Emily Pattullo

Chapter 1

Now

The air is thick with warm wood and sadness as I search the pews for my parents. I see them at the front, Mum dabbing theatrically at her dry eyes, her red lipstick the only colour in an otherwise black and white picture, Dad with his attention elsewhere as usual. They move along when they see me, Mum frowning at my choice of clothes, despite them being as black and plain as I could manage.

‘I think your aunt would have enjoyed seeing you in something a little more flattering, darling,’ she whispers, her breath warm with coffee and something else; whisky? Smiling through tight lips I resist the urge to say that what I wear is no longer Auntie M’s problem, and instead pat her hand and say, ‘How are you holding up, Mum?’

She sniffs. ‘Well, I’ve been better, obviously. She was still so young really; it just reminds me how fragile we all are.’

I nod sympathetically and cast around for people I might recognise. Mum didn’t approve of most of her sister’s friends and I notice that those I do recognise have been relegated to the back behind the copious ‘reserved’ seats that don’t appear to be occupied. I ask Mum about those and she just shrugs and says she didn’t want to feel crowded in her grief, have people sniffing down her neck. I’m not sure how long she will be able to stick to that for, as the church appears to be filling up and people are now standing and looking for a seat. I quickly get up and remove the reserved signs so they can sit down, but leave the row directly behind us empty so that Mum can still have her space.

When everyone has settled the vicar begins, his monotone that of someone who has performed more funerals than should be permitted because the inevitability of it makes us all feel like this is exactly how it will be at our own funeral. Mum doesn’t seem to notice the lack of personal touch as she nods gently. Astonishingly, Dad is now off his phone and listening intently, tears glistening in his eyes. His sadness spurs mine and soon I’m sniffing too, mopping at my own tears with the corner of my jacket until Mum tuts at me and hands me a tissue. We stand to sing a hymn while my aunt Maxine stares back at us from on top of the coffin, her smile an untrue depiction of someone I remember rarely being happy, at least not as a rule. I always assumed it was a result of her illness, a side effect of the copious drugs she was forced to take to temper the vicarious lurching between the highs and lows. But maybe she was just a sad person. Mum claimed that was why she adopted Seth, for company and to give her focus in her otherwise directionless life. I’m not sure Seth was quite what she bargained for.

We sit back down while the vicar eulogises effusively, like he’s suddenly been given something to say that hasn’t been taken from a well-worn textbook. Something that has been carefully crafted to explain how despite doctors’ best efforts Maxine’s illness finally won the long battle to take her from them, first in spirit and then in body. But for those who remember the real Maxine, the one who always had a kind word to say about everyone, no matter who they were, it was a slow and difficult decline which eventually left them all feeling thoroughly helpless. He then goes on to talk about the unwavering support of her family, without whom the best and most expensive treatments would not have been possible. At this Mum does one of those staged humble faces as if we don’t all know she wrote it. Dad rests his hand on hers; sympathetically or in confirmation of his approval, I can’t tell. I admire them for their apparently unwavering unity, something I’ve always taken for granted. Partners in everything, from marriage to the multi-national company they run together, they are one of those power couples that everyone seems to admire, or at least they pretend to. Dad with his greying but full head of hair, composed and statuesque, a silent figure of authority and assuredness. Mum, smaller and considerably more vocal, with one of those hairstyles that doesn’t move, no matter how irate she gets; always immaculately turned out and insistent that others are the same.

Eventually the vicar stops talking and people begin filing outside behind the coffin, following the path used by so many saying goodbye to loved ones. As we’re leaving the church, I see someone who looks strangely familiar standing at the back. He’s tall and suited, his hair a shock of curls. My stomach lurches and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not, because it’s Rudy. I can’t believe he came. And how different he looks, and yet the same. There is no opportunity to break away from the procession as we continue outside, but I know he sees me too.

The cold is biting as we go from the relative warmth of the church out into the snow and I pull my coat around me. Suddenly something drags down the back of my heel and I spin around to see a woman in a wheelchair.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says.

‘That’s okay, not at all.’ I smile to hide the grimace because it feels like she’s removed most of my skin.

‘These things are about as controllable as a wheelbarrow, especially in this snow. Are you alright?’

