No Sister of Mine (ARC)

by Vivien Brown

  sobbed, unable to go to Dad, to leave the house because Janey was fast asleep upstairs, and

  watched the clock as I waited for the key in the door that didn’t come.

  I should have spoken to Eve, but something held me back. Besides, she knew where I

  was. Why couldn’t she come to me? Call me? I pictured her in my head, holding Mum’s lifeless

  hand, making Dad a cup of tea, taking over all the things that needed to be done. Doctors, the

  death certificate, calling various relatives and friends, being all super-efficient, while I quietly fell to pieces. It was a good job one of us was up to the job because I knew I wasn’t. My mum,

  my lovely, happy, beautiful mum was gone, and I had no idea how I was going to carry on

  without her. Or how I was going to tell Janey.

  I woke up at one in the morning, curled awkwardly into a corner of the sofa, and for

  just a few seconds I didn’t remember. Mum was still sick, but she was alive. There had been

  no call. No news. But then I saw Josh, standing over me, his face pale and drawn, and the

  terrifying truth came flooding back. Slowly, he knelt down on the carpet beside me and pulled

  me towards him. ‘I’m so sorry, Sarah,’ he said, lifting his fingers and wiping the tears from my face.

  ‘Sorry she’s dead? Or sorry you weren’t here?’ Even as I said it I knew I was being

  unfair. How was Josh to know that she would die, that I would need him, on this one night out

  of so many?

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  ‘Shhh,’ he was saying, trying to soothe me. ‘I’m here now, okay?’

  I let myself fall against him, the thick wool of his coat and the scarf still twisted around

  his neck taking the full force of my sobs, deadening the sound, like shock absorbers.

  ‘How did you know?’ I pulled back and looked at his face. ‘About Mum? I tried to call

  you but you didn’t answer.’

  ‘It was Eve,’ he said, hugging me tighter, throwing off the scarf and pressing my face

  against his shoulder. ‘I had a text. Missed it in the noise of the pub. Only saw it later, when we were having a coffee back at Bob’s place, and then I came straight home.’

  ‘Eve?’ Why had Eve contacted Josh, and not me? And by text? Who tells someone

  about a death by text? The questions came flooding in, none of the answers quite making sense.

  Why had he responded to her text and not to the missed call from me? And who the hell was

  Bob?

  And then I smelt it. Her perfume. That distinctive Calvin Klein perfume I knew so well.

  It was there, on his neck, in his hair, lingering on his clothes. Eve’s perfume, on my husband.

  And that was when I knew why he was so late home. He had been with her, comforting her,

  when he should have been with me. My husband was a liar, but in that moment I didn’t have

  the strength to tell him so, or the will even to begin to understand.

  All I knew for certain right then was just how much I wanted my mum. And that I was

  never going to see her again.

  ***

  Eve said most of her more formal clothes were still in storage and she had nothing to wear to

  the funeral. I offered her something of mine, if only because it seemed the right thing to do, for Mum, but we weren’t the same shape these days, Eve being a couple of inches taller and at

  least two dress sizes slimmer than me, so we took a walk into town. I don’t think either of our minds was really on fashion right then, so when she found a plain black dress on the charity

  shop rails and it fitted, she didn’t bother looking any further.

  Eve’s eyes were as red-rimmed as mine, but she was putting on a brave face, sorting

  out all the funeral arrangements so Dad didn’t have to. I hadn’t tackled her, or Josh, about what had happened that night. I knew, from what Dad had told me, that he had been at home alone

  with Mum when she had passed away, so Eve had been out somewhere. He had called her,

  before he’d called me, but she hadn’t answered. Still, he had got hold of her eventually and

  she’d returned at some point, but I didn’t check on times or ask for details. A part of me didn’t really want to know, didn’t want to start putting the pieces of the jigsaw together. I couldn’t be 155

  sure, not without asking her. Or him. And I could have been wrong. Eve can’t have been the only woman in the world to wear that perfume. But there had been a woman. A woman with

  my husband, close enough to leave her calling card. A woman who wasn’t me. It was

  impossible to know for sure but I was half-convinced it was her – my sister – and that they had been together that night. As to where and when, for how long, and perhaps most importantly

  why, I had no idea.

  I watched them, at the crematorium and afterwards at home, but there was no sign of

  anything suspicious. In fact, I’m not sure I saw them say more than a few words to each other.

  Eve gave a short speech, standing behind the coffin, her voice wobbling a bit as she read one

  of those old-fashioned poems she had probably taught to classloads of kids over the years, and

  Josh sat quietly beside me in the front row, holding my hand. Back at the house, he took over

  the pouring of drinks while I kept a constant supply of food moving from kitchen to lounge,

  and Eve kept a close eye on Dad. We were, to anyone observing, a family looking out for each

  other and united in mourning.

