Years After You

by Woolf, Emma

  “I do understand. September—when Harry died—will probably always be like that for me too, full of memories and sadness.”

  “And regret,” Julien said. “If only I’d asked him if he was OK that morning, if only I’d come home earlier that day or found him sooner . . .”

  Lily shook her head. “There are a million things you could have done differently—perhaps you could have avoided catastrophe, perhaps you could have saved him that one time—but the fact is, it happened. I feel the same way about Harry. There were so many warning signs. Now when I look back, I see how desperate he was and I wish I’d got him some help. But it’s no good thinking that way. It happened. They’re gone. There’s no way of changing the past.”

  Julien nodded. “I know. But what you said yesterday, when you called me defensive or insecure, you’re right. When Dad died, I felt such—such betrayal as I’ve never felt. Because if the man I loved more than anything in the world could do this thing, then nothing made sense any more. It was like the ground beneath my feet had literally been torn away. I didn’t know where I could stand and be safe.”

  “That’s terrifying for a child.”

  “And you’re right, it probably has made me insecure.”

  “I was calling us both insecure,” Lily said. “When someone who looks after you takes their own life, it makes you feel utterly abandoned. You think they’ll always be there and then they leave, and you feel you can never trust anyone ever again. My overwhelming feeling after Harry’s death was abandonment. When I found out I was pregnant, I felt it even more.”

  “He never knew about Stella?”

  She shook her head. “I felt very alone at first. I was angry with him too . . . Even now when I watch her, when she learns something new, when she started crawling and talking, I feel sad that he’s not here to see it. That he’s missing all these moments.”

  “It makes sense,” Julien said quietly.

  They stared at each other in the darkness. Strange that in that moment, both so alone with their memories, Lily felt closer to Julien than she ever had before.

  “Come on.” He stood and held out his hand. “Time for bed.”

  Dear Harry,

  It’s strange to write that. We haven’t spoken for so long. I’m writing this on my blog but I’m not sure if I’ll publish it or whether it’s a private message to you—but where would I send it? Your last email address? Even when you were alive we didn’t use email, did we? It was usually just a text or a quick call.

  Remember when we first met, you’d hide love letters under my diary at work or in my top drawer for me to find during the day. And when the boys were born, you’d leave little cards with the nurses on your way out of the hospital after visiting hours, so I’d have something from you before bed or with my breakfast. When I tell the boys that we met before mobile phones, before emails and WhatsApp and the entire internet, they look at me as if I’m a dinosaur. I’m certainly getting old—I can’t believe I’ll be fifty next year.

  The boys are amazing, I wish you could see them now. The other day, I was trying to explain the concept of “landlines” to Joe. “But why would you attach a phone to the wall? What if you needed to walk around, or leave the house, how would you take the call?” He’s so funny, Harry. They’ve changed so much since . . . since you died. They’re young men now, tall and strong. Polly reckons Dan is taller than you already. Joe’s been learning Spanish, and he’s going on a school trip for a week to Barcelona. Dan’s working hard at his A Levels and he’s in the rugby first team—and he’s got a girlfriend! I miss you so much when things happen with the boys and you’re not here to share it.

  So I wanted to talk to you somehow, and I guess writing this felt like it might be a way of communicating? We saw a family therapist for a few sessions back at the start, until the boys went on strike. She was pretty rubbish, I admit, but she talked a lot about disbelief and anger, forgiveness and acceptance. Those “stages of grief” are a bit simplistic—I’ve had those different emotions about your death sometimes all at the same time—but I wanted to say some things.

  First, Harry, I think I’m going to sell the house. I know it was our dream home, and I stayed here initially out of shock and inability to think about moving, and to give the boys some stability, and also out of respect to your memory and wanting to cling to the past. But I think it’s time. I need to start afresh and I can’t do that with your presence all around me. You fill every room, Harry. The garden, your study, our bedroom, you’re everywhere.

