After the Funeral

by Gillian Poucher

  She had stood there stunned into speechlessness. He was dicing red pepper at furious speed, and she felt as though each slice was a stab at her and their relationship. Eventually she said, ‘I didn’t know you felt like that about Clare talking about her IVF.’

  Greg stopped cutting and laid the knife down by the wooden chopping board. He didn’t raise his eyes as he said slowly and deliberately, as if interpreting a foreign language, ‘You don’t know what I feel about a lot of things because you never ask, do you? You’re too busy sorting out other people’s lives to think about what I want.’

  The silence stretched between them, taut as an elastic band pulled to its limit.

  ‘What do you mean? What is it you want?’ Julia asked finally, stooping to pick up some onion peel from the floor.

  ‘Nothing. Forget it. Leave that, I can tidy up. You’ll be late for James and Clare.’ He picked up the knife again and set about the courgette, dissecting it with a calm precision which made her shiver. She left without saying anything further.

  When she returned after 11 p.m., Greg seemed in a better frame of mind. Exhausted by a day’s work, the earlier argument, and comforting Clare who had been very tearful after a second failed IVF attempt, Julia hadn’t pursued his comments that night. Greg didn’t raise the matter again. But even though Julia knew that it was futile to speculate, she had wondered many times since if she should have asked him what he meant, if somehow that might have salvaged their relationship.

  Now she shook her head, trying to erase the memory. She sipped her wine and focused on the large painting opposite the archway which drew her eye. A grey farmhouse stood under a leaden sky. The building looked vaguely familiar, but Julia couldn’t place it. Behind the farmhouse, obscured by slanting white rain, was the shadowy outline of a ruined abbey. Four other people who had followed her into the inner area of the gallery stopped in front of it.

  ‘That’s reminiscent of her early work,’ remarked a burly ruddy-cheeked man in an olive green Barbour jacket.

  ‘Very much so,’ agreed the woman alongside him, elegant in a grey dress and matching coat which complemented her carefully coiffed silver hair. ‘That Gothic atmosphere.’ The woman turned to the other couple, and they began a discussion of the change in Linda’s style over the years. With a start, Julia realised that Linda must be a well-established artist, however modest she had sounded in their phone conversation. ‘I’m an artist, not very well-known; you won’t have heard of me.’ Her curiosity about her recently discovered relative grew, despite her misgivings.

  Other people were moving into the inner area as she stepped to the left of the group. A series of four small oils in black frames hung here, showing a heavy white wooden door surrounded by a trellis of roses. Julia stopped suddenly in front of them, spilling wine over the edge of her glass. In the first picture the door was closed, before being progressively opened in the following paintings. The fourth picture revealed a white-haired old woman dozing in a rocking chair. She was in shadow, so it was impossible to identify her. But Julia didn’t need Linda to tell her who it was when the older woman materialised at her side in a waft of jasmine. Julia closed her eyes. Jasmine. Her mother’s perfume. She swallowed.

  ‘I do hope you like that, Julia. You do recognise it, don’t you? Oh, I can see you do! It was so kind of Emily to let me paint her, it took hours, and she sat so patiently. Though as you can see, she sometimes dropped off. We had such a lovely August, didn’t we? I thought it was the heat that made her sleep so much, but I wondered afterwards if it was her heart condition. She only mentioned it once. She didn’t like a fuss, did she?’

  ‘No, she didn’t.’ Julia paused, puzzling again over her mother’s failure to mention Linda. ‘How often did you say you visited?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. Often enough that I miss her now.’ Linda gazed at her with such intensity that Julia looked away, but not before seeing that the other woman’s hazel eyes were glistening with tears. Linda rushed on, ‘I didn’t see her very often, but she did like to chat when I was there. She used to tell me about how busy you and James were, and talk about what she remembered of our family. She enjoyed reminiscing, but so do lots of older people, don’t they?’

  A flush rose above the shawl collar of Julia’s pink and grey wool dress as she remembered the number of occasions she would steer her mother on to other subjects when she recounted anecdotes from her early years. She had tended to do so more frequently in her last months. Perhaps Linda’s appearance had sparked Emily’s memories.

