Of course, the evening would have been a lot more fun with my mother there, and I am full of regret that we never did this while she was alive. I’d have loved to have seen those two sparking off each other – it would have been all aboard the banter bus, as Joe would say.
As we finish our dessert – which may be over-stretching it for a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey – Lewis leans back in his chair, his magnificent belly stretching the buttons of his waistcoat, and dabs delicately at his jowls with a napkin, looking like a Roman emperor who’s just enjoyed a fifty-course banquet.
‘So,’ he says, after a small pause. ‘Have you discussed what you might do with the cottage at all? Obviously, there’s no rush, and the only reason I ask is that … well, if you do decide to sell, I would appreciate first refusal. I find that I simply can’t bear the thought of strangers living here, which I know is ridiculously sentimental.
‘I have the funds, and I can’t think of anything better to spend it on now; I was planning on asking your mother to accompany me on a round-the-world cruise as soon as I was fully retired, but … well, that wasn’t meant to be. It would be a kindness if you would consider me as the new owner. If you do want to sell, that is.’
Poppy is chewing her lip, her glittery face a little twisted up in the candlelight. She gives her ice-cream spoon one last lick – she seems to have completely overcome her aversion to carbs and sugar – and lays it down in her bowl with a small clatter.
‘Lewis, that’s a lovely thing to suggest,’ she says, and I am relieved to hear a gentle tone of voice emerge from her mouth, ‘but I don’t think we’ll be selling.’
Both Lewis and I look at her and raise our eyebrows. I knew she’d been considering changing her lifestyle, but we’ve not properly discussed it. I feel a sudden niggle of uncertainty, and realise that, as far as we have come, I still don’t 100 per cent trust her. Perhaps we will always be works-in-progress, who knows?
‘I know we’ve not talked about it much, Rose,’ she says, obviously sensing my hesitation, ‘but if it’s all right with you, I want to stay. Work has been harassing me to death even though they know why I’m on leave, so I don’t think I’ll have any problems making a case for some kind of severance package, and I have a lot of cash tied up in the flat, and … well, I can do it. I’ll pay you your half, you won’t be left out of pocket, honest. I just … I want to stay.
‘I know it sounds weird, and I probably shouldn’t be making big decisions like this when my head is all messed up, but it feels right. I want to stay here, and write, and learn how to cook properly, and look after the blue tits, and … just be. Does that make sense?’
She sounds desperate, pleading, almost exactly like she used to as a little girl when she wanted me to play Monopoly with her, or was begging to tag along on one of my big-sister adventures. I could rarely resist it then, and I find I can’t now.
I nod, and smile, and reply: ‘That would be good, Poppy. I think Mum would like it if one of us was still here. And then Lewis can visit as often as he likes.’
‘And you,’ she says hastily, reaching out to grab my hand. The sudden movement alerts Betty, who stands up and sniffs in search of food. I notice that the dog is also looking a little bit sparkly – one of us must have stroked her after touching the glitter dice.
‘You and Joe,’ she continues. ‘I’d like you two to visit as well.’
Lewis is silent throughout our exchange, but I swear I see a glassy sheen in his eyes as he watches us.
‘We will. I promise.’
Poppy nods, and puffs out a long breath, as though a weight has been lifted from her shoulders.
‘I think that’s a splendid idea,’ says Lewis, pouring us all another glass of wine. ‘And she would indeed be delighted.’
He looks pleased, even though we’ve just rejected his offer to buy us out, and I suddenly decide that right now would be the best time to ask him a question I’ve been dying to ask – but have been too scared to until now. I don’t think I could have handled the answer any earlier.
‘Lewis,’ I say, one hand going down to scratch Betty’s ear, as though I need to be doing something else while I even think about this. ‘Do you mind me asking about … about the day Mum died? I know this is really hard for you, and we’re both so grateful for everything you did for her, for us, but … was it peaceful? Was she in pain? I know she had good reasons for not telling us, but I feel like I’ll never be able to move on from it unless I ask.’
