Mourners gather outside the church, some clutching bouquets of flowers, others holding tissues in closed fists, their red eyes seeking me out as I exit the car. After a cursory glance at the group of faces, I turn back to the coffin. The pall-bearers lift her gingerly from the car. Am I imagining a gentler touch than at the other funerals I’ve attended? Perhaps the directors have been moved by Grace’s young age, by the light weight of her body.
As the coffin moves towards the church, I lead the procession into the building, but my legs feel as though they’re about to buckle beneath me. My marble-like extremities have now transformed into jelly and all the blood has left my limbs. Trying to catch my breath, I bend over for a second, but that makes me dizzy and nauseated. While I steady myself, Mum catches my elbow with her arm, trips and falls to her knees with a loud gasp of surprise. Charles is the one who hurries over to us. Acting quickly, he hooks his hands underneath her armpits, heaving my mother back to her feet.
‘Come on, Susan,’ he says gently.
She lets out a low moan and slumps limply into his arms. I flash Charles a grateful smile for dealing with her.
Mum’s behaviour may be a childish attempt at getting attention, but in all honesty I’m grateful for it. All eyes are on her, judging her, forgetting all about me. I smooth my dress, check the clasps on my shoes are still fastened and follow my Grace as she enters the church.
Twelve
Organ music plays to cover up the sounds of sobbing and the awkward shuffle of the pall-bearers. Charles and I have chosen to let the professionals carry Grace’s coffin in the absence of physically strong friends and family. Charles’s aunt Sylvia unfortunately isn’t well enough to attend, meaning my mother is the one close family member we have in attendance. Too many only children.
As Grace’s coffin is placed at the front of the church, someone forces a hymn book into my stiff, unyielding fingers. I begin to sing the words on the page. Did I choose this hymn? I’m not even sure there is any sound coming out of my mouth as the organ drones on and on. All around me, voices chime together and a melody rises. I allow my eyes to drift away from the hymn book, away from the coffin and instead focus on the people in the church.
Alicia’s silver hair stands out from the crowd, especially as her head is bowed. Jenny still has her arm around her daughter’s slight frame, acting the mama bear today, her long, dark shawl spilling over Alicia’s lacy blouse. I quickly scan Alicia for signs of genuine grief, but with her head bowed it’s difficult to tell. She’s wearing a tight pencil skirt, very tasteful, and her hair is straight and shiny, not a dark root in sight.
In the row on the opposite side sit Sasha and her parents, Rachel and Chris. Sasha isn’t singing at all; instead she stands wringing her hands and staring at her feet. Ethan is two rows behind, his mouth moving but his eyes staring straight ahead, unfocused and red. His skin is pale, which could be a sign of anxiety. It could also be because he, like most people, hates funerals. Maybe this is his first one? Among the rest of the congregation, I see a few familiar faces: parents, teenagers, teachers. Grace’s music teacher is here; I recognise him from parents’ evening as one of the few staff members who stood out, largely because he seemed like the kind of teacher who wanted to be everyone’s friend. A young guy that all the girls had crushes on.
Charles tugs on the hem of my dress and I finally notice that the singing has stopped. Everyone else is sitting except for me, standing there in the front row, body twisted, staring at everyone in the church. The grieving mother, spaced out and unaware of her surroundings. They probably think I’ve taken a bunch of pills to get through the day.
When I sit down, the priest begins to talk, listing a selection of Grace’s achievements, which I sent him by email two days ago: her local award for music composition, her A grades in her GCSEs, the mentoring she did for younger students, the followers she had amassed through her vlogging channel. He talks about God’s love and protection. Charles’s hand rests on mine, slightly damp from where he’s brushed tears away with his fingertips. The congregation sniffs collectively. Am I the only one in the room who isn’t crying? I could fake it, force a blurry sheen of moisture over my corneas. But no, I won’t fake it. My daughter deserves more than crocodile tears. What I feel inside is worth more because it’s real. Let them judge me. Let them whisper behind my back as I walk out of this church without a mascara smudge in sight.