‘Yes, of course. Can I help you?’

‘Thank you,’ she says, and I walk behind to push her up the hill.

‘No one considers the less-abled when designing graveyards,’ she mumbles. ‘No sign of a single grain of salt on the paths either. You’re lucky it was only your ankle I took out.’

‘Well, this weather is extraordinary, isn’t it?’ I say, really having to put my back into it. ‘I’m sure they were just very unprepared.’

‘Other countries seem to manage,’ she snarls. ‘It’s only snow.’

I shiver.

‘How did you know Maxine?’ I change the subject.

‘We were friends for a long time,’ she replies.

I don’t want to be rude and say I don’t remember her so I say, ‘Oh yes,’ as if I do.

‘Such a tragedy, she was one of the best people I ever knew.’

‘She was ill for a long time though,’ I console.

The woman is quiet for a while and I think she must be taking a moment, but when we reach the top of the hill, she adeptly spins the chair around to face me, her expression that of someone who is genuinely afraid and it makes me snatch a breath. She opens her mouth to speak but suddenly Mum is at my side, a vice-like grip on my arm, whisking me to the graveside. I glance behind me through the crowd and see Dad taking up my position behind the wheelchair but directing it back down the hill away from the funeral.

‘Who was she?’ I try to ask Mum, but her grip is firm and her focus rigid as we line up amongst the mourners huddled around the hole in the ground that is swallowing my aunt whole.

‘Mum!’ I hiss, pulling my arm back.

‘Not now, darling,’ she hisses back.

I try to look behind us but can see nothing beyond the wall of people closing in around me.

Rudy appears to have vanished too.

***

The house still looks like a show home, despite my parents having lived here for as long as I can remember; cushions fluffed, smoothed, and positioned precisely, sofas on a predetermined grid system. No one seems to want to make the first move to sit down for fear of disordering anything, so instead they stand in huddled groups, the room very obviously divided between Maxine’s handful of friends here to pay their respects, and the rest I mostly recognise as my parents’ clients and associates. I dutifully hand around a plate overflowing with vol-au-vents, the soft smell of fish unwelcome after several glasses of champagne, not that that seems to put anyone else off, the plate quickly emptying so that I have an excuse to go into the kitchen and fill up my glass again. Never one to miss a thing, Mum appears and chivvies along the staff who also seem to have sought solace in the kitchen. They scurry about under her scrutiny, grabbing plates and bottles to refill glasses.

‘You too, Anna,’ she says. ‘It’s a great way to mingle and you are a representative of this family.’ Like I haven’t heard that a million times.

I drain my glass quickly and pick up another plate. By now the alcohol has well and truly entered my bloodstream and I am having trouble walking in a straight line towards the living room, the doorway seeming to change position with each step. I’m not a good drinker. More than a few glasses is always a bad idea especially without the buffer of food, but somehow a wake calls for the drowning of sorrows and everyone else seems to be taking advantage of the opportunity. The hushed voices have definitely cranked up a notch and there is even the odd outburst of laughter, which quickly turns this into a celebration of Maxine’s memory, I guess, as opposed to a mourning of her passing.

I finally navigate the doorway safely, only to walk straight into Maxine’s best friend, Sylv.

‘Anna, sweetie,’ she coos, helping herself to a salmon mousse canapé. ‘How are you bearing up?’

‘I’m okay,’ I reply.

‘Such a tragedy what happened to that wonderful woman,’ she says with a mouthful. ‘I know I’ve said it before but that boy was the death of her, and that’s not figuratively speaking. Being in prison is the best place for someone like him.’

I nod in agreement because it seems to be the general consensus that Seth was responsible for what happened to her, except that my memory of the two of them together was rarely acrimonious. Mum disagrees with me when I say that, citing several incidences when Seth lost his temper with Maxine, turning the house upside down or threatening her until she gave him money. I don’t remember knowing about those things; perhaps my parents were just trying to protect me. They were keen for me to be successful in my studies and not be influenced by Seth’s behaviour, I knew that, and I wouldn’t be where I am today had they not protected me from such negative outside influences.

