‘Yep.’ He nodded. ‘The red ones.’
I am going to kill you, Daksha Joshi. I am actually going to kill you!
‘Well, I’d better go.’ Flynn lifted the sign. ‘I think a few of us are going to the Derby Arms later.’
‘Oh! Cool!’ She wasn’t sure if this was an invitation or polite conversation, but her pulse raced either way. She recognised the importance of the moment, knowing that she was either being given the chance to make all her dreams come true and spend time in the company of this gorgeous boy who had fuelled her secret fantasies for the last couple of years, or it was an opportunity to make a monumental dick of herself. It still felt surreal that he was chatting politely to her, a girl in his year. A girl who didn’t even know the name of the current manager of Chelsea FC, for goodness’ sake, and a girl who could not stop saying ‘cool’, even though she was anything but. Victoria considered what to say, how to couch it. As she opened her mouth to speak, trusting her words to be appropriate and not garbled, a voice called from behind her:
‘Flynn!’
She turned to see none other than Courtney Mulholland walking at pace. She was deeply tanned, and her long legs and swingy blonde hair shone in the sun. Her teeth gleamed whiter than white, almost blue in tone, and her impressive chest was hoisted and partly exposed behind a keyhole crop top. Victoria looked down at her clunky brown sandals on the end of her pale, string-bean legs and swallowed the disappointment that nestled on her tongue.
Looking up at Flynn, she saw that his mouth had indeed fallen open a little and yes, his pants had fallen off. Well, not quite, but this wouldn’t have been a surprise. This was, after all, Courtney’s superpower.
Victoria raised her hand in a small wave of hello and goodbye, before taking out her phone, pretending to be absorbed in something fascinating on the screen and marching forward.
With the rocks of disappointment lining her stomach, the walk home seemed to take twice as long.
Why? Why would he look at you when there are girls like Courtney around? Did you really think you might be in with a chance? You lanky, freckly idiot! Her interior monologue sabotaged the sapling of confidence that had threatened to take root, strangling it before it had a chance to bloom.
By the time Victoria reached the lane, she was hot, thirsty and more than a little fed up. The sun had begun to sink behind the trees and she now wished she’d slung a jersey over her shoulders, the skin of which stung a little after being exposed to the sun. As she opened the wrought-iron gate, with the gravel crunching underfoot, she fished for the house key in her book bag. Remembering, as she did so, the burnished sheen to Courtney’s skin and cursing her own pale, freckled exterior, wishing, as Daksha had suggested, that she could walk in the shoes of those girls who were so sexy, so shiny, neat and perfect, just for one day. And she would choose today, tonight in fact, when she would stroll into the Derby Arms, order a large mimosa, and she would be quite magnificent.
‘I’m home, Prim!’ Victoria called, throwing her bag down on to the floor and depositing the delicious Greek delicacies and the jar of marmalade on the countertop in the kitchen before flicking on the kettle. A cup of chamomile tea might be just the thing to help restore her equilibrium. That, or she might actually make that big fat mimosa she now had a fancy for. She gulped down a large glass of water, letting it run over her chin and soak her vest. God, it was hot. Too hot.
Fl-ynnn! She recalled the precise way that Courtney had called his name, and it was alarming how much Victoria had managed to glean from the one word. Like a sommelier able to discern a range of tastes and scents from a mere drop of plonk, she had heard much in the single word: a heady bouquet of familiarity, with undertones of assuredness and an almost undetectable hint of ownership in the aftertaste. She paused and rested her outstretched arms on the countertop, cringing at the thought of her two classmates discussing her as she’d tripped away in her chunky sandals and the vest which highlighted her non-existent bust, in sharp contrast to the two envy-inducing balloons that fought for space inside Courtney’s lace bra. She knew it was going to take more than a coquettish giggle and a hair flick to make a boy like Flynn interested in a girl like her. He had mentioned the pub . . . Had there been more to that?
Don’t be ridiculous, Victoria.
Clamping her eyes shut, she wished she had not taken the detour past his workplace, wished she had never been told he was there. Having quietly liked and fantasised about him for the whole of school, it was a blow to know that she had effectively ruined any chance of him taking notice of her.
