In Memoriam

Warning: This story contains mentions of cancer (specifically melanoma)

Cath bit down on her nail, her heart jumping each time her dad's foot slipped down the stairs. She'd insisted for months that he and mum move house; these narrow stairs were a danger to them both in their old age, now that they couldn't keep their balance as well as they once could. The stubborn old man might be willing to sell now that Mum was gone.

'Don’t bite on your nails Catherin.’ He said, reaching the bottom and picking up a walking stick from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Sorry, Dad.’ She whipped her hand out of her mouth. She didn’t like that he still had that power. One minute, she was an adult of thirty-seven. Then, with one stern word, she felt like a small child again. Being back here didn’t help; the house that she and Johny grew up in together.

It was a quaint old place, built in the Victorian period, and having belonged to her mum’s side of the family for several generations. Hence, the narrow stairs that were a death sentence for a man with rickety old knees.

‘Dad, maybe you should consider moving your bed down here. Your knees aren’t what they used to be and… well, now that mum’s…’ She trailed off, trembling slightly. Her dad placed a hand on her forearm, and the trembling stopped.

‘I know you’re worried, Cathy. And yes, I know my knees aren’t what they used to be. I’ve got Darren coming on Thursday. He will give me his old sofa bed like Johny suggested.’

‘Good, Dad. That’s good.’ He patted her arm and squeezed her hand.

‘Come on, little Robin, let’s have a cup of tea before we head over to Johny’s.’

Cath nodded, smiling at him, then headed into the kitchen to put the kettle on. The sound of her childhood nickname had given her some strength. “My little red robin” he’d say, before hoisting her onto his shoulders. A memory came to her then, of the pair of them, running back into the house dripping wet from the rain. Her mum called them both animals for traipsing mud everywhere, then laughing as their dog shook himself dry, showering them with more rainwater as they took off their raincoats. What had she made for them for tea that evening? She could remember all the details but that one. Cath hadn’t thought about that evening for years. Tears were forming at the corners of her eyes, which she banished hastily.

The kettle boiled, and Cath lifted it to pour tea into the first of the two mugs decorated with seagulls that her parents had bought on a family trip to Cornwall when she was seven. She found that she was shaking again and some of the scolding water splashed onto her hand. She yelped, dropping the mug she’d been holding onto the counter-top, where it wobbled, but didn’t spill.

‘Cathy?’ Came her dad’s voice from the living room. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes, Dad, just dropped one of the mugs by mistake.’ Running her scolding hand under the cold water, she cursed under her breath. She was such a mess. She'd been filled with this awful coldness since she saw Uncle Simon two days ago. Her memories of her mum were… coloured. Wrong. Somehow fake. Like the woman she’d known, the wonderful, smiling, all-loving mum, hadn’t really existed. It wasn’t as if her mum did anything wrong, at least by today’s standards. Back then of course it was different. People had strange attitudes in those days.

Cath had gone to Simon’s house on Sunday, the older of her mum’s two brothers. She’d wanted to check on him to see how he was coping. And found him in a drunken state in his armchair, whisky all down his front. The elderly man lived alone these days since his children moved to Scotland. Divorced twice, he’d never learnt to take proper care of himself. She’d managed to rouse him enough to get him into bed, but he was barely lucid, and his eyes were bloodshot. Perhaps he’d been crying before she got there. He rarely ever cried. Shouted a lot, and threw things on occasion. She’d only seen him cry once before, when his second wife left him. He’d been drunk that night too.

‘You’re such a good girl, Cath.’ He murmured, once she’d tucked him into bed; a glass of water and some painkillers left out for him. ‘So good to your family. Those three girls of yours are beautiful and funny. They remind me so much of your mum, especially when they were little. Nelly was such a good person. She didn’t deserve what… what they did.’ Cath knew she should’ve left him there. He’d been drunk. Far too drunk to know what he was saying. But she couldn’t help it. She stayed with him, as he offered up the secret to her, knowing full well he’d never remember telling her all this. No one knew, apparently. Not her, not Johny, not even their dad. It was a secret she’d taken to her grave.

There was a crash from behind Cath. A small scream escaped her mouth. She’d left the mug too close to the edge of the counter-top and it had fallen on the kitchen floor. She cursed again, grabbing the dust-pan and brush from under the sink and sweeping up the broken mug shards. As she swept up the broken ceramic, she found her hands were trembling again. She dropped the pan; her hands were shaking so badly. Why couldn’t she pull herself together? Her mother lived with that secret for forty years; she could handle herself. Why couldn’t Cath snap out of it? Why was she behaving like a wreck, like a frightened little girl who couldn’t find her mum?

