I want to tell her that yes, I am, but that would a lie. Twice this week, I have woken after vivid dreams, threads of a forgotten childhood that ties me in knots, broken images flashing before me, splintered snapshots of a missing brother. I don’t tell her that she is in there as well. I don’t tell her that I have suspicions about the part she played in Simon’s disappearance because I am not sure. I can’t trust my own instincts and I can’t rely on my dreams. Twice I have woken up downstairs, standing at the kitchen window, staring out into the garden squinting into the darkness convinced I can see him, the shadow of a boy who vanished into thin air.
So I say nothing, changing the subject, assuring her that everything is ticking along nicely and that yes, Gavin and Gemma are settling in perfectly and that yes, I am rested and well. And that yes, I forgive her. That part is true. I do. Time to move on. No energy left for any more hatred but plenty of room for love and clemency and compassion.
We talk about our families, agreeing that a get-together is long overdue.
‘Maybe next time Lucy comes up from Oxford, we can all go out, have a meal, some drinks, make an evening of it?’ Kim squeezes my hand.
The thought of seeing Lucy gives me a warm glow. Maybe my daughter and I have more in common than we could ever know, both of us floundering, struggling to fit into our designated familial roles, pushed aside for other siblings, confident siblings that shine. Like Lucy, I’ve always been the dull star of the family, never flickering as brightly as Kim. I think of Gavin, his poise and confidence, and feel a stab of regret. Maybe I did favour him. Maybe I inadvertently and unknowingly pushed Lucy aside, seeing too many of my own flaws in her character. Quiet, introvert, always lacking in the one thing that I could have given her – self-confidence and a steadfast faith in her own abilities, she was only too glad to loiter backstage, to let her brother bask in the limelight.
I try to stop the tears but they find a way out. Once I let them roll, I can’t stop them. I could cry for a hundred years and my well of tears will never run dry. I cry for Warren and for Lucy. I cry for my mother and for Kim and Simon. I cry for a father I can barely remember but most of all, I cry for myself, for all the faults and insecurities and fears that ruled me for so many years, the fact I allowed it to happen, letting them control me. A life half lived, that’s what it feels like.
We finish the coffee in companionable silence, conversation unnecessary. Birds flit over the moorland, swooping and diving, a scimitar of swallows visible in the distance, their return a sign that spring is here, summer nudging ever closer.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ I say as I pull at the handle, the car door swinging open.
Kim kisses me on the cheek, an uncharacteristic act but a welcome one all the same. This is the catalyst for us, the turning point of our lives. Everything is different now. Different and better. An improved version of us.
‘Speak soon,’ she says softly.
I close the door, the wind buffeting me, stinging my face, reminding me that I’m alive.
27
It’s the right thing to do. It is empowering disposing of Warren’s documents and papers. Kim was correct all along about getting rid of them, her judgement bang on the money. I stop, take a breath, remind myself of how often she was right and how many times I resisted her comments and suggestions. Always wise, always ready to help out, I rejected her assistance and sage ways, her words bouncing off my tough veneer. Maybe our asymmetric relationship was always an indicator as to who we really were and I just couldn’t see it. Another thing I missed, blinded by resentment and a constant burning ball of anger that I couldn’t dampen or quell. Kim’s protective ways, her superior manner – she was never quite able to shake off those maternal bonds and yet I didn’t pick up on it. I wonder what else has slipped under my radar?
I take the pile of documents and empty them into the bin. They are no longer needed, surplus to requirements. Warren would understand. Guilt pricks at me for thinking the worst of him, for suspecting him of infidelity. I was blind to how wonderful he was, only too ready to point the finger and accuse him of the worst kind of marital crime long after he was dead and unable to defend himself. He was trying to help me, to protect me. I hope if he’s looking down, he can also find it in heart to forgive me.
Gavin was another one who was right. Both he and Gemma work long hours, their time here limited to late evenings and mornings where they snatch a quick breakfast before darting out for the early train. We have fallen into an easy routine, each of us rubbing along together effortlessly. I’ll miss them when they leave. Which they will. Perhaps not now or even next month but at some point, they will want their own place, driven by a need for privacy and space. I can’t get too attached to their company. I have to remember to keep my own routine going, not depend on them for solace.
The clear-out doesn’t take too long. Many of the papers are no more than old bills and invoices. I keep the diary entry and letter for posterity. One day, I may need reminding of how close I came to losing my sister, cutting her out of my life completely. I need to remember how wrong I was, that my instincts aren’t always correct, that there is often another story lurking, another point of view that hasn’t been given the light of day and scrutinised closely enough.
The last two visits to see Mum have been peaceful. I suspect the staff have changed her medication, sedating her before we arrive. I don’t question their methods, glad of the easy atmosphere and gentle rapport, and they don’t offer any information as to why Mum is so placid and docile. We all just accept the situation and carry on with our lives. Why rock a steady boat that is sailing on calm waters?
My visits to the market have been few and far between. I’m not actively avoiding bumping into Janine Francis but my life is far easier, far simpler without her in it. I don’t think I would be able to hold my tongue should I meet her in the aisle of the local supermarket. Or my fists. I’m not a violent person and have never struck anybody in my entire life but in her case, I am prepared to make an exception.
