Sing me to Sleep

by Helen Moorhouse

I turn sharply on hearing a noise behind me in the bedroom and see her there – the person whom crossing that line has hurt the most. A pang of guilt and regret and shame rushes over me – it’s difficult to explain, but the human, living feelings that we experience don’t leave us in death. If anything, they are sharper, stronger, more painful. She is standing there, staring right at me. She isn’t scared – but I know that she can see me. My heart flutters with excitement, with possibility, with anticipation. If she can see me, then maybe she’ll say it. That word that I haven’t heard in so long. That word that I physically ache to hear. That I would sometimes bat away when I was alive with a ‘what now’ or ‘not again’ but in this death, this aching void where I am so tantalisingly close to her yet cannot even speak to her, to hear my daughter say “mummy” would make me burst into light and explode with joy. Since I am dead, the good emotions are more powerful too – just so much rarer. Say it, I think. Say the word . . . I am longing . . .

  But when she speaks, my being prickles with agony. It is physical. I can feel where my limbs used to be and they are made of pain. My head swells and fills with darkness and my heart, my poor heart that doesn’t beat, is made of dark things like longing and shame and horror.

  She sees me all right, but when she speaks, it is to say the word “Lady”.

  She doesn’t recognise me any more. She no longer knows the face of the person who loves her fiercely and with an unimaginable strength – stronger than any other soul will ever be capable of. She has forgotten all trace of the first face she saw when she entered this world.

  My soul – if that’s what it is – is screaming. She no longer knows me. Something is broken and I long to be her mother again. To be connected so closely that I barely tell where my child ends and where I begin.

  “Lady,” she says.

  And I weep and weep and long to take her in my arms and hold her to me.

  Chapter 19

  August 31st, 1997

  Jenny and Guillaume

  Afterwards, Ed made her feel bad about it. And Jenny knew that she had overreacted, but then again, so had half the world.

  How could she not as they repeatedly showed Diana smiling on the TV, splashing down the log flume at Thorpe Park with the boys; her wide-eyed innocence on her wedding day in that dress that was far too big for her; those shots of her taken on the Jonikal, alone, perched over the waves; William in her arms, when she wore that tent-like green dress with the sailor collar, leaving hospital after he was born; Harry, framed against a red coat in the same scene two years later? When she was a mere twenty-three years old – younger than Jenny had been when Bee was born.

  It was the constant playing of ‘Candle in the Wind’; the childhood pictures – balancing on a wall at Althorp in a black leotard and straw hat; no older than Bee in a white dress on a red checked rug; wearing a floppy black hat, displaying a hamster to the camera . . .

  By the time Ed roused for breakfast on the morning of September 1st, 1997 – Bee’s second birthday – Jenny had seen these photographs and a million more on Sky News over and over again.

  “She’s dead!” she wailed, confusing Ed at first as he searched his own mind to see who it could be. “Diana!” Jenny pointed to the TV, her eyes red from crying, her cheeks puffy.

  She had expected some sort of sympathy, but it didn’t come. Instead, he looked from her swollen face to the TV screen in alarm, observed the mountain of tissues littering the cushion beside her on the couch, spilling over onto the floor. She was pale with exhaustion, her arms wrapped around her knees which were drawn up on the couch in front of her, as if to provide some form of comfort or protection.

  “Have you been sitting here all night?” he asked, incredulous.

  Jenny nodded, a fresh batch of tears brimming behind her eyes, partly at his reaction, partly at the scenes unfolding on the rolling news as she spoke, scenes of sobbing visitors arriving at the gates of Kensington Palace with their floral tributes.

  Ed looked back at his wife, his expression a mixture of irritation and concern. “Jen,” he said. “You’ve been up all night – no sleep, am I right?”

  She shook her head, failing to contain a tear that slithered down her cheek. She sniffed.

  “On the night before Bee’s birthday – when we’re taking her out for lunch with my family? You’ve had no sleep whatsoever?”

  Jenny sniffed again, a muffled sob escaping. “I don’t know if I can today, Ed – I mean, I’m not sure if anyone can . . . she died in a car accident . . . in Paris. The car was being chased by paparazzi . . . they crashed into a pillar . . . Dodi died too . . .”

