Deciding to say goodbye to Dad seemed to anger someone, as it did nothing but rain for the next week and a half. And I’m not talking about squally showers or drizzle. I mean end of the earth, fire and brimstone, hammers falling from the sky. Stuff that none of us, mad as we apparently were, were prepared to set out in.
At first I took it as a blessing. I mean, I’m not religious or anything, but it gave me a bit more time to reflect on what I was doing and who I wanted there while I did it.
I was torn. Would it really do any harm to invite other people who knew Dad? Colleagues or school mates maybe, people I remember him drinking with as I grew up? Neighbours or kids I’d allowed myself to play with over the years? But none of them seemed right. That part of my life was so distant it felt like it didn’t belong to me at all.
Which left me with everyone at Bellfield. But while I had no problem with the carers being there, it seemed like lunacy to invite any of the others, even Jimmy, whose concentration span extended only to the cycle of a washing machine. Somehow, I didn’t think funerals were really his thing.
The rain gave me plenty of time to chew it over, too much even. It affected the house as well, creating further divides within the group. Not only did it deepen Patrick and Naomi’s hatred of the rest of us, but it also widened the distance between Susie, Jimmy and me.
They’d decided that we should pool together to do something for the show, and naturally Jimmy wanted this to be a song, a prospect that gave me the almighty fear.
I knew this show meant putting myself in the firing line, but somehow the thought of doing it on my own was more appealing. At least that way I could choose my own humiliation, rather than banging a tambourine as Jimmy wailed his way through some Beatles song or other. Quite what Susie planned to do was another matter, but I didn’t fancy standing beside her as she did it.
I turned their offer down carefully, telling them I had plans of my own, and it was news that they met with a shrug before retreating to one of the classrooms, thankfully closing the door before picking up their instruments.
With the two pairs deep in rehearsals, immersed for hours on end, I was left to concentrate on myself, and doing what I needed to do to move forward and hopefully on from Bellfield.
The show was only a week away when the rain forced me into a corner. I’d listened to the Walkman so often that the tape was starting to wear out, my voice wobbling and distorting comically. Ade hugged me when I told her, praising my dedication, while ploughing even more time into my recovery. She took me to relaxation classes, acupuncture sessions, fed me little rewards for another week passing without cutting myself. I was starting to believe, starting to take pride that it had been twenty-three days since I’d let the fear take over me.
The last of my scabs had fallen away and although the skin was pink and sore to the touch, I wasn’t repulsed at the sight of it. If anything the recovering skin spoke to me, told me how far I’d come.
The one person that managed to get inside my fledgling sense of calm was of course Naomi. It may have been paranoia, but every time I came back from somewhere with Ade, she’d be watching. Always from a distance, but that didn’t dilute her sense of menace.
I knew what it was all about. She felt that I’d stolen Ade from her, and I worried that maybe I had. After all, she was there before me, with Ade as her key worker, and I couldn’t help but remember her strop when I arrived and she discovered she had to share.
I was becoming paranoid about it, started cutting short conversations we were enjoying, almost prompting Ade to spend more time with Naomi.
I shouldn’t have bothered. Naomi had pulled down the shutters as far as Ade was concerned. She refused to talk to her, did not show up for sessions, did everything she could to make it look as if she didn’t give a shit. But I knew she did, as she singled me out more and more, telling me that Ade didn’t care about me, that I was just a project, something to kill time before the next psycho arrived.
It got so bad, so relentless, that in the end I was desperate to get out of the house and away from her, and it was Dad who gave me the excuse to do it.
Ade was shocked when I told her I was ready, peering out at the freezing fog before turning back to me with a look that said, ‘Really? Today?’
I nodded quickly, giving myself no time to back down: Ade dashed for her coat, telling me to do the same.
We met at the gates, wrapped up like mummies, although Ade seemed to have found space for two scarves around her neck, which even to her must have been overkill. She gave me a squeeze as I arrived, before tapping her rucksack lightly. ‘I have your dad in here,’ she whispered, a surreal thought even by Bellfield’s standards.
The pace along the coast road was slower than normal as the wind was blasting, testing our resolve. It blew the fog upon us and I felt its touch on my cheeks, its fingers cold and damp.
The anxiety started to prickle in my chest and instinctively I sparked up a cigarette. It was so cold that I couldn’t tell when the fumes stopped and the clean air from my lungs began, but trying to work it out helped, diverting my mind from the fear.
I was two and a half fags in when the fog finally broke, a couple of hundred metres from a spot I’d come to love, where Ade and I had spoken on so many occasions. It was the one place where the rest of the headland disappeared, the one place on this bit of coast where you could see nothing ahead of you but sea. Even on the wilder days, there was a sense of calm here, and I had loved the thought that I could say anything while I was stood there, that there was no one to hear me but Ade.
‘This is where we should do it,’ I said, my voice emotionless.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Completely. I reckon he would’ve liked it here. He could’ve smoked without anyone telling him to stop it.’
‘Then it is perfect,’ she said, and hauled the bag from her back, removing her gloves long enough to unzip it and retrieve a black metallic urn.
My stomach churned at the sight and suggestion that everything Dad was, not just his body, but his character, his achievements, everything, could fit inside such a small space. I had to fight the impulse to rip it from her hands and free him immediately, telling myself he had been there for months now … that another five minutes couldn’t hurt him any more.
Hands shaking, I cradled the urn, surprised by how light it was. I felt uneasy, scared that I was going to mess it up, that I’d say the wrong thing or that the wind would blow him back into our faces.
‘What do I do now?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘There’s no right or wrong way. Just do whatever comes into your head.’
‘Should I say something? You know, before I empty him out?’ My pulse was quickening and I felt my edges begin to unravel, to crave my room and the cold metal of the nail scissors.
‘Daisy, take a moment. Think about what you are doing here. Remind yourself of the bravery it is taking. Two months ago, two weeks ago even, you could not have done this, but now you can. Now you are here. Breathe deeply and think about what you want to say to him, about what you didn’t get the chance to say before he died.’
‘Should I say it out loud?’
‘Out loud or in your head, neither is important as long as you believe what you are saying, that you are telling your truth.’
I pushed my hood down and pulled my gloves off with my teeth. The urn was so cold on my skin it burned. I twisted at the lid, feeling it give beneath my fingers, scared that the wind would whip Dad away before I was ready.
I was engulfed by things to say, a mad clutter of memories that I needed time to order. But it was time I didn’t have, or want to have. I needed to do this before my nerve failed. Breathing deeply, I felt the wind gently rock me forward, making me confident I could push Dad slowly out to sea. My arm stretched out shakily in front of me and, as my hand rotated, his ashes slipped out, tumbling downwards until the wind took hold of them, embracing them gently, guiding them away from me.
A gasp escaped me as Dad’s cloud surrendered to the fog and I mouthed goodbye three times, each word deepening the sense of what I’d lost.
I suppose I’d been grieving since the day of the crash, but this time it was different, now I knew he was gone without believing it was all my fault.
There was pain, and a weakening in every cell of my body, but still it felt good to let go, to let something of me join Dad in the wind.
It was part of me I didn’t want to carry. It didn’t belong to me any more.