The Day She Came Back(8)

‘Prim . . .’ she called gently, as if cooing to a baby, not wanting to wake her up, not really, but knowing that if she dozed for too long then a night’s sleep would be a write-off. Victoria stopped to lift a lilac pansy that was sitting in a little blue-glazed pot on the table; its velvety petals tinged with a stunning clash of orange were beautiful. Prim had instilled in her a love of the garden and all its bounty. Some of her earliest memories were of turning the soil with a small wood-handled trowel and planting seeds that she would then watch, fascinated, as they sprouted and bloomed. It was a house full of plants, which meant that no matter how quiet the day or grey the sky, inside, life blossomed.

‘Isn’t nature clever? I love these little flowers.’ She lifted the pot to her nose and inhaled the sweet, subtle perfume, which she always thought seemed strongest at this time of day.

‘You have to smell this and then I need to tell you about the most mortifying few minutes of my life so far and yes, before you ask, they do involve a boy . . .’

Victoria turned and looked for the first time into the face of her beloved gran.

She took one, then two sharp intakes of breath, so sharp they cut her chest and threatened to suffocate her, as her breathing lost its natural rhythm and her knees turned to jelly. The potted pansy slid from her fingers and broke on the slate floor. Fragments of china mingled with the dark soil and the pale petals were now crushed, destroyed. She bent over and tried to stay upright, but with the strength gone from her core and her limbs weakened, this was not easy. Her whole body trembled and, despite the fear, the shock and the unbearable stab of loss that punctured her chest, she could not stop staring at Prim’s eyes, which were open but vacant. And her mouth, almost grotesque; the good teeth, which Victoria had admired, she now learned were, in fact, dentures, and they had slipped from their anchors and rested over her blue-tinged bottom lip.

‘I don’t know what to do.’ Victoria finally whispered into the ether, her hand clamped over her mouth. ‘Please don’t go, please, please don’t do this to me, I’ve only got you. Only you . . . please, please, Gran. Please!’ Sinking to the floor, she gathered the linen hem of Prim’s skirt into her hands and held it to her face, letting her tears fall into its creased confines – but of course it was too late. Prim had gone to a place to which she was denied entry and she had indeed left Victoria all alone.

‘I don’t know what to do.’ She sat back against the wall of the garden room and, as the silence threatened to overwhelm her, she reached into her pocket for her phone. Who to call? Gerald? Daksha? The redial button came to her aid.

‘Daks, help me. I . . . I don’t know what to do . . .’

‘Vic? What’s wrong? Are you okay?’ Daksha spoke urgently down the line. Victoria, fixated by the sight of Prim slumped in the chair, was almost startled by her friend’s voice, as if quite unaware that she had dialled her number.



Two blue lights stuttered their beams into the dusky night sky as the police officer, two paramedics and Dr Joshi filled the house with their soft-soled, slow-handed presence. From her new vantage point on the drawing room floor where she leaned against the sofa, Victoria watched them go back and forth in the hallway, talking in whispers as they gently unfurled instruments and sheets of paper from bags and cases. Their lack of urgency telling her what she already knew: that they had arrived too late. Just like her. Too late to sit with her gran when she might have needed her the most, too late to hold her hand in her final moments and offer a little comfort as she passed from this world to the next, and too late to ask what the plan was.

It can’t be true. Please don’t leave me! Please don’t leave me on my own!

The futile thoughts circled her mind. Dr Joshi placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘My wife is on her way, dear. You must come to our house.’

‘I think I’ll stay here,’ she whispered.

Dr Joshi shook his head. ‘You need company and a different environment. Plus, there is no need for you to be here for the next hour or so. I can see to things.’

What things? What . . . what does he mean? She pictured coffins and morgues.

Victoria shook her head. ‘I feel sick.’

Dr Joshi nodded. ‘That’s to be expected. You’ve had a nasty shock. We need to keep you warm.’ He pulled the rug from the arm of the chair in front of the fireplace and placed it over her bare legs.

‘She’s . . . I mean, I know she is, but is she . . .’ It was hard for her to explain how, despite having discovered Prim, seen her face, felt her cooled skin beneath her fingertips, she still needed it confirming.

‘Your grandmother died. Peacefully.’

‘Are you absolutely sure?’ she asked with the thinnest gossamer thread of hope still attaching her to the belief that somehow it was a mistake, a rehearsal for the very worst of events, a bad dream . . .

‘I am sure.’ His voice and gaze were steady. And just like that she saw the thread detach itself and float away, no more than a hair on the breeze: like her, unanchored and at the mercy of the elements to be cast this way and that without control or say. The very thought was terrifying. She closed her eyes and let her head fall forward, her limbs numb, her mind blank save for the thud of a heartbeat in her ears and the sound of blood rushing through her veins and her breath as loud as if she were under water.

‘Victoria? Victoria?’ Her name louder the second time. She looked up to see Mrs Joshi resting in front of her on her haunches. The gold thread on the sleeves of her salwar kameez seemed to sparkle and her many fine bangles clattered on her wrist as she reached out to stroke Victoria’s face.