  Ed shook his head in disbelief. “Jen,” he said bluntly. “Seriously. A celeb dies and you’ve gone to pieces?” He glanced toward the baby monitor in his hand as Bee stirred in her bedroom. “That’s Bee awake now. You’d better get upstairs and get an hour’s kip before she sees you.”

  A wave of panic rose in Jenny. “She’s not a celeb, Ed – she’s a member of our royal family – a young mum – like me – and she’s dead – don’t you get it? Those boys – her children . . .”

  But he had raised his eyebrows in disbelief and turned to go upstairs to retrieve their daughter.

  On the TV screen, ‘Candle in the Wind’ struck up again as another montage of scenes from the life of the beautiful, thirty-six-year-old princess began to play and Jenny succumbed to a fresh wave of grief.

  She knew that Ed was right, of course, yet she just couldn’t seem to stop.

  She managed to get through the day, somehow. She had thought that going out to a restaurant would make her feel worse but somehow it made her feel better, more part of things to get out onto London’s streets. It made her feel less alone, less ridiculous for grieving so deeply for someone that she didn’t know because, as far as she could see, she wasn’t alone. The waitress was red-eyed; people passing on the street were ashen-faced with shock. Headlines on newsstands screamed of it: “Diana Dead”.

  After Ed’s family – who were of much the same opinion as he was – had left them at the pizza restaurant and gone home, Ed, Jenny and Bee had made their way back to Pilton Gardens by taxi, accompanied by Guillaume who carried a bottle of champagne under his arm, his idea of celebrating a child’s second birthday.

  When they arrived, however, Jenny simply resumed her position on the couch while Ed put a tired Bee to bed, and immediately returned to rolling news, hungry for more, unable to stop herself. When Ed came back downstairs he nodded in the direction of the kitchen to Guillaume and they disappeared to the garden beyond, closing the back door behind them to sit outdoors, leaving her thankfully alone.

  The Princess’s body was returning home, she learned, collected by Prince Charles and her sisters earlier that day from Paris. Jenny’s eyes filled with tears again as she caught up on all she had missed. The coffin, in the car, being loaded into the plane – coming home to her boys. And the waves of grief that were spreading throughout the world – waves of inexplicable grief like the one she was feeling now.

  It was dark outside when Jenny heard the back door open and shut again. Her eyes barely flicked away from the TV screen. She was aware, from the corner of her eye, of shapes moving silently past the open living-room door on her left, but she didn’t look, couldn’t bear to tear her eyes away from the screen. Plus, she couldn’t bear the fact that Ed would look at her like she was insane, and undoubtedly Guillaume too, despite the entente they had reached between them since the ill-fated ‘couples night’. He had called a couple of times, in fact, unexpectedly. With more of his African music, which they had listened to together, surprisingly relaxed over coffee. Not any more, however, Jenny thought. Not when he, too, saw the madwoman who couldn’t stop crying for the dead stranger.

  She jumped suddenly, as she felt a weight at the end of the couch furthest from her. She didn’t turn. What could Ed possibly want to watch for? Why couldn’t he just leave her be?

  She was surprised then, to note that it wasn’t E
d who had sunk nervously onto the sofa, but Guillaume, and he was looking at her with real concern on his face. Jenny was puzzled for a moment. Ed was nowhere to be seen, but a tell-tale creak from the hall indicated that he was at the turn in the stairs. Moments later, she heard their bedroom door creak shut.

  She turned back to the screen, too embarrassed and upset to speak. She continued instead to flick channels between the BBC and Sky in case there was, at any moment, something new. The boys, perhaps – they were at Balmoral, with the Queen – told the news when half asleep. A fresh brew of tears brimmed over Jenny’s lashes as she thought again of them. Of how it would be if that were Bee. If Ed were to wake Bee to tell her that she was gone. The tears plopped silently onto her cheeks and rolled down.

  Gui’s voice was soft when he eventually spoke. “You all right, Jen?” he asked.

