‘Tinker. How about that as a name, Ollie?’
‘Ah, there he is,’ the woman points to a threadbare armchair where a tiny white paw is just visible poking over the top. ‘He likes climbing, does this little lad.’ She turns the armchair round to reveal the grey kitten spread out like a starfish across the back, claws clinging to the upholstery and tail flicking back and forth. ‘Come on, young-fella-me-lad.’ She carefully unhooks each claw and then buries her nose in the grey fur before gently placing the kitten in Ollie’s arms.
We go back through into the kitchen and I count out the cash as the woman goes through the kitten’s routine and hands over his vaccination record. Ollie is kneeling on the floor, grinning as he draws his finger up the front of the sofa to encourage the kitten to climb after it. ‘Now, I’m sure you’re very excited, Oliver,’ the woman says, ‘but you must remember that kitty is still a baby, so although he’ll enjoy playing with you, you must be very gentle, and you must remember that kitty needs his rest, too.’
Oliver giggles as the kitten bats at his finger with its paw, but then he glances up and nods. ‘Okay.’
‘It might take kitty a few days to get used to his new home, so you’ll have to—’
‘Oh, Oliver doesn’t live—’
But the woman continues, ‘ . . . be patient with him, and make sure you listen to Mummy when she—’
I hesitate before interrupting a second time. Ollie is so engrossed in the kitten, he isn’t paying much attention anyway. I’ve been a mother; will always think of myself as one, but I’ll never be ‘Mummy’ again. ‘I’m not his mum, actually. But he’ll be having quite a lot to do with the kitten, I hope.’ I brush my hand through Ollie’s hair. ‘You’re going to come and play with him at my house, Ollie, aren’t you?’
He nods, not taking his eyes from the kitten.
‘Oh, sorry, I just assumed. Well, Oliver, still bear in mind that you mustn’t tire him out when you visit him, okay?’ She looks at me. ‘Have you decided what to call him yet?’
‘What do you think, Ollie?’ I’ve made it his choice, so if he insists on Spiderman . . .‘Spider,’ he says. And the cat is named.
Ollie pleads to be allowed to stay a bit longer, even though Spider is now sound asleep in the red tartan basket we bought from Petland on the way home. ‘I told Mummy I’d have you home by teatime, but maybe . . . What’s your favourite tea, Ollie?’
He thinks about it. ‘Sausages and beans.’
‘That’s amazing! That’s my favourite, too. In fact, I was thinking of having sausages and beans tonight. I wonder if Mummy would let you have tea here? Then you can play with Spider for a bit longer and I could take you home after. Would you like that?’
Ollie is bouncing around by this time, and I wonder whether the Fanta and chocolate fingers I gave him the moment we got back have anything to do with it. He’s dancing around the kitchen. ‘Yes please, yes, please, yes pleasy-weasy, Leah-leasy.’ Then he’s overtaken by giggles.
‘Okay, let’s call Mummy and see what she says.’
Cassie is still cleaning up after the flood, she says, so if I’m sure I don’t mind . . .
We sit together at the kitchen table, Ollie swinging his legs and chattering away as he eats his sausages and beans, and I find myself staring at him, at the way one of his eyebrows arches slightly higher than the other, just like Adrian’s; the way a little tuft of hair sticks up at the crown. I think about my babies.
Oliver plays with the kitten again after we’ve eaten, and when it’s time to go home, he looks almost tearful until I remind him that he’s coming again tomorrow because it’s Friday. By the time we pull up outside Cassie’s, he’s so nearly asleep that his eyes are glazed and half-closed. ‘Come on, sweetheart.’ I unclip him from the child seat and lift him out, settling him against my hip. He lays his head against my shoulder and puts his thumb in his mouth, and for a few blissful moments, I rest my head against his before locking the car and carrying him into the house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THEN
We were in bed by ten o’clock most nights. We both started yawning at about nine, so there didn’t seem much point in fighting it. Grief was tiring. Adrian reached for his book, and I picked up my notebook and rested it against my knees. I wasn’t using proper writing paper this time, because I’d decided to stop ‘sending’ my letters. I was thinking of this more as a journal now, even though I still wanted to write in letter form. I’d tried writing a journal before, but I wasn’t very good at keeping it up. It didn’t matter this time, though, because it wasn’t for any other purpose than to help me to come to terms with losing Thomas.
