Marcus let himself back into the house and was relieved that Fran wasn’t still in the kitchen. He put the bread and milk away, went through to the lounge and flopped down. He stared over at the corner of the room. They had all had their favourite spots. His ‘space’ was on the far right; Fran’s on the left; Jess normally sat on the floor. The lead for her laptop was still plugged in at the wall socket. She used to sit there all the time, shopping online, watching hours of mindless videos that would make her smile and laugh unselfconsciously, filling in forms for college, uni open-days, temp jobs: all the steps for the next stage of a life that she would never get to live.
The realisation shook him upright.
It was here in this room that she’d done it, sitting with her laptop on her knee and a plate of toast and blackcurrant jam next to her on the carpet. And Marcus had seen her. He’d watched her, blissfully unaware, as she’d completed her application for her provisional licence. He remembered thinking that she’d get the keyboard sticky, and being irritated with her.
‘Done!’ She’d closed the lid and picked up a doorstep of toast.
‘God help us!’ he’d said.
‘Thanks.’ She’d chewed and swallowed, before announcing, ‘I think I’ll be a good driver.’
‘Based on?’
‘On the fact that I’m quite calm.’
He’d laughed. ‘Calm!’
‘I am, most of the time.’ She’d licked butter off her fingers. ‘Compared to my friends. Think about it – who would you rather have pulling up behind you at the traffic lights: me or Jake or Harry?’ She’d made a balancing gesture with her hands, taken another bite of toast and spoken with her mouth full. ‘Will you take me out? Once I’ve had some lessons?’
‘Yeah, sure. After about a hundred or so.’
‘Very funny. I’m being serious – will you? I’ll need to practise if I’m going to pass first time.’
‘And that’s the plan, is it?’
She’d yawned and stretched, upending her plate in the process, sending crumbs all over the carpet. He’d suppressed a comment. ‘Whoops. Sorry.’ She’d started picking up the specks of toast and rubbing at the butter-and-jam blobs on the carpet with the cuff of her sweatshirt. ‘Yep. By the middle of the summer.’
‘You mean just in time for your birthday?’
‘Well, if you did feel the urge to buy me a nice little Mini – a red one – that would be lovely. It would save you having to pick me up all the time.’
And he’d said, ‘In your dreams, young lady.’
That’s when she must have done it, with him sitting on the sofa, in exactly the same seat, obsessing about sodding toast crumbs. That’s when she must have checked a tick box on the application form and agreed to donate her heart, her lungs, her liver and anything else they wanted, in the event of her death.
And she hadn’t even mentioned it.
Chapter 35
FIVE DAYS later Sal was preparing for another, very different departure.
Tish was being discharged. They were going home, at last. But the mood in the room wasn’t one of celebration. It was one of tension. Tish was jittery, a bundle of nerves. Sal understood. After weeks inside the sterile walls of the ICU, then in the safe side-room on the plastic surgery ward, the long-awaited news that she was about to re-join the world had come as a shock. Jess’s death had hit Tish hard. Initially she’d got very, very upset – crying, agitated, sobbing like a child. That her breathing was still affected by the scarring had only made things worse. Then she’d become angry, pacing around the room, talking a lot, but making very little sense. Because her speech was still affected, it had been very hard for Sal to make out much of what Tish was saying. It was like watching a toddler having a meltdown: upsetting and stressful. Everyone was a target for her raging: the doctors, the nurses, Sal, Jake, Harry. Especially Harry. Tish seemed to be casting around for someone – anyone – to blame for Jess’s death. She found plenty of candidates. The storm had gone on so long that Sal had had to summon help. She’d been frightened that Tish was going to rupture something. Expecting sedatives to be offered, Sal had been surprised when the nurse had simply taken hold of Tish’s hand and told her to ‘let it all out’.