  Second, I’ve met someone. He’s a good, kind man, older than me. The boys get on well with him, and he looks after us. I haven’t thought too far ahead—when and whether we move in with him when I sell this house—but I won’t ever marry again. The vows I made on our wedding day will always be sacred to me.

  Lastly, Harry, I forgive you. I know you were unfaithful to me. I know you broke those vows with your body and your heart. I know you fell in love with someone else and would have left me for her—but I don’t want to hold on to the anger any more.

  I’m sad that I couldn’t make it better for you, that we couldn’t make our marriage last longer, that you couldn’t find what you needed here at home. I’m so sorry you were driven to suicide, Harry, that I didn’t see the torment you were going through.

  But I’m letting go of the bitterness and blame and jealousy. None of this should have ended the way it did. It was never meant to cost you your life. We were happy for a long time, and we made these two amazing young men, and you’ll always be my husband and the love of my life.

  “Hey, Lil.” Julien took her hand. “Do you ever think about the future?”

  They were walking back from dinner in Belsize Park. Cassie and Charlie had taken Stella for the night, and they were enjoying a rare evening off.

  “The future?” Lily said. “No, of course not. Never give it a moment’s thought.”

  “Very funny. You know what I mean—where you want to live long-term, where to bring up Stella, and all that.”

  “Yes. I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And . . . there are various decisions to be made, I guess.”

  “And have you made any?”

  “Yes and no. Still thinking . . .”

  “OK,” Julien said. “If you don’t want to talk about it . . .”

  “It’s not that. Just that I’m still thinking.”

  They turned into England’s Lane. At the flat, Lily kicked off her shoes and went to change out of her dress. When she came out, wrapped in her bathrobe, Julien was in the kitchen making coffee. They opened the large windows in the living room to let in the night breeze and the distant sounds of the city below. Julien smiled at Lily and handed her a mug of coffee.

  “I’ve had an idea. It could involve you, if you want.”

  “OK . . .” She smiled.

  “It’s about London. It looks like I’m going to be heading up the Europe team from now on, so I’ll be travelling less—that is, I’ll still be travelling but mostly short-haul or the Eurostar. And I’ve been thinking about a permanent base. Remember I said my neighbour was putting his place on the market? Apparently in the first week he had five offers over the asking price.”

  “Property prices are completely out of control . . .”

  “Right. So I started looking at houses—just online, I haven’t gone to any viewings. There are some beautiful places out there. I’d definitely stay in the area—you know I love Hampstead and Belsize Park—but first I wanted to ask what you think . . .” He paused. “At the moment it seems crazy. We have two flats in London, barely a mile apart.”

  Lily raised an eyebrow.

  “I wondered whether you might consider a house too—with me. And Stella, obviously.” He laughed nervously. “The three of us.”

  “Oh.” Lily went silent. “Can I think about it?”

  “Yes, of course. If you’re not
keen, there’s no pressure . . .”

  “I mean, yes, I’d like to. Living with you would be wonderful. Actually”—she paused—“did you know Susan’s thinking of downsizing? Her brother Patrick has a great little flat in Westminster, and if he moves in with my mum, which he may well do, Susan might take on Patrick’s place. It’s convenient for the House of Lords, fully serviced, and I think the garden here’s getting too much for her . . .”

  “Are you kidding me?” Julien took Lily’s hand. “That would be amazing—having this whole house I mean—nothing like this ever comes up in this area! Maybe we should talk to her about a private sale?”

  “Hold on, hold on,” Lily said. “She’s not doing anything immediately, and she promised to talk to me before putting it on the market. Before we start making plans, can you give me a few weeks?”

  “Sure,” Julien said. “No rush.”

  “I love the idea too. Just that there are a few things I need to take care of.” She kissed him softly on the lips. “A couple of loose ends . . .”

  * * *

  I saw her. Or rather, I saw them. Today, at the cliffs, I saw Lily and her baby. And there’s absolutely no doubt that she is Harry’s daughter.