My darling baby boy,
It’s now more than three months since we said hello and goodbye to you on the same day. I still think about you every single day and night and I miss you more than I thought possible. I am back at work now, and in some ways it helps, because when I’m thinking about my lectures, or writing my comments on a student’s essay, it means there’s a purpose for me, a reason to be here. For the first few weeks all I could think about was that the thing I was meant to do was to be your mummy, but that I’d never be able to mother you like I was supposed to. It’s so hard to accept. I am trying, though.
Daddy and I talked about you last night, and we looked at the photos we took of you in hospital. You were so beautiful, so peaceful. You really did look as if you were asleep, about to open your eyes at any moment. We found some pictures of Daddy when he was a baby, and you look exactly the same.
Then I found myself writing, Did you get my last letter? I crossed it out quickly. Idiot. I felt so stupid I almost laughed at myself. I didn’t think setting my letters alight and allowing them to burn was silly, though. And I suppose I was ‘sending’ them, in a way, in that I was releasing my expression of grief and love out into the ether rather than keeping it all inside. But if I started thinking I was actually sending them to Thomas, and that he was going to read them, well, that was borderline nuts. Some of the women on the baby loss forum talked about feeling as if they were going crazy, or being ‘mad with grief ’. And sometimes it did feel as if I was only just holding onto my sanity.
Sweetheart, I write. I’d give anything to hold you in my arms and look into your eyes. I love you so much. Mummy xxx
I closed the notebook and put it on the bedside table. Adrian yawned and shut his book. ‘I don’t know why I’m bothering,’ he said. ‘I’ve just read three pages and haven’t taken in a word.’
‘Tired?’ I asked. ‘Or were you thinking about Thomas?’
‘Bit of both, I suppose.’
Part of me was glad it wasn’t just tiredness that was stopping him from reading. I knew he’d been devastated at the time, but after the first few weeks it seemed as if he was getting over it, and while I didn’t want him to be as bogged down by grief as I was, I didn’t want to be left behind, either.
He gave a big, deep sigh. ‘It was hard today. At work.’
My first thought was that I really couldn’t give a toss whether he’d had a hard day at work. My baby was stillborn, for Christ’s sake! I must have made some sound that gave away what I was thinking because he turned sharply to look at me.
‘I wasn’t going to tell you this, because I know it’ll upset you, but . . . Well, the thing is, now you’re back at work, too, the same thing’s bound to happen to you at some point, so I thought I’d—’
‘Stop talking in riddles. What happened?’
He sighed again. ‘Toby – you remember Toby? Got married Christmas before last – we went to the evening do?’
‘Yes, of course I remember. What about him?’
‘They’ve had a baby.’
The room seemed to shift. My throat closed up and although I tried to speak, nothing was coming out. I took a breath, then let it out slowly. ‘I . . . I see.’
‘I’d forgotten they were pregnant, then he rang in to say she had the baby at two o’clock this morning, and of course I had to cong
ratulate him, say what wonderful news it was.’
‘Did he know? About Thomas?’
Adrian shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. He’s been working at Loughborough. Only came back last week, so I don’t suppose anyone would have told him, not with his wife about to . . . In any case, I certainly didn’t.’
He reached for my hand. We sat there for a good few minutes, not saying anything, just thinking. I wanted to put my arms around him, or even just move nearer to put my head on his shoulder, but I felt frozen.
He sighed. ‘Well, I just thought I’d tell you, you know? So you’re prepared for it if the same thing happens at your place.’
I nodded. It was quite likely, given that I had a lot of female colleagues. And students, of course. I couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to me. ‘I’m sorry. It must have been upsetting.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It was shit.’ There was a hint of anger in his voice, then another silence. ‘Oh, well, I suppose we’d better get some sleep.’ He leaned over and kissed me briefly, chastely, on the lips. ‘Night,’ he said, and reached out to switch the lamp off.
