Whatever You Love

by Louise Doughty

  We emerge from the crematorium to bright sunshine. It was raining when we went in but now a glow lights the wet tarmac of the car park. We have been ushered out of the side door. On the other side of the car park, near the front, strangers are getting out of their cars in preparation for the cremation that follows hard on the heels of Betty’s. They are hurrying, slamming car doors, straightening ties, already late. Our crowd – and it is a large crowd – stand around for a minute, blinking in the sun. Rees has come to me and taken my hand. A flock of gulls wheels high above us, sudden and shrieking. The racket punctures the mild sky and our collective mood. Everyone looks around.

  ‘What do we do now?’ I am not addressing the question to anyone in particular but David and Robert are still either side of me. David says, ‘We’re going back,’ and for one brief, ludicrous moment I think he means back in time. Several of our party turn and walk slowly towards their cars.

  All at once I feel unwilling to leave. Shallow as the ceremony was, it was one more loosening thread of the ties that bound me to Betty, one more unravelling. The end of it marks another small step that takes me further away from my girl and toward my life without her. I look up at the clear, open sky, then around, and the bright sun and iridescent puddles con me into a moment of euphoria, as if the worst is over. It is a cruel trick, for within a moment or two, as I stand there small and helpless, it clouds over again. I begin to shiver. Without speaking, David and I turn to follow the others back towards the cars. Our sleek vehicle awaits, and a man in a uniform who will open the door without looking at us.

  As we walk towards the car, I see a group of women, all dressed in black, standing at the edge of the car park, on the far side. I assume they are here for the next cremation but they are not heading into the building. They are staring at us. There are four of them, two middle-aged, one elderly, one young. The older one is short and fat, the others tall and hefty – black- haired, pale. The younger one is clutching a bunch of small white flowers. When they notice me staring back, the younger whispers to the others and, in unison, they cast their gazes down. David has taken me by the arm and is guiding me into the car. I crane my head to look at them but for as long as it takes me to be helped into the back seat and buckled in, to have my seatbelt fastened and for the car to be started and driven away slowly – for that whole time, the women stay with their heads bowed, motionless. It is only as we pull down the drive towards the tall, wrought-iron gates that one of the middle- aged ones raises her head and watches our departure, her face expressionless.

  5

  After Betty’s funeral, people begin, gradually, to leave me in peace. Aunt Lorraine stops sleeping over but still rings me every day and leaves a cheery message, almost always referring to how cold it is outside. David rings daily too, asking after Rees. David’s mother rings less often and after a fortnight I say, ‘Gillian, it’s good of you to keep calling but I’m okay, really.’ Julie still comes round every morning to take Rees to his nursery class, along with her own son. Officially, we shared the nursery run before but as I worked and she didn’t, she would often call and say, ‘Look, I’ll take them, I’m going to the shops anyway.’ She was always helping me out in her quiet, undemanding way, so it doesn’t seem so unusual or offensive for her to be doing so now. She likes doing the nursery run, she says. Gets her out of the house. I know I will have to steal myself to face the nursery some time but I can’t, not yet. The staff sent a card. ‘How is she?’ they will be asking Julie.

  My boss at work, Jan H, sends notes about twice a week. Jan Harrison was called Jan H when she first arrived in order to distinguish her from another Jan, Jan Bennett, who already worked in our unit. Jan B left eighteen months ago but we are so used to the new Jan being Jan H that it has stuck. Janaitch. My GP has signed me off work with reactive depression to bereavement but that was just a formality – Jan H would have let me do whatever I wanted. She sends me little messages on office notepaper, from time to time, assuring me they are all doing fine without me, keeping me in touch. The notes are often light-hearted or inconsequential but in a way that never seems facile. She seems to have the knack of knowing what to say. Just to let you know we are still thinking of you, the last one read. It’s boring without you, hon. Last week was horribly busy. We had some relief but, mentioning no names, it isn’t reliable. We are still getting referrals from the Upton Centre. I like the fact that she is keeping me informed, treating me like a human being to whom something dreadful has happened rather than a creature from another planet. It is clear from the notes that she expects no reply.

  I add the notes to the collection of cards above the fireplace. Most of the cards are white: white again – the colour of grief. They are usually decorated in some discreet manner, with small bunches of flowers or beams of heavenly light, stars in silver, embossed doves. I hate those designs. The personal notes are often clumsy, sometimes painfully so, but preferable all the same.

  Amongst the cards and notes is another sort of note, one that does not belong there. It is on a folded piece of A4 paper, printed in a familiar typeface and, as usual, unsigned. I am sorry for you, it reads, and a small part of me admires its simplicity. I don’t know why I have placed it amongst the consolation cards and letters but I think my impulse is generous. I am choosing to interpret it as an apology and by placing it on the mantelpiece am making a conciliatory gesture and also, perhaps, a transformative one, as if its proximity to the notes and cards from well-wishers will render it well-meant.

