I draw breath and take another sip of my lager. I pause a moment for effect, then look her straight in the eye.
“So, you see Lucy, I’m quite the catch. What woman hasn’t dreamt of dating a man with no money, no real job, oh, and no memory?”
I spot the tell-tale sign in her eyes that she’s trying hard not to smile.
“But, on the upside I’ve got no baggage, no history and no hang ups either. What you see is quite literally what you get.”
I sit back in my chair. Nothing else I can say or do now.
Lucy doesn’t fight the smile any longer. “Thank you,” she says softly.
“What for?”
“Just for being honest. I couldn’t care less if you’re skint or what you do for a living. All I want is somebody who is honest, somebody who is genuine. The fact you seem able to read my mind, make me laugh, and like Blackadder is a bonus though.”
“So, we’re good then?”
She leans across the table and plants a kiss on my cheek. “The pieces are all back in order.”
But just when I think I’ve put all the personal stuff to bed, Lucy decides to press me a little further, subduing the atmosphere once again.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but were you unaware your mum had died, or was the memory lost with everything else?”
“She died over twenty years ago. I get to grieve all over again, not that I remember the first time.”
The lie falls effortlessly from my mouth. I feel uncomfortable enough just talking about Mum’s death, let alone lying about it. Seems I have little choice though and Lucy presses me further.
“So you only found out a few days ago?”
“Yesterday.”
“Oh god, Craig. And you’ve been dealing with that on your own?”
“Sort of. I told a woman at work and she’s been great. But there’s nobody who knew my mum that I can talk to.”
“Have you been to her grave?”
A question so obvious but I hadn’t even entertained the thought.
“Not yet.”
“You should. It’ll help.”
“You think?”
“Grief is a strange thing, Craig. Everyone deals with it differently, but being physically close to the person you lost can help. My granddad used to religiously visit my nan’s grave every Sunday morning. He’d chat away to the gravestone like she was stood next to him. He said it kept her memory alive and helped him deal with his loss.”
Lucy could be right. Perhaps visiting Mum’s grave will help me come to terms with her death. At least she won’t be shocked to see me. I give Lucy a nod and try to steer the conversation elsewhere.
“So when are we going to do this again?”
“Do you fancy coming over to my place, for dinner?”
“I’d like that. When?”
“How does Tuesday night work for you? Grace is away on a school trip next week so you won’t have to suffer an inquisition from a moody teenager.”
“It’s a date.”
As we finish our drink the barman rings the bell for last orders. Having both already consumed a little too much alcohol for a first date, we agree it would be sensible to leave while we can both stand. Holding hands, we take a slow walk to the taxi rank under dark skies.
Ten minutes, and several lingering kisses later, I’m waving goodbye to Lucy as she waves back from the rear seat of a taxi. The thrum of the diesel engine eventually fades into the distance and I turn to make my way back to the flat.
I can scarcely believe, after all the pain of the last few days, that a single ray of hope is finally breaking through the murk. I can also scarcely believe just how very pissed I am. Again.
12
I’m too old for this shit. I have a double-whammy hangover from two consecutive nights of excessive alcohol consumption. The only consolation is a text that greets me when I dare open my eyes.
Thanx for a great time. Really looking forward 2 Tuesday nite. Lucy xx
Twelve words and two kisses. I read the text again, basking in the fuzzy glow like a lovesick teenager, and searching for some hidden meaning that probably doesn’t exist. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for guilt to temper my happiness. My mind see-saws with conflicted feelings. I now have the chance of a future with Lucy, something I could never have envisaged in my previous life. But at what cost? Everyone else I ever cared for is either dead or unaware of my existence. Some price to pay.
I get up and stagger into the kitchen to make myself a coffee. I swallow a couple of painkillers and stand in the kitchen waiting for the wooziness in my head to clear. Memories of last night fade in. Some good, some bad. The lies I told Lucy about my life fall into the latter category but what choice did I have? The only saving grace is this version of Lucy doesn’t know me well enough to spot the tell tale signs I’m fibbing. The old Lucy would have seen through my bullshit with ease. I suppose of all the things I should feel guilty about, telling a few white lies to Lucy is the lightest burden.
I finish my coffee and slump down on the couch. For the first time since I left Broadhall six days ago, I have nothing to do, nowhere to be and no one to see. This is far from ideal because I know my idle mind will torment me all day if I don’t find something to distract it. One major stumbling block is my lack of funds. I spent close to fifty quid last night so whatever I do today, it needs to be dirt cheap, or better still, free.
I eat a bowl of muesli, watch the news and go through my morning ablutions. Another hour spent — just another twelve hours to kill. I flop back down in front of the TV and flick through the channels. I know I’m distracting myself from the one thing I could, and should do today, but I don’t want to think about it. I know Lucy was right and it probably will help, but I’m not sure I have the fortitude to visit my mother’s grave.
An hour of watching Sunday morning TV changes my mind.
Having resigned myself to the inevitable quest, the practical aspects present my next challenge. There are three cemeteries in Farndale alone, with god-only-knows how many graves. As time-rich as I might be, I dread to think what an entire day spent trudging around cemeteries would do to my already fragile state of mind.
