by JA Andrews
What I wouldn’t give to turn back time. Life can be so cruel.
If I could have just one more day with Michael, I would beg for his forgiveness. I would remind him that money shouldn’t have been the most important part of our lives for the last couple of years because I would give anything just to have him here. Even if it meant we had to live in a tent, he’d be here with us as a complete family. All he wanted to do was earn enough to support me staying at home, while taking care of everything to keep me and our son comfortable and give us stability. If I hadn’t put pressure on him to pay for all our mod cons in the home, then this could have all been avoided. I feel even more guilty. I could have lived without the large American style fridge-freezer; I could have coped with the old washing machine and its temperamental door. He worked so hard to provide us with everything we needed.
There have been times I knew I took my husband for granted, as he did me. If I had supported him better, reassured him that we could manage, he might never have died. I go through a bitter cycle of blaming him, then me, then back to him again. Despite my thoughts, nothing will bring Michael back – that is a fact that remains unchanged.
Mildly damp through the rain, I head into the hotel and up to the reception. My stomach churns at the thought of standing in a queue of people who I feel are all looking at me as if they’ve never seen a woman upset before and with mascara marks running down her cheeks.
Eventually, the queue dies down and I am stood alone with the receptionist. Her uniform looks pristine and her long blonde hair hasn’t a strand out of place. I admire her youthful beauty before considering my approach.
‘How can I help you, madam?’ the receptionist asks. I look towards the name badge that reveals her as Kirsty. ‘Do you need to check-in?’
‘No,’ I stutter, ‘I, er, I…’
I can feel my heart rate increase as Kirsty awaits my response. For the last five minutes, I had everything I wanted to say planned out in my head word for word. I get to the front of the queue, and my mind has gone blank.
‘Is everything all right?’ Kirsty asks. ‘You look upset. Can I get you anything?’
A sharp, intense stab hits my stomach.
Upset! My husband has died, his wedding ring is missing and my life has been turned upside down. I have a three-year-old son without a father – and I look upset.
‘I don’t need anything,’ I respond calmly. ‘My husband was involved in an accident here recently. I need to know if anyone has handed in a wedding ring?’
Kirsty walks out from behind the counter and places her hand on my shoulder. I’m not sure why people do this because I wouldn’t encroach on someone else’s personal space. I get that she is trying to be sympathetic, but I need her to do her job.
‘I am very sorry to hear the news about your husband,’ Kirsty says softly. ‘Why don’t you take a seat for a moment over there and I will go check out the back if anything has been handed in?’
I walk to the seat she has pointed out over to the right of the reception desk, thankful that I won’t be surrounded by anyone as the area remains empty. In the short few minutes that she has disappeared behind the reception area into another room, I admire the hotel décor with its wooden panels and bright red furnishings. We could never have afforded to have stay in a hotel like this.
‘I’m very sorry,’ Kirsty states, walking towards me. ‘There hasn’t been any jewellery at all handed in recently, not even rings.’
I stand up from my seat and straighten my clothes. There is a disappointed look on my face.
‘Can I ask,’ I continue, wanting to double-check, ‘do you know the name of who my husband was coming here to meet? Are there any bookings for the restaurant under his name, Michael Clifton, or maybe his firm Sphere and Co, that evening?’
‘Give me a few moments to check the system,’ Kirsty replies, as she walks back to her computer. ‘It’s not the hotel’s policy to give out this information but I can check under your husband’s name. I shouldn’t be a moment.’
‘I thought so, but thank you for checking for me.’ I watch patiently as she clicks a few buttons. ‘I’m sorry to ask.’
‘It’s fine. I can’t find anything. We’re not busy this time of year. I know we had a wedding party that night, but the restaurant was quiet. I can’t find anything under his name, or Sphere and Co. I’m sorry.’
I wasn’t expecting her cooperation – but when I can find the mental energy I might to call Michael’s office. I’ll subtly make some enquiries about what they know, if anything.
