‘When I start laughing, I start to cry. It’s like my eyes won’t let me feel happy. They remind me that Dad died.’ He pulled away so he could see her face. ‘And today was horrible. Something keeps . . . keeps happening to me,’ he stammered.
‘What keeps happening?’
‘I was chatting to Harri and I forgot, Mum. I forgot. I forgot about Dad. And I was looking forward to telling him about my Chemistry project and was going to ask him if he had any more ideas about the holidays, and then I remembered he wasn’t here any more and I couldn’t breathe and I got a pain here’ – he touched his fingers to his breastbone – ‘and Harri got me a glass of water and told Mrs Dupré.’
‘That was kind of Harri.’ She smoothed his thick, dark hair. ‘One thing I do know is that Daddy wouldn’t want you to be sad when you thought about him. He always wanted to make us happy.’ She was aware of the slight rush to her words; the phrases felt slightly sour in her mouth. She saw Mrs Appleton closing the front door on her, pictured Mr Monroe as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, saying, ‘Things are not good . . .’ She was unsure of what his dad would say or want, unsure of the man she had been married to for all these years, the man who had consigned them all to live in a downward spiral over which she had no control. It was awful to feel the cracks appear in the love she had for him, knowing there was no chance of seeing him, of making it right.
‘I can’t feel happy, Mum. I miss him so much.’
Her son’s tears fell anew and it was all she could do not to sink to her knees and cry with him.
After the boys were tucked up in their beds, Nina crept into Finn’s study and switched on the desk lamp and the computer. She let her fingers trail the bookshelves and wondered where to start, unsure of what she was looking for. The computer blinked at her, requesting a password. She went through all of their names, and then tried the places they had visited and loved, all to no avail; Finn had clearly gone for something less obvious. She then entered the same all over again, but added their ages or the dates they had made the trips, anything she could think of, hoping to get lucky.
She didn’t.
‘You bloody fool, Nina!’
Frustration made her slap the desktop, which only served to sting her palm. She flexed and splayed her fingers, trying to ease the sharp pain. She pulled open the deep bottom drawer of the desk and found a black leather folder. It was empty, but inside the metal rings had pressed into the soft contours of the calf leather, suggesting that it had once been full of weighty documents.
‘Why would you empty your folders? How long were you hiding things from me?’ she whispered, running her hands through her hair and feeling the anger grow in her gut. ‘How could you do this to me, Finn?’
In the middle drawer under a stack of boating magazines was a bundle of letters, only about half of which had been opened, from a company called Mackintosh and Vooght. They had all been addressed to the business premises in Bradford-on-Avon, and each one was branded with ugly red letters ‘URGENT’ and ‘DO NOT IGNORE’. She could only imagine how it must have felt to receive these daily, and again pictured the mask he wore, his jovial tone, kidding her that all was well, letting her pore over swatches of fabric for the new curtains in the spare room – and all the while he was edging backwards, each step taking him closer to the cliff edge . . . His subterfuge hit her again and filled her with rage.
‘Pay now in full or we will have no choice but to commence proceedings to recover,’ she read aloud. ‘Each missed payment is incurring an added penalty of five per cent over and above your original debt . . .’ Nina couldn’t bear to look at any more. She returned them to the drawer and closed it. As she moved the keyboard of the computer, the desk jotter shifted and she saw something underneath. She picked up the keyboard and found a white envelope underneath.
‘Nina,’ she read in her husband’s instantly recognisable hand.
Her heart jumped. He had written to her? Her fingers shook as she balanced the slim envelope on her palm and brought it to her nose, inhaling the faintest scent of his smoky cologne. Slowly, carefully, she turned it over in the lamplight, finding it was open. The letter inside was just three lines long. She knew her husband’s script well and could tell instantly that it had been written hurriedly.
Her heart felt like it might leap from her chest as she scanned the words.
