1
I’m no stranger to tears. In my line of work, they’re unavoidable. Big, fat, honking sobs soaked up with mounds of tissues. A frustrated swipe at grief spilling over reddened eyelids. The hardest to bear are the silent streams, unnoticed by the person weeping, as if the pain is so deep, so all-encompassing, it is merely who they are now.
They don’t just cry, of course. I’ve encountered simmering bitterness. Rampant rage. Fear, twisted up with anxiety. The fog of lingering shock. Heart-wrenching loneliness.
So, why would I put myself through this, day after day? Why choose to spend my life submerged in the kaleidoscope of strangers’ sorrows?
Because I know that behind the tears, curses and questions is love.
And I, too, have navigated the river of loss. Surviving its swirling, murky depths was hard enough. Everything else that accompanied it – the house, the paperwork, the practicalities – became a burden so heavy that without help, I would have surely drowned.
So, here I was, walking with Alice Dumble’s family through the aftermath of her death, providing hugs, hot drinks and a listening ear as we packed up eight decades of accumulated clutter. Three weeks of tears, stories and sharing this most precious, intimate of tasks.
Yet after all that, I still couldn’t quite summon up an appropriate response to a sixty-something woman peeling off her top to reveal her eighty-four-year-old mother’s face grinning at me from her crepey chest.
A woman of few words at the best of times, I stuttered, ‘Wow, Denise, that… really expresses your devotion,’ before mercifully being interrupted.
‘For goodness’ sake, Mum.’ Denise’s son, Scott, held a hand in front of his eyes, causing one of the mugs of tea he was carrying to slop onto the beige carpet. ‘Seeing you half naked is bad enough. If I have to see that tattoo of Gran one more time, I’ll be traumatised for life.’
‘Oh, stop being such a drama queen,’ Denise said, fondly patting the top of her mum’s head. ‘I’ve got a bra on.’
‘Nevertheless…’ I took a mug from Scott with a nod of thanks. ‘If we’re hoping to get everything tied up today, we’d best get on with it.’
Alice Dumble had passed away after a long illness, so in theory, there’d been plenty of opportunities to sort things out – or at least find out her bank details. However, her family had grown so used to the doctor telling them Alice didn’t have long, they’d stopped taking it seriously. Consequently, by the time they contacted me, a week after the funeral, Alice’s home, her affairs and her family were a complete mess.
The four children, nine grandchildren and assorted partners began arguing as soon as the eldest daughter claimed the wedding ring, and were still squabbling yesterday afternoon about a chipped vase. I’d had my work cut out to help the Dumble family deal with the varied tasks accompanying their mourning. This included sifting through mountains of stuff, readying the house to be sold, wading through bank accounts, credit, store and discount cards and dealing with so many random online subscriptions, I was surprised she had any savings left.
In eight years of running my business, providing a house-clearance and administrative support service to people following bereavement, this project had required more diplomacy, tissues and chocolate biscuits than any other. I was itching to sign off the final few documents before leaving the Dumbles to scrap over the house sale. More to the point, I wanted to finish up before Kenneth, another sibling, arrived. He was still questioning how little I’d sold the television for, and trying to insist I forfeited the 10 per cent of profit that was part of our contract. Depending upon what my various clients could afford, I’d either agree commission on any items sold, a fixed fee, daily rate, or a combination of all three. For the Dumbles, I’d be lucky to cover the cost of biscuits.
Once Denise had pulled her top back on, we sat on the sagging sofa and went through a printed summary, including all the completed admin, the allocation of various items in line with Alice’s will and the bits and bobs I’d managed to sell or otherwise redistribute. Denise and Scott both signed on the dotted lines, and after one last hug, I opened the front door to find Kenneth standing on the other side.
‘Ah, Sophie. I’m glad I caught you,’ he said, eyes bugging beneath a thick, white fringe.
‘Hi, yes. Um, I’m actually all done here. Denise has the completed folder.’ I offered a quick smile and made to move past, but he wasn’t budging. ‘If you’ve any queries, you can email me.’ Once I’m a good hundred or so miles away, that is.
‘Oh, no. I’m sure everything’s in order.’ Kenneth’s voice caught, causing me to look at him properly. His eyes were brimming with tears. ‘I just wanted to say thank you. And to give you these. You’ve got us through three nightmare weeks with no bloodshed, and, believe me, that’s a Dumble first.’
He whipped his hand from behind his back, brandishing a bunch of flowers. I kept my eyes on his face, managing to smile and mumble my thanks as I gingerly took hold of the stems.
Yep – my finger pressed against a thorn and I caught the waft of familiar scent even as I lifted my chin and forced my breathing to shallow. He’d brought me roses.
Nausea surging in my stomach, I garbled another goodbye, resisting the urge to run as I rounded the end of the driveway and hurried down the street before dumping the flowers on a random doorstep.
It wasn’t personal. If they’d have been lilies, carnations or any other flower, I’d have kept them. But roses? Those, my mangled heart could not handle.
* * *
It was a twenty-minute walk through crisp, February sunshine to the campsite that for the past three weeks had been home. I usually parked my motorhome much nearer to the house I was clearing – where possible, on the driveway. For larger properties, I tended to be offered a spare room, which I would accept depending upon the weather, how comfortable I felt with the family and whether Muffin, my dog, was also welcome. After one conference call with the Dumbles, I’d booked into a local campsite. The added bonus being electric hook-up, a walk home at the end of each day to clear my head, and no chance of a Dumble hammering on the motorhome door once I’d clocked off. The time of year also meant that I’d practically got the campsite to myself, which was precisely how I liked it.
The second I stepped up into the motorhome, Muffin scrabbled to her feet, planting her front paws on my waist, her whole body wagging with joy. My heart gave a bittersweet squeeze as I rubbed her silky ears in return. I had tried my utmost not to fall too hard for this animal. While helping two sons sort through their father’s bric-a-brac shop eighteen months ago, I’d found myself with a knee-high chocolate fluffball for a shadow. Muffin had been grieving her owner, and she’d chosen me as the replacement. It had become increasingly impossible to resist the hope in those soft brown eyes. So, I’d got myself a housemate.
About ten minutes into the first night, she’d scrambled over the makeshift barrier I’d erected around her cushion bed, then burrowed her way under my duvet and into my heart.
I didn’t know how old she was. Other people might not worry about this kind of thing, but with my past, in my job, it was hard to stop every snuggle, every fun-filled walk being tinged with the certainty that, one day, it would come to an end.
After reassuring my dog that, despite having left her alone for a whole three hours, I still loved her, I shut down the morbid thoughts stirred up by the scent of roses and settled down on the sofa. I’d time for lunch, a chapter or two of a book and a skim through my emails before readying everything for our next journey. The strain of the past few weeks started to ebb as I heated some soup and reminded Muffin that we were about to set off on a new adventure.
The only thing I needed to decide now was which adventure that was going to be.
