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Chapter 35
Abigail walked out of the crowded lounge and leaned against the wall in the hall to take a break. There were still people going back and forward to the loo along the hall. Abigail thought the terraced house was too small to host a wake for so many people.
After the funeral, Abigail had returned with Sidney’s two daughters to his housein Copperfield Street. It was an area in the London Borough of Southwark that Abigail wasn’t familiar with. In other circumstances, she would have enjoyed visiting Copperfield Street and seeing the neat rows of small, traditional terraced houses with painted wooden front doors sheltered under small sloping tiled roof-like canopies. Abigail was aware that streets like this were a rarity in inner London; many terraced houses had been demolished to make way for modern high-rises.
Abigail took a deep breath. She’d felt obligated to return with the family to Sidney’s house to attend the wake. She’d found attending the service an emotional experience; it brought back Toby’s funeral, which was something she really didn’t want to be reminded of. All she wanted to do now was escape.
Abigail glanced along the hall to the front door. Letitia, Sidney’s eldest daughter, had told her that he had left her something in his will. Abigail sighed. She had enough trouble with the cottage. She could really do without something else landing on her plate. She glanced down the hall, through the open doorway into the lounge. Nobody would notice if she left. She decided she wasn’t hanging around for the reading of the will.
‘Excuse me.’
‘Sorry,’ Abigail said to the young man who was trying to get past. She knew he was one of Sidney’s grandsons. He was carrying a large platter of food from the kitchen. Abigail squeezed up against the wall, her shoulder brushing one of the framed family photographs lining the hall that she’d barely taken notice of. Abigail turned around to straighten the frame. Her breath caught in her throat and for a moment the room spun. She thought she was going to faint.
‘My son, he was a good boy, you know,’ said Letitia, walking up to Abigail in the hallway. ‘He fell in with the wrong crowd, a gang on the estate, and started taking drugs. I’d worked so hard to protect my boys from all that …’ she trailed off and turned to Abigail. ‘You recognise him, don’t you?’
Abigail stared at the photo of the teenager with his arm around his grandfather’s shoulders. He looked younger in that photo than in the one she’d seen in the newspapers. Abigail nodded her head, unable to utter a word.
‘I’m not surprised. It was all over the news. I’m not excusing what happened, I never would. How could I? I worked hard to protect my boys, but I …’
Instead of running out of the house, which Abigail had been intending to do the moment she saw the photo, she put an arm around Letitia’s shoulders and tried to comfort her.
Abigail stared at the photo of the young teenager who had recovered from his injuries and was now serving a fifteen-year prison term. She’d never thought about his family until now. They were all victims here, even the teenager, high on drugs, who’d taken Toby’s life. He should have been at home that evening doing his schoolwork, studying hard like his brother, not out with a gang.
‘I’m sure the family of the paramedic would find it in themselves to forgive him,’ said Abigail.
Letitia wiped her eyes with a tissue and turned to look at Abigail. ‘Do you think so? I pray for the family of the victim every single day.’
Abigail looked again at the photo of the young teenager who had taken her husband from her. She couldn’t turn back the clock to that fateful night. Nobody could. It had blighted all their lives, but she couldn’t blame them.
‘My father was so proud when he got his British passport, just days before he died. I didn’t feel that way. They’d robbed me of my father, and my son of his grandfather for all those months.’ She looked at Abigail. ‘I don’t know if he told you that he was sent back to Jamaica, deported by the UK Government.’
Abigail nodded, thinking back to that episode on the bridge when she’d met Sidney and they’d gone for coffee. He hadn’t told her what had happened to his grandson, what his grandson had done, but she knew he blamed himself, however misguided that was. She had a feeling that was why Sidney had tried to end his life, unable to live with the guilt of not being there for his grandson, and where that had led.
‘I bet he didn’t tell you what his grandson did.’
Abigail stared at Letitia. If he had, they wouldn’t have sat together and had coffee. Abigail was glad, in hindsight, he hadn’t mentioned it at the time. From what Sidney had said, that he’d lost his grandson, Abigail assumed he had died. Now she understood.
‘I’m sure if my father had been around, if he hadn’t been deported, my son would never …’ She started to cry. ‘He would never have destroyed his life and another family’s too.’
The sound of the doorbell interrupted them. Letitia’s eldest son walked out of the kitchen. He opened the front door and glanced down the hall.
‘Mum, the solicitor is here.’
An older man in a suit, carrying a briefcase, walked into the house. He shook Letitia’s son’s hand and smiled warmly at his mother.
Letitia dried her eyes and composed herself.
‘Hello. Please come through to the lounge. I’ll just let everyone know that unless they are immediate family, it’s time for them to leave.’
‘Oh, I’m not interrupting, am I?’
‘No, not at all.’ Letitia strode back down the hallway. She looked over her shoulder. ‘Abigail?’
Abigail was eyeing the door. Her escape route blocked by the solicitor, hanging his coat on a hook by the door. She inwardly groaned and said, ‘I’m coming.’
As she walked into the lounge, friends and relatives were hugging Letitia before they left. A steady stream of people exited the lounge. Abigail stood to one side of the door, until the only people left were Letitia, her son, sister, and brother-in-law, and their three young children. Abigail reluctantly joined them, sitting next to Letitia on the sofa, feeling uncomfortable joining the family for the reading of the will.
At least it was informal, although it reminded Abigail of her own visit from Miss Watson of Benjamin and Hart solicitors. She didn’t want to think about that. She had butterflies in her stomach. Last time, someone had thrown her a curveball during the reading of a will. This time, she was feeling anxious about what Sidney might have left her.