My Nina,
Things are hard for me – I feel like I am living in a world made of glass & with every day comes a new pressure that is pushing down down down & I don’t know what will break first, me or my world . . .
That was all.
She held the paper to her chest, then looked at it again. She turned it over and scanned it a second time, a third, ridiculously hoping that under closer scrutiny new words or vital information might suddenly appear. She was thankful that she was sitting, fearing she might faint otherwise. She pictured his face on the morning he left the house for the last time. There had been no clue that anything was amiss. She was sure that if he had been in an altered state of mind she would have seen it, sensed it. The little voice echoed in her mind again.
Would you really, Nina? He kept all of this from you! You were clueless, in the dark.
Tears dripped from her chin as she scanned the lines again. She thought of Mr Monroe’s words: ‘And I hate to think that I am the one who might be shedding light on Finn’s untimely death . . .’
Nina began to shake. She reread the note, feeling fairly certain that this was the beginning of her husband’s goodbye.
She folded the letter, placed it in her pocket and ran out of the room, across the soft carpet of the landing and down the stairs, grabbing her car keys from the hall table en route. Creeping from the house, she locked the front door and ran to the car.
She carefully, slowly, turned the car around despite her shaking hands, and drove through the gates. When she cleared the gravel drive she put her foot down. Hard. Her heart thumped as she increased her speed, racing through streets slick with the residue of rainfall.
The note seemed to pulse in her pocket. She saw the words vividly imprinted in her mind. Her knuckles twisted against the leather of the steering wheel, gripping it so hard her fingers turned white. Every muscle was coiled, tense, expectant. She screeched around bends, head down, ignoring the speedometer and racing up and down the gears. Let the police try to stop her; she was in the mood for a fight. Suddenly there she was: on the top ridge in Alexandra Park.
She parked under a large tree and cut the engine. She balled her fists and punched the steering wheel as hard as she could, over and over, thumping her head back on the headrest repeatedly.
‘What have you done? What have you done to us, Finn? Eight million pounds! Eight million pounds!’ she screamed. ‘How did you manage that? You have destroyed us! Destroyed our lives and now it seems there is the chance that you took yourself out of the bloody equation, just jumped and left us to cope without you . . . How could you do that to me, to the kids? How could you? Did you do that? Did you leave me on purpose?’ Tears of anger, frustration and sadness choked her.
She jumped out of the car and paced back and forth, before kicking the wheel with all her might. ‘How could you? You bastard!’ she screamed at the top of her voice. An owl hooted its response. Under any other circumstances this might have made her laugh, but not tonight. ‘Sod off!’ she shouted at the poor creature as it fled.
She slunk back to the car and climbed inside, where she laid her head on the steering wheel, feeling all of her energy seep out of her. She stared over the hills and down the ridge towards the city she loved, then closed her eyes for a moment.
When she tried to open them, they were stuck together with a thick paste of mascara and tears.
‘The thing is, if you left me by choice, then I didn’t know you, and if you felt you couldn’t tell me about our situation, then you didn’t know me. And if that is the case then what did we have, Finn? I feel like I have been living a lie and I don’t know
how much more I can take.’
She stared at the twinkling lights of the city, muted in the haze of rain; they looked like amber-coloured stars. She had come up here with Finn when they first met, both intent on getting the kissing business out of the way, both nervous, shy. In his newly acquired flashy car, they had sat awkwardly until she suggested they best go home. ‘My dad’ll be waiting for me . . .’ she had offered, knowing that even the confident Finn wouldn’t want to upset Big Joe.
She felt her face collapse, thinking of everyone she loved who had gone: her mamma, dad, gran, grandad, aunts, uncles and her Finn. She looked up through the window and wondered how many of them were trying to offer comfort and support from a place so out of reach. She pressed her head to the glass and whispered, hoping her words would rise up and reach them, ‘You need to try harder. I need more help. I feel like I am falling apart and I don’t know how much longer I can hang on.’
