‘It’s ridiculous.’ Ruthie shook her head, as she unfurled her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. ‘Do you know what he said to me?’
‘What, Mum?’ She had no need to ask to whom her mother referred.
‘He said he hoped that, this year, we could all spend Christmas together as a family; none of this you here Christmas Day, your sister coming the day after and you staying away. Years of it! That’s what we’ve had – how ridiculous! And what a waste! Selfish!’ Ruthie breathed in juddery bursts. ‘That was all he wanted, to have his girls here together, for Christmas. It wasn’t much to ask, was it?’
Remy wanted to respond, but hearing that this was her dad’s wish and that he had not lived to see it was a knife to her breast, the blade tipped with guilt.
‘There’s a bit more to it, Ruthie.’ Midge did his best to pour oil on to the troubled waters.
‘There’s always more to it, Midge! Always.’ Her mum raised her voice. ‘But life is too short. That much I do know!’
Ruthie sat forward in her chair, her voice as strong as she could make it, but with the wobble of age and distress.
‘Today should be about Dennis, my husband, who is not yet cold in his grave, but all people will want to talk about is the girls! Why are they not speaking? Why don’t they get along? Right here in the house he worked so hard to make nice for them, to give them everything they ever needed, so they could lead good lives! Selfish is what they are!’
‘All right, Ruthie.’ Midge stepped up. ‘I don’t think this is the time or the place. And all families have hiccups, all siblings spar with each other – it’s the nature of it! Doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.’
‘Well, they’ve got a very funny way of showing it!’
Remy was as hurt by her mother’s words as she was warmed by Midge’s. Before she could mount a word of defence, there was a knock at the front door.
‘I’ll go.’
She decided it was better to get it over with, to face her sister and be done with it. Having mustered her courage, she walked slowly along the hallway, recognising the shape of the head through the glass, a head the exact same size and profile as her own. Having taken a deep, slow breath through her nose, and waiting for a second to compose herself, she turned the latch.
She might have practised in her head what she wanted to say, thought about how she would act, but such rehearsals paid no heed to the rare, deep connection between the two women. It was a visceral reaction, the need to hold her, be close to her, to cry with her. There was no forgiveness, nothing that instant or idealistic, but it felt entirely necessary to sweep away her suspicion, her defence, to pause their estrangement in recognition of their unifying loss.
You need to look after each other, always. You are, after all, miracles, two babies from one egg, rare and special!
The moment their eyes locked, all reserve and pre-planning fell away, as they stumbled into each other and held each other tight. Toe to toe, cheek to cheek.
‘I can’t believe he’s gone!’ Remy cried into her sister’s hair, taking comfort from the closeness of her twin. Remembering their childhood, the way her dad had made them laugh at the breakfast table and had gone on about concrete. His red company tie with the little gold logo on it, resting against his pressed shirt, as he ate his toast and marmalade, smiling, kind, working hard to give them the very best kind of life.
‘I miss him, I never got the chance to ... to say goodbye!’ Ashleigh stuttered.
‘Our dad!’ Remy sobbed.
‘Our daddy.’ Her sister matched her tear for tear.
‘He built our ... our Cindy shelf!’ She could barely get the words out.
‘He did, he built our brilliant Cindy shelf ...’ Ashleigh echoed.
Ashleigh
Ashleigh sat on the bench at the back of her parents’ garden, part shielded from view by the enormous shrub that grew by the side of the shed. An ugly thing, really, that flowered only briefly at the start of the summer. Two or three weeks of flame-red blooms that for her did not justify its ugly, woody green presence for the rest of the year. She lit the cigarette and exhaled the smoke in a thin, satisfying line out into the early evening air.
In no mood to chit-chat to the assembled crowd inside her mum’s house, not wanting another warm, crustless egg mayonnaise sandwich, and knowing to have the exact same conversation with any number of family members might drive her over the edge, she took refuge here, hiding.
‘Yes, still in Queen’s Park.’
‘Not for me, I don’t really like quiche, but thank you.’
‘Oh, you went to London? How lovely. No, I’m not near Buckingham Palace.’
‘She’s doing great, her and Kat are happy, loving life in Canada!’
‘No, my friend brought me down. He’s picking me up later.’
