by Anna Kent
‘Oh Abigail, he’s gone,’ she said. ‘It’s over.’ A sob ran through her.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I went to give her a hug and she stood up and grasped hold of me for a minute before turning back to her husband.
‘No, it’s… it’s good. He was in pain,’ she said. ‘He’s at peace now. He hated being sick.’ Her voice was tremulous.
‘I’m glad you were there,’ I said, squeezing her hand. ‘It will have given him a lot of comfort to know you were there.’
‘Do you think so?’ she asked. ‘Do you think he knew?’
‘He knew. He absolutely knew. He waited for you to come. He knew you were there, and he was at peace.’
‘Thank you. That means a lot.’
I bowed my head. It was my job. Helping dying patients to pass without fear, and giving comfort to the bereaved after their loved ones were gone was exactly why I was there.
‘And thank you for everything,’ she said. ‘You volunteers, you’re angels who walk the Earth.’
Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
‘Tell me a little about Abigail’s volunteer work at the hospice. What motivates her to do it? Does she enjoy it?’
‘Yes, she enjoys it. This might sound odd, but it means a lot to her to make sure people are in a good place when they die. She takes it really seriously. I mean, to me, it sounds awful, but she always comes back in a good mood. I tease her about why she wants to spend her days with dying people but… [shrugs] It gets her out of the house. I already mentioned that she doesn’t much like going out so, if she didn’t do that, she’d stay at home her entire life. Sometimes I think I shouldn’t have suggested the website for the pet portraits. It makes it too easy for her to stay at home.’
[Rustles papers] ‘Has she ever been diagnosed as agoraphobic?’
‘Not that I know of, but if you gave her choice between going out and staying in, I know which she’d pick. Actually, is there, like, a scale for agoraphobia, you know, like there is for autism? Because, if there is, she’d definitely be somewhere on it. Anyway, she likes the hospice work. She was always really conscientious. Never used to miss her day. She had responsibilities and she took them seriously. I know it sounds a bit depressing, spending time with people who’re just waiting to die, but she’s good at it. It makes her happy. If that doesn’t sound weird.’
Twenty-One
Given her flight arrival time, I’d calculated that Grace would make it to the house around six. I got home from the hospice around four thirty, showered, changed and sat in the kitchen with a glass of wine as I let the reality of Mr Keyson’s passing sink in. Around me the house settled into itself, too, as if it was also thinking about mortality. The clock beat out its interminable rhythm, each reverberating tick marking a countdown that took me ever closer to my own death.
What would Grace think about the fact that I was married? I wondered. I’d met Rohan just after she’d left for Australia, when he’d turned up out of the blue at my exhibition, smiling and smartly dressed. A sometime art investor and a friend of the gallery director, Francesca, he turned out to be a big fan of the violent landscape paintings into which I’d poured my soul. He loved the cruel way in which I’d slashed the canvases with angry reds, yellows, purples and blacks; he loved the birds I’d portrayed as monsters, dribbling red from jaws that hung open as they slid through an oily sky; he admired the devastation I’d imposed onto the classic beauty of the English countryside. It was, however, the gentle tone of his voice as he spoke to Francesca that first made me turn towards him: the man in the expensive navy suit.
‘Hello there. You appear to have lost an earring,’ he said, raising an eyebrow at my statement lone earring. ‘I love your work. You’re very talented.’
I blushed and fiddled with my bare earlobe, wondering whether to explain the solo earring or just let it go. Even then I saw the world through a sheet of glass. I watched life, always one degree removed from the bittiness of existence; always unsure what to say; always living in Grace’s shadow. Yet, somehow, with his words and his gentle tone of voice, Rohan managed to break through.
And, as it was, he hadn’t been entirely honest with me that night. He bought a couple of my paintings and, in the polite chat that followed, commissioned me to paint another: a portrait of him for his parents. It was only later, much later, when my defences had dropped and I’d allowed him to press his lips on mine, the thick hair of the glossy beard of which he was so proud tickling my cheeks, that he’d admitted he’d never been interested in the portrait; he’d only wanted an excuse to see me again.
