When I eventually stopped crying I went downstairs, not quite sure what to do next and looking for jobs to do to keep me busy. There were more messages to listen to, the dog to feed and a sink full of teacups to wash. The fridge was full of all the food prepared by friends and relatives. I had no idea who had brought what, and whose crockery was whose. I’d have to sort that out.
Tomorrow was Thursday, and I was glad the boys could go to school as normal. I thought it was best to maintain their routine and I was glad of the distraction as I sorted out their school bags and made their packed lunches. Still, I couldn’t wait for the day to end. At least if I was asleep I wouldn’t be able to burst into tears.
The boys were fast asleep when I eventually crept into bed, but they both wriggled in close as my head hit the pillow. I didn’t sleep well, nodding off and waking frequently with a foot in my ear or a head in my armpit. “Mummy loved Reef’s cuddles at night.” “Finn’s cuddles were always very special.” They were on Kate’s list. It was almost impossible to believe she had written those words just weeks earlier, yet she would never cuddle the boys again.
It was so unfair. I could see Kate propped up with her diary, in this very spot where I lay. She was wearing a pretty white cotton nightshirt, which was typical Kate. When we first met I used to call her the “Timotei girl” because she wore a floaty white linen gypsy skirt and a white cotton sleeveless top, exactly like the girl in the shampoo advert. Except, of course, Kate’s hair was much more beautiful than the model’s, that’s what I always said.
It had been pretty traumatic for Kate when she lost her hair. She had always been very proud of her blonde hair, and she cried when it came out in clumps on the pillow and blocked the drain when she showered. She never really complained, but I knew she was heartbroken. She was a very beautiful woman, and her hair had always been a big part of her beauty.
I remember being angry about her hair. Losing a breast was bad enough. Why did she have to go and lose her hair too? It was just so cruel, and I hated seeing her upset about it. She still looked bloody fantastic to me, even when she was bald as an egg. When we went to the rugby I told her that her head was perfectly shaped, like a rugby ball. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she laughed. “You should, you look gorgeous,” I replied, and I really meant it. Kate was always stunning.
We were watching the England v. France match at Twickenham, and England won. Kate was ecstatic, jumping up and down like she did as a teenager when she watched me play rugby for a local team. It was a great boost seeing her like that in the midst of her chemotherapy.
“We have just got to take the boys to see the rugby,” she said excitedly.
“We’ll take them to see Ireland versus England in Dublin,” I suggested.
“Brilliant idea!” she said, clapping her hands.
Now losing a head of hair seemed minuscule in comparison to the enormous loss of Kate. There was nothing left of Kate, or at least nothing physical. She had ice-blue eyes. They shone out of her face, giving her a beautiful glow. As for her figure . . . well, don’t get me started. The first time I saw Kate she was wearing bleached jeans that looked like they’d been sprayed on. She looked incredible then and she still looked incredible twenty-five years later. I know she would have carried on looking incredible for another twenty-five years and more, had she been lucky enough to grow old.
Instead, Kate lost everything. First her breast, then her hair. Now her eyes had stopped shining, and her gorgeous body was gone. I’d never be able to make love to my beautiful Kate again. I wouldn’t even be able to take the boys to the rugby with her. Instead, that was another item on the list. “Take the boys to see an international rugby match.” At least that could be arranged, I’d see to that.
* * *
The alarm clock rang out at 7:30 a.m. the next morning, jolting me into a half-awake panic. My body seemed to know before I did that this wasn’t a normal day, and I immediately tensed and my heart raced as my mind caught up. I looked at the boys curled up like two little dormice beside me. They were lying on Kate’s side of the bed. Kate was dead, I remembered. I felt like someone had just given me the news and it was sinking in all over again. The boys started fidgeting and stirring. Their mum was dead. That was all I could think about. My wife was dead and their mum was dead, and here we all were, about to get up for school and start the next day of the rest of our lives without her.
