by Nikki Smith
The car pulls up outside the hotel; apparently an old coaching inn that once provided the stage for Lady Hamilton and Lord Nelson’s affair, the old red bricks now barely visible, covered in ivy. The concierge ushers us into the private room my mother booked for the occasion. I head for the table where the drinks have been laid out, pick up a flute of champagne and swallow it down in a couple of large mouthfuls, desperate for the alcohol to hit my bloodstream. Paul comes over, noting my empty glass as he opens a bottle of beer.
‘At least you ordered a lot of booze,’ he says.
I nod, picking up another drink, raising it towards the bottle in his hand. ‘Yes. We’re going to need it. The crematorium was packed. Here’s to Dad.’
He smiles. ‘To your dad.’ He leans down, murmuring quietly in my ear, ‘Who’d have hated that service, and would know how much I need this beer.’
I press my cheek against his, a brief moment of connection that has been lacking in our lives recently. ‘I’d better go and thank people for coming,’ I say, trying to fit one of the canapes into my mouth without spilling any of it down my top, gathering up the courage to mingle. I catch my mother watching me from the other side of the room and feel every centimetre of progress the smoked salmon and cucumber makes as it slides slowly down my throat, sitting like a stone in the bottom of my stomach.
The noise of a glass being repeatedly tapped with a spoon provides a welcome interruption to conversations I find exhausting. Caroline is standing in the middle of the room and a hush descends as everyone looks in her direction.
‘I wanted to say a big thank-you to all of you for making the effort to come today. I know how much Dad would have appreciated it. He was an amazing husband to my mum, a wonderful father to me and Jo, and we were lucky to have him.’
And grandfather, I mutter to myself. I notice she doesn’t mention that.
‘I’m sure he’d be delighted if he could see us all here, and I can assure you he wouldn’t want any of this food to go to waste, so please make sure you don’t hold back, and I’d like everyone to raise a toast. To my father, Thomas. We’ll miss you.’
I glance around. I can’t see Paul, but then I notice the door opening and he comes back into the room. Caroline has made her speech without him even being here. She walks over, holding her glass of orange juice.
‘We’re going to make a move soon,’ she says.
‘Already?’ I ask.
‘Yes. Rob’s ordered a cab. You can stay on,’ she adds. I bite back a retort that I’m not asking for her permission. I’m not sure why she wants to rush off, it’s not as if she’s got anything to get back for. Adam’s away. He’d only left to go travelling a couple of weeks ago, delaying his trip as long as he could until after Dad had died. Caroline had told me he was in Bali but she hasn’t mentioned him today and it’s always difficult to get any information about Adam out of Rob. He hadn’t even gone to the airport to see him off.
‘Mum said she’s arranged a meeting next week with the solicitor,’ Caroline says.
‘What for?’ I reply.
‘Something about Dad’s will, I think. I thought you knew.’
I stare at her. ‘She hasn’t mentioned it.’
‘Hasn’t she?’ Caroline’s cheeks are flushed. Up until a few weeks ago, we’d been getting on better than we had done for years, taking tiny steps to rebuild the relationship my mother had taken pleasure in driving apart; one that had remained firmly at arm’s length, consisting of polite Christmas and birthday cards until I’d moved back here from Bristol three years ago following Dad’s request to help with the business. But the last time we’d spoken properly had been when Dad was still alive – the fragile threads we’d hesitantly woven together had ripped apart, and now I feel like I did as a teenager; having to pretend she’s not lying to me, when we both know differently. She scans the room, waiting for Rob to notice her and he inclines his head towards the door. He can’t wait to get away.
Perhaps I’m being too harsh. None of us want to be here and everyone deals with grief in different ways – I know that better than anyone. Rob had only visited Dad once in those final days, stumbling out of the makeshift bedroom we’d constructed in the sitting room, his face an ashen-grey colour, walking straight past Paul and me without a word. No doctor’s warning can prepare you for the sight of someone dying when you’re confronted with it face to face. The waxy pallor of translucent skin stretched tightly over a heap of bones. Rob’s probably still in denial. Looking at him now, as he ushers Caroline out of the room, I wouldn’t be able to tell he’s just lost his father-in-law. But then I know how difficult it is to be sure what Rob’s really thinking.
