‘Yeah,’ Joe replies, biting his lip. ‘That’s right. When we took her out for lunch at that National Trust place with the castle and the fake jousting. She bought some lavender bags in the gift shop and said the chocolate cake was so sinful she needed at least two portions, because there wasn’t enough sin in her life these days.’
Rose finds herself, against the odds, smiling at the memory of her mum relishing every last mouthful of both her slices. She never seemed to put any weight on, whereas Rose felt she only had to look at a chocolate cake to gain a stone. Or maybe that was going home and eating her own bodyweight in Hobnobs once she was on her own, who knows?
‘That’s it, yes. Well, apparently she became ill a little while ago. Six weeks or so, her friend said, when he called last night.’
‘Who called?’ says Joe. ‘Was it Lewis? And why didn’t she tell us? We could have visited her, and … I don’t know, said goodbye properly! I never even thanked her for that voucher she sent!’
His tone pops up a few octaves with the last few words, reminding her of the time a couple of years ago when his voice started to break, and he spent weeks sounding like the frog chorus. She feels his sadness, and his desperation, and his guilt. She feels all of that herself too – but she deserves it, and he doesn’t.
‘Yes, it was Lewis,’ she answers. ‘Although I don’t remember much about him, even though I know she’s mentioned him before … and Joe, your Granny wouldn’t have wanted you to feel bad about this, okay? She didn’t tell us because … because she wanted to protect us. Because it was quick, and because she wanted us to remember her the way she was – happy and stuffing her face on chocolate cake, not in pain. That’s what she wanted, and that’s what we need to try and do for her. Do you think you can manage that?’
He considers this, and swipes more tears from his eyes, and finally nods.
‘Well, I’ll try if you try,’ he says, sounding tired and a little bit scared. ‘Will we have to go to her funeral?’
‘Of course,’ says Rose. ‘That’s when we say goodbye, and when we celebrate her life, and when we try and remember all the good times. We’ll go to her cottage, and you can see where I grew up, and we’ll take our time, all right? I know this hurts. And I know we’ll miss her, Joe, but we’ll get through this, we really will. You can talk to me any time, about any of it, okay?’
He nods again, and starts to frown. Rose can tell he’s thinking about something, and waits with some trepidation to hear what it is.
‘Will she be there?’ he asks, curiosity now mixed in with the sadness. ‘Will my aunt Poppy be there?’
Rose grips the arms of the chair, and forces herself to keep her expression calm, and her voice steady, which isn’t easy when her heart is hammering away like a steam piston.
‘Yes,’ she replies simply. ‘I’m sure she will be.’
Chapter 18
Rose knows that using her own son as a human shield probably isn’t in the Big Book of Good Parenting, but she can’t help it.
She is struggling to keep herself together, here, bum squashed up on the wooden pew of the village church, feeling like a trapped, wounded animal.
It’s a tiny place, dating back to the sixteenth century, and today it is crammed. She risks a quick glance around, and sees that most of the village is here. Mrs Rubens from the post office. Jack Slater who runs the Farmer’s Arms, and his counterpart from the Tennyson’s. Gloria Lubbock, who used to be the head teacher of the village school.
Fred, whose last name she never discovered and was only ever known as Fred the Milkman. Sergeant Taylor, who’d been the local bobby throughout her childhood, and shooed her out of bus stops on more than one occasion. The farmers, en masse, sitting together in their tweedy suits, looking unnatural without their green wellies.
So many familiar faces – but, at the same time, not familiar. She’s not been back here for so long, and they have aged. Not in the normal, gradual way that people living around you age – but all of a sudden, like they’ve fast-forwarded in a time machine.
Hair has turned grey; skin has become wrinkled; tummies have grown. The grown-ups she thought of as old when she was a teenager – but were actually only the same kind of age as she is now – suddenly look old. Properly old.
As she glances around, she gets some sympathetic nods from people she doesn’t even recognise at first. People, she soon realises when she adjusts her mindset and sees them through time-lapse goggles, she was at school with. They, too, look so much older. It’s just completely weird, like something from a science-fiction film.
