by Kate Hewitt
‘Fun to pretend?’ I couldn’t believe he was eviscerating our dream so completely, even as I was unsurprised. All along, Jack had been playacting at a real relationship. It was why we had never got more serious, why I’d had to push him into making some sort of declaration in the first place. I’d always known, deep down, that we weren’t going to last, but it still hurt to hear him say it so plainly.
‘I don’t mean it unkindly, but I would never have… I would never have fought for Alice, Anna. I should have made that more clear when you suggested it to me. I’m sorry.’
He never would have fought for Alice, and he never would have fought for me. ‘Yes, perhaps you should have,’ I managed to get out. ‘And perhaps you should not have told Milly and Matt about it all, when there was no need.’
‘You weren’t there – you were missing, and I panicked—’
‘Missing? I left them a note. I’d gone out to give them a bit of time to settle, readjust.’ I shook my head, incredulous. ‘What, you thought I’d kidnapped Alice?’
Jack looked shame-faced as he met my gaze. ‘It crossed my mind.’
And, I didn’t admit to him then, it had crossed my mind as well. I’d stayed out so long because I hadn’t wanted to go back and face them. I’d even fantasised about getting in my car with Alice and just driving, never coming back. I wasn’t so gripped by my obsession to have actually done it, but yes, I did think about it. ‘If I’d talked to them in my own way, on my own terms,’ I told Jack as steadily as I could, ‘things might have been different.’
Now he was the one to look incredulous. ‘You think they would have given Alice to you, just like that?’
‘No, not just like that. And perhaps I wouldn’t have talked to them at all. Perhaps I would have realised there was no point, but you didn’t even give me that chance, you blew it all up into a huge storm when it didn’t have to be, and it’s cost me everything.’ My voice choked as I swung away from him.
‘I thought I was doing the right thing…’
‘For whom?’ I shook my head. ‘For Matt and Milly, obviously, because I’m no one to you.’ And, in the end, I’d been no one to them, as well. That hurt almost as much as losing Alice. All it took for me to disappear from their lives was one firm push. ‘Go away, Jack,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing you can say that will make me feel better, and you’re only here to make yourself feel better, anyway. So go away.’
Jack hesitated, and I saw so clearly in his eyes the battle between doing what I asked – what he wanted – and trying to be the good guy. ‘Anna, look, I don’t like leaving you on your own…’
‘Trust me, I’d much rather be on my own than with you.’
‘What about us?’ He wasn’t asking because he wanted to stay together, I could tell that much. He was asking because he wanted to be in the clear.
‘We’re over, Jack,’ I said tiredly. ‘You know that as well as I do.’
As he closed the door behind him, I knew I’d never see him again, and I haven’t. Just as I haven’t seen Matt or Milly or Alice. Alice.
The girl has walked on with her parents; her hand is clasped by her mother’s and they are swinging arms and smiling, just another happy family scene, one of dozens I see every day. They don’t hurt me as much as they used to.
For several months after losing Alice, I was a mess. I lay in bed and stared into space as my savings trickled away, my own version of postpartum depression, and it hurt so much. Part of me was waiting for Milly to call, to apologise, but she never did. And I didn’t call her; I felt I couldn’t, with the way things had ended. I didn’t even want to, because I was so angry.
I clung to the feeling that I had been wronged, again and again, but at some point, I forced myself to see what part I’d had to play in it all, and I knew I wasn’t entirely innocent. I had taken advantage of the situation, of Milly, almost without realising it. Looking back, I’ve asked myself many times if I would have gone through it – the lawyer, the custody case – and I don’t think I would have. At least, that’s what I tell myself now.
Eventually, at the start of spring, I roused myself to action. I still felt as if I were sleepwalking, but I managed to book myself on a PR and development course, and I started sending my CV out again. I decided I would no longer work in HR; I wanted to do something meaningful with my life. Something that mattered, at least to me.
