Robyn Hogan

 In which Maggie Dunne dies bequeathing her dreadful secret to her younger daughter, Fidelma (Del).

Old Mrs Dunne lay dying. Far from the western plains where she had been born, schooled, married, farmed, been a community tower of strength and would eventually be buried. She lay dying in a Sydney harbourside suburb, in a nursing home chosen for its proximity to the homes of her three children. Nursing homes are scarce in regional areas; waiting lists unbelievably long. And, besides, there was no family left over the Mountains.
It had been a hard and difficult decision. Anne had been the most in favour of bringing her mother to the city; Davy the least and Fidelma, well Fidelma’s husband, Kevin, had just been diagnosed with cancer.
‘It comes down to this,’ Anne had summed up at the family conference she had called, ‘we leave her in her home and expect her friends to shop for her, sort her washing, keep her place clean. Generally care for her — ’
‘–They’re all getting on a bit too,’ Sarah, Davy’s wife, had interrupted, bringing a frown from Anne.
‘And,’ she raised her voice, ‘tolerate her semi-senile nonsense.’
‘The probably don’t notice that, Petal,’ Sarah had murmured.
‘Or we bring her down to the city, to a place convenient for us all. I mean, we three live close enough to pop in and visit, maybe daily. Are you listening, Fidelma?’
Del nodded, gathering her wandering thoughts. ‘It means uprooting her from her lifetime’s environment.’
‘Yes, it does,’ Anne had agreed, steel in her tone, ‘but her environment, as you call it, has altered. There are no family members left out there. And she definitely cannot cope alone. For pity’s sake, she’s not even feeding herself properly. The District Nurse was most scathing.’
Aha, Del had thought, who’s been stung by a little bee? But she said nothing.
‘Del’s got a point, Anne,’ Davy had droned, ‘the climate, the humidity, the noise of the city might be too much for her.’
‘Nonsense. We’ll find a nursing home in a leafy garden where she can hear birds and where the trees will lessen the noise factor, filter out the fumes.’
‘Hostel care might suit her better.’ Sarah was massaging the quick on her fingers, bored.
‘No. The District Nurse specifically mentioned home care.’
‘What’s the diff?’ Davy, too, was feeling bored. Knowing Anne, he felt sure she had already worked out all the details. He and Del were just her rubber stamps. Anne had never held a paying job but she ran her life, and theirs if they let her, like a managing director. Poor old Michael, her husband, lived in a world of his own and mostly on the golf course.
‘A Home gives full time care; in a Hostel she is expected to care for herself and attend a dining room for her meals.’
‘A Hostel sounds more fun.’
‘Yes, it might be. But if we get her into a Home, then there is only one more move for her.’
‘And you think she won’t know the next move is into a box?’
‘Not if I can help it, Del.’ Anne’s mouth had closed in a thin line. ‘It’s not pleasant to have to consider but, when we are making a decision about our mother’s future, we should consider all eventualities.’
Where does she get these words from? Del had thought and Sarah had smirked companionably.
‘Well, that’s settled. Now, I’ve been carrying out some research and I have narrowed the field down to three possibles. Of which I think the Lane Cove one the best.’
Yes, thought Del, and you’ve probably made a reservation too. She pushed back her shirt cuff and looked at her watch. Kevin would be home soon, his last lecture would finish at three. She needed to spend every moment she could with him. Besides, arguing with Anne for argument’s sake could be entertaining but was always foolish.
So Mrs Dunne had been uprooted and set down in Lane Cove. It was a pleasant Nursing Home, as such places go, filled with friendly, caring staff. Anne had never missed a day’s visit and Sarah had been loyal too. Davy called in infrequently; she depressed him because he could feel her need for the open plains along with his own deep, cold hunger to breathe that air again. Del had pushed herself, keeping the secret of Kevin’s illness, the agony of his treatment, to herself for as long as possible. Their daughters, hers and Kevin’s, had seen a duty and performed it regularly, though Maggie Dunne was often less than gracious.
She had pined there, longing for a dusty wind rather than the fume laden breezes; ached for a wide reaching silence rather than the never-ending drone of mechanical noises. Although, as a widow, she had moved into town, the town was a gentle place with wide streets and little traffic.
Now, Margaret Dunne lay dying.
Over the three years since they had moved her, her heart had wearied, her blood vessels thickened and she had seemed ready to meet her Maker.
