The Husband Who Refused to Die

by Andrea Darby

  ‘Thank you, innkeeper, for being so kind and letting us stay in your stable,’ I’d said.

  There had to be a way, now that Dan was dead.

  CHAPTER 33

  There’s a small gap in the flimsy green curtain; one end caught on the over-bed table, giving me a restricted view of the woman in the bed opposite if I crane my neck. She’s pale with bruised lids and short, feathery fair hair that blends into her face from a distance.

  She looks up from her magazine, shoots me a pained smile. I smile back. Minutes before I couldn’t have done it. All I could think of was the blood, the fear of what it signified, what I could be losing. All just one ward away from where I lost Dan on that longest, darkest day.

  I want to pull back the curtain, put faces to the chaotic, layered voices and countless pairs of feet padding up and down the ward. Imogen appears through the gap, lidded latte in hand.

  ‘So what did the doctor say, lovely?’ She sits on the bed, thigh tight against my knee, anxious, but beaming her bolstering rays at me.

  ‘Everything seems OK.’ I release a sigh of relief as the words leave me; along with tears that stay in my eye sockets, blurring my view. ‘I just need to take care, rest up here for a week or so.’

  ‘That’s fabulous news – oh, thank God.’ Imogen’s eyes close momentarily as she leans over to embrace me. ‘And make sure you do what the doctor says.’

  ‘Says you!’ I say, adjusting a starched pillow behind my neck.

  She pulls two supersized blueberry muffins from a carrier bag, placing them next to an empty medicine cup on the table. ‘I just knew we’d be celebrating. Shall I open these curtains so you can see what’s going on?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Imogen yanks them around the rectangular track. Heads turn to see me being unveiled – a new me, not the petrified, snivelling wreck the doctor’s just examined. Imogen views me too, her face straight and scrutinising.

  ‘Why don’t you ring him again?’

  I nod tentatively. ‘I will later.’

  ***

  I slowly ease my hand from the soft cotton blanket, hoping Finley’s wrapped in a sleep so deep he won’t sense the warmth and scent of his mum drifting away.

  I can’t resist peering over the side of the cot, eyes lingering on all the perfect dips, folds and crinkles of my beautiful baby boy. He’s on his side, eyes puffy and shut firm after an exhausting morning, hair damp and patchy next to a tiny ear that curls at the top.

  I glance at Bezziwotnot, the one-eared teddy bear on his cot bumper and pictured, in denim dungarees, hanging from a tree swing on the pale blue wall behind. A blissful smile spreads across my cheeks. I creep to the window, flick the blinds, then tiptoe out; taking a huge snort of the sweet, medicinal air.

  A voice yells from the kitchen as my steps hit the laminate hallway.

  ‘Coffee’s on its way, love – go put your feet up. I’m just doing the shelf.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  ‘So just to clarify – you did want it put up straight?’

  I laugh. ‘Preferably, yes.’

  In the living room, I stand on a spiky rubber dinosaur, sidestepping all the other hurdles on the oatmeal carpet – the baby mat and animal mobile with the wonky monkey, the lullaby rocking seat, an upturned yellow dumper truck and several unpacked removal boxes marked ‘Fragile’.

  It still feels strange – the new scents and surroundings. The intimate cosiness of a 1920s house with small, boxy rooms, imperfect flooring and fittings and walls that are marked and scuffed. It’s six weeks since we moved in, but it feels so much shorter, a whirlwind of visitors, unpacking, DIY stores and nappies. And lots of noise – wonderful family sounds that filled rooms, spiralled through walls and floors and made it home. I’ve felt permanently dizzy, swaying from exhaustion to elation, mostly feeling both at the same time.

  I flick a firm hand down the crushed taffeta curtains, one of several new pairs, not yet hanging perfectly in the wide window, which overlooks the street. Renault Megane Street we call it; every other house has one.

  ‘So, which biscuits do you fancy?’

  I turn to see Mark in the doorway, looking dishevelled, fringe fluffy and lopsided, a pencil behind one ear and a packet in each hand.

  It still startles me when he appears in rooms. A figure so familiar but cast in so many different lights now; intense rays that repeatedly reveal new and wonderful things.

