‘I guess . . .’ Victoria felt a small smile play on her lips as she pictured just this.
‘But instead . . .’ Daksha paused. ‘The last thing she said to you was, “Grab me a balaclava or two!”’ The laughter bubbled from her friend’s mouth, and Victoria followed suit. It was quite hilarious, Daksha was right. Her glamorous, elegant grandma had shouted, ‘Grab me a balaclava or two!’ Hardly the most delicate of phrases or topics. Victoria placed her hand over her mouth to stifle the giggle, which felt illicit. Her laughter found a way to squeeze past the weight that filled her gut, burbling from deep inside until she was bent double, and it was only when rendered quite weak with something close to hysteria that her tears came. Finally. And once she started crying, it felt like she might never stop.
Daksha rushed forward and took the mug of tea from her hand before placing it on the nightstand. She then wrapped her friend in a hug, and there they sat on Prim’s bed, enveloped in the smell of her perfume, with chins resting on each other’s shoulders, as Victoria sobbed until she could barely take a breath and Daksha whispered, ‘Shh . . .’ in the way a mother might do. Although this Victoria could only guess at, as her mother had injected heroin into her veins and left the Earth without so much as an ‘adieu!’ before Victoria had even got the chance to know her. And yet, strangely, today she missed her more than ever.
The sound of the front doorbell jolted them apart.
‘I’ll go.’ Daksha jumped up and thundered down the stairs. Victoria blew her nose and wiped her eyes, before her friend hollered up the stairs, ‘Vic! Gerald is here!’
Of course.
She hadn’t considered what this meeting with Prim’s boyfriend would be like, hadn’t really thought about how others might be grieving, and she had never seen Gerald without Prim in touching distance. She didn’t like the thought of it; more proof, as if that were needed, of how her world had changed. Painting on the best smile she could manage, Victoria gripped the bannister, wary of her wobbly knees and shaky legs as she trod the stairs. There was something about the sight of the impeccably groomed Gerald, the side part to his grey hair and the stiff crease to the front of his slacks, that tore at her heart. At first glance, he looked as he always did, dressed to impress the woman he wooed, but there was something slightly altered about him: he looked a little stooped, a little gaunt. And in truth she found his grief a comfort, to know that someone shared her loss, the thing that united them. Victoria knew she needed all the allies she could find.
‘Oh, Victoria!’ He attempted a tight-lipped smile, in defiance of the sadness that misted his eyes. ‘How are you?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. I feel like the world is spinning.’
He looked at her knowingly. ‘I don’t want to keep you or intrude, but I heard the terrible news from Joan at the Over Sixties Club. And then I saw I had a missed call from you and heard your message. I guess that’s why you were calling?’
She nodded.
‘I can’t believe it.’ He paused. ‘I just wanted to come and say . . .’ He paused, and his sadness was hard to witness. ‘That the world – my world certainly – is less bright today, less fun.’
‘Thank you, Gerald.’ She barely knew what to say, but understood completely, as her world too was going to be less bright, quieter.
‘I got a card.’ He handed her a small, pale blue envelope. ‘None of them were appropriate, they were all maudlin and embossed in gold; Prim would have hated them all. I settled on a scene of the Lake District, which was left blank for my own message – I thought it was the least worst.’
‘Thank you,’ she repeated.
Daksha looked on. ‘Would you like a cup of tea or something, Gerald?’
‘No, no dear.’ He shook his head and raised his hand. ‘I need to get on, and I am sure you two need nothing less than visitors right now.’
Victoria did nothing to correct him, watching as he made for the door.
‘I am so very sad. I was extremely fond of her.’ He spoke over his shoulder.
‘I know she was very fond of you too.’ Victoria wasn’t sure if it was her place to speak this way to the older man but thought it important to say so. She felt his beaming smile more than justified her forwardness.
He closed his eyes briefly. ‘She made me laugh, always coming up with some rather bonkers scheme or idea; I never knew what she was going to suggest next,’ he smiled.
