by Lucy Diamond
Out poured her sorrow now as she spoke to her son, lovingly, tenderly. All the things she’d ever wanted to tell him: hopes, memories, words of love. It was not enough, this one-sided conversation, it would never be enough, but it was all she had left.
Once she was spent, it was Roy’s turn. Lorna stepped back to give him some privacy, wiping her eyes and trying not to listen to his gruff words of sadness. Already she could feel the enormity of her pain receding a little for another year, as if a tide was washing away the top layer of heartache and taking it out to sea. Numbness was setting in, a welcome balm, and she shut her eyes, grateful for the weak sunshine and the birdsong. She felt exhausted by the ordeal, as she always did, but she was comforted – just a crumb – by the fact that Olivia would be there waiting for them at the cemetery gate.
Marco’s Café was full of its usual incongruous mix of clientele: teenagers, young mums and truck drivers. Aidan, Olivia and the rest of the gang had been frequent customers back as sixth formers, thinking themselves sophisticated for drinking milky coffees there after college lectures, and often congregating for a proper fry-up and builders’ tea on weekend mornings. The decor might have changed over the years – a revamp here, a paint job there – but it had retained its cosy, rather scruffy-round-the-edges feel. More importantly, Lorna could still imagine the eighteen-year-old Aidan here at a table, laughing as he and his mates shared a joke, and that was all that mattered.
Hello, my love, she thought, as she always did when walking in, as if she might catch one last spectral glimpse of him there.
It was the only time of year that she and Roy ever came to the café, but there always seemed to be just one table free, as if somehow Aidan had reserved a place for them. This time it was the nicest table of all, the one in the window, and she sent a grateful smile up to the ceiling as they settled themselves into the wooden chairs and considered the laminated menus.
‘Gosh,’ said Olivia, gazing around. ‘I had forgotten about this place. I haven’t been in for years.’
Now that they were under the bright café lights, there was a peaky look about her, Lorna noticed with a small frown of concern. Terrible bags under her eyes too, the poor thing. Was she well? ‘So how are things with you?’ she asked, resisting the urge to reach over and take Olivia’s hand in hers. There was something about having Aidan’s former girlfriend here with them, in person, that made Lorna want to keep touching her. As if she couldn’t quite believe she was real. ‘Your dad’s okay, is he? I’m guessing you’re staying with him and Gail while you’re down here, are you?’
‘Um,’ said Olivia, fiddling with the salt cellar. There was no wedding ring on her finger, Lorna noticed. Had she never been able to find anyone to match Aidan? Her heart ached for the poor girl, who had clearly been so affected by his death. ‘Actually, no, he and Gail moved to Torquay a couple of years ago. I . . .’ She shrugged sheepishly. ‘It was a bit of a whim, me coming down here. I slept in the car last night, because I didn’t know where else—’
‘Oh!’ said Lorna in surprise. ‘In your car?’ she repeated dumbly, as if she might have misheard. Was Olivia in financial troubles? Homeless? No wonder she looked so pale.
‘Yeah, it was kind of a last-minute decision,’ Olivia said, her cheeks colouring. ‘I knew everywhere would be booked up, so I . . . It was fine. I didn’t mind. Anyway.’ The subject was clearly embarrassing her. ‘I think I’m going for the poached eggs on toast with mushrooms. How about you two?’
They ordered their food and talked about Aidan for a while. This was the only part of the anniversary day that Lorna could bear. When they sat at a table in his café and reminisced, it briefly brought him back to life, as if he was there, sharing the moment with them. What was particularly nice today was hearing Olivia’s stories of him – ones that Lorna hadn’t heard before, or had quite forgotten about. In fact she found herself leaning forward greedily, drinking in every word, as Olivia recounted a tale about a sixth-form Halloween party where Aidan had taken it upon himself to wear a huge real pumpkin on his head, carving it so that it fitted like a crash helmet. ‘Oh yes! The state of his hair later on when he took it off!’ Lorna exclaimed, the memory of it coming back to her as clear as day. She would write this up in the scrapbook later, she thought, mentally storing away every word that Olivia had said. ‘Seeds and orange pumpkin smears, and that sticky juice everywhere . . .’