Of course, she knows, they are probably thinking the same about her. They’re thinking how much weight she’s put on. That her hair is a mess. That she was once such a pretty young thing, and now she’s a frumpy 40-something wearing a horrible black dress that she panic-bought from Evans and now hates. It’s a hot day, summer finally deciding to kick in, and she’s hot and too sweaty and her hair is the size of a privet bush.
They’re probably also thinking: haven’t seen her for ages. Her poor mother, abandoned in her dotage. Not that ‘dotage’ is a word that could ever really be used about Andrea, thank God.
Joe squeezes her hand, reassuring her, and she snaps herself out of her fast-approaching self-pity party. She gives him a smile, hopefully one that says ‘this is sad but I am fine’, and continues to look around.
No show-biz faces, which surprises her. She’d at least expected a few, or maybe her co-star from her Penny Peabody days.
Andrea herself, of course, is providing plenty of show biz – certainly more than this church has ever seen. Big easels are set up all around, each holding one of her beloved headshots from different eras, blown up so her perfect face is clear for all to see. Young and glamorous in the early Seventies, hair flowing wild and free. Overly made-up and super-coiffed from the Eighties, in a red silk blouse with shoulder pads. Dignified but still gorgeous, Penny Peabody era, right at the front.
Rose stares at that one, to distract herself from the coffin. Every time she allows her brain to even consider what is inside that shining mahogany box, she starts to dissolve in a fizz of agony. Her mother – everything about her mother – is surely too big to fit inside that thing? It defies the laws of physics.
It doesn’t feel real, none of it. Even now, over a week later, it doesn’t feel real. She feels like she’s playing a part in a film: the grieving daughter at the funeral. Playing it badly, as well.
Being back here – with these people, in this place – would be enough of an emotional overload at any time, but at her mother’s funeral it’s just too much. She just has to get through the next hour; hold on tight until this ordeal is over with, and she has to face the next. One horrific step at a time.
She continues to look around, and gets a small finger-wave from a bleach-blonde lady who is even bigger than she is. She smiles, and waves back, still not sure who it is until it hits her: Tasmin Hughes. It’s Tasmin Hughes, her friend from another lifetime, who got pregnant when she was 15 and could well be a grandma by now. Her first thought is that time hasn’t been kind to either of them, but then she tells herself off – Tasmin looks happy, at least.
As she scans the crowd, she knows she is only really looking for one person. The person who wasn’t there for the sad, traditional procession behind the coffin; the person who left that walk of pain to her and Joe and Lewis. She’s probably hiding in her car until she can sneak in, thinks Rose, or maybe she won’t come at all.
She is ashamed of the fact that even now – at the funeral – and even after watching that video, part of her is still desperately hoping that that is true. That Poppy won’t show up, and she’ll be saved the extra anguish of that on top of everything else. She doesn’t know if she can cope with anything else. Especially that.
As the vicar starts to move towards the pulpit, and the low-level buzz of chatter clears, she hears the sound of high heels tip-tapping on the stone floor of the aisle. She knows, without a shadow of
a doubt, who it is. Who it has to be.
She hears the footsteps getting closer, and stares at her own hands. She is so tense, so tightly screwed up with grief and anxiety and panic, that she starts to tear the skin from the sides of her nails. It hurts, a sharp stab of pain as bright-red blood flows, and it is enough of a distraction to stop her from getting to her feet, and running out of this place screaming.
She senses, rather than sees, Joe look up. Feels him move slightly closer as he shuffles along to make room. She’s there, she knows she is. Poppy is sitting next to Joe, and her mum is in that box, and every person she knew in her childhood is staring at her like a gang of gargoyles that has come to life.
She gulps, and tries to breathe, and pulls more skin from her thumb. It’s never too late to start self-harming, she thinks, wiping the blood on her dress.