I head back to the bedroom and the half-decent wi-fi signal. I sit on the edge of the bed, open a web browser on my phone and search for cemetery records. The first two websites I visit require payment to access their data. Not an option. The third website apparently doesn’t and I’m able to click through to a search form. I tentatively enter my mother’s full name and the year she died, 1996. I press the search button and a spinning disc signifies my search is underway. Seconds pass and I wonder if the site has crashed, or if I’ll be prompted to enter my credit card details to view the results. Five seconds later, I have my answer.
1 RECORD(S) FOUND: Janet Georgetta Pelling (nee Wilson)
DOD: 12th October 1996
CEMETERY: St Mary's Churchyard, Farndale
My heart sinks to my stomach. The almost infinitesimal sliver of hope that Jim at the council made a mistake, is gone. The information on my screen is too specific to be anyone else other than my mum. She died, of that there is no doubt now, and the gut-wrenching pain returns for a second sitting.
I stare at the screen for too long and repeat the search, hoping that somehow the result will be different. It’s not, nor is it on the third or fourth search. Now I have my answer, I absolutely have to heed Lucy’s advice. The alternative is to sit here and listen to that spectre, beckoning me to a place I really don’t want to go.
I check the location of St Mary’s Church on Google Maps and leave the flat.
The only pleasant aspect of my morning thus far is the weather. The temperature is probably somewhere in the early twenties and the few cotton-wool clouds in the sky drift lazily on a gentle breeze. My destination is just over four miles away to the north of the town centre. Such is my reluctance to complete the journey, it could be forty miles away for all I care.
As I plod through the
streets I try to keep my spirits up by thinking about Lucy. In truth, she is the one thing in this life to be optimistic about. I daydream about Tuesday evening and our dinner date. The fact she chose her home as the venue, and made a point about her daughter being away, suggests there might be more than just paella on the menu. Maybe I’m being presumptuous but even so, the thought makes me a little nervous and butterflies begin to flutter.
I plod on through the town centre and beyond. Every step closer to my destination exhausts my optimistic thoughts and trepidation builds. Several times I stop as the raging battle in my mind becomes too raucous. One side wants me to turn around while the other insists I keep moving. The legion urging me to keep moving just about win out but each victory becomes increasingly narrow.
It’s just after midday when I reach the northern fringes of Farndale. I’m sweaty, tense, and nauseous. Some of my symptoms could be attributed to my hangover but they worsen as I close in on my destination so I can only conclude otherwise. I stop, engage my breathing technique, and consult the map on my phone — just a few more streets to cover.
I slow my pace further as I turn into a leafy residential street. A church spire looms above the rooftops on my right. A tortuous hundred yards later I turn into a narrow lane, bordered by high hedgerows on both sides. The church lychgates are maybe forty yards ahead of me, the weathered timbers supporting a roof drooped with age. Considering it’s a Sunday I half-expected the place to be a hive of activity, but all I can hear is birdsong from the broad oak trees fronting the churchyard, and my pounding heart.
I pass through the lychgates and follow a short path beyond the canopy of the trees. I’m greeted by the sight of a handsome church, constructed with blocks of grey stone. I have no idea how old the building is, but it looks like the elements have been at work on the stone for several centuries. The path on which I’m stood leads all the way up to the main door of the church, with two further paths splitting off left and right about thirty feet ahead. The path to my left disappears behind the church while the path on the right runs parallel to the front elevation.
I follow the path to the right. The grounds host about thirty headstones, all mottled with patchy moss and lichen. They look impossibly old and a cursory glance reveals names and dates from the 1800s through to the early 1900s. There are no floral tributes on any of the graves, the occupants now forgotten ancestors rather than beloved family members. I guess this is where the church graveyard was originally established and would have been at full occupancy long before my mother passed away.
The path comes to an abrupt end at the far boundary. I pause for a moment, next to the final resting place of one Frederick Royston Cox; 1835 to 1854. Nineteen years old. Just below poor Frederick’s name is a single line of faint text engraved on the headstone, ‘Godspeed Our Brave Son’. I wonder if he was a soldier, sent to fight in a foreign land for Queen and Country. Whatever fate befell young Cox, I suspect I’m the first person to contemplate his life, and his death, in many a year. It’s a sad thought, but also my mind’s way of subconsciously distracting me from the reason I’m here.
I offer a silent prayer for Frederick Royston Cox and walk back along the path.
As I mindlessly gaze across the graves to my left, my peripheral vision suddenly captures the movement of a black smudge. My head snaps back to the path, and a man stood twenty feet in front of me.
“Splendid afternoon isn’t it?” he chirps.
Dressed top-to-toe in black and donning a white dog-collar, it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce I’m looking at the Parish Vicar.
“Lovely,” I reply.
The vicar moves along the path towards me, closing the distance between us to a few feet. I’d wager he’s a good few years beyond middle-age, his hair more grey than brown. He holds out his hand and introduces himself.
“Father David. Pleased to meet you.”
I shake his hand and return his smile.
“Craig Wilson.”
“So what brings you to our churchyard this afternoon, Craig?”
