After I've Gone Page 5

  I scroll down some more, seeing photos of a blur of dark hair through my tears. People are saying such nice things: how sad it is that they take the best ones first; the silly little things they will remember. I brush back damp strands of hair from my eyes. It is only then I realise that I am no longer looking at Alan Rickman’s tributes; I am once more looking at my own. It is me they are mourning. Me they are expressing shock and sadness for. Me who has left a hole in their lives. The tears fall more heavily now. I’m not sure if they are for Alan or Mum or me. Maybe for all of us. For everyone who is taken too soon.

  It must be about ten minutes later when I hear the door open. ‘Jess. Are you OK?’

  I wipe my nose on my sleeve and open the cubicle door.

  Sadie takes one look at my face and throws her arms around me. ‘I’m sorry. Nina just told me. I figured you’d be in here. What a bastard week this is turning out to be. I know how much he meant to you.’

  I sniff loudly in her ear. ‘I’m going to be next. Dad’s arranging my funeral. You’re saying how much you miss me.’

  Sadie pulls away and looks at me. I hold my phone up.

  ‘You won’t be able to see the posts, I know that, but they’re here. I can see them. In eighteen months’ time you’re all saying ridiculously nice things about me, only I’m getting a bit sick of the loveliness now and I kind of wish one of you would say I was a moody cow with crap taste in clothes and a big gob.’

  Sadie shakes her head and takes my phone from me. ‘There’s nothing there about you, Jess. It’s all Alan Rickman stuff. I understand you’re upset, but you mustn’t let this start up again.’

  ‘I know it sounds stupid but it is there – but only when I’m on my own. I can’t even take a screenshot of it or a photo but you have to believe me that it is there.’

  Sadie strokes my damp hair. ‘Come on,’ she says, taking my hand and leading me over to the sinks. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up. They’ll be wondering where you’ve got to. I know it’s been a shock, Jess, and I can understand that it’s brought a whole load of stuff up, but you’ve got to get through today, OK? I promise you it will all seem clearer in the morning.’

  I nod and put my phone back in my pocket, hoping to God that she’s right.

  Jess

  April 2008

  I stand at her grave for a long time. I am empty even of tears. Apparently, the fact that I knew this was coming is supposed to make it easier. It doesn’t. And if anyone else says that at least she isn’t suffering anymore, I swear I will punch them. Of course she’s suffering. She’s left us. And that was the thing she was dreading most.

  I don’t know what happens next. I’m not sure I want anything to happen. Maybe I can simply stay here next to her, feeling close to her. Because the one thing I know is that I can’t bear to walk away.

  I can’t see how anything worthwhile can happen now Mum has gone, but she told me not to think like that. She gave me big lectures about it. About how she wanted me to go out and live my life and do all the things she never got around to doing. She told me I was her brave girl. That I was strong enough to get through this. But now she’s gone, I don’t feel strong at all. It is all I can do to hold myself upright. Even putting one foot in front of the other is beyond me right now.

  I look down at the coffin in the ground below me. I want to jump down and sit on it. Tear open the lid and see her one more time before she goes. Before they cover her up and she’s gone forever.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn to see Dad standing there, his eyes rimmed red, his cheeks hollowed out, hurt and pain oozing out of every pore.

  ‘I don’t want to leave her,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ he replies. ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Can’t we take her home with us? Can’t we bury her in the back yard?’

  He shakes his head. Wipes his eyes. ‘She’s inside you,’ he says. ‘You can carry her around with you all the time. She’s in your heart.’

  I look at him. He means well, I know that. But he doesn’t know how to deal with this any more than I do. And I am so sick of being treated like a kid. She’s not inside me. She’s in the coffin in front of me. And soon she will be covered over with earth and there’ll be a headstone that reads, ‘Deborah Mount, much loved wife, mother and daughter’, and people will walk past it and they will read it but they will have no idea, no fucking idea at all, of what she really meant to us.

