In the school holidays she used to take me to town where we had a kind of routine: we'd go to a cafe where she would order a cup of tea and I'd ask for a Coca Cola. "What is that?" she once asked. "It's Coca Cola" I replied. The we went to the News Theatre to watch Laurel and Hardy, and, best of all, Zorro. Zorro was shown episode by episode, week by week, so we had to keep going back so that I could find out what had happened in the story.
The problem was, how to tell Dad. We didn't have a phone and Dad was at work, anyway, when Mrs T. called at our house with the news about Clara. Mum decided to wait until he came home and then tell him his sister had died.
This prospect filled me with a sense of dread. I didn't want to be at home when he got back from work. So, about four o'clock I got on the bus for the short ride to the library. I skimmed through a few books and calculated how long it would take for the bad news to be broken and for Dad to take it in, with whatever reaction it was going to have on him. After about an hour, I left and got the bus back home.
Dad was sitting in his usual chair.
"I'm sorry about Auntie Clara", I said.
I don't remember what he said and I don't remember anything about her funeral. All I remember vaguely is Mum clearing out her flat and paying someone to take away her stuff.
And then I remember staring to read "L'Etranger" (The Outsider) by Camus as part of my A-level French course. The beginning of that novel, where Meursault's mother dies "yesterday" reminded me of Clara's death. Like Meursault, I didn't know what her death had meant, just that it was a death like any other....
A few weeks later, Dad and me are taking a bus ride, perhaps out to the Lickey Hills, and he says, "I expect you're glad that you saw Clara the week before she died, aren't you?'.
"Yes", I reply.
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