by Imogen Clark
I suppose, when I think about it now, from an adult’s perspective, that perhaps Dad just wasn’t very good with kids. He’d found himself a single parent overnight and had to learn how to deal with two small children on his own with no support. And there was the shock and humiliation of my mother walking out with Tilly. Maybe it’s not that surprising that he got angry with us. Mum probably would have done too if she’d been on her own. It was all bluster, though. He never really hurt us. Maybe he was just doing his best and it was just that his best wasn’t that great.
‘He did get cross with us, though, didn’t he?’ Beth says, her tongued loosened a little by my reaction to her criticism. ‘I was scared stiff of him.’
‘Were you?’ I ask, but of course I already knew that. It was one of the reasons that there were so few visitors to the house. Once our friends encountered Dad on a bad day they were very reluctant to come back again. There was no friendly welcome chez Ferensby.
‘I think I’d forgotten what he used to be like,’ I muse. ‘For so long he’s been this pliant, confused shadow of how he was that that version of him has kind of replaced the original in my mind. Thinking about how he’s been since he got ill, it’s hard to imagine that he was ever that scary.’
‘He was, though,’ says Beth quietly. ‘Look,’ she continues. ‘Tell me if you think this is a really stupid idea, but shall we go out for dinner tonight, just the two of us, so we can have a proper catch-up?’
‘I’m absolutely shot,’ I say, shaking my head.
She looks worried again and is on the verge of apologising for her suggestion. Quickly I rethink. What else have I got to do? Sit here on my own and cry? I cut across her apology.
‘But I suppose if I went to bed this afternoon, I might get a bit of sleep. Yes. I think that would be exactly what I need, Beth. Thank you.’
‘I’ll book us a table,’ she says. ‘Eight o’clock?’
I nod, stifling a yawn. ‘I’m looking forward to it already.’
I show Beth out and when I turn round, Mrs P is standing in the hall, her coat on, her suitcase in her hand. I wonder where she’s going and then I remember that, with Dad gone, there’s no reason for her to hang around.
‘I’ll be getting off then, Cara,’ she says.
I don’t know what to say. The fact that she has to leave hits me like a train. It had never crossed my mind that she would go, although it’s obvious now that I think about it, but I want her to stay. I need her. I’ve got so used to having her here with us, with me. How normal it has felt to have someone to talk to when, in fact, that has never really been the norm for me. For her, though, we are just another job. She moves on all the time. If she gets on with the family for whom she’s caring then that must be a bonus, but at the end of the day this is just the thing that pays her bills. She’s a professional. No doubt she would have been just as kind to me and Dad had she hated everything about us.
I stumble over my words as I try, and fail, to express my gratitude.
‘It’s been so lovely . . .’ I begin. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you. You’ve made such a difference; I know Dad appreciated it. I hope it goes well with the next . . .’
She opens her arms wide and I fall into them.
‘I’m going to miss you so much,’ I say, sobs rising in my throat again.
‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ she says, but I think I can hear something in her voice, a fissure in the facade of calm that usually surrounds her. ‘I’ll keep in touch and I’ll be back for the funeral. If you need anything then just ring me. I’ll not be taking any more work on for a couple of weeks.’
She allows me to hold her for a few more seconds and then she delicately extracts herself from my grip. Then she opens the door and walks away down the path without looking back.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
When I wake to the grating rasp of the alarm on my phone, it is already dark outside. Automatically, I listen out for sounds of Dad and it is a moment or two before I remember. The house is completely silent. I am alone.
I flick the bedside light on and get up. I still feel groggy, almost hungover, and I wonder whether sleeping during the day was the best idea. It’ll take me forever to get over the jet-lag if I go about it like this but suddenly that seems unimportant. I could totally switch my body clock if I wanted to. Who is there to care how I organise my life now?
