‘Oh, yes. Of course it is. Is he here?’
‘Erm, I think so,’ I say, focussing hard on the photo. We are on a small wooden stage that looks as if someone’s dad built it. The local Scout hall, I remember now.
‘Look at the three of you,’ Pam announces, having arrived at my side.
‘Is that you?’ the other woman gasps.
I swallow hard. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘She hasn’t changed a bit!’ Pam says fondly, squeezing my hand. Her eyes fill with tears and a lone droplet spills down her cheek.
‘Oh, Pam,’ I exclaim. ‘I’m so sorry…’
‘No, I’m sorry, love. God, look at the state of me. I told myself not to do this today…’ Without thinking I’ve pulled her close and she lets out a muffled sob. I rest a hand gently on the soft silver pillow of her hair.
‘I just miss her, Josie. I miss my girl so much.’
‘I know,’ I murmur.
‘It’s so unfair, love.’
I nod wordlessly, and we stand there, glued together for a few moments. ‘I’m so sorry we lost touch,’ I start.
We pull apart. ‘Oh, these things happen,’ Pam says firmly. ‘And she was living on the other side of the world.’ Yes, but it wasn’t just that, I want to tell her. Pam steps back and smiles stoically. ‘Ravi had a great life out there. A brilliant career. She trained as an art teacher, did you know that? And she set up courses for adults at an arts centre.’
‘Yes, I heard.’ Through more online tributes I’d learnt that, apparently happily single and child-free, her life in Australia was filled with friends and her love of art and teaching. Numerous posts from her pupils from all eras have flooded the Facebook memories page.
Pam looks around the room. My chest tightens as she calls out, ‘Shane, come over here!’ Dutifully, he heads towards us. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she announces, ushering us away from the table and through to the kitchen. ‘I’d forgotten about the thing.’
‘The thing?’ Shane looks quizzical.
Pam opens a wall cupboard and lifts out a small rope-handled gift bag. ‘The thing Ravi left for the two of you. The present…’ She looks at each of us in turn, as if unsure of who to give it to, and then hands it to me.
I glance briefly at Shane, my heart thudding as I take in the soft green of his eyes. ‘What is it, Pam?’ I ask.
Smiling, she pushes away a twirl of silver hair from her cheek. ‘Have a look, love. I think it’s going to be quite a surprise.’
6
I peek into the gift bag. There’s a chunky parcel wrapped in plain brown paper, and a crisp white envelope nestling beside it. ‘Read that first,’ Pam tells me. ‘It’ll make more sense that way.’ Obediently, I hand the bag to Shane and open the envelope, pulling out what looks to be a letter.
Dear Josie and Shane,
it starts, in Ravi’s large, loopy handwriting that was once as familiar to me as my own. The sheet of paper is shaking. This, I realise, is because my hands are shaking. Pam has stepped back as if to allow me a little space to read it. However, Shane is standing so close, he must be able to hear my heart thumping.
Well, this is something, isn’t it? Me writing to you after all these years. I hope life has been good to you both. It hasn’t been so great to me lately, but I’m trying to sort things out and organise everything as best I can. Haven’t changed much, have I! Wanting everything my way.
I glance briefly at Shane. We are reading it together, excruciatingly. Standing together like two ill-matched schoolkids being forced to share a script for the school play.
I hope you’ll forgive me, because I’m making a load of assumptions here. I’m assuming, for one thing, that Mum and Dad will want to have a big fuck-off party for me. I know what they’re like! It’ll be all ‘do NOT wear black – this is a celebration, not a wake!’ I also know Mum will be cooking for days and bossing Dad into making the flower borders look amazing, as if it’s one of those open garden days and people will be inspecting every— well, I was going to mention a flower by name, particularly one that flowers in the late spring. Which is when I think I will be ‘passing’.
Don’t you hate that word? Just say it like it is. Dying. Anyway, I’ve never bothered to learn any flower names haha. Too late now. Also too late to get through that big bottle of Jo Malone Mimosa & Cardamom that cost me £120!
Imagine if by some miracle I manage to hang on until September and mentioned a spring-flowering flower instead of an autumn-flowering one? The SHAME. Anyway, enough about that. My other assumption is that, if this party goes ahead, then you will not only get to hear about it but also COME. And if all that happens… well!
Here I am, taking charge of things for one last time. Please do this one thing for me, the two of you.
I stop, willing my blurry vision to clear. Don’t cry, I tell myself. Don’t start plopping tears onto the paper! I turn to Shane, and his mouth twists and I see that his eyes are moist too. ‘You okay?’ I ask, and he nods grimly. ‘Yeah.’ He clears his throat and I read on:
