Chapter 25
‘Hi Sandy,’ I mutter as I walk into the house. ‘How’s your day been?’
‘I’m in here,’ she calls from the kitchen.
The smell of sweet biscuits is delicious and the scent leads me to Sandy.
‘Oh my word, what have you been up to?’ I ask, scanning the results of hours of baking spread across the granite worktops.
‘I just thought I’d bake something nice for dinner but I had spare pastry, so I made some tarts for pudding too. Hmm, then I decided to make some ginger biscuits and a cheesecake.’ She giggles, washing a large, plastic bowl in the sink.
‘And these?’ I ask, pointing to a stack of whoopee pies.
‘I have no excuse for those.’
She balances the bowl on top of a mound of draining dishes then rubs her hands down the sides of her flour-dusted apron.
‘Right, what would you like first?’
I wrap my arm around her waist and rest my temple onto hers. ‘You can always cheer me up, Sandy.’
‘Rough afternoon?’
‘You could say that. Okay, I’d like to start with a nice big fat wedge of this delicious-looking cheesecake, please.’
‘Tea?’ she sings.
‘Absolutely. I’ll put the kettle on.’
* * *
Unsurprisingly, the lethal combination of sugar, caffeine and the day’s events kills my ability to sleep.
Rain pounds my bedroom window and wind gently rocks my curtains forwards and backwards.
Images flash through my mind like storyboards, mapping my life with my dad, how I met Gregory, the bloodstains on the staircase, how Dad died, Lara’s visit to my house, the story she told me about Gregory’s past. Thoughts of the future and unanswered questions – what will I do with the house, will I continue to live with Sandy, will I accept my promotion – intermittently break my trips through the past.
A thunderous rap of the front door knocker startles me, echoing through the house.
I bolt upright in my bed. I wait for a few seconds then the rapping comes again, longer and louder, once, twice, three times.
There’s a sound like Sandy’s flicking the switch of her bedroom light, followed by soft footsteps and the creak of her door.
Slipping into my silk kimono, I poke my head out to the landing.
Sandy holds a finger to her lip, where she’s standing at the head of the staircase. ‘Shh.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ I whisper.
We tiptoe down the staircase together, startling each time the floorboards creak. We reach the front door in darkness and the door knocker thuds again, making us cling to each other.
Sandy picks up two golf umbrellas and hands one to me.
‘What on earth am I supposed to do with this?’
‘It’s all I could think of.’
We each take one side, peering through the door curtain.
‘Gregory,’ I say, jumping back from the window.
Sandy looks at me in anticipation then undoes the dead lock.
‘Wait!’ I whisper. ‘I don’t want to see him.’
‘But Scarlett, he’s getting soaked through out there.’
‘No, I don’t want to. Please send him away. Tell him I’m not here or something, anything. I don’t want to see him.’ I scurry behind the wall into the lounge, close enough that I’ll be able to hear his voice.
His soft South African twang asks where I am and Sandy tells him I’m not home.
‘Is she okay?’
There’s silence and I wonder what’s happening, then Gregory shouts, ‘Scarlett, please.’
There’s a genuine pleading in his voice that makes me want to go to him, to soothe him and tell him that everything will be fine.
‘Scarlett!’
‘She doesn’t want to see you, I’m sorry.’
There’s silence again and I listen to drops of rain hitting the ground. Leaning back against the lounge wall, I close my eyes, thinking of the last time he wore that outfit. Chapel Down. I bite my cheeks but it doesn’t prevent tears forming in my eyes, welling, waiting to fall.
‘He’s gone,’ Sandy says.
I nod but can’t speak.
‘Come on, it’s after three and the vicar is coming today; let’s go to bed.’
I nod and take the hand Sandy offers me.
* * *
‘Scarlett,’ Sandy whispers through my opening bedroom door. ‘Sorry to wake you but the vicar will be here in an hour.’
‘What time is it?’ I mumble with my face squashed into my pillow.
‘Eleven-thirty.’
‘Oh my God! I’m up, I’m up!’ I say, not moving at all.
‘Okay, I’ll pop a pot of tea on. Would you like some food? Pancakes, maybe?’ she says too temptingly, forcing me to sit and smile in response. ‘Oh, and Scarlett,’ she says, stepping back into my room from the landing, ‘mind your use of the Lord’s name for the next few hours, won’t you?’
Reverend Griffiths arrives in smart, black trousers, a black shirt, a white dog collar and a tweed blazer.
A remarkably ordinary outfit. His grey hair is thinning but still covers his head and his bright-blue eyes look pure and honest beneath his large, round-rimmed glasses.
It almost seems silly how long it took for me to eventually settle on a blue dress and navy cardigan.
Sandy has made an extra special effort to look angelic too.
Her hair is tightly curled and pinned back.
Tiny kitten heels have replaced her slippers and she wears a pretty, pastel-green, wrap dress with a white, Victorian collar.