  Linda was speaking again, but Julia was still mulling over her previous comment, ‘She used to tell me about how busy you and James were.’ Was that why Emily hadn’t told them about Linda? Since her mother’s death, Julia had realised how preoccupied she had been with her own problems when her mother’s health was failing. It was soon after Greg left in August that Emily’s heart failure had been diagnosed, but she hadn’t discussed it in any detail, dismissing it as ‘one of those things.’

  Gazing at the painting of the old woman in the rocking chair, Linda babbling on beside her, Julia remembered again the pang she had felt when she read on the Death Certificate, ‘Stress cardiomyopathy.’ The doctor had explained that her mother’s heart failure had been more advanced than she had admitted. But when Julia researched stress cardiomyopathy she discovered that the condition was caused by the weakening of the heart muscle due to intense physical or emotional stress. She had wondered if the shock of her separation from Greg had accelerated her mother’s death. Perhaps it was self-centred to think that her own difficulties could have caused such upset to her mother, but Emily had been fond of Greg and very concerned for Julia after their split.

  Linda laid a hand on her arm, the multi-coloured nails freshly painted, recalling her to the present. She had stopped speaking and was evidently waiting for a response.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Julia’s cheeks burned again. ‘I was miles away.’

  ‘Of course, these paintings must bring back so many memories for you!’ Linda tightened her grip on Julia’s arm, drawing her towards her in an awkward embrace. Julia stiffened. The other woman released her immediately, turning to the paintings and not meeting her eye as she continued. ‘I was just saying how I would love you to have these. You’ll see they aren’t priced. That’s because I was keeping them for you. They would mean more to you than they could to anyone else. I so want to keep them in our family.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t…’ began Julia. ‘It’s so kind, but you hardly know me.’ She found she wanted to reinforce this point. Linda’s talk about ‘our family’ set her teeth on edge. ‘Besides, I don’t know anything about art. I can see they are very good though.’ She had overheard various people behind them murmuring their appreciation of the Open Door series during their conversation.

  ‘Please, Julia, do say you’ll have them. It’s only right you should.’ Linda turned back to her, hazel eyes wide and beseeching.

  ‘Well…’ Julia was casting around for a reply as the loud voice of the photographer from the local county magazine permeated the hum of conversation.

  ‘There you are, Linda! Just come to take a few pics before I go to the hospice dinner dance!’ For a moment the gallery fell quiet as people looked at him askance. He swept towards them, a tall, ungainly figure in an oversized navy waterproof, showering the wooden floor with raindrops. The buzz resumed.

  ‘Hello, Chris.’ Linda smiled at the young man warmly. ‘It’s good of you to come.’

  ‘Can’t miss an opportunity to publicise the most famous artist in town at the moment, can I? This damn rain, can’t see a thing!’ Chris removed his black framed specs, misted over in the warmth of the gallery, and groped around in numerous pockets before withdrawing a packet of tissues. He wiped his glasses vigorously, peering near-sightedly around. ‘Now, where shall I take you – maybe over here, no glare from the light, lots of people milling in the background?’ He indicated a spot to the right of the archway leading back into the ou
ter area.

  ‘Wherever you think.’ Linda shrugged. ‘Chris, let me introduce my cousin, Julia. I’d like her to be in the photos with me. We only met very recently. I knew her mother, though. These paintings are of her front door. And finally of her.’ She waved a hand at the final painting. Julia noticed a shadow pass across her face. She shut out the uncharitable thought that Linda had no right to miss her mother so much.

  ‘Cool,’ said Chris. ‘Long-lost family story, that’ll add a bit of interest to the piece. If you stand right next to Linda, Julia…’ He busied himself with the camera.

  Julia opened her mouth to protest, but again Linda placed a hand on her arm, steering her towards the archway. ‘This is so lovely, Julia. To have you in the photo, the first time I’ve had family with me at an exhibition!’ She adjusted her lilac wrap and flung an arm round the other woman’s shoulder. Julia resisted the impulse to draw away, forcing a smile.

