by Louise Beech
As the car crawled through the cemetery’s iron gates, I scanned the gravestones for my dad’s plot.
‘Henry won’t be near Dad, will he?’ I said.
‘No, sweetheart.’ Aunty Mary squeezed my cold hand within her fat one. ‘He died too long ago. Henry will be in the new bit where it’s fresh.’
My father and Henry, though joined by blood, were separated by time, by rows of uneven monuments and a line of gaunt trees and a sloping hill. I was glad.
The cemetery was white. Shifting shades of black, we stood around an open grave awash with snow. I imagined we looked like a negative strip of photograph yet to be developed. The trees were reversed too – adorned with transparent slush instead of green leaves. To observers the scene must have looked like any other burial, but for the lack of flowers and the pitifully few mourners.
But other guests came – guests only I could see.
The priest announced that he would commit the body to the ground. Aunt Mary suppressed a sob. And I saw Flood Crisis Helen by the trees. Among the bare branches I pictured her as I had while talking to her on the phone: tall and willowy with flowing hair about her shoulders. She bent with the wind, not against it, unbreakable. She waved at me, and I smiled back.
Father Colahan whispered about ‘ashes to ashes’ and ‘dust to dust’, and I saw Will with Miranda. He held her hand but he watched me, eyes full of understanding. Before they disappeared behind a stone angel with snow gathered at her feet like worship, he smiled and whispered, Be happy, Cath.
Father Colahan’s voice narrated my life with words about ‘in the sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life’ as Geraldine lolloped between the crosses and cherubs, leaving tiny marks in the snow. She circled for a while. Sniffed this grave and that. Then she vanished into the bushes, like the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.
My mother and Aunty Mary picked frozen earth from the pile near the gaping hole and threw it onto the coffin. By the trees I saw Sid. The Sid I’d pictured and grown fond of. The Sid I’d imagined, with grey-streaked hair and strong hands and tired eyes. Sid, who had never existed but who now waved at me and walked into shadows cast by the falling sun.
For a moment, the sun blinded me. I blinked.
And there was Nanny Eve. Nanny Eve in her many layers of clothes to ward off the cold, with a bag of knitting and mint sweets. She sang. I heard her melody across the space. Now I knew why she’d stopped singing all those years ago. It hadn’t been me. Or the broken Virgin Mary. But the moment she had learned what her son Henry was.
I opened my pocket and took out three pictures. The one Henry had taken of me in a summer dress holding Geraldine. One of me sitting on the garden steps looking as sad as a child possibly can. One where Henry held up a huge fish, grinning, his teeth as bared as the fish’s. I threw them on the coffin. They scattered like cards abandoned by a resigned loser.
I said goodbye to Henry.
I could because in his death’s aftermath all the ghosts died. I could put my sadness into that yawning grave on top of his cheap coffin, next to the photos and the earth. I’d not have to carry it around anymore. Only those standing with me would move into the future: my mother in her dark suit; Aunty Mary in her charity frock; and me in my borrowed Prada. I could forgive. I could forgive him and my mother and Celine. And most of all myself.
‘Let’s go home,’ said my mother. ‘We’re done.’
As we left. I looked back. Two more ghosts.
My mum and dad.
They stood in the middle of the path and watched the car pull away. Dad’s hair, so like mine, shone with life in the dying sun. Mum’s eyes twinkled. They held hands. He said my name and it bounced as it had when Nanny Eve sang it. It jumped and leapt and lolloped, like a freed rabbit. All the way to the moon that suddenly appeared opposite the sun.
Go and be happy, Catherine-Maria. Maria in the moon. The heart is the first organ that forms. Everything we need to know is in there. Mine was yours. Maria in the moon.
Driving home, we fell quiet. The windows steamed up so I couldn’t see the moon anymore. Aunty Mary held my hand. I put the other inside an empty pocket. I felt empty too but in a good way, as though I’d surrendered the weight of something and now I could breathe.
