Secret Joy

Part 2

The news of Dad's death sank in slowly. It became real in the little things: the slices of toast Mum left on the plate three breakfasts in a row; the packet of makeup wipes she stopped using because she never put the makeup on in the first place; the ring she set on the coffee table; the sofa she lay on all day long, not saying anything.

When someone you live with dies, it's the little things that hurt most. Dad's magazines still arrived on subscription. He'd expected to come home that evening; he'd left his memory sticks and CDs lying around the house along with stray wires and nuts and bolts and broken bits of computer that he'd said he'd definitely need one day.

Emily was excused from her re-sit. School called to say she and I wouldn't need to be in at all, not until we were feeling better. "So sorry for your loss," our head-teacher said, though he couldn't begin to imagine it.

Mum couldn't sleep at night, and she couldn't speak during the day, so Emily and I helped by reading through Dad's address book, calling his friends to tell them the bad news.

People he'd worked with: Ross Jenkins; Mandeep Singh; Bob Smith.

Distant relatives: Liz Butcher; Annie Butcher; Joe Butcher; Helga Butcher. We'd met most of them at family reunions over the years. Some lived in Portsmouth. Some lived in Birmingham. We'd met most of them.

But not Helga. Her address was in Copenhagen. Maybe she was reclusive. I'd made the last call to Dad's cousin Joe, so Emily dialled the number, and put the phone on speaker.

"Darling?" said a voice, "Is that you?"

Darling?

Emily and I stared at each other, and she hastily ended the call.