Take Me Home Page 7

  “Mr Talbot gave me these for you and Logan,” Aunt Mhairi explained. “He must think you’re still ten years old.” I smiled, in spite of myself. The sight of those Chupa Chups was strangely moving. “He said he’ll come down later with Nuala.”

  Of course. The whole village was ‘coming down later’. My stomach twisted. Of course people would come and see us, make sure that we weren’t left alone, that we were all right. They’d bring covered dishes and offer precious words of comfort. I was grateful for that, I needed to feel we had family and friends all around us, but how could I explain my silence? Hopefully everything would be back to normal soon.

  As soon as I’d formed the thought, dismay filled me again. Nothing would ever be back to normal. My voice might come back, but Emily wouldn’t.

  The next few hours tumbled over each other, with us in a daze. We saw Mr Clarke, talked about Emily’s funeral, went home. People came and went. I just wanted night to fall, so we could be alone. I also wanted Logan to get some sleep. I was so worried for him and kept following him around, trying to make sure he wouldn’t drink too much when he was so tired, and slipped glasses of water into his hand every once in a while.

  I managed to convince everybody that I had a throat infection. Nobody seemed to doubt my explanation for my silence: nobody but Logan. I could see him looking at me when he thought I couldn’t. People were telling me to wear a scarf, to wrap up; to have tea, an orange, a hot toddy, a vitamin drink; to lie down for a bit, to go for a walk, get some fresh air. And on and on, their bits of advice and concern chipping away at my sadness, just a little. My grief was an ocean and people’s kindness only took a few drops away, but it was better than nothing.

  In between rounds of tea and sandwiches and neighbours dropping in with shepherd’s pies and apple crumbles, I realised in shame I hadn’t told Lesley that Emily was gone. I slipped upstairs to my room, relishing the solitude, and switched my phone on for the first time in three days.

  At once I was flooded with missed voicemails, all from Lesley. Nothing from Alex. It hurt, but what did I expect after the way I’d treated him?

  Instinctively I went to tap Lesley’s number – I wanted to hear her voice so badly – but then I remembered that I couldn’t speak. I had to text her instead.

  Emily died last night. I can’t speak today – which was true, though not for the reasons she probably thought – will phone soon.

  Or at least, I hoped I could.

  The reply came at once. I was sure she’d been waiting by the phone for news from me.

  I’m so sorry. Do you want me to come up?

  Oh God, yes. You have no idea how much.

  Please. It would mean the world to have you here. The funeral will be the day after tomorrow.

  Stay strong honey. On my way xxxx, she replied.

  I closed my eyes briefly and exhaled. The idea of having her beside me at the funeral made everything just a little more bearable.

  But I didn’t even know if I’d be able to speak to her, no idea when my voice would come back. In an hour? By tonight? By next week?

  I wondered if I should tell her about my voice before she arrived, but I decided against it. It would have alarmed her even more. But what if my voice didn’t come back, how would I explain . . . My thoughts were all jumbled up and my head was pounding. I curled up on the bed and lay my cheek on the pillow, fresh and soft against my skin. I needed to rest, but my thoughts would not stop leaping and swirling over each other.

  As I considered the chaos of my situation, a sudden need to tell Alex hit me so hard I was nearly breathless. I said to myself he needed space, but I couldn’t help it – I sent him the same message I’d sent Lesley, then I dragged myself downstairs to join Logan.

  After another hour of keeping an eye on my brother as he tried to make small talk with people, I heard my mobile ringing, just once.

  I slipped into the kitchen and looked at the screen. It was a missed call from Alex. When we couldn’t speak and didn’t have time for a text message we would phone and make it ring just once, so that the other person knew that we were thinking of them. We called it trilling. I can’t remember who came up with the word. The trills could take many different meanings – goodnight or good morning, a favourite programme coming on TV, the end of the tea break at work, or simply a flying thought.

