Coming Home by Annabel Kantaria Read Free Book Online

unacceptable! How can people be so rude?’ she raged. ‘I never even liked the woman!’
    ‘What? What happened?’
    ‘I told her that Graham was dead and she denied it! It’snot as if it’s easy telling people, but that woman had the temerity to deny it! She said I was “having a turn”!’
    ‘Oh, Mum, I …’ I took a step towards her.
    ‘“Oh, Mum, I” what?’ Mum was still staring at the phone, but now she snapped her head to look at me, her eyes flashing.
    I reached out for her arm, but she jumped away.
    ‘It’s not Graham,’ I said gently. ‘It’s Dad who’s died. Robert. Not Graham.’
    Mum stared at me, her eyes wide. Then she shook her head. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Good God, I may be old but I don’t have dementia. What kind of idiot do you take me for?’
    ‘I …’
    Mum turned for the stairs. ‘Cup of tea?’
    I shook my head. ‘I’m fine.’

C HAPTER 12
    I yanked the wool from the tip of my knitting needles, unravelling a row of uneven stitches. ‘Please could you help me with my knitting?’ I asked Miss Dawson. She’d been waiting for me to say something for several minutes, but the knitting was taking up all my concentration. It hadn’t been going right for a few days now and the work I’d produced was full of telltale holes
.
    ‘Here.’ Miss Dawson took the wool and needles from me, unravelled a couple more rows, cast on and knitted a couple of neat rows for me. ‘There you go.’ She passed it back
.
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘Are you sleeping all right now?’ she asked. ‘You said you have sleeping tablets? Are they working?’
    ‘Hmph.’
    Nights were bad. I couldn’t stop thinking about the accident. Mum had taken me to the doctor and, after that, I got half a tiny purple sleeping pill at bedtime
.
    The pills tasted bitter and dragged me into sleep but, in my dreams, I met Graham. All night we played, we argued, we messed around. I woke feeling happy. And then I had to remember all over again that he was dead. During the
day, I felt like I was walking through melted toffee, my head enclosed in a glass jar
.
    ‘I stopped taking them. I don’t feel much like myself with them,’ I said
.
    ‘And are you managing to get to sleep without them?’
    ‘S’pose,’ I said
.
    I’d never tell Miss Dawson, but I’d started talking to Graham instead. Each night, I lay down and told him about my day. I imagined that he could hear me; I imagined his replies. I slept better now—but my dreams were still of Graham
.

C HAPTER 13
    A fter Mum had settled downstairs with her tea, I took Dad’s address book upstairs. After the scene on the landing, I thought it was better that I make the calls. The address book was faded and worn and, when I lifted it to my nose, I could catch the scent of my father impregnated in the leather. I imagined him sitting in his study, his long fingers thumbing through the pages crammed with carefully written names, numbers and addresses.
    I made the calls from my bedroom, not wanting Mum to hear me repeat the same things over and over. ‘Yes, died in his sleep … very peaceful … yes, she’s fine, thank you … I’m here to help … yes, funeral’s on Friday at eleven … no flowers, money to charity …’
    It made for a wearing afternoon’s work. Dad was one of the first in his peer group to pass away, and many people were so shocked I ended up consoling them rather than the other way around. It was tedious, but I was keen to get it over with; happy that I was able to do it for Mum.
    Under ‘D’ I found the number for Miss Dawson, my old grief counsellor. I chewed my pen and stared out of the window. Would she want to know? She’d seen a lot ofme after Graham had died, had almost become a friend. I wondered what she was up to now. I’d have thought she was in her late thirties when she was helping me, so she must be nearly sixty now. I added her number to my phone, clicked ‘Call’ and waited while it rang.
    ‘Hello?’ Her voice sounded