The Last Werewolf (The Weres of Europe) (2 page)

A shiver of sadness went through her that she would never know. She reached for her sweatshirt and put it on, pulling the ends of the sleeves over her cold hands and wrapping her arms around her body.

Her mother, Emma, had died in a car accident when Summer was four, and her father was so distraught that he had never talked about his wife. Summer had never even seen a photo of her, but guessed she must take after her mother as she towered over her little, plump dad by at least six inches. And, bless his dark locks, her fair hair with red tones was clearly not from his side of the family.

She pulled her ponytail from behind her back to stare at her own hair. “Nope, nothing like Dad’s.”

“I’m sorry. Did you want something?”

Summer started and stared at the train attendant trundling the refreshment trolley down the aisle.

“Er. No. Just talking to myself.” The man gave her a patronizing look and continued on his way.

Frowning at the interruption to her thoughts, Summer tried to conjure up any long-forgotten memories of her mother, hoping by doing so that she could push away the grief that was threatening to overwhelm her, but it was really difficult. She could only dredge up about half a dozen snap-shot recollections, like her mother arriving back from visiting a friend one evening and Summer eagerly looking out of the window for her, hoping she would be home in time to tuck her into bed.

She looked over at a little girl who had recently got on and remembered with a smile that her mother had been wearing a very similar fluffy yellow cardigan over her shoulders, and in her child’s mind she had been awestruck thinking how grown up that had looked and how she envisaged wearing her own top just like that when she was an adult. But it was so strange as she couldn’t picture her mother’s face at all.

Summer also had no memory of how she had felt when her mother had died, but there had been instances in later life when she really needed a mum, like the first time a boy had dumped her. Her dad had shown no interest in any other women. But sometimes a girl just needed a woman to talk to, and a father just didn’t cut it. And so, with no mother-figure in her life, Summer had cried into her lonely pillow, hugging it tightly to her body.

Taking in a deep, calming, but wobbly, breath, she then wondered how Emma had reacted when she had found out she was married to a werewolf, and the chuckles that followed that thought nearly changed to abrupt sobs. Summer’s emotions were alternating back and forth so suddenly. Leaning her elbows on the pull-down tray, she hid her face between her fists, as if by holding herself this way she could avoid showing anything.

But her introspections wouldn’t abate. There was no way her sweet, quiet, well-read, adorable dad would have turned into anything that would frighten his new bride. If anything he would have shifted into a cuddly baa-lamb, and then Summer laughed hilariously out loud. The phrase ‘a wolf in sheep’s clothing’ would have been entirely appropriate to describe her father.

Her giggles abated when she got odd looks from the other people in her train carriage who had boarded at the last stop and taken the nearby seats, and she turned her face away, huddling in the corner away from prying eyes, tears falling down her face as the anguish at her loss finally overtook her.

****

It had taken some days, some very stressful, tense days, to start to get things sorted out. Thank goodness the funeral home was used to dealing with people whose emotional state was all awry. She found herself forgetting simple things like flowers for the service, until the undertaker had gently prompted her, and the
funeral went smoothly in the end, if very quiet, with just herself and a few of her father’s friends in attendance, although she had nearly giggled during the service.

One of his requests for the ceremony had been for the classical tune ‛Air on a G Strin
g’. She had laughed, but not because the music seemed inappropriate for a cremation. Indeed it was a standard request at the crematorium apparently.

No, when she had read that request she had laughed uproariously because all his life her dad had been a smoker and this had been the theme music for a well-known cigar advertisement some years ago.

“Just for you, Dad,” she silently mouthed.

But there seemed to be a hundred and one things to do to sort out his life. There was contacting all the services to cancel his accounts. Gas, electricity, water, TV, council tax, et cetera, but also the library, bank, dentist, newsagent, and the Friday club he attended were a few of the myriad agencies that needed communicating with. It was all overwhelming, but in some ways this helped her begin to come to terms with his death. At least that’s what she tried to convince herself, sometimes unsuccessfully.

Actually it did help her pull together her fractured thoughts, having so many things to think about, but it was the night times which were the worst, when she had nothing to stop the despair that she would never see him again, never talk to him again, that engulfed her.

Thankfully her father had paid off the mortgage on his home, so Summer didn’t have to contend with the worry about selling the property. At least not at this stage, which was good because this had been her childhood home. Wandering aimlessly, she had found herself drawn into certain rooms, remembering the fun times that had happened there. Like the one time she’d been using the beds as trampolines with a neighbor’s child, aged six, and her dad’s anger when he had found them—but only because he hadn’t been invited. And he had then proceeded to demonstrate to both girls how it was really done. Summer had laughed so hard that day she’d thought her lungs would burst.

As Summer had drifted into the kitchen in her ambles through the house, she ran a hand over the aging cooker recalling the secret birthday cake he had decided to bake for her 18th birthday and giggled at the memory. They had both been sitting in the lounge when she had suddenly been aware of something.

“Um, Dad,” she had said, sniffing the air, her animal olfactory senses being keener than most humans. “Is there something burning?”

He had cursed and jumped out of his chair like his pants were on fire, having forgotten all about the cake, and it was burnt to a cinder.

Unfortunately all this introspection led to her bursting into tears, and rushing out of the kitchen. She tried to tell herself she’d always have those memories, but another part of her knew she’d never be able to laugh over these things with him ever again, and she felt very depressed, particularly as there was no one else she could share them with.

