The Day She Came Back

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Primrose was a wonderful woman. I met her quite a few times over the years at various concerts, Christmas services and so on, and of course when we laid your grandpa to rest. She was a real tour de force. I was a little terrified of her, truth be told!’ He whispered the last from the side of his mouth. ‘But mostly I found her to be terrific fun!’

  ‘She was.’ It still felt alien to be talking about her in the past tense. ‘And thank you for today.’

  ‘My absolute pleasure, and you know where we are if you want a chat or need an ear. My wife makes a passable lemon drizzle and it goes very well with a cup of tea; just the ticket when the world can feel a bit too big.’

  ‘Thank you.’ There we are again with the tea . . . She eased her hand from his, genuinely touched by his offer.

  As she climbed into the back seat of Dr Joshi’s car she noticed for the first time a woman with short, dark hair hovering to the side of the path. She was wearing a long, black coat, despite the warmth of the day, a coat more suited to winter, she thought. Bernard-the-handyman was standing to the side of her and he reached out and touched the woman’s arm tenderly. Victoria wondered if it was his wife or daughter, neither of whom she had met. She smiled at them in a way that she hoped conveyed her gratitude for making the effort. Bernard raised his hand and then looked to the floor. She was touched at how affected he was and knew Prim would have been too.

  Mrs Joshi reached back between the front seats of the plush car and squeezed her leg, hard.

  ‘You are doing your grandma proud, Victoria. You really are. I think that is the hardest bit over.’

  Victoria wasn’t sure this was true, fearing that actually the hardest bit was yet to come. The bit where everyone’s lives got back to normal – Prim was her everyday, her normal, so where did that leave her? She felt a shiver along her limbs at the prospect, but smiled at Daksha’s mum, and rubbed her thigh where she could still feel the throb of her grip.

  Despite the house having so many visitors, it was oddly quiet, quieter than the church had been. She considered putting some music on but was unsure of the right thing to do. Plus, she didn’t think the mourners would necessarily appreciate her playlist and she didn’t want to hear Prim’s music; her gran’s taste had been eclectic – everything from Sarah Vaughan to Simply Red – but today, to surround herself with the sounds she could only associate with the woman she had lost would, she knew, be too much. She wished at some level that a party had broken out, giving her licence to drink too much and dance and cry until her feet ached and her body collapsed in the kind of sleep that had proved elusive in the two weeks since Prim’s death. No such luck. The elderly guests gathered in huddles, ate slowly and sparingly, and spoke at an irritatingly low volume that sounded like the collective hum of pensioner bees.

  She spied Gerald sitting alone in the garden room in the very chair where Prim had taken her last breath. Try as she might, her gran’s empty face was all she could see when she looked into the room, and since that horrible day she had avoided coming in here unless it was absolutely necessary. And to comfort Gerald, who cut a lonely figure, did indeed seem absolutely necessary. He was, after all, the only other person on the planet who might be mourning her gran in the way she was; the irony wasn’t lost on her that he was no more than Prim’s acquaintance and could easily disappear from her life altogether. She truly hoped not, knowing she would need as many people in her corner as she could garner. The cloak of loneliness was only ever a heartbeat away and, it seemed, was always ready to wrap itself around her slender shoulders.

  ‘How are you, Gerald? Are you doing okay?’ she asked softly, bending down and resting on her haunches by the side of the chair. She looked at his liver-spotted hand lying casually along the rounded cane arm and realised it would be on top of where Prim had rested hers. Very much like they were holding hands across the great divide. It brought a lump to her throat.

  ‘Not really, dear.’ He acknowledged her, his gaze far off. ‘You know, it doesn’t matter how many people you lose, it never, ever gets any easier. It’s not something you can condition yourself against. You’d think it might be, wouldn’t you? But no. Each loss is unique and each has a new and distinct level of pain, like a layer of paint coming off that leaves you feeling a little raw, exposed.’

  ‘Yes.’ Not that she could relate, not really, having never known her mum and having lost her grandpa when she was too little to fully understand the impact.