She refuses to look up, and stays deadly still, and completely quiet. As though if she stays still enough, she will become invisible.
The vicar taps his microphone, and the sound echoes around the walls of the church. As the congregation falls completely silent, she hears one sentence being whispered a few spaces along the pew: ‘You must be Joe. I’m Poppy. It’s so nice to meet you at last.’
Chapter 19
Lewis is, he suspects, ever so slightly tipsy. He has just walked into the corner of his desk, banged his hip, and then laughed about it like a teenaged girl. Sure signs of inebriation.
That, he supposes, is what happens when you start the day with a glass of port, and follow it up with too much champagne at an altogether very jolly funeral reception.
He fully intends to continue drinking for the rest of the day. He might end up stripping naked and running round the green, or climbing the church tower and screaming ‘I’m on top of the world, Ma!’ at the sheep in the surrounding fields.
He can risk waking up with a hangover – or possibly an arrest record, or a pet sheep – tomorrow morning, at least. Because, by tomorrow, his main part in all of this will be over. He’ll still have the legal stuff to do, of course – sorting out the estate, dotting the ‘i’s and crossing the ‘t’s on probate, finalising all the paperwork and the finances. But he can do that kind of thing in his sleep.
The tricky stuff, though? The family stuff? That, he hopes, will have been well and truly passed on to the two lost souls sitting in front of him, on the other side of his antique desk. They might still need him to answer questions – Poppy, for sure, will probably insist on it; she’s that type – but mainly, it’ll be over to them to do with as they will.
Then, he hopes, he can get on with the small matter of grieving for his lost and most beloved of friends. He might take a small holiday, or run away to join a commune in the foothills of the Himalayas, or simply lock himself away in his little house and continue to drink himself stupid.
The funeral went as well as these things can, as did the little celebration afterwards. Andrea had choreographed it all, down to the last detail. She’d been quite specific – no actors, no show biz, no old luvvies. Apart from her, of course, the star of the show. And no obituaries to be submitted until after the funeral, as she didn’t want Helen Mirren or one of the other dames turning up and stealing the limelight.
He thought she was joking on that one – she’d never mentioned acting with Helen Mirren before – but who knew? Andrea was always something of a mystery. He was secretly disappointed at her insistence – he’d have quite enjoyed meeting the still-famous and the once-famous, and matching their realities up to the incredibly naughty stories Andrea had often told.
But insist she had, and of course he had carried out her commands. In death, as in life, he was her devoted servant.
Now he felt off-kilter – that strange blend of euphoria and sadness that a good funeral can invoke; where the party goes swimmingly until you remember that the guest of honour isn’t even there.
Still, no matter how weird he feels, it is clearly nothing compared to what these two are going through. Rosehip and Popcorn – the legendary Lost Girls – finally here, in the flesh.
Between them, he thinks, they have the flesh of two normal human women. But Rose has too much of it, and Poppy doesn’t have enough. Rose is perched on the edge of her chair, pulling absently at the skin at the sides of her nail, even though it is already bloody and sore. The toes of her shoes are tapping on the parquet, and she is looking around her as if she expects men with flaming torches and pitchforks to rush out and drag her away at any second.
Poppy is leaning right back in her seat, long, skinny legs elegantly crossed in front of her, dark hair sleek and shining, perfect in a designer suit and stupidly high heels. A woman that tall doesn’t need heels, but he knows that for certain ladies, they give a level of confidence he’s never quite understood. If he was a woman, he’d be one of the Birkenstock brigade, he thinks.
She’s trying to look relaxed, in control. As though she isn’t even remotely out of her comfort zone. The only thing giving her away is the constant crossing and uncrossing of the fingers of her right hand, like she needs to be doing something – texting, or writing, or – if everything her mother said about her is true – rolling a cigarette.
