Summer With My Sister (17 page)

She was wearing an old T-shirt and a pair of indigo Diesel jeans that had somehow become so baggy on her that she’d had to cinch them in tight with a belt. The sunshine felt pleasingly baking on her bare arms, and after only a few moments she found herself raising her face to its heat, like a flower unfurling. Gorgeous. If one could ignore the hideous modern bungalows on either side and the eyesore caravans (as well as the Marauder, she’d also spotted one called ‘Swift’; were the manufacturers
serious
?), she could almost be in Provence or Tuscany, the scent of lavender tickling her nostrils, a meadow of poppy fields on the horizon, a row of cypress trees swaying tipsily on the breeze . . .

The lead jerked as Sissy stopped abruptly. Polly turned and saw her squatting to crap on the pavement, and the vision of paradise vanished in an instant. Ugh. Disgusting. What was she meant to do with
that
? She hadn’t brought any doggy bags with her, hadn’t even thought about such things. She dug into the pocket of her jeans, hoping there’d be something in there that she could use to wrap the turd in, in order to dispose of it. This was definitely the sort of place that was heavy on Neighbourhood Watch. If she dared walk away from Sissy’s deposit, there would be twitching lace curtains and hands on hips. A local vigilante might even come knocking on her parents’ door that evening. ‘Thought I should bring it your attention that . . .’

Bloody hell! Stupid dog. Why had she been such a sucker as to fall for those pleading brown eyes in the first place? Now look what she had to deal with.

She dug further into her pockets (a used tissue, no, too small), before finally pulling out a long till receipt for lunch and drinks at the Bluebird on the King’s Road, dated March, the last time she’d worn these jeans. That’s right, it had been her birthday lunch, she remembered now. She’d stayed away from the office on Saturday for once and had asked a couple of colleagues to join her there. Somehow she’d ended up paying for everyone, though. That wasn’t right, was it, when it was her actual birthday? Over two hundred quid, she’d spent, according to the till receipt. It had meant nothing to her at the time, of course, but now the sun made her feel ill. How could she have flung money around so brazenly? Two hundred pounds, just for lunch, for people she didn’t even particularly like. She thought about how her parents always snipped out every money-off coupon from the newspaper, how they hunted down bargains and patched up any broken items, rather than buying replacements. Worst of all, she’d looked down on them for doing it.

The receipt in her hand felt like something she wanted to hide, something she never wanted them to see. Which was just as well really, considering what she was about to do with it.

‘All this is fit for, Sissy,’ she muttered, ‘is your shit. Fit for shit, you could say.’ Sissy turned away as if maintaining her dignity, while Polly gingerly manoeuvred the receipt under the offending article; ugh, it was still warm; she was
this
close to vomiting everywhere. Somehow (thank God) she managed to shovel it up with the paper and tipped the revolting parcel into the nearest wheelie bin.

Gross. She shuddered, feeling dirty and germ-ridden, and it was all she could do to go on walking. ‘Don’t do that again,’ she told Sissy sternly as they continued along the road. ‘I mean it. No more poos, thank you very much. Otherwise I regret to inform you that it’ll be dog pie for dinner tonight.’

Sissy barked cheerfully – probably at the word ‘dinner’ – and Polly shook her head. This was not turning out to be the relaxing stroll she had anticipated.

Further along the lane they went. Now she was venturing into more familiar ground, and Polly glanced warily from side to side, recognizing friends’ houses that she’d been into as a girl. There was Catherine Woolley’s house, with the white garage and staring windows. The one opposite was where Peter Brooks had lived, she remembered. He’d been friends with her brother, and Polly had always detested his annoying, gappy-toothed grin and freckly face. He and Michael had pelted her with water-bombs in the garden one time when Peter had been round to play, and she could vividly remember the shock of being splattered in the face, drenched right through her T-shirt and shorts; could almost hear their joyful guffaws, her furious scream of ‘MU-U-U-UM!’ Little sods.

