Chapter 32
32
TWO MONTHS LATER – SEPTEMBER
Lucie had always suspected that the final stages of clearing out her parents’ house would be down to her and it would be difficult work.
There was already a For Sale sign next to the gate at the bottom of the garden and although the big pieces of furniture would stay in the house until it was sold, she still had boxes of personal clothing and items to sort through and remove.
Her dad had been there for the first ten days of Ritchie and his family’s visit, but then, in the early hours, with Zoe, Ritchie and Lucie by his side, he had died peacefully. Two days after that, Zoe had gone into labour and eleven hours later she’d delivered her daughter, who was named Pippa in honour of her great grampa, Phil.
It had all been an emotional whirlwind – so happy, so sad and bittersweet – Pippa was safely here and absolutely perfect, but Zoe’s grampa was gone and the family were as much wrapped up in funeral and house-clearing arrangements as they were in welcoming a brand new baby into the family.
Ritchie had stayed on for the funeral and then packed up everything that he wanted to take from his parents’ home – photographs, two of the paintings he’d always liked, some of their more personal belongings… but not much.
All emotional the night before the flight home, he’d asked Lucie if he was making a mistake not packing up chairs and clothes and books, ornaments, and other possessions from the house.
‘Am I going to regret not taking more?’ he had asked. ‘But I’m not that sentimental about stuff. It doesn’t mean that I didn’t love them both very much.’
‘No, of course not,’ she’d told him. ‘Look, lots is going to Zoe and I’m going to store many things for a few months while I figure out what I’m doing with it… and what I’m doing next. So any time you change your mind, or remember something you wanted, you just let me know. I will find it.’
It had been properly sad to wave him, his wife and their children off into the taxi the next morning. She promised she would finally come out and visit them in Sydney… even though her head was spinning, her thoughts were all over the place and she had no idea when that would be.
‘It’s OK,’ Ritchie had assured her when he’d hugged her in tight for goodbye. ‘It will settle down and we’ll see you when you’re ready.’
When you’re ready … That chimed with someone else’s very important words, she remembered.
It was overwhelming in that rush and tangle of when too many major things collide. Her father was gone, her new granddaughter was here. Her brother was briefly around. There was a house sale to supervise and there was a lot of money heading her way. Zeros and zeros and zeros… Enough to need to think about new accounts and different pension funds and talks with a financial adviser.
Honestly, it was overwhelming. And, as she’d always suspected, the money and what to do with it only reminded her even more that her father wasn’t here to give her his very good advice.
‘Please take your time,’ her new adviser, from the firm that her father had used for years, assured her. ‘There’s no rush. We’ll move the funds into safe and sensible places until you can gather your thoughts and make your plans.’
So she was trying to remain calm and restore some routine in the face of it all. She went home to her little flat in the evening, made supper, kept house and tried to sleep well. Then she was back at her father’s house during the day, clearing out rooms, boxing up possessions, taking things to auctions or charity shops, or to Zoe and Rafi. Along with their baby, they had moved as soon as they could to the flat in Vauxhall, which was where Lucie’s mum and dad had begun their married life all those years ago.
As her dad had promised, it was perfect for a young couple and a new baby. There was a spacious kitchen and sitting room down on the lower garden level and upstairs, on the ground floor, two generous bedrooms. Then just one set of neighbours on the two floors upstairs. Through the kitchen’s back doors was a small town garden with a lawn, flowerbed and shrubbery, perfect for sunny days with a baby.
At first, Lucie didn’t think she could find the smallest traces of her parents in the flat, because over the decades, everything had been repainted, redecorated and renewed. But one afternoon, when she was sitting at the table in the garden, rocking the sleepy Pippa bundle in her arms, she suddenly realised that the trees, a bright pink cherry and a romantic lilac, planted along the back wall, must be over fifty years old and that her parents had always had a cherry and a lilac in every garden after this one. So there, she thought, with a tear sliding down her face, was proof of them. ‘What survives of us is love,’ he’d told her. Love and plants, and piles of belongings and a strong desire to feed the birds.
So here she was today, in the spare bedroom at her father’s house, hauling her own boxes out from under the bed. Wondering once again what she was going to do when all this period of sorting and filing and storing and ‘Dad-min’ was over.
