Kate loved dangly earrings. I could see a couple of her favorite pairs lying on the dressing table where she had left them, but I knew there were hundreds of others stashed in drawers and jewelry boxes. She adored them, and I’d bought loads for her over the years. I loved seeing her wear them. I loved the way Kate cherished them all, whether they were cheap ones picked up from a street vendor on holiday or white gold and aquamarine ones bought as special gifts for her birthday or our anniversary.
There was a piece of white card on top of the chest of drawers, a discarded piece of packaging, and I picked it up and pinned the two stray pairs of earrings from the dressing table carefully through it. I picked out several more pairs from a little jewelry pot and pinned them up too, in neat lines, until the card was filled with flashes of silver dolphins, lovers’ knots, dancing turtles and shiny shells.
It reminded me of being a boy, painstakingly pinning dead bugs and dragonflies out on pieces of stiff card, so that I could marvel at their structures and skeletons. I remembered the pang I sometimes felt when I held them under my schoolboy microscope, feeling slightly guilty about my morbid fascination, knowing they would never fly again. Kate had jokingly scolded me about my childhood hobby, because on the other side of the moors she was busy collecting insect eggs and trying to breed moths and butterflies in a vivarium. That was her schoolgirl hobby, and her love of moths and butterflies endured.
“So after all my hard work, once I set them free across the fields, are you telling me you were standing there with a net, ready to catch them and kill them and pin them on a piece of card?” she said with mock indignation.
“Sorry!” I said. “Had no idea the trouble you’d gone to!”
“Murderer!” she accused.
I picked up a black leather handbag off the floor beside Kate’s side of the bed. It was one of her recent favorites, the one she had taken to hospital with her the last time she went in. I’d brought it home and instinctively placed it by the bed, where Kate often used to leave it herself. It had a simple black clasp, which I gently opened before peeping tentatively inside. I felt a bit uncomfortable, as if I was prying, but I knew this sort of thing had to be done, even though admin and organization were certainly not my strong points. Kate’s bank cards and driver’s license had to be canceled for a start. She would have wanted me to sort things out properly, like she would have done, and I didn’t want chores to pile up and paperwork to descend into chaos.
I took out her purse and pulled out a handful of plastic cards and old receipts. Next, I carefully tipped the rest of the contents of the bag on to the bed. Before me was a snapshot of Kate’s life, in bits. A photo of me and the boys in Disney World, grinning, faces pushed together, was partly covered by an old passport photograph of me and Kate. It showed the pair of us as fresh-faced teenagers, cheek to cheek, laughing our heads off in one of those old-fashioned photo booths where the flash always went off when you weren’t quite ready, catching you unawares.
There was a laminated photograph of Kate and me with Reef and Finn, nuzzling up to a dolphin in Florida, and a four-leaf clover that Kate had covered with tape so it looked laminated too. Beside the clover was a thick, black hair band that had some of Kate’s mousy-colored hair wrapped around it. I had mourned Kate’s soft blonde hair when it grew back darker and coarser after her treatment. Mourning a head of hair seemed so trivial now.
It was upsetting to look through Kate’s personal possessions, but also strangely cathartic. Once I’d started I didn’t want to stop. I was touching things she had been the last person to touch and I liked the thought of that.
I picked up one of Kate’s favorite pink lipsticks, a mascara and a face powder that had been in her handbag too. They were all Clinique, her favorite brand. She didn’t wear much makeup, she didn’t need it. Even a tiny bit could make her look very glamorous, very quickly. Still, Kate had a wonderful girly streak, and I knew she had drawers full of the stuff too. An old Swiss Army knife and a boat shackle—a sort of hook—were mixed up with the makeup. They were not items a typical woman might have in her handbag, but Kate wasn’t a typical woman. I felt a burst of pride. I absolutely loved that she wasn’t a typical woman.
