by Sarah Jasmon
Her hug was unexpected, and Charlie stiffened slightly before returning the gesture. As they stood in the unfamiliar closeness, she felt Eleanor registering the jumper, where it was from. Her pause was followed by a brief stroke before she returned to the sink, asking if Charlie wanted something to eat as she went.
‘Ah, Charlotte, good of you to join us.’ Her father turned to regard her, and she felt herself stiffen again, but this time with anger. It was the most he’d said to her since that final, disastrous visit before she’d left. If he hadn’t been so pedantic about the importance of her standing on her own two feet if she was going to do ridiculous things, so inflexible about dogs belonging outside, she would have been there at the house for more time, maybe even enough to create that moment with her mother so she’d have something to remember now. What might they have said if they’d had some time alone, just sitting there together? And now she’d lost the chance of ever talking to her again.
Charlie took a deep breath, stepping towards the far side of the table without reacting. He seemed crumpled, his head poking forwards from the collar of his soft checked shirt, the skin loose on the front of his neck. Was he this old when she left for Thailand? For some reason, she thought back to when Poppy, Eleanor’s younger daughter, was born. Martha had been about five and seemed a tiny girl until it was as if she’d swelled overnight in comparison to the baby. Perhaps death did the same sort of thing, but marking the changes with the passage of time instead of size? She looked up to find Eleanor looking at her and her father giving his displeased grunt of impatience. Had they said something to her?
Before she could respond, her father was standing, taking time to manoeuvre around his chair as if his legs weren’t as reliable as they should be.
‘We’ll finish this off tomorrow,’ he said, gesturing towards the paperwork.
‘Don’t let me stop you,’ Charlie replied, aiming for a neutral tone which even so sounded passive aggressive to her ears. The kitchen seemed to be in double-sharp focus, throbbing slightly under the bright overhead light. She felt that she’d collapse if she didn’t eat something soon, at the same time uncertain that she could stay awake for long enough to manage anything.
‘That’s very kind.’ Her father’s voice was brittle with sarcasm. ‘But the thought was far from my mind. It has been a long day.’
And then he was walking out of the room, and Eleanor was putting a plate of some kind of stew in front of her. She looked down at it, unable to work out what her next move should be.
‘Can you not leave it, just for one evening?’ Eleanor dropped into the chair vacated by their father, leaning her head into one hand. She looked exhausted as well.
‘What, me?’ Charlie stared, then shook her head. ‘You honestly thought that was me?’
‘No, not really.’ Eleanor pushed cutlery across the table. ‘Go on, eat. I’m sorry, I spend too much time with squabbling children.’
Charlie picked up the fork automatically, chewing a mouthful of stew as she processed her sister’s words. Everything was taking a long time, and she’d swallowed two lots before realizing how hungry she was. She began to eat more quickly, taking a moment to acknowledge it. ‘This is delicious. Thank you.’
‘It’s nothing.’ Eleanor sat there, watching her shovel it down. Finally, she spoke again. ‘I’m worried about him, actually. He won’t admit it, but his memory … He’s starting to forget things, get confused.’
‘He seemed to be remembering plenty just then.’ Charlie caught sight of her sister’s expression. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just so hard to take it all in.’ She put her fork down, suddenly not hungry any more.
‘It’s not just because of Mum.’ Eleanor was fiddling with a pencil, bouncing it on its rubber tip before lining it back up with the edge of a sheet of paper. ‘Maybe it’s made me notice more, but he’s been like this for a while. Not enough to put your finger on anything in particular …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘It’s like he’s not always there.’
Charlie didn’t answer straight away, instead picking at the piece of bread Eleanor had put on her plate. The soft white doughiness compressed to a solid lump between her fingers. ‘What actually happened, El? I mean, do they know the cause of death?’ It felt odd saying it out loud like that and she sounded unreal, as if she was a character in a bad TV programme.
