by Hilary Boyd
His expression seemed to freeze in disappointment when she didn’t go on. But she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t dare to understand what he was saying. Or feeling.
“So much has happened. I suppose you’re right, we can’t say we know each other now,” she said, when the silence had stretched awkwardly between them.
And he nodded, resigned. Then suddenly he shook his head vehemently, took a step toward her.
“Wait . . . no. No, Karen. That’s wrong. I think we think too much, you and me. Because I do know you. I know you and I love you.”
Both of them seemed to freeze at his words.
Then his face took on a look of determination and he went on, his tone softer. “As I said last time we met, I have loved you since the first moment I set eyes on you. Loved you with all my heart and only a tenth of my dumb brain.” He paused and she could see he was shaking slightly. “You can think what you like, but it won’t alter the truth. Not for me.”
His face was bright with passion, his blue eyes sparking as he grabbed her hands in his, brought them to his lips, turned them and kissed her fervently on her palms, his mouth warm and soft against her cold skin.
The sun was sinking now, only half of the golden sphere visible above the pink cloud layered on the horizon. In a moment it will be gone, she thought.
She gently wrested her hands from William. “Hold me,” she said, the tears welling in her eyes so that his face became blurred. “Just hold me, William.”
*
“Oh, my God,” Sophie said. “You and the vicar? Hallelujah!”
“Hold on a minute,” Karen said, laughter bubbling through her with an effervescent joy.
She was still floating on air, but she hadn’t had a chance to tell her stepdaughter till now, as Sophie had been up in London staying with her friend Daisy. They were out in the garden, Karen having got up very early and gone out into the sunny spring morning to strip away the ivy under the hazels.
“I’ve only seen him once, nothing’s been decided about anything—”
“What about the cancer?” Sophie interrupted her. She was perching on the arm of the wooden bench, coffee mug in hand, watching Karen work.
“He’s OK at the moment. He’s had a shedload of treatment and it seems to be working so far. Although obviously it could come back at any time.”
“And you’re cool with that? Having to look after him. It could be grim.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“Ah, true love,” Sophie said, grinning. “What made him finally see sense?”
Sophie was well again, off the antidepressants and more like her old self, but a more grounded self, Karen thought. Her grandmother’s legacy seemed to have given her purpose rather than an excuse to laze about being spoiled. She was planning a summer in Athens to spruce up and sell the apartment, then she was signed up for an online course in architecture and design—she intended to use the money from the Greek sale to buy a property in England and renovate it, sell it on. Sophie had no plans at the moment to move out of the rectory, which pleased Karen. The last year hadn’t been entirely wasted, she told herself, if she had finally forged a proper relationship with the girl. Harry would have been proud.
“Sense is not something William is particularly blessed with,” Karen replied with a smile.
*
When Sophie had gone back inside and Karen was alone in the garden, she stopped what she was doing and just leaned on her rake, gazing off toward the hills, where the sun was casting a purplish haze, her thoughts replaying every second of her time with William.
They had left the beach after their walk, gone to the pub to get warm. Being with him, Karen found it hard to believe that he was ill, that he wasn’t a vicar, that he wasn’t married.
“Karen,” William began, when they had collected a pot of tea from the bar, “listen, coming to find you . . . it was purely selfish. You know I have this condition, this myeloma, and I don’t know what will happen with it, or when, but it will happen, there’s no getting away from it. And when it does it won’t be a pretty sight, not by all accounts. It’s a huge thing, being with a sick person, having to deal with stuff that no one should have to cope with—”
“Stop, Will. Yeah, I get it. It won’t be fun. And I’m as pissed off as you about the bloody thing. But would I rather be with you and the myeloma, or not be with you at all? It’s you and the myeloma every time. And don’t tell me to go away and think about it. I’ve thought about it almost daily for months now. Not that you gave me the slightest hint that being with you might be an option.”
He smiled. “Right.”
“So why did you finally decide to find me?”
“Alistair again. He got sick of me mooning around and finally he lost it and ordered me to ring you. He told me it was up to you whether you wanted to be with someone with cancer. He said that he thought you were a woman who knew her own mind. And was I really going to give up on the chance of happiness without even asking? But I couldn’t do it. I thought about the burden I’d be putting on you and I . . . well, I didn’t have the nerve. You were so angry with me last time we said goodbye.”
She waited for him to go on. But she found she didn’t care what he said anymore—she didn’t care if he spoke or didn’t speak, laughed or cried—she was just reveling in every single precious moment of being in his company.
“Then we bumped into Patrick. And he told me about the cupcake shop and Mike. And I thought you were with him . . . you know, like with him . . . an item. Anyway, Alistair insisted I at least go and take a look—he wouldn’t let me off the hook where you were concerned.”
