by Jill Childs
It was a barbeque. A friend of someone from work. I didn’t know many people and I wandered out of the kitchen to the garden, a drink in my hands, and there he was, a lean young man in a chef’s apron, bent low, blowing on smoky coals.
‘I’m guessing it’s going to be a while.’
He didn’t turn to look at me straight away but I saw his smile.
‘One of the ten rules of life. Always eat before a barbeque.’
I thought about that. ‘What are the other nine?’
He twisted at last to look me in the eye. He was thin-faced and handsome in those days and you know that smile.
‘I refer you to rule number one,’ he said. ‘Never reveal the other nine.’ Then he clapped his hand to his face in mock dismay. ‘Doh! Now you know two.’
He was just shy. I know that now. That was why he was standing all alone in the garden, pretending to be busy. That was why he spoke in riddles. But at the time, I was intrigued. He was three years older than me and had his own car and was training to be a solicitor and he seemed mature and safe.
I became his helper, carrying out raw burgers and sausages and pepper and mushroom kebabs from the kitchen, and watching as he sprayed oil and turned them. The irony is, that was probably the first and only time he cooked for me in all those years.
At the end of the evening, he gave me a lift home and listened, and I found myself telling him about work and my boss and the girls in the flat and how strange it was to get up at seven o’clock every morning and go to work on the Tube after all that time studying and how I missed it, sometimes – the freedom to lie about all day and read and think, but of course I was grateful too; I was lucky, I knew that, to have a job at all.
When I finished, it went very quiet in the car. He focused on the road and it gave me the chance to look at him. He had a strong profile. A straight nose.
‘I’m going to the South Bank tomorrow,’ he said. ‘To see what’s on at the Festival Hall. You could come, if you like?’
And that’s how it started.
Six
Ella
She thinks she can use this against me, their shared anguish about Gracie. A new weapon. She knows so little about me.
She’s a fool, and from the start she got me all wrong. I was never the enemy. Not in the way she thought. And especially not now. For once, we’re actually on the same side. She could use me.
If I had the strength, I’d be there in the hospital at Richard’s side, making myself unpopular with the doctors and nurses by demanding everything on earth for Gracie, anything to give her the best possible chance. Like me or hate me, I don’t give a damn. I’m beyond caring.
But I can’t. I can barely lift my head from the pillow. Every nerve in my neck, in my shoulders is pinched and throbbing. My brain is a big, black ache.
So I lie here, sick with misery, thinking about Gracie and about her and remembering how it once was.
I wanted Richard as soon as I saw him. It was just one of those things.
We were at a gallery launch and he was the most awkward person there, wearing an old-fashioned suit, standing with his back to the smart crowd and staring for too long at each picture as if he were counting to a hundred before moving on. Knowing him now, perhaps he was.
There was an old-fashioned kindness about him. But he was also unhappy. I smell that on people. Misery is musty like mould.
He looked dazed when I appeared at his side and stood closer to him than necessary.
‘Let me guess now.’ I looked at the pencil drawing of a fox’s head in front of us. ‘Either you have a thing about foxes. Or you’ve found yourself trapped in the wrong party and don’t know how to escape.’
He smiled, rueful. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Yes, my friend.’
His suit was a sober navy but his socks were sky-blue. I liked that. He struck me as a man who needed rescuing from his life, at least for an evening.
‘Are you here with anyone?’
He shook his head. I drank off my glass of Prosecco, then took his from his hand and drank that too.
‘Follow me.’
He wasn’t the first strange man I’d taken home. People react to hurt in all sorts of ways. I’d reacted by hurling myself back into the world and pretending to be tougher than I was. But even then, at the beginning, I think I sensed, deep down, that he was different. Something about Richard’s quiet sadness made me want to take him in my arms and hold him close and never let go.
I told myself that it didn’t matter if I took him home because it clearly wouldn’t go anywhere. He had ‘married’ written all over him. Worse than that, he wasn’t even duplicitous enough to take off his wedding ring. And besides, I was far too damaged to fall in love again. It was the last thing I needed. A real, caring relationship? Never again.
He was uneasy in my flat. I fed him drinks and pretended to be drunker than I was and watched him out of the corner of my eye. He couldn’t sit still. He kept a distance from me, which in that flat wasn’t easy, and scrutinised every picture, every photograph, every ornament, batting back my questions as if engaging me in conversation was itself an act of infidelity. I couldn’t help but like him.
Richard. Married for three years but they’d been together for ten. He shrugged when he talked about it and I noted the heaviness in his voice. He had nearly backed out, when they were engaged, but it was too late. He couldn’t do that to her. The invitations had been sent and the hotel was booked and everything.
‘It’s never too late.’
He turned, gave me a sharp look. ‘Jen’s lovely. I’d never hurt her.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘So where’s the lovely Jen tonight?’
He blushed, looked down into his whisky glass. ‘She’s not well.’
I sat back and waited. ‘What sort of not well?’
He opened his mouth to speak, then looked cross. ‘Are you always like this?’
‘Always,’ I shot back at once. ‘Are you?’
