The Missing Pieces of Us

by Eva Glyn

  If I crossed on the ferry I would have two choices: meander along the beach then make the stiff climb to Old Harry Rocks or take the road to Studland then Swanage, about nine miles in total and easily achievable. The coastal path was tempting but the reality was that I wouldn’t get very far on a KitKat and I knew there was a good chippie in Swanage. Even a decision like that was hard to make, but I told myself I could always go home past Old Harry instead.

  My rucksack was heavy and I was out of condition so my journey took me until early afternoon. Ravenous and thirsty, the first thing I did when I arrived was wolf down a large portion of fish and chips and a bottle of Coke. But again, sitting on the seafront, eating and drinking, my mind slid off to where I didn’t want it to go – I had been all right while I was on the move; somehow I had to out-walk my thoughts.

  Or perhaps it was just that I was better alone. I realised I was watching everywhere for mothers and sons: a toddler and a woman little more than my own age playing on the beach, a man in his sixties cosseting an even older lady across the road. My best chance of escaping my guilt was to get the hell out of here and onto the cliffs, so I stirred myself, went to the cashpoint and the supermarket, then headed up to Durlston Head.

  The first few miles I had walked many times, but had always turned inland to Langton Matravers and the delights of the Square & Compass. It was a very sociable pub, and sociable was the last thing I wanted. So I plodded on past Dancing Ledge and into unknown territory.

  I had seen pictures of the Anvil Rock but they hadn’t prepared me for the drama of its precipitous position overlooking the sea. It stood proud and strong in the early evening light, so close to the edge it appeared that only the counterbalance of the anvil stone on top of the upright stopped it from toppling onto the rocks below.

  There was a stone staircase built into the cliff which led to the ledge where the rock stood. As I climbed down I saw that ledge was a misnomer; in front of me was a plateau some thirty metres wide with a cluster of ruined walls where buildings once had stood. It was the perfect place to pitch my tent for the night, hidden away amongst the overgrown masonry, out of sight of the path.

  The sun was setting and I was drawn to the rock. I shrugged off my rucksack and went closer. I felt compelled to touch it, but doing so meant either stretching up to the anvil from a relatively safe position close to the path, or leaning into the upright with the cliffs dropping away from me on both sides. But what did it matter if I fell?

  I edged forwards. Beneath my feet was crumbled stone and a piece of it slid away, startling a seagull drifting below. I lunged and wrapped my arms around the rock. The sea glistened with the last rays of sunlight and the beauty of it almost took my breath away. The breeze ruffled my hair and I let my weight sink into the coldness of the stone.

  The easiest route was down. To let go and slip away, past the wheeling gulls, gathering pace and bouncing off the rocks until I was smashed to pieces. I wouldn’t hurt anymore and there would be no one who’d care. I remember wondering at what point I’d lose consciousness. I remember trying to calculate how fast I’d fall. I must have clung to the rock for a long time, until the colours of the sunset leached from the sky and it became quite dark. I was so tired I almost felt myself drift into a dream where I had my arms around the warm bark of the fairy tree, with Izzie’s hands in mine.

  Rustling branches drowned the smash of the waves, whispering with voices I knew, but couldn’t place. The hidden folk… looking kindly on my wishes… not to slur my memory… nor hers… and then, finally, my mother, emerging from the mist of sound…

  “I love you, Robin.” I was inches away from being with her again, moments perhaps. Inches and moments; that’s all it ever takes.

  Chapter Eight

  Izzie

  I swear – I really do swear – this Christmas, everything is going to be different. There’s simply no other way to get through it. Claire and I have put the tree in the hall, not the living room; we have decided not to go to midnight mass, and instead of staying at home we are going to the Solent Hotel for Christmas lunch. We won’t be watching the re-run of Morecambe and Wise either, not without Connor there to fall about laughing. It was the only funny thing about it.

  But we do not ignore her father. Early on Christmas Eve we drive up the Test Valley to his favourite pub and drop a paper boat into the river below The Mayfly’s garden. It was Claire’s idea and she has a little cry as it bobs about then catches on a stone and sinks. That makes it even worse, somehow, and I hug her to me, her fine blonde hair tickling my skin and her own special scent filling my nose. It’s just the two of us now.

