‘He’s the only guy here who isn’t family,’ Penny says. ‘Well, except Will and Ben. But Will is sort of family, too. Actually, where are they? I haven’t seen them here at all. They said they were coming.’
‘I don’t know,’ Victoria says.
‘Anyway, all he was saying was that she was lovely. And it’s true. And she did have a heart of gold. So just . . . I don’t know . . . give everyone a break. Just for today. OK?’
Victoria gives a little shake of her head but seems to be calmer already. ‘Let’s go outside,’ she says. ‘I need to smoke.’
‘Here, this way,’ Penny tells her, leading her towards the main entrance. ‘Bertie’s out back, and I think he needs to be on his own for a bit.’
Out on the street, Victoria leans against the wall and lights a cigarette. ‘So, is he OK? Bertie?’
Penny nods. ‘In an angry kind of way. Everyone seems angry today, to be honest.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Victoria says. ‘He has plenty to be angry about.’
‘You didn’t tell him, did you?’ Penny asks. ‘Not about Cecil?’
Victoria wrinkles her brow and shakes her head. ‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘I thought you meant he seemed angry with you.’
‘No,’ Penny says.
Victoria snorts and drags deeply on her cigarette.
‘You smoke too much,’ Penny comments. ‘You seem to have gone from zero to twenty a day in about a month.’
‘I know,’ Victoria says. ‘I have a death wish, I think. But I’ll stop. Soon.’
Penny wrinkles her nose as she replays bits of the conversation in her head. ‘Bertie’s not angry with me, is he?’ she finally asks.
Victoria gives her a ‘look’. It’s the same look she used when Penny was little and had said something stupid.
‘What? He is? Why?’
Victoria gasps. ‘Oh, come on, Pen,’ she says. ‘You didn’t expect him to just forget, did you?’
Penny frowns. ‘I don’t understand. Forget what?’
‘October. Last year.’
‘You mean us? Our argument?’
‘No! I mean him asking you for help and you telling him to bugger off.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Penny says again. ‘Bertie has never asked me for help.’
‘He told you he was unhappy,’ Victoria says. ‘He trusted you and you let him down. And God knows, he didn’t trust anyone else.’
‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Mum told me,’ Victoria says.
‘What? What did she tell you?’
‘You know full well.’
‘Jesus, Victoria,’ Penny says. ‘I love you. I do. But you’re really not making any sense today. I suppose that’s to be expected, but—’
She’s interrupted by Victoria’s sour laughter. ‘You can’t get away with this, you know,’ Victoria says. ‘You can’t just pretend that it never happened. Especially not with Bertie. I mean, he was there.’
‘Pretend what never happened? I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘So, Bertie didn’t ask you if he could come and stay?’ Victoria says. ‘Both he and Mum lied about that?’
‘Oh, that!’ Penny says. ‘Yes, that’s true. He asked. But he was only joking. At least, I thought he was joking. He was, wasn’t he?’
‘He tells you he’s unhappy. He tells you he wants to leave home. He asks if he can live with you, for God’s sake. How is that a joke?’
‘But he didn’t, Vicky,’ Penny protests. ‘He didn’t tell me anything. Was he unhappy? Is he unhappy?’
‘He tried to kill himself, Penny,’ Victoria says.
‘He what?’
‘He asked you for help and you laughed in his face and did fuck all. You didn’t even tell me. He could have died. And all you had to do . . . at the very minimum, was let me know. We could have done something. We could have intervened. Hell, I’m angry about it.’
For the third time that day, Penny senses the blood draining from her face. ‘But I don’t know anything about that. When was this?’
‘When was what?’
‘When did Bertie try to kill himself?’
‘At the beginning of last month. He took a load of Valium.’
‘God, that’s dreadful. Thank God he’s OK. But that isn’t what happened,’ Penny protests. ‘I promise you. Is that what he told you?’
‘He said you laughed in his face, yes.’
‘Oh, Bertie,’ Penny says, now close to tears. She turns to her right, as if she might see Bertie around the corner, sitting on his wall. ‘Oh, Bertie. I had no idea.’
‘Mum said he told you everything,’ Victoria says.
