Chapter 19 #2
Every evening, without fail, the ritual was an ingrained part of our bedtime routine.
And the Christmas Eve window ritual was our favourite one of the year.
I had tummy-warming memories of the wondrous awe on Livvie’s face the year that Dad climbed up onto the roof and sprinkled polystyrene beanbag balls down past our window just as I lifted her up to look.
It was the only white Christmas she ever got.
Thankfully, Josh wasn’t so militant about single-use plastic back then.
Even on the last night before I left for university, despite the fact that she was a good half a foot taller than me by then, I lifted her feet off the ground and she whispered, ‘Good night, Scarnbrook’ with all the earnestness she’d had ten years previously.
I touched the window gently before noticing the estate agent was on the phone outside, staring up at me while he was talking.
It was time to leave. I walked down the staircase slowly, caressing the banister for what I knew would be the final time of my life.
At the last step, I gripped the handrail tightly before releasing it – a silent goodbye to the spine of what had once been such a happy home.
I put my shoes back on and said a breezy ‘Thanks!’ to the estate agent as I continued my walk, upping my pace and using the heel of my hand to absorb the tears that had leaked from my eyes like Emma Thompson in the best scene of Love, Actually .
I turned down the lane, emerging onto the neighbouring cul-de-sac, and that’s when I saw it: the spire. And I knew where I had to go next.
Livvie’s simple headstone still looked to be one of the newest in the graveyard.
Leaning against it was a huge bunch of white chrysanthemums, slightly past their best, tied together with bright mustard twine.
The blowsy flowerheads looked like giant snowballs.
I lifted them gently to see if there was a message, but there wasn’t.
Even so, it comforted me to know that someone cared enough to leave flowers for her all these years later.
I sat on a bench a few metres away. It was damp, but I figured I was less than an hour off a hot shower by now.
I didn’t know what to do. Whenever I saw these graveside scenes in films, the protagonist always seemed to know exactly what to say to their departed loved one, as if they’d penned a perfect speech in advance and delivered it with gusto while the sun shone and the birds sang.
This definitely wasn’t like the movies. I had no desire to say anything.
The right words didn’t exist. But I kind of felt like being here was enough, for now.
I looked at the soggy flowers and closed my eyes, remembering long, hot days on Grampy’s allotment plot during the school holidays, hands sticky with melted Mr Freeze pops.
The three of us playing hide and seek among the corridors of hollyhocks and dahlias, while Grampy dug and smiled, sweaty and content, sipping a beef Oxo cube dissolved in hot water from his trusty flask.
It was the only form of liquid he ever drank.
Mum had been there sometimes on the days she wasn’t working on reception at the local GP surgery, busying about deadheading the sweet peas to encourage further flourishes, placing the colourful harvests in a basket to fill our home with the scent of summer throughout the school holidays.
But it was the chrysanthemums that Grampy had loved growing the most. Every year, he and his allotment buddies grew the brash blooms competitively against each other with spirited banter, entering them into the local horticultural show each autumn.
He nurtured those chrysanthemums as if they were his offspring, enveloping each enormous flower head in a paper bag until it was ready to be exhibited.
That contest had been my grampy’s favourite thing to do ever since my nan had died from a sudden stroke before Livvie was even born.
But the day before Livvie’s funeral, Grampy and his friends had chopped down every single chrysanthemum that was left on every allotment plot to ensure Scarnbrook’s streets were lined with endless colour as the cortege passed by.
Those chrysanthemums were the last things he ever grew.
After those stems had been severed, he’d never stepped foot in the allotment again.
The now tarmacked-over plot had gone to seed, much like our family.
Each of us had been scattered by random winds to new places, living as best as we could, but no longer nurtured – and definitely not thriving.
I wiped my eyes as I thought of my lovely grampy, who’d spent his final years in a retirement village not far from my parents’ cottage courtesy of Auntie Sandra, and took a quick photo of the grave for posterity.
I stood and, very briefly, squeezed the headstone, still glistening from this morning’s rain.
As I did so, the clouds parted, the sun peeking out momentarily for the first time all week.
I squinted, the rays gently warming my cheek, and a simple sentence popped into my head.
I didn’t speak it aloud but it was definitely there.
Hey, Livvie. I came home.