The Other Ida (30 page)

Chapter thirty-three

~ 1999 ~

“So it was true. It actually happened,” said Alice.

“Well, she made it simpler and more dramatic of course, with the chorus and all that malarkey. And she swapped our names,” said Agnes. “I mean, in the play, Ida's the strong, angry one and Kate – of course your mother's middle name was Catherine – well, she was weak.”

“Catherine,” said Alice, “of course. I never thought. But why did she swap them?”

“She did always prefer mine,” Agnes said, pouring them all another cup of tea.

“You think it was as simple as that? Nothing was simple with Ma,” Ida said.

“No,” said Agnes, “Not really. I always thought that she really felt like I killed the old her. I mean, she was the one – of the two of us – who was never the same person after what happened that day. She walked straight out of the sea, out of her life, she didn't even take her suitcase. Common old Bridie Catherine was the one who actually drowned.”

“Look at this,” Ida said, searching for the photocopied letter and handing it to Agnes. “She said she named me after you. I think that's what she meant.”

Agnes read it and started to cry.

“So I don't have a murderer's name after all,” Ida said.

Alice leant over and touched her cheek.

Chapter thirty-four

~ 1999 ~

The sisters waited on the pavement outside the church for them to bring the coffin, clutching each other's hands so hard it almost hurt.

Although it was sunny they were both shivering and Peter was rubbing them up and down in turn like they were children. His eyes were wet already and Ida felt that she should be the one comforting him.

Ida hadn't been to St. Luke's in years. It was ugly, a green domed roof on the edge of an estate, like some kind of asphalt hill. It was nicer inside if she remembered rightly, pine and candles and lots of space. The area was bleak though – a wide, busy road lined with battered red council houses. Cars were driving past, passengers staring out at them as they waited, and the few pedestrians gawped as they shuffled past.

Agnes had gone inside.

From around the corner Ida saw her father and Terri walking towards them, both neat and perfect in black suits, Terri brushing their father's jacket with the palm of her hand. They came up to the girls and embraced them, Terri's scent stronger than ever, as though she was trying to ward off a plague.

“Shall I go in?” asked Terri.

“No,” said Ida. “Wait out here with us – you're our family.”

“Where is she?” asked Bryan, looking frail and completely confused. Ida knew he meant Agnes – he'd cried when Ida had told him on the phone. She pointed towards the church.

“She thought it was better for her to wait there. She thought we should be on our own for this bit,” Ida said.

Other people started arriving – women Ida vaguely knew from mass years before, Martin and Tash, Claire from Chalk Farm, then some of their mother's local friends who Ida could tell from Alice's expression hadn't been near Bridie for years.

“If they're hoping some celebrities might show up, they'll be sorely disappointed,” said Ida.

Alice started to shake with silent laughter.

Then Mrs Dewani from the corner shop grasped them both, then entered the church, sobbing loudly and blowing her nose, leaving the two women unable to contain themselves.

“She should be sobbing,” whispered Alice. “She's a bloody Spar murderess! I bet Ma paid for that hat in red wine.”

“Ma paid for her bloody house,” Ida said.

Peter poked her in the ribs and they all started laughing properly, while Terri coughed and tried to get them to be quiet.

Father Patrick came out in his black vestments and hugged them all, as doddery as he'd always been. He knew better than to be sorry. “She's at peace, thank the Lord she's at peace,” he told them. “And well done to you two girls. You are two living miracles. If she wasn't proud of you before she will be when she looks down.”

“Thank you,” said Ida.

“We'll do a good job for her, I promise you,” he said. “Lots of Latin, lots of drama. I stocked up on incense especially. I'm not even joking.”

The hearse came round the corner and Ida took a deep breath, realising that she was scared.

As it drew nearer she could see the woven willow coffin in the back. In it lay her mother's body – she hadn't expected it would be so close. She was surprised by the sharp pain in her throat.

Beside her she felt Alice weep, her arm shaking as they held hands. She looked at Peter and saw tears running down his face.

Across the road an old lady crossed herself and Ida bowed her head to show she was grateful.

The car stopped next to them and the men from Hendon's lifted the coffin out, placing it easily onto their shoulders as though it were empty. Father Patrick led them inside and Alice whimpered as they followed into the cool, dim church.

The congregation turned to look, bowing their heads or crossing themselves as the body went past. Ida couldn't stop imagining her mother inside. How light had she been when she died? She wished she could see her, though she wasn't quite sure why – whether it was morbid fascination or a genuine desire to be with her one last time.

Ida and Alice genuflected, followed Peter into a row at the front, knelt down and closed their eyes.

Alice tapped Ida's leg and she knew it was time for her reading. She'd been finding it hard to follow the mass. Father Patrick had spoken beautifully about Bridie – been funny and sad, but lots of the rest of it was in Latin and the pain in her stomach was back. She was feeling woozy as well – a combination, she guessed, of the Valium, incense and everything she'd learnt that morning.

She got up and squeezed her way down the row, bowed and walked past the coffin, brushing it with the hem of her dress as she stepped up to the pulpit.

She cleared her throat.

“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven, a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted, a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up, a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”

There was a bang as the door at the back of the church opened and a small blonde woman, wearing sunglasses, walked in, saying ‘sorry' loudly before finding a place in an empty row. People turned to look at her and Ida noticed two women whispering to each other behind their mass cards about the new arrival.

Ida cleared her throat again, pointedly. “A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.”

The blonde woman clapped three times, then laughed when no one else joined in.

Ida came down from the pulpit, turned, touched her mother's coffin with her fingers, and squeezed back into her row.

“Who is that? At the back?” Ida asked her sister.

“Fuck – I mean God – I mean fuck knows,” said Alice.

