The Lost Sister by Kathleen McGurl (i can read book club .TXT) 📕

to last you the night?’ It was one of their little nightly routines. She’d replied, as she always did, ‘It’ll have to do. Love you too.’ And now those words of love had to last the rest of her life, for she would never hear them from him again.

The bedroom window was open, and outside she could hear birds singing and the bin lorry making its way down the street, collecting the recycling bins. John had put theirs out as usual the previous night. Life was continuing as usual for everyone else, but not for John. And her own would be very different from now on.

It was time. She sat up, got out of bed and pulled the duvet up to John’s chin. At a casual glance he looked as though he was simply sleeping, but the greyness of his skin, the stiffness of his features gave away the terrible reality.

Her phone was downstairs. ‘I’m just going to go and call someone,’ she said to him, as she pushed her feet into slippers and put on a dressing gown. Ambulance or Sally, first?

She decided to call 999 first, and get the ball rolling. As John had died so suddenly no doubt the police would need to come too. She explained to the emergency operator what had happened, and a sympathetic voice confirmed that both police and ambulance would soon turn up. And then she took a deep breath and called Sally.

‘What? He can’t have … are you sure? Have you tried heart massage? I mean … he was fine yesterday. Oh God. I have to get Jerome to school. I’ll come round. I’ll get Elaine from across the road to take Jerome. I’ll … Oh Mum! I’ll be there, I’m coming. Hold on.’

As she hung up and waited in the last moments of quiet for the emergency services and Sally to arrive, Harriet’s thoughts turned to Davina. Davina who had not seen her father for fourteen years. Davina, for whom she had no contact details, so no way of letting her know her father had died. Harriet felt a wave of anger at her younger daughter wash over her as she thought how John would have hated going to his grave without seeing Davina again – but that was what was happening. And it might be months before she could even tell Davina what had happened.

It wasn’t long before the doorbell rang and everyone seemed to arrive at once. First a paramedic, who she ushered upstairs. And the police and Sally arrived at almost the same time, shortly followed by an ambulance.

Sally bustled through, her eyes red, and gathered Harriet into a hug. ‘Oh, it’s so awful, I can’t believe it! He was so well!’

‘Do you want to see him?’ Harriet said gently.

‘Yes, no, oh goodness, I don’t know.’ Sally sat down heavily on a chair in the kitchen and covered her face with her hands. Harriet knelt beside her and wrapped her arms around her daughter.

‘It’s terrible, but you know, it’s not a bad way to go. He wouldn’t have suffered. Just went to sleep and didn’t wake up. Better than a long, slow death of cancer or something.’ She wasn’t sure if her words were intended to comfort Sally or herself more.

‘But he was only 70. Too young. And no warning.’

‘I know. I know.’

‘Ahem.’ A cough from the kitchen doorway alerted them to a police officer standing there. ‘I am sorry to intrude, but I will need statements from you. Just a formality, but as your husband died at home there will need to be an inquest.’

Sally sniffed, wiped her eyes and stood up. ‘Of course. Mum, why don’t you sit here with the policeman, and I’ll make some tea.’ She’d gone into her organising mode, taking charge. Harriet was grateful for it; she knew it was Sally’s way of coping.

The morning passed in a whirlwind. It seemed a long time before the ambulance took away John’s body, and the police left, having taken photos and statements. Finally Harriet was alone with Sally, with the chance to get dressed at last. The first set of clothes she’d worn after John’s death, she realised. There were going to be a lot of firsts, and it didn’t seem fair that she hadn’t realised the last times for everything with John had been the last.

It was Sally who largely organised John’s funeral – both the humanist service and the buffet lunch in a pub that followed. She did a good job. It was just, Harriet thought, as John would have wanted, and as he’d have organised himself. Sally had clearly inherited her tendency to take charge from him.

Sally phoned all Harriet’s local friends and told them of John’s death and the funeral arrangements. She’d borrowed Harriet’s address book and written to everyone on the Christmas card list to inform them.

‘I can phone some,’ Harriet said, but Sally waved her away.

‘Mum, it’s too distressing for you. Let me do it.’

And Sally had written the eulogy for John before Harriet had a chance to. At least she let Harriet approve it and amend a few sections. Sally read it out at the service – and for this Harriet was truly grateful, knowing she would never have been able to get through it without sobbing.

‘It’s nice that she’s doing so much to help you,’ Sheila said, but she frowned as she said it. Harriet nodded, not wanting to think too hard about whether in fact Sally was taking over too much, taking on tasks that actually Harriet would have liked to have done herself. For now it was easier to sit back and let Sally take charge, but a small part of her worried that looking back, she might wish she’d had more say in it all. But she knew too, that being busy, organising the practical aspects of it all, helped Sally come to terms with her loss.

‘You’re grieving, Mum. You’re the widow. You have to look after yourself, let other people do