A Thousand Tiny Disappointments, page 16
‘Nice to see you,’ said Sharon. ‘How are you holding up?’ Her head was tilted to one side, in a way that was presumably meant to suggest sympathy, but which just made Martha irritated. Each time she met Sharon, she disliked her more.
‘We’re fine, thanks for coming. Do go through – there’s an order of service just there, on the left.’
She turned away and looked beyond them, smiling more fully than she needed to at a couple she’d never met before, who were now walking up the steps. She was short of breath, her heart thumping. When Alice and Sharon had gone past, she glanced quickly after them, noticing there was a hole in the back of Alice’s black tights and that she was in the same battered trainers she always wore when she came to walk the dog.
Patrick, standing beside her, had been talking to a man who used to work with Judith, a fellow teacher. He hadn’t even glanced at Sharon or Alice, although he must have seen them walk past.
The vicar was signalling, suggesting they start. As Martha took her place in the front pew, between Simon and Patrick, she longed to turn around and take a proper look at the people behind her. It was gratifying so many were here, but she still hadn’t worked out who most of them were. There were small groups who clearly knew each other – ladies from the WI, neighbours from Willow Road – and others who had come on their own, or arrived clutching the hand of a husband or wife who looked slightly awkward and probably hadn’t a clue who Judith was.
Further along the pew, Patrick’s wife, Helen, was sighing deeply and staring up at the ceiling. She had done little to conceal her boredom since earlier this morning, when they’d all gathered at the funeral directors to wait for the hearse. On the far side of her, their children were slumped back against the wooden seats; Max was eating a Crunchie, rustling the wrapper loudly and not bothering to close his mouth, while Samantha was playing games on a phone, giggling at the sound of tinny plinks and explosions. Martha wanted to grab it from her hands.
She flicked through the order of service, not really listening to what the vicar was saying. They sang a hymn, then there was a prayer. Then Patrick was getting up beside her, moving past Helen’s neatly crossed legs and his fidgeting children, walking to the front of the crematorium, where he stood proprietorially beside Judith’s coffin.
Martha had known she didn’t want to say anything at the funeral. She couldn’t have got up in front of all these people without bursting into tears, and today she needed to stay in control. But Patrick hadn’t been fazed when she phoned to ask him. ‘No problem,’ he’d said. ‘Just tell me what you want me to do.’ Her suggestion that he might like to choose a reading himself, had produced a snort – she wasn’t sure if it was laughter or derision. ‘Not got the time, to be honest,’ he’d said. ‘Just find something suitable and I’ll read it out.’
He did a good job; his eyes on the sheet of paper in his hands, his voice steady, pausing every now and then to look up and direct a few words into the room. Those gathered together here today would be full of admiration, thought Martha, bitterly. They’d think how well Judith’s good-looking son had held himself together, would later discuss how proud his mother would have been of him on this most solemn of occasions.
By the time they filed out of the crematorium, the next funeral party was already waiting in the wings. Martha looked back and saw people lining up behind the plate glass windows, another monstrous black hearse pulling up outside the entrance. Sending the dearly departed on their way was like being on a particularly bleak production line.
The Hamilton Hotel, where they were holding the wake, was a half-hour drive away. She and Simon didn’t speak in the car. They hadn’t spoken much during the drive up to Surrey either, earlier this morning. Joe had been fractious when the carer, Jackie, arrived, and Simon had fed him breakfast while Martha showed the woman around and talked her through the lists she’d printed out. It had taken longer than planned and Martha – already feeling sick at the prospect of the day ahead – was jumpy and convinced she’d forgotten something. She went back into the house twice to make sure Jackie had noted particular points on the lists.
‘It’s not rocket science,’ Simon had said, when they eventually pulled out of the drive. ‘You don’t need to explain our life history to her.’
‘I didn’t!’ Martha had said. ‘But it’s important she knows how we do things. Joe needs routine – it helps him stay calm. I hate leaving him with new people, you know that. I always worry more.’