When I’m showered and dressed, I head downstairs to go and meet Beth at the restaurant. Something makes me put my head round Dad’s bedroom door. It’s like picking at a scab. I know that it will hurt but I cannot help myself. The room is tidy, the bed stripped and remade with fresh linen. I can smell Dettol and furniture polish. Mrs P. Bless her.
When I arrive at the restaurant, Beth is already there. She has ordered a bottle of our favourite wine and is halfway through a bowl of plump, green olives.
‘Am I late?’ I ask as I sit down.
‘No. I’m early. I didn’t want you arriving and having to sit on your own and Greg was watching some football or rugby or something so he’ll have barely registered that I’ve left. Olive?’ she asks, passing me the bowl. She pours me a glass of wine. ‘A toast?’ she asks.
I raise my glass and chink it delicately against hers. ‘To Dad,’ I say and we both drink.
The restaurant is busy and slightly short-staffed. The waitress who appears to be responsible for us is steadfastly refusing to make eye contact with the diners and just getting on with the jobs in hand before she takes in any more requests. It’s fine by us. We’re in no rush.
‘Right. Tell me why you went racing off to San Francisco,’ says Beth.
So I tell her how I tracked Ursula down online and about the photograph I found with her and Mum.
‘So, you knew for sure that your dad had lied about her dying, then?’ she asks.
‘Well, not for certain,’ I say. ‘But when I fitted all the bits together, it started to look more and more likely. That’s why I needed to see Ursula, to ask her face to face.’
‘That was so brave,’ Beth says, her eyes wide. ‘Weren’t you scared of what you might find out? I’d have been terrified. You know, when part of you wants to know something and part of you really doesn’t.’
I love that about Beth; that she always manages to hit my nails on their heads. And it all comes pouring out, about going to the gallery and meeting Skyler and waiting for the email and that first, disastrous meeting.
‘What a bitch!’ she says. ‘I think I’d have run after her and told her exactly what I thought of her.’ But we both know that she wouldn’t have really. Then I explain how she came to find me the next day and how I forgave her. ‘And what did she tell you? About your mum, I mean?’
The first bottle is almost empty and we have still had no menus let alone any food beyond the now-depleted olives, but neither of us really cares.
‘It’s kind of complicated,’ I say. ‘Turns out my mum ran off with another woman and Dad had her declared as an unfit mother and got a court order to prevent her seeing us. And Michael knew all the time and never said.’
And there it is. My whole, sorry life story in a small and slightly crushed nutshell. Beth just sits there with her mouth open. The waitress finally makes her way to our table but Beth waves her away impatiently.
‘Oh my God,’ she says, stunned. ‘Oh my God! And where is she now, your mum? Is she still with this woman?’
‘Lord only knows. Ursula thought she’d split up with Tilly but she’s not heard from Mum since the nineties. I suppose she could actually be dead after all.’
‘What a mess,’ says Beth. ‘But she sent all those postcards.’
‘Yes, but they stopped when I turned eighteen. There’s been no sign of her for fifteen years.’
‘Will you keep looking for her?’
Air escapes from my lungs in a deep sigh. That and the wine make me feel lightheaded.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. I can’t think about it at the moment. T
here’s too much else to deal with, with Dad and everything. One thing I did learn from Ursula, though, is that Mum was called Anneliese, not Anne, so that might explain why I couldn’t find any record of her.’
‘Anneliese. That’s so pretty. Just like Cara.’
It doesn’t matter how bad things get. Beth will always find the positive. The waitress arrives again and this time we give her our order, which she commits to memory rather than writing it down.
‘Chances of that order making its way to the kitchen?’ asks Beth and tops up our glasses.
‘Thanks Beth,’ I say. ‘For always just being there.’
‘What are best friends for?’ she asks, her head cocked to one side as she looks at me, making sure that I’m okay.
Another wave of emotion hits me. Beth reaches across and takes my hands in hers. ‘You cry, Cara. Just let it all out.’
There are no more tears, though. My eyes are dry. But my heart aches.