Eleanor sighed. ‘There’ll have to be a post-mortem,’ she said. ‘With her not being under a doctor for anything, you know. She’d been feeling ill for a few days, apparently, but didn’t tell anyone.’
‘So she might have been OK, if she’d been to see someone sooner?’ Charlie squashed more bread pellets, lining them up in order of size.
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ Eleanor’s face screwed up, a little girl about to cry. ‘We were here last week, she was fine. Seemed fine.’
Charlie reached over, grasping for her sister’s hand. There was so much to say, and it was so hard to imagine actually saying it. Eleanor gave her fingers a squeeze, then stood up.
‘I’d really better be getting home.’ She was turning around, not meeting Charlie’s eyes. Maybe she was just looking for her bag, or maybe she was trying to avoid talking any further. ‘Have you got everything you need?’
‘Yes. I mean, nothing that matters.’ Charlie paused, wondering how much to say. ‘It is, I mean—’ She came to a stop and gave a helpless gesture, taking in the kitchen, the rooms beyond. ‘Is it all right for me to stay here? After, well, you know …’ Her voice trailed off again and she had to force herself to continue. ‘It’s just with flying back and not planning it, I haven’t got much spare money.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ Eleanor’s reply, brisk and practical, came quickly back. There was a pause, as if she was deciding whether to say something. Charlie glanced at her, catching an odd expression passing over her face. When she spoke again, it didn’t seem to connect to the look. ‘Dad will be pleased to have you here.’
Charlie doubted that, but she wasn’t going to argue. That was new, hearing Eleanor call him ‘Dad’. He’d never been a dad figure, still less a ‘daddy’. Charlie had avoided using any variation since she was, what, thirteen? It had felt significant, refusing the intimacy of any of the choices. As an adult, if pushed, she used his name, Hugo. It didn’t suit him, was too jolly. A Hugo should be someone with a deep laugh who pulled chocolate coins out of his ears for children and gathered people to him with warm bonhomie. That was what she thought, every time it came up. You don’t deserve that name. It’s not yours. Max and his siblings had so many expressions for their father: Pops, Papa, Old Guy. Mingus, from a distant family joke no one could ever explain. He was everything she would have chosen, a quiet, warm man with a dry sense of fun. She missed him more than she could say. Pushing that thought down deep, she followed Eleanor to the front door, both of them stopping for a moment of decision before jointly, and silently, making the decision not to hug again.
She couldn’t sleep, of course. The house hung around her in its silent whiteness, the wind picking up across the hilltops outside. Her thoughts fell in with the cadence, gusting in swoops around her mother and her father and a lifetime of things not said. In the end she gave up. There was no sidelight in here any more, and the shade had been taken off the central bulb. She propped herself up, reading the book she’d taken from her mother’s room under its harsh, surreal light. A woman on a boat, daughters playing in the mud of the Thames. Disagreements, hardship. The sense of tragedy about to descend. The pages took on an almost hallucinatory significance as she carried on, page after page, and dawn was lightening the curtains before she finally dropped off. She dreamed of the story: boats and mud, absent parents and struggle.
FIVE
Over the following days, they entered a time of limbo, an equilibrium reached and maintained by the fewest possible words. Charlie kept out of her father’s way, partly through design and partly because he was clearly keeping out of hers. They used the kitchen at different times, waited for the landing
to be clear before crossing over to the bathroom. He disappeared into his study for long periods; she went out for walks across the damp fields, where she managed not to think too much, concentrating on the movement of her feet, the ticking off of footpaths and turnings, the accumulation of miles travelled. Sometimes, she wondered about calling Max. He’d need to be told, about her mother, maybe even about the funeral. It was hard to be sure of the etiquette, easier not to do anything. It wasn’t as if she could have Bella with her. And there were bigger questions lurking out there, things that had been easy to put to one side when the thought of coming home had been shadows beyond a brave new life. The house, her share of it, all of the things they’d managed to ignore before. At the back of her head, she’d kind of expected not to come back. Her future would happen overseas, somewhere exotic and different, where house prices and solicitor’s fees didn’t exist. She thought that Max might have been hoping, despite his words, that she’d come back and they could pick things up with whatever was bothering her finally out of her system. At times now, it was a solution which sang to her. But what if he said no? But what if he said yes?
