‘Yes. A chair is turned on its side. Nana was obviously using it to stand on while writing one of her bonkers poems on the chalk wall, and she must have slipped.’
‘I don’t think we can know that for sure,’ Conor replies.
‘Well, what I know is that you’re a crime reporter, not a detective, and nobody asked your opinion anyway,’ says Lily. ‘This is a family matter. You are not family and I don’t even understand what you’re doing here.’ Even for Lily, this is rude.
‘What I’m doing right now is wondering why an elderly woman I cared very much about is lying on the floor, looking as though someone has bashed her head in with a blunt instrument.’ He turns to Rose. ‘What do you think happened?’
She stares down at the kitchen tiles, as if she can’t look him in the eye. ‘I think Nana just died and I’m very upset. I’m sure we all are. Like Lily said, I’m a vet, not a doctor.’ She glares at him, and I’m glad I’m not Conor. ‘This is not the time for any of your conspiracy theories or wild accusations. Nana was never anything but kind to you; welcoming you into her home and our family. Try to show a little respect and compassion if you haven’t completely forgotten how.’
Rose turns away from him and hugs Lily and Trixie, both of whom are now crying. I go to stand next to them, as though silently choosing sides.
‘I’m going to miss her so much,’ I say, unable to imagine life without Nana in it.
‘I just can’t believe she’s gone,’ says Lily.
Rose holds her closer. ‘I know. Neither can I, but she lived a long and happy life and we will get through this. Someone needs to tell Dad what has happened.’ Rose has always looked at the rest of the family as a problem with no obvious solution, a problem she doesn’t quite know how to solve. When nobody else replies or makes a move, she sighs. ‘I guess that’ll be me then.’
We all watch as she leaves the kitchen and pauses in the hallway, outside the door to the music room, where our father chose to sleep. Rose’s head is as tightly tucked in as her shirt. She stares down at the floor and I can almost hear her mind whirring. The music room was one of the few places we were never allowed to play when we were young. Rose hesitates before knocking, like the little girl she used to be, the one who was afraid of getting shouted at for interrupting her father’s work.
She knocks and we all wait, but there is no answer.
Rose knocks again, before gently turning the handle and pushing the door open.
‘The room is empty,’ she says, looking back at us all. ‘The camp bed hasn’t been slept in. Dad isn’t here and neither are his things.’
Lily rushes forward and grabs Rose’s hand, just like she did when we were children. ‘I know he was upset about Nana and the will, but you don’t think that—’
‘Let’s try not to jump to conclusions,’ says Rose, even though I’m sure we’ve all hurdled over several. ‘I’m going to find a sheet to cover Nana’s body, I’d rather remember her the way she was. Can someone else go upstairs and wake Nancy?’
I volunteer and Conor comes with me. I expect he just doesn’t want to be left alone with my sisters, but I’m glad of the company. The house doesn’t feel the same to me now, as though it too is grieving. Seaglass is colder, and stiller, and quieter than before. All I can hear is the sound of ticking clocks in the hallway, and the gentle lapping of waves against the rocks outside. When I was a little girl, I used to imagine the sea coming in through the cracks in the walls, and the doors, and the windows, and rushing down the chimney while we slept in our beds, until Seaglass was full to the ceiling with seawater, and we were all floating and trapped inside. I used to imagine a lot of bad things happening to my family in this house, but only at night. I might not be a child anymore, but I am still afraid of the dark.
Conor stops on the landing and I notice that there is some chalk on his jeans. He sees it too and tries to brush it away. I don’t say anything. The door to my mother’s bedroom at the other end of the hall is slightly ajar. I freeze, and realize that I simply don’t have the right words for this situation. Conor, as though sensing my apprehension, steps forward and clears his throat. He knocks ever so gently, but the door swings open a little further, and despite the gloom, we can both see the shape of someone in bed. I don’t understand how anyone could have slept through Trixie’s screaming, but my mother has always been a deep sleeper. Never less than eight hours a night, or she thinks it will be bad for her skin. A good night’s sleep is something pills and alcohol have often helped her to achieve.