Page 67 of Deep Blue Sea

‘Mum, please. It’s the last thing I feel like.’

Sylvia placed her other hand on the other shoulder, so that she looked at her directly. It was a firm grip, like a vice, and Diana wasn’t sure she could run away even if she tried.

‘I get that all you want to do is hide away. When your father died, I felt the same, and we weren’t even married any more. I didn’t love him; in fact you know I probably even still hated him for leaving us like he did. But I mourned him,’ she said, and for one moment Diana saw her mother’s vulnerability. ‘I was sad for a life lost, a father gone; sad to lose the man I once loved and still had some happy memories of. But you have to stay strong, and even when you don’t feel as if you can take another step, take a deep breath and do it. Because you can. Life goes on, perhaps a different life, but you have to keep going.’

Diana found strength in her mother’s words and suddenly didn’t feel quite so alone. In the spirit of solidarity she wondered if she should tell Sylvia about her showdown with Rachel, what her sister had said and what it all meant, but perhaps her mother was right. It was better to look forward, not back. Throw yourself into jam-making and brass-band judging and all the things the village fair committee no doubt had in store.

The meeting had started by the time they got there. The owner of the Blue Ribbon café – Diana couldn’t remember her name; Dot or Doreen, perhaps – was filling

mugs from a white china teapot. The two of them managed to slip in at the back, with only a few people twisting their necks to send sympathetic looks in their direction.

Diana had received many letters of condolence from the villagers, although not many people had stopped by or approached her to say that they were sorry for her loss. Death did that. It embarrassed people. If they didn’t know what to say, they would say nothing at all. They would cross the street, or look the other way to avoid you, and Diana had no doubt that as soon as the meeting was finished, most would scuttle away to avert a conversation with the recently widowed lady of the manor.

She sat back and listened as the committee debated the merits of putting bunting on the bandstand and discussed the budget available for the Punch and Judy man. In many ways it was rather soothing seeing all these people getting so involved in such small details, almost as if they were completely unaware of how easily their familiar, cosy world could unravel. Perhaps they were; Diana wished she shared their ignorance.

It took a couple of seconds to register that Mrs Beatty, the vicar’s wife, was speaking to her.

‘Mrs Denver, we’re so pleased you could join us. We were wondering earlier if you would be so kind as to present the prizes for the flower and vegetable competitions this year, although I have to say the categories are getting a little out of control. Perhaps we can get that man from Top Gear to help out, the one who lives locally . . .’

‘No, it’s fine. I’d love to,’ said Diana, feeling Sylvia squeeze her knee reassuringly.

Mrs Beatty collared them on the way out, sheltering from the sun under a pink IKEA umbrella as the committee filed out without a word. ‘You should come round for tea to discuss the judging process,’ she said when the three of them were alone. ‘The weather’s been beautiful, hasn’t it? We can sit in the rectory garden and talk, and maybe sample my non-prize-winning chutney.’

‘That would be lovely,’ said Diana, pasting on a smile.

‘We’re all thinking of you and praying for you, you know that, Diana,’ she added, making Diana feel a pang of guilt that she went to church so infrequently. The Reverend Beatty and his wife had written one of the most thoughtful pieces of correspondence, including a beautiful poem by Henry Scott Holland, a former canon of St Paul’s Cathedral, called ‘Death is Nothing At All’.

She made a decision on the spot that she would take her up on her offer.

‘Can I come round next Friday?’ she asked, plucking a date from the air, knowing that her diary was filled with very little.

‘Looking forward to it,’ said Mrs Beatty, touching her on the arm and running across the green to catch up with her husband.

‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ whispered Sylvia, linking her arm through her daughter’s.

‘No,’ she said quietly.

‘I’m going to have to bully you more often.’ Sylvia squeezed her arm. ‘In fact I’m returning to London tomorrow. There’s a piano recital at the Wigmore Hall. You should come, stay at the Bayswater flat. Perhaps arrange to meet friends. I think it would be good for you to see people.’

It was easier to nod than resist.

‘Dammit,’ Diana said quietly. ‘I left my scarf in the café.’

She turned and returned to the Blue Ribbon, where the owner was collecting mugs from the tables.

‘Just about to shut, love,’ she said without turning round.

‘I’ve only come to collect my scarf.’

The old lady’s eyes opened wider when she saw Diana.

‘Ah, you came back for it. I was going to pop it up to the house later,’ she said, going round the counter and retrieving the scarf from behind the till. ‘It was good to see you here today. I know how hard that must have been.’

‘Thank you, er . . .’ she replied, scrabbling around for the woman’s name.

‘Dot.’ She smiled kindly. ‘He gave you the scarf, didn’t he?’

‘How did you know?’ replied Diana, still feeling embarrassed that Dot obviously knew all about her but she hadn’t even been able to remember the woman’s name.