‘Nothing. He didn’t want to talk about anything except you, really. Made it clear that I needed to make sure you were looked after and then he left,’ Matt said, with a shrug.
‘How dare he?’
‘I don’t think he meant anything by it. He was obviously worried about you. He did mention something about you and your drinking habits, which I thought was funny, but…’ Matt gestured towards my empty wine glass on the side.
‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous, Matt. I don’t drink that much. He’s got some bloody nerve.’ I was so angry I felt like pouring myself another glass of wine just to prove a point, but I didn’t.
‘All right, all right, just saying.’
‘Well, don’t!’ I picked up the half-empty wine bottle off the side and tipped its contents into the sink.
‘You don’t need to worry about my drinking habits just because Jack told you to. That man has no right to any opinions on me or what I do with my life.’
‘Fine, sorry I mentioned it.’
‘I should bloody well think so. You know me better than anyone.’
‘I do, but I also know that a lot has changed for you, for both of us, in the last few weeks. It’s been hard trying to deal with all this shit.’
‘I’m not planning on turning into an alcoholic any time soon, so don’t worry.’
Matt came over and planted a kiss on my forehead before walking to the kitchen door.
‘I can’t stop being your big brother, Abby. I just want to make sure you’re all right.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Yes, so you keep saying. I’m not sure I believe you, though, that’s the problem.’
‘Go to bed and stop fussing.’ I waved him away.
‘All right, then. Need my beauty sleep before tomorrow. Goodnight, Midget.’
‘It’ll take more than a few hours’ sleep to improve your face, you ugly bugger!’ I yelled. He carried on walking away down the hall, treating me to a two-fingered salute as he went.
‘Idiot,’ I muttered under my breath.
Chapter 18
After Matt went to bed I sat in the kitchen. The only light was coming from under the cooker hood on the wall opposite me. Almost an hour passed with me just sitting there. I had, albeit briefly, contemplated making myself a cup of tea but I couldn’t seem to find the energy or the will to get up from the table. I sat and listened to the sounds of my brother moving around upstairs, getting ready for bed. I heard him in the bathroom, the sound of water running, and teeth being brushed. I heard him turn off the light and climb into the single bed in the spare bedroom. Listening to the creaking of the bedframe, complaining under my brother’s weight, and his intermittent swearing as he tried to get comfortable, I didn’t feel alone. But the house had gone quiet now and I felt like the only person in the world.
People say that silence is just the absence of noise and most of the time I suppose it is. When you turned down the loud music or switched off the television at the end of the day, the noise disappeared and you were left with a kind of silence; a version of it that still included the distant whoosh of traffic or the occasional faint sound of people outside or sirens in the distance. It wasn’t often that you experienced real silence, that dense cloud of nothing that filled your ears as completely as the loudest music could. That was what surrounded me then, sitting in my dead mother’s kitchen in the middle of East London, and it was suffocating.
It reminded me of how quiet the house was after Dad left. The only sounds I could remember were my grandad shouting, either at my nan – ‘Bring us me fags/Guinness/newspaper, Eileen!’ – or at the football on the telly – ‘Bloody West Ham! What a shower of shit!’ And then my nan shouting back – ‘Get ’em yerself, ya fat-nosed bastard! I ain’t yer bleedin’ skivvy!’ And that was it. No memories of music filling the house, or cosy evenings spent watching the telly together. Everyone retreated to their own spaces and stayed there. I came out for food and to go to school and that was it. No one questioned it, no one asked how my day was when I got home. I would drop my bag in the hall, grab a bag of crisps and a drink from the kitchen and then go up to my bedroom. If Matt wasn’t off doing God knew what with his mates, he might poke his head round my door; although a cursory ‘All right, Midget?’ was all I’d get.
