I earmark the first weekend in April for our first marital visit to Tyneside. We will just miss Easter, but it can still be a celebration of sorts, especially as it coincides with our first wedding anniversary. A whole year has raced past. I continue to say nothing to Dom about my failed attempt to meet his mother.
But for now, I’m very busy running Comida, with a glut of new clients and extra staff to hire. I put the issue of Dominic’s family firmly from my mind. David has just announced his engagement to Melanie, so there’s another family wedding on the horizon, and I’ve promised my help with the catering. Dominic is also working longer and longer hours at Ellwood Archer. Our time together is limited, but always fun. We eat out as often as we can, and squeeze in cinema trips, walks in London parks and gallery visits at weekends.
Dom also encourages me to be social without him when he’s busy with work. So one evening at the end of February, I’m out for drinks without him, celebrating JoJo’s thirty-fourth birthday. I’m crammed into the corner of the wine bar at the far end of a table with seven other women and several bottles of Prosecco, and the cacophony from their shrieks of laughter is so intense that I don’t hear my mobile ringing. Several times. When I eventually glance down at my bag, I see that I have six missed calls and a text from Dominic. I frown at the screen, surprised; Dom never contacts me when I’m out. I open the text.
I’ve had some bad news. Need you to come home. X
JoJo is so far into her third bottle of Prosecco that she barely notices me slipping past her out of the bar and into the street, where I race along the pavement to hail a passing cab. I text Dominic.
On my way now x
He’s waiting for me in the sitting room, still in his work suit, but with the tie removed. His expression is serious, and his eyelids are pink, as though he’s been crying. I’ve never seen him in tears. He’s never seemed the type of man who would.
He perches on the edge of the sofa and pats it for me to sit beside him. I do so, my coat still clutched in my hand.
I instinctively reach for him, but he pulls back. ‘What is it, Dom? You’re scaring me now.’
‘It’s my mum. She’s died.’
I stare, my mouth slightly open. ‘What? How? What happened?’
‘Fatal heart attack. It was very sudden; she didn’t suffer.’
I find myself mentally calculating dates. ‘But… is she… was she still on the cruise?’
Dominic looks confused. ‘How the hell do you know she’s on a cruise?’
And then I remember. I’m not supposed to know about the cruise, because I’m not supposed to have visited the North-East. I take a deep breath and confess; it seems only right in the circumstances. I tell him that I did in fact travel to Newcastle at Christmas in the hope of surprising Patricia, but that her neighbour told me she was away on a cruise.
‘Sorry,’ I finish, squeezing his arm. ‘I know I should have told you. But when she wasn’t even there, I felt a bit of a fool, to be honest… And since we planned a trip up there soon anyway, I suppose I just put it to the back of my mind.’
Dominic sighs heavily. ‘I don’t mind you going, sweetie; your intentions were the best. I’d forgotten all about the bloody cruise… I’m just so sorry she wasn’t there, because at least then you would have met her. Too bloody late for that now.’
He explains that the ship’s captain contacted his brother Simon, who was listed as her next of kin. Patricia’s body was kept in the ship’s mortuary for a few days, but since maritime practice is for the body to be offloaded as soon as possible, her remains were taken off the ship at Gibraltar and cremated. The ashes were now on their way back to the UK.
‘Apparently they held a little service for her on board ship, with prayers and flowers and stuff,’ Dominic says sadly.
‘Well, that’s something, isn’t it?’ My tone is meant to soothe.
‘So, Simon and I have decided once her ashes are back, I’ll pick them up from Heathrow and take them up to Newcastle, where we’ll have a very small memorial service for her friends and neighbours. Simon will take the ashes to Bamburgh and scatter them at one of Mum’s favourite spots.’
‘Good idea,’ I nod. ‘And I’ll come up with you, of course.’
‘There’s no need, babe, really.’
I give him a shocked look. ‘Of course there is! There’s every need. I’m your wife, and I need to be there. Not for your mum, but for you. To support you.’
‘Okay then…’ He kisses my forehead. ‘Thank you, babe.’
Patricia Gill’s cremated remains arrive in the UK on 6 March, and the memorial service is to be held in Ponteland the following week. I offer to accompany Dominic when he goes to Heathrow to collect the ashes and the death certificate, but he declines.
