Cath Staincliffe - Trio

‘I’m Claire.’ Thudding in her head. Please. Oh, please.

‘Yes.’ She put one arm out towards her then lowered it. Her bright blue eyes were brimming. She nodded again. ‘Hello, Claire. I think you’d better come in.’

Joan Lilian

Pamela

Pamela

It was a year of reminders. A parade of events each highlighting her loss. The first birthday without her mum, first Christmas, first time planning her holidays without seeing if Lilian fancied a week somewhere.

She had left the little house in Fallowfield for months. There was no hurry. It wouldn’t be hard to sell, there were always landlords after houses to let to students in that area. It would go up for sale when she was good and ready. Her Aunt Sally offered several times to help her clear it out, but each time she said she’d wait a little longer.

She dreamt about her mother frequently. She saw her too. Round the shops, in her garden, at the market, passing the leisure centre. The first couple of times she was petrified, thinking grief had made her mad, but two of her friends who had lost parents reassured her that it was commonplace. Someone lent her a book about bereavement. There were nights when she poured over it, eager for reassurance.

Work was fine. It helped. There she felt safe, valuable, capable.

In May she was ready to face the clear out. She booked a weeks leave, the week before her birthday, and tackled it with a combination of practicality and ritual. Clearing the house was also a way of making her farewells. It was the last link to the years she had shared with her mother.

She had been back twice since her mother’s death, twice in the blur of time before the funeral when she had cleared the fridge, taken meter readings, chosen clothes for her mother to be buried in, emptied the bins, removed jewellery, video and telly, her will and bank books, which she had kept in a biscuit tin in the kitchen. Pamela had left a spare key with neighbours in case of any trouble.

She drove over from Chester. There was no parking immediately outside but she found a space further down the road. Put her steering-wheel lock on.

Opening the door she allowed herself the fantasy of her mother being there to greet her – a generous smile, easy familiarity, her genuine delight whenever Pamela came home. Her stomach tightened as she stepped inside. She took a breath. The house smelt stale. It was resolutely empty. She put down her bag. A pile of junk mail lay on the floor. She checked through. There was nothing personal. She wandered round the rooms, she had to visit them all, some silly superstition. She was oppressed by the emptiness and silence.

Tour completed, she switched the mains back on in the kitchen and turned the stopcock on for water. She lit the gas fire in the living room to take the chill away. She opened the back door to let some fresh air in and saw the lilac was still in bloom. Its scent hurled her back through the years and tears filled her eyes. ‘Oh, Mum,’ she said aloud, ‘I do miss you.’

She found scissors in the kitchen draw and cut branches of the lilac, got vases from the shelf and put the fragrant sprays round the house.

She had brought tea and milk with her and after she had finished her drink she got out her notebook and pen and went through the rooms making a list of things she needed – bin-bags, labels, boxes, string, old newspapers, tissue paper, sellotape – and a list of items she would like to keep.

In her old room she sat on the bed. The walls were still painted in the lemon colour she had chosen as a teenager. The curtains still a hessian weave which let all the light in. Once she’d moved out, her mother had bought a cornflower-blue duvet set to replace the old candlewick bedspread and sheets and blankets from before. She had been happy here on the whole.

She peered out into the back yard and the alley beyond. From here you could see rows of terraces like a brighter version of the Coronation Street title sequence. It had been a good place to grow up. Plenty of children, a park not far away. She’d been pally with Natalie from next door. One summer they had rigged a message system up between their bedroom windows, string and yoghurt pots. Last she’d heard, Natalie had moved away, somewhere down south.

She stepped away and turned to look in the mirror. It was a nice mirror, oval with a dark frame. She’d take it if Aunt Sally didn’t want it.

She rang her aunt and explained what she was hoping to do. Asked if they would come and see if there was anything they’d like. ‘I’m going to get one of those charities to take most of it, for the homeless or whatever.’

‘Well, I can come tonight.’

‘There’s no rush.’

‘You can stay with us, Pam, we’ve plenty of room.’

‘Thanks, but it feels fine here. I’d like to be here.’

‘Come and have tea with us, then.’

‘Yes. Tomorrow or Wednesday?’

‘Wednesday’s good. Ed has his craft club tomorrow, so we generally have a fish supper.’

‘Right.’ She didn’t quite catch the logic but it didn’t matter. She had heard that Ed’s health wasn’t good, he was becoming very absent-minded, losing track. Sally took him to various clubs for the stimulation – and to give herself a break.

‘So, we could come down in the morning, if you like?’

‘Fine, see you then.’

She rang off. Considered her list. There was a mini-market at the end of the road. They should have most of the stuff she needed and they might have some boxes. She could get something for her tea too.

By the time Aunt Sally and Uncle Ed arrived the following morning Pamela had assembled a pile of objects she wanted to keep in one corner of the lounge. After a little hesitation Sally soon gathered a pile of her own. They offered to help her fill bags and wrap china but she encouraged them to leave. She was more comfortable doing it on her own. She saw them out, promising to be at their house for five the following day.

She went up to her mother’s room. All Lilian’s clothes needed packing up. Pamela would never wear any of them – the patterned jumpers and blouses and skirts were a world away from the power suits she wore to work or the plain cotton leisurewear she wore when sailing or relaxing. She began to fill bin liners. The first armful of jumpers still smelling of her mother’s perfume and cosmetics. She emptied the drawers and then began on the wardrobe. She slipped dresses and suits off hangers and folded them up. Some brought back memories: the silk skirt she had treated her mother to when they went to Paris, the stupid jacket that she had bought in Lisbon and hardly ever worn. Her old camel car-coat, worn round the cuffs but so comfy she had insisted on keeping it. Pamela had once tried to find a replacement but there was nothing exactly that length.

In one of the compartments at the bottom of the wardrobe she found a slim cardboard box, rectangular with a pattern of faded roses on it. She opened it expecting a chiffon scarf or kid-leather gloves. But inside were a batch of papers.

She sat on the edge of the bed, surrounded by half-full bin liners, to examine them. A letter from a Sister Monica wishing them every happiness. She shrugged, her mother had friends connected with the Church but she didn’t know the name. A scrap of paper with Sat – 10.30 – Girl scrawled on it. Her mother’s writing. And a birth certificate belonging to someone called Marion, mother’s name Joan Hawes. The same birthday as hers. She felt a rush of confusion. Had she had a twin? Don’t be stupid, different mothers. Why had Lilian got someone else’s birth certificate? She looked again and as comprehension dawned she felt a wave of confusion and horror. Oh, my God, the truth slapped at her, it’s me!