  Jenny took a deep breath, tried to compose herself before replying. She’d tell him she was fine. And she was. It was just awfully sad, but what would he care? She found herself unable to speak, her throat constricted by the fresh flow of tears, which had grown stronger now, sadness exacerbated by kindness from another. She nodded vigorously, in the hope that it would reassure him and he would go away. Ed was gone to bed, so surely Guillaume must be heading off on his way home?

  “I don’t think Ed gets it,” Guillaume continued, nodding his head toward the TV screen.

  Jenny’s eyes flicked in Guillaume’s direction and then back at the screen again. She must look a sight, she knew, with her swollen eyes and downturned mouth. She remained silent. A lump was wedged in her throat and she couldn’t trust herself to speak. She longed for Guillaume to just leave her alone so that she could sob silently and not embarrass herself any further. But he didn’t move. If anything, he seemed to edge a little closer to her. She was stunned when she felt the touch on her arm and looked down to see his hand there, his Breitling watch on his right wrist, where he always wore it.

  “I don’t think you’re nuts or anything,” he whispered, leaning his head forward to try to make eye contact with her. There was a hint of a smile in his voice. If anything, it made the lump in Jenny’s throat bigger. The hand on her arm squeezed. “I feel like crying myself, truth be told,” he said.

  Suddenly, she turned. Jenny frowned at Guillaume, studying his face, assessing whether or not he was mocking her.

  Under her direct gaze, it was Guillaume’s turn to look away. He nodded at the screen, at a shot of the coffin being carried across the tarmac at RAF Northolt, draped in the Royal Standard.

  “She’s home then,” he said simply.

  It was enough. The sob released itself from Jenny’s throat in a great release. For the whole day she had endured Ed’s disbelief at her response, the jibes from Vicky who had spent all of lunch making sarcastic remarks and inappropriate jokes, Ed’s mother who had stared sniffily at her daughter-in-law, scoffing at people who were clearly stricken with some level of grief at the news, insisting that they should just “pull themselves together”.

  Jenny leaned towards Guillaume as he reached his arms out and pulled her to him.

  “Hey, hey,” he said comfortingly.

  Her eyes stung as she closed them, squeezing tears out onto Guillaume’s impeccable navy linen jacket. Jenny became aware that she ached. Her face, her jaws sore from clenching against tears she felt it wrong to shed, yet were unstoppable; her legs and back throbbing from where she had sat slumped for hours. Her head – most of all her head – with that terrible, dull, crying headache. She felt overwhelmed as Guillaume rested his chin on the top of her head, drawing her in to him and rubbing her back with his left hand, while stroking her hair with his right.

  The darkness of the embrace comforted Jenny at first. And his smell. A mix of expensive cologne and champagne on his breath. It was a grown-up smell – for a moment, she felt safe, like someone else was in charge. She sniffed deeply and pulled away a little, using her hand to wipe her eyes as the tears abated momentarily.

  “I’m so sorry, Gui,” she mumbled, embarrassment creeping back in. She widened her eyes, trying to compose herself, and rubbed her nose with the sleeve of her cotton cardigan.

  All the while, Guillaume didn’t move, watching her with concern.

  “I feel awfully stupid,” Jenny finally managed to whisper. She glanced back at the TV and then down at her hands, stretching her legs out in front of her, pointing her bare feet with their pearl-polished toes to relax them. “I mean crying over someone I didn’t know. I don’t know what’s come over me – you must think I’m so awfully silly.”

  Guillaume looked down on her tear-streaked face, his expression soft. He swept a hand lightly over her cheek and through her cropped hair, cupping the back of her head with his palm, forcing her to look at him.

  “Stop being ridiculous,” he whispered.

  Jenny’s stomach lurched. He did think her foolish. This was some way to bring her to her senses – something Ed had asked him to do.

  “I know it’s ridiculous. I’ll pull myself together – maybe I’m depressed or something . . .” she began.

  Guillaume shook his head, his eyes still fixed on hers. “That’s not what I mean,” he said. “You’ve every right to be upset. Jeez, I’m upset, but I just don’t think it would be cool for me, of all people – with my street cred and all – to show it.”

