Kitabı oku: «Coming Home»

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

CHAPTER 68

CHAPTER 69

CHAPTER 70

CHAPTER 71

CHAPTER 72

CHAPTER 73

CHAPTER 74

CHAPTER 75

Extract

Endpages

Copyright

CHAPTER 1

I hated seeing the grief counsellor, but I couldn’t get out of it. My teachers, unsure of how to handle me, had contacted social services and I’d been assigned weekly meetings with Miss Dawson, a sensible-looking lady to whom I was reluctant to speak. I blamed her for that: she should have known better than to tell me to think of her as my favourite auntie; everyone knew I didn’t have any aunties.

Every week, Miss Dawson arranged a couple of chairs to one side, near a window that looked out over the playing field. I could see my classmates kicking about in the drizzle. As far as I was concerned, the best bit about the counselling was that I was allowed access to the staff biscuit tin.

I didn’t have much to say to Miss Dawson, though. We’d spent the first two sessions locked in silence as I’d eyed the biscuits. Sometimes under the digestives I could see the edge of a custard cream—once, even a Jammie Dodger. But Miss Dawson didn’t like me rummaging in the tin, so I had to be sure I picked right the first time. A biscuit lucky dip.

Miss Dawson doodled flowers on the clipboard she kept on her knee.

‘Why won’t you talk to me?’ she sighed after we passed the first twenty minutes of our third session together marked only by my munching. I looked at her. How stupid was she?

‘You can’t change what happened, can you?’ I hadn’t realised I was going to shout, and biscuit crumbs sprayed from my lips. ‘You can’t stop it from happening! So what’s the point of all this?’ I jumped up and hurled my biscuit at the wall. The sudden violence, the release, felt good. ‘It’s just to make the adults feel like they’re doing something! But don’t you get it? You can’t do anything! It’s too late!’

I threw myself back into the chair and glowered at her, breathing hard. What was the point? Miss Dawson’s hand had stopped mid-doodle. She locked eyes with me but she didn’t say anything. As we glared at each other, her eyes narrowed, she chewed on the end of her biro and then she nodded to herself, her lips spreading in a little smile as if she’d had some sort of epiphany.

‘OK, Evie,’ she said slowly. Her voice had changed. It wasn’t all sympathetic now. It was brisk, businesslike. I liked that more. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a tangle of blue wool stabbed through with two knitting needles. ‘I know what we’re going to do, Evie. We’re not going to talk: we’re going to knit.’

‘I don’t know how to knit.’

‘I’m going to teach you.’

She pulled her chair over to mine, arranged the needles in my hand and showed me the repetitive movements I needed to make to produce a line of stitches. It was fiddly and unnatural, and it took all my concentration. For the first time since June, there was no space in my head for Graham. By the end of the session, I’d knitted five rows; by the following week, a whole strip.

I was eight when I learned to knit. I haven’t stopped since.

CHAPTER 2

I was making béchamel sauce for a lasagne when I found out that my father had died. It was late morning and the kitchen was filled with sunshine. Birdsong and the scent of acacia wafted through the open door; the flowers of the bougainvillea were so bright they looked unreal.

These are the details that stuck in my head as I struggled, in my peaceful surroundings, to take in what my mum was telling me on the phone. England seemed too far away; the news too unbelievable. The béchamel sauce, unfortunately, was at a critical stage.

‘He died in his sleep,’ Mum was saying. ‘Heart failure.’ She misread my silence as I continued to stir the sauce, my hand moving automatically as my brain fought to understand. ‘Darling,’ she said softly, ‘he probably didn’t even know.’

There was an echo on the long-distance line and I strained to hear her. I flicked off the burner and pulled the pan off the hob, knowing as I did it that the sauce would ruin; knowing also that what I was being told was bigger than that. I sat down at the kitchen table, the phone clamped to my ear, a heaviness in the pit of my stomach. I’d seen Dad in the summer—he’d been fine then. How could he be dead? So suddenly? Was this some sort of joke?

‘When I realised that he was, you know … dead,’ Mum was saying, cautiously trying out the new word, ‘I called the doctor. I could see there was nothing that could be done; no need to get the paramedics out. The doctor said he’d been dead for several hours. He called an ambulance to take him to the hospital. I followed in the car.’

‘There was no need to rush, really,’ she added, ‘because, well, you know …’ Her words tailed off.

Suddenly I found my voice. ‘I don’t believe you! Are you sure? Did they try to resuscitate him? Is there nothing they can do … no chance …?’

‘Evie. Darling. He’s gone.’

I’d dreaded a call like this ever since I’d moved to Dubai six years ago. There was much I enjoyed about living abroad, but the fear that something might happen to my parents lurked permanently at the back of my mind, waking me in a sweat in the early hours: freak accidents, strokes, cancer, heart attacks. And now that that ‘something’ had happened, I just couldn’t take it in.

On the phone, Mum sounded calm, but it was hard to tell how she was really coping.

‘How are you? Are you OK? Where are you?’ Now words poured out of me. My eyes were flicking around the kitchen and I was thinking ahead, my spare hand raking through my hair. I needed to know Mum would be all right until I could get there.

‘I’m back home now. They sent me home with a plastic bag of belongings. Glasses, keys, clothes, wedding ring …’ she said. There was a pause. I could imagine her giving herself a hug in her bobbly cardigan, her spare arm squeezing around her waist; the silent pep talk she was giving herself. She rallied. ‘I’m fine. Really. But there’s a lot to do. The funeral; the drinks and nibbles? All that stuff. I’m not sure where his Will is. And I don’t even have any sherry.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m coming. I’ll get a flight as soon as I can. I’ll be there tomorrow.’

Lasagne forgotten, I went to my bedroom, intending to get my passport out of the small safe I kept in my wardrobe but, instead, from my bottom drawer, I pulled out a faded blue manila folder. Tucked inside it was a pile of tourist leaflets I’d gathered over the past few months: seaplane rides, retro desert safaris; deep-sea fishing cruises, amphibious tours of old Dubai, camel polo lessons; menus from a clutch of top restaurants.

It was my ‘Dad’ folder; my plan of things to do when my father finally made it to Dubai. A year ago it would have been inconceivable to think that my father would fly to Dubai to see me: he’d always been ‘too busy’ when Mum came to visit. Six years, and not one visit from him—it was something I tried not to think about. If I did, it made me angry: father by name, but not by nature. Since I was eight, he’d not only been physically absent most of the time, but emotionally unavailable too. But then, last summer, for the first time in twenty years, he’d started to show an interest in my life.

‘So what’s it like over there?’ he’d asked. He’d brought us each a cup of tea and sat down with me in the garden. ‘How hot does it get? What do you do at the weekends?’ Then, tellingly, ‘What’s the museum like?’ Dad was an historian. If he was asking about museums, it meant he was thinking about visiting. And, after so many years of feeling like a spare—and not particularly wanted—part in my father’s life, the idea had come as a surprise to me—a welcome one at that: I’d lain in bed that night smiling in the dark. With Dad’s attention on me for the first time since I was little, I’d felt myself unfurling like a snowdrop in the first rays of spring sunshine. It had been a time of promise, of new beginnings. It had been a chance for us to put things right. Looking at the folder now, I raked my hands through my hair. I should have seized that chance then; insisted that Dad come to Dubai; told him straight out that I’d like him to come.

And now it would never happen.

I picked up one of the leaflets and traced the outline of a camel with my finger. Dad would have enjoyed riding across the sand dunes like Lawrence of Arabia, especially if there was a sundowner at the end of it. He’d have looked great in a kandora and ghutra, a falcon perched on his arm. Abruptly, I hurled the folder across the room, leaflets spinning from it as it frisbeed over my bed. Jumping up, I kicked out at the leaflets on the floor, sending them skidding across the laminate and under the bed.

‘Why?’ I shouted at the room. ‘Why now?’

Getting everything done in time to catch the 8 a.m. flight was a struggle. Booking a last-minute flight with the airline’s remote call centre had taken more energy than I’d felt I had to expend; a never-ending round of ‘can I put you on hold?’ while a sympathetic agent had tried to magic up a seat on the fully booked flight. Tracking down my boss on the golf course was even more difficult.

‘How long will you be away?’ he barked when his caddy finally handed him his phone at the eleventh hole. ‘Will you be back to close the issue?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. I had no idea how long it took to organise a funeral. ‘Emily’ll cope perfectly well. I’ll leave notes; she knows what to do.’

‘Well … she’s perfectly capable, I’m sure,’ my boss said. ‘Make sure you show her what to do.’ But then he surprised me. ‘Take as long as you need … and, um … all the best.’ It didn’t come naturally to him to be nice and I could practically hear his toenails curling with the effort, but I didn’t care—with my leave approved, I sat down to write my handover notes for Emily.

My phone lay silent on the table next to me. It’d been six weeks but I still hadn’t got used to it not buzzing with constant messages from James. I’d been the one to cut him out of my life but I would have given anything to be able to hear his voice again—the voice of the old James, at least. Our lives had been spliced together for so long that my heart hadn’t yet caught up with my head. I felt like he should know about Dad, but would he even care? I rubbed my temples, then picked up the phone and dialled. He picked up on the fourth ring. One more and I’d have hung up.

‘Hello James? It’s Evie.’

I heard the sounds of a bar in the background: music, laughter.

‘Evie.’ He was surprised, confused to hear from me. ‘What’s up?’

‘Um. I just wanted to let you know that, um, my dad died last night. I’m flying to England tomorrow. For the funeral.’

James’s voice, off the phone, ‘Ssh! I’m on the phone, keep it down. Wow, sorry to hear that, Evie.’

‘Well, I just thought you might like to know. Y’know.’

‘Yes, well, thanks for telling me …’ A shout went up in the background. He was in a sports bar; a team had scored.

‘OK then, bye.’

‘Cheers.’

I shouldn’t have called. The ‘cheers’ grated more than anything. That was what James said to people he didn’t care about. I’d always felt a little sorry for them and now I was one of them. I sighed. The truth was that James really didn’t care about me; he probably never had. The only person James cared about was himself. I poured myself a large glass of wine and turned my attention to packing.

CHAPTER 3

‘Tell me about Graham,’ Miss Dawson said. ‘Were you very close? Did you see much of him at school?’

Rain slid down the windowpanes; the playing field outside looked sodden. I took a biscuit and thought about Miss Dawson’s question. Did I see much of Graham at school? Not really. He was two years above me and our social circles didn’t overlap much. Sometimes he liked to pretend he didn’t even know me. But I remembered one day when I’d been practising handstands up against the wall. The tarmac of the school playground had been gritty with tiny stones—it was the type of grit that, when you fell, dug holes in your knees, making the blood ooze out in mini fountains. After half an hour of non-stop handstands, I’d been looking at the speckles on my palms wondering if I could do any more when I realised the bullies had surrounded me, a circle of hard seven-year-olds.

‘Do a cartwheel!’ they’d shouted, their arms linked, their faces twisted. They knew I couldn’t; they knew I was still trying.

I’d looked at the floor, willing them to find someone else to pick on. My hands stung but, if I did a perfect handstand, would they go away?

The ringleader had started up the chant, the sing-song tone of her voice not quite hiding the menace that oozed like oil from her pores: ‘Evie can’t do a cartwheel!’ The others took up the refrain as they edged towards me, the circle closing in on its prey. ‘Evie can’t do a cartwheel!’

The lead bully had stepped forward. ‘Watch this,’ she’d said, turning her body over foot to hand to hand to foot, so slowly it looked effortless. ‘Let me help you.’ She came closer and I knew, I could tell by the way she approached, that, far from helping me, she was going to shove me onto my knees in the grit, kicking me and rubbing me in it until my socks stained red with blood. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

But then a miracle.

‘Leave her alone!’ a boy had screamed, leaping into the circle and breaking it up. ‘Get away from her now or I’ll kill you all!’ Graham had stood in a karate stance. ‘I’m a black belt! Now shove off!’

The girls had scattered, and he’d taken me by both arms. ‘Are you all right, Evie?’

I put down my knitting and looked at Miss Dawson. ‘I suppose we were close,’ I said. ‘We didn’t see much of each other at school. But, when I needed him, he was always there.’