He took a seat wearily in a chair on the far side of the room. I was playing a part, acting the femme fatale who took married men home for no-strings sex and forgot them in the morning. It was an act, of course. When I think back to that time, I taste loneliness. He wasn’t the only one going round smelling like mould.
And he hadn’t come for sex, anyway. He’d come for companionship. Which is a much more dangerous act of infidelity.
‘So what sort of not well?’ I said again. ‘Depressed?’
‘No, nothing like that.’ He answered too quickly. That was yes, then. ‘She’s pregnant. She’s… I mean, we’re expecting our first child.’
He said it as if he still didn’t quite believe it.
‘Ah.’ Complicated. ‘So now you’re thinking: holy shit, it really is too late.’
He drank off his whisky, put his glass down with a bang.
‘Look, I never said that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here.’
‘Of course you shouldn’t.’ I leaned forward, poured him another whisky. ‘But you are, aren’t you?’
He was the sort of man who made love, rather than had sex. Afterwards, he tried to cuddle and I had to fend him off and protect myself from all that tenderness, all that potential to get hurt.
‘You haven’t done this before, have you?’
‘Had sex?’ He smiled.
‘Cheated on the lovely Jen.’
His face clouded. He looked past me to the clock. Still only ten past nine. He could still make it home and pretend nothing had happened. He could rub this out and start again.
‘Out you go.’
He looked surprised. He didn’t know me yet. I liked to stay a step ahead.
At the door, I did my best to act nonchalant.
‘Well, Mr Richard. You know where I live. Same time next week?’
It wasn’t a good idea to see him again. I tried to pretend it was all a joke but we weren’t the type for games, neither of us. Not really.
I found myself staying
in the following Tuesday night, against my better judgement, and bought a fresh bottle of whisky. Just in case. I had a long shower and, when the bell rang, I went to the door in my underwear and a silky dressing gown.
He stared. Nervous. Clutching a bunch of flowers and a shop-bought cheesecake.
‘I didn’t think you’d come.’
He swallowed. ‘Neither did I.’
But I think we were both lying. We both knew.
Seven
Jennifer
Richard went home that evening, leaving me to spend a second night at the hospital. I knew there was nothing I could do. I just needed to be as close to you as possible.
The late-shift nurse handed me a packet of wet wipes when she came on duty and I wondered if I was starting to smell. She pulled a woolly hat off and her coat was damp across the shoulders. She made some remark about the rain as she hung it up in the cupboard behind the desk and I realised I had no idea what was happening in the outside world and I didn’t really care.
The hospital settled into sleep. I was learning its rhythms. The bustle of early morning with its rumbling trolley wheels. The coming and going during the day. Red-eyed parents, clutching hands. Endless coffees. Waiting. I recognised the look. Dazed and disbelieving. None of us expected to find ourselves here.
They let me see you, just for ten minutes, to say goodnight.
I put my head on the pillow, my cheek against yours. You had a special ritual for settling your toys – your children, you called them. Kitty cat, the glove puppet, on one end. Then puppy, wrapped round in a piece of white cloth. Then the battered rabbit you’d had since you were a baby. Finally, your bear. We kissed each of their noses before I kissed yours.
You weren’t allowed to have them in hospital, for fear of infection. But I talked you through the ritual just the same and pretended they were there and finally kissed the tip of your nose.
‘I love you, little Gracie. Goodnight. Mummy’s right here.’
Your eyes were closed. The drip, feeding liquid into your hand, clicked and whirred.
When my time was up, I trailed down to the café and sat in the same seat with a dreary sandwich and a cup of tea. The corridor was quiet. Another hour and the café would close. I picked at the ham in the sandwich and stared at the tabletop, thinking about you and wondering how long it would be until I could take you home.
‘Is that all you’re having?’
I looked up. Matt, smiling as he strode towards me, his coat unbuttoned.
‘Hi.’
‘I thought I might find you here.’
I shook myself. ‘How was your day?’
He shrugged. ‘Long. How about you? How’s Gracie?’
‘I’m not sure.’ I paused. ‘They keep saying there’s progress. But she doesn’t look any different.’
He nodded. ‘It’s a slow process.’ He hesitated, looking again at my dry sandwich. ‘Look, there’s an Indian round the corner. I’m going for a curry before I head home. Come and eat some proper food.’
I shook my head. ‘That’s nice of you but—’
‘Come on.’ He reached for the sandwich and pushed it back into the packet. ‘Keep this for later. They’ll call you if there’s any change.’
I frowned. I didn’t like the idea of leaving you. Just coming off the ward felt hard. And I certainly wasn’t interested in being sociable. But I was exhausted and frightened and very alone and he seemed kind.
‘It’s only a few doors down.’
I’d imagined something cheap and cheerful but the Indian was a proper restaurant with linen tablecloths and low lighting. Matt had an easy manner with the waiter, ordering us a bottle of wine and a few dishes.
I unfolded my napkin on my knee and stared at the candle on the table. It struck me how unreal this all felt, having dinner with this doctor, a stranger, while you, my love, fought for life in a nearby hospital bed.
