‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what was all that about?’ asked Tamsin.
‘Bloody hell, don’t you start!’
‘Hey, mate! Don’t turn on me! Just trying to help, OK?’
‘Sorry,’ said Theo, turning to her and forcing a sheepish smile. ‘Sorry, Tamsin. Completely out of order. Not your fault. Mine. I was just chatting to Beth . . . and she . . . well, you heard. She lost it.’
‘About? What were you talking about?’
‘This and that . . . and then I made the mistake of asking about her GCSEs. She completely flew off the handle.’
‘Sounds to me like she’s scared,’ said Tamsin.
‘Scared? Why?’
‘Here, Smith! Smith! Come here, you mad dog, or you’ll have to go on the lead!’ Reluctantly, Smith abandoned the pursuit of whatever had taken him hurtling into the depths of the wood, and turned back to rejoin the walkers on the path. He wagged his tail enthusiastically, his pink tongue hanging out of his mouth.
‘Well, I don’t suppose her mind’s been on her studies, the last few months,’ Tamsin continued. ‘She’s probably scared shitless that she’s going to come a gutser. Wondering what happens next if it all goes wrong. No wonder she threw a wobbly.’
Oh God. How could I not know that? ‘I just don’t seem to be able to talk to her any more,’ he said. ‘And I can’t help worrying about her.’ He looked at Tamsin, a thought striking him. ‘The pair of you seem thick as thieves. Does she confide in you?’
‘Well, of course she misses her mum.’ Theo sensed that Tamsin was choosing her words with care. ‘We talk about that. And girl stuff. All sorts of things. She’s only fifteen, remember. She’s a great kid, Theo. Guess you just need to keep the door open.’
Lunchtime saw a welcome pause for refreshment at a pub along the Pilgrims’ Way.
‘Sorry, guys, but there’s no argument on this one,’ said Tamsin with mock regret. ‘I point blank refuse to miss out on a boozer called The Dirty Habit. How great is that?’
Fortunately the pub was as appealing as its name: a solid, red-brick Georgian coaching inn with wooden beams and panelling, an ancient brick floor and a bread oven in the fireplace, along with a tradition of serving pilgrims that apparently dated back to the Middle Ages. A greengrocer’s apostrophe declared one bench Reserved for Monk’s. Theo gratefully accepted a pint from the landlord, and watched Tamsin work her magic round the lunchtime drinkers. She really could charm the birds out of the trees! How did she do it? Which reminded him: the TV people. A knot of anxiety formed in the pit of his stomach. He’d agreed, swayed by William and finally cajoled by Tamsin, who persuaded him that it was a way of honouring Anna’s life. (‘Pretty sure she’d have gone for it, if the boot was on the other foot, mate. But your call, obvs.’) Well, she’d better not let him down, he thought grimly.
Ruth arrived, late and breathless, but lit up by a visit to another nature reserve. ‘It was utterly idyllic!’ she told Sam. ‘Shame you weren’t with me today. It’s one of the best remaining examples of an unimproved hay-meadow in Kent. Marvellous meadow grasses! And more green-winged orchids than you could shake a stick at.’ How good it was to see her smiling! And how good she was with Sam. Now Theo supposed he’d have to tell her what a mess he’d made of talking to Beth.
‘Friends,’ said Father Stephen. ‘I’m afraid there’s rain forecast for this afternoon. Would you mind if we press on? I suggest we head towards the church, and eat our picnics in the graveyard. Then we’ll have our usual pause for prayer and reflection.’
Theo drained his glass and headed up the road with the others. ‘I really like this part of the day,’ he heard Chloe telling Catherine.
‘Me too,’ said Catherine. ‘I’m going to miss it next week.’
Wasn’t it odd? reflected Theo. It was the last thing he’d expected, but he felt the same. What was it? The words? The simple act of taking a break in the middle of the day? The community they had formed? Part of the secret lay in the routine: the fact that every day had a rhythm and you didn’t have to think too hard. That was restful in itself. Allowing yourself to be carried along by the flow. Like letting out a deep breath you’d been holding too long. Which was bizarre, when you thought about it, because along with the silence came homework. But whatever the reason, the times of reflection, as much as the walking, seemed to be weaving some kind of healing spell.
