Coming Home. Annabel Kantaria

of telltale holes.

      ‘Here.’ Miss Dawson took the wool and needles from me, unravelled a couple more rows, cast on and knitted a couple of neat rows for me. ‘There you go.’ She passed it back.

       ‘Thanks.’

       ‘Are you sleeping all right now?’ she asked. ‘You said you have sleeping tablets? Are they working?’

       ‘Hmph.’

      Nights were bad. I couldn’t stop thinking about the accident. Mum had taken me to the doctor and, after that, I got half a tiny purple sleeping pill at bedtime.

      The pills tasted bitter and dragged me into sleep but, in my dreams, I met Graham. All night we played, we argued, we messed around. I woke feeling happy. And then I had to remember all over again that he was dead. During the day, I felt like I was walking through melted toffee, my head enclosed in a glass jar.

      ‘I stopped taking them. I don’t feel much like myself with them,’ I said.

       ‘And are you managing to get to sleep without them?’

      ‘S’pose,’ I said.

      I’d never tell Miss Dawson, but I’d started talking to Graham instead. Each night, I lay down and told him about my day. I imagined that he could hear me; I imagined his replies. I slept better now—but my dreams were still of Graham.

       CHAPTER 13

      After Mum had settled downstairs with her tea, I took Dad’s address book upstairs. After the scene on the landing, I thought it was better that I make the calls. The address book was faded and worn and, when I lifted it to my nose, I could catch the scent of my father impregnated in the leather. I imagined him sitting in his study, his long fingers thumbing through the pages crammed with carefully written names, numbers and addresses.

      I made the calls from my bedroom, not wanting Mum to hear me repeat the same things over and over. ‘Yes, died in his sleep … very peaceful … yes, she’s fine, thank you … I’m here to help … yes, funeral’s on Friday at eleven … no flowers, money to charity …’

      It made for a wearing afternoon’s work. Dad was one of the first in his peer group to pass away, and many people were so shocked I ended up consoling them rather than the other way around. It was tedious, but I was keen to get it over with; happy that I was able to do it for Mum.

      Under ‘D’ I found the number for Miss Dawson, my old grief counsellor. I chewed my pen and stared out of the window. Would she want to know? She’d seen a lot of me after Graham had died, had almost become a friend. I wondered what she was up to now. I’d have thought she was in her late thirties when she was helping me, so she must be nearly sixty now. I added her number to my phone, clicked ‘Call’ and waited while it rang.

      ‘Hello?’ Her voice sounded muffled, as if she were talking from a previous century.

      ‘Hello. I’m looking for … umm …’ I realised I didn’t know her Christian name. ‘Miss Dawson?’

      ‘Yes, speaking. Who’s calling?’

      ‘Miss Dawson! It’s Evie. Evie Stevens.’

      Not even a pause. ‘Evie! How lovely to hear from you. What are you up to now? Still knitting?’

      ‘And some!’ I laughed. ‘I knit for charity these days. Let’s just say there are a lot of sailors in the world wearing warm hats thanks to you.’

      She laughed. ‘It wasn’t as random as you think.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I had a theory that you were stopping yourself from talking. I wondered if getting you to focus with all your consciousness on small repetitive tasks might allow thoughts from your subconscious to surface. You were my guinea pig. It was a technique I went on to use on many of my other clients.’

      ‘Wow! I had no idea. I thought you were just trying to fill the time.’

      We chatted about Dubai, what I was doing; I told her why I was back. She was touched to be invited to the funeral.

      ‘But how’s your mother?’ she asked. ‘How’s she taking it?’

      ‘She’s OK, I think. She seems very organised. Together.’

      ‘Well, I’m glad to hear that.’ She sighed. ‘Look, I probably shouldn’t say this, but you know it was her we were worried about most back then.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Yes. You were a resilient little thing. A tough cookie. Devastated, obviously, but your grief ran through the natural stages.’

      ‘And Mum’s didn’t?’ I was talking quietly, scared that Mum would come upstairs and overhear.

      ‘Well. It was very—how to say it?—extreme. Wasn’t it? It was what we’d call a “complicated grief”—a grief dysfunction, of sorts. Your mother found it exceptionally difficult to accept the loss of Graham. Even when she appeared to start functioning more normally, we were worried she was suppressing it. I tell you this because an event such as this, such as your father passing away, could bring it all back.’

      ‘Hmm.’ Just what I was thinking. ‘I’m trying to help … you know: be there for her.’

      ‘Evie, you always have been there for her. You can only do your best—and I know your best is very good. But, if you’re worried about anything or need to speak to me at any time, please don’t hesitate. I’m sure she’ll be fine, but keep an eye on her. It’s a difficult time.’ She gave me her email address.

      ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I hope I don’t need it.’

      As the afternoon wore on, I made good progress through the address book. Luca had been out when I’d called his house, but I left a message and my number. I didn’t know, though, what to do about my uncle—Mum’s brother—the black sheep of the family. Would he want to know that his brother-in-law had passed away? Did I have the right to tell him if Mum didn’t want to contact him?

      ‘How are you getting on?’ asked Mum, surprising me, long after I’d had to click on the light.

      ‘Fine,’ I said, sighing. I flicked through the remaining pages of the address book. ‘Probably only five or six more and I’ll be done.’

      ‘We must remember to invite the headmaster,’ she said. ‘It’s probably the “done thing”.’ She made the little quote marks in the air.

      ‘What headmaster? You mean of the university?’

      ‘Doh, Evie, don’t be silly. Of the school!’

      I froze. Twice now. ‘University,’ I said, treading on eggshells. ‘Dad worked at the university.’

      Mum bent down to pick up a tissue that had missed the bin, placed it in. Then she looked up at me. ‘Of course. What did you think I meant! Silly girl. Yes, the chancellor, or whatever, of the university where Robert taught. It’s probably only polite to invite him. Will you do that? Anyway. Look. There’s one more thing I wonder if you can help me with before you disappear back to Dubai?’

      ‘Sure.’ I wasn’t paying attention one hundred per cent. I was flicking through the address book, pretending to look at names while Miss Dawson’s words circled in my head: extreme reaction … complicated grief … we were worried she was suppressing it … your father passing away could bring it all back.

      Mum’s voice broke into my thoughts. ‘I’d like you to help me clear out the attic. All your brother’s stuff is up there—’ I stared at the address book, unable meet her eye ‘—and I don’t think I can face it. But …’—and I do wonder if she paused here for dramatic