The service finished with Ave Maria, then they followed the coffin back outside into the sunlight and the waiting cars. Ida told Alice she was going to the loo, ran round the side of the church and lit a cigarette, leaning against the wall, not sure that she'd ever been so grateful for a fag and five seconds to herself. There were footsteps on the concrete and she peered along the alley, worried it might be Alice. But instead she saw the woman who'd come in late, smiling, with her arms outstretched.

“Ida! It's me. Annie.”

Ida peered at her. Surely it couldn't be. Despite her taut face this woman looked old and truly strange, her lips puffy and her skin slightly shiny.

But as she got closer Ida realised it actually could be her. “Fucking hell. What are you doing here?”

They hugged.

“I'm on tour with
Anything Goes
. We're in Bournemouth tonight. I kind of thought it was meant to be. Your mother was so cool.” She reached out for Ida's cigarette and took a drag. “You look shocked.”

“I am – really, really shocked.”

In fact Ida knew she looked ridiculous – gormless, unable to form a sentence in front of her even after all these years. And she knew she was staring, it was impossible not to stare – her face looked like it was made out of wax. All those years she had desperately wanted to see her and now, here she was – wobbling on her ridiculous heels and smoking Ida's Lambert and Butler.

Ida heard her name shouted from the front of the church. “Annie – I have to go to the burial. You'll come to the house, yes? Please do. We won't be long.”

There were a few of them at the graveside, huddled around the nondescript plot and listening to Father Patrick as the cars sped by behind them. Alice was twitching and Ida knew she was upset about the spot, wished she'd made more of an effort and found somewhere nicer, underneath a tree or at least further away from the road.

The coffin was haltingly lowered into the grave and Alice threw the first handful of earth, sobbing openly, Tom holding her back as though she might jump in.

Then it was Ida. As she picked up a handful of cool soil she thought of how her mother had looked when they'd left the hospital all those years ago, shaking and magnificent in her tattered camel coat. She closed her eyes and heard the leaves rustling around them, louder, perhaps, than the noise of the road if you bothered to listen properly.

Agnes went next, Peter holding her arm as she leant to pick up the earth, Bryan gazing at her, amazed from the other side of the grave. “I'm so sorry,” she said loudly towards the coffin.

“She was too,” said Ida, surprising herself by speaking out loud and realising that everyone was looking at her. “I know she was. Trust me. Her whole life was a bloody apology.”

They pulled into the drive to find cars were already there – the caterers had started letting people in. Ida jogged up the steps, desperate for a drink, relieved that it was finally all over.

The door was on the latch and she walked straight through to the sitting room. Annie and Elliot were side-by-side on the sofa, with a glass each and an almost empty bottle of red wine on the coffee table.

Ida winced, confused and annoyed. “What the fuck are you doing here – not you Annie. Elliot?”

He stood up. “Shit, sorry about all of that. I know it sounds crap but I can explain everything, I promise. I was going to show you all of it.”

Ida shook her head and walked back out the room and into the kitchen. She realised she was shaking.

“Hey Ida, relax – have a drink,” Annie shouted.

There were crates of wine piled up on top of each other and Ida picked the nearest bottle, filled up a huge Christmas mug, and downed it. She did the same thing twice more until the bottle was nearly empty.

More guests were arriving and Ida could hear Alice and the others chatting away to Annie, unaware of what it was, exactly, that Elliot had done.

Peter walked into the kitchen. “Princess – what are you doing? Don't get pissed and make a banana of yourself. I know it's awful – we all feel awful – but this isn't going to make it better. Do you want me to ask him to leave? Is that it? I can do it now, I can be quite scary when I want to be.”

“It's fine,” she said, hugging him. “I can handle it. Honestly.”

She walked back into the room smiling as broadly as she could, carrying two bottles of Chablis, ignoring Elliot who was sitting in a corner, still talking to Annie. Agnes, Bryan and Terri were sitting together, and Terri was coping remarkably well with him having his hand on Agnes' knee. Alice was standing near the food with Father Patrick, piling sandwiches onto his plate. She didn't seem to be eating herself but had a near empty glass of wine which Ida filled up.

More people came into the sitting room – some of the women from church, Martin and Tash, still tiny and simpering – but Ida managed to avoid most of them, drinking glass after glass of wine, talking to Peter mainly. Why wouldn't Elliot leave? The pain was back – somewhere near her womb – and she felt hot and irritated by everything and everyone. She wished she could go to sleep. This should have been a great opportunity to get pissed and relax, but this thing with Elliot was ruining everything. Annie seemed bloody enchanted by him! She'd barely looked Ida's way since she'd arrived.

Alice was on the sofa now, her head resting on Bryan's shoulder.

“She's a little worse for wear,” he mouthed up at Ida.

“Oh shit,” said Ida, remembering the pill she'd given her that morning, “She'll be okay.”

Some flash old drinking friends of Bridie's had crowded round Annie now, their backs to the rest of the room, blow-dried hair bobbing as they laughed, delighted to be meeting someone even a little bit famous and she could hear Elliot telling some anecdote.

She felt sick – she needed to stop this urgently. She walked upstairs.

They'd left a small space around Ida and for the last few minutes had faced her almost silently as she struggled to make the projector work, tutting under her breath at the unhealthy sounding clicks and whirrs which were coming from the machine. The curtains were drawn, it was difficult to see and she stumbled as she fiddled clumsily with the machine, refusing help from Agnes or Peter or anyone else. She was unsteady in heels at the best of times and there was the occasional clink of her glass as she knocked it against the metal box. By Ida's feet were two tins of film.

The chairs and TV had been shoved into the corner and on the bare wall there was a trembling yellow square, splattered with shifting brown shapes.