After the Funeral

by Gillian Poucher

  I smiled to myself as the line went dead.

  But then the old dread returned. What if, after all this time, as we grow old, she should share my secret?

  I wonder sometimes why she has kept silent. I understood when Mother was alive, but she has been dead twenty years now. And Ada grows more like her, more bitter by the day.

  Julia stared at the faded black ink of her mother’s handwriting on the yellowing page. My secret. Whatever it was, William Prescott had known it and had shared it with her father. And her mother blamed her father’s friend for precipitating his death. Worse, reading between the lines, it seemed Prescott had made his disclosure to Leonard after Emily refused his advances.

  Shuddering, Julia went out into the hall, once again picking up her parents’ wedding photograph from the bookcase which had stood in her grandfather’s study. She thought again how stiff they looked, especially her mother. She would expect her father to be upright in his naval uniform, but for the first time it struck her there was a tension about her mother’s lips parted in the shy smile, the fixed gaze back at the camera, the raised chin. Or was she being influenced by what she had just read, and by Linda’s dark hints?

  Linda. As the phone rang beneath her, making her start so that she nearly dropped the photograph, she was certain it was her newly-discovered relative. But it was Clare’s voice on the other end of the line. Julia sighed in relief.

  ‘Julia? I thought you might be at the office. I was going to leave a message.’

  ‘No, I’m here. I’ve come down with a bad cold.’ On cue, Julia sneezed.

  ‘I can hear you have. Is there anything I can get you, or…?’

  Although she would have to brave the freezing weather to go to the corner shop later for food, Julia answered, ‘No, I’m OK thanks.’ She paused. ‘Never mind me. How are you?’

  ‘You know then?’ Clare’s voice was small. ‘You’ve seen James?’

  ‘Yes. He came round drunk early on Sunday morning. I’m so sorry, Clare.’

  There was a strangled sob. ‘I don’t know what to do. He told me it’s over with this girl, but how can I be sure? He says he wants us to try again. What would you do?’

  Julia didn’t answer immediately, twisting the phone cord with her free hand. If Clare were her client, she would encourage her to find her own answer to the question. But Clare was her sister-in-law, her friend, seeking advice. And what position was she in to advise after Greg’s betrayal, knowing full well she would have taken him back if he had apologised and regretted his affair?

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘I don’t know what I’d do. I’m not really the best person to ask, am I?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Julia said quickly. ‘But if you’d like to meet up for a chat – that is, I’m guessing you’re not going to Aunt Ada’s 80th now, are you?’

  ‘Actually we are,’ said Clare. ‘James doesn’t want Aunt Ada to know anything yet, not till we’ve decided what we’re doing. And I agree with him. You know how vicious she can be, and how she gossips.’

  Julia sighed. ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘I would like to meet for a chat though,’ Clare went on. ‘I hope, whatever happens…’ another stifled sob, ‘we can still be friends, Julia.’

  ‘Of course. We are friends, good friends, and frankly I’m disgusted with my brother.’

  Clare hiccoughed. ‘Thanks, Julia. That means a lot. You’ve been such a rock during all the IVF.’ She began to cry in earnest, and barely managed to get out the words, ‘See you on Saturday then,’ before terminating the call.

  Julia felt tears welling up herself as she replaced the handset. Poor Clare. She’d been through such a lot, desperate for a baby, putting her body through those rounds of invasive treatment, disappointed each time, and now James was putting her through this. Bastard. Just like Greg.

  Her eyes fell again on her parents’ wedding photograph. She hugged it suddenly to her chest. Her mother had chosen a good man in Leonard, of that she was certain. But what was the secret her mother had kept from her father, which Emily believed had hastened his death when he learned it from William Prescott? And again, that question which had occurred to her before, Do I really want to know? Might the past be best left buried with her parents?

  –  CHAPTER 11  –

  Julia’s limbs felt weak as she hauled herself out of bed at 7.30 a.m. on Wednesday. Rain, driven by the wind, hammered against the windows. It was barely light, a dismal January day which matched her mood. At least the rain would shift what was left of the weekend snow.

