Exposure
I try not to think about what lies within.
It’s the coldness that’s the biggest shock. Many things are familiar: the wooden pews, the heavy scent of polish in the air, the thin light filtering through the stained-glass, the hushed way of talking that people adopt in churches even on happier occasions.
All this takes me back to my childhood: my parents would drag my sister and me along to the Sunday service at our parish church where the sermons were so dull we couldn’t wait to be excused to run, whispering and giggling with our friends to our respective meeting rooms.
I bite down on the thought, tasting its bitterness in my mouth.
There’s no giggling today, though there is plenty of whispering, people shuffling in their seats as they make room for friends and acquaintances.
I look around and wish I’d accepted the offer of a lift from the office. The thought of having to listen to the salesgirls’ chatter all the way here was more than I could bear but now, sitting here alone, I feel awkward and exposed.
I arrived early and chose my seat carefully: at the far end of the row, almost halfway back, at a respectful distance from the grieving family. The others came later and took their seats on the far side of the church. I glance over but they don’t see me. I sigh and turn my attention back to the front of the church.
A huge photograph of Linda looms over the closed casket. I try not to think about what lies within.
I’m still staring at the photograph when an old man shuffles his way along the bench to sit down beside me. I bend my head to feign prayer, but I can feel his eyes upon me. When I look up, sure enough, he reaches out a hand in greeting.
“Tom,” he says, his gaze unfaltering. “And you are?”
“Meg.”
He nods as if that means something to him, though I know it can’t. Linda and I may have shared an office, but that was all we shared. “Ruth will be glad you came.”
I frown and follow his gaze to the door, where a thin girl is deep in conversation with the vicar.
“And how did you know Linda?” I say.
He laughs. “Everyone knows Linda.”
I smile, though I’ve no idea what he means. I open my mouth to press him further, but the organ has started to play and the vicar begins making his way down the aisle. I close it again and join the rest of the congregation in standing.
I glance at my watch. Bang on time. With luck, I’ll make it back to the office before the sandwich van closes.
Ruth is standing by the door as we leave, shaking hands with each person who passes, repeating the invitation to join the family at Linda’s house. Her eyes look tired and red, but she seems genuine, nonetheless.
I have a smile and an apology on my lips but when I reach the front of the queue, I’m taken by surprise.
“And you must be Meg,” she says.
“Yes. How-?”
“Well, you absolutely must join us for the wake.”
“Oh, I-”
“Well, of course she’s joining us,” Tom cuts in from behind me.
“I-”
“I’m so glad,” Ruth says, bending to hug me. “There’s something Mum would have wanted you to have.”
“Really?” I swallow and fix a weak smile on my face. ”Well, in that case…”
“Come on then,” Tom says, taking my arm. “It’s not far, but these old legs won’t carry me there on my own.”
I glance over at my boss, who is staring at me in surprise, and shrug. I guess it doesn’t have to be for long.
Linda’s house is different from how I’d imagined, to the extent that I ever gave it any thought at all. The front room is decorated in a pink, floral print, with double doors that open out onto a well-tended garden at the back.
“Beautiful,” I find myself murmuring.
“Ah, yes, she had green fingers all right,” Tom says, settling himself onto the sofa. He pats the cushion next to him. I smile and take a seat.
The scent of coffee drifting through from the kitchen nudges at my memory. I can almost see Linda sitting at her desk, pouring a dark brew from her thermos flask. It was the one time in the day she would stop and talk, though she never revealed much about herself. How did I not know she had a daughter?
“And these are two of her paintings,” Tom says, pointing to two country scenes that adorn the walls. “Such a very talented lady. And so generous too, always thinking of others.”
I think of the prickly woman I knew, always nagging on at me to get out, to make friends, to get a life, and wonder whether I really knew her at all.
“So, have you got in touch with your parents yet?” Linda had been on typical form.
I sighed. “What?”
“Come on. You’ve got a face like a wet weekend. I’m not daft you know. It’s weeks since your mum called you.” She took a long sip of coffee. “Well? Don’t you want to speak to her?”
“How would you know what I want?”
Linda raised her eyebrows. “Seriously, Meg. What’s the problem?”
I didn’t answer.
“I mean, it’s up to you,” she said. “If you want to live your life like this-”
“Linda, please!”
“Fine!” She raised a hand to silence me. “Your choice. And maybe you’re right. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe she deserves it. Maybe. But do you deserve this?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“OK, so your boyfriend left you-”
“Fiancé.”
“Boyfriend, fiancé.” She shrugged. “And now you’ve fallen out with your mum. Right?”
I didn’t answer, but that didn’t stop her.
“What I’m saying is this: you only have one life. It’s up to you to choose how you live it. But don’t let it pass you by just because you’re too proud to make your peace with the past.”
I turned back to my computer, my eyes burning. I could feel the weight of her gaze upon me as she sipped her coffee, but she said no more. Would I have let her go on, I wonder, if I’d known it was to be the last time I saw her?
It’s a couple of hours before Ruth finally gets to me. “I’m sorry,” she says, shutting the door behind a small group of guests. There are just a few of us left, mainly family as far as I can tell.
I shuffle uncomfortably and adjust the smile on my face.
“I’ll go and dig it out now,” she says. I glance at my watch, hoping it doesn’t take too much digging.
To my relief, she’s back in two minutes, a piece of paper in her hand.
“Here,” she says, handing it to me.
I glance down at it and my breath catches in my throat. The pencil lines are bold and confident, but the subject is not. She is sad; her eyes gaze out of the page, revealing her vulnerability. I realise now how perceptive Linda really was. And I finally see myself through her eyes: lonely, stubborn, locked into a prison of my own making.
The tears well in my eyes, but it is not Linda I’m crying for but myself, for the years of pain and hurt, for the way I’ve been treated by others and the way I’ve treated myself.
I reach out my hand.
“Thank you,” I say and feel the warmth of Ruth’s skin against mine.
