‘I loved being here. It worked for both of us,’ I remind him, as it occurs to me that right now, Joe might want some space. ‘If your family are coming to stay for the funeral, I can go and stay with Lucy for a bit.’
He looks shocked. ‘There’s really no need. I know Isla will come.’ He hesitates. ‘I’m not so sure about Tara – and if she does, I don’t imagine she’ll stay here.’
‘Are things no better between you?’ I ask.
‘Not really.’ He stares towards the window. ‘We have to sort things out, one way or another. But right now doesn’t feel like the time.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ It isn’t easy, when so many things come at once.
He goes on. ‘I have to go home for a few days. But I’ll be back as soon as I can. I need to start sorting everything out here.’
‘Give yourself a little time,’ I say gently. ‘You’ve lost one of the most important people in your life.’ I pause. ‘There was one thing I wanted to ask you.’ I hesitate again. ‘When it comes to the funeral, would you let Lucy and me do the flowers?’
After Joe leaves, it’s the first time I’ve been alone in Mary’s house and I get a sense of how she lived, of the lifetime of memories she surrounded herself with. I study the photos she’s collected over the years, of herself as a girl then a mother, a boy I imagine must be her son. Many more of Joe. The pieces of antique furniture, china that comes from a bygone era.
But it’s a way of remembering; we attach meaning to the things we collect. The mementos of our children, the carefully chosen personal gifts that would mean nothing to anyone else. I have my own small collection. But in recent years, my possessions have dwindled because if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that we never lose what’s precious to us. Nor do we need to be reminded. We keep what matters most, in our hearts.
The day before Mary’s funeral, Lucy and I make the most glorious tribute with flowers I’ve grown and foliage we’ve cut. It’s elegant and refined, with a trace of wildness, all the characteristics that Mary loved about her garden.
It’s the first funeral I’ve been to since yours, Lexie. It’s quiet and dignified, yet unlike yours, there’s a sense that Mary’s time had come. After all, she’d told me herself that if her health failed, she didn’t want to linger.
As I thought it would, it brings back how I felt after yours. The guilt that I hadn’t prevented your death; my anger with a world that had been so cruel to you.
How powerless I’d felt.
Over the next few days, Isla stays on at the house. I discover that she feels caught in the middle of her parents; that she has Joe’s kindness.
The evening after the funeral, she confides in me. ‘I don’t know if Dad’s told you, but Mum’s leaving him.’
‘Not exactly.’ I see the sadness in her face. ‘I’m so sorry, Isla. Break ups are really hard, for everyone.’
‘It isn’t so much that.’ Her voice wavers. ‘After Mum had an affair, I was kind of expecting it. They’re such different people. It’s just that I’m worried about Dad. About him being lonely.’
My heart goes out to her. ‘He’ll be OK. When things like this happen, so much changes. And it will be difficult for a while.’ I pause. ‘But it will work out.’
‘I hope so.’ She looks so young as she sits there.
‘Talk to him,’ I say gently. ‘It helps, more than you think.’
She nods. ‘I will.’ She pauses. ‘Does he talk to you?’ Her cheeks flush slightly pink.
‘A little,’ I say carefully.
‘I’m glad.’ Isla looks wistful. ‘I’m glad you were here with Great-Grandma, too.’
Over the next few days, I try to give Joe space as he starts sorting through Mary’s desk, before moving on to cupboards and drawers. I start to look for houses, finding a cottage in a village a few miles away. When I go to view it, it’s smaller than it looked in the photos, but has a tiny spare room, for Harrie when she’s old enough to come and stay, and a garden that looks out across open fields.
But my idea of what I need has changed. Is still changing – while a spark has ignited inside me, a sense that there is something else, just around the corner.
I try to explain it to Lucy. ‘Do you ever get that feeling you’re coming to a turning point?’
She puts down the flowers she’s holding and frowns. ‘Are you saying you’re not sure about doing weddings any more?’
‘That isn’t what I’m saying,’ I reassure her. ‘I love doing flowers. But it’s like there’s something under my skin. I can feel it. I just can’t see it, yet.’
‘Should we be considering whether we take on more bookings?’ she asks. ‘I get it, Edie. We’ve done wedding flowers for years. Maybe it’s time for a change – for both of us.’
It’s a strange time as I imagine us winding down our flower business. But both of us need a job and for now, at least, we carry on. Meanwhile, in the background of my life, every now and then I hear from Ryan. His health is still poor – he still drinks.