  On the way back, Claire is looking to make conversation and tells me my tramp has vanished.

  My tramp?

  “What do you mean, vanished?” I ask.

  “Well I kind of looked out for him after what you said, and he was at the Buttercross until the end of term and over the weekend, but when Sasha and I went into town yesterday he wasn’t there.”

  “He’s probably just moved on.” I put the car into gear and turn into the main road.

  “Do you really think it was the guy you knew, Mum?”

  “It’s hard to be sure…” I catch myself lying to her again. “But I think so, yes.”

  “Don’t you want to find out what happened?”

  “Oh, I don’t know; I didn’t go out with him for long…”

  She spins around – as much as she can with her seatbelt on, that is. “You went out with him?”

  I shrug. “Just for a little while; then I met your father.”

  That, at least, is the truth. Connor came into my life shortly after Robin left it. I met him in a bar when I was celebrating my teacher-training place. Robin had walked out in March; I cried on and off for a month then my mother gave me a kick up the arse. She was right; it was getting late in the day to apply for college but I squeezed in at the last minute. I suppose it helped that I wanted to teach maths. It’s not a popular subject, but it has rights and it has wrongs. And I like that.

  Connor was a musician, an Irish free spirit. He said he loved me because opposites attract. The only thing he ever took seriously was his music; all his life he played the violin, and by the time he died he was leader of the Bournemouth Philharmonic Orchestra. That instrument was his work – he would practise for hours, but never, as far as I know, play for his own pleasure. Everything else was for fun.

  Physically he was as far apart from Robin as it was possible to be and maybe that was why I agreed to go out with him. He was a true Celt with his compact body, fair skin, and shock of black hair. He always kept himself trim and fit, so why he should have had a massive heart attack at the age of forty-three is beyond me.

  It happened when the orchestra was playing in Frankfurt. Claire and I got on the first flight we could but it was still too late. They had resuscitated him so many times they told me if he’d lived he would have been close to a cabbage, and none of us would have wanted that.

  Connor died at the very end of the summer holidays but at least Claire and I had memories of a wonderful fortnight in Malta to sustain us through the darkness of the autumn. Obviously Claire crumbled, but l managed to get her back on an even keel. It took a lot out of me though – I’m not sure why – and I suppose I was relieved when Fiona, my head of year, suggested I take an elongated Christmas break. I’m fine now though – well, I was before I saw Robin. No, I am fine, and I’m going to be back for the first day of the new term, ready to give my A-level group hell.

  Claire goes to bed when I pour my third gin. It was a mistake to go to The Mayfly this morning; she hasn’t been herself since. Sixteen must be a horrible age to lose a parent; you think you know it all, but underneath you kind of realise you don’t. And hormones are all over the place.

  But is there ever actually a good time?

  Maybe. Perhaps there is. When the parent is no longer really part of your life. When Mum died four years ago I suspect her friends in the WRVS miss
ed her more than I did. The truth is that Mum had needed to be needed so we’d grown apart. But, if there’s a heaven, I like to think she’s up there mending angels’ wings right now.

  I look at the tinsel-decked clock above the fireplace for the hundredth time; not quite five past nine. Today has been endless. Tomorrow will be worse but it’s just thirty-six hours and then the first Christmas without Connor will be over. Box ticked. Move on.

  I pick up the remote control from amongst the magazines on the coffee table and Marley’s ghost appears. No bloody thank you. Christmas past is something I’ve been avoiding, but now the tunnel sucks me back: the M&S socks that turned out to be odd, the year we forgot to defrost the turkey, Claire getting drunk on Baileys when she was twelve. And further… Barbie dolls and Thomas the Tank Engine, a snowy white teddy called Mr Jim (why?), the secret bedtime unwrapping of satin and lace.

  The glass on the table swims in front of me. Rain beats on the window as I think back to that Christmas before Connor entered my life.

  “You promised you’d come with me!” I scream and stamp my foot on the lino. All he does is shake his head. He must be drunk again. I slam into the bedroom and bark my shin on the dressing table as I reach for our suitcase. My suitcase. I open it. Shirts and socks fly out and a parcel spins onto the floor, reindeer-wrapping splitting open. Then I run down the stairs and into the street. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.

