B07B2VX1LR

by Imogen Clark

  Between the four of us, we manage to manhandle the mattress up the creaking wooden stairs. At one point, Zara’s iPod slips from her pocket and clatters down the steps. The moment reverberates with the haunting clamour of the past. I look at Michael. For one moment, I think he’ll be angry. He scowls at his daughter but then his face cracks into a smile.

  ‘Butterfingers!’ he says. ‘Good job it’s got that case on it. Is it okay?’

  Zara lets go of the mattress, picks the iPod up and examines the screen carefully.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she announces. ‘No need to panic.’

  ‘Well, can you look after it a bit more carefully please,’ Michael says. ‘If it breaks, there won’t be another one.’

  We continue our struggle up the stairs and into the room that the twins have recently disturbed. Dust motes circle in the air.

  ‘You don’t really want to sleep in here, surely,’ I protest. ‘It’s filthy.’

  ‘We do! We do!’ they chorus. ‘We can, can’t we, Auntie Cara?’

  I let my eyes wander towards Michael, who nods almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’ I say. ‘But I think you’re mad! Let’s go get the duvet and see if we can’t find a little light or something.’

  The girls hurl themselves on to the bare mattress and feign sleep while Michael and I head back downstairs.

  ‘It’s good,’ he says quietly. ‘I like it. It helps.’

  When the girls are quiet in their makeshift bedroom, Michael stokes the fire and the three of us settle down on the sofa, a loaded tea tray on the carpet in front of us. I’ve bought fat rascals, a kind of Yorkshire scone, from the smart bakery in town. Cherries shine like jewels in the top of each one. My eye is caught by something glinting and I see two or three shreds of tinsel still caught in the carpet. I hadn’t even thought about the Christmas decorations. Mrs P must have cleared them all away when I was in San Francisco and it hits me how much I miss having her here.

  And so the three of us chat about their London life, steadfastly avoiding any other topics, until the embers glow in the grate.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  I suppose that normal families are really busy before a funeral, with lots of rushing around cutting sandwiches, checking music and giving last-minute directions. Dad’s funeral isn’t like that. I’ve placed a notice in the local paper, recording the death and giving all the details. There’s no mention of a wake. I buy a couple of extra loaves and a packet of wafer-thin ham, just in case. We have sherry left over from Christmas and there’s wine. I have no beer but as Michael intends to drive home straight afterwards I don’t suppose any will be needed. I tell myself that it’s not that I don’t want to give Dad a good send-off. It’s just that there’ll only be us there and we won’t need much.

  In my heart, though, I know that that’s not entirely true. I’m sure I would have made more of an effort if Dad had died six months ago, back before I knew what he did. There would still have been no one at his funeral but perhaps I would have approached it with more grace. Or perhaps I wouldn’t. There really is no way of telling.

  We’re ready to leave for the crematorium far too early. The girls, who could still be heard scampering around overhead long after we went to bed, are up before dawn. I’m already awake when I hear them padding down to the bathroom. I lie staring up at the ceiling and enjoy the sounds of life in the house. Living alone is going to take some getting used to.

  ‘Is there nothing I can be doing?’ asks Marianne after we’ve put away the breakfast things.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I reply, trying not to sound dismissive but at the same time not opening up a conversation.

  I can tell that she wants to say something, is judging her moment carefully, but I don’t make it easy for her. I don’t want her to force me to examine my motives for this low-key send-off too closely. I’m frightened of what I might find if I start to unpick it. So I don’t give her a chance. I flit around the house, moving things from one spot to another, creating non-existent tasks to do until there is a knock at the door.

  ‘That’ll be the undertakers,’ I shout down the stairs. ‘Can you let them in please? I won’t be a minute.’

  I hear the door open and then words spoken in deep, hushed voices but I can’t tell what they’re saying. I don’t really want to know. I stay where I am, hiding upstairs, until I hear Michael calling me down and I can no longer avoid the inevitable.