Thanks a bunch, Daks. Not that it was Daksha’s fault, but it felt good to have someone to blame. Maybe her gran would have top tips on how she too could be magnificent, although dancing braless in a wet slip was, she thought, a step too far!
‘Prim! I’m home!’ she called out.
The house was quiet, and she suspected her gran had, as was the norm, nodded off in the garden room amid the abundant ferns and the earthy scented tomato plants that grew from plastic bags lined up and stuck with canes in front of the windows. Kicking off her sandals, which had started to rub, Victoria made her way along the wide hallway, enjoying the cool feel of the woodblock flooring on her feet. She sauntered into the glass-roofed room that had been the favourite of her great-grandma, and was now her gran’s. And there she was. In her favourite chair with her straw hat in her lap and the double doors open to allow the welcome breeze of dusk to carry in the sweet swell of birdsong.
‘Prim . . .’ she called gently, as if cooing to a baby, not wanting to wake her up, not really, but knowing that if she dozed for too long then a night’s sleep would be a write-off. Victoria stopped to lift a lilac pansy that was sitting in a little blue-glazed pot on the table; its velvety petals tinged with a stunning clash of orange were beautiful. Prim had instilled in her a love of the garden and all its bounty. Some of her earliest memories were of turning the soil with a small wood-handled trowel and planting seeds that she would then watch, fascinated, as they sprouted and bloomed. It was a house full of plants, which meant that no matter how quiet the day or grey the sky, inside, life blossomed.
‘Isn’t nature clever? I love these little flowers.’ She lifted the pot to her nose and inhaled the sweet, subtle perfume, which she always thought seemed strongest at this time of day.
‘You have to smell this and then I need to tell you about the most mortifying few minutes of my life so far and yes, before you ask, they do involve a boy . . .’
Victoria turned and looked for the first time into the face of her beloved gran.
She took one, then two sharp intakes of breath, so sharp they cut her chest and threatened to suffocate her, as her breathing lost its natural rhythm and her knees turned to jelly. The potted pansy slid from her fingers and broke on the slate floor. Fragments of china mingled with the dark soil and the pale petals were now crushed, destroyed. She bent over and tried to stay upright, but with the strength gone from her core and her limbs weakened, this was not easy. Her whole body trembled and, despite the fear, the shock and the unbearable stab of loss that punctured her chest, she could not stop staring at Prim’s eyes, which were open but vacant. And her mouth, almost grotesque; the good teeth, which Victoria had admired, she now learned were, in fact, dentures, and they had slipped from their anchors and rested over her blue-tinged bottom lip.
‘I don’t know what to do.’ Victoria finally whispered into the ether, her hand clamped over her mouth. ‘Please don’t go, please, please don’t do this to me, I’ve only got you. Only you . . . please, please, Gran. Please!’ Sinking to the floor, she gathered the linen hem of Prim’s skirt into her hands and held it to her face, letting her tears fall into its creased confines – but of course it was too late. Prim had gone to a place to which she was denied entry and she had indeed left Victoria all alone.
‘I don’t know what to do.’ She sat back against the wall of the garden room and, as the silence threatened to overwhelm her, she reached into
her pocket for her phone. Who to call? Gerald? Daksha? The redial button came to her aid.
‘Daks, help me. I . . . I don’t know what to do . . .’
‘Vic? What’s wrong? Are you okay?’ Daksha spoke urgently down the line. Victoria, fixated by the sight of Prim slumped in the chair, was almost startled by her friend’s voice, as if quite unaware that she had dialled her number.
Two blue lights stuttered their beams into the dusky night sky as the police officer, two paramedics and Dr Joshi filled the house with their soft-soled, slow-handed presence. From her new vantage point on the drawing room floor where she leaned against the sofa, Victoria watched them go back and forth in the hallway, talking in whispers as they gently unfurled instruments and sheets of paper from bags and cases. Their lack of urgency telling her what she already knew: that they had arrived too late. Just like her. Too late to sit with her gran when she might have needed her the most, too late to hold her hand in her final moments and offer a little comfort as she passed from this world to the next, and too late to ask what the plan was.
