by Jessie Jones
I lost it then. I fled from the little room where my dad had died, and found Suzie. We clung desperately to each other for a long, long time.
People want to help, but they’re powerless to do the one thing you want them to do. They can’t turn the clock back, can they? In the days that followed Dad’s death, everyone wanted to be supportive. But should they attempt to say something consoling, or keep quiet because saying something might upset me even more? I could see them agonising, and if I hadn’t been feeling so sorry for myself, I’d have felt sorry for them.
But the friends that I already knew I could count on were brilliant. This is going to seem like one of those long-winded Oscar speeches. You know, the list of people-without-whom that’s supposed to seem spontaneous but that has obviously been prepared in advance by the star’s PR people while the star practises crying.
Can’t help that, though. Here goes.
Of course, there was Suzie, without whom none of it – the funeral, the solicitors, the endless cups of tea and tissues and talks through the night – would have been possible. She was there for me, but I was there for her too, I think. We’d been growing closer for months, but in that desperate moment in the hospital there was an indescribable connection. Only she could possibly know how I felt because she was feeling it too. The bond didn’t fade.
And thank you to Kirsty. Ruby had taken the job up north, but Kirsty sacrificed three weekend visits just to stay across the landing in case I needed her.
All the girls at Spa Space were fantastic – even Hannah, who I’d hardly said a word to since she’d had a go at me. And Mila was the boss from heaven. ‘Take all the time you need, darlink,’ she said. ‘When you’re ready to come back, come. Not a day sooner, OK?’
And Emily, my oldest friend. She didn’t do anything much. Except come round every day. And do my shopping. And cleaning. And tell the double-glazing salesmen to get lost. And of course she told the florist it was OK when they misread her instructions and sent a floral arrangement that spelt out Michelle instead of Michael.
Then there was Simon. Have you ever met a bloke who knows exactly what to say and do in your darkest hour and gets his timing spot on while he’s at it? No, neither have I. Simon, bless him, was shit. He couldn’t have been more awkward if he’d been to RADA and done a crash course in Acting Very Awkwardly in Extremely Awkward Situations.
He came round the day after Dad died, his head bowed, a bunch of petrol station flowers in one hand and a teddy bear in the other. ‘God, Dayna, I … er … Jesus, I just can’t believe it. Fucking terrible, sorry for, um, swearing and that, but you know, it’s just that I can’t …’ he mumbled without lifting his head. Then he thrust the bear towards me and added, ‘This is for you. Thought it might cheer you up.’
I took it from him not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
‘And these,’ he said, handing me the flowers.
Emily, my PA, took them and added them to the Chelsea Flower Show collection that was piling up in the kitchen.
‘Anyway, I’ll be off,’ he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. ‘Like I said, I’m, you know, gutted. Your old man is – sorry, I mean, was … He was a great bloke and, er, well, if you need anything, um, you know …’
I had to put him out of his misery. ‘I know, Simon. Thank you.’
‘When’s the funeral? I’d like to pay my respects if that’s all right,’ he said, coherent all of a sudden because he was talking practicalities rather than emotions.
‘Next Tuesday,’ my PA told him. ‘I’ll give you the details. Just call me on Monday.’
‘Good, that’s good, I’ll, er, um …’
‘Bye, Simon,’ Emily said, ushering him out and shutting the door behind him.
I felt really bad then. All he’d wanted to do was show that he cared. It wasn’t his fault that he was emotionally illiterate. I jumped up from the sofa, ran out of the door and caught up with him halfway down the stairs.
‘Simon, I just wanted to thank you properly.’
‘Sure. No problem.’
‘Are you OK?’ I said.
‘Yeah, yeah, cool,’ he said, looking surprised to be asked. ‘You know, sad, but not half as sad as … You know …’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ I explained. ‘I just meant life in general. How’s the ITV thing?’