‘Well, he didn’t. He just asked if he could live with us and I thought it was a joke. I would never . . . you know . . . I just wouldn’t. I’d do anything for Bertie. You have to believe me.’
‘I do,’ Victoria says. ‘That’s the worst thing.’
Penny shakes her head enquiringly.
‘It was Mum. Again,’ Victoria explains. ‘I’m just playing it all back . . .’ She points at her head and makes a circular motion. ‘And it was Mum. She said he’d told you everything and you had sent him packing. I was furious. Mission accomplished.’
‘But why?’ Penny says. ‘Why would she say that?’
Victoria shrugs. ‘As I said when you asked me to speak at the service, you’re not going to like this,’ she says. ‘Especially not today. But Mum wasn’t . . .’
‘She wasn’t what?’
‘I don’t know,’ Victoria says. ‘It’s like . . . Do you remember that poem thing Margaret Thatcher famously read out when she got into power? “Where there is discord / may we bring harmony . . .”’
Penny nods. ‘It’s a prayer by Francis of Assisi, I think. No one knew Thatch was being ironic at the time.’
‘No, well, Mum was kind of the opposite.’
‘The opposite of Thatcher?’
‘No, the opposite of the verse. Mum was kind of “Where there is harmony / may I bring discord.”’
‘Oh, don’t,’ Penny protests. ‘Please?’
Victoria shrugs. ‘I said you wouldn’t want to hear it,’ she says. ‘I didn’t want to realise it myself for years. But it’s the truth, Sis. She spent most of our lives playing us off against each other. She was, as Bertie would say, one crazy stirring bitch.’
Penny opens her mouth in horror. ‘Bertie didn’t say that, did he?’
‘Oh, no. Not about Mum,’ Victoria says. ‘No, keep your hair on. Bertie, like everyone else, is lost in the dream.’
‘Lost in the dream?’
Victoria nods. ‘Yeah, he thinks she was a saint, too. But she wasn’t. She really wasn’t.’
It’s two thirty and, essentially because Penny has drunk four gin and tonics, Sander is driving them home.
A bank of cloud from the west is slowly obscuring the sun as they drive, and the forecast, Max informs them, is for rain.
‘Why didn’t that Cecil bloke come to the pub?’ Chloe asks.
‘That Cecil bloke is your mother’s uncle,’ Sander tells her.
‘Yeah. I know. But why didn’t he come?’
Penny twists in her seat in an attempt to look back at her daughter. ‘I don’t know,’ she lies. ‘I expect he had to be somewhere else.’
‘Bertie said Auntie Vicky spat at him,’ Max says.
‘What a silly thing to say,’ Penny replies.
Sander, who saw what happened but doesn’t yet know why, turns to look at his wife accusingly. ‘I’ll tell everyone everything tomorrow,’ she says quietly. ‘Just not now, OK?’
‘So what about Bill ’n’ Ben?’ Chloe asks. ‘I thought they was coming, too.’
‘They were coming,’ Penny corrects, ‘not was. And I have no idea what happened there. Actually, I might call Will now and check they’re OK.’
As she fishes her mobile phone from her handbag, she murmurs, ‘I do hope she wasn’t watc
hing.’
‘Who?’ Sander asks as he negotiates a roundabout.
‘Mum. I mean, it was hardly send-off of the year, was it?’
‘It was fine, hon,’ Sander says. ‘It was her funeral. No one expected you to party like it was 1999.’
‘Why nineteen . . . ? Oh . . . Prince,’ Penny mutters, still fiddling with the phone and then raising it to her ear. ‘Yes, well,’ she says. ‘All the same. It was all a bit naff. I was half-expecting Victoria to say something, but . . . Hi, Will, it’s me. Just wondering what happened to you. I hope you’re OK.’
‘Voicemail?’ Sander asks as she returns the phone to her lap.
‘Yes. Oh, but hang on, I have a text message from him.’ Penny jabs at the screen a few times and comments, ‘Weird.’
‘What does he say?’
‘“Sorry, Penny, but something personal came up,”’ Penny reads in a monotone voice. ‘“So, so sorry. But there was really nothing I could do. Forgive me. Love you. See you soon.”’
