The Home

by Karen Osman

  Evelyn walked, invisible amongst the large groups of black-clad figures, all unknown to her. Would there be as many people at her funeral? She didn’t think so, and she was surprised to find the thought distressed her. Jimmy, for all his wrongdoings, had left legacies – a family, a business, and clearly a lot of goodwill, going by the sheer number of attendees. She’d been worried that some of Jimmy’s family might recognise her but as she’d looked at the lines on her face in the mirror before leaving home, she knew she didn’t need to worry. She didn’t own a black hat so instead she wrapped a black scarf around her head and as luck would have it, there was a slight drizzle so her umbrella provided a little more camouflage. She could have been anyone.

  She didn’t see the casket as it was lowered into the ground, only heard the priest’s words as they floated loud and clear over his congregation. She was standing right at the back and knew that Angela and Rosemary would be by the graveside. But when she saw her daughter just inches in front of her, her pillbox hat and veil making her look almost royal, Evelyn had fled, hoping that she hadn’t been recognised.

  66

  Angela

  It was a few days after the funeral, and Angela and her mother were in the living room, the only voice in the room being Bob Holness on the television as he quizzed his contestants on Blockbusters. Every so often, Angela got up to answer the door or the telephone. The flowers, letters of condolence, and calls of regret were still trickling in. Angela looked at her mum worriedly. She had picked up a spiral notebook and pen, presumably to write down her own answers to the quiz show, but they lay untouched on her lap while her eyes glazed over, whether from tiredness or grief Angela didn’t know.

  After the wake, Mitchell had gone back to London. He’d called regularly since then and it was the highlight of her long days in Tetbury. He had cancelled their weekend away and promised her he would rebook it whenever Angela felt up to it. She would look forward to it, but for now, her focus was on her mum. Her grief was harrowing to watch, and Angela was at a loss to know how to support her. She’d expected tears, sadness, days when she didn’t want to get out of bed. But her mum seemed – she didn’t want to say it – slightly crazed. The day after the funeral, she found her by the back door, opening and closing it repeatedly. One morning, when she’d gone to her mother’s room with her breakfast, she wasn’t there. She’d searched everywhere, the panic rising, until she found her lying on the floor of the shed, a blanket covering her.

  ‘Mum! Oh, Mum,’ she had cried, waking her. ‘Are you all right?’ She couldn’t get the sight out of her mind and as she gently helped her up, she noticed the strong smell of body odour. Had her mum not been showering? She led her back indoors, sitting her on the sofa in the living room with a cup of tea before running a hot bath.

  ‘Mum, I’ve run you a bath – why don’t you come and have a good soak?’

  Her mother didn’t respond, simply staring off into the distance.

  ‘Mum?’ she said again, more insistent.

  Angela was relieved to see Rosemary slowly get up and follow her into the bathroom. She left the door slightly ajar, so she could hear her call if she needed anything. An hour later her mum emerged looking, if not better then certainly much cleaner.

  Then there were times when she couldn’t keep up with her. Rosemary would go into a frenzy of cleaning, ironing, shopping, and cooking, although Angela noticed she didn’t eat much of what she cooked.

  ‘There’s no need to do all that, Mum. Betty will sort out the cleaning and I can make you whatever you fancy eating.’

  But it didn’t make any difference and Angela watched helplessly. In the end, she put it down to lack of sleep.

  ‘Mum, if you’re struggling to sleep, we could go and see the doctor if you like, and get something to help. What do you think?’

  ‘No, no – no need for anything like that. I’m fine,’ she responded, and Angela hadn’t liked to push it any further. As she herself knew, grief was messy, complicated, and unpredictable.

  But when she saw her mum reach for a glass of wine before it was even noon, Angela wondered what to do. Rosemary was not a big drinker: just the odd glass of wine with dinner and even that was only on weekends. She decided not to say anything but as the bottle started to empty, Angela began to feel uneasy.

  ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea, Mum?’ she asked, picking up the wine bottle and going to put it in the fridge.

  ‘Leave it!’ Angela jumped at the sound of her mum’s harsh voice. ‘No, I don’t want a bloody cup of tea, I just want to be left alone.’ Her words were slurred and Angela realised she’d never seen her mother drunk before.

  ‘OK,’ she pacified. ‘I’ll be in my room if you need me.’ She felt Rosemary’s eyes on her back as she retreated and hoped a little space would help. Lying on her bed, Angela pushed her own pain aside as she grabbed her diary and started a list of possible solutions to help her mother. She couldn’t go back to London and leave her in this state.

  *

  Angela woke and looked at the time; it was early evening and she hurried to go and check on her mum. The house was silent, and Angela found her asleep in the guest room. Picking up one of the fallen pillows, Angela held it close to her chest and watched as Rosemary slept, her chest rising and falling. A few minutes later, she closed the door gently and went into the kitchen. There was only one empty bottle and Angela was relieved she hadn’t opened another one. Tomorrow, she would talk to her again and see if she could get her some bereavement counselling.