Before he left, Jack would come home with me and we’d sit in my room. That was the other amazing thing – I was fifteen and I had a boy in my room and no one cared! All my friends’ parents refused to let their boyfriends further than the front room, but not mine. All our classmates were convinced that we must be ‘doing it’ on a regular basis. We weren’t. We did our fair share of snogging and I think Jack might have touched my boobs, such as they were, once or twice. But it was strictly ‘over the shirt’ action, nothing more. We weren’t in any rush; we thought we had all the time in the world. As it turned out we were wrong. Fate was lurking around the corner, just waiting to wreak havoc on our plans for the future.
Everything that had happened in the last few weeks began to play on fast forward in my mind: Jack, Mum and Dad, Terry Egan. My racing brain couldn’t seem to stop the sudden inrush and I felt as if my head were about to explode. When my phone buzzed over on the worktop, I leapt out of my chair and grabbed it, grateful for the distraction. The message was from Lucy.
Go to bed Mum.
She knew me too well. I messaged her back.
Am in bed already – don’t stress x x.
Almost instantly my phone buzzed with her reply.
Liar! Get to sleep xx.
She was right: sleep was the best thing, but I felt fidgety and restless. My hands were shaking slightly as I turned the kitchen light off and walked to the stairs. When I reached the bottom step I turned towards the closed living-room door. The faint whirr of an electric fan was the only sound I could hear. The funeral director had told us we should leave it on to keep the room cool. My parents were in there, lying in their wicker caskets, closer together in death than they had been for the last twenty years in life. I heard a car pass by outside and I remembered standing at the living-room window earlier, watching a car I thought might contain Jack drive by the house. The window had been open then – had Matt closed it? I couldn’t go to bed and leave it open – what if someone broke in? They’d get a bloody shock, that was for sure, but still.
Terry Egan and his oily smile came into my head; he’d said he’d be back – what if he got into the house? I knew I wouldn’t be able to settle upstairs until I was sure that window was locked. I went to the door and slowly pushed it open. Inside, the room was dark, apart from the orange glow cast by the streetlight outside and a battery-operated candle that flickered artificially on the mantelpiece. The window was closed but unless I tested the handle I wouldn’t know for certain that it was locked; I had to go into the room.
I tiptoed over to the window – why was I tiptoeing? I wasn’t going to wake anyone up, was I? Taking bolder steps, I reached the window and tested the handle – locked. The street outside was quiet and it had been raining. When had that happened? I saw a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye; it was a fat ginger cat. It came to sit on the front garden wall and stared at me: the funny lady peeking out of the curtains in the middle of the night. It tilted its head and eyed me for a few seconds, before it turned, dropped down off the wall and sloped away down the street. I watched it until it turned the corner at the end of the road and was gone. I was envious of that cat; it got to walk away, to go wherever the mood took it, whenever it wanted. I couldn’t do that. I was stuck there with two dead parents and no life to speak of, dreading what the next day would bring. That thought was enough to drain away what little energy I had, reminding me that I needed to get some sleep.
I turned away from the window and faced the room; the candle was flickering and I could smell the freesias that were somewhere in the flower arrangements. Freesias had been Mum’s favourite; she would always have a little bunch of them in a glass on the kitchen windowsill, because she
said they were the only cut flowers that smelled of anything. I looked over at her lying there, looking for all the world as if she were sleeping. I went and kissed her on the forehead. Her skin was cold and hard against my lips and I immediately wished I hadn’t done it. It was like kissing a doll. The fan in the corner moved strands of her hair as it sent sweeping draughts across the room. The hair briefly rested on her cheek before being lifted away again. I found myself expecting her to reach up and tuck the wayward bits behind her ear as normal.
I looked across to my dad, reminding myself that nothing about any of this was normal. He was wearing a dark suit and shirt and tie. Matt had dealt with all that; I’d refused to go to the funeral home. I’d felt no urge to see him, which had surprised me. After spending so many years wondering, I’d thought I’d at least be a little curious but I wasn’t. It didn’t seem real. I’m sure someone far cleverer than me would be able to explain why, but I was choosing not to overthink it. I didn’t have the space in my brain for that kind of self-analysis; it was too exhausting. Maybe afterwards, maybe that’s when I’ll have time to process it all, I thought. Just get through tomorrow and everything will be fine.
