My mouth was dry. ‘Do me a favour please,’ I said in a quiet voice. ‘If you hear anything else, please let me know. Just in case Mike forgets to tell me something important.’
I thanked him and put the phone down, my head pounding. The sky was starting to cloud over and a threat of dark grey rain was creeping in from the horizon. I tried to dislodge the idea that Amy’s death might have been anything more complicated than a tragic accident.
After Dad died, Auntie Sue used to take us for long walks on the beach. I decided now that we needed a change of scenery and some fresh air before the rain started.
Adam had pulled together some inspired outfits while packing my suitcase, but he hadn’t included much outdoor gear. I went up to Amy’s room to search for warmer clothes and came back downstairs in her sweater, fleecy jacket, Barbour coat and walking boots.
‘Oh my.’ Rachel’s eyes glistened as she saw me. ‘For a moment, I thought it was Amy.’
We walked through the village to the top of the coastal path that ran down to the wide, sandy beach. The tide was out, and we had a huge stretch of golden sand between us and the water. I dug my hands deep into the pockets of Amy’s coat, reaching for some warmth and shelter from the cold wind.
The beach was empty apart from a few dog walkers, and we set off towards Bamburgh Castle. Betsy held Rachel’s hand and I wished she’d chosen me, even though I knew Rachel was more of an aunt to Amy’s children than I had ever been.
When Mike and Amy decided to start their family, I was still working in London and making the long trip up north every couple of months. I would leave after work on a Friday, driving up the A1 in my Corsa and getting to Seahouses just in time for last orders.
The first time Amy was pregnant, I knew right away. There was something different about her, nothing obvious, just like she had a secret and was keeping it to herself. She hadn’t even told Mike at that point, and when I pulled her aside to ask, she just laughed.
A week later, she called me in tears – she’d miscarried at six weeks. Totally normal, she said. Happens all the time. Nothing anyone could do. Just wasn’t meant to be.
I got straight in the car and came to her. She stayed in bed for three days. When she eventually got up, she wanted to draw a line under it and move on. Three months later, she called to tell me that she was pregnant again. I was going to be an auntie.
Amy was made to be a mum. As a little girl, she’d had a collection of baby dolls that she lovingly cared for, bathing and feeding them in complex little routines and putting them to bed each night in their cribs. We were both committed tomboys and loved playing outdoors, but Amy would usually bring a doll in her backpack to join us on whatever adventure we had imagined. I had no interest in dolls but I would tolerate them for her sake.
Mike took a while to adapt to parenthood, but for Amy, being a mum came naturally. She took everything in her stride and for the most part, made it look easy. She and Mike would argue occasionally, especially in the early days when the shock of their new responsibility and lack of sleep would drive them to the edge of patience. But they were loving, and they worked well together as a team.
The babies bored me silly in the early years, and Amy found it hilarious. I never tried to hide my disinterest and it would drive Mum and Auntie Sue mad. They gradually became more interactive, the seeds of their individual personalities beginning to grow. But I moved further away, and more time passed between my visits home, and the children and I barely knew each other.
I watched Hannah now, as she walked silently alongside me on the beach, looking down at her shoes. Lucas was picking up stones and hurling them out into the vast expanse of the sea, his little body contorting with the effort.
Why hadn’t Amy spoken to me about her will? Asking someone to be your kids’ guardian had to be worth a phone call. Even a conversation by email would have been better than leaving a note.
And why was Mike questioning her plan to put the insurance money in a trust fund? That was the only part of Amy’s will that made any sense to me.
And where the hell was Mum? She’d always insisted how sorry she was about last time, but here she was, doing the same thing again. Why was it falling on me to pick up the pieces? Did my life not count for anything? The anger smouldered inside me. I balled my hands into tight, hard fists.
It wasn’t fair, none of it was fair. Amy should have been there.
I took deep a breath of the cold salty air and let out a belly-rumbling scream.
