A week later, she called me in tears – she’d miscarried at six weeks. Totally normal, she said. Happens all the time. Nothing anyone could do. Just wasn’t meant to be.
I got straight in the car and came to her. She stayed in bed for three days. When she eventually got up, she wanted to draw a line under it and move on. Three months later, she called to tell me that she was pregnant again. I was going to be an auntie.
Amy was made to be a mum. As a little girl, she’d had a collection of baby dolls that she lovingly cared for, bathing and feeding them in complex little routines and putting them to bed each night in their cribs. We were both committed tomboys and loved playing outdoors, but Amy would usually bring a doll in her backpack to join us on whatever adventure we had imagined. I had no interest in dolls but I would tolerate them for her sake.
Mike took a while to adapt to parenthood, but for Amy, being a mum came naturally. She took everything in her stride and for the most part, made it look easy. She and Mike would argue occasionally, especially in the early days when the shock of their new responsibility and lack of sleep would drive them to the edge of patience. But they were loving, and they worked well together as a team.
The babies bored me silly in the early years, and Amy found it hilarious. I never tried to hide my disinterest and it would drive Mum and Auntie Sue mad. They gradually became more interactive, the seeds of their individual personalities beginning to grow. But I moved further away, and more time passed between my visits home, and the children and I barely knew each other.
I watched Hannah now, as she walked silently alongside me on the beach, looking down at her shoes. Lucas was picking up stones and hurling them out into the vast expanse of the sea, his little body contorting with the effort.
Why hadn’t Amy spoken to me about her will? Asking someone to be your kids’ guardian had to be worth a phone call. Even a conversation by email would have been better than leaving a note.
And why was Mike questioning her plan to put the insurance money in a trust fund? That was the only part of Amy’s will that made any sense to me.
And where the hell was Mum? She’d always insisted how sorry she was about last time, but here she was, doing the same thing again. Why was it falling on me to pick up the pieces? Did my life not count for anything? The anger smouldered inside me. I balled my hands into tight, hard fists.
It wasn’t fair, none of it was fair. Amy should have been there.
I took deep a breath of the cold salty air and let out a belly-rumbling scream.
Hannah jumped, startled by the sudden noise. Rachel snapped to a stop and spun to face me, instinctively grabbing Betsy’s hand. A smile spread across Lucas’s face. He turned to face the sea, and screamed too.
Within seconds, all five of us were standing in a line on the sand, screaming out at the tameless, thrashing surf. The wind carried our cries out towards the horizon.
The sea air and exercise lifted everyone’s mood. We bought fresh rolls from Clarke’s bakery on the way home and Rachel microwaved another Tupperware of her home-made soup.
Later that afternoon we sat down with the funeral director and put the finishing touches to the plan. Mike was back, but the house was too full to get him on his own for a quiet chat. My questions about his intention to challenge the will would have to wait.
Amy had made some requests – instead of flowers, we would ask for donations to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, and everyone was under strict instructions to wear bright colours. She’d even picked the music for the service, and had asked to be buried next to Dad in St Cuthbert’s churchyard.
Each of the children had a poem or dedication they wanted to give to their mother, and every time one of them shared an idea I was reminded what caring, thoughtful kids my sister had raised. Rachel was a big help, making suggestions and giving the children prompts without pushing her own ideas or opinions. Mike was still raw, barely keeping his head above fresh waves of grief.
It was an exhausting evening and after clearing up the dishes, Rachel left us to it. Betsy shyly asked me if I would put her to bed, and I almost burst with happiness.
It was hours later that Mike woke me up. I had fallen asleep next to Betsy on her bed, her story book in my hand and her nightlight still on. We went downstairs and he poured us each a whisky. He had lit a fire and it cast a flickering glow on the room.
I took a sip of scotch for courage. ‘I need to ask you – are you serious about contesting the will?’
Mike shrugged and sighed. ‘I have no idea what I’m doing these days. I know Amy wanted what’s best for the kids. And the trust fund might seem like a great idea. But without an aggressive investment plan, the money could just sit there, doing nothing.’ The ice cubes clinked in his glass. ‘It’s a lot today, but by the time Betsy is twenty-one, what will it be worth?’
I bit my lip – I had been too quick to doubt him. But it was Amy’s request – it felt strange to be questioning what she had decided was best. Apart from the fact she had decided that me giving up my life was a good idea. I was entitled to question that. But the money? It was hers, after all. Mike was clearly still in shock. I was sure he would see reason sooner