‘It’s testament to his guilt that he hasn’t even bothered to come to her funeral,’ continues Sylv, the other women around her nodding in agreement.

I just assumed he hadn’t been allowed to come, but perhaps Sylv’s right and Seth just doesn’t care.

‘After everything she did for him too. She was an absolute saint,’ says one of the women standing next to Sylv.

They’re right of course and I find myself joining them in their contempt for the fact that Seth isn’t here. If he had cared he would have found a way to show his respects, even if only in the form of flowers or a card. And not only for Auntie M but my parents too who, although not totally tolerant of him, still accepted him as part of this family.

Chapter 2

Now

Stamping the snow off my shoes I close the heavy door behind me, pressing against the wind that is trying to force its way in. It shuts with a clang, inciting everyone to look up and see who is creating such a disturbance in an otherwise silent room. I smile awkwardly without catching anyone’s eye and quickly sit down on a green, plastic seat. I’ve never been inside a prison before so I’m not sure if I wait until I’m called or whether there’s some sort of bell. I remove my gloves and hat, looking around cautiously from beneath my fringe at the sterile, soulless waiting room that immediately fills me with sadness, because if it’s like this out here, what must it be like in there? The windows are placed high up underneath the ceiling, so there’s no danger of anyone looking outside to see what they’re missing; clumps of snow resting on the sills, barely definable against the bleached sky beyond – a white-out of all that once was.

My hat has droplets of melted snow which I brush off distractedly as I wonder what comes next. Then I notice a woman behind a sliding window and figure perhaps I should announce my arrival rather than expecting her to know who I am. So I walk over and quietly tell her I’m Anna Griffin-Smith and the time of my visit. She looks at her screen briefly and mutters something about two visitors in one week and how that must mean it’s Seth’s birthday. I realise it’s her attempt at humour, and smile, wondering who the other visitor might have been, and guessing perhaps Rudy; I’m sure he’s been far more forgiving than the rest of us, always the one to take Seth’s side no matter how badly he behaved. I don’t suppose anything has changed in the last twenty-plus years. I return to my seat wishing Rudy had at least stayed to say hello at the funeral. Perhaps he came for Seth rather than me, which is why he stood at the back in the hope I wouldn’t know he was there.

A bell rings and I leap back into the strip-lighted glare of the prison. People are beginning to rise from their seats so I reckon I should too. Traipsing behind like a reluctant chain-gang, we are led towards a door that takes us to where we leave our belongings, file through a metal detector, and navigate various locked doors before entering the visiting area.

It was one thing to get here, it’s quite another to sit opposite Seth as if nothing that has passed between us matters now that I’m actually here. I have no idea when he last spoke to Maxine, let alone saw her, but I want to hear it from him; I need to know why he didn’t come to the funeral.

I take a breath and scan the tables from beneath my hair until I see who I know to be Seth. Just a skinny teenager when I last saw him, now fronted with man-size attitude, his jaw set. As I walk towards him, he’s guarded and alert, unsure of my intentions, his head skewed slightly to the side in question, eyes narrowed. I feel conspicuous as I walk towards him, like the hunted caught in the sights of a hunter. I reach the table and quickly slip into the seat opposite, pasting a smile on my face that says I’m in control.

‘Hello, Seth.’

‘Anna.’

His gaze is intense and I can feel myself coming apart beneath it.

‘It’s snowing,’ I say, waving my hat at him as if to prove the point, despite the snow on it having melted long ago.

Seth says nothing.

Wiping my hands on my skirt, I glance at other tables in the hope of getting some inspiration on how this is supposed to go. There’s a man at the next table whose family are sitting around him. The children all show drawings they have done, while the wife cries silently into her coffee cup. Then behind and to the right of Seth there’s a couple having one of those arguments that require no sound because their expressions are doing all the talking. At least I’m in good company, I think. No one is finding this easy; the whole place is filled with guilt, regrets and unspoken words.

‘What do you want, Anna?’ Seth says at last.

I consider making further reference to the weather, as well as the décor; specifically the tables and chairs that are bolted to the floor, but Seth looks like he has somewhere else to be, and I don’t want him to leave before I say what I came to.

‘I didn’t know if you had been told about Maxine?’ I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.