I still looked for Alice everywhere, just as I did now. In the park, the supermarket, the street. Passing cars, even when I’m in other cities, wondering if they’ve moved or are on holiday. I feel certain that at some point I’ll catch a glimpse of her. That’s all I want, just one glimpse.
About six months after it all fell apart, I walked by their house. Just once, feeling guilty and stalkerish for doing it, but I couldn’t resist. It was summer, early evening, the world full of syrupy sunlight and birdsong. I stood on the pavement opposite their house, half-hidden by a tree, and waited for nearly an hour for that precious glimpse. It never came. The curtains were drawn, everything tucked up for the night. I saw a silhouette against the curtain; it looked like Matt, but that was all.
I finally left, sickened by myself and what I’d become. I told myself I wasn’t going to obsess anymore, and I booked myself in for some counselling, which helped. Then, in the autumn, I landed a job in marketing and development with Speak Now, a local charity that advocates for victims of sexual harassment and assault. I finally felt as if I were moving on.
Of course, there have been blips and backslides over the years – evenings spent with a glass of wine, scouring social media for something of Milly and Matt, and of course Alice, but they deleted their accounts, erased their online presence. There have been Saturdays when I don’t feel like getting up, when I wonder if I’ll always be alone. There have been reckless blind dates that ended up with me regretting more than I wanted to, and one ill-advised relationship with a man I met in the ready-meal aisle of Waitrose that lumbered on for several uninspiring months.
Four years on, I am still looking for Alice, but this time, after a few seconds, I straighten and walk on.
Saturdays used to be quiet days for me, but a few years ago I decided I needed to get out more, and after being on a waiting list for several months, I managed to bag a quarter plot of an allotment near my flat. I’d never gardened before, and it felt like another world, on the other side of the green palisading, everything so neatly divided into strips marked by raised vegetable beds and chicken coops and cosy sheds storing chairs and kettles, as well as seeds and tools.
My plot was tiny, and I treated each precious inch of fertile soil with care, planting several rows of vegetables, as well as flowers for their simple beauty, and a dwarf apple tree which has yet to produce a single piece of fruit. Still, I love it all – somehow it soothes me, fingers in crumbling soil, nails rimed with dirt, knees aching. To plant something and watch it grow… I think I’ve needed that in my life.
On this damp grey morning in early April, the allotment is empty; the keen gardeners have already tilled their plots and are waiting to plant, while the less keen haven’t bothered yet and clearly don’t plan to until the weather improves.
I don’t mind being alone, though, because it’s a peaceful oasis in the midst of the city, and I need to clear away winter’s debris from my little bit of land.
About an hour in, I hear the clang of the gate and I see a man come through, wheeling a bike, a rucksack slung over one shoulder. I’ve seen him before, and I even have a nickname for him, although I’ve never talked to him. I call him Mr Green, because he has one of the best plots in the whole allotment, a narrow strip of regimental order, with a pristine shed at the back. Once, I peeked in when he was working, the door left open, and saw the labelled tins of seeds, the neatly arrayed tools, and was amazed at how orderly everything was. How did he have the time? Did he have a job?
Now he gives me a brief smile before heading for his shed, and I turn back to the wet dead leaves I’m clearing away. We
’re the only two there and we work in silent solidarity for another hour before the clouds gather and the first raindrops spatter down like bullets. I straighten, cursing myself for not having brought my car. I don’t fancy a walk back in this downpour.
‘Hey.’
I turn, surprised Mr Green is calling me. He’s never said a word to me before.
‘Care for a cuppa while we wait out this downpour?’ He nods towards the shed.
I hesitate, taken aback by the offer, and then shrug my assent with a smile. ‘Sure, thanks.’ I lope over, and we both step into the shed, which is just as neat, if not neater, than I remember. It’s cosy too, with a folding chair and a wooden packing crate turned on its side to act as a table.
‘I’m Will, by the way,’ he says as he puts a kettle on a little propane stove perched on a workbench. ‘Will Ford.’
‘Anna Thompson.’
We smile at each other, a bit inanely, and then he reaches for a battered tin of tea. ‘You haven’t been here that long, have you?’
