It had been, everyone agreed, a fitting send-off.
But it had been a performance that had somehow missed the essence of the man.
They had all come away from it feeling strangely dissatisfied.
It was Chloe who’d suggested they get together to scatter his ashes. She’d asked Megan first, cautiously, expecting her to say ‘No’. But Megan – who had been swaddling a set of wrought-iron candlesticks in layers of bubble wrap at the time, sorting out her possessions, readying herself for moving out – had agreed, saying they should have a proper send-off with all of them there, so that they could to say ‘goodbye’ to Jonathan, and each other, one last time.
There was heat and light from the fire now. It brought them closer together.
Chloe picked up the containers and passed them around.
They all stared at the flames.
Eloise passed her container on to Megan. ‘I don’t need to say goodbye to him. We said our goodbyes a long time ago.’
Megan didn’t argue with her. She had learnt some interesting things about herself and her place in the Coulter family over the past month, foremost of which was that status had to be claimed and owned. She was not Jonathan’s widow; but he had been hers, at the end. Hers and no one else’s. Megan smiled and touched the sleeve of Eloise’s coat by way of acknowledgement. The fire burnt bright and fierce, heating their faces and their hands, while shivers coursed up and down their backs. Around them the darkness thickened, making the open spaces of the wide bay seem limitless. The children had quietened and calmed. They stood close to their parents, as if frightened that to stray would be dangerous. Lily was leaning against Josie, her thumb in her mouth, her eyes screwed shut, whether because of the smoke from the fire or because she was tired was difficult to tell.
Noah, Liv and Chloe were all clutching their share of their father.
It was time.
The agreed plan had been to scatter Jonathan’s ashes on the waves, let the sea carry his remains wherever, a Viking burial of sorts, but the thought of leaving the bright circle of the fire and venturing into the darkness down to the shoreline made Megan feel nervous. The notion of throwing him into the cold sea was too brutal. Chloe met Megan’s eyes, questioning, wanting it over with, but deferring to her nonetheless.
‘He preferred the warmth to the cold.’ Megan’s voice was surprisingly steady. The waves whispered in the background. No, the sea was too vast and lonely. She unscrewed the lid of the first tube, punched through the perforated top and held the container out over the flames. As she tilted it, she thought of all the things she regretted not saying to Jonathan, all the conversations she’d redirected or stopped, all the times she’d be about to say something, but hadn’t. Now was the time to put that right and speak her heart.
But nothing came out of her mouth, or the tube. There was a moment when they all looked at her. She shook the tube. Still nothing. In the end she had to resort to squeezing and banging the container, trying to loosen the contents.
‘He’s hanging on till the bitter end!’ Noah’s attempt at humour was ill judged and yet perfectly timed.
Megan laughed.
The moment for words had passed.
Jonathan was gone.
This was dust.
One last strike of her hand and the ashes began to pour out. The others set to work on their tubes – Freddie helping Liv, Arthur helping Chloe, and Lily helping Noah. Together they sprinkled their lover/father-in-law/dad/grandpa onto the flames like icing sugar on a cake. For a few seconds the flames flared and crackled, burning bright white, then they died back down. It was a fitting, brief, fierce exit.
Chapter 57
FOUR MONTHS LATER
THE ROOM was small and shabbily furnished, but nice enough. It faced out onto the front garden. There was a view, during daylight hours, of the flower beds, which were currently full of blousy, bright daffodils and of a high green hedge that blocked out some, but not all, of the noise from the road. Lisa was glad to be working on the ground floor. She preferred it to working with the residents who lived in the rooms on the long corridors on the upper levels of the home. Not because she resented the extra legwork, she was used to hard work, but because she believed that everyone – even the poor souls lost in the fragile, crumbling labyrinths of dementia – needed to be close to the natural world.
Lisa had been at this particular care home for a couple of months now. She’d started to build connections with most of the residents on her section and was beginning to get a good sense of their wishes, and their fears.
After her stint with Jonathan, she’d treated herself to a break. A week up in Scotland just before Christmas. The trip had been a luxury, and a rarity, but she’d needed it. Jonathan Coulter’s death had left her feeling restless. That was unusual. Normally she went from one job to the next, untroubled, unaffected. Caring was her vocation. She couldn’t imagine doing anything else – didn’t want to do anything else – but this time it felt different. As she wandered around Edinburgh, with its glitter of Christmas lights, she finally worked out what was troubling her.
It wasn’t Jonathan’s passing.
His death had been one of the most
