Chapter Thirty-Eight
Miranda
Miranda programmes the destination into her phone, then finds one of the Bach concertos she’d downloaded last night for Evelyn and presses play. The music swells around the car, acting like a lightning rod for her emotions, and tears spurt almost immediately from her eyes. She still can’t believe that Evelyn is dead; that she won’t see her smiling face around the hotel again. That their conversation has now come to its final full stop.
Not that conversation was anything other than one-sided by the end, she thinks, as she starts the engine and reverses out of the hotel car park. Miranda had spent the last few hours of Evelyn’s life describing aloud to her the photos on her phone, the ones that Charles had sent, in the hope that her words would somehow penetrate the older woman’s consciousness. ‘You were so loved,’ she told her. ‘You were treasured, Evelyn, anyone can see that. And deservedly so.’
She also took it upon herself to sneak the bag of ashes out of Evelyn’s handbag and sequester it within her own. It felt like the right thing to do. ‘Don’t worry about Rose now, I’ll finish the job for you,’ she promised her. ‘I’ll scatter the rest of her ashes in Argostoli, just as you wanted. Only– here’s a suggestion. How about if Iscatter most of them there, but keep the tiniest bit back– and then put that at your resting place, wherever that may be? So that you’re together?’ Her voice wavered but she pressed on. ‘You did the most incredible job, taking Rose’s ashes back to so many of her favourite places, but Ithink that, above anywhere else, she liked being with you most of all. And vice versa. What do you think, are you happy for me to do that?’
No reaction had been forthcoming, but Miranda thought she detected the faintest of squeezes from Evelyn’s hand. She’d take that as a yes, she decided. ‘That’s a plan, then,’ she assured her. ‘You leave that with me now.’
They sat together and listened to the passages of the concerto rising and falling around them for a while, and Miranda found herself imagining a much younger Evelyn at her cello, bow flashing across the strings, her other hand coiled round the neck of the instrument. She wishes they could have talked more about all the many likenesses of their professions, how the work you individually produced was amplified to another level by those around you, what a rush it was to be on a stage with your fellow performers, when you knew, collectively, that you were part of something really special, transcending the ordinary. She regretted not asking Evelyn more about her career when they were on their road trip; the older woman must have had so many great stories to tell.
‘I’d have loved to have heard you play,’ she had said last night. ‘Ibet you were amazing.’ Evelyn would have been one of those generous ensemble players, she reckoned, who didn’t try to make it all about them but was in it for the love of the music, the performance. It gave Miranda a wrench of nostalgia for those pre-curtain moments backstage with a cast, back in her theatre days, and the jag of adrenalin that would electrify your entire body the moment you heard your cue. Nothing like it. The thrill of experiencing a hush drop across the auditorium, knowing that you were taking everyone in there on an emotional journey. The jolt of excitement when you connected with another actor in a single, skin-prickling moment; the chemistry between you a force of its own. As for the exhilaration of the applause at the end. . . ! ‘We’re the lucky ones, aren’t we, to have been there and done that,’ she’d said wistfully, still holding Evelyn’s hand.
No answer came, of course, and she was just wondering if she would ever hear Evelyn’s voice again, or whether her friend had already slid deep into a permanent state of unconsciousness, when all of a sudden Evelyn’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. The most radiant smile appeared on her face. An indistinct sound came from her throat as she stared beyond Miranda, her gaze one of sheer joy. She made the sound again and Miranda realised what she was saying: ‘Rose! Rose!’
Foolishly, Miranda had swung round as if she too might see a vision of Rose, but of course there were only the hospital curtains surrounding the bed. By the time she turned back, Evelyn was resting against the pillow once more, eyes closed, still smiling. ‘Evelyn?’ Miranda whispered, her heart in her mouth. ‘Can you hear me?’
Before this morning, she had never actually seen anyone die for real. Oh, she’s acted in death scenes galore– as her Amberley Emergency character, of course, in a bedside role, as well as plenty of others where she has been the person gulping their last breath. She thought she knew what to expect when it came to the real thing but now she’s experienced a genuine moment of passing, she can see that she totally underestimated the magnitude of the event. How huge a deal it turned out to be.
