘Choosing the coffin. I just, um, stepped out for a second.’

‘I’m so sorry, Evie.’

‘It’s OK. Not your fault.’ I tried to smile.

‘Would you let me know about the funeral arrangements? I’d like to pay my respects.’ Luca put his hand on his chest and looked down for a second.

‘I will.’

‘Look, if you need anything at all, Evie. I’m here. Facebook me.’

‘Thanks. I will.’

Two pairs of eyes turned to me when I stepped back into the undertaker’s.

‘Would you like to see what we’ve decided?’ Mum asked, looking at me over her spectacles. ‘We’re going for the oak casket with the blue lining.’ She opened the catalogue to a page and pointed. And the funeral’s set for a week today. Right, I think we’re all done here.’

She pushed her chair back and, together, we stepped out into the drizzle.

CHAPTER 11

The Speckled Hen did a good lunch. Stopping in on our way back to the house, Mum and I ordered salmon fishcakes, salad and thick-cut chips washed down with a warming glass each of Merlot.

‘So, shall we get the funeral party thing catered?’ I asked, the wine already buzzing in my head. I wasn’t expecting a yes.

‘Sure,’ she said, waving over the waitress. ‘Can you ask the manager to come over?’

This was a side of Mum I’d never seen before. When Dad was alive, she’d have stood up all night, on pins if she’d had to, cutting rounds of sandwiches rather than buy them. I was pleased—it was progress. The pub, it turned out, had a home-catering department and the manager was obliging. Within a matter of minutes, it was agreed that uniformed waiters would hand around a selection of sweet and savoury finger foods and hot and cold drinks.

I, however, wasn’t making much progress of my own. I’d fully intended to start going through Dad’s address book after lunch, letting people know that the funeral had been set for Friday, but the rich food and unaccustomed lunchtime wine took their toll on both me and Mum. Back home, Mum flicked off her shoes, dropped her keys onto the dresser by the front door and collapsed in her favourite chair in the living room while I went to make us each a coffee. But, when I brought it out to her five minutes later, Mum was out for the count, her mouth slightly open, a magazine on her lap. I placed the coffee quietly on the table and looked at my mother. In sleep, her face was softer, free of the worries that plagued her in life.

‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll always be here for you. It’s just us now. Just the girls.’ I placed a fleecy blanket gently over her lap and went upstairs to lie down. The wind had picked up and I wriggled luxuriously in bed, the duvet half over me as the wind splattered the rain against the windowpanes. We never got afternoons like this in Dubai; I let the rhythmic patter of the rain lull me to sleep.

‘Aaargh!’

The furious scream that woke me was followed by the crash of the phone being slammed down.

‘That woman is so rude!’ Mum yelled.

‘What’s wrong? Mum? What’s up?’ I leapt off my bed and into the hall where Mum was standing staring at the phone as if it had got up and slapped her on the cheek.

‘It’s unacceptable! How can people be so rude?’ she raged. ‘I never even liked the woman!’

‘What? What happened?’

‘I told her that Graham was dead and she denied it! It’s not as if it’s easy telling people, but that woman had the temerity to deny it! She said I was “having a turn”!’

‘Oh, Mum, I …’ I took a step towards her.

‘“Oh, Mum, I” what?’ Mum was still staring at the phone, but now she snapped her head to look at me, her eyes flashing.

I reached out for her arm, but she jumped away.

‘It’s not Graham,’ I said gently. ‘It’s Dad who’s died. Robert. Not Graham.’

Mum stared at me, her eyes wide. Then she shook her head. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Good God, I may be old but I don’t have dementia. What kind of idiot do you take me for?’

‘I …’

Mum turned for the stairs. ‘Cup of tea?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m fine.’

CHAPTER 12

I yanked the wool from the tip of my knitting needles, unravelling a row of uneven stitches. ‘Please could you help me with my knitting?’ I asked Miss Dawson. She’d been waiting for me to say something for several minutes, but the knitting was taking up all my concentration. It hadn’t been going right for a few days now and the work I’d produced was full of telltale holes.

‘Here.’ Miss Dawson took the wool and needles from me, unravelled a couple more rows, cast on and knitted a couple of neat rows for me. ‘There you go.’ She passed it back.

‘Thanks.’

‘Are you sleeping all right now?’ she asked. ‘You said you have sleeping tablets? Are they working?’

‘Hmph.’

Nights were bad. I couldn’t stop thinking about the accident. Mum had taken me to the doctor and, after that, I got half a tiny purple sleeping pill at bedtime.

The pills tasted bitter and dragged me into sleep but, in my dreams, I met Graham. All night we played, we argued, we messed around. I woke feeling happy. And then I had to remember all over again that he was dead. During the day, I felt like I was walking through melted toffee, my head enclosed in a glass jar.

‘I stopped taking them. I don’t feel much like myself with them,’ I said.

‘And are you managing to get to sleep without them?’

‘S’pose,’ I said.

I’d never tell Miss Dawson, but I’d started talking to Graham instead. Each night, I lay down and told him about my day. I imagined that he could hear me; I imagined his replies. I slept better now—but my dreams were still of Graham.