The quiches on the windowsill had gone cold so my mother warmed them in the oven for ten minutes. Graham lit a cigarette in the garden, and smoke curled past the window like a sensual spectre. Aunty Mary turned on the Christmas lights and we all sat in the dining room and drank tea, silent. Outside, more snow fell, burying the day. In the hallway, the old clock marked another hour closer to tomorrow. After a while Celine picked up the Saturday newspaper, flicked through it, read something and tutted.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ I put my cup on the table.
‘I should sue your friend,’ she hissed.
‘I guess you’re referring to Fern’s column?’
‘How dare she call me a slag?’
I smiled. ‘I believe she called you a cliché but if you want to interpret that as slag…’
‘Oh, good,’ enthused Aunty Mary. ‘I’m so glad they reinstated her.’
‘What does she mean “not really married”?’ demanded Celine, skim-reading. ‘I am married.’
‘I think she’s just observing the irony that someone with a marriage like yours revealed the sham of hers.’ I leant across and looked at the picture of Fern wearing her favourite silver, I-have-class blouse.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Celine snatched the paper away, crumpling Fern’s face.
Graham came into the room with a tray of egg mayonnaise sandwiches, and Celine whined to him that the column was slanderous.
‘For God’s sake, shut up, Celine.’ He placed the tray on the table. ‘What do you expect? Now give it a rest and have a bit of respect.’
I could have argued that she meant ‘libellous’ since slander is the spoken word, but couldn’t be bothered. I just wanted to put the day to rest.
I endured quiche and egg mayonnaise until the hallway clock struck six and I could go home. Not to where the walls had been rebuilt, or to some place ‘where the heart is’ but somewhere I could feel safe; where I could truly be myself. Where Fern was.
My mother was in the kitchen, her predictability a comfort. Life would go on. I broke my storming-off-after-Sunday-lunch routine and went to say goodbye to her. She was methodically loading the dishwasher. She had taken off her black jacket, revealing a blouse of a surprisingly fresh green.
‘I’m going,’ I said.
‘OK.’ She straightened up, closed the dishwasher door and clicked the button. It whirred into life. ‘Are you coming for lunch on Sunday?’
‘You have to ask?’ I leant forwards and kissed her cheek, stiff, not accustomed to being so close to her face. ‘Where else would I be on Sunday?’
She got some Mr Muscle out of the cupboard under the sink. On my way out into the snow I turned and watched her starting to scrub the work surfaces. Her immaculate hair shimmied in time with the action. It occurred to me that we are all perfect in our imperfections, unique in our failings. She might not be my biological mother and she might have made many mistakes, but I knew that I loved her despite this; because she had stayed, and because of her realness and her shortcomings.
And that was the most flawless love of all.
28
Choosing the best words
I was back at my house. The one that would soon be my home again. The wreckage didn’t look quite so bad now. Perhaps it was because I felt more optimistic about its future. Robin was waiting while John went to the van to fetch whatever implements were required for the day’s building task. He leaned against the fireplace he’d once eyed me from, toying with the strap of his overall. I had floor now: new and barely scuffed wood that hid the dry soil and wires beneath.
‘Do you fancy going out sometime?’ he asked.
I felt for a moment like the boards had come loose. He buried the pretty hands
that once made me nauseous deep into his pockets and hunched over as though preparing for the onslaught of my answer. I’d thought of him as Robin and now couldn’t recall his real name.
I considered the clichéd ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ reply. It was true, but surely I could find better words than that for this man who’d done nothing wrong. Though I no longer feared strange names or adverse reactions to my words, I had no desire to go out with him. It wasn’t him; it really was me. I was a cliché. A not-interested cliché. But I didn’t say that.
‘I’m with someone now,’ I lied. ‘Robin—’
‘Who’s Robin? I’m Stan.’ His too-soft hair flopped in indignation.
Of course he was. That was his name.
‘I’m sorry. See – what kind of girlfriend would I be?’ I laughed. ‘I can’t even get your name right. Imagine trying to reserve a table? We’d get to a restaurant and not even know who we are.’