‘Like your zip-wire trip?’ she remembered.
‘Like our zip-wire trip,’ he confirmed. ‘Not that we would have actually done it, but part of the fun was talking about zip wires or shark diving in South Africa or going to a full-moon party in Thailand – those discussions kept us young! We lived the adventures through our chat and I shall miss them very, very much.’ He bowed his head.
‘See you soon, Gerald. And thank you.’ She held the envelope to her chest, knowing that she too was going to miss Prim’s wonderful ability to plant a picture in her mind, whilst encouraging her to go and see the world!
‘Let me know if there is anything I can do, and when the funeral is, of course.’ He spoke matter-of-factly as he left. His words were like bolts, fired casually yet pinning her to the reality of the situation.
A funeral! I have to organise a funeral! And not just any funeral, but Prim’s . . . I need to call her solicitor too. Who is it? I know she told me . . . I don’t know what to do, as the person I would usually ask for the details is Prim . . .
‘I need to organise the funeral. Can you help me?’
Daksha squeezed her arm. ‘Of course I will. Don’t worry about that right now. Would you like a cup of—’
‘Don’t. Even.’ Victoria held up her hand, cutting her off mid-question.
In the rather grand drawing room she sat back on the pale green dupioni-covered sofa, pulling the pink, cobweb-wool blanket from the arm and placing it over her legs. She thought of all the incredible and extraordinary things that Gerald would miss about Prim, but for her it was quite the opposite: she was already missing the very ordinary things. The bustle as she dusted, her scent lingering in the hallway and the sound of her warbling alto shattering the peace of any day. This recollection alone was enough to invite a fresh batch of hot tears.
Having wiped her fingers down the front of her dressing gown, she peeled the sticky flap of the envelope, pulled out the rather dull card and read:
Victoria,
What a rotten gap there now is in the world.
Gerald
It made her smile, the utterly perfect summary of the situation. Victoria read it twice before letting out an almost primal yell. She wasn’t fully aware of how loudly she had shouted, but Daksha came running in.
‘What’s the matter? Are you okay?’ She dropped to the floor at the side of the sofa and placed her hands on Victoria’s knees.
‘I can’t stand it! I miss her, Daks! I need her here. I don’t have anyone else. I’m all on my own!’
‘I know. I know.’ Her friend patted her back and kissed her head. ‘It will get easier, I promise.’
‘I have never done anything without her; she has been there every day of my life when I wake up and when I go to sleep, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do without her!’
‘You’ve got me. And right now you should come to the kitchen. I am eating all the ice cream.’
Victoria managed a small laugh, grateful as ever for the presence of her friend.
‘I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the thought of not seeing her again.’ She howled again, until her voice fell silent. ‘Sorry, Daks, not quite sure where that came from.’
‘It’s good to let it out.’
Victoria laughed a little at the banality of her condolence. ‘Will you come to see the solicitor with me and help me organise the funeral?’
‘Yes, you already asked me that, honey.’
‘I did?’ Victoria’s thoughts were foggy.
‘You did, and you know I will, and Mum said she’d help too – whatev
er you need. You know that. Anything.’
‘I could do with a cup of tea.’ She smiled at her friend, who leapt up to go and pop the kettle on.
THREE
Mr Dobson’s name was engraved on a brass plaque outside the solicitor’s office, which Victoria entered with caution. Their meeting was calm and business-like and an entirely new experience for the teen. Typically, Prim had set out her wishes for her funeral and left the monies in a separate fund. The solicitor was kind and respectful when delivering her gran’s instructions and pointing Victoria in the right direction. She was grateful at least that, with Mr Dobson in her corner, she knew she wouldn’t have to worry about the paperwork, small print and all the other horrible and complex aspects of life’s administration to which she was less than accustomed yet which had now been thrust upon her.