Looking at him lying there, I was surprised by how little he’d changed. His hair was peppered with grey, more at the temples, his face was a bit fuller, but it was still the same face I remembered. Looking inside the coffin, I noticed that there was something tucked into my dad’s left hand. I reached in and removed it carefully. It was a strip of photographs, taken in a photo-booth; four pictures, all in faded colour, of me and Matt and Mum and Dad. I couldn’t remember them being taken – in the pictures I looked about six or seven – but we must have been at the seaside somewhere as Matt was clutching the biggest stick of pink rock I’d ever seen and Dad was holding a cloud of candy floss on a stick. He’d only managed to get half of his face into shot for the first two pictures, but in the last two it was just him and Mum. They were biting opposite sides of the candy floss and laughing. By the next one, the last picture on the strip, they’d eaten the candy floss, or dropped it, and their lips were pressed together. They were trying to keep straight faces and my mum had turned her head slightly towards the camera. The happiness in her eyes was so obvious. It made me yearn to be able to remember them like that. I wanted to be back there, in that little family, before everything got completely messed up. Before the shouting and the smashed plates holding ruined dinners. Before the anger and before the eerie stillness, with Dad gone and Mum hiding in her room.
I was almost tempted to keep the photos as a reminder of better times, but I knew I couldn’t. Someone had put them there, probably Matt, and it wouldn’t have felt right to sneak them away for my own selfish reasons. Reluctantly, I slipped them back into Dad’s hand and walked to the door, sending a whispered ‘Goodnight’ to my mum and dad.
*
I woke the next day with a terrible headache and an even worse mood; I’d had a crappy night’s sleep. I’d been tormented by that dream where you felt as if you were falling and then you wake up suddenly. I was sure I’d read somewhere that it happened when your heart skipped a beat, which sent a signal to your brain for you to wake up – presumably so you didn’t die in your sleep. That was probably a load of old rubbish, although I was too exhausted to question it.
The morning brought the kind of grey, murky light that made you want to dive back under the covers; I knew I didn’t have that option. Lucy and Matt would not have been very impressed if I’d just refused to get out of bed and sent them off to deal with everything without me.
I’d slept in Mum’s old room. Matt had declared that her mattress was too soft and he would be more comfortable in the spare room. Sleeping in her bed hadn’t been either of our first choices but there weren’t many other options. I’d put different sheets on the bed; the other ones just smelt too much like her. The room still looked as if she were about to walk in; in fact, the whole house was like that. I’d made a few half-arsed attempts at sorting stuff out over the last few weeks, but I’d barely scratched the surface of what needed to be done. I knew I was just putting off the inevitable. After today, I told myself, after they were both gone, I would make a start. Tomorrow, or maybe next week. Or maybe never.
The clock by the bed said it was almost nine; I needed to get dressed. I wearily pulled back the covers and stood up just as my phone started to ring; it was Liz.
‘Good morning, my darling, how are you? All ready to face the world?’
‘No, not really, I was just wondering if I could get away with staying in bed all day. I’m sure no one would miss me.’
‘Nonsense, darling, I would miss you and so would Lucy. She needs you today as much as you need her.’
‘More so probably,’ I said. It was true; Lucy had been close to my mum, closer than I’d ever managed to be.
‘Everything’s ready at the café, you know, for afterwards.’ Liz faltered a little as she spoke.
‘Thank you, for everything.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’m just glad to have been of some use, that’s all,’ she said. ‘Right, well, I’m going to get dressed and I will see you at the service in a bit.’
‘I’ll see you soon.’ I pressed the end call button and sat with my phone in my hand. I wanted to call Jack but I knew I couldn’t. What time was it in America anyway? Middle of the night probably, but what difference did that make? I couldn’t call him, not after I’d let him go like that. No matter how desperate I was to have him there with me, to hold me close and tell me everything was going to be all right.
