‘This is going to be, if all my plans work out, a bit like one of those books you had as children, where you could pick your own endings. Do you remember those? You’d reach a certain point in the story where you were asked what you wanted to do, which road to take, or which magic box to open, and it would take you to a different part of the book. You in particular loved them, Poppy, although you always cheated and read all the endings first.
‘So, this is your choice – if you want to know more about your father, I will tell you. You simply have to carry on with our little A–Z, and you’ll get there in the end. Round about P, in fact. I know that seems a while to wait, but it’s a big deal, and I’d prefer it if you two were a little more robust by the time you got there. There’s all kinds of lovely adventures planned before then – don’t groan, now! – that will hopefully allow you to feel better about the world.
‘But, and this is entirely up to you, you can also choose not to find out. I mean, you’ve gone the whole of your lives without knowing much about him, so you might decide that you’re happy to let it go, and continue as normal. I would understand that – and believe me, choosing to know won’t be without its complications. I can’t predict what they will be, but I’m certain they’ll exist.
‘So, if you do decide to pass, and sweep the daddy issues under the rug, then you need to completely skip P and Q. I’ll ask Lewis to package those up in such a way that you can’t see anything from the outside – I don’t know, perhaps he’ll find some nifty crime-scene tape, like in the movies, or one of those biohazard stickers? He’s very resourceful. If you don’t want to know, then just throw them away. Burn them. Throw them into the sea tied to a stone. Whatever you like.
‘Either way, it’s up to you. I’m sorry I’m not there in person to answer all your questions, although not sorry enough, it seems, to actually contact either of you right now and say “hey, girls, why don’t you come over for lunch and I’ll tell you all about your daddy?” It seems that I am still chickening out, just a little bit – please forgive me!
‘Anyway, I’m going to sign off for now – I’m sure I’ve given you plenty to think about. After our visit to the hospital, Lewis has promised to drive me up to Carding Mill Valley, and we’re going to try and do that little walk to the reservoir. Maybe call at the ice-cream shop on the way home, if I’m feeling up to it. There’s nothing like knowing your time is limited to make you relish a little bit of raspberry ripple, believe me.
‘I know this is all a bit of an ordeal for you, so I’ve planned a bit of a treat with E, I promise – nothing heavy at all. In fact, it may make you giggle.
‘So, my darlings, farewell for now – and please remember, always, how much I love you both.’
Chapter 33
Poppy
We’ve watched the video with the curtains closed, to block out the sunshine that was glaring off the screen, and now the room feels heavy and dark. The streaks of sun that are creeping in around the fabric are casting golden yellow stripes, like spotlights, filled with dancing dust particles.
We are both silent, and both, I suspect, confused.
First, we looked at the old black-and-white photos that had been left in the D envelope. Neither of us had seen them before, but the notes on the back told us they were of Mum, from the 1950s. There aren’t many – I suppose photos were more of a luxury back then – and they are small and square and not very clear.
She is dressed in white, her hair a fuzzy blonde halo around her head, and she’s sitting on the lap of her own mother, chubby knees poking out of what looks like a home-made dress.
My grandmother, who of course I don’t remember at all, does, indeed, look a little bit stern, trying to smile but seeming uncomfortable with having her picture taken. My grandfather, who is a tall man wearing a lot of Brylcreem, is standing behind with his hand on her shoulder, with the same half-grimace on his face.
It’s not quite got that frozen-sepia look that you see on really old pictures, but it’s hard to imagine them as living, breathing people – the people who created my own mother. People she lived with and laughed with and loved and grieved for, just like we are grieving for her.
It made me sad to think about that, so I distracted myself with sorting out the video. It took a bit of messing around accessing the video sharing account – password MyGrubbyAngels999, which makes you wonder who MyGrubbyAngels numbers 1–998 belonged to – but we got there in the end, and sat back and watched as our dead mother graced the flat-screen in glorious technicolour.
Seeing her there – perched on the bench we’d just been sitting on, in the garden we’d just been enjoying – was surreal. As though if we looked out of the kitchen window right now, she’d be there, with a cup of tea, watching the blue tits.
I’m not sure whether we’re lucky to have this final chance of spending time with her, or whether it is simply dragging out an already long and painful process. Even as I think it, I feel guilty – the amount of effort that she and Lewis have put into this project, at a time when most people would just be wallowing in self-pity, is staggering. She was even trying to help us as she approached death, and I know I’m being ungrateful to even consider not seeing it through.
But … well, this is hard. I’m not good at dealing with complicated emotions, which is why I’ve streamlined my own life to the point of non-existence. I don’t have close friends, or serious relationships, or children, or even pets. I have my work, my shallow social life, and my mother. Or, I had her, at least. Over the years there have just been one too many knocks, and at some stage I suppose I gave up even trying to get up and fight the next round.
Now I’m being plunged back into the messy, mucky, extremely disorganised world of my family, and being asked to make decisions that I’d rather not have to make.
Rose is looking as shell-shocked as I am, slouched on the sofa holding a mug of coffee that I know must be stone cold by now. Her poor ankles look swollen from the heat, and her hair is like a wild animal around her head. I can tell she’s feeling awful, probably on several different levels.
Last night, she was more open. More honest. More drunk, to be fair. But I can’t keep her drunk forever, and this morning she’s retreated back into her shell a little, as though she’s worried about the repercussions of even one frank conversation with me.
That hurts, and when things hurt, I tend to block them out, and ignore them until they go away. Thanks to our mother, however, that’s not an option here – which was all part of her cunning plan, I’m sure.
‘So,’ I say, switching the TV off and throwing open the curtains. She cringes as the light hits her, as though she’s a vampire in a movie. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s weird,’ she says, shuffling up the sofa to get out of the direct sunshine. ‘The whole thing. I miss her so much, and want to talk to her so badly, and when she does those bloody videos, they feel so realistic that I think I can. The way she talks, as though the camera is actually us, and we’re with her?’
‘I know,’ I say, sitting opposite her on the armchair. Mum’s armchair, the floral fabric worn down and shining from all the times she laid her hands on it. ‘It is weird, how she does that. But I don’t suppose we should be surprised, should we? She spent her whole life acting – and this is just another type of it, I think. Another role.’
Rose frowns at me, and seems upset by something I’ve said. I have no clue what.
‘I don’t think that’s fair,’ she says. ‘I think she means every word – she’s not just following a script, is she?’
‘That’s not what I meant!’ I reply, exasperated. It’s so grating, the way we are both ridiculously quick to jump to the wrong conclusion about each other – it is starting to grind me down.