CHAPTER 4

I laid my lightest clothes—a couple of cotton shirts—across the top of my suitcase, then sat on the bed, pushing myself back against the pillows. My wine glass was almost empty and I upended it now, making a full mouthful of the final dregs. It was late and my body ached for bed, but my mind was buzzing. The phone call with Mum replayed in my head. My dad was dead! Still the news, half a day on and having been repeated ad nauseam on the phone to the airline, to my boss, was too big to take in; it was like it had happened to someone else. It was the plot of a book I’d read, or a movie I’d seen. It was not my life. I knew sleep wouldn’t come.

Instead, I grabbed the house keys and stepped outside. The night-time air was fragrant with the scent of hot vegetation; of plants still cooling down from the warmth of the day. I inhaled frangipani, my favourite scent, with a top note of jasmine from the bush next door. Breathing deeply, I got a waft, too, of chlorine from the neighbours’ pool.

Slipping quietly through the gate, I waited for a gap in the beach road traffic. Cars swept past me, a blur of lights and noise after the silence of my room. Taxis carried tourists to and from their late-night dinners, bars and entertainments. Eager, sunburned faces peered out at the sights; others went past with their occupants slumped, dozing, in the back. It seemed rude, disrespectful for life to continue when my father was dead.

‘My dad’s dead,’ I said into the night air, to the road, the cars, the tourists and the taxis. ‘Have a lovely evening.’

It sounded weaker than I’d imagined. I said it again, louder, to the next car: ‘Have a great evening. My dad’s dead.’

A taxi beeped, its brakes screeching as the driver slowed, keen for another fare. I saw a gap in the traffic and ran across to the island of the central reservation and stood there, sheltered by the traffic light. Sensing I was a little unhinged, I didn’t trust myself to find another gap in the traffic and waited, instead, for the green man.

On the other side, I ducked down a side street between a beauty salon and a dental clinic and picked my way down through the lanes of fishermen’s houses to the beach. The sounds of the main road receded and soon all I could hear was the scrunch of my flip-flops on the dusty street, the sound of my own breathing and the thrum of my pulse in my head. ‘Dad is dead. Dad is dead. Dad is dead.’ I broke into a run to try to make it stop, and, not too soon, there was the beach opening out in front of me: an expanse of moonlit sand, bookended on the left by the Burj Al Arab and contained in front by a low wall. Tonight the hotel had its diamonds on: a twinkling display of lights that shot up and down its spine and belly. I stopped short, realising with a jolt that Dad would now never see this sight; that there were so many things he’d now never see. I watched through one full set of the light show then I climbed over the wall and walked towards the ocean, kicking off my flip-flops and seeking out the cold under-layer of sand with my toes.

The sight of the sea, as always, calmed me. Sitting on the last edge of warm, dry sand, I stared at the water and breathed in time with the hypnotic oohs and aahs of the waves swishing in and out. The tide was receding and each wave seemed to take the sea farther away from me, a fringe of seashells marking its highest point. I looked up at the sky and wondered what happens when you die. Could Dad see me? Was he up there somewhere now, looking down on me? Had he known he was dying? Did he think about me before he died? When his life flashed before his eyes—did it even really do that?—what did he see? What was his last thought about me?

Did he even have a last thought about me?

You should have come to Dubai, I said silently to the heavens. I wanted you to come so badly. My hands formed a steeple as if I was praying and my eyes searched for the constellations Dad had shown me how to find back in the summer evenings when we were still happy: the Plough, the Little Bear and Polaris, Orion. Tonight, as usual, all I could make out above the glow of Dubai’s neon skyline was the Big Dipper and the North Star. I needed Dad there to show me the more subtle connections between the other stars. Where are you? I asked the sky.

Would Mum be all right?

She’d sounded all right on the phone but … I shifted as a shiver rippled through me. I hadn’t spoken to Miss Dawson for years now but I still remembered the last conversation we’d had about Mum.

‘She’s like an iceberg,’ the counsellor had told me. ‘She lets you see only the top layers, the top ten per cent. If that. There’s an awful lot that goes on beneath and you’ll never see that.’ She’d noticed, then, the sadness I couldn’t hide. ‘It’s not just you, pet,’ Miss Dawson had added. ‘She’s like that with everyone. Since the accident, she won’t let anyone get close.’

And now what, I wondered. My mother was all I had left, and she was the mistress—the guardian—of The Gap. It was as if she held everyone at a distance; she didn’t want to let anyone get close to her again. We wrote each other a daily email but Mum’s emails were reports of golf scores, of choir practice and of what she was cooking for supper; they could have been written by anyone. They were information bulletins, memorandums that revealed nothing of the woman underneath. They weren’t designed to keep me close. My mum hid emotion. She didn’t reach out. She skated the surface of our relationship with prim and proper etiquette but no depth whatsoever. Mind The Gap.

In my replies, I echoed Mum’s style. We exchanged huge quantities of useless information in a literary ballet that meant little. I wrote about work achievements and new restaurants, trips to the beach and what my friends were up to. I’d tried in the past to talk about more real things; about how being with James made my blood fizz; how he looked at me like he wanted to devour me. Is this love? I’d asked Mum. Did you feel this way about Dad? How do I know if he’s The One? But the replies came back as dull as the church newsletter. ‘Your friend sounds nice, dear. Did I tell you that I’m playing a new course next week?’

By the time I was starting to sense trouble with James, I’d learned that, beyond platitudes, I wouldn’t be getting emotional support from my mum: I’d be getting a new lamb recipe and what her choir was singing for the forthcoming summer concert. In our warped relationship, it was I who took care of her.

Miss Dawson had said it was a defence mechanism. ‘Your mother’s “gap” has become a part of her,’ she’d said. ‘It helps her define who she is. She doesn’t know how to fill it.’ Then she’d smiled sadly at me. ‘You’ll get closeness one day, Evie,’ she’d said. ‘From a partner; a husband; children.’

I still felt protective of Mum, though. As an adult, I felt it was my job to look after her and the question that bothered me now, sitting on the beach, was of what lay below Mum’s gap. Had she really managed to freeze her emotions, or were they still bubbling beneath? I pushed my toes into the cold sand below the surface and wondered if, as far as Mum was concerned, Dad’s death would be the earthquake that triggered the tsunami.

CHAPTER 5

Just over twenty-four hours after I first spoke to Mum, at what was quite likely the highest point of the bleak afternoon, my taxi pulled up outside my parents’ Victorian semi. They lived in Woodside, a functional commuter town that couldn’t decide if it was part of South London or north-west Kent. On a sunny day, there was enough beauty, enough greenery, for you to believe it was Kent; in the drizzle, pavements slick with rain, it looked more like Greater London. It was true, though, that, if you stood at a high point and looked south, all you could see was open countryside.

Wrapped in the pashmina I’d foolishly imagined would keep me warm, I helped the driver haul my bags out of the boot, paid him and crunched across the gravel driveway to the door. Summer’s roses, which framed the entrance throughout July and August, were completely gone; the house looked bare without the lushness of their petals. I realised I hadn’t been home during winter in six years.

Before I could ring the bell I heard a bolt being drawn back, then another, then, finally, a key turning in a lock: Mum must have been watching out for me. She appeared behind the outer, glass-panelled door. There was the click of another lock, and another, and then the porch door finally opened.

‘Hello, dear; that was quick!’ she said, looking me up and down and then enveloping me in a hug. Despite the thick sweater she was wearing, she looked small, fragile, and hollow around the eyes. In my arms, she felt tiny. I noticed at once that she had a new haircut, which framed her face. She was wearing a different perfume to usual. It was light, floral, upbeat.

‘I got on the first flight I could,’ I said, pulling away and blinking in the cold morning light. I felt like I’d been up for twenty-four hours. The shadow of wine drunk on the flight crouched behind my forehead, and my eyes popped with tiredness.

‘You’ve grown your hair,’ Mum said, as I lugged my suitcase over the gravel. ‘I always thought it suited you shorter.’

I tossed my hair back defensively and followed Mum through the front door and into the living room, breathing in the familiar scent of the house in which I’d grown up. Until I stepped into the living room, the reality of being at home without Dad hadn’t hit me; I hadn’t given a moment’s thought to the physical space his absence would create. But the emptiness of his armchair was tangible. In the doorway, I stopped and stared.

‘Glass of champagne?’ Mum asked. ‘Toast your safe arrival?’

My head snapped round to look at her. It was barely three o’clock.

‘Got one open in the fridge,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that! It’s a good one. I don’t want to pour it down the sink.’

‘No thanks.’ I flopped down in the armchair next to the shelves, my eyes running over the cluttered surfaces, idly clocking what was new; what Mum’s latest fad had been—she was an obsessive collector. Every spare inch housed a collection of something: thimbles, decanters, mugs, jugs, stuffed toys, dolls with china faces, books, videos, glassware, figurines. The walls, too, were plastered with paintings. The visual stimulation was overwhelming.

Mum fussed around the room, blowing dust from pieces of glass, holding them up to the shred of daylight and polishing them with a huff of breath and the hem of her skirt.

‘Sit down,’ I said. ‘Talk to me. I want to know what happened. Was it his angina? Are you all right?’

Mum leaned on the back of the sofa and sighed. ‘Yes, dear, I’m fine. Fine as can be.’

‘So, what happened? With Dad?’ Mum had told me on the phone that he’d been a bit breathless lately. I’d thought he was just unfit. ‘Had his angina got worse? Or was it just, like …?’ Bang, I was going to say but it didn’t sound right.

Mum twisted her hands together. ‘Oh, you know. He’d gone to see the doctor for his angina a week or so ago because he’d had a bit more pain than usual. I told him to mention the breathless thing, too—it might be linked. I told you about that, didn’t I? Anyway, the doctor had said not to worry, but that it was worth doing some further tests. An ECG and some other things. The appointment was supposed to be this week. It was him that I called when I found Dad. He confirmed it was heart failure and issued the death certificate himself.’ Mum looked at the floor and, when she spoke, her voice was small. ‘He was pottering in the garden earlier that day. We’d had a nice dinner. The doctor said it was just “one of those things”. “It happens”.’

‘I still can’t believe it.’

‘Neither can I.’ Mum gave herself a little shake. ‘Still. Onwards and upwards. Life goes on.’

‘And I’m here to help.’ I wanted her to know she could lean on me.

‘Yes, dear.’ She turned towards the kitchen. ‘I’ve just made some bread. I’ll pop the kettle on and we can have a nice cup of tea and some toast?’

‘Sure.’

I looked back at Dad’s chair, still trying to take it in, then something caught my eye: under the coffee table lay Dad’s cold slippers. Presumably where he’d left them two days ago. Before he died.

As I looked at them, moulded to the shape of Dad’s size elevens, it hit me again that he wasn’t coming back. Why hadn’t I made more of an effort with him? Insisted he come out that autumn? I blinked hard. I’d been protecting my mother since I was eight years old. No matter what I felt inside, I would not cry in front of her.

I hadn’t known what sort of state Mum would be in. On past performance, she could have been anything from a bit teary to shopping naked in Tesco. So I was relieved to find her acting so normal. She was chomping at the bit, desperate to get things done. I hoped it wasn’t just a front; I hoped she wasn’t hurtling headlong towards another breakdown. I wanted to ask more about how Dad had died but she didn’t give me a chance.

‘Toast’s ready,’ she said, setting the plates on the dining table with two steaming mugs of tea. ‘Eat up. We’ve a lot to do.’

I sighed.

‘Apart from the funeral, what else is there?’

Mum pulled out a notebook and ran a pencil down the page as she read a list. ‘Well, we’ll have to tell people, for a start. So far only a few friends from church know.’ We had a very small family—all four of my grandparents were dead; Dad was an only child, and Mum might as well have been one, too: she had an older brother, but I’d never met him and I’d learned years ago never to ask about him—all I knew was that he hadn’t come to her wedding. I wondered if things might be different now; perhaps it was my tiredness that made me less guarded than usual.

‘Will we let Uncle David know?’

Mum didn’t even answer. An imperceptible huff and a miniscule shake of the head, and she was off again, as if I’d never asked.

‘Once we’ve got a date for the funeral, maybe you could help me go through Dad’s address book and let people know? Tell them no flowers, too. I don’t want people wasting their money on flowers. If they want, they can give the money to charity.’

