Absent Light (14 page)

Her mother looked more peaceful than she'd ever been in life. She was still warm to the touch. Her eyes were gently closed, as if she were asleep. There was no stiffness present in her limbs. Her hair looked soft and natural upon the pillow. Helen reached over, touched a strand that was out of place, gently repositioning it. Her mother had always cared so very much about a groomed appearance.

From her mother's serene expression, Helen sensed that she'd been unaware of her approaching demise. She felt grateful. Too often she'd witnessed the evidence of the alternative. There was nothing dignified about violent death.

Already it felt as if her mother wasn't there at all, as if the essence of her personality had disintegrated, and she was staring, dry-eyed, at its shell. Helen had no religious inclinations – she'd seen too much carnage to believe in a benevolent God. She neither imagined her mother going to some great gin-palace in the sky nor descending to Hell's version of Alcoholics Anonymous. She was just dead. Gone. Lost.

She held her mother's hand. Her throat felt tight. She couldn't cry. Not yet. She just sat there, shocked, trying to grasp the significance of what had happened to her, venturing to find some meaning. She attempted to summon up images of her childhood but couldn't find them. She'd never watched her mum putting on make-up, never talked to her while she did the ironing, never went shopping with her for clothes. It would have seemed like an intrusion. She'd once asked her mum if she could do some weeding in the garden. Her mother stared at her incredulously and asked why. They paid the gardener to do it, was the reply. It seemed as if all her childlike efforts to be independent seemed doomed to fail, like the time she'd tried to cook dinner for them and it had gone disastrously wrong, or the time she'd cleaned one of the cars and left greasy marks on the bonnet. The only things she could remember were symbols: coffee cake, doilies, cheese and neatly sliced apples for lunch, dried flower arrangements, clean linen, structure but no form. There were so many pieces missing, she was beginning to feel like her sick, senile grandmother.

She didn't know how long she sat there. She ought to be getting back to her father, she thought anxiously. He depended on her. As for Stratton…

Did the nurses come and chuck you out when they thought you'd had enough, she wondered crazily? Would they be anxious to lay her mother out, or whatever they did, and take her to the mortuary? It seemed strange to her that she didn't know the form, she of all people. Age and experience didn't come into it. Nothing prepared you for this, she thought.

She got up, took a few paces forward, feeling the strength draining from her legs. She stroked her mother's cooling cheek and kissed her once on the forehead, saying goodbye, turning away quickly before the tears slid down her face. Her dad needed her. That's all that mattered now.

CHAPTER NINE

T
HE NEXT WEEK WAS
taken up with funeral arrangements. She moved back into Keepers. In between maintaining an eye on work and trying to comfort her grief-stricken father, she had no time to mourn. Her own problems slipped from the forefront of her mind. So did Stratton.

He was entirely understanding, appreciated her need for time, didn't put any pressure on her, offered his help in whatever way he could. She didn't admit to him that, after her mother's death, everything, including him, became a muddle.

A harassed-looking doctor assured her that her mother's heart attack, while unpredictable, could not have been prevented. Indeed it was not that uncommon in a woman of her age, he stated clinically. While Helen knew it all in her head, in her heart she felt uneasy. She couldn't help but think that the mugging had strained her mother's fragile constitution. She couldn't help but feel some responsibility.

Her father took to the sitting room in the evenings – the drawing room had been her mother's haunt. Helen disliked it because the lighting was drab but she guessed it suited their moods. She observed her father. He was staring at the wall. He'd lost weight with alarming speed. The collar on his shirt looked too big for him and his shoulders jutted out from his clothes. There was a sunken look about his sleep-deprived eyes. He seemed, to her, like a man who'd stumbled from a bomb blast while others had perished. Her mother had not simply been the epicentre of the family, she'd been the epicentre of his life. And Helen hadn't really taken it on board until now. Neither had he, she thought.

Helen was trying to tell him about the final arrangements but she could see from the vacant look in his eyes that he wasn't really listening. She hadn't realised how much work was involved. It wasn't simply a case of booking the undertaker and the church, as she'd fondly imagined. There were people to contact, flowers, hymns, readings to be chosen, catering to organise, order of service to be printed. There were phone-calls to field, cards to receive, announcements to be placed. She thought her dad would be more practical, that the activity might even take his mind off his loss, but he behaved like a man who was paralysed. In a sense, he was, she thought sadly. She was taken aback by his indecisiveness, his helplessness. This was the man who, for all her life, had been a powerhouse of energy, positive in every respect. Only a short time ago he'd wanted blood because she'd been mugged and now he didn't know what to do. She didn't know whether it would pass or whether he'd be stuck like that for ever. Maybe he'd feel better tomorrow, she hoped, when her Aunt Lily arrived.