I hear Poppy gulp down half a glass of wine, and Betty licks my hand, as though she is reassuring me, and Lewis blinks away the tears that I most definitely hadn’t imagined.
‘Strangely, it was,’ he replies, after a few moments. ‘Very peaceful. For her at least. Earlier in the day, not so much – she was so focused on getting through the last video, she insisted on refusing any drugs for hours. But after she’d done that, and she knew the A–Z was finally finished … well. Yes. She seemed so much more at rest.
‘The staff were wonderful at controlling her pain, and in the end … well, she seemed to simply go to sleep. She woke from her slumber a few times, but that’s basically what it was like.
‘She was as peaceful as she could be, knowing that she’d tried her best to help you two, and that she’d told you how much she loved you. The only thing that could have given her any more peace would have been seeing this – seeing you two here, together, behaving like the loving sisters she told me you once were. And I like to think, somehow, that she is seeing it – and that she knows she succeeded.’
I nod my thanks, and realise that I am crying. I glance at Poppy, and see that she is also crying. I return my gaze to Lewis, and he has given up the battle, and has tears streaming down his round cheeks. All three of us are glitter-faced, weeping wrecks, and eventually, after staring at each other in horror, we begin to laugh. Because we all look ridiculous – even the dog. Minutes later, we are still crying – but this time with amusement.
This, I think, looking around the table at my sister, and at the man my mother loved so much, listening to our slightly manic giggles, is also what she would have wanted.
‘Right,’ I say, once I can speak again. ‘I think it’s movie time. Poppy, clear a space, and we’ll roll the dice …’
Once the plates have been taken away to the kitchen, along with Betty, who is following the trail of leftover gravy, we all stand up in preparation. I hand Lewis the dice, and indicate that he should do the honours.
There are six movies listed on there – X-Men; The X-Files film; something called Xiu Xiu that I assume is Chinese; that xXx film with Vin Diesel in it; X-Men: First Class, which I think is a bit of a cheat, but does have the added bonus of James McAvoy, and Xanadu. I’m really hoping it’s not Xanadu. I don’t think I could endure Olivia Newton-John in a roller disco – it’s more than my fragile mind could take.
Lewis makes a fine performance of blowing on the dice like they do in gambling movies, which results in him smearing glitter all over his mouth, and rolls it across the tablecloth. It leaves a shining trail, as though a disco snail has crawled past, and eventually bumps its way to a standstill. We all peer at the result that’s left face-side up.
Fuck. It’s bloody Xanadu.
We all look at each other in disgust, and Lewis finally breaks the silence.
‘Best out of three?’ he asks.
‘Definitely,’ replies Poppy. ‘It’s what she would have wanted.’
Chapter 68
Poppy
‘Y,’ I say, reading from the now almost-disintegrated A–Z index, ‘is for Yesterday. And it’s a letter, together with some diaries.’
‘Okay,’ replies Rose, frowning at me. ‘Do you really think we need to do it today? I spoke to Joe earlier, and he’s fine. In fact he sounded brilliant. I thought … I thought we could have a bit more time, and that then perhaps he could get the train down for the last bit of the hols. If that’s all right with you.’
‘Of course it’
s all right with me. That’d be brilliant. But … well, we’ve been putting this off for two days now, haven’t we? And I think we both know why.’
She nods, and twists her hair around her fingers, and looks sad.
‘It’s because we’re getting near the end,’ she says. ‘And neither of us wants to get to the end. Because when we get to the end, it’s all over, and we go our separate ways, and everything goes back to normal.’
Hard as it is to believe, she’s right. At the beginning of all of this, we couldn’t stand the sight of each other. Rose preferred to tear the flesh from the side of her nails than to look me in the eye, and I acted like the world’s biggest bitch just to hide how vulnerable I felt.
Since then, the A–Z has stripped us bare. It’s knocked us down, trampled on us, and built us back up. Our mother has guided us over so many hurdles, dragged us out of pitfalls, pulled us from the clifftops of our self-destruction. And along the way, she’s made us laugh, and cry, and eat, and play, and get to know each other, and ourselves.
