A couple of weeks later marked the third anniversary of Tilly’s mother’s death, and the first she’d spent with her father. She’d intended to come down to be with him for the first anniversary, but she’d been recovering from one of her miscarriages. And then having missed the first, although she’d phoned him and remembered her mum in her own way, it hadn’t seemed right to be with him on the second anniversary. But here she was now, for the third, and they’d planned to go and lay flowers on her mother’s memorial plaque, in the churchyard where her ashes had been buried.
It had been cancer, the dreaded ‘C’ word, that had taken away Tilly’s mum. An aggressive form of cancer of the colon. Margaret had been one of those people who didn’t like to ‘bother the doctor with little upsets’ as she’d so often said. So when she had ‘a bit of a tummy ache’ and ‘some trouble on the toilet’ as she’d put it, she’d dismissed it as nothing to worry about, caused by something she’d eaten. It was only when Ken, concerned by her rapid weight loss and her clear discomfort, frog-marched her to the doctor’s surgery one day that she was diagnosed. By then the cancer had already spread but was considered possibly still treatable. She had a round of chemotherapy followed by surgery, but then came the unwelcome news, relayed to Tilly by her father on the phone, his words punctuated by anguished sobs, that there was secondary cancer elsewhere in her body, and that only palliative care was possible now.
‘Put Mum on,’ Tilly had said, feeling her world collapsing around her. It was only two months since her ectopic pregnancy. Mum had been so supportive through that, despite being so ill herself. Tilly had refused to consider the cancer would be terminal. It was her mum, she’d survive, she’d have the surgery and come through it, she had to! But no, her dad’s words meant she had to face her worst fears.
‘Mum? Dad just told me … I can’t believe it. Oh, Mum!’
‘Shh, love. It’s all right. I’ve had a good life. Look at me, I’m 64, that’s not a bad innings. You’re not to fret about it. It’s not good for you, not so soon after your … troubles.’
‘But, Mum, 64 is no age. Can’t they—’
‘No, love. There’s nothing more. They’ll make sure I’m comfortable and that it doesn’t hurt. These painkillers are marvellous. I feel perfectly all right, you know! They’re going to send round Macmillan nurses later on, to help your dad. I don’t want you to worry about it. I keep telling Ken that, too. He’s worrying for nothing. We should be making the most of the time we have left together.’
‘Yes, we should. Can I come down to visit this weekend?’
‘Of course, love. Any time.’
She’d gone, she remembered, every weekend possible from then until … the end. Ian came with her only once. Mum had declined rapidly, and rather than being a few months as Tilly and her father had expected, it was only three weeks before Margaret was moved into a hospice, and seven days later she died, with Tilly and Ken at her side, holding a hand each as she breathed her last. There was a vase of freesias, Margaret’s favourites, scenting the room. A radio was playing in the room, tuned to Classic FM, where some lovely, peaceful music accompanied her on her final journey. Tilly had always meant to write to the radio station and find out what they were playing at the moment of her mother’s death, but somehow never got around to it. She’d left the hospice with Ken that day, and driven him home, all the while his head was shaking as he repeated, ‘What am I going to do without her? I never thought she’d go first, never.’ It was going to take him a long time to adjust to life alone, Tilly realised.
She stayed with him two days, left for a week to return to work, then came back for two more days either side of Margaret’s funeral. Ian accompanied her only for a day. She stocked up Ken’s fridge and freezer with ready meals, his cupboard with packs of pasta and tins of beans, made sure all his washing was done and offered to come back in a couple of weeks to help clear out Margaret’s things.
Ken had shaken his head. ‘No, pet. It’s all right. I’ll do all that myself … when I feel up to it. Right now, I’d rather leave it all be. It feels too final to take it away. I can’t, just yet.’
She’d hugged him. ‘There’s no rush. When you’re ready, if you want help, call me.’
They’d spoken twice a week on the phone since then, but somehow she’d only managed to visit one more time, although Ken had been up to London to see her on several occasions. Then her own problems had escalated, and she’d hidden the second two miscarriages from him, not wanting him to experience any more loss.
But now he knew. Now he knew everything, and he was dealing with it, and more than that, he was helping her deal with it too.
And Margaret’s things were still in their places, in the house.
