The Day She Came Back

by Amanda Prowse

  Prim! Swigging out of the bottle? Really!

  This, her gran’s last ever bottle of wine, and she had left the other half for her. As was often the case of late, her laughter turned quickly to tears, and again she folded, resting her head on the countertop until Mrs Joshi swept forward and wrapped her in her arms.

  ‘Come on, dear. You are going to bed.’

  With exhaustion washing over her, Victoria didn’t have the strength to fight the suggestion. Mrs Joshi almost pushed her up the staircase and past the pictures of her mother on the windowsill. The sight of them only made her tears fall harder.

  You died! You are dead and I have wished my whole life that it was not the case, but it is!

  ‘Don’t cry, dear. Don’t cry. You need to sleep. Daksha will stay with you and you will feel better in the morning, I promise. Everything feels better after sleep. Trust me.’

  Victoria slipped off her shoes and cotton cardigan and climbed between the sheets. Mrs Joshi drew the bedroom curtains to block out the last of the day’s sun, leaving her room bathed in the muted yellow glow of evening-tide with birds wittering and sunlight filtering through the trees, forming dappled shapes on the ceiling.

  ‘Go to sleep,’ Daksha’s mum cooed as she stroked her forehead. ‘Go to sleep.’

  As Victoria’s eyes closed, summer colours danced behind her eyelids and she pictured the woman’s tear-streaked face as they stood by the lake. It had unnerved her more than she cared to admit.

  ‘Victory . . .’ she whispered. ‘It’s not even a name . . .’

  FOUR

  Mrs Joshi was right; she did feel better after sleep, although the first thing she thought about upon waking and the last thing before sleep finally claimed her was what the woman by the lake had said to her the day before. It was such a very odd thing and it played on her mind, which was already overstuffed with worry and sadness. There had been a familiarity in her face, but, as if aware of her own fragility, Victoria knew that to jump down that particular rabbit hole of believing the loony story would lead to nothing good.

  ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid!’ she reprimanded herself as she stepped out of the cotton dress she’d slept in. A shower restored some of her well-being, the hot water running over her face and eyes, which were puffy from grief, reading by lamplight and a deep sleep. Choosing jeans, a short-sleeved linen T-shirt and going barefoot, Victoria walked into the kitchen.

  She decided not to mention to Daksha that at 3 a.m. she had kicked off the covers and made her way down the stairs. The roll-top bureau had creaked as she lowered the shutter-like lid and rummaged through her gran’s things, which felt far from comfortable. As far as she could tell, everything was just as she had left it. Nothing missing.

  Victoria had, however, discovered a coupon for half-price Botox and laughed out loud while crying tears of joy and sadness. It was such a Prim thing to consider. How she missed her! How she wished she could talk to her about the weird woman, about everything. When she thought about it logically, the woman must have snooped somehow, found out about her family – maybe she had grilled some of the elderly mourners who were more concerned with refreshing their cups of tea and eating the sandwiches. With the topic on her mind, she had fired off a text to Bernard, figuring he was the only person who might be able to throw some light on the odd situation. It was unsurprising to her that he didn’t instantly reply. He, like most people at that ungodly hour, was most likely asleep. Before turning off her bedside lamp and retiring for the second time, she lay back on the soft pillow nest.

  What if she is my mum? She let the thought permeate and placed her hand on her stomach to quell the visceral leap of joy at the very possibility. But she’s not, Victoria, she can’t be . . .

  Instead, she pictured her mum and gran reunited in heaven, wondering what that might be like and how long it would take for them to catch up: years and years and years, if she had to guess . . . The very thought made her smile.

  And now it was a brand-new day, one where the dreaded funeral was behind her. All she wanted right now was a cup of tea. She checked her phone; frustratingly, there was still no reply from Bernard.

  ‘Morning, sleepyhead, how are you feeling?’ Daksha greeted her from the kitchen table, where she sat with an array of desserts in front of her. It felt good to have her noise, her company.

  ‘Bit better, I think. I’m certainly cleaner – just stood in the shower for an age.’

  ‘Good. I think it went well yesterday. The old people seemed to have a nice time and all were very grateful when they left. One or two took sandwiches and a slice of Battenberg wrapped in a napkin for their tea.’