  ‘The nutty ones, please,’ I say. Mark places the biscuits next to his collection of chewy mints on the coffee table, then stands behind me, hands resting in the heavily cushioned curve of my waist. He turns, kisses me on the lips with a loud ‘mwah’ sound.

  ‘Did the little fella go down OK?’ He smooths the hair from my forehead.

  ‘Yes, spark out,’ I say, holding crossed fingers between us.

  Mark beams. ‘Wow. All credit to Jack and Eleanor for keeping him amused. Jack’s convinced a five-month-old appreciates his dinosaur stories.’ He kisses me again, then releases me. He walks towards the door. ‘Do you think Finley’s first word will be stegosaurus?’

  I chuckle. I hadn’t thought about his first word, still millions of precious moments away.

  I sit on the chaise, next to Mark’s grey sofa. I look at the clock: 3.15. Finley’s afternoon naps are usually short, but Jack’s staying over and has worn him out with non-stop stimulation since breakfast, racing cars around and over him, flicking the animals wildly on the mobile hanging above his play mat, reading stories and giving him his precious dinosaur figures to play with – though most headed straight for Finley’s mouth.

  I pull a packing box towards me, catching sight of Dan’s photo on the sideboard. Mark insisted we put it in a prominent place.

  I open the flaps of the box to find Sunny’s postcards tucked in the top. And the letter; with the photographs. I study an image of Sunny stood between her half-siblings. She’s the shortest, but the resemblance is striking. All of them slight, delicate featured; similar thin noses. There’s a sense of belonging in Sunny’s smile, an arm draped around her from each side.

  It was a brave letter she’d sent from America. She was glad she’d said goodbye to Dan. She hoped I didn’t mind her mentioning it – she suspected I’d already seen images – but the cryonics storage facility struck her as such a sterile place. Soulless.

  I didn’t mind. Soulless was the perfect description. Not a place for souls.

  I no longer saw the cryonics as a burden. Maybe Dan had been selfish, but he had convictions. And now, at last, I had mine. He’d left me a challenge – forcing me to formulate my own thoughts about mortality, not to dodge them through fear and idleness.

  Yes, Dan had been a little controlling at times. He liked to sit in the driving seat – but someone had to. I’d been lazy; and weak. He was a good person. I’d loved him, and he’d loved me.

  I was so pleased that Pete’s son had secured more investment in Cullimore’s and was insisting on a permanent dedication to Dan in recognition of his donation – a plaque in the new office extension. I’d been invited to the official opening. I was amazed, and thrilled, to see Gordon there too. Turns out Pete had forged a connection with his late wife after all her campaigning.

  Mark’s singing rattles me out of my foggy brain. I love to hear the constant whirr and whine of his digital radio around the house, his resonant baritone cutting through now and then.

  After a slow start, things had moved quite quickly between us, I reflect, pulling bubble wrap from a red handkerchief vase, unable to resist popping a few of the tiny air pouches. But I have no doubts. Not any more.

  Ashley had assured me we could make it work, and for a while I wanted to believe it. But in the weeks after he’d turned up making declarations of love he’d kept his distance. He was rarely in when I called, always quick with an excuse. He made it to the first baby scan. Not the second. And when I had the miscarriage scare, two weeks of rest in hospital, he was unable to get away.

  It wa
s then, lying in that starchy bed all day long, the baby now declared safe inside me, empty hours stretching ahead, time to think in straight, uninterrupted lines, that I knew I could be brave. I realised I was in love with the idea of Ashley; as Joseph, Hamlet and all the other characters I’d imagined him to be. I’d looked at him through a soft focus lens that obscured the details I didn’t want to see.

  I didn’t set out to reap some kind of revenge, to sleep with Ashley, build his hopes, make declarations and then walk away, as he’d done to me. I desperately wanted it to work with my Joseph and our beloved infant, to play the part of the actor’s wife, sharing in all the bright lights and first nights.