  ‘I shouldn’t be so selfish; yes, I will miss her, but I know that my loss pales in comparison to your own.’ He looked up at her. ‘She did a good job of raising you to be strong and independent, despite your start in life, and this, I suppose, is when it will be tested. So my question is: how are you, Victoria?’

  She tried her best to phrase it. ‘I’m a bit lost, really. I’ve been busy planning today and sorting stuff out, and that’s kept me occupied, but honestly? None of it feels real.’

  He nodded. ‘I know that feeling. I keep checking my phone to see if I have a text from her. She used to keep me informed on everything from the weather to what birds she’d seen in the garden or what show was coming to the Playhouse. I shall miss that. But most of all I shall miss her noise.’

  ‘Her noise?’

  ‘Yes, she was so very loud! So full of life – listen to that lot in the drawing room and hallway.’ He cast his eyes in their direction. ‘At least twenty of them, but no one making a peep! That’s what old people do, they go quiet, apologising for their presence, as if they have outstayed their welcome on the planet, aware of the inconvenience of their existence. But not Primrose – she was loud, vivacious and wonderful!’

  ‘She was. I was thinking, Gerald . . .’ She drew breath. ‘You will still come and visit, won’t you?’ Victoria realised in that instant that, should he stop, she would miss not only his visits but also one of the last links to Prim. ‘I would . . . I would like to still see you. I’d like it very much,’ she whispered, unable to stop the latest trickle of tears.

  I don’t have anyone else, Gerald! I don’t have anyone that loved Prim, only me!

  ‘You try stopping me.’ He winked at her. ‘I think someone is going to have to take these tomato plants in hand.’

  ‘I think that person is you, Gerald.’ She smiled fondly at him and wiped her eyes.

  ‘Yes, yes of course!’ He beamed.

  Victoria wandered towards the kitchen, nodding at the group on the sofa, who offered tight-lipped smiles of condolence. Gerald was right: apologetic. It all felt completely different from the last wake she had attended in this very house. She recalled summer at the age of nine, when her grandpa had passed away, an event that Prim did her best to shield her from, dressing her in a pink pinafore, white lace tights and her silver ballroom shoes; no sombre colours for her. And when everyone had left, rather than set about clearing the plates of sandwich crusts and quiche crumbs or ferrying the glassware into the kitchen to swill the contents down the sink, Prim had instead put The Supremes on the stereo and they had danced and twirled to ‘You Can’t Hurry Love’. Victoria had gone to bed feeling like she had had an adventure or been to a party, and not remotely sad. The sound of Prim’s crying later had therefore shocked her, the dull moan of a sound floating along the landing and under her bedroom door. This was what Prim did: no matter her own thoughts, she always made Victoria feel safe and secure.

  What am I going to do without you?

  Mrs Joshi kindly handed around food, refreshed drinks and stopped only to squeeze Victoria’s arm or run her hand over her hair. She felt lucky to have the Joshis on hand. Daksha was quiet, unconfident, she knew, in being able to strike the right balance between consolatory and comical, with a tendency to make inappropriate comments that at anyone else’s wake would have been funny. Not that Victoria was complaining. Daksha had stayed with her at the house every night for the past two weeks, making the obligatory cups of tea when needed and pulling tissues from a family-sized box like a magician pulls scarves fro
m his sleeve, as and when her tears just wouldn’t stop. The thought of Daksha returning home and leaving her in this big old house all alone was enough to make the breath catch in her throat. She found it easier not to think about it.

  It was odd but unsurprising that all the things that usually occupied their conversations, topics as diverse as Flynn McNamara, the best way to island-hop in Greece, and Brexit, were pushed to the background, irrelevancies now in the wake of the loss that consumed Victoria. But in recent days, as night closed in, they had spoken of Prim, sharing memories of her, and yesterday, as dawn raised its golden head over the rooftops of this leafy corner of Surrey, Daksha asked what she might do with this big house and all the stuff in it.