It can’t be true. Please don’t leave me! Please don’t leave me on my own!
The futile thoughts circled her mind. Dr Joshi placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘My wife is on her way, dear. You must come to our house.’
‘I think I’ll stay here,’ she whispered.
Dr Joshi shook his head. ‘You need company and a different environment. Plus, there is no need for you to be here for the next hour or so. I can see to things.’
What things? What . . . what does he mean? She pictured coffins and morgues.
Victoria shook her head. ‘I feel sick.’
Dr Joshi nodded. ‘That’s to be expected. You’ve had a nasty shock. We need to keep you warm.’ He pulled the rug from the arm of the chair in front of the fireplace and placed it over her bare legs.
‘She’s . . . I mean, I know she is, but is she . . .’ It was hard for her to explain how, despite having discovered Prim, seen her face, felt her cooled skin beneath her fingertips, she still needed it confirming.
‘Your grandmother died. Peacefully.’
‘Are you absolutely sure?’ she asked with the thinnest gossamer thread of hope still attaching her to the belief that somehow it was a mistake, a rehearsal for the very worst of events, a bad dream . . .
‘I am sure.’ His voice and gaze were steady. And just like that she saw the thread detach itself and float away, no more than a hair on the breeze: like her, unanchored and at the mercy of the elements to be cast this way and that without control or say. The very thought was terrifying. She closed her eyes and let her head fall forward, her limbs numb, her mind blank save for the thud of a heartbeat in her ears and the sound of blood rushing through her veins and her breath as loud as if she were under water.
‘Victoria? Victoria?’ Her name louder the second time. She looked up to see Mrs Joshi resting in front of her on her haunches. The gold thread on the sleeves of her salwar kameez seemed to sparkle and her many fine bangles clattered on her wrist as she reached out to stroke Victoria’s face.
‘Come on, my darling, I have come to take you home.’
‘She . . . she’s . . .’
‘I know.’ The woman nodded, stifling her own tears. ‘I know.’
TWO
Just breathe . . . just keep breathing . . . in and out . . . in and out . . . her face . . . her face was . . . Victoria was lost in her own interior monologue, only vaguely aware of Daksha sitting on the wide arm of the chair holding her hand. I could have got home quicker if I hadn’t walked . . . If I hadn’t been hanging around trying to impress some stupid boy . . . I could have just . . . I don’t remember if I made her the cup of tea she wanted, did I do it or did I just put the kettle on? Can’t remember. I hope I did. I’m sorry, Prim . . . sorry I wasn’t with you . . .
‘What can I get you, Victoria?’
‘Hmm?’
‘I said, what can I get you, love?’ Daksha’s mum asked from the doorway of the Joshis’ neat sitting room.
Victoria jumped, in the way you might when you fall in a dream and are about to hit the floor or when you think there is one more step then there actually is. This, coupled with the fact that recognising the kind lady had taken a fraction of a second longer than it should. Her brain, fogged with shock, had quite forgotten where she was and why.
‘Nothing, thank you. I’m okay,’ she lied, sitting upright in the chair and looking at the rounded cream leather sofa where Daksha’s brothers and sister sat neatly in a row, all watching her as if she were some kind of spectacle.
‘You don’t look okay. You have had a very big shock, darling. Can I get you a cup of tea?’ the woman coaxed. Victoria realised it was easier to accept and put a stop to the questioning, which irritated, no matter how well intentioned.
Victoria nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘You must stay here tonight, love. You must stay here for as long as you need. Don’t worry about a thing. Not a thing. Daksha’s dad is sorting everything out at the house and you can just stay here and try and get some sleep.’
Sorting what out? What happens now? Where is she? I feel like I should be with her . . .
‘I . . . I think I’d rather go home,’ she whispered, unable to bear the thought of Prim, or indeed Rosebank, abandoned. This thought was immediately followed by the sinking feeling that there was only her now to protect it and that she would live there alone.
I can’t do it! I can’t! I don’t want to!
Mrs Joshi shook her head, ‘No, no, not tonight. Tomorrow maybe, but tonight you need to be here with us, not alone. Let us look after you.’