‘About a year, but I didn’t come over the winter.’ My smile turns self-conscious. ‘I’m not that committed.’
‘Nor am I.’
‘No?’ I nod towards the neat shelves. ‘You look like someone who has invested quite a bit in this.’
‘Ah, but looks can be deceiving.’ The kettle starts to whistle and he pours hot water into two tin mugs. ‘This allotment belonged to my uncle. I took it over when he fell ill. I’m just keeping it going until he can get back to it.’
‘That’s kind of you.’
He shrugs. ‘He did a lot for me.’ There seems to be a world of memory in that statement, and I don’t feel I can press, so I just nod and accept the mug of tea he gives me.
‘Thanks for this.’
He gestures for me to take the chair while he leans against the workbench. It’s awkward at first, but we get into the flow of chatting, and as the rain drums on the shed’s tin roof, I learn that he works in consulting, and I tell him about my job at Speak Now. He’s unmarried, childless, in his early forties, and he’s been working his uncle’s allotment for two years.
‘He has lung cancer,’ he tells me. ‘I don’t think anyone expected him to last this long, but he keeps on confounding the doctors. I hope he’ll be strong enough to come back here soon.’
I think suddenly of Claire, Milly’s mother, whom I was once so close to. We completely lost touch after everything blew up; she never reached out to me, just as I never reached out to her. Now I wonder if she is still alive. It’s been five years since her cancer diagnosis.
‘Sorry, was it something I said?’ Will asks, half-joking, and I realise I must have a strange look on my face.
‘Sorry, I was thinking of something else.’
‘Something sad?’
‘A bit. A family friend I’ve lost touch with. She had cancer, and now I don’t even know if she’s alive or not.’ Saying it out loud makes me feel sadder. I’d thought about getting in touch with Milly’s parents over the years, but I’d always stopped myself, mostly out of fear. What if she refused to talk to me? She would have only heard Milly’s side of the story, and I don’t think I could have borne her rejection along with everything else.
‘That’s tough. Could you get back in touch?’
I shake my head even as I wonder. Has enough time passed? Or too much? ‘I don’t think so,’ I tell Will. ‘Not anymore.’
‘Sometimes life’s like that,’ he agrees, and again I have the feeling that he is referencing something else, something personal. Perhaps his life isn’t straightforward, just as mine isn’t. Maybe no one’s is.
The rain has lessened, and sunlight is peeking out from behind shreds of grey cloud. ‘Thanks for the tea,’ I say as I stand up and hand him the empty mug. ‘I’d return the favour, but I don’t have a shed or even a kettle.’
‘No worries, you’re welcome to pop in here anytime.’
‘Thanks.’ I leave the shed feeling encouraged that I have a new friend. Although I’ve made more of an effort in the last few years to improve my social life, I still have only a small circle of friends and acquaintances, and no one has replaced Milly in terms of intimacy or affection – but I’ve come to wonder if that is no bad thing.
Milly. She drifts through my mind, as she so often does, as I walk home. I know nothing about her life now, nothing at all – whether she’s recovered, well, or even if she is still with Matt. Are they still living in Redland? Has she gone back to work? And what about Alice?
Alice. I cannot imagine her, even though I’ve tried to. I picture a phantom child, a mini-me with blonde ringlets and green eyes. Dimples. But what is she like? Is she quiet or rambunctious, clever or dreamy or shy?
As I turn the corner onto my road, I tell myself to stop wondering. It always hurts, even now, to probe those old wounds, the gaping holes they left in my life. Deliberately I remind myself of all the good things I have – a job I love, supportive friends at work, a garden, and now a new friend. Milly and Alice have no place in my life anymore, I tell myself, as I so often do. Not even in my thoughts. The past needs to stay where it is, where it has always belonged – in the past.
This little recitation relieves me; it anchors me to my present, and it reminds me to be grateful.
Of course, I had no idea then that in just a few short months Milly – and Alice – would be catapulted back into the centre of my life – or that I’d wish they never had to be.