I nodded, already dreading it.

‘And then we have to arrange the funeral. We have an appointment at the funeral place up the road at eleven tomorrow—you don’t have to come, but it’d be nice if you did. Then, obviously, the catering for the party. I’ve no idea how many people will come, but I was thinking at least three hundred for the funeral, maybe a hundred will come back, so we need to think about that. And we need to speak to the crematorium—Dad wanted to be cremated, by the way—and arrange the service there and the committal.’

She looked up to see if I was still listening. I was. But I was also stunned. Dad had only died yesterday morning and already she’d gone through all of this. It was like she was competing to be PA of the year. Either that, or she was clinging onto her list like it was a piece of flotsam in a tsunami.

‘I’ve taken a couple of weeks off from work but, well, if you could help me sort out Dad’s papers and make sure that everything’s in order in terms of bank accounts, the house, insurance policies, the mortgage, bills etcetera, that’d be very helpful? Dad took care of all of those things and I don’t know where to start.’

‘Are you still enjoying work? Do you think you’ll carry on?’ Mum was a part-time administrator at the local hospital.

‘Yes. Why wouldn’t I? Dr Goodman would be lost without me. You know how he depends on me. I might even go full-time!’

‘Really?’

‘Yes! Why not?’

I shook my head, lost for words, changed the subject back. ‘What about Dad’s computer? Do you want me to close down his email account and stuff?’ Mum’s fantastic ability at the hospital had never translated to her home life: she was rubbish on the home computer, a fact that even the PC seemed to sense, given it always seemed to shut down on her midway through an email to me, causing her to lose everything.

‘Oh, yes please, darling. Maybe you could ping any house-related emails over to my email so I can get the details changed to mine. Good idea.’

Ping?

She looked at her list again. There was more?

‘And then, depending on how long you’re here for, there’ll be the scattering of the ashes. If the crem can get them to us quickly, we could probably fit that in before you go back?’

She looked at me, maybe misinterpreting my silence as reluctance. ‘I don’t really want to do it on my own,’ she said. ‘And I couldn’t ever be one of those people who keep him in a pot on the mantelpiece. Can you imagine? He’d be home more now than he ever was when he was alive!’ She burst out laughing, a raucous sound that jarred.

‘I can stay as long as you need me to,’ I said, trying not to sound churlish. ‘Of course I’ll help with the ashes.’

Mum’s laughter stopped as abruptly as it started. She opened her mouth to say something then stopped. I waited, but she must have thought the better of it.

‘Right,’ she said, noticing I’d finished my toast. ‘Why don’t you unpack and freshen up? We could look at the paperwork later?’

I stared into the middle distance, slightly dazed. Despite, or perhaps because of, the conversation we’d just had, I still had no idea what was going on in Mum’s head, and that worried me. Over the years I’d learned how to read her moods; how to avoid her flashpoints; handle her unpredictability; but now I felt I’d lost that skill. I was back to square one, almost as nervous of Mum as I’d been when I was growing up.

Perhaps it was just the lack of sleep, or maybe it was just that peculiar feeling of arriving in a different country without having psychologically left the last one, but suddenly I felt drained. I stood up and turned for the stairs, hauling my suitcase with me.

CHAPTER 6

They say every expat is running away from something. I don’t want to believe it about myself but somewhere, in a dark place where I try never to look, I know it’s probably true. I was never running away from Graham; I was running away from what had happened after Graham. I heaved my suitcase onto my bed with a grunt worthy of a championship tennis player then went to have a look at Graham’s old room. It was now a little-used guest room but, despite the fact that barely anything of his remained in there, I could still feel his essence as if it were ingrained in the walls.

Graham was a typical older brother. I’m not going to lie and say we got on like two members of the Brady Bunch when we were young. There was squabbling, of course there was, and there was hitting, pinching and hair-pulling. Once Graham drove me so mad I pushed him down the stairs and then watched, aghast, as he tumbled down. I thought he’d be dead at the bottom. He cried a lot, but he was fine—still alive, nothing broken—and, boy, was I in trouble.

No one could make me as angry as Graham could—but he was my brother and, when we got on well, he was my best friend. We’d spend hours inventing games in the garden; climbing trees, making ‘tree houses’ and cutting muddy tracks in the lawn as we raced our bikes up and down, skidding around the vegetable patch, dodging under the washing line and trying not to smash into the apple tree.

As was my ritual whenever I came home, I crouched down and peered under the bed. The box was still there. Lying flat on my tummy, I stretched my arm out as far under the bed as I could, trying not to breathe in the dust, and pedalled my fingers to get a hold on it: our old Mastermind set. Sliding it out along the carpet, I opened the box and touched my fingertips to the coloured pegs. They were still in the sequence they’d been in during the last game I’d played with Dad. Yellow, yellow, red, green.

My mind slipped back to that day. Dad and I usually played the Mastermind Challenge when Graham was out. Each time Dad won, I’d be torn between pride and disappointment: disappointed that I’d lost, but proud that Dad wasn’t humouring me—proud as punch that he hadn’t ‘allowed’ me to win simply because I was eight and his daughter.

On this particular day, Graham had been neither at band practice nor football training; he’d been outside, playing Red Arrows on his bike. He’d begged me to join in—Red Arrows weren’t as much fun without a fellow plane to swoop against in death-defying near-misses—but I’d lost the last four games to Dad and was desperate to win back at least one point before the weekend was over.

Yellow, yellow, red, green. I’d chosen carefully, trying to double bluff, to avoid any obvious patterns. Dad’s opening bet had been blue, yellow, green, red—he’d known I’d think ‘blue plus yellow equals green’ and then I’d have given it a red teacher’s tick. Not this time. I’d given him the white peg for the second yellow, and he’d raised his eyebrows and rubbed his chin before slowly placing red, yellow, green, blue.

I’d known what he was thinking there, too: colours of the rainbow. I’d sighed, acting as if he was right, then given him still only the one white peg for the yellow. There was nothing predictable about my colours this time. I’d spent the previous evening in my room, going through all my predictable patterns to come up with something that didn’t fit any of them. Who knew how difficult it was to be random?

‘Evie! C’mon! I need you!’ Graham had shouted through the open patio doors to the dining room where Dad and I were playing. ‘Stop being such a boring old fart!’

‘Just one more game and I’ll come!’ I’d shouted back. ‘Just let me beat Dad!’ I loved playing Red Arrows, too, but it wasn’t the same as winning at Mastermind.

‘It’ll never happen!’ Graham had shouted, zooming back down the garden on his bike. ‘I’ll be playing on my own forever!’

Nine guesses in and Dad had had three white pegs to mark the three colours he’d guessed correctly. But he was having trouble with the fourth—I never put doubles and he knew that. The whole game had hinged on his last guess. Blue, yellow, red, green, he guessed. I’d won!

‘Well done, sweetheart!’ Dad had said as I’d jumped onto his lap for a hug. He’d ruffled my hair. ‘I’m so proud of you! What a great combination, you completely out-guessed me by choosing that double yellow.’ He’d given me a big kiss. ‘You know? I think you could be Prime Minister one day with smarts like that. Now, are you going to let me get my own back, or go and play with your brother?’

‘I’m going to play with Graham and think about my next combination!’ I’d said, putting the set into its box. ‘Is it OK if I don’t clear this game? I want to remember it forever.’

I remembered the day clearly. About a month later, Graham was dead. There was no more Mastermind with Dad after that.

I put the set carefully back into its box and, lying flat on my tummy, pushed it back into its hiding place. Standing up, I brushed the dust off my sleeve and took a deep breath.

‘Hello,’ I said softly. ‘You all right?’

There was no reply, of course.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after Mum,’ I said. I closed my eyes for a second, then backed quietly out of the room, pulling the door gently to behind me.

The only things left in my room from when I’d lived there were the scant clothes I’d left when I moved to Dubai, a couple of old perfumes and some of my childhood books and toys. With my blessing, Mum had redecorated after I’d left, choking the room with flowery wallpaper, adding bright curtains and changing my creaky old single bed for a double with an antique brass frame. If I half shut my eyes, I could still see past the flowers; I could see the contours and colours of the room in which I’d grown up.

Now, I lay on the bed next to my suitcase and tapped a WhatsApp message to Emily to check everything was OK at the office.

Dubai felt dreamlike, a galaxy away. My pillows were comfortable … they smelled like home.

Two hours later, as the afternoon started to turn its attention to dying, I went back downstairs, my knitting bag under my arm. I felt much better. I’d had a sleep, unpacked, had a shower and changed into something warm.

I found Mum in the living room having a cup of tea with Richard-from-down-the-road. Although I hadn’t seen him for years, I remembered him—he was one of those people who seemed to have been around forever, propping up the local church, leading the Cubs and organising community football matches and bonfires throughout my childhood. He’d taught Sunday school when I was five—and he’d seemed ancient even then. Twenty-three years later, it seems he’s only a couple of years older than Mum. A widower, at that.

Dressed in frumpy brown cords and a shabby-looking sweater, the threadbare collar of a beige shirt poking out from the crew neck, and wearing desperately unflattering glasses, he didn’t do himself any favours.

‘Forgive the clothes,’ he said, catching me looking at him. ‘Usually I dress like a pop star but I was trimming the hedges today.’

I laughed, caught out. I liked his humour.

‘Richard just popped round to give us his condolences,’ said Mum. ‘He was a huge support to me yesterday morning when I, um, “found” your father.’ She gave a little shudder. ‘He came with me to the hospital. It was ever so kind of him.’

I looked at them both. Mum was smiling at Richard, her teacup balanced daintily on her knee. She had a bit of blusher on and she looked pretty. On the mantelpiece, there was a vase of fresh flowers—thankfully not white lilies because Mum would have slammed those straight in the rubbish—and I guessed Richard had brought them. I wondered how much he knew; if he remembered what had happened to Graham. It had been talked about enough in Woodside, even if Richard and his wife hadn’t been that close to Mum and Dad at the time.

I poured myself a cup of tea from the pot and sat down.

‘Try the shortbread,’ said Mum. ‘It’s lovely.’

It was only then that I noticed the Petticoat Tails on the table. Heat flooded my face and I swiped my hand over my forehead, the sweat wet on my fingers. Petticoat Tails! Dad’s favourite! I blinked hard, the memory of Sunday afternoon teas before Graham had died, of ham sandwiches, buttered crumpets and shortbread, hitting me physically in the gut.

‘Have one. You’re too thin anyway!’ Mum nudged the plate towards me, and I stared at her. It was all wrong: Mum, Petticoat Tails, Richard.

‘Yesterday wasn’t the time for condolences,’ said Richard, turning his attention from Mum to me. ‘So I thought I’d pop by today to see how your mum was bearing up.’ He smiled at her and she looked away, almost embarrassed. ‘But it seems like she’s got everything marvellously under control.’

He nodded to himself. As if to reinforce that his words were definitely true.

I had to agree—on the surface, it did.

CHAPTER 7

‘What do you remember of that that day, Evie? Can you talk about it?’

I pulled my knitting out and picked up where I’d left off at home that morning. I was knitting my first scarf. There was a bit where I’d dropped a few stitches but I hoped it would be good enough to wear. On the playing fields outside, half of my class was playing football. I could see them through the staffroom window.

‘We were in the garden,’ I said. ‘Mum and me.’

Miss Dawson nodded.

‘I remember the sirens.’ I concentrated on the stitches falling away from my fingers; I tried not to think about the words tumbling out of my mouth. Somehow the ‘doing’ made the ‘saying’ easier.

It had been a beautiful day. The sky had been so blue I’d imagined it reaching all the way up into outer space. We’d heard the sirens while we’d been pulling weeds. I was wearing shorts and a vest and I’d been hot; sweat had been running into my eyes and I was wishing I’d worn a headband. Mum was throwing big clumps of weeds into a trug; I was copying her, pulling the bits that looked like grass and throwing them into my own small trug. I hadn’t dared to do the weeds that looked like flowers in case I got it wrong.

‘A song came on the radio and we danced,’ I told Miss Dawson. ‘It was “Dancing Queen”.’ Mum had jumped up and run to the kitchen windowsill, where we’d balanced the radio. She’d turned up the volume and started dancing, calling to me to join her.