  ‘Cara. They’re ready for us. Should we go?’

  Of course we should go but still I falter.

  ‘Just coming,’ I shout down, but I don’t move.

  Marianne is marshalling the girls into their coats, keys are jangled, the front door squeaks as it opens wide. I would do anything to stay here, to hide until it’s all over. The thought of exposing whatever I’ve buried over the last few days frightens me and I worry that if I start to cry, I might never stop.

  And then Michael is by my side, even though I didn’t hear him come up the stairs. He looks at me, his expression resigned, and holds out his arm to try and corral me in the appropriate direction.

  ‘We have to go, Ca,’ he says as he takes my hand and squeezes it gently. ‘Come on. It’ll be okay. You just have to get through this part and then things will start to get back to normal. Is Beth coming?’

  I had forgotten all about Beth and the thought of her being there at my side cheers me.

  ‘Yes. Yes, she is,’ I say.

  ‘Good. Come on then. They’re waiting for us.’

  I let my big brother lead me down the stairs and out to the car. The winter sun hangs like a silver coin in the pale-blue sky. Isn’t it supposed to be raining or at the very least overcast for a funeral? It feels slightly obscene that it’s such a nice day, the first for weeks. The funeral car is huge and very, very black. Marianne and the girls are already sitting in the row at the back. Michael and I slide into the middle and the undertaker waits patiently to close the door behind us. I notice, as I bend to climb in, that there’s a stain on the cuff of his black overcoat. It looks like baby sick but the thought of this sombre man ever taking charge of a baby seems so unlikely that I almost laugh. He sees my eye catch sight of the stain and retracts his arm behind his back so that he looks like a policeman. This strikes me as even funnier. I bite my lip and try to remember where I am.

  The crematorium is not far away. As we drive, the girls sit as quietly as they can, although I can hear them whispering twin talk to each other.

  When we arrive, the tail-end Charlies of the previous service are just leaving. They look like a proper funeral party, top to tail in black, leaning on each other for support as they shuffle away, their heads bowed.

  We get out of the car and file silently into the empty room. There are at least twenty rows of benches, pews I suppose you’d call them if this were a church. Sitting about halfway down is Brian, the bus driver from The Limes, and a couple of old men who I don’t recognise but who presumably know Dad from there. It crosses my mind that they might only have come for the bun fight. I toy with telling them that there’ll be no wake to avoid disappointing them but then they might leave before we’ve had the service. On the other side, closer to the front, is Beth. She is wearing her darkest clothes but her tan doesn’t sit well with the solemn occasion and she looks a bit out of place. She sees us come in and smiles broadly and then moves to sit between me and Michael’s family. We fill half a row.

  And that is it. The sum total of the mourners for my father. There’s some music playing. It sounds a bit like a hymn but it’s not a tune that I recognise. Dad would probably have known it. I look for an organ or a piano but it must be a recording. I realise with another sharp stab of guilt that I should probably have chosen a piece that meant something to Dad. I dismiss the fact that I have no idea what that might have been.

  The undertakers carry the coffin slowly down to the front and place it carefully in front of the pale-grey curtain behind which I assume the incinerator lies
. A simple bunch of white lilies rests on its oak lid. Did I order those or did they just put them there out of pity for the lack of floral tribute? I have no idea.

  When the celebrant comes out, he checks his watch to make sure that he has got the time right before starting. There are no prayers – Dad didn’t do God, despite knowing all those hymns – and no readings. The absence of God at an occasion like this seems strange to me: as if, without some form of ritual, the funeral is somehow invalid. But this is how Dad would have wanted it. There is no eulogy either. Michael and I discussed whether one of us should speak and decided that there was no need. What would we have said? ‘Here lies our father who banned our mother from our lives and told us she was dead.’

  And so, faced with a lack of material, the celebrant hasn’t much to do.

  ‘We gather here today to say goodbye to Joseph Ferensby, father to Michael and Cara and grandfather to Esmé and Zara. May he rest in peace.’