  I’d shared several dramatic scenes with Ashley in the past, and I needed to know why his stage exit had been so abrupt and mysterious. Now that I did, I could no longer see a role for me. Besides, I wasn’t sure who the enigmatic Ashley really was. His was a double life in reality. It was the same in our student days. I only spent one weekend at his drama college, rarely visited his house. He shared my life, lingering in all my scenes, but I wasn’t really written into many of his. And I remained unsure about Lily’s latest part, wondering if she might be waiting patiently in the wings for her moment of glory.

  Ashley is Finley’s father and will always have a part in our lives, I think, unpacking ornaments and lining them up on the floor next to me. He adores his boy, has seen far more of him than I’d expected – though he still looks scared when he nurses Finley, like he’s an unfamiliar prop. Once he can crawl, Finley will be stopping over with his dad in London occasionally. I dread it. I ache for my baby during the shortest absences.

  So things are a little complicated, with Jack staying every weekend and Mark’s ex-wife Sue being awkward about it all. But then things don’t always go to plan, as Dan discovered.

  And I couldn’t be happier. I’ve always wanted a house full of family and now it is, and I relish all the mayhem that goes with it. Mark and I have the same approach – we muddle through with as much mirth as we can muster; and a little Merlot.

  ‘One strong coffee, love.’ Mark walks in with a mug. ‘I need to drill more holes if you really insist on that shelf being straight, but I don’t want to wake Finley.’

  ‘He’ll sleep through anything once he’s gone. You’ll need a better excuse than that.’

  ‘Damn! I need more screws then. I’ll have to nip to the shop.’

  ‘Again? That’s the third time. So you did need a list,’ I tease. ‘The kids need chocolate while you’re at it.’

  ‘The kids?’

  ‘OK – and me. I’ve got the card.’ I reach into my purse. ‘Here.’

  ‘I don’t think you can pay with that currency,’ Mark says. I look down.

  ‘Oops.’ It’s my donor card. ‘I meant to keep that elsewhere.’

  ‘I’m really proud of you.’ Mark hugs me.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I’ve always felt silly using my squeamishness as an excuse not to be an organ donor. So much has happened in recent months to prompt my change of perspective – the controversy surrounding Dan obviously; and especially Ashley’s nephew. I realise I can’t close my eyes to the future, but have to plan ahead, face what may come.

  Mark turns to go. ‘Is Jack still pestering Eleanor upstairs?’

  ‘I assume so. Don’t worry, she loves having a little brother to boss around. Finley’s boring apparently; just screams, sleeps and poos. She’s never going to have a baby.’

  Mark raises his eyebrows as he retreats. ‘She’ll change her mind.’

  I think of Imogen’s question to me about Mark. ‘When, and what changed your mind?’ My answer was – in hospital. He’d visited nearly every day, despite the distance, sitting by my bedside and cheering me up with his silliness. I couldn’t have got through it without Mark. One evening we completed four crosswords, one with made-up clues and crude answers, and he was late back for a dinner party Georgia had spent days preparing. Another time, he’d forgotten arrangements to join her and a few colleagues at the pub. She was livid. In the end, she made him choose. And he chose me.

  Looking back, I think I’d known how I really felt the first time Mark told me he was seeing Georgia. But I’d still believed things were impossible for us. Dan was the cement in the huge wall standing between Mark and me. Gordon had given me a hammer, Kirsten, Ruth, Sunny – and Ashley – had all given me the impetus, and it took a lot of knocking down; but it had finally tumbled.

  The day after I’d come out of hospital, Mark came to see me. We ended up cuddling, talking and laughing until the early hours. He told me he’d always adored me, it had killed him to suppress his feelings all those years, how his ex-wife had shattered his confidence.

  We shared a bed and made love; a gentle, in the moment, act, with no guilt, no remorse, no imagination running wild. He was so tender, so giving, so aware of the life inside.

  Within weeks we were talking about the practicalities of being together, Mark was visiting regularly with Jack, armed with baby magazines – and liquorice sticks and lemon-scented Glades to satisfy my cravings – and staying over sometimes.

  And when he talked about finding a way to work things out, that he’d love to be a second dad to Ashley’s baby, I really believed him. I knew there would be compromises, but Mark wasn’t asking me to give anything up. The realisation hit me, as we ate croissants in bed one morning. Mark wanted me to fulfil my dreams. He wanted Eleanor to be settled. And he wanted me to love air freshener and make bad jokes.