‘I just want a little bit of time alone with Mum, I’m sure you understand.’
He comes back with a zipped nylon bag, the size of a small rucksack, and puts it under the hall table.
‘Should we’ – I make a move toward the bag – ‘take her out, for the time being?’
‘No!’ Dominic’s voice is harsh, and he puts a restraining hand on my arm. ‘She’s been carted around enough, let’s just leave her in peace, for now, okay?’
‘Of course. Whatever you’re most comfortable with.’ I go into the kitchen and fetch Dominic a glass of his favourite Scotch. ‘How about I book us train tickets for next week?’
‘Thanks, Ally, that would be helpful.’
I book us each a return to Newcastle for the following Wednesday, and an overnight stay in a local hotel. The service is due to be held on Thursday morning.
On Tuesday evening, I come back from work early to pack, and find Dominic already home. He’s tense and restless, pacing up and down the bedroom while I search for his black tie.
‘I don’t think you’ve got one, darling,’ I say, after thumbing through his tie rack.
‘I know I have – it must be there somewhere.’
He snatches the tie rack from me, but, sure enough, there is no black tie.
‘Wear a dark blue one, that’ll be good enough. With a dark suit and black shoes.’
‘No, it won’t.’ Dominic runs his hands through his hair. ‘It will look disrespectful. You know what her generation are like about funerals: you have to be in black from head to toe. I’ll go out and get one – Whiteleys will still be open, or I could whizz over to Westfield.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. I won’t be gone long. And, tell you what – why don’t I pick up a takeaway from Royal Shanghai on my way back?’ He names my favourite Chinese restaurant. ‘Let’s face it: neither of us is in the mood to cook.’
He returns an hour later, just as I’m closing my own suitcase, with a black silk Christian Dior tie and a steaming bag of pork dumplings, sesame chicken and chili beef.
‘Perfect,’ I say, loading the food onto plates I’ve warmed in the oven. ‘Two birds with one stone.’
We wash down the food with a bottle of Riesling and retire to bed. Thirty minutes later, my eyes fly open and I know instinctively that something’s wrong. My forehead is drenched with sweat, and there’s a terrible churning sensation in my upper abdomen, together with a nausea stronger than anything I’ve ever experienced before. I lurch into our en suite bathroom and fall to my knees, missing the edge of the toilet bowl and splashing vomit onto the floor tiles. For the next two hours, I vomit at intervals, a concerned Dominic hovering with glasses of water and damp towels to mop my face.
‘A touch of food poisoning, babe, that’s all it is. Pork is always dodgy.’
‘But we both ate the same thing. And you’re fine,’ I groan between bouts of retching.
‘Uh-uh. I didn’t have any of the dumplings.’
‘I’ll be fine in the morning,’ I groan, as I finally crawl back to bed. ‘I’ve got to be.’
And, sure enough, in the morning I feel a little better. Drained, and dehydrated, but no longer possessed by the violent nausea.
‘I should be okay to come with you,’ I assure Dominic as he hands me a cup of tea in bed. ‘Once I’ve had this and showered, I’ll be fine.’
‘That’s good, darling, because I need you with me today.’
But after I’ve drunk the tea and I’m heading for the shower, the sickness returns with a vengeance, and I spend another forty minutes with my head positioned over the toilet bowl, and my guts curdling.
‘I really don’t think you can come,’ Dominic says sadly. ‘You’re never going to cope with a three-and-a-half-hour train journey.’
‘I’ll manage,’ I whisper. ‘Honestly.’
‘Babe – be serious. What if you’re sick on the train and the toilet is already occupied? Or – God forbid – you throw up at the service?’
So I reluctantly agree that I’ll have to stay behind but insist on coming as far as King’s Cross with him in the pre-booked cab, clutching a plastic bag in case I need to vomit again. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ I say, clutching his hand all the way there, and then struggling out of the taxi to wave him off.
Still queasy, I watch him as he strides towards the platform for Newcastle, overnight bag over his shoulder and the bag with his mother’s ashes in the other hand. He turns to blow a kiss at me, then heads through the barrier and onto the train.