by K. L. Slater
‘Of course you do.’ I reach for his hand. ‘And I’m pleased for you. Have the boys met … Amber yet?’
‘A couple of times,’ he says with a nod. ‘We’ve just told them she’s Daddy’s friend from work. For the time being.’
Noah and Josh’s innocent faces spring into my mind and I bite back tears. I’m being ridiculous; I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
‘Are you OK, Mum?’
‘Of course I am!’ I feign an over-the-top smile. ‘If you’ve met someone deserving of you, then that’s wonderful news.’
‘Nobody is ever going to be deserving of you, son.’ Henry winks at him. ‘You do know that?’
‘Louise was,’ I say tightly, standing up. ‘Louise was perfect.’
The strange sensation starts deep in my solar plexus.
I know I haven’t got much time, so I pull on my cardigan and step out of the kitchen doors into the garden. I shiver in the cool air, but it feels good. The sun was deceptive; it is cold enough for a coat. Not that I’ll be needing one in a second or two.
I breathe in a chilly lungful of crisp air, but it does nothing to dissipate the wave of heat that is now flooding my lower abdomen and rapidly rising into my chest, neck and head.
In the beginning, the hot flushes were confined just to the night-time. It was fairly easy to creep from the bed without disturbing Henry, who has always been a deep sleeper, and spread a couple of towels on the soaked sheet. I then changed the bed in the morning once he’d gone out into the garden. He was a man of routine and I could rely on it.
I didn’t want him to see the evidence that my body was changing. I was late starting, compared to the average age of fifty-one, I’d already started to feel it was like waiting to be shot and now, I was having trouble coming to terms with the dreaded ‘M’ word myself, without suffering the indignity of my husband seeing the awful signs.
Henry has always been a bit squeamish about women’s problems, as he labels anything remotely connected to the female reproductive system. The thought of his wife negotiating the menopause would probably take him over the edge.
But this last month or so, the flushes have graduated from night-time only and made an appearance unexpectedly at the surgery, and sometimes at home during the day. And it’s happening again, right this minute.
It isn’t something I can hide by fanning my face discreetly like a Victorian lady. Right now, there are rivulets of sweat streaming down my cheeks and neck, collecting in my clavicle and in the hollow at the bottom of my back. My blouse is soaked through both front and back; without doubt I’ll need to change it when I get back inside. All this in around four minutes.
It reminds me of a documentary I once watched about mountain climbers. There’s this phenomenon where delirious climbers in below-freezing conditions suffer a brain malfunction that tells their bodies they are overheating, and so, on top of a mountain at minus forty degrees, they strip off all their clothing, ensuring certain death.
It seemed a great exaggeration to me back then, but I totally understand it now. Far from standing outside in my garden in the chilly English springtime, my body makes me feel like I’m trapped in forty-degree heat on a Dubai beach. Not nearly as idyllic as it might sound.
Behind me, the kitchen door opens. Josh comes barrelling out and runs past me, down to the bottom of our sizeable garden. My shoulders relax, and in spite of the sweltering heat within, I smile. Josh wouldn’t notice if my hair was on fire.
He disappears behind the short row of conifers Henry planted ten years ago to afford us extra privacy from the neighbours. Josh endearingly calls it a wood.
Thirty seconds later, I hear a whoop of delight.
‘Nanny, look!’ Josh runs back up the garden and gingerly holds out his hand as if it contains something utterly precious.
A small white feather nestles in his palm. Somehow it has escaped the mud that now covers his jeans and boots.
‘It’s beautiful,’ he breathes, nipping the hollow shaft and holding it up to the air. He turns it slowly in the arrows of weak spring sunshine that slip through the pale-green new leaves. Through Josh, I see the magic too.
The feather is small, but dry and perfect. The sleek, sturdy strands soften into white fluff at the bottom. Delicate and yet so strong.
‘It really is.’ I lay my hand on his small shoulder. ‘It’s a miracle.’