  They both smiled at the idea of the elderly equivalent of a party bag.

  ‘Thank you for seeing everyone out, Daks. I just crashed. It was like someone pulled my plug out.’

  ‘I did notice. Anyway, don’t thank me. Mum went into overdrive; you know how she loves a drama and mass catering. This was two of her very favourite things combined.’

  Again she managed to raise a smile.

  Daksha began spooning large mouthfuls of pavlova into her mouth with a serving spoon.

  ‘Didn’t want it to go to waste!’ She grinned by way of explanation as she swallowed and reloaded the spoon.

  ‘You are all heart.’ Victoria filled the kettle and reached for a mug from the hooks on the underside of the shelf on the dresser.

  ‘I am all heart, and in my quest to reduce waste, last night I polished off a wheel of Brie along with half a jar of chutney and this morning I have already consumed a Portuguese custard tart, washed down with three cups of coffee.’

  ‘I thought we were on a healthy eating plan so we could be in the best shape for our travels?’

  Daksha put the spoon down and swallowed her mouthful. ‘Are we still going? I mean, I want to! I just didn’t know whether it was appropriate to mention it or ask. I completely understand if you’ve had a change of heart – no pressure from me, none at all. Only you know how you feel. Of course I still want us to go. I really, really want us to go, but it’s got to be what’s right for you and I will understand either way. You know that.’

  Victoria stared at her rambling friend, who had a blob of cream and a tiny puff of meringue on her chin. She poured the hot water into the mug. It felt somehow easier to go with the flow and not disappoint her mate than voice her utter paralysis when it came to thinking about going travelling, or even next month, next week or tomorrow . . . in fact, such was her sadness it was hard to see beyond the now.

  ‘I will need to organise something for the house – I can’t just abandon it for however long we are away – but I do still want to go, I think, and it’s not like we leave next week. We have nearly six months.’ She noticed the smile that split Daksha’s face, remembering how the trip had meant as much to her only a week or so ago. ‘Can you imagine Prim’s reaction if she thought she might be the reason for us cancelling our big trip?’

  Daksha extended her arms and lifted her pudding-smeared chin. ‘Darlings! Don’t be so utterly ridiculous, go and have fun! Dance in the moonlight. Meet boys! Swim in every ocean and eat lobster whenever you have the chance!’ Daksha stopped talking and looked at her friend, seemingly unsure now, when it was too little too late, if her impression was a comfort or something insensitive.

  ‘Exactly.’ It was bittersweet for Victoria, touched by the sentiment she knew Prim might well express but still too grief-stricken to hear her name, let alone a muted version of her voice, without feeling swamped by sadness. She sloshed milk into her drink. ‘That is exactly what she would say. We should go.’ She hoped that by making a decision it might help her move forward, a plan of sorts.

  Daksha leapt from the chair. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes! We are back on track and we’re going to have the best adventure ever!’

  ‘I hope so.’ Victoria chose not to share her fear that, weighed down by sadness, it was hard right now for her to see herself feeling happy or enjoying an adventure ever again. She n
oticed the pristine surfaces, shiny floor and sparkling sink. ‘The place looks great.’

  ‘Mummy and I did it after everyone had left.’

  ‘Thank you. Your mum’s wonderful. She has been so amazing to me; your dad too.’

  ‘I’m lucky,’ Daksha agreed, and reached again for the spoon. Seemingly, the confirmation that their travels were actually happening was not enough to encourage her to lay off the pudding. ‘So come on, tell me about “weird woman” yesterday. What on earth was all that about? You seemed a bit freaked out!’

  Victoria took the seat opposite her friend at the table, widening her eyes at the understatement and wondering what to say. ‘I was. I’m still a bit freaked out, actually; the whole thing was so weird and it’s really bothered me. I don’t know where to start: everything about it was odd. Ridiculous and odd, but it’s upset me a bit too,’ she whispered.

  ‘Upset you how? What did she say?’ Daksha jutted her lower jaw, enabling her to speak without losing any of her mouth’s precious pavlova cargo.

  Victoria sipped the drink she held in her palms and rested her elbows on the table. ‘Well, the first thing she told me was that my name is not Victoria.’