Yet, she was restless in her dying.
‘She seems to want the priest again.’ Anne emerged from the sick room, the plain little room set aside from the bustle of the alcoves and wards with their bright and frilly chintz curtains and spreads; the little room saved for the dying. She joined Del and Sarah in the waiting room with its grey venetians and a view of the car park.
‘Again? For god’s sake, Anne, why?’
‘I don’t know.’ Anne approached the trolley set against the wall, lifted the hot water jug, checked the fluid level and flicked its switch to ON. ‘Anyone else for coffee? Tea?’ She measured a teaspoon of caterer’s instant coffee powder into a styrofoam cup and, when the jug began to boil, switched it off and filled the mug with hot water.
‘There’s something worrying her.’
‘What could there be?’ Sarah uncrossed her long legs, smoothed her jeans and recrossed them. ‘Is she a serial killer? A bank robber? The town’s top madam? Really, Anne, take it for what it is, just dying delusions.’
‘I wish I could, but, Sarah, I’ve known her better than all of you; she’s got some big worry.’
‘Haven’t we all?’ Sarah and Anne glared briefly at each other before Anne dropped her eyes. She was so very close to tears. A distant clock chimed in the silence.
‘Is there any harm in calling the priest again?’ Del spoke softly, the ache of Kevin’s death harsh in her throat. ‘If you think it will make her settle.’
Anne sighed, sipped her coffee without enthusiasm. ‘I don’t know. I don’t want to monopolise him. He’s been twice a day for the last three days but still she says, indicates, that she needs to confess.’
‘You people all okay? Want fresh sandwiches? Milk?’ The domestic worker bustled in, opened the refrigerator, removed the plates of food, tidied them, replaced them, checked the milk supply. ‘And how is dear Mrs Dunne? Still hanging on? These country women do, you know. Tough as oxen.’
Anne, Sarah and Del murmured, reassuring sounds like doves nesting. Outside, a shrill magpie squawked at its young.
‘Pardon me for askin’, it’s not my place, I know, but have youse had the priest or a min’ster in? That usually settles ’em real quick like.’
Sarah and Del felt Anne bridle up and exchanged knowing glances.
‘Of course we have.’ She remained polite but there was a snap in her tone.
The woman wiped a cloth over the trolley, rinsed it out in the sink. ‘I just heard her askin’. I mean, I was in there now collectin’ and she rolled those big eyes at me and said, “I must confess”. Clear as a bell she was. But, if youse say she’s all right, its no business of mine.’ She fluttered the damp cloth, folded it and placed it with her other cleaning gear in the small plastic bucket she carried. ‘Maybe she just forgets he’s been.’
‘Maybe’, Anne agreed, standing back to let the woman pass. ‘Do you think,’ she asked the others as soon as they were alone again, ‘that, maybe, she is just forgetful?’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ Sarah commented, ‘after all, she’s dying. You can’t expect her to have all her faculties about her.’ Sarah wished herself home; she was only here for Davy’s sake. Matron had sent for them, summoned them to the bedside in the early morning hours. Davy had come, put in an appearance, gruffly said farewell, then went to work. It was well into the afternoon now and she was considering how she could decently take her leave. Perhaps they could come back together after dinner, say.
‘I’ve thought of that; tried to tell her she’s made her peace with God. I’ve stroked her face, calmed her, said prayers aloud to help her, told her we were all here, loving her. At first she accepted but, now, just now, she’s demanding, quite clearly demanding, the priest again.’ Anne swirled the last of her coffee round, shuddered, tipped the dregs down the sink, ‘even asking the staff, as you just heard. And she seems to be getting angrier.’ Tears trickled through Anne’s make-up and she brushed them aside impatiently but carefully, sniffing the moisture back, gaining control of herself.
‘Perhaps everyone is angry when they’re dying. Is that a sin? Was Kevin angry, Del?’
Kevin wasn’t angry, Del thought, shaking her head, Kevin taken far too soon had smiled his love and reassured her until she closed his dulled eyes.
‘That’s unnecessary, Sarah,’ Anne snapped. The sun had turned, streaming harshly across the room and she pulled the venetians tight with a clatter. ‘I don’t think I can send for him again’. Anne’s forehead creased in a deep frown; dark circles rimmed her eyes. She’s not as tough as she looks, Sarah thought and Del rose and put an arm round her shoulders.