Father Stephen led them down the road into a large flint church with a square tower. Inside the church was light and bright and smelled of fresh paint. The walkers distributed themselves in the pews. Beth – she was definitely avoiding him – huddled in a corner with Ella and Lucy. Chloe squeezed in next to the sisters. Theo took a seat next to Catherine, and Mary Anne slipped in on his other side.
‘This church is associated with the Culpeper family, who owned Leeds Castle, just up the road,’ said Father Stephen at the end of the liturgy. ‘Some splendid monuments. And in the vestry there’s an exquisite piece of embroidery, called the Culpeper needlework. It dates back to the seventeenth century.
‘I don’t know if you’ve ever looked at a piece of embroidery, but I’ve always found it fascinating. On one side you have an intricate pattern or picture. But turn it over, and you can see the embroiderer’s workings. It’s quite a mess – all the threads woven in, sometimes quite randomly, to keep the front together.
‘I think our lives are a bit like that. The world sees the face we want to present. All in order! But those who know us really well understand that there’s often another story behind the front. A story of hard grind and disappointment and things that haven’t gone so well. Perhaps things we feel bad about. That’s certainly true for me. There are things in my life that I’d rather other people didn’t know about. As a Christian I believe that God sees everything. There’s no hiding from God. Quite an uncomfortable thought! But the good news is that God forgives. There’s truly nothing so awful, so shameful, that we can’t receive God’s forgiveness.’
Oh, God. Where was this going? Theo stared unseeing straight ahead. ‘So my thought today is that we take some time to think about the knotty subject of “forgiveness”. I know it’s another tough one. We’re all human, which means we all need forgiveness. And when someone dies, it can be particularly hard if there are things we feel we haven’t said “sorry” for. Perhaps because we ran out of time, or we didn’t realize that it needed saying until it was too late. That’s tough.
‘Just as tough is the fact that we may actually be angry with the person who’s died. Either because of something they’ve done, or simply because it feels as if they’ve abandoned us. And then we feel guilty for being angry. So. Our usual task. An hour’s peace and quiet, to think about forgiveness, as we walk the next few miles.’
Hell’s bells. Where to start? Guilt, forgiveness needed . . . He had a list as long as your arm. Right now, he was feeling guilty for upsetting Beth. For failing her. For having no idea what was going on in her head right now. Was Ruth right – had they all neglected her well-being from the very beginning? It was perfectly possible. Until the teenage hormones kicked in she’d been so easy, really. Anxious to please at school, eager to help at home. Apparently. What had she been bottling up inside her?
The trouble was, Beth had had to grow up very fast. She was only four, not quite five, when the twins were born. A beloved only child who suddenly found that she had not one but two siblings. Anna worked so hard to make sure she felt involved, included. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without Beth,’ she said to visitors more than once in Beth’s hearing. ‘She’s such a wonderful help with the boys.’
And she had been. At that age she was old enough to fetch nappies and muslin squares and to watch one baby while Anna was changing the other. She always knew which twin was which, and patiently put the health visitor straight when she muddled them up. Had they got that wrong? Not allowed her to be a baby for long enough? Everything about her behaviour suggested that she relished the role of big sister, enjoyed the sens
e of importance it gave her. ‘Mummy, I think Sam needs changing,’ she would announce solemnly. Or: ‘Daddy, you should probably give Josh his rattle. He gets very cross when he can’t reach it.’
But that was then. Halcyon days, compared with what came afterwards. That awful day when the boys were eighteen months old and first Sam and then Josh fell ill. They were rushed into hospital with terrifying speed, as what appeared to be a routine childhood bug suddenly spiralled into something far worse. At that point his concern – and Anna’s too – had been to keep Beth well out of the way for her own safety.
It had been unspeakably frightening. Anna’s panicky message on his mobile (‘Theo, you need to come to the hospital. Right now. Just come. Don’t waste a single second!’) had him running through the car park to the Land Rover and hurtling through the lanes. On Anna’s instruction, he rang his mother from the car to implore her to come and collect Beth. That in itself was a measure of the seriousness of the situation, because Marion was an anxious grandmother and, unlike Ruth and William, rarely babysat. But Anna wanted her own mother at the hospital, to interpret symptoms, to quiz the staff, to fight any battles that might need fighting.
