Black Rabbit Hall by Eve Chase Page A

apologizes, mutters something about rust. As if it matters.
    Toby squeezes my hand. Stick together, be brave, the squeeze says. I squeeze back and we steer Barney and Kitty into St Mary’s, our feet falling into step, like soldiers.
    The church smells of old flower water. It is all dank gloom, apart from Momma’s coffin, which is covered with pale pink ribbons and so many spring flowers – hyacinth, anemone, iris – that it looks like a garden. I like this. Momma loved gardens. She loved our garden. But it still feels impossible that she is actually in that box – my warm, pretty momma, who would bundle us up on cold, clear nights and take us outside to spot the Bear and the Plough glittering in the sky – packed up like a fancy Easter egg. I tell myself it’s impossible. It is not her.
    Still, we must walk towards it, Kitty pulling back on my hand, intimidated less by Momma’s coffin than all the pomp. The crowd follows behind us in solemn, coughing silence. There are not enough seats in the church. I’m glad. It would be much worse if there were empty spaces. People are standing, staring, jostling for a prized view of the coffin through the forest of hats. We walk to the front row,eyes hot on our back. The church doors squeal again, clump shut.
    ‘Psst!’ Only Aunt Bay’s full film star lips are visible beneath the cartwheel rim of her hat. She’s in the row behind us wearing a black mini-dress – a glimpse of thigh revealed above the pew – that reminds me of all the reasons Momma adored her, and all the reasons Daddy doesn’t really approve. She grabs my hand, trailing the smell of cigarettes. ‘How are you, baby?’
    My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Aunt Bay’s American accent is too much, too close to Momma’s. It’s what I would hear if she walked through that church door, lifting her hair off her shoulders, laughing, telling everyone it’s all been a silly misunderstanding and another case of English fuss.
    I can’t stop doing this, imagining Momma bursting back into life at random moments. Neither can I stop replaying that day, making things turn out differently, pulling time back and forth, alive and elastic as gum, snipping out the day of the storm entirely and making Big Bertie’s chains and cogs jolt forward to the day after, eating sandy sandwiches on the beach.
    ‘Honey?’ She pushes up the rim of her hat, so that I can see her kind, red-rimmed eyes, spidery long lashes.
    ‘I’m very well, thank you, Aunt Bay,’ I say, because this is what Altons are expected to say.
    ‘That’s my girl,’ says Bay. She has a small chunk of lipstick on her front tooth that looks like pale pink icing. ‘Nancy would be so proud of you. She loved you so much, Amber.’
    My throat locks. I know Momma loved me. For somereason, I don’t want to be told that she did, as if that might not have been the case.
    ‘Will you come and see me in New York?’
    I nod, thinking of Aunt Bay’s hotel apartment, where there is a fat man called Hank on a desk and you have to knock past guests arriving with suitcases, guitars slung over their shoulders. How Aunt Bay would leave us playing dominoes with Hank while she and Momma went to shows on 42nd Street.
    ‘Please stand,’ says the vicar. There is a rustle. Bay’s hat obliterates the view for the row behind. There’s a tut or two.
    ‘I’ll take you to Coney Island, up the Empire State,’ she whispers. ‘If you ever need somewhere to escape you come to me, OK?’
    I don’t nod then. Why would I ever want to escape what remains of my family? Just the thought of not being with them makes me feel dizzy.
    ‘Right, Amber?’
    ‘Shush, please,’ whispers Mildred, one of my father’s tall, cross cousins.
    Aunt Bay turns and smiles at Mildred and carries on talking, only louder, which is very Aunt Bay. ‘You’re a quiet girl with a big heart, Amber. You need to make it a strong heart too. You’re the lady of the house now.’
    Lady of the house? I