‘Hey, don’t worry! I used to get the same pack up. I mean, I loved your mother, but I can’t tell you the number of times I’d accidentally forget the Tupperware in the fridge, just so I could indulge in the university canteen instead.’
‘Wow!’
He laughs, then sighs, his gaze drifting to a photo of Mum that has always been pinned to the table, beside his chair. ‘And you know,’ he says sadly, ‘I’d eat every single one of those rubbish sandwiches again, if it gave me one more day with your mother.’
I nod. ‘Or the undercooked new potatoes, the tasteless fish, the cold soup.’
‘Nobody needs cold soup!’
I smile at him trying to lift the mood.
‘She wasn’t a great cook, your mother. But my God, she was a fine woman.’
His description of her hurts. Because it feels so far from the person I am. So out of reach. Would Mum have been proud of me, were she still here today? Would I be the same person, had she not died? Was my path laid out before me, or did the fork in the road that was her death forever divert my future as she took her last breath?
Even here, having this conversation, these thoughts, the drama still comes through.
‘You could teach, though,’ Dad says simply.
‘Dad!’
‘I’m serious. I think Mo was right. You could teach! I could never see it in your mother, like I say, but you? You’re different.’
Do I want to be different to her?
‘How long have you worked at that nursery for? Eight years? It’s not the kids you don’t like, it’s the job. The age group, even. You could totally stand up in front of a class of kids and inspire them. Primary? Secondary, even – you can relate to how hard it is being a teenager.’
‘It was hard because of Mum.’
‘The reason doesn’t matter, it’s more real to you than most. It’s more raw. You feel it still, I can see that.’
‘I couldn’t handle teenagers.’
‘Primary then. Five, six. The kids just beginning their school life. The kids who are wide- eyed and ready to take on the world. As of next week, the money for this can be in your account.’
‘The house sale is going through?’
‘It is. And the caravan is ready. The spare cash will be waiting. What better way to refocus your wandering mind than this? You know, you’re not a bad person, love. Honestly, you’re not. You made a bad choice. Christ, we’ve all done that. But that doesn’t have to dictate the rest of our lives.’ He fixes me with that Dad look again. ‘You could do this. You’ve lived life. It’s not always been easy. That’s what they want, that’s appealing.’
‘Going back to uni with a load of freshers isn’t appealing,’ I groan.
‘Well, you could keep making excuses for the things you don’t want to do, or you could pull your socks up and work out a plan. These are your choices, love. And they’re nobody’s to make but your own. Now, are you going to help me pack? If I’m going to pay for your university course, this house sale has to go through.’
‘I haven’t said I’m going yet.’
‘No. But if I know you like I think I know you, you’ll come to your senses very soon. I just want to be prepared. Tell you what, go home. Talk to Mo, read, scour the Internet. You said you were taking some time off? Go on walks, take some time for yourself. See if you can find the woman I can see sitting before me.’
‘The woman?’
‘Yes. The woman. She reminds me of someone I once knew. Someone pretty great. When you find her, you’ll realise what you want. I’ve got to hand the keys over at 11 a.m. next Friday. Meet me in town at the Left Lion. Tell me what you have in mind and I’ll buy you lunch to celebrate.’ I look at him, uncertainly. ‘Up you get,’ he says, pulling me from the chair. ‘I’ve got stuff to do. And so have you.’ He ushers me to the front door. ‘See you next Friday.’
Dad stands on the top step of the home that lies in boxes at the very end of its service to us. ‘You’re going to be fine, you know,’ he says, and I realise I have no choice but to believe he might be right.
Thirty-Six
Ed
Neither Oli nor I slept much last night. He startled me awake at eleven with a cry of pain, his cheeks red-hot, his fingers in his mouth, searching, chewing, grizzly. To be fair, I’m not sure I’d have slept much even had he not been so restless. When I did climb into bed for half an hour’s respite here and there, I was restless too. I tossed and turned, mattress springs finding their way into my back, side or leg with each new position. At one point, Oli was in bed with me, his limbs soft and warm, his gentle breath like my own personal lullaby. When he cried out, pulling him in close gave me comfort because I was needed, though it wasn’t long before I could hear Ellie’s words: ‘We could roll on him, Ed. We might suffocate him.’ And ‘What if it became the only way to get him to sleep?’ Part of me doesn’t mind. Wouldn’t mind. Sleeping alone just reminds me what I’ve lost.
