“Hello, Singe, hello, Reef, hello, Finn!” Maria boomed cheerfully as we arrived.
The boys’ eyes were on stalks, taking in the huge bouncy castle, brightly dressed magician and rainbow-colored ice cream stand. Maria scooped the boys in her cuddly arms, smothering them with love and affection. Lynne spotted us too and started running over, waving and smiling. There was always banter between the pair of them, with Maria teasing Lynne that she was far too thin from all the yoga she did and Lynne having a crack back about Maria’s love of cakes and chocolates. Today was no exception.
“I haven’t finished my cuddle yet!” Maria warned Lynne as she approached.
Winking at the boys, she added, “And they like mine better than yours as there’s more of me to go round!”
Lynne rolled her eyes, and I instantly relaxed. I had been a little bit concerned about coming today, wondering how I would cope alone. It was a place Kate and I always loved visiting, because it was a relaxing retreat, far away from the draining, depressing world of children’s cancer wards. You could have a coffee and chat to other parents, and when Reef was undergoing treatment it was a godsend, as he could play outdoors without running the risk of infection he might in a public play area.
“How’s Kate doing?” one of the other dads asked.
The question took me by surprise because I thought it was so obvious she had passed away. Kate and I did everything together, and to me the fact she wasn’t by my side as usual said it all.
“I’m afraid we lost Kate, a few weeks ago,” I said.
He looked mortified. Most of the other parents had a child with a disability. This wasn’t a retreat for sick parents and widowers, and I could see he was struggling to take in what I’d said.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
“So are we,” I replied, trying to give him a reassuring smile. “Thanks for asking after her, you weren’t to know.”
I sat down on the end of a bench, feeling like half a person. Kate and I were a perfect team, a couple who made up a whole, just as Maria and Lynne are a perfect couple of work mates. Now I had to be a whole all by myself, and it felt weird.
The boys had a brilliant day, their eyes shining as they feasted on all the treats laid on for them. I remembered their eyes shining like that before, and so did Kate. “Mummy loved how sparkly Reef and Finn’s eyes were in Lapland,” she wrote. I loved how sparkly their eyes were in Lapland too, and I loved how sparkly their eyes were today. How lucky I was to still be able to look into their eyes. That’s what I told myself as I sat beside an empty space that day.
Kate insisted we take the boys to Lapland in December 2009, even though she was still very weak from more than a year of cancer treatment.
“Kate, are you sure about this trip?” I asked. “I know we’ve planned it and looked forward to it for ages, but there’s always next year.”
Kate had finished all her chemo and radiation, as well as a drug trial she went through, and we’d had our wonderful holiday to Disney World in Florida just a month earlier. We were so glad our lives didn’t revolve around hospital appointments anymore, but even so Kate wasn’t fully back to normal, not by a long stretch. The disease and all the drugs she’d been given had left her tired and frail. Her back was hurting, and she had developed a nasty, irritating cough. It was clear she had a lot of recovering still to do.
As with most cancer patients, it would be five years before Kate could declare herself technically in remission or even hope to hear those magic words: “all clear.” Even Reef hadn’t quite got there yet, and he was several years ahead of Kate. All we did know was that Kate’s treatment was over, it appeared to have been successful and Kate was hoping to be strong enough soon to have the breast reconstruction she longed for.
“I always wanted a boob job and now I’m going to have one on the National Health Service,” Kate giggled.
I heard her say that to friends many times. I loved hearing her say it because it was a positive move forward, closing another door on breast cancer.
“No, Singe, I don’t want to put off going to Lapland,” Kate said firmly. “Imagine how much the boys will love it. They’re the perfect ages to see Father Christmas in the North Pole. It will just be so magical. We have to do it now before it’s too late.”
I took that to mean before the boys got too old. In theory, Kate was right. Reef was five and a half and Finn was very nearly four, so they were the absolutely ideal ages.