  The main roads to her office were clear, but the pavements were still slippery with compacted grey ice. She stepped carefully from the car into the former playground of the old school. The red-brick building looked more forlorn than ever on the wet winter’s day. Water streamed from a broken down pipe to the left of the entrance. More water dripped steadily from a blocked gutter directly above the door, pounding rhythmically on Julia’s umbrella as she struggled to extract her key from the front pocket of her black shoulder bag.

  ‘Here. Let me.’ Julia jumped as Pete reached round her and put his key in the lock. She hadn’t been aware of him following her across the icy yard. ‘After you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She pressed the light switch in the lobby. One of the two fluorescent strip lights above them flickered briefly and died.

  ‘So how are you?’ The reflexologist put his weight against the door to close it, fighting a gust of wind.

  ‘OK thanks. Bit of a cold, that’s all.’ She kept her back to him as she opened her mailbox. It was empty.

  ‘I wondered where you were. Hoped you were all right after Saturday.’ When she didn’t reply, Pete rushed on, ‘Did you get my message about the offices? They’re up by the shopping centre on the outer circle road. Better location than here. Good rent too.’ He moved to her side to check his box, close enough for her to scent his aloe vera soap. She stepped back.

  ‘Right. I’ll think about it.’ She turned down the corridor which led to their offices.

  ‘I’ve booked a viewing with the agent later today. Are you free around five?’

  ‘I don’t know. I said I’ll think about it.’ She walked more quickly. The doors to the old classrooms rattled in the draught.

  ‘All right. Let me know. We’ve not got long before the landlord chucks us out!’

  Julia chewed the inside of her lower lip as she unlocked the door into her office. She regretted her curtness, especially after Pete had been so kind on Saturday. She turned, intending to go back and apologise, but the front door banged shut again and she heard him greeting his first client.

  The room was colder than ever. She shivered, sneezing as she turned on the fire. She was tempted to leave the blind drawn against the dark winter’s day. But she knew from experience that clients liked a view. It was hardly the most scenic – a rutted playground, parked cars and a row of terraced houses across the quiet street, but it was somewhere to focus if eye contact in the counselling session became uncomfortable.

  The damp patch over the window recess had expanded. It seemed to be spreading before her eyes, an ugly brown fungus. She sighed as the intercom buzzed and Grace announced herself. The office was hardly the bright welcoming space recommended in her training.

  Julia was again struck by the younger woman’s slimness as Grace unbuttoned her grey and white checked coat. If anything, she looked even thinner than last week. She seated herself on the edge of the chair as she had in her first session. Today she was wearing a short black corduroy skirt and a powder blue polo neck jumper. She adjusted her plait over her right shoulder with her characteristic gesture. She was one of those fortunate women who would look immaculate whatever the weather, thought Julia, tucking a stray coil of her brunette bob behind her ear, still feeling windswept from the brief walk across the yard from her car. Grace studied her oval nails, avoiding eye contact.

  ‘So you to
ld me last week about your family, how you felt distanced from your late father after he re-married, the difficult relationship with your step-mother, and your fear of being “tainted” because of your mother’s mental illness,’ recapped Julia. ‘That was a lot to share in the first session. I wonder how you’ve been since?’

  ‘Not good.’ Her client ran the forefinger of her right hand along the ridge of each nail on her left.

  A squall of wind lashed the rain against the window. Grace didn’t look up.

  ‘I know it can be difficult to disclose so much at once. Some clients regret it afterwards.’

  ‘I didn’t mind that.’ Grace glanced at Julia, twiddling the edge of her plait. ‘It just wasn’t a good week anyway.’

  ‘Not a good week for other reasons?’

  ‘Exactly. But I don’t want to talk about that today.’ The younger woman bit her lip before continuing in a low voice. ‘I feel ashamed of myself.’

  ‘Ashamed?’

  ‘Yes. I really don’t want to talk about it yet. I don’t know what you’ll think of me.’ She brushed a tear from the corner of her right eye.

  ‘OK. I can see it’s painful for you. But I’m not here to judge, Grace.’ Julia paused. Grace wiped away a few more tears. ‘Perhaps you’re judging yourself?’

