Local woman Lucy Whitman (née Elliot) has been left devastated by the news that her husband of just three weeks is in a coma after his car swerved off the road and down a steep incline in the Dales village of Burnsall.
The couple who just days before had returned from their honeymoon in a luxury hotel in Mexico had been married for less than a month before the accident took place. Jamie Whitman, a neurologist at Skipton General Hospital, was found by a passer-by slumped over the wheel of his wife’s classic Mini Mayfair. It is believed the car had travelled down a steep embankment, hitting a tree at the bottom. The cause of the crash is currently unknown.
Mr Whitman sustained severe head injuries when the driver’s air bag failed to inflate. He is currently in a coma. Doctors in charge of his care have shown great concern for their colleague and have emphasised the gravity of Dr Whitman’s condition.
The car is currently being investigated for mechanical failure, a standard procedure requested by po
A caring man, Dr Whitman is a favourite among his colleagues and a pillar of the local community. His presence in the village is sorely missed by many and Skipton Golf Club will be putting on a charity night in his honour this coming Saturday. All proceeds raised will go to the neurology department at Skipton General.
Mrs Kane of Tavern Lane, Burnsall, stated: ‘Jamie is a fantastic doctor, who always has time for people in the village. I for one have had a giggle with him on many occasions. We are all saddened by this news and hope that he makes a full recovery soon.’
His wife refused to comment. The police are appealing for any witnesses to the accident to come forward.
I folded the paper and stared into space. The car involved in the crash had once belonged to me. I knew it was reliable, I had worked on it myself, which seemed to indicate that the vehicle had been tampered with or else forced off the road.
Lucy is in great danger… I know you’ll be successful.
God’s words filled my mind again. I looked at the date on the front of the paper.
10 August 2015.
I had already wasted one whole day of my limited return to the world.
I searched the house for any sign that Adam owned a car. There was a blue Volkswagen Golf parked on the road outside the cottage but no car keys in sight. I had noticed a shed in a corner of the small garden and went to investigate.
The shed was padlocked but the lock was badly rusted, one determined yank levered it away. I peered inside and found the usual garden paraphernalia: trowels, compost, an old lawnmower. At the back of the shed I could see a large object covered in a dusty, plastic sheet. I peered underneath and found an electric blue men’s bicycle, only a few years old and with good tyres. I could tell by the layer of dust on the sheet that it hadn’t been ridden in a long time. I decided it was time that changed and had a practice run around the garden. The chain seemed stiff but I had noted a can of oil in the shed and before long I was on my way. I found a sign on the road out of the village that stated: Burnsall 2 Miles, and before long I was riding out into countryside I not only recognised but had sorely missed.
I managed the steep, winding hills with ease and could only assume that Adam kept himself fit. As I rode down the hill that led to my beloved village, I passed the home I’d once shared with Lucy: a big house that was elegant and well cared for. There was a car in the gravel driveway that I didn’t recognise. I stopped for a minute and assessed the scene in front of me. The house still looked the same as the day I’d left it; the garden at the front was blooming and looked well established, indicating that Lucy’s obsessive care of it had paid off.
I continued on down the lane and noted a sudden coolness to the air as the sun disappeared behind a cloud. I passed the tea rooms in which Lucy had worked in her teens and observed the occupants with interest. I watched as children threw bread to the ducks bobbing on the river and remembered the days when I used to do the same. I saw people I recognised leaving the village store, people I knew would recognise me had my appearance not been altered.
I approached an old man with a walking stick and recognised him instantly. Mr Raven, caretaker of the church, glanced my way briefly as I pedalled past. I almost expected him to stare at me in shock, but he carried on up the hill without a second glance for another stranger in the village.
After much consideration I decided to head straight for the thriving hub of village life: the local alehouse. The very same pub that Russ and I had tumbled out of on the night of my death, and the one we had drunk in every Friday night from the age of eighteen.
Many of the occupants were older gentlemen with flat caps and padded jackets, their clothes smelling of a day’s work on the farm. I knew many of them preferred to be seated in the pub with a pint than stay at home with their nagging wives. I also knew that there was nothing these men loved more than a good gossip and a self-indulgent grumble or two. Perhaps I could gain some information from them.
I left the bicycle in the car park and headed into an atmosphere overflowing with humour and friendly banter. I bought a pint with some money I’d found in a pair of jeans slung on the bedroom floor and sat down at a small table by a window that ensured I was close enough to the chit-chat to overhear any interesting conversation. After a few minutes of grumbles about the new shop assistant who had started in the village store as well as an incompetent doctor at the local surgery, I heard what I was most interested in.
“Russ were in ’ere t’other night. Havin’ a good ol’ natter with me he were,” said Mr Higgins, a solemn expression on his face.
“Poor lad, lost his best mate just five year ago and now t’other one has been put through all that.”
“I ’ear they’re treatin’ it all suspicious like. Coppers, I mean.”
“I can understand why an’ all. That motor runs perfect… always has, Charlie saw to that.”
Murmurs of agreement spread around the room.