Is it melodramatic to say that it felt like a privilege to be with Evelyn, holding her hand, Bach playing, as she breathed her last? There was a moment of true serenity, when the world seemed to hold its breath to mark her departure, before the monitors attached to Evelyn started beeping in shrill chorus. Then, as if on cue, a woman in the next bed let out a great cough, with an accompanying fart for good measure, and the concerto playing from Miranda’s phone came to a sudden end, followed by a ripple of audience applause. ‘Oh, Evelyn,’ Miranda had said, not sure whether to laugh or cry at this mixed fanfare for her friend. Seconds later, a nurse rushed in and took Evelyn’s pulse before glancing at Miranda with a sorrowful expression.
‘Iknow,’ Miranda said, still clutching Evelyn’s hand. ‘She’s gone, hasn’t she?’
Yes, the nurse confirmed. She had gone.
Even though she’d already felt it in her heart, Miranda still crumpled instantaneously at the nurse’s nod. The enormity of the situation almost didn’t seem real. The nurse patted her shoulder, asked in broken English if she could get her anything (no, thank you), then set about quietly unplugging Evelyn from the monitors. So this was death, then, this strange subdued silence. The stillness of an absence.
Miranda gave Evelyn’s hand one last squeeze while it was still warm within hers, before gently setting it down beside her inert body. ‘Goodbye, dear Evelyn,’ she said, tears falling. Her voice shook. ‘Thank you for making me laugh again. Rest in peace, you truly wonderful person.’
There’s a crumb of comfort to be had, she reminds herself, slowing at a junction, to imagine that, in her dying moments, Evelyn seemed to be back with her beloved Rose. Are they together now? Miranda isn’t sure she believes in an afterlife, but she likes to picture Evelyn and Rose pain-free and reunited, perhaps in some beautiful garden like the one in her photo. Laughing together. Full of happiness. Making up for lost time.
She had left a message for Charles– I’m so sorry, but she’s gone. It was peaceful. She just slipped away when Iwas holding her hand –
and he rang her this morning, his voice gruff with sadness, thanking her for being there at the end. The hotel staff have been lovely too– when she arrived back there in the early hours, shattered and upset, the young man behind the desk had been kind and solicitous, asking if he could get her anything to eat or drink, despite the hour. This morning, she found a note had been pushed under her door from someone called Claudia, checking in on her. If there’s anything we can do for you, please just say, it read . Even if it’s just to talk about what happened, I’m here and I’ll listen.
People were nice, weren’t they? she found herself reflecting as she sat on the edge of the bed reading the note. When they weren’t being arseholes, complete strangers could be surprisingly kind. Even when Evelyn was so weak at the end, she had reached out to Miranda, awarding her five stars on her so-called karma report. It was enough to make her cry all over again, remembering the enormous effort it took the older woman to say the words, how she’d battled to get her meaning across. Five stars indeed.
‘You legend,’ she says aloud now, feeling emotional at the thought. ‘Well, I’m looking forward to the people on the Big Karma board processing your report any minute now and dishing out some karmic justice on my behalf. Whenever you’re ready, guys!’
Or not, obviously, she concedes with a small eye-roll. And maybe that’s the real point to be grasped: that, pleasing as the concept of karma might be, it’s pretty basic, really, isn’t it? Demanding retribution for those who have crossed you, like a child stamping their foot and shouting, But that’s not fair! Also, let’s face it, what a cop-out, expecting some great hand of God to reach down and move the chess pieces around on your behalf, rather than doing anything about it yourself.
Bollocks. Why does it always come down to having to tackle the difficult stuff oneself? How annoying is that? Nobody else is going to make things right between her and Imogen, she accepts, huffing a sigh. Nobody else can apologise to Bonnie bloody Beresford for the slap. It’s up to her, and her alone, to sort out her anger issues, her trust issues, to go crawling back to her team at Guy Drewers in the hope that Helen will find her more work. ‘All right, all right,’ she mutters under her breath, feeling sick at all of these awful tasks ahead of her. This must have been how Hercules felt, faced with the Hydra and his other labours. Possibly even worse.
She’s coming in to Argostoli now, the biggest town on the island. Other than last night’s visit to the hospital and what Evelyn said about the sea turtles here, she doesn’t know anything about the place. Hopefully she can find a suitably lovely site to scatter Rose’s ashes though. As she parks up in a side street a few minutes later, she realises that she is feeling under a certain amount of pressure about the task ahead, especially as Evelyn had prevaricated about where that place should be. Perhaps she should have left the responsibility to Evelyn’s descendants to figure out after all, rather than presumptuously taking it upon herself to finish the job, she frets in a moment of doubt, before rallying. She’s here now, she should at least try.
