‘Could Sacha stop at his house tonight? She’s asked to, and she’ll be a tonic. Smiley girl.’
I looked at Dad’s old friend, with her wispy hair and the faintest suggestion of a widow’s hump. She was a widow, in fact. ‘Yes, please. She’s got a toothbrush in his bathroom cupboard.’
As soon as Flora moved away, a pair of my parents’ ex-neighbours accosted me. The wife clawed at my arm while her husband regarded me with drooping bloodhound eyes. Ex-neighbours, from before Mum and Dad became ex-spouses. I couldn’t remember their name. Bromham? Brigham?
‘So sorry. So sorry,’ whispered Mrs Ex. ‘Cynthia was one of the best. Such glamour. Such poise. Razor-sharp mind.’
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ I lied. ‘Sandwich?’
‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ murmured Mr Ex.
‘Life goes on, Martha,’ said Mrs Ex. And then she added four utterly chilling words. And I do mean chilling. ‘She lives in you.’
The horrifying image of my mother living in me froze the blood in my veins. Abandoning politeness, I reeled past them and into the hall. The door swung shut behind me, deadening the hubbub. I stood for a moment, clutching my tray and breathing hard. There was a payphone in the narrow hall, and an old-fashioned smell of painted radiators and slightly mouldy telephone books. Hardly any natural light, just feeble, dusty stuff creeping through the stained glass of an outside door.
I wanted refuge from that sombre crowd, all looking sideways at me and idly wondering whether I’d killed her on purpose. They’d go back to their own lives, soon. They could watch telly, feed the cat, talk about the lovely funeral and how dignified Vincent had been. But I wasn’t alone. A sprawling male figure slumped on a chair by the phone, invading the space, spoiling the sanctuary; I had a vague impression of dark, rampaging hair. He raised his head, and I found myself staring into a pair of uncannily vivid eyes—cobalt blue, under heavy brows. They weren’t quite focused, but they were mesmeric.
‘No,’ he said loudly. The voice was unmistakeably slurred, but I didn’t mind. Helpless inebriation was much more fitting than wordless hand clasping. ‘I don’t want a focking sandwich.’
And those were Kit’s first words to me. Our eyes met over a focking sandwich.
I lowered my tray to the floor. ‘Go on, take a couple. Mop up the alcohol.’ ‘Disgraceful behaviour. I’m drunk at a funeral, and it isn’t even my own.’ He looked thirty or so, just a little older than me. The striking eyes were spaced wide apart in a pale, shield-shaped face. An overcoat and scarf hung over one arm. ‘Did you know her?’ he asked.
‘No. No, I’m just a waitress.’ I closed my own eyes for a moment. Couldn’t shut it out, though. Death isn’t shut-outable.
He hiccupped. ‘Waitress.’ Dimly, I wondered about the engaging lilt of his accent. It wasn’t strong, but I’ve an ear for these things. Ireland. West coast, maybe. ‘Me neither. I’ve spoken to Mrs Cynthia Vale . . . actually, I could count the number of times on this hand. I don’t think she liked me.’
‘So are you one of these funeral junkies? Did you come for the free booze?’
‘You’re a funny kind of waitress,’ he said mildly. ‘No, not a funeral junkie. I’m flying the flag. My uncle is great mates with Vinnie, but he’s in Madeira.’
‘Well. You’re the only one who’s bothered to get drunk for her.’
He smiled. ‘You know, I saw you and your little girl in church. You were following the coffin with your sister. The three of you look very alike, but none of you resemble Mrs Vale very much at all.’ His eyes were alight with humour, and I found myself smiling back.
‘Thank you,’ I said fervently. ‘That’s the most comforting thing anyone’s said to me all day. Where are you from?’
‘Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘No you’re not. Sorry, but you just aren’t.’
‘Okay, Sherlock. County Kerry.’
‘Hmm.’ I
I looked at Dad’s old friend, with her wispy hair and the faintest suggestion of a widow’s hump. She was a widow, in fact. ‘Yes, please. She’s got a toothbrush in his bathroom cupboard.’
As soon as Flora moved away, a pair of my parents’ ex-neighbours accosted me. The wife clawed at my arm while her husband regarded me with drooping bloodhound eyes. Ex-neighbours, from before Mum and Dad became ex-spouses. I couldn’t remember their name. Bromham? Brigham?
‘So sorry. So sorry,’ whispered Mrs Ex. ‘Cynthia was one of the best. Such glamour. Such poise. Razor-sharp mind.’
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ I lied. ‘Sandwich?’
‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ murmured Mr Ex.
‘Life goes on, Martha,’ said Mrs Ex. And then she added four utterly chilling words. And I do mean chilling. ‘She lives in you.’
The horrifying image of my mother living in me froze the blood in my veins. Abandoning politeness, I reeled past them and into the hall. The door swung shut behind me, deadening the hubbub. I stood for a moment, clutching my tray and breathing hard. There was a payphone in the narrow hall, and an old-fashioned smell of painted radiators and slightly mouldy telephone books. Hardly any natural light, just feeble, dusty stuff creeping through the stained glass of an outside door.
I wanted refuge from that sombre crowd, all looking sideways at me and idly wondering whether I’d killed her on purpose. They’d go back to their own lives, soon. They could watch telly, feed the cat, talk about the lovely funeral and how dignified Vincent had been. But I wasn’t alone. A sprawling male figure slumped on a chair by the phone, invading the space, spoiling the sanctuary; I had a vague impression of dark, rampaging hair. He raised his head, and I found myself staring into a pair of uncannily vivid eyes—cobalt blue, under heavy brows. They weren’t quite focused, but they were mesmeric.
‘No,’ he said loudly. The voice was unmistakeably slurred, but I didn’t mind. Helpless inebriation was much more fitting than wordless hand clasping. ‘I don’t want a focking sandwich.’
And those were Kit’s first words to me. Our eyes met over a focking sandwich.
I lowered my tray to the floor. ‘Go on, take a couple. Mop up the alcohol.’ ‘Disgraceful behaviour. I’m drunk at a funeral, and it isn’t even my own.’ He looked thirty or so, just a little older than me. The striking eyes were spaced wide apart in a pale, shield-shaped face. An overcoat and scarf hung over one arm. ‘Did you know her?’ he asked.
‘No. No, I’m just a waitress.’ I closed my own eyes for a moment. Couldn’t shut it out, though. Death isn’t shut-outable.
He hiccupped. ‘Waitress.’ Dimly, I wondered about the engaging lilt of his accent. It wasn’t strong, but I’ve an ear for these things. Ireland. West coast, maybe. ‘Me neither. I’ve spoken to Mrs Cynthia Vale . . . actually, I could count the number of times on this hand. I don’t think she liked me.’
‘So are you one of these funeral junkies? Did you come for the free booze?’
‘You’re a funny kind of waitress,’ he said mildly. ‘No, not a funeral junkie. I’m flying the flag. My uncle is great mates with Vinnie, but he’s in Madeira.’
‘Well. You’re the only one who’s bothered to get drunk for her.’
He smiled. ‘You know, I saw you and your little girl in church. You were following the coffin with your sister. The three of you look very alike, but none of you resemble Mrs Vale very much at all.’ His eyes were alight with humour, and I found myself smiling back.
‘Thank you,’ I said fervently. ‘That’s the most comforting thing anyone’s said to me all day. Where are you from?’
‘Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘No you’re not. Sorry, but you just aren’t.’
‘Okay, Sherlock. County Kerry.’
‘Hmm.’ I
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