  He looks around to make sure that no one is taken by a sudden desire to speak and then nods and the curtains open and the coffin moves slowly out of sight. Esmé asks a question and Marianne quietens her. And that is it. He has gone. I feel numb rather than sad. I reach for Michael’s gloved hand and take it in my own. He presses my fingers gently between his and that sets off a chain reaction. I feel the lump rising in my throat and then my face crumples and the tears fall. Michael passes me a freshly laundered handkerchief but I use one of the tissues that I have ready in my coat pocket. On my other side, Beth places her head gently on my shoulder. I feel safe, cocooned between the two of them.

  We sit there for a long time. I hear Brian and the old men get up and leave. One of them is muttering something about it not being much of a do. I know that I should get up, go and thank them for making the effort to come, but I don’t want to move. As if reading my thoughts, Marianne shuffles out of the pew and goes to speak to them. I hear them saying how sorry they are and then they are gone. The three of us just sit there. The girls whisper to each other.

  ‘We should perhaps make a move,’ says Michael after a few minutes. ‘Do we need to sign anything before we leave?’

  I laugh at him, a small sudden release of air that sounds more a sneeze than a laugh.

  ‘That is so typically you,’ I say, and he raises his eyebrows questioningly. ‘It’s all done,’ I say. ‘We can just go. The car is going to take us back to the house.’

  We stand up and turn round to leave. The canned music has resumed and is floating down from speakers in the corner of the room. I listen but still don’t recognise it; something bland without any connotations, presumably written for just this type of event. I wonder briefly if someone makes a living from writing bland, anonymous tunes.

  The room is empty except for a figure sitting with her head bowed a couple of rows behind us. As we walk towards her, she looks up and I see the familiar face of Mrs P. I had forgotten all about her, although I was pretty certain that she would come. I want to invite her to the house with us so that she can meet Michael and so I can say thank you again and perhaps get an address for her so we can keep in touch.

  ‘Oh, thank you for coming,’ I say. ‘You will come back to the house for . . .’

  I stop speaking. Michael has stopped in his tracks. His face is suddenly deathly pale, his mouth open.

  ‘Mum . . . ?’ he says.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  I look at Michael and then back at Mrs P.

  ‘No, Michael. This is Angela Partington. She’s the nurse I was telling you about, the one I hired to help with Dad. She’s been fantastic. I really couldn’t have coped . . .’

  Michael is still staring and shaking his head.

  ‘Mum,’ he says again.

  Mrs P looks as confused as I am. Michael strides down the aisle towards her. I am totally lost. Why does he think that Mrs P is our mother? I know her and I know that she would have said. She would never have lived in my house all this time and not told me. It makes no sense. She looks nothing like us either.

  And then, for a horrible moment, it crosses my mind that he might be right. Maybe Mrs P has been lying to me as well, just like the rest of them? This thought leaves me as quickly as it came. I know Michael is wrong. I just know.

  Michael continues to move down the aisle but he races straight past Mrs P, breaking into a run as a small figure in a dark coat disappears into the hallway outside.

  I just stand there, mouth open.

  ‘Go after him,’ says Mrs P and she pushes me gently towards the door. When I still don’t move, she shoves me harder. ‘Go and find out what’s going on.’

  I follow Michael but when I get to the door of the chapel, there is no sign of either him or the woman. My head spins left and right, frantically searching, and then I catch sight of Michael standing near a small ante-room off to the left. His body, wrapped in his grey woollen overcoat, fills the whole doorway and I can’t really see beyond him, but I assume that the woman is in there. He has her cornered, like a terrier with a rabbit.

  ‘Michael, what’s going on?’ I ask as I approach him.

  He doesn’t move and I have to stand on my tiptoes to see over his broad shoulders. The room is full of flowers in various vases and display stands but when I get closer I can see that they are all fake, mainly silk, one or two in moulded plastic. They must be what they use if there are no family flowers. I wonder what kind of family doesn’t even provide flowers for the coffin and then remember the unrequested lilies.