‘You’re doing so well.’ His voice was gentle. ‘You must be shattered.’
I bit my lip. ‘She means the world to me. Gracie.’
‘Of course she does.’ He hesitated. I felt his eyes on my face as I focused on the tiny flame. ‘Is there anyone you can call? Who can stay with you?’
The flame bent and flailed as I sighed. There wasn’t anyone. No brothers or sisters. My father had died when I was a teenager. My mother was frail now and increasingly forgetful. I hadn’t even told her about the accident. I hoped I wouldn’t have to. She was still angry with Richard for leaving us.
‘Not really.’ I didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Her father, Richard, was here earlier. It was his partner, Ella, who was driving.’
I lifted my eyes to look at him, wondering how much he knew about us. How much doctors talked.
‘Keep positive. Gracie’s doing well. And at this age, they can rally very quickly. You’d be surprised.’
I didn’t answer. The waiter brought the wine and poured us both a glass. A strong red. The taste of it was overwhelming. Matt reached forward and steadied my hand, guiding the glass back to the table.
‘Eat first. You’re running on empty.’
When the food arrived, he took my plate and served me, as if I were a child. I let him. It was a long time since anyone had taken care of me and, God knows, I needed it. My shoulders sagged. Just lifting my knife and fork seemed a monumental effort of will.
While we ate, he chatted lightly about the film he’d seen at the weekend, the thriller he’d just finished reading. I was grateful for the distraction. His voice was low and thoughtful and as the wine slowly spread its warmth, my body started to relax, just a little, and my eyes to close.
He insisted on paying, waving the waiter away with his credit card before I could protest. He walked me back to the hospital’s broad revolving doors.
‘There’s a chapel, you know. On the third floor. If you want somewhere quiet.’
I looked at my feet. ‘I’m not really, I mean, I haven’t been to church for—’
He lifted his hand. ‘Sure. I just meant, a safe space, that’s all. Somewhere a bit more private where you can sit and think.’ He paused. ‘It’s usually empty.’
I don’t know how it happened but I turned away to go back inside, then turned back and stepped wordlessly into his arms and he enveloped me in a strong, warm hug and for a few moments I felt safe and protected, for the first time in a long time.
* * *
The chapel was hidden away down a long corridor. It was a modern room, hushed and carpeted, with two high, round windows decorated with shards of stained glass. Printed notices at the back declared it a place of sanctuary for those of all faiths and those of none. Laminated prayer cards were piled beside copies of the Bible and the Quran.
A plain wooden cross stood on a table at the front, which was covered with a freshly laundered cream cloth. An aisle led the way towards it, between rows of soft-seated chairs.
I sat at the front and focused my eyes on the cross and tried to calm down. My thoughts ran everywhere. To the church I’d attended with my mother as a child, a draughty stone building that had smelt of damp. The priest had been elderly and given endless, rambling sermons. I’d stopped going as soon as I could.
I bent my head forward over clasped hands and tried to remember how to pray.
‘Please, God. Please don’t take her. She’s too young. I need her.’
My knuckles whitened. I didn’t know whether to beg God or to rail against Him for putting you through this. What was He thinking, letting this happen to a three-year-old?
My chest heaved as I started to sob.
‘Please don’t take her. She’s all I’ve got now. You know that.’
My voice sounded hysterical. I barely knew what I was saying.
‘Don’t take Gracie. Don’t. I’ll do anything.’
I sobbed for a long time, desolate, trying to strike a bargain with a God I wasn’t even sure I believed in.
Finally, I wiped off my face, went miserably back to the ward and slump
ed there, facing the wall, keeping watch as best I could until morning came.
At some time in the small hours, I must have fallen asleep. I woke with a start just after seven, aware of the ward once again stirring into life.
A warm coffee in a takeaway cup and a croissant sat in front of me on the table. ‘Try to eat’ was scrawled across the paper bag.
The day nurse was already on duty.
‘Any news?’
‘They’ll tell you if there’s any change.’ She looked at me pitifully. Her hair was neatly pinned and she smelt of soap. I felt the contrast with my own wrecked, crumpled self and wondered how much longer I could keep this up.
I rubbed a wet wipe over my face and sipped the coffee.
* * *
At eight o’clock, they let me see you. I lie beside you on the bed, one arm across your chest, the other slipped under your head, resting it on my shoulder.
‘Good morning, my love.’
Your cheek is smooth and cool. The early morning sun filters in through the blinds and paints stripes across the floor. I think of the chapel with its round stained-glass windows and the coloured light that must be streaming there.
‘I love you, Gracie. Mummy’s here.’
I keep my voice low and whisper into your ear, willing you to hear me.
‘It’s the start of another day, sweetheart. And you know what day it is today? It’s the day you’re going to start to get better. Much better.’
I sigh and my breath stirs strands of your hair. I lie quietly, utterly exhausted, feeling your small body in my arms, staring at the blank wall beyond the bed. As I look, scenes from the last four years play there in that small, sterile room, running in slow motion on the painted wall like a soundless black and white cine film from decades ago.
