Coming Home (13 page)

‘Hmm. A few minutes,’ he said finally, his face giving no clues as to what state Mum had been in when he’d arrived. He turned to her. ‘Raking might help at this stage. I could give it a go, if you like? It would have to be quite vigorous, though. Or, if you really want to make an effort for the new people, maybe we could find somewhere to rent a mechanical scarifier?’

What on earth was a scarifier? I raised my eyebrows.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I said. I turned back to the house, my back a wall of tension. I felt as if I was walking across a minefield: with every step I took, I expected Mum to hurl something after me.

‘H
ow is it now your mum’s in the, um, hospital? ‘Miss Dawson asked, as I knitted. We were back in the staffroom, the school holidays over. ‘Do you feel it’s doing her good?’

I sighed. I had to visit Mum in what my classmates called the ‘loony bin ‘after school on Fridays. I dreaded it all week. Mum, dressed all day in a nightie and a gown, couldn’t care less if I was there or not, but the social worker had said it was good for her to see me to remind her of what she had waiting at home. I felt like bait, slung out on a fishing rod in the hope that the shark might bite; I felt like an experiment: social services ‘attempt to winch Mum back to normality
.

‘I just want to know why she did it,’ I said, my eyes on my knitting. ‘No one’s said why she did it.’

Miss Dawson nodded and waited for me to carry on
.

‘Doesn’t she love us? I know Graham’s dead, but I’m not. I’m still here. What about me and Dad?’

I reached for the tissues and blew my nose heavily
.

Miss Dawson smiled. ‘Good, Evie,’ she said. ‘Very good.’

‘I mean Dad never asks her. I just want him to say, “Why did you do it? Don’t you love us? Did you want to leave us?” but all he ever talks about is how bright the flowerbeds
are or what she wants for lunch or if she needs anything from home.’

I slumped back in my chair. It was even worse at school. Dad had told my teacher that the other kids were teasing me, so she’d tried to help. I mean, what was he thinking? Everyone knows teachers can’t help
.

‘Now, class, let’s all say a happy “Good luck!” to Evie today because she has something
very important
to do after school!’ she’d say in her bright, sparkly voice. ‘Evie’s going to visit her mummy! Isn’t it lovely that Evie’s going to see her mummy this afternoon? Let’s all give her a nice, “good luck” clap!’ What she didn’t see was the boys making ‘crazy cuckoo’ signs at me behind her back; some even stuck their tongues behind their lower lips and leered at me. I wanted the ground to swallow me up
.

‘I just want my family back,’ I said
.

T
he next morning there’d been no mention of the bike at breakfast—but then I hadn’t expected there to be: brushing things under the carpet was very much the Stevens’ way. After she’d washed her dishes, Mum had disappeared off upstairs. I heaved Dad’s file of bank statements onto the table. How much money would you need to have to be able to consider a lump sum of £22,000 an insignificant amount? I wondered. Mum and Dad were well off thanks to ongoing royalties from Dad’s various books, which had been on all the non-fiction bestseller lists for the past ten years, as well as from a series of successful documentaries he’d produced for the BBC. Still, I’d never have described them as rich enough to justify spending £22,000 without even noting what it was for. I was convinced the answer must lie somewhere in Dad’s files: he’d been too careful to let that kind of money go missing.

Now I took every folder out of the bank statements file, hoping to find some clue that I’d overlooked—an extra statement, a letter from the bank—something to explain the transfers. I found nothing.

‘Come on, Evie. Don’t give up.’ I hauled the next box file onto the table with a sigh.

I went through the next two files, looking between every sheet of paper in every folder for something—anything—that I might have missed the first time. Finally, I did the same with the ‘Receipts’ file, taking out each folder one by one. The bottom of the file was lined with a piece of old newspaper, yellow with age. I took that out, too, intending to read it front and back to see if there was a reason it had been saved but, as I lifted it up, I found what I’d been looking for: tucked beneath the newspaper was a manila folder, its faded yellow cover almost winking at me.

