twenties, I asked a guru if there was an afterlife. “Only one way to know for sure,” he replied. “Die and find out.”’
‘Sounds like good advice. Mum was never what I’d call a religious person in a church going sense but she was spiritual. On her shelf, she had a wide range of books – the Bible, The Tibetan Book of the Dead, Bhagavad-Gita, Richards Dawkins, There is No God, all Elizabeth Kubler Ross’s.”
‘She was always open-minded, wasn’t she?’
‘She was, right up to the end. She had great attitude and embraced death’s inevitability with the same enthusiasm she did every other part of her life. Last time I went to see her, it was like listening to someone who was making holiday plans, checking out the reviews of the destination before they set off. She said it would be like an adventure, like going to the airport, aware she was off somewhere, just not knowing where.’
‘Knowing that she wasn’t afraid must give you some solace.’
Tears welled up in my eyes. ‘Sometimes. Some days I think I can handle it; other days I can hardly breathe and don’t want to see anyone or do anything.’
‘Of course there will still be times like that. It’s only been a couple of months since she died. Grief is like standing on the edge of the ocean. Some days, the water laps around your feet; you know it’s there, it’s manageable. Other days, from nowhere, it blasts in like a tsunami and knocks you right over. They say it takes two years to even feel normal again.’
‘I can’t imagine ever feeling normal again.’
‘You will, although you’ll probably always feel her loss. I know I do of my parents.’
‘A day doesn’t go by when I don’t think of her. I catch myself thinking, oh I must tell Mum that, or see a programme in the TV guide that I think she’d like, or hear an interview on Radio Four and think I must give her a ring – then I remember, I can’t. I miss that she’s not there to talk things over with – like now, the fact that I might lose my home and so have no place to curl up and hide away on the tsunami days when I miss her most. She’d have been so reassuring. She always had such good solid advice to give. I miss that and her kindness and care.
Mainly, though, I’m in awe at Mum having thought up her plan for us and never saying a word. I need the money, yes, but it’s not just that, in fact, even thinking about that seems mercenary. I mainly want to do this list of hers because it will give me some extended contact, in the sense that she’s gone but left this legacy, mad though it may be.’
‘And you will get your inheritance in the end.’
‘Not necessarily. There’s no guarantee that one of my sisters won’t refuse to take part or back out at some stage. In devising her plan, Mum’s made me completely dependent on the two people I’d choose not to need anything from. That’s the bit I’m not happy about, and I’m pretty sure they feel the same.’
‘Clever old bird,’ said Anna. ‘She was right. How could any of you refuse to carry out her last wish? You never know, it could be an adventure.’
‘With Rose and Fleur? I doubt it. More like one long argument. Rose can be quite contrary when the mood takes her and Fleur isn’t always easy either. If it was with you, it would be different. But the bottom line is that it was Mum’s last wish. This condition mattered to her and so it matters to me. I want to do it for her.’
Anna reached out and squeezed my hand. I felt a rush of affection for her. It had been her who’d picked me up the day that Rose’s husband, Hugh had called to tell me that Mum had died of a massive heart attack. I never knew anything could hit so hard and went to pieces, numb with shock and disbelief. Not that death was new to me, of course it wasn’t – aunts, uncles, cousins, friends had all gone over the years. My father had died when I was aged six and though too young to really understand at the time, I mourned for him and what could have been rather than what was. With other deaths, I felt for their family and close ones rather than how it affected me. It all depended on what the person had meant. Mum was not only my mother, but one of my favourite people on the planet and with her passing, I felt that my heart had broken. Well meaning friends called, brought cards and flowers, those that had known her offering condolence or advice. But what could they say? In the days immediately after her death, I felt full of cut glass and it hurt like hell.
Anna had nursed me like a child, bringing food, dealing with post and emails.
Some mornings I’d wake up, feel normal for a brief moment, then remember Mum had gone for ever and weep. It was so final. I’d never see her dear and familiar face again, see the kindness and concern in her eyes, hear her voice, her laughter, have her there to turn to.
Anna had understood. ‘The loss of a parent is immense and the pain you feel at their passing is exactly equal to what they meant to you,’ she told me. ‘If you loved someone deeply, you will suffer deeply. Don’t deny it, suppress it or feel you should get over it; feel it and know it is evidence of how much you loved her.’
On the bad days, I would lock myself away and pore over photograph albums just for a glimpse of Mum, something to hold on to. I wore an old cardigan of hers that she’d left behind after one visit and inhaled deeply to try and catch the scent of her. I called her mobile to hear her voice and the message she’d recorded that she’d thought was so hilarious. ‘Hello. Iris Parker here, I’m avoiding someone I don’t like. Leave me a message and if I don’t call back, you’ll know it’s you.’ I found and read everything I could about life after death in the hope that somewhere she continued and that, although her body had gone, her consciousness and spirit lived on. But mostly I was aware that the phone no longer rang. She’d gone somewhere I couldn’t follow and she wasn’t coming back.
Friday 4 September
I was in the front garden, enjoying the sun on my bare arms and face when Anna appeared at the gate. She was wearing a peacock blue vintage halter-neck dress, a chunky green glass necklace and her hair was glossy from blow-drying.
‘Why are you all dressed up?’ I asked.
‘Lunch with Ian.’
‘Shows off your figure.’
Anna did a twirl. ‘Ta. So. Have you spoken to either of the Harris brothers?’
‘I have. I decided not to put it off and emailed Michael Harris first thing this morning to say that I won’t be able to buy the house for at least a year. I told him that Mum had died and that I’m going to have to wait for my inheritance to come through. He must have passed it on to his brother William because he got straight back. As I expected, they aren’t prepared to wait that long and are sending the estate agents in the next few days.’
‘Wow, they don’t waste any time. You’d have thought they’d have understood, seeing as they’re in the same position, having just lost their own mother.’
I shrugged. ‘Yes, but they don’t know me or owe me anything. I’m just a tenant in their late mother’s house. Why should they wait any longer?’
‘Out of the kindness of their hearts and because you’ve been here so long. What difference would a year make? Did you tell them about the kicking the bucket list?’
‘No
