Trio - [89]

Not like her and Stephen. They’d never played out much where they lived. He was too fond of his books and she found herself falling out with the few children there were. Either bored with them and losing her temper or finding herself made into the victim. Carrot-head, Ginger.

She was startled by the clunk of the door opening. Saw the woman – red hair, long, green dressing gown – open the door to let a dog out. Red hair. Nina felt her limbs go heavy. Rooted. The woman looked out, straightened up, her hand moving to her throat, clutching at the collar of her dressing gown even though it was fastened.

Nina took a step, then another. Placed her hand on the gate, unsmiling, her eyes fixed on the woman. ‘Megan,’ she said.

The woman nodded, a fierce little movement and her mouth trembled.

‘I’m Claire.’ Thudding in her head. Please. Oh, please.

‘Yes.’ She put one arm out towards her then lowered it. Her bright blue eyes were brimming. She nodded again. ‘Hello, Claire. I think you’d better come in.’

Joan Lilian

Pamela

Pamela

It was a year of reminders. A parade of events each highlighting her loss. The first birthday without her mum, first Christmas, first time planning her holidays without seeing if Lilian fancied a week somewhere.

She had left the little house in Fallowfield for months. There was no hurry. It wouldn’t be hard to sell, there were always landlords after houses to let to students in that area. It would go up for sale when she was good and ready. Her Aunt Sally offered several times to help her clear it out, but each time she said she’d wait a little longer.

She dreamt about her mother frequently. She saw her too. Round the shops, in her garden, at the market, passing the leisure centre. The first couple of times she was petrified, thinking grief had made her mad, but two of her friends who had lost parents reassured her that it was commonplace. Someone lent her a book about bereavement. There were nights when she poured over it, eager for reassurance.

Work was fine. It helped. There she felt safe, valuable, capable.

In May she was ready to face the clear out. She booked a weeks leave, the week before her birthday, and tackled it with a combination of practicality and ritual. Clearing the house was also a way of making her farewells. It was the last link to the years she had shared with her mother.

She had been back twice since her mother’s death, twice in the blur of time before the funeral when she had cleared the fridge, taken meter readings, chosen clothes for her mother to be buried in, emptied the bins, removed jewellery, video and telly, her will and bank books, which she had kept in a biscuit tin in the kitchen. Pamela had left a spare key with neighbours in case of any trouble.

She drove over from Chester. There was no parking immediately outside but she found a space further down the road. Put her steering-wheel lock on.

Opening the door she allowed herself the fantasy of her mother being there to greet her – a generous smile, easy familiarity, her genuine delight whenever Pamela came home. Her stomach tightened as she stepped inside. She took a breath. The house smelt stale. It was resolutely empty. She put down her bag. A pile of junk mail lay on the floor. She checked through. There was nothing personal. She wandered round the rooms, she had to visit them all, some silly superstition. She was oppressed by the emptiness and silence.

Tour completed, she switched the mains back on in the kitchen and turned the stopcock on for water. She lit the gas fire in the living room to take the chill away. She opened the back door to let some fresh air in and saw the lilac was still in bloom. Its scent hurled her back through the years and tears filled her eyes. ‘Oh, Mum,’ she said aloud, ‘I do miss you.’

She found scissors in the kitchen draw and cut branches of the lilac, got vases from the shelf and put the fragrant sprays round the house.

She had brought tea and milk with her and after she had finished her drink she got out her notebook and pen and went through the rooms making a list of things she needed – bin-bags, labels, boxes, string, old newspapers, tissue paper, sellotape – and a list of items she would like to keep.

In her old room she sat on the bed. The walls were still painted in the lemon colour she had chosen as a teenager. The curtains still a hessian weave which let all the light in. Once she’d moved out, her mother had bought a cornflower-blue duvet set to replace the old candlewick bedspread and sheets and blankets from before. She had been happy here on the whole.

She peered out into the back yard and the alley beyond. From here you could see rows of terraces like a brighter version of the Coronation Street title sequence. It had been a good place to grow up. Plenty of children, a park not far away. She’d been pally with Natalie from next door. One summer they had rigged a message system up between their bedroom windows, string and yoghurt pots. Last she’d heard, Natalie had moved away, somewhere down south.