The Art of Unpacking Your Life (31 page)

She wept in Matt's arms.

Dawn drew in the scene outside the veranda doors. The light paled to grey blue; an impala stretched to graze on a fresh patch of sour grass; a trio of tiny brown birds performed the salsa; several African sunflowers yellowed into view.

Connie was asleep beside Luke. They looked like they were a couple in bed together, which made Sara weep again. She moved to lean on Dan's shoulder. Dan appeared to be asleep sitting up. Katherine's tiny form was curled up on Matt with her head in his lap, her arm across her face. Lizzie and Matt were awake.

Sara had grown up with the myth that a wake was about watching for the dead to wake up. She didn't feel that now. As she watched Luke, she could see his features wax away; his expression was blank and his form was no longer defined. Luke was leaving them. Luke, who was generous, warm, honest and an embracer of every tiny corner of his life: love, marriage, children, career and physical and mental challenges. He was the epitome of the modern man with his own Internet company and his Iron Man challenge. Yet Luke was pounded out of here, after his efforts.

Life was continuing to emerge on the other side of the window. Daylight highlighted the grasses; the white butterflies flickered into view. This must have been what it was like for Joanne Sutton. Despite her husband's killing her only child, the
light glistened through her curtains, and in the bleaching morning, she could believe for a moment that none of it had ever happened. None of it was real.

Sara knew that she would never again put her existence on hold for a case. How could she after losing Luke? Seemingly healthy, handsome, energetic Luke. She could never take her own life seriously again. Her time was precious. She had forgotten that somewhere along the line. Most likely, she would never again stand up in court. She couldn't imagine what would replace it. How she would fill the void. What else had she ever done? Or achieved? She couldn't ride, play the piano, paint, sing or even swim. She got up. Her hips were stiff. She was freezing, despite knowing how hot it must be outside. She couldn't leave. She caught Matt's eye. He seemed to have the same need to keep watch. She couldn't move in case. In case she missed this moment which, for all its awfulness, meant she belonged.

When the phone rang across on the other side of the sitting room, it startled Connie. She lay beside Luke, allowing herself to believe it was the night before. He would turn to face her. Those piercing eyes would watch her. She heard Matt speaking into the receiver. She wanted to block out the world outside. She heard Matt move towards her. She ignored his approach and closed her eyes, willing him to leave her alone.

Matt touched her hair. ‘Connie, it's Lou. Why don't you take it in the bedroom?'

Reluctantly, Connie nodded and without thinking walked into Luke's room. It was intimate to her: the bitter lemon of his deodorant; his BlackBerry half buried under a copy of
Men's Health
magazine; the clutch of lime-coloured running tops temporarily dumped in one corner; his professionally laundered shirts folded individually into plastic covers above a combat-coloured range of desert boots. She stopped in the doorway, wanting to close it and seek the comfort of Matt and Katherine's room. She looked at the bed. It was exactly how they had left it. She knew if she lay on it, she would smell him, feel him. She stood trapped in the doorway, until she allowed herself to be drawn back to his bed. She lay on his side, squeezed the pillow and wound the duvet around her.

She remembered that Lou was on the phone. She cautiously picked up the receiver from the wooden beside table.

‘Lou,' she said for her own affirmation. The thought of her daughter was unreal. She was utterly disconnected from the part of her that was a mother.

‘Mum? I thought we had been cut off.' Lou sounded too loud. Connie was unsure of how to speak to her. She was tempted to tell Lou about Luke, but she couldn't. How could she share with her daughter, however grown up, what had happened?

Lou knew Luke as a family friend. How could Connie share his importance in her life, before Connie became a mother. The only side to her that Lou knew.

‘Lou, how are you?' Connie wondered how she could follow it. What day was it? Friday. What did Lou have on Thursdays? Rowing. ‘Did you have a good session on the river?'

‘How do you think I am? Are you completely stupid? Fucking hell. Whatever.' Lou's vicious teenage words slashed across her thoughts.