  ‘Live in it,’ she’d replied, barely able to disguise her astonishment at the question. What else would I do? Where else would I live? Still unwilling to admit that, whilst she loved the place, the thought of living here all alone was a little terrifying. Not because she feared crime or even the running of the house and all that it required, but because she knew that, with all those empty rooms echoing to the tune of lives long gone, there was a very real risk that loneliness and the ghosts which lurked might swallow her whole.

  Victoria had naively envisaged a future where she would work and hopefully fall in love but would always, always live under the roof of her family home, knowing that the older Prim got, the more care she would require, and it was care she was more than willing to give. In some ways it would be payback, but a joyous payback for how Prim had loved her unconditionally when there were no other takers.

  Victoria wandered into the kitchen, thinking she may drink some wine to see if that might make the afternoon pass a little quicker. As she reached into the fridge where the chilled bottles hid, she saw a tall, slender figure in the garden, standing by the edge of the lake. It was the woman in the dark coat. The woman from the church. But Bernard, she knew, had already left.

  ‘How very odd.’

  She watched her from the window, wondering why she had not come inside with the rest of the mourners. The woman stood still and stared into the murky depths of the water, her hands pushed deep into her coat pockets.

  Victoria opened the back door and walked slowly across the grass, calling as she did so, wary of disturbing the woman, and also more than curious as to why she was standing in the garden. Who was she if not a relative of Bernard’s? A cousin on Granny Cutter’s side? Someone from the library? Or maybe she was the carer of one of the infirm currently sipping sherry and nibbling on smoked-salmon sandwiches in the drawing room.

  ‘Hello?’ Victoria called as she approached, lifting her hand in greeting when the woman turned towards her. There was something about her that was familiar, something that she couldn’t place, but she supposed that they must have met before. Maybe it was the library, this being one of the places she and Prim ventured together.

  The woman turned and opened her mouth. Her lips moved, but no words came. Victoria was mortified to see the big, fat tears trickle down her cheeks and was equally moved by her sadness.

  ‘Oh! Please don’t cry. I understand, I do. Prim really was amazing. In truth, I’m just waiting for everyone to leave so I can sit in the bath and have a good cry myself. I don’t think it’s quite sunk in yet. I keep expecting her to walk in through the door. I don’t know if that feeling ever really goes away.’ She reached into her pocket and pulled out two squares of kitchen roll, which she divided, handing one to the woman, who took it into her hands like it was a precious thing and nodded as she wiped her red nose and leaky eyes.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming. I’m Victoria.’ She touched her fingertips to her chest. ‘I saw you in the churchyard and I wanted to say hello.’

  ‘Victoria.’ The woman breathed the word, her face crumpled and her tears fell harder.

  ‘Please don’t cry,’ Victoria repeated, placing a hand on the woman’s forearm. Rather awkwardly, the woman put her hand over hers, holding it tightly. It was not only an odd sensation to see someone, a stranger, so affected by the death of her beloved grandma, but also this physical contact was odd, embarrassing even. She carefully extricated her hand and curled her fingers against her thigh, cringing more than a little.

  ‘Victoria,’ the woman repeated, again with a quiver to her mouth and yet more tears.

  ‘Yes, I’m Prim’s granddaughter.’

  The woman nodded and looked at the floor, trying and failing to catch her breath. Victoria followed her eyeline, and both stared at the rounded toes of the woman’s black patent Mary Janes, which now stood firmly planted in the hard-baked mud at the side of the lake.

  The woman mumbled something too quiet for her to discern. Victoria had to lean in closer.

  ‘I’m sorry, I missed that.’ She cupped her ear. ‘What did you say?

  ‘I said . . .’ The woman straightened, swallowed and looked her in the eye. ‘I said, “Your name isn’t Victoria.”’

  ‘Oh!’ She let out a small, embarrassed laugh. ‘It is. Yes, I’m Victoria.’ She smiled nervously. It was a strange thing for this person to say to her. Was the woman nuts, just some random interloper who had found her way into their home? Was she grief-stricken? Confused? Victoria glanced towards the back of the house and was both happy and relieved to see Gerald still in the chair of the garden room and, further along in the kitchen, Mrs Joshi and Daksha pottering around the sink. She took great comfort from knowing they were only a yell away.