  Angela

  Thursday, 14 January 2016

  When people talk about putting on a brave face, I understand it’s just a phrase they use. But it happens to be the best description of what I do every morning, and have done for as long as I can remember. I look in the mirror and see the real me: the worry lines etched on my face; the sadness in my eyes; the dry, sallow skin. I can’t go out like that; I don’t want people to know that version of me. It is too raw, too honest. Their minds will go into overdrive and they will understand too much and ask too many questions. Always questions. From people who think they already know the answers.

  So I put on my brave face. It is a long, laborious process, more so than ever these days. But it is entirely necessary. I pull the make-up band up over my forehead, scraping my heavy fringe back off my face. It accentuates the fact that my roots need doing, but I try to ignore that for now. The moisturiser seeps into my pores, my skin always greedy for more. The woman behind the make-up counter in Boots once told me my skin tone was between shades for foundation, so I opted for the darker one, keen to avoid looking like death warmed up. I haven’t changed it since. I wait until it has been absorbed and then apply my pressed powder, from one of those compacts with a mirror and a puff. I suppose it’s old-fashioned now. I see the young women with those big brushes, applying loose powder like there’s no tomorrow. It is too messy for my liking and too random. I like to know that everything has been covered, with no waste, no fuss, no flicking or flourishes of the hands required. Next, I use a brush for my blusher. Only a small one, mind, and only a touch of it. My eyes take the longest. I draw around them slowly and carefully with black eyeliner. I feel naked without it. I wouldn’t even open the door to the postman. I dust a little light shadow on the lids and then apply a coat of black mascara. My brows are thin and could do with a bit of colour too, but they’re mostly covered by my fringe. Finally I add a slick of pearl lipstick. The same shade I have been using for thirty years. I don’t know what I’d do if they ever stopped making it.

  I take off my make-up band and brush my hair so that the bottom of it curls gently around my jawline. It is my brave face. I have to be brave every day, but I do not want the world to know that. Hopefully, they will be fooled into thinking that this is me, and will not stop to ask what lies beneath, will not try to chip off the veneer. And I will keep wearing it. Smiling and saying I am fine when asked. Because it is the only way I know to cope.

  I look at my watch. It is still only seven thirty. I have always been an early riser, even when there is nothing to get up for. I don’t work on Thursdays. It’s one of the things I like about working in a supermarket, how flexible they are for part-timers. Lee visits on a Thursday after work. He’d laugh if I told him that’s why I don’t work on Thursdays. Tell me not to be so daft. But I like everything to be just right for him – the house clean and tidy, dinner in the oven, me looking my best. We may move on but we do not forget. Not ever.

  I go downstairs. Radio 2 is on in the kitchen. It keeps me company all day, although I sometimes put a CD on during the Jeremy Vine show because I prefer the music to the talking. Especially the politics; I have no interest in that at all.

  I pull on my marigolds and start on the sink. My mother taught me how to clean a kitchen properly. You could see your face in her taps. None of this ‘I’ll give it a quick wipe over’ for her. I breathe in the smell of the cream cleaner. It’s supposed to be pine-scented, but it’s the other, sharper smells that I like. The chemi
cals, I suppose. Whatever it is that makes it smell clean. I like the reassurance that nothing will get past it.

  By the time I finish, the place is spotless. You could use it in one of the adverts on TV. It is a good way to start the day, turning something ordinary into something special.

  *

  I look at my watch. Lee will be here in ten minutes. He still likes to be punctual, as I do. Old habits die hard. It’s difficult with the rush-hour traffic, of course, but he always seems to manage to get away on time. When he got this job, I worried he was going to turn into one of those workaholics who always put their career first and then wake up one day when they’re fifty and realise they entirely forgot to have a family. But the fact that he’s still got time for his mum gives me hope that he makes time for other things too. That it’s not all work and no play. Although there’s been no sign of a romance for a while now. Not since Emma – and we don’t talk about her, of course.

