‘Tassie,’ the little girl cried. She ran to the front door and opened it calling inside. ‘Clara, Daddy, Tassie is here.’
She saw Clara look out from the upstairs bedroom and she was wiping her eyes. She hoped she wasn’t too late, as she could feel the energy in the air of an earlier storm.
Clara came downstairs, speaking in a bright, cheery voice that Tassie recognised as a cloak to cover her pain. ‘Oh my goodness, how did you get here? I swear you are a witch. Where’s your broom?’ she joked.
Pansy held her hand, so soft and new against her old skin.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Joe dropped me off.’ Tassie wasn’t in any mood to play. ‘Pansy, go and play, dear. Clara and I need to talk.’
Henry came out behind Clara. ‘Cup of tea, Tassie?’ he asked. She could see strain on his face and through the open the door she could spy Naomi’s ashes on the table.
Oh dear, yes, something had happened and it wasn’t good.
‘No tea,’ said Tassie, almost rudely, but she had no time for pleasantries now. ‘But Clara and I will have a gin and tonic. I suggest, if you don’t have any in the house, you drive to the shop and get us some. Lemon required also. You must plant a lemon tree, dear – they are so useful.’
Clara nodded and Henry, as though under a spell, picked up the keys to Clara’s car and left the house. Pansy was outside again, playing on the swing that Henry had tied onto the sturdiest of the oak tree branches, singing under the leaves a song that Tassie couldn’t quite place but it sounded familiar.
‘We need to talk,’ said Tassie, and she walked into the kitchen and sat down.
‘You’re making me worried. What’s happened? Is it Rachel?’ asked Clara.
‘No, it’s not Rachel, it’s you.’
Clara sat down opposite her.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve had a terrible row with Henry, haven’t you?’
‘Henry and Pansy are leaving when the van is fixed,’ Clara said. Her voice sounded tight and pained.
‘Well, that’s a big mess isn’t it? I know it wasn’t her.’ Tassie tapped the lid of Naomi’s container.
‘Of course it was her; it’s always her,’ snapped Clara. ‘He won’t let her go.’
Tassie shook her head. ‘I don’t think it’s him that won’t let her go, love; I think it’s you. I think you hang on to the dead because it’s safer than being with the living.’
‘That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,’ said Clara, but Tassie noticed she couldn’t look at Naomi’s ashes.
‘Why are you competing with a dead woman? You won, Clara, you’re alive. You get to kiss Henry and love Pansy.’
But Clara shook her head. ‘No anymore, he doesn’t want me.’
‘Oh, Clara, you don’t want to be happy.’ Tassie sighed and thought for a moment.
‘Tell me about your father.’ Tassie stared at Clara, looking for something in her face but she wasn’t sure what it was exactly.
‘My dad? Why?’ Clara sat back in the chair and crossed her arms.
Tassie noticed but said nothing. She’d learned from her years as a teacher that the less she said, the sooner the students would say what they knew. She would never cajole or push; instead she led them down the path and then let them find their way out by using the truth.
Clara glared at her but Tassie remained unmoved.
‘What has my father got to do with anything? He’s dead,’ said Clara.
‘Tell me about his death,’ she prompted.
‘No,’ snapped Clara. ‘Why are you here? Why do you want to talk about him? I never think about him.’
Tassie shook her head. ‘But you do, love, all the time, and he feeds off it, doesn’t he?’
Clara gasped. ‘You need to leave.’
‘No, pet, you need to say that to him, not to me,’ said Tassie.
‘What do you mean?’ Clara asked.
Tassie could hear Pansy singing the song but she still couldn’t place it.
‘Clara, we haven’t got much time, but you need to tell the truth. You need to tell Henry what happened with your father. It will ruin you if you don’t. He’s with you every moment, every day. You carry him with you wherever you go. That’s why things don’t turn out right for you. They start out well but then they end badly. And I know you and Henry need to be together. Naomi told me but your father will ruin your life if you let him.’
Clara stood up, her chair making a loud clatter on the wooden floor. ‘Leave. You’re out of your mind,’ she said loudly.
‘No, dear, I’ve never been more sane and besides, I’m eighty-nine years old. I can’t walk home, can I? Now sit down and talk to me and I will tell you what I know.’
Clara sat, albeit reluctantly, and looked at Tassie, but with less hostility.
‘My father died when I was twelve,’ she said. ‘He was an abusive, awful person, who killed my grandmother, and tried to kill my mother, so my mum killed him in self-defence.’
Tassie stared at her for a long time but Clara didn’t flinch. She realised that this lie had been told for so long it almost felt real to Clara.
‘Were you there when your mum killed him?’
‘Yes,’ said Clara. Clara started to cry. All her former anger and bravado had dissolved, and she put her head on the table and sobbed.
‘Tell him, tell him.’ Tassie touched Clara’s hair.
‘I can’t; he won’t want to be with me,’ she said, her voice strangled.
‘He will,’ said Tassie.
‘You don’t know that,’ Clara said. ‘You are telling me this old wives’ tale stuff to scare me or something. I don’t know why you’re doing it but it’s awful. I thought you were my friend.
‘I am your friend but I know what I know and your father is still with you and will be until you let him go.’
They were quiet for a moment. A fly and the sound of Pansy’s song came through
