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Authors: Dorothy Koomson
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will talk freely and give her access to some of our secrets.
‘Yes. That’s Joel’s Aunty Betty. You met her at the … at the … at the funeral. She was the one who sang “Amazing Grace” instead of a reading.’
Wearing a black dress and black hat, Aunty Betty stood at the pulpit with the order of service booklet in front of her. She cleared her throat as if to read and slowly raised her gaze until it was resting on me, on Phoebe, on Zane who were one either side of me, snuggled as close as possible.
She smiled at us and then she began to sing. Her voice carried across the skin of grief on the people in the church, soothing every person it touched, pricking tears into everyone’s eyes. I didn’t know she could sing like that, or she could make a song sound so enchanting, and every time I think of it, the skin on my body pricks with goosebumps. She’d done it to give Joel something special, something to remind us all of the special place he had in her heart.
‘Oh, yes,’ Imogen says. ‘I thought she lived somewhere near Middlesex? Here on a visit, is she?’
No, she’s been thrown out of her home for shagging on the managing director’s desk so she’s pitching up here until I find her somewhere else . ‘Erm, yes, something like that.’
‘Looks like she’s fallen asleep, would you like a hand?’
‘No, you’re all right, you’ve already done so much for me. Thank you. I’ll see you later.’
Reluctantly, Imogen curls her arm around her son and they start to leave. I wait until they have got into their car and driven away before I put my hand on the gate to go in. As I do so, a miracle happens: Aunty Betty opens the car door and steps out. She is regal and grand about it, of course, but it’s odd seeing her do something this ordinary. Naturally, she has a reason for opening her own car door and stepping out unaided.
‘I don’t like that woman,’ she says. Her line of sight – disapproving and contemptuous – is focused on the direction Imogen has driven off in.
‘I’m sure she’ll be devastated,’ I reply, sourly.
‘Child, she’s a grief vampire. She feeds off other people’s grief.’ When I don’t comment she adds, ‘I’m old, remember? I have been around this for many, many years. I have lost so many people, too many people, and I have seen people like that one several times. They need other people to be broken so they can feel useful. They hook into the bereaved and live off them.’
‘You didn’t even speak to her just now, and must have spoken to her for about five minutes at the … at the funeral, how can you make such bold pronouncements?’
‘At my age, you don’t need much time to see people for who they are.’
‘Obviously not.’
‘I don’t like that woman,’ Aunty Betty repeats.
‘So you said. And I find it incredible that you’re standing there bold as brass spouting all this stuff about one of my friends when you haven’t spoken in over three hours. Call me strange, but I was thinking maybe an apology, or even a simple explanation might have been forthcoming.’
Her silence is my reward.
*
‘I’m back!’ I call to my children. The woman behind me ‘ Ah-he-hem’s me. ‘ We’re back!’ I correct.
I wasn’t exactly expecting a thunderous stampede, but to have no acknowledgement at all is humiliating. In the living room Phoebe is on the sofa, on her phone; Zane has his Xbox controller in his hand, a Star Wars game on the screen.
‘We’re back!’ I repeat, louder this time.
‘Hi, Mum,’ Zane calls. He doesn’t even bother to turn his head to toss that over his shoulder – he remains focused on the screen.
‘Not even a little bit curious who I mean by “we”?’ I ask.
‘Uncle Fynn?’ Zane replies, still uninterested; while silence continues to emanate from Phoebe.
‘I think you’ll agree that I am far more interesting than that giraffewho claims to be your uncle,’ Aunty Betty says. She opens her arms and steps
‘Yes. That’s Joel’s Aunty Betty. You met her at the … at the … at the funeral. She was the one who sang “Amazing Grace” instead of a reading.’
Wearing a black dress and black hat, Aunty Betty stood at the pulpit with the order of service booklet in front of her. She cleared her throat as if to read and slowly raised her gaze until it was resting on me, on Phoebe, on Zane who were one either side of me, snuggled as close as possible.
She smiled at us and then she began to sing. Her voice carried across the skin of grief on the people in the church, soothing every person it touched, pricking tears into everyone’s eyes. I didn’t know she could sing like that, or she could make a song sound so enchanting, and every time I think of it, the skin on my body pricks with goosebumps. She’d done it to give Joel something special, something to remind us all of the special place he had in her heart.
‘Oh, yes,’ Imogen says. ‘I thought she lived somewhere near Middlesex? Here on a visit, is she?’
No, she’s been thrown out of her home for shagging on the managing director’s desk so she’s pitching up here until I find her somewhere else . ‘Erm, yes, something like that.’
‘Looks like she’s fallen asleep, would you like a hand?’
‘No, you’re all right, you’ve already done so much for me. Thank you. I’ll see you later.’
Reluctantly, Imogen curls her arm around her son and they start to leave. I wait until they have got into their car and driven away before I put my hand on the gate to go in. As I do so, a miracle happens: Aunty Betty opens the car door and steps out. She is regal and grand about it, of course, but it’s odd seeing her do something this ordinary. Naturally, she has a reason for opening her own car door and stepping out unaided.
‘I don’t like that woman,’ she says. Her line of sight – disapproving and contemptuous – is focused on the direction Imogen has driven off in.
‘I’m sure she’ll be devastated,’ I reply, sourly.
‘Child, she’s a grief vampire. She feeds off other people’s grief.’ When I don’t comment she adds, ‘I’m old, remember? I have been around this for many, many years. I have lost so many people, too many people, and I have seen people like that one several times. They need other people to be broken so they can feel useful. They hook into the bereaved and live off them.’
‘You didn’t even speak to her just now, and must have spoken to her for about five minutes at the … at the funeral, how can you make such bold pronouncements?’
‘At my age, you don’t need much time to see people for who they are.’
‘Obviously not.’
‘I don’t like that woman,’ Aunty Betty repeats.
‘So you said. And I find it incredible that you’re standing there bold as brass spouting all this stuff about one of my friends when you haven’t spoken in over three hours. Call me strange, but I was thinking maybe an apology, or even a simple explanation might have been forthcoming.’
Her silence is my reward.
*
‘I’m back!’ I call to my children. The woman behind me ‘ Ah-he-hem’s me. ‘ We’re back!’ I correct.
I wasn’t exactly expecting a thunderous stampede, but to have no acknowledgement at all is humiliating. In the living room Phoebe is on the sofa, on her phone; Zane has his Xbox controller in his hand, a Star Wars game on the screen.
‘We’re back!’ I repeat, louder this time.
‘Hi, Mum,’ Zane calls. He doesn’t even bother to turn his head to toss that over his shoulder – he remains focused on the screen.
‘Not even a little bit curious who I mean by “we”?’ I ask.
‘Uncle Fynn?’ Zane replies, still uninterested; while silence continues to emanate from Phoebe.
‘I think you’ll agree that I am far more interesting than that giraffewho claims to be your uncle,’ Aunty Betty says. She opens her arms and steps
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