In Her Wake

by Amanda Jennings

  I glance at my father. He doesn’t cry, which both surprises me and fills me with a strange sense of relief. Instead he stares straight ahead, his hands clasped behind him, upper lip firm, his back as straight as it can be. I wonder at his lack of visible emotion. Perhaps this is due to his mistrust of religion. He never went to church despite Elaine’s best efforts to make him. She was very religious, attending church every Sunday, and always leaving clothes outside our gate for the Christian Aid lady. Her visits to church were the only times I remember her willingly leaving the house. I always had to accompany her, however hard I begged to be allowed to stay home.

  ‘God insists,’ she used to say. ‘He doesn’t ask for much, but if you want to avoid the Other Place – and let me tell you, you certainly do – high-days and holidays aren’t enough.’

  As far as Elaine was concerned, if you had Heaven in your sights you had to show due commitment, and she despaired of Henry.

  ‘When you’re as old and grumpy as he is,’ Elaine would say, buttoning up my smart black coat, ‘you can decide if you’re a Godless heathen, too. Until then, you’re coming with me.’ And off I’d go, dragging my specially polished shoes and wrinkling my nose in complaint, her hand clamped around mine as she reminded me to keep my eyes on the ground and not speak to a soul.

  I begin to cry when the music starts and once I start I know I’m not going to stop. David leans close and tells me to be quiet. I nod through my tears as I try to stifle the sobs.

  After the service David drives us behind the hearse to the crematorium. He advised my father against a funeral car.

  ‘I can take us, Henry. No need to go to the expense of a second car.’

  I lean my head against the window, my eyes sore and puffy, and wish I’d been more involved in organising the funeral. The whole thing feels pared down. My father even decided against a wake. Unnecessary, he said, not least because she hated the thought of people in the house, which I suppose is a valid point.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ David asks, loosening his tie as we walk into The Old Vicarage after it’s all finished.

  ‘No, thank you.’ I stoop to bolt the bottom lock then turn the Chubb as my father walks upstairs without a word. ‘I think I’ll go for a walk in the garden.’

  ‘Without a sweater?’

  ‘It’s not cold—’

  ‘You need a sweater. Wait here. I’ll fetch one for you.’

  I used to complain about him fussing so much, but he’d tell me it was his way of loving me, that I was lucky to have someone who cared, and in the end it became easier to let him fuss than try to battle him. And anyway, she’d always done everything for me, so really it wasn’t so difficult to accept. Sometimes I want to scream at him, to tell him how claustrophobic I feel, but I hate it when he gets angry, when his face closes down and he glares silently, so most of the time I give in.

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll take a sweater.’

  ‘Good,’ he says with a smile. ‘I’m glad I’m here to look after you. You’re no good at it yourself. In fact, I’ll grab one too; I’d like a breath of air.’

  ‘Do you mind if I go alone?’

  ‘You need company. I—’

  ‘I’ll be OK,’ I say quickly. ‘I won’t be long.’

  He looks doubtful.

  ‘Please?’

  I breathe a sigh of relief when he grudgingly nods. I let him fetch me the sweater and then I thank him as I put it on, and quickly slip outside before he changes his mind.

  Clouds of midges hang in the air and the hollow calls of wood pigeons ring over the stillness. I walk across the lawn and up to the oak tree. This is my father’s favourite place. Years ago he made the wooden bench that half-surrounds the trunk. It took him a month of weekends. Such care he took. I watched him from the window of my room, transfixed by his banging, shaping, sanding, and, every now and then, smoothing his hand over the wood, caressing it with love. Once I saw him asleep beneath the tree. I’d heard shouting the night before, angry shouting, crying from my mother, and then the back door slamming shut. In the morning I woke and caught sight of him through my window, curled up, hands wrapped around his body. It was summer, but I still remember thinking it must have been a pretty bad argument for him to want to sleep outside. He didn’t even have a pillow.

