Free The Woman Before Me by Ruth Dugdall

chair, her massive thighs bulging over the sides, and stood me in front of her. She was 10 years older than my Dad, and lived further down the coast in Felixstowe so we didn’t see her much, but she always had violet sweets in her handbag, along with her ciggies, and I loved it when she came to visit. I wanted to put my head on her bosom and be held there.
    She touched my chin, turning my face upwards. “Have you been in the dining room yet?”
    I shook my head. The dining room wasn’t a big room and we only used it at Christmas or for special meals, though Mum sometimes sat in there with a book. The door had been kept closed all morning, though I’d seen people going in and coming out and thought the food must be in there.
    “Then I shall take you. Your mum’s in there and you need to say goodbye to her.”
    I gasped – Mum was in the dining room! I pictured her sat in her favourite chair, talking to all the people who’d been going in to see her. Why hadn’t someone told me? I would run to her, let her scoop me in her arms and kiss my hair. She would say, “Where have you been, Rosie? I’ve been waiting for you,” and I would show her the blackbird’s nest, kept safely for her.
    I jumped from Rita’s grip, ran out of the front room and down the hall, pushing past the sombre-suited strangers. I yanked the door handle of the dining room, desperate to see my mum.
    The room was dark. The table was empty of food. Then I saw it. A dark wooden box, balanced on two chairs. I inched closer and saw white satin lining the box then the tip of my mother’s nose. I didn’t move, but stood on tiptoe and peered down at her face. She was so pale, so featureless. It was as if her face had been wiped clean of all its colour, leaving a wax mask. Her eyes were closed and her blonde hair was loose around her face.
    “Give her a kiss.”
    I jumped when Auntie Rita spoke. She put her heavy hand on my shoulder, pressing me into her generous warm body. “Go on, Rose.”
    I inched forward to the coffin, afraid that Mum would suddenly move. I looked at her for a few moments and then leaned into the box, eyes screwed tight shut as I puckered my lips onto her cheek. I could feel the edge of her cheekbone, the cold skin hard and unyielding.
    “Talk to her.”
    I began to cry. Hot tears fell down my cheek and into my mouth, which I wiped away with the back of my hand.
    “She can hear you, Rose. And see you. Her body is empty, but her spirit is still here, in this room.”
    Through my sobs I said, “Mum?”
    “That’s it, Rose.”
    “Mum. I want you to come home.”
    Rita was right behind me, burying me into her. “Your mum is in the spirit world now, Rose. She won’t ever come home but she’ll always be with you, when you want her. And she will always be listening.”
    It was the first time anyone had told me that death could be like that. I’d thought of heaven as clouds or a large garden with lots of birds and angels. But Rita taught me about spirits. She taught me not to be afraid of death. I learnt that heaven is a better, safer place.
    Some birds steal the nests of others. It’s in their nature. Killing the chicks in the nest is just what they have to do.
    Some women think nothing of stealing a man.
    Dad was in such a state in the months after the funeral that I should probably be grateful to Mrs Carron. She kept the shop going and cooked our meals while he just sat behind the counter staring into the dusty air. When the salesmen called he would look into their boxes with a frown, as if he recognised the strawberry laces and the snowy macaroons, but just couldn’t remember what they were for. The shelves weren’t stocked and the jars were empty. Mrs Carron quietly set about re-ordering supplies, and taking the cash to the bank on Tuesdays. In the evening she would write with small neat handwriting in the accounts book, while my father slumped in the armchair holding a forgotten cup of tea. She would smile at him, take