Hannah jumped, startled by the sudden noise. Rachel snapped to a stop and spun to face me, instinctively grabbing Betsy’s hand. A smile spread across Lucas’s face. He turned to face the sea, and screamed too.
Within seconds, all five of us were standing in a line on the sand, screaming out at the tameless, thrashing surf. The wind carried our cries out towards the horizon.
The sea air and exercise lifted everyone’s mood. We bought fresh rolls from Clarke’s bakery on the way home and Rachel microwaved another Tupperware of her home-made soup.
Later that afternoon we sat down with the funeral director and put the finishing touches to the plan. Mike was back, but the house was too full to get him on his own for a quiet chat. My questions about his intention to challenge the will would have to wait.
Amy had made some requests – instead of flowers, we would ask for donations to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, and everyone was under strict instructions to wear bright colours. She’d even picked the music for the service, and had asked to be buried next to Dad in St Cuthbert’s churchyard.
Each of the children had a poem or dedication they wanted to give to their mother, and every time one of them shared an idea I was reminded what caring, thoughtful kids my sister had raised. Rachel was a big help, making suggestions and giving the children prompts without pushing her own ideas or opinions. Mike was still raw, barely keeping his head above fresh waves of grief.
It was an exhausting evening and after clearing up the dishes, Rachel left us to it. Betsy shyly asked me if I would put her to bed, and I almost burst with happiness.
It was hours later that Mike woke me up. I had fallen asleep next to Betsy on her bed, her story book in my hand and her nightlight still on. We went downstairs and he poured us each a whisky. He had lit a fire and it cast a flickering glow on the room.
I took a sip of scotch for courage. ‘I need to ask you – are you serious about contesting the will?’
Mike shrugged and sighed. ‘I have no idea what I’m doing these days. I know Amy wanted what’s best for the kids. And the trust fund might seem like a great idea. But without an aggressive investment plan, the money could just sit there, doing nothing.’ The ice cubes clinked in his glass. ‘It’s a lot today, but by the time Betsy is twenty-one, what will it be worth?’
I bit my lip – I had been too quick to doubt him. But it was Amy’s request – it felt strange to be questioning what she had decided was best. Apart from the fact she had decided that me giving up my life was a good idea. I was entitled to question that. But the money? It was hers, after all. Mike was clearly still in shock. I was sure he would see reason sooner or later.
I wanted to talk about the possibility that Amy’s death wasn’t an accident – but the thought was so ugly, so terrible, that I wasn’t sure where to begin. We sat in silence, listening to the crackle of the fire.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Mike didn’t look at me, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on his glass. ‘What did Amy say in her letter?’
I squirmed, struggling to think of a way of explaining it to him, of conveying the message Amy had known only I would understand. ‘She knew more than anyone how hard it is with only one parent. She thought it would be easier on the kids if I could help.’
‘Did she think I was a bad father?’ His eyes started to fill.
‘No, goodness, no! Don’t ever think that.’ I moved to sit next to him on the sofa. He smelled like he hadn’t showered. ‘She definitely, specifically said:
Mike is a great dad. Quote-unquote.’
He smiled.
I took a gulp of whisky. ‘I haven’t decided what I’m going to do, yet.’
The words came out before I’d thought them through.
Mike shrugged. ‘You shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to. She wouldn’t want you to be unhappy.’
We clinked glasses in a toast to Amy and sat in silence, watching the flames flicker down to the embers.
It was past midnight when I left for the short walk back to the pub, my footsteps echoing down the empty street. In Hong Kong, the noise never stops – the buzz of millions of engines, animals, and humans packed together. You can be alone but never lonely, permanently insulated by strangers. I missed being amidst that sheer volume of people.
The night air was crisp and it was a cloudless sky. In Hong Kong, you couldn’t see the stars – in Seahouses, there were too many to count. I tipsily gazed up at an eternity of lights and wondered which one was Amy. I wished she could help me decide what to do.
