Page 18 of Summer in Greece

She caught a flicker of concern that was quickly replaced by a grin. ‘What’s for dinner? Us technology wizards need to keep our energy levels up,’ he said.

‘Hotpot with cheesy dumplings and a side of pickled red cabbage.’ She started the microwave.

Gordon’s eyes widened. ‘Will this Alexa be able to cook like you, while you’re away?’

Shelly laughed. ‘Almost. She’ll tell you what to take out of the freezer in the morning, and how many minutes to heat it in the evening.’ Shelly smiled. ‘Do you think you and Bill will manage, Dad?’

‘’Course we will. We’ve got a poker school going one night, a couple of strippers on night two . . .’

‘You’re too naughty, Dad! Now wipe that silly grin off your face.’

The microwave went, bing!

*

After dinner, Shelly returned to the spare bedroom. Too exhausted for any more sorting and too emotional to listen to another of Gran Gertie’s tapes, she closed her eyes and recalled how she had first met David. David, the love of her life. A fortnight after her mother’s funeral, Shelly had waited for her dad to leave for the pigeon club. When she had the house to herself, she started to box up some of her mother’s possessions – it was an odd feeling to go through her mum’s handbag; it was there, in her purse, that she found the ticket.

The collection slip said: H SAMUEL, JEWELLER’s. COLLECT BEFORE 3.30 ON 24-DEC-2000.

That Saturday, dressed in her finest, with make-up, nail polish, everything, Shelly set out on a pilgrimage with only her mum in mind. For the first time since Christmas Eve, she really wanted to look her best. She walked to the bus shelter, as her mum had done, and sat alone trying to imagine how it had been that day. She flinched each time a car came racing around the bend, afraid that in some way she was invoking a re-enactment of the past. Thinking about death, she wondered if her mother could see her there, at that moment.

‘Don’t leave me, Mum,’ she whispered, aware of the space around her, feeling her tears rise, then remembering she was wearing mascara and sniffing hard. The bus came, carried her into town with her mother’s ghost beside her. Shelly stared at her knees. She could feel her mother’s arm against hers, sensed her sparkling smile, her pride and her love. In moments like these, it was so easy to imagine Mum was still alive. But the bus journey came to an end, and so did the dream, for a moment.

She headed straight for the jeweller’s shop, once again, imagining her mum walking alongside with that proud, this is my daughter air. That look always made Shelly smile when they were together.

At the high street, Shelly sat on a bench, watching the shop for a long while. She didn’t know why, only that she somehow expected her mother to come out of the door, and Shelly would understand it had all been a terrible mistake. Perhaps she had been with her mother at the bus stop on Christmas Eve, Shelly reasoned. Perhaps she had been hit by the car and everything she knew from then on had been a drug-induced dream while she lay in a coma in hospital. When her body was repaired, the doctor would wake her . . . her mother would be sitting at her bedside telling her everything was all right now – and her father would be smiling, like he used to.

Fantasies like this kept her lonely sixteen-year-old heart strong enough to continue under the weight of her grief.

She took the ticket out of the purse, marched across the pavement and straight into the shop. A man at the counter, in his fifties, looked up curiously.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Er, yes, please. I’ve come to collect this.’ She passed the ticket over.

‘I see. Are you Mrs Summer?’

Shelly wondered if he was being sarcastic. ‘No, she’s my mother. She was . . .’

‘I’m sorry, miss. We can only give it to Mrs Summer, unless you have a note from her and proof of identity . . .’

All the horrible hurt was gathering in Shelly’s chest. ‘But . . .’

‘Sorry, it’s the rules. Nothing I can do.’

It had been so hard to get this far. Her bravery was all used up. Anger and frustration escaped in an explosion of distress. ‘She’s dead!’ she interrupted loudly, hysterically. ‘She was waiting for the one o’clock bus to come here on Christmas Eve when a drunk driver mounted the kerb!’ She was really shouting now, fury holding her tears back. ‘Did you hear me? My mother’s dead! Dead!’

Her chest was heaving though she could hardly get her breath. She slapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and glaring in a struggle against tears. She swallowed hard, lowered her hand, and whispered, ‘Whatever it is, it was my Christmas present.’

An older man came out of the back of the shop. ‘Is everything all right?’ The assistant told him what had happened. He looked at Shelly in a kindly way, which made her feel even closer to tears. ‘Do you have anything to prove who you are, or anyone we can phone, young lady?’

She shook her head, pulling her purse out of her pocket at the same time. My dad’s at home, but he gets upset. Anyway, he’ll be in the pigeon loft. He stays there most of the time since it happened. I’ve got my bus pass, will that do?’ She put it on the counter. ‘And there’s Sergeant Edge at the police station. He gave me his card and said if I had any problems at all, I could call him.’

The older man looked at the younger one. ‘I don’t think we need to do that. Let’s see what we have, shall we?’ He took the collection ticket and went into the back of the shop.

She could hear what sounded like a filing-cabinet drawer open, then two thumps of a stapler. He returned to the shop holding a midnight-blue-and-gold paper bag.

‘There you are, my dear. Just sign for it. There’s nothing to pay.’