Coming Home (15 page)

I switched on my parents’ computer, and waited while it groaned into life. To be honest, I was grateful for the rest: Mum and I had spent the bulk of the day blitzing the attic; me heaving boxes, bags and packages down to Mum, who’d sat on the landing deciding what to keep, sell or throw. I’d passed down the black bags of Graham’s things without comment and watched as she’d put them gently in the ‘charity shop’ pile.

I knew Dad’s email password because I’d set the account up for him in the first place, making a note of it on a slip of paper that was still—how many years later?—tucked under the keyboard. As I went through his emails, giving each a cursory glance before deleting or forwarding to Mum, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled, as if I was expecting Dad to walk in at any moment. I’ve never
hacked into anyone’s email and I couldn’t shift the feeling that I was spying on my father.

‘Found anything interesting?’ Mum asked, making me jump as she walked up behind me. I flicked the screen onto Facebook, feeling strangely protective of Dad.

‘No, it all seems in order,’ I said. ‘I’ve forwarded anything important to you, with instructions on what to do with it. I’ve deleted everything else. I’ll close up the account when I’m done.’

‘Thank you, darling. Thank you so much for doing that.’ Mum ruffled my hair. ‘I do appreciate you being here.’ She stood silently behind me for a second waiting, maybe, for me to continue. I waited, too. ‘The crem called, by the way,’ she said. ‘They’re allowing us to pick up the ashes tomorrow instead of Monday. Maybe we could drive down to Brighton straight away and get it over with.’

‘Sure. But that’s very quick, isn’t it?’

‘It is. I asked the woman if they’d still be hot.’

‘Mum!’

‘Sorry, but … well, y’know!’ She chuckled. ‘Right, if you don’t need me for anything, I’m going to have a nice, oily bath and get to bed. Big day tomorrow. Goodnight.’

Mum backed out of the room looking pleased. Hearing her shut and lock the bathroom door behind her and turn on the bath taps, I flicked back onto Dad’s emails. After reading and deleting twenty more, I finally reached the bottom of his inbox—the last email was one he’d sent to himself when he’d first opened the account. It contained all his passwords. That was something I’d suggested he did when he first got
into email and had worried he’d forget them all, and I was ridiculously pleased to see that he’d done it. I opened it up, smiling to myself. Who knows, maybe there’d even be a clue as to who Zoe Peters was and why he’d sent her the mystery twenty-two grand.

But there was no magical information in the email. Just log-in details for various online accounts and memberships and details of another email account of Dad’s: ‘
[email protected]
’ it said.

Oh God, not another one. My eyes hurt and I couldn’t face working my way through another account tonight. I emailed Dad’s final email to myself, then—with a huge sense of finality—followed the onscreen instructions on how to delete the email account. I’d look at the second one after we got back tomorrow.

‘S
o, Evie. I saw your dad has a new series running on the BBC. Is he still travelling a lot?’

I wasn’t knitting today. I’d been working on some doll’s clothes quite late the night before and my fingers needed a break. I took a biscuit and chewed it as I mulled over what to say. Dad seemed to be away every weekend these days, travelling around the country giving lectures, presentations and library readings, making documentaries or whatever. When I asked Mum why it always had to be over the weekends, she just pursed her lips and said, ‘It’s your father’s choice, darling.’

‘Mmm. But Mum and I do fun things,’ I told Miss Dawson. ‘She really makes an effort.’

We had a routine. Every Saturday morning we’d walk up to the High Street together. Mum would pick up the paper and a few groceries in the supermarket. At the greengrocer’s, I was allowed to ask for a kilo of peaches, a half of cherries or a couple of punnets of strawberries, which I put in my basket, then, business done, we’d look at the display in the jewellery shop window, seeing if they had anything new, and pointing out which pieces we liked the most
.

Some weeks, if Mum was in a good mood, we’d wander all the way up the High Street—never anywhere near
the crossing,
mind—browsing books, clothes, antiques, shoes and toiletries. Mum would hold my hand tightly as we went to cross the road—it was a bit embarrassing given I was ten and perfectly able to cross the road on my own, but I never said anything
.