  I sit on the bench. The branches of the oak tree sway in the mottled light above my head, its leaves rustling in gentle, ancient whispers. I scuff a tiny mound of worm casts with the toe of my shoe and turn my face up towards the canopy of the oak. I wish I’d stayed away from the crematorium. The funeral director said we didn’t need to be there, but it had seemed wrong to let her go alone. It was by far the worst part of the day, clinical in its coldness, with fluorescent lighting, wooden chairs in uneven rows and a coarse carpet the colour of burnt oranges. I’d had to turn my face into David’s shoulder as the red velvet curtains opened up to swallow her in a slow, onerous gulp. I couldn’t stop imagining her being spat out the other end, nothing left but a handful of smouldering ash and stubborn slivers of bone that refused to incinerate.

  My thoughts are interrupted by a distant cough. I look down in the direction of the noise. My father is making his way across the lawn towards me. I raise a hand in subdued greeting. He doesn’t acknowledge me in return, but continues to trudge nearer, the weight of the world on his fragile shoulders. I wish we had a better relationship. It would be nice to be united in our grief, rather than isolated by it. Despite the odd moments when we’ve been comfortable in each other’s company – biology and maths lessons, primarily, when his face would light up and there’d be excitement in his voice – we’ve never been close. I suppose, looking back on it, my mother never gave us the space to do so. If I needed anything it was she who was there for me. Henry and I circled around her as if she were the sun, orbiting separately, yet both of us drawn to her. That was just how it was. Her family: claustrophobic, reclusive, dependent. I wish I knew what to say to pull us together now, but perhaps that’s not possible, perhaps we’re too old, too set in my mother’s ways. I reassure myself that the fond respect and detached love we have for each other is sufficient, that when our separate grief has ebbed, it will be enough to bring us comfort.

  My father sits beside me. I pick up a fallen leaf, brown and skeletal, and crumble it between my fingers in silence. His brow is furrowed with deep, craggy lines and his eyes, clear and rimmed with red from private tears, appear otherworldly.

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asks.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Good.’ He clears his throat. ‘Bella…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I … I need to talk to you…’ But then, like yesterday in his study, he stops himself.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh.’ He seems caught off guard. ‘Yes … I…’ His voice trails away and his attention is caught by something unseen and far away. Then he turns back to me. ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Work?’

  ‘Yes, work,’ he repeats. ‘Is everything going well at work?’

  I know it isn’t what he wants to ask me but I answer as if it is. ‘Work’s fine, thank you. Not too much drama in a university library.’

  ‘Good.’ He hesitates. ‘That’s … good.’

  I wait for a few moments in case he manages to say whatever it is that’s on his mind. But he doesn’t. I won’t push him. I’m sure when the sadness of my mother’s death has lessened he’ll be able to tell me.

  I glance up at the branches above us. A breath of wind blows through them, sending the shadows of the leaves dancing over me. ‘It’s nice here, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Under this tree. I can see why you love sitting here. It’s very restful.’

  The noise that escapes him makes me jump. It’s a strange, plaintive mewling, as if he is physically hurting from an unseen wound. His face has crumpled. His eyes are tightly closed, tears escaping them as his head shakes imperceptibly.

  ‘Dad? Oh, Dad.’ I take hold of his hand. ‘It will get ea
sier, I promise. It doesn’t feel like it, but it will. You’ll be alright. We’ll both be alright.’

  He squeezes my hand then pulls away as he tries to hold himself together, tries to contain the outpouring of emotion. He shakes his head again then opens his eyes and turns to me. ‘She loved you,’ he says, his voice a quiet rasp. ‘She loved you very much.’

  ‘I loved her too.’

  ‘And I’m sorry for the terrible mistakes we made.’ He grips the edge of the seat with both hands as if he’s trying to draw strength from the very wood itself.

  ‘There were no mistakes. I was happy. I promise you. In the most part, I was very happy.’