How would I ever be able to find another soul mate like her? Kate was a one-off, my dream woman. She threw herself headlong into life. She bungee-jumped off bridges with me. She soared high in helicopters, dived the oceans deep and sailed the sea like a professional sailor. Afterward, it was often Kate who took me to bed. I could hardly believe my luck. When she got dressed up for a night out she made my eyes pop out of my head. She was jaw-droppingly beautiful, and I always felt like the cat who’d gotten the cream when she was on my arm.
Even just curled up on the sofa reading a book in jogging pants and without a lick of makeup, Kate still looked bloody fantastic. She had a radiance about her you just can’t get from a bottle. Motherhood, with all the stresses and strains it brought, didn’t take the shine off Kate. She lit up the room wherever she walked in and she lit up my life, in every department. She kept her figure, and her sexual energy. We were besotted with each other, always kissing and cuddling like a couple of teenagers, even after so many years together. She was simply irreplaceable.
* * *
“Find a woman to settle down with so the boys can have a female influence and stability in their lives.” When Kate wrote that, and told me that wish, her courage devastated me.
“How can I ever find another soul mate?” I sobbed gently, not wanting to argue with Kate, but not wanting to agree to something so unthinkable. I was shaking with tension and had tears dripping down my face, and Kate squeezed my hand, which took a huge amount of her energy.
“You should try,” Kate wept. “I want you to be happy, Singe. It’s best for the boys too.”
“I will try my best, with everything,” I promised. I’d need time for that one—lots of time, I thought.
I opened Kate’s glasses case and lifted out the pink and black designer specs I’d picked out for her when she needed them for driving in recent years. I held them up and looked through them, watching Kate’s belongings distort through the lenses. Everything went blurred, and I blinked. I was used to seeing Kate’s eyes looking back at me through those lenses. I’d have given anything to see her eyes again, instead of these fuzzy-looking fragments of a life left behind.
I wandered over to the computer on the table by the window and switched it on. Kate had always been the one who sorted out the e-mails, and she was much better at things like Facebook than me. She was good with photos too, filing them neatly in albums in the old days, complete with notes and dates sometimes. More recently, Kate whacked everything onto the computer, and when she was ill she made me buy a gigantic Mac so we could manage our videos and pictures better, and enjoy looking back on happy memories.
I think I was on autopilot that night as I clicked on to her Facebook page and uploaded a few recent photos—images of Kate playing with the boys at home, stroking the dog—simple, ordinary stuff. It was something she often did, once the boys were in bed. I’d hear her busily tapping away even before I’d finished reading to them some nights. I wanted to keep other people’s memories of Kate as fresh as mine were. It was a kind of therapy, I think. It gave me some sort of connection to Kate as well as to the world outside our bedroom.
I’m not good at being alone. I hate it, in fact. That night made me realize just how much I hated being alone, because the computer made me feel a tiny bit less lonely. I clicked on my own Facebook page next. I’d posted up a hastily composed message the day Kate died, to let as many people know as quickly as possible. My sister Kaye had been the first person to spread the word, sending out a text from my phone. “Really sad news. Kate passed away in the early hours. Please pass this on to anyone who knew Kate and Singe,” she wrote. My phone had gone mental. I didn’t know what “OMG” meant before that day, but, “Oh My God,” I ce
rtainly did afterward.
We have friends all over the world, and I had to let everybody who didn’t get the text know. I could barely remember typing the terrible news on Facebook, and I read my words again, as if for the first time.
To all my friends and family, I am afraid I have very sad news; Kate has passed away this morning peacefully. My thoughts are with Kate and the boys. Thank you for all your kind words and support. It is Kate’s wish not to receive flowers or cards but to have the money donated into a trust for the boys. Details to follow regarding funeral arrangements at a later date. I will be in contact in due course. Singe xXx.
It didn’t seem real at all, and I think I read it two or three times over, trying to digest it.
I wanted to write more now, to express my feelings. I typed quickly, wanting to unload and share my emotions as genuinely as possible.