“The thing is, Kate, you can’t put the boys first all the time,” I said. “Of course, it’s the perfect time for them, but they’ll still enjoy it next year, and you will too, because you’ll be stronger.”
She shook her head, and I could see a steely glint in her eye.
“We’re going,” she said firmly. “Nothing you can say will talk me out of it. We won’t regret it. And anyway, since when have you been the one trying to talk yourself out of a holiday?”
I laughed. “There’s a first time for everything,” I said.
“And this Christmas will be the first time the boys go to Lapland,” Kate replied.
I didn’t argue anymore, and we booked the holiday for the day the boys broke up from school, returning on Christmas Eve. Kate was beside herself with excitement, clapping her hands with glee like a little girl when the tickets arrived. Reef and Finn jumped up and down, squealing and cheering when we broke the good news, and the whole of December turned into an excited countdown, with the boys constantly asking: “How many sleeps until Lapland?”
Kate absolutely loved the build-up and threw herself wholeheartedly into the preparations, even though she looked really wiped out at the end of each day.
“Are you absolutely sure you’re up to this?” I asked her several times.
“Singe, stop asking me!” she protested. “I’ll be fine.”
Kate had done such a good job psyching the boys up for the trip that I’d got caught up in the magic too. I imagined that when we stepped off the plane we’d be in a perfect Christmas fantasyland, like Disney World but with snow. In fact, I was in for a shock, because I hadn’t banked on how very cold and dark it would be. When we arrived it was early afternoon, but the sky was already black, and it felt colder than anywhere I’d ever been before. The freezing air caught in my throat, and every exposed bit of skin stung with cold.
“I didn’t expect this,” I said to Kate, bracing myself against the bitter wind. “Are you all right? Have we got enough warm stuff?”
“Plenty,” Kate smiled, pulling on a big fur hat and wrapping up Reef and Finn in anoraks, hats, scarves and gloves.
Kate looked glamorous and beautiful. Her hair had grown back since the chemo, but it was short and wispy, and much darker than it was before. With her new hair hidden under the hat, Kate looked more like her old self. I wouldn’t have been surprised if her shiny blonde hair hadn’t reappeared when she took off the hat, because at a glance it looked just like my old Kate had returned.
We took Reef and Finn sledding down the side of the hotel on the first night. Both boys flung themselves fearlessly down the slope, careering at breakneck speed through the freezing air. Finn, in typical style, wanted to go faster and further than anyone else.
“Wonder who he gets that off?” Kate teased me. “He’s an absolute nutter!”
“You can talk,” I teased back. “I think he’s got quite a few of his daredevil mum’s genes too!”
At that very moment Finn launched himself even more flamboyantly than before, headfirst in skeleton-bob style. He took off like a rocket. “You nutter, Finn!” Kate shouted. Then, in unison, we both screamed “Finn, NO!” as we saw he was heading straight for a barbecue stand that was positioned near the hotel’s picnic area.
“Singe!” Kate yelled, turning to me in panic. “Quick, stop him!”
I started to slip and slide down the
slope, but it was no good. Finn was belting down at lightning speed, and I had no chance of catching him. There was a sickening crashing sound, and everything went silent. It was very dark in the distance, and we couldn’t make out what had happened. A second later, out of the darkness, we were incredibly relieved to hear Finn cry for help.
Skidding toward the barbecue, I was amazed to see Finn and the sled stuck fast underneath the stand. His feet were sticking out of one side and his head was poking out of the other. He had soot on his yellow hat and had scared the living daylights out of himself, but he appeared to be miraculously unharmed.
“Help, Daddy!” he said. “Pull me out quick!”
It took me a good few minutes to work him free, and once he was back on his feet he started to giggle. Kate stared at him in amazement and then absolutely cracked up laughing too. She had tears streaming down her face she laughed so hard, mainly from relief, I have to say.
“What did I tell you?” she gasped. “A nutter like his daddy!”
“Oi, don’t say that,” I laughed, picking up a snowball and chucking it at her.