We pray. We sing. We stand. We sit. The congregation obeys the priest in every command. There are times when I consider flinging myself at the coffin, and others when I want to run out of the church. At one point I’m afraid I might vomit on my shoes, but I don’t, I get through it.
‘And now we will hear from friends and family who would like to say a few special words about Grace,’ the priest says.
It’s important that I watch Alicia stand up from the pew and walk down to the pulpit, so I crane my neck to see her. Jenny almost doesn’t allow her daughter to get to her feet; she clutches Alicia’s hand tightly and takes a few moments to let go. But the teenager picks her way through the crowded row and continues to the pulpit, her heels clicking on the stone slabs. She’s handling the attention like a pro, but what else would I expect from the most popular girl at school?
She flicks her hair, rests a few pieces of paper on the lectern, glances up at the ceiling then down to her feet and blinks several times.
‘When I was younger, I used to beg my mum and dad for a sister. I wanted someone to dress up with me, to play dolls with. I wanted someone to share my secrets with.’ She pauses and sucks in a long, deep breath, blinking again. Is she trying to force out tears? ‘I never thought I would find my own sister as I made my own way through this world. Sometimes I think Grace chose me. Perhaps she was searching for someone too. Grace was someone I could share everything with. She was my best friend.’ Now she does begin to cry, twisting her face into a contortion an Oscar-winning actress would be proud of. ‘I remember the last thing she said to me…’ She pauses to shuffle her papers and I lean forward, eager to hear what she has to say. ‘It was silly, really. We sent each other messages every day.’ She dabs her eyes with a tissue, making me wait. ‘It said, “I love you, sis.”’
Alicia leans forward dramatically and her silver hair cascades over the wooden lectern. Jenny rushes to her side, placing that protective arm back over her daughter’s shoulders. They whisper to each other on the way back to their seats, Alicia nodding while wiping tears from her eyes.
‘That was very brave,’ Charles says, rubbing Alicia’s arm as they pass.
But I don’t think it was brave at all. I think it was all a lie.
To my utmost horror, my mother is the next to stand. We hadn’t arranged for her to speak; in fact, Ethan changed his mind and is supposed to read a poem. But now my mother is striding towards the pulpit and panic rises in me. She gets to the lectern and blows her nose far too close to the microphone.
‘She was an angel,’ Mum says. ‘I’ve never seen such a beautiful child. Such perfect features. I remember the day she was born, with those bright eyes and ruddy cheeks.’
My teeth grind together in anger. My mother was nowhere near the hospital on the day of Grace’s birth. I hadn’t even invited her.
‘I held her in my arms and rocked her back and forth while she cried and cried. I was the only one who could comfort her. It was me who—’
‘No.’
Her eyes seek me out and the church falls silent. My fingertips tremble and the thud of my pulse is the one sound I hear clearly. There’s another tug on my hem but this time I ignore it. For some reason I have taken to my feet and now everyone is gawking at me, including my mother. I shake my head three times, never moving my gaze from the woman whose ‘grief’ has briefly given way to disbelief.
‘No,’ I say again, quieter this time. ‘Stop talking.’
‘Honey.’ Charles stands, trying to guide me back to the pew. ‘Sit down, honey.’
But I wait, the moment d
ragging on as my mother stares me down, until she finally steps away from the pulpit. She stumbles again and Charles moves forward to help her, but this time she bats his hand away. I remain standing until she is back in her seat, and then the priest continues with the service.
* * *
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Cavanaugh.’
The afternoon continues in a blur of thin smiles and sniffles. My hand is grasped and shaken more than I would usually like, but my mind is elsewhere so it doesn’t really matter. It has been elsewhere since I watched the coffin slowly descend into the dark grave. I have been split apart, creating two Kat Cavanaughs: one who is tough enough to block out the pain, and a traumatised little girl rocking back and forth in the corner of a dark room.
‘It was a lovely service.’ DS Slater smiles in that grim way that people do when they want to lighten the mood but not appear happy. ‘How are you holding up?’