‘Yesss,’ I breathed, picking it up and opening it carefully. Inside, just an old photo of Graham as a toddler and a fax so old the ink had faded, the handwriting appearing and disappearing like a will-o’-the-wisp. Still, I could just make out the date on the top sheet: eighteen years ago. I struggled to read the body of text: it appeared to be some sort of agreement for the sum of £500 to be paid monthly to someone called Zoe Peters. The sum was to be reviewed annually. Pulling out Dad’s most recent bank statement, I compared the bank account details—bingo—it was the same. So this Zoe Peters had received a monthly amount from Dad for donkey’s years, as well as the lump sum just the other week. But who was she? I tapped my pen on my front teeth as I puzzled over it. Some sort of colleague? Were they royalty payments? But why wouldn’t they go direct from the publisher?

I looked at my watch then slipped the fax and the photo
back into the folder and placed it beneath the newspaper. I couldn’t do any more on it now—Mum would be down any minute and I knew she’d be fussing: the funeral was at eleven.

I
don’t think anything can prepare you for the sight of a box that contains the remains of one of your parents. I don’t know why this thought didn’t hit me before I reached the worn stone steps of the church, but, suddenly, after Mum went in with the Reverend, I found myself standing outside the door, unable to follow her through it.

‘I’ll just be a sec,’ I called, leaning on the wall for support, my legs suddenly weak. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself. It had only just hit me that I was going to have to walk down the aisle in front of everyone, towards the coffin I knew would be waiting at the altar. I could feel panic looming, my body trying to breathe faster and shallower. I fought it, counting each breath in and each breath out.

Thank heavens Mum had insisted on a closed casket.

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought to prepare myself for this: I’d made the arrangements for the funeral without giving any thought to what I was about to go through. I’d even been joking with Mum when we’d paraded our black outfits around her bedroom, as if we were getting ready for a night out, not my father’s funeral. And now I realised that
I hadn’t been inside this church since the day of Graham’s funeral. I felt a hand on my arm.

‘Are you all right?’ I turned to see a lady, perhaps in her early forties with a friendly smile. She was wearing black with a powder-blue scarf. It suited her pale skin and dark hair.

‘I was just wishing I smoked,’ I said. ‘It seems like a good moment for a fag.’

‘Oh. Sorry. I don’t have any. I don’t smoke; I just needed some air.’

‘Me neither. It was just thinking it. Is it busy in there?’

‘Almost full.’ If she realised that I was ‘the daughter’, she didn’t show it.

‘Oh,’ I said. I looked at the church door, but neither of us moved. I felt like I might be sick. I imagined haring down the steps and away. Away from the church, from Mum, from all the mourners, the funeral and Woodside. Running so far that no one could find me. I felt beaten; tired of life. Did I really have to do this?

‘Going in makes it more real, doesn’t it?’ said the woman. ‘But I suppose we should. My son will be wondering where I am.’ She held out her arm with a kind smile. Obediently, I tucked my hand under it and let her lead me through the door. With Mum inside, I had no better option.

The church, both elegant and large, was packed with well-wishers. I was amazed. I hadn’t realised how many people Dad had known. In addition to friends and ex-colleagues, there must have been legions of ex-students, too, and, as the door banged behind us, everyone turned to look; an ocean
of black; a sea of faces, young and old; faces pinched with grief, some already crying, some looking sympathetically at me and some craning to see my grief. I saw the back of Mum’s head, right at the front. I couldn’t make eye contact with anyone.

‘Stay strong,’ said the woman, letting go of my arm and sliding into a pew near the back. I fixed my eyes on the coffin, not catching anyone’s eye, and walked slowly down the aisle to Mum, the woman’s words echoing in my head.

If the funeral was difficult, the cremation was worse. The chapel was small and claustrophobic. We followed Dad’s coffin inside and took our places on rows of chairs, as he was placed in front of ‘the curtains’. It was then that the finality really hit me. The funeral in the church had been all very well, with its singing and its emotional eulogies, but there was something utterly final about a cremation—there really was no second chance. After tomorrow, there’d be nothing left of Dad. I realised I hadn’t seen the body.

I shifted in my seat, my insides icy and my eyes tearing up. All my instincts told me to jump onto the coffin, to lie on top of it and stop him from going through the curtains. Shifting to cross my legs, I hid my face behind the Order of Service and tried to compose myself. I couldn’t sit still. I fanned myself with the flimsy paper.

