by Emma Davies
‘No difference, Hugh, but that’s rather my point. You obviously didn’t think the dress was right for me and yet today, wearing it, everyone has commented on how amazing Tash looks. Including you.’
‘Yes, well. It suits her, I will admit, but Tash is very different from you, she’s…’
‘Younger?’
‘Well of course she is, but I still don’t—’
‘Hugh, I’m forty-eight. But right now, I feel as if I’m eighty-eight. When did forty-eight get to be so old?’
He shakes his head. ‘I really don’t see what you’re getting at, Alys. You and Tash are completely different and it’s ridiculous to try to compare yourself to her.’
‘I wasn’t actually. All I was saying is that at forty-eight you’d think I’d still be able to wear a dress like that and look good.’
‘I didn’t say that you wouldn’t, Alys… if you like that sort of thing… which I don’t. I still don’t think it’s all that suitable.’
I sigh. ‘You know, Hugh, just once I wanted to feel like a woman, to have eyes on me in the room. Like I was more than just a wife and mother.’
There’s a hint of alarm in Hugh’s eyes. ‘Yes, but I like you in what you have on. You’ve always looked nice in that and what would have been the point in encouraging you to wear a dress like Tash’s when I knew it wouldn’t be right for you? I couldn’t bear it if people were laughing at you, and more to the point neither could you.’
‘Laughing at me?’
‘All right, not laughing. But you know what I mean. When people try too hard, wear things that aren’t suited to their age or shape. Mutton dressed as lamb, that kind of thing.’
‘I see…’
‘I was only trying to help.’ He pats my hand helplessly.
My throat suddenly constricts and I’m surprised to find the feeling familiar.
I drink my tea and excuse myself after a few more minutes, claiming I need the bathroom and a bit of fresh air after the stuffiness of the room. The cloakroom is empty, cool and calm after the noise outside and I stand for a few moments, breathing deeply.
I wash my hands slowly, savouring the feel of the silky soap on my skin, and then rinse them, staring into the huge mirror that covers one wall. My pale, clear skin is a little flushed, but still unlined except for the crinkles around my eyes when I smile. My hair is beginning to rebel against the straighteners, trying to find its natural curl, and it might have faded a little in comparison with Esme’s copper tresses but I still haven’t had to resort to colouring it. My nose is unremarkable, my cheekbones high and my lips generous. I stare, assessing what I see, details of a face I see every day, a collection of features which, added together, I’ve always thought are okay, pleasing even, on a good day. But it’s the eyes I don’t want to look at – almond-shaped, olive-green in colour, and ringed by mascaraed lashes. But they’re not mine. They’re the eyes of someone who’s dying inside.
What on earth has got into me? I turn off the tap, holding my still wet hands against my cheeks for a moment before pulling out several paper towels from the dispenser. I pat my face, willing myself calm, and straighten my dress. It must be the menopause, I think. Rampant hormones that are doing me no good at all. I need some fresh air; I wasn’t lying about feeling hot.
So instead of rejoining the party I slip out of the door on the other side of the hallway and into the gardens. It’s still warm and sunny, but there’s a breeze blowing and I gulp in fresh air as if I’ve been drowning. I’m going to have to find myself something to do, I realise. I know I’ve been having morning coffee with Nancy but, even so, I’m still home by ten a.m. and there’s only so much that needs doing in the house, or that I want to do. Being at home all the time is clearly not right for me. I’m sure that’s why I’ve been feeling so low; as if I’ve lost my identity, become irrelevant. But for heaven’s sake I was a shop assistant, a job I didn’t even like much, that can’t be the only reason why I feel the way I do.
I’ve been wandering along a path that bisects the lawns surrounding the hotel, but now I’ve reached a gate that gives access onto the road and the rear car park. I’ll have to cross over if I want to carry on. My hand is already on the latch as a bright-green van passes me, the company logo clear on the side doors. I check my watch, realising it must be time for Nancy and Theo to bring the food over for this evening’s buffet. Without even thinking about it, my steps quicken as I pass through the gate and follow the van down the road.
