‘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.
Very deliberately, I slow my breathing, then tip the urn up again.
It’s not empty yet.
‘I think that’s enough,’ Dad says urgently, and steps forward as though to take the urn away from me.
Suddenly Dominic is next to me, steadying my trembling hands with his own, his hip brushing mine. Like we’re two halves of the same person.
‘No,’ Dominic says, looking straight at my father, ‘let her finish. It was never going to be easy. But this is important. It’s a laying-to-rest. She can’t stop now.’
I don’t think I’ve ever loved him as much as at this moment.
With Dominic beside me, I turn and scatter the last soft ashes across the trunk and base of the magnolia tree. I try not to think too much about what I’m doing, about the terrible significance of the act. But of course there’s no escaping the truth. Deep down, this is an exorcism. It’s an emotional and spiritual banishment of the big sister I feared so much, the sister whose death I’ve always secretly doubted. The ash proves to me that her life ended, and everyone here knows it.
I’ve been waiting for this for so long, now that I’m here at last it feels as if a silent earthquake is taking place inside me. An upheaval so total and overwhelming, the shock waves have only just begun . . .
‘Goodbye,’ I say under my breath. ‘Goodbye, Rachel.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Dominic has left for his night shift at the hospital. My parents and Jasmine have disappeared next door to old Mr and Mrs Bishop’s house for Christmas drinks. I leave it a good ten minutes to make sure nobody’s coming back, then head straight upstairs to Dad’s bedroom.
The door is locked.
I rattle the handle, annoyed and more than a little taken aback. Dad almost never locks his door. Did he guess what I was planning? Why is he trying to stop me?
A locked door won’t stop me for long. I know there’s a spare key in Mum’s room. It’s in a small box on the mantelpiece in case of emergencies, and her room is never locked.
It takes me all of two minutes to find the spare key, unlock Dad’s bedroom door and slip inside.
The spacious bedroom is dark and gloomy. The curtains are drawn to keep in the heat, but there’s a small gap in the middle. I don’t want to put on the light in case he happens to look out from our neighbour’s house and see it. It’s unlikely. But if the locked door is an indication that he knows I’m after the notebook, it’s better to be safe and do this in darkness.
Slowly, I creep across the carpet until I reach his bedside table, which is covered in books and papers.
I check under the papers first. Then among the pile of books.
The notebook isn’t there.
‘Shit.’
My hands curl into fists at my side, my heart thumping loudly. Where the hell has my father put it? I’m even more convinced now that he guessed my intention and has hidden it somewhere.
But why is it such a big bloody secret?
From what I saw of the notebook in the cellar, it’s a record of Rachel’s ‘problems’ – whatever they were – and was written by my dad. Some kind of informal diary of her treatment. Which makes it all the more interesting to me, since I know so little about what was actually wrong with my sister.
As I stand there, staring in frustration at the empty space where I last saw the notebook, I catch a soft click somewhere in the quiet house. Like a door being closed, or a floorboard easing under the pressure of a foot.
I turn my head, holding my breath in apprehension. The door to Dad’s room is partially open, the landing outside brightly lit . . .
I can’t be caught in here.
Have my parents come back early from the neighbours’ drinks party? Maybe they’ve forgotten something. Or have come back to pressurise me into going along too, not wanting to leave me alone in the house. Jasmine tried to persuade me to go with them, promising it would be more fun than it sounded, especially with her there. My mother was insistent, too. I was forced to lie. I told them I had a headache and was going to sit quietly and watch television.
I didn’t like lying to Mum, especially after she was so loving towards me earlier, sitting with me on the sofa for an hour when I finished scattering Rachel’s ashes. But I needed a chance to look for the notebook undisturbed.
There’s that click again.