Olivia laughed. ‘He had it all over his face too, the juice kept leaking down as we were dancing. His eyebrows were full of it by the end of the evening.’ Her eyes were bright. ‘He was the funniest person, wasn’t he? You never knew what he was going to do next.’
‘Oh, he was,’ Lorna agreed in delight at once. The image of Aidan in a pumpkin helmet kept coming back to her with a feeling of wonder. How had she forgotten that? Having the memory restored was the nicest thing that had happened to her in weeks. It actually felt like a gift, wrapped up with shiny paper and a ribbon.
‘He was such a daft one at times.’ She gazed at Olivia fondly, so grateful for her arrival today. There had been a fragility about Olivia when she was seventeen; she remembered a traumatic tale involving her mum abandoning the family, but look at her now, appearing out of the blue like a good fairy and offering around her stories as if they were sweeties to share. ‘And you’re a love for being here today too. An angel!’
She must have spoken out of turn, though, because Olivia’s eyes filled with tears all of a sudden and she was shaking her head. ‘No, I’m not,’ she replied. Then her mouth was wobbling and creasing, and her fingers were trembling on her coffee cup. She looked dreadfully upset. ‘I’m a terrible person, Lorna. And I’ve done such a terrible thing!’
Chapter Eleven
The most stupidly dangerous thing Maggie had ever done had been to explore an old quarry at Wye Downs in Kent without telling anyone where she was going. It was overgrown with brambles, and she hadn’t spotted a chalk scree until it gave way beneath her foot, at which point she had skidded and tumbled right down to its base, twisting her ankle so badly she couldn’t walk. She might have been stranded there for hours, overnight even, if it hadn’t been for a fleece-clad couple from Folkestone who came to her rescue. Still, that all seemed like a stroll in the park, compared to the stupidly dangerous thing she was doing now: driving to Devon so that Amelia could stay with Will in his mother’s Newton Abbot house. There were some trips when even a hard hat and all the latest kit couldn’t protect you.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked her daughter, who wasn’t saying very much in the passenger seat.
‘Excited. A bit nervous,’ Amelia replied, fiddling with her earbuds and shrugging. She’d taken care with her appearance that morning, Maggie noticed: a lot of make-up had been applied, hair had been straightened, her favourite mustard-yellow striped Breton top selected. Would Will notice, or appreciate, just how much effort had been put into this ensemble? Probably not. The tosser.
Maggie meanwhile felt absolutely no excitement about the day ahead. Instead she was a vat of curdling dread. Will had been easier to deal with when he had remained merely a silent reproach in her mind, an enigma kept safely at a distance. Now that the details of his life were being inked in once more, she found herself wanting to look away from them, to put her hands over her ears and remain in ignorance, just as he had done to her. For starters, it turned out that Will was living in Philippa’s old house with his new partner Celeste (!) and their two young children (!!). So Amelia had half-siblings on top of everything else. Why had nobody thought to tell them that, either? And, more pertinently, how come Will had deigned to stay and look after these other offspring, when he had run a mile from his first child? She felt deeply, bruisingly hurt on hearing this piece of news; way more disconcerted than being told that he had settled down with another woman.
As for Amelia . . . ‘How do you feel, knowing you’ve got – wait, are they boys or girls? Sisters or brothers?’ she had asked cautiously the night before, as the de
tails began emerging. They were in the cosy living room together, one sofa each, warm rain beating a tattoo against the window, and it had been like having a live grenade chucked through the front door, hearing about these mystery children. BOOM! There goes your quiet evening.
Amelia hesitated and Maggie couldn’t help remembering with a pang how she had asked for a sibling repeatedly as a small child, as if she thought Maggie might be able to whip one out of a cupboard for her. Ta-dah! And now she had not one, but two. Gifts from Will that Maggie hadn’t been able to provide.
‘Thistle’s a boy, Rain’s a girl,’ Amelia said. ‘Cool names, aren’t they?’
Maggie had almost sprayed a mouthful of wine across the floor. ‘Thistle and Rain? Aren’t those Farrow and Ball paint colours?’ she scoffed. ‘Heavens, how did they come up with those – stare out the window and pick the first dreary thing they saw? Ah, Pondweed, that’ll do. Or how about Drizzle? Perfect!’