‘Cathy?’ She looked up from where she was crouched on the floor. Her dad had come into the kitchen to check on her. She hadn’t even heard the thud of his walking stick on the floor as he’d approached. He wore wide-rimmed glasses, that magnified his old brown eyes.

‘Are we going to Grandpa Owl’s house today?’ Cath burst out laughing as the memory popped into her mind, huddled on the floor, the soles of her shoes wet with tea. She pulled her arms around herself and put her head between her knees, laughing uncontrollably. No, she wasn’t laughing. She’d stopped laughing a while ago. Instead, she was sobbing into her knees, unable to stop the gasping. Was she having a panic attack?

‘Cathy! Come with me, come and sit down.’ Her dad might not have possessed much strength but she found his guiding touch to be all that was needed to be led into the other room, and plopped down on the sofa. He went back into the kitchen to finish making the tea. Cath focused on taking long and steady breaths of air to steady herself. She was stronger than this. She’d raised two daughters through to adulthood and could control her emotions.

Her dad returned after five minutes, bringing in a tray with mugs of tea and a pack of biscuits. Cath helped guide the tray down onto the coffee table. She breathed in the smell and warmth of the mug, allowing it to comfort and reassure her. They didn’t say anything as they sat there, dunking biscuits and gently slurping on their tea, but after a while her dad put down his finished mug.

‘I know you’re upset over her death Cath, but you need to stop worrying about the rest of us and take time to care for yourself. I know you went round to your uncle Simon’s last weekend.’

Cath grimaced at the memory. Could she really do this? Spoil her dad’s memory of the woman he loved with a secret she never intended to give away? No. There was no need. What happened, happened long ago ago and her mum never wanted her family to know.

She looked into her father’s magnified eyes. He seemed so innocent to her in that moment, not a parent but a gentle soul who’d lost the love of his life. She would not be the one to ruin all of that.

A smile came to her lips, natural and unforced. ‘I’m alright dad. Really. It’s just… tough.’

He put his hand on hers and held it. His skin was leathery and wrinkled from a life as a carpenter. There were momentos all around the room: photos of them all at the beach, Knick knacks from various museums, National Trust stickers and a stick of rainbow-coloured rock from their trip to Scarborough last summer. Their last holiday before mum’s diagnosis.

She’d noticed an itching behind her left ear at first. After some persuading, she’d gone to the doctor. But it was too late to prevent it from spreading. Melanoma had become a brain tumour before any of them had time to process what was happening. She’d died a few months later. She was a happy woman, at the end of a beautiful life. With one secret that her alcohol-drenched brother finally let slip after her death.

‘Simon told you, didn’t he?’

She stared at him. Then, she hung her head.

‘Your mum told me before she died, Cathy. She didn’t have much time but I got the full story out of Simon. It’s okay, Cath.’

Cath felt again that irritating feeling of being a child, caught telling a lie or keeping something hidden she shouldn’t have. She felt so selfish, thinking about how all of this affected her.

‘I’ve chosen to remember her for who she was, Cath. What happened was terrible and yes, I was upset at first that she waited until she was on her deathbed to tell me. But that was her choice, to leave all of that behind when we married, and we had you and your brother to love and cherish.’

Cath met her father’s gaze. ‘What about the boy?’

‘Simon told me he was orphaned. Your mother’s family couldn’t afford to keep him. And she was worried he’d always remind her of that day. But she went to visit him a few times, to explain. I don’t have his number but I’m sure your mum had it written down somewhere.’

‘Maybe.’ Cath felt a heavy weight lifted from her shoulders. Secrets had a way of burdening not just the holder, but those they entrusted them to. How had her mum gone on all those years, when such a horrible thing happened to her at such a young age? Obviously, she was stronger than she’d ever given her credit for. Her mum had always possessed a silent type of strength. One that obnoxious, but you got a feeling from her like she could stand against a storm, trying to blow her away. She’d stand there and say: “No, you move for me.” The storm might just obey.

‘Come on Dad.’ Cath said, rising from her seat on the sofa. We must get to Johny’s before the rest of the family descend upon him. She lifted him from his seat and fetched his suit jacket from where it was hanging in the hall. As they were leaving, her dad stopped in the doorway, turning to stare at the stairs.

‘Maybe it is time I thought about moving out. Would you mind helping me with the arrangements Cath?’

‘Of course, dad. But we’ll talk about it after the funeral, yeah?’ He beamed at her.

They stepped out into the weak rain that was falling, sunlight causing a faint rainbow through the air. Cath turned back to lock the door behind them, then hesitated. Cheese on toast. That was it. That was what her mum made for two wet stragglers stepping in from the rain all those years ago.