  I check the lasagne in the oven and turn it around to make sure it cooks evenly. He has lots of fancy things when he’s out, I know that, but he still enjoys his mum’s lasagne and Sunday roast. I give him good portions, too. More than they do in those posh restaurants he goes to. And I do try to move with the times. I did a pasta bake with tuna and chilli last week. One of those little twist things I’d seen on the Sainsbury’s adverts.

  Right on time, I hear Lee’s key in the door. It’s been almost ten years since he moved out but when he uses his key it’s nice to think that it’s still his house too. There’s something special about coming home to the house you grew up in. At least, I imagine there is.

  ‘Hello, love,’ I say, greeting him in the hallway. He smiles and stoops to kiss me. His cheeks are cold but his eyes seem to be particularly bright this evening. He has his father’s eyes, of course. Although we don’t mention that either.

  ‘Hi, Mum. Something smells good.’

  ‘Lasagne,’ I say. ‘It’ll be ready in a minute. Come on in and warm up.’ I take his coat and hang it up on the peg, then follow him through to the kitchen. ‘So how’s work?’

  ‘Yeah, good. Crazy busy as usual and Carl’s off sick, which doesn’t help. But we’ll get there.’

  He smiles again. I never ask too much about work. I understand the gist of what he does but I have no real interest in the details and he knows that. What matters to me is that he’s got a good job. The sort of job I always hoped he would get. It’s what every parent wants – for their child to have a better life than them, better prospects. And I know it pays well because there are not many of his age who can afford a nice city-centre flat.

  ‘I’m sure you’re managing to keep on top of it all. You always do. Anyway, sit yourself down and I’ll get dished up.’

  ‘Can I give you a hand?’

  ‘No, thanks, love. You just relax.’ He always offers and I always say no but it’s still nice that he asks.

  ‘There you go,’ I say, putting his plate down in front of him. I go to pour him a glass of wine. Well, half a glass, which is all he has when he’s driving.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ he says, holding his hand over the glass.

  ‘You haven’t given it up for something, have you?’ I ask as I sit down opposite him. ‘One of those charity dry January things?’

  ‘No. Just had a few last night.’

  ‘With the crowd from work?’

  ‘No. I was at a restaurant, with a friend.’

  I start to cut up my lasagne. ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘Nope. Someone I only met this week.’

  He lowers his eyes but I still manage to catch the look in them.

  ‘Who is she, then?’

  ‘I can’t keep anything quiet with you, can I?’ he says, looking up. He is smiling as he says it, though. Smiling in a way that suggests he doesn’t mind me asking. I swallow, aware of the equivalent of a pilot light going on inside me.

  ‘Well, you obviously seem pretty happy about it, whoever she is.’

  ‘Her name’s Jess. First date last night, so it’s early days, but I like her. I like her a lot.’

  ‘Does she work at your place?’ I hope not. From what I can make out, the women Lee works with are very career-focused.

  ‘No, nearby though. I met her at the station actually, we just kind of got talking.’

  ‘What does she do?’

  ‘She works at the cinema in the shopping centre. Meet and greet and show them to their seat kind of thing.’

  I nod. Not the sort to put a career before a family then. ‘Pretty, is she?’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘What, can you not ask that these days?’

  ‘She’s stunning, actually. Not in a conventional, glamorous kind of way. Just striking. But very down to earth.’

  ‘When am I going to meet her then?’

  ‘Give me a chance, it was only a first date.’

  ‘Well, just you make sure that you bring her round for Sunday lunch as soon as you can.’

  ‘So you can vet her, you mean.’ He smiles again.

  ‘No. So I can welcome her to the family.’

  Lee raises an eyebrow. ‘Like I said, let’s just take things one step at a time. I don’t want to rush things.’

  ‘You’re thirty-two, Lee. I don’t think anyone could accuse you of rushing things.’