The thought of it all ending – of reaching the dreaded Z – is almost too much for us to bear. Because after that, it’s up to us, isn’t it? Then, we have to play our own roles, without Mum there to direct us.
‘I know,’ I say, reaching out to hold her hand. She is physically trembling, and I squeeze her fingers. ‘It’s a horrible thought. While we’ve been doing this, it’s like she was still with us in a way. All those photos, and videos, and everything else she left behind – it’s been like she’s not actually gone. But she wanted us to do this, and I don’t think we should chicken out at Y, do you?’
Rose looks as though she wants to disagree with me, but reluctantly nods, sinking down on to the sofa in defeat.
I smile, trying to make it look more encouraging than I feel, and pull the note out of the A–Z box. It is accompanied by a hefty package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, like a parcel in a black-and-white movie.
I open the envelope marked Y, and together, sitting side by side, we read.
Chapter 69
Andrea: Y is for Yesterday
Hello my darlings – Mother here! This will be my last note, so I’ll try and make it a good one. My pain levels are under control right now, which makes everything easier, doesn’t it? I can only hope that yours are under control as well. At least I have morphine, darlings – you only have gin!
Yesterday, I spent most of the afternoon making a glittery dice with the names of movies on the side. I hope you enjoyed that game, and cheated as many times as it took until you got X-Men. I would expect nothing less, and would have done the same myself. Hugh Jackman, yum.
Yesterday, I also had a visit from a frightfully handsome young doctor from Ghana. Lovely man, though sadly not a miracle worker.
Yesterday, I threw caution to the wind and had lime jelly instead of strawberry – I know, I know, how crazy of me!
And yesterday, after I’d done my dice, Lewis took me out in my wheelchair for a little walk. We didn’t go far – just to the park – but it was wonderful to feel the sun on my skin, and see the beautiful weeping willow trees draped over the grass, and to listen to the children playing on the swings. He brought Betty, and we had a good old slobbery cuddle. Darling dog.
So, all things considered, not a bad yesterday at all. But now, it’s gone – and a new day has started. The possibilities are … well, I’d like to say endless, but as I’m on a drip and wearing a nightie right now, maybe not!
The point, though, remains the same – our yesterdays make us who we are, but our tomorrows make us who we will become. That sounds suitably wise, and is my way of saying – girls, are you ready to say goodbye to yesterday? Are you ready to throw out the rubbish, to leave all of the pain and misery behind? Are you ready to move on?
My goodness, how I hope so. I hope that you have forgiven each other, and forgiven yourselves. If you have, then say so – because just thinking it doesn’t count. Look each other in the eye, and say goodbye to those nasty old yesterdays. Do it for yourselves, if not for me. And, while you’re at it, get rid of something else – those horrible guilt lists I asked you to write, what feels like an age ago now. The only reason I asked you to write them down was so that you could throw them away.
And when you’re done with that, the package contains a little gift for you. It’s a collection of some of my diaries, from over the years. I always wanted to be a good journal keeper, but never really had the self-discipline, so I was always a little hit or miss. There are some years where I write most days, others where there are only a couple of entries.
Some are funny, some are sad, and some, I am horrified to say, are just plain boring. These diaries are not for you to read now – now is the time to focus on your own lives. They’re for the future. For when you need to feel me close, and can’t pick up the phone.
For when you find yourself in a situation and wonder what I’d think … well, I can’t guarantee the answers will be in there, but at least something will be in there. Even if it is just me mooning over Ian McShane or complaining about the short shelf life of goldfish.
The diaries are a little bit of me, for you two to keep forever. I hope they bring you some pleasure, some comfort, and some consolation – I may not be there in person, but I can at least be on your bookshelves!
Anyway, as I said, I had a busy day yesterday, and am feeling a snooze coming on. Morphine, delicious as it is, doesn’t make extensive periods of lucidity especially easy. Enjoy the diaries, girls – and don’t forget. Talk to each other.