‘Lou, please don't swear. There's absolutely no call for it,' she said automatically, though she registered her mistake.

Luke was gone, making Julian's baby next to irrelevant. What had Luke said about the pain Emma had caused? It was all relative. You get used to anything in the end. Hearing his voice in her head made her lips tremble.

She struggled to think what words she could put together that might reassure Lou and encourage her to end the call. What would Luke do? She could hear him talking to her. Tell her the truth, Connie.

On their last day at university, she was almost packed and still he didn't say goodbye to her. He avoided her. She fussed, putting the last of her things into her car,
waiting for him, but knowing he wouldn't come. Finally, she walked slowly back to her car. There was a card slid under her windscreen wiper.
Be honest, be true to yourself. It's all I ask. Lx

She struggled to breathe. A wave of panic enveloped her.

‘You know about Sally's baby,' she managed.

A choking feeling constricted Connie's chest and neck.

‘Yeah, Mum. Dad has been honest with us.'

She heard the insinuation. Connie hadn't been honest with Lou. She hadn't. She had denied the pain of putting up with Julian's affairs. She had produced a puppet show of a family. The story itself was false.

‘I am sorry, Lou.' What had they done to deserve Julian's philandering and the harm it would do them now and, undoubtedly, in the future? Would Lou ever find a Luke? If she did, would she recognise him?

She was sorry for the children, but not for herself. Her breath was trapped between her heart and her head. She had loved Luke. A part of her never stopped loving Luke. She was heartbroken. This is what that word meant. How could Luke die? Luke, who had suffered, who had Ella and Finn, and Connie. How could he leave her? She was alone for the first time in her life.

Connie paused, drawn to Luke's T-shirt that she had shoved between his pillow and duvet earlier. She tucked them under her head.

Once Connie would have said it was inappropriate that Lou had told Rolo. How could she say that now? She had confided in Luke and the group.

The only option was to talk to Lou as if she were an adult.

‘Lou. You have a great father. He is brilliant, charming, loving, generous and a wonderful family man. And he loves you, in particular, a great deal,' she sighed with exhaustion, wishing again she could put the phone down. ‘He isn't the faithful type, as you know. It's harder this time, because Sally was part of our family. And there is a baby involved.'

Lou was silent. She wondered whether she was on the right track. It was difficult to tell with teenagers. They wanted to be treated as grown-ups, but when you did, they were too easily and emotionally effected by everything.

She needed to conclude the conversation. She breathed in to get the air to do so. ‘We are incredibly lucky to be alive.' She was choking, fighting the tears as if she were fighting to keep Luke alive. ‘We have to appreciate the wonderful things that we do have as a family.'

‘The wonderful things we do have as a family? Christ, you're not in bloody Sunday school.'

Connie couldn't speak. She was crying silent tears. She held a hand over her open mouth as her body let go.

‘You say he's not the faithful type. What you mean is he's not faithful to you?'

Connie squeezed Luke's T-shirt against her and tried to breathe more easily. She inhaled his smell. She couldn't speak.

‘Mum, are you listening to me? For God's sake. Are you there?'

‘Well, he is married to me.' The thought made her want to cry again. She was nearly there. She almost walked away with precious Luke. His was the most generous
type of love. He had loved her enough to set her free, allow her to leave without guilt. He loved her for who she really was.

‘That's a cop out, Mum.'

Why had she not predicted this? Lou would never let Julian fall from grace. The only person going down in her estimation was Mum.

‘It's not intended to be.'

‘It's your fault, Mum. You dropped the ball.'

She heard the click she had wanted. Though Lou was no longer on the line, she held the phone to her ear.
You dropped the ball
.

She wanted to sleep, she wanted to dream of another time and take Luke back there.

Matt was tempted not to wake Connie. She looked happy asleep in Luke's bed, but the pilot and medical assistants had arrived from Jo'Burg and the stretcher was waiting to transport Luke. They wanted to cover him. He shuddered. It felt like moving Luke's body was on a par with committing a crime. Matt wanted to leave Gae with Luke, accompany his body to Jo'Burg. Connie wanted to come too, but the reserve staff and the doctor made it clear this was not possible due to the size of the plane.

