Forget Her Name(65)

Besides, if I can’t flirt with my husband at Christmas, when can I?

Jasmine is standing by the window, looking out at the lengthening shadows. Dusk falls so quickly at this time of year.

‘That was a delicious lunch, thank you,’ I say to my parents, watching as Dominic pours us each a cup of steaming coffee. ‘And the presents are fantastic. But I haven’t forgotten what we talked about last night.’

They look at each other warily.

‘You said I could see Rachel’s ashes.’

There’s a sudden silence in the room.

Dominic stops pouring and looks up at me. Then he continues what he was doing, but his smile has gone.

‘I’d like to see her ashes today, please,’ I say as firmly as I can. ‘And maybe I could scatter them in the garden under the magnolia tree, if you don’t object.’ I pause. ‘Before the light goes.’





Chapter Thirty-Eight

‘I don’t think that would be a good idea—’ Mum begins hesitantly, but Dad cuts across her with a gesture that looks almost angry.

‘No, if that’s what Catherine wants. Maybe it is a good idea.’

‘Robert?’ Mum sounds almost scared.

He ignores her and gets up without accepting the cup of coffee Dominic is holding out to him.

‘Come on,’ he says calmly, ‘let’s do it right now. Like you say, Cat, the light goes quickly this time of year.’

My mother stares at him, a blind panic on her face now. ‘Robert, no . . .’

‘Be quiet, Ellen.’

Mum raises a fluttering hand to her mouth.

Dad looks at me, an uncompromising line to his mouth, then nods at my high heels. ‘Better put some wellies on. It’s muddy outside. You can borrow a pair, if necessary.’ He leaves the room. ‘I’ll fetch the urn.’

I glance at Dominic, who touches my arm.

‘Well done, darling,’ he whispers.

We all troop back into the kitchen, heading for the side door where the outdoor shoes are kept on a long wooden rack. I select a muddy old pair of my mum’s wellies and slip them on, checking inside first for spiders. Dominic and Jasmine both insist they’ll be fine in trainers. My mother is still looking frightened, but she also exchanges her expensive indoor shoes for a pair of boots. I probably look very odd in this clinging, too-tight dress and wellington boots. It’s not really an appropriate outfit for scattering a loved one’s ashes. But there’s no time to change.

Besides, Rachel is surely beyond caring what I wear to her second ‘funeral’. She is beyond everything now.

By the time we have each grabbed a warm coat, Dad has returned with something in his hands: it’s a small, black-and-white marble funerary urn.

I stare at it, my insides suddenly tightening.

‘Hey, relax.’ Dominic gives my hand a good squeeze. ‘I’m here with you, remember? Everything’s going to be okay.’

The lawn in the back garden crunches underfoot, crisp with frost from where today’s thin December sunshine failed to reach it. The fences and trees of surrounding properties have a tendency to block out the afternoon sun, making the summers feel shorter and the winters longer. But it’s still the garden where I grew up, and I love its dark, muddy little corners.

The vast old magnolia tree is stunning even in winter, its stark branches tipped with soft, velvety-looking buds ready for an early London spring. The earth beneath is iron-hard, the grass patchy round the roots.

I walk beneath the spreading magnolia branches and look up at the darkening sky. It won’t be long until dusk falls.

‘Here,’ I say, and turn to my father, who is still cradling the marble urn. ‘Rachel loved this tree. If she could speak, she’d say this is where she’d want her ashes scattered.’

‘Are you sure about this, Catherine?’ Dad searches my face. ‘We can always do it another day.’

‘No, now is perfect.’ I glance back at Dominic for reassurance, and he nods, smiling. ‘I want to do this.’

I could wish for a glorious summer day instead, blue skies above and all the birds singing. But this is the only day we have.

Dad hands me the urn with great reverence. I remove the lid and place it gently on the frosty ground. Then I start to tip the contents of the urn out.

The ashes puff out in a series of little gasps, surprisingly soft and insubstantial, like grey-black clouds. I turn slowly, letting them drop and scatter naturally in the air. There’s hardly any wind today, but they drift away all the same, like tiny black seeds pollinating the trunk of the magnolia and the rough soil beneath.

Some of the ash attaches itself to my wellies, and I stare down at the grey-pitted green rubber, my breathing suddenly shallow.

I’m shocked, I realise, and more than a little uneasy. It’s as though Rachel insists on remaining with me, even if only for a few more minutes, until I brush her off my boots like a stain. It’s as if she knows even from beyond death what I’m doing today, how I’m struggling to shed her influence over my life, to lay her ghost to rest at last.

‘Oh God.’ I stagger backwards.

‘Catherine?’

Dad sounds alarmed.

I see concern on Jasmine’s face too, her eyes wide with surprise, and fight to get a grip of myself. Bloody hell. What is going on inside my head today? I was on the point of bolting, of running back towards the house in panic. Which is absurd.