I listen to a few of the guests swapping anecdotes about Dad, the three glasses of champagne I’ve drunk helping me to pretend they aren’t talking about my father, burying my grief temporarily behind a hazy fog, almost bearable, thinking about how we need to get back to let Buddy out or he’ll end up chewing the furniture. I put my empty glass down on the table, shaking my head as a waitress holds out a plate full of sausage rolls, and head out of the room to find the concierge.
Rob and Caroline are waiting at the entrance to reception. Rob has his back to me but it looks like they’re arguing. He’s leaning towards her, his face a couple of inches away from hers. She spots me approaching and steps backwards, her features rearranging themselves into the composed expression I’m more familiar with.
‘Everything OK?’ I ask, staring at her.
‘Fine,’ Rob replies, smiling. ‘Our taxi’s just a bit late.’
‘It should be here any minute though,’ Caroline says quickly.
‘I’ll let Mum know you’re leaving, shall I?’ I ask, hoping it’ll prick her conscience.
‘She already knows,’ my sister replies. ‘We’re taking her with us – she’s just nipped to the Ladies’.’
I wonder if my mother had asked to stay at theirs. She hadn’t taken me up on my offer to come back with Paul and me. She appears out of the cloakroom and I can see she’s reapplied her lipstick, the bright red colour bleeding into the fine lines along her top lip. The fact she hasn’t outlined them in pencil first is the only sign that everything isn’t exactly as it should be, the one oversight in her otherwise immaculate appearance. Rob reaches for Caroline’s hand as I turn to go. I can’t be sure if I imagine a momentary hesitation before she takes it, but there’s no mistaking the look he gives me as I walk off down the corridor.
It makes my skin prickle; a reminder of what he’s capable of.
SATURDAY
Caroline
Cleaning the kitchen takes me the entire afternoon. I remove all the jars from the cupboard very carefully, lining them up on the side of the counter so I can remember their original order, before wiping the rings of sticky residue off the wood and putting them all back. One centimetre too far the left or right could result in an immeasurably different outcome to my evening. My hands shake as I move the mint sauce, trying not to think about the significance of every decision or I won’t do anything at all and he’ll come home before I’ve finished. And I know how much Rob hates it if I leave anything unfinished.
I make sure I get the cloth into every crevice, into all the tight corners and plastic trays of the fridge door. The water in the sink turns an unpleasant brown colour as I wring out the damp material over and over again. I’ve done everywhere; the tops of the picture frames, the edge of the cupboard door that houses the bin, behind the pot we use to hold the washing-up brushes on the kitchen windowsill.
It helps keep my mind off the funeral. Off my sister. It hadn’t been enough for her to have had Dad’s almost undivided attention at the office for the past few years since moving back from Bristol. In the last couple of weeks she’d barely moved from the chair beside his bed, as if her presence at the critical moment would in some way erase all the years she hadn’t been there. I’d felt like an intruder when I’d gone around to visit, my attempts at conversation stilted. I’d desperately wante
d him to say something so I knew he understood. That he cared as much for me as he did for her. But he hadn’t. She hadn’t given him the chance. And now he’s gone.
I’m sweating once I’ve finished and open the window to let in some air as I watch the dirty water drain away down the plughole, wiping round the inside of the whole sink with kitchen roll to make sure there aren’t any smears left.
The house is always so quiet without Rob here. A silence that descends the moment he walks out of the front door, as if the whole building has let out its breath in a sigh of relief. I sink into its softness, knowing it won’t last. As the length of his absence increases, the atmosphere gradually tightens with expectation, until I feel it as a physical pain that squeezes my head, making it throb in anticipation.