  *

  Angela had been dreading the next morning. However, she woke to the smells of eggs and bacon. Padding into the kitchen, she saw Rosemary cooking and drinking coffee.

  ‘Hello, darling, how did you sleep?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. You?’ Angela replied, astonished but relieved to see her mother somewhat back to her normal self. Coming over to the table, she placed some breakfast in front of Angela before sitting down herself with a boiled egg and some toast. Angela watched her take a bite.

  ‘Sorry about yesterday, darling. I do appreciate everything you’ve done.’

  Angela’s shoulders sagged in relief. This was the Rosemary she knew.

  ‘You don’t need to apologise, Mum. It’s a really difficult time. I can’t even begin…’ Angela tailed off, feeling tears at the back of her throat.

  ‘Your dad would be so proud of you, you know that?’ Rosemary said.

  Gulping, Angela nodded.

  ‘As am I. And your promotion – well! He would be thrilled.’

  ‘He would,’ replied Angela. ‘I’m just sorry I didn’t get the chance to tell him.’

  ‘I feel sure he knows,’ said her mum. ‘And now, you need to get back to work and continue making us proud.’

  ‘But what about you? I’m worried…’

  ‘I will be fine. And if it makes you feel any better, I will go and see the doctor about some help with sleeping and bereavement counselling.’

  Angela looked at her mother. She looked better than she had in days.

  ‘OK, but please just let me know if there’s anything you need and I’ll be here.’

  ‘I will, darling. I promise.’

  ‘And you’ll call the doctor today and make an appointment?’

  ‘Already done. Anyway, how about you? How are you holding up?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum. Just worried about you.’

  ‘I know, darling.’ She was quiet for a moment, but then added, ‘Try not to worry too much about me. I know I went a bit strange for a while, but your father and I had a lot more time to prepare for the worst than you did.’

  As Rosemary slipped her arms around her daughter, Angela felt herself start to grieve.

  ‘I miss him so much, Mum.’ It was all she could utter before the open wound inside her released a torrent of tears.

  *

  It was on the morning that her mother was having her sewing circle coming round that Angela headed back to London. Mitchell would meet her
at Paddington. Rosemary had decided to leave the sorting of James’s belongings until she felt a bit stronger, she told Angela as she left.

  Promising to call her every day, Angela stepped onto the train and into 1989 – a brand-new year – and a year without her father.

  67

  Rosemary

  Rosemary had just wanted Angela gone. Out of the house. She couldn’t bear to see her any more nor hear her misguided belief in a man who was nothing more than a liar. She knew Angela had adored him from the moment she’d been adopted, but the discovery that he was her real father had visibly transformed Angela before her eyes. She now saw him as some kind of hero and his death had only martyred him. Her presence was intolerable; checking up on her, watching her every move. Rosemary couldn’t breathe when she was around.

  A thought suddenly occurred to her: what if Angela knew what she, Rosemary, had done? Rosemary thought back to the other night when she’d woken to find Angela watching her while she was sleeping. She’d been holding a pillow – had she been planning to use it on her? Rosemary chided herself: she was losing it. If she could just sleep! She needed to pull herself together, and quickly. It was the only way to get Angela to go back to London. So she had made the doctor’s appointment; had dutifully gone and reported back, sleeping pills in hand. Not that she planned to take them. She needed her wits about her as the incident with the wine had told her. What if she started talking when she was drunk? No, to get through this she would have to stay as level-headed as possible. But sleep still eluded her and when it did come, all she saw was James falling, his skull cracking like an egg. She would wake, sweating profusely, too afraid to close her eyes but so exhausted it was painful.

  So she would get up and roam the house, but there was no escape from the memories. Their life together was displayed in every room: the beautiful watercolour they’d picked up from a market stall in Greece, James’s chair where he used to nap, his car keys hung on the hook near the door. Everywhere she looked he was there and with it came her crime. If she hadn’t pushed him, James would still be alive today. Had she pushed him? It was all so hazy in her mind. She went to the back door, opening and closing it over and over again, unable to stop herself. At least Angela had gone – finally.

  It was Tuesday and usually she’d be at a WI meeting but she knew she’d never attend one again. Elaine and Mary had called or visited every day. In the end she’d had to tell them firmly that she needed some space to grieve. She remembered the look of hurt on their faces but surely she was entitled to a bit of peace and quiet? She just needed some time to think. To plan what to do. To stop the panic and the fear. She just needed some time. Why couldn’t anyone understand that?

  68

  Angela

  ‘The boss wants to see you in his office, Angela. Sounds serious,’ announced his assistant down the phone. She had no idea of her name – Clive Mooring went through assistants like hot dinners. His office, thought Angela as she put down the phone. That was never a good sign. She could do without it. She’d overslept that morning and was late in, meaning she had been playing catch-up and fighting fires for the last few hours, rather than doing any real work.

  ‘Angela,’ he barked, as she stepped into his office, ‘why the hell do I have Sedgwick’s managing director on the phone to me for thirty minutes just now, complaining about God knows what?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Mooring,’ replied Angela honestly.

