A Summer to Remember

by Victoria Cooke

  ‘Come in.’ She kisses me on the cheek as I step inside her flat.

  ‘I brought you this, in the hope you’ll go easy on me.’ I thrust a bottle of vintage red her way, and she gives a double eyebrow raise to show she’s impressed.

  ‘Hi, Sam.’ Bridget’s husband, Alex, appears, wrapping his arms around Bridget and kissing her affectionately on the neck. It makes me feel squeamish. Bridget must sense that and wriggles free.

  ‘Can you open this so it has a chance to breathe?’ she asks, thrusting the bottle of wine at him. We walk through to the kitchen-dining area and take a seat at the breakfast bar where she has put out bread and olives. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘You’re newishlyweds, it’ll wear off.’ I wink to show I’m teasing, and she narrows her eyes at me playfully.

  ‘You’d know all about new relationships.’ She shrugs and pops an olive into her mouth.

  ‘Touché,’ I say, spearing an olive of my own with a cocktail stick.

  ‘Have you heard from him?’ she asks with fake nonchalance.

  I pick up a piece of bread. ‘No.’

  ‘Are you going to get in touch with him?’

  I tear off a chunk. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?

  I shove the bread in my mouth and point to my lips and shrug.

  Alex comes in, offering me a little respite. ‘Sorry, couldn’t find the corkscrew.’

  ‘Sod the wine. Let’s have margaritas,’ Bridget says. ‘We can’t wait for that to breathe; this girl needs a drink.’ Alex starts getting bottles out of the cupboard and a blender from under the counter.

  ‘At least you’ve finally let someone in,’ she says, placing her hand over mine.

  ‘Eh?’ Alex says.

  Bridget rolls her eyes. ‘I’m talking to Sam. You let every bugger in,’ she says to Alex before looking back at me. ‘I came back from work the other day and he had two Jehovah’s Witnesses sat on the sofa. Anyway. You!’

  ‘I did a little bit. But it reassured me that my decision to stay single was the right one.’

  She eyes me suspiciously. ‘I almost believe you, but I’m going to need an explanation.’

  The sound of the blender cuts in as I try to organise my thoughts.

  ‘Alex!’ Bridget shouts over the noise.

  ‘Sorry. I can’t make frozen margaritas without blending the ice.’

  I use the interruption as a chance to change the subject. ‘Would you like to see some pictures from the trip?’

  ‘Of course,’ Bridget says. I take out my phone and open the camera roll, scrolling back to the start of the trip. She skips through them rapidly. ‘Looks beautiful.’

  She stops scrolling. ‘Is this him?’ She turns the phone around and there we are. It’s the selfie Ethan took of us in Martha’s Vineyard, wet through, in front of the ‘No jumping’ sign. Ethan’s gloriously tanned, naked torso is on display, but that’s not what’s causing my chest to tighten. It’s the carefree happiness in his eyes. It’s not something I saw that much of, but when I did, his whole face lit up and it lifted me. To think I could be the reason for that look to be locked away again is too much to bear.

  Bridget notices me staring at the picture. ‘Why did getting close to Ethan make you realise being single was what you wanted?’

  I swallow. ‘Because it scared me.’

  ‘Oh, honey.’ She wraps her arms around me just as Alex places two margaritas down on the counter. She shoos him away and he disappears. ‘Obviously, I never met Kev, but he doesn’t sound like the sort of bloke who’d want you to stop living your life. I think he would have wanted you to meet someone who makes you happy. It’s okay to let someone love you again.’ Her words remind me of what Harry told me about Barney and how he was scared to commit after being hurt. Maybe I could try it again.

  ‘I do feel like I’m the only person keeping Kev’s memory alive, and it scares me that my memories seem to fade each day, and I’m worried that if I fall in love again, they’ll fade altogether. But … I’m not just scared of forgetting about Kev, I’m scared of falling in love with Ethan and then losing him.’ My voice is small and fragile. I’ve never confessed this to anyone before.

  She squeezes me tighter. ‘Oh honey, loving someone doesn’t always end in tragedy and heartbreak.’

