Ten
Heather
Now
I soon discover that the practical chores are the easy part. There’s only one local funeral director, which makes that choice much more straightforward. Mum even left all her funeral preferences in her drawer of paperwork, and the director knows the family because he buried my father, too. All I need to do is tell him what she wanted. The flowers are easy as well. With Rosie’s help, I choose a display of purple irises. We write a brief obituary for the local paper, speak to the local vicar, and hire the community centre for the wake.
The hard part is learning how to speak to my sister. Our conversations tend to be brief, skirting over anything significant about ourselves. We talk about the funeral arrangements, but we don’t discuss our feelings or thoughts. We focus on the important tasks.
After Ian Dixon arrived at the house without warning, I somehow allowed an entire day to pass without asking Rosie why he was hostile towards her in particular. Then another day passed and I still didn’t ask. I didn’t even mention my visit to the Murrays, though part of me was dying to tell her about the awkward moment with Peter – not that it matters, when we have more important things to deal with.
Rosie does not open up easily; in fact she drifts further and further away with each day that passes. Even though we eat together and watch television together, as soon as it reaches about ten o’clock, she slips up to her room and closes the door. I spend the rest of the evening either staring at the television, barely concentrating on whatever show I’m watching, instead attempting to filter through the conflicting thoughts in my mind; or in bed, thinking about the letter I wrote, which is still inside the drawer of my old dressing table.
One thought that often pops into my mind is the idea that Samuel could still be alive. Lynn and Colin Murray both believe he is. Does that mean that one day I might see him again?
I push that thought out of my head. There’s no way I could ever see him again, not after what he did to my sister.
On the third night after Mum’s death, Rosie breaks the cycle. Rather than rushing upstairs at ten o’clock, she switches off the television and turns to me.
‘Should we talk about it?’ Her voice has a defensive tone to it. Her knees are pulled up to her chin, arms wrapped around them; a wall of limbs built around the core of her body. Are they there for protection? Or to keep me out?
‘Talk about what?’ I ask cautiously.
‘You know what.’ She gestures to the house. ‘This. What are we going to do with it now that Mum’s gone?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘She left it to both of us, so I suppose the easiest thing is to sell it and split the money down the middle.’
She chews on her bottom lip. ‘Is that what you want, though? You love it here.’
I shrug. ‘Honestly, it doesn’t feel the same as it did when we were kids. It’s like it isn’t real.’
Rosie’s arms slowly unwrap from her body and she leans towards me. ‘I didn’t know you felt that way. I thought this place was … I dunno, some sort of shrine to your childhood.’
‘Our childhood,’ I correct. ‘And it’s not. There are loads of happy memories, but there are many unhappy ones too. Recently I keep thinking more about the unhappy ones.’ I drop my gaze from hers as the night of Samuel’s disappearance leaps into my mind. Rosie obviously notices, because her knees go back up to her chin.
‘Do you agree with the great Sergeant Ian Dixon?’ She curls her lip as though his name has an unpleasant taste.
‘I can’t stand that smarmy git either,’ I say. ‘But he had a point.’ I pause, considering whether to tell her or not. Then I sigh and decide I should. ‘I went to see the Murrays that day.’
‘What? Why?’
‘I felt awkward about what Ian had said. I wanted to clear the air.’
‘And how are you going to do that?’ she says with a derisive snort. ‘Erase the past?’
‘I know I can’t do that. But it’s been ten years. I thought they might see reason.’
Rosie shakes her head. ‘That’s a battle you’re never going to win, little sis. They blame me for their son running away and nothing is ever going to change that.’
‘Did he really run away?’ I ask in a small voice.
The left side of her face twitches. ‘What else could have happened?’ She rubs her thumb slowly along her forefinger and stares over my head at the opposite wall.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, my body growing hot all over. ‘Maybe he’s dead.’
‘Maybe.’ Her arms tighten around her legs, creating that barrier once again, and I can see her shutting down her emotions.
Even though I know Rosie is drifting away from me, I have to ask. ‘Does Sergeant Dixon think you had some sort of … involvement in …’ I clear my throat. ‘You know … Samuel.’
Rosie taps her fingers against her legs. ‘Probably. I don’t know. He’s a dick and he obviously wants to run this town. I’ve heard he’s crooked.’ Then in one fluid motion she stands up. ‘I’m going to bed. See you in the morning.’ And with that, she’s gone.
* * *
April rain falls on the day of the funeral, but I don’t mind. Mum always loved the rain. She said that it made the world come alive. Smells were more vivid. The sky felt closer. The sound of it blocked out all those annoying little distractions. And then she would tickle me, because I was one of those annoying little distractions.
It surprises me that Rosie cries in the car as we follow the hearse.
‘I hate funerals,’ she says between sobs. Then, after a pause, ‘I’m going to miss her.’
Even though I take her hand, I can’t stop the intrusive thought jumping into my head: Then why didn’t you visit more? But I know it’s unfair, and I’m only thinking it because I’m stressed and sad. This is my third funeral in six years, and my heart is heavy. Mum deserved more than a life cut off before her retirement. She deserved more time, grandkids, weddings. We gave her none of those things.