So it’s through gritty eyes that I’ve walked this promenade, up and down, since 8 a.m. I bought tea in a styrofoam cup, its contents hotter than the sun, plus a bacon sandwich that I managed no more than three bites of.
I waited for the bingo hall’s first call at nine thirty. Eighty-eight – two fat ladies; twenty-two – two little ducks; all on its own the number one.
I bought fresh doughnuts, taking a bite and letting its sugary coating stick to my lips for as long as I could possibly manage without licking it off – just like she would have done. Then I took Oli down to the shoreline, letting ice-cold water tickle his toes. I’d dangle them as the sea crept closer, Oli instinctively bringing his legs up each time. I watched the wind turbines swing round and round in perfect unison, momentarily mesmerised, transfixed, by the spin of the blades.
And now, I stand here by my car. Ten thirty. I can’t drag this out any longer. It’s time to face Simon, to face Lisa, if she’s there. Whatever peace I may be able to find in this new world, I have to embrace it. My survival depends on it.
Travelling out of Skegness and into the Lincolnshire countryside, bright yellow oil-seed rape surrounds us. Despite the murky sky, the yellow brightens the road. Grey and acid yellow stretches out ahead like a backward Yellow Brick Road minus Scarecrow, Lion and the Tin Man. I come to a turning: straight on for Lincoln, then Nottingham, or left for Coningsby and Cranwell. Ellie told me a story once, about a school trip to Tattershall Castle. Then later on, when she was older and driving, she’d come out here on dates with young squaddies. Even after those flings fizzled out, she’d describe Sundays in village pubs with a good book beside an open fire; happy on her own, happy in her skin. Company not essential.
I take the road that leads me past the castle and her memories. Through the villages of Spilsby, East Kirkby and Conningsby; Tattershall itself. ‘I love Lincolnshire,’ Ellie said once. ‘I love its honesty, its transparency.’ And as I drive the single road through the fields, it’s almost as if I can feel her here. As if a place she once talked fondly of has lapped up her love and taken it for its own. Tiny schools, the village stores. The planes overhead from the nearby air base.
The cottage houses with rambling gardens and fields beyond.
Maybe there’s a future here. Somewhere smaller. Somewhere that we aren’t known, not because I want to leave her behind, but to help us to find our own lives forward. In a place I know she loved.
I daydream the idea all the way back to Nottingham, so that when I hit the ring road, I’ve made three calls to estate agents, booking in appointments for valuations. I’ve been so distracted by new-found plans that it’s only as I’m about to pull into the car park by the courts that I realise I don’t want Oli with me when I do this; I don’t want to take him into a place like that. I don’t want the energy that spills from the walls to infiltrate his tiny heart.
It’s 12.30 p.m. I put my foot down, asking Siri to dial the nursery as I weave through the traffic and out the other side of town. Vicky answers.
‘Hi, Vicky,
this is Ed, Oli’s dad. I know I said he wouldn’t be in for a week or two but I need to do something. Can I drop him off, would that be okay?’
‘Of course, Mr Moran, no problem at all.’
‘Great, thank you.’
When I get to the nursery it’s feeding time. The smell of warm baby food permeates the corridors. There’s chatter and noise from each room, happy sounds and declarations of ‘well done’ to the kids who’ve eaten up. The baby room, by contrast, is much quieter. Rachel sits in a corner, feeding one of the babies. ‘Hi,’ I whisper, dropping Oli’s bag off by his peg.
‘Ed!’ She looks up, startled. ‘I thought—’
‘I know, I just… I have to be somewhere, I hope that’s okay?’
‘Of course.’