  ‘Well, you should know!’ he retorted, shouting. ‘Get it sorted NOW and report back to me a.s.a.p.!’ he bellowed.

  Angela hurried back to her office, mentally going through the account. There should be no issue. She had been so careful, double checking, if not triple checking every piece of work. She thought back to the amount of leave she’d had. Could something have happened while she was away? Surely, they wouldn’t hold her responsible? But of course, they would. It didn’t matter if she was on her deathbed – it was still her job to make sure the client was happy, and right now the client wasn’t happy.

  Angela gathered her team and updated them, firing instructions in quick succession. She was a senior associate now: whatever had happened, she would fix it, even if it meant staying all night. But first she had to call the client.

  *

  Angela stared at the document in disbelief. There was her signature, approving one of her associate’s proposals. Had she been so preoccupied she’d signed it by mistake? She thought back to the last few weeks and realised it was a possibility. It hadn’t been easy, and it had taken the whole day, but she’d managed to find a way to resolve the situation. But still, it was bad timing. She needed more wins to cement her new position, to prove to management that they hadn’t made the wrong decision. Sedgwick’s managing director clearly didn’t trust her a hundred per cent if he called Mooring when something went wrong. And sometimes things did go wrong, thought Angela, trying to reassure herself. Of course they did – she just wasn’t used to making mistakes.

  The pain was still raw from the death of her dad. People in the office had been sympathetic but it wasn’t as if she had a close confidante who she could talk to; she had never been that sort of employee. She experienced a passing moment of regret that being constantly on her professional guard may have cost her genuine friendships, but if she had spent time gossiping in the kitchen or having lunch with the other associates, would she be where she was today? She didn’t think so. It was already late, and she hadn’t touched the work that she had planned to do that day. Usually, she would thrive on this sort of pressure, so it was worrying she felt so unmotivated. Susan had warned her that her emotions could be complex following the death of her father and it might change her perception and priorities. At the time, she thought she was referring to Evelyn, not her work. She wished she’d had the chance to tell her dad about her promotion before he passed away. He would have been so proud. The youngest associate in the company to have been promoted – and a woman at that! But perhaps he did know, as her mum said. Perhaps he was looking over her shoulder right now, smiling to himself at how far she had come. The thought gave her some comfort and, with that, Angela picked up her pen and began in earnest.

  *

  ‘I know you’re probably not in the mood to celebrate but I didn’t want your birthday to pass by without doing a little something,’ said Mitchell, as he leant over to pour her another glass of wine.

  ‘This is perfect,’ replied Angela, looking around the intimate but casual restaurant. The lights were low and when they’d been shown to their table there was a bouquet of roses on her chair. She inhaled their scent and kissed him before settling down with the menu.

  After the main course, Mitchell had handed her a small box wrapped in gold birthday paper. She’d opened it, feeling something close to happiness for the first time in a while. Inside, a delicate silver bracelet with a tiny charm of a hummingbird sat against the suede cushion.

  Angela gasped, surprised and pleased. ‘How did you know I loved hummingbirds?’

  ‘I didn’t. But it was something you said at dinner once – that you thought they brought good luck.’

  Angela couldn’t believe it. It had been such a small comment – a throwaway detail that he’d remembered. She kissed him, gently at first, and then more passionately, the feel of the silver bracelet on her arm cool and expensive.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, when they drew apart. ‘I love it.’

  69

  Friday 20 January 1989

  Dear Diary,

  I’m now 28 years old. It was a lovely restaurant – expensive too. A little quieter than I usually like them but perfect for the occasion. It was very thoughtful, all things considered. Throughout the night, I kept wondering what would happen afterwards – would it just be a good-night kiss or was it time to take the relationship to the next level?

  A.

  70

  Angela

  Angela hadn’t seen Evelyn since before Christmas. When she’d called to arrange a visit, Evely
n had sounded strangely reluctant to meet. In the end, Angela had just turned up on her doorstep, knowing it could take days for her to pick up the phone or listen to a message.

  It was a Thursday evening, the last week of January. Angela hadn’t been there long before she asked to use the loo, an excuse to check under the bathroom floorboards again. Evelyn seemed even more paranoid and on edge than usual, and certainly looked the worse for wear. Susan had asked Angela if she thought Evelyn was using drugs again, and that’s how Angela found herself on her hands and knees, trying to lift the floorboard without Evelyn hearing and without damaging her manicure. She had to be quick: there was only so long she could spend in the bathroom. When she pulled out a half-bag of white powder, her suspicions were confirmed. As the small packet rested in her hand, Angela wondered how long Evelyn had been using again.

  Tucking it back into its hiding place, Angela recalled Susan’s advice: ‘If someone has a drug problem, you’re not the one who can help them. They can only help themselves.’

  Despite this, Angela went back into the living room, where the TV was blaring, determined to get a definitive answer from Evelyn. Turning the volume down, Angela sat on the sofa.

  ‘Oi, what did you do that for? I was watching that,’ protested Evelyn.