by Clare Ashton
Abby looked up surprised.
“Come back with me,” Jude said, cradling her face. “Come to lectures and tutorials, and do nothing more than sit staring at the wall if that’s what it takes. Don’t write notes, don’t even listen. But I want you to keep going.”
“I don’t know…I don’t know if I can.”
“I can’t bear to think of you here alone. Stay with Jen. Stay with me. Sleep in your own room at uni. Whatever you need. I’ll be there every step of the way.”
“I don’t want to clear this place.”
“You don’t have to. Not straight away. Let’s come back during the break. See how you feel.”
Abby had packed a few of her mother’s things to keep at university. A silly Benidorm snow globe – the most inappropriate souvenir ever sold. A little heart-shaped frame with a picture of them when Abby was ten. And a Christmas jumper with a Rudolf nose which lit up when squeezed.
She wandered around lectures after Jude, not even knowing where she was. It was what Abby needed though.
Night time was the worst. Initially, she was so tired from shock that sleeping was no issue. But when Jude said goodnight to spend time with Dan, Abby panicked and broke down. She hugged her friend to say goodbye, but couldn’t let go. It felt that if Jude left, she might never come back. Abby knew it was paranoia over losing her mother, but she couldn’t let go. That’s when the attacks started.
It was the same with her girlfriend. But whereas Jude held Abby tighter, Jen pulled away. At nineteen it was too much for a girlfriend to handle, and Abby didn’t blame her.
Others were awkward too. The friends she used to drink and laugh with fell silent when she set foot in the union bar. A well-meaning girl said her mother was in a better place and would be watching over her, but it drove Abby into a rage, a frightening rage she’d never before experienced.
“She’s not in a better fucking place,” she screamed. “She’d want to be here. With me. This is the best fucking place for her.”
Jude took her by the hand and they walked for miles, past the university buildings, along the river, into countryside, marching and marching until Abby’s rage was spent. She collapsed on a bench by the river.
“You’re allowed to be angry,” Jude said, her voice strained, and it was only then Abby realised Jude raged too. She had tears in her eyes. “You’re allowed to be fucking angry. You’re allowed to swear. You’re allowed to throw things and tell people to fuck off. You don’t have to speak to me again or anyone else. Because you’re right. She should be here. The best place for your mother is right here, right now, with you. And I’m not going to tell you time will heal it. I will never tell you to stop grieving. Because that was your mum. Your lovely mum. And she has left a hole in your life, and you should never have to pretend it’s not there.” And she grasped Abby to comfort them both.
Abby gazed at Celia sitting beside her now, seeing a little of Jude in her eyes.
“It did get better though,” Abby said with a smile. “It did work, plodding to lectures and staring at the wall. Because one day everything came into focus. It was strange. It felt like I was suddenly present, sitting on a hard bench in the lecture theatre, Dr Francis gesticulating wildly about synapses, and Jude next to me writing her thorough notes for me to use later.
“I looked at her, properly, for the first time in a long while, her hair scooped over her head, cascading past her cheek, her eyebrows crinkled in concentration as she scribbled away. She noticed me staring and gave a smile. She reached out and held my hand, then carried on with her notes like she’d done for weeks.
“I noticed what a beautiful human being she was, through and through. She’d been there for me every step of the way, long after my girlfriend had left. In that moment I saw everything there was to admire about her – intelligence, her incredible patience and unending support, the way she’d persevered with her own study all the while carrying me. She was beautiful, she was kind, and she showed more respect for my mother than anyone when she was alive.” Abby had to stop for a moment. “That,” she said swallowing, “that was the moment I realised I was in love with her.”
Chapter 10.
Although Maggie Goodman had dreaded the party aftermath, this Monday morning wasn’t quite what she’d envisaged. Her sister was in hospital, her mother wasn’t, and Maggie happily termed it all, “a fucking mess quite frankly.”
“This is how it works now,” she ranted while readying her shopping bags in the hallway. “Everything hits A&E. You never get an appointment at the GP, so people leave it until it’s an emergency.”
She turned to complain with more force to Richard who leant against the sitting room doorway.
“Kate’s been having twinges for months and what was a grumbling gall bladder is now a very angry one. Then, on top of that, someone else’s routine surgery is cancelled until they become an emergency too.”
She kicked Celia’s hospital bag to the wall for good measure.
Richard smiled. He was always damned smiling these days. “I doubt your sister needed the same surgeon and bed as Celia. And I’m sure they’ll book Celia in again soon.”
“Within her lifetime?” Maggie threw her hands in the air. “Fucking austerity. Why is the entire population paying for the mistakes of the rich? The poorest are paying with their lives. And the elderly? They may as well force Celia to hobble up to her own grave, tell her to dig it then jump in. Seriously, expect that as a policy for dealing with the ageing population next election.”
Richard pursed his lips. He didn’t have to say, “Come on, that’s getting ridiculous,” for Maggie to hear it.
“Anyway,” he said heavily. He opened his mouth.
“No,” Maggie snapped. “I’m not doing it.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“Yes, I do. And now is not the time.”