  He seems to shrink further into himself and wearily rubs his face with his hands. ‘I wish I was a stronger man,’ he whispers.

  A sudden gust of wind blows from nowhere and sends the branches above us into an agitated flurry. I wrap my arms around my body as a shiver passes through me.

  What is it they say – someone’s walked over my grave?

  ‘You know, if you want to come back with us for a few days, you’re welcome. If you think you’ll be lonely. It’s a big house for one person.’ I can’t imagine wanting to stay here alone. Too many things that would stop me from sleeping. The creaks of cooling timbers, the terrifying staircase that leads up to the attic room, the shadowy corners and damp walls that seem to breathe.

  And now the ghost of my mother.

  He doesn’t appear to have heard me. He sits back and smoothes both hands down the length of his thighs. Then he stands.

  ‘Forgive me.’

  At least I think that’s what he says. His voice is so thin and quiet, I can’t be sure.

  I watch him shuffle back down towards the house. If it’s possible, he appears even older than he did yesterday, even more withered and frail, as if another unexpected gust of wind might lift him into the sky like a kite.

  I sit beneath the oak tree until the chill in the air becomes too much. Back in the kitchen, I scoop up my mother’s cat and push my face into his soft fur. There has always been a longhaired grey cat in the house. This one is version number three. I sit down and begin to stroke him, but he refuses to purr and soon jumps off my lap and skitters out of the room.

  ‘You were longer than you said you’d be,’ David says, as he appears in the doorway.

  ‘My father joined me. He wants to tell me something but can’t seem to get the words out. Has he spoken to you?’

  David shakes his head. ‘It’s going to be hard for him. She was a strong personality.’ He touches the backs of his fingers to my cheek. ‘I’ll heat you a mug of milk while you shower and wash your hair.’

  By ‘strong personality’, my husband means difficult. I often tell him he just has to accept the way we are. He might think my parents are different, peculiar, but isn’t that like all families? Doesn’t every family appear strange to the outside world? I try not to let David’s disdain bother me. He and my mother never saw eye to eye, but then I knew they never would. Although they both forced smiles every time they were together, the mutual distrust was palpable. They were in constant competition over who knew what was ‘best’ for me. Being in the same room as them, simultaneously trying to be both loving daughter to her and adoring wife to him, was exhausting.

  On my way upstairs I pass my father’s study. The door is closed, a crack of light visible beneath it. I press my ear to the door and hold my breath as I try to listen, but I can’t hear anything.

  ‘Goodnight, Dad,’ I say through the door. ‘I’m tired. I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.’

  I wait for a reply, but it doesn’t come. I should go in, but the thought of having to face his desperate sadness and shackled tongue again stops me, so I turn and walk as quietly as I can upstairs. The house watches each step I take. When I reach the top I turn towards the spare room. I lower my eyes as I pass the staircase that leads to the attic room. My heartbeat quickens. Narrow and dark, the top in blackness, as if the treads are never-ending. I won’t look up. It doesn’t matter how much I reason with myself, tell myself it’s only a staircase to a room that’s filled with boxes and broken furniture and unwanted books, that every house has a space for these things, and it’s only an attic, it still scares me.

  David is already propped up in bed by the time I get out of the shower. My skin tingles from the burn of the hot water and it feels good to have clean hair, to wash away the tightness on my face left over from crying. I climb in beside him, wriggling out of my towel when I’m safely beneath the duvet. Even after eight years, I am self-conscious being naked around him. He has this way of looking at me that unnerves me, like a greedy child staring at a chocolate cake. I should be flattered, I know. I wish I wasn’t so uptight, so prudish, that I was the type of girl who could strip off and run through the rain without a care in world. I reach for the mug of milk he’s left on the bedside table. He closes his book and rests his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘My beautiful thing,’ he says. ‘I have to say, I’m glad you’ve put some weight on. You were getting too skinny. And you know what I say…’ He runs his hand down over my chest. I try not to tense, and stare intently at the patch on the ceiling where the paint is discoloured by ancient damp. ‘Never trust a skinny woman. There’s something wrong about a woman who doesn’t like food. No passion.’ He bends his head and kisses my breast. His greying hair is soft against my skin, his day’s growth of stubble is rough. I put the mug down on the bedside table then shift over on my side, moving myself away from his lips.

