I’d had to deliver him. We knew it was a him by then, because they had to scan me to see why he wasn’t moving. We decided to call him Thomas. The moment I saw that frozen image on the screen, I knew. I knew before anybody spoke; before Dr Winter held my hand; before I saw the realisation on Adrian’s face. I asked about a caesarean, but they said it could affect future pregnancies, so the only option was to go through labour.
After I said goodbye to Gillian, I went into the study to find the thick white writing paper, the stuff we hardly ever used but thought we ought to have to hand, just in case. I made some coffee and sat at the sun-warmed table in front of the big window overlooking the garden. I picked up my pen and began. My dear, sweet Thomas . . .
But I had to stop there, because just writing those words made me cry. This was the second child that had died inside me. Hundreds of thousands of women gave birth every year, sometimes women who didn’t even want kids. Teenagers, schoolgirls who knew nothing, who did all the things you’re not supposed to do, but they still had healthy babies, didn’t they? I’d taken my folic acid and given up alcohol as soon as we started trying to get pregnant, and I’d never smoked, not even when I was younger – why couldn’t I produce one live baby? I followed Gillian’s advice and allowed myself to sob, then I blew my nose and tried again.
My darling baby boy, it is two weeks today since you were ‘born sleeping’. I still can’t quite believe that you’re never coming home. I have loved you since the moment I knew you existed . . .
I paused again and bit the end of my pen.
It was so quiet now that Adrian had gone back to work. I hadn’t been alone for more than an hour since it happened, and I felt self-conscious all of a sudden, as though the house was listening to my thoughts, but I carried on.
. . . and the fact that you are not here with us now doesn’t change that. That short – much too short – time we spent together after you were born is so precious to me, even though you never took a breath. I rewind it in my head like a film, over and over again. I miss you so much, sweetheart.
With all my love, Mummy xx
I’d thought I might feel silly doing this, but I didn’t. I felt like I was actually talking to him. I picked up the page. It was like a proper letter, good-quality paper and rich, dark blue ink. I stood up, stretched and rubbed the back of my neck. I felt slightly – very, very slightly – lighter as I held the letter in my hand.
‘Some mums keep what they’ve written,’ Gillian had told me. ‘You may want to look back on it later. Others feel they won’t want to revisit such a painful time, even though pouring out what they feel now is important, so they burn it afterwards. Have a think about what feels best for you. Some mums say that burning the letter makes them feel as if they’ve sent it off to their baby, and they find that a great comfort.’
I decided I wanted to ‘send’ the letter to Thomas, so I rummaged in the kitchen drawer for the gas lighter, but it was empty and I hadn’t got round to buying the stuff to refill it. I was sure there must be some matches here somewhere. After more rummaging, I found an almost-full box. I put them in my pocket and, with the letter in my hand, slipped my shoes on and opened the back door. It was warm and sunny and the birds were singing. It was what most people would call a beautiful day, but it just made me even sadder that Thomas wasn’t here to see it. I walked down the garden to the gate at the bottom that opened onto the woodland path. I wanted privacy while I did this. I didn’t want to be observed from someone’s window. I walked a few metres along the path that ran behind the gardens until I came to where it widened, then separated and branched off. As I turned to go deeper into the woods, I recognised the strong, musky smell of fox. It was so powerful and distinctive; it always reminded me of a line from a Ted Hughes poem: a sudden sharp hot stink of fox.