  ‘That’s it, just relax,’ said Chris. Julia tried not to blink as he snapped away. ‘Great! I’m done. Hey, there is a family likeness you know, both the same heart-shaped faces, similar upturned noses too. How did you say you found one another, then?’

  ‘It was Genes Reunited…’ Linda began, as Julia moved away to look at some of the other paintings. She swayed slightly and wished she had had time to eat before coming to the gallery. The alcohol on an empty stomach had made her tipsy.

  Curiosity about Linda and her relationship with her mother was beginning to outweigh her sense of unease about the older woman. Besides, she reasoned, her disquiet might have been exaggerated by Linda turning up so unexpectedly at the funeral. She hoped that they might have a further opportunity for conversation that evening, and decided not to rush home after all.

  To her right the couple who had identified the farmhouse painting as consistent with the Gothic atmosphere of Linda’s early work were contrasting it with the Open Door series.

  ‘Such a sense of peace,’ breathed the woman. ‘So different from that sinister mood earlier on.’

  ‘Quite a transformation,’ agreed her husband.

  ‘You wonder, don’t you,’ mused the woman, ‘about how much one’s own experiences are reflected in one’s art? I wonder if she has moved on herself, from a more –’ she circled her right hand, seeking the word, ‘– a more disturbed state to one of serenity? Remember those first paintings we saw of hers, in that little gallery on the Norfolk coast, all those years ago?’

  ‘Ugh.’ Her husband wrinkled his bulbous nose. ‘Those the critics described as a feminist revolt against traditional Madonna and child images?’

  ‘Exactly, full of blood and suffering, Jesus ripped from Mary’s womb, or holding a knife above her heart, flames leaping around them. Very controversial. But maybe they were expressing the artist’s inner torment. Maybe now, as she gets older, she’s accepting who she is, like this old woman, so at peace. Whoever she is.’ She nodded towards the final painting.

  Julia took a deep breath. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, keeping her voice as level as she could. She placed her left hand over her right on the stem of the now empty wine glass, trying in vain to still the trembling.

  ‘Yes?’ The woman turned to her, plucked eyebrows raised.

  ‘That “old woman” was my mother.’

  ‘Oh.’ The woman looked away, a faint flush on her cheeks.

  ‘Yes,’ continued Julia. ‘She died six weeks ago.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the woman again, fingering her pearl necklace. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered lamely. Her husband placed his hand in the small of her back and steered her towards the archway.

  Left alone in front of the Open Door paintings, Julia reached inside her coat pocket for a tissue, scrubbing at her cheeks and hoping her mascara hadn’t run. She knew she was being irrational to resent the woman speaking so impersonally about her mother. She had successfully locked away her grief during her first day back at work. It had been a shaky start when Pete told her about the landlord terminating their lease, but she had managed to remain focused during her first appointment with Grace and throughout her other three sessions. Now, standing in the nearly deserted gallery, the sadness and loneliness which had affected her since Emily’s death threatened to overwhelm her.

  Suddenly Linda was at her side, hazel eyes wide with sympathy. ‘Julia, what is it? Is it the paintings? I’m so sorry, I never thought how much they might upset you. So insensitive of me.’

  ‘No, it was just something someone said.’ Julia tried to smile, aware that she couldn’t deal with Linda’s sympathy. Nor did she want to witness any further sign of distress at Emily’s death from her newly-discovered cousin. Linda couldn’t begin to understand what her mother’s loss meant to her.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Linda repeated. She stepped closer to Julia. Fearful of another attempt at an embrace, the younger woman took a step backwards. Linda seemed not to notice. ‘I was wondering, have you eaten yet?’

  Julia shook her head.

  ‘Well, let me treat you to dinner at the Italian around the corner. Everyone’s left now and it’s time we closed. I’d been planning to ask you to join me, a kind of celebration of the exhibition and seeing you again. Oh, I can’t tell you how much it’s meant to have you here!’ Again Linda placed a hand on Julia’s arm, smiling warmly, nudging her towards the door.

  Julia didn’t have the strength to resist. Besides, she had already refused the paintings, and hunger might be contributing to her low mood. Interest in her new artist relation edged out her sense of being overpowered by the older woman as Linda locked the gallery and they stepped out into the wet and windy January night.

