Chapter 17
Things That Have Bloody Annoyed Me This Morning:
Lizzie, Faye and Shona, my mum’s old college housemates, for coming to her funeral when they hadn’t contacted her in years.
The celebrant for touching my hair and shoulder, uninvited.
The gold-digging Aussies.
Mum’s old boss Ron, for thinking money solves all probs.
Guy Majors – TV true crime aficionado. And weapons-grade prick.
The morning of Mum’s funeral, I lay in bed, flicking the blade of Mitch’s Swiss Army knife in and out of its compartment.
Now that I’d oiled it, the different instruments slid out seamlessly – knife, corkscrew, bottle opener, scissors, can opener, tiny screwdriver, a metal file and a load of other ones I couldn’t identify.
The sound of the knife flicking in and out was deeply satisfying.
I thought about Mitch when I saw it, every single time.
I barely slept a wink for worrying about Maddox all night. I couldn’t bear to see the bottom stair so empty. I wondered if he had enough food, if he was cold, if he’d been knocked down by a car or, the very worst, that the ‘threat’ Rhiannon warned me about had done something terrible to him.
At dawn, I was up and looking for him again in all his favourite hiding places – behind the kitchen door, inside the pantry, food caddy cupboard, the nook in the base of the oak tree, my old Wendy house.
I thought I’d picked up a trail from some scattered carrot peelings in the lane but no bunny to be found.
No crows, no mice, no Mum, no Madd. And pretty soon, no home.
I kept saying I was fine, but really, I was in freefall.
My dad visited me again in the night. This time he was out on the front lawn, wearing an Arsenal shirt with AJ on the back, and kicking a football into the air, controlling it effortlessly as it came back down. It was raining hard but the water wasn’t touching him.
I ran to him to give him a hug but as usual, I couldn’t get to him.
I can’t hug you, beautiful girl. I’m sorry.
‘I thought you didn’t like football. Your mum said.’
Shows just how much she knows me, doesn’t it?
‘I miss you.’
I miss you too.
‘You’re not going to be here when I wake up again, are you?’ He shook his head, stopping the ball with one foot. ‘What am I supposed to do? I need you, Dad. I really need you.’
I’m here, baby.
‘You’re not though. I don’t know what to do.’
Yes, you do. I love you so much.
‘Then stay, stop leaving me.’
I have to leave you so you can find your own way.
‘No, don’t. Please come back. Please.’
I waited my whole life to meet you. I’d die a thousand deaths for you.
‘Don’t say that.’
He started walking back up the lawn, towards the trees. No looks back, no parting shots, no more ball tricks. He just walked along the dark, dark road until he was out of sight.
When I looked out first thing, the ball was in the middle of the lawn just where he’d left it.
I went out for another look around for Maddox this morning but there was still no sign in all his little places.
He really had gone. I couldn’t bear breakfast, so I pretended to eat some toast over the bin cos Melissa kept on and on about lining my stomach, and then went up to shower and change into my funeral garb – a black cord dungaree dress, plum blouse and tights.
I did up my black patent DMs and stood in front of my mirrored wardrobe.
All prim and proper like Mum would want, except for my hair which was its naturally curly catastrophe.
I grabbed my bag, packing Jon Hamm in the inner pocket. Jordy knocked on my door.
‘You all right? Need a hand with anything?’
‘I’m OK, thanks,’ I said, zipping Jon’s head away.
‘You’ve got his hair, you know,’ they said, coming in to inspect me.
‘I love that.’ They wore their hair in a gelled back bob, an all-black version of their usual oversized short-sleeve shirt and long shorts combo and, on Melissa’s instructions, had covered up their tattoos with a long-sleeve tee.
‘You know, he had a great-grandmother who was indigenous Australian. Her name was Jarrah. She came from the Noongar of Western Australia. Jarrah’s a type of eucalyptus tree – strong and hardy. Like you.’
‘Oh, I’m not as strong as I pretend to be. I’m a marshmallow really. Do you think Maddox will come back?’
Jordy shrugged. ‘I can help you make flyers if you like, when we get back? Post ’em up on lampposts round here? That’d be something.’
‘Yeah, okay.’ They were staring at me. ‘What?’
‘I can see your dad in your face – I mean, you’re mostly her but … he’s there too. Definitely. He’d have loved the bones of you, Ivy. He waited a lifetime to meet you.’
I whipped my head around. ‘Why did you say that?’