The food arrives and is as we ordered. I realise when it is in front of me how hungry I am and I eat quickly and with relish.
‘I have news,’ says Beth. I can tell from her smirk that it’s something good and that she has been waiting for us to get the end of my troubles before she divulges it.
‘Oh yes?’ I say, through a mouthful of dauphinoise potato.
The smirk becomes a full smile, her eyes full of mischief. ‘I’ve bought a puppy, a Cockapoo. He is absolutely adorable. He’s chocolate brown with the cutest little button nose and the softest fur you’ve ever felt. He’s only eight weeks old. He’s coming at the weekend. I’m going to call him Samson.’
She gives a little squeak of excitement and then looks at me slyly from behind her eyelashes.
‘But I thought . . .’ I say slowly. ‘Doesn’t Greg hate dogs?’
‘Yup. With a passion because they make a mess and they smell and they trample muddy footprints into the house. But I love dogs and he has married me. He’ll just have to get used to it!’
I laugh, long and loud. People turn to look and then smile at us because we are clearly having such a lovely time. How wrong I was to worry about Beth with Greg. She knows exactly how to play him. He may want to keep her at his beck and call but he’s going to have a fight like a fisherman landing a feisty swordfish. Who can say whether fisherman or fish will be the victor?
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The days running up to the funeral are very quiet. There are no visitors or well-wishers. While I am grateful for the solitude, a part of me can’t help but think how small the space that Dad and I occupy in the world really is. One or two cards with well-meaning messages arrive as the news filters out but, really, who is there to grieve for him? Colleagues with whom he lost touch, friends from the day centre whom he wouldn’t remember anyway, Mrs P?
I distract myself with work. I have deadlines for my spring brides and so there is plenty to do. Settling myself in my workroom, I put the radio on. Its low hum, blended with the sound of the sewing machine, is comfortingly familiar, but it’s really only a mask over the silence that fills the house. I try not to think about Dad or Mum or even Simeon. I just function and am remarkably productive without interruptions and distractions. Despite everything, though, I find myself regularly checking my phone for texts. Once or twice, I even start typing out a message to Simeon but now that I’m home all my resolve to make a go of it seems to have deserted me and I delete rather than send them.
Michael, Marianne and the girls are due to arrive in the early evening the day before the funeral. They will have eaten by the time they get here, according to Marianne, to whom this kind of detail is important. There has been some debate as to whether the girls should come at all but I gather that Marianne has put her foot down, saying that it is important that they say their goodbyes to their grandfather. I rather uncharitably wonder whether she does this to set a precedent for future funerals, which will clearly have more to do with her side of the family, but ultimately it doesn’t matter what her motives might be. I am just pleased that I won’t be on my own anymore.
I busy myself changing sheets and arranging towels. I decide to leave Dad’s room unoccupied and just pull the door closed without looking in. No one will want to sleep in a bed so recently tainted by death.
The fridge tells its own tale. On opening the door, I see a half-drunk bottle of wine, a plastic carton of milk and some cheese that has gone green at the edges. I have been surviving on toast and Quality Street. The replenishing of the larder brings with it a renewed sense of normality and by the time I hear Michael’s car pulling up outside I have lit a fire in the grate and the house feels warm and welcoming.
I stand at the front door of what is now my house to greet them. The girls step out first, looking suitably sombre, having presumably just been briefed by Marianne on the appropriate etiquette.
‘Hello, Auntie Cara,’ they chorus. ‘We are very sorry about Granddad.’
I open my arms and pull a child into each hip, where they stand, heads bowed. ‘Thank you, girls,’ I say. ‘It’s very sad but Granddad had been very poorly and so perhaps it was for the best that he died.’
They stand there until they judge a suitably respectful period has passed and then they look up at me, their eyes shining.
‘Can we go and explore now?’ they ask, jumping up and down on the spot, all funereal conduct forgotten.