Mum had been strutting up and down the patio, her hands on her hips, pointing and turning like a pop star. I’d dropped my trug and tried to copy her moves. Mum had sung along, pointing at me. I remember thinking how I couldn’t imagine being seventeen.

‘Mum was going to make lemonade later, and we were going to take a picnic to the park—maybe even hire a rowing boat.’

It was then, when I was thinking about ham sandwiches and lemonade, that we’d heard the sirens. When you hear them in the distance, you don’t think that it’s your brother dying on the road. You just don’t think that. ‘Sounds like something’s happened on the bypass,’ Mum had said.

‘We heard the sirens,’ I told Miss Dawson. ‘We didn’t know they were for Graham.’

‘Oh, Evie. No. Of course you couldn’t have known.’

I barely heard Miss Dawson. I was back in the moment, stitches sliding off my knitting needles as I remembered. Mum had turned up the radio to drown out the noise. The song had finished and, out of breath and laughing, we’d gone back to our trugs. ‘Out of breath’. How that haunted me now.

I looked at my knitting, my eyes blurring with tears. I’d heard people say that I probably couldn’t remember the day—that the shock would have blunted my memory—but it wasn’t like that at all. I remembered it too well. It was just hard to find the words.

‘We had some biscuits when we went back in.’ I stopped. Until I said it, it might not have happened. I took a deep breath. ‘After a while, there was a knock at the door. It was the police.’

I remembered how funny I’d thought it was that policemen were calling: we hadn’t been burgled. ‘Perhaps they heard about the lemonade!’ I’d joked to Mum but she’d shoved me into the sitting room and I’d crouched with my ear to the door. I hadn’t been able to hear much. I’d heard only bits.

‘Very sorry … pedestrian crossing … didn’t stop … thrown thirty feet … nothing they could do …’

Then I’d heard Mum. She was stern. ‘No, you’re wrong! It can’t be! Not Graham! You’ve made a mistake!’

I’d heard her shoes clomp hard across the hall, like she was running, and I’d got away from the door just as she’d shoved through it. ‘Evie!’ she’d called. ‘The police are saying Graham’s been run over! Obviously they’re wrong because he was with Daddy! I’m going to the hospital to sort it out.’

‘Mum went with them,’ I said to Miss Dawson. ‘She put on her lipstick and went.’ I jabbed my needles into the wool. ‘The police were right … they were right.’ My voice cracked and I took a breath then carried on, my eyes on my knitting. ‘Graham had been hit cycling across a pedestrian crossing. Dad had seen the whole thing. They put him in hospital, too; they had to knock him out.’ I stared at the window. ‘They should have kept Mum in, too.’ I turned to look at Miss Dawson. ‘I wouldn’t have minded. But they didn’t. Mum had to come home on her own and look after me.’

CHAPTER 8

It turned out that Mum had a pretty good idea where Dad’s will might be, after all. As I sat downstairs the next morning, knitting my way through the East-to-West jetlag that had had me up at 4 a.m., I heard her clomping awkwardly down the stairs.

‘Uh,’ she grunted, kicking open the living room door and depositing four sturdy box files on the dining table. Despite the early hour, she was already dressed, coiffed and scented while I—having been up for half a century—was still in my dressing gown.

‘I think the Will might be in here,’ she said. ‘Your dad kept all his papers in these. It’s a blessing that he was such an organised man. Now. Have you had breakfast?’

Before I could reply, she carried on.

‘We’re due at the funeral place at eleven. We can’t sort this out too quickly as there are waiting lists. Poor Lily had to wait two weeks for her brother’s funeral.’

And so, after taking a shower, I hunched over the dining table and, feeling as if I might be about to open a Jack-in-the-box, released the catch on the first box. I didn’t share Mum’s confidence in Dad’s organisational skills, but no horrors jumped out; there was no explosion of random papers, just a series of fat folders, each containing what looked like the year’s statements from various bank accounts and a couple more folders of credit card statements.

Encouraged, I opened the second box and found another series of neatly labelled folders, these appearing to contain receipts and guarantees for everything that my parents had bought in the last few years, from clothes and electronics to work done on the house and car.

The next two boxes told a similar story. Dad had meticulously filed all of the paperwork essential to keep my parents’ lives running smoothly, from utility bills and insurance papers to the tax returns, invoices and payment slips for every little piece of work he’d done.

I smiled a thank you to the sky. It could go either way with historians, I’d found—some of Dad’s colleagues had been so disorganised I used to wonder how they managed to dress themselves in the morning, but others, like Dad, got pleasure out of documenting their lives; creating their own historical records, I suppose.

Flicking through the folders, I stuck a Post-it on each thing I thought needed attention—companies that needed to be told of Dad’s death; accounts and bills that needed to be transferred into Mum’s name; and those that could be closed down. As I put the most recent bank statement back on top of the pile, something caught my eye. A debit of £22,000 made just last week. Strange, I thought, sticking a Post-it on that too. I’d look more closely at it later.

CHAPTER 9

‘How was it when you went back to school?’ asked Miss Dawson. ‘It was after the summer holidays, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘So … six weeks? Do you think that was long enough?’

I sighed. How should I know? I sat back in the armchair and ate my biscuit. School was difficult, but home wasn’t much easier. Graham had been the only pupil from our school ever to have died and no one knew what to say to me, his kid sister. On my first day back, everyone had spoken in clichés. ‘Don’t worry. He wouldn’t have known what hit him,’ they’d said, way too graphically. ‘He’s in a happier place now. He’s looking down on you from heaven.’ My classmates repeated what they heard the adults say. A boy in Graham’s class even said, ‘Don’t worry. He’d have been happy that it was a BMW.’

Dazed, I’d nodded at people as they spun around me, all ‘Graham this, Graham that’.

‘When someone dies,’ I said to Miss Dawson, ‘why is it all about them? They’re not there any more. Graham couldn’t hear them saying all those things. I could. Why didn’t anyone ask how I was? I’m the one who’s still alive!’ I knitted a row furiously. ‘And now no one talks to me about Graham at all. It’s like he never existed. But sometimes I just want to talk about him.’

‘That’s what these sessions are about, Evie. You know I’m here to try and help.’

I forced myself to smile but my mouth wobbled. I looked down at the knitting on my lap. Miss Dawson hadn’t known Graham. How could she talk about him? I wanted to talk about him with someone who remembered the silly pranks he used to play, what his favourite food was, the fact that he was scared of Doctor Who.

‘I’d talk to Mum, but …’

On my first day back at school, I’d come home and, out of habit, I’d pushed open Graham’s door. The room had still smelled of him, as though his dusky boy-essence had permeated the carpet, the curtains and the duvet that Mum still hadn’t stripped from his bed. I’d lain down on his bed and hugged his pillow. For the first time since he’d died, I’d fallen into a deep and natural sleep.

I didn’t hear Mum come in but I’ll never forget the sound that came out of her mouth when she saw someone asleep in Graham’s bed. It was feral, animalistic and seemed to go on forever. Mum had grabbed handfuls of books from Graham’s shelf and hurled them at me, screaming ‘Get out! Get out! How dare you? How dare you try to fool me? Do you think I’m STUPID? Do you think I don’t know my SON IS DEAD?’ She’d collapsed on the floor and I’d slunk out, a part of me wishing it was me who’d died.

‘I’d talk to Mum,’ I told Miss Dawson. ‘But it’s not always easy.’

CHAPTER 10

10.45 a.m. saw Mum and I walking up the road towards the High Street in a light drizzle. She was smart in a beige raincoat and headscarf (‘I don’t have anything black,’ she’d said. ‘Do you think it matters?’), while I was wearing the warmest thing I’d been able to find in the wardrobe—a brown coat of Mum’s that had, frankly, seen better days. It wasn’t my finest fashion moment.

As we trudged up the street, Mum pointed out all the things that had changed since I’d last been home, and passed on little snippets of gossip. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I had no idea who she was talking about. The walk was slightly uphill and into the wind, and I soon became breathless with it, so I let her ramble on—I think she was enjoying having me there to talk to.

‘Oh and number forty-two applied for planning permission for an extension, but we lobbied the Council to block it,’ she said. ‘It would have looked so ugly! You can’t mess with these Victorian houses! And this—a conservation area! And look at that ridiculous sports car that Mr Olsen’s bought. I mean! How old does he think he is? Twenty-one again? I remember when he was knee-high to a donkey! He’s mad to leave that parked outside, anyway—I bet it’ll get stolen, just like what happened to that silly Mercedes at number nineteen. Oh look! There’s Richard!’

I looked up and, indeed, there was Richard walking towards us, returning from the High Street. Much to my disappointment he wasn’t dressed as a pop star, but was wearing a dark green anorak, hood up against the drizzle, and what looked like the same brown cords as yesterday. The jute shopping bag he held seemed heavy. Mum instinctively patted her hair, forgetting perhaps that it was mostly tucked under her headscarf. Her fringe, wet from the drizzle, was plastered against her forehead.

‘Off to the High Street?’ he asked, once pleasantries were exchanged. Mum took a breath to answer but before she had a chance, a police car screeched past us, its siren deafening. As Richard and I jumped in shock, Mum slapped her hands over her ears and started to shout ‘la-la-la-la!’ at the top of her voice, like a child pretending not to hear her parents. I knew about Mum’s extreme reaction to sirens but I hadn’t seen it happen for many years. Mortified, I looked at Richard but he suddenly had Mum in his arms, his hand patting her headscarf, her face on his wet lapel. It’s OK, he mouthed over her head to me.

Then, as suddenly as they’d started, the sirens stopped, Richard sprang back and Mum’s hands dropped back down. She smoothed down her coat and gave herself a little shake.

‘Shopping, I wish!’ she said. ‘We’re off to the undertaker’s to sort out the funeral.’

‘Well, good luck with that,’ said Richard, unfazed. He picked up his wet shopping bag. ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’

I looked at Mum, expecting an explanation, but she angled her body purposefully back up the street, leaving me standing with my mouth open. Richard had obviously seen her act like this before, but his dealing with it so smoothly left me feeling uncomfortable, like I’d just witnessed something I shouldn’t have.

I hurried to catch up with Mum and, as we rounded the corner, the familiar old High Street hove into view. While much had changed in recent years, many of the landmarks of my childhood were still there. The Indian restaurant where I’d insisted we go for my twelfth birthday because it felt ‘so grown up’; the pet shop where I’d bought my only ever pet hamster; and the hidden gem of an Italian restaurant in which I’d had many first dates. People stood huddled as ever at bus stops, puffs of their warm breath mixing with clouds of cigarette smoke. Outside McDonald’s, a group of teenagers dipped their hands in and out of brown paper bags—I recalled the warm comforts of a cheeseburger and a bag of hot fries while waiting for the bus in the exact same spot.

We continued on, past charity shops, takeaways and a new crop of pawnshops and cash-converters I hadn’t seen the previous summer. On the left, the top end of the double-parked street where Miss Dawson had lived. I remembered the feeling of walking down that street to her house for counselling sessions, which continued even in the school holidays. To this day, Miss Dawson’s street still featured in my dreams. I didn’t even know if she still lived there.

Mum turned abruptly into the doorway of a dark-fronted shop that sat discreetly next to WHSmith. A bell rang in the hushed interior, and a tall, pale man in a dark suit appeared from a back room. ‘You must be Mrs Stevens,’ he said softly. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

‘If you can guide us through whatever we need to do, that would be helpful, thank you,’ said Mum.

I wondered if her brusqueness was masking her grief; her upper lip was so stiff you could have stood an army on it. The silence of the undertaker’s was oppressive and suddenly I felt clammy and a little light-headed. Two days ago, I’d been living my life in Dubai, that month’s magazine about to go to press; a champagne brunch booked for the weekend. How was I now sitting here, in a suburban high street, asking a stranger’s advice on what sort of box to put my dead father in? I sat down heavily.

The man showed us a catalogue of coffins. As he joined us at the desk, I caught a waft of his cologne and breathed it in: he smelled of Dad, and suddenly I was playing hide-and-seek in the garden, Graham and I both hunting for our father. As we’d stood next to the raspberry bushes, regrouping after a long and fruitless search, I’d caught a whiff of Dad’s signature scent: Eau Sauvage.