  The house was packed with people. Work colleagues, friends, distant cousins, many

  apparent strangers who I’d never clapped eyes on before, but Dad gave the impression he knew

  who they all were, even though I was fairly sure he didn’t. I spotted Eve talking to her old

  friend Lucy and her husband Robert, Lucy nursing an obviously pregnant belly and refusing

  the sherry. And Simon had turned up too, Eve’s best teacher friend, although he hadn’t been

  able to stay for long, it being a school day. Such a shame he was gay. Mum had really taken to

  him, and he and Eve would have made a great couple. Maybe then I wouldn’t have had to

  worry about what was going on between Eve and Josh which, when I thought about it now,

  was probably nothing more than the product of my overactive imagination.

  Tilly was there, of course, with her parents who had been Mum and Dad’s neighbours

  for what seemed like forever, and with her latest girlfriend, a pale, thin girl probably a good five or six years younger, who she introduced as Emma. We managed to find time for a quick

  catch-up but I had too many other people to look after, too many other things to think about, to spend as much time with Tilly as I would have liked. We swapped numbers and promised to

  meet up again soon, but her girlfriend scowled at me, sulkily, when Tilly wasn’t looking. I

  really didn’t have the time for petty jealousies, so I already knew it was a friendship I was

  unlikely to revive. Perhaps there are times when it’s best to let the past slip away. Old times are rarely as wonderful as memory makes them, and Tilly’s and mine were mostly based on

  dressing up, sneaking out to places we shouldn’t and seeing what we could get away with.

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  Still, a crowded house all helped to show how much Mum was loved, which should have helped but somehow didn’t. No matter how many people sat around chatting, eating and

  drinking, filling the space, there would always be one person missing. It should have been Mum

  boiling the kettle and piling plates with food, just as it had always been.

  Despite the mess of crockery and crumbs and half-empty glasses left behind, I was glad

  when they had all finally gone and silence fel
l.

  ‘I’m worried about Janey,’ Josh said, as he helped me to clean up in the kitchen. Dad

  had headed off upstairs for a much-needed nap and Eve had gone out for a walk to clear her

  head.

  ‘Where is she?’ I realised, with a jolt, that I hadn’t seen our daughter for quite a while.

  ‘Outside, playing with the cat. She’s very quiet, withdrawn. She’s really not taken it

  well.’

  ‘I’m not sure any of us has.’ I looked up at him and saw the redness around his eyes,

  the tiredness in his face.

  ‘No, but she’s just a kid, and she’s never had anyone close to her die before. What with

  just having moved to big school, and having to adapt to a new set of friends, it’s not come at

  the best time for her, has it?’

  ‘Is there ever a best time?’

  ‘No, of course not. But I think we should do something, that’s all . . .’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Take her away for a few days? Buy her something special?’

  I was grateful that Josh cared so deeply for Janey but I couldn’t help thinking that she

  wasn’t the only one in need of help, that I was suffering too, but a few days away or a new

  necklace were never going to make any difference.

  Josh picked up on my silence and changed tack. ‘Okay, maybe not. Taking her out of

  school while she’s still settling in isn’t such a great idea. But she could put one of those memory box things together, couldn’t she? Like parents do when a baby dies. You know, pick out a few

  things to keep, to remind her of her gran. I’m sure your dad wouldn’t mind if she took a photo

  or two, a headscarf, a bit of jewellery maybe. Do we still have the card your mum and dad sent

  her for her last birthday? Something with a few words in her gran’s own handwriting?’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea, actually. I’ll have a think about it, how to broach it with her.’ I

  carried on washing up the last few plates while Josh mainly just hovered behind me, getting in

  the way. ‘She could use some of the photos of Mum, or of all the family together, to decorate

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  the box, and maybe even spray the contents with Mum’s favourite scent. There’s nothing quite like a smell to bring back a memory, is there?’

  ‘I suppose so. Newly cut grass always makes me think of playing cricket at school.

  Green stains on my knees! And one whiff of syrup pudding takes me right back to my granny

  Ivy’s kitchen and my hands all covered in flour . . .’

  ‘I was thinking more of a dab of her usual perfume, not a clump of grass or a spoonful

  of syrup!’

  ‘Yeah, of course. So, what was your mum’s favourite, do you know?’

  ‘Ha! Of course I do. Not something you men have a clue about though, is it? I bet you

  don’t even know mine.’

  ‘Yes, I do. It’s that stuff you keep on the dressing table. In a blue bottle. Or is it green?’

  ‘You really have no idea, do you?

  ‘I’m afraid not, Love. They all smell the same to me.’

  But not to me, I thought, as the back door banged open and Eve came back in, her arm

  draped around Janey’s hunched shoulders. Definitely not to me.

  ***

  Janey’s memory box was a work of art. Taking her time over it, carefully filling and decorating

  it, had given her something to focus on, although there were still tears, especially at bedtime, and for a while she refused to sleep without a light on.

  Josh was different too. More subdued. Death does that, I suppose. Brings a cloud that

  hangs over everyone it touches. We moved around each other, doing all the day-to-day practical

  stuff, but there were no more hugs. No sex. I knew I was putting up barriers, but they were

  necessary to protect me from feeling too much, hurting too much. If I let anyone in, even Josh, the floodgates would open. If I let myself think too deeply, cry too openly or for too long, I

  wasn’t sure I would be able to stop.

