The Sleeping and the Dead

‘I don’t remember much of the time she was ill. A visit to the hospital with my father. He was holding flowers – orange lilies, I think – and when we got to the bed he pushed them into my hand. The smell. In hospital and at home. Disinfectant, I suppose. Her face. I think I remember her face, but I’ve struggled too much to hold that in my mind and I’m not sure how accurate it is. You lose something, don’t you, if you try too hard?’

‘You must have photographs,’ Hannah said. Even after just a couple of years her memory of her father seemed to come from family snaps. There was one of him, taken at Christmas, with a paper hat on his head and a forced smile on his face, which she’d have been glad to forget.

But Michael shook his head. ‘I don’t know where they all went.’

‘Doesn’t your father have them?’ He shook his head again. He was so upset that she didn’t feel she could push it. Later she knew that to be a mistake.

‘Did she take you to the fair?’

‘I think she must have done. It’s one of the pictures I have in my head. We went down the helter skelter together. I sat between her legs. She wore tan nylons. I remember the mat we sat on. I was wearing shorts and it was prickly like coconut fibre. The sun was shining.’ He paused. ‘I chose the wrong day, didn’t I, to re-create the atmosphere?’

‘We can come back in the summer.’

‘She was buried here,’ he said suddenly. ‘In the cemetery by the lighthouse.’

‘Shall we go to look for the grave?’

He shivered. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough now. Let’s go home.’

He placed an emphasis on the last word as if he’d come to a decision. Home was the Brices’ house. It wasn’t this place.

Chapter Fourteen

Rosie stood behind the bar of the Prom with her back to the punters and took a moment to catch her breath. It had been a crazy evening. Friday nights were always busy, but this had been wild. On Friday night the locals came out and trippers and people from the city. They dressed up and paraded along the sea front from one pub to another, ending up after closing in the clubs. On Friday nights every pub along the sea front had a bouncer outside. The clubs were heaving. Scantily dressed waiters and waitresses pranced between the tables with trays held high above the customers. The Prom wasn’t really part of this circuit, but some people who did the Friday-night gig as a bit of a joke started off there, because the beer was cheaper, and to show that they weren’t really taking it seriously.

Early on, a visiting rugby team had arrived and taken up residence in front of the widescreen television.

‘Isn’t rugby a winter thing?’ Rosie had asked vaguely.

They had explained it was a special tournament but she had already lost interest. She had never seen so many similar-looking men before. They were like clones, she thought. They wore matching sweatshirts with a sponsor’s logo on the back. All had square jaws and squat, square bodies. All drank the same brand of lager. As the evening wore on they grew more raucous. They bought two pints each to save queuing at the bar. They whistled and shouted at the female images on the television, but when Rosie went to clear the tables they seemed not to see her.

Tonight was even busier than usual because they were one person down. Lindsay, their most experienced barmaid, had called in sick. Frank was grumbling. Rosie, preparing to dive back into the fray to collect glasses, heard him muttering to himself. She grinned. It’ll be his age, she thought. Poor old thing. He can’t stand the pace.

Just before closing time the crowd suddenly thinned. The rugby team stumbled away to look for a curry or a late-night bar. The holiday makers returned to their B amp;Bs. In the distance she heard the wail of a police siren. Then Joe came in. Mel wasn’t with him.

Rosie hadn’t seen him since she’d come back from The Old Rectory with her mother. He hadn’t returned her calls and she’d almost given him up. She’d tried to talk to Mel but hadn’t got through to her either. Mrs Gillespie always answered the phone – even during the day, which was a sign that something was wrong. Mrs Gillespie was usually as much of a workaholic as her husband, certainly worked the same sort of hours. At first when Rosie phoned, Mel’s mum had been evasive – Mel wasn’t available and she wasn’t sure when she’d be back. Later she’d come clean.

‘Look, I’m sorry, Rosie. She’s really not very well.’

‘I could come round.’

‘Not just at present. Maybe when she’s a bit better.’

So when Joe turned up at the Prom on his own that night, Rosie wasn’t surprised. She pulled him a pint.

‘On me,’ she said, because she knew he’d have no money, even if he hadn’t been on holiday.

He sat on one of the high stools by the bar.

‘How’s Mel?’ she asked, though if she was honest by now she really didn’t care. He cared though, which is why she asked.