  –  CHAPTER 4  –

  Julia hadn’t been to Giuseppe’s before. It was tucked away along an alley towards the cathedral. The quarter hour chimed above them as they paused on the corner below an unlit street lamp. Both were breathless from the climb up the well-named Steep Hill. The cobbles were slippery with sleet, and they were walking into the wind. Linda led the way into the dark passage. Julia shook off a moment’s misgiving as she followed.

  A ‘To Let’ sign creaked above Julia’s head as she stopped outside an empty shop with boarded windows. Her umbrella had turned inside out in the wind. She jumped when a bundle stirred on the doorstep. A man’s voice rasped, ‘Any spare change?’ She moved on quickly, nearly bumping into Linda who halted, rummaging around in her bag. Julia didn’t look back, focusing on the pool of light spilling out on to the cobbles a few doors further on. She hoped it was the restaurant, where they could take refuge from the hostile weather and dingy street. Behind her, she heard the man’s, ‘God bless, duck,’ and Linda’s warm reply, ‘And you!’

  Alongside her again, Linda lowered her voice, ‘I always think, “There but for the grace of God,” don’t you? I know not everyone does, that people worry what the money might be spent on, or talk about the few who aren’t genuine, but who knows where we might be if our circumstances were different. Do you ever think that, Julia?’

  ‘Well, I…’ Still battling with her umbrella, Julia was assailed by another memory of Greg, pulling her on past a rough sleeper when she had been reaching into her pocket for some coins. ‘Come on, Julia, we’ll be late for the film. Most of them are frauds anyway!’ Seeing her expression, he had smiled, tempering his words. ‘But, of course, you being a do-gooder, not a cynic like me…’ He had left the sentence unfinished and patted her head, still smiling. She had smiled back, even though she had felt patronised by the gesture. That had been in the early days of their relationship, the golden time when she had ignored any misgivings about Greg, caught up in the whirlwind romance as he lavished flowers and chocolates upon her.

  Thinking back, Julia realised that she had never given spontaneously since, preferring to organise her charitable giving through her bank account. She wondered how much Greg had influenced her during their years together. Had he changed her?

  ‘Here we are!’ Linda interrupted Julia’s thoughts, pushing open a low black
wooden door. ‘I’m sure you’ll love Giuseppe’s, Julia. It’s one of those magical places where you think everything will turn out well, whatever’s wrong, you know?’

  Julia bit back the tart reply that it would take magic for her life to turn out well at present. Inside the doorway, Linda was looking round at her expectantly. Julia was spared the need to answer when a man in black evening dress emerged from behind the bar. ‘Signora Linda!’ he beamed, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘How did the exhibition go? And you must be Linda’s cousin!’ He turned to Julia. She froze momentarily, her umbrella extended in front of her on the doorstep, water trickling on to the terracotta tiles. How did he know she would be here this evening? She turned to Linda, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Oh, I was so excited that you were coming to the exhibition, Julia! I told Giuseppe all about finding you and Emily when I booked, how much it means to me to have found my family.’

  Julia prickled again at the mention of ‘family,’ and at the presumption that she would accept Linda’s invitation. ‘I see,’ she said, in a tone which matched the weather.

  Advancing inside the low-ceilinged restaurant with its yellow walls, Julia felt she might be overpowered by the sudden heat from the log fire and flaming brazier where the stout red-faced chef stabbed at a pizza. The mingled odours of cheese and garlic nauseated her. What was she doing here? She closed her eyes, momentarily dizzy. For the third time that evening, Linda laid a hand on her arm. Struck by another memory of her mother along with a fresh waft of the older woman’s jasmine perfume, she clutched the back of a chair.

  ‘Are you all right, Julia? It must have been a long day, your first day back at work since Emily… and of course you’ve not eaten. Have you given me my usual table by the window, Giuseppe?’ When the Italian nodded, she led Julia over to a square table laid for two and helped her remove her coat. Julia sat down, smiling her thanks when Linda returned from hanging their coats on a mahogany stand by the door. The small leaded window was misty with condensation, adding to her claustrophobia.