  *

  The days blend. Outside my home, the world continues to turn. I see it turn, from time to time, on the rare occasions that I look out of a front window. People leave their houses and get into their cars. Birds swoop. The postman cycles past in his bulky jacket. Observing these small turnings brings me a measure of calm, initially, but that feeling ebbs and flows and sometimes it seems that the rest of the world has returned to its ordinary life with insulting haste. Rees is my main problem, my darling Rees. As long as I have him, I cannot give up or be alone and still, more than anything else, I ache to be alone. What I find so hard is his normality – I know that this is only because his mind cannot absorb the permanence of what has happened, not yet anyway. I know that at some stage there will be tantrums, attention-seeking behaviour, and I am impatient for them to happen, impatient for acknowledgement. Until he understands what has befallen us, then how can I? I am trapped in routine with him. I have to discuss what cereal he wants for breakfast, or why he doesn’t like his grey sweatshirt any more. Holding these sorts of conversations with him, I feel quite mad.

  His nursery mornings are a blessed relief from the strain of being normal for him. Julie comes to collect him. He charges out, shrieking. Julie grimaces and says softly, ‘See you later.’ The door closes behind them. I give a sigh so deep that by the end it has become a groan. I rest my forehead against the frosted glass panel and close my eyes, waiting for the sound of Julie’s car engine to fade, waiting for the silence that will follow. Only when it is completely quiet outside, beyond the door, do I turn and make my way slowly back to my kitchen, where I sit down at the table.

  Sometimes, I am still there three hours later, when I am startled back to life by the sound of Rees crashing up our garden path, slamming himself against the front door: if it wasn’t for Rees.

  *

  In the afternoons, I play with Rees or let him watch television. When he is back home, I feel able to take phone calls more than in the mornings because his presence gives me an excuse to be distracted. His noise in the background protects me from a proper conversation. David rings me then. I tell him what pictures Rees has brought home from nursery and what he had for lunch. In return, David gives me news from the outside world and I find myself thinking it is odd that he is out in it, until I remember that he has Chloe and the baby to think of. He’ll be back at work soon, I know it.

  ‘Did you hear about the trouble up at the cliff?’ he asks me, one afternoon. I have no idea what he is talkin
g about. ‘Some local lads went up and broke all the windows. That policewoman came round.’ He means Toni. ‘I said if it happened again I would write to the Post. It might help.’ I don’t know why he is telling me this. I think, he will say almost anything to avoid talking about our daughter. It will be the state of the economy next, or European agricultural policy. I don’t want to be unkind to him – everyone is entitled to do suffering their own way – so I nod, even though he can’t see me nodding, and let his words and odd choice of subject matter wash over me while I hold the phone to my ear and gaze out of the kitchen window. After a while, I say to him, ‘Do you want to speak to Rees?’

  Rees can babble on to his father for an age. Sometimes I leave him to it and go upstairs, to Betty’s room, and get under her duvet and pull it up over my shoulder, facing the wall. Rees comes in later, still holding the phone even though his father has rung off, and says, ‘Can I watch TV now, Mum?’

  One afternoon, I fall asleep up there and by the time he shakes my shoulder, it is dark outside. ‘Mummy,’ he says, his voice full of upset, as if he is repeating himself, ‘Mummy, stop sleeping in Betty’s bed. It’s hers.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, darling…’ I say, blinking in half-light from the landing. ‘Sorry, what time is it?’ I lift my watch to my face. It takes me a moment or two to focus. It is nearly 6 p.m.

  I prop myself up on one elbow. ‘Gosh Rees, you’ve been watching TV for ages. Time to brush teeth soon. It’ll be bedtime soon, you know.’

  His face crumples. When he speaks, I can tell by the high- pitched tone of his voice that he is trying not to cry. ‘But what about tea-time? We haven’t had tea-time.’

  *

  Rees and I begin to venture out. One afternoon, I decide to brave the playground. I haven’t taken him there since what happened to Betty. We used to go almost every day before. I have been dreading meeting other mothers – going anywhere near the school is out of the question. They held a special memorial assembly for Betty, apparently. David went and read out a message from both of us – I told him to say whatever he thought was appropriate. The small part of me that is not quite dead knows I must attempt some semblance of normality for Rees, Rees who does not yet understand that Betty is never coming back.

  So, we go to the playground. It’s a poxy little playground, a tiny square of tarmac on the edge of our part of town, before the cliff path, where the clouds swoop low across the patch of waste ground that is awaiting redevelopment but has been left empty because of some quirk of the planning laws which no one understands. I approach it slowly, checking it is empty. It almost always is. We push through the creaky iron gate and Rees runs off to his favourite object, the climbing frame. I walk over to the damp bench and sit down. It isn’t particularly cold but I keep my hands in my coat pockets. I like being huddled. Before what happened, I used to feel bleak if there wasn’t another parent in the playground when we got here; bleak, lonely, bored. Where are all the other mums? I used to think: chatting somewhere in a warm kitchen, cradling cups of coffee in their hands, wondering whether or not to allow themselves that third biscuit. I always felt left out, if there was no one else around. Now, I would have carried on walking past if there was anyone else here, despite the inevitable tantrum from Rees.

  Rees is swinging from the monkey bars. Not long ago, I would have called out, ‘Careful, Rees.’ What happened to Betty has released me from that anxiety and released Rees from my unwelcome and over-protective solicitude. What’s the worst thing that can happen to him if he falls off the monkey bars, a broken arm?

