‘It’s just that otherwise,’ Penny says, ‘the service might be a bit . . . you know . . . empty.’
Victoria shrugs. ‘Just do it how you want,’ she says.
Penny’s eyes are beginning to water now. This is just too hard to bear alone, and she does feel as if she’s truly bearing it alone. She pinches the bridge of her nose for a moment before continuing. ‘There’s no will. So everything just gets divided up between us.’
‘Fine,’ Victoria says. ‘She didn’t have anything anyway.’
‘She has a savings account,’ Penny says. ‘Had. It’s got ninety thousand in it. From the sale of the house, I suppose.’
‘Ninety thousand?’ Victoria exclaims. ‘God, the cow!’
‘Vicky,’ Penny whines. ‘Please.’
‘You know she had us paying for everything, right? Because she was supposedly broke?’
‘I didn’t know that, actually. I mean, they told me, at Vivian Court, last week. But I didn’t know until then.’
‘We paid half her rent, we paid her rates, her TV licence . . . we paid everything.’
‘Perhaps she wanted to save it for us?’ Penny offers doubtfully.
‘Well, it’s a funny way of doing it,’ Victoria says.
‘Yes. I suppose it is,’ Penny agrees, sipping at her tea. ‘Look,’ she adds. ‘Can you help me out a bit here?’
Victoria looks surprised. ‘Help you? What with?’
‘I don’t know,’ Penny says. ‘Our mum’s dead. A little bit of emotion wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘Emotion?’ Victoria says.
‘Yes. Emotion! Oh, come on, Sis, I know you’re upset. You know you’re upset. What’s all this . . . I don’t know . . . this . . . pretending? Why are you pretending to be fine?’
‘Do you want me to fake something? Is that it? I can cry if you want.’
‘Vicky,’ Penny pleads. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s because you’re not listening. As usual.’
‘That’s not fair, but . . . OK. I’m listening,’ Penny says. ‘So tell me.’
‘It’s not what you want to hear, believe me.’
‘OK. But tell me anyway.’
‘I’ve worked through all of this with Dr Müller.’
‘Dr Müller?’
‘Yes, he’s Austrian. Like Freud.’
‘OK . . .’
‘I’ve been through all of this, and I’m pretty certain I’m being honest with myself. I know nobody believes me, but I am.’
‘Right. So?’
‘And I just don’t care. That she’s dead, I mean. I’ve looked deep inside myself, and I just can’t identify anything that feels like giving a damn. Does that make me a monster? Maybe. But it’s true.’
‘But you were so close,’ Penny protests, her eyes starting to tear.
‘Maybe we weren’t,’ Victoria says. ‘Maybe that was me pretending.’
‘Really?’ Penny says. ‘Was it? Did you feel like you were pretending? When you had her over for dinner twice a week? When you took her shopping? When you filled her fridge with food? When you nursed her after the stroke? When you spent a whole week looking for that bloody turquoise cardigan she wanted?’
‘I don’t know,’ Victoria admits. ‘I honestly don’t know. But I think I was just on . . . just on a sort of autopilot, really.’
Penny breathes into the palm of her hand. She peers at her sister opposite and tries to understand. ‘You see,’ she finally says, caressing her brow. ‘That just doesn’t make any sense to me. Not personally or professionally. I’m listening. I really am. And I’m trying to understand. But it just doesn’t make any sense to me.’
‘What’s new?’ Victoria says.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Perhaps I am the cold, selfish person you accused me of being the last time I visited you.’
‘Oh, Vicky!’ Penny protests. ‘Are you still holding on to that?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be? My only sister calling me a selfish bitch . . . it’s not that easily forgotten.’
‘We both said things we didn’t mean that day,’ Penny says softly. ‘You know that. It was just a silly, childish argument.’
Victoria sips her tea and shakes her head gently. ‘Was it?’ she says. ‘Was it really?’
‘Of course it was. But, look . . . I’m sorry, OK? If that helps, I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re a selfish bitch at all. They were just . . . just random words. I say things I don’t mean when I’m angry. We all do.’
‘Hmm, well, thanks for the apology, anyway.’