Since that initial breakdown, neither of them had mentioned Jess. Her death was still there, in the ether, but they both edged around and over it. Cowardice or self-protection? It was hard to say. Either way, Sal had no intention of bringing it up herself, because Tish was still unpredictable: one minute elated to be going home, the next mad about something and nothing. There had been tears, on both sides, already that day, tiredness making every tiny little thing seem like yet another mountain to climb. They’d been tied together too tightly, for so long, that they were both short of breath – and it wasn’t about to end. There were months of recovery and healing to come.
Their current wrangle was over the helium balloon that Mo had sent. At first it had bobbed around Tish’s room, tight as a drum, bipbopping against the ceiling, driving Sal to distraction. But over the past few days it had lost air, drooping lower and lower. Now it was drifting round the room, trailing its ribbon behind it like a sulky drag queen. Sal was tired of it – of all of it.
‘Just pop the damn thing and stuff it in the bin.’
Impeded by stitches and thickening scar tissue as she was, Tish managed a defiant, mumbled ‘I’m taking it with me.’
Sal sighed and gave up. They were ready to go, had been for the last hour; they just needed the discharge paperwork. She made herself ignore the sound of Tish unzipping one of the holdalls, yet again, and the huffing and puffing as she pulled everything back out. In truth, Sal was as anxious about leaving as Tish. Once they stepped outside the security of the hospital, it would be up to her: the dressings, the ointments, the routine of facial exercises, the discipline that the doctors had stressed over and over again was essential to deliver the best possible outcome – it would all fall on her. They had prepared her, given her some basic training, explained it all very carefully, so Sal hoped she would manage the practical care side, but it was the other stuff she was more worried about. Tish’s readjustment.
She knew that her daughter’s re-entry into the world was going to be difficult. How could it not be? People were going to respond to Tish very differently, because she was very different. No longer a pretty, confident girl, but a scarred, nervous one. Even within the confines of the hospital, Sal had seen the double-takes, the shock, the unconscious fascination with Tish’s disfigured features. It was proof, beyond doubt, that human beings only feel comfortable with the familiar and recognisable. Heartbreakingly, it was going to be a long time before Tish fell inside the margins of ‘normal’. The surgeon had said the skin that was pulling the whole left side of her face down, like a stroke patient’s, would relax with time, and that more dentistry would improve the shape and look of her mouth, but Sal knew that Tish would never look the same. The thought made her stomach twist.
Tish was still fussing with the packing, undoing what had already been done. Sal refreshed her smile and made a comment about the weather.
Two hours later they stepped out of the lift into public for the first time. Sal led the way, not looking back, making a beeline for the main doors and the taxi rank. A quick getaway. She felt anxious, but pushed on, forging ahead, her arms full of bags. One hurdle at a time. They needed to get home, back to the safety of their small house, into a routine. They needed time for Tish’s wounds, physical and emotional, to heal. But there were no taxis. Just a ragged queue of people waiting. Sal joined the back of the line. She turned to say something to Tish, hoping to reassure her, but she wasn’t there.
Sal panicked. She scanned the concourse. Saw her daughter immediately.
Tish was standing just outside the hospital entrance, getting in the way. People streamed past her, many of them turning for a second look. Bastards! People were bastards. She was stranded, frozen by other people’s cruelty. The only thing moving was the damn helium
balloon. It drifted and twirled prettily around Sal’s once-confident, beautiful daughter.
Chapter 36
SIX PAGES of high-grade, pale-cream vellum paper. Copperplate script. Nine hundred and fifty-three carefully chosen words. Not an eighteenth birthday, a graduation ceremony, an engagement or a wedding invitation; not the announcement of the birth of their first or second grandchild. The order of service for Jess’s funeral.
Fran ran her fingertips back and forth across the staples, the sharp edges catching her skin. A flimsy anchor.
It had been a beautiful service. A fitting celebration. Everyone said so. Friends, neighbours, work colleagues, the three nurses from the ICU ward who’d spared the time to attend, the legions of Jess’s mates. There were a lot of people she didn’t know. It didn’t seem to matter. Irrespective of their individual connection with Jess, they all seemed compelled to offer their condolences – in person. They grasped her hand, kissed her cheek, hugged her unyielding body. Fran endured it, dry-eyed, straight-backed, holding herself in. It was all part of the tradition.