He perked up a bit, finding himself unexpectedly back on safe ground. ‘Yeah, great. I made the final three. I’ve got to go back in for the last audition.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ I said, trying for a smile. This was a huge break for him and good news is always welcome, isn’t it? ‘When are they filming you?’
‘Next Tuesday,’ he said, his face sagging as the penny dropped.
‘Listen, don’t worry. Dad would never have wanted you to miss out on the chance of a lifetime,’ I reassured him, thinking what a load of crap. What the hell would my dad have cared about Simon being on TV if he’d known he was going to die? ‘And I don’t want you to miss it either,’ I added. ‘Honestly, go and wow them. It’ll give us something nice to talk about after Dad’s … after …’
I couldn’t say any more and neither could Simon. All he could do was look at his feet and mumble ‘Fuck’ as I turned and headed tearfully back to my flat.
What can I tell you about the funeral? It was as gruesome as, I guess, they usually are. Necessary evils, things to be endured. Suzie held it together pretty well. Her sister was staying with her, which surprised me. I thought they hated each other. Funerals and weddings, eh? They bring families together for the briefest moment. Until the next moment of enforced closeness comes along in the shape of another funeral or wedding. At least, that’s the way it seems to me. I may be wrong. After all, what do I know about families?
Cristian came, of course … Did he not get a mention in my Oscar speech? He was such a rock and I think I might have taken him for granted. He’d been a presence throughout the week leading up to it and he stayed by my side throughout the day, his arm rarely leaving my shoulder – strong, supportive, comforting and, after a while, quite annoying. Look, I had enough people patting, hugging and embracing me in my Hour of Need without having him hanging off me. No, that’s not fair. I was massively grateful for all the love he was showing me and the fact that I was shrugging his arm off me every five minutes was simply down to the stress of the occasion.
All in all, I pretty much kept it together on the day. I really didn’t want to lose it in front of all Dad’s and my friends. Tears were OK, but I didn’t want any big-time hysteria. I was quite proud of myself, actually. It’s amazing what you can get through relying on nothing more than your own reserves of inner strength and a bottle of decent sedatives.
Dad had always said that he wanted to be buried next to Mum. I’d wondered how Suzie would take that and when we’d been planning the funeral I’d been prepared for some sort of compromise – a cremation or something. But no, she insisted that it was absolutely the right thing to do.
That was the moment when I lost it. The burial. Seeing Mum’s gravestone and watching Dad’s coffin disappear into the ground beside her was the first time it had fully dawned on me: both of them had left me. The realisation smashed into me like a freight train and I felt my body crumple. I was heaving, sobbing silently, and it was only Cristian holding me on one side and Suzie on the other that kept me on my feet. What got me back to my senses was what I saw through my tears. People, dozens of them arrayed around the grave. I’d spent the whole day so focused on my own grief that it was the first time I’d taken in just how many people were there. All for my dad. He would have been so proud, and at that moment I felt a glow of pride too. As I dabbed at my eyes I noticed one person in particular. There at the back of the mourners, almost hidden from view, the collar of his coat pulled up, his eyes cast down. It was Simon.
The funeral had seemed to take forever to arrive and I felt as if I was in some sort of limbo state as I waited for it to happen. Then suddenly it was gone. It wa
s all over and I was forced to look ahead to the vast, empty expanse ahead of me: the rest of my life. What was I supposed to do? Just pick up where I’d left off? The prospect terrified me. I’d never felt so alone and all I wanted to do was retreat back to the limbo of waiting.
‘What am I supposed to do, Mark?’ I whimpered plaintively.
Mark? Yes, he was round at my flat a week or so after the funeral. I’d seen him a few times since Dad had died. He was fantastic. He managed to give the perfect amount of support without being suffocating and without patronising me with any of the time-heals-it’s-what-your-dad-would-have-wanted-he-had-a-good-innings type clichés that I was hearing far too much of.
‘You can only rely on your own instincts, Dayna,’ he explained. ‘Not on what anyone else tells you. When it’s right to go back to work, to go out and party, whatever, believe me, you’ll know. And then you’ll start to feel stuff again and not just this terrible sadness.’