‘He’s here!’ I’d squealed, digging into the raspberry bush, red juice smearing my fingers. ‘I can smell him!’

‘I’m thinking closed coffin,’ Mum said, moistening the tip of her finger with her tongue as she flipped through the pages. ‘People don’t want to see him, do they?’

‘It’s your decision, Mrs Stevens,’ said the man.

‘That’s a nice one, don’t you think, Evie?’ Mum asked, stopping at a grand-looking box, rectangular, with six handles. ‘Dad would have liked that, I think. And maybe with a sky-blue lining? Or yellow like the sunshine? What do you think, darling? I don’t suppose it really matters if it’s not pure silk—it’s going to be burnt to a cinder anyway.’

‘Excuse me!’ I scraped the chair back and dashed out of the shop.

Around the corner, I leaned heavily against a wall. Dad had gone forever. I breathed in deeply, enjoying the sting of the cold air in my lungs. It gave me something to focus on while I gathered myself.

‘Evie? Is that you?’ The voice was cautious but familiar. I knew even without looking to whom it belonged.

‘Luca.’ I ran a hand through my hair, wished the ground would swallow me up. This wasn’t how any first meeting with an ex was supposed to be.

‘Evie! How are you?’

I nodded and tried for a smile. Words wouldn’t come. Luca and I had been one of the only couples to have ‘gone steady’ at school for the entire two years of the sixth form. I’ve never since had my life so sorted as when he and I were going out. It’s funny how we know it all at sixteen—and then what happens? How does it all fall apart?

Standing within touching distance of him now, I remembered almost viscerally the lunchtimes we’d spent sitting on the bench by the tennis courts at school, his arm draped over my shoulder while we talked about our future. We’d talked about what we’d do when we were married: where we’d live, how many children we’d have and what their names would be. The funny thing was, it wasn’t just me leading this fantasy life—Luca had been even keener on it than I was.

Back then he’d worked on Saturday and Sunday lunchtimes in a chichi pub in Chislehurst, where he cleared dishes, washed up and sometimes even waited tables. When I’d turned eighteen, he’d presented me with a tiny solitaire ring he’d saved up his wages to buy and asked me to marry him. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I’d said no. He’d thought I was joking at first. ‘No. Seriously, Luca. Maybe if we’re both still single when we’re thirty,’ I’d quipped, handing the red velvet box back to him.

It had been the beginning of the end. The relationship had limped on until we left school a few months later, but the magic had gone. We’d gone to different universities and we hadn’t stayed in touch.

‘It’s been—what?—nearly twelve years?’ Luca said. ‘So what are you up to these days?’

‘My dad just died.’ The words fell out of me. ‘I’ve just come back to help Mum. For a bit. I live in Dubai.’

Luca touched my arm then pulled his hand back quickly. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. I remember your dad … Look, if there’s anything I can do?’

‘We’re just in the funeral directors now,’ I said. ‘Choosing the coffin. I just, um, stepped out for a second.’

‘I’m so sorry, Evie.’

‘It’s OK. Not your fault.’ I tried to smile.

‘Would you let me know about the funeral arrangements? I’d like to pay my respects.’ Luca put his hand on his chest and looked down for a second.

‘I will.’

‘Look, if you need anything at all, Evie. I’m here. Facebook me.’

‘Thanks. I will.’

Two pairs of eyes turned to me when I stepped back into the undertaker’s.

‘Would you like to see what we’ve decided?’ Mum asked, looking at me over her spectacles. ‘We’re going for the oak casket with the blue lining.’ She opened the catalogue to a page and pointed. And the funeral’s set for a week today. Right, I think we’re all done here.’

She pushed her chair back and, together, we stepped out into the drizzle.

CHAPTER 11

The Speckled Hen did a good lunch. Stopping in on our way back to the house, Mum and I ordered salmon fishcakes, salad and thick-cut chips washed down with a warming glass each of Merlot.

‘So, shall we get the funeral party thing catered?’ I asked, the wine already buzzing in my head. I wasn’t expecting a yes.

‘Sure,’ she said, waving over the waitress. ‘Can you ask the manager to come over?’

This was a side of Mum I’d never seen before. When Dad was alive, she’d have stood up all night, on pins if she’d had to, cutting rounds of sandwiches rather than buy them. I was pleased—it was progress. The pub, it turned out, had a home-catering department and the manager was obliging. Within a matter of minutes, it was agreed that uniformed waiters would hand around a selection of sweet and savoury finger foods and hot and cold drinks.

I, however, wasn’t making much progress of my own. I’d fully intended to start going through Dad’s address book after lunch, letting people know that the funeral had been set for Friday, but the rich food and unaccustomed lunchtime wine took their toll on both me and Mum. Back home, Mum flicked off her shoes, dropped her keys onto the dresser by the front door and collapsed in her favourite chair in the living room while I went to make us each a coffee. But, when I brought it out to her five minutes later, Mum was out for the count, her mouth slightly open, a magazine on her lap. I placed the coffee quietly on the table and looked at my mother. In sleep, her face was softer, free of the worries that plagued her in life.

‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll always be here for you. It’s just us now. Just the girls.’ I placed a fleecy blanket gently over her lap and went upstairs to lie down. The wind had picked up and I wriggled luxuriously in bed, the duvet half over me as the wind splattered the rain against the windowpanes. We never got afternoons like this in Dubai; I let the rhythmic patter of the rain lull me to sleep.

‘Aaargh!’

The furious scream that woke me was followed by the crash of the phone being slammed down.

‘That woman is so rude!’ Mum yelled.

‘What’s wrong? Mum? What’s up?’ I leapt off my bed and into the hall where Mum was standing staring at the phone as if it had got up and slapped her on the cheek.

‘It’s unacceptable! How can people be so rude?’ she raged. ‘I never even liked the woman!’

‘What? What happened?’

‘I told her that Graham was dead and she denied it! It’s not as if it’s easy telling people, but that woman had the temerity to deny it! She said I was “having a turn”!’

‘Oh, Mum, I …’ I took a step towards her.

‘“Oh, Mum, I” what?’ Mum was still staring at the phone, but now she snapped her head to look at me, her eyes flashing.

I reached out for her arm, but she jumped away.

‘It’s not Graham,’ I said gently. ‘It’s Dad who’s died. Robert. Not Graham.’

Mum stared at me, her eyes wide. Then she shook her head. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Good God, I may be old but I don’t have dementia. What kind of idiot do you take me for?’

‘I …’

Mum turned for the stairs. ‘Cup of tea?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m fine.’

CHAPTER 12

I yanked the wool from the tip of my knitting needles, unravelling a row of uneven stitches. ‘Please could you help me with my knitting?’ I asked Miss Dawson. She’d been waiting for me to say something for several minutes, but the knitting was taking up all my concentration. It hadn’t been going right for a few days now and the work I’d produced was full of telltale holes.

‘Here.’ Miss Dawson took the wool and needles from me, unravelled a couple more rows, cast on and knitted a couple of neat rows for me. ‘There you go.’ She passed it back.

‘Thanks.’

‘Are you sleeping all right now?’ she asked. ‘You said you have sleeping tablets? Are they working?’

‘Hmph.’

Nights were bad. I couldn’t stop thinking about the accident. Mum had taken me to the doctor and, after that, I got half a tiny purple sleeping pill at bedtime.

The pills tasted bitter and dragged me into sleep but, in my dreams, I met Graham. All night we played, we argued, we messed around. I woke feeling happy. And then I had to remember all over again that he was dead. During the day, I felt like I was walking through melted toffee, my head enclosed in a glass jar.

‘I stopped taking them. I don’t feel much like myself with them,’ I said.

‘And are you managing to get to sleep without them?’

‘S’pose,’ I said.

I’d never tell Miss Dawson, but I’d started talking to Graham instead. Each night, I lay down and told him about my day. I imagined that he could hear me; I imagined his replies. I slept better now—but my dreams were still of Graham.

CHAPTER 13

After Mum had settled downstairs with her tea, I took Dad’s address book upstairs. After the scene on the landing, I thought it was better that I make the calls. The address book was faded and worn and, when I lifted it to my nose, I could catch the scent of my father impregnated in the leather. I imagined him sitting in his study, his long fingers thumbing through the pages crammed with carefully written names, numbers and addresses.

I made the calls from my bedroom, not wanting Mum to hear me repeat the same things over and over. ‘Yes, died in his sleep … very peaceful … yes, she’s fine, thank you … I’m here to help … yes, funeral’s on Friday at eleven … no flowers, money to charity …’

It made for a wearing afternoon’s work. Dad was one of the first in his peer group to pass away, and many people were so shocked I ended up consoling them rather than the other way around. It was tedious, but I was keen to get it over with; happy that I was able to do it for Mum.

Under ‘D’ I found the number for Miss Dawson, my old grief counsellor. I chewed my pen and stared out of the window. Would she want to know? She’d seen a lot of me after Graham had died, had almost become a friend. I wondered what she was up to now. I’d have thought she was in her late thirties when she was helping me, so she must be nearly sixty now. I added her number to my phone, clicked ‘Call’ and waited while it rang.

‘Hello?’ Her voice sounded muffled, as if she were talking from a previous century.

‘Hello. I’m looking for … umm …’ I realised I didn’t know her Christian name. ‘Miss Dawson?’

‘Yes, speaking. Who’s calling?’

‘Miss Dawson! It’s Evie. Evie Stevens.’

Not even a pause. ‘Evie! How lovely to hear from you. What are you up to now? Still knitting?’

‘And some!’ I laughed. ‘I knit for charity these days. Let’s just say there are a lot of sailors in the world wearing warm hats thanks to you.’

She laughed. ‘It wasn’t as random as you think.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I had a theory that you were stopping yourself from talking. I wondered if getting you to focus with all your consciousness on small repetitive tasks might allow thoughts from your subconscious to surface. You were my guinea pig. It was a technique I went on to use on many of my other clients.’

‘Wow! I had no idea. I thought you were just trying to fill the time.’

We chatted about Dubai, what I was doing; I told her why I was back. She was touched to be invited to the funeral.

‘But how’s your mother?’ she asked. ‘How’s she taking it?’

‘She’s OK, I think. She seems very organised. Together.’

‘Well, I’m glad to hear that.’ She sighed. ‘Look, I probably shouldn’t say this, but you know it was her we were worried about most back then.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. You were a resilient little thing. A tough cookie. Devastated, obviously, but your grief ran through the natural stages.’

‘And Mum’s didn’t?’ I was talking quietly, scared that Mum would come upstairs and overhear.

‘Well. It was very—how to say it?—extreme. Wasn’t it? It was what we’d call a “complicated grief”—a grief dysfunction, of sorts. Your mother found it exceptionally difficult to accept the loss of Graham. Even when she appeared to start functioning more normally, we were worried she was suppressing it. I tell you this because an event such as this, such as your father passing away, could bring it all back.’

‘Hmm.’ Just what I was thinking. ‘I’m trying to help … you know: be there for her.’

‘Evie, you always have been there for her. You can only do your best—and I know your best is very good. But, if you’re worried about anything or need to speak to me at any time, please don’t hesitate. I’m sure she’ll be fine, but keep an eye on her. It’s a difficult time.’ She gave me her email address.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I hope I don’t need it.’

As the afternoon wore on, I made good progress through the address book. Luca had been out when I’d called his house, but I left a message and my number. I didn’t know, though, what to do about my uncle—Mum’s brother—the black sheep of the family. Would he want to know that his brother-in-law had passed away? Did I have the right to tell him if Mum didn’t want to contact him?

‘How are you getting on?’ asked Mum, surprising me, long after I’d had to click on the light.

‘Fine,’ I said, sighing. I flicked through the remaining pages of the address book. ‘Probably only five or six more and I’ll be done.’

‘We must remember to invite the headmaster,’ she said. ‘It’s probably the “done thing”.’ She made the little quote marks in the air.

‘What headmaster? You mean of the university?’

‘Doh, Evie, don’t be silly. Of the school!’

I froze. Twice now. ‘University,’ I said, treading on eggshells. ‘Dad worked at the university.’