  It’s his birthday today. A few months ago, on the anniversary of his death, we went to the graveyard: me, Polly, and the boys. We took flowers, and Polly said a prayer at the grave. But for his birthday I wanted to do something different. This morning Dan suggested going for a drive, and Joe said he’d come too. After breakfast Robert asked if I’d like him to come along, “for moral support or as a driver or whatever,” but I said I thought I’d just go with the boys, and he didn’t mind at all. (It’s one of the things I love about him: his tact, his trusting nature, his constancy. I can’t recall a moment of tension or conflict since we met.)

  Anyway, we got in the car, and I started driving and found myself heading for the south coast. The boys were very quiet on the way, they didn’t ask where we were going, or demand snacks or rest breaks or anything. Dan put some music on and amazingly Joe didn’t change it or tell him it was shit. We all just listened and looked out of the window and kind of remembered Harry, I guess.

  We got there in less than two hours. The boys knew where we were. I parked up by the cliffs and they set off ahead of me, giving me space. I watched them, walking close together, and thought how strong they’ve both been. I wonder if they talk about their dad with each other. I hope they do. I’ve tried my best as a mother, but I haven’t been much good as a replacement father.

  We’d walked for nearly an hour along the headland and were heading back to the car park, the boys now lagging behind me. It was a beautiful day and my spirits had risen; I felt closer to Harry than I’d felt at any point since his death.

  Then something changed. I was in the car park, slowing down to wait for the boys to catch me up, and I saw a young woman standing by her car. She was around thirty and had a baby strapped against her chest. I can’t explain—she was a stranger, but it was like every nerve in my body was aware of her presence even before I got close enough to see who she was. Then I saw the baby’s face: a little girl so like our daughter I could have cried out. I didn’t need to look at the woman’s face to know. I could see she’d been crying, and there were shadows beneath her eyes. It wasn’t just the tiredness of new motherhood. There was a deeper sadness too. I was standing still now, a few feet from my car and hers, unable to walk on but unable to say anything. Her eyes met mine, and for a few seconds, or was it minutes, we looked at each other in complete frankness.

  I knew who she was and she knew who I was. Neither of us said a word. I gazed at the face of her daughter, remembering my daughter in those brief hours we had her before she died.

  I found myself in the car, the boys in the back, driving home. The strangeness still hasn’t left me, hours later.

  I hadn’t allowed myself to think about her for months. Hearing that she was pregnant was such a shock, by far the worst of all Harry’s betrayals, so I tried to put her out of my mind. I had no concrete proof it was his child, but from the rumours and everything that came out after his death, it seemed pretty certain. Polly kept reminding me that the worst had already happened and I’d survived; thinking about them together and her having his baby would only make it worse.

  Seeing them today was all the proof I needed that it’s Harry’s child. And yet . . . the anger I expected to feel isn’t there. Perhaps I’m beginning to understand that she must be hurting too.

  Having his baby on her own, what was that like? How has she coped? I’m not pretending that I’m overflowing with compassion for her because when you mess with other people’s marriages you get burnt. But it can’t have been easy for her either. I’m done with the rage and the blame. Lily didn’t wrong me—I have to admit that. Lily didn’t make our vows and she couldn’t break them. It was Harry who betrayed me, and day by day I’m learning to live with that—and not to hate him. Maybe one day to forgive him.

  I wonder what she’s thinking right now. I hope she understands what I’m trying to express here, clumsily. That the jealousy and anger are gone; that we both deserve peace now.

  They were halfway to the coast before Lily realised it was Harry’s birthday. Strange, she said out loud, glancing at her sleeping daughter in the rear-view mirror. Lily hadn’t told anyone where they were going.

  As she drove, she tried to work out what this journey was about. It had been prompted by Julien’s suggestion that they should move in together, but it had been on her mind for a while. It was something to do with closing a chapter, or asking permission to open a new one. Permission for what? she wondered. Stella was Harry’s child. Lily needed his permission to take this next step. Not his permission—his blessing.