‘Goodnight,’ I murmured, and then we turned our backs on each other and tried to sleep, our bodies not even touching.
I wondered how this had happened to us. And I wondered how long it would last.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
NOW
Ollie wakes again as soon as we’re inside, bursting with news of the kitten and the name he’s chosen and the nice lady with the smelly house full of cats. It isn’t long before his chatter subsides, though, and he’s soon yawning. Encouraged by the novelty of sleeping on a camp bed in his mum’s room until the ceiling is repaired, he trots off to bed without argument.
‘Out like a light,’ Cassie says when she comes down from tucking him in. She opens the fridge and takes out a half-full bottle of Chardonnay. ‘I know I said stay for a cuppa, but shall we have a glass of wine instead? I bloody deserve it after the day I’ve had. And you deserve it for helping out with Ollie.’
‘Just a small one, then. Honestly, he’s no trouble. And it was lovely to see him with the kitten.’
‘I’m knackered.’ Cassie raises her glass and clinks it against mine. ‘I’ve had to move everything out of his room so the guys can get to the ceiling to repair it, and as you can see, there’s not a lot of space here, so I’ve had to be creative. The flooring’s ruined as well – I put laminate down, thinking it’d be more practical. I hope the insurance pays up quickly.’
‘Good luck with that.’ I take a sip of my wine. ‘You said you’ve had trouble with flooding before?’ That’s how I met Ollie’s dad. I have to consciously steady my hand as I put the glass down.
‘God, yes. This is the third time. At least last time the only damage was in the kitchen – I had to replace the floor tiles, but that was it.’
‘You said something about meeting Oliver’s dad because of a flood?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Seems like another life now. David – my husband – and I ran a little floristry business. I did the flowers, he did the deliveries and managed the contracts and we both worked in the shop.’
‘I didn’t know you’d been a florist.’
‘Yeah. Went to horticultural college and everything. I loved it. Still miss it, in fact.’
‘I’m impressed! So you know all about plants and stuff?’
She smiles and nods.
‘Remind me to ask you about my garden at some point. So what happened? With the flood?’
She sighs. ‘Things started to cave in after David died. Fortunately, his insurance paid off the mortgage on this place, but I still had to try and earn enough to cover food and bills, pay the rent on the shop, buy in the stock, and so on.’
I nod, try to look encouraging.
‘As you can imagine, I was in a bit of a state. I was thirty-two and I’d lost my husband, just at the point when life had started looking up – the shop was doing well, and we were trying for a baby. But after I lost him . . .’ Her voice catches, and she takes a gulp of wine.
I know I should say something, tell her not to carry on if it’s upsetting her. But it’s too important. Please tell me what happened, I urge silently.
‘I closed the business for a couple of weeks, but I couldn’t afford to take any more time off, and there wasn’t anyone who could help out in the shop. My mum came up for a while but she wasn’t much help, to be honest. Anyway, I let things slip and the takings went down, and then, about three months after David died, there was this flood in the flat upstairs. A pipe had burst, and it started coming through the ceiling. I ran up and knocked on their door but there was no one in and the water just kept on coming. I was trying to move stuff out of the way, but then a bit of the ceiling came down, smashed onto the shelves and sent the plants crashing onto the floor.’
‘Oh no, that’s awful.’ What does this have to do with Adrian?
‘Then I noticed that one of the other shelves was starting to tip forward – the water was running down the wall and soaking the plaster – which wasn’t all that stable in the first place, and I could see the bracket was coming loose. This shelf had a lot of expensive stock on it – china plant pots, and so on – so I was up the ladder, frantically trying to support the wood with one hand and take stuff off it with the other, when the door opened and this guy came in.’ She picks at the label on the bottle.
My heart thuds. Do I really want to hear this? But I can’t not. I have to know.
