Chapter Nineteen
‘Oh, Mum, I can’t,’ said Joy.
It was Thursday morning, and I was sitting at the kitchen table having a breakfast FaceTime session with my daughter. I was missing both children terribly. I’d already spoken with James. Unfortunately, my conversation with him had gone along the same path that my chat with Joy was now taking.
‘I can’t take any more time off just yet,’ Joy explained.
‘Not even at the weekend. I have a big assignment to do. Apart from anything else’ – she gave an unapologetic shrug – ‘I wouldn’t want to scatter Dad’s ashes with you.
It just wouldn’t seem right, standing there, pretending to be distraught, while you say words about him flying high on a breeze.
It’s not like we were close. We didn’t even get along. ’
‘Yeah,’ I sighed. ‘But he was still your father. Despite everything, he loved you.’
The screen showed my daughter’s eyes suddenly brimming.
‘Did he?’ she muttered darkly.
‘Of course,’ I assured.
‘Then he had a damn funny way of showing it,’ she spat. Angrily, she swiped one hand over her eyes, roughly brushing away the moment of vulnerability. Her expression switched to one of hardness.
I understood where my daughter was coming from. After all, when had Peter ever said those three important words to his children? Or hugged them? Or displayed any sort of affection other than expecting them to be high achievers and follow in his footsteps.
‘Dad had… his ways,’ I said cautiously.
‘Don’t try and defend him, Mum. He was a total control freak. A cantankerous git with the morals of an alley cat.’
‘Right,’ I said faintly. When the children had been growing up, they’d been oblivious to Peter’s outbursts and temper tantrums. Those episodes had either taken place within the four walls of our bedroom, or when the twins had been playing outside, or even on sleepovers with their friends.
But eventually they’d grown into savvy teenagers.
They’d had ears to hear their father’s snarls and eyes to see his bullying ways.
‘Well, whatever Dad was’ – I asserted – ‘he was still your dad, and on that basis, I thought you might wish to be included in the final goodbye.’
‘I said my farewells at his funeral, Mum,’ said Joy, her voice devoid of emotion.
‘Okay,’ I nodded. My heart suddenly felt heavy with sadness.
For a moment, I marvelled at Joy’s cool detachment.
When death had separated Sally and I from our own father, we’d been devastated.
Together, we’d taken every opportunity to say goodbye – on his death bed at the hospital.
At the Chapel of Rest. At his cremation.
We’d then raised our glasses to him at the wake.
Later still, we’d again said goodbye when the wind had taken Dad’s ashes.
We’d recited a poem, taking it in turns to read aloud the lines.
Every word had been heartfelt. Afterwards, we’d clung to each other.
Blood was meant to be thicker than water, but not in the case of Peter and his offspring.
‘We’ll leave it there then,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Joy agreed. Neither of us spoke for a moment, each with our own thoughts. ‘Sorry, Mum,’ she murmured. ‘But… I can’t. I just can’t.’
‘I understand,’ I assured, my voice overly bright.
‘I feel bad now.’ She heaved a sigh.
‘Don’t, sweetheart.’ I shook my head. ‘There’s no need. I’ll scatter Dad’s ashes by myself. It’s fine.’
Someone knocked on Joy’s door. A second later and her boyfriend poked his head into the room.
‘I must go,’ she hissed. ‘Conrad’s here. We’re going to a lecture together in a little while.’
‘Okay, darling. Tell him I said hi. Love you lots.’
‘Love you too.’ She blew me a kiss, and the screen went blank.
I sighed and tossed the mobile to one side. So, that was that. Neither of the children wanted to be present at the scattering of their father’s ashes. In which case, what was I waiting for? No time like the present.
Yesterday I’d collected Peter’s ashes from the funeral parlour. A decorative urn currently sat on the sideboard in the lounge. It looked like some sort of macabre trophy, and I couldn’t wait to get it out of the house.
I glanced at the window and the garden beyond. Everything was either in bud or furiously blooming. Despite the still relatively early hour, the sun was out and chasing away some lingering clouds. The day promised to be a warm one.
Getting up from the table, I popped my phone into my back pocket, then went over to the cupboards under the kitchen sink.
Crouching down, I delved within and removed an unopened packet of rubber gloves.
Gathering up my handbag, housekeys, and a jacket in case the weather changed, I then let myself out of the house.
Minutes later, I was in the car and all ready to set off, when I realised I’d forgotten the very thing that was required for today’s impromptu trip to Brighton.
Unbuckling and muttering oaths, I hurried back to the house. Inside, I marched into the lounge and snatched up the urn.
‘Right, Peter,’ I declared. ‘Let’s be having you. We’re off to Sussex. The Devil’s Dyke, to be precise. And let’s hope the wind is blowing the right way. Otherwise, there might be a final opportunity for you to get up my nose.’