The Day She Came Back(20)
‘Are you okay, Vic? You don’t look so good.’ Daksha noted her agitated state as she came in from the kitchen and shut the back door forcefully.
She nodded and went to the fridge, this time determined to have a glass of wine.
‘Who was that you were you chatting to?’ Daksha nodded her head towards the lake.
‘Some woman. A bloody nutcase.’ Victoria’s hands trembled.
Why would someone do that to me? Why?
‘Bit weird!’ her friend summarised.
‘Daks, you have no idea!’ She pulled the cork from a half-empty bottle and was about to pour when she noticed the faintest tell-tale of red lipstick around the rim of the bottle. It made her laugh.
Prim! Swigging out of the bottle? Really!
This, her gran’s last ever bottle of wine, and she had left the other half for her. As was often the case of late, her laughter turned quickly to tears, and again she folded, resting her head on the countertop until Mrs Joshi swept forward and wrapped her in her arms.
‘Come on, dear. You are going to bed.’
With exhaustion washing over her, Victoria didn’t have the strength to fight the suggestion. Mrs Joshi almost pushed her up the staircase and past the pictures of her mother on the windowsill. The sight of them only made her tears fall harder.
You died! You are dead and I have wished my whole life that it was not the case, but it is!
‘Don’t cry, dear. Don’t cry. You need to sleep. Daksha will stay with you and you will feel better in the morning, I promise. Everything feels better after sleep. Trust me.’
Victoria slipped off her shoes and cotton cardigan and climbed between the sheets. Mrs Joshi drew the bedroom curtains to block out the last of the day’s sun, leaving her room bathed in the muted yellow glow of evening-tide with birds wittering and sunlight filtering through the trees, forming dappled shapes on the ceiling.
‘Go to sleep,’ Daksha’s mum cooed as she stroked her forehead. ‘Go to sleep.’
As Victoria’s eyes closed, summer colours danced behind her eyelids and she pictured the woman’s tear-streaked face as they stood by the lake. It had unnerved her more than she cared to admit.
‘Victory . . .’ she whispered. ‘It’s not even a name . . .’
FOUR
Mrs Joshi was right; she did feel better after sleep, although the first thing she thought about upon waking and the last thing before sleep finally claimed her was what the woman by the lake had said to her the day before. It was such a very odd thing and it played on her mind, which was already overstuffed with worry and sadness. There had been a familiarity in her face, but, as if aware of her own fragility, Victoria knew that to jump down that particular rabbit hole of believing the loony story would lead to nothing good.
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid!’ she reprimanded herself as she stepped out of the cotton dress she’d slept in. A shower restored some of her well-being, the hot water running over her face and eyes, which were puffy from grief, reading by lamplight and a deep sleep. Choosing jeans, a short-sleeved linen T-shirt and going barefoot, Victoria walked into the kitchen.
She decided not to mention to Daksha that at 3 a.m. she had kicked off the covers and made her way down the stairs. The roll-top bureau had creaked as she lowered the shutter-like lid and rummaged through her gran’s things, which felt far from comfortable. As far as she could tell, everything was just as she had left it. Nothing missing.
Victoria had, however, discovered a coupon for half-price Botox and laughed out loud while crying tears of joy and sadness. It was such a Prim thing to consider. How she missed her! How she wished she could talk to her about the weird woman, about everything. When she thought about it logically, the woman must have snooped somehow, found out about her family – maybe she had grilled some of the elderly mourners who were more concerned with refreshing their cups of tea and eating the sandwiches. With the topic on her mind, she had fired off a text to Bernard, figuring he was the only person who might be able to throw some light on the odd situation. It was unsurprising to her that he didn’t instantly reply. He, like most people at that ungodly hour, was most likely asleep. Before turning off her bedside lamp and retiring for the second time, she lay back on the soft pillow nest.
What if she is my mum? She let the thought permeate and placed her hand on her stomach to quell the visceral leap of joy at the very possibility. But she’s not, Victoria, she can’t be . . .
Instead, she pictured her mum and gran reunited in heaven, wondering what that might be like and how long it would take for them to catch up: years and years and years, if she had to guess . . . The very thought made her smile.
And now it was a brand-new day, one where the dreaded funeral was behind her. All she wanted right now was a cup of tea. She checked her phone; frustratingly, there was still no reply from Bernard.
‘Morning, sleepyhead, how are you feeling?’ Daksha greeted her from the kitchen table, where she sat with an array of desserts in front of her. It felt good to have her noise, her company.
‘Bit better, I think. I’m certainly cleaner – just stood in the shower for an age.’
‘Good. I think it went well yesterday. The old people seemed to have a nice time and all were very grateful when they left. One or two took sandwiches and a slice of Battenberg wrapped in a napkin for their tea.’