Mum bent down to pick up a tissue that had missed the bin, placed it in. Then she looked up at me. ‘Of course. What did you think I meant! Silly girl. Yes, the chancellor, or whatever, of the university where Robert taught. It’s probably only polite to invite him. Will you do that? Anyway. Look. There’s one more thing I wonder if you can help me with before you disappear back to Dubai?’

‘Sure.’ I wasn’t paying attention one hundred per cent. I was flicking through the address book, pretending to look at names while Miss Dawson’s words circled in my head: extreme reaction … complicated grief … we were worried she was suppressing it … your father passing away could bring it all back.

Mum’s voice broke into my thoughts. ‘I’d like you to help me clear out the attic. All your brother’s stuff is up there—’ I stared at the address book, unable meet her eye ‘—and I don’t think I can face it. But …’—and I do wonder if she paused here for dramatic effect, or if she was nervous of my reaction—‘I’m planning on selling the house. In fact, I’ve just made an offer on a new one.’

CHAPTER 14

Well, after that bombshell, I begged Mum not to rush into anything, but she seemed adamant that she wanted to sell the house—apparently she and Dad had been planning to do it before he died and had already put in the offer. If I’d learned anything about bereavement from my sessions with Miss Dawson, it was that you shouldn’t rush into making any major changes. Such as selling your house.

‘The new place is just around the corner,’ Mum said, batting away my concerns like lazy bluebottles circling her face. ‘Your father liked it a lot and I don’t want to lose it. It’s a much smaller house—more manageable and cheaper to run, especially now I’ll be on my own—but it’s in a better location? In the conservation area?’ Her intonation rose at the end of each sentence, as if she were asking my approval. ‘I’ll show you tomorrow, if you like? We can take a walk by. House prices there are just going up and up, and they do say “location, location, location”, don’t they?’

She stopped talking and I didn’t fill the silence.

‘Anyway, they haven’t accepted my offer yet,’ she said eventually. She wasn’t looking at me; she was examining the paintwork of the doorframe intently, running a finger over it.

I thought of the £22,000 debit from Dad’s account. That must be what it was for. ‘So had you and Dad put money aside for the deposit?’

Mum looked at me. ‘No …’

‘Oh … how about legal fees? Have you had to pay anything yet? For surveys?’

‘Why do you ask?’ Something in Mum’s voice warned me not to go further.

‘Oh … no reason.’

There was another silence. To be honest, I was too tired and too shell-shocked by the events of the last forty-eight hours—not to mention by the lack of sleep—to be in a position to talk further about it. Mum and Dad had lived in our house for nearly thirty years; it was the home into which I’d been born. I couldn’t understand how or why Mum would want to move so fast. But exhaustion rendered me incapable of expressing even that much.

‘Can we talk about it in the morning?’ I yawned, looking pointedly towards my bedroom door.

I woke the next day with Dad on my mind. I’d dreamed about him in the night, knowing in the dream that something was vaguely wrong, but not understanding what it was. For a few seconds, in that hazy state between sleep and wakefulness, I was unable to place where I was, or why. There was something I needed to do for Dad but where was he? Then, as the morning sun streaked through my curtains, it all came back. I resolved to spend the day clearing out the attic and going through Dad’s papers. The missing £22,000 made me feel uneasy and I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Downstairs, I found a note from Mum saying she’d popped up to the High Street, so I grilled the life back into a couple of croissants I found in the freezer, made myself a coffee and heaved the first of Dad’s box files onto the dining table, where I spent the best part of the morning painstakingly matching up each receipt from the ‘Receipts’ file with each debit from the account, credit card bill or cheque stub.

Kudos to my father, every single one matched—except the most important one; the one that had piqued my curiosity. I could tell the missing £22,000 had been transferred to another bank account—the logical assumption was that it was a savings account—but I couldn’t find a record of the recipient bank account in any of the files. I slammed my fist against the table in frustration, figures dancing in front of my eyes. Dad had receipts for new windscreen wipers at £14.99 a pair, for heaven’s sake. How could he forget to document where £22,000 went?

Furthermore, I was now in an even worse position than I had been when I started. Instead of finding a solution, going through the papers like a penny-pinching accountant had thrown up a new problem: I’d now found a payment of £1,000 that had gone to the same bank account every single month as far back as Dad’s statements went. It, too, was lacking receipts; unexplained. There was a printed screenshot to show that Dad had stopped the payment just before he died, but I couldn’t find any further details about it. ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ I said, staring at the statements, as if burning the digits onto my retinas might yield an explanation.

If it wasn’t for a home deposit, what could it be? A deposit on a new car? A holiday? Garden landscaping? Some sort of investment? A shudder ran through me. James had always been telling me about the dodgy investment scams that people—especially the elderly—fell for: Ponzi schemes, non-existent companies, prime banks and so on. Had Dad been conned into handing over money for something like that? I’d almost rather not know.

Mid-morning, my thoughts were interrupted by Mum bustling back into the house with bags of shopping.

‘Morning, darling!’ she said. ‘It’s a gorgeous day! Sorry I took so long! I bumped into Lily and we stopped for a coffee. What have you been up to?’ She peered at the table, barely pausing for a reply. ‘Ooh, the files. Thank you! Do you think you’ll be able to go up to the attic today? I dread to think what’s up there—I haven’t been up since …’ Finally, she tailed off, her attention focused intently on the marmalade jar that still sat on the dining table—the same cut-glass jar I remembered from my childhood. A tiny shake of the head, then, ‘Do you have any other plans for today?’

I shook my head.

‘You should go out while you’re here,’ Mum said. ‘You haven’t seen your friends for so long. Whatever happened to that nice girl who was at junior school with you? You know, the one you shared a room with on the school trip to France?’

‘Oh … goodness knows. We were never really friends.’

The phone rang.

‘Who’s that?’ Mum leant over to pick up the clunky handset of her new retro phone. ‘Oh hello!’ she chirped. I listened as she made plans to meet whoever it was on the phone that evening.

‘That was Richard,’ she said when she hung up. ‘He’s got a voucher for a free curry down the road and he’s just noticed it runs out today. He’s asked me to go out for dinner with him. You don’t mind, do you?’

Did I mind? With my father not even buried, I didn’t really know what to think. I shook my head, confused. Mum smiled.

‘Thanks, darling,’ she said. ‘He’s really quite harmless. And it’s only a curry.’

CHAPTER 15

‘And how do you feel?’ Miss Dawson asked. ‘Are there times when you forget that Graham’s no longer here?’

How did she know? The headmistress must have told her about the day of the school photos. I wished the earth would swallow me up when I thought about that day.

My teacher had been stressed. I could tell by the way she was rubbing her forehead and circling her fingers around her temples as she tried to mark our maths tests. Every now and then, her head would pop up. ‘Quiet!’ she’d say, but it was more of an exasperated sigh than an instruction.

It had been a rainy morning and the class, like the weather, had been particularly disruptive—aside from the novelty of arriving at school in wellington boots for the first time that autumn, we’d all been excited because it was school-photo day, and that meant a break in routine; something different to working on our never-ending history projects.

At 10 a.m., I’d asked my teacher if I could go for my photo.

‘Sure,’ she’d said and there’d been a micro-pause as she’d struggled to remember my name. She was new and she always got me mixed up with Emma. Then Adam had howled in pain and her attention had flipped to him and Jason, locked in a battle.

I’d slipped quietly out of the classroom and headed for the main hall, my plimsolls squeaking with every step on the polished parquet flooring. I loved school-photo day. As we sat in the queue waiting our turn, I loved watching the smiles people put on for their minute in the spotlight; seeing how their faces changed for the camera.

Outside the toilets, I’d hesitated then ducked in at the last minute. Although there wasn’t a lot of point in me trying to comb my wild hair—any contact between it and a brush generally earned me the nickname ‘Basil Brush’—I’d dampened my fingers and smoothed down the sides as best I could before heading to the hall. Mum would have never forgiven me for having messy hair in the school photo.

The queue wound away from the main stage, the children waiting patiently on the floor in twos and threes. But I was alone. Something wasn’t right.

Mrs Hopkins, the headmistress, had bustled towards me, her face creased with concern. ‘Evie, dear,’ she’d said, putting her hand on my arm. ‘Your class photo’s not till this afternoon.’ I stopped as it dawned on me what I’d done. ‘Let me take you back to your classroom,’ she’d said, gently taking my hand.

Three months after my brother died, I’d turned up for the sibling photos. A week later, I’d been referred to Miss Dawson.

‘There was only that one time at school,’ I told Miss Dawson. ‘And sometimes first thing in the morning when I wake up I forget for a minute and then it all comes back. That’s when I miss him the most.’

CHAPTER 16

Upstairs in my room, I sat at the desk at which I’d revised for my GSCEs and A levels and opened my old address book—somehow, in the rush to pack, I’d remembered to bring it with me. Mum had got me thinking about my old school friends and I wondered who, aside from Luca, was still around. My best friend from school certainly wasn’t—she’d met an Australian guy at university, married him and disappeared off to Australia as soon as she’d graduated. I’d been out to visit her once and she’d stopped off in Dubai for a couple of days, too—it was the type of friendship we could just pick up, no matter how many years went by.

My favourite person in the world lived in Warwick. Clem was the reason I’d moved to Dubai in the first place. Since we’d met on the Student Union dance floor doing our Gloria Gaynors to ‘I Will Survive’ at the Monday night disco, we’d been inseparable throughout university.

‘Promise me we won’t get sucked into corporate life,’ she’d said as we’d studied in her room for our third-year finals, the threat of real life hanging over us like a guillotine. ‘Let’s travel together, see the world.’

‘How?’ I’d asked. ‘We don’t have enough money for the launderette. How are we going to fly around the world?’

‘Easy. We get jobs that pay us to travel: we’ll be cabin crew or ski chalet girls. We’ll get jobs in a bar in Mykonos and party like Tom Cruise in Cocktail.’

Huddled in duvets in digs lashed by the relentless rain of the Midlands, she’d dreamed up our plans for a life in the sun; I’d dreamed of a life away from the ruins of my family.

But things hadn’t worked out quite as planned. One night, when we’d both been unemployed for several months, we were sitting in a London wine bar making our Happy Hour drinks last as long as we could when Clem had dropped the bombshell.

‘So,’ she’d said, and I’d known at once it was bad news. Her energy was off-kilter and she’d been preoccupied all night. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’

I’d stared at the nicks in the wooden table, wishing I could stop time right there, for I guessed what was coming. I arranged my face, made it smiley, before I looked up at her.

‘I’ve got a job in Dubai,’ she’d said. She was trying to break it to me gently but the luminosity of her face gave her away; she’d tried not to smile but I could tell she was fizzing with excitement. ‘I’m going to be a PR executive.’

I’d opened my mouth, but words wouldn’t form.

‘Evie, I have to go. It ticks all the boxes. Sun, sand, a good salary, an accommodation allowance—it’s even tax-free.’

I’d bobbed my head like a nodding dog. Of course she had to go. At last the words came out right, but the light had gone out of me. I’d wanted more than anything to be going with her. She’d booked her one-way ticket, and I’d gone reluctantly back to job-hunting in London.

But, despite being unemployed, I hadn’t had time to feel lonely. While I’d been away studying, Mum had retreated from everyday life until she’d virtually become a recluse. She lived in a world she perceived to be fraught with danger. Once I was back from university, and with Dad away so much for work, I took the full brunt of this paranoia. I could understand Mum’s fear of me crossing the road; I could understand why she didn’t want me to own a bike. But everything else?

And now the fear was no longer just for me: it was for herself, too. Mum had let friendships lapse and she rarely went out—when she did, it was a small trip to the closest supermarket to buy groceries. Heaven help if anyone told her about Ocado. She was becoming a hermit and I worried about her. I knew that if I lived nearby it was a small jump till she became totally dependent on me. But we were both too young for that. Instead, I came up with a two-pronged plan of attack.

Part one: I was going to persuade Mum to take a job—it wouldn’t only get her out of the house and force her to interact with people, but it would, I hoped, help her get her confidence back. After she was established in a job I hoped she’d enjoy, I’d move on to part two: I was going to follow Clem to Dubai and force Mum to stand on her own two feet. This latter part of the plan I had no problem with—if necessary I’d scrape together enough money for a ticket, fly out on a tourist visa and look for a job while I was out there. Clem’s Facebook updates showed me tantalising slices of life in Dubai and I yearned to be in the sunshine with her.