Once the radio pips beep for the hourly news, the time he’s due back, my level of adrenaline is so high that my hands shake and I have to stop myself retching at the inevitable sound of his footsteps outside the front door. I have eleven seconds to compose myself whilst he gets his keys out of his jacket pocket, lets himself inside and takes off his shoes before walking into the kitchen to check on me. He expects his cup of tea to be waiting for him by the time he comes back from washing his hands in the cloakroom; a routine he follows religiously. I breathe slowly, in through my nose for three and out through my mouth for five, so that when he reappears and I pass him his favourite blue mug with one small spoonful of sugar, can’t you ever fucking get it right, the trembling in my hands has stopped enough for him not to notice it.
He glances at the letters I’ve left in a neat pile on the counter, all addressed to him, frowning at a couple without opening them. I wait until he’s finished his drink, trying to judge what kind of a mood he’s in before I ask him anything. His eyes flicker over the pristine granite surfaces, never quite meeting my own, and I steel myself, waiting to see if I’ve passed his inspection.
He goes upstairs, taking the letters with him. It’s a few minutes’ respite from the hours I must sit through until I can go to bed, hoping he’ll stay in the sitting room watching TV. The alternative is that he follows me up and that’s always so much worse. Those memories take longer to fade than the bruises. I stay quite still, listening to the sounds that tell me what he’s doing as clearly as if I was standing in the room with him. The soft thud of his trousers dropping onto the floor, the squeak of our wardrobe door as he opens it to reach inside for a hanger on which to put his jacket. The bang as he slams it shut. The creak of the floorboard by the side of his bed as he sits down to read the post. I’ve learned to recognise them all over the years as sounds don’t allow him to hide things in the same way as he does with words. Nothing can disguise the noise of a door being shut. Especially when your fingers are trapped in the frame.
I double check the kitchen table is laid properly; all the condiments set out exactly how he likes them, including the tomato ketchup that he insists smothering over whatever I cook. I loathe the stuff; it’s too sweet for my taste. And then I hear his footsteps as he walks across the landing and back down the stairs. My body tenses, an unconscious movement, one of the only things I have left to shield myself against whatever will come next.
‘Your mum gone?’ he asks. I nod. ‘When’s the meeting with the solicitor?’
‘Tuesday.’
He runs his forefinger across the counter, inspecting it for dust.
‘She’s going to tell Jo?’ he asks. I nod. ‘If you get what it’s worth, it’ll be more than enough to finance the site development. Maybe even another one I’m looking at as well. What’s for dinner?’ he asks.
‘Lasagne.’ He stares at me and I add, ‘The one from Delia that you like.’ He looks at the table, checking to see if he can find anything missing. ‘Do you want some salad?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘What time did your mum leave?’
‘After lunch.’
‘What have you done since she left?’
‘Put some washing on. Cleaned the kitchen.’
He runs his finger under the tap and wipes it on a tea towel. ‘I’ve spent the best part of a day of what’s supposed to be my weekend in the office with fucking morons, trying to sort out something they should have dealt with yesterday. That’s what happens if I take a day off.’ I swallow and don’t speak, letting my thoughts run through my head like water, small streams that flow in endless circles, never joining together with others to make a coherent conversation. ‘Anyone call?’ he asks casually.
I shake my head. ‘No.’ He picks up my phone off the side of the counter and keys in the digits of my pin, scrolling through my recent call history. He’ll only find his number. I don’t look at him as I put on the oven gloves to take the dinner out of the oven.
‘You’re sure?’ he asks, I know he’s watching me; I can feel my skin burn and have to hope that the blast of heat as I open the oven door will hide the flush that spreads across my face. I focus on not dropping the heavy dish as I put it down on the chopping board.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Quite sure. No one’s called; I’ve been on my own since Mum left.’