When she eventually stopped laughing Kate started to cough. The cold air was catching in her throat too, and we decided to call it a night. I could tell she was making a huge effort for the boys, and I think she could tell I was making an effort to be supportive and have a laugh like normal.
It wasn’t easy, I can tell you. I wanted to wrap Kate up in cotton wool and keep her warm and safe, not see her exposed to the elements, struggling on and pretending she was back to normal. I knew there was no stopping her, though. Kate was determined she was going to tick off everything we dreamed of doing in Lapland, and there was no point in arguing with her.
Over the next few days the boys visited Father Christmas in his twinkly grotto in the North Pole, and we took reindeer rides together. The boys’ innocence was heartbreaking. They told Santa they wanted remote-controlled cars and a Blue Man DVD. As Santa launched into his line about wishes coming true for “good boys,” Finn whispered under his breath “and Mummy to not be poorly anymore.” Santa patted his head kindly and looked slightly lost for words.
Kate was very moved and gave the boys a big cuddle. She was so happy, even when she had to finally admit she was worn out and we needed to borrow a wheelchair from the hotel to get around. She soon swapped it for a snowmobile, and I will never forget seeing her riding merrily up to the hotel, wrapped in a blanket with Reef and Finn tucked in cosily on either side. The boys were cackling with glee, and Kate had a smile as wide as Santa’s belt stretched across her face.
“Thank you,” she whispered to me one night. “Lapland is a dream come true.”
“You made it happen,” I told her.
“Singe, can you do something for me?” she asked suddenly. “There’s a chance we could see the Northern Lights from here, I’ve looked it up on my phone. Can you go outside and have a look for me? I’d love to see them, it’s good luck, you know.”
I wrapped up warm and crunched out into the snow, but I could see immediately that there was no sign of the Northern Lights. I’d seen them many years earlier, on Skye in Scotland, just before I met Kate, and had been amazed by them. Here, the sky was pitch black, with barely a visible star in the sky.
“No luck tonight,” I told her sadly, returning to find her already tucked up in bed, just like the boys.
She drifted off to sleep while I stayed awake, worrying about her breathing. It sounded labored, and I was afraid she’d overdone it. She sent me out every night after that to look for the Northern Lights, but was disappointed each time.
“There’ll be other chances,” I told her. “If we don’t see them here we could go to Skye sometime.”
After a week I was looking forward to getting home for Christmas, so we could batten down the hatches and keep Kate wrapped up snugly at home.
* * *
“How are you getting on with the memory boxes?” Maria asked, her friendly voice returning me to the bench at Plantations and rescuing me from the icy memory of what happened next, after Lapland.
“Funny you should mention memories,” I said, smiling as I tried to retain the image of Kate in the snowmobile in my mind.
Maria gave me a lovely warm smile. I explained about the pirate chests I’d ordered from Germany, and she talked to me about arranging some professional help, to have newspaper cuttings preserved and photographs laminated and so on.
“I expect there’s a lot of sorting out to do in the meantime,” she said intuitively.
I watched the boys bouncing on the inflatable castle. They looked like they didn’t have a care in the world. Their memories of Kate could only stretch back two, maybe three years at the most. They’d remember Lapland and Disney World, and I was pretty sure Reef would remember something of his time in hospital with his mum at his bedside. Both boys would hopefully remember catching crabs with Kate on the beach last summer, as we’d made quite a fuss about that and had a wonderful framed photo to jog their memory. A copy of that would definitely take pride of place in their pirate chests. But what else? There were so many birthdays and Christmases to think about, so many highs Kate would want them to remember.
There were low points too, of course, and it occurred to me that I had to be careful not to glorify the past. Life wasn’t one big celebration, and Kate was a person who appreciated the simple things in life as much as the big, exciting things.
Mum’s List reminded me of that. “Mummy loved moths, snakes and slowworms, orange Club biscuits, jam and jelly, lemon curd.” “Loved guinea pigs and butterflies, Walnut Whips, strawberry cheesecake.”