‘Let’s try just one more time,’ Del said. ‘Would you like me to call him?’
‘No,’ Anne’s chin came up, ‘I just feel I’m monopolising him, that’s all.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ Sarah drawled, ‘it’s his job, Petal.’ She rummaged in her handbag, pulled out her mobile telephone, ‘shout’s on me.’
The priest was not amused when Anne called, implied the problem was hers and Anne, the days of vigil telling, lost some of her cool veneer and snarled at him. He took an hour to come, an hour in which Mrs Dunne became increasingly agitated. Anne and Del sponged her; the nursing staff adjusted the drip rate, checked the catheters; looked for any physical cause for her unrest. Eventually he hurried in, elderly, serious and business like, pulling his purple stole from a deep cassock pocket, acknowledging them only by shoo-ing them, with flapping hands, from the room. Ten, fifteen minutes went past. Anne fiddled with her fingers, her hair, touched up her make-up; Sarah shifted restlessly as she flipped through a magazine. Del’s dark head remained still, bent over a book, the pages seeming to absorb her. As the door onto the corridor opened Anne sprang up, turned to face the priest and took a step back. His face was red, mouth rolling with fury, and he glared at the three of them as if they were witches or worse.
‘Who, who, is Fidelma?’
Anne and Sarah looked to Del who, gradually realising her name had been spoken, nodded, butterflies suddenly fluttering in her stomach.
‘Your mother wants to speak to Fidelma. Alone.’ He almost seemed to spit the name out before hurrying away, cassock swirling.
Del looked at Anne, her senior by six years, the sister who had guided her through childhood. ‘What is it?’
‘Mum, wants to see you. By yourself.’ Gently taking the book from her, she propelled Del, an arm round her shoulders, towards the other room. ‘He’s probably just mad because we called him yet again. And Mummy probably wants to see us one by one.’
That would be right, Del thought, unworthily, and keep Anne to last.
You’ll be all right,’ Anne added, giving Del a slight push in before closing the door.
Mrs Dunne was watching out, more alert than she had looked for hours, indeed days. Del smiled as she approached the bed. ‘Mummy, you’re looking so much brighter. Are you feeling –’
‘Fidelma.’ Mother had mostly used her full name. She leant forward from the pillows, her breath coming in gasps, and blueness playing round her lips. Del moved to steady her but was halted by her mother’s rheumy eyes filled with the most dreadful sadness. ‘Dave was not your father. Must tell you to be forgiven.’ The words, clear and loud, filled the room then slurred, adding something that sounded like ‘adultery.’ Del stood still, stopped in her tracks, feeling a blast force of guilt hit her. ‘Forgiven,’ old Mrs Dunne murmured, sounding content, smiling the most beautiful smile, dimple flashing, before she fell back, head lolling, colour draining, hands and arms slack.
‘Mummy!’ Del touched her mother’s forehead, folded her hands round her face but the skin was already cooling, features smoothing so she looked like Anne. Del pressed the call button and crossed quickly to open the door, summon Anne and Sarah. And watched with envy as Anne buried her face in her mother’s neck, crying great floods of tears until the nurses edged her away.
By the time Davy, their brother, Sarah’s husband, arrived, Margaret Anne Dunne (nee O’Toole) was lying neatly in the bed, eyes closed, hair brushed, at peace. Anne and Del withdrew, allowing Davy and Sarah time alone with his mother. ‘I guess it had to happen,’ he mumbled, swallowing the lump rising in his throat.
‘She was old, Davy, it was her turn.’ He looked up swiftly at Sarah, the softness in her voice was like the early days and she confirmed it by stretching her hand across the smoothed sheet to cover his. ‘We must plan the best funeral we can for her.’
‘Anne said there was something troubling her – she looks so peaceful.’ A tear escaped, rolled down his cheek. Sarah patted his hand.
‘She is now. We got the priest to her again and,’ she hesitated, wondering if Anne would tell him why they had and decided to keep facts to a minimum, ‘and that seemed to settle her. She died shortly afterwards.’
‘In a state of grace’, Davy murmured. He looked up at Sarah, his eyes damp. ‘Thanks.’
Sarah, the unbeliever, smirked. ‘We must plan a really nice send-off for her.’ She moved round the bed, took his arm, gently turned him, led him from the room. ‘I think you should do the eulogy.’