He put his arms around me and held me and I was rooted to the spot, enjoying the feel of his body against mine and … My God, he was right. I was feeling something all right, and, for once, it wasn’t just terrible sadness.
‘I wish there was more I could do to help,’ he whispered.
‘Don’t do anything. Just stay where you are,’ I told him.
I didn’t move for ages. Not until the sexiness wore off and I started getting pins and needles in my right leg.
Actually, Mark was more right than he could have guessed. Three months almost to the day after Dad had died, my instincts told me what I had to do. That was the day my life finally got going again, and I really hadn’t seen it coming.
It was a Sunday and I was round at Dad’s place – actually, just Suzie’s place now. She’d made us lunch. Not her usual belly-busting roast, but homemade tomato soup. Comfort food.
‘I’ve been sorting some of your dad’s things out,’ she said as we washed up. ‘Just some old photo albums and some bits and bobs of your mum’s that he’d kept hold of. Obviously you should have them, but if you’re not ready to look at it all, don’t worry. I can keep it here for as long as you like.’
‘No, I want to look at it,’ I told her eagerly. ‘When I talked to Dad the Saturday before … you know …’
She nodded.
‘He mentioned wanting to show me some pictures I’d never seen before.’
‘Well, I stuck all the albums in a box,’ Suzie said. ‘They’re most likely in there. By the way, I never told you this, but I can’t tell you how glad I am you called him that Saturday. He was so happy about it.’
‘I’m glad I did too. I couldn’t stand it if my last words to him had been angry,’ I said, thinking of my ‘I love you’ that he didn’t quite catch as the phone went down.
Five minutes later I was sitting on the living-room floor surrounded by the past. Photo albums that I’d seen a thousand times before, but that I didn’t mind looking at again. I felt sad and a bit tearful, but not in a bleak way. It was good to look at pictures of the three of us or just of Mum and Dad together. We were a proper family once, if only for a short time.
Suzie was sitting on the sofa, quietly watching over me. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked after a while.
‘I’m OK. It feels all right doing this,’ I told her. ‘There’s nothing new here, by the way. I don’t know what Dad was talking about.’
I reached into the box and took out the last album. It was another familiar one, but there was a battered brown envelope underneath it. I picked it up. It was heavy with what felt like more photographs. I opened the flap and tipped them onto the carpet. I smiled, because by the look of it I’d found what Dad had been talking about.
It was a mish-mash, photos taken at different times while Mum was still alive and a few of Dad and me taken in the years after she’d gone. Typical bloke, I thought with a smile. All the albums had been put together by Mum, who’d done the job meticulously. The pictures were in order, with dates and little captions, just in case the viewer didn’t recognise, say, Nelson’s Column in the background. Left up to Dad, though, pictures were just stuffed into any old envelope.
I took my time looking at them. Because I’d never seen them, every image had a freshness, as if these three people were being introduced to me for the first time.
‘She was so beautiful, your mum,’ Suzie said, looking over my shoulder. ‘And you’re so like her.’
Yes, she was, I thought, and, yes, I reckon I am.
The last picture was one of those strips of four you get in passport photo booths. It was of Dad sporting his spiky early-eighties mullet. He wasn’t alone, but he wasn’t with Mum either. Who was the brunette squashed into the booth with him, giggling, stroking his cheek, kissing his ear? Dad had been through plenty of women in his time, but as far as I knew he’d never kept mementoes and she wasn’t one I recognised. I turned the photo strip over, not expecting to find anything, certainly not the message that was scrawled in blue biro.
‘Thanks for the sexiest weekend of my life! Lynda – xxxx.’
There was a date as well. I stared at it, feeling the life drain out of me. I knew the date that Mum had died – it had been burnt into my memory – and this was three weeks before.
‘What is it, Dayna?’ Suzie asked.
I couldn’t speak. I just handed her the strip. She stared at it, seemingly blank. But why should it have made any sense to her?