We rarely bought anything, but we always ended up in the baker’s shop which, heavy with the scent of bread, had a couple of tables squeezed in the corner. Mum always let me choose a treat from the trays in the window while she sat with a coffee and we talked about what we were going to do for the rest of the day
.

‘How
is
your mum?’ Miss Dawson asked
.

I thought about a Saturday, not long ago, when we were sitting in the bakery. I’d got a pink iced bun and Mum had been absently flicking through the paper with her coffee. We were thinking about going to Greenwich Park for the afternoon
.

‘We could take a picnic? ‘Mum had suggested. ‘Sit on the grass at the top of the hill? Then walk down to the river, wander down through the market and look at the boats? The Book Boat should be there?’

I smiled. Mum knew how much I loved the Book Boat. It was like a deal we did: I had to be patient while she browsed the jewellery and handicraft stalls of the market, then I got a book of my choice at the Book Boat
.

But before I’d been able to answer, Mum had suddenly leapt out of her seat, knocking her coffee flying, her chair
bashing into the legs of an old lady standing in the queue. She shot out of the shop and ran down the High Street towards Woolworths, her coat flying behind her like Superwoman
.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I apologised to the old lady, checking she was all right. The baker brought over a wad of tissues to clean the split coffee. I didn’t know if anyone in the shop knew who Mum was or why she’d just done that, but I did. I knew she thought she’d just seen Graham. I knew it because, in the gait of a boy who walked past the window, I thought I saw him, too
.

‘Yeah. She’s good,’ I said. ‘But she still has moments when she forgets … we both do.’

I
didn’t envy the lady at the crem her job: handing over mortal remains to grieving relatives couldn’t be easy. Still, she didn’t seem to mind it: she welcomed me into the reception area with brisk sympathy and asked me to take a seat while she disappeared out back. Mum waited in the car.

I looked around: the room was bland and impersonal, just another waiting area with a few black
faux
leather armchairs, a low coffee table smothered in magazines and leaflets, a noticeboard pinned with ads for various support groups and a framed print of some daffodils on one wall. I wandered around, picking up leaflets and reading notices—doing anything I could do, really, not to have to think about what was about to happen; what I was about to hold in my hands.

Suddenly, the woman was back. She placed a jar gently on the counter and I caught my breath: I don’t know what I’d expected the ashes to be in—some sort of urn I supposed—but they were in a container that looked more like one of those old-fashioned sweet-shop jars. I glanced at the door: no way did I want Mum to see this.

‘Would you like a bag?’ the lady asked, but I’d found Dad’s old school scarf in the attic and, thanking my lucky stars I’d thought to bring it, I pulled it out of my handbag and wrapped it over and around the jar.

The lady cleared her throat. ‘Forgive me for saying but, if you haven’t yet decided what to do with the ashes, we have some suggestions.’ She handed me what looked like a catalogue.

‘Some people have them incorporated into pieces of jewellery?’ Her voice was gently hesitant. I held my breath. ‘So their loved one is always with them … Or we do some lovely wee necklaces? Paperweights are popular, too. It’s ever such a nice way to keep a loved one with you.’

I took a step towards the door. ‘Um, I don’t think so.’

‘If you want to keep the ashes in the house, there are various receptacles that look, you know, less urn-like.’ She flipped through the pages of another catalogue stopping on the image of a Viking longboat. ‘If the deceased liked the sea?’

‘Thank you, but no. We’re fine. Thank you.’

Tucking the wrapped jar under my arm, I moved towards the door and opened it carefully. The last thing I needed was to drop the thing: I was surprised how heavy it was. I’d kind of been expecting Dad to be weightless now he no longer existed, but the ashes must have been a good couple of kilos.

Without actually discussing it, Mum and I had skirted around the issue of where in the car Dad was to travel and concluded that the front was too creepy and the boot too
much like cargo. So, back at the car, I opened the door and placed the container carefully in the footwell of the rear seat. I hoped Dad didn’t mind.

‘Here you go. All done.’

Mum didn’t turn around to look. ‘Are you sure it’s him?’ she asked.

I suppose there’s no established etiquette for driving the remains of your father down to the coast wrapped in his old school scarf; well, if there was, I’d never heard of it. I’d imagined—if I’d thought about it at all—that we might drive in a respectful silence, but we didn’t: we sang. Mum started it, turning up the volume on the radio and singing along to Madonna’s ‘Holiday’.