Another alarm sounded, this time on my mobile phone. It startled me because I didn’t remember setting another alarm, and I instantly worried I’d already made a mistake and missed something important, something Kate had booked in or wanted me to do. The words “Reef’s medicine” flashed on the phone screen. I smiled and let some tears leak from my eyes, remembering how Kate had asked me for my mobile phone when she lay in her hospital bed toward the end. She had diligently set the alarm so I would never forget to give Reef his daily medication.
Reef sat up in bed and caught me wiping tears from my face. “Oh, for goodness’ sake stop cryyyy-ing, Dad!” he said, his little face twisted with frustration. He must have thought I’d cried all night, and maybe he was right. Finn sat up now, looking forlorn. Reef put his arm around his shoulder and said firmly, “Come on, we’ll be all right.” The boys’ eyes met, and they gave each other a knowing look and a half-smile, a couple of brothers hatching a plot. “’Course you’ll be all right, boys,” I said, pulling on a cheerful smile. It was only half fake, because their bravery gave me the will and strength to face the day.
“OK, boys, take turns in the shower, please,” I said, turfing them out of the bed. We had a routine in place on school days, and I was determined to stick to it, as I figured it would help me cope. I needed the boys to pull their weight now and do things for themselves a bit more, and it wasn’t going to help any of us if I started mollycoddling them or rewriting the rules.
While the boys showered, I laid out their school uniforms and made the bed; then, while I showered, they got dressed as usual, with Reef helping Finn into his black trousers and green sweatshirt. The pair of them went downstairs to feed Coral and the guinea pigs, and I got the boys’ breakfasts ready and gave Reef his medicine.
Everything went according to plan. “Teeth, please, boys,” I said, and they scampered back up the stairs just like they always did after breakfast, jostling for pole position. “It’s my turn first,” Finn said. “Just a minute,” Reef replied as they reached the landing. “How about you brush your hair while I do my teeth . . .”
I shuffled around the kitchen, clearing up the breakfast dishes. As the boys disappeared behind the bathroom door, it fell silent downstairs.
The dog was statue-like in the conservatory, watching some birds forage for crumbs in the frozen yard. I could hear myself breathing as I stood and watched her in silence. Kate’s breathing had been so labored toward the end. When we lay together adding to her list, she was fighting for every breath, dependent on the ugly oxygen tank she was attached to. I despised it and welcomed it. I didn’t want Kate to need it. In the past the only times I’d seen Kate breathless were in happy times, when she laughed so hard she had tears rolling down her cheeks, when we made passionate love or when her heart was racing with exhilaration as she pulled off her mask after a dive.
In the end the oxygen tanks weren’t enough, and Kate had to go into hospital. I thought she’d get better in hospital. I thought her lungs would have a rest and she’d catch her breath after the exertion of Lapland and Christmas. It didn’t happen like that. Instead, Kate got worse. “Singe, I want to write a last letter to the boys,” she said. It was January 19, 2010.
Doctors had told me just weeks before, on our return from Lapland, that they hoped Kate had eighteen months to live. I clung on to that hope every single day, even when I saw it fading away before my eyes. Eighteen months would take her through to Reef’s seventh birthday, and Finn would be five and a half. Kate he
rself would turn forty in March 2011. Surely she could make it to her fortieth, at the very least?
I couldn’t help Kate, or even watch her write her last letter to her boys. It was way too soon, and it was something I felt should be private between Kate and her sons. From the hospital, I called Lois, a lovely friend of ours who’s an English teacher. “Can you help?” I asked. “Kate mentioned you, if you don’t mind. I know you’ve talked about it. I just couldn’t do it.” I kissed Kate good night in her hospital bed, leaving her with Lois. “I’ll see you in the morning. I love you. Acres and acres,” I said.
“Thanks, Singe,” Kate said gratefully, and I felt a flash of anger. Why did my wife have to be grateful for this? No mother should have to write a good-bye letter to her two little boys.
“Good luck,” I said, kissing Kate again on the cheek. “Acres and acres,” she said quietly.
