Lucy.
‘God, I hate ivy, don’t you?’ Clara asked. ‘It’s just the worst kind of weed. I don’t know what possesses people to grow it.’
Lucy smothered a laugh. ‘Why are we here?’
‘The undertaker needs a nice outfit in which to dress Dido.’
Lucy turned cold. ‘What was she wearing when she died? Can’t she just wear that?’
‘She died in her sleep. She was wearing a nightie.’
‘And it’s not all right to bury someone in their nightie?’
Clara adopted a horrified expression. ‘No, it bloody isn’t,’ she replied, battling with the key until the lock gave way and the door yielded to the pressure, swinging open slowly. ‘Someone needs to grease these hinges,’ Clara said absent-mindedly.
A strong smell of damp and dust penetrated Lucy’s senses and it took her a minute or two to adjust to the smell of the old property. Inside the blinds and shutters were closed, but early evening sunshine fell through the doorway onto a circular wooden table in the middle of the hall. An oversized, empty vase cast droplets of sunlight like a prism, offering a bewitching effect. Clara switched on the overhead light and the prism was gone. The empty vase was the only ornament in the entrance hall but a stack of mail had been placed on the central table. Nosily, Lucy picked it up but there was nothing of interest as she rifled through, just circulars, bills and parish newsletters.
Glancing into the two front rooms that led off either side of the hall, Lucy saw they looked equally sparse. Where was all the stuff? Why no plethora of ornaments out on sideboards? Why no bundles of family photographs on top of the mini grand piano that sat at the far end of the sitting room? Why was she here to help clear out all the knick-knacks if there weren’t that many to clear?
It really had been years since Lucy had been inside Deux Tourelles. She didn’t remember the interior layout at all, barely remembered the exterior although she was sure it hadn’t looked quite so ramshackle whenever it was she’d last been here.
Clara called down from the stairs she’d begun climbing. ‘Are you coming up or standing there all day?’
Lucy followed her sister to the first floor. ‘How do you know where you’re going?’
Clara flicked the light switch at the top of the stairs and the first-floor corridor lit up in a yellow haze from an old-fashioned light bulb in a rather tatty shade. There were at least six doors, all closed, and Clara turned right and went to one of two rooms facing the front of the house and opened the door.
‘I popped in to fetch things for Dido when she went into hospital but it was a bit late for all that. She’d passed away by the time I made it there.’
Lucy stepped inside the dark room while Clara busied herself switching on a table lamp and starting to look through the large mahogany wardrobe for a suitable dress. Lucy opened the thick damask curtains by the window and let the evening sunshine stream into the room, sending dust motes flying and whirling around her. She looked down the front drive towards the broken gate and then out towards the winding lanes and small field that abutted Dido’s house. She could see the edge of a cottage hidden behind trees and its own track of driveway that she’d not seen from the road. She wondered who lived there, if they’d known Dido, or if it was just a little holiday cottage these days.
‘You don’t miss it at all, do you?’ Clara said, interrupting Lucy’s thoughts. It sounded kindly meant but the words had sharp edges. Like most things Clara said in Lucy’s direction, the sharp edges were meant to dig in deep, probe hard.
Lucy turned, smiled guiltily. ‘Guernsey? I’m not sure that I do. Not really. I don’t really think about it. Is that the wrong thing to say?’
‘Not if it’s the truth.’
Lucy wasn’t sure how to reply so simply chose not to.
It was met with silence in return from Clara. A quiet battle; both standing their ground by avoiding discussion entirely. It was so easy to avoid Clara when Lucy was back on the mainland. But here, not so much.
Lucy changed the subject. ‘So Dad gets this old place, given he was the nearest relation. Did she have any others?’
‘Any other what?’
‘Relations? She had no children, no siblings?’
‘Not sure,’ Clara said distractedly. ‘Not any that are living, I don’t think. There was mention of a sister, I vaguely remember, a while back.’
‘A sister?’ Lucy looked at the back of Clara’s head as she rifled in the wardrobe, pulling hangers noisily along the metal rail, and waited for more. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Mmm. She mentioned it when we were at someone’s funeral a few years back. She was surprised she’d been asked to attend. She said she’d thought everyone she’d ever known had already died.’
‘Macabre.’ Lucy shuddered as she sat on the bed, made up tidily with a rose bedspread. ‘Such a shame, being so alone.’
Lucy looked at Clara and felt grateful she had her, even if they had become more distant as the years rolled on. ‘What happened to the sister?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was she older or younger?’ Lucy asked, glancing out towards the little cottage, watching the smoke plume from the chimney.
‘I don’t know,’ Clara said exasperatedly.
Lucy switched her attention from the cottage to the room and looked properly around. The only items in frames were floral watercolours. ‘Where are all the family photographs? Her parents, sister and the like?’
‘How should I know? Are you going to help?’ Clara snapped.
Lucy stared at her sister’s back and then walked over to the wardrobe. ‘Maybe they grew apart. It’s easy to drift apart when people lead such busy lives.’
‘You certainly do,’ Clara teased. ‘I see your social media feed. How many parties can one girl go to each week? I’m exhausted just looking at it.’
Lucy opened her eyes wide in surprise. Clara never clicked ‘like’ on any of Lucy’s posts. Not one. But she’d admitted she’d seen them. Lucy would work that one out later. ‘When you live alone you need to get out and about,’ Lucy justified. ‘Dinner with friends or a microwave meal for one … I know which I prefer.’
Clara looked at her as she moved away from the wardrobe, a navy two-piece suit in her hands in which to bury the elderly woman they’d not really known. ‘If you say so. How can you afford it?’ Clara probed.
‘I earn OK money and I’ve only got myself to worry about.’
‘You must be up to your eyes in student debt, though?’
Lucy sighed, pulled her brown hair up into a ponytail. They’d been over this before and she couldn’t do it again. ‘Righto, what else do we need to get? Do we need a pair of shoes for the … thing?’
‘The funeral director just said an