Slowly she drove up to the house and cut the engine. Every sound seemed magnified. Once safely inside, she peeped in on the boys; both slept soundly. Padding across the landing, Nina walked straight to the bedroom, where she teetered past her dressing room and bathroom, shunning her usual bedtime routine of make-up removal and teeth cleaning. She threw herself down onto the bed, where she buried her face in her husband’s sweatshirt and cried until she ran out of tears. She hated that her memory of him was changing, distorting the last solid foundation on which her life was built. She looked around the bedroom. It made her sad and reflective to be placing her marriage under a microscope in a way that she knew she never would have done had Finn not been killed. This only confused her even more. She felt bereft and lonely and despite her muddle of thoughts would have given anything to feel his arms around her.
Eventually she sat up and held the covered pillow to her chest. She rested against the headboard of their wide bed. A fresh wave of tears found their way to the surface; Nina scooted them away with her sleeve and wished they would stop, beyond exhausted by her sadness. She stared into the darkness of the night. The only light came from the walkway to the terrace where muted beams illuminated the path to the house. She had not changed the bed linen since his death, unable to think that the essence of him would be laundered away, preferring to sleep with his scent on the softened sheets and the feel of him around her, cocooning her in the night, soothing away the nightmares.
Only this wasn’t a nightmare, it was her real, waking life and she didn’t know how she was going to survive it.
FIVE
After a fitful sleep, Nina awoke before dawn. The boys still safely in bed, she tied her hair up with a square scarf and headed down to the basement to tape together cardboard boxes. She brought them upstairs, slowly filling them with ornaments and lamps from her bedroom as quietly as she could, packing stealthily, without any clue as to where she would next be setting up home.
I need to rent somewhere, anywhere. I’ve probably got enough cash for a few weeks’ rent on something basic, and I need to get a job. But first, you have to pack stuff up, Nina, pack it away and keep it safe . . .
She reached her hand to the back of the drawer in her bedside cabinet and stopped suddenly. She pulled out the fragile gold-coloured matchbox and stared at the words ‘Tordenskjold tœndstikker’ still visible on the aged container, along with a faded picture of a rather grand-looking admiral on the lid.
There were only a couple of clear memories that stood out in her mind. In one – she could only have been a young three, making it not long before her mother died – she was standing by a window, and there was snow on the ground outside, the image framed in her mind by the heavy red-and-white-checked curtains. Her mum had placed a marble in the palm of her hand; she heard her voice clearly and could picture the embroidered edge of her smocked blouse. ‘This is a little world, Nina.’ Nina had run her fingers over the cool glass, marvelling at the shiny round thing with the blue wispy wave captured in its centre. ‘And if ever the real world feels too big or too scary, remember that it is nothing more than a little ball travelling through space and it fits right into the palm of your hand, and the more courage you have, the braver you are when facing it, the easier it is to conquer!’
Nina carefully pushed the little cardboard insert, taking the marble out of the small box, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger before closing her palm around the cool glass.
‘Oh, Mum. I don’t think the world has ever felt so big or scary to me as it does right now. I’m going to take each day as it comes and not think too far ahead. As for conquering it? I think that might be a little way off.’ She kissed the little glass orb and placed it carefully in its cotton wool nest before closing the matchbox and placing it in the soft, navy-coloured handbag she was now using.
She made breakfast for the boys and drove them to school. Every moment she thought it might be appropriate to tell them what was happening, like during the ride that morning, she lost her nerve. She wanted to preserve their happiness for as long as she was physically able.
Back home she spent the day in limbo, packing up the study and starting on the sitting room before retreating to her bed and lying there, stealing minutes of sleep from the thoughts, ideas and fears that crowded her mind. It was like a hundred people were all shouting at her, all at once, each of the belief that the louder they shouted, the more chance they had of being heard. The reality was that no one thought was distinct, and all were part of the wall of noise that blocked anything coherent. She imagined screaming at Finn, and then trying to tell the boys of their situation in a way that would not damage the memory of their dad. It was an impossible position. And one she could barely reconcile. It felt easier, if not vital, to shut down and nap in the grubby bed where her husband’s shape lingered. Before she knew it, it was school collection time and once again she was forced from her refuge.