It isn’t quite as grand here in the service car park, but it’s a sizeable space and The Green Room’s van has drawn up on one side of it. By the time I reach it, Theo has already hopped out and opened the rear doors, pulling several stacked trays towards him.
‘Theo!’ I wave. ‘Hello.’
He straightens. ‘Hi, Alys,’ he says, grinning. ‘Erm, shouldn’t you be in there, having a wonderful time?’
I grin back, aware that Esme has probably told him plenty about our family dynamics. ‘I should… but I popped out for some fresh air and somehow I seem to have stayed out. Can I give you a hand?’
He eyes my dress. ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you. You’ll end up with all kinds of stuff down you.’
I grimace. ‘But perhaps a small price to pay for doing something useful.’ The cab door has opened on the other side of the van and I can hear footsteps approaching from the front. I look past Theo, readying a smile to greet Nancy.
Except it isn’t Nancy.
It’s you.
And my world turns upside down.
7
I’ve thought about this moment so many times. Relived each second over and over, every time slightly different from the last. What would I say? What would I do when faced with you, returned, as if from the dead? But now that you’re here, I don’t know what to do, or say. The breath has gone from my body, the words have dried in my throat.
You’re older, of course you are, it has been over twenty years since I last saw you and time has wreaked its change on us all. Your hair is grey at the temples, and there are lines on your face. On the one side. It’s hard to tell on the other, the skin thickened and twisted from the tangle of scars that run from your cheek right the way down your neck. You stand with a stoop, leaning your weight on a stick, and even the shock on your face can’t hide the discomfort you’re in. But you’re alive. And up until this moment I hadn’t even known if there was still air in your lungs.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ says Theo. ‘You two haven’t met, have you? Alys, this is my dad, Sam… Dad, this is Esme’s mum…’
Sam? So you have a new name now too. It wasn’t enough that you just disappeared, that I’ve never seen you or spoken to you since you said goodbye. You had to create a new identity for yourself as well. Did you really not want me so much that you couldn’t bear to be found? Or was it the other way around? That you didn’t want to even hear your old name and be reminded of a life you once had? One that had me in it. And yet, here we both are. You have a wife and son, and I have a husband and daughter. Standing in a car park, staring at each other, knowing we have to say something.
‘Hi,’ I say, holding out my hand. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’ Your eyes are on my hair and my face. Are you disappointed?
And then your hand is in mine, fingers burning into my skin. ‘Alys,’ you say, as if it’s the first time you’ve ever heard the word. ‘It’s good to meet you too. Nancy has nothing but praises to sing about Esme.’
Our skin detaches. There’s nothing else to say. Nothing that really matters anyway. ‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘And for giving her the opportunity, she’s really loving it.’ I look at Theo. ‘I’ll go and fetch her, shall I? She can give you a hand.’
‘Yes, okay. I’ve just sent her a text actually, told her I’d meet her in the kitchen.’ He points to a blue door on the left of the building. ‘Through there.’
‘I’ll go and find her, make sure she’s not lost.’
‘Mum will be here in a minute. She’s bringing the car separately
,’ he says. ‘Only I’m staying with Dad this weekend.’
I nod as if it’s all perfectly natural and then I smile at you, knowing I’m about to flee, wondering why every time I had imagined our meeting in my head, it never ended with my leaving. I guess it’s true what they say – that we never know how we’re going to react to something until we’re faced with it.
I focus my sight on the blue door and draw my body towards it, one step after the other until I’m safely through.
I wander through the next few days like a ghost in my own skin. Scarcely seeing, scarcely hearing, everything at a distance from me, seemingly impossible to reach. But I know I can’t go on like this. Hugh isn’t the most perceptive of men but even he has noticed. I’ve pleaded a migraine. It isn’t an outright lie – my head is full of pain, just not the sort that any painkillers will touch.
The worst thing is that I have absolutely nothing to occupy me. I drop Esme off at work and then I have the whole day to fill, adrift and utterly without purpose. I may not have found my job at Harringtons all that rewarding, but it at least required my presence. Now, I have nowhere to be and no one to talk to, and I can’t bear another day of mindlessly watching the TV to pass the time, or walking aimlessly, letting thoughts churn in my head with no resolution.