I wondered if Grace would approve of my new life. And what would her own be like now? Would she have a boyfriend; a partner? Was there someone she’d left in Australia? I reached for my phone and opened Instagram. I hadn’t checked it for years, but her personal account had always been under the name GraceTheAce, a name I’d given her as she powered through her coursework. The account came up and my heart lurched as the screen filled with colourful images. They were surprisingly arty, and there was a likeness to each of them; something indefinable that bound them – a tone, perhaps – that I wouldn’t have expected coming from someone as scientific as her.
But her feed didn’t give much away. The images were almost entirely of scenery, telling me only that she’d spent some time in remote coastal areas as well as in cities. There was a horse, a helicopter, a Jeep, several small boats. I pulled up a map and tracked the posts she’d labelled, tracing her route north up the coast from Sydney into Queensland, then further up, past Brisbane and the Sunshine Coast to Port Douglas. There were pictures there of rainforest: of lush green foliage, of the curling roots of ancient trees and crystal-clear pools of water dappled by sun and then, suddenly, there was a figure – a woman – on a vast expanse of beach.
Behind the person, the sea was indigo blue, with rolls of white surf frothing and hissing as they hit the sand. There was no one else on the beach. Not a soul. The woman was smiling, laughing maybe, but it was hard to tell much more since she was so far away – a tiny figure in the centre of the huge beach. She was wearing white shorts and a red vest – that I could see – and her feet were bare. One arm was raised, her elbow jabbing out like a pennant as she held onto a large straw hat that shaded her face. Dark hair coursed out from under the hat, a few bits dancing to one side, whipped by a wind that blew off the sea. In her other hand, the woman dangled a pair of sandals, as if she’d taken them off to run on the sand.
I expanded the image on my phone as far as I could, trying to get a better look at her face – looking for the familiar features: was it Grace? Or a friend of hers? – but the image pixelated as it expanded, causing me to shrink her back down for clarity. I half closed my eyes and gazed at the image. It was the right body-shape for Grace, and the hair also looked right. I was pretty sure it was her. I wondered who’d taken the picture; whether they’d then run to catch up with her on the beach. Whether they were laughing with her.
As six o’clock drew close, I climbed up the stairs and locked the door of the attic, then I went back downstairs, where I dithered, waiting for the sound of the taxi. In the hall, I settled on the bottom stair, my muscles stiffening every time I heard a car slow for the curve in the road outside.
It had been an oppressive day, the air so heavy I was grateful to the house for protecting me from it; for keeping the weight of all that atmosphere off my head. Even so, I leaned forward on the step and cradled the back of my head with my hands. As the evening drew in, the light took on a yellow tinge; I’d seen on the news that there was dust in the air from the Sahara, blown to us on a high, southerly wind – now, as the angle of the sun changed, the dust somehow filtered the light. The hallway looked liverish, sick. From somewhere came the sound of a woman singing a silly nursery rhyme and the ripple of a toddler’s infectious laughter.
When I finally heard the sound of a car draw to a halt – doors banging – and the sound
of someone dragging a case along the path, I jumped up, dazed, my bottom numb from the hard stair. Outside, I heard Grace curse as her bag got stuck in the cracks of the path, then grunt as she lifted it, yet her presence still came as a surprise, as if somewhere deep down I’d suspected she might not turn up at all.
I stiffened as she rang the doorbell, and then hesitated behind the door for a few moments before I sprung the lock, breathing fast, acutely aware that I was separated from Grace for the first time in four years by nothing more than a piece of wood. Outside, I could feel the pulse of her energy; on the inside of the house, my own energy reached towards her – fingers grasping at the air, clawing at her – just as it had that first day she’d appeared at my door at university. My breath came in shudders; after all the anticipation, all the planning, the preparation and the waiting, she was finally here.
I took a deep breath and opened the door.
‘Abi!’ Grace said, and we took each other in, our eyes trying not to show their greed for details. She looked slightly heavier than she’d been four years ago; bags under her eyes were concealed but obviously there; her freckles now hidden under foundation; her cheekbones accentuated with blusher. What differences did she see in me now I was older and married? Could she see that I was stronger? Was I stronger?
