‘Look, forget the tea – why don’t we go and get a bite to eat, have a drink?’ Mrs Hooper suggests on their walk to the taxi rank. ‘You say your train isn’t for an hour or so, and my sister’s not expecting me anytime soon.’
Joanna barely responds.
‘It’ll give us the chance for a proper catch up, what d’you say?’
The interior of the taxicab they choose smells of pear drops, and the driver’s seat has great chunks ripped out of its lining. Must be his stress toy, Joanna thinks, watching Mrs Hooper lean forward to ask if they can be dropped outside Manor Park station.
‘Here all right for you, love?’ The cabbie draws back his security screen a fraction, and Mrs Hooper confirms it is before handing him a twenty-pound note and waiting for the change.
Despite the overall drabness of this part of town, Joanna notices there are a surprising number of smart-looking bars and bistros.
‘That place looks nice. Fancy giving it a try?’ Mrs Hooper waves her stick at a pub on the other side of the road.
They opt for a table in the bay window, although, looking around, they have the choice of any; the place is virtually empty. And after the rigmarole of removing coats, gloves and scarves, they sit staring out on the December street prettified with fairy lights.
‘I used to come in here with my husband. He worked nearby when we were first married.’ Lillian Hooper makes a quick scan of the laminated menu wedged between the cruet. ‘Course, it’s rather smarter nowadays.’ She smiles. ‘Back then it was what you’d call a real London boozer – bit like my Derek,’ she volunteers, once the jaded-looking waitress has taken their order. ‘We were happy once.’ She twists the thin gold wedding ring, loose behind the knuckle, rhythmically, hypnotically; as if to summon the ghost of him to her. ‘Before Ursula died and Derek sent Gordon away to that horrible school … and we came to Witchwood. Because if Derek had been better with money we’d never have needed to move there.’
‘I thought you liked Witchwood,’ Joanna queries.
‘No, not really.’ A wry smile. ‘The glories of the great outdoors are wasted on me, I prefer the noise and bustle of city streets.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘Why would you? The place must have been like an adventure playground to you little ones,’ Mrs Hooper says kindly. ‘But what I’m trying to say, in my roundabout way, is that I know all about loss.’
Anchored to the spot by the weight of her words, they watch a scattering of pigeons drop down on the rooftops opposite.
‘You’ve had a rotten time of things.’ Joanna fiddles with the lid of the vinegar bottle. ‘It’s why you’re so easy to talk to.’
‘Well, talk then,’ Mrs Hooper urges.
Joanna sips the wine that’s been poured for her. Watches shoppers dip in and out of the smattering of shops, their windows decorated with fake snow and glitter to tempt Christmas. ‘I’m feeling really guilty about Carrie,’ she says eventually. ‘We never made it up after that awful row at Dora’s funeral. I said some horrible things.’ She wipes away fresh tears with a tissue. ‘But Carrie was so difficult, so immovable – always pushing me away.’
‘She was jealous of you,’ Mrs Hooper says matter-of-factly. ‘It wasn’t necessarily her fault, but it wasn’t yours either.’
‘Funny.’ A weak smile. ‘That’s what I accused her of the last time we spoke. But I should have gone to see her … it’s … too late now.’
As Joanna talks, her memories of the past and all that’s been lost dissolve with each mouthful of Merlot.
‘Carrie predicted this, you know,’ she continues. ‘As a teenager, she was convinced she was going to die a violent death. Horrible, isn’t it? Why would you think such a thing, let alone say it?’ Joanna, serious, fixes Mrs Hooper with the flat of her eye. ‘All I could think sitting at the front of that crematorium was: is this all her life amounted to? Next to no friends, no partner – apart from that Jeffrey bloke, the few that bothered to come didn’t seem to even know her.’
‘Rubberneckers,’ Mrs Hooper says bluntly. ‘Your sister’s probably become a bit of a celebrity in death.’
‘D’you think? What a farce that is. What d’you reckon she’d have made of it?’
‘She’d have probably laughed; Carrie had quite a sense of humour when it suited her.’
