In the village of Little Bollington, there was no rejoicing amongst the funeral party who’d travelled in silence to the church. Holy Trinity stood at the far end of the village, its stone façade ancient and flecked with lichen. The wrought-iron gates were open, and through them streamed a slow procession of mourners, black coats despite the warmth of the afternoon, heads bowed, arms linked in quiet grief.
The church was already filling. In stark contrast to outside, a chill greeted the grieving, as if no amount of body heat could warm the stones beneath their feet and the walls that penned them in. Molly sat in the front pew, holding the order of service. Beside her, Dee sat unnaturally still, both her hands enclosed in Shane’s, eyes bloodshot, her expression vacant. On Molly’s otherside were her grandparents. Stoical, quiet, pressed together in shared sorrow, supported by dear, dependable Nancy, whose chin was high but whose eyes shone like glass.
Molly stared at the wooden coffin adorned in white lilies and wild rosemary, her throat burning. If she never saw a lily again it would be too soon. She hadn’t cried for days, probably since the day she discovered who Shane really was. It was as though she were testing herself like an anorexic denies themselves food. Seeing how long she could go without breaking down, forbidding tears to well, and so far she was winning, relishing the battle that took her mind off so many other things.
While people took their seats and the vicar prepared to do his thing, her mind drifted, pulled backwards into the days leading up to this moment.
The week after Julia’s death had blurred. Nancy, determined to remain civil with Shane for the sake of the girls, asked if they’d mind if she moved into their mother’s suite. That way she’d not have to interact with him unless necessary. Molly had agreed instantly to the idea she and Nancy had concocted with the support of Magda.
The three of them were now a united front after a heart-to-heart where Nancy laid her feelings and fears bare, and offered to move back to the UK. Not only had Molly been stunned, she’d been grateful and accepted immediately. It was Magda who brought up Julia’s suite and was quite outspoken in her determination not to allow Shane to move in there. She suspected he was just biding his time until after the funeral so in a ‘first-up-best-dressed’ strategical move, Nancy bagged the best bunk in the house.
It had been a smart decision because in the week leading up to the funeral it provided a place where Molly and Nancy could escape Shane’s beady eyes, and it made her feel close to her mother, being around her things. They could sit in the loungeand talk privately or take some air on the veranda outside. Dee, still ninety-five per cent mute, had nodded and gone along with it all. She still refused to go up the stairs so remained in her own room, staring at the television or the ceiling, getting thinner and grubbier by the day.
Molly, however, was drawn to Nancy’s calm presence and practical guidance. The close bond they once shared was being rekindled, reminding her of what it was like to be a child and how, in the last couple of years, she’d made a leap from that to a woman. Not only did Nancy provide a barrier between her and Shane, but she also gave Molly a safe space to reflect on many things.
Over the last few days, as the spectacle of her mother’s funeral loomed, she’d gone over and over the events that led them there. Not just that night, but before, from the time Shane became a blot on their lives. Molly was beginning to see things more clearly, realising that Shane had stolen the last years of her childhood from her. Rather than growing up gradually, she’d become someone’s mistress overnight.
During the day she’d been a straight-A student, hanging with her friends at school, keeping a massive secret, trying to reconcile being a daughter to a mother she loved, and the woman having an affair with her mother’s husband. And that was a total mind-fuck.
She had never had a tentative first kiss with a boy who held her hand in the cinema and shyly pecked her on the cheek, and was as rubbish at kissing as she was. Hadn’t gone through all the bases, giggled with her friends and swapped notes. Instead she’d graduated to fourth in the space of a few minutes.
In between un-fucking her mind, Molly had spent time with her grandparents who had arrived from the south of France two days before the funeral and were staying with her Great-Aunt Betty in Alderley Edge. They’d been too grief-stricken to be much help, but were polite enough not to interfere.
Molly and Nancy took over the funeral arrangements, brooking no arguments. Shane had tried to offer suggestions, readings, hymns, the menu for the wake but Nancy shut him down with a clipped smile and a sharper glance.
‘I’m still her husband,’ he’d said.
‘And I’ve always been her sister,’ Nancy had replied.
Dee, meanwhile, had disappeared into herself. At night, she woke crying and Molly would climb into bed beside her, brushing hair from her sister’s damp forehead.
One night, she’d woken in the small hours to a sound. Dee’s voice. Whispering. At first, she thought Dee was talking in her sleep, but when she rose and half-sleepwalked next door her breath caught. Shane was sitting at the edge of Dee’s bed, one hand on her blanket-covered foot, stroking it gently. He turned when he saw Molly, his face lit by the warm glow of the bedside lamp.
‘She was crying,’ he said. ‘I came to check she was all right.’
Molly said nothing. Dee rolled over, pulling the duvet up to her chin. Her eyes didn’t meet Molly’s.
‘You go. I’ll stay with her,’ Molly said.
Shane nodded and left without a word. But the unease Molly had begun to carry with her constantly ramped up a notch and in the following days, she’d left her bedroom door open and the hall light on, just in case.
The day before the funeral, unable to bear it any longer, sensing the tension at home rising to almost breaking point, Molly called a meeting in the kitchen and spoke out. To prevent a scene that would distress Dee or cause gossip amongst the village and staff at ClearGlass, and to offer her grandparents a veneer of dignity, Molly suggested a truce. Surely Nancy and Shane could stand together, just for one day. Appear united.Shane had agreed, smoothly as always, and Nancy had also agreed, but with blatant belligerence and reluctance.
Now, seated together in the church, their civility was passable. Shane wore a black tailored suit, his hair perfectly combed. He played the grieving husband impeccably, squeezing Dee’s hand at appropriate moments, dabbing his eye when the vicar mentioned Julia’s devotion to her daughters and husband.
Molly could barely look at him. She should be in America. That thought kept circling like a moth to a flame. Princeton. The dream she had clung to for so long, now so distant. She had deferred her place, with Nancy’s help. The university had been understanding. But still, the ache of it lingered. And what of the house? The life she had always known?
Shane had been clear. Dee needed stability. Familiar surroundings. He had offered to stay, to take care of things, to be there for Dee. He said it with sincerity in that voice that always convinced you of anything. Well not anymore.
Molly and Nancy didn’t want Dee alone with him, both for different reasons. Molly’s would remain buried deep while Nancy had made hers clear.
Dark thoughts had clawed at Molly in the stillness of the night. Dee was fragile, pliable. And Shane knew how to twist things, how to make people feel chosen and loved. And for that reason alone, he would have a huge shock coming after the funeral, when the ashes and dust had settled and the will was read. There would be a time for scenes and battles, but now wasn’t it.
Beside her, Dee sniffled quietly. Molly reached out and placed a hand on her sister’s knee. It was the only thing she could offer seeing as Shane had Dee’s hands covered.
The final hymn began, low and melancholic. People stood. Shane stood too, guiding Dee to her feet, his arm around her shoulder. Molly stayed seated a moment longer, watching him. Watching how natural he made it look. Her heart beat hard. Not from grief. From dread and hate.
The predicted storm cracked through the sky on cue, dramatically, and as the last mumbled strains ofThe Lord’s My Shepherdpetered out. A bolt of lightning lit up the nave and while it jolted some, it made Molly smile. It reminded her of her mum getting cross because nobody had loaded the dishwasher, and all the lights were on all over the house with no regard for global warming and the person who paid the bills, or that someone had eaten the bag of Giant Wotsits she’d been saving for herself.