  Maybe losing people has been my biggest fear all along.

  Chapter 37

  I stand outside the stone cottage I grew up in. Bridget was right. It is okay for someone to love me, so I thought it was a good idea to start with the only two people in the world who already do. A light is on in the lounge, even though it’s morning. It always was a dark room. A shadow moves past the window. Could it be one of them? The longer I stand here, the harder it’s becoming to force myself to walk down the short path and knock on their front door. I should just go. Too much time has passed and coming here was a bad idea.

  ‘Samantha, is that you?’ I turn my head to see an old lady I don’t recognise straight away.

  I narrow my eyes. ‘Mrs Hanson?’ I say to my old neighbour. She smiles kindly.

  ‘Look at you. I’m glad to see you looking well.’ She reaches out and squeezes my hand before walking down her own path. ‘Nice to see you back.’

  Before I have a chance to bolt back to London, the front door to my mum and dad’s house opens, and my mum looks at me with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. For a few seconds we freeze, until her expression melts away. ‘Sam?’

  ‘Mum?’ My voice wobbles. The sight of her is a number-twelve bowling ball heading for a strike and I’m the centre pin.

  ‘Oh god, Sam.’ She clasps her hands to her face and bursts into tears. Her shoulders bob and shudder. Then my dad appears by her side.

  ‘What’s up, love?’ he says, putting his arm around her. She’s still looking at my damp, tear-stained face.

  He follows her line of sight. ‘Sam?’

  I twist my mouth in an attempt to smile but the muscles don’t want to work.

  My father dashes towards me and wraps me tightly in his arms. The smell of his familiar musky aftershave makes me feel like a little girl again in the safety of his arms. Emotion that’s been welling up for the past eight and a half years is suddenly free. Sadness, guilt, absence. It’s all there, soaking my dad’s T-shirt as my body heaves it out.

  My mum pulls me away from my dad. She wipes her face on her sleeve before cupping mine in her hands. ‘We’ve been worried sick. Eight years of not knowing how you are or where you’ve been living and having to rely on a Christmas card to know you’ve not dropped off the face of the earth.’ Her voice is laced with an understandable tremor of anger, and her eyes search mine for an answer I don’t have.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I sob. ‘I just couldn’t stand being here, reminded of Kev every single day.’

  ‘We don’t need to talk about this now. We’re just glad to have you back,’ my dad says. ‘Come inside. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  My mum sits on the sofa, and I sit in the armchair by the window. ‘I like your wallpaper,’ I say. They’ve updated the brown and cream they used to have and gone for a modern grey and silver theme.

  ‘Your dad did it. Needed to keep busy, you know.’ She wrings her hands and glances around the room, unable to look me in the eyes.

  ‘I know what I did to you and Dad was unforgivable. I wasn’t thinking clearly.’

  ‘You could have come to visit us. We were grieving for Kev too, you know, and then you left, it was like we’d lost you both.’

  ‘I know,’ I whisper. ‘I was wrong, but I was upset about Kev. I wasn’t thinking clearly and I was upset at you for what you’d said about him. I couldn’t let it go.’

  ‘We told you it was just meaningless chatter after a glass of wine. We loved Kev.’

  ‘I know. I’m not upset about that anymore, I’m ashamed of how I reacted and I shouldn’t have said those things.’ I look down at the thick, grey carpet. A wide strip of which is worn down between the door and my dad’s favou
rite armchair and I get a pang of sadness as I imagine him shuffling between there and the kitchen for fresh cups of tea. ‘Once I got to London, I was determined to get through things by myself. I felt like you’d betrayed Kev and I didn’t want your help coming to terms with his death. I shouldn’t have called you controlling, you were just looking out for us and I’ve felt guilty about it ever since. Then, so much time passed, it got harder and harder to come and see you. I thought … I thought by then, you were probably better off without me.’

  She furrows her brow and the corners of her mouth pull down. ‘Don’t ever say that.’ She walks over to the armchair and perches on the arm. ‘We were worried about you.’