‘Did she?’ Joanna struggles to conjure a time when this lighter side of her sister’s character was shown to her. ‘I suppose we had some fun when we were kids,’ she concedes. ‘The two of us were great friends once.’
‘I know you were – try to hold on to that,’ Mrs Hooper says.
‘It was after that summer in Witchwood when everything started to go wrong between us. Uch , it’s such a waste. All this … ’ Joanna flings out an arm. ‘I let it happen. Too wrapped up in my own family, my career – I’ve been so selfish.’
‘You didn’t let it happen, you said yourself she pushed you away. Jo,’ Mrs Hooper reasons. ‘Carrie was pretty challenging, even as a child.’
‘I know, but she was still my sister. I should’ve made allowances for her.’
‘You can’t keep blaming yourself,’ Mrs Hooper soothes. ‘You’ve got to let it go.’
‘That’s what Mike tells me.’ Joanna squashes her tissue into a ball. ‘Hang on … you said you wanted to see a photo of the boys … I’ve got a … in here somewhere,’ her voice disappearing into the caverns of her bag. ‘Yes. Here we go. Us holidaying in Spain last summer.’ She retrieves her purse, tugs out a photograph of her sons. ‘Sorry it’s a bit dog-eared,’ she apologises, handing it over. ‘Mike was ever so kind to Carrie, you know? He really tried in the early years.’ She talks while Mrs Hooper stares into the faces of the children she has yet to meet. Freddie, as Joanna points out, was only two at Dora’s funeral, and Ethan had yet to be born.
‘Oh, how nice they look. A shame not to meet them. Didn’t they want to come with you and Mike?’ Mrs Hooper asks.
‘They never met Carrie; it would’ve been silly to pull them out of school.’ Another anchoring pause. ‘You knew that Carrie tried to kill herself sixteen years ago, didn’t you?’ Joanna waits for confirmation as she returns the photograph to her purse. ‘Mike was really sweet with her when she came out of hospital, wanting to take care of her, making sure she knew she wasn’t on her own. We hadn’t been seeing each other for long.’ She bounces her hands in her lap. ‘It used to upset him when Carrie … well, she could be pretty nasty to me.’ Joanna avoids all mention of her three-month hospital stint, followed by eight months of chemotherapy for a tumour on her spleen six years ago – information about her private life she managed to keep out of the press. There’s little point worrying Mrs Hooper, especially as her oncologist gave her the all clear last July and she’s totally well again.
Joanna takes another gulp of wine, before replenishing both their glasses.
‘You look so like your mother, you know,’ Mrs Hooper announces. ‘She was such a beautiful woman, and her hair … ’ a broad smile of appreciation. ‘Like the rosy gold of sunsets. Just like yours.’
‘I didn’t know you knew Mum?’ Joanna, curious, says nothing about her hair falling out during her treatment, her fears it wouldn’t grow back.
‘Didn’t you? She didn’t tell you about the time she stayed at Pillowell?’
‘No. When was this?’
‘Oh, now, let me think – the summer before you were born, if I remember correctly. It annoyed Dora,’ Mrs Hooper chuckles, ‘the amount of time Imogen spent with us at Pludd Cottage. But it was hardly our fault she preferred our company. Your mum liked listening to me playing the piano; she said it relaxed her.’
‘That’s nice.’ Joanna scrunches her lips, refusing to cry again. ‘But where was Dad? I can’t imagine Mum going anywhere on her own, she was way too nervy.’
‘I’m not sure where Robin was. Perhaps he took Carrie to see his parents. I seem to remember your mother didn’t get on with her in-laws particularly well.’
‘That’s putting it mildly. She refused to have anything to do with them after Dad died.’
‘Gordon looked after Imogen. Drove her to town, showed her the sights. The two of them got on remarkably well, as I remember.’ Mrs Hooper smiles at the waitress when their lunches arrive. ‘Your mother could be very charming when she put her mind to it.’
Joanna doesn’t answer as she unravels her cutlery from a serviette, reluctant to discuss her troubled mother any further; some things are best left alone.