Prologue
October 13th
Who wants flowers when you’re dead?
Sometimes the last book we read; the last TV show we watched; the last thoughts we had, have a way of staying with us. You’d been reading The Catcher in the Rye. They found it amongst your things. The bookmark a few pages from the end. You never got to know how it ended. There’s something truly heartbreaking about that; about unfinished moments, like unspent coins in a purse, unturned pages on a calendar, unspoken words on lips.
It’s true – flowers are wasted on the dead just as youth is wasted on the young.
There would have been flowers for you last year – there are always flowers.
My fingers bend over the edges of the page – marking the place. They want me to say a few words. They want me to make sense of something broken.
She stops talking right there in the middle of all the bustle in the communal garden and gestures for Abigail to follow her to the rows of chairs. They’re lined up in front on a make-shift ‘stage’ area. Just along from the tree; the silver birch that stands alone showing off its overcoat, leaves predominantly oranges and browns but still retaining some green. It stands as if in salute for what is about to happen. Harriet Smallcroft, our local MP, will say something first. The other speakers are here. I see them talking to people. It’s a nice day for it, people say. And I know what they mean but is it, can it ever be, a nice day for it? There are clear blue skies, a day with crispy edges, but there’s a chill stirring the leaves of the silver birch – a chill that runs through everything.
Not everyone’s here yet.
Earlier Carol, she’s the one who sent out the invites, the one who’ll also speak today, was with Maisie and Abigail; they were sweeping leaves. I joined them. They said they were going to make cakes and sausage rolls and the WI wanted to help serve refreshments but Carol was the one who said it wasn’t that kind of thing. They didn’t need to make refreshments and what if it rained? It’s not about food or drink, is it, it’s about all being here.
So, we are.
We are all here.
There are a lot of people. We’re all here huddled in our winter coats. Hats and scarves, stomping our feet to keep warm. Carol asked me to be here. I don’t know how to answer all their questions.
I spoke to Edith earlier. Another old neighbour. She’s here with her husband George though she says he probably doesn’t really understand what today is. Made me realise how we’re all fighting our own battles. Edith is making her way to the front now to join Piper – Piper Marigold the actress – I recognise her from the paper. Today it seems she’s sitting alone with her head bowed. She looks glamorous in a long burgundy coat with a gold scarf. Her hair has grown since I last saw her photo. Calcutta Drake’s here too. The MMA fighter. He’s brought his black labrador along with him; the one you used to walk. He’s not exactly sociable but he did tell me about your walks. He’s sitting at the end of one of the rows. He feels it too; I see it in his anguished expression when he shifts his gaze from his knees, as if he’s wondering who else will come. He looks as if he’s expecting trouble. Always ready for a fight, I suppose. I did see him dip his head at Danny the postman, at least I think that’s who he is. I think it was Jada, the teacher, who told me that. He was hovering by the gate, but I don’t see him now. I look along the lines of young faces and I feel something stir.
They all carry a small part of what happened – young and old – and I see the way it adds weight to their smiles and droops their shoulders.
The press is here too, gathered at the edges with their notebooks and their phones; some with cameras. I hope they’re here for the right reasons. This is not about headlines and click-baits.
We are here for you.
I find my seat on the makeshift stage and look over at Harriet Smallcroft who is yet to take her position. The hush sweeps over heads and pushes their whispers into the corners of the kempt garden. I watch a solitary leaf fall from the silver birch and float gently to the ground.
And that thing – the thing that had hung between their words and their handshakes and their slightly nervous banter a few moments ago, rises like bubbles to the surface of a glass.
We’re nearly ready.
Jada – with her gorgeous braided hair – now raises her hands, ushering more people to take their seats. She also seems to be looking around. Checking if everyone came, I suppose. I see Elizabeth the lovely Greek lady. She lived next-door-but-one to you. She says she’s known you since you were a baby. The whole family is here, sitting right down at the front across from me; young people you used to play with. She has left four seats empty. Carol wrote them a letter. Elizabeth has spoken to them and so did I – but will they come? Will they be able to come?
Behind Elizabeth, I see the two Simons looking very serious in smart grey suits – matching. They were involved in publicising the event. I wonder how they feel living at number 11. Then there’s Adrian who said you were close friends. He’s sitting in the fourth row with his mum and dad and there are so many people I haven’t yet spoken to. Dimitri, the ice cream man, who I do know, is sitting with his daughter, Lucinda, right behind Adrian. I see the boy turn around and glance at her. Something seems to pass between them that makes me wonder. It’s like they’ve found some solace in one another remembering you. Adrian’s lips are pressed into a tight line, expression fixed, stoic and I watch Lucinda lean forward and gently squeeze his shoulder.
I have spoken to as many of them as I can.
Now it feels like a play is about to start. I wish that’s all today was.
You asked Adrian to keep your words safe. I feel the weight of those words now – of the responsibility handed to me.
Harriet Smallcroft fiddles with a microphone and taps the end once and then again to make sure. She looks at her wrist, glances at me and mouths, “Give it another minute?” I nod but the second I do, I catch a glimpse of them – so they did make it. It seems all heads turn and all gazes follow them as they make their way to the front – a mother, a father, a grandfather, a brother; all in their winter coats. I see Jada turn to look at the boy, Jimmy. Abigail nods at the old man. They shuffle into the seats Elizabeth saved for them. Now Harriet Smallcroft smiles in their direction. I can only imagine how they all feel.
I sense movement at the back: a man in a suit wearing a black tie. I think that’s the doctor from the old surgery on the corner. He’s standing by the railing with an older couple who I believe were an aunt and uncle. But I still don’t see him.
We’re about ready to start.
Today is important and that’s why there are so many people here: many of your friends from school and teachers and even the headmaster from Crompton Seniors.
There’s a sense of shifting feet and poised cameras as the press make ready. Harriet stands more upright now and begins her short introduction and the whole time I’m thinking about what to say, how to start. But I know. There’s only one way to start.
I look out at the sea of scarves and hats and solemn faces while Harriet talks about how it’s one year since the terrible tragedy… I try not to look at the family, not yet.
When finally, I hear myself being introduced, I stand, brush down my suit and I walk to the microphone. I see hope in all their expectant stares, like they need me to make sense of it – even when I know that’s impossible.
My fingers tremble as I open the page to the right place. I’m doing this for you – because you can’t and I wish to God I didn’t have to. I stare down at the neat black handwriting with the dainty loops and the slight lean to the right. There’s a soft muffle of hand taps as if they don’t know if they ought to clap or not. Now the hush returns.
“Hello. I want to begin with something Joanne Wilson wrote in her diary…”
I see their faces fixed on me, draw in a deep breath and begin.
“When I was a little girl, I had an idea that I’d make my own lemonade. I’d use fresh lemons – and mix them with sugar and water. Then I’d fill glass jugs and sell it by the cup. I’d do it during the summer holidays on the square. Only I never did do it because I used to be so shy and there were always too many other things to do with the school holidays.”
Your mum raises her head. I did ask her if I could do this and she gave me her blessing.
That’s when I think I see movement at the back by the railing and adjust my gaze.
He came.
He’s standing right at the back.
He’s here.
I look back down at the page and continue.
“I always wanted to be that little girl who made lemonade. I always wanted to be noticed.”
I see the gravitas of your words on their faces, think how there are many ways to be noticed – but this is not the way.
“Nothing will ever make it right – what happened,” I say, and I wonder for a moment as I look out at all the faces here today on the square, what you would make of all this, of all of these people here – now – for you.
Then I draw in a deep breath and I continue.
Find your copy here
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