  ‘Do you think my funeral will be like hers?’ I ask, hoping to divert his attention.

  ‘In what way?’ he says, as he presses his body into mine.

  ‘No real friends; just you, my father, and a handful of unmoved others.’

  He laughs.

  ‘Is that funny?’

  ‘I’m sorry. No.’ He hooks a finger under my hair and exposes my neck, which he kisses. ‘It won’t be like that.’

  ‘How do you know? I mean, who would come?’

  ‘Jeffrey and Barbara for a start.’

  ‘That’s because they’re your friends. Not mine.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’re married; they’re our friends. Anyway, you work in the college library, Jeffrey’s your employer. And some of the college staff, they’ll come.’

  ‘They’ll be the unmoved others.’

  He rolls away from me, his face clouded over. ‘Bella. You’re twenty-eight. Stop worrying about your funeral. You’d be better off worrying about mine. I’m forty-seven in three months.’ He makes a groaning sound. ‘God, forty-seven. How bloody awful is that? Lucky I’ve got you to keep me young, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why don’t I make friends, David? I’ve never had any. My best friend, no, my only friend, was imaginary. How tragic is that?’

  ‘It’s not tragic at all. Anyway, you don’t need friends. You have me.’ He kisses me again. ‘And lots of children have imaginary friends.’

  ‘Did you?’

  He laughs. ‘No, of course I didn’t.’

  And then his face gets that look and I know he wants sex. He pushes his lips against mine, his tongue prising my mouth open as he moves his hand beneath the duvet and between my legs.

  ‘Do you mind if we don’t,’ I say, trying to move myself away. ‘I don’t feel like it, not after today.’

  ‘But I’d like to. And you don’t mind, do you?’ He rubs it against my thigh. His breath is hot and wet on my neck. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be quick.’ And then he parts my legs and rolls on top of me and I bite down on my lip as he pushes himself into me.

  FOUR

  Henry Campbell – 12th February 1983

  Henry rubbed the sweat off his neck with a towel and leant back against the squash court wall with a happy laugh.

  ‘Good game, Fraser,’ he panted. ‘Shame you still can’t beat me though.’

  ‘Shut up, I nearly had you in the third and if you’d not barged me I’d have taken it.’

>   ‘You should have called a let then.’

  ‘What? And have you call me a pansy for the rest of the day? I don’t think so.’

  Henry laughed. ‘You know me too well.’ He stood and began packing his things into his squash bag. ‘How’s Mum?’ he asked carefully, without catching Fraser’s eye.

  ‘She’d like a call from you. She doesn’t know what she’s done. Why won’t you go and see her?’

  Henry didn’t answer immediately. He hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and moved towards the court door. ‘It’s not like that. I’m not avoiding her. We haven’t found a date that suits all of us, that’s all.’

  ‘She also wants to know what your plans are for Christmas.’

  Henry sighed. ‘Jesus, Fraser. It’s only September.’

  ‘I know, but come on, Hen, you know what I’m talking about. Yes, it’s early, but she wants to make plans, and so do I, to be honest. Abby and I will take the children to Pembroke to stay with Abby’s folks if you’re not going to be with us. They’ve said Mum and Dad can come too, but Mum won’t say yes until she knows what you and Elaine are doing. I know Elaine won’t want to come to my in-laws, but you’re both welcome, of course. Anyway, if you want to come to Mum and Dad’s, we’ll say no to Abby’s parents. It’s been ages since we’ve spent Christmas with you.’