Karen laughed. “I did try and kiss Mike once, when I was drunk and miserable because of you, but he wasn’t having any.”
William frowned. “You don’t have feelings for him, do you? When I saw you together in the shop . . . you looked very close.”
“Were you jealous?”
William blew his cheeks out. “Oh, not jealous, exactly, more completely catatonic. Terrified that I’d left it too late and you’d moved on. It made me feel physically sick.”
“God, if you knew how hard I’ve tried to move on from you, William Haskell. And you know what? I finally had.”
“Sorry I went and ruined it.”
“Ha! So you should be.”
He laughed, then his face grew solemn. “So Mike and you . . .”
“Are friends, and now business partners. That’s all.”
His expression relaxed. “It would have served me right, if I’d lost you.”
They fell into silence as they drank their tea, but he kept glancing at her, and she at him, unable to keep from smiling.
“How is Rachel taking it all?” she asked.
“She’s been amazing. Two shocks at the same time. I wish I could have spared her that. And it was hard for us all, her being in Scotland at college. She’s been back a couple of times, and obviously she’s pretty upset about the cancer. I think the separation was a shock for her, but not much of a surprise. She’d had to listen to all the sniping and angry silences for years.”
“And Janey?”
“We’re OK, just about. She’s got a new man. He’s a journalist, works for the Economist—much more up her street than a dreary, country vicar.”
“More stupid than dreary, I’d say . . . pushing me away like that, inventing all sorts of rubbish about why I didn’t love you, why we couldn’t be together.”
They were leaning against each other now, delighting in the closeness, the warmth of their bodies, holding hands lightly, her fair head touching his dark one.
“Maybe,” William replied, “but to be fair I’m not completely dim. I love you and there’s nothing stupid about that. In fact, it’s the most sensible thing I’ve ever done.”
“I don’t think sense has got anything to do with it,” Karen said softly.
Chapter Twenty
Four years later
It was two we
eks after William died before Karen finally plucked up the courage to watch the video selfie. His last days had thankfully been peaceful, ending a cruel and painful interlude that he had endured with extraordinary stoicism—perhaps helped by his faith in God, which never wavered. Rachel had been by his side, and Alistair. And herself, of course. It had been a slow draining away of life, almost silent, William bowing out long before they would accept that he had. But his gentle decline did serve at least to prepare them in some measure. Not to prepare them for the agony of losing him—nothing could do that—but for the certainty of it.
And then the funeral: Rachel and Janey; Sophie with dear Danny, her new husband; Mike and his daughter, Kim; Sheila, Patrick, Alistair and his sister. So unlike the crowds at Harry’s service.
Karen had existed through it. No more.
Will had shot the video a couple of months ago, then made her promise she wouldn’t look at it until he was gone. And she’d had no wish to cheat. His death, back then, had not seemed possible. It didn’t seem possible even now.
She and William had made a vow when they first got together. They would not give oxygen to his cancer, not waste the time they had in talking about it, worrying and being angry. They would just try and deal with each manifestation as best they could. And they had mostly stuck to that promise.
She had got on with the cupcake business, and he had begun to train hard at the archery club, hoping to take part in competitions. Which he did, although his practice was often sabotaged by ill health or the after-effects of treatment. Karen would go to watch him at the shoots. To her he looked so heroic as he slowly drew back the string of his recurve bow, his back straight, bow arm aligned with his cheek, eyes focused as the arrow was let loose to fly to its target. He was in his element, an echo of his formidable grandmother apparent in every muscle.
“You know, we’re lucky in a way,” William had said one night, as they ate a supper of fresh grilled fish and salad. “The cancer has stopped us living too far in the future. I reckon we savor every minute in a way most people never do, who think they’ll live forever.”
Karen had laughed. “Strange sort of luck, but I know what you mean.”
Because their time together was intense, they snatched each moment as if it were the last. Every time they made love or ate a meal or went for a swim or just walked on the beach or in the hills, it was imbued with a singularity. Even the very ordinariness felt like a gift. And sometimes this tired Karen out. She would have welcomed the luxury of normal time, without the sword of Damocles hanging over their heads. But mostly she just lived as much in the present as she was able.
Mike echoed Will’s sentiment. “Margie died without any bloody warning,” he said. “I had no idea we’d have such a short time together. And it was hell knowing we’d wasted so much of it working . . . and winding each other up, for that matter. If I’d known, I’d have had a bit more fun.”
But they both understood it wasn’t that simple.