  She lifts her arm, and for a moment I think she’s going to hug me, but then she puts it back by her side. Too soon?

  My dad comes in carrying a tray of cups and a teapot. ‘Tea is ready.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say as he pours some out and hands me a cup.

  It tastes just like it always used to. I haven’t drunk tea since I left because the taste held too many memories, and now it’s like I’m drinking them all up and it’s a little hard to bear. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I croak, then start to sob again.

  ‘You’re here now,’ my dad soothes.

  ‘So, how have you been?’ I look up at my mum, who is jutting out her chin. She’s looking at my dad, and when I glance at him, he gives his head the tiniest of shakes at her. ‘I know I’ve put you both through a lot of pain. I just … I meant otherwise.’

  ‘We’ve been plodding along,’ my dad says.

  My mum looks at him, her face reddening. ‘We had plans, as a family. We expected that, after a while, you’d come back for Sunday lunches with us. We thought there would be holidays, trips out and Christmases together. Eight years ago, you left us and took all of that away.’

  ‘Jeanie,’ my dad says in a soothing yet firm manner. I stand up. ‘I shouldn’t have come. I’ve made things worse. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You sit back down,’ my mother says, and I do it instinctively, and for a second, I’m nine years old again. ‘Now I may be angry and upset, but that doesn’t mean I want you to disappear for another god knows how many years. We need to talk about it. Starting with where you’ve been and how you’re doing. I know nothing about you anymore. You don’t write much in those cards and texts you send. Are you remarried?’ I shake my head. ‘Kids?’ She clutches the front of her sweater with anguish, and I’m glad I can truthfully answer no. If I’d robbed her of watching her grandkids grow up, I doubt she’d ever forgive me.

  I tell them everything. How I’d felt angry with them for what they’d said and suffocated by the rest of the village, how I’d lost the only man I ever loved and how nobody else would compare. How I needed to be a tiny pin in a haystack in London, rather than a flashing beacon of sorrow in this village.

  ‘It sounds like you’ve done well career-wise.’ My mum is able to force a tight a smile.

  ‘Yes, we’re proud of you, love,’ my dad adds.

  ‘You know we never meant those things you heard us say,’ my mum says again. Obviously the guilt has consumed her.

  ‘I know, Mum. I was angry and upset and I think I turned part of my grief into anger.’ I smile. ‘I know Kev could be a bit of a bugger.’

  Mum lets out a soft laugh. ‘He was a good man.’

  Dad and I nod, then there’s a silence whilst we all sip our tea.

  ‘So, are you with anybody?’ my mum asks.

  I shake my head. ‘No, but that doesn’t bother me. I’ve not really been looking, either. I’m a widow, so I’m not technically alone – I have the wonderful memories of Kev to keep me going.’ My parents glance at one another, and as my words rattle around in my head, I realise how they must sound to Mum and Dad, two people who also knew Kev and haven’t listened to me being stubborn about it for eight years. They sound, well, a bit crazy.

  ‘Sweetheart, you have to move on,’ my mum says, touching my shoulder.

  ‘She’s right, love. It’s not healthy to think that way. Kev worshipped the ground you walked on. He’d hate to think you were doing this for him,’ my dad adds.

  ‘Kev only ever wanted you to be happy, he loved you so much, Sam. He’d be turning in his grave if he knew this. You’re a beautiful woman in your prime, I can’t imagine you’ve been short of offers.’ My mum’s eyes are full of concern, she must think I’m trying to punish myself or something. Suddenly, she lets out a small laugh. ‘Remember that time he said if Ryan Gosling wanted to kiss you, he wouldn’t stand in your way because “he couldn’t compete with that” – he was joking, but later he told me he really wouldn’t stop you because seeing your face filled with joy would be worth it.’

  I think of Ethan, and my stomach twists.

  I stand up. ‘Mum, Dad. There’s something I’ve got to do.’

  My mum looks ashen.

  ‘I’m going to come back soon, I promise. Let’s go out for tea, my treat,’ I say, dashing to the door. I glance back at them and bite my bottom lip. ‘I love you both. See you in a couple of hours.’

