Having wiped her fingers down the front of her dressing gown, she peeled the sticky flap of the envelope, pulled out the rather dull card and read:
Victoria,
What a rotten gap there now is in the world.
Gerald
It made her smile, the utterly perfect summary of the situation. Victoria read it twice before letting out an almost primal yell. She wasn’t fully aware of how loudly she had shouted, but Daksha came running in.
‘What’s the matter? Are you okay?’ She dropped to the floor at the side of the sofa and placed her hands on Victoria’s knees.
‘I can’t stand it! I miss her, Daks! I need her here. I don’t have anyone else. I’m all on my own!’
‘I know. I know.’ Her friend patted her back and kissed her head. ‘It will get easier, I promise.’
‘I have never done anything without her; she has been there every day of my life when I wake up and when I go to sleep, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do without her!’
‘You’ve got me. And right now you should come to the kitchen. I am eating all the ice cream.’
Victoria managed a small laugh, grateful as ever for the presence of her friend.
‘I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the thought of not seeing her again.’ She howled again, until her voice fell silent. ‘Sorry, Daks, not quite sure where that came from.’
‘It’s good to let it out.’
Victoria laughed a little at the banality of her condolence. ‘Will you come to see the solicitor with me and help me organise the funeral?’
‘Yes, you already asked me that, honey.’
‘I did?’ Victoria’s thoughts were foggy.
‘You did, and you know I will, and Mum said she’d help too – whatever you need. You know that. Anything.’
‘I could do with a cup of tea.’ She smiled at her friend, who leapt up to go and pop the kettle on.
THREE
Mr Dobson’s name was engraved on a brass plaque outside the solicitor’s office, which Victoria entered with caution. Their meeting was calm and business-like and an entirely new experience for the teen. Typically, Prim had set out her wishes for her funeral and left the monies in a separate fund. The solicitor was kind and respectful when delivering her gran’s instructions and pointing Victoria in the right direction. She was grateful at least that, with Mr Dobson in her corner, she knew she wouldn’t have to worry about the paperwork, small print and all the other horrible and complex aspects of life’s administration to which she was less than accustomed yet which had now been thrust upon her.
He had been explicit and formal when informing her of the contents of her gran’s will, confirming what Prim had told her on several occasions in passing, that Rosebank, all of its contents, all money and investments et cetera were to go to her. She nodded, knowing his voice was going into detail, but try as she might, she drifted in and out of concentration. I can’t believe this is happening to me . . . Not that she could even think about money right now, but when she did, strangely, the strongest feeling was not one of joy or even relief but instead worry at the weight of the responsibility that came from being in such a position. How would she manage a house the size of Rosebank all alone? It was an odd feeling, knowing she could sell the house or paint it purple or fill it with fairy lights – anything. She had been saving like crazy to enable her travels, but now? She supposed that ample funds were just sitting in an account, not that it meant anything; the desire to travel and have fun had left her on the day Prim passed away.
Victoria lay in the bath and let the now tepid water lap her skin. She had washed her hair and scrubbed her face, and that had taken all her energy. There was even a fleeting thought that she might just stay hiding here and let the day take its natural course; after all, who would care? It wasn’t as if she needed to be there to support anyone else; she was the only one who needed supporting and the deep water in the safety of the bathroom was doing that just fine. She sat up, knowing how disapproving Gerald would be if she hid the day away and in turn how much that would bother Prim. The glass shelf above the wide pedestal sink groaned under the weight of her gran’s jars and bottles. Chanel No5, of course, but also Guerlain body lotion, lily-of-the-valley- scented talcum powder and a glass-lidded jar that at first glance looked like it might contain sweets but was in fact stuffed with cotton wool balls in the colours of sugared almonds. She thought now that she had never seen the contents depleted or restored.
‘When am I supposed to throw your things away? Do I have to? Is it weird to live with them from now on? I don’t know the rules, and I don’t know who to ask. I don’t even know what to wear today.’ She spoke aloud, thinking of her mum’s old bedroom, that was such in name only and no longer contained any of her things. Victoria had spent a little bit of time in there, more so when she was younger, hoping to glean a sense of the woman. Prim would always snap at her to get out, which would be followed by an inevitable bout of tears; this Victoria more than understood – not only did Prim not like snapping at her, but she supposed that, like her, her gran pretended Sarah was behind the door and to have the door opened only confirmed her very worst fears.
It was a solitary room with an unmade bed and old curtains, and it felt sad, as if it carried the knowledge of loss in its very fabric. The thought of removing the everyday objects that made this house their home was horrible. ‘I don’t want to go today, Prim. I don’t want to walk into that church and I don’t want to see your coffin. I don’t want to say goodbye to you. I’m not ready. I miss you and I miss my mum and I miss my dad and I miss Grandpa – I miss you all, so, so much.’ Lying back in the water once more, she closed her eyes and let her tears fall, hoping that they might run out before she got to the church; the prospect of crying like this in public was not one she relished.
Victoria sniffed and smiled as she climbed from the back seat of the Joshis’ blue Mercedes.
‘Okay, love?’ Mrs Joshi placed a hand in the small of her back as they walked up the path to the wide church door.
Victoria nodded.
The church was half empty. Daksha had reminded her when they studied the rather frugal invitation list, scribbled at the kitchen table, that when you got to Prim’s age, many of the people who would happily have graced your funeral – family, friends, colleagues and acquaintances – had themselves died. This fact offered some small solace that, whilst her gran’s funeral might be sparsely attended, she had beaten a lot of them by surviving longer.
Victoria knew without a doubt that Prim would rather have had those extra years than crowded pews. But this too made her think about her own situation. She was not old, and yet, were she to die, apart from Daksha, who would mourn her? There were no parents, no grandparents, no siblings or cousins. It felt as if she were alone in the universe. Looking up at the ornate ceiling of the church, she wished things were different and tried to swallow the sob that had built in her chest, this time not for her loss, but for all that was missing in her life. It felt indulgent and misplaced and she bit the inside of her cheek to suppress it.
Gerald looked bereft, poor thing, but still dapper in his navy suit and waistcoat. Mr Maitland, who lived at the end of their lane, supported him physically. He had cried when he saw Victoria and it pulled at her heart.