  ‘Ah, marvellous! A loon of the psychic variety, I bet – my favourite kind. Let me guess, you were actually christened Nefertiti! I shall be happy to call you this, of course. But you’ll have to get your passport and railcard altered.’ Daksha grimaced. ‘Have you noticed that if anyone talks about a previous life, they never say, “Oooh, you were a car mechanic called Roy from Loughborough. You died in the 1970s by choking on a cheese sandwich!” It’s always someone from medieval times or Joan of Arc or one of Henry VI’s eight wives!’

  Victoria knew this was her friend at her finest, trying to lighten the mood. ‘I think you’ll find it was Henry VIII who had six wives.’ It was one of the few historical facts she knew. Divorced, beheaded, died . . . and whatever came next.

  Daksha reloaded her spoon. ‘I’m a scientist, not a historian, so shoot me! You get my point, though.’

  ‘Actually, you are not as wide of the mark as it might seem. She told me my name is Victory.’

  ‘Victory? I like it! And how, pray, did she know your name was Victory?’ Her friend stared at her wide-eyed, waiting for the punchline. When it came, it didn’t disappoint.

  ‘She knew because she said she had named me.’ Victoria shook her head, knowing it really was as ridiculous as it sounded and yet was no less upsetting for that. ‘She said . . . she said she was my mum.’

  Daksha stopped laughing and the smile slipped from her face. She placed the spoon on the table and stared at Victoria with her hands in her lap.

  ‘That’s not even funny.’

  ‘I know. It was a horrible thing to say, and it’s made me feel out of sorts. I can’t get it out of my head.’

  Daksha took a slow breath and it was a while before she spoke. ‘You need to not think about it. She obviously got wind of Prim’s funeral and gatecrashed; there are some bloody strange people out there. She probably does it all over the county, like a wedding-crasher. Just ignore it. You have enough going on.’

  ‘Believe me, I’d like to not think about it, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I don’t know. There was something, Daks . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just something. I felt like we might have met before. I thought maybe she was someone from the library or someone I’ve seen in town. She looked, I don’t know . . .’ Even she was too embarrassed to say the words, because the words, and indeed the very thought, was absurd.

  ‘She looked what?’

  ‘Familiar. She looked familiar,’ was the best she could manage, unwilling to share how she had spent more minutes than she could count trying to match the face of the woman to the eyes that had smiled at her from the windowsill on the half landing all her life.

  ‘Well, she might well be someone you’ve met, but you still have to forget about it. You don’t need people like that near you right now.’

  Victoria nodded, knowing this might be easier said than done. The two sat in silence for a second or two, each digesting the exchange.

  ‘I wish Prim was here.’ Victoria uttered the words that were enough to break the dam on the next surge of emotion that flooded her. ‘I miss her! I really miss her! I just want her to come home! And I can’t believe that she won’t, not ever.’ Abandoning the mug, she placed her head on her arms on the tabletop as she sobbed. ‘I miss her so much!’

  Daksha leaned across and stroked her hair. ‘I know you do, honey. I know you do. And it’s going to hurt, but the thing is, if Prim were here, she’d—’

  The doorbell rang, interrupting her.

  ‘Damn. You stay put. I’ll go.’ Daksha tucked her hair behind her ears and made her way to the front door.

  Victoria sat up straight and sniffed, wiped her eyes and face on her palm and dried her damp, snotty hand on her jeans. It was still the case that these mini breakdowns, the release of tears, actually made her feel a little better for a short while, almost like draining the sad system of its woe before it refilled and she would once again sob. It was a wearying cycle. She heard Daksha on the doorstep and guessed that after the funeral there would be a slew of thank-you cards or notes from all of Prim’s acquaintances who had attended. She half wondered if it might be Gerald at the door, sweet Gerald, making good on his promise to visit and get cracking on those tomato plants. She looked forward to seeing him and thought that, if it wasn’t him, she’d better check how he was doing.

  She heard the front door close and Daksha walked slowly back into the room.

  ‘Who was it?’ She wiped the residual tears with her fingers.

  ‘It was no one.’

  ‘No one?’