‘But that’s no reason to . . . I mean . . . today we need to talk about Mum. And I just don’t believe that you don’t have any emotional reaction to it. Even you must see that that’s . . . unlikely. Don’t you?’
Victoria licks her lips, then turns away to look out of the window. It’s starting to spot with rain again. Penny waits for her to continue, then, after almost a minute, she touches her on the arm. When Victoria turns back, her eyes are watering.
Finally, Penny thinks. ‘You see,’ she says. ‘You just don’t want to let yourself feel anything. But it’s not healthy to keep it all bottled up, trust me. I had this Syrian woman in my office the other day and she described it – rather beautifully, I thought – as a bottle of—’
‘It’s not what you think,’ Victoria interrupts. She’s clearly not interested in Penny’s analogy. ‘That’s the thing.’
Penny cocks her head and reaches out for her sister’s wrist, but Victoria pulls it away. ‘What isn’t?’
Victoria sniffs and dabs at the corner of one eye with her finger. ‘This,’ she says.
‘Of course it is. And that’s fine. I’m just glad to see that you’re alive in there.’
‘Alive?’
‘Yes. And capable of some emotion. You’ve been so controlled about this. So cold.’
Victoria laughs sourly. ‘You don’t want to hear this, Penny,’ she says. ‘So just leave, will you? Can you do that for me? Can you just leave before I say something I might regret?’
‘But there’s nothing you could say that I wouldn’t want to hear,’ Penny tells her. ‘You’re my sister, and I love you. And no, I won’t leave. I can’t leave anyway, because we have to go to the funeral parlour together.’
‘I’m not coming,’ Victoria says. ‘So just do it how you want. I don’t care.’
‘But I told them you’d come. I came by car so I could drive us both there. We have an appointment. To choose the coffin and the flowers and everything.’
‘I don’t mean today,’ Victoria says. ‘I mean, I’m not coming today either, obviously. But no, I meant the funeral. So it doesn’t matter. Just do it how you want.’
Penny frowns deeply. ‘I don’t understand,’ she says.
‘Which bit?’ Victoria replies sharply.
‘You’re saying you’re not coming to the funeral at all?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Oh, this is madness,’ Penny says. ‘I’m not sure what’s going on with you, but this is absolute madness.’
‘Oh, please leave,’ Victoria says, sounding exasperated.
‘What?’
‘Please. Leave. My. House,’ she repeats, pointing at the door. ‘I want to be alone now.’
‘No,’ Penny says. ‘I won’t leave. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on.’
‘Please, Penny.’
‘No. No, I won’t.’
Victoria sighs and looks outside again. ‘OK, you’ve asked for this,’ she says, turning back, looking suddenly pink and angry. ‘You want to know what’s going on? You want me to get emotional? You really want to know what’s going on in this head of mine, do you?’
‘Yes,’ Penny insists. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Good. OK. Well, I’m glad she’s dead.’
Tears spring instantly to Penny’s eyes, clouding her vision. Her chest feels tight, as if her heart is about to burst. ‘But Victoria . . .’
she pleads.
‘I am. I’m glad she’s dead. I feel liberated,’ Victoria says, tears running down her own cheeks now. ‘That’s how I feel. I hated her. I didn’t realise it because I couldn’t let myself realise it. Because it was . . . I don’t know, like a tautology, or something. Hating your mother. That’s impossible, right? But I did. I hated her. And I’m glad she’s dead. And the first thing I thought when they called me, the first emotion I felt when Vivian Court phoned, was joy. It’s not what I expected, but it is what happened. I thought, I’m free. Finally, I’m free. She’s dead. And thank God for that.’
Penny is crying freely now. It makes it difficult to speak. She rummages in her handbag for a tissue but can’t find one. A brief scan of the kitchen has not revealed any kitchen roll to hand either. ‘But that doesn’t . . . I mean . . . why?’ she splutters.
‘Not listening again,’ Victoria says. ‘You see?’
‘But I am listening. It just doesn’t make sense.’
‘Because I hated her. I couldn’t let myself admit it when she was alive, but I couldn’t stand the woman. I’ve hated her since I was eight.’