‘It was nice of you to come, Detective,’ I say, still feeling disconnected from my body.
‘I wanted to pay my respects,’ he replies. ‘I never had the privilege of meeting Grace, but it sounds like she was a very bright girl.’
‘She was. I’m just sorry that there wasn’t more of an investigation. I made my doubts very clear.’
‘You did. But even still, I believe we made the right choice, given the circumstances.’ He pats my hand again. ‘Thank you for your hospitality this afternoon. Unfortunately, I need to go back to the station now.’
‘Yes, you must catch those murderers.’
He nods, no trace of a smile left on his sharp face.
A small part of me comes floating back and I grasp it, determined to stay focused. No matter what the detective says, I still have my instincts to rely on, and they’re telling me that Grace was murdered. That is what I need to concentrate on.
‘Do you think we need more wine?’ Charles must have walked over while I was distracted by DS Slater. ‘We’re getting through it rather quickly.’
‘That’s because my mother is here. I’ll tell the caterers to open two more bottles of the red.’
As I begin to leave, Charles touches me on the elbow. ‘Hey, what you did in the church…’
‘I know, I shouldn’t have. I ruined the service.’ It wasn’t what a good person – a good mother – would have done. A good person wouldn’t have made a scene.
‘No, I wasn’t going to say that. I’m glad you did. I hated hearing her lies, too.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He regards me curiously, head tilted to the left. ‘What for?’
‘For her. Of all the mothers to have’ – I roll my eyes to the right, where my mother is talking loudly to a group of parents from the school about how close she was to Grace – ‘I had to come out of that one.’
Another piece of me makes its way back out from the fog of grief.
‘This day was always going to be the worst day we’ve ever had,’ Charles says.
‘I know.’
‘She couldn’t have ruined it. How could it be any worse?’
We grip on to each other, both thinking of our daughter. But I can’t bear it for too long. I pull away.
‘The caterers…’ I mutter.
‘Kat.’ He keeps hold of one arm. I stop, move a step closer to him. ‘After all of this, we should talk. You’re… you’re not grieving, Kat. You need to let it out. I know you’re holding it all in, trying to be brave.’
‘No, that’s not—’
‘You had a tough upbringing.’ His eyes flit across to my mother. ‘And that’s made you a bit harder than others, I get that. But you haven’t even cried.’
‘That’s not true. Let me go, Charles, people are staring.’
‘So what?’ His eyes widen, but he lets me go. ‘Let them. Oh, fuck this, I need a drink.’
Speaking in a low but forceful whisper, I say, ‘I might be holding it together, but have you ever thought that it’s because I have to? We can’t both fall apart, Charles. You have the luxury of getting drunk and crying into the sofa cushions. I have to keep things going around here. Have you thought of that?’
‘I’m already back at work. I am holding it together.’ I stare at his wide, pinstriped back as he walks away from me, blustering through the dining room towards the kitchen.
‘Keep thinking that,’ I mutter. Let him drown himself in whisky. I can’t be his mother, which is what he wants me to be. If I’ve got to pull myself up on my own, he can do the same.
‘You married a weak man.’ Mum’s voice is like a viper at my ear. ‘I told you so.’
‘I married a weak man to get away from you,’ I reply.
There’s no need for me to turn and see her smirk; I sense it as the tiny hairs at the nape of my neck prickle.
‘What do you really know about him anyway?’ she says. ‘How close were Grace and Charles before she died?’
This time I do turn around to stand face-to-face with my mother. ‘What do you mean? They are – were – father and daughter. Of course they were close.’
‘How much time did they spend alone together?’
I shake my head and move away, disgusted. I know what she is insinuating. She follows me, sipping her wine, her tongue stained red.
‘Do you remember how young you were when you met him?’ she prods. ‘He was an older man. And he only married you because you fell pregnant, didn’t he?’
‘I was a grown woman,’ I snap.