  I stood leaning against the kitchen table and looked at my phone for a long time. Missed call from Alex – a thought from him to me, floating above us somewhere between London and Glen Avich. A little spark of comfort ignited in my heart, making everything seem a little less dark, a little less cold.

  Alex

  What could I do? I couldn’t just disappear. Not after all that was happening around her. Talk about bad luck – her family’s story was full of tragedy. First her parents and now Emily. It killed me to think about what she was going through.

  After what had happened between us, she probably didn’t want me at the funeral. And I didn’t think I was ready to face her. I decided it would be best if I kept away, but I’d let her know I was there for her.

  I was still angry after what she’d said, after what she’d done, but I couldn’t bear the thought of her in pain. I grabbed my phone and called her, only to end it before she could answer. A trill, just to say I’m here.

  10

  A party for the dead

  Inary

  Lesley arrived on the morning of the funeral, a bright, sunny morning, so uncommon for early March in Glen Avich – a prelude to spring. I wasn’t sure if it was a blessing, a sweet goodbye for Emily, or a way to mock us.

  I stood in the street waiting for Lesley – she’d texted that she was only ten minutes away – drinking in the beautiful light and breathing in a new season and new life in the air, while knowing that my sister was about to be buried. That she would never breathe in air again, she would never feel the wind on her face again, or see everything in bloom around her . . .

  When I saw Lesley’s little red car appear at the end of the street, my eyes welled up with relief. I ran to meet her.

  “Oh, Inary,” she whispered as she got out of the car. “I’m so sorry . . .”

  I held Lesley tight for a long time, and I didn’t want to let her go. We looked at each other, and I couldn’t reply. I hadn’t told her about my voice – I kept hoping it would come back any moment. I took her into the house by the hand; Logan was waiting on the doorstep. “Thank you for coming, Lesley.”

  “Of course. I’m so sorry, Logan,” she said, and enveloped him in a hug, which he returned stiffly. “Is there anything I can do . . . ?” she said, looking at me. I couldn’t answer.

  “Inary lost her voice,” Logan explained. I nodded and touched my throat.

  “Oh . . . have you taken something? Just what you need now! Do you have a temperature?” She rested her hand on my forehead, and I closed my eyes. I was soaking up her tenderness. “You feel quite cool . . .”

  “She’s going to the doctor after the funeral. It’s just a throat infection or something, but better to have it checked,” Logan said for me.

  “And you had your hair cut . . .”

  I glanced to one side. Lesley took the hint.

  “It looks lovely. You are so brave, Inary. Come here,” she said, and held me again. I wished I could just stay in her arms and never have to face what was ahead of us.

  *

  We desperately wanted a small family funeral, but the church was full. We couldn’t stop half of the village – nearly the whole village, I suppose – from turning up. Alex wasn’t there, and I felt his absence as keenly as a missing limb – but I understood why he’d chosen not to come: me. I couldn’t blame him.

  Emily’s friends and classmates were seated near the back, wide-eyed, incredulous that something like this could happen to one of them – young people don’t die, do they? David was among them – he’d been Emily’s boyfriend for a wee while. He was pale and hunched over with grief. He was there with his mother. Afterw
ards, they both came up to us, heads bent, and offered condolences.

  “We were so fond of her,” whispered his mother. Her eyes were bright with tears. “Such a lovely young woman. I’m so sorry, Logan, Inary.”

  David said nothing. He shook Logan’s hand for a split second and looked away at once. My heart went out to him.

  So many people were in tears. I was one of them, my arm linked with Lesley’s, repeating my lifesaving mantra over and over in my head: She is not there. She is not in that coffin. She is not being lowered into the ground now. The earth is not closing over her head. She’s not in darkness.

  Emily is free.

  I watched as they lay her next to our mum and dad. Three graves, one after the other. Logan and I were all that was left of our family. I looked for his hand and I clung to his fingers like a lost child. He gave me a brief squeeze, then took his hand away, and I stood alone.