Jordy shrugged. ‘Well, Mel said he always wanted kids, eventually. I don’t think he wanted them too young but he wanted to be young enough so he’d be able to kick a ball about with them and stuff.’
‘So he did like football?’
‘Yeah, when he was younger before he got into surfing and girls and stuff. He was good at it too. Mel’s got videos of him playing for his school. I can show you when we get back.’
‘I’m good at football too. Which position did he play?’
‘Midfield I think.’
‘Me too! You know you said I’ve got his hair? I’ve got his thumbs too, apparently.’ I held out my hands to show them.
‘I wouldn’t remember his thumbs but I’ll take your word for it,’ they laughed.
‘Two peas in a pod.’ I glowed inside, but it was immediately awkward because of course Jordy had said the P word.
And where the P word went, so did Rhiannon.
‘Hey, how about a peanut butter banana sanger and a coffee before we head off? AJ’s specialty. ’
‘I don’t like peanut butter,’ I said. ‘Or coffee.’
‘Oh.’ Jordy seemed bewildered.
‘Sorry.’
‘Nah, doesn’t matter.’ They picked out the Order of Service that was sticking out of my bag. Mum had chosen all of it – the introit, the music, the poem I had to read. ‘You doing the eulogy, are ya?’
‘It’s not really a eulogy – the celebrant’s doing that. I’m supposed to be reading out a Christina Rossetti poem she liked called “Let Me Go’’.’
‘Deep breaths. It’s gonna be all right, Ivy. I promise ya.’
I didn’t really want to hear it at that moment. I wanted to be angry. Angry at everything. And this feeling continued all the way to the crematorium.
I was angry at the funeral director’s son with his scuffed shoes.
Angry at the roadworks that held us up. Angry at the weather for being overcast and drizzly.
Angry at Maddox for not accompanying me to the funeral in his little black bow tie I’d ordered especially.
Even angry at Mum, lying in her coffin in her favourite navy power suit and blonde wig as we followed the hearse.
I heard Larry and Melissa talking in the seats in front of me.
I had my earphones in, purely cos I didn’t want to converse, and they obviously didn’t think I could hear them.
‘How much do you reckon this all cost then?’ Larry asked.
‘A few thousand at least,’ Melissa mumbled. ‘And that coffin ain’t a cheapo either. What is it, mahogany?’
‘Can’t see the point of getting the most expensive one. They’re only gonna burn the fucker.’
‘You reckon this is coming out of the estate?’
I cleared my throat and they both shut up pretty quickly. For a hot second, I felt like smashing their fat greedy heads together. But then the car slowed and turned into the crematorium and it was time to face the music; ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ from Carousel, her fifth favourite musical.
There was a large crowd out the front which cheered me up momentarily, but as I got out and started picking out faces, I realised just how many of them had kept in touch with her over the years.
None. The odd Christmas card here or a message on social media there but not one of them had bothered to visit her in the months leading up to her death.
No Chloe either, even though she said she’d come to support me.
Heather was my one constant so I stuck close to her.
Carousel faded out and the celebrant – a short woman with stubbly legs under her thin blue tights – welcomed everybody in and announced the first moment of silent reflection accompanied by a slow, acoustic version of Liza Minelli singing ‘Life Is a Cabaret’.
Then her old boss, Ron something, who had made her redundant but gave her excellent references, stood up and said a few words.
Her editors from the Telegraph and the Guardian also got up and said more or less the same. Then it was my turn.
A second moment of silent reflection to ‘Send in the Clowns’ came to its soft, slow end and we sang the obligatory hymn – ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd’ – before everyone was seated again and I stepped up to the lectern with my poem.
I looked out on the sea of heads, eyes sweeping from right to left. The celebrant nodded for me to start.
I took a sip of the tepid water set out for me.
‘Thanks for coming today …’ Some polite smiles. I looked down at the poem and opened my mouth to say the title but the words wouldn’t come out. I chucked the poem on the floor behind me, and sipped the water again to try and bring some moisture into my mouth. A few gasps at the back.
‘I don’t want to cry anymore. I want to be angry.’
I homed in on a few of the faces. People who had worked with her over the years. So-called friends.
I took another swig of my water until the glass was dry. ‘Not one of you came to visit her when she was ill. It was all on me. Why did you even come today? The pub where we’re having the wake has a Michelin star, is that it?’
Everyone looked at everyone else.