  The woman shook her head. ‘No, your name isn’t Victoria.’

  ‘Okaaay.’ Victoria raised her eyebrows, thinking she would get this conversation over as quickly as possible and make her way back into the house. Even the maudlin, quiet gathering of the pensioner bees was better than this. ‘What is it then?’ she challenged, intrigued. ‘What’s my name?’

  ‘Victory.’ She smiled. ‘Your name is Victory.’

  The woman searched her face and Victoria saw a brief reflection of something so familiar it made her heart jump.

  ‘Victory?’ She bit her lip. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, a strong name, a name that I thought would see you through anything.’

  Victoria took a step backward.

  Her heart beat loudly in her ears and her stomach flipped with nausea. Whatever this was, whatever joke, prank or deception, she was not enjoying it and wanted to be anywhere else. It was as if her feet had grown roots in the mud and, as much as she wanted to run, she felt stuck.

  ‘I don’t know why you would say that to me. Who are you? Who did you come with? Because I will see if they are ready to leave.’ Still she was torn between wanting to throw the woman out and being polite: it was a funeral, after all. She was aware she had raised her voice slightly.

  ‘Who am I?’ The woman’s tone suggested the question almost pained her.

  ‘Yes, who are you?’ Victoria asked, more forcefully now, as fear caused the blood to rush in her ears and her heart clattered out an unnatural beat.

  ‘This . . . this is even more beautiful than I remembered it.’ The woman ignored the question and looked out over the water. ‘My dad used to spend hours and hours tending the plants while my mum sat here shouting instructions from under the brim of her hat, usually eating a pear.’ She smiled and wiped at her eyes, which had misted. ‘“To eat the whole thing, core, stalk and all, is both prudent and economic.” That’s what she used to say to me; I don’t know where she got that. She had lots of funny little sayings and ways.’

  How the hell? Victoria couldn’t speak, her leaden limbs meant she couldn’t move and she was aware of her breathing, which was unnaturally loud in her ears.

  ‘I want to tell you who I am, but this will be hard for you to hear . . .’

  Then I don’t want to hear it . . . I don’t want to hear it . . . I don’t . . . Victoria’s sixth sense told her that whatever the woman was about to say was far more than she was able to cope with today.

  There was a beat or two of silence while the woman prepared to sp
eak and Victoria braced herself to listen. They looked at each other and Victoria felt an uncomfortable current of recognition. No! No! No! No! You are mad, Victoria. You are going mad!

  The woman took a deep breath and raised her chin.

  ‘I’m your mum.’

  Victoria shook her head vigorously and felt a bolt of sickness fire through her gut.

  ‘No, you’re not! And that is not funny. Not remotely funny, today of all days. I would like you to leave. Leave right now! Go on! Get out!’ All consideration of politeness now gone, she pointed towards the path that led to the driveway at the front of the house. Shaking her head, she walked to the kitchen without looking back, trying to reach the safety of the house as quickly as possible, ignoring the bunching in her gut and the scary feeling that sat on her shoulders like a weight as her limbs trembled. It was odd, a hoax, a cruel joke, whatever. The woman had clearly been snooping around. Victoria pictured the private correspondence that Prim kept in the top of the bureau in the drawing room. Oh my God! Supposing she stole something! Of one thing she was certain: whatever it was, and whoever the weird woman was, she was a liar. She buried the recognition she had felt under a pile of facts and reality – that reality being that her mother had died a long, long time ago.

  ‘Are you okay, Vic? You don’t look so good.’ Daksha noted her agitated state as she came in from the kitchen and shut the back door forcefully.

  She nodded and went to the fridge, this time determined to have a glass of wine.

  ‘Who was that you were you chatting to?’ Daksha nodded her head towards the lake.

  ‘Some woman. A bloody nutcase.’ Victoria’s hands trembled.

  Why would someone do that to me? Why?

  ‘Bit weird!’ her friend summarised.

  ‘Daks, you have no idea!’ She pulled the cork from a half-empty bottle and was about to pour when she noticed the faintest tell-tale of red lipstick around the rim of the bottle. It made her laugh.