  The woman has backed herself into the corner of the room and can go no further. She is wearing black clothes but they are a little too big for her, the fabrics over-washed to a muted grey. She is a similar height to me, although she is thinner. The gentle curve of her collarbones stands proud, leaving a little hollow around her neck. Her shoulders are hunched, her arms crossed firmly over her chest, one hand in front of her face. I search for something that is familiar but can see nothing.

  Michael takes a step into the room and she seems to retreat even further back.

  ‘Mum?’ he says, so gently that I can barely hear him. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

  She lifts her eyes to Michael’s and nods her head.

  My world tilts.

  Michael doesn’t hesitate. He walks straight over to this stranger and throws his arms around her. I think she was expecting something different because she shrinks away from him, bowing her head still lower, but then she accepts Michael into her and embraces him, gingerly at first, as if he might evaporate. Then she stretches out her arms and wraps them around his waist. Michael’s shoulders are shaking but she is still, her head buried into his chest.

  I don’t know what to do. The bond between the two of them is evidently secure, despite thirty years apart. I feel nothing. Nothing about this woman is familiar. She is as alien to me as any random person that I might pass in the street.

  They pull apart from one another and she runs her fingers over his face, tracing the outline of his ear with the flat of her fingernail.

  ‘You always used to do that when I was little,’ says Michael, and she smiles. ‘You loved it best when my ears were cold.’

  Michael is no longer a man in his thirties but has regressed back to his seven-year-old self. If he could sit on her knee I think that he would. She strokes his hair, pushing it back from his hairline, her fingers halting over the grey strands. They are as one. It’s as if I am not even there.

  I can’t bear it any longer. I feel sick. I need some air. I have to get away. I turn in the doorway and crash straight into Marianne, who has followed us out of the chapel.

  ‘What’s going on? Are you all right, Cara?’ she calls out after me as I run from the building and into the gardens outside.

  I stumble like a kitten that has just opened its eyes. The funeral car is waiting for us by the entrance, the driver leaning against the bonnet, a cigarette glowing in his hand. As he sees me he drops it smartly, stubbing it out with his toe and grabbing his hat from the roof of the car.


  ‘Are you ready to go, miss?’ he asks as I run past, but I don’t reply.

  I almost trip down some stone stairs and into a sunken garden. What remains of the summer planting stands stooped and broken, the flower beds dead and brown. In the centre of the lawn is a huge weeping willow, bare branches drooping across the grass. In summer, you would be able to hide at its centre, protected by the leafy boughs. How I would have loved that as a child. I make my way in through the branches and lean with my forehead against the rough bark of the trunk. I breathe slowly, in and out, until my heartbeat returns to normal. If I could be anywhere but here . . .

  ‘Cara?’

  I feel a hand on my shoulder, a gentle touch.

  ‘Cara, are you all right?’

  I recognise Mrs P’s voice but I don’t open my eyes.

  ‘It must be a terrible shock,’ she says. ‘Really she should have got in touch beforehand rather than just turning up here unannounced. It’s no wonder you’re feeling out of sorts.’

  Out of sorts. How I love her turn of phrase, the way that everything is so underplayed.

  ‘Where is she?’ I ask without turning round.

  ‘She’s still inside with Michael but she wants to see you. You don’t have to go if you don’t want. You don’t have to do anything just now.’

  ‘I want to go home,’ I say.

  ‘Then that’s what we’ll do. I can take you in my car if you’d rather not travel with the others.’

  I nod my head. The thought of being bundled up with them all right now makes me feel sick.

  ‘Come on, then,’ she says and puts her arm around my shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’

  She leads me back up the stairs and towards the car park. I hear Michael calling after me but I don’t turn round. I feel Mrs P gesturing to him with her spare arm but I don’t know what she says. I don’t care. I just want to leave. Mrs P opens the door and lowers me into the seat carefully as if she fears I might break.