By the time he reached the hospital not only was Ruth at Anna’s side but William was there too. Theo was confused; it was the middle of a working day. How could he have got back from London so quickly? He’d entirely forgotten that today, of course, was to have been Ruth’s big day. The day when, after years of campaigning and fundraising, Hope House was finally to be declared open by a royal visitor. William had taken the afternoon off to honour her achievement and share the moment when her long-held vision became a reality.
William had been marvellous. He calmly walked Beth to Granny Greene’s car and promised to look in to read her a bedtime story, if Granny G wouldn’t mind. And then he quietly ferried cups of tea and unwanted sandwiches and messages between them all as they took increasingly anxious turns around the two cots which were – most unfortunately – at opposite ends of the corridor, because Sam was by now in intensive care.
Because at that stage it was Sam who appeared to be more seriously ill. Theo would never forget that plaintive cry, entirely unrecognizable as anything he had ever heard from any baby, before or since. Late into the night, while Anna and Ruth kept vigil at Sam’s bedside, and Theo sat with Josh, he must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, he was jolted out of sleep by the beeping of machines and the swift arrival of a nurse.
And suddenly Josh’s breathing was all gaspy and his blood pressure was crashing through the floor as septic shock set in. Anna was running and it was all systems go as doctors materialized out of nowhere and Josh was moved into intensive care and they were warned he was deteriorating. And then . . . and then . . . by the following evening everything went up another gear still as the medical team fought and fought and failed to save his life.
After that, it was all the most ghastly fog. Anna cradling Josh in her arms, rocking him back and forth, and weeping noisily and messily as if her heart had broken into a million pieces. Josh’s little body all cold, his head lolling. Ruth, grim-faced and determined, calmly reporting that Sam’s observations appeared to have stabilized, but she didn’t think he was out of the woods yet, and asking for the consultant paediatrician to be summoned as a matter of urgency. William arriving with fresh coffee in a flask and the news that Beth was absolutely fine, in the circumstances, and that she and Granny G had spent much of the day happily working on an enormous jigsaw puzzle of the Kings and Queens of England.
As for Theo . . . what had he done? What had he contributed? All he could remember was standing about in helpless confusion. And though there were endless questions to answer and forms to fill in and he went through the motions, his brain refused to process the information before him. He felt entirely disorientated, as if he was observing a scene from a long way away involving other people that had nothing whatsoever to do with him. His arms and legs seemed no longer to belong to him. For the first time in his life, he understood the phrase living nightmare.
If they had overlooked Beth in the aftermath, was it any great wonder? Was it too late to ask for forgiveness now, all these years later? He remembered Anna’s angst, the appalling guilt that had followed. She should have known the boys were ill. That it wasn’t just a sniffle. She was so determined not to be an overanxious mother that she’d taken them with her to a rehearsal that morning. Gone out on a chilly autumn day! Had she not dressed them warmly enough? How could she have missed the signs of something so serious? Why hadn’t she been watching over Josh in the night? If she had been there, rather than at Sam’s bedside, surely she would have noticed his temperature rising, his increased agitation. And if she hadn’t been weeping over Josh, would she have spotted that something awful was happening to Sam’s feet? Could she have saved his toes by responding more swiftly? Now he was maimed, scarred for life. Permanently disfigured and disabled.
And why had she chosen that day of all days to take the car in for a service, which meant that they had to wait for an ambulance to take them to the hospital? Why was she out at all, let alone encumbered with a cello? Why hadn’t she given up work altogether when the children were born? Why wasn’t she at home, holding them close, keeping them safe from danger? How had they caught the illness in the first place? Was this punishment for sending them to nursery so that she could work, for trying to have her cake and eat it?
Round and round it went on a never-ending loop. The endless recriminations, the blame, the self-flagellation. If they were thinking about forgiveness . . . well, Anna couldn’t forgive herself. She couldn’t forgive him for falling asleep at Josh’s bedside. She was a terrible mother. She didn’t deserve children. And so on; on and on. Until, forty-eight hours later, she finally slept for a few hours. And when she woke, sank into that ghostly bleak silence. Which was almost worse than the ranting. She’d eventually stirred herself into action for the funeral, played an unbearably poignant piece of music for Josh, and then vowed never to touch the cello again.