I don’t hear anything from Sergeant Duffield and that doesn’t surprise me. A cold case, that’s what Simon is and what he will remain unless some unsuspecting rambler or dog walker stumbles across an old shoe or a piece of fabric or, God forbid, a pile of bones hidden beneath the undergrowth in a remote area of the woods. I tell myself that no news is good news. Sometimes, it’s easier to live in ignorance. The truth is a painful cross to bear and part of me is relieved that nothing has emerged regarding Simon’s disappearance. My life has become settled of late, easier. Do I really want everything tipped upside again? Am I strong enough to stomach it? I think I actually am; the problem is, do I really want to put myself through it?
I finish clearing everything away and slip on my jacket, ready for the next part of my plan, a journey of self-healing I have promised I will make, regardless of Kim’s advice to stay clear.
It came to me yesterday, the idea to do it, hitting me side on. Dad has never played on my mind the way Simon has, his existence, his death largely forgotten. Simon’s disappearance is an obstruction in my life, blocking out everything else. Everyone else.
When I called Kim and told her of my idea to visit Dad’s grave, I didn’t expect her response to be so robust, so strong. So visceral. Her condemnation of my idea was evident from the very beginning.
‘You’re going where?’
I froze, detecting her anger immediately. ‘To visit Dad’s grave – Granddad’s grave,’ I said, suddenly breathless and wheezy.
‘Why? I mean, why now after all these years?’
‘Why not? He’s our dad, after all. Well, your dad. My granddad. What I mean is…’ I stumble over my words like a child lost, unsure which direction to take. I didn’t know what else to say, her reaction leaving me dumbfounded.
‘You don’t remember him, Grace. Not like I do. Don’t put him on a pedestal is all I’m saying.’
I had held the phone away from my face, a creeping heat flushing beneath my skin. ‘I’m just going to put some flowers on his grave, that’s all. Surely there’s nothing wrong with that?’
I heard her sigh, could picture her rolling her eyes, chewing at her lip, biting down on it until she drew blood. ‘Okay, just bear in mind, he wasn’t a saint, Grace. Far from it. And don’t expect me to go with you. Ever.’
We had never really discussed our father before that point. I had dim memories of him and never felt the need to probe. It had just seemed like the right time to visit, to open my mind to the idea of him. I told her as much and we both agreed to disagree. I didn’t have the energy to question her reasons, her need to sully his memory. We said our goodbyes with a tacit agreement that I wouldn’t speak of it again.
The graveyard is empty. I am alone, standing at Dad’s graveside, shocked at how overgrown it is, disappointed at the state of the stone. Moss has grown over the base, a spread of green felt covering the wording. Next to me lies a shattered, old vase, the flowers broken and snapped, the petals strewn about the grass, small curling ovals of colour slowly rotting into the soil.
I look around for a groundsman, someone who takes care of the place, but can see nobody. I am completely alone. An eerie silence descends. No passing traffic, no birdsong. All signs of life absent. I shiver, pull up my collar then squat by Dad’s grave and begin picking up the pieces of broken glass, gathering up the dead flowers, their petals brittle and crisp, flaking to dust between my fingers.
It doesn’t take long to clear a space, to tidy up, make Dad’s resting place look almost presentable. I should have done it before now. It’s embarrassing, my father having the worst-tended grave, the oldest flowers, the dirtiest headstone. I’ll come here every month from now on, keep on top of it, give him somewhere decent to rest. He may or may not have been the best dad or husband but he was a human being and deserves to be cared about, to have his final resting place kept neat and tidy. It’s the least I can do.
I stand, brush the dirt off my clothes and head back to my car, buoyant about having done this thing, questioning why it has taken me so long to come here. A few minutes out of my day. That’s all it has taken and already, I feel a bond with a man I barely remember. A bond with somebody who left this life well before his time.
Sadness blooms within me. Sadness for a dad I cannot remember, sadness at Kim’s words regarding his character and integrity. Sadness for a family who never got to grow old together, all of us fragmented and torn apart, our memories, our potential happiness scattered far and wide.
I spend the remainder of the afternoon cooking, cleaning, doing what I can to settle the growing disquiet stirring deep within me. Kim’s words, as hard as I try, won’t leave me. I tried to distance myself from her dislike of our dad – the only father I had – to form my own opinion of a man I hardly knew and remembered, but words once said, cannot be unsaid. They leave a lasting impression, gouging out a dirty, great hole that is filled with doubt and uncertainty.
By the time Gavin and Gemma arrive home, I am determined to find out more about the man, to work out where Kim’s dislike of him comes from. It’s just another portion of the jigsaw of our lives, a missing piece that can help me work out what went wrong, why we ended up as we did. Something doesn’t fit. What was it about him that Kim disliked? And why don’t we have any photographs of us together as a family? Why is that? Where are our holiday snaps? The photos of us frolicking on the beach? Our family picnics, Christmas Day, birthdays, pictures profiling our childhood – where are they all? There is a chasm in our lives, a gaping crevasse. I am missing something important here. I don’t know what it is but I intend to find out.
28
He had few friends, if any, preferring to keep his own company. That’s as much as I can work out from the scant photos we did keep. On each of them, Dad is sitting alone, a newspaper planted in front of him, his face expressionless as he stares at the camera. I located the pictures in an old album that was here when I moved in, something that had slipped Kim’s scrupulous eye and evaded being thrown in the skip. Perhaps their blandness is the reason for their survival. There are no photos of him drinking with friends, playing with his family. Nothing to suggest he even had any loved ones: no wife, no children present on any of the snaps. Just a solitary man with a newspaper, a cigarette and a scowl.
