Sister: A Novel by Rosamund Lupton Page B

hearty.
    ‘The good thing is that now the post-mortem is over and done with we can organise her funeral.’
    Mum nodded, looking gratefully at him, like a little girl. She clearly bought his big-man thing.
    ‘Do you know where you’d like her laid to rest?’ he asked.
    ‘Laid to rest’, like you would be put to bed and in the morning it would all be better. Poor Todd, not his fault that his euphemisms infuriated me. Mum clearly didn’t mind. ‘I’d like her buried in the churchyard in the village. Next to Leo.’ In case you don’t know already, that’s where your body is. In my more vulnerable moments I fantasise about you and Leo being together somewhere, wherever that somewhere is. The thought of the two of you having each other makes me feel a little less desperate. But of course if there is a somewhere, a third person would be with you too.
    I want to warn you that what’s coming will be painful. I took the photo out of the cardboard casing and handed it to Mum. ‘It’s a photo of Tess’s baby.’
    Mum wouldn’t take the picture from me; she didn’t even look at it. ‘But it was dead.’
    I’m sorry.
    ‘The baby was a boy.’
    ‘Why have a picture? It’s macabre.’
    Todd tried to come to the rescue. ‘I think they let people have photos when their babies die now as part of the grieving process.’ Mum gave Todd one of her looks that she normally only reserves for family. He shrugged as if to distance himself from such an outlandish and distasteful notion.
    I carried on, alone. ‘Tess would want her baby buried with her.’
    Mum’s voice was suddenly loud in the flat. ‘No. I won’t have it.’
    ‘It’s what she’d want.’
    ‘She’d want everyone to know about her illegitimate baby? That’s what she’d want? To have her shame made public?’
    ‘She would never have found him shameful.’
    ‘Well she should have done.’
    It was Mum on autopilot; forty years of being infected with Middle England’s prejudices.
    ‘Do you want to stick an “A” on her coffin for good measure?’ I asked.
    Todd butted in. ‘Darling, that’s uncalled for.’
    I stood up. ‘I’m going out for a walk.’
    ‘In the snow?’
    The words were more critical than concerned. It was Todd who said it, but it could just have easily been Mum. I’d never spent time with both of them together before and was only just realising their similarities. I wondered if that was the real reason I was going to marry him; maybe familiarity, even negative familiarity, breeds feelings of security rather than contempt. I looked at Todd, was he coming?
    ‘I’ll stay here with your mother then.’
    I’d always thought that whatever worst-case scenario happened in my life I’d have Todd to cling to. But now I realised why no one could be my safety rope. I’d been falling since you were found - plummeting - too fast and too far for anyone to break my fall. And what I needed was someone who would risk joining me now seven miles down in the dark.

    Mr Wright must see my puffy face as I walk in. ‘Are you all right to carry on?’
    ‘Absolutely fine.’ My voice sounds brisk. He senses that this is the style that I want and continues, ‘Did you ask DS Finborough for a copy of the post-mortem?’
    ‘Not then, no. I accepted DS Finborough’s word that nothing else had been found in the post-mortem apart from the cuts to her arms.’
    ‘And then you went to the park?’
    ‘Yes. On my own.’
    I’m not sure why I added that. My feeling of being let down by Todd must still survive, even now, in all its irrelevancy.
    I glance at the clock, almost one.
    ‘Would it be OK if we break for lunch?’ I ask. I’m meeting Mum at ten past in a restaurant round the corner.
    ‘Of course.’

    I said I’d tell you the story as I found out myself - no jumping forwards - but it’s not fair on you or Mum to keep back what she feels now. And as I set the rules, I’m allowed to curve them a little now and then.

    I arrive at the