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Julie pursed her lips. ‘Honestly, Clara, you seem determined to assign some ulterior motive to what’s simply a wonderful family reunion that Geoffrey’s keen to share with us all. Speaking of which, I’ll need to sort out the tea and biscuits for tomorrow’s get-together.’
‘What get-together?’
‘The get-together for everyone who’s working and has worked at the manor.’
Clara puffed out her cheeks. ‘Well, he hasn’t invited me.’
Julie frowned. ‘You should have received an email about it. Check your junk folder.’
Clara pulled her phone from her pocket and there, lying unseen amongst the junk emails was one from Geoffrey requesting – rather forcefully, Clara thought – that she be at the manor at 10a.m. tomorrow, prompt.
She looked up at her mother. ‘Yeah, I’ve been invited too but it’s not very convenient. I’ve got a lot of work on tomorrow.’
‘A lot’ was pushing it, and the work was likely to be tedious – sorting travel arrangements for a business team heading to Switzerland for a conference. But Clara was grateful for any income at the moment. Freelancing had been her only option after giving up her permanent job to move back to Heaven’s Cove, but it was proving very hand-to-mouth.
Julie’s mouth had set into a firm line. ‘It’s a good job the get-together won’t last long then,’ she said in a tone that brooked no dissent. ‘Anyway, you need to come along or River will think you’re snubbing him, and you used to be such good friends.’
Clara felt sure River wouldn’t give a monkey’s whether or not she was at tomorrow’s event, which was probably some celebration hailing his miraculous return. But a part of her was curious to know more about River’s life since he’d left Heaven’s Cove, and Bartie was likely to be there, too, which might liven up the proceedings.
‘So, are you coming?’ asked Julie, adding ‘Good’ when Clara nodded. ‘Right, now that’s sorted’ – her mother pointed at a bulging carrier bag near the fireplace – ‘can you sort through that stuff quickly because it’s almost time to eat.’
Clara knelt down on the carpet, in front of the TV, and tipped the bag out onto the floor. The contents of her grandmother’s bedside table cascaded around her.
‘Like I said, it’s all rubbish,’ said Julie, coming back into the room carrying cutlery. She winced at the mess. ‘I tipped the drawers into the carrier when we were clearing out her bedroom, and I have no idea why you want to go through it.’
‘We can’t just throw it all away without checking it first,’ said Clara, rocking back on her heels. She did want to go through her gran’s belongings but she was surprised by the extent of the pile in front of her. Who knew a couple of bedside drawers could contain so much? The floor was strewn with what looked like old receipts, plastic toys from the insides of Christmas crackers, and random nails and screws.
‘The problem,’ said Julie, placing the knives and forks on the table at the back of the room, ‘is that your grandmother, just like you, couldn’t bear to throw anything away. Fortunately, I’ve not inherited the hoarding gene.’
That was true enough, thought Clara, starting to go through the pile. Her mother had few qualms about throwing things out and had become more ruthless since discovering Marie Kondo, whom she worshipped as a guru.
‘This stuff has been cluttering up my attic for far too long,’ said Julie, placing salt and pepper pots on the table. ‘Mum, God rest her soul, passed away almost three years ago now and yet her things are still taking up too much space in our small home.’
Clara wrinkled her nose. It had been quite a while since Gran had died and she supposed it was fair enough to have a good clear-out. However, her mother had applied a different level of ruthlessness when it came to disposing of her father’s possessions. His clothes, his watch, the books he loved – they’d all gone to the charity shop within a few weeks of his death.
They’re simply ‘things’ which won’t bring him back, her mother had insisted when Clara had baulked at getting rid of his favourite jumper. We have our lovely memories of your father, and that’s all that matters.
She was right. And Clara understood that her mother was so grief-stricken she couldn’t bear to be faced with constant reminders of her lost husband. But Clara had still squirrelled away his glasses and they sat in the drawer of her bedside table, their lenses smudged with his fingerprints that she would never wipe away.
‘You should sit in the chair while you’re doing that,’ said Julie, going back out to the kitchen. ‘All that kneeling will destroy the cartilage in your knees.’
Clara glanced at the old armchair where her father had always sat. It was daft but she still couldn’t bring herself to sit there. It felt wrong, somehow: an acknowledgement that her father was gone for good.
Clara sat back on her heels. ‘I’m fine on the floor, thanks, Mum.’
‘You what?’ her mother yelled, sounding as if she had her head in the fridge.
‘I said I’m fine on…oh, never mind.’
‘One word from me and you do exactly what you want,’ said Julie, returning with two glass tumblers. ‘Oh, did I tell you that Michael rang yesterday to tell me he’s been promoted? He’s such a clever boy and doing so well out there. I always knew he’d be successful.’
Clara nodded, only half listening as her mother outlined Michael’s many attributes for the umpteenth time. She needed to sort through this pile before dinner was ready.
Five minutes later she was beginning to agree with her mother that Gran had been a dreadful hoarder. The haul from the drawers included plastic cutlery, yellowed with age, receipts going back more than a decade, a passport that had expired in 2012, two ancient packs of cards, and a tube of sticky cough sweets.
Clara groaned and adjusted her position on the floor. Her knees were starting to ache but she wouldn’t give her mother the satisfaction of moving to a chair.
‘Food’s ready,’ her mother announced, coming into the room with a steaming casserole dish even though it was still baking hot outside and more the weather for salad. ‘Have you finished sorting through your gran’s things?’