The only people you tended to bump into out here were dog walkers, and there weren’t many of them at this time of day, so as soon as I got to a little clearing among the trees, I took out the matches. I didn’t think there was any breeze at all today, but as I struck match after match only for the flame to die instantly, I saw that I was wrong. I was about to strike another when the thought hit me that maybe Thomas didn’t want me to do this; maybe it was my baby’s breath that was blowing the matches out. I flicked my head, told myself not to be ridiculous. I’d never believed in that sort of thing, and if I allowed myself to start believing it now, it’d drive me crazy. I made a mental note to tell the counsellor about this when we saw her next week. Perhaps it was normal. Even so, as I took the next match from the box, I told myself that if it too went out immediately, I would give up. I struck the match and as it flared into life I almost dropped it, partly because I half-expected it not to light, but also because it was tricky holding the paper and the lit match at the same time. As soon as I held it to the corner of the page, I realised this wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought. Although the flame caught quickly each time, it struggled to eat through the thick paper and it took no fewer than five matches to burn down to where I was holding it between my thumb and fingertips. I let go at the last moment, then knelt down to look at the little pile of soft, charred flakes at my feet. It didn’t seem right to leave them here, and I wondered whether to try to gather them up and then scatter them, like we’d scattered Thomas’s ashes at the weekend. But when I touched a blackened curl with my finger, it disintegrated immediately. There was a rustling in the trees above me and a definite breeze lifted my hair and rippled the grass at the edge of the path, then it caught the black flakes of my letter to Thomas, and in no time at all they were gone, disappeared; dissolved in the wind.
I hadn’t been bothering much with lunch, but maybe my appetite was returning. I opened the fridge and peered in, surprised that there was so much food inside. Things in dishes, labelled with instructions for freezing and reheating – a chicken and asparagus quiche, a lasagne, a mixed-bean casserole. These were all from Diane. We were lucky to have such lovely friends and neighbours. I’d barely cooked since it happened. I hadn’t been able to concentrate enough to plan meals. Adrian had cooked a few times – comfort food: macaroni cheese, shepherd’s pie, pasta bake – the sort of thing my dad used to give me when I was little. I took out eggs, mushrooms and cheese. I fancied an omelette. I actually fancied making something decent to eat, instead of just putting bread in the toaster or shovelling down endless bowls of cereal. I made the omelette, I sat down and ate it, I even quite enjoyed it, but as I was putting the plate and cutlery in the dishwasher, I started to cry again, because I suddenly remembered Judy saying, ‘Make sure you stock up on eggs because once you’re home with the new baby, they’re the only thing you’ll have time to cook.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
NOW
The café is quiet today. Cassie brings over my coffee and cake and, as there’s no one else to serve, folds her arms and leans against the windowsill, ready to chat.
‘I love coming here,’ I say. ‘It’s not just that it’s good coffee – and cake – but there’s such a nice atmosphere, even when it’s quiet like this.’ I mean it. There’s something about the sound of the coffee machine in the background and the gentle hum of friendly conversation that I find soothing, especially on days like today, when I’m feeling a bit down. Sometimes, I feel I’m coming to terms with losing Adrian, but every now and again the grief surges up inside me, dragging anger in its wake. I miss him; I don’t want to be angry.
‘It’s a good place to work,’ Cassie says. ‘Everyone’s friendly and nice, and most of the customers are lovely. Do you live near here?’
I wondered if she’d ask that. ‘Not that near, no. I found this place by accident – I used to see an acupuncturist not far from here, but I’m not sure it was really helping.’ I cut into the cake with the fork. ‘So, do you work here full time?’ I try to sound casual, as if I have no idea of Cassie’s movements when she isn’t here in the café.
‘No, unfortunately. I’d love to, but I think I mentioned I hav
e a little boy, Oliver?’
‘Oh, yes, I think you mentioned him.’
‘Well, he’s just started preschool, so I have to fit work round that, really, and the dropping off and picking up can be a nightmare.’
I nod. Then, heart thumping, I ask, ‘What about his dad? Or does he work full time?’
Cassie’s expression flickers. ‘It’s just me and Ollie. His dad isn’t on the scene.’
I turn my head away so my face doesn’t betray my thoughts. I’m bursting to ask her what she means by that, because I know he was on the scene a few months ago, or he wouldn’t have been near Castledene that day. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy.’
‘No, it’s fine. We’re not in touch.’
‘Really? He doesn’t . . . he doesn’t support Oliver, then? Financially, I mean?’
She looks up sharply. My heart is hammering so hard I feel sure she’ll be able to see it leaping about in my chest.
‘No, he doesn’t, but we’re fine on our own. We manage.’