We stand for a few moments, lost together in the beauty of this tiny piece of nature. A soothing balm to the ever-present guilt and blame that I silently torture myself with every day. The horror I can’t discuss with anyone else.
Spending time with my grandsons acts as a welcome distraction from the tablets Dr Fern prescribed to help me sleep, which I’ve hidden from Henry at the back of my bedside drawer. I haven’t taken any yet; I’ve been trying to manage without them.
When I think back to when my own sons were young, there always seemed to be so much to do. Stuff that seemed important at the time but that I now know really wasn’t.
‘But you’ve still got stuff to do now,’ my colleague Maura said when I tried explaining the joys of being a grandparent to her. ‘You work, you keep that whole enormous house shipshape with zero help. I don’t know how you find the time to look after the boys as much as you do.’
I knew what she was getting at, and she was right that Henry didn’t lift a finger in the house, but she was missing the point. The laundry, housework and cooking – none of it mattered.
My grandsons had taught me that if it didn’t get done, then so what? The house didn’t blow up. We didn’t starve.
‘Think about your own life, Maura,’ I said. ‘Imagine if someone took away all the chores and pressure and worries and replaced them with the sweetest joy that filled your heart and left you wanting nothing. If you can imagine that, then you start to come close to feeling what a grandparent feels.’
‘Blimey,’ she grinned. ‘You are smitten; you’re going all soppy on me. There’s no hope for you, my friend. You’re destined to babysit and play Lego for the rest of your days.’
‘I can’t think of anything better,’ I said with a smile. ‘Sounds like a dream, to me at least.’
Of course, I didn’t know back then that there would be no such dream. Instead, there would be only the worst nightmare.
6
Judi
When the flush has abated somewhat, I lead Josh back inside. He plonks himself on his grandad’s knee.
‘What have we got here, then?’ Henry says, looking down at Josh’s hand.
I can feel Ben watching me, trying to get a handle on whether I’m upset or not, but I avoid his eyes and pull my thin cardigan closer in the hope that he won’t spot the wet patches.
Josh slowly unfurls his fingers to show Henry, and Noah sidles up to see too.
‘I found it in the wood,’ he says softly. ‘Nanny says it’s a miracle.’
‘It is rather impressive, champ.’
‘It’s just a feather.’ Noah is dismissive.
‘I think it is a miracle,’ I say from the doorway. ‘Just look at it.’
Nobody says anything.
‘What kind of bird do you think it came from?’ Henry jostles his knees.
‘Maybe a pigeon?’ Josh suggests without hesitation, squirming to stay balanced.
‘I think you might be right,’ Henry murmurs. ‘Pigeons like woodland. I suppose it could’ve been a dove, though. They’re all white, aren’t they?’
‘Hmm,’ Josh says distractedly, peering closer at his feather. ‘Grandad, look, the top of the feather is smooth and the bottom is fluffy.’
‘Well spotted,’ Henry says, gently prodding the edge of it. ‘See the sleek strands? They’re called barbs, and the fluffy bit at the bottom near the shaft is called the afterfeather. Bet you didn’t know that, did you?’
‘No.’ Josh looks up at him. ‘You’re smart, Grandad. You know everything about everything.’
‘Try telling that to your nanny, son.’
I stic
k my head back round the door and Henry grins that same cheeky grin he flashed me outside the Savoy cinema in Nottingham thirty-five years ago as I stood waiting for the bus with my friend Ann.
‘Fancy a lift, ladies?’ he quipped as he sauntered by. ‘I’m parked around the back and I can assure you that my intentions are completely honourable.’ Then he gave me that grin.
Two years later, we were married, and a year after that, David was born.
But I don’t feel strong enough to start thinking about David and what happened. Not right now.
I’m scraping the plates in the kitchen when behind me someone clears their throat.
‘You OK, Mum?’ I turn to see my son, his forehead lined with concern.
‘I’m fine,’ I say a little too brightly, putting down the dirty plate and wiping my hands on a tea towel. ‘I’m so glad you all enjoyed lunch.’
Ben walks slowly towards me.