‘Girls! Girls! What did I just say?’ Marianne’s voice comes from the drive. ‘Auntie Cara is very sad and she doesn’t want you two behaving like a pair of puppies. Simmer down.’
I continue to hug each of the girls into me, talking over their heads to Marianne.
‘It’s fine, honestly. Actually, it’s lovely. It’s been so quiet around here. I’m just rattling around on my own. Please, come in. Have you had a good trip?’
The four of them decant from car to house, the girls chattering excitedly and Marianne giving details of the journey. Only Michael is quiet. He carries in the single suitcase, following behind his family like a porter. I just wait. He’ll speak when he’s ready. I nod and smile at Marianne but I’m not really listening to her. All my attention is focused on Michael. He holds back from the others, cautiously taking in his surroundings. As he crosses the threshold, I think I see him hesitate slightly, like an animal sniffing the air for signs of danger. I’ve never noticed this in him before. I wonder if I am imagining it, whether my altered perception of our family history is projecting itself on to his behaviour and making me reinterpret it. But if he is being cautious, his nervousness quickly evaporates, leaving me wondering if I’ve been oversensitive in imagining that it was ever there.
‘The old place looks just the same,’ he says, but with affection not scorn. ‘What are your plans, Ca? Will you sell up or stay on?’
The bluntness of his question doesn’t surprise me. I know my brother.
‘I think I’ll stay,’ I reply. ‘At least for the time being. There’ll be all the clearing out to do if I move. If I stay, I can just close the door on it for a bit and forget about it. And I think the old place could use a bit of TLC.’
Marianne casts an appraising eye over the faded carpets, the yellowing paintwork. ‘It just needs a bit of freshening up,’ she says, charitably.
I hadn’t noticed how tired the house was looking until now. With my focus on caring for Dad and keeping on top of my work, I’ve developed a blind spot for its failings, especially when there was Mrs P keeping things clean and tidy. Now that I look round with a more discerning eye, I see the house as others must see it and this realisation brings with it a wave of grief that comes from nowhere and knocks me off my feet. Marianne puts a gentle arm around my shoulder and leads me into the kitchen, where she flicks the switch on the kettle before I have even worked out that tea is what is required.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say when the sobs subside. ‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Don’t apologise,’ she says. ‘It’s natural. It’s early days. It takes time.’ Her voice is gent
le, calm, like submerging yourself into a warm bath.
‘But I didn’t expect . . .’
She stops what she’s doing with the tea things and looks straight at me. ‘You didn’t expect what?’ she asks. ‘Didn’t expect to be so upset? Whatever happened, whatever he did or didn’t do, whatever he had become, he was still your father.’ Her hand rubs my back as she speaks. Even through my grief, I can tell that this is a speech that’s been pre-prepared and I wonder how much Michael has told her. There is no sign of him.
As she pours the tea, I hear the girls thundering back down the stairs. They start to speak even before they enter the room.
‘Can we sleep in the attic?’ they ask.
‘But I’ve made you a bedroom next to mine,’ I say, looking as sincere as I can manage. I watch as their little smiles slip a little. ‘But . . . if it’s okay with Mum and Dad then I suppose we can move the mattresses up there.’
‘Girls. I really don’t think . . .’ begins Marianne, shooting them a look.
‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘We might need to do a bit of dusting, though,’ I add, thinking of the state of the attic room, not the one with the boxes but the other, less cluttered one. ‘And I hope you’ve brought your best muscles with you to help us shift the mattresses.’
I follow them back up the stairs, shouting for Michael as we go. He emerges silently from Dad’s room but I can’t see the expression on his face.
‘Dad! Dad! We need you to come and help us carry the mattresses into the attic,’ Esmé shouts, grabbing his arms as she and Zara pass him, and dragging him along behind them. He laughs, relinquishing himself to the relentless force of his daughters.
‘How about we just take up one mattress and you sleep top-to-tail?’ he suggests. The girls look at one another questioningly and then nod their agreement.
