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chapter 69
alex
We bury Mum in the cold earth of an ancient cemetery, beneath a juniper tree. Later, at my parents’ house, where the wake is being held, I pour myself a thick measure of gin in her memory, savouring the bitter taste.
No one stays long. Aunt Julie passes around platters of curling sandwiches and mini quiches, while Dad sits inert in his armchair, gazing at nothing. He’s lost ten pounds in as many days and his skin is thin and loose over his bones. It’s as if he’s joining Mum in her decay beneath the ground, collapsing in on himself, his blood and muscles and bones turning to putrefaction and rot.
I could tell him: grief is the price we pay for love.
Aunt Julie confers with Harriet in the kitchen, their eyes on Dad as they whisper together. I hadn’t really noticed the resemblance between them before, but they could be mother and daughter. They both have the same thick, dark hair, though Aunt Julie’s is greying now and caught up in a neat bun, while Harriet’s reaches halfway down her back. If Harriet was my cousin rather than my sister, maybe she’d be happier.
After the last of the mourners has gone, I help Harriet wash up. Mum’s handbag is still on top of the microwave, next to a pile of unopened bills. Her apron still hangs on the back of the kitchen door.
‘Did Aunt Julie say how long she’s going to stay here?’ I ask.
Harriet hands me a platter to dry. ‘A few more days, I think.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m leaving tomorrow.’
‘Harry—’
‘I’ve already been here three weeks,’ she says. ‘I’ve been commissioned to paint a mural at a school in Brae. I can’t afford to take any more time off.’
My sister doesn’t need to say it:it’s your fault we had to wait to hold Mum’s funeral.Her rigid back does all the talking for her.
We finish washing-up in silence. Aunt Julie is sorting through photographs in the dining room and Dad has gone upstairs to lie down. Grief is wearying; of all its unimaginable aspects, the intensity of the physical symptoms is what takes you by surprise. After Lottie disappeared, I was exhausted all the time.
‘Do you think you can come home for Christmas?’ I ask Harriet, as we put Mum’s best china back in the sideboard. ‘I know Dad would like us both here.’
‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘It depends on Mungo. He’s got a family, too.’
I feel a wave of sadness. The distance between us has never felt as unbridgeable as it does now. I know she blames the stress of the last two years for driving Mum into an early grave. Blamesme. But I don’t want the next time we see each other to be years from now, at Dad’s funeral. I want us to be sisters again.
Harriet’s barely spoken to me since she came down from the Shetlands. When I enter a room, she leaves, as if she can’t bear to be anywhere near me. I don’t think she’s looked me in the eye once since she got here. I could understand if this was about Flora Birch, but she’s been acting like this towards me for months.
Ever since Lottie went missing, in fact.
I know she blames me for losing Lottie. But if anyone has the right to be upset, it’s me. When Lottie was taken, Harriet didn’t come to Florida to help look for her. She’s mysister. How could she not be there for me?
‘Aunt Julie said she bumped into you at Heathrow,’ I say, suddenly remembering. ‘The day Lottie disappeared.’
Harriet has her back to me and I’m not sure she’s even listening. She shifts the coffee table an inch to the left and then steps back to consider it, as if its precise positioning is the most absorbing thing she has ever done.
‘Where were you going?’ I ask, curiously.
‘When?’
I suppress a sigh of irritation. ‘When Aunt Julie saw you at Heathrow.’
‘Mmmm? Oh, yes, we did run into each other. But that was years ago, when Mungo and I were going off on honeymoon. She must’ve got it muddled.’ She nudges the coffee table another inch. ‘Does that look like it’s in the middle to you?’
Aunt Julie was quite clear.I ran into her at Heathrow, the day Lottie disappeared.
In our family, the day my little girl vanished is like 9/11, the death of Princess Diana, the 7/7 bombings on the Tube. We all know what we were doing, where we were, who we were with.
It’s not the kind of thing you get confused about.