‘Me? Oh no, Pet, Anne will look after that. She is so attached to Mum.’ He gulped, ‘I mean was.’
‘Of course, she’ll look to most of the planning; she always does. But I think you should do the eulogy.’ Sarah would not explain why she felt it so important; she just knew she needed Davy to seem big and powerful, smooth and successful in the home town’s eyes. ‘You will, won’t you?’ She gave his arm a jiggle. ‘It would look best coming from you.’
‘But, Anne –’
‘She can decide on the readings, and who does them, plan the hymns, help us with the details for the eulogy but it will be your delivery.’ With her arm tucked in his, they left the room, meeting Anne returning from the nursing home office.
‘I’ve fixed all the paper work up but, Davy, we need to decide about the funeral director and the service and—‘
‘Then let’s out of here, Anne. We’ll go home and work things out from there.’
‘Oh, I–. No, I guess you’re right, Davy. I’ve got to ring Michael and get something suitable to bury her in–. Where’s Del?’
‘I don’t know. Still in the waiting room, I suppose.’ But the room was empty. They asked the staff. Someone thought they’d seen her wandering out. They found her in the garden, standing against a large gum tree, her teeth tearing at the corner of the bunched up handkerchief she held.
‘Del’, Anne touched her gently, ‘we’re going to Davy and Sarah’s. Would you like to come with me, rather than drive yourself? We can collect your car later.’
‘No.’ Del shook her head, her large amber brown eyes surprisingly dry, ‘I think I’ll just go home.’
‘You can’t. We have to plan things together.’
‘I’m happy with whatever you decide.’ Anne would decide, no matter what they planned together.
‘That’s not the point.’ Anne had plans racing through her head, could see the shape of the service to come. ‘We’re her family. We must decide together. Come on, Del, don’t sulk.’
‘I’m not sulking! I would just rather leave it all up to you.’
‘And is that fair to me?’ Anne was standing straight, hands gripping her shoulder bag, blue eyes regarding her sister sternly.
‘Okay. I’ll come. But I just want to say goodbye to Mummy again.’
‘Is that necessary, Del? Putting yourself through all that again?’ Anne was peeved, wanting Del to comply with her decisions, not have ideas of her own.
‘Yes. I have to see her one more time.’ What such an action could achieve she did not know but she wanted to confront her, even in the silence of death. She turned away and began walking back towards the Home’s entrance.
‘I’ll come with you.’ Anne’s heels clattered on the pavement. Even in her mid-fifties she continued to wear spike heels.
‘No.’
‘Delly darling, I don’t think you should go by yourself. Come on, let Anne—’
‘No.’ She shook Anne’s hand off and hurried away. ‘I’ll see you at Sarah’s,’ she called from the steps. She hurried in, down the corridor to the little sick room with its faded curtains, and stopped aghast. The blinds were open allowing the late afternoon sunshine to fill the room, the bed was stripped bare and an orderly, humming gently, was washing it down. ‘Gone!’ The word tore from Del’s throat, startling the cleaning woman, who stood helplessly, wringing a wet cloth. ‘Of course,’ Del muttered under her breath, adding ‘Sorry.’ She tried to smile as she slowly backed into the corridor but her jaw was somehow locked. She should have realised, she thought, this was a public place. Kevin had died at home; she had had all night with him.
Anne was well into preparation mode by the time Del arrived at the smart terrace house Davy and Sarah had recently purchased. The nurse in charge had way-laid her; her mother’s belongings had been packed, could she take them now? Save someone coming back? Del had nodded dumbly then, as her mind cleared a little, suggested some things might be of value to the nursing home. ‘Of course, dear, but it is our policy to send everything to the family first,’ she smiled without humour, ‘but we do welcome donations of clean, quality garments.’
‘Of course. Very well.’ Del did not know what to say; her mother had suddenly passed from being a human to a disposable commodity.
‘Perhaps you would sign here for her valuables,’ adding ‘rings and money’ when Del merely stared.
‘Of course,’ she repeated, her emotions screaming to be free of the place. Taking the pen, she signed where indicated, not really reading the entry, not caring what the entry read and stuffed a worn purse and an envelope into her handbag. The wardsman was loading cardboard cartons, clothing and shoes visible through the half-open tops, onto a trolley.
‘Where’s your car, love?’