  Sitting huddled on the bench, my arms pulled tight against my body even though I am not cold, I realise that I am in a strange, dreaming state, almost euphoria – floating. It has happened, I think to myself, calmly. The worst thing in the world has happened. My Betty has been taken away from me. I glance at Rees, unconcerned. How lucky he is. What are the chances, statistically speaking, of a woman losing both her children in tragic accidents? Minuscule, they must be. Betty’s accident will keep Rees safe. Nothing will ever happen to him. I will never have to say, ‘Careful, Rees,’ again.

  I close my eyes and tip my face to the sky, feeling the cool air. How perfect to be here, out of the house, Rees distracted, able to think of nothing but Betty: all the hours I spent here with her, holding her on the see-saw when she was a baby, fighting to keep her out of the sand pit because it smelt as though the foxes had been pissing in it again. And then, when she was older, forcing her to come along because Rees needed to let off steam on the way home after we had picked her up from school. She would sit on the swing, even though the chains had been shortened by the council to discourage older children like her. She would swing gently to and fro, grumpily, while Rees whooped and hollered with the other toddlers. ‘Have you got anything to eat, Mum?’ she would ask eventually.

  I open my eyes again. The playground is full of Bettys – Betty at a different age on every piece of equipment. I am surrounded by her.

  Rees is hanging from the monkey bars of the climbing frame with one hand and bicycling his legs in the air to reach the ladder at the end. I watch him, unconcerned. Next to him, Betty hooks her legs over the halfway-up bar and drops upside down, letting her arms droop, her long hair brushing the ground. She must have loved me so much, to give me this gift – to sacrifice herself so that I don’t need to be frightened any more. She was like that. She was the child who would write me little notes when she and Rees went to stay with their father. Dear Mummy, I hope you won’t be sad this weekend because I love you far far far far more than I love Daddy and Chloe. I know Rees was rude to you this morning but I think that was because he was worried and actually he really looks up to you. I hope you like watching your film. Please don’t forget to feed the sea monkeys. PLEASE. from Betty xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

  Sitting on the bench, half-watching Rees, lost in my thoughts of Betty, I am content.

  Then, a disaster: Gerry Mason comes down the path, pushing her one-year-old in a buggy and talking to her daughter, Maeve, who must be about four, I think – not quite old enough for Reception in any case.

  I wait for Gerry to notice me, sitting on my bench enjoying my huddle. I stare at her until she does. She glances up and almost physically starts – clumsy of her. She hesitates, but Maeve has already crashed through the playground gate and Gerry’s hand is raised to stop it swinging back against the buggy. She can hardly back out now. I continue to stare at her, unrelenting, and she drops her gaze. She pushes the buggy through the gate and glances round. She sees Rees on the climbing frame and grimaces at him – Maeve has already run off to the sand pit. Uncomfortable beneath my rock-like stare, she drops to her feet in front of the buggy and busies herself with unclipping the infant, who is perfectly happy where he is. I wonder where she will sit. There is only one bench. It is a tiny playground, after all – hardly worth it, really. She must be steeling herself, as she unclips the child. She will have to come over to me. She must be running phrases through her head.

  I rise from the bench and walk over to the climbing frame. I lift Rees down and whisper to him, ‘Let’s go and buy some cake. You can choose what flavour.’ He looks at me, astonished, then says, ‘Lemon?’ I nod. He allows me to put him on the ground. I take his hand.

  We pass Gerry on our way to the gate. We are six feet away from her as we draw level and I let go of Rees’s hand to take a step towards her, where she is still crouched in front of the buggy, still busy with the straps. I bend slightly towards her. As she looks up, she forces an uncertain smile. In return I hiss, ‘It’s not fucking catching, you know.’ Then I turn and take Rees’s hand and smile down at him. He smiles back. Hand in hand, still smiling at each other, we leave the playground.

  *

  It is the morning after the playground incident that Toni comes round. I am sitting at the bottom of my stairs, facing the door. I have been there for about half an hour, holding Betty’s favourite scarf. She should have been wearing it that day, but she decided a
t the last minute that it didn’t really go with her new corduroy jacket. It is one of those chunky, factory-produced, fake hand-knitted things, very long, with tassels at the end, in lots of different blues and greens – mermaid colours, Betty used to say. My mermaid scarf, she called it. Once, when she caught Rees tying it to the top banister, she was so furious I thought she was going to push him down the stairs. She had worn it incessantly that winter, and although I didn’t like it particularly, it had now acquired the same talismanic power as all of her possessions.

  I finger the scarf for a long time. Then I put it over my face and weep into it. I enter one of the recurrent moments I have been having, a moment of simple pain. Most of the time, the knowledge of Betty’s absence is a complicated pain, a pain admixture of anger and confusion and disbelief: but every now and then, there is a moment like this – pain as unalloyed as a sliver of glass, a moment when I cannot believe that I do not die of it as surely as I would die if someone thrust a very thin knife through my chest and out the other side. I always think the same thing in these moments, a pure thought, a row of monosyllables undiluted by doubt. It’s my fault you’re dead.