  Dad was still off work but he didn’t seem able to cope with making any sort of decisions

  or facing up to sorting through Mum’s possessions. He had allowed Janey to take whatever she

  wanted for her box, which in the end was very little, and Eve had gone into overdrive, up to

  her eyes in paperwork as she dealt with Mum’s bank accounts and insurance policies and made

  a start on sorting out her clothes for the charity shop.

  ‘I’ve found a bundle of letters,’ she said one afternoon, when Dad had gone out for one

  of his aimless walks. We were working together, mostly in silence, bagging up Mum’s

  underwear and nighties and old pairs of tights, all the things no one else could have any use for 158

  and Dad didn’t need to make decisions about. I’d just come back upstairs from cramming a second load into the dustbin outside and making myself a sandwich. ‘Love letters, with a faded

  red ribbon tied round them, like something from an old romantic movie. I only read a few lines

  from the top one, and looked at the signature at the end. I didn’t want to intrude on something so personal, in case I read something I’d rather not see, but they’re addressed to Carrie, so

  they’re definitely hers, and they’re from someone called Pussy Cat.’

  ‘ Who? ’

  ‘I know. That’s what I thought! And they were hidden away, wrapped in paper, inside

  a box, inside another box, under a pile of shoes at the back of her wardrobe, as if she didn’t

  want anyone to find them. You don’t think . . . that they’re from some other man, do you?’

  ‘What? Our mum? Carrying on with someone else? Never! Do they have dates on them?

  Postmarks or anything?’

  ‘No. She didn’t keep the envelopes, but they look old. Probably written years ago.’

  ‘So, not an extra-marital fling then. Or not a recent one for us to worry about anyway.’

  I took a bite of my sandwich and thought for a second or two. ‘Previous boyfriend maybe?’

  ‘Could be.’ She grinned. ‘Unless Pussy Cat is Dad!’

  ‘Well, I’ve never heard her call him that.’

  ‘Me neither. Could have been their little secret. You know, pet names . . . Come on, I’ll

  show you.’

  ‘Is that them?’ We had gone into our old bedroom where Eve had pulled the door closed

  and reached for a small pile of papers from under her bed.

  She nodded, laying them out on top of the quilt. ‘I hid them here in case Dad came back.

  Shall we just throw them away? Who knows what can of worms we might be opening up if we

  read them?’

  I didn’t sit beside her, preferring to stay leaning against the door, if only to make sure

  Dad didn’t make an unexpected appearance. ‘We can’t say anything to Dad, just in case he’s

  not . . .’

  ‘I know. But I’m kind of curious, aren’t you? It can’t hurt to read one or two, can it?

  And then we can chuck them out, or shred them or burn them, and nobody else need ever

  know.’

  Mum had only been gone a matter of weeks and I wasn’t sure I was ready to confront

  anything that might taint my memories of her, but the letters were lying there, right in front of us, and it really was a case of now or never. I nodded, slowly, reluctantly, and watched as Eve 159

  pulled the top letter from the pile and unfolded it. She began to read, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  [handwritten letter]

  My dearest darling Carrie,

  You can never know how much I have missed you these last few days. Not being

  able t
o touch you, or hear your voice.

  [/handwritten letter]

  I looked down at Eve and wondered, in that moment, if she was feeling what I was

  feeling. The letter was saying exactly what I felt about Mum now that she was gone, about not

  being able to see her anymore, or touch her or talk to her. I missed her so much. I could almost have written those words myself. I felt the prickle of tears beginning at the corners of my eyes, but Eve kept on reading, her head down, her voice steady.

  [handwritten letter]

  I know your parents think we are too young to know our own hearts, and I cannot blame

  them for forcing this separation upon us, but we will show them, won’t we, my love?

  That being apart will never break us. I go to sleep every night thinking of you and

  missing you, and wake up every morning wishing you were here beside me. I love you

  more than I can ever say. These six months will fly by, I promise you, and then we will

  be together again and forever. I purr at the very thought of you! I love you. Yes, I do!

  Your very own Pussy Cat.

  xxx

  [/handwritten letter]

  ‘Oh my God!’ There was a big fat lump in my throat just from listening to the words.

  Nobody had ever written, or said, anything like that to me. ‘It’s heart-breaking stuff, isn’t it?

  All a bit corny, but he really did love her, didn’t he?’

  ‘Sounds that way. But who was he? And did he ever come back for her?’

  ‘I have to admit, it doesn’t sound like Dad, does it? He’s never really been the hearts

  and flowers kind, and I’ve never heard anything about them being forced apart for months,

  have you?’

  ‘Nope. All very mysterious, isn’t it?’ Eve gazed up at me. ‘Shall we read the next letter?

  Find out what happens next?’

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  I swallowed the last of the sandwich, wiping my mouth and showering tiny

  breadcrumbs onto the carpet . ‘Or shall we jump straight to the last one, and find out how it

  ends?’

  ‘Sarah, that is so typical of you. I bet you turn to the back and read the last page of a

  novel when you’re only halfway through the story too, don’t you? Have you no patience at all?