  She had decided to bring Stella, not to the cemetery where her father’s body lay, but to where he had last been alive. She couldn’t take a baby to a grave. It was early afternoon and the car park opposite the cliff path was almost empty. Stella stirred as Lily turned off the engine, opened her eyes, and gave a sleepy yawn.

  It had been overcast in London, but here the clouds were scudding fast across the sky. Every so often a strong shaft of sunlight streamed down, warming their faces, illuminating the endless, shifting expanse of blue-green ocean below. Here at Beachy Head, under these vast empty skies, Harry’s presence was strong. Lily felt it as she walked along the white cliffs, her daughter warm against her chest. She wondered what he had seen on the day he came here. She wondered where he had jumped.

  It was more than two years since she had last seen him. There had been terrible moments during that time, but she was still here. And now, was it OK to leave him behind? She thought of the book of poems Harry had given her two days before his death. She remembered what he had written in the flyleaf: Lily . . . love hurts x.

  Those were the words she had read on that lonely New Year’s Eve when she decided not to die, but to live.

  As she walked, peace settled over her. Harry wasn’t here and he wasn’t gone. He was alive in Stella and in Lily’s memory. It was OK, she realised. It was OK to move on; it was time. She stood on the high cliffs, looking out to sea. Stella gazed at the gulls wheeling and screeching overhead and waved her little hand. Lily turned and retraced her steps along the cliffs, holding her daughter more tightly against her.

  She became aware of two boys and a woman walking towards them along the clifftops, also heading for the car park. The boys were in their mid-teens, tall and gangly, the woman middle-aged, small and dark-haired. Lily got a strange sensation all over, like fear, without knowing why. As the boys drew closer, she took a sharp breath. The likeness to Harry was unmistakeable. They were the right age, and their mother—she glanced at the woman—yes, it was her. She had seen photos of Pippa and there was no doubt. She looked older now, with grey hairs in her black bob and deep lines etched into her face.

  It was too late now to avoid her; Lily stood by her car, her eyes fixed firm
ly on the ground, fumbling in her jeans pocket for the car keys. The older boy called something to the younger one—it was Harry’s voice—and they ran ahead towards a Lexus at the far end of the car park. The woman stopped a few metres from Lily. She was looking directly at Stella. At Harry’s blue eyes in the baby’s face. She looked at Lily, recognition dawning, and time stopped between them. She seemed to be about to say something; then she walked on.

  Lily somehow got Stella out of the papoose and buckled her into the car seat. She sank down onto the back seat beside her, the car door still open, her hands shaking and her breathing uneven. She watched Pippa’s small figure receding in the distance. She felt shocked and ashamed. She put her head down and wept.

  All this time she hadn’t thought properly about Pippa and her sons, but there they were: another family who had lost a husband and father, just like her, like Marie, like Celia, like Julien . . . It had been so hard just keeping her own head above water, rebuilding her life and looking after Stella. She hadn’t comprehended the ripples of Harry’s death, the way the waves of hurt had touched so many. These parallels, these circles of pain and betrayal and loss: Pippa’s sons, Marie’s sons, Celia’s children, and now her own daughter, all without their fathers.

  Through her grief, Lily realised that now she had this second chance, this precious chance to start over with a new love, maybe even another baby, another family . . . She sat there for some minutes, tears running down her face, until she felt Stella’s tiny fingers patting her cheek.

  She turned and smiled at her daughter and took her hand. “It’s OK. We’re OK.” On the passenger seat, her phone started ringing. She leaned forward and saw that there were four missed calls from Julien. She answered immediately.

  “Lily, where are you? I’ve been ringing all day.”

  “Sorry, we just went for a drive. I’ll tell you about it later. We’re on our way back now; we’ll be home in a couple of hours.”