‘She’ll cope,’ Simon had said, dismissively. ‘It’s her job.’
Martha fumed and fought back tears as they sped down the dual carriageway. But by the time they got onto the motorway she’d stopped trying to pretend she wasn’t crying. She had stared out of the side window as the grass verge flashed past, her cheeks damp, her eyes prickling and her nose running.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Simon had said, glancing over at her, his tone softer. ‘You’ll feel better once today is over and done with.’
She nodded. But she wasn’t crying about that.
They’d booked the largest of the hotel’s meeting rooms. A waiter was hovering with a tray of Prosecco, and Martha took a glass and drank half of it immediately. She’d been intending to stick to water, but her resolve went of the window as soon as she saw the golden liquid bubbling in the polished flutes. Sod it, who cared? She didn’t need to deprive herself of anything today.
There was a hubbub of chatter swelling around the room, a tinkle of laughter, voices rising as people greeted each other. Relief floated in the air, almost as palpable as the heady mixture of perfumes and aftershaves.
Martha moved through the room, smiling at people as she went, pointing towards the buffet table and indicating the food that needed to be eaten, resting a hand on an arm here, kissing a cool cheek there.
‘I was in your mother’s book group,’ one elderly lady said. ‘She was such a lovely lady! We did The Testaments just a few weeks ago, and Judith said it was one of her favourite books of all time – she told us some interesting facts about Margaret Atwood; she’d clearly read all her books.’
Martha thought back to the paperback she’d found on her mother’s bedside table; the home-made bookmark with its drawing of a three-legged dog.
Turning away from the buffet table, she saw Sharon and Alice standing in a corner, their heads bent towards each other in conversation. They looked awkward and out of place. She shouldn’t have been so abrupt with them earlier. She swapped her empty glass for a full one and walked over to them.
‘Hello again,’ she said.
‘That was a nice service,’ said Sharon. ‘You’ve done her proud today, your mum. And all of this…’ she gestured around her. ‘Lovely venue, isn’t it, Alice?’
The girl nodded. She looked drawn, riddled with unease.
‘Must have cost a fortune,’ Sharon went on. ‘This is one of the nicest hotels in the area. Don’t think I’ve ever been inside before, not the sort of place we’d usually get invited to.’ She laughed and Martha bristled: the reference to money didn’t feel accidental. Yet again, she wondered if these two women knew what Judith had been intending to do. But if so, why had they said nothing?
‘How’s Nipper?’ she asked Alice, keen to change the subject.
‘He’s fine,’ she said. ‘Doing well. We can’t stay long, actually. By the time we get back he’ll have been on his own for a few hours.’
‘Well, it’s good to see you here,’ said Martha. ‘I appreciate you coming, I really do.’
‘I’m glad to be here,’ said Alice. ‘It was important to me.’
Sharon was nodding, her head still tilted in faux sympathy.
‘I liked the readings,’ Alice went on. ‘They were lovely. Very appropriate.’
‘Thank you,’ said Martha.
‘It shows how well you knew her,’ said Alice. ‘Judith was a really clever lady. You could talk to her about almost anything and she’d have an opinion. She’d done so much travelling and she used to tell me such interesting things. Sometimes I’d come back from walking Nipper and we’d have a cup of tea together and chat for ages if Gracie didn’t need picking up from playgroup.’
Martha could picture the two of them, perched in the upright chairs in Judith’s sitting room, their cups of tea on the little table in between. It was how she always pictured herself, when she thought about visiting her mother. But somehow Alice seemed to fit better into the tableau.
‘She was funny, too,’ Alice carried on. ‘Wasn’t she, Mum? Really witty. She would make jokes about things she’d seen on telly or articles she’d read in the paper. I told her once that I didn’t really understand how the European Union worked – there had been something on the news about Brexit. And she explained it all to me in such a clever way. I can’t say I’ve ever been interested in politics, always thought it was a bit over my head, but that afternoon I was fascinated, listening to her. You can tell she would have been the most amazing teacher, fun but not preachy. I wish I’d had someone like her at my school; maybe then I wouldn’t have dropped out! I’m not surprised she got that award from the newspaper – you know, the teaching medal thing they presented her with.’