She had planned the funeral meticulously. The appointment of the celebrant, Joan – caring, non-religious. The eulogy, which had been funny and heartfelt. The choice of Gabbie – calm, mature Gabbie – to do the reading. The wicker casket. The careful selection of the songs from Jess’s favourite playlist. The flowers – a simple, modern, hand-tied spray of long-stemmed white roses with spurs of orchid. Even the weather was as ‘ordered’: benign, light, bright shafts of spring sunshine falling between the trees. Fran had discovered that funeral-planning played to her strengths. Organisation, budgeting, meticulous time- and people-management. It helped, of course, that she had an in-depth knowledge of her subject. Her daughter. Marcus had let her have free rein, assenting to her choices with little comment.
Now for phase two. The wake. An open bar at the local rugby club, chosen because it was big enough to hold all the mourners. Fran had opted for non-traditional catering – curries and samosas from Jess’s favourite restaurant. Everyone had been invited back to send her off in style. Well, not everyone. Dom and Harry had been asked not to come back to the club. It was only at Marcus’s insistence that Fran had agreed to them coming to the funeral. She hadn’t wanted the pressure of their attendance, the inevitable speculation it would cause. This day was for Jess. And Jess alone. In reality, Fran had seen Dom and Harry only briefly when Jess was carried into the chapel, two tall, dark shapes in the back row – Harry’s shoulders shaking and Dom standing unwavering beside him; but that was it, a glance. It was all she could cope with.
The bottleneck outside the crematorium didn’t seem to be dispersing. The relief at getting the service over and done with was palpable, the mood strangely upbeat. Conversations sprang up, ties were loosened. Many of the mourners tilted their faces up to the sun, a few even closed their eyes. Fran and Marcus were trapped amidst the sea of bodies. As yet another relative pulled her into an unwelcome embrace, Fran looked over their shoulder and saw the ushers moving through the crowd, trying to encourage people to make their way back to the car park at the bottom of the drive. Another service was due to start, presumably. A conveyor belt of grief. Their efforts seemed to be having little effect. The wodge of bodies remained solid. There was a slight pressure on her elbow, another demand for attention. She turned. It was the undertaker.
‘Perhaps if you made your way to the car, Mrs Beaumont. People might follow suit.’
Fran nodded and passed the request on to Marcus. He seemed relieved to be asked to make a move.
By an unspoken understanding, a pathway opened up to let them through and the crowd grew silent once again, the same ripple of respect that they had endured in the hospital corridor. The undertaker led the way. Fran and Marcus followed his slow, measured steps, the object of pity. Everyone was sympathetic and supportive, of course – sharing a tiny portion of their pain – but, in truth, Fran knew that many of them were secretly counting their blessings. She would have been the same. Unable not to think, ‘Thank God it wasn’t my child.’ A glimpse of Sal, with Tish at her side, standing under the trees, on the far side of the crowd, only served to underline their fate.
With the wake in full flood, Marcus excused himself and headed to the Gents, not because he needed to go, but because he wanted a break from the distress of other people. Jess’s friends were the worse. Their beautifully made-up, bewildered faces haunted him. And his mum, Karen, pouring tea, passing around the food, comforting others with such kindness and dignity, it hurt. Marcus felt guilty for bringing so much grief into her life. He had failed to protect them all. Failed to protect Jess.
But there was only so long a fully-grown man could hide in a toilet cubicle. Eight minutes felt like the maximum. He tugged his shirt straight, glanced at himself in the mirror and headed back down the corridor towards the melee.
Based on the noise alone, you would never have guessed it was the funeral tea for a seventeen-year-old girl. The clink of glasses, the volume, the requests for another G&T and half of lager – it sounded like a party. As he neared the room he slowed. He wished they would all just go away. He wanted to go home, shut the door, lock it, go upstairs, take off his suit, lie on the bed and stay there. He couldn’t face having to talk again, to absorb the inarticulate struggles of these people, all of whom he knew, many of whom had loved Jess in their own, individual ways, but none of whom had loved her as much as he did.
