Before I can properly bask in this thought, though, my mind snags on something else.
‘But what if …’ I clear my throat to stop my voice trembling. ‘What if the stress of the fight – the stuff I said – what if it caused what happened? She might still be here if I hadn’t said those things to her.’
Daphne looks at me with her mouth set firmly and her brown eyes blazing. ‘Ben. Listen to me. The doctor told us this was completely random. This wasn’t about stress or unhappiness or her worrying about some stupid fight you had. It was about a weak blood vessel in her brain. That’s all.’ She shakes her head again and squeezes my hand. ‘It’s a terrible, terrible thing, but it wasn’t your fault. You mustn’t think that.’
I lean forward and touch my forehead to hers. ‘I don’t think you’ll ever understand what it means to hear you say that.’
We stay like that for a while, forehead to forehead, as the afternoon wind whips around us. It’s so strange to feel good – happy, even – on today of all days. I just wish so badly that I’d had this conversation with Daphne the first time around.
I wrap an arm around her and she nestles into my jacket. ‘I’m glad I told you that,’ I say.
‘Of course. You can tell me anything. We’re a team, remember.’
From the clock tower above us, a bell rings. Daff pulls out her phone and sighs when she sees the time.
‘Come on, we’d better get over to your uncle’s. They’ll all be wondering where we are.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go.’ I stand up and give my eyes a final wipe, feeling just about ready to go through the wake all over again.
We walk out of the churchyard hand in hand, and I take a last glance back at Mum’s gravestone on the way. It feels like we said goodbye properly this time.
We step through the iron gates to find that the street outside – which was previously chock-a-block with friends’ and relatives’ cars – is now pretty much deserted. There’s only one car left in sight: down the far end of the street, a dark red estate, half hidden beneath a huge overhanging beech tree. Behind the windscreen, I can make out a figure in the driver’s seat – a man, I think, his head bowed so that his face is hidden.
I feel something spasm inside me. Panic? Maybe even excitement? Because I’m pretty sure I recognise him, despite the fact that I haven’t seen him in years.
I step off the pavement, into the road, to squint harder at the red car. To make sure.
‘Who is that?’ Daphne asks.
‘I think …’ I say, feeling my heart begin to hammer, ‘I think it’s my dad.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
‘Your … Shit, Ben, are you sure?’ Daff is staring at me, wide-eyed.
‘Pretty sure,’ I say, although I am now completely positive.
‘He wasn’t in the church, though, was he?’ Daff says. ‘I mean, you didn’t mention seeing him.’
‘No, no. He wasn’t there.’
My mind is throbbing with questions. He must have been here, on this street, the first time around, too. It’s not difficult to work out how I missed him then: I hurried straight out of the churchyard as soon as the funeral was over, when the road was still full of cars, and stormed off in the opposite direction.
What’s more difficult to work out is why he’s here. Why would you bother coming to a funeral if you weren’t even going to show your face in the church?
Daff looks at the car again, and then back at me. ‘So what do you want to do?’ she asks. ‘Because whatever it is … I’m with you.’
I run a hand through my hair and shrug. ‘I’ll go and speak to him, I guess. But I think it’s best if I do it on my own, if that’s OK?’
She looks at me, her forehead wrinkled with concern. ‘Yeah, of course. If you’re sure?’
‘I am. Definitely. You head over to Simon’s, and tell them all I’ll be there in a bit. You can just say I … went for a walk or something. Needed some time to myself.’
‘OK.’
I give her a hug, and when we break off, she says, ‘Are you sure you’re all right with this?’
‘Yeah, honestly, I promise. I’ll see you there. I love you.’
‘Love you too.’ She smiles.
I start heading slowly towards the car, watching as the man at the wheel becomes gradually clearer through the glass.
I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. I have no idea what to say to him. No idea what he will say to me. I haven’t seen him since I was – what, thirteen years old?
After he moved out, I’d still visit him occasionally, spending the odd awkward weekend at the flat he shared with Clara, the woman he’d left us for. But these trips dwindled with every passing year, until – just before my fourteenth birthday – he told me he was moving out of London and up to Norfolk.
He promised to keep in touch, but there were no calls, no surprise drop-ins. Throughout my teens, despite Mum’s muttered warnings, I tried in vain to arrange trips up to see him, but they’d always be knocked back or cancelled at the last minute because he was too busy. Eventually I gave up trying.
He still sent birthday cards – glossy and expensive, depicting New Yorker magazine covers or Jackson Pollock paintings. They had cheques tucked neatly inside, and were always signed Patrick,
