The last time he saw her was at his father’s funeral. It took a moment only to notice the vaguely familiar face but it wasn’t until the final dirge-like hymn that the penny finally dropped. Dave couldn’t be sure of which brain connections collided with which memories that led him to the “bingo” moment. In truth, the pondering was a welcome distraction from the heaviness of the day. Lucy? No that wasn’t it. Lily. That was her name. Lily Findlay.
She now hovered just outside his peripheral vision, towards the back of the church, next to the rough chocolate brick wall. Dark hair, still in a severe bob, but somewhat shorter now and an unusual shade of chestnut brown – not the hue that he remembered from his teens. He mused as to whether she had it dyed now and as he ran his fingers through his salt and pepper mop, concluded that she probably did.
Lily always had a severe countenance, to go with the hair. Time and the puffiness that middle age brings had softened this somewhat. He remembered her as a serious child but maybe she just inherited a serious face. Mind you, she probably had things to worry about. They lived down the street from Dave and his family. Her and her four older brothers. Dave wondered if he had ever met the father, then decided he hadn’t.
No, he couldn’t put a face to Frank Findlay. He was well aware of his reputation as a hard man though. So different to his own dear father. Did Frank have to put up with the ravages of Alzheimer’s? Probably not, Dave decided. No – he was more likely to have shuffled off because of alcohol poisoning. That’s what led to the shouting and shrieking that would come from their house. Well, that’s what the neighbours said anyway. The Drink. Funny how that expression makes it sound like a singular thing, not a continuing activity. One glass would merge into another, then another.
So why was she here? Nice of her to come, of course, but Dave hadn’t seen her for years. He supposed it was the same for his Dad. Not since a transfer moved their whole family away when Dave was a petulant sixteen year old. Lily would have been about twelve then. Maybe even thirteen. On the verge of adolescence. Dave seemed to remember his younger brother, Greg, noticing her and commenting on her legs, quite out of the blue one day. Then they moved away and neither Dave nor, he supposed, Greg, thought of her or the Findlay family ever again. How had she suffered in that house? The thought worried him all of a sudden and he felt a heaviness in his heart.
Tentatively he turned his head. She was still there at the back of the church, crumpled hanky in one hand and a sad bunch of supermarket flowers in the other. Her eyes flicked towards him and he swiftly cast his gaze down. Somehow embarrassed. Not knowing why.
Afterwards, his father’s wake was a parade of family and friends, offering warm, clammy hands, a nod of the head, kind careful words, some tears. She wasn’t one of them though. Dave didn’t see her again that day and thought her presence might remain an odd mystery. It was only a few days later when he finally found the strength to open the condolence cards that there was a resolution. The inside of the card was completely covered in black spidery writing and its contents left him reeling.
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