He had been explicit and formal when informing her of the contents of her gran’s will, confirming what Prim had told her on several occasions in passing, that Rosebank, all of its contents, all money and investments et cetera were to go to her. She nodded, knowing his voice was going into detail, but try as she might, she drifted in and out of concentration. I can’t believe this is happening to me . . . Not that she could even think about money right now, but when she did, strangely, the strongest feeling was not one of joy or even relief but instead worry at the weight of the responsibility that came from being in such a position. How would she manage a house the size of Rosebank all alone? It was an odd feeling, knowing she could sell the house or paint it purple or fill it with fairy lights – anything. She had been saving like crazy to enable her travels, but now? She supposed that ample funds were just sitting in an account, not that it meant anything; the desire to travel and have fun had left her on the day Prim passed away.
Victoria lay in the bath and let the now tepid water lap her skin. She had washed her hair and scrubbed her face, and that had taken all her energy. There was even a fleeting thought that she might just stay hiding here and let the day take its natural course; after all, who would care? It wasn’t as if she needed to be there to support anyone else; she was the only one who needed supporting and the deep water in the safety of the bathroom was doing that just fine. She sat up, knowing how disapproving Gerald would be if she hid the day away and in turn how much that would bother Prim. The glass shelf above the wide pedestal sink groaned under the weight of her gran’s jars and bottles. Chanel No5, of course, but also Guerlain body lotion, lily-of-the-valley- scented talcum powder and a glass-lidded jar that at first glance looked like it might contain sweets but was in fact stuffed with cotton wool balls in the colours of sugared almonds. She thought now that she had never seen the contents depleted or restored.
‘When am I supposed to throw your things away? Do I have to? Is it weird to live with them from now on? I don’t know the rules, and I don’t know who to ask. I don’t even know what to wear today.’ She spoke aloud, thinking of her mum’s old bedroom, that was such in name only and no longer contained any of her things. Victoria had spent a little bit of time in there, more so when she was younger, hoping to glean a sense of the woman. Prim would always snap at her to get out, which would be followed by an inevitable bout of tears; this Victoria more than understood – not only did Prim not like snapping at her, but she supposed that, like her, her gran pretended Sarah was behind the door and to have the door opened only confirmed her very worst fears.
It was a solitary room with an unmade bed and old curtains, and it felt sad, as if it carried the knowledge of loss in its very fabric. The thought of removing the everyday objects that made this house their home was horrible. ‘I don’t want to go today, Prim. I don’t want to walk into that church and I don’t want to see your coffin. I don’t want to say goodbye to you. I’m not ready. I miss you and I miss my mum and I miss my dad and I miss Grandpa – I miss you all, so, so much.’ Lying back in the water once more, she closed her eyes and let her tears fall, hoping that they might run out before she got to the church; the prospect of crying like this in public was not one she relished.
Victoria sniffed and smiled as she climbed from the back seat of the Joshis’ blue Mercedes.
‘Okay, love?’ Mrs Joshi placed a hand in the small of her back as they walked up the path to the wide church door.
Victoria nodded.
The church was half empty. Daksha had reminded her when they studied the rather frugal invitation list, scribbled at the kitchen table, that when you got to Prim’s age, many of the people who would happily have graced your funeral – family, friends, colleagues and acquaintances – had themselves died. This fact offered some small solace that, whilst her gran’s funeral might be sparsely attended, she had beaten a lot of them by surviving longer.
Victoria knew without a doubt that Prim would rather have had those extra years than crowded pews. But this too made her think about her own situation. She was not old, and yet, were she to die, apart from Daksha, who would mourn her? There were no parents, no grandparents, no siblings or cousins. It felt as if she were alone in the universe. Looking up at the ornate ceiling of the church, she wished things were different and tried to swallow the sob that had built in her chest, this time not for her loss, but for all that was missing in her life. It felt indulgent and misplaced and she bit the inside of her cheek to suppress it.
Gerald looked bereft, poor thing, but still dapper in his navy suit and waistcoat. Mr Maitland, who lived at the end of their lane, supported him physically. He had cried when he saw Victoria and it pulled at her heart.