I go to reach for my coffee, but my hand is shaking, so I put it back in my lap. I swallow. ‘That’s terrible. Sounds like he’s avoiding his responsibilities.’
She looks at me oddly and I know I’ve gone too far. ‘Sorry. I don’t know what comes over me sometimes. I really must learn to mind my own business.’ I smile to try and make light of it, but part of me wants to tell her; part of me wants to scream at her that he’s dead and she won’t ever see him again. I feel tears threatening, so I swallow them back. Another part of me feels sorry for her, and the strange thing is, I quite like her, this woman who slept with my husband. Did she know he was married, I wonder?
‘Don’t worry. It’s not a secret or anything, and it’s not like he’s some horrible man who’s run out on me.’ She shifts position and refolds her arms. ‘It was my choice, you see. I didn’t want . . .’ She pauses. ‘Oh, never mind. It’s a boring story.’
‘I’m sure it isn’t – I like hearing about other people’s lives.’ Does that sound weird? ‘It must be tough for you, bringing up a child on your own.’ I gesture around the café. ‘This is lovely, but I’m guessing it doesn’t pay that much, not if you can only do part-time.’
‘No, it doesn’t. But my parents help out when they can – financially, I mean. They live in Cornwall, and I think they feel guilty that they can’t babysit. But it’s fine, because I’m banking on winning the lottery very soon – like, this Saturday. Or maybe next.’ She smiles. ‘So all this will be a distant memory, but in the meantime, I cope. I had a cleaning job as well up until a couple of weeks ago. Only a few hours a week, but it was quite well paid.’
‘You do cleaning? Oh, my god, you don’t want another job, do you? I’m serious. I could really do with a cleaner. We had one for a while, but she was a bit scary, to be honest – she’d been cleaning for forty-odd years and she liked things done her way.’
Cassie laughs. ‘I know the type.’
‘It would be much easier if it was someone like you coming to the house . . .’ I pause. ‘That’s if . . . I hope I haven’t embarrassed you by asking.’
‘No, no, it isn’t that. I’d love to clean for you, but it’s tricky now. Thing is, Ollie’s just moved up from nursery to preschool, but it’s only Monday to Thursday so he’s home on Fridays, which used to be my cleaning day – it’s the only day I don’t work here. I thought I might be able to swap things around a bit, but it didn’t work out.’
‘Bring him with you! Fridays are perfect for me. Morning, afternoon – whatever suits you.’
Cassie smiles. ‘That’s a very kind offer, but I’m sure you don’t want a manic three-year-old running around your house.’
‘I love children. He’s three, your little boy?’
‘Just. And I suppose I’m not being fair to him, really. He can be a handful at home sometimes, but he’s very well behaved when we’re out.’
‘Well, there you are then.’
Cassie is looking at me. ‘You’re serious? About me bringing Oliver, I mean?’ She glances at my wedding ring. ‘Is your husband at work during the day?’
‘I . . . I’m on my own now. And I’m totally serious. It would be lovely to have him – if he’s happy to come, of course. He could bring some toys to play with while you’re working.’
Cassie nods thoughtfully. ‘He’s a good boy, so he wouldn’t be any trouble. Can I think about it?’
‘Of course. There’s no hurry. I’d pay you the same as you were earning before, if you’re happy with that. I’ve let things go a bit lately, and I could really do with the help. And I promise you’d get a decent coffee break.’
‘You’re absolutely certain it’s okay to bring Ollie?’
‘Definitely! It’d be great to have him around. The house is far too big and quiet, especially now that . . .’ I almost use his name, but stop myself just in time. ‘Now that my husband’s gone.’
Cassie nods. ‘How long have you been on your own?’