If Theo had known then what he knew now, he wondered what, if anything, he would have done – what he could have done – differently. Because, of course, that had just been the beginning. While he struggled to come to terms with his own grief and guilt (why had he fallen asleep? could it have made a difference?) he had to watch his adored wife plummet head first into the abyss. To begin with, they clung to each other, victims of a disaster that had shipwrecked their lives. But before he knew it, the Anna he knew and loved had become unreachable behind a wall of silence. Unrecognizable.
Nothing he did seemed to help. He felt impotent, frustrated and furious. Perhaps if he hadn’t been grieving himself, he would have been less hard on her. But he found himself incandescent that on the scales of public opinion, a mother’s mourning appeared to outweigh a father’s. She was allowed to fall to pieces. But someone had to earn a living. Put food on the table. Take Beth to school and Sam to the hospital for check-ups. Go shopping, clean the house, do the washing (sod the ironing). Hold everything together. ‘How’s Anna?’ asked everyone, kindness writ large in their concerned expressions. No one asked after him. Or . . . had they? Perhaps he had simply closed his ears to any such enquiries. Brushed them off. He genuinely couldn’t remember.
Eventually, of course, she picked herself up. He wasn’t sure what the tipping point was, but one day he came home from work to find her sitting at the kitchen table with Beth, who was colouring with felt pens. Sam was curled up on the sofa with his thumb in his mouth, watching CBeebies. Anna had washed her hair – he could smell her shampoo – and was wearing a top he hadn’t seen for years. The kitchen was unusually clean and tidy, there was fresh fruit in the bowl, and the table was laid for supper.
‘I’ve made some chilli,’ she said. ‘And jacket potatoes. Are you ready to eat?’
At the sight of him, Beth wriggled off her mother’s lap and ran over to give Theo a hug. ‘There’s a surprise, Daddy!’ she said. �
��Mummy’s feeling better today and so we’ve made some cookies.’
‘Not such a surprise any more!’ Theo teased Beth. ‘But that’s lovely, sweetheart. Did you help with the washing-up as well? It looks as if you’ve had a big clean-up here!’
They tiptoed cautiously around each other all evening. ‘I’m sorry, Theo,’ she said finally, as they went up to bed. ‘I am trying. But I’ve realized I can’t do this on my own. I’m not strong enough. I need some professional help.’
That was just the first small step. Things certainly didn’t change overnight. He found out later that she’d left the children with her mother and been to see Father Stephen, and her GP. Talked to Ruth, and Tamsin, of course. In fact, she seemed to have sought solace everywhere but with him. Now, he thought, was that so surprising? They had each been so locked up in their own misery that neither had any emotional resources to spare. No wonder couples who lost a child so often split up. At least their marriage had survived. By the skin of their teeth.
Theo took a huge breath to steady himself. Oh God, this is hard. Do I have to do this? He looked around him. The track stretched ahead, long and straight. In the distance he could see the outline of a large factory, bizarrely out of place in this rural wooded setting. Clouds were amassing on the horizon. Father Stephen was probably right about the rain. The sky was heavy and grey. An incongruous snatch of song floated into his mind: There may be trouble ahead, he hummed. Then what? Something about moonlight? Yes. But while there’s moonlight and music and love and romance, let’s face the music and dance.
How appropriate! Well, if he was going to face the music, he needed to be honest with himself. Look himself squarely in the eye. He found himself struck suddenly by the realization that he couldn’t have done this a month ago. Before this week, in fact. Somewhere, deep inside, a key had turned in a heavy door he hadn’t even known was locked. Where was he? He steeled himself. Six months after Josh’s death, Anna was a great deal better. They were better. She was on antidepressants and had had bereavement counselling. (He declined the offer; he couldn’t see himself sharing his private feelings with a stranger.) But they were at least talking about what had happened. About Sam’s feet – he was making steady progress now and, thank goodness, all the signs suggested that his brain was undamaged. They talked about their beloved boy and how much they missed him. Or at least they tried to, although it wasn’t easy because whenever Josh’s name came up in conversation Beth always interrupted (‘Look what Sam’s doing!’) or created a diversion by spilling a drink or dropping a bowl. But they were more or less on an even keel, Theo thought. A lot better than they had been, anyway, and definitely heading in the right direction.
Knowing Anna Page 18