  2009

  ‘If I died, would you meet someone else?’ I’m snuggled up in bed with Kev. There’s frost on the outside of the window and the central heating is broken, so I know leaving the cosy duvet isn’t going to happen anytime soon.

  ‘That’s a bit morbid for a Sunday morning,’ he says, squeezing his warm body up against mine.

  ‘But would you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why would you even ask that?’ Kev rubs my leg with his warm feet.

  ‘Plenty of people talk about this stuff. I don’t know, say I was run over by a bus tomorrow, would you eventually meet someone else?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He kisses me on my head and I snuggle up to him. The little spoon to his bigger one.

  ‘Well, we’re only young, so I suppose you would.’

  ‘I’d rather not think about it.’

  ‘What about if you were hit by a bus?’

  ‘Why does it always have to be a bus?’

  ‘I don’t know, it’s just an example of a random accident.’

  ‘Then I could only hope and pray it was a Matchbox bus and not a big double-decker.’

  I elbow him. ‘Be serious.’

  ‘I’d want you to be happy. I’d hate for you to be alone and sad. Obviously, not straight away or anything, but if you found someone who treated you right and made you happy, I wouldn’t want you to push them away.’ He squeezes me tightly.

  ‘Me too.’ When he puts it like that, I’d hate for him to be sad and miserable.

  ‘Now can we talk about something else, like who’s going to pop to the café for some bacon sarnies?’

  Chapter 38

  The iron gate creaks as I open it, like it could do with a good oiling. I follow the narrow lane round the bend and take the second footpath off it, which leads down the row of headstones where Kev’s is. When I reach the vicinity, I have to squint to read four of the headstones to find his; each one is thick with green moss. I use my bare hand to wipe the one I think is Kevin’s. It is.

  I wipe a tear from my face as I take in the familiar headstone. White and crisp with a simple inscription:

  KEVIN BUTTERFIELD

  A light in the darkness.

  Loved by many.

  1980–2010

  I wipe the rest of it and sit on the firm earth before it. There are a few dead flowers in a vase in front. The teddy bear his parents left after the funeral is long gone. They live in Spain and flew in for the funeral. I doubt they’ve visited his grave much but I imagine my mum pops over now and then and tidies things up.

  ‘Eight years,’ I whisper, sitting on the damp grass. The moisture soaks through the seat of my jeans. I only ever came here once, about a week after the funeral. I sat here for hours on the spongy earth that hadn’t had a chance to compact. The brown, waterlogged bear was surrounded by dying bundles of flowers, each with a generic message of condolence written in ink th
at heavy rain had caused to run. That’s how long it’s been since I was last here, preferring to remember Kev alive rather than as a piece of marble. ‘Sorry I haven’t been coming. I think about you every day though.’

  The tired appearance of the stone reminds me of how much time has passed since Kev died. Ethan, Bridget and my parents are right. It is time to move on. I can’t do anything, though, until this headstone is cleaned.

  There’s a Tesco Metro on the high street, so I head there and grab some essentials – cloths, a bleach spray, a bottle of water and some fresh flowers – and head back to Kev’s grave. I spray the whole thing, wait a few minutes, wet my cloth and wipe. I repeat the actions several times until the stone is gleaming white again, then I replace the remains of the fragile, skeletal flowers with the fresh ones. It’s like new now.

  ‘To be honest, I was scared to come back here, Kev.’ I stare at his name on the stone. ‘I thought my memories would suffer if I kept reminding myself you were dead. When I was in London, it was just like I was working away. On a bad day, I could even imagine you at our house, waiting for me to come home.’

  A couple walk past so I shut up, but I don’t doubt for a second that they noticed me talking to myself.

  ‘But all that time spent pretending you were here, in our old house, wasn’t going to bring you back. It was just holding me in limbo.’ Another couple walk by. ‘I know you’d just want me to be happy,’ I say quietly when they’re out of earshot. ‘You wouldn’t want me to forget you, but you’d want me to move on. I know that.’ I pause to rearrange the flowers. ‘On some level, I’ve always known that. I just wasn’t ready.’