*
Tilly found her father sitting at the breakfast table, a slice of toast half eaten on his plate, staring out of the window. It was a bright, sunny day, although a strong breeze was blowing, whipping up waves on the sea below.
‘Your mum loved this kind of weather,’ he said, as Tilly put a hand on his shoulder, acknowledging the importance of the day. ‘She always wanted to go for walks along the cliffs, feel the wind in her hair and come back with rosy cheeks.’
‘We could do that today, in her memory, if you like.’
‘I’d like that, pet. After we’ve been to the graveyard.’
Margaret’s remains had been cremated, and in a corner of the churchyard there were a number of plaques set in the ground, marking the place where ashes had been buried. Tilly hadn’t been here since the day she’d accompanied Ken to bury the ashes, a couple of months after the cremation. The vicar had said a few prayers as they stood around the prepared hole in the ground. Tilly remembered how as Ken had upended the box, tipping them in, a gust of wind had caught them and blown a handful of ashes back towards them. As though Mum’s reaching out and giving us one last hug, Tilly had thought, her eyes full of tears. She’d felt too choked up to be able to repeat that thought to Ken, and the little ceremony had ended quickly with the vicar being the only person who spoke, other than Ken’s muttered thanks as he shook the clergyman’s hand afterwards.
Today, with breakfast over, Tilly drove Ken first to a florist’s shop where they collected a shallow planter Ken had ordered a few days earlier. It was filled with petunias, lobelia and white alyssum. ‘Your mum loved these. Simple garden border plants.’
‘Beautiful,’ Tilly commented. ‘It should last a few months, if we come back often enough to look after it.’
They drove on to the churchyard, that was set halfway up the hill on the other side of town. From the corner where Margaret’s ashes were buried there was a spectacular view over Coombe Regis, its little harbour and, of course, the endless sea.
‘Mum would have loved this view,’ Tilly commented as they made their way along the lines of memorial plaques to Margaret’s, which was engraved simply with her name and dates of birth and death.
Her name was near the top of the stone. ‘Space for me underneath, when the time comes,’ Ken had said, when he ordered the plaque.
‘She would, yes,’ he said now, gazing at it before placing the planter down just above the plaque. They stood together in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.
What would you think to this pregnancy, eh, Mum? Tilly found herself silently asking. Her mum would have been delighted, she thought. She’d have said something slightly inappropriate, such as, ‘Well you’re not getting any younger, Tilly my girl, so it’s best you crack on by whatever means necessary.’ Tilly would have laughed and come up with some playful insult to throw back at her, and the whole thing would have ended with her mum putting the kettle on. She smiled at the little fantasy and placed a hand on her small but unmistakable bump.
‘Ready to go for that walk, then?’ Ken asked, and Tilly nodded. A sunny, blowy walk along the cliffs, punctuated by a rest on the bench at the highest point where they would share the flask of tea Ken had made, was the perfect way to mark the occasion.
And it was. A little while later they were sitting on the bench, sipping tea from plastic cups. Tilly leaned against her father, feeling his warmth and strength seeping into her. She’d lost her mum, her husband, her job and three pregnancies. But not her life, thanks to Jo, and not her future, thanks to her dad and this new little life just starting inside her. She felt as though her life was being reborn, here on the Dorset coast.
She glanced at Ken, who was staring out to sea, a distant, longing look in his eye. He was missing Margaret still, so much. Three years was no time after the forty they’d been married. Would he ever feel he could move on? Margaret’s coat still hung there, on the peg in the hallway, where it always had. If or when the day came that he felt he could remove it – give it to charity or even just store it away – then she’d know he was moving on at last. Maybe getting past this third anniversary would help.
‘Dad?’
‘Yes, pet?’
‘Would you mind if … I stayed with you until after the baby is born? I know it’s months away but …’
He turned to smile at her. ‘Of course. You can stay as long as you like. I want you to stay. Your mum would have wanted that too.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and she snuggled into him.
‘This is your home as long as you want it, Tillikins.’
‘Dad, you’re really going to have to stop calling me that. Especially when the baby comes along. I can’t have a baby name myself when I’m a mum, can I?’
He smiled fondly at her. ‘I called you that from the moment you were born, pet.’