A silver urn sat centrally on the altar and held the most stunning display of flowers. Her request had been simple: to include all the colours she knew Prim would adore. The arrangement was a credit to Sandie’s florist, and everyone commented on the variety of pinks and pale blues, the pastel shades of sweet pea and the dark purples and violets, all run through with frothy greenery and gypsophila. The flowers were, if anything, celebratory and not in the least bit maudlin, perfect for a woman who had so loved her garden and perfect for this blue-sky day, which even if she hadn’t known it, Victoria had been dreading her whole life.
It was comforting to have Daksha, Dr and Mrs Joshi in the pew next to her; she was aware that, without them, she would have been entirely alone. Victoria couldn’t help but mentally fast-forward and wonder how her life would be now. What happens tomorrow? Where do I fit? How do I live?
Mrs Joshi blotted at her eyes and nose with a handkerchief and, every so often, when able, she would reach over and squeeze Victoria’s arm, one time with quite a pinch, which in any other circumstances would have resulted in a yelp. But as Victoria reminded herself, these gestures were offered in affection.
Daksha, aware of her mother’s antics, rolled her eyes and sucked in her cheeks, able to lift Victoria’s spirits a little even on this, the very worst of days. Victoria listened to Jim Melrose, the vicar, with his bald head and abundance of facial hair, which stuck out like little grey brush heads, tufting from his ears, nose and resting above his eyes like giant caterpillars, as he gave his dawdling speech on the wonderful life of Mrs Primrose Cutter-Rotherstone, and, in truth, she more than struggled to connect Prim with the woman he described.
‘A wonderful woman! A pillar of the community!’
Victoria smiled inwardly, knowing that whilst her gran had indeed been a wonderful woman, she had never had time for the petty politics and antics of the various committees that sought her patronage. Everyone from Neighbourhood Watch to the Epsom in Bloom Society coveted her intelligent, frank and fearless input. Prim, however, politely declined them all and did so with such grace and that practised flourish of her hand that offence was never taken.
Gerald spoke beautifully, offering a more recognisable version of her gran.
‘Prim was a person for whom age wasn’t even a number – it was an inconvenience. She loved gin and dancing and staying up late to play cards and talk rubbish, keen to sit in the garden in all weathers and greet the first light.’ He paused to
smile, as if recalling these exact moments with the woman he had been so fond of . . .
Victoria let her gaze wander over the congregation, trying to remember the saying that was something to do with how you could judge a person by the company they kept. Well, whoever came up with that had clearly never met Prim! With the exception of the Joshi family, there wasn’t a head present that wasn’t grey. The men were jowly and slack-jawed, a little crooked, and they walked slowly, leaning on whatever they could grab en route to remain upright, whether it be a pew or the arm of the person closest. The women uniformly had bloated ankles, gripped sticks and were clad in polyester – black mostly, apart from one older lady who was resplendent, head to toe, in lemon. All wore flat, sensible shoes that Prim would have deemed so ugly she would not have worn them to tend the garden. These people were old! So old! Victoria wondered what they might possibly have had in common with her gran. Prim was nothing like them; she was, in fact, the opposite of them: young and active, busy and fast!
Her eyes fell upon the glossy, blonde-wood coffin with the brass handles and a lump formed in her throat as a fresh batch of tears sprang.
Maybe you were like these people, Prim. Maybe you were a little bowed, a little frail, and I just couldn’t see it, or maybe I didn’t want to see it . . . To me you were and always will be magnificent! I hope that if there is a heaven, you and Sarah and Marcus have made up, maybe you will all sit around a dinner table together with Grandpa . . . and I have to admit that I envy you and I wonder if I might prefer to be with all of you than here, by myself. I am scared. I am so scared. And I love you and right now I don’t know how I am going to put one foot in front of the other and make it out of this church. I feel lonely, even here among all of these people.
The congregation made a slow procession along the path to the church gates, where the vicar stood and gave each person a two-handed clasp in lieu of a shake. When it was her turn, Victoria thought it felt a little possessive for a stranger and it did nothing to ease her discomfort.
The Day She Came Back Page 5