My phone pinged. It was Hannah:
Thanks for today. I needed a good scream. I’m glad you’re here
I texted back: We all needed it. Same again tomorrow?
Then I sent a message to Amy.
I miss you. We all miss you. xo
The next few days were shapeless, without form except for the ticking of the hours, the passage of day to night, and the certainty of the tide. Daily beach walks became the foundation of what little routine we were able to construct and the only thing that buoyed our spirits. Adam, Mum, and Auntie Sue came too, and we showed them our trick of screaming at the water. It relieved some tension, although Auntie Sue was sure the police would give us all ASBOs if anyone heard. One step at a time, putting one foot in front of the other and screaming at the waves became our way of coping with grief.
With the funeral only a day away, we needed a distraction. Mike had shut himself up in his office again, leaving me to watch the kids, and I decided everyone would benefit from another dose of salt air. We covered miles, making it all the way to Bamburgh and back again.
After lunch, we crowded into the living room to watch one of Amy’s favourite films – The Little Mermaid – and Adam and Rachel cajoled everyone into a singalong. It was a grey and drizzly afternoon, perfect for snuggling up together under blankets and throws. Amy would have loved it.
The mood darkened at bedtime. The children were coping so well, but choosing their funeral outfits led to questions about what their mum would have wanted them to wear, and the tears came again.
Between me, Rachel, and Mike, we helped each of them pick out their clothes, with Mum and Auntie Sue on hand for extra hugs when needed. We rallied each other, and I couldn’t help thinking that Amy would be proud.
I walked back to The Ship with Adam and we headed straight up to my room. I bought another bottle of Grey Goose – the first two had gone so fast – and he took some ice from the bar. I started to weep as I climbed into bed. It was cathartic. I realised I’d been bottling it up all day, and it was a release to let it out.
Adam reached for the box of tissues by my bed and handed me one.
‘I’m so proud of you. And if your sister could see you now, she’d be proud too. No matter what happens, you were there for the kids when they needed you.’
I bawled, letting the tears flow freely. ‘I don’t know how we’ll get through tomorrow. It’s just so hard. When Dad died, I remember feeling how bloody unfair it was. And this is ten times worse.’
We sat like that for a while, me choking on sobs while Adam rubbed my back. Eventually, I managed to calm down enough to breathe properly. I downed the rest of my vodka.
The phone pinged twice. The first message was from Hannah:
Can’t sleep. Can’t stop thinking about Mum. I miss her.
I miss her too. Try and get some rest, I texted back, the screen blurring beyond my tears.
The second message was from Mum:
I’m doing my best, Izzy. I don’t always get it right, but I won’t let you down this time.
I sighed. How many times had I heard that?
The windows were frosted with condensation and it was still dark outside when I woke up. I figured I could squeeze in an hour of work – just checking in – before I’d have to start getting ready for the funeral. But Bethany was all over my inbox and there were disappointingly few emails that needed my urgent attention. I picked at a cuticle.
Adam had helped me to select an outfit, and I knew it was perfect. Amy’s favourite colour was purple, and by coincidence, Adam had packed some violet wool trousers that I quite honestly had forgotten I owned. He’d paired them with a silver sequinned long-sleeved top from Amy’s wardrobe, which I vaguely remembered her wearing on Christmas day several years ago.
I blow-dried and curled my hair, wanting to look my best for my sister, and finished the look with oversized Dior sunglasses.
The sun was just starting to rise as I walked down the lane towards Amy’s house. I took a nip of vodka from my hip flask before letting myself in.
Mike was asleep in the chair in the living room in yesterday’s clothes, an empty bottle at his feet. He reeked of whisky, and his eyes were red and puffy. I ushered him upstairs to shower and shave before the kids could see him.
I sent a message to Hannah, as she seemed much more comfortable communicating by text than actually talking. Hey, whatever worked.
Good morning, rise and shine. I’m downstairs. Do you want a cup of tea?