  Mark has quit the newspaper job in Bristol to freelance from our new home in Gloucestershire so he can help look after Finley. The move means he’s closer to Jack. He’s secured several contracts, including regular work for Cullimore’s.

  I have a fifty-minute trip to the theatre four days a week. It’s tiring on a few hours sleep, but I love it. And I’ve had an article on cryonics published in a woman’s magazine. Spurred on by my experiences, particularly what happened with Ruth, I contacted the magazine about writing a first-hand account, my attempt to put to rest some of the ignorance and sensationalism. I had a great response, lots of supportive messages – one from a vicar who’s signed up – and the odd nasty one I zapped with the delete button.

  Eleanor kicked up a bit of a fuss about moving at first but she still sees a lot of her friends and really likes her new school – and a boy who lives up the road.

  Mum had several flushes when I told her I was pregnant with Ashley’s baby and several more when she saw things unfolding with Mark. Of course, she won’t tell anyone about Finley’s father, not for a while at least. But she seems to accept it. She stunned me the other day when she visited.

  ‘I just want you to be happy – and I can see you are,’ she said, cooing over Finley. Hormones still crazy, I burst out blubbing and we ended up in an unusually tight embrace. We look at life from different angles, but it seems we’ve both got better at moving our heads to appreciate each other’s viewing positions. But then Mum was right about Ashley. And I think that’s a little bit of compensation.

  I pull my feet up on to the chaise, stretching out. I must doze off, because I jump at the sound of the door.

  ‘Done.’ Mark bursts in, collapsing on the sofa next to me. ‘That’s one up, I’ll do the other next year.’

  ‘Come here, my DIY hero.’ I pull him close.

  Eleanor walks in. ‘Where’s the dog?’ Her face crumples in disgust as she spots us cuddling. ‘Uggh. Get a room.’

  ‘We have …’ I point up and around, totting it up, ‘… about seven of them.’

  Larry, our crazy golden retriever puppy, scampers in, his bony body a blur as he heads to the corner of the room behind several boxes, rear pushed into the air. Jack hurtles in next, green eyes casting about. He spots the wagging tail.

  ‘He escaped. I found him in your room,’ Jack says, breathless and excited.

  ‘Uh-oh, who’s been up to no good again?’ Mark races over. ‘He’s got a ball of wool or something
.’ The dog’s shaking his head wildly, making playful growling noises.

  Jack grabs the dog’s favourite toy. ‘Bone, bone,’ he says, in a high voice, trailing the dog to entice him to drop it. I see a mass of copper threads hanging over Larry’s jowls as he dashes past, relishing the game of chase.

  ‘It’s Mr Fluff,’ I say.

  Mark lunges, rugby-tackles the dog, cupping one hand over his upper jaw and pulling with the other. ‘Drop, you little bugger.’

  ‘Nice one, Dad.’ Jack gives a cheesy thumbs-up, his spiky-haired head tilted.

  ‘I think your cuddly toy’s well and truly wrecked.’ Mark hands it to me with a concerned look.

  ‘You could have one of mine – I’ve got loads,’ Jack offers. I reach out and squeeze him into a big hug. ‘Thanks, Jack. That would be great.’

  ‘Naughty dog.’ I shake my head at Larry, smile, then pop Mr Fluff into the bin.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I’d like to thank Marge Clouts for her wisdom and motivation at the start of this journey, Henrietta Smethurst-McIntyre for her editorial input and being an enthusiastic champion of this book, and Hilary Johnson for her copy-editing, advice and encouragement.

  Thanks also to Megan Pelta Lennox for the cover design, to Karen, Clare, members of Cotswold Creative Writing and friends and readers who have given feedback at various stages of writing and to Tim Gibson, from Cryonics UK, for being so open, honest and helpful during my research and for allowing me to attend the group’s training weekend.

  Huge gratitude to my parents and Alex for their love and support, Frank for being there all the way, and especially to Andy for his patience and putting up with me, my pens and my Post-its during the creation of this.