Thinking of Michael brought a pain to her chest, a pain that swelled and expanded like an inflating balloon. She never usually thought about her brother, preferred to block him right out of her head. Coming back here seemed to be sparking off all sorts of memories, though, things she hadn’t thought about for years.

He’d always been laughing, Michael. That was what she remembered most about him. Right from when he was little, he’d had the most joyous, pealing laugh of anyone she’d ever met. Happy-go-lucky, they’d written in his school reports. He loved life, the newspaper report had said.

She swallowed, blinking back the tears. Oh God.
Michael
. What would he be doing now, if he hadn’t died? He’d been good at sports and making things – he’d loved helping their dad fiddle with the car engine, the two of them spending hours in the garage together. ‘A proper little grease monkey,’ Graham would say proudly when they emerged, both covered in oil and beaming with satisfaction. Michael was good at art too, and had painted an enormous silver, red and black mural on his bedroom wall: a wild, glorious mix of patterns and motifs.

‘You’ll be the one painting over it, if we ever need to sell this house,’ their parents had warned, as the mural grew and grew.

But he’d been dead by the time the house went on the market. And it was all Polly’s fault.

She dashed away the tears as she walked.
Don’t think about him
, she urged herself.
Block it out. It’s ancient history – just leave it alone
.

She was nearly at the centre of the village. There was the old church and the churchyard on her left, the cluster of shops just afterwards. She could hardly remember what she was doing here now. The so-called fresh air seemed to be choking her.

Up ahead, an elderly lady was coming towards her, dressed in faded blue slacks and a long-sleeved beige top. She had owlish spectacles and short silvery-grey hair cut in a bob, and there was a jaunty-looking Jack Russell at her side.

Polly’s heart thumped as she eyed the woman through her sunglasses. There was something familiar about her; she’d definitely met her somewhere before.

The lady was peering down at Sissy, seeming to recognize her, and said something to her dog.
Oh look, here comes Sissy
, Polly imagined her saying, and a feeling of horror spread through her. Oh no. Here we go. The lady’s eyes were gleaming and fixed on Polly now, an extra crease lining her forehead as she tried to place her.

Sensing an interrogation looming only seconds away, Polly veered off quickly through the lychgate of the churchyard and hurried inside. Phew. That was a close one. That was really close. The old woman had been practically opening her mouth to call out to her.
Are you . . . are you
Karen and Graham’s daughter? I heard something about you coming back, how lovely!

Polly put her arms around herself in relief and hurried along the path that cut through the neatly mown grass. The churchyard was a pretty, peaceful place. A gnarled yew tree spread its branches in the far left corner, making a gentle sighing sound as a breeze lifted and then dropped its limbs. Lichen-covered headstones, some shaped like Celtic crosses, others great slabs of stone with crumbling, curving tops, sprouted randomly in the grass. You could hardly read the names on the oldest stones, for their inscriptions had been weathered away by the centuries of wind and rain, but some dated back to the eighteenth century.

All those people who’d died, and been mourned for here. All those tears shed on this patch of earth, the church bells tolling sombrely in the background through funeral after funeral, loss after loss. It made Polly shiver, even though the sun was still sending out a scorching heat and she realized, with dismay, that she was heading for the so-called Garden of Remembrance, where her brother’s ashes had been interred.

She knew her parents came here regularly to sit in the garden and speak to their lost son as if he was still part of the family. She hadn’t been back once since the dreadful day of the funeral, though. Every Christmas for years after, her mum and dad had encouraged her to visit the grave in some horrible mawkish act of sentimentality, but Polly had refused each time. What was the point? Michael was gone. Standing on the ground where his ashes had been buried wouldn’t change anything. He was still never coming back.

‘Excuse me? Er . . . excuse me?’