She and her father discussed telling Gran. She dismissed the idea. Even if her grandmother understood that her daughter was dead, she would forget, and to keep repeating it would be a needless cruelty. Helen still thought it a good idea to phone Roselea and speak to the matron, Mrs Gillespie, to see if she agreed.

“She never had enough confidence,” her father said, out of the blue.

“Gran?” she asked, confused.

He turned towards her with misted eyes. “Your mother. Came from quite a lowly background, you know. All that business when she was growing up left its mark.”

“You mean when Gran fell ill?”

“You know the story,” he said.

She did but, as in Chinese whispers, she wasn't sure how much of it had changed in the telling. As far as she'd ever been able to glean, her grandmother, in her forties at the time, mysteriously lost the use of her legs and took to a wheelchair. In spite of being taken to various doctors, and put through all manner of tests, no physical cause was ever established. By default, her only child, Helen's mum, became her carer. It was, by all accounts, a deeply unhappy childhood, and one from which her mother escaped as soon as she could.

“I think what hurt most,” her father said, “was that when your mother went to make her peace shortly after your grandfather died, she discovered your gran in rude good health. She neither needed a wheelchair nor someone to look after her.”

“But that wasn't Gran's fault,” she said reasonably.

Her father gave a shrug. “Your mother felt as if she'd been hoodwinked, cheated of her youth. I believe it's why she found it difficult to form relationships, but I always knew she loved me, loved you, too,” he said.

Helen wished she could believe it. She wasn't honestly certain whether her mother was capable of any great depth of emotion and, as she thought it, she wondered wildly if some of it had rubbed off onto her. She, too, found relationships a struggle. She, too, felt unworthy.

She turned back to her dad. At least he was talking, she thought, which was an improvement. She asked him if he wanted a drink. He said he'd have whisky. She offered to get it for him. She thought she'd have one herself. Maybe it would help her to feel less closed down inside.

The phone rang as she was crossing the hall. It was around seven. She couldn't think who it might be. The horrible thought that Aunt Lily couldn't make it darted across her mind. She picked up. “Keepers.” Nobody spoke. “Hello,” she said.

“Could I speak to Mrs Powers?” It was a man's voice. He had an accent but one she didn't recognise.

“That's not possible,” she said cautiously. “I'm her daughter. Who's calling?”

“She phoned me a couple of weeks ago about some window-cleaning. Been a bit busy with one thing and another.”

“Oh, right,” she said, relaxing.

“So if you could pass on a message for me.”

Helen cleared her throat. “I'm sorry but my mother passed away a few days ago.” God, it sounded weird, she thought. She didn't think she'd ever get used to it.

There was a brief stunned silence.

“Maybe I could take your number in case my dad's interested,” she suggested.

“It's all right,” he said swiftly. “I'll call another time, erm…when it's convenient. Sorry,” he dashed out before cutting the call.

She put down the phone thinking it was a pretty typical reaction. People got funny about unexpected death. They shied away from it as if any association meant that they were next.

She went into the drawing room and crossed over to the drinks cabinet. The air smelt of her mother's perfume. The chair in which she'd sat still seemed inhabited by her. Helen wondered how long it would take before the place was vacated by her mother's presence. She guessed as long as her mother's things were still here, her clothes, her jewellery, her ornaments, everything dear to her, then she would remain with them.

And that was good.

That night she phoned Stratton. She wanted to hear his voice, to find an anchor. She didn't know what to say.

“It's all quite strange, really.”

“Bound to be. How's your dad?”

“Shell-shocked. I never realised how much he depended upon Mum. Always thought it was the other way round.”

Stratton didn't say very much. He didn't know her well enough, she supposed.

“Helen?”

“Mmmm?”

“There's something I've been meaning to say.”

“Sounds serious.” Was he chickening out? she thought.

“It's about Adam.”

There was a curdling sensation deep in the pit of her stomach.

“We're always going to disagree about him. You know that, don't you?”

“Yes,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

“It's rather complicated, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I don't want him to come between us.”

“It's all right, Joe,” she said. “Don't worry.”

Aunt Lily arrived like a tornado. She lived alone in Berwick-upon-Tweed and, although she visited rarely, Helen always looked forward to seeing her. She was shorter than her brother, and significantly more well-covered. She had salt-and-pepper-coloured hair, which she cut herself. Her clothes sense was non-existent and she had a penchant for cheap jewellery, bracelets in particular. It was all bluff. Underneath the sloppy exterior, Aunt Lily was a human dynamo.

“Poor love,” Aunt Lily said, hugging her. Helen laid her chin on her aunt's shoulder. It was the closest she'd come to allowing herself to be comforted. “Can see your father's in a bad way.”

“Not coping at all well,” Helen confided.