The former part of the plan, though, was more tricky. Aside from a secretarial job at the university where she’d met Dad, Mum had never really had a career. Working wasn’t in her mindset and Dad earned enough that there wasn’t really any financial pressure to motivate her.

I’d trawled through the local job ads, looked at cards stuck in newsagent windows and even went to the Job Centre once, but nothing I suggested took Mum’s fancy, even the job as assistant in the flower shop, which I’d thought would really appeal to her.

‘Oh, good God, no,’ she’d said, as if I’d suggested she retrain as an astronaut. ‘Have you any idea how cold it gets in that shop in winter? With those stone floors and all that water about? Oh no, darling, that’s not for me.’

Eventually, though, I’d secured her an interview at Woodside Hospital, to work as an admin assistant. Mum hadn’t been able to come up with an excuse not to go and that, as they say, was that. The job—keeping charge of a busy consultant—had, ultimately, been the making of her and, a couple of months later, I was on the plane to Dubai. Clem and I had proceeded to paint Dubai not just red but scarlet, indigo, magenta and fuschia.

For two single girls living together in a city that never sleeps, the phrase ‘burn the candle at both ends’ could never have been more appropriate. But then, at a ‘fondue and a bottle of white’ night, we’d got chatting to Patrick and James, a couple of well-spoken guys who’d seemed a snip above the usual Dubai blokes.

We’d double-dated them for a while, then flat-swapped—me moving into James’s palatial villa, and Patrick moving in with Clem. Finally, a year later and thinking ourselves ever so very clever, we’d all got engaged and thrown a huge party in the lush gardens of The One&Only Royal Mirage Hotel.

But that’s where the similarities ended. While Clem and Patrick had got married, moved back to Warwick and had twins, James and I had staggered towards our bitter break-up—infidelity’s not a trait I look for in a husband. Clem was now the mistress of a quaint tea shop selling coffee, tea and cake to tourists up to see Warwick Castle while Patrick ran a successful pub. I knew Clem would be busy with the twins, but I sent her an SMS anyway.

That done, I logged onto Facebook on my iPad. After scrolling through the newsfeed, I sucked my cheeks in and typed ‘Luca Rossi’ into the search box.

He’d mentioned he was on Facebook—that meant it was OK to ‘friend’ him, didn’t it? It had been weird-in-a-nice-way to bump into Luca after so long. Just hearing his voice again had made me feel safe; it was as if he dropped an invisible cloak of protection over my shoulders. Luca was so different to the men I met in Dubai; so very, very different to the razzle-dazzling, lying, cheating James. Luca was what he was; there was no pretence, no show, and I liked that. He knew about Graham. He knew the scars that lay inside my heart. With Luca, I could be myself: no explanations.

‘To see what Luca Rossi shares with his friends, send a Friend Request.’ I stared at the tiny picture of Luca that came up on the screen, my finger hesitating over the mouse. Would ‘friending’ him send the wrong signals? I was still reeling from my break-up with James, the word ‘rebound’ pulsing in my mind’s eye, and I didn’t want Luca to think I wanted anything more than a connection for old times’ sake.

But the pull of seeing someone who knew my past was too strong and I fired off the request, adding in a message: ‘It was great to see you. I’m around for a bit. Let me know if you fancy a coffee. Cheers, Evie.’ Just the thought of being Facebook friends with Luca made me smile. Although I was totally off men, he was different … I knew him. I knew his family, his background, his people. It wasn’t like he could spin a web of lies like James had.

James had dazzled me from the night we’d met—I’d never in my life come across anyone so handsome, so charming, so fearless and spontaneous. On our first date—the morning after we’d met in the wine bar—he’d taken me skydiving over Palm Jumeirah for goodness’ sake. He’d told me he dabbled in a bit of commodities trading but made most of his money working as an advisor to a Sheikh. New to Dubai and green as they come, I’d lapped it all up, naively believing that James really was ‘working on an important project at the palace’ when he was actually sleeping with Shelley or Susan or Tracey at their airline crew accommodation. Our engagement had come to an abrupt end when Shelley had bumped into us having a cosy dinner in the beach restaurant of the very hotel at which we’d got engaged.

‘What are you doing with my fiancé?’ she’d asked before turning her fury on James. I liked to imagine someone had managed to retrieve both our engagement rings from the sea where we’d flung them. Now I shuddered thinking about that night.

I flicked once more through my address book, concluding that, after being away for so long, I had no real friends currently residing in Woodside. But I had one more thing to do. Opening my email, I looked up the address I had stored so recently.

‘Dear Miss Dawson,’ I typed. ‘It was lovely to speak to you today, and thank you for being so kind. As it happens, I am quite worried about Mum. She’s not herself (obviously)—she had a really bad reaction to a police car that went past with its sirens on, and now she’s told me she’s selling the house we’ve lived in all my life. Dad’s not been gone a few days. More seriously, though, she’s confused Dad’s death with Graham’s twice now. Once I could have overlooked, but twice? Is this to be expected? Should I try to get her to see you? Sorry to ask, but you’re the only person who knows all the background. With thanks and warm regards, Evie.’

CHAPTER 17

It was a perilous climb up to the attic. Mum positioned the ladder as best she could, adjacent to the door, and held it steady, but I had to haul myself up a good foot between the top of the ladder and the floor of the attic, then transfer myself across sideways. Dignified it was not.

‘Right, are you up?’ she called, as I dusted myself off and felt around for a light switch. ‘If you’re OK up there I’ll just pop up to the High Street,’ she said. ‘Do you need anything?’

I said that I didn’t. I had mixed feelings about going through the attic and I was glad Mum wasn’t going to be hanging around at the bottom of the ladder, waiting to see what I found. I was curious to see what was up there but, like her, I was also slightly nervous of what I might find, of the memories that might resurface.

Easing myself along the ancient floor beams (I vaguely remembered Dad telling me as a child that I must stand only on the beams—was it true? I didn’t know), I looked around. The air smelled musty and particles of dust floated languidly in the yellow of the weak electric light.

Every available inch of floor space was choked with boxes. Empty ones, full ones, mysterious ones, labelled ones. Toys, clothes, books, old computers, old stereos, speakers and suitcases. There was more than thirty years’ worth of family junk but, as I looked more closely, I realised there was at least some method to the madness: my old toys were grouped together, as were bunches of suitcases, boxes of clothes, hardware, empty boxes and other items. I realised I wasn’t going to be able to make a dent in the clearing today—once I’d had a good look around I’d hire a skip and blitz the whole place in a couple of sessions.

In a dusty corner, balanced on the beams near the other toys, I spotted the old wooden doll’s house Dad had made for me when I was six. I went over—it was smaller than I remembered but, even under a coat of dust, it was still lovely. Looking at it now, as an adult, I couldn’t believe the attention to detail Dad had put into it: different rooms were sectioned off, each with hinged doors and each wallpapered a different colour; there was tiny home-made furniture; a pipe-cleaner family for whom Mum had made wool bodies and tiny clothes; and there were even electric lights.

Feeling like a giant, I slid my hand inside the living room and clicked a tiny switch—long ago, the lights had even worked. Running my fingertips over the neatly painted window frames, I understood for the first time what a labour of love making this house must have been for Dad. I’d played with it countless times as a child, assuming that everyone’s fathers hand-crafted wooden doll’s houses for them. It was only now—too late—that I realised how special it had been; how much Dad must have loved me. I looked up at the rafters and whispered, ‘I loved it. Thank you.’

Reluctantly, I turned back to the attic. By the door was a messy pile of empty boxes—the box that the new retro phone had come in; the new DVD-player’s box; the bread-making machine’s box. My mother hated to throw anything away—she must have tossed these boxes up into the attic without actually coming up the ladder; she can’t have been up for years. As I started to stack the boxes neatly away from the door, I noticed a camp chair and a small table set back behind the door, in a corner where you wouldn’t naturally look when climbing into the attic. On the table, there was a lamp, crudely wired into the mains supply, a couple of books and an opened jumbo packet of Minstrels—Dad’s favourite sweets.

After stepping carefully past the door, I went over. Surprisingly, the chair, table and books weren’t covered in the dust that veiled everything else in the attic. The thinnest book was a school exercise book. My breath caught as I saw Graham’s careless writing scrawled on the front: ‘NEWS’. I flicked through the book, dipping in and out of Graham’s accounts of our weekends, written for Monday morning ‘news’ at school.

‘On Saturday we went to Greenwich Park,’ he’d written. ‘Me and Evie played hide n seek in the adventur playground. I won. We had Mr Whippy 99s. Evie dropped hers so I shared mine.’ He’d drawn a picture of two children holding huge ice creams. He’d put us in identical outfits, but made me smaller and scribbled me some mad brown hair. I sank into the chair and flicked through the book, absorbed in the events so crudely described: our childhood on the page.

Next I pulled the thick book towards me—it was a photo album and, even before I looked, I knew what I’d find inside: Graham. Hundreds of pictures of Graham. His whole life, lovingly tracked out in pictures, with captions written in my father’s neat handwriting. I hugged the album tightly to my chest, and squeezed my eyes shut. So this is how Dad coped with Graham’s death? He came up to the attic and sat, alone, remembering his dead son? I sat there for some time, imagining how Dad must have felt, the sounds of family life, such as it was, drifting up from the house below as he—as he what? Remembered? Cried? Blamed himself? Talked to Graham?

‘Oh, Dad,’ I whispered. ‘I didn’t know. I would have talked to you. Why didn’t you talk to me?’

Taking a deep breath, I put the photo album and the News book carefully back into their places and turned to face the attic.

The first brown box I came to was thick with dust. I brushed the label. ‘Dresses’ it said. Now that was exciting: could they be Mum’s? I still remembered the days before the accident when Mum had dressed up every day, following the trends in magazines and trying out different looks. Things had changed when Graham died, and I’d always wondered what had happened to Mum’s glamorous wardrobe.

The box was a good weight, tightly packed. I opened it, picked out the top dress and shook it open. It was a powder blue and silver lurex minidress. Holding it to my face, I inhaled, catching—or maybe imagining—a faint whiff of a perfume that triggered memories of Mum and Dad all dressed up and ready to go out: Mum squealing ‘Mind my hair!’ as she stooped to hug and kiss Graham and me goodnight, her hairdo rigid with lacquer and her shiny white boots reaching well above her knees; Dad, with a twinkle in his eye, taking Mum’s hand as they headed out of the door; the crunch of the car tyres on gravel and Lily from next door hustling us up the stairs to bed. Happy memories. Excited to think Mum’s dresses had survived all these years, I shoved the box towards the door and moved on.

Dust lay thick on the tops of all the boxes; the cardboard was cold and damp to touch; a fusty smell hung around them all. I slid tatty string over the edges of another box, opened it and gasped in surprise as my old dolls looked up at me, their nylon dresses as bright as the day they were bought.

Since the accident, I’d mastered the art of not dwelling on the first eight years of my life; it was too painful to remember what life had been like with a brother. I’d not given a moment’s thought to these dolls since Mum had packed them up, but seeing them brought memories flooding back: the day I threw ‘Pattie’ at Graham, accidentally smashing the glass lampshade in the living room; the time I threw a dolls’ ‘pool party’ in the bath—a pool party that Graham had gatecrashed with his Action Man; ‘Rosie’—a pretty little doll Mum had bought me to keep me occupied on my first ever flight, aged six.

I still remembered that flight; I saw it in snapshots. I’d been wearing a denim skirt that Mum had bought for me—my first denim skirt—and I’d felt so grown up. Graham and I had begged to sit together in the two seats in front of Mum and Dad. Mum had worried what we’d do if there was an emergency, but Dad had pulled rank and Graham and I had spent the flight pretending we were travelling alone as we ordered our apple juice from the cabin crew. I ran a hand through my hair. While I’d gone on to enjoy plenty more flights, Graham had flown just one more time.