‘We’ll get through today together,’ I say quietly. ‘That’s what Mum would’ve wanted.’
‘She brought us together in the end,’ Rosie replies. Then she sighs and stares out of the window towards Buckbell Woods.
Seeing her with tear-stained cheeks and a wistfulness to her expression makes me think of the person she was all those years ago.
‘She’ll miss the woods,’ Rosie says. ‘Maybe we should have arranged a cremation and scattered the ashes there.’
‘She didn’t want a cremation,’ I remind her. ‘We’ve given her exactly what she wanted, Ro.’
Rosie’s face crumples in and I squeeze her hand. She wasn’t this emotional at Dad’s funeral; she was too out of it on some cocktail of drink and pills. Her tears remind me of the night I saw her running home from the woods, her clothes torn, blood on her face. Blame the blue, Guilt the trees. The bluebells were in bloom when Samuel disappeared. Mum’s poem is undoubtedly about Buckbell Woods. Did she know the truth about everything before she died? It’s a strange, intrusive thought that pops into my mind. Did Rosie confess a sin or a secret to her?
We’re driving past the east side of the forest, and for a fleeting moment I consider asking her about that night, but then I let go of her hand instead, because I remember something from the previous evening. Ever since Samuel’s disappearance, Rosie has always stated that she believes Samuel ran away. But every single time, she performs the same little tic she always does when she’s lying. She rubs her forefinger with her thumb.
Another blow hits me, adding to my grief. No matter how much I want to believe her, I can’t trust her, because she’s lying to me.
The car continues on and soon the church comes into view. My thoughts return to Mum and how much I wish she was here with me now. There are mourners gathered around the entrance to the church, all in their smartest black outfits. Unfortunately, the first person I see is Ian Dixon, with his slim, long-faced wife standing next to him. I don’t remember her na
me, but I know she’s from Ingledown. There are a few others from the village: Reg Jackson, landlord of the Prince of Wales, our local pub; Susie, the nurse from the hospital; a builder my dad used to work with; some people from our old school; my mum’s friend Beth. I’m surprised by how many shop owners and farmers have come out. Our neighbours, too, the Campbells. And then there’s Peter Murray, who has dressed up in a black suit and smart boots.
As the coffin is carried towards the church, Rosie slips her hand into mine and I block away every thought not about Mum to allow me to say goodbye. She wasn’t a perfect mother. Sometimes I wanted more from her. More attention. More love. But she gave me everything she had to give. That’s the one thing I saw at the end, just how much she offered herself over to us. I think she always thought she was hollowed out and damaged inside, but she wasn’t. All the love she needed was in there; she just never learned to let it out. And while she struggled with those conflicting feelings, she gave so much to us that it drained her.
* * *
After the burial, a few of the mourners shake my hand and leave, but a handful come along to the village hall for sandwiches and tea. The afternoon goes by in a blur, and soon I find myself busy answering questions about what to do with the leftovers, while Rosie chats to some of her old school friends at the back of the hall.
Finally the caterer leaves me be, and as I go to hunt out a slice of cake, I find myself shoulder to shoulder with Peter Murray.
‘Good spread,’ he says.
‘Thanks,’ I reply, manoeuvring myself until we’re face to face, my plate between us.
He shakes his head. ‘I should’ve led with “sorry for your loss”, shouldn’t I?’
‘It is customary.’
‘I’m such an idiot. Your mum was a lovely lady.’
I nod. ‘I’m going to miss her a lot.’
‘I think the whole village will,’ Peter says. ‘Even Mum, though she’s too stubborn to admit it. I’m sorry she isn’t here today. I know she wanted to come, but Dad thought it would be too much for her.’
‘I probably made things worse with my visit,’ I admit. ‘For some reason it seemed like a good idea at the time.’
‘Yeah, well, the Capulets and the Montagues had a better relationship.’
I nibble at the cake and am grateful for the sustenance on such a long, emotionally draining day. Having Peter next to me isn’t unpleasant either. The silence that follows is a comfortable one. I could be standing next to Samuel again. But that thought makes me cringe, and I put my plate down on the trestle table.
‘God, I remember those girls from school,’ Peter says, nodding towards Rosie, who is now in the centre of a circle of her old friends. ‘Emily used to spit paper at me and the other younger kids at break time.’
‘Emily once knocked me over with her bike when I was out walking. Then she laughed and called me Mud Face for an entire year. And Rhona told me I had a fat arse once, too.’
‘They accused my brother of terrible things, too,’ Peter says, his voice quieter, deeper.
I turn to him again, and try to find the right words to say next. But he holds his hands up in apology.
‘That was tactless. I’m not trying to—’
‘No, it’s okay, it’s all in the past.’
‘I don’t mean that I thought Rosie lied all those years ago,’ he explains. ‘But I never … God, this is going to sound awful. I just never believed the rest of them because the things they accused him of were … well, they were over the top and disgusting. They made him out to be some sort of monster, and I just …’ He puts his plate down and steps away. ‘I should go. I’ve … Dad wants me back at the farm this afternoon.’
