My Sister's Bones(16)

Gillian Louise Rafter

14th November 1945 – 26th March 2015

Forever in our hearts



I skim over my father’s inscription and read the writing at the bottom of the stone.

In Loving Memory of

David Robert Rafter

18th January 1977 – 23rd August 1978

Sleep in the arms of Jesus, little man



I close my eyes and try to imagine what my brother would have looked like as he grew up; what kind of a life he would have led. But like Alexandra Waits, he is just a name inscribed on stone. If only I could remember him. I let myself sink down on to the grass as the smell of sweet peas wafts across the air, and I trace his name with my finger.

But as I go to stand up, someone screams.

‘What was that?’ I say, looking up at Paul.

He is standing above me, his face blurred by the sun.

‘What?’

‘That . . . noise,’ I say, holding a finger to my lips. ‘Listen.’

‘I can’t hear anything,’ says Paul. ‘Unless it’s your friend whatsherface.’ He laughs nervously.

‘It was . . .’ I begin. ‘It was nothing. Probably a seagull.’

But I know what it was. It was the old woman. Why won’t she leave me alone? I kneel down by the grave again.

‘Sally told me a bit about your brother,’ says Paul, coming to kneel next to me.

‘What did she tell you?’

‘Not much really, just that she had a brother who died before she was born. That he’d had an accident.’

‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘I don’t remember him. I was only three years old when he died. He was just a toddler. Mum had taken him to the beach one day and he got into the sea. She tried to rescue him but the waves were really strong and they carried him away. That’s as much as I know. Mum never liked to talk about him.’

‘It must have been devastating for your parents.’

‘It was. They never got over it. Sally and I spent our childhood trying to put them back together. It didn’t work.’

‘It’s tough being a parent,’ says Paul. ‘Or step-parent in my case.’

‘Yes, but it’s not really the same, is it?’ I say. ‘You know that one day you’ll see Hannah again. But for your child to die, well, it’s just . . .’

I swallow the words. This place is starting to get to me.

‘Have you never wanted to, you know, do the whole family thing, settle down?’ he asks.

I shake my head.

‘So there’s no one on the scene at the moment?’ he says jokily. ‘No fella back home in your swish London pad?’

‘Oh, give it a rest, Paul,’ I say as I stand up. ‘You know I’m a terminal singleton. Now, tell me more about the funeral. Did many people come?’

‘A few,’ he says.

‘Really?’ I press.

‘Yes,’ he snaps. ‘I didn’t let your mum down, okay? We gave her a good send-off.’

He sighs and pushes a stray bit of hair away from his eyes. He suddenly looks exhausted.

‘I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me. I know these last few weeks must have been hard for you and I really am grateful you were here for Mum at the end.’

I put my hand on his shoulder and he looks at me and smiles.

‘It has been hard,’ he says. ‘But we coped. We got through it.’

I watch as he picks up the sweet peas and puts them in the stone vase by the grave.

‘All the old crowd turned up,’ he says, arranging the flowers. ‘Your aunt Meg came down from Southend and a few of your dad’s mates from the pub.’

‘And Sally? Did she come?’

He rests his hands on the stone and closes his eyes.

‘Paul?’

‘She – she wasn’t well enough,’ he says. ‘And then . . .’

‘Paul, what is it? Come on, you can tell me.’

He gives up trying to keep it in. ‘When she heard about your mum she just lost it. She’s locked herself in the conservatory with a stash of booze and she won’t come out except to buy more drink when I’m at work. She doesn’t wash, she barely eats. I don’t know what to do, Kate. I’m scared.’ He buries his face in his hands.

I kneel down next to him and put my hand on his shoulder.

‘It’s okay,’ I say soothingly. ‘You’re not on your own. I’ll do what I can to help.’

‘Will you?’ he says, looking up at me. ‘Do you mean that? You see, I’ve tried everything – kindness, tough love, I even tried forcing her to AA – but none of it’s worked. She needs you; even though she pushes you away, she needs you.’

I stand up and look at my mother’s name on the headstone. She would want me to do whatever I can to help Sally.

‘I made sure they played all her favourite hymns,’ says Paul softly as he gets to his feet. ‘“I Watch the Sunrise”; “Queen of the May”; and “Abide with Me” as they brought her in.’

As I stand listening to Paul’s account of the funeral I close my eyes and imagine my mother’s coffin sitting in front of the altar; a tiny casket, hanging there in the air like a frail bird.