Coming Home: A compelling novel with a shocking twist. Annabel Kantaria
her tongue as she flipped through the pages. ‘People don’t want to see him, do they?’
‘It’s your decision, Mrs Stevens,’ said the man.
‘That’s a nice one, don’t you think, Evie?’ Mum asked, stopping at a grand-looking box, rectangular, with six handles. ‘Dad would have liked that, I think. And maybe with a sky-blue lining? Or yellow like the sunshine? What do you think, darling? I don’t suppose it really matters if it’s not pure silk—it’s going to be burnt to a cinder anyway.’
‘Excuse me!’ I scraped the chair back and dashed out of the shop.
Around the corner, I leaned heavily against a wall. Dad had gone forever. I breathed in deeply, enjoying the sting of the cold air in my lungs. It gave me something to focus on while I gathered myself.
‘Evie? Is that you?’ The voice was cautious but familiar. I knew even without looking to whom it belonged.
‘Luca.’ I ran a hand through my hair, wished the ground would swallow me up. This wasn’t how any first meeting with an ex was supposed to be.
‘Evie! How are you?’
I nodded and tried for a smile. Words wouldn’t come. Luca and I had been one of the only couples to have ‘gone steady’ at school for the entire two years of the sixth form. I’ve never since had my life so sorted as when he and I were going out. It’s funny how we know it all at sixteen—and then what happens? How does it all fall apart?
Standing within touching distance of him now, I remembered almost viscerally the lunchtimes we’d spent sitting on the bench by the tennis courts at school, his arm draped over my shoulder while we talked about our future. We’d talked about what we’d do when we were married: where we’d live, how many children we’d have and what their names would be. The funny thing was, it wasn’t just me leading this fantasy life—Luca had been even keener on it than I was.
Back then he’d worked on Saturday and Sunday lunchtimes in a chichi pub in Chislehurst, where he cleared dishes, washed up and sometimes even waited tables. When I’d turned eighteen, he’d presented me with a tiny solitaire ring he’d saved up his wages to buy and asked me to marry him. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I’d said no. He’d thought I was joking at first. ‘No. Seriously, Luca. Maybe if we’re both still single when we’re thirty,’ I’d quipped, handing the red velvet box back to him.
It had been the beginning of the end. The relationship had limped on until we left school a few months later, but the magic had gone. We’d gone to different universities and we hadn’t stayed in touch.
‘It’s been—what?—nearly twelve years?’ Luca said. ‘So what are you up to these days?’
‘My dad just died.’ The words fell out of me. ‘I’ve just come back to help Mum. For a bit. I live in Dubai.’
Luca touched my arm then pulled his hand back quickly. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. I remember your dad … Look, if there’s anything I can do?’
‘We’re just in the funeral directors now,’ I said. ‘Choosing the coffin. I just, um, stepped out for a second.’
‘I’m so sorry, Evie.’
‘It’s OK. Not your fault.’ I tried to smile.
‘Would you let me know about the funeral arrangements? I’d like to pay my respects.’ Luca put his hand on his chest and looked down for a second.
‘I will.’
‘Look, if you need anything at all, Evie. I’m here. Facebook me.’
‘Thanks. I will.’
Two pairs of eyes turned to me when I stepped back into the undertaker’s.
‘Would you like to see what we’ve decided?’ Mum asked, looking at me over her spectacles. ‘We’re going for the oak casket with the blue lining.’ She opened the catalogue to a page and pointed. And the funeral’s set for a week today. Right, I think we’re all done here.’
She pushed her chair back and, together, we stepped out into the drizzle.
The Speckled Hen did a good lunch. Stopping in on our way back to the house, Mum and I ordered salmon fishcakes, salad and thick-cut chips washed down with a warming glass each of Merlot.
‘So, shall we get the funeral party thing catered?’ I asked, the wine already buzzing in my head. I wasn’t expecting a yes.
‘Sure,’ she said, waving over the waitress. ‘Can you ask the manager to come over?’
This was a side of Mum I’d never seen before. When Dad was alive, she’d have stood up all night, on pins if she’d had to, cutting rounds of sandwiches rather than buy them. I was pleased—it was progress. The pub, it turned out, had a home-catering department and the manager was obliging. Within a matter of minutes, it was agreed that uniformed waiters would hand around a selection of sweet and savoury finger foods and hot and cold drinks.
I, however, wasn’t making much progress of my own. I’d fully intended to start going through Dad’s address book after lunch, letting people know that the funeral had been set for Friday, but the rich food and unaccustomed lunchtime wine took their toll on both me and Mum. Back home, Mum flicked off her shoes, dropped her keys onto the dresser by the front door and collapsed in her favourite chair in the living room while I went to make us each a coffee. But, when I brought it out to her five minutes later, Mum was out for the count, her mouth slightly open, a magazine on her lap. I placed the coffee quietly on the table and looked at my mother. In sleep, her face was softer, free of the worries that plagued her in life.
‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll always be here for you. It’s just us now. Just the girls.’ I placed a fleecy blanket gently over her lap and went upstairs to lie down. The wind had picked up and I wriggled luxuriously in bed, the duvet half over me as the wind splattered the rain against the windowpanes. We never got afternoons like this in Dubai; I let the rhythmic patter of the rain lull me to sleep.
‘Aaargh!’
The furious scream that woke me was followed by the crash of the phone being slammed down.
‘That woman is so rude!’ Mum yelled.
‘What’s wrong? Mum? What’s up?’ I leapt off my bed and into the hall where Mum was standing staring at the phone as if it had got up and slapped her on the cheek.
‘It’s unacceptable! How can people be so rude?’ she raged. ‘I never even liked the woman!’
‘What? What happened?’
‘I told her that Graham was dead and she denied it! It’s not as if it’s easy telling people, but that woman had the temerity to deny it! She said I was “having a turn”!’
‘Oh, Mum, I …’ I took a step towards her.
‘“Oh, Mum, I” what?’ Mum was still staring at the phone, but now she snapped her head to look at me, her eyes flashing.
I reached out for her arm, but she jumped away.
‘It’s not Graham,’ I said gently. ‘It’s Dad who’s died. Robert. Not Graham.’
Mum stared at me, her eyes wide. Then she shook her head. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Good God, I may be old but I don’t have dementia. What kind of idiot do you take me for?’
‘I …’
Mum turned for the stairs. ‘Cup of tea?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m fine.’