  *

  We went back to the house for food and drink. This tradition had always baffled me. It’s like a party for the dead, really. I suppose it helps the bereaved, as they’re not forced to go home to an empty house just after the funeral. It did help me, but it was overwhelming as well. Lesley stayed by my side through it all, yet there were so many people, so many bunches of flowers everywhere, and platter after platter of sandwiches brought by our neighbours . . . All those bodies and voices were beginning to twirl into one and my head was starting to spin, when I felt a hand on my arm and I smelled a sweet, fresh-apple-scented perfume. It was Eilidh. I hadn’t seen her since our chance encounter in the shop, having spent all my time . . . with Emily.

  Emily.

  I breathed in as deeply as I could and regained my composure.

  Eilidh was holding her baby, cute and snuggly in a blue babygro and a knitted blue cardigan. She gave me a one-armed hug and waved to Lesley.

  “Logan told me you lost your voice . . . Grief does strange things to people,” she said simply, looking at me with those clear blue eyes, exactly the same shade as mine. I was a bit startled. Nobody had mentioned my silence in those terms up till then, not to my face anyway. Everybody had pretended to buy the throat-infection theory.

  “But you know, it does get easier . . . Even if it doesn’t feel possible now,” she added in that sweet, soothing voice of hers.

  The room wasn’t spinning any more. I had regained some sort of calm. Eilidh had something about her that enfolded people like a warm light – a kind of serenity, a bit like my mum. Eilidh’s words had comforted me, maybe because she had spoken aloud what everybody suspected and nobody said – that it had been the trauma of Emily’s death that had taken my voice away. Or maybe seeing how much we looked alike had reminded me how deep my ties with Glen Avich were, how I was somehow related to half the village. How I belonged somewhere, even if I’d wanted to escape from it.

  “Inary! I’m so sorry . . .” a familiar voice said, coming from behind me. Eilidh said goodbye discreetly and walked away, and I turned around to see Torcuil Ramsay – Lord Ramsay – my mother’s second cousin. He had holes in his jumper as usual, mud on his shoes and hair that looked like he hadn’t seen a comb for months, but he wore his ‘special occasions’ kilt.

  Torcuil was one of the kindest people I’d ever met. He enveloped me in a hug, and as I looked in his eyes memories of us playing together as children came rushing back. I half-smiled, remembering the tree house in the Ramsay grounds and him helping Emily up, so she wouldn’t strain herself . . .

  “Come and see me, Inary. It’s been so long,” he whispered – he always spoke very quietly – and he held my hands for one last time before walking away.

  I felt somebody touching my arm lightly – it was Lesley. I’d forgotten she was there.

  “Just nipping upstairs for a minute,” she said. “Will you be okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Inary . . .” Next it was my old school friend Christina. I briefly looked at her face, just for my eyes to be drawn to her enormous bump. She read my expression. “Yes, I’m six months gone. Not long to go, now.” I looked at her, not sure what to do. I couldn’t say congratulations; it just seemed too difficult a word to mouth or mime. I waited for her to keep talking, and she did. “I was so sorry to hear about your sister, Inary. Poor Emily. I wish I could find the right words . . .”

  I stared at her. Words weren’t my forte either, at that particular moment, so I nodded, my standard reply.

  “Inary, are you okay?” she asked, her face full of concern. And then it dawned on me. She didn’t know that I had lost my voice. Unbelievable: somebody in Glen Avich didn’t know. Was the grapevine not working as well as it had when I used to live here?

  I gestured to my throat, shrugging and opening my arms wide, feeling a bit like a French mime. For a crazy second, I pictured myself climbing an invisible set of stairs, wearing a stripy black and white jumper and white gloves, a red carnation pinned somewhere. The thought made me laugh silently, in a way that was completely incongruous with the situation. Slightly hysterical, I suppose. Christina was still looking at me, bewildered. She probably thought I had lost my mind. Maybe I had.

  “Aw, you have a sore throat? Well, hope you get better soon. Like I said, I’m so sorry about Emily. Better go, Fraser is waiting for me.” Oh yes, Fraser Masterson, he was in our class too. We actually snogged once – try miming that. My goodness. Married and pregnant at twenty-five. But then, that probably would have been me, if . . .