Driving home, I was visited by images of patients I’d treated when I used to work as a paramedic. I’d saved dozens of lives. I saw the faces of young women who’d abused their bodies and poisoned themselves with drugs and alcohol. I could see them clearly under the blue flashing light, convulsing, vomiting and falling unconscious, then surviving against the odds, against their will in some cases. Life was so unfair.
I lay in bed that night feeling cold without Kate by my side, and I thought about her letters to the boys for what felt like hours. Reef and Finn were sleeping soundly, and I was grateful for all the help I was getting from family and friends that meant the boys’ routine was unaltered when I needed to go to the hospital to see Kate.
What would she write to the boys? How would she cope with such a difficult job when she was already so frail? What was I thinking? This was Kate, my Kate. She was a powerhouse of a woman inside that tiny little body. She would do a magnificent job, I was sure. I was also sure she was just being cautious, and that there was no mad panic to write the letters so soon. She still had time.
I slept eventually, or rather my body collapsed into a series of short, confused naps. I had dreams filled with images of Kate smiling and laughing and then fighting for breath. I couldn’t see in the dreams why she was fighting for breath. Was it the old Kate, refueling her body after an exhilarating dive or coming up for air after kissing me passionately, as she did so often? Or was she struggling to fill her broken lungs?
It was pitch-black in the room when the phone by my bed rang out. I looked at the luminous hands on the clock. It was nearly 4 a.m. on the morning of January 20, and I knew it was bad news before I heard the nurse speak.
“Kate’s taken a very bad turn for the worse.”
I had to see Kate before she went. This was it, there wasn’t a moment to spare. Throwing on clothes as I ran down the stairs two at a time, I lurched out of the house and banged on the door of the house next door. Jane, our kind neighbor, was amazing. “Kate’s dying,” I told her, and left her to do the rest, shouting instructions about staying with the boys and taking them to school in the morning.
It was a forty-minute drive to the hospital in Weston-super-Mare. Too long, too far. Missing Kate was unthinkable. I pressed my foot hard on the accelerator and tore up the roads. Fifteen frantic minutes later I slammed the car across four parking spaces in front of the hospital and headed to the nearest door. It was a fire exit, but I ripped it open and bolted down the corridor toward Kate’s ward. Two security guards shouted “Oi!” and started to give chase, but I didn’t look back.
Kate was in a private room and a nurse opened the door ready for me when she heard me thundering along the corridor. Clearly, every second counted. Thank God I wasn’t too late. There were five nurses surrounding Kate in the bed. I noticed she wasn’t attached to any drips or drains anymore. It was too late for that.
“We have made her comfortable with morphine,” one nurse explained. Kate’s eyes looked at me as I cuddled her small body. Her mum and dad were on their way, and I desperately wanted Kate to hang on until they arrived to say good-bye. She was taking very shallow breaths now, and the nurses were whispering about giving her more morphine. Christine and Martin arrived just as one last big dose went in.
“Sorry,” Kate said to me, and I grabbed her hand.
“Don’t be stupid! You have nothing to be sorry for,” I said. I cuddled her and held her left hand, the hand I’d placed her engagement ring on, and then, in later years, her matching wedding band and finally her eternity ring.
Her parents sat together, holding Kate’s right hand. We kept talking, offering reassurances, even when Kate’s breath stopped coming. I knew from my paramedic training that the brain is still active for a couple of minutes after breathing stops. A nurse had gently reminded me of this, and I kept talking to Kate. “You were the most wonderful wife and mother,” I told her. “I will do everything I can to carry out your wishes. I will tell the boys how much you loved them, and what a wonderful mum you were.”
* * *
“We’re ready!” Reef shouted. Coral started barking loudly, scattering the birds from the back garden, and Finn bounded into the kitchen and asked, “Is it swimming tonight, Daddy?” I was back in the moment, but it felt surreal, like I wasn’t quite there. Kate had died just the day before, and here we all were getting ready for school, carrying on with our lives. It felt somehow wrong, yet I knew it was exactly the right thing to do. Without a shadow of a doubt, I knew it was what Kate would want us to do, and so we put on our coats and shoes, and I drove the boys to school.