I snuck a sideways look at her; the song seemed wildly inappropriate yet a smile licked at the corner of her lips. She seemed unusually carefree. I sucked my teeth: who was I to ruin her fun?

As the song drew to a close, Mum turned the dial back down. ‘I suppose once we’ve done this, I should think about getting back to work. “Life goes on”, and all that.’

‘Sure.’ I had no objection to her going back to work. Her job at the hospital was such a positive influence on her it could only be a good thing. Moping around the house wasn’t going to do her any good.

‘I wonder how they’re doing without me.’ She laughed and shook her head. ‘Dr Goodman is so busy he doesn’t know if he’s coming or going. I almost feel irresponsible
taking time off. I doubt any of the patient letters have been sent out.’

‘Seriously? Isn’t anyone standing in for you?’

‘They got a temp, I think. As if she’d know how to handle Dr Goodman! He never even reads the letters; just likes them in a pile on his desk at the end of the day so he can whip through with his pen.’ She paused, smiled to herself. ‘Yes, I think I’ll go back later this week. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘‘Course not. Unless you need me to help with the house, I’ll probably head back to Dubai soon, too.’

‘Well, if you have time to stay and help, yes? But it’s fine if you don’t.’

We drove along companionably for a while, both of us humming along to the radio.

‘Maybe we could have a wander through The Lanes,’ I suggested as we drew close to Brighton. ‘I’d like to buy us each a ring as a sort of memorial for Dad? Gold bands? We could get the dates engraved on the insides? What do you think?’

‘You mean a bit like a wedding ring?’ she asked. I looked at her left hand on the wheel: her wedding ring was gone. She sighed. ‘If you want to waste your money, dear.’ She tut-tutted in that way that only mothers can.

If you were asked to provide a definition of ‘bleak’, Brighton Beach on this winter’s day would provide more than ample inspiration: looking out to sea, it was hard to tell where the grey water ended and the grey sky began.
Closer to shore, a strong wind whipped up whitecaps that sent spray flying up onto the few figures huddled along the length of the pier.

Crunching over the shingle to the edge of the water, Mum and I sang a quiet and not very confident rendition of Dad’s favourite hymn—‘To be a pilgrim’. To check the wind direction, I turned a slow circle on the beach, noting which way my hair blew, then I took the top off the jar and gave it, still wrapped in the scarf, to Mum.

‘It’s OK, the wind’s not coming back at us. If you sort of point that way, they should go towards the pier.’

‘Goodness,’ said Mum, holding the jar out in front of her like you might someone else’s screaming baby. Gingerly at first, and then with more force, she started to shake the ashes into the murky water. There was a small splash as a lump fell in. Mum gasped and I clapped my hand over my mouth. Neither of us said anything.

I took a look around the beach; it was deserted, and I was glad no one was close enough to see. Although I was pretty certain we were allowed to scatter the ashes in the sea, I hoped no one would realise what we were doing; I was scared someone would try to stop us halfway through. I could imagine the horror of only managing to get half the ashes in the sea and having to carry the other half home. Or the even greater horror of the ashes landing on a toddler out for a paddle in her pink wellington boots.

‘Would you like to do a bit?’ Mum asked. I shook my head. Mum turned back to the sea and emptied the rest of the jar with a two-handed underarm hurl. We watched
for as long as it took for the last flecks of ash to disappear from sight, then, feeling strangely released, yet deflated, we picked our way back off the beach.

‘What now?’ I asked.

Mum didn’t respond. ‘Mum? What do you fancy doing now?’

Still no response. She was staring down the beach, her hand on her chest.

‘Mum!’

I followed her line of sight and saw what she was watching: a man, walking further down the beach. There was something about the colour and cut of his coat; his height; his careful, slightly stiff gait.

‘Oh, Mum,’ I said.

‘I … I just thought … oh, how could it be? Silly me! We just threw him in the sea!’ She gave herself a little shake. ‘Come on, let’s get some fish and chips.’

‘Perfect.’

We sat by the window of the chip shop, snug in the fug of frying, and ordered a glass of wine each.