There isn’t a flicker of emotion as he replies, ‘What about her?’

Oh god, maybe he actually doesn’t know!

‘She died, I’m sorry.’

He’s looking at me as if there must be more, or is it just disbelief that’s holding his gaze? I can’t tell.

‘I know.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t sure.’ I pause. ‘Well… but you didn’t come to the funeral.’

He tilts his head to the side again. ‘Why would I come?’

‘Why wouldn’t you?’ I reply, more harshly than I intend.

He breaks his stare for the first time since I arrived and looks anywhere else but at me. But I’m not finished. ‘She adopted you; she loved you, and if it hadn’t been for her illness, I know she would have visited you too.’

Seth maintains his nonchalance, as if all I’ve told him is that it’s due to snow more today and for the rest of the week, which I do also want to say in the hope he’ll appreciate the irony, as well as the effort I have made to go out in it. He’s watching someone behind me, and I turn to see the sour expression on the face of another inmate who looks like he’s being berated by his mother, but his focus is on staring back as hard at Seth. I turn to Seth and take the opportunity to really study the face that I used to know so well, one I grew up loving and fearing in equal measure, the permanent scowl hidden beneath a flop of blonde hair. His hair is razor-short now but the scowl remains, etched into his skin from years of prison life and what came before.

‘Don’t you care?’ I say at last.

‘What good does caring do me in here?’ he replies bitterly, still not looking at me.

‘You didn’t even send flowers,’ I say lamely.

‘I didn’t do a lot of things, Anna.’

His words are weighed down with regret despite his attempt at apathy, and I look up to see him staring at me with such intensity and sadness that my anger is momentarily abated. But then I remember how like Seth it is to think only of himself; no matter how hard everyone tries to be his friend and support him, he still does exactly what he wants.

‘I would have thought being in here would have given you time to think, to readdress some of the things you perhaps did wrong the first time round…’

‘Unlike Miss Perfect who never does anything wrong, you mean?’

I assume he’s referring to me. ‘I’ve made my fair share of mistakes, but at least I recognised my failings and tried to change. You’re still the same as you always were. You’ve never grown up, have you? You’re still sulking after more than twenty years. That’s one hell of a grudge.’

He doesn’t like that but I don’t care; someone has to say it. He shakes his head like I have no idea what I’m talking about, and maybe I don’t, but at least I have a heart that still beats in my body. His stopped a long time ago.

‘Then why did you never visit,’ he asks, ‘if you’re so reformed? To me, not visiting for twenty years is also bearing a grudge.’

‘I wasn’t sure whether you’d want to see me,’ I say at last.

‘I would have seen anyone to pass the time, and now that you are here I realise how right I always was about how you would turn out, and that’s entertainment right there.’

‘And how’s that?’

‘Like your mother.’ He waves at my attire and I glance down at myself, embarrassed. I look nothing like my mother, but I know he’s referring to my mother’s pearls which he always said would be mine one day, along with the signature red lipstick and patent heeled shoes. At the time I was covered in baggy jeans and sloppy mohair jumpers that distracted from the body I was trying to hide beneath. There was never any chance of me becoming like her; all curves, where I was all corners. I wrap my thumb and forefinger around my wrist, the tips just touching where once they would have easily overlapped.

‘You know I didn’t have to come here. I could have phoned and got one of the wardens to tell you about Maxine, and you wouldn’t have had anything else to do this morning other than scratch your own…’ Either my voice is louder or the room has quietened; whichever, I am now the only one speaking in the room with all eyes turned in our direction. I don’t suppose it’s a rarity for conversations to get heated in this place but I don’t like the fact that it’s ours that has become the focal point. Seth doesn’t seem to care; in fact he’s lost interest and is picking his teeth. I stand to leave.

‘I shouldn’t have come, you clearly haven’t changed or harbour any regret for what you did, so—’

‘What I did?’ He sparks, eyes now blazing at me.

‘Yes, what you did.’

He shakes his head as if he’s misheard. ‘You’re the one that chose Mummy and Daddy over your mates,’ he hisses.

‘Well, you would say that. You’ve always had it in for my family, despite everything they did for you.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says before signalling to a guard that he wants to leave.

