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“Don’t you go bothering with flowers on the grave when I’m gone, girl,” Dad had chortled in his thick Scottish brogue. “Especially not when you’re so far away. You can pour a pint of Guinness on me on special occasions, but other than that, don’t waste your money. If you want to buy flowers, buy them for Lyndsey’s grave. Or your new lady friend, how about that? Ladies like flowers.”
“Same goes for me,” Mum had chimed in. “I’m not all that bothered about flowers. I’ll just as gladly have a pink Prosecco. I’m surprised you’re not going for whisky, Chris.”
“Ah well, you know me, full of surprises,” Dad had replied with a shrug and a smile. “A good Scotch whisky would break the bank for our lass. And I’ll not be having none of that cheap stuff, either. No, stick a pint of Guinness on me and call it a day.”
“But that’s Irish!” Mum protested, and so the conversation went on. Nearly ten years later, here I was, popping open the Guinness and pouring it on the top half of the gravestone – Dad’s bit – and then unscrewing the Prosecco and pouring it on the bottom half for Mum. Then I pulled a bottle of water out of my pocket and poured it over the whole thing, anxious that the various chemicals in the drinks would erode the glossy finish of the stone. Once the liquid had soaked into the slate chippings around it, I sat back on my heels, satisfied.
“Happy anniversary, Mum,” I said aloud, then stopped myself. “Happy anniversary? Is that the right thing to say, five years on?”
I imagined her waving her arm dismissively – she’d never been too hung-up on saying the right thing at the right time, not when it came to her at least. “Strong as an ox, me,” she used to say. I shrugged, then wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my raincoat. It was a futile effort as by now it was soaked through by the drizzle, but it had the effect of stemming the flow of tears that were threatening to spill over.
Why hadn’t I brought Petra with me? She always knew how to keep me present and grounded instead of floating off into a black cloud, just like Lyndsey had done before she passed. She couldn’t have forgotten the significance of today, surely? She was just busy. Two of their year groups had exams coming up, and it seemed that everyone – bar impenetrable Victoria, the headteacher – was panicking. Frantic preparations were underway, placing Petra under unusual strain. That would explain today’s absent-mindedness.
But afterwards, the whole school had a week off for Whitsun, and then it was a heady gallop towards summer: six weeks off. My spirits lifted at the mere thought of warmth, sun and brightness, such a contrast to the steel grey clouds that occupied the skies right now. Having her home and seeing her relax would be a treat. The memories of the more chilled, laid-back Petra of summers past brought a smile back to my face, and I ran my fingers through the damp chippings absently before standing up to leave.
“That’s my girl,” I heard Mum say in my head. It was one of her trademark catchphrases whenever she was pleased with me, or whenever she’d given me one of her much-needed pep-talks. A shiver went down my spine involuntarily – although whether that was a raindrop or not, I couldn’t be sure.
Back in the car, I sat for another moment, listening to the increasing vigour with which the raindrops were beating on its white roof. Well, formerly white – the mud and sand had turned it more grey of late. When the weather got warmer, I’d get the hose on it. This nippy little Citroen was the first one Petra and I had bought together as a couple – but it was my little old Nissan Micra that had taken us on the momentous trip to the Cotswolds where I’d proposed to her. We hadn’t been back since then, though; perhaps that could be our trip for the summer.
I started the car up, and soon was splashing my way through the hair-raising country lanes back home. It wasn’t dark yet – it wasn’t even dusk, with these new longer evenings we were getting – but the heavy grey sky gave the illusion of it. The thought of home brought a little flicker of hope, that I’d walk through the door and straight back into the life I’d had nearly seven years ago, with a newlywed wife and both parents alive and well.
What I did find as I walked through the door was the central heating on, and Petra in the kitchen chopping tomatoes with the same finesse with which she played the piano at the choir we ran together. As I got closer to her, I could see chopped parsley and feta on the side next to the sink behind her.
She met me in the middle as I was coming to her and wrapped her arms around me. I could smell tomatoes on her as well as her signature perfume and relaxed into her embrace.
“I’m making shrimps à la spetsiota,” she said by way of greeting.
“My favourite,” I said with a smile, even though it didn’t need saying. We stood like that for a few moments, then I felt overcome by the need to hear her music. “Play me something?” I said almost shyly, extricating myself from her arms and linking my fingers in hers.
“On the piano?” she said, although it was a redundant question as it was the only instrument either of us played these days.
“Mm,” I said, leading her upstairs and into our dedicated music room. “Anything. Anything at all. Everything feels different when you play it.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, sitting down on the piano stool. I sat down on the other while she drew out one of our many ring-binders and flipped through the pieces. “There we go,” she said eventually, but held the paper to her chest. “Shut your eyes.”
I did, and heard the shuffle of paper being placed on the music rack. Then a hush descended over the two of us as she paused, took a deep breath and played some gentle opening chords.
I knew them as soon as she played them. The memory of walking down the aisle behind my mum’s coffin as this song played was etched on my memory. It was one of mine and my mum’s favourite songs: The Last Rose Of Summer.
She began to sing, and immediately goosebumps rose all over my body at her crystal-clear, melted-chocolate soprano vocals. The first trill, even though I knew it was coming, sent tiny electric signals down my spine, down every limb and into the furthest reaches of my being as she executed each movement perfectly. Her professional training and experience were evident as she floated through each stanza, and by the start of the third verse, tears were streaming down my cheeks.
We’re all right really, I thought. This was proof. This morning had just been a product of my emotions. The day I didn’t feel anything when Petra played – now that would be the day I knew our marriage was really over.
She finished, having reached right to the top of her vocal range for an emotional repetition of the last line, closed the song gently, then wrapped me back up in her arms again.
“Not bad considering I’d had no warm-up,” she said, and we both laughed. “Not something I’ll make a habit of, though. There’s easier songs to sing.”
“You remembered,” I said through my tears. “I knew you would.”
“Yes,” she said gently, but somehow I wasn’t convinced. I felt myself tense.
“You didn’t forget, did you?”
She hesitated for the briefest second. “Of course not,” she whispered, and I felt her kiss my hair.
Chapter Two
I finished cleaning the furthest of the self-service tills, then returned to the kiosk, discarding my roll of blue paper and bottle of spray as I went.