Robin stared at me like I’d just lifted my skirt or something. Outside I heard John rummaging in the van, a clatter of heavy tools against metal, and then, despite the weather, an ice cream van’s cheery tune. The draught from the open door kissed my bare ankles.
Robin blushed and said he felt stupid for asking. ‘I wasn’t going to,’ he said. ‘But then I thought I might not see you and I’m going home for Christmas. Now I wish I hadn’t.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ I insisted.
I admired his willingness to reveal more than I did with my naked ankles. I could never have asked anyone out. I’d never risk the rejection. But he was willing to put himself in a vulnerable position.
He shrugged. ‘You met someone. It happens. It’s fine.’
‘Ro … um, Stan, I’m sorry about what happened that night in the taxi.’ I pulled my bag up my shoulder little, looked at the new floor and then at his youthful, not-yet-lived-in face. ‘I was a mess then. I just wanted you to know that it wasn’t anything you did.’
‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘You scared me.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said; and it was no cliché, only the truth.
John clomped back into the house, spreading mud all over my new floorboards. He dropped a bag of tools near the fireplace.
‘We’re only working until lunchtime,’ he said. ‘We’ll never get back to Manchester tonight if we don’t leave then.’
‘I didn’t even think you’d be here today,’ I said.
It was Christmas Eve. I had worked the nightshift at the care home until five and then decided only to nap for an hour or two so I would sleep deeply that night. I’d be having Christmas dinner at my mother’s the next day, and the familiar feeling of not wanting to go was a welcome one.
‘Why are you here?’ John asked. ‘Not got shopping to do?’
‘Just seeing if there was any last post,’ I lied.
Really, I’d wanted to see the house. Wanted to stand on the new floors and see the foundations before they disappeared forever beneath fresh wallpaper and gloss paint. The place had survived floods, been stripped to brick. Soon you’d not even know what had happened here. Its inner workings – the plumbing and wiring – were done, and now the exterior would be repaired. Without strong foundations, no external beauty can survive. Paint can only hide so much before the memories crawl out of the woodwork.
‘When will you be done?’ I asked.
‘At about noon,’ said John.
‘No, when will it be finished?’
‘Maybe four weeks,’ he said. ‘Close enough?’
I couldn’t quite imagine it completed; living there again. And even when it was done, it wouldn’t be finished, I thought. I asked them to make it beautiful. Said I was putting my house in their hands.
I looked at Robin’s but they were still in his pockets.
‘We’re good builders.’ John puffed up his chest at the suggestion that they might be anything else. ‘Me and matey-boy here will do you proud.’
‘Thank you.’ I fastened up my coat. ‘Have a great Christmas.’
John opened a huge plan and laid it across the floor: the map of my future. Robin looked at me, maybe seeking a different answer to the one I’d given. I admired his childlike optimism and wondered why I couldn’t just say ‘yes’ and go on a date with him. But instead I left knowing I might never see either of them again.
That evening – our first Christmas Eve together – Fern prepared extra spicy chilli and rice in a wok she’d acquired from Victor. While the mince simmered and Fern chopped red peppers, I sat on the worktop and watched her, a plastic cup of wine in my hand. Our tiny gold tree stood on the coffee table; Fern had adorned it with multicoloured condom wrappers.
Two days ago, in its yellow light, I’d told her about Uncle Henry. She had cried; I hadn’t, because I’d done all my crying. The light had made her tears into icy drops on her cheek. Then we’d fallen asleep on the sofa, my head on her feet and her arm across my ankles, tummies together, the way Anna and I had shared a bed once upon a time.
‘I saw that builder Robin at the house,’ I said now. ‘He asked me out.’
Fern poured some wine into the wok and it hissed. ‘What did you say?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’ She dropped the empty bottle in the bin. ‘Cath, you have to get back in the saddle. I know it’s harsh but I get up again and again all the time. You’re over Will. You’re the bravest person I know with what you’ve been through. So why not give some poor man a chance? What’s the worst that could happen? You get your heart broken? You’ll live.’
‘It’s easier to be alone.’ My words hung in the air, disrupted only by the bubbling chilli and Fern popping the cork of another bottle.