  Her client shrugged. ‘That’s how I was brought up, I suppose. Frances has very clear ideas of acceptable behaviour, of “the Christian way” as she calls it. Father wasn’t so vocal, but I could always sense his disapproval.’

  ‘Ah. You mentioned your step-mother was a born again Christian, and your father converted when he met her?’

  ‘Yes. Our lives centred on the church once Father met Frances. We went to two services on Sundays. Soon after they married they hosted a Bible study and a Prayer Group two evenings a week.’ She paused. ‘There always seemed to be people coming and going at the house. Frances made it clear she wanted me out of the way and would send me off to my room.’

  ‘Very different to the life you’d lived before with your father?’

  Grace nodded, tracing a circle with the toe of her boot on the threadbare grey carpet. ‘One of the things I missed most was my bedtime story with Father. That stopped when they married. She said I was too old for that, a big girl who should put herself to bed.’ Grace’s voice wobbled. ‘But I was only eight, just eight years old. I used to cry myself to sleep.’ Her voice broke.

  Julia slid the box of tissues across the side table which stood between them. There was a lump in her throat. She knew that she wasn’t just sensing the loneliness of the child Grace. She was recalling how she used to cry herself to sleep after her father died when she had been the same age. ‘Classic transference,’ her supervisor would say, and Julia knew she would warn her against the danger of projecting her own feelings on to her client.

  Grace’s sobs subsided. She sniffed noisily, extracting another tissue.

  ‘Sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘There’s nothing to apologise for,’ Julia said gently.

  ‘It was so long ago, I feel like I should have got over it by now. But somehow, with Father dying, it’s brought it all up again.’ She paused. ‘I dream of him a lot. In my dreams I feel like I did towards him when I was a little girl. Not like I did after he and Frances married.’

  ‘So it’s as though you’re missing the father from your early childhood?’

  ‘Yes.’ Grace sucked the end of her plait, a childish gesture which wasn’t lost on Julia. ‘It’s like I’m trying to get him back,’ she said slowly. ‘How I think he really was. My Daddy.’ The childish name gave rise to a fresh bout of weeping. Julia found herself wiping away tears, grateful Grace was too absorbed in her own grief to notice.

  ‘And you felt he changed when he met Frances?’

  ‘Yes. I was with him when he met her. It was a Saturday afternoon in spring. Daddy had taken me to the park. One of those days you always remember, you know?’

  ‘Yes.’ Julia did know: the day her father died, the day she knew she was in love with Greg, overshadowed now by the day he left, the day her mother told her of her illness, the day her mother died… days etched in the memory. She shivered, reflecting how, for her, the negative personal landmarks outweighed the good. At least Grace was young enough to have the expectation of some happy days – perhaps a wedding, maybe the birth of a child… She closed her eyes, telling herself to focus on her client.

  Grace was speaking quickly now, re-living the day when her father and step-mother met. ‘We’d just started walking home when it began to pour down. I was only wearing a light jacket. Daddy didn’t have a raincoat or umbrella. We dived into a café in an ugly grey building, not much bigger than the other houses on the estate. It turned out to be the Evangelical Fellowship Church. It was quiet, there was no one else in besides us. This woman came bustling up, flashing her big white teeth at us in a wide smile. Her smile reminded me of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood.’ She shuddered. ‘Daddy ordered tea and orange juice. She brought me the juice and some paper and crayons whilst she was waiting for the kettle to boil. “You can make a lovely picture for your mummy,” she said. I blurted out, “I don’t have a mummy,” to save Daddy having to explain. “I’m so sorry, so very sorry. You poor little thing,” she said. She patted my shoulder, and I jerked away from her, knocking over the orange juice. I hated it when people pitied me for not having a mother, especially with Daddy there, because his face would close down, and he’d be quiet for hours after. I knew he didn’t want to talk about her. And somehow,’ Grace paused, chewing on her plait again, ‘somehow Frances overdid the sympathy.’