‘You’ve been saying for a while now that it’s time for me to start again. You meant it’s maybe time for me to meet someone, Mum.’
‘Yes, I know.’ I put the tea towel down and hold on to the worktop behind my back. ‘It’s just that … well, I suppose I didn’t expect it to happen now. As quickly as this.’
‘I know you’re just being a mum and worrying about me, but she’s really nice, you know. Amber.’ He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing powerfully underneath the slightly whiskered skin of his neck. ‘I wondered if you and Dad would like to meet her? Only if you want to …’
I clasp my hands together and smile. ‘Oh Ben, of course we’d love to meet her. You must bring her over.’ I think for a moment. ‘What about next Sunday, for lunch?’
‘Really?’ His face brightens and the furrows above his brow instantly fall away. ‘That’d be brilliant. I mean, if you’re sure.’
He wraps his arms around me and rests his chin on the top of my head. It doesn’t seem that long ago that he only came up to my chest and I used to do the same to him. I bury my face in his chest and squeeze my eyes shut so my tears don’t spoil the moment.
I’m pleased for him, I really am. It’s just these silly, ill-timed emotions getting in the way again.
‘Gosh, you feel all hot and damp, Mum.’ Ben takes a step back and looks at me. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ I waft at my cheeks with one hand and clutch my cardi closed with the other. ‘It gets really warm in here with the oven on; that’s why I stepped outside for a few minutes.’
‘I can’t wait to tell Amber about lunch,’ he beams. ‘She’s dying to meet you and Dad.’
‘Well it’s all arranged now,’ I say, patting his arm. ‘And if she’s nervous, tell her the day will be very informal. We won’t bite.’
‘No need for that.’ Ben laughs and turns back to me as he walks out of the kitchen. ‘Amber doesn’t get nervous about anything. In fact, she’s got more confidence than anyone I know.’
7
Judi
When Ben and the boys have gone home, I take Henry his customary afternoon coffee and biscuits.
Despite his diabetes, Henry eats far too much sugar but my concern has always fallen on deaf ears, so I say nothing now.
‘Heavens, Jude, haven’t you fed me enough?’ He pats his stout belly and I see that the buttons of his shirt are straining. ‘I keep telling you I’m trying to cut down. In fact, like I told you the other day, I’ve been thinking about joining that new gym in town. They’ve got some good opening offers on.’
‘Did you?’ I can’t remember him saying so, but my mind has been like a sieve lately. I turn to carry the tray back into the kitchen.
‘You might as well leave it here now,’ he says. ‘No sense in a perfectly good cup of coffee going to waste. Or the biscuits, for that matter.’
I put the tray down on the side table by his maroon leather armchair and stand staring through the window, up at the grey sky, blotchy with heavy clouds.
He takes a slurp of the steaming liquid and frowns. ‘What’s the matter, love? You look harassed.’
‘You didn’t mention it was our cottage you were renting,’ I say slowly. ‘The surprise for Ben. It was … so unexpected.’
Henry laughs. ‘Surprises often are unexpected, or hadn’t you noticed?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘But nothing. It won’t do you any harm to face the place again, Judi. I don’t know why I haven’t thought of it before.’ He shifts in his seat. ‘David didn’t perish in the cottage; he fell off the cliff. You need to remember that, or else it’ll soil all our lovely memories of the place. There’s something to be said for facing one’s fears. It might get the blasted thing out of your head once and for all, after all this time.’
His words cut through me like a knife through butter. To Henry’s logical brain, enough years have now passed to put the family tragedy firmly behind us, but for me, that will always remain an impossibility.
‘Ben won’t go now he’s met this new girl,’ I say, perching on the edge of the sofa. ‘Amber.’
‘He didn’t say no outright, though, did he? He might even want her to come with us.’ He took another slurp of his coffee. ‘If you don’t frighten him off, that is.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, your face when he said he’d met someone. Running off into the garden like that. It was … awkward, to say the least.’
‘I was just hot and a bit flustered, that’s all. All that cooking.’ I pause to think of the right words. ‘I’m pleased he’s met someone. I really am.’