  Daksha nodded. ‘No one, but I found this.’ She slid the pale envelope across the table and picked up her pavlova spoon.

  ‘Ah, so it begins: the thank-you notes.’

  ‘Do you then have to thank them for thanking you, and do they then have to—’

  ‘I get the idea, Daks.’ Victoria cut her short.

  She opened the envelope and withdrew the single sheet. The script was neat, ordered and not dissimilar to her handwriting. The note, short.

  September 2019

  Hello Victory,

  I know this is a lot for you to take in. I understand.

  And the truth is I don’t really know where to start.

  I return to Oslo tomorrow and would dearly, dearly love to see you before I leave.

  I am staying at the Holiday Inn up on the Downs.

  My cell number is at the top of the page.

  It would mean the world for you to get in touch.

  I have waited eighteen years for the opportunity.

  With love,

  With so much love!

  Sarah Hansen.

  Victoria read it twice more and stared at Daksha. Her heart thudded in her chest and she felt the light-headed sickness of a swoon.

  ‘Are you okay? You look a bit pale.’

  Victoria didn’t answer but stared at the writing. It looks similar to yours, or maybe you are imagining that, looking for things . . .

  ‘Vic? What is it?’ Daksha probed again. ‘What does it say?’

  Jumping up from the table, Victoria crashed out through the hallway and on to the driveway, ignoring the bite of small stones on the soles of her feet as she frantically looked up and down the lane. There was no car and no sign of Sarah Hansen. With weak legs and a racing heart, she closed the front door and walked back into the kitchen. Daksha was sitting in uncharacteristic silence.

  Victoria looked at her in disbelief. ‘I can’t believe she came here again! I can’t believe it! She actually came back to the house!’

  ‘Who did? Weird woman?’

  ‘Yes!’ She waved the paper towards her friend.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘What should I do? Do you think I should call the police?’ Victoria bit her
lip and fingered the note before flinging it at her friend, aware of the rising panic in her voice and not sure of quite what she should do or say; this was an entirely new and frightening situation.

  Daksha tilted her head and read the words Sarah had written. ‘No, Vic. No, I don’t think you should call the police.’

  ‘Okay, maybe not the police, but I have to do something! Who the hell is she?’ She opened up the paper and re-read the note, twice. ‘I am so freaked out right now!’ She knotted her fingers in her hair.

  ‘Do you think . . .’ Daksha began, her voice quiet.

  ‘Do I think what?’ Victoria pushed as she went to the sink and ran a long glass of water, sipping it, trying to calm down.

  ‘Do you think she might be telling the truth?’

  Victoria laughed loudly and spun around, slamming the glass on the countertop. Her laughter stopped when she saw her friend’s expression. ‘Really, Daks? Really? What, you think she actually is my dead mother, come back from the grave on the day of her own mother’s funeral to give me a new name and drag me to Oslo? What the fuck is wrong with you?’ The tone and language she used rarely enough, and this was the first time ever towards her very best friend. The exchange bruised the air around them, which now hung heavy with the echo. But the truth was, despite her best efforts to the contrary, Victoria half believed it too.

  ‘I do. I think she . . .’ Daksha swallowed. ‘I think she could be your mum.’ She held her ground, her voice steady.

  Victoria knotted her hair loosely and fastened it on the top of her head with a band, then folded her arms across her chest in the hope it might stop them shaking, curling her fingers tightly until she felt them cramp in response.

  ‘I don’t know what to say to you. I swear to God, I actually do not know what to say to you right now! Why? Why do you think that?’ There was a tremor to her voice.

  ‘Because . . .’

  ‘Because what?’ She was almost shouting now.

  When Daksha spoke, her voice was steady and Victoria envied her the apparent calm with which she viewed the situation. ‘Because thinking about when I saw her yesterday – her posture, her manner, the way she kept out of the way – and this note, quietly dropped and putting you in control.’ She shrugged. ‘And the way it’s affected you – like you might have seen something that makes you believe it’s true but are not saying. I don’t know, I guess it’s just a gut instinct. You know how you can be told something and you either believe it or you don’t for no other reason than how it feels inside? That almost inexplicable sense of a lie or the truth? Well, it feels like it might be the truth to me.’ Daksha held her gaze.