Now she was trying to find some final documentation for the bank and was searching in what she called his document box, a big brown wooden box he kept under his bed. He had told her as a child quite forcibly never to open it because he kept important documents in there, but now she had to. She had felt guilty opening it, but was glad she had nonetheless because the first thing she had found was his Will which had helped with her dealings with the bank.

The final record she was now after was her mother’s death certificate which the bank needed because some of her father’s affairs had, apparently, been linked to her mum’s, a joint insurance policy or something. Summer gritted her teeth in irritation that he had left her to sort all this out, and then felt remorse for doing so.

As she searched she sorted the items into several piles, old bills that could be binned, documents she needed to keep, and memorabilia she wasn’t prepared to get rid of yet, like his certificate for twenty-five years of service at the engineering firm he had worked at. He had been so proud of it.

In some ways having all these things to deal with helped keep back the grief, but finding things like a card she had made him for Father’s Day when she was seven were heart-wrenching. It was made out of a cut-out egg crate painted yellow and stuck to a card to represent daffodils. It was tough on her fragile emotions to see this visible proof of the past she and her dad had had together. Summer had gone through one box of tissues and two toilet rolls yesterday before she had decided she couldn’t do it anymore and had to put the box aside.

Taking a deep calming breath, she now started again.

“You can do this, girl. You’re British, stiff upper lip and all that.” Reaching into the box she pulled out the first item on the top.

Bill for dry cleaners. Okay, that can be binned.

Last electricity bill. That needs checking to see if it has been paid.

Invoice stamped ‘paid’ from the funeral home for her mother. It was not really necessary to keep as it had been so long ago, but she wasn’t prepared to throw it out.

Program from a show she had attended with her dad last Christmas. Definitely not necessary to keep, but no way was she throwing it out. She smiled through her tears, remembering how much they had enjoyed that production of
‛
The Hound of the Baskervilles.
’ She had threatened teasingly to howl along with the actor voicing the cries of the hound. Her dad had given her such a horrifying look of ‛Don’t you dare’ that she had snickered through the following moments of suspense. Oh
yes, she had enjoyed that production, although she wasn’t sure her dad had.

Receipt from the supermarket. That went in the bin.

Purple ribbon, somewhat tatty. She frowned at this one as she had no recollection of ever having had such a ribbon. She shook her head, and put it in the bin collection.

Photo of a pretty blonde woman wearing such a ribbon standing next to her smiling father.

Summer frowned. So that was where the ribbon came from, and she quickly dug the ribbon back out of the bin, to hold on to as a keepsake, although she wasn’t quite sure why she felt an urge to do that. She considered the picture further. It was an old photo, and it wasn’t of anyone she recognized. She idly turned it over.
Emma
. That was all it said.

“Oh my God. That’s my mother.” She sucked in a gasp and with a trembling hand ran a finger over the portrait. “I knew she was fair haired. I just knew it.” He had kept no pictures of her. He had never really explained why. To see her mother’s face now after all these years...tears threatened to fall on the precious picture, so she clasped it to her chest for a brief, heart-wrenching second before laying it aside and then gathered a heap of tissues in her hands. Bending her head, she let it all go.

Some time later, having finished her outburst, feeling better for it, and having poured herself a large glass of wine, she returned to the bedroom to finish her task, smiling at the picture she had carefully laid on her father’s pillow. Her eyes kept getting drawn back to it, her curiosity as to her mother’s image being so strong, but she sighed, knowing she’d never finish the task if she didn’t concentrate. She was so pleased to finally have something of her mother and to know what she looked like.

Standing with wine in one hand, she reached into the box. The next item was an envelope. A very yellowed envelope, indicating it had been there a long time. It wasn’t that which surprised her, but the fact that it was addressed to her.

Why on earth would her father have a letter in his box for her? And why hadn’t he ever given it to her? Her brain flooded with questions she couldn’t answer. She shook her head. Well, there was only one way to find out. She had to open the letter, so she lay the glass down on the nearby chest of drawers.

To my darling tyttärentytär (granddaughter) Summer,

I am so sad that I cannot be there to hold you in my arms. My Emma sent me valokuva, photograph I think that word is. You are so beautiful, just like Emma when she was baby. She is so happy you are born. Never did I think she would take husband. And now she has lovely daughter
.

“Granddaughter? This is from my grandmother?”

Utterly surprised, Summer glanced up at the address on the letter, having skimmed straight past it to read the body of the letter, and suddenly her legs gave way, and she slumped onto the chair. The address was in
Finland
.

“I have a Finnish grandmother? Wha—” Her jaw dropped in amazement. “Oh my God, that means my mother was Finnish too. Shit. Hell. Why didn’t Dad ever tell me?” She puzzled, and then laughed out loud. “Well, that explains my—our—fair coloring!”

Returning to the letter, her heart beat faster at the thought of having relatives again. Her father had been an only child, and his parents had died before she was born. She knew that her father had been about twenty years older than her mother.

I cry that you are so far away, but there are reasons why Emma will not come home. However, I think of you every day
.

Summer frowned wondering what on earth the reason was that her mother had been unable to return to home, to
Finland
. There were so many possibilities. Perhaps she had run out of money and left for another country to find her fortune there. Or perhaps she had left her motherland for a man, falling in love and romantically abandoning her former life. Or maybe she had been in some kind of trouble, like protesting against firearm companies or fighting against global warming, or robbing a bank, or what if she was an international spy being hunted by James Bond and his ilk? She chuckled. There were indeed so many potential options, it was extremely intriguing.