‘In the car park.’ She tried to keep sarcasm out of her reply but a tinge of annoyance crept in.
‘Then bring it round here to the door, please, love. That’ll save me a bit of time and effort.’
She strode across to her vehicle, unlocked it and drove to the Home entrance. Her car was small, the boxes ungainly and, presumably to save him even more time, less effort, the man insisted on them going onto the back seat. Del drove to Davy’s with the stale smell of her mother lingering round her.
‘You look whacked,’ Sarah commented as Del walked in. ‘Like a glass of wine?’
Del nodded, noticing the wine level was low in their three glasses. Sarah picked the bottle up, poured her a glass and topped the others’ up.
‘I was beginning to worry about you,’ Anne said, looking up from the notes she was making, ‘what kept you so long?’
Del sipped her wine. Chardonnay, she thought, as she took in the scene. Davy slumped in an armchair, Sarah gliding towards the kitchen with the bottle in one hand, her filled glass in the other, and Anne seated at the table, a writing pad in front of her, lists on separate pages fanning out from it.
‘I had to collect Mummy’s things.’ She projected a calmness she was not yet feeling.
‘Oh, good. That’s one less thing to do.’ Anne shuffled the lists, settled on one and crossed out an entry. She looked up at Del, adjusting her glasses. ‘You didn’t mind, did you?’
‘No.’ Del shook her head slightly, deciding not to tell how she had been bulldozed. Let them think it was her initiative if that made them happy. But she wanted the things out of her car. ‘What do we do with them?’
‘I’ll take them home. Sort them out next week when I’ll be at a loose end – not having poor old Mummy to visit.’
‘There you go, Davy,’ Sarah chimed in, ‘go out and transfer your mother’s things from Del’s car to Anne’s.’
‘Now?’
‘Why not?’
Davy heaved himself out of the chair and Sarah winked at Del, hoping to lighten her mood. There was a darkness about her, sitting like a vulture. Her lovely olive skin had a tinge of greyness, her brown eyes seemed clouded.
‘This is what we have agreed on so far,’ Anne selected another list, ‘Funeral director: I’ve spoken to him. Priest: I’ve spoken to him. He’ll notify the organist. The funeral director will notify the newspaper and radio station and, what else, oh yes, arrange for the flowers. Now, we must give some thought to the readings and the hymns.’
Del nodded assent. That seemed to be sufficient to satisfy Anne who was already riffling through a Missal. ‘I’d like to ring my girls.’
‘Of course, Pet.’ Sarah was on her feet again. ‘Come, use the extension in the bedroom,’ she said soothingly, taking Del’s arm and gently leading her up the stairs to a room all brass and creamy lace.

Sitting sideways on the bed, Del cradled the telephone for a couple of minutes, thinking about the twins, Carol and Annie, on the other side of the world. Oxford. Where it would be early morning. Their girls. Who had worked so hard, gained their scholarships, were on certain career paths. She dialled the little flat they shared and wondered which sleepy head would answer. I’ve lost a husband and a mother in just a few months and my only children are far away – and what about your father? a voice screeched inside her. She gulped back tears, almost hung up but Carol was there, knowing it was her. And Annie calling in the background.
They had hardly known their grandmother. Del felt a shiver of guilt; she had let her rift with her mother colour her children’s perceptions. The rift had culminated the day she told her mother she wanted to marry Kevin. And Kevin had taken Margaret Dunne’s reaction so personally, to be laid in his heart beside his birth mother’s rejection of him, that Del felt she had no option but to support him in his pain. He was a confident, accomplished man, even then, but Del could feel the core of hurt that then and forever pulsed within him. Even when he learned they were bringing Margaret Dunne to a Sydney nursing home Kevin had muttered that she would outlive him, as if that added to his very personal grievance.
And now, as she spoke to them, Del could feel their sympathy and love for her, Fidelma, bouncing from the satellite, flowing down the lines, pouring their youthful strength into her veins rather than grieving for the loss of their own grandparent.
As she replaced the receiver, the door opened and Sarah entered. ‘How are they?’
‘Well.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m okay.’ Del stood up, smoothed the frothy quilt down. ‘Thanks for the phone.’
‘What did she have to say to you?’
‘Who?’
‘Margaret.’ Sarah had her cornered, bright beady eyes examining her. ‘Come on, Del, tell.’ She beckoned with her fingers, rubbing her thumb across them. ‘It was a real little drama there for a minute or two between you and your mother, wasn’t it?’