The service was short, but the minister’s voice droned on. I pinched myself to try to make myself focus, but it was like
I was watching a film of someone else’s life. Mum took my hand and squeezed it.

‘Nearly done,’ she whispered.

A tear slid down my cheek.

T
he funeral, everyone said, had been a good one. I’d no idea what that meant, but now everyone and his wife were back at our house singing Dad’s praises and enjoying the refreshments. People clutching sherry glasses filled the two reception rooms, spilling through the kitchen onto the patio. For once the sun had deigned to shine; it was chilly but fresh, a light breeze ruffling blue rinses and bringing a flush to powdered cheeks.

I stood quietly in the corner, sipping at a glass of Tio Pepe and people-watching. The majority of guests hadn’t been at the crematorium and, now that the sadness of the funeral was done, the noise level increased and the occasional peal of laughter rose above the din. I was looking for the woman I’d seen outside the church. I’d felt a connection with her and I wanted to talk more with her—to find out how she knew my dad.

As I watched the crowd, I was accosted by a bulky lady with a lavender-tinged rinse. It was one of Mum and Dad’s oldest friends, a woman whose imposing presence at Christmas parties, barbecues and lunches had punctuated my childhood. Today she was wearing a black skirt suit
with black pop socks, and the veiny flesh of her knees was bulging out over tops that weren’t quite hidden under the hemline of her voluminous A-line skirt.

‘My condolences, dear,’ she said, pulling me to her scented bosom. ‘So terribly sad. And Robert so young.’ She took a sip of her sherry, leaving a coral-pink imprint of her lips on the crystal. ‘Mind you, a blessing to go so quickly. No need for Dignitas after all!’ She chuckled.

‘Dignitas?’ I looked at her fleshy, painted lips, which opened and shut like a goldfish when she spoke.

‘Oh, you know Robert and Dignitas? He was always going on about it. “You won’t catch me waiting around to die,” he said, gosh, what, at Christmas? He and your mum fair entertained all of us with their talk of how they’d get on a plane over to Switzerland should they ever have to. Far better to go quickly and quietly, he said, and, I have to say, dear, I couldn’t agree more.’

‘Me too,’ I said flatly. ‘Heart failure. Fabulous way to go! Now, if you’ll excuse me …’ Dignitas? I pushed through the crowds, nudging elbows and banging hips, in search of Mum.

‘Evie!’ exclaimed a deep voice. ‘Not so fast!’ I turned to see Richard, holding court in a black suit that was slightly too big for him. He waved his glass at me and I went over reluctantly, my eyes still searching the room for Mum. He stepped away from the women to whom he’d been chatting.

‘She’s doing well, isn’t she?’ he said.

‘Do you really think she’s OK?’

‘Yes. I mean: look at all this.’ He nodded at the room full
of chattering guests. ‘Marvellous job she’s done. Marvellous. Hardly falling apart, is she?’

‘Well, um …’

‘She’s strong as an ox your mother.’

‘If you’ll excuse me…’ I motioned with my eyes towards Mum, whom I’d spotted heading into the kitchen.

‘Of course,’ he said and I made a beeline for the door, smiling and thanking my way across the room on autopilot. Had Mum and Dad been serious about going to Dignitas? How could I not know this stuff?

I closed the kitchen door behind me. Mum was bent down, rummaging in the fridge. She looked up at me.

‘Going well, isn’t it? I’m just looking for some olives. I’m sure I had some Kalamatas. They’d go ever so nicely with this sherry.’

‘Yes, I guess it’s going well,’ I said. ‘Aside from the fact the guests are discussing my late father’s apparent plan to top himself. I mean, personally, I don’t think it’s in particularly good taste to be discussing a person’s potential suicide at his funeral. Do you?’

‘Oh …’ Mum straightened up and closed the fridge, holding on to the kitchen counter for support. ‘The Dignitas thing?’

I nodded. We were on opposite sides of the kitchen, boxers in the ring.

‘Who brought that up?’

‘That’s not the point!’ I snorted. ‘I’m far more interested in why I didn’t I know when half the town appears to!’

Mum looked at my face. I stared back, challenging her.

‘Well? How come you didn’t tell me?’

Mum opened her mouth to say something, but the door burst open and a uniformed waitress pushed her way in, bottom-first, an empty plate in each hand.