The Storm Sister (The Seven Sisters #2) (19 page)

‘To be fair, you know Theo: always organised and efficient, even in death.’

This made us both smile, despite ourselves.

‘Yes. Just like my father. Well, I suppose I should read his letter.’

‘In your own time. And now, if you’ll excuse me, Ally dear, I’m going to go up and have a long soak in the tub.’

Celia left me then, and I knew it was more to give me time alone than because she actually wanted a bath.

Taking a slug of wine, I put the glass down and, with trembling fingers, opened the envelope. It didn’t escape me that this was the second letter from beyond the grave I had been given to
read in the space of a few weeks.

I sat there in the fading evening, laughing and crying at the same time. The letter was so innately Theo that my heart broke all over again.

Celia and I met the following morning at breakfast. Last night, she’d shown me to my room but had not asked me a single thing about what the letter had contained and I was grateful for
that. She told me that she had to go out to register Theo’s death and arrange for his body to be brought back to London, and that we should decide together on a date for the funeral.

‘Ally, there’s also something else Theo said in his note to me. He asked if you would play your flute at his funeral.’

‘Really?’

I looked at her, amazed by Theo’s level of forward-thinking.

‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘He’d already issued instructions for the service years ago. A celebratory memorial-cum-funeral service, followed by a cremation – which by the
way, he insisted no one was to attend. And then for his ashes to be scattered in Lymington harbour, where he first learnt to sail with me. Do you feel up to it?’

‘I . . . don’t know.’

‘Well, he told me you played the flute beautifully. As you might guess, the music he chose isn’t conventional, just as he wasn’t. He wanted you to play “Jack’s the
Lad” from
Fantasia on British Sea Songs
. I’m sure you’ve heard it on the Last Night of the Proms?’

‘Yes, I know it. I don’t think there’s a seafarer alive who wouldn’t at least know the melody – it’s basically the tune of the old “Sailor’s
Hornpipe”.’

I ran over some of the notes in my head, notes I’d played many years ago, but still knew intimately. Everything about the request was so Theo: it encapsulated his love for sailing and his
innate joy in being alive.

‘Yes, I think I’d love to play it.’

Then, for the first time since his death, I burst into tears.

During those next few dreadful days, we battened down the hatches as the media camped outside the door. We lived like recluses, only venturing out to buy food and both of us a
black dress for the funeral. And as we went through the ghastly tasks that made me respect Pa Salt far more for his self-orchestrated burial, my respect for Celia also grew. Even though it was
obvious Theo had been everything to her, she was never greedy with her grief.

‘I don’t suppose he ever mentioned it to you, Ally, but Theo always loved Holy Trinity Church on Sloane Street, not far from here. He went to a prep school a stone’s throw
away, and that was his local church. I remember watching him sing the solo in “Away in a Manger” at a carol service there when he was eight or so,’ she said with a fond smile.
‘What do you think about holding his funeral service there?’

The fact she was including my opinion in her decisions touched me beyond belief, even if my comments were irrelevant. She’d had a lifetime of knowing Theo – her only son – and
yet she had the grace and empathy to see and understand what I felt for him. And what he had felt for me.

‘Whatever you think is best, Celia, really.’

‘Is there anyone you want to invite to the funeral?’

‘Apart from who you’ve invited already, like the crew and the general sailing fraternity, no one knew us as a couple,’ I replied honestly. ‘So, I don’t think
they’d understand.’

But
she
did. And often, when we both found ourselves in the kitchen at three o’clock in the morning, when the pain was at its starkest, we’d sit at the table and talk
endlessly about Theo, trying to find the comfort we craved. Small memories, of which Celia had a vast thirty-five-year reserve, whereas mine spanned only a matter of weeks. Through her, I came to
know Theo better, and never tired of seeing a childhood picture, or reading a misspelt letter he’d written from boarding school.

However much I knew this was not reality, I was comforted that Celia and I were keeping him alive with every word we spoke. And that was the most important thing of all.

‘Ready?’ Celia asked me as our car arrived in front of Holy Trinity Church. I nodded, and with a quick squeeze of hands in mutual solidarity, we climbed out past
the clicking cameras and walked inside. The church was cavernous and the sight of it packed to bursting with standing room only at the back almost reduced me to the tears I’d sworn I would
not shed.

Theo was already waiting for me on the altar as I walked down the aisle towards his coffin with Celia. I swallowed hard at this dreadful parody of the wedding we might have celebrated, had he
lived.