  He smiled and Jenny managed to grin back at him. Still, he held her close to him and continued to stare at her face. She began to feel less abashed about what was upsetting her and more conscious of how terrible she must look. He must be staring at how impossibly swollen her face was, how unnatural her appearance must be after hours of crying over a complete stranger.

  “I don’t know what it is either, but she . . .” he glanced at the TV screen, “she touched something in everyone. I’m not ashamed to say it. That time I saw her in Cape Town – she was so beautiful – she glowed. And that bravery – walking out into a field of landmines? Hugging an AIDS patient to show you couldn’t catch it? It’s shit like that I admire. It’s strength. And that lady had it in spades . . . and now she’s gone so what’s it all for?”

  Jenny’s eyes widened at Guillaume’s words. She had never heard him speak like that. She had never heard him say a sentence that didn’t feature the word ‘man’ at least twenty times, but then again, she hadn’t spoken to him much one-on-one except in the last few weeks and even then it was mainly about music. There was something in Guillaume’s words that was soothing, something infectious about the sentiment.

  Jenny found herself nodding. “It’s her kids,” she began. “William and Harry. I feel so sorry for them but I can’t help myself feeling sorry for her too – she adored them so much. And now she’s gone and she’s going to miss them growing up – growing into men and living out their lives and getting married – she’s going to miss all the hugs and the laughter and the fun – she’s so young. She didn’t deserve to die. She could have done so much with the rest of her life and now she’s gone. In the blink of an eye . . .”

  Guillaume responded by nodding in agreement and sliding his arm around Jenny to pull her to him in another embrace. They sat awkwardly like that for a while, Jenny pulled uncomfortably toward Guillaume, too awkward with the situation to rearrange herself because that would mean pulling herself closer to him.

  They stared wordlessly at the TV together for a while. The coverage rolled on. The scenes from the tunnel where the crash had happened, vox pops from around the country to reinforce the devastation of the people, messages of sympathy from heads of state, the growing sea of flowers and cards and candles and tributes at Kensington Palace. Scenes from her life. Her engagement day, the sapphire and diamond ring, Charles saying “whatever love means”

  And as they watched, Jenny found herself become increasingly aware of Guillaume’s bulk beside her. The intoxicating smell of him. She glanced in his direction more than once, at his chest muscles under the T-shirt he wore. She knew that he ran, that he lifted weigh
ts. That he teased Ed about how the heaviest thing he lifted in a day was a pencil. She allowed her gaze to run down his left arm which now rested on his knee. At the darkness of his skin, the smoothness of his hairless wrist running down to his long fingers with his pink, manicured fingernails. She turned suddenly back to the TV, re-focusing on a montage of Diana’s early romance with Charles. Running to her car to escape the paparazzi pack outside her flat, the cotton skirts, the Sloane Ranger collars. But for the first time in twenty-four hours, Jenny was unable to focus on the Princess of Wales. She was too distracted by her companion. In a way that was familiar, yet completely new. In a way that she knew she, as a married woman, shouldn’t be feeling. She shifted in her seat.

  Guillaume, who had been absorbed in the screen, or so Jenny thought – until he told her otherwise later – jumped as she moved.

  “You all right?” he asked, for the second time that night.

  Jenny hesitated. She wasn’t actually sure.

  “I’ve dreamed of designing something for her,” she blurted suddenly.

  Maybe that was why she was so upset? Because, by now, in the sketchbook that she kept hidden at the bottom of her wardrobe, were pages and pages of sketches of clothes, all worn by a tall model with short hair and an elegant gait. Dresses for daywear, evening dresses, hats even.

  “For Diana,” she confirmed. She didn’t know why she was saying this. “I sketch clothes. For Diana. And I might make them – I don’t know. I’ll see,” she babbled nervously. “Don’t tell Ed . . .”

  In retrospect, she wasn’t sure exactly what she was telling Guillaume not to tell Ed. Whether it was, in fact, about those aspirations or something else. Whether it was about the look in his eyes that seemed to drown her, that absorbed her in his dark brown eyes. Or whether it was the longing to kiss him.

  To which she gave in.

  A sudden, perfect, tentative, forbidden kiss. The first kiss. A kiss that may have been born out of a desire for comfort, from a need for human contact but which would lead to so much more.