She gets up, placing the baby down in a cot, coming over to take Oli from me, her touch clumsy and out of character. ‘Are you okay? I wasn’t expecting to… is everything alright? Did you…?’ Her words trail off and I wait, wondering what she was going to say. She coughs. ‘Never mind. What time will you be collecting him?’ she asks, her tone suddenly formal.
‘I’m not sure, I’ve got to…’ I decide against expanding. I’ve overshared enough in recent weeks. ‘By six at least.’
‘Great, okay.’ She smiles awkwardly. ‘See you later then.’ She takes Oli over to the other baby who has grown cross at being put down halfway through his lunch.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I shout over the increasing noise. ‘Thanks!’
She waves, her head buried in the cot, Oli in her spare arm.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve parked up and jogged down to the courts. I stand outside the imposing sandstone building, which is sliced in two by a glass panel that reflects the now bright- blue sky. People come and go but I can’t move. My feet are rooted to the pavement as I begin to realise what I’m doing, what I’ll hear. This building holds the people and information that will decide the fate of my brother, the future of my family. Information that will pick apart the events leading up to my wife’s death, putting them back together piece by piece, the outcome remaining the same. The second I step over that threshold, I cannot turn back. I can’t unhear things, I can’t unsee them. I can’t pretend this isn’t a pivotal moment in the story of Ellie’s death.
With a deep breath, I push through into the foyer, searching the walls for directions on where to go next.
‘Edward?’
I snap around in the direction of the voice to see my mother, cradled by Dad, a suited man in a black gown beside her. She sobs, and Dad guides her to a row of seats.
‘Mum? Dad? What happened? What’s going on?’ I crouch down beside her, the stoic woman I know in tatters before me. ‘Mum?’ When I look up to Dad, his face is pale, grave. He shakes his head.
‘Mr Moran?’ asks the man beside us all. I nod, standing to face him. ‘Your brother has been given a custodial sentence. Four years. They’ve just taken him away.’
As his words filter, the world around me begins to blur. His words merge into one another. ‘But I thought’ – I check my watch – ‘he wasn’t due in until…’
‘They had a no show. Brought the case forward.’
The sound of Mum’s sobs fade yet I feel as though everything else around me is louder, larger, more intense than it was before. ‘But… I need to talk to him,’ I hear myself say. ‘I was going to talk to him.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to apply for a visit. And then wait to see if he wishes to see you.’
‘But, this can’t… no… NO! I need to… you don’t understand. Mum, Dad. I need to… I can’t… NO!’ I shout. ‘Fucking NO!’
‘Mr Moran!’ The man holds his arms up, raising his voice. He tries to shield me from Mum, or her from me, I’m not sure. ‘Perhaps you should get some fresh air.’
‘I don’t want fresh air,’ I shout. ‘I want to see my brother!’
‘Edward!’ shouts Dad, his hand on my shoulder. ‘Stop!’
I look to him, my breath heavy, his eyes firm, immovable. Just like they always were when he’d step in to take over from something Mum had lost control of. ‘Not. Now,’ he says.
I stagger back a few steps, turning and pushing my way out of the door and into the afternoon sun. Two blokes push past me as they make their way into the building. The road is noisy, buses and cars racing past. A siren screams out and it feels as though Nottingham spins around me, pushing me into a corner by the building, my stomach heaving, empty. Bile hits the pavement as I retch in pain and dismay. How can this be? How can any of this be?
I drop, slowly, to sit on the low wall that surrounds the courts. Someone takes hold of my shoulders. ‘Hey, it’s okay. It’s all going to be okay, shhhh, shhhhh.’ But when I look up, Lisa’s face comes into view, forcing me up and away from her. ‘Ed, it’s okay. I’m here to help. Ed, please,’ she says, jogging after me.
‘Since when have you wanted to help? Me or anyone?’ I shout. ‘Since when have you cared about anyone apart from yourself?’
‘I’m sorry, I know I haven’t helped. I know I’ve said things. Things that must have hurt!’ she shouts after me. ‘It’s been hard for us all!’
I cross the road before the lights have changed; she dodges cars to follow me.
‘Ed, please! Stop!’ She pulls me by the arm, swinging me around.