“Always workin’ on that car of his, he were.” Mr Higgins lowered his voice. “I never liked that doctor… that Jamie fella… no.” He shook his bald head. “Not good enough for our Lucy, I’m afraid.”
“He never seemed quite right, I agree with you there, Bill.”
“Aye, always said they rushed into things, ’im and ’er.”
The murmurs died down as one of them spotted a familiar figure approaching the pub.
After exchanging brief greetings with them all the newcomer approached the bar confidently. Even viewed from behind I knew his identity. His hair was cut shorter than normal and his shoulders seemed uncharacteristically slumped, making him appear shorter, a sign that the years had taken their toll on my best friend. The group of gossiping men soon surrounded him.
“’Ave thou seen ’er this mornin’, Russell?”
“Aye, I have, Bill. She’s doing OK… better than I expected given the circumstances.”
“I expect she’ll be upset, what with all that business with Charlie years ago. Makes a man wonder whether the poor lass is cursed.”
The rest began to nod in agreement.
“I hear what you’re saying, Bill. Lucy’s been through the mill, poor lass. I just hope she’ll pull through all this but only God knows what’ll happen to the doc. It’s taken her years to get back to being herself after… ” Russell’s voice tailed off and the rest of the group were silent, leaving him to his thoughts.
It was then that the older men became aware of my presence and before long they were giving each other wide-eyed glances and nodding in my general direction. The village was so small that everybody knew everyone else and a stranger was as noticeable as a wolf amongst lambs. The older village members were suspicious of them and my mum used to say it was down to their generation's inability to accept differences as well as their stubborn, narrow mind-set. I kept my eyes on my pint and wondered if they’d realised that I’d overheard their entire conversation so far.
“’Ere,” the leader shouted in my direction, “you’re not one a them reporters, are ye
r? You’ll get nowt from us if yer are, yer scum.”
Russ raised his eyes and we stared at each other. He seemed drained and distracted but still I expected there to be a flicker of recognition in his gaze, a sign that he recognised me beneath my unfamiliar appearance. There was none.
“No, sir, just a day visitor here to soak up the beauty of the scenery,” I said to the man who had challenged me.
“Must ’ave plenty a time on yer hands then, fella.”
“You could say that.”
I noticed Russ was uncharacteristically quiet and knew that was usually a sign he was mulling something over.
“You got any skills?” he finally asked me.
“A few,” I said, wondering what sort of proposition was about to be made.
“I could do with some help on a few odd jobs… if yer up for it?”
I thought about it for a second. I could do with some extra cash and it would also give me an excuse to visit Burnsall regularly. The locals would be less suspicious if they knew I had a valid reason for being here, and I was also excited by the prospect of spending some time with my best friend again. Seeing him in the flesh, even in low spirits, made me realise how much I had missed him.
“Sure, I’ve nothing better to do with my time,” I said cheerfully. “Why not?”
“Great, you staying in the village?”
“No, I live in Grassington.”
“OK, meet me outside the pub at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. The work isn’t anything complicated, just household odd jobs, garden landscaping, that kind of thing.”
I told him I would be there and thanked him for the opportunity he was giving me.
On my ride back to Grassington the clouds turned an angry shade of grey and before long I found myself caught in a shower. I was so happy to experience such a mundane phenomenon that I held my arms out wide and turned my face to the sky as I let momentum pull me downhill. Thoughts of the four year old boy I had unofficially adopted in the afterlife entered my mind then. I knew Timmy would get a thrill from experiencing this. I let the rain wash away any lingering anxiety about the woman I had come to help. Nothing bad could happen to Lucy now that I was at hand to save her. I inhaled the scent of the countryside in deep, dizzying breaths and listened to the birdsong resume when the rain clouds had made way for the sun’s warming rays.
Once I was back at the cottage I spent the afternoon cleaning Adam’s house. By the time I had finished the place was gleaming. As I placed the mop and bucket back where I had found them in the kitchen, I remembered the leather-bound book I had found in the wardrobe that morning. I brought it down to the living room and took a seat in the snug armchair as the sun started to make its descent. I opened the first page.
24 April 2012
I realised the other day that I am an English teacher, a lover of words and stories, who has never owned a diary. This to me seems unnatural, a sort of rejection of my own profession. I’ve lectured my students many times on the importance of a diary, the advantages that keeping one would bring to their writing, and here I am only just beginning my first-ever journal. Truly shocking.
The motivation for my sudden urge to transfer thoughts to paper is mainly due to our son’s recent ability to crawl. I have realised that he will soon be walking and talking. By writing my account of these events in a diary, I can preserve the moments that are special and relive them once more in my old age. I may decide to give the diary to Ben on his eighteenth birthday or even his wedding day. No doubt there will be many tears from Emma when this day finally comes.
Emma is finding things hard. Motherhood has not come naturally to her and when I leave them both every morning for work I do wonder how she copes. I say my goodbyes in the midst of his high-pitched cries and am ashamed to say that instead of feeling sad to depart, I feel relief. Sometimes the responsibility we have as parents is overwhelming and we forget the people we used to be. Gone are the days of free-spirited independence with only ourselves to think of.
