The House by the Sea. Louise Douglas

      1

      I was walking the dogs along the footpath beside the River Avon when my sister, Martha, called to tell me that Anna DeLuca had died.

      It was April. The air was cool, the tide was out and I was alone. The dogs sniffed the grassy fringes of the path, while I held the phone to my ear and listened as Martha described how my former mother-in-law had passed away peacefully in a sunlit room in a hospice in south London. As she spoke, I watched a boy cycling towards me. He was fourteen or fifteen, dark haired, slightly built. He could have been Daniel. I stepped aside as he passed. He stood on the pedals to keep the bike steady, leaned over the handlebars and nodded his thanks. He was wearing school uniform: rolled up shirtsleeves, a jumper tied around his waist, black shoes with scuffed toes, mud on the knees of his trousers. His cheeks were flushed with exertion.

      ‘It was a lovely room,’ Martha said, ‘and Cece said the staff were angels. She said it was a good death. All the family were there.’

      I watched the back of the boy, cycling away from me. The jumper flapped behind him.

      ‘Edie?’ Martha asked. ‘Did you hear me?’

      I would have liked to tell her about the boy who looked like Daniel, but I knew if I did she would make the face she always made when I told her about something that reminded me of my son. Even though I couldn’t see her, I’d know that was what she was doing.

      A silence grew between us. Martha was expecting me to say that I was sorry about Anna’s death or to ask her to pass on my condolences to Cece, but I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t bring myself to say it was all for the best, or that at least it was an end to Anna’s suffering, or some other cliché. I’d spent ten years picking at my hatred for Anna and the wound was deep and bloody. I could hardly say something kind about her now.

      I watched the boy on the bike riding through the tunnel made by the overhanging branches of trees. He went around a bend and disappeared.

      ‘Was Joe there?’ I asked.

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘Was Joe with Anna when she died?’

      ‘Yes, I just said, all the family were. He’s spent a lot of time with his mother over the last few weeks.’

      I expect she was asking him for forgiveness, craving his reassurances. I could imagine him holding her trembling hand, telling her that what happened to Daniel wasn’t really her fault and she, oh, she’d be doing her best to believe him, but deep down she must have known Joe was only saying those words because he loved her. In her heart she must have known he didn’t mean it, because it was her fault, she was responsible for us losing Daniel, and even if Joe said he forgave her, it wouldn’t be true. Daniel was his son as much as mine. How can anyone forgive the unforgivable?

      I looked back towards the city, hoping I might catch sight of the boy on the bike, but I couldn’t see him.

      ‘Edie, are you okay?’ Martha asked tentatively.

      Was that the boy? Was that him over there, cycling on the other side of the river?

      ‘Edie?’

      No, it wasn’t him. Only some man on a road bike.

      ‘Edie?’

      ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

      Another pause, and then, in a less tentative tone of voice, Martha said: ‘Cece asked me to tell you that the funeral’s next Thursday at the crematorium. We could go together. You will come, Edie, won’t you?’

      ‘I don’t think it’d be a good idea.’

      ‘At least think about it. It would be progress for you; closure. It might help you put everything behind you and… you know… move on.’

      Move on? No! I didn’t want to move on. How could I want to do anything that would mean leaving my son behind? Forgetting him?

      Martha talked and I half listened, letting my mind wander, watching the two dogs, side by side, cautiously sniffing at a piece of timber brought up by the tide. Sanderlings and avocets were feeding on the great slopes of pewter coloured mud that reflected a low, grey sky; trailing scribbles of bird prints below the tideline of driftwood and plastic. High above, gulls spiralled beneath the underside of the Suspension Bridge.

      I would not go to Anna DeLuca’s funeral.

      I didn’t want to see Joe again. He wouldn’t want to see me either. It was his mother’s funeral, let him deal with it on his own, in his own way. I’d rather be anywhere else in the world, than with him, remembering her.