So she stayed where she was and did things when Eleanor asked her to, sorting out cupboards or snipping at things in the garden. It was clear they were activities aimed at keeping her out of the way, straightforward tasks requiring little or no decision-making. Eleanor kept that for herself and Charlie couldn’t summon up the energy to question her right to do so. Their initial rapprochement had retreated from the first couple of days, and Charlie could sense what her sister’s response would be. You took off and left the responsibility to me. I’m just following through. And I’m not talking about your delayed gap year, I’m talking about before that, when you waltzed off to university and left me to be the one who sorted things out. Was that Eleanor’s voice or her own conscience, though? Because she couldn’t help but recognize that her sister was taking the same approach with their father. They were two more children, in effect, to be ordered and occupied. No wonder Jon kept out of the way. Charlie packed boxes and cleaned windows, trying to keep her mind empty. Only once did she go back to her mother’s room, to find the bed stripped, the surfaces cleared.
Then, on a day when numerous decisions had to be made, with a string of appointments with undertakers and banks and solicitors and other things she hadn’t really listened to, they hit upon a plan which helped everyone to sit a little easier together. Eleanor had arrived with her whole family, trailing a slip-stream of discord. The girls spilled into the house in a noisy bundle, Poppy still in her pyjamas and Martha with tear-stained cheeks. Jon followed behind, taking no notice of the effect his daughters were having. Eleanor took Poppy off to be sorted, and Charlie followed Jon into the living room. Martha was already in there, crouched in a corner with her back showing just how much she was hating the day.
‘Did something happen?’ Charlie asked, remembering what it was like to be nearly eleven and never quite sure how you wanted to behave.
Jon was slumped in an armchair, scrolling through something on his phone. He cast a casual glance at his daughter and shrugged. ‘Nothing more than the normal,’ he said, and went back to the screen.
It was almost the first time she’d seen Jon since she’d arrived back. She wandered over to the fireplace, leaning on the mantel to surreptitiously study him. Mid-height and dark haired, he had the sort of face that didn’t give much away. She’d always found it hard to tell if he was genuinely grumpy, or just bored. Or maybe she’d never tried. He was just there, wallpaper in her sister’s life, though Max had always said he was trapped in a place he hadn’t seen coming, and there was an interesting guy under there somewhere.
‘So, what are you doing next, then?’ His words caught her off balance, his awareness of her scrutiny making her blush. ‘Going back out to the sun?’
Charlie glanced down at her arms, at the fading tan she’d sometimes found herself staring at, as if wondering where it had come from. ‘Not sure yet. Everything’s a bit up in the air.’ As if her life was like confetti, to be thrown around for the wind to take where it would. ‘Eleanor says you’ve got a new job?’ If only she’d thought to check what it was in. All she could remember was Eleanor saying it was taking up a lot of his time. The extra hours seemed to be agreeing with him. He’d shaved his hair short, which made him look younger, and lost weight. His T-shirt was new as well, the logo on it familiar and expensive.
‘Yep, all going well.’ He sat back, lifting his arms to stretch out, with something satisfied in his demeanour, as if he’d discovered a secret to life. ‘Nothing like a change, eh?’
There was something off in his tone. She realized he wasn’t looking at her, not really. His mind was elsewhere, occupied with whatever was on his phone. Poppy’s voice came down the stairs, shrieking in fury. Clearly dressing wasn’t going to plan. Charlie was glad of the distraction. ‘I don’t know how Eleanor does it,’ she said. ‘She’s always so calm.’
‘You’d think so.’ Jon had picked his phone up again. ‘But you haven’t seen her when—’ Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by Eleanor herself, coming into the room with Poppy in tow.
‘Right, she’s ready.’ There was something about Eleanor’s voice that made Charlie feel uncomfortable. It was stretched, a little wobbly. Poppy was dressed for a dance class, though she didn’t seem thrilled at the idea. She was letting her legs buckle under the blue net skirt, using her weight to try and escape from her mother’s grip. ‘Jon, are you going to take her?’ The tension in her tone went up a notch, and she gave Poppy’s arm a shake. ‘Stand up. You’re being very silly.’ She spoke a little more loudly, towards where Martha was still hunched on the floor. ‘Come on, Mar, time to go!’
The forced cheerfulness of her tone didn’t seem to make Martha any more enthusiastic, but she got to her feet with an exaggerated effort.
‘I still don’t see why I have to go,’ she muttered. ‘I could walk to the library. Or I could stay here. Anything would be better than watching Poppy’s stupid class.’
‘No, you couldn’t, it’s too far and there’s not time.’ They’d clearly had it out before. ‘I said I’d make sure you went next week. Jon, Poppy’s going to be late, and you know how they are!’
‘What’s the problem?’ Charlie couldn’t help wondering why everyone was going to something nobody wanted to do.
Eleanor gave an exasperated sigh. ‘They have things on at different ends of the town,’ she explained, ‘which is usually fine, but I have to do these things with Dad today. Martha’s just being silly.’
‘I’m not!’ Martha’s eyes filled with tears. ‘But it’s not fair that you’re doing Poppy’s thing, not mine. She doesn’t even like ballet!’
‘Could I go with her?’ They all turned to look at Charlie with differing expressions. Eleanor was surprised, Jon sardonic, Martha hopeful. Poppy managed to slide away, landing on the floor where she started to take her shoes off. ‘Really, I don’t mind. We can go to the library thing or go for a walk here. Whatever.’ Anything to get out of this house, she added in her head.
By the day of the funeral, everyone seemed to accept that Martha would sit with her aunt. Charlie was gratified to feel the small frame leaning into her as they waited at the front of the chapel, though it did make the moment more surreal than it already was. Charlie was wearing a dress of Eleanor’s, a suitably understated outfit which made her feel as if she was having an out of body experience. This wasn’t her, tucked down at the end of the single filled pew. On the other side of Martha was Jon, then a squirming Poppy, Eleanor, and finally her father. Hugo had discouraged the idea of other people being invited. There was no one, he’d said, who was close enough to his wife to make it a necessity. Charlie couldn’t think of anyone to counter this statement with, but it still felt wrong, as if they’d not tried enough.
‘We are gathered here today to remember Britta, a much-loved wife, mother and grandmother.’ The minister’s voice caught Charlie by su
rprise. She was young, with a fresh, shining face tilted towards them in sympathy. Her tone felt theatrical in the setting, perhaps more practised in a church, or with a larger number of mourners. The words went on. ‘Britta was a quiet woman, happy to stay within her close family circle.’ She was doing her best with what she’d been given. Charlie bit down on her lips, tuning out as much as she could whilst she looked towards the coffin. It was so small. She hadn’t gone with Eleanor and Hugo to the chapel of rest, volunteering instead to stay behind with the children. She hadn’t been able to bear the thought of standing there with them, feeling the pressure of all the things you were supposed to say, the ways you were expected to behave. She still wasn’t sure what she actually felt.
Now she looked at the small brown box with its neat brass handles and wondered what her mother would have wanted, given the choice. Surely not this sad remnant of a family, sitting in a fake chapel and going through the form of a service she’d never sought out in life. She’d been an only child with no living parents, had spent her lifetime away from her homeland; maybe that explained the lack of family. But surely there were people who had known her, who would want to remember? And why no friends, no evidence of any social circle? Had she really been so satisfied with this small, inadequate group? If she hadn’t been, then Charlie was too late to ask her; to do anything about it.