Polly turned blindly at the sound of the voice. A pink-faced man was hurrying towards her with an air of apology. ‘I’m afraid dogs aren’t allowed in the churchyard,’ he said, clasping his hands together in front of him. ‘Would you mind tying – ?’ Then he broke off, peering down at the terrier. ‘Oh, is that Sissy? Are you Karen and Graham’s daughter?’

Curses.

‘Yes,’ she muttered.

He thrust out a large pink hand. ‘Joseph Mullins. I’m the vicar here at Elderchurch. Very nice to meet you. Are you here to see our Remembrance Garden?’

‘Er . . .’ She was so distracted by his vigorous handshake that she was temporarily lost for words. ‘Yes,’ she mumbled eventually. It felt churlish not to.

‘Let me take Sissy for you then,’ he said. ‘I’ll tie her up at the gate, okay? You just go on ahead to the garden – it’s right at the back of the church.’ He took the lead out of her hand, then shook his head, as if irritated with himself. ‘What am I saying; of course you know where it is. Sissy will be perfectly safe at the front gate, all right?’

And before she could reply he had walked away with the dog and she was left there on her own.

Oka-a-ay. She really had to do this then. Thanks, Vicar. Thanks for pushing me into doing the one thing I didn’t want to. Her stomach churned.
It’s just a garden
, she told herself. She’d sit there for ten minutes and go home again. And, looking on the bright side, at least nobody would disturb her there.

She walked around the back of the church and followed the path to a walled garden, pushed open the sturdy wooden gate and went in. Her heart banged inside her ribcage and she had to force herself to breathe normally. It’s just a
garden
, she reminded herself again. Don’t start freaking out.

The gate clicked shut behind her, but she hardly noticed. She stood there motionless for a few moments, letting her eyes wander about the space, her hands curled in defensive fists by her sides. The garden wasn’t huge – about twenty feet square – but it was a riot of colour, with flower-filled borders all the way around. There was an apple tree and what she thought might be a plum tree, and a pretty wooden gazebo and bench, which had both been painted a soft green. There was a stone birdbath in the centre with a single white petal floating on the puddle of water there.

She walked slowly around the path, gazing at the tall, creamy lilies, the papery blue flowers of love-in-a-mist, the pom-pom-like dahlias, the first yellow roses with a blush of pink at the base of their petals, and the sprawling mauve hydrangeas. It was beautiful. Heavenly.

When she reached the gazebo she paused and then, as if her body was moving of its own will, lowered herself to the bench inside and sat there, breathing in the mingled flower scents and watching the bees weave patterns through a robust-looking buddleia.

Her mouth opened, her lips feeling dry. ‘Hello Michael,’ she whispered, holding her hands tightly in her lap. ‘I . . . I’m sorry I haven’t been around much. But I never stopped thinking about you.’

Tears plopped from her face onto her hands. Her fingers were trembling.
If that vicar dares come in now, I won’t be able to bear it
, she thought fiercely. She imagined herself screaming at him to get out, to mind his own business, to leave her alone, peppering her language with all sorts of words that shouldn’t be used in a churchyard.

He didn’t appear, though. There was nothing to be heard except the faint soughing of the wind and the musical rattle of the branches on either side of her.

After a few minutes she felt herself relax. She leaned back against the bench and shut her eyes.
I’m sorry, Michael
, she said in her head.
I’m so very sorry. I’ll never stop missing you
.

The wind caressed her face and it felt for a moment like the touch of a hand. She opened her eyes, but there was no one there. Just a pale-yellow butterfly that drifted over the wall and away.

Michael had been sixteen when he died. It had happened one Thursday in March, just an ordinary, average, drizzly March day, with no portentous bolts of lightning or bone-shaking earthquakes to herald his last day on earth. He’d had a bad headache for about a week, and Karen had booked him a doctor’s appointment for the Friday, after he’d complained about the pain for several days. ‘I’ve had migraines myself,’ she’d said, dosing him up with more paracetamol. ‘They’re horrible things. You stay in bed and try to sleep.’