‘That was taken just before Mum died,’ I managed to say after a long while. ‘The heartless fucking bastard.’ Tears stung my eyes, but it wasn’t grief – just bitter, burning anger. ‘How could he do that, Suzie? She was dying!’
‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am,’ Suzie said, her head dropping.
There was something about the way she couldn’t look at me … And then the penny dropped. ‘You knew about this, didn’t you?’ I gasped.
She nodded without raising her head. Still unable to look me in the eye.
‘You knew,’ I repeated, disbelief piling on disbelief.
Finally she looked at me. She slipped off the sofa and knelt in front of me on the floor. ‘When your dad and I started to get serious, I told him we had to be open with each other. That was something I’d never had in my first … That’s beside the point. It was just something I needed with your dad. I could see he was a troubled man. He didn’t want to talk, but he did. Eventually.’
She paused. This was clearly hard for her, but I wasn’t in the mood to make it any easier. ‘Go on,’ I snapped.
‘Look, there’s no easy way to tell you this. Michael wasn’t a good husband, not to your mum. Well, you’ve seen the pictures, so you know that – I swear I didn’t know they existed, by the way. I never went through that envelope.’
I think I believed her, but I refused to give her any sign that I did.
‘Anyway, he told me there were other women,’ she went on. ‘Quite a few. One-night stands for the most part … This Lynda was different, though. Your mum found out about her – when you were a baby. She chucked him out, but he begged her to take him back. Obviously she did, but he didn’t change. He started seeing Lynda again just before your mum was diagnosed.’
I listened, not saying a word. Who was this man she was talking about? I’d always thought his womanising was an antidote to the loneliness of being a single dad. But this man – my father, apparently – was the kind that was jeered to the rafters on Jerry Springer: man cheats on dying wife. He was trash … and a complete stranger to me.
‘He felt terrible about it, Dayna, he really did,’ Suzie told me.
‘Oh, poor bloody him,’ I spat. ‘Bet he didn’t feel half as bad as my mum, hooked up to machines, knowing that she’d spend her last few days alive married to a complete shit.’
‘He really was eaten up by the guilt,’ Suzie said quietly. ‘I know you can’t see it now, but there was a lot of good in your dad. He’d do anything for the people he cared about. And you saw at the funeral how much people loved him. All those wond
erful speeches at the wake. They weren’t faked. They were from the heart.’
I remembered the speeches. Fine, tear-drenched words from Bill, Owen, Wayne, others … They were queuing up to praise him. All men, funnily enough.
‘I don’t know how you can defend him,’ I said. ‘God, I don’t know how you could marry him if you knew even half of this.’
‘I loved him,’ she told me softly. ‘I really, really loved him.’
‘I hate him,’ I said, truly knowing what hate was for the first time in my life.
‘Of course you do, sweetheart. The things he did … They’ll be very hard for you to forgive. But you will, believe me.’
‘How can you say that?’ I shouted. ‘How the hell do you know?’
‘Because he was your father and he loved you madly … And because that’s what I’ve done.’
I had no idea what she was talking about, but she didn’t wait for me to ask.
‘There’s something else,’ she said. ‘I was going to tell you this. It was just a matter of finding the right time. It’s something that will probably come out at the inquest, you see …’
God, the inquest – something we’d both been dreading. It was only a couple of weeks away.
‘… and it’s better you hear it from me.’
My stomach was churning. What the hell was I going to find out now?
‘The night before he died, he didn’t come home and he was late into work that Monday. Bill and the rest of the crew were pretty mad at him. It was their last day and he was jeopardising their bonuses. That’s why he rushed, cut corners and … Christ, you know the rest. It’ll all come out at the inquest.’
She buried her face in her hands, unable to continue. It was my turn to be sorry.
‘So he was cheating on you too,’ I stated flatly. ‘When did you find out?’
‘I already had it half-figured. He hadn’t been home, had he? I got the details out of Bill a couple of days after. She wasn’t the only one either …’