Chapter 42

Mum died a fortnight after the show.

She spent her last week in a beautiful hospice called Beaufort House so she could have access to nurses and the really top-notch opiates. ‘We can make her comfortable,’ they told us. It had expansive lawns and ornamental gardens, dusted with snow, that they wheeled her around. There’s a fountain, although it’s frozen over at the moment. Icicles hang from the stone dolphins, turning them into swordfish.

It was very quiet. Her last words, perhaps appropriately, were, ‘Fuck me, I’m tired.’ And then she went to sleep. From the outside it looked painless, peaceful. No moaning and groaning. Thank God. I guess that’s the best I could have hoped for in the circumstances – easing her away. Like opening my hands and letting a feather go on the breeze.

They didn’t move her until Margot and I had had a chance to say goodbye. I sat at her bedside, alone. Margot felt we should each have our moment. I sat in yet another visitor armchair and held her hand, but it was strangely cool. I think we’d said everything we needed to say. She was right, you know, we knew it was coming. And sure enough, it did. I don’t think, in the end, she was angry. She lay under a crochet blanket from the farm, to remind her of home.

It’s so weird. Even though she was right there, she wasn’t there. Not really. Her laugh; her voice; her patient, forgiving sighs … all gone. The body in front of me wasn’t her. She’d gone. There’s a lot to be said for an ending.

In the end, I didn’t look at the body to say goodbye. I closed my eyes and just let myself feel the love I still had. That I will always have. I could feel it glowing like a tiny sun in my chest. I floated it up into my heart and mind, my fingers and toes, feeling its warmth for as long as I could. Remember this, Fliss. I committed the love to memory, trapped it, so I won’t ever be without it.

She lives on inside me now.

Mum had made arrangements with Margot about her funeral. The service itself was very lovely – tasteful and dignified, with bunches of white peonies tied to the end of each pew. So many of her friends and old colleagues came up from London. There was standing room only at the chapel of rest. Uncle Simon brought Grandma Baker, and Doreen came, now that she and Margot were back in touch. The editor of the London Courier was there too, a handsome man with silver hair and an Armani suit. He lingered at Margot’s side – close but not too close – all the way through the funeral. I guess it’s nice for her that he was there.

I lost track of how many times I was compared to Sinéad O’Connor. I guess it’s a compliment. Obviously I had the buzzcut tidied up by Sophie’s mum at the first opportunity after the show. She seemed more upset that ‘such a pretty girl’ had shaved her head than the fact my mum was days away from death.

People did nice readings. Mum once made a film about women’s shelters, and an abuse survivor from the documentary came and talked about the impact Mum had had on her life. I cried at that bit. I cried again when we had to say goodbye to the coffin in a sad procession. I was last out, so at least no one saw. Mum wanted to be cremated. ‘I don’t like the idea of being nibbled by worms,’ she’d told Margot. I’m glad there wasn’t a weird graveside moment.

Today we’re scattering her ashes. In silence, but a nice silence, Margot and I follow the winding paths of the woods. My head is freezing, but Danny bought me some lovely leopard-print earmuffs that totally work with my fur-collar coat.

Eventually, even through the muffs, I hear the rush of the waterfall. Helping each other on the steep bits, we edge down the embankment to the water’s edge. ‘This is where she said,’ says Margot.

I’m carrying the ashes in gloved hands. She – well, her ‘earthly remains’ – are in a sleek steel urn. ‘What do we do?’ I ask.

Margot looks wistfully up at the waterfall. ‘You just let her go. Your mother scattered your grandfather’s ashes at Lake Windermere, you know.’

I stall. ‘God, it’s like tipping her away or something.’

‘That’s not her.’ Margot is typically brusque.

I nod. ‘I know.’ I unscrew the lid and, after a pause, sprinkle some of ashes out. They’re picked up by the wind and the spray from the waterfall. I shake the rest. They twist and twirl on the breeze, snatched away in a hundred different directions. It’s all very that bit in Pocahontas. After a moment, the cloud settles on the water and flows away downstream.

A sob breaks free. Damn. I really wanted to keep it together. Margot’s wax-jacketed arm snakes around my shoulder and pulls me upright. ‘Let yourself feel it,’ she reminds me, and gives my arm a squeeze.

I remember the first time I saw these woods, heard the whispers. I wonder if it was destiny calling. This was where we were meant to be, just like Margot said. Mum loved it here.

I listen, really strain, for the voices, hoping more than anything that I’ll hear a final message from The Beyond. To hear her voice one last time …

It’s just water.

I can’t hear them any more, but I do feel that fuzzy pink warmth under my skin again. It’s all around me. I don’t need to hear her. She’s here.