Del drew herself together and forced her eyes to meet that of her sister-in-law. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh yes you do. Margaret had a secret sin and she told Delma and then she died. What could she have been up to? Ever?’ She raised her arms above her head. ‘The mind boggles but Del knows.’
‘Oh,’ Del forced contempt and a smile into her reply, ‘she had nothing to say. She just collapsed and died.’
‘But she wanted to talk to Del alone: that’s what the priest said.’
‘Priests deal in guilt.’ Del was feeling stronger, pushing the deathbed scene away, smoothing it over with a better one. ‘She wanted to speak to each one of us. One last word. And,’ warming further to her lie, ‘I just happened to be first because I’m the baby.’ She toyed with suggesting Mummy would have kept the longest time for Anne but decided that was too unworthy of her.
‘Very well. For the moment. But,’ Sarah opened the door, opened the space between them, ‘I don’t believe you. I saw your face. You had received some horrific news.’
‘For god’s sake, Sarah, my mother had just collapsed on me! My mother was dead!’ Del forced vehemence into her reply, daring Sarah to challenge her further.
‘Good. You’ve finished your call,’ Anne’s voice trilled into the angry silence. ‘Let’s see where we are up to now. Sarah, Del, Davy, I think it would be better if we all sat round the table.’ They obeyed silently, waiting for Anne’s next instalment. ‘How are your girls,’ she looked up briefly at Del, ‘did they take it very badly?’
‘Yes and no. They’re pretty philosophical. She was, er, rather old to them.’
‘I suppose so. I’ve spoken to George. He’s going to do one of the readings. It’s important that she have at least one grandchild playing a part.’
Del never knew whether Anne meant to be so waspish; she didn’t exude venom as Sarah could, but there was often a sting in her comments.
‘But he declares the children, Adam and Josh, are far too young. Would rather not take them to the funeral at all.’
‘Must agree. Doubt I’d take them.’ Davy squirmed on the upright chair, longing for his lounger. It was old and comfortable and newly upholstered in a bright wool check. Sarah had raved about it looking out of place, clashing with the carefully orchestrated, rather dainty décor and why couldn’t he settle for a dark leather? but he had not given in.
‘Well, if the boys don’t come that would mean Carla would have to stay in Sydney with them.’
‘That’s probably the plan.’ Sarah was becoming impatient. ‘Keep going.’
‘Del will do one of the readings.’
‘No. She won’t.’ Anne glared at her sister, who shook her head slowly, her thick, dark hair tossing lustrously across her shoulders.
‘You always were stubborn. And I wish you’d get your hair cut, styled. You are far too old to wear it loose like that.’ Anne was moving into Del’s life and Del did not like it. ‘I insist you do a reading.’
‘My hair and I don’t do readings.’
‘I can’t be expected to do readings and the eulogy.’
‘Davy is doing the eulogy.’ Sarah had been waiting for the moment; she pounced.
‘Says who?’ Anne tapped a pen on the paper. ‘I’m the eldest.’
‘He’s the son.’
‘I don’t believe this. Here I am, trying to get everything organised. You just sit there, let me do it, then make your own decisions.’ She was plainly annoyed, yet there was a degree of relief in that annoyance. ‘Then let’s take it from the top again.’ Where had she heard such an expression? Del wondered. ‘George and I will do the readings, Michael, the prayer for the faithful, and Davy, the eulogy. I think that will be all right. Some might worry about the exclusion of Del but that’s her choice.’
‘Del’s been through her own funeral – I mean, been through a funeral recently, no one would expect her to play a big role again.’ Why was Sarah defending her? After the argument they’d just had? Sarah, Anne and Davy looked at each other. They remembered the wild Irish poems, the dramatic recitations, that was Kevin’s funeral. Better to keep Del on the outer, they nodded to each other.
‘All right. Now, there’s just the hymns to settle.’
Del stood, collected her handbag and, as she rummaged for car keys, remembered the purse and the packet of jewellery. ‘Here, this is Mummy’s too.’ She dropped them onto the table and turned to leave.
‘Del! Don’t go yet. You’ll have to come to the funeral with Michael and me. You can’t drive all that way by yourself.’
‘I can and I will,’ she sighed softly, ‘and I’ll let myself out.’
***