God, that’s pathetic, I mentally shook myself. You don’t need a man to tell you everything’s going to be okay, you are enough, you’ve got this. You’ve been doing things on your own for most of your adult life. Don’t turn into some weepy weakling who can’t function now.
After giving myself a good old-fashioned bollocking, I took a deep calming breath, threw my phone onto the bed, and started getting ready to face the day.
*
I was just finishing my make-up when I heard a gentle tap on the door; it was Lucy.
‘Hey, Mum, you look nice,’ she said. ‘Is that all right to say to someone at a funeral? Sorry, I’m just… I don’t know what…’ With that she began to cry.
‘Everything’s going to be okay. Don’t cry,’ I said. I made her sit down next to me on the bed; I put my arms around her and rocked her gently back and forth, as much as it was possible to gently rock an eighteen-year-old back and forth anyway. It was nice to be sitting there like that with her; I couldn’t begin to imagine what my life was going to be like after she left. I’d be alone in the flat. Who would I have to talk to or just laugh with? The thought of it brought a lump to my throat and I blinked back the tears that were threatening to ruin my eye make-up. What kind of idiot wore mascara at a funeral?
‘Look at the pair of you, sat there blubbing. Mum would not have approved.’ Matt was leaning against the door frame, watching the two of us. His remark made Lucy smile and she sat up.
‘That’s true, she would be shaking her head in disapproval at all this emotion,’ Lucy said, scrubbing away tears with the backs of her hands. ‘She was always a bit, well, shall we say reserved, when it came to her feelings.’
‘That’s a fucking understatement, but we don’t have enough booze here to talk about it now,’ said Matt. ‘It’s almost time. The cars will be here in a minute.’
I took a deep breath and stood up, holding out my hand for Lucy.
‘Ready?’
She nodded and took my hand and we made our way downstairs.
Chapter 19
I’d decided I was a horrible person. I had to be; only a horrible person could get the giggles at their parents’ funeral. It all started as they were brought out and placed in their respective hearses. Mum came out first, in her lovely wicker casket, the handles decorated with little posies of ribbon and flowers. All I could think about was how the squeaking of the wicker coffin sounded like my nan’s old l
aundry basket. She would heft it down the stairs, full of dirty socks or Grandad’s sweaty vests, effing and blinding about how heavy it was, and the basket would creak and squeak as if it too were complaining about being filled with such foul cargo. I tried to maintain an air of dignified calm but it got very difficult. The more they creaked and squeaked, the more I wanted to laugh out loud.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ muttered Matt.
‘Nothing, I’m fine, really, I…’ I held my hand over my mouth to cover my smile – he wouldn’t have been impressed if I’d shared my train of thought. He shook his head and walked to the waiting car.
‘Ready, Mum?’ Lucy appeared beside me and slipped her arm through mine.
‘As I’ll ever be, I suppose.’
*
The drive to the crematorium was a quiet but blissfully short one. I watched people on the street as we passed: some didn’t even acknowledge us; a few older gentlemen removed their caps out of respect as we drove by and a toddler in a pushchair waved at me. I noticed a couple of people suddenly register the fact that there were two cars with two coffins; I would have loved to hear their theories about that.
‘At least the weather’s brightened up,’ said Matt.
‘Yes, it has,’ replied Lucy.
‘It’s not going to make much difference. We aren’t standing by a graveside – we’re indoors watching them slide behind a curtain,’ I said, matter-of-factly.
‘That’s true,’ said Matt. We descended back into awkward silence.
‘We’re almost there now.’ The driver’s voice was a welcome intrusion. The funeral director had got out of the first car and was leading our procession up to the chapel. He walked slowly, with his head bowed, and the rest of us followed. Our car pulled up to the chapel and as we passed I was shocked by how many people were waiting for us at the crematorium. I had a quick flash of panic; how were we going to get them all into the little chapel?
Secrets and Tea at Rosie Lee's Page 19