Amelia had shot her a disapproving look and Maggie felt bad for sneering. It was hardly the poor children’s fault they’d been given such daft names – and these were Amelia’s half-brother and half-sister, more to the point. Any more criticism and she knew which side Amelia would pick.
Come on, though, she thought now, remembering the conversation. Thistle was bad enough, but Rain was just mean. Who liked rain? She certainly didn’t.
The journey to Newton Abbot took about two hours, but even when they had parked and were walking up towards the house, the situation still didn’t feel quite real. Maggie found herself assaulted by a punch of memories that she hadn’t even known were there, as she approached the familiar front door; all of a sudden she was twenty-eight again, with a swingy ponytail and jeans. She was hand-in-hand with Will, holding a bunch of flowers for Philippa, their overnight bags at their feet as they rang the bell.
Then she blinked and was all grown-up again, with a sprinkling of grey hairs on her head and crow’s feet around her eyes, and it was her teenage daughter who held the overnight bag now. The jeans Maggie had once lived in had become fawn-coloured chinos, teamed with a cap-sleeve white blouse with pretty embroidering; the unofficial uniform of every Middle-Aged Fart this summer, she realized too late. An army of invisible, nothing-to-see-here women doing all the grunt work of their families. Maybe she should have put more effort into her outfit today, like Amelia had, she thought, glancing down at her mum-clothes. Well, everyone had to grow up eventually, she told herself. Maybe even Will.
Talk of the devil, here he was answering the door and – oh goodness, yes, how her traitorous heart twisted at the sight of him, still as handsome as ever, with those exquisite cheekbones and the sweep of glossy dark hair that Amelia had inherited. Wearing scruffy jeans and a blue T-shirt with some band logo emblazoned across it, he apparently hadn’t received the memo about the uniform of middle age. Which only left her feeling frumpier than ever.
‘Hey!’ he said, drinking in the sight of Amelia there before him. ‘Look at you. My God. All grown-up!’
Yes, funny how that happens over fourteen years, Maggie somehow managed not to say out loud.
‘Hi, Dad,’ said Amelia, then blushed violently. ‘That sounds weird. Can I call you that?’
‘If you want,’ he said and shrugged in such a casual, careless way that Maggie felt like throwing her hands up into the air and screaming at his lack of sensitivity. ‘Or you could call me Will?’
‘What do your other children call you?’ Maggie asked through gritted teeth.
‘Well . . . Daddy,’ he replied, shrugging again as if the answer was obvious.
‘Right, so Amelia can call you that as well,’ Maggie said, flint-eyed. They hadn’t even crossed the threshold yet and she was already braced for a fist-fight. He didn’t get it, did he? He still didn’t get it!
‘Mum! Don’t be weird,’ Amelia hissed, elbowing her as Will remembered his manners at last and invited them in.
Philippa’s house had been cosy and comfortable, back in the days when Maggie had come visiting. Although there had always been a hint of wet-Labrador detectable in the air, the place had been spotless and uncluttered, with fresh flowers and hoovered carpets, and a clean-swept hearth. Following Will into the hall now and through to the kitchen, Maggie blinked, as her memories of how things used to be clashed up against the reality of the present day.
The hall carpet, for example, was now dirty and stained, strewn with assorted parts of a wooden train, while someone had idly peeled away strips of the wallpaper below the dado rail, leaving it dangling in sad papery curls. In the kitchen there were small painty hand-prints ascending one wall, a laundry basket full of dirty clothes abandoned in the middle of the floor, and an unidentifiable pan of some yellow-brown slop – curry? casserole? nappy contents? – that bubbled and plopped on the hob. A scraggy black cat with a torn ear walked daintily along the worktops, past smeary jars of rice and lentils and an overloaded spice rack, before pausing to sniff at a crumb-littered bread board.
Maggie thought of how welcoming this kitchen had always been when Philippa was alive, how fragrant the air was with roast dinners and apple crumbles, how it had been the very heart of the home. Now the room felt like a student squat and left her anxious about food hygiene. Glancing sideways at Amelia, she saw that listeria concerns were far from her daughter’s mind, though.