Perching on a beam, I put Rosie carefully back and picked out the other dolls in turn, unwrapping them from the crumbling pages of the local paper in which they’d been cocooned. Carefully, I moved their arms and legs, touched their shiny hair and remembered the contours of their plastic faces. Then I rewrapped them all, one by one, closed the box and pushed it to one side. I’d no idea what to do with them.

The next box was packed with old books, teddy bears, games and wooden jigsaws that I remembered bickering over with Graham. As I turned the toys in my hands, half-formed memories chased through my mind like beagles on the hunt. At the bottom was an old radio: Dad’s. Wiping the dust from it, I remembered cuddling on his lap while he listened to dreary voices talking about the news. The radio was tarnished now, decades from its prime, but I could still smell Dad on it, the clean scent of his fresh cologne. Sighing, I stood up and pulled my hair into a messy bun: at this rate, it was going to take me days to get through the attic. I’d have to learn be less emotional.

An hour or so later, I straightened up, pleased with the size of the ‘throw out’ pile I’d managed to make of things that obviously had to go. In the far corner of the attic, a glint of metal caught my eye. Stepping closer, I realised it was Dad’s old bike. The last time I’d seen it was when the police had brought it back from the accident site. Sitting in the living room, Dad and I had heard the rumble of a truck engine outside.

‘Delivery for you,’ the driver had said, indicating the two bikes on the back of the truck, one pristine, one a twisted and broken frame. ‘You don’t have to take them. Some people want them … everyone’s different … closure …’ he tailed off.

Mum had come barrelling down the stairs. ‘What is it?’

Dad had pointed wordlessly to the truck. The driver shuffled on the doorstep. ‘Well?’

Mum was silent.

‘Yes, please. Unload them,’ said Dad eventually.

We’d watched as the driver had taken down Dad’s bike first, propping it up by the side wall, then he’d reverently lifted out the mangled remains of Graham’s bike and placed it gently on the gravel.

I’d watched silently as Dad had signed the delivery papers and the truck had driven away. When we were back in the house, I’d cowered against the dresser as Mum had fallen on Dad, pummelling his chest with her fists and screaming, ‘How could you? It’s all your fault!’

Dad had tried to pull her off, tried to hug her. ‘Carole, please. You’re emotional. Think about it. We’ll bury it with him. What else can we do with it? I refuse to let it go for scrap.’

What I hadn’t realised was that Dad had kept his own bike. Somehow, he must have hidden it from Mum; got it up to the attic himself. I brushed dust off the saddle now, and squeezed the brakes. The tyres were flat and the brake pads felt like concrete, but there appeared to be nothing a bit of oil wouldn’t cure; ditto with the chain. It was a nice bike; I remember it had been expensive, one of the first things Dad had treated himself to when his first book was published. Not daring to get onto it in the attic, I stood next to it appraisingly as I squeezed the brakes and imagined myself riding it. Dad had been tall but it was still a manageable size. I stared down at my hands on the handlebars Dad would have gripped and thought, Could I?

Although the bike was veiled in tragedy, I liked the continuity of me riding it. The bike was a connection to Dad and I really needed that right now. I’d been unable to say goodbye to him and my hopes of us becoming close again had been obliterated overnight. What little I’d ever had of my father was slipping away from me. Like the sky needs the stars, I needed to feel close to him; the ache was almost physical. But what would Mum say? The accident had been twenty years ago and the bike was nondescript, black; maybe she’d even forgotten what it had looked like. If I got it down without her seeing, could I pass it off as a friend’s? I wheeled it carefully towards the attic door then turned back. What next?

CHAPTER 18

‘So how are things with your dad?’ Miss Dawson asked. Today she’d brought sweets and I sucked on a sticky Drumstick, softening it up before I bit into it, while I thought about what to say. Graham wasn’t the only person I’d lost in the summer.

‘He doesn’t play Mastermind with me any more,’ I said.

‘Oh? Is that something you used to do a lot?’

‘Yep. He stopped reading with me as well.’ I thought about the books we used to read together at bedtime. The way he did the silly voices.

‘Have you tried to speak to him? Properly?’ Miss Dawson’s voice was gentle.

‘He’s never home. He’s away on lecture tours. It’s “very important” for his “career”.’ I mimicked the way Dad said it.

The truth was, Mum and I hardly saw Dad these days. He worked long hours and started going away on lecture tours a lot of the time.

‘Why won’t he speak to me?’ I said, a sob catching in my throat. ‘I’m still here. It’s like he thinks I’m dead, too.’

‘He must be at home sometimes?’

‘He locks himself in his study.’

‘Working?’

‘Huh.’ Usually he was writing papers and books and whatever else historians did, but sometimes—and I knew this because I’d peeped around the door—Dad just sat with his head in his hands. ‘He’s really busy with work,’ I said. ‘He’s really famous. He’s in the papers, magazines and everything. Once he was on the radio. And the telly.’

‘Wonderful. You must be proud of him. What does he do?’

I knew she knew. ‘He’s a historian. He writes papers. And books, and he’s made TV shows and everything. He’s just finished a series of books for children. He’s been on TV.’

People talked about how my dad managed to make history ‘come alive’ for children. Mum’s friends stopped mentioning Graham when they came to the house; they stopped asking how we were. All they wanted to do was meet Dad; you could see it in the way they looked past me and Mum. Everyone talked about the way Dad could ‘connect’ with his students. I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded nice. I wished he could ‘connect’ with me.

‘I just want him to notice me again,’ I said. ‘I want it to be how it was before.’

‘Oh, Evie. It will get better. Everyone deals with tragedies differently. Your dad lost his son. It’ll take time.’

‘But I’m still here,’ I said. ‘Can’t he see that? I’m still here.’

CHAPTER 19

It wasn’t easy getting the bike down from the attic but, somehow, I managed. I was keen to do it before Mum got back and, somehow, after a struggle that broke two of my nails, gouged out a small section of wallpaper and left a smear of oil on the paint of the attic door, both the bike and I were on the landing. I bumped it down the stairs and into the kitchen, where I examined it more thoroughly, remembering the do-it-yourself tutorials Dad had given Graham and me in this very room; the reluctant (on my part) Sunday afternoons spent learning how to oil our chains, flip off the tyres and change the inner tubes. The bike needed a bit of a service, a good re-grease and a couple of new tyres, but, aside from that, it was in good shape. I lay newspaper over the kitchen floor, dug out the toolkit and the oilcan from under the stairs and, cranking up the radio, got to work.

I didn’t hear Mum come in, not until she snapped off the radio, causing me to jerk up from where I was slowly dripping oil into the chain. I was starting to wonder if I’d actually have to take the bike for a professional service; the chain was more dilapidated than I’d originally thought, and the brake blocks definitely needed changing.

Mum was breathing heavily, her basket of shopping dropped at her feet, Richard hovering behind her. ‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was quiet, but a red spot high on each cheek belied her calmness.

‘Oh hi!’ I said, realising at once that I’d underestimated her. Woefully underestimated her. Of course she would remember Dad’s bike. I looked at the floor, my cheeks burning in shame. I could have handled it so much better. How could I have been so stupid to think she wouldn’t recognise the bike?

‘WHAT. IS. THAT?’

‘Umm …’

‘Is it your father’s?’

I nodded feeling like an eight-year-old. I could feel my lip curling like I was going to cry. I made a mistake! I wanted to say. Go away and I’ll put it back and we’ll pretend it never happened! ‘It was in the attic,’ I said.

‘And what are you doing to it?’ Mum’s words were clipped.

‘I was just taking a look at it …’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, no reason. Just … I wondered what you wanted to do with it.’

‘Well, mark my words, young lady. You will not be riding that bike. You hear me?’

‘What?’

‘I said, you are not riding that bike.’

‘But …’

‘But nothing. Now you’ve got it down, you may as well put it outside for the bin men. But mark my words, if I catch you …’ Mum let out a stifled scream and steamed out of the room, fury stuck to her like a swarm of bees.

‘It was twenty years ago!’ I shouted after her, suddenly furious myself. ‘When are you going to face up to it? He’s dead! They are both dead!’ I dropped the oilcan and collapsed onto my knees on the kitchen floor.

Richard looked sadly at me and shook his head. ‘To be fair, Evie, that was a bit much.’

‘To be fair, Richard,’ I snapped, ‘it’s none of your business.’

I waited for him to leave the room, then stood up, rubbing out the ache in the small of my back. I wheeled the bike out into the garden and around the side of the house, where I propped it up by the bins. I’d decide what to do with it later.

CHAPTER 20

‘Evie, what happened?’ Miss Dawson asked. ‘The school called. I came as quickly as I could. What happened?’

I liked that Miss Dawson didn’t ask if I was all right. Even my teacher had spotted that I wasn’t all right. When I hadn’t been able to stop crying in class, she’d led me to the nurse’s room and asked her to phone my mum.

‘No! Not Mum!’ I’d curled in a ball on the narrow bed and wished I could stay there forever.

‘Who then?’ Nurse had asked. ‘Is your dad around?’

I’d shaken my head.

Nurse had tut-tutted. ‘Who then? Miss Dawson?’ and I’d agreed with a nod.

Now Miss Dawson was here, I knew I had to talk to her. I pulled myself up so I was sitting on the bed.

‘It’s Dingbat,’ I said.

Miss Dawson waited.

‘Hamster,’ I hiccupped. ‘He’s dead.’ I scrubbed at my eyes with the balled-up tissue I’d been holding all morning, my breath still jagged.

‘Oh, Evie. I’m sorry to hear that.’ Miss Dawson rubbed a hand over her face.

But it wasn’t that Dingbat was dead. Well, it was, but it wasn’t like Miss Dawson thought. Dingbat had been Graham’s hamster. He’d got him when he’d turned ten—for his last birthday. He’d begged and pleaded, claiming he’d look after the hamster one hundred per cent himself. Mum hadn’t thought Graham would manage, but Dad had persuaded her to give him the benefit of the doubt and Graham had hand-picked Dingbat from a heap of ginger-and-white fluff at the pet shop. And, to Mum’s surprise, he’d looked after Dingbat really well, feeding him, changing his water, peeling grapes for him and even cleaning out his cage. He’d really loved him. After the accident, I’d taken over caring for Dingbat. It made me feel like I was with Graham.

‘He was Graham’s,’ I said.

‘It’s very sad when pets die,’ Miss Dawson said carefully. ‘And it must be very hard for you with … Dingbat? … because he was a link to Graham?’

‘Mmm.’ I didn’t know what to say. I was supposed to be able to tell Miss Dawson anything, but I didn’t know if I could tell her what had happened yesterday after school. Whenever I thought about it, I started to shake.

I’d gone into the kitchen to ask for a biscuit. Mum had been standing at Dingbat’s cage. The cage door was open and Mum had been holding Dingbat, letting him run from one hand to the other as she stared out of the window at the garden. At the exact moment that I opened my mouth to ask for the biscuit, Mum had spun around with a scream and hurled Dingbat at the kitchen wall. I could still hear the crunch of his little body slamming into the wall, the thud of him landing on the tiled floor.

‘Mummy!’ I’d screamed and she’d noticed me for the first time. She’d stared at me, then she’d pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and come towards me with her arms held out and a smile splitting her face in two. On the floor behind her, Dingbat twitched and then was still, blood oozing from his mouth and ears.

‘Evie, darling. What’s wrong? Come here. Let me give you a cuddle.’ She’d wound her arms around me, stroking my hair, and I’d sagged against my mother, clinging to her, breathing in the scent of her clothes, her perfume. It was the first time she’d hugged me since Graham had died.

‘I love you, Evie,’ she’d said, kissing my hair and running her hands through it. ‘Don’t ever leave me. Promise you won’t leave me.’

It was awful, but the attention was nice and I hated myself for liking it; hated myself for choosing Mum’s hugs instead of running to Dingbat.

‘It’s Mum,’ I told Miss Dawson.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘She probably misses Dingbat as much as you do. I expect he reminded her of Graham, too.’

I twisted the tissue in my hand, my eyes raw. Mum had killed a living creature. Would Miss Dawson have to tell the police? Would Mum have to go to jail? What was worse: Mum like this, or Mum in jail? I took a deep breath and made my decision: ‘It’s just that … I don’t think she’ll let me get a new hamster,’ I said. Well … at least that bit was true.