Twenty-Three
Milly
‘Mummy, look at me!’
I smile and wave as Alice, for the first time, proudly pumps her legs and the swing sails upward. Her smile is one of pure joy, her blonde plaits flying out behind her as she revels in the moment, the sky a dazzling blue above her.
‘Mummy, look!’
‘Darling, I am looking,’ I say with a laugh. I’m looking and looking, revelling in this moment as much as she is – her success, her joy, the simple purity of a spring day. After everything, moments like these feel both simple and beautiful, gifts of grace. I treasure them all.
It has been over four years since Anna walked out of our house, leaving Alice in my arms. Those first few weeks and months afterwards felt like a prolonged funeral of sorts, an endless grief as I mourned the death of a friendship, of a whole way of life, because even though we’d lost touch at times, Anna and I had been intimately wrapped up in each other’s lives for over two decades. At least she’d been wrapped up in mine, but after the bombshell of her termination, I realised how little I actually knew her. Our friendship hadn’t been as strong or as deep as I’d thought it was.
It was also incredibly challenging, to navigate motherhood when I was still feeling so fragile and uncertain, my confidence at absolute zero. Everything felt unfamiliar – all the baby apparatus, how to change a nappy, how to make up a bottle, how to hold a newborn, Alice herself. Nothing came naturally, as much as I wanted it to.
Alice cried – a lot. Sometimes she would cry so long and hard, I thought she’d choke or have a seizure. Her face would get red, her fists would flail, her eyes would screw up into puffy slits, and she would become hoarse. She was furious and grief-stricken, because she had lost the one person she’d come to know like no other, as a mother, and she recognised me for what I sometimes still feared I was – an impostor. But since being on the proper medication, I knew that for the lie it was, and I was determined to try with my daughter.
My mother helped in the early days, although she tired easily. She was my rock when I needed one, and our honesty with one another strengthened our relationship in a way I never could have imagined. She took Alice when I needed a break, and she handed her back when I needed to bond with my daughter. She taught me how to change a newborn, how to bottle-feed, how to get through the endless days without feeling like a failure. I couldn’t have done it without her, not when I’d already lost Anna.
My mother, amazingly, is still alive. She stopped chemo three years ago and has remained in
remission since then. She’s still frail, forgetful, old. But she’s here. She and my father visit on occasion, and I try to bring Alice to them once a week. Everything feels stronger between us, but with the passing of time it also feels fragile. We are all counting the days, and we are grateful for each one.
‘Mummy, I’m going to stop!’
‘All right, darling.’ I watch, trying to hide my apprehension as Alice drags her feet along the ground to stop herself, and then she nearly topples off the swing. She’s not quite four and a half, a bit young for a big girl swing, but I am trying not to be one of those mothers who hovers.
I did for a long time, an over-the-top reaction to having missed the first few weeks of her life, and so I fretted over every sneeze, pored over every potentially delayed developmental milestone, read every parenting book I could get my hands on.
It was a way of being in control, of feeling like I was coping, or even being successful at this whole motherhood thing, when inside I still so desperately feared that I wasn’t. In the park or the baby groups that I made myself attend, I felt as if everyone could see I was faking it, and I imagined silent, accusing or judgmental looks as they assessed my mothering capabilities and found them lacking.
Eventually, though, one painstaking step at a time, I developed more confidence. I started to believe I really was a mother. I was able to go off the antidepressants, and without them I could still see the horizon.
When Alice was six months old, she weed on herself while I was changing her nappy, and I laughed and tickled her tummy before the memory of that first awful nappy change slammed into me.
And then I felt so unbearably thankful, that I had moved past that. That, by grace alone, I’d been able to. I started to cry, and then I almost called Anna, because in that moment I missed her so much. I wanted to tell her, to have her share in my joy. But I didn’t, just as I never have once in all these years, because I know our conversation wouldn’t go like that, and I was never sure what I would actually say to Anna if I saw or talked to her again.