‘But that’s just not true. You’re rewriting history,’ Penny whimpers. ‘I don’t know why you’re doing this . . . well, I do actually – you’re just scared of what you’ll feel if you let yourself realise. She’s gone, Victoria. Our mother. She’s gone.’
Victoria snorts. She crosses to a wall cabinet and returns with a roll of kitchen paper, from which she rips a sheet, before plonking it in the middle of the table. ‘Here,’ she says, then, ‘I knew that there was no point. I knew you’d be like this.’
‘But you were closer to her than I was,’ Penny insists. ‘You saw her all the time. You paid for everything, like you said. You looked after her. You worried about her.’
‘Yes, I did,’ Victoria says, sounding angry again. ‘You went swanning off to the seaside and left me to do it all. So I did it. But now it’s your turn, OK?’
‘My turn?’
‘Yes. So, please. We’ll pay for . . . whatever. If that’s what you need. We’ll pay. But just leave me out of the whole thing, OK? Just do it however you want and let me know when it’s over.’
‘You’re really not coming?’ Penny whimpers, a fresh batch of tears rising up.
‘Sorry, Sis,’ Victoria says. ‘But no. I’m not.’
‘But why?’ Penny asks, shaking her head dolefully. ‘I still don’t get it.’
‘Because no one wants to hear what I have to say about her,’ Victoria says quietly. ‘And you can trust me on that one.’
On the way to the funeral parlour Penny is forced to pull over. She can’t see the GPS for her tears, let alone the traffic beyond the windscreen.
She bumps the car up the kerb and cries freely for a minute. It’s only when the tears have subsided that she realises she’s on a red route. She also happens to have stopped right in front of a video camera. The fine will no doubt follow shortly. ‘Brilliant,’ she sniffs. ‘Bloody brilliant.’
It is late afternoon when she gets home, and Sander is cooking. ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘Something smells nice.’
Sander wipes his hands on his apron. It has a bra and panties printed on it and he looks utterly ridiculous. ‘Curry,’ he says. ‘Chickpea curry. I was going to make prawn curry, but we’re out of prawns.’
‘They were a bit expensive,’ Penny says. ‘Anyway, your chickpea curry is lovely. Plus, it’s been ages since we had that.’
‘I know,’ Sander says, returning to stirring the frying vegetables. ‘That’s why. So how was it? Horrible?’
‘The funeral parlour was OK, I suppose. It looked like the one in . . . what was that series called?’
‘Six Feet Under?’
‘That’s the one. It looked exactly like that. I was so spaced out by the time I got there . . . I just randomly said yes and no to things, really. It’s all madly expensive. But they can get paid straight from Mum’s bank account, so at least we don’t have to worry about that.’
Penny hesitates for a few seconds before continuing. She does this every time she catches herself referring to her mother’s this, or her mother’s that. It sounds like a grammatical error. It sounds as if she hasn’t accepted her death or something. And yet it’s not her mother’s old bank account either, is it? Her old mother’s bank account, perhaps? She shivers.
‘Barclays – her bank – I went there, too; they said they’ll make an exception to pay funeral expenses. I had to go to the register office to register the death as well. The woman there was totally incompetent. It was like a bloody Monty Python sketch. It took her forever. I’ve never seen anyone type so slowly.’
‘You say “I”,’ Sander says, frowning at his frying pan. ‘Where was Posh during all of this?’
‘Oh, she didn’t come,’ Penny says lightly.
‘What, to the register place?’
‘To any of it. She’s not coming to the funeral either. Or so she claims.’
‘She isn’t? Why?’
Penny shakes her head and sinks into one of the dining-room chairs. ‘Pour me a glass of wine – a big fuck-off glass of wine – and I’ll tell you all about it.’
When she has emptied the glass of its contents and recounted her story, Sander shakes his head despondently. ‘Wow,’ he says, simply. ‘Just, wow.’
‘I suppose we do have to have a funeral, do we?’ Penny asks. ‘I didn’t really stop to wonder if it was even necessary. I mean, it’s not like anyone’s going to be there.’
‘We’ll be there,’ Sander says. ‘And Martin and Bertie, I would think.’
‘If she lets them.’
‘Oh, I don’t think Martin ever needed Victoria to let him do anything,’ Sander says. ‘Then again . . . And I called around like you asked. Three people are coming from that place where she lived.’