During the week following the funeral I hadn’t felt like talking to anyone other than Fern. I’d had to call Norman to say I was leaving Flood Crisis. He understood. He’d called me the morning after my last shift to suggest I go in and talk about the whole experience; but I hadn’t wanted to. I couldn’t imagine walking up those steps again, looking for a handrail in case I fell and not finding one. Now I knew I was done with crisis work.
I thought often of Christopher during that week; of when he’d taken the phone from me at Flood Crisis, of how he’d helped me do what was best while Henry died. In the middle of the night I wondered about calling him, but I was afraid. He hadn’t rung for a while now so he must have decided I was too difficult after all. Maybe he couldn’t deal with what he’d seen; with my running away from him that last day at Flood Crisis. With my past. Me.
I swallowed more wine to bury the hurt that rose in my throat.
‘Take a risk,’ said Fern. ‘Turn up at Robin’s door in nothing but a raincoat.’
‘I don’t have one. And he goes home today. Anyway, I don’t want him.’
I watched the chilli sauce bubble like sizzling tears. I told Fern about when I was nine and dreamt of having a house with a red roof and white bricks and a beautiful face on a wall that wasn’t the Virgin Mary. I bit into a piece of red pepper. ‘I used to imagine I’d never let anyone except my friend Anna in, and we’d share clothes and stay up late and talk. But no men were allowed.’
Fern ground black pepper into the chilli and nodded and asked if shutting people out had made me happy. I couldn’t answer her.
‘You can’t be sad,’ she said. ‘It’s Christmas tomorrow. Next year is going to be our best. Your house will be finished and my column will be made into a number-one book; that’s what I’m hoping for anyway.’ She paused and looked at me. ‘Why are you so sad tonight?’
I didn’t know. ‘Maybe I’m just tired.’ I stared at my wine until I couldn’t see anymore.
‘You’ve had a hellish few weeks. But it’s time to relax and overindulge and be full of festive joy.’
Christmas was the worst time to be sad. I kicked against the drawer that only opened when the other was shut. ‘Do you know how many calls crisis lines receive at Christmas?’ I asked Fern. ‘How many more people attempt suicide? How many people are alone tonight
?’
‘Quit thinking about crisis lines. You’re done with them.’
‘I am,’ I said. ‘But not with helping people. I’m thinking … maybe…’
‘What?’
‘I should retrain or something. I like the idea of counselling. But I’d have to study, wouldn’t I?’
‘You so could, especially with all your experience – the volunteering, and what’s happened to you.’
‘Maybe I’ll look into it in the new year.’
‘You’d better.’
Fern poured more wine. ‘I can’t believe we’re both single. The happiest night and no chance of a Christmas shag. Well, I suppose no one can dump us. Imagine that? On Christmas Eve?’
I could; I remembered that Christopher’s wife had done that. Left him with only a useless gift and gone. How must he feel tonight?
The radiator filled up, its frantic bubbling competing with the bubbling food. I stared at our gold tree and saw something poking out of the magazines piled beneath like gifts. The watch; his watch. I put down my wine with a clatter.
‘What’s wrong now?’ Fern turned on the radio and Cliff Richard started singing about the saviour. ‘You want more wine?’
‘Did you put it under the tree?’ I asked, jumping down from the counter.
‘Did I put what under the tree?’ she called after me, while Cliff reminded us to open our eyes, that we shouldn’t look back or turn away.
I rummaged under the magazines, pulling at the pages like a child with glittery wrapping paper on Christmas morning. I retrieved the watch and held it up. Fern looked at it and said she’d seen it lying around and wasn’t sure where it came from so she’d thought it would do as a gift for someone.
‘It’s Christopher’s,’ I said.
Fern put her hand over her mouth.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘He rang,’ said Fern.
‘What?’
She looked at me. ‘Last night. I forgot to tell you! Damn! You were in the shower and then I got busy writing my column and it just slipped my mind.’
‘Slipped your mind?’ I gripped the red strap. ‘What did he say?’