Rose is looking around her and twitching, her beautiful eyes – her mother’s eyes – taking in the deep-green walls and the framed oil paintings of local landscapes and, of course, the picture of him and Andrea on his bookshelves. It was taken on the day he took her for a hot-air balloon ride over the hills, and she still looks giddy with excitement. Rose’s gaze lingers on that longer than anything else, and he sees another tiny strip of skin get torn from the side of her thumb.
In fact, the poor thing is looking everywhere except at the person sitting next to her. She’s shuffled her chair a few inches further away, as though she’s scared she might catch something – it’s like she’s physically afraid of being near her sister. She’s even more nervous now, because she’s been stripped of her bodyguard – Joe (lovely lad) has been left in the waiting room, where he is drinking lemonade and looking forlorn.
Poppy is equally observant, but in a calmer way. At least on the surface. She, though, is taking sneaky sideways glances at Rose, her eyes widening each time, like she can’t believe she’s real. Like she might be a Rose-shaped mirage.
He clears his throat, and peers at them over his glasses. He actually only needs his glasses for reading, but has decided they give him an air of authority. He’s playing a part here – one Andrea wrote for him – and he needs to do it well.
‘So, Rose, Poppy,’ he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as drunk as he feels, ‘it’s wonderful to meet you both at last. I just wish it had been in more pleasant circumstances.’
Or, he adds silently to himself, any circumstances at all, you selfish young fools. He’d dearly like to give them a piece of his mind, but that’s not what he’s here to do. He’s here to give them a piece of Andrea’s mind, and they’re bloody lucky to get it.
‘There are some estate matters to clear, but nothing too taxing. The cottage is fully paid for, and you two are the sole beneficiaries. Andrea also left a life-assurance policy made payable to you two, to be shared equally. Apart from a few small items which she bequeathed to friends, the contents of the cottage are also yours – and it’s entirely up to you to determine what to do with them. I have the keys here, which I’ll pass on to you when we’re finished. She also left around £30,000 in savings.’
He notices the look of surprise on both their faces, and studies them hard looking for the telltale signs of greed. He’s seen that so many times, sitting here in this exact same situation – grieving relatives whose eyes light up with cartoon dollar signs the minute that money is mentioned.
But no, he thinks, after a brief pause, not this time. They are both taken aback – they obviously didn’t expect their mother to have saved so much, clearly not being aware of how well Penny Peabody had provided for her in later years – but it’s surprise rather than excitement.
‘She
has asked,’ he continues, ‘that you use part of that for the special project she has left behind for you – I will be able to advance whatever you need to you until the formalities are sorted – and that the remainder is put into trust to help fund Joe’s university education, should he choose to go down that path. If not, it will be made available to him on his twenty-first birthday. Does that sound agreeable?’
Rose, he sees, is starting to lose the plot a little. There are beads of sweat on her forehead, and she is clenching back tears. Again, he’s seen that before – people who hold themselves together until something, often small or intangible, simply sets them off.
She seems incapable of speech, wringing her hands and physically trembling, but luckily Poppy – cool, calm, controlled Poppy – steps in.
‘That’s perfectly agreeable, Mr Clarke-Smith. As far as I’m concerned Joe can have everything that’s been left. But I would like to know more about the “special project” now, if you don’t mind?’
Her fingers are still crossing and uncrossing, and her right eyelid is twitching, but her voice is very professional. Very polite and business-like, very bossy. She’s used to being in charge, he thinks, and this is difficult for her on so many levels. She might not look it, but she’s just as much of a Lost Girl as tatty-handed Rose.
‘Indeed,’ he says, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers in front of him. The waistcoat of his suit is a little too tight, and he’s itching to pull off his bow tie, but he still has his part to play.
‘I believe she called it the A–Z of Everything, didn’t she, in that video we made? She wasn’t happy with that, but I find it quite a satisfying title. She – we – worked extremely hard collating all the different parts, and it’s very much a labour of love. There will be some travelling to do, and some interesting … activities is probably the simplest word to use. Do be prepared to deal with your mother’s sense of humour on top of everything else – I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how wicked that could sometimes be.
The A-Z of Everything Page 8