Wide-eyed, Amelia was staring around, beaming. ‘This is so cool,’ she said.
Well, of course she found it cool, Maggie thought, trying not to roll her eyes. She was fourteen and had always lived in a house with clean tea-towels and bleach squirted regularly down the sink. This sort of lifestyle must look glamorous and bohemian to her, just as it would have done to Maggie at the same age. Nowadays her instinct was to put on a pair of rubber gloves and possibly a biohazard suit, and start thoroughly disinfecting the surfaces.
‘Very nice,’ she said tightly, trying not to look as if she was sneering. It would play right into Amelia’s views of Maggie being the boring parent and Will being the exciting one, if she started acting disparaging or patronizing now. ‘Love what you’ve done with the place,’ she added for good measure, although she couldn’t help a sarcastic edge creeping in. But then her gaze turned to the window, through which she noticed a woman and two small children outside in the garden, and all comments about decor and food-poisoning risks vanished from her mind altogether.
So there they were. The ones who had tamed Will Evans and persuaded him to stay, where Maggie had failed. Her breath tightened in her lungs. She wished now that she had bothered to put some make-up on, just to act as armour, a buffer between the situation and the real, vulnerable Maggie underneath. Had she even brushed her hair properly that morning? Why had she not thought this through?
Will went and banged on the window. ‘Guys! They’re here,’ he called.
The woman – Celeste, presumably – had aubergine-coloured, rather stringy hair that fell down to the centre of her back. (It didn’t look as if she had brushed it, either, at least. Or even washed it for a while.) She was small and slight, dressed in a billowing Indian-print dress with grubby bare feet, and Maggie immediately felt every inch of her five-foot-ten height. (‘Don’t hunch, Maggie,’ her mother’s catchphrase had been, when Maggie was a self-conscious teenager. She could feel herself hunching again; she was a huge, lumbering carthorse compared to this slender foal of a woman.)
‘Hello,’ she managed to croak as Celeste entered the room. So this was Will’s type now, was it? About as different as you could get from enormous, solid Maggie. Good to know.
The children were introduced, but in such earnest terms – ‘This is Thistle, he’s five and loves wind turbines. This is Rain, she’s three and wants to protect the Amur leopard’ – that Maggie started to wonder if the whole set-up here was one colossal parody. Come on, seriously? Was she actually meant to be impressed by a three-year-old’s contribution to feline conservation efforts?
‘Lovely,’ she managed to say, when the silence that follo
wed let her know that yes, clearly she was.
‘Green tea, anyone?’ said Celeste, who had a dreamy air about her, as if she existed on a high spiritual plane at all times. Before anyone could answer, Thistle started running a pencil back and forth along the metal radiator, leaving bumpy, scribbly lines as the lead banged up and down the uneven edges.
The noise set Maggie’s teeth on edge. ‘Oh,’ she said politely. ‘Do you want him doing that? He’s—’
‘He’s so creative,’ Celeste sighed, interrupting her. What was she, late twenties? Thirty, maybe? She had a bindi between her eyes and thick black eyeliner in a Cleopatra style, and appeared to be smiling with pride. ‘He just loves music. Doesn’t he, Wilf?’
Maggie goggled. That was music, was it? And wait – had Celeste just said Wilf? Will had always strongly resisted nicknames back when she’d known him, perhaps a hang-up from having been called ‘Willy’ by a group of girls all the way through secondary school. Feeling vaguely hysterical, she eyed him with interest, watching for a flicker of irritation. But Will – Wilf, rather – didn’t appear irritated in the slightest. In fact he was smiling lovingly back at his waifish partner and saying, ‘Yeah, he’s a proper little muso. Loves expressing himself’ to Maggie and Amelia, as if having someone scrawl noisily all over your radiator was a well-respected form of culture. Then he turned to Amelia. ‘Hey, so tell me about you. What are you into?’
‘Well,’ said Amelia, deliberately not looking at Maggie, ‘I’m quite political. And I, you know, care about the world. Like, I stopped using plastic bags and that, because it’s just so wrong, filling up the planet with bits of plastic that will hang around for millions of years? And . . .’ She had run out of steam. ‘Yeah. So I’m into that sort of thing,’ she said.