‘Hey, Grace,’ I said, shy like a schoolgirl. ‘Come in,’ and she stepped inside, then held open her arms to me. The hug was awkward, and she stepped back quickly as I drank in the sight of her, the smell of her, the substance of her; this person whom I’d successfully banished from my thoughts for the past four years.
‘Thanks for letting me stay,’ she said. Then she smiled. ‘As if you had a choice.’
Twenty-Two
Grace moved her bags over the threshold and closed the door behind her. She looked at me again and smiled.
‘Nice earring.’
I put my hand to it self-consciously. ‘It’s my lucky charm. I wear it when I’m painting.’
‘Still?’ Grace gave a little laugh and looked more closely at me. I noticed the crow’s feet that feathered from the sides of her eyes as she smiled.
‘You look well,’ she said. ‘Married life must suit you.’ Her tone was slightly barbed, or was I imagining it? I held her gaze and she looked away first. ‘Nice place,’ she said. ‘Can I have a tour? I’m dying to see it.’
I started to move but she was faster than me, already off down the hallway, her head turning left and right as she took in my home, her fingers trailing across the new paints and papers, as if she were feeling for what lay beneath. I followed in her wake, trying to see the house as she would. She’d always loved interiors.
‘So you bought this house?’ she asked, nodding. Approval, I thought.
‘Yes. We’ve done quite a lot of work.’ A lot of work, actually.
She stopped at the old grandfather clock.
‘Nice.’
I followed Grace into the kitchen, where she stopped abruptly and did a double-take, her brow furrowed.
‘Wow.’
And I kicked myself at once: why had we gone for white gloss and chrome? Of course we could have done something less flashy, more in keeping with the history of the house: soft wood, stone, warmer colours that better reflected the Victorian architecture. But Grace didn’t wait for an explanation; she swung around and headed into the open-plan living area, which we’d created by breaking down the wall separating the old sitting room from the boxy old dining room that had been barely larger than an eight-seater dining set. Gone were the previous owners’ gaudy sofas, replaced with two big, squashy leather pieces bought in the John Lewis sale.
‘Oh,’ she said, looking around. ‘Interesting.’
‘It’s much more practical than it was,’ I said. I was pleased with the new space. ‘The dining room was small. You could barely fit people in as well as the furniture.’
‘Do you do much entertaining?’ Grace asked, her head tilted sideways, but she knew the answer to that. We both knew the answer to that, so I gave a little self-deprecating laugh to show I knew she was joking.
‘Shall we go up?’ she said. ‘I’m dying to see the rest.’
‘Be my guest,’ I said, waving her on since we’d already established she was leading this tour. I picked up her bags and followed, dumping them on the upstairs landing as she pushed open the door to the master bedroom.
‘Nice,’ she said, and I was glad we hadn’t done too much to the room – just updated the decor.
‘So this is where it all happens.’ Grace faced me. ‘I can’t believe you’re married. The mistress of the house. No doubt soon to be the mother of the house, too.’
‘I always thought it would be you first,’ I said.
‘Me too, but…’ Grace shrugged and looked down for a moment and I could see the hurt behind her eyes. It wasn’t right that I had all this and she did not.
‘So where do you paint?’ Grace asked when she looked up again.
‘In the attic.’
She backed out of the room and found the little door.
‘Up here? Can I see?’ she asked and, before I could say anything, she’d lifted the latch and scampered up the stairs. I lurched after her, my hand out to stop her but she reached the attic door before I did. She pushed it, then rattled the handle and turned to me.
‘It’s locked?’
‘Yes. Work in progress.’ I bit my lip.
Grace tilted her head sideways. ‘Can I see?’
I took a deep breath. Stronger now. ‘Come and see your room.’
We stared at each other for a moment, me wondering how far she’d push me, but she let it go, for now. She came back down the stairs and I kicked open the door to the spare room.
‘After you.’
