“And how did you do that? What kinds of things did you try to bring that about?”
“Well, Emily was very interested in reading, as I am myself. So I had conversations with her about books. Bought her books sometimes. And Olivia was very interested in animals, and of course, I work with animals myself, so . . .”
My voice petered out. I wasn’t impressing myself, let alone Clare, and I was also painfully aware of how pitiful my attempts to start those conversations had been. That this was like a job interview where you exaggerated your experience to try and make it sound like a strength.
My greatest weakness is that I sometimes take on more than I can handle, but I’ve installed a project management app and find that really helpful . . .
That kind of thing.
My greatest weakness with Jaimie’s girls was that I was, frankly, terrified of them. Because Jaimie cared for them so much, they had shedloads of power over me. Now that I don’t see them anymore, I realise I should have expected more support from Jaimie to help us to bond better.
“Was Mr. Faulkner supportive of the relationship between yourself and his daughters?”
Ah, right on cue.
Vividly I recalled the way Jaimie had brushed my insecurities aside. They’ll come round. These things take time. It didn’t take much of a stretch of imagination to conjure up an older version of the two of us at either Emily’s or Olivia’s wedding—me sitting next to Jaimie but still very much on the fringes of family life—had we stayed together.
“It could be . . . difficult. Time was often at a premium because every moment with the girls was so precious to him. He found it so hard not seeing them every day. Also, he was very busy with his home-renovation business, so sometimes, even when it was his turn to have the girls, he couldn’t always meet them from school.”
“And did that duty then fall to you?”
Duty. That didn’t sound like a very nice word, even if it was an accurate one.
“Well, yes, but obviously I didn’t mind. I had the more flexible job, and Jaimie was often working some distance away . . .”
“How did Emily and Olivia take it when you and their father split up?”
But I had absolutely no idea how they’d taken it, did I? Because after Jaimie and I had our final conversation, I never saw Olivia and Emily again.
I licked my lips. “Well, I’m not entirely sure, to be honest. Jaimie decided . . . Well, it all ended quite suddenly, you see.”
Clare frowned. “Are you saying you didn’t actually have the chance to say goodbye to Emily and Olivia?”
Numbly, I shook my head. “No. I wanted to, but Jaimie said . . . Well, it was his decision. I didn’t have any say in it.”
It had haunted me, though, sometimes, even before my recent encounter with Grace. I’d often pictured Jaimie breaking the news to them—taking them down to the river to feed the ducks, maybe, while he did it. Had they minded? Shed a few tears, maybe? Even though I didn’t want to think of them being unhappy, a part of me had wanted them to miss me. Because I missed them. Things hadn’t always been easy between us, but we’d been a part of each other’s lives for almost a year.
But maybe they hadn’t been sad about me leaving at all. Maybe they’d been glad. There was no way for me to know.
Now Clare was making notes. Copious notes. I waited for her to finish.
Finally, she looked up. I already knew what her next question was going to be. “And can you tell me why your relationship with Mr. Faulkner ended?”
25
At Richard’s funeral, Jaimie and I sat in the second pew from the front. The pews were only big enough for five, and Grace was with Mark, so there wasn’t room for me and Jaimie too. It shouldn’t have mattered, I suppose, but it really did. I wanted to clasp Rosie’s hand, feel Sylvia’s shoulder pressed against mine. Not just passively witness their bowed heads.
We’d planned to meet at Sylvia’s house an hour before the funeral to set off together, but an overturned lorry on the A10 had put paid to that plan, and I was just grateful we’d managed to get there at all.
“Beth,” Sylvia greeted me as Jaimie and I hurried through the graveyard to the church entrance at the last minute. The way she took me into her arms and held me was almost my undoing before the funeral had even begun.
“Hello, you,” said Rosie, when I hugged her next, and we kissed and cried a little as we held each other.
Then it was on to Mark—a silent, warm hug, a pat on the back with minimal eye contact. And finally, Grace—polite, restrained, her face expertly made up.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Beth.”
While Jaimie greeted everyone, speaking a few words about the traffic, I put my arm back around Rosie and watched Mark. He looked pale and gaunt, stiff from holding his feelings in, his hair sticking out to one side as if he’d washed it and then forgotten about it. I watched as Grace reached out in a vain attempt to flatten it, and Mark closed his eyes, suffering her attentions like a small boy whose mother cleans his face with spit on her handkerchief.
The congregation—Richard’s friends, workmates, ex-customers, neighbours—was already gathered inside the church. We, the family group, were waiting, speaking in hushed voices, to follow the coffin inside. As the pallbearers began to carry the coffin from the hearse through the churchyard, I heard Mark swear under his breath and looked to see what had caught his attention.
“Jeez. Couldn’t they have found men of a similar height?”
I didn’t blame him for being annoyed. The scene was fairly ridiculous. One of the men was almost twelve inches shorter than the others, which meant Richard’s coffin was slanted at an odd—and frankly unsafe-looking—angle. Rosie’s hand went to her mouth. I heard her swift intake of breath. But worse was to come. The church was ancient, with a low entrance door, and as the pallbearers entered with the coffin, the front of it scraped the keystone, almost dislodging the wreath of cream-coloured lilies resting on top. All but the shorter pallbearer quickly bent to accommodate the dimensions of the entrance, their sudden movement causing the coffin to list slightly. Mark quickly reached a hand up to steady it, and the six men collected themselves and proceeded into the church.
With disaster averted, we followed—Sylvia with Rosie, Mark with Grace, and me and Jaimie at the rear—walking to the accompaniment of sombre organ music. I clutched Jaimie’s arm hard, staring straight ahead to avoid making eye contact with anyone, my throat closed off, my breathing shallow.
“Are you all right?” Jaimie whispered when we were seated in the pew.
I jerked my head in a nod, although actually I was far from all right. In that moment, I felt that I would never be all right again. I knew that Sylvia, Rosie, and Mark felt the same.
The organ music ended. The vicar began to speak. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to say farewell to Richard Anthony Groves and to commit him into the hands of God. We shall now sing hymn number sixteen, ‘The Day Thou Gavest.’”
The organ started up again, launching into the tune. I remembered the miserable-sounding hymn from my school days. How bored I’d been in the stuffy school hall singing the old-fashioned-sounding words. Now, each word felt like shrapnel to my heart.