  He stops eating for a moment and looks at me. For the first time this evening there seems to be a chill in the air.

  ‘If you pressurise someone to settle down, maybe they’ll make a mistake. Maybe they’ll resent it for the rest of their life. Maybe they’ll take it out on those around them.’

  The chill has turned decidedly icy. I chew my mouthful for a long time, not sure I am physically able to swallow. The gagging feeling is distant yet familiar. Lee can do that. Can bring it all rushing back to the surface with a barbed comment, a change in tone or simply a look. Like father, like son.

  ‘There’s no pressure,’ I reply. ‘But if you do decide to bring her, she’ll be made very welcome.’

  We go back to eating. After a few minutes of silence I change the subject to Leeds United, always plenty to talk about there. And far safer ground to be on.

  *

  Afterwards, when he has gone and I’ve got the dishwasher going, I venture into the spare room. It’s a bit chilly; I keep the radiator turned off because it seems wasteful to heat a room that isn’t used.

  I kneel on the floor and pull out the drawer under the double bed. They are all arranged in size order, from newborn upwards, still in their plastic bags with the labels on. I only buy new things. I like the idea of starting afresh. They are mostly in neutral shades of white and lemon, though there’s a set in a lovely shade of green that I couldn’t resist. It’s hard these days – so much is in blue or pink. But I am still able to be quite selective about what I choose. Only the best will do for my first grandchild. I haven’t been able to bring myself to open the drawer since the thing with Emma ended. But now there is a glimmer of hope, I am able to look again. And maybe start buying again too.

  I reach to the back, feeling for the delicate tissue, and pull it out when I find it. My fingers tremble slightly as I unwrap the paper to reveal the christening robe inside. This is the one thing of Lee’s I want my grandchild to have. I can still see Lee in it, his huge eyes looking up at me. His hands clutching the lace and giving it a good pull. I don’t think you would see the tiny speck of blood unless you were looking for it. It has faded with time. Besides, I could easily pass it off for something else if anyone did notice. Nobody would know otherwise. Except him, of course. And he won’t be there. Lee is no longer in touch with his father. I know that much.

  What I haven’t told Lee is that I see his father every time I look at him, hear him every time he speaks, smell him whenever he is next to me. Like father, like son, they say. It chills me to the bone.
>
  Joe Mount

  14 July 2017 • Mytholmroyd, United Kingdom

  At such a difficult time, I am trying to focus on the happy memories. Like this one, Jess’s wedding day. We both cried as I walked her down the aisle. I don’t think I have ever seen her looking so beautiful. She made me the proudest dad on earth.

  Jess

  Thursday, 14 January 2016

  The photo I am looking at is of me and Lee on our wedding day. I know Photoshop is good, but it is not that good. You can’t play around with something that isn’t there. This isn’t a case of airbrushing something out, this is the creation of something that has not happened. I am wearing a tight bodice under a lace, off the shoulder, half-sleeve top, with a big sash around my waist and a full skirt. My hair is piled up on my head with two strands falling down in a style I have never worn before, and it’s topped off with a tiara. A tiara, for fuck’s sake. I’m wearing a pearl choker and my make-up is different. I have no idea how to make myself look like that, but it is still unmistakably me, standing next to someone who is unmistakably Lee. He is wearing an expensive-looking suit and a purple cravat but otherwise he looks exactly the same as when I saw him on Wednesday. And he is smiling at the camera. A huge great beam, actually. I’m smiling too, but unlike Lee, it is not a smile that lights up my face. It is a slight, uncertain one. I guess I must be nervous. It is a big deal. I didn’t think I would ever get married. I don’t consider myself the marrying kind. I mean, you don’t have to these days, do you? Anything goes and all that. And yet, I marry Lee. I am staring at the evidence. Evidence that seems impossible to disprove. Because it’s not just our faces superimposed on a bridal couple. They are my shoulders and my arms and the ring I can see is on my finger.