‘She’s probably forgotten to call,’ I rationalise as Theo tries Katy’s number again.
He shakes his head, his lips drawn into a thin line. ‘I’m going to drive to her place,’ he says at last.
‘Theo, you can’t!’ I exclaim with alarm. ‘You’ve been drinking!’
‘I feel fine!’ he insists. ‘It’s only a few minutes away. You may be right and she has forgotten, but I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to her.’
‘Let me call Dad again,’ I say hastily, but Theo is already reaching for his car keys.
‘I’ll be back in two secs,’ he says simply, giving me a kiss.
‘Theo, wait!’ I grab his wrist.
‘Honestly, Leah, I feel totally sober!’ He laughs lightly and detaches himself, opening the door. ‘I’ll be back before you know it.’
The door clicks shut behind him.
Chapter 1 Now
‘You have to sit really quietly, okay?’ I remind Emilie in a whisper.
‘Where’s Gramps?’ she asks in a tiny voice that shatters my already fragile heart.
‘He’s in the coffin, sweetheart,’ I tell her again, dragging a sodden tissue across my nose.
She peers towards the front of the church. ‘In the brown box?’ she asks curiously, glancing sideways at me with her big hazel eyes.
‘Yes, darling.’ I take her hand as the minister starts to speak.
Mum reaches for my other hand. She’s trembling.
Emilie wriggles on her bottom, looking up at the cream stone archways and the high oak beams overhead.
Perhaps it was wrong of me to bring a three-and-a-half-year-old to a funeral, but the thought of leaving my daughter today was more than I could bear. In some ways it’s good to have a distraction. It means I have to hold myself together.
‘Is that a dragon?’ she asks, her high-pitched voice piping up over the sound of the minister’s solemn address.
‘Shh, baby,’ I repeat softly, imploringly.
‘Look,’ she insists, pointing past my shoulder to the left-hand wall of the church.
I indulge her, following her gaze to a stained-glass window that does indeed appear to feature a large golden-red dragon being slain by St George, but before I can say anything in agreement, I see him.
My George.
Shock detonates my insides.
His head is bowed and his burnt-caramel-coloured hair is riddled with familiar-looking curls. Coupled with the strong shape of his jaw and his high cheekbones, he’s instantly recognisable.
Mum lets go of my hand and I quickly face forward again, my heart pounding against my ribcage. I realise with a start that Mum is standing up along with everyone else, so I hasten to do the same, my fingers fumbling with the Order of Service as the opening chords of ‘Jerusalem’ surge from the church organ.
The congregation begins to sing, but I can’t find the words, and then Mum is holding the right page in front of me.
Her voice is weak, wavering and full of emotion. This is one of Dad’s all-time favourite songs and I want to do it justice – do him justice – but I can’t catch my breath.
Emilie climbs up onto the pew so once again I’m sidetracked, making sure she doesn’t fall. I feel an overwhelming, overbearing surge of longing for Theo. I’ve grown used to coping alone, somehow, but there are times when I really need him, and this is one of those times.
George is here. The realisation slams into me.
After all these years.
I feel the presence of him, prickling over my skin. He’s two rows behind me and it’s hard to not turn around.
Have you seen me, George? Have you noticed Emilie? Do you know about her, about Theo?
Jamie is speaking. I was asked if I’d like to say something, but how could I get up and talk at a time like this? I don’t understand how Jamie can. He sounds so strong, so composed. I force myself to concentrate.
‘He never raised his voice, he never lifted a hand in anger. He persevered when things got tough, and he always listened with empathy and patience. He gave so many children and young people stability and consistency, and above all that, he gave them love. I would not be the man I am without him.’
Jamie continues to speak, but my mind is all over the place. A murmur of laughter disrupts the sound of the other mourners’ sniffling, but I don’t know what Jamie has said to amuse them. I’m numb, in shock from so much more than my beloved father having a fatal heart attack out in the fields. After living his life for others, how could he die alone?
At that thought, grief swallows me whole. Mum clasps my hand again, her own body giving way to shuddering sobs, and Emilie clambers onto my lap and loops her soft little arms around my neck.
Jamie catches my eye from up at the lectern and his face crumples. He breaks off and hunches over and it suddenly sounds as though the whole congregation is falling apart with us.
* * *
The funeral reception is being held at Dad’s favourite pub, by the church in Masham, where he used to religiously drink a single pint with his pals after each of the town’s two market days: Theakston’s Old Peculier on Wednesdays, Black Sheep Bitter on Saturdays. He refused to choose between the town’s two breweries, unable to do favourites, even when it came to beer.
There are more people here today than there were at Mum and Dad’s party a couple of years ago, but I haven’t seen George. He wasn’t at the graveside when Jamie and the other pallbearers lowered Dad into the ground, or if he was, he stayed out of sight.
I wonder how he knew about the funeral.
I take Emilie to the bathroom and, while she’s washing her hands, catch an unfortunate glimpse of my reflection in the mirror above the basin. I was pleased with my hair when I had it done a few weeks ago – it made me feel somewhat human again – but now the lighter shade looks too bright against my red, splotchy face, and the new shorter length seems limp as it falls somewhere between my chin and shoulders. I’m wearing black for the first time in over two years – the same dress I wore that evening I’d give anything to forget. Theo told me I looked beautiful in it and I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.
I don’t feel beautiful now. I’ve shrunk inside the fabric, smaller in every way, and not merely physically.
Averting my gaze, I perfunctorily dry my daughter’s hands and lead her out of the bathroom.
‘… drunk-driving accident.’
I jolt to a stop at overhearing this shred of conversation.
There are three women of about my age, standing by the bar. They’re huddled together, having a good old chinwag.
‘He only got five years,’ one of them says.
‘That’s outrageous! Five years for getting two people killed?’
‘Three if you count the fact that the woman was pregnant,’ the third girl chips in.
‘Apparently, he could be out in two and a half…’
Their gasps of disapproval are audible, but I can no longer see them because Jamie has stepped in front of me. He turns around and loudly says to them, ‘Oi. Time and a place, yeah?’
The group falls silent. One of them peers round my foster brother and her eyes widen. I recognise her now – we went to school together – but we weren’t friends.