“Another miracle!” Fergus thought with relief. Sometimes it felt as if the world were full of them. How many, he asked himself, did he miss entirely? He thought back to the little spider crawling across the Bible, oblivious to the mystical and sacred nature of its surroundings. He was rudely awoken from these spiritual daydreams by the clatter of mail being pushed through the letter box and splattering on to the hallway floor, though of course there were never actual letters anymore. Today, amidst the leaflets for autumn sales, pizza deliveries and boiler services lay one thicker envelope. Fergus opened it: another catalogue from the cruise company – sunny landscapes, smiling faces, iced drinks, show girls, sleek ships cutting across distant seas – seeking to tempt them away again. As he flicked through its glossy pages, his reflections were interrupted a second time, now by the crunching of gravel outside, betraying Katie’s belated arrival. Once again he had worried for nothing.
The traffic out of London had been terrible but, as with Jones previously, memories had come flooding back to Katie the moment she turned up the drive. It felt as though she had known the house and its gardens for far longer than the eleven years she had been travelling here. And yet she hadn’t known it at all in its happiest days: the near two and a half decades when Justine had lived there… Justine the child and then the young woman. She had been like a mythical figure to Katie: the centre of a long-standing investigation, someone she thought she could imagine but assumed she had never actually met… and, of course, now she never would.
It had turned out Katie had resigned from the police and the previous day had been her last in service… she was now simply Katie Brady.
“I wanted to come and tell you…” she said, after they had welcomed her and settled into the living room, “not just that I’ve left the police, but that I’m sorry I couldn’t find out for you who was responsible for Justine’s accident. I left no stone unturned, but the truth is that, after the first few days, there were no new clues and nothing much left to work on… I wanted to uncover the truth, I really did, but I couldn’t.”
There was a pause.
“Sylvie doesn’t remember a thing of what you said on the day we first met you in St Mary’s hospital,” Fergus started, “but for me it’s etched on my mind. I remember you spoke very clearly and said that you could not promise what the result of your enquiries would be, or that you would find the person involved, but – and I remember this very specifically – you said you ‘committed personally’ to running a professional investigation, to the very best of your abilities, to give you the best chance possible. You meant it Katie, you really did… you have shown that commitment a hundred times over and you show it again by coming here today, even in your own time.”
“I did mean it… but I still didn’t succeed.”
“You never promised to succeed, only to do your best. As Sylvie said at the time, finding who was responsible wouldn’t have brought Justine back, but knowing that you were committed, that meant and still means almost as much as discovering what happened. It shows you cared about Justine’s death. At least we know you did everything you could. Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you,” added Sylvie. There was another period of silence.
“I wish I had met her,” Katie said.
“Who knows, maybe you did, or perhaps you passed in the street at least.” Sylvie smiled.
“That would be nice to believe,” replied Katie.
“Come with me,” Sylvie said, leading her upstairs to a small room, overlooking the lawns and the woods, containing a desk, a chair and what appeared to be a sofa bed. Sprinkled across them were a handful of soft toys and, on the desk, a reading light, a vase and a framed photo of Justine. On the wall, an old pale pink baseball cap hung from a hook.
“This was her room… when a child dies, it’s hard to know what to do with their bedroom: keep it intact as a museum, as if she may return unchanged at any moment, or dismantle it, like ripping off a plaster. For us this will always be her room, but gradually it has morphed into a study, or somewhere to which we can simply retreat.”
Katie looked around, she had not seen it before and she imagined how wonderful it must have been growing up here and watching the seasons change through the window.
“Have this,” Sylvie said, handing her the photo.
“I couldn’t possibly,” Katie replied.
“I’d like you to… not to put up in your own home, but to keep nevertheless. In a strange way, Justine has been a part of your life too… and anyway I have several copies, and thousands of other photos besides. So, please take it.”
“Thank you. I’ll look after it. I promise,” and Sylvie knew that Katie’s promises were good.
For the first time, her visit had been purely as a friend, rather than as a police officer, and by the time she left she had been with them a good two hours, chatting about Justine, as well as about Fergus and Sylvie themselves, their cruise and how they were going to Daniel’s christening the next day. Katie had told them also about her own plans to move to Lincoln to study visual arts:
“In the Metropolitan Police you quickly learn that life can be grim, but also that goodness is out there too, sometimes hidden, sometimes, as with Justine and yourselves, shining brightly. I want to see more of that beautiful side of life, seventeen years of urban policing is enough.”
They had agreed to stay in touch, but in truth all three of them suspected it might not happen, or at least not for a while. She had hugged them one last time and then had gone, leaving them alone once more, both hoping she would find the happiness they would have liked for their own daughter, who would have been only six or so years younger, had she lived.
Fergus and Sylvie entered the church and greeted Jones, Samantha and little Daniel, all three dressed smartly for the occasion. Two other babies were being baptised at the same time and Fergus surveyed them and their young parents admiringly. It was as if new life and all its promise were filling the building. When the time came, Fergus spoke his vows clearly, consciously reflecting on their meaning as he did. Finally, with little Daniel in his arms, the vicar said:
“Daniel William Freddie, I baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
Everyone repeated “Amen” but, as they did so, Fergus and Sylvie looked at each other in surprise at what they had just heard.
Afterwards, outside the church, Samantha laughed:
“I must be the only mother in the whole world who allows her son to be named after her husband’s former girlfriend! We did think about ‘Justin’, but Jones told me your daughter always hated being miscalled that, and obviously we weren’t going to call him ‘Justine’, so we settled on ‘Freddie’.”
Fergus and Sylvie were temporarily lost for words, so Jones stepped in:
“Giving him her name – even if only her nickname – well, it shows that she’ll never be forgotten, even though life moves on.”