‘Then tell me,’ I challenge. ‘Tell me how they didn’t welcome you into the family despite where you came from, despite your record. Tell me Maxine didn’t love you like her own son, even though she was ill for much of the time. Tell me I didn’t care for you like a brother, share my friends with you, never make you feel you were any less than me…’

But he’s already walking away and my words are lost in the murmur of others saying their goodbyes, because apparently our time is up.

I pull my hat down over my head and follow the line back out of the visiting room, signing my name as I pass. The snow has already formed a small wall against the door and I gasp as my heels sink into it, the cold quickly seeping through my tights and soaking them. I stagger towards the bus stop on the corner, Seth’s words echoing behind me while I think of all the things I should have said to him like, I know what we did can never be undone and that things have happened since to change us all irrevocably, but you altered the rules and omitted to tell the rest of us, and now you’re in there and we’re out here and there’s nothing any of us can do about that.

Chapter 3

Now

The snow is falling heavily as I unlock the front door to my cottage, a present from Mum and Dad for my twenty-fifth birthday. It’s just down the hill from their house, in the suburbs of a town south-east of London called Longoaks where I have lived my whole life. There’s nothing special about it, nothing that sets it apart from any other commuter town, except perhaps that it is situated on the side of a hill which is very steep in parts and runs down to a river at the bottom. All roads lead down into the centre then out to a large, ever-expanding housing estate on the other side of town from us. We don’t go there, at least not anymore.

I shut the door behind me and immediately relax. The conversation with Seth, which has been bugging me all the way home, doesn’t seem relevant here in the one place I can be myself. Seth can live with his own conscience and I’ll know that I at least tried to reason with him, but some people can’t be helped or reformed; the damage just goes too deep. I throw my keys on the table and gather up the post on the floor. Amongst the pizza and charity leaflets there’s a letter with a postmark from the Congo. After all this time, why now? I tentatively open it, nervous about what might be inside, but it’s just a sympathy card, which is more than Seth did, and I appreciate the thought at least.

Dear Anna,

I wanted to write and offer my sincere condolences for the death of your aunt Maxine. She was a lovely, kind woman and a real gift for Seth, even if he didn’t always appreciate it. Have you seen much of Seth? How did he take it? He must be devastated.

How did he take it? Very well! I feel myself starting to fume. And ‘devastated’ is a slight exaggeration, I’m pretty sure Seth doesn’t care much about anyone. I can’t believe how stupid I was to think he might have changed, that he might have some regret for how things turned out.

I hope you don’t think less of me for being in touch after so long under such sad circumstances, especially knowing how close you and Maxine were once, but it’s the only way I have been able to get on with my life. Hearing such tragic news though has brought you to the forefront of my mind and I wish we could go back to how it used to be. I miss my friendship with you all and the way things were before; the simplicity of life, the… carelessness. And that was the point, wasn’t it? We were careless teenagers with no real concept of what we were doing, that our actions could affect the rest of our lives so irrevocably is like we were never meant to live them any other way.

I wanted to come back for the funeral, for you, for Seth, but the thought was more than I could handle, too much time has passed. So the coward that I am has sought to be absolved by writing a few words down on paper to let you know I’m thinking of you at this sad time.

Much love, as always,

Your friend, Dougal.

I realise I’m crying as I sit down at the table, the last few days having clearly affected me more than I expected them to. I’m so used to holding it together that it’s strange to be letting it all out at last. It feels good though, the right thing to do when someone you love has died. But also it feels like a mourning for the friendship I used to have with Dougal, and Rudy. How it takes a tragedy like this to put us in touch after all this time.

I lift the lid on my laptop and casually type in Rudy’s name as if it’s no big deal and I’ve never thought about doing it before. His face immediately fills my screen as a demonstration of what a big shot he now is, featured in WIRED magazine, shaking hands with other suited types, and standing in front of his offices in Soho. I had heard of his success on the grapevine, through work, but not in such a triumphant display, and I can’t help feeling a blush of pride at what he has achieved despite everything. I click on the image of Rudy in front of his offices and see the address printed below. If he came to the funeral perhaps it means we could work at being friends again. The least I can do is reciprocate to show I am also keen.