The Day She Came Back(17)
As she climbed into the back seat of Dr Joshi’s car she noticed for the first time a woman with short, dark hair hovering to the side of the path. She was wearing a long, black coat, despite the warmth of the day, a coat more suited to winter, she thought. Bernard-the-handyman was standing to the side of her and he reached out and touched the woman’s arm tenderly. Victoria wondered if it was his wife or daughter, neither of whom she had met. She smiled at them in a way that she hoped conveyed her gratitude for making the effort. Bernard raised his hand and then looked to the floor. She was touched at how affected he was and knew Prim would have been too.
Mrs Joshi reached back between the front seats of the plush car and squeezed her leg, hard.
‘You are doing your grandma proud, Victoria. You really are. I think that is the hardest bit over.’
Victoria wasn’t sure this was true, fearing that actually the hardest bit was yet to come. The bit where everyone’s lives got back to normal – Prim was her everyday, her normal, so where did that leave her? She felt a shiver along her limbs at the prospect, but smiled at Daksha’s mum, and rubbed her thigh where she could still feel the throb of her grip.
Despite the house having so many visitors, it was oddly quiet, quieter than the church had been. She considered putting some music on but was unsure of the right thing to do. Plus, she didn’t think the mourners would necessarily appreciate her playlist and she didn’t want to hear Prim’s music; her gran’s taste had been eclectic – everything from Sarah Vaughan to Simply Red – but today, to surround herself with the sounds she could only associate with the woman she had lost would, she knew, be too much. She wished at some level that a party had broken out, giving her licence to drink too much and dance and cry until her feet ached and her body collapsed in the kind of sleep that had proved elusive in the two weeks since Prim’s death. No such luck. The elderly guests gathered in huddles, ate slowly and sparingly, and spoke at an irritatingly low volume that sounded like the collective hum of pensioner bees.
She spied Gerald sitting alone in the garden room in the very chair where Prim had taken her last breath. Try as she might, her gran’s empty face was all she could see when she looked into the room, and since that horrible day she had avoided coming in here unless it was absolutely necessary. And to comfort Gerald, who cut a lonely figure, did indeed seem absolutely necessary. He was, after all, the only other person on the planet who might be mourning her gran in the way she was; the irony wasn’t lost on her that he was no more than Prim’s acquaintance and could easily disappear from her life altogether. She truly hoped not, knowing she would need as many people in her corner as she could garner. The cloak of loneliness was only ever a heartbeat away and, it seemed, was always ready to wrap itself around her slender shoulders.
‘How are you, Gerald? Are you doing okay?’ she asked softly, bending down and resting on her haunches by the side of the chair. She looked at his liver-spotted hand lying casually along the rounded cane arm and realised it would be on top of where Prim had rested hers. Very much like they were holding hands across the great divide. It brought a lump to her throat.
‘Not really, dear.’ He acknowledged her, his gaze far off. ‘You know, it doesn’t matter how many people you lose, it never, ever gets any easier. It’s not something you can condition yourself against. You’d think it might be, wouldn’t you? But no. Each loss is unique and each has a new and distinct level of pain, like a layer of paint coming off that leaves you feeling a little raw, exposed.’
‘Yes.’ Not that she could relate, not really, having never known her mum and having lost her grandpa when she was too little to fully understand the impact.
‘I shouldn’t be so selfish; yes, I will miss her, but I know that my loss pales in comparison to your own.’ He looked up at her. ‘She did a good job of raising you to be strong and independent, despite your start in life, and this, I suppose, is when it will be tested. So my question is: how are you, Victoria?’
She tried her best to phrase it. ‘I’m a bit lost, really. I’ve been busy planning today and sorting stuff out, and that’s kept me occupied, but honestly? None of it feels real.’
He nodded. ‘I know that feeling. I keep checking my phone to see if I have a text from her. She used to keep me informed on everything from the weather to what birds she’d seen in the garden or what show was coming to the Playhouse. I shall miss that. But most of all I shall miss her noise.’
‘Her noise?’
‘Yes, she was so very loud! So full of life – listen to that lot in the drawing room and hallway.’ He cast his eyes in their direction. ‘At least twenty of them, but no one making a peep! That’s what old people do, they go quiet, apologising for their presence, as if they have outstayed their welcome on the planet, aware of the inconvenience of their existence. But not Primrose – she was loud, vivacious and wonderful!’
‘She was. I was thinking, Gerald . . .’ She drew breath. ‘You will still come and visit, won’t you?’ Victoria realised in that instant that, should he stop, she would miss not only his visits but also one of the last links to Prim. ‘I would . . . I would like to still see you. I’d like it very much,’ she whispered, unable to stop the latest trickle of tears.
I don’t have anyone else, Gerald! I don’t have anyone that loved Prim, only me!