Читать книгу Obsession: The bestselling psychological thriller with a shocking ending - Amanda Robson, Amanda Robson - Страница 27

The funeral. Lilies and roses and sadness, in my parents’ local church. A church with a spire, on the green near the duck pond in Chessingfold, the South Downs village they retired to. I tried to persuade Dad to bring her body back to Stansfield, but Dad was adamant; their life had moved on. I sit next to him, holding his hand, which trembles in mine. Rob has given me an emergency Valium from his brown leather doctor’s bag and it has filled me with an artificial sea of calmness which I’m not sure I like. Carly says she loves Valium, and that she takes it from his bag sometimes when she knows she’s going to binge on alcohol. She says it gives her an extra buzz. Carly is always wanting to shock me. To shock everyone. Today she won. I don’t think she should deliberately mix alcohol and Valium, and I told her that. So she put her head back and laughed at me, telling me I was a prude, mocking me. Whatever she says, I still don’t think I should drink today. I want to be calm. I do not want a Carly-type buzz.

My father has coped quite well so far. Better than I expected. But then Rob says the bereaved often cope well to begin with, as they’re numb to the situation. He says the grief and pain will come later. He makes it sound as if grief follows a pattern, which surprises me, as I would have thought grief was individual. After all, we are all individuals in the eyes of the Lord.

As for me, I feel pain already. My body aches as if my mother has been cut away from me with a knife. How will I feel when this pain increases?

After the funeral, Dad is coming to stay with us for a short while, so I will be with him when his pain hits, and I will do everything I can to help. But will everything be enough? I turn to look at him. Pain upon pain. Whatever Rob says.

Today in church, it’s myself, Dad, Luke, Craig and Mark in the front row, as you would expect. Craig has one boy either side of him; he’s clutching their hands, his shiny black hair freshly cut, shorter than ever. My fine-looking man who stands out in a crowd. The boys are already bored and wriggling. I wasn’t sure whether they should come. They’re too young for funerals but who could I leave them with? And anyway, my father wanted them here. Carly, Rob and Heather are here to support me, sitting on the row behind. Behind them in abundant numbers are the expected army of mourning relatives. Relatives treasured. Relatives tolerated. Relatives we try to ignore. The main one I hope to avoid afterwards is my mother’s sister, Rosie. The black sheep of the family. In her case our bugbear is her behaviour with men. Carly laughed when I told her.

‘There’s always one, isn’t there,’ she said.

I suppose it’s hardly surprising that I’m not looking forward to the post-funeral small talk. I don’t suppose anyone ever does. Perhaps it won’t be as bad as I expect. People say the funeral is cathartic, so maybe that means that in the end I will enjoy my relatives’ company. One of the things I can’t understand is how so many people have found time to come to her funeral, to show their respect, when they never seemed to have time to visit her in her lifetime. Sometimes I think respect is a little out of line these days.

Craig looks across at me and smiles. A smile of love. A smile of encouragement. Despite my dark, grief-fuelled suspicion as to why I couldn’t get hold of him, he has been marvellous since Mum passed. He took a whole week off work to come and stay in my parents’ bungalow with the children and help organise the final funeral arrangements. No one realises just how many minor details have to be attended to until they go through something like this themselves. Craig can’t wait to have me back home. He keeps putting his arms around me and telling me how much he’s missed me. I feel so safe in his arms, so special, so cherished. How could I have doubted him?

Having the children in the house in the run-up to the funeral seemed to do my father good. It distracted him. Every night he bathed them and put them to bed as I cooked supper. Shrills of laughter and the thunder of tumultuous splashing moved towards me from the bathroom, making my heart sing a little. After bath time, leaving the bathroom floor so wet we could have been flooded, Dad spent so long reading to them that by the time he emerged to eat, my carefully prepared food was almost dried out. But I didn’t have the heart to reprimand him. In the scheme of things, what does a bit of overcooked food matter?

Even though Craig had the week off, something big must have been going on at the fire station because he spent a lot of time on the pavement outside the bungalow, speaking on his mobile. Whenever I glanced at him he looked agitated and busy, serious-faced and official. His job is such hard work. Leading firemen are given so much extra responsibility these days.

The organ. We stand and its rich, sweet sound emanates from the balcony above, clawing at my heart. Already I have to work against the tears that are tightening my throat. I clasp the handkerchief in my pocket with my sweaty grip. In my other palm the shake in my father’s hand increases. I turn to look at him again. He stands next to me, expressionless now, straight-backed and straight-lipped. The pallbearers walk slowly up the aisle, struggling beneath the weight of my mother’s oak casket. One of them stumbles a little, but almost immediately regains his balance.

The casket is placed.

My mother is in front of the altar, wedged between the choir stalls, encased in oak and covered in lilies and roses, her favourite flowers. Where is she now? Can she see us, is she already floating in ethereal soup, looking down? And what has happened to the body she has left behind? I feel sick just thinking about that.

‘Nana’s inside there,’ I hear Luke whisper to Mark. He points. Mark follows his finger, wide eyed. I wanted her to watch my offspring grow.

‘We are here to celebrate the life of Lesley Jane Tunnicliffe,’ the vicar starts with his exaggerated biblical lilt, vowels all over the place.

The atmosphere in the church stiffens. Everyone is listening. Does celebrating a life make death more bearable? I close my mind and push the vicar’s words away.