  The room swayed as the thought I had just formed seemed to jump out of my head and take on a life of its own. I felt my heart skipping a beat – Christina had just turned into the ghost of What Could Have Been.

  He was there. Lewis was there. And he was holding another woman’s hand.

  They walked across the room to me. My ex-fiancé, and our former coursemate – pretty, petite, giggling Claire McKay. Before I could say anything, Claire hugged me, murmuring her condolences. I stood rigid, unable to wrap my arms around her.

  I wondered if she knew what he’d done to me. I wonder if she knew he hadn’t just left me – he’d left me three months before our wedding. Did she know that I’d had to take my wedding dress to Oxfam? I left it in a bag on the shop doorstep and ran away before they could see me. I couldn’t have borne the humiliation of them saying thank you for this – what a lovely dress – you must have looked beautiful in it – was the weather kind to you on the big day?

  Maybe something had happened between Lewis and Claire while we were still together. Maybe that was why he’d left me so suddenly. The thought cut me like a knife. I bled, and kept bleeding silently as they both stood in front of me.

  “I wanted to come and say how sorry I am,” Lewis said.

  Sorry about what? My sister dying? Or breaking my heart?

  I took in his face, those features I knew so well. All the mornings I’d woken up in our bed, and his face had been the first thing I saw – his long, fair eyelashes, those lips I couldn’t get enough of, his dark-gold hair tousled and soft on the pillow. Good morning, sleepyhead, he used to say.

  I expected a wave of pain, and it came.

  I expected the intense, hungry need for his presence I’d had since we met – and it didn’t come.

  Instead, a bone-deep cold seeped into me, the memory of how I felt when he’d left me. When he told me it was over and went, just like that, saying it was better for me to be alone for a bit, that he needed time to think, that he’d phone me later to check I was okay. I’d spent hours sitting at the kitchen table in our home, stunned, unable to speak, unable to move, not quite believing what had just happened. For the first three weeks, I pleaded with him to see me. We had to talk, it couldn’t just end this way . . . but he refused. After a while, it was his turn to ask to see me – he wanted to explain. I realised that I couldn’t bear to lay eyes on him. Six weeks later I left for London; we hadn’t seen each other since.

  And now here he was.

  I suppose I had just realised that Lewis was out of my heart, t
hat my love for him had died. What he’d done to me still hurt, but I knew that already; part of me was still sitting at the kitchen table at our home in Kilronan, with dry eyes and trembling hands.

  “I wish I’d known her,” said Claire, absurdly.

  I nodded and looked down. I didn’t know what to do next. I just wanted him to go and take Claire with him. I hoped they’d be happy. Or maybe I didn’t, maybe I hoped Lewis would suffer as much as I had . . . No, I wouldn’t wish unhappiness on anyone; I just didn’t want to be that kind of person.

  “Well, glad to see you’re well. Time to go now,” said a voice behind me. Aunt Mhairi materialised at my side, standing squarely in front of Lewis and Claire, all five foot of her. Her head barely reached his chest.

  “Oh. Oh. Yes, of course . . .” he stumbled.

  “Bye,” she said unceremoniously, a hand on his back and one extended to show him the way towards the door. She escorted him and Claire out with a face like thunder, and came back to stand beside me. I was still standing in shock. Numb.

  “You all right, pet? I could strangle him!” she hissed. I swallowed. For a second, my cardigan-clad, woollen-skirted aunt had looked pretty scary. “The cheek to show his face, and with his fancy woman!” I nearly smiled at the expression – but not quite. “I swear, if he comes near you again . . . Oh, there’s Lorna. She’s having terrible problems with her Derek.” She lowered her voice dramatically. “You know, her youngest. Peggy told me he doesn’t have an inch of skin left on his arms that’s not tattooed. The tribulations . . . Will you be okay?”

  I nodded.