She met Declan, and the two of them walked along Milsom Street alone; George’s mum was dropping Connor at home after their rugby match on the outskirts of town. Declan was long overdue for a haircut, and it was important that things like this were not allowed to slip, important that she kept up the standard for her boys. Usually they went to the fancy salon where she had been a regular for years and where her curly blonde locks were kept in tiptop condition from regular trims and treatments. Her visits there were as much a social activity as they were about keeping her unruly tresses in good shape. She had liked to sit anonymously in the leather chair and listen to the hubbub of gossip all around her. She had cash in her purse, but now knew how important it was to keep hold of it. Today she was taking Declan to a barber for the first time, where his cut would be a fraction of the cost.
‘So what are we going to do for the holiday, Mum?’ Declan asked. Shop windows screamed of discounts, and the stores all seemed to feature soft wool products and warm lighting, trying to draw people in during the lull between Christmas and Easter. One sign read ‘Winter’s nearly done! Look towards spring!’ but she could see no sunshine in sight.
‘I don’t know yet, darling,’ she said as lightly as she could. Forget the holiday, she didn’t know where they were going to live! How they were going to live! The realisation shattered her thoughts like a pick to the brain. ‘It doesn’t really matter, does it? We’ll have fun no matter what.’
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Connor. A barrage of screams and shouts instantly sent her heart rate soaring.
‘Mum!’ he yelled. She heard the panic in his voice and her stomach leapt into her throat, was he hurt? In danger? It was a split second of pure agony until he spoke again. ‘There are men in the house! I thought they were burglars, they rushed in behind me and I told them I’d call the police, but they just laughed. Where are you? I don’t know what to do! I . . .’
‘Connor, take a deep breath! Take a deep breath, darling.’ Grabbing Declan’s hand, she began to run up the street towards the car park, cursing the fact that she had not been there when he got home. Oh, God help me. I thought I had longer. ‘Don’t go near
the men. Go and sit in the garden or the driveway – I’m on my way.’
‘They’re . . . They’re taking our stuff, Mum! What’s going on?’ His voice was shrill and childlike.
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just hang on, Con. I’m coming!’ she shouted, ignoring the stares of passers-by who started at the woman yelling and dragging her bewildered eleven-year-old by the hand as she ran back up the street she had only just sauntered down.
Nina ran towards the car and after making sure Declan was buckled up, jumped in, slamming the door and trying twice to secure her seat belt before managing to connect the metal end with the slot. Her fingers shook on the steering wheel and she cursed and yelled ‘Come on! Come on! Dammit!’ at every red light that made the fourteen-minute journey feel like a lifetime. Declan sat in wide-eyed shock on the back seat.
‘What’s happened, Mummy?’ he whispered.
‘I think there’s a mix-up at home. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.’ She tried out a look of reassurance in the rearview mirror.
Nina pulled the car through the gate and came to a screeching halt on the gravel driveway, parking behind a large battered lorry with the tailgate lifted and a ramp lowered to the ground. Connor stood to the left of the front door with his school bag and blazer in a heap by his feet and his fingers in his hair as he paced back and forth with a look of utter anguish on his face. Declan started crying. The fear and misery were infectious.
‘Listen to me, Declan. I need you to do exactly as I tell you.’ She spoke sharply. ‘I need you to be a big boy and stay here quietly in the car, until I come and fetch you. I’ll put the radio on and I will be back. Okay?’ She tried to hide the desperation from her voice as she pushed the button, filling the space with the tuneful chorus of an upbeat pop song; its incongruence to the situation was maddening.
‘Okay,’ he managed, pushing his glasses up his nose before wriggling back in his seat and sitting up straight, as if his life depended on it.
The Art of Hiding Page 9