She replied right away:
Thanks, but I’ve been awake since 4 a.m., and already had tea.
P.S. I don’t think I can do this.
I tiptoed upstairs. Hannah was sitting up in bed, her cheeks streaked with sticky tears and a shoebox of photos on her lap. She shuffled along to make space for me. The battered shoebox was familiar. Amy never threw photos away, and any that didn’t make it to a frame or album were all in here.
There were pictures from when we were kids, Mum and Dad almost unrecognisable as thirty-something-year-olds. Group shots of school trips and sleepovers with teenage girls who were grown women now. People from university whose faces I recognised, but whose names I had long forgotten. Amy and Mike on a beach. Separate photos of them at the same table of a Greek taverna, long before selfies existed, back when people used to take it in turns to take pictures of each other.
I picked out a photo of me and Amy. She was laughing, a full toothy cackle, her head tossed back and her hair in wild curls. The familiarity of her features – the shape of her nose, her teeth, the colour of her eyes – made me want to climb in to the photo and touch her. I knew every freckle on that face.
There were hundreds of photos, and I wanted to take my time and devour every single one. But first, we had a funeral to get through.
In her room across the landing, Betsy was still sound asleep and breathing in delicious snuffling snores. She was so peaceful, and I didn’t want to imagine what the next few hours had in store for her. If I could have left her sleeping and come back for her when it was all over, I would have gladly done it. I stroked her shoulder, singing her name. She slowly blinked awake and there was a flicker, precious seconds before she remembered and reality hit. I held her tight, inhaling the scent of her hair, permanently perfumed with sea air.
I walked into Lucas’s room and found him curled up on his bottom bunk, contorted by great body-wracking sobs that made no sound. My heart broke and I collapsed onto my knees beside him.
‘I don’t want to… don’t make me go!’
He pressed his face into my neck, his hot tears rolling down my collar. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him as close as possible, wishing that I could absorb his pain. I wasn’t prepared for this. Was I supposed to force the kids go to their mum’s funeral, even if they refused?
Mercifully, Rachel had arrived and come upstairs to find me. She stuck her head around Lucas’s door. I turned to her, silently begging for an answer. She joined m
e at the foot of the bed.
‘You know what, Lucas? Me and Auntie Izzy were just saying yesterday how proud your mum would be of you. Of all of you. And she would hate to see how much you’re hurting.’
Lucas snivelled.
‘And if you don’t want to go to the funeral, you don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. This is just a chance to say goodbye to Mum and celebrate her life, but there will be plenty more chances. You don’t need to do it today, or in church. We can celebrate and remember her every day for the rest of our lives.’
Rachel looked at me, her eyes wet with tears.
Lucas bravely nodded and shuffled to the edge of the bed. Rachel put a hand on his knee and talked to him softly.
‘Why don’t you get ready, and then see how you feel? You still have time to decide. Now, would you like some help, or can you manage on your own?’
I breathed a sigh of relief as Lucas traipsed off to the bathroom. ‘Thanks for that,’ I said to Rachel. ‘I don’t know what I would do without you. In fact, I don’t know how we would manage any of this without you.’ My lip started to tremble.
‘You’re doing great. And I’m so glad you’re here.’ She wiped away a tear. ‘I just miss her so much.’
Mum and Auntie Sue were waiting downstairs. Auntie Sue’s face was red and puffy and her eyes shone wet. Mum was moving slowly, and her speech was a little slurred. I wondered what she had taken.
Not that I could blame Mum for self-medicating on a day like this, I thought, as I popped to the downstairs bathroom for a few sips of vodka.
St Cuthbert’s had been our parish church for as far back as we could trace the Morton family history. It was the church that everyone got married in, where Amy and Mike had their wedding, and for a long time, I had imagined I’d get married there too. Amy and I, and all her children had been christened here. It had formed the backdrop to life events and hundreds of ordinary moments – nativity plays, harvest festivals and carol services.
Salt Sisters Page 4