*
Karen settled herself in the deep, cozy armchair—it had been Will’s almost permanent home in the last few weeks—in the sitting room of the flat where they had been living for over three years. It was a few doors down from the cupcake shop and looked out on the sea, like Mike’s studio had, but it was more solid, more spacious. She and Sophie had sold the rectory, neither woman wanting to live there anymore—too many memories for both of them. Sophie, with her builder husband, had used her share of the money to construct their own house along the coast, only five miles from Karen and Will.
Now Karen slowly pulled open her laptop, steeling herself before clicking on the file entitled “Will.” Seeing him breathing and alive . . . how would she be able to bear it?
But as his face appeared, she found herself smiling.
“Hi, Karen,” he said, his mouth screwed up in an awkward grin. “This is at least the tenth try, so let’s hope it works. I never thought it would be so hard to get right.”
His smile relaxed as he leaned forward, the computer obviously on the coffee table. She wondered where she had been while he was doing it. Elbows on the arms of the chair, hands clasped, Will paused. He was still reasonably well back then, although his hair, short from a previous bout of chemo, was mostly gray, his eyes very large and luminous in his thin face.
“OK . . . so if you’re watching this, I will be dead.” He chuckled. “I’ve always wanted to say that. Uh . . . that sounds awful, but you know what I mean.” He swallowed, cleared his throat. “Right, start again. This is supposed to be a celebration, Karen. A celebration of our amazing love.” He looked down briefly, then up. “You are an incredible woman, you know that? You have given me some of the happiest years of my life. Loved me in a way I didn’t deserve. Understood me. Coped brilliantly with our friend Myelo—” The tears welled in his eyes. “Basically, you have filled my heart with love. God, I love you so much.”
She saw him pause, swallow.
“I love you now . . . and I want you to know that I will love you forever and eternity. Even when I’m no longer here to tell you so.” He quickly wiped his tears away with the back of his hand. “Sorry. But the truth is, however brave I want to be, I hate the thought of leaving you.” He took a deep breath. “So here’s my promise. Wherever you are, I will still be there, by your side. When you choose a cupcake or drink a glass of wine or curl up in bed at night, whatever you are doing, I will be with you. I will never leave you, Karen. Never.”
Tears streamed down her face as she waited for William to finish. But for a while he said nothing, just gave her this intense look, a look which held all the love he had to give. It was as if he believed she was already there, in front of the screen, waiting to receive it.
“OK, well, this is it, then,” he said. “I’ve banged on long enough, shed enough tears.” He took a deep breath. “So goodbye, dear heart of my life, goodbye. But walk by the sea at sunset and know that I am there beside you. Always.” William stared into the camera for a moment longer, then gave a small, self-conscious wave.
And it was over.
Karen sat there, gazing through her tears at the frozen face of the man she had adored.
Then she played it again . . . again and again. She sat there for a long time, just watching him over and over, unable truly to believe that he wasn’t about to walk through the door and laugh with her at his dodgy video performance.
Crying was so tiring, it bled from the eyes, contorted the face, but it wracked the whole body too. Karen had cried so much in recent days. But gradually the repetition of his words of love began to soothe her, providing a healing balm to her soul, even while they broke her heart into a thousand agonizing pieces and made each breath rasp painfully in her chest.
Coming round from a sort of exhausted half-sleep, she realized it was late and the sun would be setting soon. She got to her feet and found her shoes, took her jacket from the peg by the door. For a moment she looked around for Largo, but he had died of old age over six months before. It was a hard habit to break. She hurried down the two flights of stairs to the street. Hardly anyone was about on the chilly May evening. Karen set off to the west, as she and William had done almost every night in past years, even in the rain and cold, until he could no longer walk easily.
Tonight cloud covered the sinking sun, but she walked on into the gray dusk, her body so stiff with grief that she felt like an old woman. Then as she turned at the furthest groin, just as she would with Will, the cloud shifted and suddenly a deep golden radiance spread across the sea and sand, washing the water with shafts of shimmering light, shadowing the curved sand patterns made by the outgoing tide a dark purple.
It was unbearably beautiful.
Karen stood alone on the near-empty beach, watching as the light slowly faded across the sky.
“Will?” she called softly into the evening. “Will, are you there?” She closed her eyes and waited, her body so still she was hardly breathing.
And a moment later she knew he was there
, right beside her, just as he had promised he would be. She thought she heard him sigh as she reached for his hand.
Then they walked back along the beach in the dying light, together . . . always.
Acknowledgments
Huge thanks, as always, to my brilliant editor, Jane Wood and all the Quercus team. And to Laura Morris, Rosie and Jessica Buckman, my husband, Don, who has been crucial and patient in plot discussions, Clare Boyd for her trusted editorial eye, all my unfailingly supportive friends and family and the beach, of course.