The past six months have been a blur, with many late-night feeds and nappy changes all mingling together into one huge mass of responsibility... but also joy. Of course there’s joy. The birth of a child is such a happy event. Although I do sometimes wonder whether Emma’s joy is genuine or assumed. A way of telling herself she’s happy. Sometimes I will catch her looking at Ben with frustration, and occasionally anguish, glinting in her ordinarily calm eyes.
A female colleague of mine has openly confessed to suffering from post-natal depression and I often wonder whether this might be behind the sadness I see in Emma’s expression. Whether she blames Ben for her lack of freedom.
Chapter Three
The next morning I woke up feeling rested and ready for the day ahead. The thought of getting my hands dirty again, of spending the next eight hours immersed in good, honest graft, sent a thrill through me and I found myself ready and waiting for Russ with time to spare. As I leaned against the wall of the pub I watched the village come to life. I listened to the gentle trickle of the river, a little louder this morning due to the heavy rainfall overnight. The sound was comforting and I closed my eyes momentarily.
“What’s up with you, lad?” a voice boomed in my right ear. “You still a bit stewed from the night before?”
Startled by the interruption, I opened my eyes suddenly to find grumpy Mr Raven peering at me disapprovingly. I smiled when I realised that I was more than happy to see him again.
“Not at all, Mr Ra— I mean, sir. I was merely taking in the wonderful scenery of this lovely village of yours.”
“Aye… but it looks a damn’ sight better with yer eyes open, lad,” he chuckled, and hobbled past me using his walking stick for support.
Russ’s car stopped just inches from my feet.
“Old man causing grief again?” He laughed as he leaned over to open the passenger door.
“Nothing but an interfering old busybody, that one.”
“I don’t mind,” I said as I climbed into his car, “I grew up with busybodies.”
As I relaxed into the passenger seat I felt overwhelmed by the familiarity of it all: the landscape of my youth flying past the open window, the sound of Russ humming along to the radio while I sat by his side and silently suffered his terrible driving… I could almost believe I had never left.
The current song on the radio finished and the sound of the Beach Boys’ Sloop John ‘B’ filled the car with easy melody. I knew what Russ would say next and watched as a grin spread slowly across his face.
“I went to the pub with Brian Wilson the other day and—”
“—and he wouldn’t let me get a round in,” I finished for him.
It was a joke he’d been telling for years. The Beach Boys were a huge part of our shared youth and this joke was a fond memory. Russ glanced sideways at me, his brow furrowed..
“You know… I’ve never met anyone else who knows that joke.”
“It’s a good one.”
“Should be, I made it up.”
He continued to look at me strangely as I stared back at him, trying hard to appear impassive.
Finally he laughed and the tension was broken.
“Maybe I didn’t make it up after all.”
As I glanced away from Russ’s gaze I realised we had arrived at our destination. I had assumed the work I was to be involved in would be at his house or perhaps that of his elderly parents. But I recognised the long driveway before me instantly.
I knew the house at the end of it, I knew what lay behind every window. I could visualise the rise and fall of the landscape the windows overlooked. I knew that not one inch of the scenery beyond could be seen in fog, I knew what the fells looked like under a thick blanket of snow and I knew the exact shade of orange the leaves of the distant trees turned in autumn.
I got out of the car and stared up at my own house. It looked the same as the day I’d left it.
“Huge, isn’t it?” said Russ as he came to stand beside me.
“It’s impressive. Is it yours?”
“Nah, not my style, mate.”
I nodded and got back to the task at hand. “What can I help you with?”
“Follow me, I’ll show you.”
Russ walked past the front entrance to the house and made his way to the side gate and then into the walled garden beyond. I spotted a robin fluttering its wings in the birdbath that stood in the centre of the lawn. When it heard our noisy approach it let out a high-pitched cry and flew up into a branch of the tree I’d spent many an hour knocking nails into.
High up in it, looking just as stable as the day I’d created it, was the treehouse I had built for Lucy. It blended into its surroundings perfectly and was partly hidden by the leaves and branches that shaded it, a form of camouflage for its man-made appearance. I looked around for any sign of Lucy and wondered if Russ had told her he’d be bringing a complete stranger to her home.
“So,” he said as he walked towards the treehouse, “as you can see, this old thing is a bit the worse for wear. The wood needs completely repainting to stop rot from setting in, otherwise we’ll be using it as kindling come a year or two.”
I nodded, glad that the treehouse was getting some care and attention.
“The lady of the house is Lucy and this here playhouse is important to her,” he continued. “She’s been through a lot lately and I promised her I’d get on with some odd jobs, but I’m no superhero… I’ve got me own business to run. I’ll help you today but there’ll be some days you’ll have to manage on yer nelly. You’ll get paid at the end of every week, mind. How’s that sound?”
I told him it was fine and that I’d do my best to help him out. I found myself wondering if God had played a part in giving me this opportunity, whether my meeting with Russ had been predetermined to bring me closer to Lucy and therefore better able to protect her. I looked back at the house in the hope I would catch a glimpse of her.
I was interrupted by Russ handing me a brush and a large tin of paint.
The Life and Second Life of Charlie Brackwood (The Brackwood Series Book 2) Page 2