  Julia was struck by Grace’s reference to ‘not having a mother.’ Was that how her father had edited out his wife after she had set fire to the family home when Grace was a baby? Her client had said in the first session that they had moved away from the area to make a fresh start and changed their names. It would have been difficult for her mother to trace them when she was eventually discharged from psychiatric care even if she had wanted to. Had Grace ever considered trying to trace her mother? There were many avenues her client might wish to explore, but at this early stage of their counselling relationship, Julia followed her client’s lead as Grace recalled her first impressions of her step-mother. ‘So it seemed to you that Frances’s sympathy wasn’t genuine?’

  ‘No.’ The younger woman gave her a grateful glance for understanding. ‘There was a kind of brightness about her as she mopped up the juice. She got me a fresh glass and gave me a dry piece of paper to draw on. She kept going on about it not being a problem when Daddy apologised for my clumsiness. She said, “No, I was clumsy to assume… I’m so embarrassed… It must be so difficult for you, bringing up a little girl on your own.” When Daddy didn’t answer straightaway, I realised that maybe he did sometimes find it a struggle. I’d never thought about it before. He said after a minute, “We manage pretty well, don’t we, Gracie?” But that pause told me a lot. And then Frances was off in full flow again, saying what a beautiful name I had. She asked if I knew the hymn “Amazing Grace.” It meant so much to her, she said, because it summed up how God loves us so much. I didn’t really understand what she was talking about, I’d never heard anything like that in the Catholic church we sometimes attended. But Daddy seemed to be listening carefully, taking it all in. I’ve heard her say things like that many times over the years, managing to bring God into the conversation whenever she can. She calls it “witnessing.”’ Grace’s lip curled, and Julia found herself mirroring the gesture.

  Grace rushed on, ‘She invited us to the church service the next day. I thought Daddy would refuse, being Catholic. But we went along on the Sunday morning. Frances made a bee-line for us as soon as we arrived. She was wearing a flowery dress, low cut at the front, and more make up than on the Saturday. Sunday best I suppose, but looking back I wonder if it was because she was hoping Daddy might turn up. Someone joked at their tenth anniversary party – held at church of course – that Frances’
s suggestion that I should draw a picture “for my mummy” in the café was a line she used with all men turning up alone with children, to find out if they were single. I felt sick when I heard that.’ Grace swallowed, as though forcing back bile. ‘Looking back, I suppose she was worrying she would never marry, being in her mid-thirties. And the church taught that members had to marry Christians. So when Father came along…’

  Grace paused, looked unseeingly towards the window. Rain was still falling heavily. Up the corridor a door slammed and Pete shouted a cheery ‘See you mate.’ Grace gave no sign of having heard, lost in her childhood memory. Julia waited silently, knowing it was important for her client to continue her story in her own way.

  After a moment the younger woman gave herself a little shake. ‘Anyway, Frances complimented me on my dress and stroked my hair. I remember struggling not to jerk away like I had when I spilled the juice the day before. When the service began, she sat down next to me, with Daddy on my other side. It was very different to anything I’d experienced before. There was a worship band with guitars and a drum. It was informal and noisy compared to St Jude’s. Frances made a show of helping me find the hymn numbers in my book, though I didn’t need any help. Once I snatched the book away and Daddy said sharply, “Grace! Don’t be so ungrateful!” And Frances said, “Oh, it’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” with this hurt expression on her face. Daddy told me to apologise. I mumbled I was sorry, and she smiled. I saw a lot of that smile. It always appeared when she’d managed to get Daddy on her side against me. I’m sorry if that sounds childish.’ She broke off and looked over at Julia.

  ‘But you were a child,’ Julia said softly.

  There was silence in the room, broken only by the moan of the wind and the rain hammering against the window.

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace finally, ‘I was just a little girl, wasn’t I?’ She frowned as she examined her nails. ‘Perhaps,’ she continued hesitantly, ‘perhaps it’s like I’ve lost Daddy twice; as a little girl, and again as an adult?’ She didn’t wait for Julia to respond. ‘Thank you,’ she said, with a small shy smile, ‘that really helps.’ She glanced at her watch, suddenly conscious that the session must be nearly over. ‘Could we leave it there for today? I’ve got a tutorial at 11.30.’