‘Something personal?’ Sander repeats. ‘You think they argued?’
‘In the half-mile between the crematorium and the pub?’
Sander shrugs. ‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘We’ve argued in less.’
‘Who knows?’ Penny sighs, casting the phone into her handbag and turning to look out of the side window. ‘Why are we going this way? We didn’t come this way on the way up, did we?’
Sander shakes his head. ‘It’s quicker. I checked Google Maps. It’s almost half an hour quicker.’
‘But this is the Dartford Crossing, right? We have to pay.’
‘Oh, shit, yes,’ Sander says. ‘Do you want me to find a different route? I could turn south and go through the centre.’
‘Then we’d have to pay the bloody congestion charge,’ Penny says, retrieving her phone from her bag again. ‘No, carry on. I’ll pay it now. I have the app.’
‘It’s ridiculous you can’t pay at a booth thing any more,’ Sander comments.
‘You’re right. It is utterly ridiculous. I have no idea how the oldies manage it all. And with the congestion charge as well, it’s getting impossible to drive anywhere without a smartphone and a credit card.’
Sander glances in the rear-view mirror and, seeing that the kids both have their earbuds in, tests to see if they’re listening. ‘Kids?’ he says quietly. ‘Are you receiving me? Anyone want pizza tonight?’ When there’s no reply, he adds, glancing at Penny, ‘They’re all plugged in.’
‘So?’ Penny asks.
‘So, I don’t want to be shouted at again, but I’d really appreciate it if . . .’
‘Please, Sander,’ Penny pleads. ‘Tomorrow. I said I’d tell you tomorrow. And I will. But not now. I don’t have the energy to go into it all now. I really don’t.’
‘Fine,’ Sander says.
‘Go into what?’ Chloe asks, from the back seat.
Penny sends Sander a knowing look. ‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Listen to your music, darling.’
PART FOUR:
LET THE LIGHT SHINE
It is Saturday morning and, despite an exhausting week at work trying to catch up on the backlog, Penny is driving back to London. It is almost the end of August, and if her mother’s flat isn’t emptied by the end of the month, a full month’s rent will fall due. Victoria, who has been paying the bills while they wait for probate, has said that she doesn’t see any point in paying for an empty flat. She has promised to be there today. She has promised to help.
Though Penny is scared of the emotions which are bound to surface as she goes through her mother’s things, she’s looking forward to getting it over and done with, too. Because once this is done, the only remaining task will be the scattering of the ashes. And there’s no hurry for that, after all. Lots of people wait years before they do that.
As she drives, she listens to Woman’s Hour on the radio. They’re discussing the menopause with refreshing honesty and Penny wonders if the various symptoms they’re describing as being associated with the perimenopause mightn’t explain the fact that she’s completely lost her sex drive lately. In fact, even when they have done it recently, it hasn’t been easy, or particularly agreeable either. She decides to ask Victoria if she has had any symptoms yet. Well, she’ll ask her, she decides, if an appropriate moment comes up. Because, taking into account the fragile nature of their relationship lately, that’s not exactly a given.
Though she reaches Vivian Court fifteen minutes after schedule, Victoria has not yet arrived, so she phones her and leaves a voicemail message before heading to her mother’s flat. She inserts the key in the lock and lets the door swing open.
To her surprise, absolutely nothing appears to have been done since her mother died – in fact, it looks as if no one has set foot in the room since then. The curtains are drawn, leaving the room in green-tinged semi-darkness. The surfaces are coated in a fine layer of dust and there’s even a half-drunk cup of tea on the table, now covered with a thin crust of mould.
She stands in the doorway and surveys the scene. She tries not to cry.
‘Hello there!’
Penny turns to face the woman behind her, a pretty Asian member of staff.
‘Hello,’ Penny says. ‘I’ve come to clean her stuff out.’
The woman nods gently. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she says. ‘Are you OK? These things are hard.’
‘They are,’ Penny agrees.
‘For what it’s worth, Marge was in fine spirits the night before,’ the woman says. ‘I don’t suppose that helps, but . . .’
This woman knew her mother! This woman remembers her name! Penny swallows with difficulty and fights back tears. ‘You spoke to her?’ she croaks.