So, this morning, I’m going to clean; good old-fashioned manual labour to eradicate the pesky thoughts in my head that have no right to be there. And I’m going to start with the oven.
I probably should have read the instructions on the can of cleaner, especially the bit about using in a well-ventilated room. The kitchen window is open but I’m still spluttering at the overpowering smell and have to throw open the back door. There’s a man standing by my car. And the furious pounding in my chest that has seemed ever-present the last few days notches up a gear.
‘Tom…?’ Your name barely makes it out of my mouth.
He looks up. ‘Sam,’ he corrects.
The seconds click by. ‘I can’t call you that. It’s not your name.’
‘But it has been, for a long time, Alys.’ His voice is gentle as he comes towards me, his pronounced limp excruciating to watch.
I ignore his comment and stand away from the door, letting him into the kitchen.
‘Is Hugh—?’
‘No. He’s at work.’
His face visibly relaxes and he steps over the threshold.
‘I’m sorry, it stinks in here,’ I say. ‘I’ve been cleaning the oven.’
He nods, looking around him, his eyes flicking over the small details of our family life.
‘How do you even know where I live?’ I ask.
His eyes are full of apology. ‘Your daughter works for Nancy so her details are on file…’
I nod. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry… I wasn’t accusing you…’ I trail off and clear my throat.
‘You look well—’
‘How have you been?’
Our words collide, a sudden noise in the quiet space.
He fidgets, adjusting his weight on his stick. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘You first.’
‘Do you need to sit down?’ It comes out more bluntly than I’d intended, and he winces slightly at my words.
Despite the appearance of the rest of his body, his eyes haven’t changed one single bit. Still hazel, flecked with gold and grey, so that one minute they dance and another they’re soft like seal fur. ‘Thank you. That might be wise. I have a feeling this could be more than a two-minute conversation.’
I motion to the hallway. ‘We’ll go in the other room. I don’t think I can stand the smell in here.’ I take us through, conscious of the family photos on the wall as we pass, the wedding portrait on the mantelpiece in the living room. Pictures of the life I’ve led without you.
He pauses, trying to figure out which chair to sit in. Not the big squishy sofa, which some days I struggle to be free from. Or the battered leather armchair which sits low to the ground. So instead he’s left with the wingback; upright, easier to get up from, but unmistakably Hugh’s. I should have thought. How can our meeting be so full of things to trip us up, when all I’ve ever done is picture how perfect our reunion will be?
I wait until he’s settled before I take a seat in the corner of the sofa. ‘You look well,’ I say, repeating my comment from earlier.
‘Do I?’ He seems to find my compliment funny. ‘Well, I guess I do compared with the last time you saw me; in a hospital bed, covered in tubes and wires. But then again it’s hard for me to judge when every day of my life is an endless collection of things which hurt or things which don’t work.’ He drops his head, sighing. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘That wasn’t necessary.’
I take a deep breath. I can’t let us fight. Not after all this time. ‘I’m sorry too,’ I say. ‘I know it can’t be easy, and how you are is probably the last thing you want to talk about. It’s just… this is all such a shock. I didn’t even know if you were alive.’ I pause. ‘After the divorce came through I tried to find you several times, but you’d disappeared. It was as if you never even existed. Now, of course, I understand. But why did you change your name?’
There’s raw agony on his face and he doesn’t reply. So I’m to draw my own conclusions. I see. ‘So… well, you… you’re walking though. That’s an improvement on what the doctors first thought.’
His face softens. ‘I can tell you what’s happened, Alys. If you want me to?’
I nod, fumbling up my sleeve for a tissue. ‘Should we get a drink or something?’
‘If you’d like,’ he replies. ‘Yes, maybe that might help.’
I get up, suddenly needing some space. I’m not yet ready to hear Tom’s story, to learn about the blanks in my life. ‘Do you still drink coffee?’ He used to take two sugars. I wonder if he still does.