A group of people in a bus stop nearby pretend they aren’t watching, burying their heads in phones or books with the occasional side glance in our direction.
‘What happened?’ she asks. ‘In court. What did they say?’
I stop dead. ‘You weren’t there?’ I spit. ‘You left him to go through this alone?’
‘We were splitting up, I told you…’
I clasp my hands on the top of my head. ‘How is this fair, Lisa? How are you here, standing in front of me, after all you’ve spewed in the last few months. After deserting my brother, probably when he needed you most. How are you still here when my wife is six feet under?’ I take a step towards her. ‘He’s just been given a custodial sentence and you wander the streets, still causing upset,’ I hiss, spit catching her eye. She wipes it, head down, but doesn’t step away.
‘We might not be together, Ed, but I still have feelings for him.’
‘Really? You didn’t just come here to gloat at him? To see him get what you think he deserves?’
‘What, and you don’t think he deserves it too?’
‘I don’t know what I think!’
‘Well, I do. I think that your wife was killed because your brother was driving like an idiot, fuelled by the fact that they’d got themselves into a mess they couldn’t talk their way out of.’
‘What mess? What are you talking about?’
‘The one where they were going to leave us. Be together. Plunge us all into misery for their own selfish gain. Christ, Oli’s probably not even your son, Ed!’
My legs buckle. I fall against the wall, lungs clean empty of breath. From the corner of my eye I see her standing there, watching me, waiting. I stumble, falling towards her. ‘Never, never,’ I repeat, pushing her against the wall, my arm across her chest, ‘NEVER speak to me again.’
‘Hey, leave her!’ shouts a woman from somewhere behind us.
Lisa bites on her lip; she holds my gaze. ‘Don’t worry,’ she whispers. ‘I’m gone.’ And she pushes herself up off the wall, unsteadily walking away, leaving me alone in Nottingham with words that pierce what is left of my strength to carry on.
Thirty-Seven
Ed
I don’t remember the walk back to the car, or the drive back to the house. I don’t remember pulling up, getting out or unlocking the front door. I don’t remember anything when I finally realise I’m in our room, pulling clothes out of my wardrobe and throwing them into a suitcase. I can’t stay here, we can’t stay here. Clothes lay messily on top of each other, trainers, underwear, anything I might need for the foreseeable future is shoved in, forced down, zipped away.
I take an empty
duvet cover from the airing cupboard on the way to Oli’s room, using it to collect blankets and clothes, nappies and wipes in. I get stuff to bathe him with, the baby monitor, the temperature gauge, the mobile that shines stars on the ceiling. Toys and cards given to us on Oli’s birth fall to the ground as I pull out things of sentimental value to throw into a bag on the side. I get anything he might need in the future to remind him of the love he had from his mother; the person he has to believe she was. The person I have to believe she was too, even if right now I just don’t know.
I throw the bags down the stairs, watching them mark the walls as they tumble to the bottom, coming to rest by the front door. I shut the curtains in all the rooms. I run downstairs, throwing my laptop and chargers into a bag. I shake a black bin bag into the air, letting it blow open for me to throw in days’ old wet clothes from the washing machine.
I pause by the fridge. Photos, drawings, notes in Ellie’s hand. It’s the first thing to slow me down. I pick a letter from beneath a magnet, running my fingers over her handwriting before pulling everything else from the fridge and shoving it into the bag. Magnets scatter as I lift off the bits I want to keep.
Outside, everything is chucked on the back seat of the car, in the boot, in the passenger footwell. I run back up to the house, pulling coats and more shoes from the downstairs loo, along with the cat basket for Floyd. And then I see a photo of us, taken beside the Major Oak in Sherwood Forest on an anniversary one year. On the day, we said we’d take one each year until the day we, or the Major Oak, finally died. We hadn’t been back since that day; one of those things that never quite happened when life took over. I lift the photo from the wall, cradling it. Then I collect others: us with friends; the house on the day we bought it; a selfie on the doorstep; us on our wedding day, the framed print that welcomes everyone at the front door.
The Lost Wife: An uplifting page-turner about grief, love and friendship Page 17
