‘I love you, Evie,’ she’d said, kissing my hair and running her hands through it. ‘Don’t ever leave me. Promise you won’t leave me.’
It was awful, but the attention was nice and I hated myself for liking it; hated myself for choosing Mum’s hugs instead of running to Dingbat.
‘It’s Mum,’ I told Miss Dawson.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘She probably misses Dingbat as much as you do. I expect he reminded her of Graham, too.’
I twisted the tissue in my hand, my eyes raw. Mum had killed a living creature. Would Miss Dawson have to tell the police? Would Mum have to go to jail? What was worse: Mum like this, or Mum in jail? I took a deep breath and made my decision: ‘It’s just that … I don’t think she’ll let me get a new hamster,’ I said. Well … at least that bit was true.
Slightly squiffy from having discovered Mum’s stash of good gin, I decided to spend the evening catching up on back episodes of Casualty. Right near the start of one episode, a man had a dramatic heart attack in a shopping centre. He clutched his chest as he dropped to the floor, groaning.
‘Hollywood heart attack!’ I shouted at the television, realising as I did so that I sounded just like Dad. It’s exactly what he would have said. ‘Most heart attacks don’t look like that,’ he’d say. And now he’d know, I thought, wondering what he’d felt—if anything—when his heart had failed him in his sleep. Had he woken up? Had there been a moment when he’d panicked? Known he was dying? Or had he simply slept through it, as Mum clearly wanted to believe? I had my doubts. Suddenly, grief ambushed me and I pressed ‘mute’ on the television, picked up my phone and flicked through my contacts to the entry for ‘Dad’. I stared at the word for a few seconds then, before I even had time to think about it, I pressed ‘dial’ and put the phone to my ear.
‘Hello. You’re through to Doctor Robert Stevens. I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.’
‘Dad,’ I whispered. I clicked off the call, but kept the phone at my ear.
‘Hello, Dad. It’s me,’ I said into the handset. ‘I just wanted to … say hello. See how you are. I hope … it wasn’t painful … I hope you’re in a good place now.’ Suddenly, I felt silly. ‘OK, bye.’ I put my phone out of reach on the coffee table and clicked the TV’s sound back on.
Outside, there was the scrunch of gravel, a pause while goodnights were said, and then the scrape of Mum’s key in the door. I turned off the television as she stuck her head around the door.
‘How was your evening?’
‘Oh very nice, thank you,’ Mum said, flopping into an armchair and easing her feet out of her shoes and then her pop socks. ‘We had some poppadums, chicken tikka and tiny samosas to start, then I had chicken korma and Richard had lamb biryiani. We shared the naan and a bottle of red wine. I couldn’t manage dessert so we just had coffee.’
‘Sounds lovely, but I meant how was the evening? With Richard?’
‘Oh.’ Mum looked at her watch. ‘We’ve only been gone two hours. No time at all!’ She was wearing her ‘going out’ perfume and a stylish skirt and top; they could have been Ghost. So much for ‘just a curry’.
‘So, did he make a move on you?’ I asked.
‘Of course not!’ I was glad she seemed affronted.
‘So?’ I asked again, raising an eyebrow. ‘How was it?’
Mum tutted. ‘It’s not like that. He just had a voucher and knew I was on my own. He thought I might like cheering up. For goodness’ sake, Evie. Dad’s not been gone three days.’
‘Do you miss him?’
Mum flopped onto the sofa. ‘Of course. I was married to him for thirty-three years. Do you?’
I sighed. My head was starting to spin with the gin; I could feel blood throbbing at my temples. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s weird. You know what he was like. After …?’ I couldn’t say it. ‘He was distant. He wasn’t interested in me. But he was better last summer, wasn’t he? Did you notice how he asked questions about Dubai? It was like he wanted to come. And I wanted him to see what I’ve achieved. I wanted him to be proud.’
It was the most I’d ever said to her about Dad. What I didn’t tell her was about the other, unexpected conversation I’d had with Dad out in the garden last summer.
‘I still blame myself,’ he’d said, apropos of nothing, but I’d known at once what he meant.
‘Well, you shouldn’t. It wasn’t your fault,’ I’d said. ‘The car jumped the lights. No one could have stopped that, not even Mum. It was a quirk of fate that it was you with Graham, not her.’
Dad had looked so grateful then that I’d had to look away.
‘You really don’t blame me?’ he’d asked.
‘Of course not. I never did.’
He’d reached out and touched my hand. It was the most contact we’d had in over two decades.
Now, in the living room, Mum didn’t say anything. I rubbed my temples, trying to smooth away the giddiness from the alcohol. ‘Well, too late now, isn’t it?’ I said.
Mum flattened her lips into a line. ‘Your father loved you very much, Evie. He just didn’t know how show it. He was ever so proud of you going off to Dubai on your own.’ She shifted in her chair and pulled at her skirt, smoothing it down over her thighs.
I raised my eyebrows. Apart from last summer, I’d not seen any evidence of Dad being proud of me.
‘He never stopped blaming himself, you know,’ she said.
‘But it wasn’t his fault, was it?’
‘No, of course not. It was a terrible tragedy. But Graham was under his care. He couldn’t forgive himself.’
‘I never blamed him.’ I needed her to see that, to understand it.
Mum was quiet.
‘Last summer we spoke about it,’ I said. ‘I told him I didn’t blame him.’
Mum stood up, yawned and stretched her arms out behind her.
‘Well, he never stopped blaming himself. That much I know. Goodnight.’
The white elephant in the room practically headbutted me: Dad had never stopped blaming himself because Mum had never stopped blaming him.
‘Goodnight,’ I said.
I may have intended to sleep that night, but the gin had other plans for me. As soon as I lay down, the matter of the mysterious debits slithered snake-like into my mind and flicked its forked tongue at my consciousness, keeping me awake. I’d bet my last Rolo that Mum knew neither about the lump sum nor the regular debits and, if the money wasn’t for the house, what was it for? I tossed about in my bed, turning this way and that, then flipping the pillow and finally lying on my back staring at the ceiling. What on earth would my parents have spent £22,000 on? They were hardly known for their extravagant purchases.
Lying in the dark, I ran through possibilities. Could Dad have been putting money aside for a surprise for Mum? A new car, maybe—but it would have to be a really nice one. An exotic holiday? A Caribbean cruise? Maybe it was more practical: an advance payment to a retirement home?