The Perfect Girlfriend(6)

We all shake hands with a manager who is apparently ‘very important’, according to Brian, and thank him as he hands us a cheap-looking gold badge. We pin it on our jackets, above our name badges, and grin. We all grin some more as our photos are taken. Not only am I moving on to the next stage of my POA, it also means no more Brian. Next Tuesday, I am off to Mumbai. Everyone on the course has been rostered a long-haul flight to allow more time for in-flight training. Amy is going to Dallas. In a nearby pub, with too-bright lighting and dark patterned carpets, no doubt hiding all sorts of stains, we all celebrate with glasses of prosecco.

‘Cheers!’ says Amy.

We clink glasses.

‘Cheers!’ I echo.

Amy takes a large sip. ‘I’m nervous about my first trip, are you?’

‘No.’

She looks surprised.

I feel secure because I’ve checked Nate’s schedule and he is rostered a Nairobi on Monday. Our work paths do not cross, for now. Although Nate had de-friended me, un-followed me, de-bloody-everythinged-me, he hasn’t changed his passwords. In fairness, he isn’t aware that I know them. However, he’s left me with this as my only option to keep abreast of the situation for the time being. Social media has become my essential tool. Amy knows a bit about ‘Nick’ but not his real identity or occupation, simply that we are on a relationship break. Amy is the perfect confidante: scathing enough about ‘Nick’ to be supportive, but not so much so that I feel compelled to leap to his defence. I had to share something. It’s how friendships work: you share secrets.

My phone rings. It’s such an unusual occurrence that I nearly spill my drink. Auntie Barbara. Her name illuminates my screen. It’s a short conversation. I won’t be going to Mumbai on Tuesday after all.

My mother is dead.

My childhood home is situated in the south, just outside the market town of Dorchester, nestled in a small village. So many people say to me, ‘Oh, Dorset, I love Dorset, so beautiful,’ then mention the sea. Sweet Pea Cottage is in the middle of nowhere and the coast is not in sight. Several farms dot the immediate area and on the rare occasions I think of my old home, I picture the oak tree at the heart of the village surrounded by flint-stoned houses and thatched cottages. Public walkways weave through the nearby hills and are ever-popular with ramblers and dog walkers.

My father shows up at the funeral, which provides a small distraction. Whilst The Beatles blast out ‘In My Life’, I study the old man in the opposite aisle and marry him up with my younger memories. I’d been ten when he left for the final time. He had smoked a pipe; I remember the smell more than I remember him. An ache swells in my throat as an image of him as a badly disguised Santa thrusts to the forefront of my thoughts. His wild, curly brown hair wouldn’t be tamed beneath the small, white-bobbled red hat. I swallow hard.

This is only the second funeral I’ve ever attended, and I’m not sure I see the point of public mass misery. If someone’s gone, they’re gone. Initially, I was surprised at the large congregation, but soon realized that it was for Barbara’s sake. People appear genuinely fond of her. Whilst waiting for proceedings to begin, she whispers snippets of church history to those in the aisle in front; hints of pride are evident in her voice, despite her grief. I half-listen, as it is preferable to the aimless, silent waiting.

‘. . . originally thirteenth century, you know. Hundreds of years of gatherings. Imagine! All those people. In 1838 a disapproving parson put a stop to the custom of giving out bread, mince pies and ale on the sixth of January, Old Christmas Day . . .’

A hush indicates that proceedings are to begin.

‘. . . and so we gather to celebrate the life of Amelia . . .’

I stand up. Pick up a hymn book. Sit down. My mother would be furious. She is going to come back and haunt Barbara for having her buried in a church. Barbara said that, as Amelia had always got her own way, it was now her turn to make the decisions. Beside me, her shoulders heave. Her blonde, grey-streaked hair is neatly pinned into a bun. She is head-to-toe in black, broken only by a silver chain and cross. I am wearing black too, but only because it is the dominant colour in my wardrobe. I pat her on the arm but quickly remove my hand in case she tries to take hold of it.

The vicar stops talking. It is over.

I follow Barbara to the door and stand alongside her, nodding and giving thanks for all the words of sympathy. Every now and then, I remember to dab my eyes with a tissue – however, the ache in my throat is genuine. I will myself not to give in to the threat of tears because, if I let myself cry, then I don’t think I’ll be able to hold it together. Broken sentences float around me.

My father shuffles into focus.

‘Why are you here?’ I ask.

‘We can talk at Barbara’s.’

Over egg and cress sandwiches – white, with the crusts cut off – and strong cups of tea, my father and I update our memories of each other. He carries all the classic hallmarks of ageing: a mix of white hair, glasses, wrinkles and a paunch, finished off with an aggressive cough. Pipe smoke clings to his clothes.

‘Amelia said that you all but disappeared,’ I say. ‘That you didn’t bother to keep in touch.’

‘Well, yes, but it seemed like the right thing to do when I heard . . . to come here . . . and see you.’

‘Bit late. There were phones in the nineties. Even Amelia had one.’