With love, as always,
Mum xxx
Chapter 70
Rose
Poppy, sharing my mother’s flair for the dramatic, has insisted on a midnight ceremony. I am counting myself lucky that she hasn’t insisted we dress up in pagan robes and smear our faces with golden syrup.
I’m also a bit tired, truth be told. I stayed up late last night reading one of Mum’s diaries. I know she said not to bother with them right now, but, well, what’s she going to do about it? I curled up in my teenaged bed, and spent hours enjoying her first-hand accounts of her show-biz exploits.
The diary I read covered the Penny Peabody era, and was perfect – not too much turmoil, not too much hand-wringing and trauma, just a lot of very amusing anecdotes about life on set, and actors who played tough guys insisting on having exactly the right blend of aromatic oils burning in their dressing rooms, and who was bonking who.
She has such a witty and engaging style, I have no doubt at all that, like Poppy, she could also have been a writer. Maybe we’ll edit her diaries and publish them; they could easily be cult classics. All those perverts who watched her nude carousel horse scene would buy them.
I know all the diaries won’t be so much fun. I know some of them, in fact, will be extremely painful – but that is a journey for another day. For now, it’s nice to imagine her healthy and happy and enjoying her twilight years.
Poppy has been in the mower shed again, and emerges brandishing a plastic petrol can. She pokes the ashes in the barbecue, and pulls a face.
I don’t blame her. The contents are pretty revolting – the half-melted face of our Tiny Tears Gareth effigy, distorted into horror-movie form, chubby arm folded over her head as though trying to ward off the flames.
Tonight, she has decided, we are going to get rid of our Guilt Lists in style.
It’s a pleasant night, the countryside sky draped with the kind of dazzlingly clear stars that you just don’t see in the city. I can hear an owl hooting, and the cows from the nearby farm, and it’s incredibly peaceful.
The lights from the cottage are casting a glow over the garden, and the gnome collective looks magnificently eerie – like they might come to life at any moment and frolic over the lawn, with their fishing rods and watering cans and little red hats.
‘So,’ says Poppy, grinning at me in the moonlight. ‘We’re all set. I have my list – do you have yours?’
I nod,
and tug the huge wad of memo-pad notes from my pocket. It feels like a different lifetime, that night when I sat, destroyed, sobbing over all of my perceived crimes, still not quite believing that my mother had gone. I was in shock, and none of it felt real. Some of it still doesn’t.
‘Shall we read them?’ I ask, glancing at Poppy’s single piece of paper in curiosity. I wonder if there is anything on her list, or on mine, that will damage us – that will take us back to our pre-A–Z world, when we could barely function in each other’s company. I hope not, but I don’t think we can ever be 100 per cent sure – our relationship, like all relationships I suppose, will always be a work-in-progress, and maybe that’s not a bad thing.
She nods, and we silently exchange papers. I unfold hers, and see one word staring out at me, written in bold capital letters: EVERYTHING. Well, that’s straightforward enough.
It takes Poppy a little longer, obviously, to decipher my scrawl, and plod through the pile of crumpled squares. I see her smiling at some, frowning at others, and finally, looking up to meet my eyes when she comes to the very last entry. The one I didn’t even want to write: that I never gave Poppy a second chance.
‘Well,’ she says, handing the pages back to me. ‘I don’t know what to say about stabbing Yoda in the eye, but that last one? About me? I’m well and truly ready to burn that one, Rose. Because you have given me a second chance – even if it was only because Mum made you.
‘You could have said no. You could have walked away from all this, and gone back to Liverpool, and we probably would never have seen each other again. Instead, we’re here, together. And maybe … maybe you have forgiven me?’
I suppose, at heart, that all of our mother’s frantic planning and scheming and plotting has always been leading up to this. To this one moment – to us standing here, in her garden at midnight, listening to the owl chorus and wondering what comes next. Only one letter of her A–Z might technically have been called F for Forgiveness, but the whole thing has basically been about that one issue.
The A-Z of Everything Page 29