Martha nodded, as if she knew this. As if her mother had mentioned it.
She sensed movement at her side and turned to see Patrick staring at the two women.
‘Hi,’ said Alice. ‘That was a lovely service.’
‘Thank you, Annie,’ he said.
‘It’s Alice,’ said Martha, glaring at him. He knew perfectly well what her name was. It was as if he wanted to unsettle the girl: put her in her place. ‘Patrick, this is Sharon, her mother. She used to clean the bungalow, that’s how Mum got in touch with Alice.’
He nodded curtly.
‘Delightful to meet you,’ said Sharon. ‘We’re so glad to be here today, we were both so close to your mother. She was a wonderful lady and a dear, dear friend to us.’
Patrick snorted. ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘Martha, can you spare a moment? The vicar wants to have a word.’
He walked away and Martha knew her face was colouring. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s been a difficult day for all of us.’
29
Helen was so drunk she could hardly stand. She had collapsed into a chair with a bottle of Prosecco and was refilling her glass, not seeming to notice that the base was dripping, leaving a swathe of dark dots across her linen skirt.
‘Thank God that’s all over,’ she was saying. ‘What a bloody day. I hate funerals. At least there was some decent fizz at this place. Was that down to you, Patrick? Last time we came to stay with you, Martha, we had warm Pinot Grigio because your fridge had broken down or something. Do you remember?’
She cackled and slid to one side, jolting herself upright again and spilling more of her Prosecco. Martha glared at her. There had been nothing wrong with the fridge. Patrick and Helen had arrived one Boxing Day and spent the afternoon drinking so heavily and rapidly that they’d gone through all the white wine Simon had put in the fridge. They’d then sniffed at the expensive red he offered to open and started working their way through more – admittedly slightly warm – bottles of white in the wine rack.
‘Daddy, I want to go. This is so boring,’ whined Samantha, not lifting her eyes from the screen of her phone. Martha could see now that it was bigger and newer than her own smartphone.
‘Soon, princess,’ said Patrick. ‘Very soon.’
He had also topped up his glass. Martha had no idea how they were getting home, but hoped they were going to call a taxi. In contrast, Simon hadn’t had a drink all afternoon, but he was in such a foul mood, she almost wished he had. Now the guests had left, he was sitting on a sofa by the window, glaring across at them all, his arms crossed, his foot tapping on the carpet. ‘We need to go,’ he’d hissed at her, just now. ‘It’s going to take bloody hours to get home, we’ll hit rush hour traffic.’
Martha was desperate to leave too, the last thing she wanted was to be hanging around amongst the debris of her mother’s wake. But they were waiting for the hotel manager to print out a copy of the invoice.
‘That Sharon woman is trouble,’ Patrick was saying now. ‘I know her type. “Your mother was a dear friend” my arse. I can’t imagine Mum giving the time of day to a woman like that. They had nothing in common. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the one behind all this. She probably encouraged her daughter to wheedle her way into Mum’s life, make her think that they had this special friendship.’
‘I don’t think it was like that…’ Martha started to say.
‘I think it was exactly like that,’ interrupted Patrick. ‘Sharon knew there was money to be had – cleaning that bungalow made it easy for her to have a dig around and find out about Mum’s finances. She also knew that girl, Annie or whatever she’s called, was making herself useful with the dog. So, between the two of them, they hatched a plan to make themselves indispensable to a vulnerable old lady.’
‘She’s called Alice,’ said Martha. ‘You know perfectly well what her name is. Anyway, I think Mum honestly grew fond of her. She never really talked to me about Sharon…’
‘But who would have benefitted if she’d got that house?’ asked Patrick, emptying his glass and slamming it down on a table. ‘Sharon, that’s who. You said they’re all living in her poky little flat at the moment – so Sharon would have got a good deal out of all this. She’d have the flat to herself and the girl and her child would have got to wallow around in a two-bedroom house with a garden, the kind of place they’d never usually have a hope in hell of living in.’