Chapter 2
“Mummy wants Daddy to use the phrase ‘acres and acres’”
“Can you read us a story?” Reef said, scampering on to his bed.
Finn followed his brother into their bedroom.
“Can you read us Captain Flinn and the Pirate Dinosaurs?” he asked.
There had been no discussion about them sleeping in their own room tonight; both boys had just done it, seemingly without thinking. It was less than a week since Kate had died, but I suppose even a few days is a long time when you’re a small boy. Besides, they knew they could always come and snuggle in with me if they changed their minds.
“Come on then, pirates,” I said, throwing in a little “ooh–aaargh, me hearties,” which made them giggle.
I could have told the story by heart, we’d read it so many times. The boys cuddled in on either side of me, and I smiled as I saw their expectant little faces, waiting to hear the story as if for the first time. There was something reassuring about reading an old favorite, knowing exactly how the boys’ eyes would widen in wonder when little Flinn (who Finn firmly believed was a cartoon version of himself) went through a secret passage into the magical pirate world. I made sure I did a few blood-curdling sound effects when the T. rex, stegosaurus and triceratops pirates battled on the high seas, and the boys squealed with delight.
“Can we have a secret passage?” Reef asked.
“Ooooh, can we?” Finn chimed in.
“Pleeeeasssse, Daddy? That would be just soooo cool.”
Kate would have loved the idea, and I did too.
“We’ll see,” I said, my mind already thinking about one of Kate’s wishes, to build a playroom for the boys. It was so important to her it was mentioned on the list twice. “Please use the money for a playroom for the boys . . .” she wrote. “Would like them to have a playroom and climbing wall,” she added, just to make doubly sure.
I kissed the boys good night. “Acres and acres,” I told them as I did so. “Acres and acres,” they both replied comfortably. Four kisses, and my two little pirates were already drifting off. Lucky boys, I thought. I knew I would find it hard to sleep tonight, all alone in bed.
I wandered across the landing, realizing that this was the first time I’d had the opportunity to potter round our bedroom alone in peace and quiet since Kate’s death. Closing the door softly behind me, I felt glad of the time to just loo
k and think, but I was daunted too. I would have to start moving Kate’s clothes out of the room, I thought. We had several wardrobes, all fit to burst. Glancing round, I could see the corner of one of Kate’s favorite crocheted Roxy tops trapped in the door of one, a baby-blue sweater spilling out of a drawer and several pairs of sneakers and ballet pumps peeping at me out of shoe boxes.
I called Kate my “mini-mermaid.” I loved buying her clothes, especially what I called her “surf chick” gear. I knew her body and shape so well I didn’t have to worry about buying the wrong size. Her friends thought it was really funny that I bought her more clothes than she bought for herself, but I knew what would look good on her. She had such a lovely figure she looked fantastic in everything, whether it was casual sportswear or slinky little black dresses.
I opened one of the wardrobe doors and ran my hands through Kate’s clothes. It upset me to see everything there, all clean and ironed and ready for Kate to wear again. I didn’t know the end would come so fast, that item after item that went back in the wardrobe would never come out again, or at least never be taken out again by Kate.
I saw a Voodoo Dolls cotton dress I’d bought for her the summer before. She loved it and it looked amazing on her. I saw her padding along the beach in it, barefoot, pretty as a picture. There was a lovely white cotton Weird Fish shirt I had pictured Kate in the moment I saw it in a shop window, and I could picture her in it now, giggling as she ate a rapidly melting strawberry ice cream, sitting in the sunshine. Next, I spotted a pair of sexy high heels she’d worn once with a black French Connection dress that had bright flowers up the side. The shoes were stacked on top of a pair of pink and white Heelys. Typical Kate, I thought. A siren in killer heels one minute, a nutty speed queen the next, whizzing along the pavement on sneakers with wheels fitted under the heels, still looking like the teenager I first met at the roller disco.
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