The woman nods. ‘I was in the canteen. I’m Dina, by the way. Yes, she said she was going away or something. The seaside, I think. She was looking forward to it.’
Penny dabs at the corner of her eye and sniffs – her nose is suddenly running. ‘That’s us,’ she says. ‘We live in Whitstable, down in Kent. She was coming to see us. Only . . .’ Her voice peters out.
‘Whitstable’s nice,’ Dina says. ‘I went there once. Anyway, she was on fine form. And like I say, she was looking forward to it – lots.’
‘Thanks,’ Penny says. ‘That does help, actually.’
‘If there’s anything I can do . . .’ Dina offers. ‘If you need help with anything heavy, or you want boxes or anything.’
‘Thanks,’ Penny says again. ‘My sister’s coming, so I should be fine. Though a couple of empty boxes might be useful. I spent all week collecting them but then left them back home.’
‘I’ll get you some right away,’ Dina says.
Penny lingers in the corridor until Dina returns with three nested boxes, then takes a deep breath and steps into the room, closing the door behind her.
She sighs and puts the boxes down. She crosses to the window and peers out between the curtains. She feels somehow as if she is both herself and her mother as she looks out at the view. She wonders if some essence of her mother isn’t still present, still floating around in the ether, looking out with her, or perhaps even lurking inside her, looking through her eyes, using them as her own.
‘Mum? Are you here?’ she whispers.
When no answer comes, she sighs jerkily and pulls back the curtains, flooding the room with light, then looks back out again. She can see her car down there, she realises. But the feeling is gone. She’s alone again.
She turns back to face the room. She walks slowly around the small flat, dragging her fingertips across the dusty surfaces. They say that most house dust is dead skin, don’t they? She lifts her fingertips to her nostrils and sniffs at them, then, perhaps because she saw the gesture in a film, she crosses to her mother’s wardrobe and sniffs at the clothes instead. But surprisingly, only the vaguest scent of Timeless, her mother’s favourite perfume, remains. She pulls the strongest-smelling garment, her mother’s much-loved cardigan, into her arms, then, glancing behind to check her
position, she sinks on to the bed. ‘Mum,’ she says, simply, as she caresses it.
Eventually, after a few minutes, she gently folds the cardigan and puts it to one side. She looks around the room and wonders where to start.
The wardrobe, she decides, is as good a place as any but, as she fingers the clothes, she realises that though she only wants to keep two items – the cardigan and a hat – she can’t begin to get rid of anything else until Victoria tells her which items (if any) she would like to keep. So without her sister’s presence, the whole process is impossible, really.
She phones Victoria again and leaves another message, then phones Martin and does the same all over again.
She lifts, one by one, her mother’s dowdy skirts and dresses from the rack and lays them on the bed. None of these items of clothing ‘speak’ to her – none of them shrieks, ‘Keep me!’
In fact, her main sensation on going through the wardrobe is sadness, not only sadness that her mother is gone, but sadness that she didn’t have nicer clothes. Sadness that her life, ultimately, was nothing more and nothing less than a very ordinary life. She deserved more, Penny thinks. She deserved excitement and adventure and at least an occasional dash of good luck. We all deserve more than Mum got.
She pulls a box from the shelf and puts it on the bed, then kneels before it and removes the lid. It contains her mother’s accessories: some cheap jewellery, a string of fake pearls, some gaudy gold earrings, a headscarf, an old, empty purse that she remembers from way back . . . She doesn’t know why, but she slips the fake pearls into her pocket.
She returns to the wardrobe for a second, identical but much heavier box. She sits on the bed and removes the lid. The box contains photos, hundreds of them. Here is Victoria in a baby dress sitting on her mother’s knee; here an empty pram with a teddy bear in it; next, a proudly taken photo of a home-made birthday cake, a view of Margate seafront, the two sisters on the beach building sandcastles . . . Here, now, is Ed in the sticky process of eating candyfloss.
‘I can’t,’ she breathes, through tears, returning the photos to the box and putting the lid back on. ‘I can’t do this on my own.’
The Bottle of Tears Page 24
