Thursday.

I met dad’s ex-girlfriend again yesterday. She’s called Miranda. She came up after the service and asked “Do you remember me?”

With the exception of red hair, she’s hardly changed at all. Although she used to dress like a woman with cats and leg hair. She looked more like an old fashioned film star yesterday. I remember I used to come home and find her reclined on the sofa, or they’d pretend she’d only come over to borrow something and I don’t even want to think how they really spent their afternoons.

She stood between Uncle Gordon and me, to say she was sure my father was in a much better place. She had missed him over the years, and regretted now not getting in touch again when she’d wanted to. And she wished she’d had the chance to know me as I was growing up. And she always thought funerals were terrible – so ritualistic, with nothing to do with the man or how he lived, and not a good way to say goodbye at all.

Uncle Gordon stood over us, nodding and grunting, waiting for propriety to kick in. He’s a true believer in objective decency, and his eyes watch patiently from under a ledge of white eyebrows, waiting for the world to be the place it ought to be. Which is how I felt obliged to invite Miranda back to the house.

At home I could hear Norman moving around upstairs, but it’s an old house and no one else noticed.

I found Miranda in the hallway, looking at the study door with lemon-lips and her head on one side. It’s seven years since she last came to the house, but she could tell something had changed, or was out of place. I wonder how detailed her fantasies of living here were.

“It’s a shame,” I said, “more of dad’s friends couldn’t come today.”

Besides myself, Uncle Gordon and Miranda, there had only been two bald men who, if they’re who I remember, are book dealers dad knew; and there was a younger man with greased hair and sallow skin. He stared at me before he walked out.

“Edward was a very private man.” Miranda said.
“I guess. I found the names of a few friends in his stuff. Matt Poole, Ilford Dyson, and Daniel Hardcastle. I sent them all letters, but none of them got back to me.” The other two I made up, if you’re wondering.
“Maybe the addresses are old.”
“I suppose. I think I might have met Ilford Dyson when I was little. I think I was ten.”
“I never heard him mentioned,” Miranda said. “It must have been before my time. Or just after, of course. Was he a close friend of Edward?”
“Don’t know.”
“I thought you might be able to tell from the source of the address. Was it correspondence or..?”
“Just a note.” I said. I thought of address book later. “Like you say, it could be old.” I like to think if a friend of his knew, then they would have come. “And you’re right – dad was very private. When they asked what music to play, I didn’t have a clue.”
“What they played was very nice.”
“I just said something classical, cause he used to leave the radio tuned to Radio Three. Come to think of it, he might have liked jazz.”
“No, he would have liked what they played today.”

I was glad Miranda said that, but not enough to leave her alone.

“I’ve no idea about his favourite food, or colour, or film.” I told her, “I guess he used to read a lot. He never watched TV with me, except for magic shows.”
“I can’t imagine Edward watching television at all. It’s sort of charming.”
“In all of his stuff, it’s all so ordinary. There’s nothing. Like my friend’s dad likes cars, so he’s got magazines about cars, pictures of cars, he wears T-shirts with cars on them. Dad’s clothes are barely coloured. What did the two of you talk about?”
“That’s sort of personal-” Miranda said.
“But the two of you went out for like a year. Didn’t he have hobbies or interests?”
“He was a fascinating man – with great depths of knowledge. It’s a shame you don’t feel he shared that with you.”

I didn’t push it any further than that. She didn’t know anything or say anything other than to be polite. She said to visit her, if I wanted to, as she was leaving. Then she said again that my father has gone to a much better place, like he’s only gone to Alton Towers and then he’ll be back to explain why there’s a dungeon library full of blank books and dead rats in a corner of our house.

Norman came back down when the house was empty, but he didn’t talk much. It was like he was sulking, and I didn’t get it until just now, but I think that he’s jealous of me, for having the funeral.