The warmth of the day hits her as she gets out of the car: it’s muggy and close, the sort of weather that preludes a booming thunderstorm. She would quite like that, she decides, heading down to the waterfront. Something powerful and awesome to mark Evelyn’s passing– yes, that would be appropriate. Bring it on.
Argostoli seems busy, with tourists strolling along the harbourfront, and traffic backed up the length of the main road. She notices a few people wearing identical branded T-shirts and bags, and is confused until she works out that they must be passengers from the great hulking cruise ship visible at the far end of the harbour. Closer by, there are plenty of tourist boats offering chartered day trips around the island, as well as more modest fishing boats, with nets and lobster pots, left there for tomorrow’s catches. Miranda remembers her conversation with Evelyn about the sea turtles coming to feed on scraps of fish hurled overboard from the boats, but assumes she has arrived too late to see this phenomenon, because they’re all empty now, the day’s catches long since brought to shore. She peers into the water just in case, but there’s nothing to be seen other than dark reflections from the boats above.
Argostoli is on one side of an inlet, with an opposing bank of land visible as she looks straight ahead. A main road runs all the way round the inlet, but there’s also a long stone footbridge, punctuated by lampposts, that crosses the water. As her eye follows it over to the other side, she feels herself brighten. Surely when Evelyn and Rose came to Argostoli they would have strolled across this same bridge, she thinks, picking up her pace and walking up to the start of it. She’ll follow their footsteps, she decides, and see if it feels like the right place to leave Rose.
The bridge is wide and low, practically on a level with the water it spans, and there are only a few other people wandering along it. It must look beautiful at night, when the lampposts are lit, Miranda imagines. The noise of the town recedes as she walks on; there’s something very tranquil about having sea either side of you. Reaching the middle point, she leans against the wall, gazing out to sea, appreciating the faint breeze as it ruffles the water and strokes her sun-warmed skin. The water is a clear, light blue, the atmosphere serene. ‘What do you think, Evelyn?’ she murmurs under her breath. ‘This seems like a pretty good spot to me.’ She waits for a moment, just in case there’s some sort of a sign that her words have been heard– a sudden rainbow, perhaps, a feather falling from a seagull overhead– but nothing comes. Which is fine, because Miranda doesn’t believe in that kind of thing anyway.
She retrieves the plastic bag and unseals the top. She’s been so preoccupied by the need to find the right place that she hasn’t given any thought to what she’ll do once she’s there. Should she say a few words before the actual scattering? She doesn’t know the protocol. ‘Rest in peace, Rose,’ she says quietly in the end. ‘You were loved.’ Then, pinching the bottom corner of the bag so that a tiny amount will be held back, she tips it over the bridge. The grey dust swirls briefly in the warm air before falling to the surface of the water. ‘Goodbye,’ she whispers, watching as the dust motes disperse, some sinking, some floating; all of them becoming part of the sea. There she goes.
Carefully resealing the sandwich bag, she tucks it back into her handbag, a lump in her throat. She’s always prided herself on being such a tough bird– you have to be in her profession– but coming to Kefalonia has profoundly changed her, she thinks, staring blindly across the water. Peeled off a layer or two, chipped away at her blackened old heart. Arriving here at the weekend, stewing with bad temper, she could not have dreamed that she’d end up befriending Evelyn, still less that she would be sitting with her as she died, and then be scattering her late wife’s ashes a day later. But that’s exactly what’s happened, and she feels a different person for it, as if she’s been recalibrated, softened. All of those aggy things that previously incensed her so greatly have silently fallen away. Stopped mattering quite so much. A deep quiet calmness settles upon her, instilling her with a new confidence that she’s going to be okay. Whatever happens, she’ll manage, she’ll make things right.
She starts walking back across the bridge and, although she knows rationally that it’s impossible for her bag to feel noticeably lighter on her shoulder, somehow it does. Everything feels lighter. It’s going to be okay, she thinks again, with increasing conviction.
That’s when she sees it– the large oval body of a sea turtle swimming majestically through the water alongside her. She holds her breath and stares down at it, awestruck. ‘Hello,’ she says, watching in delight as its great flippers carve through the water, noticing its beady dark eyes, its patterned shell. There’s something so ancient about it, so timeless. She feels a true sense of wonder to have seen it in its element. What’s more, she knows that none of this would have happened if she hadn’t been here with Rose’s ashes, if she hadn’t accepted that initial Diet Coke– and ouzo– from Evelyn, if they hadn’t opened up to one another. If she hadn’t let somebody in. Maybe karma exists after all, she thinks, watching the sea turtle until it eventually swims out of sight.