felt so many things, all blended together so they were indistinguishable, my mind buzzing with thoughts. But Celia closed off after her confession, as she so often did; never quite living in the real world.
Yesterday, after I walked out on Jake, I went round to see her to say goodbye and let her know where I was heading. She’d slipped a piece of paper into my hand.
‘I’ve never used it,’ she said, as I read the email address she’d written down. ‘It’s Reagan’s. He sent it to me a couple of years back, in case I needed to get hold of him.’
She clammed up again after that. I wasn’t even sure she’d heard me tell her where I was going.
Now, after settling into the bedsit, which was as grubby as I’d feared, I pulled out a bottle of vodka I’d picked up at a nearby off-licence. It wasn’t a good idea, but I still had a throbbing hangover from the night before. I would only have the one little drink, something to smooth the jagged edges, while I thought about finding my father.
‘I didn’t realise Mum had so much stuff.’ The heap of clothes, shoes and boxes looked wrong in the middle of the bedroom.
Greg came through from the landing, running his hands through his light brown hair. ‘That’s because it was all hidden in cupboards and drawers for years,’ he said, reasonably. ‘And don’t forget there’s at least thirty years’ worth here.’
‘Oh God.’ I covered my face with my hands. My earlier optimism that I could clear out her things without feeling upset was fading fast. I wished she hadn’t insisted that I do it. ‘Where am I supposed to put it all?’
Greg came over and pressed a kiss on top of my head. ‘Unless there’s anything you want to keep, bag up the clothes and shoes for the charity shop. We can shred or burn any paperwork that’s not relevant.’
‘It sounds so clinical,’ I said, dropping my hands. ‘I wish I could just leave everything as it was.’
‘She knew your dad wouldn’t be able to cope with it,’ Greg reminded me. He was unusually dishevelled, his hair falling over his forehead. ‘Remember you said he’s been sleeping on the sofa.’
‘But why get rid of it all?’ I was suddenly close to tears. ‘I thought he’d want to keep Mum’s things around him.’
‘That doesn’t work for everyone.’ Greg tilted my chin with his fingers, his hazel eyes sympathetic. ‘After my dad died, Mum couldn’t bear the reminders. That’s why she sold the house and moved abroad.’
‘Jesus.’ I shook my head, taking in the familiar sight of him. He hadn’t changed much in the six years we’d been together, but lately I’d noticed a deepening of lines around his eyes and a hint of grey at his temples. At thirty-three, he was starting to look older than his years, and I wondered – not for the first time – whether I should have encouraged him to chase a partnership at Sheridan-Hope, the London law firm where he worked. The company specialised in media cases, and his job involved gruelling hours, but I worried if he didn’t push himself, he’d get left behind.
It was the first Saturday morning we’d spent together in ages and I’d been surprised, but grateful, that he’d offered to help me out with Mum’s things. ‘I can’t imagine getting rid of all traces of you if you died,’ I said.
His face relaxed into a smile. ‘I’ll take some of her books down to the car.’ He reached for my hand just as I stepped away and so he scratched his elbow instead. ‘Do you want some coffee?’
‘Please.’ On a sigh, I turned back to the muddle I’d made, while Greg picked up a box of paperbacks and padded downstairs.
I crossed to the bed and picked up a heavy black coat, holding it to my face. It didn’t smell of anything. I couldn’t ever remember Mum wearing it. She hadn’t thrown anything away for years and most of her clothes looked dated, the lengths and collars all wrong, the fabrics faded from washing.
As I folded the coat, ready to add to a bag stuffed with skirts and sweaters, I felt a crackle of paper in one of the pockets. Digging my hand inside, I touched something soft and pulled out a yellowing receipt. The print was worn, but I could make out the words Annie’s Tea Room, and the date: nearly twenty-eight years ago. She’d bought a cup of tea and a buttered scone, which had cost £1. She must have been there on her own, and I wondered if it had been during a trip to York to visit Aunt Tess.
I crumpled the receipt into the pocket of my jeans and thrust the coat in the bag, anxious to get the job over with, but as I turned my attention to a pile of shoes a burst of childish laughter caught my attention.
I moved to the window and looked out to see Dad pushing Maisie on the swing that used to be mine at the bottom of the garden. She was kicking her sturdy legs, her dark curls dancing around her face, eyes wide with delight.
I pressed my forehead to the glass, clouding it with my breath. Maisie looked so like Greg, my own freckled skin and straight fair hair having passed her by. At the age of three, there was already something of Mum in her smile and clear calm gaze.
I pushed open the window to let the warm June breeze flow in, bringing with it a layered mix of scents from the garden. Mum used to love sitting out there with her easel, painting. Neither of my parents had been keen on gardening, but before he died my grandfather had taken care of things, and since then a local gardener had kept it in shape.
It was good to see Dad, if not smiling, at least looking less tense. He hadn’t coped well with Mum’s death just after Christmas, six months ago. He was angry that she’d been taken too soon – which of course she had.
Sometimes he seemed angry with me too. I’d catch him watching me, grey eyes narrowed like a sniper’s, and wondered if I reminded him of her – though I looked more like him than Mum. I’d asked him once what was wrong and he dropped his gaze and said curtly, ‘Isn’t it obvious? I’ve lost the best thing that ever happened to me,’ which had left me wondering where I stood in his affections.
I glanced sideways at a silver-framed photo of them on the windowsill; Mum, an elegant figure in an A-line denim skirt and flowery blouse, smiling with friendly reserve, and Dad in his rimless glasses, an old wool jacket over a checked shirt, looking every inch the college lecturer he was. I’d taken the picture with a new camera on my sixteenth birthday, and they looked relaxed and happy.
Dad had been strong during Mum’s illness, but since her death seemed half the man he’d been. The double chin he’d developed over the years had vanished and his clothes hung off his lanky frame. Even his reddish hair looked thin and lifeless and he’d grown a straggly beard that aged him. Worse, he’d applied for early retirement from the university, and spent most of his days either walking Charlie, his old spaniel, or slumped in an armchair in front of the television.
Eyes stinging, I turned back to the job I’d begun two hours ago. At least the wardrobe was empty now, apart from Dad’s few clothes. They looked lonely, taking up barely any space.
As I went to close the door, my eye was drawn to a shoebox I’d missed on the floor of the wardrobe, at the back. I bent to retrieve it, impatiently pushing my