‘He could see he’d walked right into a crisis and he went straight into action. Helped me get all the stuff down, then took the shelf off the wall so it didn’t crash onto the other plants. He was brilliant. He stayed to help me clear up the mess and get everything into the back room so it wouldn’t get damaged – the water was still coming through at this point. It stopped eventually, and we got everything as in order as it possibly could be, but for some reason that was when I burst into tears. I think it just suddenly hit me. David was gone, and I was completely on my own. So this guy – Adrian, he was called—’
I know, I want to shout, I bloody know. But I just nod to show I’m listening.
‘He was so sweet, so sympathetic. He gave me a cuddle, found a loo roll so I could mop my face and then insisted on taking me for a drink. It was one of those weird things, you know? He was married – he told me that immediately – and I was still grieving for David, but somehow . . .’ She shrugs.
I grip the stem of my glass so tightly to stop my hand from shaking, I worry it might snap. I’m sure my face and neck must be turning red. I wait, but she doesn’t say any more. ‘So how did you end up with Oliver?’ I’m aware of the confrontational edge to my voice, but Cassie doesn’t notice.
‘Well, one thing led to another, as these things do.’
I take a mouthful of wine but my throat feels paralysed and I struggle to swallow. ‘A one-night stand, then?’ I try to make it sound light, as though I don’t really care.
‘More or less. A two-night stand, in this case. We got quite drunk that night, and we came back here . . .’ She pauses. ‘Are you sure you want to hear all this? I’m going on and on about myself, and it must be quite boring.’
‘No, it isn’t. So, this – what was his name? Adrian? Did you say he was married?’
‘Yes, but his wife – I’m not making excuses here, but she was ill, apparently. very ill, although he wouldn’t say what was wrong. My sister said it was probably a load of bollocks, but I believed him.’ She meets my eye as if expecting me to challenge this. ‘And it wasn’t like I was looking for a relationship.’ She looks thoughtful for a second. ‘He wasn’t, either. In fact, the reason he’d come into the shop in the first place was to buy some flowers for his wife – she was in hospital, and he was supposed to be going to see her the next day, although of course he didn’t because he ended up staying here. I felt guilty about that, but he said she probably wouldn’t even register that he wasn’t there, so she must have been quite bad.’
/>
So he did sleep with her while I was in hospital. The thought of it hurts almost physically. I don’t remember much about that time – I’d still have been out of it at that point, and even when I began to surface from the medication-induced stupor I was in for so long, I didn’t have any real sense of time. It felt continuous, with no defined separation of one hour or one day from the next. There was no day and night, no light and shade, only darkness.
Cassie has stopped talking. ‘You disapprove, I can tell.’
I give an unconvincing shake of my head and reach for my wine, surprised to find I’ve nearly finished the glass. I’ll have to slow down or I won’t be able to drive home.
‘I wouldn’t blame you – I’m not proud of what I did, but . . .’ She looks down at the table and shakes her head slowly. ‘It’s hard to explain, but that couple of days . . . Oh, I don’t know.’ She picks up her glass again, drains it and goes back to the fridge for more. ‘Sorry, I must be boring the arse off you.’ She holds up the bottle. ‘Drop more?’
‘Just a dribble.’
She sloshes the rest of the wine into my glass before I can stop her, then opens another bottle and refills her own.
‘Thanks. And you are definitely not boring me! So what happened? Did you fall madly in love?’ Again, I try to sound light and flippant, but although I’m aware of a wobble in my voice, Cassie doesn’t seem to notice.
‘Oh no, it was hardly the grand passion. It was just . . . God, it sounds like such a cliché, but we were two lonely people. I’d lost David, and he . . . well, he hadn’t lost his wife, but I think he was afraid that he might – she was obviously very ill – and I suppose that bonded us together for a short while. He stayed two nights, and that was it.’
‘But you got pregnant.’
For a moment, Cassie doesn’t speak, then she sighs deeply. ‘It was deliberate. I lied. Told him I was still on the pill.’ Her voice is barely a whisper.
The Flight of Cornelia Blackwood Page 12