Henry dismisses my excuse with a cursory wave of his hand.
‘Your face said it all,’ he says smugly. ‘You can’t keep the lad chained to you all your life, you know. He must be more than ready to get his leg over; it’s been a long time since—’
‘Henry, please!’
‘Oh, stop being so bloody prim and proper. Used to like it yourself once, remember?’
I stand up and brush down my skirt.
‘I’m going to finish off in the kitchen.’ I turn and walk out of the room, silently praying my legs will support me.
‘Yes, you do that,’ he shouts after me. ‘Beats talking about your own hang-ups, doesn’t it?’
In some ways, a long marriage is a bit like embarking on a journey. There’s a point at which you may might realise the journey isn’t really for you any more. But every time you get a chance to change paths, you just stay put because it’s easier. You end up trudging along the same old way and watching as life happens to other people as you pass by.
Then one day you just stop looking around you … and well, here we are.
I load the cutlery into the dishwasher and push the gravy-stained tablecloth and napkins into the washing machine. After that, I wipe down the worktops and use a small brush and dustpan to sweep the floor tiles of the errant crumbs of our feast.
Then, when I think I’ve given it enough time, I pad softly down the hallway and peer through the crack in the living room door. As expected, Henry has dozed off in the chair.
My shoulders drop a little and I head for the stairs. Kicking off my soft shoes at the bottom, I climb slowly, enjoying the framed photographs that are staggered across the walls, all the way up to the landing. Happy family photographs of the four of us, but also, many pictures of the boys together at various ages, right up to David reaching fourteen.
There are no more photographs together after that, of course.
I sigh and stop in front of my very favourite picture. Both boys are crouched down in the garden. Ben is petting next door’s puppy and David is smiling and watching him, one hand resting on his brother’s shoulder. You can’t tell from the photograph, but Ben was slightly taller and broader than David, despite being two years younger. Still, David was protective towards his brother, always looking out for him, particularly at school.
They didn’t look that much alike, with David’s very dark hair and Ben’s sun-kissed brown locks, but you could still tell they
were brothers from their mannerisms and certain facial expressions.
I close my eyes and rock on the spot as a swell of hopelessness fills my chest. It’s a relief to let it happen, away from Henry’s critical gaze. I turn away from the photograph and grip the banister tightly, concentrating on my stinging palms.
My sadness is like a living thing that helps fill the gaping space David left inside me when he died. Sadness brings its own sort of comfort. A reassurance that it will never leave, it belongs to me alone.
After a few moments, I take in a gulp of air and then another. I wish I could throw back my head and howl like an animal, but instead I loosen my fingers and prise my shaking hands from the stair rail.
I look back at the photo and allow my fingertips to touch David’s face over the glass. My boy. My poor dead boy.
He’d bolted down breakfast and run out of the cottage just like any other day at the coast. I’d called for him to take his fleece and he’d ignored me, of course. The last time I’d see my boy and that was as much notice as I’d taken.
The next time I saw him, he was cold and broken at the bottom of Cowbar Cliff.
It often feels as if everything and everybody has moved on completely. That nobody misses David James Jukes … that mostly nobody even remembers him. Perhaps it’s unfair of me to think that. Perhaps people do think about him and just don’t show it. We’re not a very showing sort of family. Henry doesn’t really agree with that sort of thing.
‘It’s not healthy to dwell in the past,’ he reminds me whenever he catches me staring into space or looking at David’s photograph. I begged him to let me keep David’s room as it was the day he died, and he grudgingly agreed, but he now disapproves of me spending any time in there.
I tear myself away from the photographs and continue up the stairs. When I get to the top, I take a long stride to avoid the creaking floorboards and tiptoe down to David’s bedroom.
I reach out and grasp the brass handle. It feels cool on my heated palm and I grip it without applying any pressure for a moment. I purposely haven’t cleaned the handle since David died. The other door handles cast their dull, brassy glow into the dim hallway, but David’s no longer shines.