I reach out for his arm but change my mind and retract my hand. I want to tell him that I never believed those other girls either, but that would betray something deep inside myself. It would be admitting, or confessing, a thought I’ve had for a decade. I let him go instead.
It takes less than thirty seconds for Ian Dixon to make his way over. ‘Causing trouble already?’
I say nothing.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he says. ‘Your mother will be missed.’ He rocks back on his heels and stares over my head. When I glance over my shoulder, I see that the person he’s staring at is Rosie. ‘But I’m not too sorry to tell you what you don’t want to hear.’
‘If it’s something I don’t want to hear, then maybe you shouldn’t say it at my mother’s funeral,’ I snap.
He tilts his head and places his hands together in front of his waist, which reminds me of a detective on a TV show. I can imagine Ian Dixon moulding himself on a fictional detective, considering himself the Morse or Poirot of Buckthorpe.
‘The village was never the same after your sister made that accusation,’ he says. ‘The whole sorry business tore this place apart and it’ll never be mended, not while you’re both still here. You can never fix the rift between your family and his. Don’t start getting any airy-fairy ideas about making things right.’
‘With all due respect, Sergeant, you should probably fuck off now.’ I flash him a fierce glare. How dare he say these horrible things at a wake?
‘Again, I’m sorry for your loss,’ he says. ‘Iris was a wonderful lady and we’ll all miss her. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. But in a way, now that she’s gone and it’s only you and Rosie left, maybe Buckthorpe can move on.’
Those words sink deep, penetrating the flesh and going straight for the blood. But as I’m about to tell him that Buckthorpe has always been rotten and that removing my family won’t fix anything, he walks away.
Eleven
Heather
Now
Rosie was the girl always in trouble, the girl who would come home drunk from a party, who would get detention, who would give some other girl a black eye. Seeing her with those bitchy school friends at the funeral reminded me of all of that. But what is it about Rosie that fuels this chaos? Mum and Dad were both pretty mild-mannered. Grandad used to shout a lot, but I never thought much of it when we were children. He was just bad-tempered and old. A little scary sometimes, but harmless.
The truth is, I don’t know my sister as an adult. We’ve drifted so far apart that I can’t imagine us as Hev and Ro any more. Since she’s come home, we’ve barely been able to hold a conversation that lasts more than ten minutes. Yes, we are united in grief. We both miss our mother and we loved her deeply, but apart from that we’re strangers.
Is there a stranger living in my house? Sharing my food? Lying to my face? Who is Rosie? Is she a murderer?
After the funeral, we pack away the food, go home and I finally get to step out of my smart black pumps. All I can think about is Ian Dixon and his insistence that we leave Buckthorpe. There was a definite atmosphere at the wake. Even Reg from the Prince of Wales pub asked me when we’re putting the house on the market, a little gleam in his eyes suggesting he was excited about the prospect. Does he want to buy the cottage? Or does he just want us gone?
I believe what I wanted to say to Ian – there is a rotten core at the heart of Buckthorpe. It goes further than Samuel’s disappearance. When Rosie stood in the kitchen and told us – with tears running down her face – that Samuel had hurt her, it only took a few days for the news to spread all the way around the village. She went to the police and made a statement, but outside the family, we told no one. In her statement, Rosie told the police that Samuel had followed her into the woods, pushed her down into the mud, and tried to force himself on her. Afterwards he ran off, and she walked round and round for hours in shock, ending up lost. As she tried to find her way home, she sensed someone following her.
At first, the village sided with Rosie. She was young and beautiful whereas Samuel was considered a strange outsider who listened to music that the older generation didn’t understand, and occasionally painted his nails black. The gossip focused on Samuel’s strangeness, as well as Rosie’s outgoing nature and provocative fashion choices. Not su
re what she expected wearing those little shorts around the village and walking by herself in the woods. Later, many of the villagers decided to pick sides. It split Buckthorpe in two.
Just days after Rosie’s accusation, a Tumblr post by an anonymous female student from our school appeared accusing Samuel of many disgusting things. It was revealed later that the blog post was the work of Emily and Rhona. Emily told the police that she had seen Samuel drawing a pentagram on his hand. She said that he then grabbed her breast with the same hand and began speaking in a strange language. On another occasion, he pushed his hands into her knickers. Rhona had her own story. She said that she saw Samuel snap the neck of a cat when she was walking home from school. He swung the cat at her and taunted her before groping her and saying things in a demon language.
Ten years ago, I listened to these tall tales whispered behind hands across the tennis courts and the playing fields. Disgusting graffiti popped up in the girls’ toilets. Someone took a photo of Samuel, then scratched out his eyes and drew devil horns on his head before pinning copies all over the school corridors. I watched in horror, with a heavy stone lodged in the pit of my stomach. This wasn’t the Samuel I knew. Samuel was soft and gentle. He’d never …
The Samuel I knew was a good person, but I chose to believe my sister when she told me that he’d hurt her. I chose her over him.
Was it the wrong decision?
* * *
The Liar's Sister (ARC) Page 8