His intelligent blue eyes don’t offer any clue as to whether his question is accusatory or if he’s just being friendly.
“I’m looking for a grave. I know it’s here, not sure where though,” I cautiously reply.
“In which case, I can probably help. What’s the name?”
“Pelling. Janet Pelling.”
He ponders the name for a few seconds while scratching his head.
“Janet Pelling you say?”
I nod.
“Do you know when she was buried?”
“1996.”
“I’ve only been priest here for about ten years so I wouldn’t have conducted her funeral. I can check the records in the vestry though, if you’d like me to?”
“Honestly, I don’t want to put you to any trouble. If you just point me in the right direction, I’m sure I’ll be able to find it.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” he declares, a little too enthusiastically. “If you follow this path to the rear of the church, that’s where the main cemetery is located. Go and start your search and I’ll check the records. Give me twenty minutes.”
Before I can argue, Father David spins around and scurries back into the church without another word.
I inwardly sigh and traipse along the path towards the left flank wall of the church. When I turn the corner I’m met with enormity of my task.
The cemetery spreads across a huge area, maybe four or five acres dotted with hundreds of graves. As I stare out over the depressing sea of granite and stone memorials, the option to abort returns. This is a stupid idea on so many levels. Barely a week has passed since I left Broadhall and death has been a constant shadow. Yet, despite the overwhelming grief I’ve suffered, here I am, stood in a huge fucking cemetery. It’s one thing to confront your fears but lunacy to encourage them.
I’m caught between the need to flee and the need to talk to my mum, or at least her grave. Neither option is particularly rational, but what is rational about my life now?
Caught in two minds, I postpone any decision and slowly trudge along the path which snakes up towards a clump of beech trees at the far boundary, some two hundred yards away. The silence is wonderful, the view less so.
I amble slowly past rows of headstones positioned a few yards beyond the path edge and I fight the urge to read the inscriptions. I pass a grave with an arrangement of bright yellow flowers leant against the polished granite headstone. On closer inspection I realise the tribute is shaped like a teddy bear. From nowhere, it triggers a reminder of those four children killed on the coach; killed in lieu of my elderly grandparents.
I quickly move on before my mind has the chance to torment me further, or my legs buckle. Both are a given if I stare at the child’s grave any longer.
With no desire to view any other harrowing tributes, I keep my focus on the right of the path where a wide expanse of lawn slopes down to a holly hedge about sixty yards away. From my elevated position I can see a twee cottage, presumably the vicarage, sited in the middle of a well kept garden beyond the hedge. Of more interest is a bench, positioned next to an open archway leading through to the vicarage garden.
I plod down the slope and take a seat on the bench.
From my position, the graves are hidden beyond the brow of the slope. For that I’m grateful. With my weight removed, my feet begin to throb gently. The not-unpleasant sensation proves a timely distraction from the throbbing in my head. I close my eyes and take a moment to enjoy the silence. I tilt my head back and let the sun’s rays warm my face, the light breeze taking the edge off the heat. Notwithstanding the constant reminder of my mortality, this would be a wonderful place to sit and while away a few peaceful hours.
I decide it would be sensible to stay where I am and wait for Father David to find me once he’s established the location of Mum’s grave. Without his guidance the task would likely consume half the afternoon and what remains of my fortitude. It’s
not a tough decision.
Despite the stillness of my surroundings, a knot of anxiety in my chest continues to tighten with every passing minute. I employ a relaxation technique Stephen taught me. I imagine a warm, thick, orange liquid slowly filling every part of my body. It starts in my toes and creeps up through my feet into my calves, like sap rising in a tree. It fills my legs and lower torso before creeping up to my chest, the anxiety being absorbed into the viscous orange liquid. It passes my neck and fills my head, soaking up every negative thought. My body feels heavy, numb.
The final stage is to imagine a tap in my ankle. I mentally open the tap and the orange liquid oozes out, taking with it my anxiety and stress. My mind becomes so free it begins to float away.
It is as perfect a state any man in my situation could wish for, but for one minor flaw — the overwhelming urge to sleep. I can’t resist and fall into a gentle doze somewhere between sleep and consciousness. I remain vaguely aware of the faint birdsong and the sun on my face, but nothing else. As I relax I can feel myself slipping further away from time, from reality, from everything.
Whatever time passes, I am oblivious. I am sat in possibly the only outside space in town where there is nothing within my environs to disturb me. No passing traffic, no chattering people, no screaming kids, no barking dogs. My mind can wander aimlessly without the prospect of a sudden noise spiking anxiety.
Until there is a noise, that is.
My ears capture it immediately and relay their discovery to my brain, which reacts by flooding my body with the stress hormone, cortisol. This is how I used to start most mornings back in my former life, due in part to my hyperacusis. But there is no dog barking, nor is there thumping music from a car stereo.
There are three sharp knocks. Wood on wood.
My heart rate quickens and I open my eyes for a fraction of a second before the harsh sunlight stings my fully dilated pupils. I instinctively screw them shut again. I attempt to sit upright too quickly and my neck cricks, drawing a sharp intake of breath through gritted teeth.
Beyond Broadhall (The '86 Fix Book 2) Page 10
