The Summerhouse by the Sea. Jenny Oliver
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Ava realised that the ‘good catch’ statement was just that, a statement, to show her what she’d missed. There was no Homes Under the Hammer option available to her, even if she wanted it. ‘Yes, absolutely fine.’
When they pulled up outside Rory and his wife Claire’s Victorian semi, Jonathon came round to open Ava’s door, but she’d opened it on her own. He shut it after her instead.
‘Got all your stuff?’ he asked, as he followed her to the pavement.
Ava nodded. ‘Thank you. You know, for . . .’ She gestured to her clothes and the car. ‘Everything.’
‘It was my pleasure, Ava,’ Jonathon smirked, leaning in to give her a quick peck on the cheek, then waving to Claire who had just opened the front door. As he slipped back into his heated leather seat, he added, ‘It was actually quite enlightening. Getting to see beneath the . . .’ He made a gesture to her face and body, then coughed and said, ‘Not literally. You know what I mean?’ Then shook his head and with an awkward wave pulled the car door shut.
Ava watched him drive away, the grey sky merging with the road and the pavement. She didn’t have time to dwell on what he’d said because her ten-year-old nephew Max came bounding to her side.
‘Aunty Ava! Where’s your bandage? Mum said you’d been hit by a bus. Wow! That’s so cool. It must have really hurt!’
Claire appeared behind him. ‘Sorry I couldn’t pick you up, I was getting Max from football. You OK?’
Ava rubbed her head, felt the tears of the day pushing behind her eyes. She shook her head. ‘Not really,’ she said.
Claire reached out and put her arms around her, enveloping Ava in the kind of hug mums give on TV adverts, that make everything better and smell of fabric softener and strawberries. Ava was momentarily jealous of little Max standing next to her on the drive, eating chocolate digestives and watching YouTube on a laptop balanced precariously on his arm.
Ava stepped out of the hug, brushing her hair back, wincing as she felt the huge bump on the side of her head. ‘Thanks,’ she said to Claire, who nodded in understanding and ushered her inside, into the bright kitchen diner where she sat down on a battered club chair at the far end, next to the bifold doors that opened out on to the decking and the neatly mown lawn.
‘What do we need to do?’ Claire asked as she put the kettle on. Ava handed her the hospital leaflet, momentarily relieved to pass all responsibility over to someone else. Someone who was just innately caring, practical and kind. Who got a bag of frozen peas out of the freezer, wrapped them in a tea towel and put them carefully on her head, who made her a cup of tea and put sugar in for the shock, and went and found a blanket for her shoulders even though the house was completely warm enough.
Claire ruffled Max’s hair as she walked past him, and once again Ava thought how lucky he was.
Her phone started beeping with replies from her friends, finally out of all-day meetings and finished at the gym, asking if she was OK, whether she needed anything. Ava closed her eyes.
Max plodded over with his laptop and the packet of digestives. ‘Do you think anyone filmed it, Aunty Ava? We should try and find out,’ he said through a mouthful of biscuit crumbs. ‘Because you could send it into Ultimate Fails and they’d put you on YouTube.’
The front door slammed and a man’s voice said, ‘That’s enough, thank you, Max.’
Max rolled his eyes. ‘Hi, Dad,’ he said, perching himself on the armrest of Ava’s chair and disappearing back into his laptop.
Rory strode into the kitchen like a businessman might in a film. Cool and confident, a little distracted, emanating stress. He looked like he always did, just older. Top button on his shirt undone, blond hair a fraction ruffled, sleeves rolled up. He looked at Ava.
She felt like a fool with peas on her head and a blanket round her shoulders.
‘You alright?’ he asked, leaning up against the duck-egg kitchen unit.
She nodded.
‘Nothing broken?’ He poured himself a glass of water.
Ava shook her head.
‘Good,’ he said, downing the drink in one.
She was about to tell him how annoyed she was that he’d sent Jonathon to get her when he asked, ‘Up to travelling?’
Ava narrowed her eyes. ‘Why?’
Rory rolled his lips together, ran his hand through his hair. Glanced at his wife who had paused in the doorway. ‘Not good news, I’m afraid.’
‘What?’ Ava asked. She suddenly remembered the WhatsApp she’d read before the bus hit.
‘She’s died,’ he said, typically matter-of-fact. ‘Gran’s died.’
Ava felt her whole body shrink.
‘All very natural. Peaceful,’ he said, refilling his glass. ‘And they don’t waste any time in Spain. Funeral’s tomorrow.’
Ava sat very still, trying to stop her bottom lip from wobbling, not wanting to cry in front of Rory, hugging the frozen peas absently to her chest. Wishing that today and every other day to come was yesterday.
‘Get off your phone, Rory, this is a wake.’
‘I’m not on my phone. I’m just checking something.’
The room was cool and dark compared to the scorching Spanish heat outside. It smelt of furniture polish, clouds of heady sweet perfume and the waxy candles that burnt bright next to bunches of fake flowers on every surface.
‘That’s being on your phone,’ Ava hissed in a whisper.
‘It’s not. Anyway, they’re all on their phones.’ Rory gestured to the group of men in the corner of the little room where their grandmother’s body was laid out behind a pane of glass, resplendent in all her finery – a shocking turquoise silk kaftan, pink velvet trousers, jewelled sandals, her sparrow-like wrists bedecked with chunky plastic bracelets, and around her neck three or four Bakelite necklaces – an outfit she’d had waiting in the back of the wardrobe for this very occasion.
Ava looked over and sure enough, half of the mourners who’d come to pay their respects were chatting away on their beaten-up old phones. Two men played dominos, while a group of women were knitting as they talked animatedly to the deceased.
‘Just put it away,’ Ava sighed, trying to ignore the remains of yesterday’s headache.
‘You’re very self-righteous for someone who got hit by a bus while on their phone,’ Rory said, as he did another quick refresh of his emails before slipping it in his pocket. ‘What do you think they’re saying to her?’ he added, nodding towards the knitting women nattering away to the body.
Ava shrugged. ‘I have no idea. But whatever it is, it’s very passionate. I’m feeling really British.’ She looked down at her outfit. They were both dressed starkly in black, crumpled from the flight and a hot taxi ride from Barcelona airport. Behind them were men who’d come straight from work in overalls, another in a three-piece white suit, and women in rainbow colours, chatting, wiping their eyes. The crying around them was free and open, but Ava held hers painfully tight in her chest, not quite able to let herself go in front of her dry-eyed brother and all these strangers. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to say.’
Rory shook his head. ‘No, me neither. I’m terrible at this kind of thing. I’m only just getting over the fact that we can see the body.’ He glanced backwards towards the door as if looking for a quick escape.
‘You want to sit?’ One of the knitting women turned, her face as wrinkled as a raisin, a touch of smudged mascara on her grooved cheek that she patted away with a neatly folded handkerchief.