He had just phoned Emma. She didn't deserve an earlier call. Emma probably led Luke to his death. The only reason Matt called her was that she was still Luke's next of kin on his passport. Doubtless, an administrative oversight by Luke, but under South African law she was required to give consent to a post-mortem because of the sudden nature of Luke's death. He reluctantly agreed call her back when he knew more.

The bland voice at the end of the out of office emergencies line at the High Commission in Pretoria insisted Luke would need a South African death certificate following the post-mortem examination.

‘We want to bring him home,' he said more emotionally than he intended to this woman, who had an Eastern European accent, possibly Russian. ‘We want him to have a British funeral.'

She was silent. It was impossible to tell if she had heard him or not. He was about to repeat his last sentence, when she started speaking. ‘We can help you find an international funeral director, who would need to prepare the body for repatriation.'

His stomach lurched, before he asked the next, obvious question. ‘What does that mean exactly? Prepare the body for repatriation?'

‘The body needs to be embalmed.'

His shock turned quickly to anger. ‘That's barbaric. With all due respect, we are in the twenty-first century. I can't believe that is necessary.'

She didn't reply. She waited until she was absolutely sure that he had finished, before continuing, ‘Then the body would need to be placed in a zinc-lined coffin, before it could leave South Africa.'

He was silent, lost in the horror of transporting a body. He wished he could smuggle Luke back. It was easy for them to leave the UK on holiday. He sensed he would struggle to get Luke home.

‘Alternatively,' she continued brightly, ‘you could organise a local funeral.'

Connie was clear that Luke would want to be buried in Dartmoor at his parents' farm. It was obviously what his parents wanted. Matt agreed with her. Connie promised his parents she would not leave Africa without him. Matt had to be back home for Isobel's funeral, but he planned to return and stay until he could help Connie take Luke home. It was the right thing to do. He knew it. He hadn't broached it with Katherine yet, but he was determined that, whatever she said, she wouldn't change his mind. However hard it was going to be, he wanted to be there for Luke.

‘To conclude,' said the voice, ‘you would need a certificate of embalming, authorisation from the South African authorities to remove the body, after the autopsy. It would take some time.'

He understood her to mean weeks, but maybe it was months.

‘The British Consul would be able to help with this documentation.'

He managed a hollow laugh.

‘The deceased's travel insurance should cover the costs, including repatriation.' She paused before adding, ‘Though it's worth checking the small print.'

It seemed she was reading from a pamphlet.

‘Once back in the UK, you would need to see the registrar in the district where you wish the funeral to take place. He or she will need to issue a “certificate of no liability to register”, which they can only do when they have seen the South African death certificate.'

She coughed or maybe she had too large a gulp of her coffee. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with? Bereavement counselling?'

His voice shook. ‘No.'

And now he was in Luke's bedroom. He hated waking Connie when he knew that she would open her eyes to more pain. But he had to. Matt gently nudged her. She rolled away from him. ‘Connie, wake up. They are taking Luke.'

Connie sat up. She struggled to her feet and into the sitting room. The medical assistants from Baragwanath Hospital, where pathologists would do the autopsy, were covering Luke's entire body with a heavy white sheet. Connie gasped and pressed both her hands over her mouth, before reaching underneath the sheet for his hand.

The group were all together. Luke was lifted carefully on the mobile hospital bed. Matt wanted to speak to Luke, to the others about Luke, before he left them, because they would never see him again. They would only stare at the lid of his zinc-lined coffin and try to recall his handsome boyish face, his warmth and honesty, his friendship, his undoubtable will, his fighting machine of a body, before the embalmers had got to him. The stretcher was wheeled off the wooden decking on to the sand before the top half was slid into a seatless vehicle. Connie quickly folded back the end of the sheet. There Luke was. Or a glazed outline of the body of Luke.