Grace walked in with her hand over her eyes then removed it dramatically and looked around. Butterflies tickled my ribs. Had I done the right thing to keep the old furniture? Was it tatty or quaint? She took in every aspect of the room: the wallpaper, the fireplace, the dresser, chair, the wardrobe, the bed, the teddy bear. She touched the curtains, pulling out the fabric so she could examine it with a nod; then she laid her palm flat on the wardrobe and then the desk, as if her fingers could feel a pulse in the wood. She sat on the bed and gave an experimental bounce, then picked up Bear and gave him a kiss.
‘He’s cute,’ she said.
‘He came with the house.’
‘Nice.’ She sat the bear on her lap. ‘So how come this room escaped the “modernization”?’
‘Ran out of money,’ I said.
Grace smiled. ‘I’m glad. I love it.’
I smiled back at her. ‘Good.’ I looked at my watch. ‘So, look, I’m making some dinner – it’ll be ready about eight. Shall I leave you to get unpacked and – well, come down when you’re ready.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Grace said, looking at me, and I took one more look at her as if to assure myself that it really was her after all these years; that it really was Grace, older, but still Grace, sitting on the bed in my spare room. It was, and the contented little smile that licked at her mouth told me that she was exactly where she wanted to be.
Twenty-Three
Grace came down just before eight.
‘You know what?’ she said, entering the kitchen. ‘After all that travelling, it’s good to be home.’
As I smiled at the compliment, Grace pulled out a chair and Alfie sprang back with a hiss, his ears pressed back. Grace pulled a face. I laughed, embarrassed; Alfie was usually so easy-going.
‘Don’t you like cats?’
‘No. But it’s mutual. As you can see.’ She glared at Alfie and he slunk out of the kitchen, the hair along his spine standing up on end. ‘Wow, I can’t get over this kitchen,’ Grace said, giving her head a theatrical shake. ‘It looks like a spaceship. I keep expecting to look out of the window and see the International Space Station floating past.’
We both looked out of the window at the red-brick hulk of next-door’s wall.
‘It was my compromise with Rohan,’ I said. ‘He wanted a new-build with a shiny new kitchen; I wanted this house… for obvious reasons…’ I shrugged, hoping my reasons for wanting a decrepit Victorian house were as obvious to her as they were to me. ‘The least I could do was let him have his gleaming kitchen.’
Grace raised one shoulder in a lazy shrug; of course, she never needed to compromise with anyone.
‘Can I get you a drink? Prosecco? I thought we could celebrate.’ I bustled over to the fridge.
Grace let out a long breath. ‘Do you have anything soft? It’s just…’ she put her hand to her chest in a gesture that came across as pious, ‘I rarely drink these days.’
‘Oh, okay – yes, yes I do.’ I scrabbled inside the fridge. ‘I’ve got… oh.’ I looked at her. ‘I’m sure I’ve got some tonic water somewhere. Or there’s tap water.’
‘Tonic, if you have it. Water if you don’t.’ Grace smiled.
In the cupboard was one can of tonic, quite possibly out of date. I poured it for Grace, plated up some olives then opened the Prosecco anyway.
‘Cheers. Welcome back.’ I chinked my glass against hers. ‘So how was Australia? Tell me everything.’
‘Oh my God. It’s been amazing. Oz is incredible, and I had the best time – but…’ She shrugged as if England had the greater pull.
‘Where did you go? What did you do?’
She sighed. ‘I worked for a couple of years in Sydney, and we spent all our holidays travelling.’
If she saw me flinch when she said ‘we’, she didn’t show it.
‘God, we saw so much: Adelaide, Melbourne, Hobart, Canberra. We even made it over to Perth. Can you believe it took five hours to fly there? It’s such a huge country. I don’t think I really appreciated it till I went.’ She exhaled. ‘We went to Uluru, too – saw that at sunrise. Then I quit my job and drove up the east coast, stopping at all the interesting places. Byron Bay.’ She laughed to herself. ‘That was fun. Brisbane. The Sunshine Coast. Fraser Island.’ I noticed the switch from ‘we’ to ‘I’.