Marcus stood, unobserved in the corridor – invisible for the time being. The gathering had a life of its own now, fuelled by food and drink and relief. The tension from earlier at the crematorium had dissipated. The worst bit was over, for them.
He searched the room, looking for Fran.
She was on the far side, sitting with Teri and Chris, their next-door neighbours. At least she was with good people. Teri, especially, had been stalwart in her support. She’d been round to the house most days, bringing food, offering to shop or run errands, trying to help Fran with the funeral arrangements – though Fran had been very resistant to that. He understood. The funeral was the last thing she was going to be able to do for Jess. Hence the obsessive attention to detail on everything from the exact shade of purple for the ribbons on the casket to the appropriate number of poppadoms for each person.
From his vantage point, Marcus watched them, gathering enough momentum to propel himself across the room. Fran was talking, her hands carving shapes in the air – a noticeably frantic spot in an already-busy room. The repressed energy that had been crackling through her in the build-up to the funeral was obviously, finally, finding an outlet. In response to her deluge of words, Teri and Chris seemed to be nodding – a lot – and saying very little.
Marcus worried about what was going to happen when Fran’s mania ran out; which it no doubt would, when they returned home, alone, with nothing to do. He set off, weaving through the throng, saying ‘Excuse me’ often and swerving the many attempts to stop him and draw him into a conversation or buy him a drink. He acknowledged the sympathetic smiles and tried not to flinch away from the pats on his arm and his back, but he was determined to keep moving. He needed to be with his wife.
The area near the food was packed. A lot of people were still eating, many appeared to be on their second ‘fly-by’ of the buffet. Fran, Teri and Chris were trapped at a small table in the corner, cut off from him by the queue for the lamb bhuna. Marcus edged through the line, making his apologies, and very nearly made it. The celebrant, Joan, proved to be the last obstacle. She turned, saw him and put down her plate.
She’d conducted the service beautifully. She’d spent a lot of time with them beforehand, ‘getting to know’ Jess, making notes, recording anecdotes, asking gentle but probing questions about the glory that had been their daughter. The resulting eulogy had been written with great care, and delivered with sensitivity and humour.
‘How are you holding up, Marcus?’ Joan rested her hand on his arm. Painted nails. That surprised him.
; He shrugged. ‘You know.’
She smiled. Because of course she did. She did this for a living. ‘I thought Jess’s young friend, Gabbie, did an amazing job. Such maturity. But there again, people often underestimate the young, especially at times like this. In my experience, they can actually be the best at processing and expressing their emotions. It’s a different generation. A different approach to feelings and loss. And all the better for it, if you ask me.’ She went on, ‘There are a few practical matters that I could do with discussing with you. If that’s all right.’
A beat.
‘The collection. I’ve got that locked safely away in the boot of my car. I’m happy to take it back home with me and count it up, if you’d like? It’s one less thing for you to think about. I’m guessing that the charity…’ she successfully covered up not remembering what the charity was, ‘meant something to your daughter?’ Marcus didn’t respond, which didn’t seem to bother Joan in the slightest. ‘I’ve also gathered up some of the Orders of Service from the chapel. I know that families are often asked for copies by relatives and friends after the event, as mementoes.’
Marcus was no longer listening, not to Joan at least. He was listening to Fran, which wasn’t difficult, given the rising volume of her voice. He began to understand why Teri and Chris were looking so uncomfortable.
‘They test for a “response to pain”. We were asked to step out while they did it, but I couldn’t leave her. Not on her own. Not when they were deliberating hurting her. But as they explained and, as we saw, the fact that Jess didn’t register any pain was indicative of the scale of the damage. A badly injured brain doesn’t process the messages from the nerves. It’s one of a battery of tests they do. They also injected something into her neck, which is supposed to raise the heart rate.’
One Split Second: A thought-provoking novel about the limits of love and our astonishing capacity to heal Page 12