He doesn’t reply, disappearing out of the room as I carefully cut him a portion of the steaming food, trying to keep the segment intact as I take it out of the china container, wiping the side of his plate to clean up the small trail of sauce that’s dripped over the edge. I carry both plates onto the table and sit down, the familiar noise of our home phone in the study bleeping as he presses 1471 to listen to the last number that was dialled. I know he’ll be checking the call history by scrolling through the numbers on the screen but I’m not stupid enough to use it. I only made that mistake once. He comes back into the kitchen and his mobile buzzes. He takes it out of his pocket and glances at the message before he sits down, smiling. I contract the muscles around my mouth so I look like I’m smiling too. He squeezes out a large globule of tomato ketchup and spreads it across the top of his lasagne. I don’t let him see me wince, the sickly sweet smell making me nauseous.
‘Do you want a glass of wine?’ he asks. I try not to let the surprise show on my face. I can’t remember the last time we had a drink together. Years ago we used to sit on the sofa, my legs across his lap, a couple of glasses of Shiraz on the table in front of us, him telling me his plans for the business whilst I resisted the urge to reach out and touch his face, needing to feel his skin with my fingers to believe he was actually sitting beside me.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I think there’s white or red in the rack. Which do you fancy?’
‘Red,’ he replies. I get up and bring back a bottle of Montepulciano and the corkscrew. He waves me away as I attempt to open it.
‘I’ll do it.’ I put a couple of wine glasses on the table as he pours a small amount into the bottom of each glass. ‘To us,’ he says as he raises his towards mine. They clink as they meet and I wonder if he can hear my brain frantically flicking through various possibilities as to what could have happened to have put him in this mood.
‘To us,’ I say, as he picks up his fork.
‘I think I’ve sorted the planning permission for that new plot,’ he says. ‘Haven’t got it in writing yet but I’m pretty sure the Council are going to support it.’ I nod, and he frowns, mid-mouthful.
‘What have you put in this?’ he asks.
I pause. ‘Nothing . . . just the usual. Mince, onion, tomatoes . . . why?’
‘What cheese sauce did you use? Was it out of a jar?’ I shake my head. ‘It tastes vile. How hard can it be to make a decent sauce?’ I don’t answer and keep very still, staring at the loose threads on the edge of the tablecloth. He lowers his cutlery onto his plate. ‘I can’t eat this. Clearly. I’ll have to get myself something else that’s actually edible.’
‘Do you want me to . . .?’ I go to get up but he grabs my hand.
‘Sit down.’ I sit. I’ve learned by now there is nothing I can do to stop him once he’s started. I focus on trying not to let the terror that’s twisting my insides show on my fac
e. He looks at me, staring into my eyes, searching for the fear that he swallows greedily, feeding what is an inexhaustible appetite.
‘There’s no point wasting it,’ he says, picking up his plate and sliding the contents onto mine. ‘You can have it.’
‘I don’t . . .’
He stares at me. ‘You will eat it. And you will finish every mouthful.’ He picks up his glass as he pushes back his chair and stands up, hesitating for a fraction of a second before he takes mine as well and pours the remaining red liquid from both down the sink, the droplets splashing up the sides of the white porcelain like blood.
He leans against the sink at one end of the kitchen, his arms folded, waiting for me to finish what’s on my plate. His body is so rigid I can almost see the anger flowing just below the surface of his skin, about to break through at any moment. I close my eyes as I swallow each mouthful, trying not to breathe through my nose so I don’t taste the ketchup that snakes in crimson trails through each forkful. My stomach protests and for a moment I think I might be sick, but I keep eating until there’s nothing left, and he uncrosses his arms, the muscle in his jaw flickering. I put my cutlery on the plate and carry it across the room to stack it in the dishwasher but my fork slides off, clattering against the tiles. I wince as I pick it up and get a glass out of the cupboard to gulp some water to get rid of the taste of ketchup.
‘You missed a bit,’ he says, bending down. He wipes the tile with his finger and steps towards me, holding it out, a couple of pieces of mince half-buried in a globule of cheese sauce. I open my mouth obediently, swallowing the tiny mouthful, my eyes bright, ignoring the greasy smear on the floor.