I would like to thank all our family and friends for their love and support. Kate was truly an extraordinary woman: an amazing, awesome partner and soul mate and an incredible mum and friend. She loved us all with such intensity and we described these feelings by saying “Acres and Acres,” something which the boys use now. Nobody knows what the future holds for us but with all your love and support, we will make it!!!
Life will be different without her but I am confident Kate will be proud of what we have achieved together so far, and what HER boys will in the future. (Watch this space!!!)
I miss her desperately BUT, my boys remind me of Kate every day . . . a look, a smile or a flash of their eyes keeps me strong. Many friends and family members who knew how much we meant to each other have quoted . . . “It’s better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all,” and I guess that’s something that won’t ever fade away. Thinking of Kate and how lucky I have been to know her. All my love, Acres and Acres Singe xXx :)
Before I logged off I looked at my Facebook profile, which was created long before Kate was ill. Under the section for “favorite quotations” I’d written in bold lettering:
WORK HARD! PLAY HARDER!!
FEEL THE FEAR AND DO IT ANYWAY!
IF YOU’RE NOT LIVING ON THE EDGE YOU ARE A WASTE OF SPACE!
LIFE IS TOO SHORT AND YOU CAN’T TAKE IT WITH YOU.
I let the words bounce around my head as I logged off. Kate couldn’t take me with her. Her life was too short, and I was still here, without her. I was so glad we had lived on the edge, and Kate’s death only made me more determined to work hard and play harder. I would instill those philosophies we both shared in our boys.
When the hum of the computer disappeared I looked around the silent bedroom and wondered what to do next. The whole house was eerily quiet, and it felt like midnight, but the clock told me it was still only just turned 9 p.m. What should I do? I couldn’t face going downstairs and eating on my own, even though the fridge was still bulging with homemade cottage pies and apple crumbles.
I was drawn to a small, pretty box on my bedside table. Kate’s matching wedding ring, engagement ring and eternity ring were in it, and when I took off the lid I saw them slotted together, like a completed puzzle. That’s how it felt when I put the eternity ring on Kate’s finger, several years after our marriage and many years after our engagement. It was the finishing touch; a declaration of my undying love, of “infinity acres and acres.” When I gave it to her I imagined our future panning out, perfectly. I saw us growing old and gray together, sitting side by side in a couple of rocking chairs, knitting and reading. That’s how I dreamed and pictured it would be, no question.
My own wedding band, which also matched Kate’s, had become too tight and was digging into my skin. I’d put on lots of weight in my forties. I blamed hospital food, as it had formed a large part of my diet on and off for five years now. When Reef was ill I drank liter after liter of Red Bull to keep me awake through the long nights in hospital, when I needed to stay alert and watch over him. If I fell asleep he tossed and turned and wrapped himself up in knots inside all the tubes attached to his body, and I was afraid he might pull one of them out.
I’d been saying for ages I would have to lose weight or get my wedding ring enlarged, but now there was another choice, of course. I could take it off. In that moment it felt like the right thing to do. I had to face it: I wasn’t a married man anymore. When I married Kate it was “till death do us part,” and that time had come. I eased off the ring painfully, placed it alongside Kate’s three rings and instinctively picked up the black hair band I’d tipped from her handbag, which still lay on the duvet.
Taking Kate’s Swiss Army knife, I carved a delicate lover’s knot through the thick band and placed it on my ring finger. It fit perfectly in the smooth groove left by my wedding band, and I started to cry. I decided I would give all the wedding rings to Kate’s mum to look after for the time being, as she had a really secure safe. They were far too precious to leave lying around in a jewelry box.
I had a sense I was making some progress now, making decisions and sorting a few things out, but I also realized that I was totally unprepared for this aftermath. I had not believed Kate was dying, even when she was slipping away and writing her list. When the truth could no longer be avoided, I hadn’t thought about what she would leave behind, my focus had been on who: the little boys she could no longer bring up, and myself, of course.