‘If anyone does hand in a wedding ring, can I give you my number?’ I ask, before I leave. ‘It’s important to me, as you might understand.’
‘Absolutely,’ Kirsty says. ‘Just write your mobile number down for me. I’ll ask my colleagues to keep an eye out too.’
I leave my number at the desk and power walk out of the hotel to leave as quickly as possible before the tears start to burst. I can’t believe Michael’s wedding ring is missing. Now I only have the car to look through. I’m dreading driving his car home – touching everything he last laid his hands on while I take the same journey he would have been expecting to make.
Back outside in the fresh air, I compose myself with the help of a tissue from my pocket. I look towards the car park slightly up the hill and head towards Michael’s car, which remains parked and untouched since the accident. The rain has died down into a thin drizzle but I cannot stop my fixation with his wedding ring; I hate the thought of it just lying somewhere. It meant something to both of us; it symbolises our marriage. I have to find it.
The sound of the car alarm disarming itself as I press the car key is a familiar sound that reminds me of Michael returning home from working long hours some nights. I remember I would be in bed, browsing through Facebook on my phone, and hear that sound before he walked in the door. The car inside is immaculate, as Michael hated clutter. I pull open the driver’s side door further and glance around before fumbling around the inside compartments. Absolutely nothing!
Anxious that I am unable to find his wedding ring, I stretch across the passenger side and pull open the small compartment to reveal a car handbook, a small torch, some mail and nothing else. Initially, I scramble through all the little things: a torch, pens – checking everything, even under the seats. I can’t find the missing ring but the notice on the letter in my hands catches my eye. Important, this is not a circular. Isn’t this what some companies use when they’re chasing up unpaid bills?
I tear open the letter and pull out the sheet of paper. I see the value and I’m stunned. It can’t be right; there must be a mistake. It details legal action for the unpaid credit card totalling in excess of £5000 before legal fees. I look away from the letter as the penny drops. This is what Michael was hiding from me in his back pocket. The letter he seemed desperate about before going to work. He told me it was a surprise for my birthday. He lied to me?
There’s no way I can pay this within thirty days. I’m not even remotely ready to have this stress and I’m concerned about where the money has gone. Quickly lowering it from Donna’s view so as not to appear like I have found anything, I read the rest of the page and throw it back into the glove compartment. I’m shaking because not only do I realise my husband has been lying to me but I have no idea what he has been spending any of this money on. We certainly don’t have thousands of pounds worth of new furniture or clothes in the house. I know that Lizzie caught him handing money over to some guys the other week. I don’t know whether to tell the police but I know Michael sometimes did cash-in-hand work. I wouldn’t want to get his boss in any trouble.
Why did he never mention anything? What was he hiding from me?
Michael’s wedding ring is not in the car. I sit in the driver seat and the floods of tears now engulf me. I let go of my emotions because I can’t control the way that I am feeling. This betrayal, the secrets… I can’t pay this much money. My husband is dead. When do I call them? What should I say
?
Donna is running towards the car. I watch her as I sit wiping my eyes and blowing my nose into the tissue. I can tell she is concerned but I don’t want Daniel to see his mother in such a state as this.
‘Come here,’ Donna says, moving in closer to comfort me. ‘Let it all out.’
‘His wedding ring isn’t here,’ I blub out on to her shoulder. ‘It’s gone. No one has handed it in. I can’t find it in the car, it’s gone.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she replies. ‘One day it just might turn up when you least expect it. It has to have fallen off in the accident. I did try looking on the verge, but there’s nothing there either.’
As we embrace another moment in our grieving I feel disappointment that he has let me down. I thought he would have been more honest with me. I was his wife.
‘We’d better start heading back,’ I say to Donna, who now stands by the door. I can’t bring myself to tell her about the statement. ‘Let’s just go. I just had to come here and find out for myself.’