‘Vivian Court?’
‘Yeah. And her neighbour from Margate. Mrs Michael?’
‘Aww, Mrs Michael,’ Penny says cutely. ‘Bless. She made the world’s best fairy cakes. They used to have those little silver balls on them. The ones that break your teeth.’
‘Well, she’s coming if her son can drive her. She’s a bit old to travel up on her own, apparently.’
‘I’ll bet. She seemed old when I was little, so . . . Was it Peter? The son’s name?’
‘She didn’t say,’ Sander says. ‘Oh, and Cecil. I think I found your uncle Cecil.’
‘Really?’ Penny says, sitting up straight. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I think so. There’s a Cecil Stone on Facebook who looks about the right age. He lives in Orpington. Does that sound about right?’
‘I’d need to see a photo. But it might be. He lived on the outskirts of London. That’s all I remember, really.’
‘I wrote to him. On Facebook. To ask if it’s him,’ Sander says. ‘So, we’ll see.’
‘He’s a bit old to be on Facebook, isn’t he?’ Penny says.
‘Maybe he’s a silver surfer,’ Sander says as he opens a tin of chickpeas and tips them into the pan.
‘Even if it is him, he might not come,’ Penny says. ‘I mean, they definitely fell out about something.’
‘Maybe we’ll find out why.’
‘Maybe,’ Penny agrees. ‘You know, Vicky said a strange thing. She was in full flow and—’
‘Full flow?’
‘Yes. She went off on a bit of a rant. She wouldn’t say anything for ages, and then she suddenly lost it and got all shouty on me. And she said, in the middle of all that other stuff, that she has hated Mum since she was eight.’
‘Which is when Ed died, right?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Any ideas?’ Sander asks.
Penny shrugs and shakes her head. ‘I didn’t think to ask,’ she says. ‘It didn’t really register until afterwards, when I was in the car.’ Sander has reached for the potato masher and is crushing some of the chickpeas in the pan. ‘Sorry, why do you do that?’ Penny asks him. ‘Why
do you squash them like that?’
‘It makes it taste better,’ Sander says. ‘It gives it a better texture.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Are you going to ask her?’
‘Ask Victoria what happened when she was eight?’
‘Yes.’
Penny sighs. ‘Not right now,’ she says. ‘I don’t think I have the energy for another dose of my sister. It was pretty full on.’
‘I can imagine.’
Penny’s phone vibrates in her pocket, so she wriggles in her seat and pulls it out. ‘Is Chloe at Matilda’s? Only she wants a lift home.’
‘Yes,’ Sander replies. ‘Do you want me to go?’
Penny nods. ‘I’m shattered,’ she says.
‘Tell her I’ll be there in half an hour,’ Sander says. ‘As soon as I’ve finished this, I’ll go.’
‘You haven’t been smoking?’
‘Not yet,’ Sander replies. ‘Good, aren’t I?’
‘Very. I’m impressed.’
‘Me, too,’ Sander says, then, ‘I suppose Cecil might know. If it is him.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘What happened to upset Posh. I mean, I’m assuming these things are all related.’
‘I’m guessing they must be,’ Penny says.
‘That was some Christmas, huh?’
‘Oh yeah,’ Penny confirms. ‘That was some Christmas. I was remembering in the car, actually. Mum was kind of strange with Vicky after Ed died.’
‘Strange?’
‘Yes. She was upset, obviously. She was devastated, really. But she was . . . well, she was nasty to her, really. To Vicky. Ed was sort of her favourite. Actually, he was totally her favourite – there was never any doubt about that. But when he died it was as if Vicky got passed over. It all somehow came to me. I think I became the favourite, after that. I never stopped to think why before.’
‘Hmm,’ Sander says. ‘Well, that would explain a lot.’
‘About?’
‘About your relationship with your sister. I mean, if she grew up feeling jealous of you. Because you got all the attention.’
‘Perhaps,’ Penny says. ‘I’m not sure, really. I was way too young to remember much. But I do remember Mum being sort of off with Vicky. So maybe something else did happen.’
The Bottle of Tears Page 20
