Isla's Inscryption

Chapter 1

1

It started with a hand on my shoulder. A hand where none should have been. It was supposed to be just me. Me and my mother's corpse.

A thousand thoughts flashed through my mind as I turned: from the idea that I'd outstayed my welcome and was being thrown out, to the idea that even though I was staring at my mother's body, she'd managed to reach round behind me.

Heart pounding. When I turned it took me seconds – spiritless seconds – to process.

A man. Early seventies? Maybe not even that. Traces of blond hair amid the white. Wearing a white shirt and dark blue tie. His eyes were kind and sympathetic, and at the same time, looking horrified that he'd startled me.

And I had no idea who he was. Or why he was in my mother's funeral home.

"Isla?" His voice was sonorous. My heart fluttered at the sound of my name. How does he know who I am? I thought I'd spoken out loud, but I realised I'd stammered something unintelligible. He held my hands, like greeting an old friend, even though I knew we'd never met before.

"My name is Arthur Edmunds," he said gently. "I'm your grandfather."

My face must have told him what my words could not. A story he already knew. "Did she really tell you nothing about me?" he indicated to my mother. "Nothing about us?"

I shook my head. Swallowed painfully. No thoughts were attaching themselves to my brain.

His face lined with sorrow. "I'm sorry for your loss, Isla. And I won't intrude on your grief." He lifted his hand towards me, and then lowered it giving instead a sad smile – sympathy, empathy, understanding all in the same moment. He turned and walked away. He was at the door to the chapel of rest before a thought crossed my mind: the body – my mother. This was his daughter. And she had never spoken about him in the twenty-four years of my lifetime.

The words scratched from my mouth before I'd realised what I was saying: "Mr Edmunds? Can we get a coffee somewhere?"

*

There was a small café around the corner from the funeral parlour off Harpenden High Street and I think Mr Edmunds had hoped this would be the result of our first meeting. The wind was blowing the leaves around the street in a golden autumn snowstorm and, even though it was a short distance, it was still a relief to get inside. This was a New Age sort of Café with long rustic tables. Even so, professional-looking people worked on laptops while they sipped from bowls of coffee. A place where they could work and relax at the same time. Mr Edmunds returned with two similar bowls of coffee and two slabs of marble cake. He sat opposite me, scrutinising me as I was scrutinising him. Looking for resemblance. His hair was thinning; his glasses had discreet golden rims, but thick lenses. Age had cut into his face, although he didn't look ancient.

Even so, I didn't like the way he was looking at me. He was judging me. Looking at me and seeing her. My mother. But he didn't smell of old people which was a relief. Actually, more of a designer cologne.

"First, I need to give you some proof of who I am," he said. He produced a driving licence with his name on it. Arthur Alfred Edmunds. I was about to wave it away, but Mum's voice was loud in my head: Don't be naïve. Don't take anything for granted. So, I looked more closely. The photo looked a bit like him. He then unfolded a piece of paper. "This is your mother's birth certificate," he explained. And there was my mother's date and place of birth: 40 years ago in Hoxne, Suffolk. And her name: Rachael Leah Edmunds, girl. And in the next column, father's name: Arthur Alfred Edmunds, followed by mother's name: Susannah Carol Edmunds.