The woman walked forward and kissed her fingertips, before placing them on Victoria’s cheek, something alien to her, not that she cared. She didn’t care about much. Numb. Cold. Confused, and only able to see the image of Prim’s face, her head tilted to one side, eyes staring . . .
‘Shall we go upstairs? You can sleep in with me.’ Daksha spoke softly.
Victoria stood and felt the three pairs of eyes follow her progress from the room as she silently trailed behind Daksha up the staircase of the pristine, modern house where ornaments were minimal, gadgetry excessive, art small and all surfaces painted white. It was a lovely family space and yet so very different to the homely clutter of Rosebank. She sat on the edge of the bed while Daksha pulled open a drawer and handed her a pair of pale pink cotton pyjamas. It was then that Victoria realised how cold she was; her teeth chattered and her skin goosebumped, despite the warmth of the summer night.
‘It’ll be okay, Vic. I promise.’ Daksha palmed circles on her back as she put the pyjamas on.
‘I don’t think it will.’ Her voice carried the croak of fatigue and sadness. ‘I really don’t think it will. Prim was all I had. She was . . . she was my whole family.’
Victoria saw a montage of images in her head, all of them placing her by Prim’s side: in the garden planting or in the kitchen cooking supper, nattering as they seasoned a sauce or pausing to listen to something of interest on the radio. ‘I love her. I love her so much. I have never had a day in my whole life that I haven’t seen her. I can’t imagine what that will be like.’
‘She was wonderful, your gran. One in a million, but she was old and—’
Victoria fired a look at her friend that stopped her mid-speech.
‘Don’t tell me how it was to be expected or that she had a good innings. Please don’t do that.’
Daksha nodded and pulled back the duvet, guiding her friend between the clean, crisp bed linen as if it were her who was elderly or infirm.
Victoria laid her head on the unfamiliar pillow and took comfort from the feel of her best friend, who spooned in behind her. Grateful for the silence, this was all she needed, the physical closeness, the feel of a heartbeat reassuring her that she was not alone even if she felt it. Even Daksha, who was trying her best, she knew, had no concept of what it might be like to be truly alone. For her friend to find herself
in the same situation: six of her immediate family members would have to die, as well as countless cousins, aunts, uncles . . . and that was before she got to great-aunts, great-uncles and second and third cousins. Victoria had only had Prim and Grandpa, and then just Prim and now no one. It was a thought that left her feeling both hollow and afraid.
I don’t know what to do . . . I don’t know what to think . . . I didn’t think about this day, not really . . . I knew it would come, but I didn’t expect it, not yet . . .
Without the energy or inclination to engage, it seemed easier to feign sleep than to acknowledge Mrs Joshi, who crept into the room bearing the cup of tea Victoria had no intention of drinking. She listened, as Daksha began to softly cry.
‘Mummy! It’s so sad!’
‘Shh, don’t cry, baby. It is sad, but don’t cry.’
Victoria felt the mattress sag under Mrs Joshi’s weight as she sat by their feet.
‘I only saw her this afternoon.’ Daksha sniffed. ‘And she was the usual Prim: funny and absolutely fine. I can’t believe it.’
‘I know. I know. And one day, Victoria will take peace from the fact that this was her grandma’s end. How wonderful to live a long and happy life without the pain of illness or the slow erosion of disease. How many people would, if they could, choose to sit in their favourite chair on a sunny day and simply go to sleep? I shall tell you, lots of people, everyone!’
‘I guess, but she’s all the family Vic had. She was everything. She’s all alone now.’
‘Well, she is not alone. She has you and she has us. And she is strong and smart. She will be fine. Of course she will.’
Victoria closed her eyes tightly as Mrs Joshi left the room. Her words, no matter how well meant and assuredly spoken, provided scant comfort right now. She pictured her wedding day, with no one in the church from her side of the family, and she thought about who might now be her next of kin in an emergency – there was no one, no one. Who would help her make decisions about the future, fill out her new passport form and help pack for her travels? Who would she eat with at Christmas? Who would she call with good news or bad? And the very worst thing, who could she ask about her mum or Marcus? There was no one.
The Day She Came Back Page 3