She would move to Vauxhall too, she’d decided. She liked it. It was inner city, a little buzzy, a little gritty. And how lovely for Zoe and Rafi to have a helping hand just a few streets away, someone to land baby Pippa on, someone who could come and babysit when required.
Zoe had been overwhelmed too, not just by the baby and the planning of a wedding, but by inheriting a whole flat. The kind of thing you could only dream about had become real. She and Rafi were able to take proper parent leave together now. And Zoe, who loved her job, and had always been completely proud of it, had nevertheless made the very first mention of going back to uni… and taking that medical degree.
‘Not that I’m undermining nursing in any way at all,’ she had insisted when she’d first mentioned the plan to her mother. ‘But the lines are blurring. Nurses are much more involved in treatment and doctors are getting far more involved in caring. I think I’d make a pretty good GP, or maybe I’ll choose geriatrics, or maybe I’ll just roll up my sleeves and cure cancer,’ she’d joked.
And Lucie was beginning to feel fired up too, seeing all the possibilities that this life-changing amount of money could bring. She would start up the new design business just as she’d planned in France. She would begin small with projects that were genuinely interesting and grow it slowly and steadily. No need to do a Miles and charge off at a hundred miles per hour.
Pulling out the boxes from under the bed, she thought of Chanel, and Deva, of course, and sent him a quick ‘how are you doing, favourite nephew?’ message.
And the other boys on that memorable trip, Pete and Fikru, they were doing just fine. Their applications for asylum were in, and while they waited, they were staying with their uncle, helping out at his garage, learning more English and mechanics.
She lifted the lid on the old carboard box of nineties nostalgia. One Union Jack mini-dress, good grief! She smiled as she unfolded it. And there was the silver and gold dress worn at that Christmas party. The one where the photo of her and Clark had been snapped, all those years ago. She unfolded it too to look at it. Then, before she could give it too much thought, she was taking off her workaday jeans, t-shirt, trainers and socks and pulling on this lovely Italian-made dress, bought all the way back in her twenties, from a much pricier shop than usual, to celebrate Christmas and a pay-rise and having a proper first job.
She wasn’t expecting to fit into it; too much time, hormonal upheaval, recent comfort eating and drinking for that. But… the colour and the shape still suited her very well. She wondered if side panels could be added to make it wearable again… not to mention doing some stomach crunches or even buying a pair of the dreaded Spanx… she couldn’t help the ripple of laughter as she thought of poor old Miles.
She looked in the mirror and couldn’t help thinking that she looked pretty OK in this dress from her twenty-something self. She had a great new haircut from Zoe’s trendy hairdresser, plus the kind of decent makeup job that she spent a bit of time doing in the mornings these days, and fancy earrings. Yes, not too shabby at all. A woman who still had a lot of interesting things to do.
She went back to the box and looked for the photo she knew was still in there. When she’d found it, she sat on the bed and looked for a few moments at her much younger face, laughing, smiling, deeply concentrating on him… Clark.
Yes, they had exchanged some messages since France. But she’d not seen him and hadn’t expected to. After all, she was the one who’d told him that she would be at her dad’s bedside until he was gone and then busy dealing with the aftermath.
But was it time now to get in touch with him?
What did she really want from him?
What did he want from her?
Would it really be possible to pick something up from whatever there had been all those many years ago? Or create something brand new from what they had kindled at the wedding and in that little hotel afterwards?
She was uncertain, phone in her hand, wondering if she dared.
Just then, a reply landed from Deva.
It was a photo of him and his mother. Two things struck her immediately: how happy and smiley they both looked, and the fact that he was wearing Lucie’s beautiful Chanel jacket dressed down with a black t-shirt and wide-legged jeans. His arm was around his smiling mother as he hugged her in for a selfie.
Lucie read his words:
Just about to go for my first London show chorus audition. Wish me LUCK!! What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right, Auntie L? Permission to do something extraordinary, granted! xxx
This was so obviously a sign that she didn’t hesitate, immediately scrolling to find Clark’s number, and then she typed quickly, realising that there was no danger of stalling, or worrying or overthinking, because this was what she wanted to do.
Clark, it’s Lucie. I’m ready.
Just moments after she’d hit send, her phone began to ring, and when she saw his name on the screen, well… after so many things that had come to an end, this felt like the start. And it was very good to be at the start.