But before I can answer, the door opens and three women who I vaguely remember seeing before come in, smiling and chatting, and Cassie goes off to serve them. It’s a long time since I’ve been out for coffee with friends. Or lunch, or a drink. Odd how, when I had friends, I took them for granted, often neglecting them in favour of Adrian. He was my best friend from the moment we met. At least, that’s what I thought. My eyes swim briefly and I blink away tears. To think he was cheating on me all the time. Well, not all the time, but even so. I drink the last of my coffee, more to break the train of thought than anything else. If I linger on this for too long, the pain is almost physical, like a steel rod being pushed through my very centre. I watch Cassie serving the women, smiling, remembering their usual orders, laughing at something with one of them. Cassie is just the sort of person I’d go for a drink with if I could.
The women settle themselves at the bigger table in the window and carry on talking and laughing, occasionally glancing at their phones. Cassie brings their drinks and cakes over on the tray. ‘Yes,’ I hear her say. ‘That’s my favourite, too, as it happens.’
The same thing she said to me. What if her friendliness is an act? Simply part of the job? I’m surprised at how much this idea bothers me, and when I look at the table and see that yes, she’s referring to the lemon and coconut cake, I am disproportionately relieved that it wasn’t only a sales technique. I’m beginning to realise just how much I need a friend.
As usual when I have a coffee, my fingers twitch for a cigarette, but I’m not going to go and stand outside to smoke. I probably would have done a year ago, but I’m determined to cut down this time. I make a firm decision: if Cassie agrees to bring Oliver with her to the house each week, I will stop smoking. There, I’ve made a pledge. It takes a moment for me to register the enormity of it. My addiction to nicotine happened bizarrely and quickly, and I still don’t completely understand it. Maybe if I have something else to think about, even if it’s only to solve the mystery of my apparently loving husband’s infidelity, I’ll no longer need the security of always having a packet of cigarettes to hand.
I don’t want to go home yet, and I’m about to get up and order another coffee when Cassie catches my eye and mouths, Same again? I nod and a few minutes later, she brings it over and sets it down on the table. ‘This one’s on the house,’ she says quietly. ‘So, what were we talking about?’
But at that moment, the door opens again and a young man with a laptop bag slung over his shoulder comes in. He holds the door open for an older couple, who are quickly followed by another group of women.
Cassie makes a tutting sound. ‘Sorry, Leah, I thought we were going to be dead quiet today, but it looks like the lunchtime rush is on after all.’
I glance at my watch. It’s well past noon, so the café’s bound to start filling up now. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say quickly. ‘I shouldn’t monopolise you anyway.’
‘You’re not monopolising me.’ She looks over to the man at the counter. ‘Be right with you,’
she calls, then turns to me. ‘I’ll definitely think about what you said, and I’ll let you know. You’re in next week, are you?’
I smile and say I will be. I like that all the staff recognise me now, although Cassie is the only one who uses my name. They expect me to be here on Wednesday mornings, and they don’t seem surprised when I pop in at other times.
As I drive home, I think about the possibility that Cassie might decide not to accept my offer. I push away the dark cloud. There’s no point in worrying about that now. I’ll just have to deal with it if and when it happens.
CHAPTER TWENTY
NOW
Waiting until the following Wednesday for Cassie’s response is unbearable, and I have to stop myself from going to the café before then. If I pressurise her into making a decision before she’s ready, she’ll probably say no. When I offered her the job, I thought it would help me get closer to her and Oliver, but now that there’s the possibility of her actually bringing him with her, the whole thing has become even more important.
When Wednesday finally comes round, I force myself to wait until my usual time before driving out to the café. As soon as I go in I can see that it’s much busier than usual. Cassie is in the middle of doing a big takeaway order, and there are three other staff serving today. I recognise Pam, the older lady; Lena, with the piercings; and Sam, a tall, fresh-faced and relentlessly cheery student who beams at me as I reach the front of the queue. ‘And what can I get for you on this lovely sunny day?’ I’m so used to Cassie knowing what I want that I have to think for a second before ordering my usual latte and a flapjack. As Sam keys my order into the till, I keep my eye on Cassie’s back, hoping she’ll turn round and give me some clue as to what she’s decided. ‘Okey-dokey,’ Sam says. ‘Sit yourself down and I’ll bring it right over.’
The Flight of Cornelia Blackwood Page 9