‘I do, but not so often these days. Actually, just water would be fine, if that’s okay?’
I nod and head back into the kitchen, shutting the oven door on my way through. I fill a glass with water from the tap and make Tom wait while I make myself a coffee. I stare at it for a few minutes, willing myself to pick up the mug, but a sudden wave of emotion hits me and instead I rush through the conservatory and into the garden, where I stand, gulping in air. Seeing you again has brought back all those feelings from the day of your accident.
I stare at the bright colours of the potted flowers surrounding the conservatory, conscious of the amount of time that’s passing. But it’s a few moments more before I’m able to take one final cleansing breath and retrace my steps. I pick up the drinks and return to the living room, handing Tom his glass of water.
‘Yes,’ I say simply. ‘I’d like to know.’
He takes a sip as he searches for a place to start. ‘So some of it you’re already aware of,’ he begins. ‘The broken leg, the smashed pelvis, cracked vertebrae… all of which healed, eventually.’ He turns his head slightly. ‘The scarring… was more severe than I ever thought it would be. I guess it was simply a matter of priorities. At the time of the accident, keeping me alive was more important than what I was going to look like if I survived. That, and whether I would ever be able to walk again. This is a vast improvement actually, on what it used to be. I’ve lost count of the number of operations I’ve had. I’ve been offered more but… sometimes you just have to know when to stop.’
I swallow. ‘Does it hurt?’
His eyes close. ‘Yes. At times unbearably so. Painful, itchy, like fire ants walking over my skin. But it’s got better with time.’ He gives a rueful shrug. ‘Age is the ultimate irony; some things get better, some things get worse… But the walking is an improvement. I’m told I bucked the odds, but even so I still spent several years in a wheelchair. More operations; legs and back filled with metal rods, repairs to the nerves, and an awful lot of blood, sweat and tears. Learning to walk again is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.’
He gives a tight smile. ‘It’s a damned good job babies never know quite how hard it is or I don’t think the
y’d bother. So yes, I’m mobile, up to a point. Can’t walk too far before exhaustion hits me like a freight train, but better than I did before. The rest of me… everything else you see is just the passage of time.’
I don’t know what to say.
His eyes are clear and steady. ‘And yet, none of that answers your question, does it? The only question you really have. The question to end all questions. Sure, you’ve asked the rest out of politeness, but it doesn’t really matter how I am. I’m alive, I’m sitting in the same room as you. For goodness’ sake it’s perfectly obvious how I am. So, shall I answer the big one?’
My eyes burn into his. ‘Don’t mock me, Tom. What do you want me to say? I haven’t seen you in over twenty years, and the last time I did I was married to you.’
His gaze sinks to the floor. ‘I know, I’m sorry.’
I shake my head. The teeniest of movements. The biggest of hurts.
‘What for? For sending me away, or for never contacting me?’ Anger fuels my words. ‘I thought you were dead, Tom. You probably should have been. I thought it was the worst day of my life when the police came to see me. To tell me you’d been in a car accident. And when I saw you, lying there, so broken, the only thing I cared about was that you were still alive. Nothing else mattered while there was a tiny glimmer of hope. And I prayed and prayed that they would be able to keep you that way, that none of the things the doctors feared would happen, and eventually you would get to come home and I wouldn’t have to live my life without you. I even started carrying out random acts of kindness, anything to tip the scales in my favour. If I was a good, kind person, then surely nothing bad could happen. And at the end of it all, you were supposed to be my reward.’
There’s a patch of stubble on your chin where the hairs are slightly longer than the rest. Maybe you missed them when you were shaving. I stare at them, transfixed, anything so I don’t have to meet your eyes.
‘But instead, just when you were beginning to recover; at the end, which I thought would be a beginning, you sent me away. Told me our marriage was over. And because I thought I understood what you were going through, and that you needed time to come to terms with things, I did as you asked. I never thought you meant it, not until the day you disappeared. That was the worst day of my life. Not one word, Tom, not one visit, in all that time. Not even to see if I was okay.’ I lift my eyes to his. ‘Did you not even care, Tom, is that it?’