“He idolised your mother, dear. Her death was bound to devastate him.” Lily held her niece away from her. She had an
I'm going to take charge
look in her eye. “I'll get the kettle on – your father certainly looks as though he could do with a cuppa – and then you'd better get me up to speed with the arrangements.”

Helen finally explained that she'd booked The Cross House for the wake afterwards.

“Your mother wasn't fond of the place,” her father said, as if he'd only just thought about it.

“But it's near the church.”

He nodded fretfully. “Will there be an open bar?”

“If that's what you want.”

“That's what Joan would have wanted,” Lily said with a wide smile.

“You're right,” Helen giggled. It sounded strange, embarrassing, really. In less than a week she felt as if she'd forgotten how to laugh.

“Have you thought about sorting out her clothes?” Lily said, looking at both of them.

“A bit soon, isn't it?” Helen said, unnerved by the prospect.

“Just thought while I was here, it would be a good idea. It's got to be done some time.”

“What do you think, Dad?” Helen reached over and rested her hand on his arm. He was tracing an imaginary pattern on the table. He gave a worn-down shrug.

“That's settled then,” Lily said, pushing back her chair. “Come on, Helen. You can give me a hand.”

Helen wasn't at all sure about the good sense of what they were doing, but there was no stopping her aunt. It felt an intrusion to be going through her mother's things. Helen imagined her walking in on them, ticking them off for invading her privacy. Her father wandered in once and suggested to Helen that she might like to take some of her mother's clothes to wear for herself. She didn't like to explain that, in fashion terms, they were poles apart, but more importantly there was a world of difference between what a thirty-something wore and a fifty-something. She came out with a noncommittal remark. Shrouded with disappointment, he turned away and shuffled back out of the room.

Aunt Lily was giving a running commentary. “Oh, I remember this,” she said, holding up a polka-dot dress with cinched waist. “She bought it for their holiday in Tuscany. And this,” she said, putting a cerise-coloured evening dress against her stout frame, “was when they went to the Hunt Ball. Oh dear,” her aunt said, recovering a half empty bottle of Gordon's gin from a wardrobe.

“Here, I'll take it,” Helen said. She could add it to the bottle she'd found in her mother's bedside cabinet.

“Funny thing about your mum,” Aunt Lily said, “is that she was quite the lady.”

“Is that incompatible with being a drunk?” Helen felt her stomach pinch at the shrillness of her voice. Her cheeks flamed pink. She apologised immediately for her brusque response.

“It's not what I meant,” Aunt Lily smiled kindly, slipping an arm around Helen's tight-set shoulders. “Just that she seemed to spring from nowhere. For years we'd no clear idea about her family. She never talked about them. At least not before her father died. Didn't talk about them afterwards either. She was like a woman without a past.”

Helen never thought of her mother that way but, now that her aunt said it, it made perfect sense. She must have been eleven years old when her mother took her to meet Gran for the first time. She remembered being intrigued by her gran's humble dwelling. It was midway along a row of terraced houses. At the end, there was a newsagent and, just beyond, a boarded-up pub called The Ship. Gran's home had a front room, as she called it, a little hidey-hole under the stairs where she kept a fridge, a back room with open tiled fireplace and a small dining table with three chairs, then the kitchen, which smelt of gas, and a freezing cold downstairs bathroom with a linoleum-covered floor. There were just two bedrooms upstairs and, if you went into the front bedroom, you could feel the rumble of traffic below. Outside, there was a yard and shared alley-way. She'd never been anywhere like it in her life before. Still less, could she imagine her mother living in such claustrophobic conditions.

It had been quite a strained occasion. Fastidiously polite, there wasn't much warmth between the two women. She recognised later that, even though a reconciliation of sorts took place, deep down her mum never forgave her grandmother. It made Helen feel uncomfortable. History had a strange habit of repeating itself, she thought, not in the detail but the broad brushstrokes.

Helen put anything that looked financial or legal into a pile for her father to sort out. It felt odd to read her mother's name but not be able to see her face.

In one of her mother's bedside drawers, among some old photographs, she found a battered black leather-bound address book. Helen flicked idly through it. It must have gone back decades, she thought, judging by the amount of crossings-out. It included some of her dad's old business colleagues. She read the names: Bianci, Deals, Warnes. They'd been like mythical figures in her mind. Now they sounded like gangsters. As well as changed addresses, she noticed, there were a number of changed names, a reflection of modern life, she guessed.

“Thought you might want to keep this,” Aunt Lily said, showing Helen a box of her mother's jewellery.

“I think that's for Dad to decide,” Helen said. The address book was far more intriguing, she thought, slipping it into her pocket.

The funeral took place on the kind of day her mother would have liked: cold and bright. Helen sat on one side of her father, Aunt Lily on the other. The church was packed with friends and acquaintances. Helen felt glad for her father's sake and hoped they wouldn't desert him afterwards.