We exchange pleasantries and sit to take tea in the lounge.
The reverend sits in my dad’s striped, high-back chair, which irritates me more than it ought to.
Sandy takes the lead with conversation, being more familiar than I am with how to address a man of his stature.
Watching them smile and converse politely, they look like nice, good people.
I feel increasingly like an imposter. Clinging to my cup and saucer for support, I walk to the bay window and stare out to the low, end-of-October sun.
‘It would be helpful if you could tell me about how Doctor Heath passed on,’ Reverend Griffiths says.
Sandy reacts with wide, startled eyes.
‘It’s nice to be able to put the congregation at ease, if possible. To say Doctor Heath passed peacefully in his sleep, for example.’
I want to tell him, to confess everything to the reverend and pray for his forgiveness, for my dad’s forgiveness.
The words play out in my mind. He was ill, yes.
He was dying, yes. But it wasn’t his time.
He was murdered. I brought it upon him and he was alone.
He was alone because I left him alone whilst I played Gregory’s fucked-up games and drank wine.
‘Doctor Heath had been sick for a long time, Reverend. Alzheimer’s disease, he had. Oh but he still had his moments; he could still make us smile,’ Sandy sings. ‘He was peaceful enough when he died. He was the most peaceful I’d seen him for months.’
‘No!’ I yell, banging my cup down onto my saucer. ‘No, Reverend, he was not peaceful; he was alone! He was in hospital because I wasn’t here to look after him and he died alone because I didn’t stay with him. I should’ve been there. I could’ve stopped it.’
‘That is not true!’ Sandy snaps. She walks halfway across the space between us and gestures for me to sit. I can’t meet her eye but do as instructed and take a seat on the sofa next to her.
The reverend shuffles in his chair to place one hand on my knee and says, ‘I can see you’re angry, Scarlett, but remember this: if your father knew you loved him, he would have died a happy man.’
I wish I could hear truth in his words because if I could, my dad would’ve died the most loved and happy man I’ve ever known.
‘Tell me, what was he like?’
‘The best,’ I say honestly. ‘He brought me up. He did the best job he could and it was more than good enough.’
Smiling as memories of our life in this very space flash through my mind, I stand and walk to the centre of the room beneath the sparkling, crystal chandelier.
‘Do you remember how he taught us to dance, Sandy?’
‘Oh, yes, he twirled me around so fast, I could hardly breathe.’
‘He lifted me onto his feet and turned me and turned me until my head was in a spin. I had to hug into his stomach to stop me from falling but I kept telling him, “Faster!” We spun, faster, faster…’
‘And you spun until he fell back onto the sofa still holding you in his arms,’ Sandy adds.
‘He was the best.’
‘Oh dear me,’ Sandy says through a laugh. She tries to speak but ends up hugging her ribs, almost folded in half as she chuckles from the pit of her stomach. ‘Do… you… rem… remem… remember when he… when he taught us how to do a sack race.’
I laugh too. It’s short but genuine.
‘It was for my sports day at school,’ I tell the reverend. ‘I was nervous about being picked to represent the red team in the sack race. I had no idea how to do it. In the past, I’d always been picked to do the relay or the egg-and-spoon race.’
‘Ooooooh,’ Sandy calls, wafting one hand to cool her face in an attempt to cease her laughter. ‘Go on! Go on!’
‘Sandy told my dad how nervous I was and when he came home from work, he’d brought with him two large, yellow clinical waste sacks.
They were obviously plastic,’ I add for the reverend’s benefit.
‘After dinner, we all went outside to the garden and Dad marked out a track for us to jump. “Right, get in your sack,” he said. Sandy helped me shuffle to the start line. “Ready, steady, go!” she said. Dad took two flawless jumps forward in his clinical waste sack. “See how easy it is!” he said. It did look easy, so I took two jumps forwards. Dad hopped twice again and I followed. “Keep going! Keep goooooiiiiiiing!”’
‘And splat!’ Sandy adds. ‘His bag slipped on some cat poop and he went flying.’
‘He tried to save himself by kicking his legs but he was kicking against the plastic and the cat poo had spread by then.’
‘Next thing we heard was, “Whoaaaa!”’ Sandy says. ‘He realised it wasn’t quite as easy as he thought after that but the next day, when I stood at the start line and looked over at my dad watching me, all I could do was giggle. It turned into one of the most fun things I ever did at school.’
‘Jolly good story!’ Reverend Griffiths says with a clap. ‘Excellent! Would you be happy for me to use your stories tomorrow?’
Tomorrow. It strikes like a lightning bolt.
‘That would be nice,’ Sandy says.
We stand at the door and wave to Reverend Griffiths as he drives away from the house.
‘Do you know what occurred to me today, Sandy?’
‘What’s that?’
‘You’re the only family I’ve got.’