It was only just dawning on me what a big job I had on my hands simply dealing with Kate’s possessions, let alone anything else. Her personal belongings filled the room. I couldn’t clear them out wholesale and give them to a charity shop. I’d have to do it all properly, giving special items to friends and family so they all had a bit of Kate too. I remembered Kate telling me to give some clothes to Ruth. “She’s the same size as me. Make sure she wears them. Someone might as well get some wear out of them,” she instructed coolly.
“Stop that!” I’d laughed rather uncomfortably. “How can you say that?”
“You can give those boots to Amanda from work too,” she went on, regaling me with the details of a shopping trip they’d been on together, when they’d jokingly fought over the cute pair of black boots.
Kate was always one step ahead, and she was always thinking of others, of maximizing other people’s happiness. I would also have to pick out what I wanted to keep, but I wasn’t daunted by that task. I reckon Kate knew that, because she hadn’t given me any specific instructions about what to keep for myself. I had the pick of so much, a lifetime of shared memories, and the thought suddenly energized me: Instead of getting rid of Kate’s possessions, I would start by saving the ones I could never let go of.
I crept on to the landing and hooked open the loft hatch. I’d need a big suitcase for this, I thought. Unfolding the ladder and climbing into the darkness, I felt around for the light switch. I clicked it on and immediately spotted a couple of large, faded keepsake boxes sitting side by side, unexpectedly, right under my nose.
“Shit!” I blurted out.
My legs turned to sand, and I grabbed hold of the ladder to stop myself falling. I’d been in the loft just a few weeks earlier, putting away Christmas decorations, and the boxes definitely weren’t there then. I hadn’t seen them for decades and I stared at them in shock and disbelief, recognizing them but not quite believing what I was seeing. A powerful wave of nostalgia washed through me, the sort you get as a child when a long-lost toy turns up out of the blue, sparking a maelstrom of memories.
I knew exactly what was inside the boxes; they were love letters, scores and scores of them, written from Kate to me. As a teenager she bombarded me with letters and poems, especially when she was very young and her parents tried to keep us apart. I kept every single one, and when we moved in together she took them back and carefully boxed them up. That must have been over twenty years ago. So much had happened since then. I certainly couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen them. We’d moved house six years earlier fo
r a start, and I didn’t remember seeing them in the move. Now here they were, staring me in the face, daring me to read them all over again.
Trust Kate to pull a stunt like that, I thought, once the initial shock had subsided. She was organized yet sentimental, practical but unashamedly romantic. Now, even after her death, she was still dazzling me with the same irresistible qualities. I admired her style.
Kate liked to get one over on me whenever she could, and she’d certainly done it this time, that’s for sure. She must have predicted what I’d do and had planned this moment carefully, making sure she placed the letters where I couldn’t fail to find them. She probably even knew I’d come out with a few choice words and almost fall off the ladder when I spotted the boxes, and she’d have loved provoking my gobsmacked reaction. How on earth she had managed to find the letters after all these years, let alone struggle around in the loft while attached to an oxygen cylinder to help her breathe, was mind-blowing.
I carefully carried the boxes down the ladder and placed them ceremoniously in the middle of our bed. Next, I sat beside them and stared at them for a few minutes before touching them again. I wanted to savor the moment, but I was trembling with anticipation by now. Taking the lid off would set me on an emotional journey back in time. I knew that once I started reading, I wouldn’t be able to stop. It would open up so many old memories stretching back over so many years. “Are you sure you are ready for this, Singe?” I asked myself silently. “Too right,” I thought, suddenly grinning widely.
I thought how lucky we were that our memories were overwhelmingly happy. What was I afraid of? What was I waiting for? Suddenly I felt like a child on Christmas morning, desperate to see what was inside the boxes. I took off the lids excitedly, my heart racing. My eyes fell on the lipstick kisses on the pink and yellow pages before me, and I instinctively lifted the notepaper to my lips and kissed Kate’s kisses. The sweet pink shade of the lipstick and Kate’s girly handwriting catapulted me back to the 1980s, and my eyes greedily devoured a poem, just as they had decades earlier.
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