He smiled indulgently. “I know things have not gone to plan”
“To say the least.”
The house, this very early morning, was full and Maggie was caring for her nephews. One of the vagaries of having a younger sister, who left having kids until her forties, was the childcare of nephews as young as Maggie could have expected grandchildren. At least being an early retiree she had the same early morning habits as infants, although 5 a.m. had been painful for all, mostly for her sister who clutched her side as the boys leapt from the car at twilight.
Eli and Selene were wrapped up in his old room and wouldn’t appear until mid-morning to empty the fridge and cupboards once again, and that was just the beginning of Maggie’s woes. Don’t get her started on Bill and Jude. What the hell happened there?
“We still need to tell everyone,” Richard continued.
“We do not.”
“They’re going to notice.”
“We’ve essentially been living apart for years.”
“But insisting on knocking on each other’s front doors while everyone blithely comes and goes through the attic door is starting to look a little odd.”
“Well lock the damn thing and make them use the front door.”
“With what reason?”
“For the hell of it,” Maggie shouted.
Richard was staring at her. She could tell he was about to raise his eyebrows.
“Eli and Selene are getting married,” she said before he could twitch those hairy contours. “We have a wedding to plan.” Well as soon as the happy couple could get themselves to leave their room. “I do not want to crap all over the happy event with our divorce planning.”
Richard opened his mouth.
“You can still see Caroline,” Maggie cut him off.
“What if I want to take her to the wedding?”
Maggie gave him a look. A hands-on-hips, hard look.
Richard lifted his eyebrows.
She tilted her head.
He raised his eyebrows higher.
“Oh for the love of God, Richard. Is she that important to you?”
“Getting that way, yes,” he said, matter of fact.
“Oh Jesus.” Why were people so bloody complicated?
The thought occurred to Maggie that this question was most often asked about her, but she quickly swept it aside. At least she was going to meet Abby later – that was a more consoling prospect. With all the upheaval of Friday night it would be good to see the dear girl, an oasis of calm and affection. Although who knows where she’d got to after the party. Maggie couldn’t remember her leaving in all the commotion, much of which Maggie missed by staring at her son’s fiancée in a catatonic state.
“Well,” she said, to shake away the memory. “We haven’t anything in for breakfast so I’m going shopping.” She still had a snappy tone. “Would you like to stay for dinner tonight?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Do you want a roast?”
“Yes please.”
“Will you do the spuds?”
“Yes I will.”
“Good.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t thank you.”
“You did in your own way.”
Oh she hated it when he out-jousted her. He never used to. Those thirty years of marriage had been damned training for him. He was now a sharper man who attracted the likes of Caroline Argent. Galling.
“Fine,” she said.
“It will be.” He smiled.
Again, without a comeback, she swivelled on her heels and walked out the door, then had to retrace her steps.
“Boys!” she shouted. And two small nephews obediently trotted around the corner, encased in identical padded jackets, hoods on and zipped up to their noses.
“Ready, Auntie Maggie,” they chimed. Two pairs of hazel eyes stared up at her and Maggie melted.
“Oh, my dear boys,” she sighed. She wanted to nibble their snotty noses she loved them so much. “We have a full house today and we need to go shopping. You can choose breakfast pastries and puddings for tonight.”
“Yay,” they both cried. Four-year-old Mathew leapt forward and hugged her leg. “This is the best day ever.” It was heartfelt and heart-warming, and a relief that anxiety over their mother in hospital was no match for the restorative powers of choosing one’s own dessert.
She grabbed a small hand in each of hers, tiny fingers curling around her palm. She indulged, for a moment, in a memory of two other small children, before leading them out of the house. It was with doubled joy that she launched onto the pavement, with the echo of the sensation of her own children’s hands coupled with the tight grip of love from her nephews.
The sun was peeping above the horizon, the low autumn light transforming the perimeter wall of the church grounds into a rich terra cotta and the trees which thrust above the stone were golden against a cerulean sky. For Maggie, nothing had the restorative powers of a beautiful autumn morning and the company of small children.
She was happy.
It didn’t last long.
Barbara Petty, the neighbour, stood a few yards down the road yelling at a young policeman.
“Move him on,” she screeched. “He’s been slumped against that wall since last night. I can’t believe how many times I’ve had to call the station.”
Further down the road, an old man was curled up under a sleeping bag, dozing against the stone wall with steam emanating in snores from his nostrils in the cool morning air.
“Now young fellow,” Petty continued. “I know your sergeant. He’s a good friend of my husband’s. So look sharpish about moving that,” she flicked her finger towards the old man, “and we’ll say no more.”
Maggie stood for a moment with her mouth open in outrage, before launching down the road, two nephews pulled behind like balloons on a string.
“Don’t you dare constable,” she shouted.
The young bobby stopped dead, his already pale face blanching to an unhealthier hue.
“That man,” Maggie said pointedly, “that human being, is going to the church’s soup kitchen. It’s St Mary’s on the rota today. Don’t you dare turn him away.”
“Move him on constable,” Mrs Petty said, eyes glaring in Maggie’s direction. “This woman knows nothing about church business.”