I shut the car door, place my hands on the steering wheel and feel as though I can still smell Michael sat next to me. A whiff of his aftershave hits my nose. I stare outside the window for a couple of minutes to familiarise myself with the car handling. Prepared to be an emotional wreck throughout the journey, I start the car.
I am accepting that I might never find or see Michael’s wedding ring again. The credit card bill proves to me there were things I didn’t know about him. I’ve had Lizzie’s words on my mind too.
Who was he paying?
Eleven
Michael
I had my secrets. Of course I did – but then again I was entitled to my privacy.
I wondered if my wife kept secrets from me, but knew that Jenny was far too honest. I loved her sincerity. I admired how she respected me, how she trusted me. She was the perfect wife, the perfect mother to our child. Sometimes I would reflect and feel guilty about what I had done but the guilt soon passed. Lying became easier.
The day I married my wife, I made a promise that I would love, cherish and obey her till death do us part. I meant every word of my vows. It was the happiest day of our lives but underneath the surface she couldn’t see the torment in my eyes. That struggle I had endured to pay for the wedding for months on end had now come to fruition. Traditionally it is the father of the bride that pays but Jenny’s father couldn’t afford it on his basic salary.
I felt as though all my life consisted of was struggling to make ends meet. Jenny had no idea of the extent of our financial problems or the trouble I was in – the pressure that I faced every single day. I never wanted her to find out. I didn’t want her to see me as a failure. We were arguing enough already.
Some days it felt like the walls were closing in on me – like there was no escape. I shouldn’t have lied in the very beginning. Before I knew it, I was covering up one lie with another, then another. Soon there was no going back. It became easier to deceive her. Jenny believed every word.
I had a wife to support, a child to provide for and a mortgage to maintain. I feared the day when my secrets would catch up with me and expose the extent of my troubles. If I had to admit any of my weaknesses, it would have been that I liked to take risks. Some risks paid off better than others but there were times when those risks failed and I had to walk through my front door and maintain a smile on my face: a smile that hid a secret and masked the problems I had inflicted on my family.
I never wanted Jenny to know the truth.
Twelve
Gary
Dull, heavy clouds overhang the Westbridge skyline. I glance around the street to notice a twitching curtain from the neighbours. I’d better make a move towards Jenny and Michael’s house. I’m not sure if this meeting is a good idea. I keep talking myself out of it but I was told how Jenny is hoped that I would meet her.
Jenny’s family liaison officer assured me that she was happy for us to meet at her home. I explained how nervous I would be but at the same time I was able to understand from Sharon’s reasoning why Jenny wanted to meet me. It sounds from the way Sharon described it that Jenny needs closure – and to thank me in person for being with her husband when he died. Sharon was originally meant to be the one bringing me here but she had to cancel last minute due to other work commitments. I suggested that I could meet Jenny alone but only if Jenny agreed. It sounded as though she wanted to meet me as a matter of urgency.
I can’t deny that I am having second thoughts about our encounter. We have been brought together in the most terrible of circumstances. I can’t erase the vision from my mind: the blood, the look of fear on his face – his last breath. It’s very surreal. I’ve never had to watch a man die before and certainly not like that.
For the last fifteen minutes I have been stood outside this semi-detached house, watching from a distance and wondering if I can go through with this meeting. Watching Michael die made me think more about my own mortality. Witnessing such a vivid, tragic end made me realise what is important to me. I don’t have a wife at home who would grieve – or many friends who would come to my funeral. I’m lonely.
Jenny may have many questions about Michael’s death and I may not be able to give much detail or explanation. I’m having second thoughts. I’m wondering if I should wait until I am called upon by the coroner, if, that is, there is an inquest hearing in the next couple of months. I’ve told the police about everything I witnessed that evening – but it all happened so fast. He died so quickly. I think of the shock that his family must have faced that night. Death is so final.