I had to take the lead from Kate and include reminders of ordinary, everyday life, even though in our world we always tried to make each day special and extraordinary.
* * *
That night, the boys fell asleep the minute their heads hit the pillows. It had been a great day, and I felt motivated to work on the memory boxes. I told Kate what I was going to do after I kissed the boys good night.
“Keep an eye on the boys, will you?” I whispered up to her on the wardrobe. “I’ve got a big job on my hands.”
We had countless piles of photo albums and packets of photos stacked up in cupboards around the house. I knew some were hastily thrown together while others were lovingly labeled by Kate and interspersed with mementos like bungee-jump tickets or a receipt from a café at the Great Barrier Reef. I’d been daunted by the prospect of going through them at first, but now I felt ready, and I padded quietly round the house, gathering them up.
I also collected together old newspaper and magazine cuttings we’d kept in folders and envelopes that had gathered dust over the years, and I reopened the boxes of love letters, wondering whether to add one or two to the boys’ memory boxes, along with some wedding pictures. Finally I sat on the wooden floor at the foot of my bed, surrounded by so many souvenirs of my life with Kate.
I took the lid off an old document box first and saw images of our past that sprang to life vividly in my mind. There was Katie Johnson, aged seventeen, posing in a swimsuit and holding up a beach ball at the old Lido in Clifton. “Beach Babe” the caption in the local paper said, and it wasn’t wrong. She was a total blonde bombshell. I remembered other lads checking her out in her black swimsuit, and feeling glad I was on duty as a lifeguard that day, keeping a close eye on my Katie. The paper was yellowing now, but I could still see Kate clearly. I remembered her like that as if the photograph was taken yesterday.
Next, I found some modeling shots that showed the pair of us looking ridiculously young. Someone at Kate’s college was training to be a photographer and asked her to sit for him. She did a fabulous job and looked dazzling as she posed in a pretty garden, smiling so cheerfully her cheeks bulged like peaches.
“Come on, Singe, help me out,” she called, holding out her hand to me. I went and s
at beside her.
“Beauty and the beast, is it?” I joked, smiling for the camera.
In contrast to the “Beach Babe” picture, the modeling shots felt like they’d been taken several lifetimes ago. Memories are unpredictable things, I thought. You never know how they are going to affect you. Next, I saw a faded photo of Katie sitting on a plane, and I was there, sitting next to her again. We were on a flight about to take off for Austria, where we were going skiing. How strange, I thought. Our very first holiday together was in the snow, and our very last holiday, to Lapland, was in the snow too. The photo captured Kate as she was about to take her first ever flight, and in the picture I could still see the excitement radiating from her face as we prepared for takeoff.
It turned out to be a horrendous flight, the worst I had ever been on. Kate felt so lucky to be on it, because her parents didn’t want us to go on holiday together. She had even forged her dad’s signature to get a passport, but was soon found out when he opened a letter from Customs after she filled in the form incorrectly. Inevitably, there were fireworks and tears, apologies and ultimatums, before Kate’s parents finally gave her permission to go.
“Is this normal?” Kate asked, grabbing my hand.
It was a night flight, and we had terrible turbulence as we lurched through one thunderstorm after another. Passengers were screaming as they were bounced about in their seats. Bags and ski boots were tumbling out of the overhead lockers, and the air hostesses were being thrown about like matchsticks.
“Er, it can get a bit choppy in the sky sometimes,” I said. “Don’t worry, Katie, keep holding my hand and you’ll be fine. Not long to go now.”
By the time we started the descent I must admit I felt a bit frightened myself. You could feel the plane being pushed around by the wind before it suddenly dropped like a stone from the sky. We landed with an enormous bounce, half on the runway and half on grassland. Kate held my hand so tight I had nail marks in my skin. Later, I found out we’d had a 500 mph tailwind and 50 mph crosswinds—a very precarious combination.
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