“It’s common knowledge St Mary’s is on the homeless rota.”
“Not for long,” Mrs Petty struck back venomously.
“What?”
“You see. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. If she’d attended the Sunday service she would know the church is closing.”
“Excuse me?”
“There are plans for this area of town and the church grounds. As I said, if this woman spent any time in God’s house she would know that.”
Maggie was wrong-footed and indeed knew nothing about this development. She was very much aware, however, of the pleasure this gave Mrs Petty. The woman literally expanded with smug pleasure, inhaling a chest full of righteous air.
“So,” Mrs Petty said, expansive with victory, “that has no business in this part of town. Move him on.”
“Where the hell to?” Maggie said.
“There are plenty of places he can go. Beyond the train station would be more appropriate. Don’t they sleep behind Spar, by the vents?”
“Well that’s a nice bit of social cleansing. Officer,” Maggie said, her tone sarcastic, “at least give him the luxury of moving him behind Waitrose.”
“I don’t have to stand here and listen to this,” Mrs Petty said. “Constable, move him on.”
Mrs Petty retreated up the steps to her abode.
“Well here’s an idea,” Maggie yelled after her. “How about we save money on police pestering the homeless and spend it on affordable housing instead.”
Mrs Petty spun round, her face puce. “That,” she jabbed her finger in the direction of the old man and the bobby who was slinking away. “Last night, that was urinating against the wall,” she screamed before slamming the front door shut.
“Well where the hell are you meant to piss when you live on the street?”
It was only the twitch of small fingers in hers that reminded Maggie of the presence of delicate ears.
She snapped her eyes down to Mathew, whose hazel irises showed a wide border of white and his little mouth made a perfect “o”.
“Shit,” Maggie said.
Her nephew’s eyebrows shot higher.
Oh buggering fuck.
She peeped down at the older Liam, who she hoped was more worldly wise, but he was equally struck.
“Erm.” Maggie gathered her composure and knelt down to Mathew’s level. She took her nephew’s hands and squeezed them while biting her lip, half in penance, half in amusement. “Sorry boys. Auntie Maggie should have said ‘wee’. Where on earth should he wee?”
Mathew giggled. “Were you meant to say ‘poo’ afterwards as well?”
“Yes, I was. I should have said poo, you clever boy,” and she kissed his little pink nose.
And indeed, when they reached the top of the road, the church on the left and the square to the right, there was a For Sale sign high above the church gates.
“What the hell?” Maggie raised her eyes to the heavens and mentally apologised as she always felt compelled to do within the vicinity of the church. She looked down to her nephews but they didn’t seem to have noticed.
“Daisies!” Mathew yelled. “Kwee go and make daisy chains?”
Maggie crinkled her nose at the unseasonal spread of white flowers, opening their petals in the dew around the grave stones. “Five minutes then,” is all she said. It was like firing a starter’s gun. “Don’t tread on the graves,” she yelled.
Her two nephews started hoovering up the flowers into little fistfuls, leaving dark footprints in the silvery morning grass. They perched on the end of a tomb, one that had seen better centuries with a crack down the side and the carving of a skeleton which had worn away into something of moderate interest rather than the macabre decoration it must have once been.
>
“Don’t sit on the–”
“I wouldn’t worry,” said a voice. “I don’t think The Third Earl of Ludbury will mind after all these years.”
“Vicar,” Maggie said cheerily.
The cleric was a short, rotund woman, all in black except for the dog collar, pink extremities and a neat bob of blonde hair. She would have looked saintly except for the defiant smile in readiness to engage Maggie but which also held genuine regard.
“Good morning, Mrs Goodman.”
“It is a good morning, vicar.” Maggie smiled then called out to the boys. “Mathew, Liam!”
“Let them play,” the vicar said.
“But the disrespect to the relatives of the Earl?”
“Who are buried beside him?”
“And of course God sees all.”
“Indeed. He sees two small children enjoying His creation. I think He’ll give them a pass on this beautiful day.”
Maggie looked fondly at the young woman who’d moved to Ludbury five years ago. “Your God is much more benevolent than the one who watched me picking my nose at school, and a great deal more besides.”
“I do hope so. Perhaps I can tempt you and your nephews into the morning service to learn more about His generosity?”
There were a few stragglers limping into church. The largest part of the congregation was well into old age, with a few middle agers and a couple of earnest, well-dressed, young folk, perhaps twenty in total for this midweek service. It would be a short matter of time before it dwindled to a handful who would rattle around this magnificent church.
“No thank you, vicar. Even your modern God and I don’t see eye to eye.”
“Really. Are you sure?”
Maggie pursed her lips. “I imagine he was greatly offended when I had sex on the altar as a teenager.”
There was a flicker of amusement on the vicar’s cheeks, perhaps mortification, then she solemnly replied. “Indeed. As one of His precious creations I imagine Him disappointed by your treatment of your spine. Altars are not made for such activities. But I suppose that’s why He invented chiropractors.”
Maggie smiled at their game. They’d been swapping unholy banter since the vicar had found Maggie swearing at graffiti on the church wall a couple of years ago.