‘Gracie,’ muttered Martha. ‘Her daughter’s called Gracie. I really don’t think that was the case. Sharon had nothing to gain from any of that.’
‘How do you know?’ said Patrick, his voice raised now. ‘You have no bloody idea what they were intending to do with it. They might have talked about knocking it to the ground and building a block of flats!’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ muttered Simon.
‘Patrick, they don’t even know about the codicil!’ said Martha. ‘They can’t do, otherwise they would have said something! Anyway, can you please keep your voice down. Do we have to be discussing this here?’ There was no one else in the room, but she was paranoid about being overheard.
‘Judith must really have loved that girl,’ slurred Helen, from the sofa. ‘I mean, why else would you bypass your own flesh and blood and leave your home to someone like that? Even if that old bag of a mother encouraged her to do it, Judith made the decision herself. She must have looked on the dog walker girl like a daughter.’
The door opened and the hotel manager came back in with an envelope.
‘Sorry about the delay,’ he said, handing it to Patrick. ‘That should all be in order, but please check it before you leave.’
Simon had stood up and was jangling the car keys in his hand. ‘Come on,’ he said to Martha. ‘We really need to get going now.’
‘I mean, when you think about it, this isn’t really to do with Patrick, is it?’ said Helen, still slumped on the sofa. ‘He was always her golden boy – he could do no wrong where his doting mummy was concerned. This is all about you, Martha. Judith found someone who did a better job, who spent time with her and kept her company and did all the things a proper daughter should do!’ She cackled and put her glass to her lips, looking confused when she realised it was empty. ‘So, however this happened, you’re the one she didn’t love enough. You’re the daughter who was so easily replaced by a girl who only came in to walk the bloody dog!’
Martha stared at Helen, her mouth hanging open. There was a tightness inside her, as if something was squeezing her lungs and making it hard for her to catch her breath. She turned to look at Patrick, waiting for him to say something, expecting him to defend her. But he was smirking, swaying slightly as he tried to slide the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘Do you know, she has got a point,’ he said. ‘It does feel a bit like you’ve failed as a daughter, Martha.’
‘Right, I’ve had enough of this,’ said Simon. ‘Come on, Martha, let’s go. You two should be ashamed of yourselves – you’re both drunk and you need to go home and sober up.’
‘Oh, so high and mighty!’ said Helen, pointing at Simon with her empty glass. ‘Don’t try and pretend you haven’t been thinking about all this, too. You’d be just as pissed off as the rest of us if you weren’t getting a share of the house.’
Simon shook his head in disgust. ‘You’re a selfish, money-grabbing bitch, Helen.’
‘Hey, that’s out of order,’ said Patrick.
‘And you’re no better,’ Simon said, turning to him. ‘It doesn’t sound as if you’ve been much support to Martha during all of this.’
‘Well, how the hell would you know?’ said Patrick. ‘We haven’t seen anything of you down here in the last few weeks, mate, offering to help us sort out this mess. Don’t think you can just put on a suit and turn up to my mother’s funeral to hang around looking miserable and playing the martyred son-in-law. Helen’s right, all you care about is the money.’
‘You’re a fucking dick, Patrick,’ said Simon. ‘Always have been, always will be.’
Samantha raised her head from her phone, her eyes wide. ‘Uncle Simon said the f-word!’ she squealed.
Martha’s heart was thrusting itself into her throat and she was suddenly burning hot, prickles of sweat bursting out across her forehead. ‘Stop this, all of you,’ she said. But it came out as a whisper and no one heard.
‘Sod off back to your glass palace in the country, you bloody loser,’ snarled Patrick. ‘This is about my mother. It has nothing to do with you.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got no intention of wasting any more of my time here,’ said Simon. ‘You’re poisonous, both of you.’ He turned and grabbed Martha’s hand, pulling her towards the door. ‘Come on, we’re getting out of here.’