The sound of the trees in the autumn wind and the crunching of dead leaves under my feet are the only sounds I can hear as I walk towards the front door. I dust down the shoulders of my suit jacket to remove the remnants of any dirt or dandruff; as the last man to see her husband alive, I want to make a good impression on her. I have a brief flashback of him dying in front of my very eyes. I don’t know the level of detail that she will expect but it will be safer if she leads with the questions.
I ring the doorbell once. I wait for a few seconds but I hear no footsteps or or other sign that someone is coming to the door to answer it. Impatiently, I ring again.
The front door opens and I stare into her dark brown eyes and smile. She is beautiful – in no way how I imagined her to look. I was expecting someone more formal in their demeanour.
‘Mrs Clifton?’ I ask, ‘Jenny Clifton?’
‘You must be Gary,’ she responds. ‘Yes, it’s me. Come on inside, it’s freezing out there. We’ll head straight through to the kitchen, through the other door straight ahead.’
‘Would you like me to remove my shoes?’ I ask as I enter the hallway and stand on the doormat. ‘I really don’t mind, wouldn’t want to ruin the carpet?’
Jenny stares at me for a moment. There is an awkward silence.
‘No, sorry,’ she replies, looking down towards my feet, ‘Don’t worry about your shoes or the carpet. I have a three-year-old boy. It’s hard to keep anything clean.’
I follow Jenny through to the kitchen while taking glances around the hallway and into the lounge. Strange feelings hit me as I contemplate that this was Michael’s home. That man whose hand I held before he slipped away, lived here in this very house. Pictures of him and his wife hang on the walls. In the hallway I see other family photos with a baby boy. The house seems very small. I hope she can’t tell how much of an intruder I feel.
‘Can I get you anything to drink?’ Jenny asks. ‘Would you like tea, coffee, juice?’
I shake my head at her. I’m not at all thirsty.
‘No,’ I reply, ‘I’m fine, thank you. What a lovely home you have.’
As Jenny turns to make herself a cup of coffee, I watch her for a minute while she can’t see me. I watch her open the kitchen cupboard and I notice how everything inside is perfectly aligned and organised. It appears that all the jars have their place – but outside of the cupboards it is different. I spot the empty wine b
ottles on the kitchen side, and the piled dishes. How can she be so organised in some things yet so disorganised in others?
‘Sharon, your family liaison officer, said that you were really keen to meet,’ I say, breaking our silence. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’
‘No, no, go ahead,’ Jenny replies, flicking the kettle switch. ‘I have thought of a few questions I want to ask – but more importantly, I want to thank you.’
Thank me?
‘I don’t mind coming round at all, though I was a little nervous,’ I say in response and now seated at the table. ‘You don’t have to thank me for anything. I’m happy to answer any questions you might have.’
Jenny sits down opposite me. I glance towards the tissue in her hand. She comes across sincere and although I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, I like her. Michael was a very lucky man to have a wife like Jenny. She seems caring and kind. I’m good at judging people when I first meet them. I can tell she has a heart of gold.
‘I wanted to thank you for being there with my husband when he died,’ Jenny says, sounding sincere. ‘I needed to say it to you in person. I wanted to thank you face to face. It is comforting knowing that Michael had someone there with him.’
‘It’s an awful, yet very sad and coincidental, set of circumstances,’ I explain, breaking up her flow of conversation. ‘I held his hand and let him know I had called for an ambulance. I was never sure if he could hear me but his death was very sudden.’
Jenny takes the tissue and wipes her eyes. The crying is something I expect since she’s a grieving wife.
‘Did Sharon mention the wedding ring to you?’ Jenny asks. ‘It might have come off in the accident but I don’t know if you noticed it at all?’
‘I don’t recall seeing it but to be honest I wasn’t concentrating on what he was wearing. My immediate thoughts were on calling the emergency services,’ I reply, watching her cry. ‘It all happened so fast, so suddenly, it was too intense for me to think about anything other than being with him and keeping him comfortable.’