“Oh Jones, you don’t have to prove anything,” Sylvie gently chided, “we’ve told you before, honour Justine by being happy. But thank you.”
“And thank you too,” Fergus added to Samantha, touched by her extraordinary generosity.
“You’re welcome,” she smiled, before whispering mischievously: “and anyway, you probably didn’t know it, but Daniel’s father here is named after a cat!”
“Actually we did!” they both exclaimed.
As the other three laughed, Jones pretended to be exasperated at yet another recounting of this thirty-five year old anecdote, but in fact he was long immune to its embarrassment. Soon he was chuckling along with them, though, in his case, perhaps less at the oft told joke and more at his own happiness and the sight of his wife so at ease with Justine’s parents.
The whole party retreated to Jones and Samantha’s small but comfortable semi-detached house for a light buffet lunch, followed by tea a couple of h
ours later, in the garden. Fergus reacquainted himself with Gabriel but alas, now aged seven, he was rather more grown up and self-conscious than he had been two years earlier, and he neither remembered nor cared to repeat their discussion about dinosaurs, preferring to race around with his young cousins instead. By early evening, Fergus and Sylvie made their excuses. They were pleased to have come but, much like Gabriel, they both found talking to strangers rather hard work.
“One day, when he’s a few years older, I’m going to bring Daniel round to show him the badgers,” suggested Jones.
“Yes, do that,” said Sylvie, “come sooner, you are always welcome, all three of you.”
They said their final goodbyes in the hallway, Sylvie blowing a kiss across to Daniel asleep in his carrycot in the next room, oblivious that this had been his big day. Jones let them out through the front door, which then closed behind them with a louder than expected thud, decisively separating their two worlds: the one of an exciting future and the other of a nostalgic past.
“So, a godfather! How does it feel?” Sylvie asked as they strolled to the car.
“Surprisingly good, but I don’t think being a godparent is easy these days.”
“Perhaps not, but I have a feeling you’ll do just fine.”
Fergus sat behind the wheel, took off his tie and opened his collar, able to breathe unrestricted again and suddenly aware of the St Jude chain hanging hidden inside his shirt. He briefly thought back fondly to Mrs Huffington, hoping she was alright and treasuring this little gift she had given him, even if he himself no longer felt a lost cause – perhaps it had worked its magic.
No matter how happy the occasion or wonderful the holiday, outbound journeys were never natural to them, requiring more effort and resolve, as if travelling against an invisible current or an atavistic instinct. Homewards invariably felt the right direction. They loved their beautiful house, in its tranquil surroundings, where they had always been secure, where their memories were, the home they had shared with their daughter, both whose presence and whose absence they felt there every day, but perhaps less painfully now.
Forty miles away, the house was equally eager to receive them, it fairly drew Fergus and Sylvie home as they headed steadily down the motorway. Meantime, Justine and Tiger’s ghosts waited patiently, playing together on its lawns, amidst the lengthening shadows, looking forward to the car pulling into the drive, to the crunching of the gravel and to knowing that all were safely home again, that all was as it should be.
Until then, brother fox sat sentinel by the front door, washing himself and occasionally swishing his tail, as dusk descended and the bats took to the deepening gloom, as the last kite sailed in to roost and a distant muntjac barked somewhere in the woods and as, from the depths of the badger sett, the first scratches and snuffles rose into the evening air.
“Roam” by Summer Martins
It’s just one year ago since she went away,
It feels like forever and like yesterday,
She was so full of colour, the world has turned grey,
And feels small when it once seemed so vast.
No it doesn’t seem true but her absence is real,
You’re still wanting to call her to say how you feel,
But she’s no longer with you and you can’t conceal
How she haunts you, this ghost from your past.
It’s just five years ago and you think with a sigh
How she left you that morning, no final goodbye,
And life still feels so empty, “Please why did she die?”
You ask for the ten thousandth time.
And a world rich with such beauty when she was near,
A world once filled with joy but now frozen in fear
Has lost what was precious because she’s not here:
A planet that’s now past its prime.
In the mountains she’s absent
And she’s not out at sea,
She’s not lost in a forest,
Nor in the city,
And you know that you may as well roam,
’cos she’s not coming home.
It’s now ten years ago yet you’re sensing her still
And it makes you so sad but it gives you a thrill,
You hope you might glimpse her but you never will,
She’s gone and she’s gone for good.
And all of those memories you hold deep inside
Are more precious than gold and you’re so full of pride
That she was once yours and oh how you tried
To protect her, you thought that you could.
In the mountains she’s absent
And she’s not out at sea,
She’s not lost in a forest,
Nor in the city,
And you know that you may as well roam,
’cos she’s not coming home.
You’re lying awake, can’t go to sleep,
The grief too profound, the pain far too deep,
The tears that you cry the sole crop that you reap,
You were happy, but now you just weep.
Her bright light is gone and your heart starts to crack,
But your mind still returns to the love that you lack,
And all that’s around in this world spun off-track
Is just darkness and blindness and black.
In the mountains she’s absent
And she’s not out at sea,
She’s not lost in a forest,
Nor in the city,
And you know that you may as well roam,
’cos she’s not coming home.
It’s just a lifetime ago since you first held her hand,
When you helped her to walk, helped her to stand,
Since you travelled with her across sea and land,
Will you join her where she’s gone away?
You cling to that hope as you breathe in and out
Through the long years, but there’s never a doubt
That her absence in life is what life’s all about.
Will you see her? You long for that day.
In the mountains she’s absent
And she’s not out at sea,
She’s not lost in a forest,
Nor in the city,
And you know that you may as well roam,
’cos she’s not coming home.
Times and Places Page 28
