‘There’s a lot to do,’ she says, not even looking at me. ‘We’d better get started.’
She sounds bossy, and a bit rude, and despite the fact that I understand how hard this is for her, for both of us, it still makes me bristle. It’s the tone she sometimes used when we were kids, and she was trying to get me to revise when I wanted to go out; or when Mum had left us chores to do while she was working, and I made excuses not to do them.
I nod, and deliberately take an absolute age getting the papers Lewis gave me out of my bag. I take even longer unfolding them, and know I am being ridiculous – but, somehow, I can’t help myself.
The boxes are sitting at her feet, and looking at them makes me smile, no matter how sad I feel. They’re big, old-fashioned wooden crates, one decorated with beautifully painted poppies, one with roses. The flowers are all red and white against a black background, twining green leaves and draping petals and curling stems blending in with each other to create a floral meltdown.
‘I remember those …’ I say, reaching out to touch the wooden sides. ‘Our old Special Things Boxes.’
Mum had given us one each when we were little, after spending hours painting them. She told us they were for us to keep precious items in, mementos for the future. I suppose she had in mind school prizes and cherished artworks and baby clothes, but we were too immature to understand that, and instead used them as toy boxes. They’d been stashed in the Hideous Extension, crammed with old Barbie dolls and dried-up Play-Doh and Monopoly with all the hotels missing.
Lost to us, as we got on with our adult lives, but clearly not forgotten. It’s only now, as I stare at them both, that I realise how much time and effort she’d put into the painting. How pretty they are. How much love she’d put into them. And how much we’d taken it all for granted.
‘Yep,’ says Rose, her tone still brisk. ‘So do I. Shall we?’
‘Okay,’ I say, looking at the index. ‘It says here that we start with “A” – fair enough – and that A is a letter, which we’ll find in the Rose box. Let’s get on with it, shall we?’
Chapter 26
Andrea: A is for Ashes
My darlings,
I hope you are both doing as well as you can under the circumstances. I also hope the funeral went swimmingly, and that everyone enjoyed getting drunk in my honour. I know the people in the village must seem like cartoon characters to you girls these days, but I’ve lived among them for so long, they’ve become good friends. The least I owed them was a decent booze-up.
If you’re reading this, then I have to presume that you are together, in the cottage. That is a very good start, my loves – thank you for at least coming this far. I hope it’s not all too traumatic for you both – this place is practically an Aladdin’s cave of family history, and I know that might feel overwhelming.
All I can advise is some yoga breathing and possibly a stiff gin. You’ll find that in the usual place, assuming I haven’t knocked it all back by the time I take my leave. That’s always possible; you know I was always a borderline lush!
This is the very beginning of our little project, and I thought I’d start it with a letter. I’m doing that because at the moment, the pain is manageable, and I’m still at home. I’m writing this in my armchair, using that oldAtlas of the Worldwe have on the bookshelves to lean on. I’m planning on finishing this letter, then spending some quality time with the Beeb. There’s a new Dickens coming on that looks like an absolute dream.
So, I thought I’d start with the obvious – A is for Ashes. I believe it usually takes a little while for an entire human being to be burnt to a crisp, but Lewis has promised to get it expedited. He actually does use words like that – ‘expedited’ – he’s such a love! He’s going to arrange for my corporeal remains to be delivered gift-wrapped to you as soon as possible – a bit like Amazon Prime, darlings, but without that frightfully handsome Polish delivery man who pops in to see me every now and then.
Check with Lewis, but he thinks about a week in total – so feel free to stay at the cottage, or if that’s simply too much right now, take yourselves off home until I’m ready for my big scene.
Just so you know, I decided on cremation for a few reasons. My own parents were both buried, and I always feel guilty about not visiting their grave. It’s a long way away, and I never found the whole cemetery chic thing very appealing. There’s something very maudlin about standing by a grave, isn’t there? Imagining your loved one’s flesh rotting and the bones crawling with worms? Or maybe that’s just me, who knows? I was never the same after I did that stint with Hammer.
Anyway, I didn’t want that for you. I’d rather this unpleasant aspect of the whole affair be over with, and for you two to be able to say goodbye once and for all. It’s just ash, it’s not actually me – I will live forever, in a way, because you two will always carry me in your memories. And, by the time I’ve finished all of this, on memory sticks as well.
Now, with regard to the whole ashes-to-ashes thing, I do of course have a plan.
I’d like you to take me up to Stapeley Hill – you remember, near the Mitchell’s Fold stone circle? We used to go there a lot, when we still had Patch. It was the one where the big stone was supposed to be a witch who drained a magic cow of all its magic milk. In which case, of course, it served her right – we should all be more kind to magic cows; you never know when you might need one!
I hope you remember it, and remember it fondly. I’ve not been up there with you two since you were about 14 and 12, I don’t think. Life seemed complicated then, but in comparison to what followed, it was relatively simple, really. A big bottle of water, some ham sandwiches, a few Granny Smiths, and we were all happy. Though I did once take a hip flask with me for a few sneaky fortifiers.
Anyway, that’s where I’d like my ashes to be scattered – up on that hill. The views there are wonderful, you can see for miles, and the modern world hardly seems to intrude at all. Take me there – hopefully on a blissfully sunny summer’s day – and scatter me to the four winds.
I’d like you to take a picnic – you can use the old wicker basket, it’s in the Hideous Extension somewhere – and, more importantly, take your time. Talk to each other. Remember the good times, my angels – because there were so many of them. It’s been one of my greatest sadnesses that more recent events have completely overshadowed the past, and I’d like you to try and focus on how much fun we had together, us three, all those years ago.
I feel a little mean about leaving Lewis out of this one – he has been my Stapeley Hill walking partner in the last few years, after all, along with his old spaniel Betty (who, I warn you, if you ever meet her, is extremely flatulent). So, if it’s not too totally disgusting, maybe you could save a bit of my magic fairy dust for him? Scoop a few spoonfuls into an old champagne bottle or something, perhaps? But only if you can face it. He’ll understand if not. He’s good like that.
And, just to mention, I’d be really happy if you could take a look at B on the same day – all will become clear (don’t skip ahead, that’s cheating – and Poppy, I’m probably talking to you here, you always were so impatient!). After A is done and dusted – so to speak – you’ll need to spend a night in the cottage, so don’t be sneaking off to a hotel or anything.
Anyway, I’d better sign off for now. My fingers are a little tired, and I’m going to need all my energy if I’m going to properly savour this new show. I shall enjoy myself quietly bitching about the quality of the acting, even if it’s tremendous – small pleasures.
I am sending you, as ever, all of my heart – and remember, girls: I loved you, and I know you loved me. Everything will be fine. You just have to trust your old ma one last time,
Mum xxx