‘You were not! You might not have been a teenager anymore, but you had the face of a child, I always said that.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ We make our way through the mourners, out of the French doors and into the garden. Mum is on my heels, her clunky shoes making a racket on the paving slabs of the patio. ‘I was a fully grown adult, and Charles hadn’t married because he still lived with his mother and had commitment issues. It was nothing sinister.’
Though I dismiss her words, I can feel the dark tendrils of her poison worming through my veins, infecting me from heart to extremities. I can’t let her in. But at the same time, my mind wanders back to when I first met Charles, to the things I would do that his other girlfriends wouldn’t, to the way we solidified our relationship, and I feel slightly sick.
‘Are you sure about that, Katie? Don’t you think you should find out? There are rumours, you know.’
What kind of rumours is she talking about? There are things about my sex life with Charles that she couldn’t possibly know. What rumours?
‘Get out, Mother.’ It doesn’t matter what she says or thinks; this is my daughter’s funeral. A hot flash of anger heats my face. Why did I allow her to come? She doesn’t care about me or Grace – everything is a cruel game to her. Perhaps this is it. This is the moment we finally cut ties.
I watch her slink back into the house, where the rest of the mourners are eating the food I paid for. While I’m here, on the outside, I watch them all. I see Ethan take a sandwich, make his way over to a group and stand very close to Alicia. He got to recite his poem in the end, stuttering over his words while the rest of the church sat rigid, still in shock from my outburst. Sasha is on the other side of Alicia, with a glass in her hand. The liquid looks suspiciously like wine. Ethan puts down his plate on my antique dining table, reaches into his suit jacket and removes a flask. The three of them put their heads together as he distributes liquor into their glasses.
On the other side of the room, Jenny and Malc have plates of food and are talking to Ethan’s mother. Someone makes a joke and they laugh. My husband stumbles through this scene, a glass tumbler in his hand, already drunk. Why hadn’t I noticed that he was drunk earlier? He passes a group of teenage girls, stops and begins talking to them. I move away. I can’t watch any longer.
Thirteen
‘Hi, Grace. It’s Mum. I wanted to call yesterday, because I wanted to talk you through everything that was about to happen to you, but I didn’t, and I’m sorry. I know that you’ll never hear this message. This is entirely
for me. I suppose I can’t help myself; I need to talk to you.’ I lift up my knees, crumpling the bedding and clutching it to my chest with my free arm. In my other hand I press the mobile phone even closer to my ear, until the corner digs painfully in. Anything to keep me grounded.
‘I know you had secrets – I guess all teenage girls do – but I wish you’d told me yours. I just… I never thought you were the kind of daughter to keep things from me. Was I a bad mother? Is that why you never told me about the baby? Or maybe you didn’t even know yourself… I wish you could speak to me. If I could look you in the eye and hear you explain what happened, I’d… I…
‘Where’s your phone, Grace? Why didn’t you have it when you died? No one believes me when I say that you didn’t do this to yourself. I’m alone, and I think you were alone too, weren’t you, at the end?
‘I have to go now. Dad just left for work. I need to feed the dogs. I love you.’
Quietly, I place the phone down on the bedside table, lift the duvet and swing my legs out of bed. There are mascara stains on the pillow, and the Roland Mouret dress lies in a crumpled heap on the bedroom floor. Armour broken. It’s the day after the funeral and the house is silent again.
After showering and drying my hair, I make breakfast, accidentally taking a second bowl out of the cupboard. The dogs whine, their tails wagging low to the ground. Maybe Jenny was on to something when she said that dogs sensed moods.
I dutifully feed the dogs and let them into the garden for their morning run. The maids are bustling around the house, completing the last of the cleaning following Grace’s wake. Michelle, the housekeeper, orders them around in a hushed voice, trying not to disturb me after the stress of yesterday. They seem surprised that I’m out of bed, and I am too. I hadn’t intended on doing anything today. And then my mother whispered her poison in my ear. Now I need to see my therapist.
Only Daughter: An gripping and emotional psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist Page 8