Taking our seats in the front pew, the service began. Theo had chosen a mixture of music for his memorial service. After the vicar’s address, it was my turn. I joined the small orchestra
of violins, a cello, two clarinets and an oboe that Celia had managed to gather together at the front of the church. Sending up a silent prayer, I placed the lip plate of the flute to my mouth and
began to play. And as the rest of the orchestra joined me, and the tempo became faster, I saw the congregation begin to smile, and then, one by one, rise. Until they were all on their feet,
performing the traditional bended-knee movement of the ‘Sailor’s Hornpipe’ jig, every one of them with their arms crossed and held out in front of them. Our little orchestra upped
the pace, playing as if our lives depended on it as the congregation bobbed faster and faster up and down in time to the music.

As we finished, a roar went up from them, and the cheers and clapping began. There was an encore, as of course there always was whenever the piece was played. I took myself and my flute back to
the front pew and sat down beside Celia. She squeezed my hand tightly.

‘Thank you, my darling Ally, thank you so very much.’

Then Rob walked to the front of the church, ascended the steps in front of Theo’s coffin and adjusted the microphone.

‘Theo’s mother, Celia, has asked me to say a few words. As you all know, Theo lost his life saving mine. I can never thank him now for what he did for me that night, but I know his
sacrifice has brought terrible suffering to Celia and to Ally, the woman he loved. Theo, from everyone who has ever crewed with you, we send our love, respect and thanks. You were simply the best.
And Ally’ – he looked directly at me – ‘this is what he asked to be played for you.’

Again, I felt Celia’s hand on mine, as one of the choir stood up and gave a beautiful rendition of ‘Somewhere’, from
West Side Story
. I tried to smile at the secret
joke that Theo had meant for me, but the poignancy of the words moved me beyond measure. As it finished, eight of Theo’s crew members from the Fastnet Race, including Rob, gently hoisted the
coffin onto their broad shoulders and began to file out of the church. Celia led me with her, the first in the procession of mourners who fell in behind the coffin.

As we made our way out, I saw some familiar faces sitting in the church. Star and CeCe were among the crowd, smiling at me with love and sympathy as I passed them. Celia and I stood outside on
Sloane Street, watching as Theo’s coffin was placed in the hearse that would take his body on its solitary journey to the crematorium. As it drew away and we both said a silent final goodbye,
I turned to her and asked how my sisters had known.

‘Theo asked me in his letter to contact Marina if anything happened to him, so that she and your sisters would be aware. He thought you might need them.’

The congregation gradually trickled out of the front of the church and milled around on the pavement, greeting each other quietly. Several people made a beeline for me, mostly sailing friends,
all offering their condolences and expressing surprise at my hitherto hidden musical talent. I glanced around me and saw a tall man wearing a suit and dark glasses standing apart from the crowd.
Something about him looked so desolate that I excused myself from the pack and went over to him.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’m Ally, Theo’s girlfriend. I’ve been told to tell everyone that they’re welcome to come back to Celia’s house for something to
eat and drink. It’s only five minutes’ walk from here.’

He turned to me, his glasses shielding any expression in his eyes. ‘Yes, I know where it is. I used to live there.’

And then I realised this man was Theo’s father. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’

‘I’m sure you can probably understand that, however much I’d like to come back, unfortunately I won’t be welcome.’

I didn’t know how to answer him, just looked at my feet, embarrassed. It was obvious he was grief-stricken and whatever had happened in the past between him and his wife, he had lost a son
too.

‘That’s a shame,’ I managed.

‘You must be the girl Theo told me he was going to marry. He sent me an email just a few weeks ago,’ he continued in his soft American drawl, so different to Theo’s clipped
English tones. ‘I’m going to leave now, but here, Ally, take my card. I’m in town for the next few days and it would be great to talk to you about my son. Despite what I’m
sure you’ve heard about me, I loved him very much. I guess you’re bright enough to know there’s always another side to every story.’

‘Yes,’ I replied, remembering Pa Salt once telling me exactly the same thing.

‘You’d better get back, but it’s been great to meet you. Bye for now, Ally,’ he said as he turned and walked slowly away from me. I felt despair leaking from his every
pore.

Turning back to the rest of the crowd, I saw CeCe and Star waiting respectfully for me to finish my conversation. I walked towards them and they both threw their arms around me.

‘My God, Ally,’ said CeCe. ‘We’ve all been leaving you messages on your mobile since we heard! We’re so, so sorry, aren’t we, Star?’