  The warmth of the gin tingles through me. It is so hard, this first Christmas. And I didn’t know – I didn’t understand. I thought: it’s almost four months – he should be getting over it by now. I see him again at the kitchen table, but this time I notice the shadows beneath his eyes, the downward slope of his shoulders.

  Would I look at it differently now? Would I recognise the signs?

  Chapter Nine

  I would be lying if I said I hadn’t wondered what it would be like waking beside Robin, but that first morning was as far from my dreams as it was possible to be. I can’t say I slept much; I was terrified he’d be sick and choke. He’d got so drunk on whisky it had taken all the strength Jean and I had to get him up the stairs and now the stench of stale booze filled the room.

  Robin was dead to the world and I was glad. I edged off the bed and picked up my sundress from the floor. The morning was overcast and the bright yellow fabric felt singularly inappropriate to the circumstances. But it was all I had.

  There were three other doors on the landing. The one at the far end was ajar and I peeped in. A double bed with a deep-pink cover and white fitted wardrobes filling one wall. Some instinct made me want to go in and draw the curtains, but somehow crossing the threshold felt wrong. The twist of pain in my chest for Robin ripped me apart.

  I knew the next door along was the bathroom. The one nearest Robin’s bedroom housed an airing cupboard and in it I found some towels and a pile of freshly laundered clothes. Near the top was a blue jumper I knew to be Robin’s so I took that out as well. It would warm me after my shower and its length would cover the startling brightness of my dress.

  It was just gone nine o’clock when I made my way down to the kitchen and I headed straight for the phone to call the office and explain I wouldn’t be in. A friend’s bereavement. I needed some time. But on the other hand, I wouldn’t be taking all my holiday. I stared out of the window over the patch of grass at the back, turning my mind away from the awfulness of the telephone conversation with Paul the night before. Instead, I put on the kettle and dialled Robin’s office number.

  I had done everything I could think of to do. I crept back upstairs as quietly as I could, but Robin was already sitting on the side of the bed in his boxer shorts, his hair tousled from sleep.

  “How are you feeling?”

  He moved his head slowly from side to side. “Better than I deserve. But still like I might cry any minute. I’m so sorry, Izzie…”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I’m not even sure about that.”

  I sat down next to him and took his hand. He squeezed it tight.

  “Last night…” His voice was cracking and he coughed. “Last night, when we were sitting downstairs, I felt… I thought… your little hand was the only thing stopping me from drowning. It was like a lifeline…”

  “It is your lifeline, Robin, for as long as you need it. I won’t take it away.” And I meant it, really I meant it, with all my heart.

  Later, Jean told us there was nothing we could do until they’d finished the post-mortem and we had Rene’s death certificate, except perhaps to clear out her wardrobe. The look of horror in Robin’s eyes told me that was a bad idea, but at the same time Jean’s words made me think.

  “I need to collect some clothes. I’ve only got this dress. In fact, I need to collect everything at some point.”

  Robin looked up. “I’m sorry, Izzie. I didn’t even think about Paul. Your holiday…”

  I shook my head. “There’s no need, Robin. It’s over; I told him last night.”

  “You saw him?”

  “No, I phoned him. He had to know where I was.”

  Robin rested his head in his hands. “I’ve made it bloody difficult for you, haven’t I? I’m so sorry.”

  Jean appeared at the door and then moved towards Robin, shaking him gently by the shoulder.

  “It’s not you, Robin, it’s Rene going like that. None of us could have seen that happening.”

  “No… no… you’re right.” His reply was muffled.

  “Why don’t you go with Izzie to collect her things? It’ll get you out of the house.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “And it’d help me so much – there’ll be a lot to carry and it’s a first floor flat.”

  He nodded and almost smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “And in the meantime I’ll start going through Rene’s bedroom to make a bit of space for Izzie’s stuff.”

  “No, I feel I should…”

  But Jean held firm. She was that sort of woman.

  By the time Robin had carried two or three boxes of books and records down the stairs and packed them in the boot of my car, he seemed two inches taller and there was a glimmer of light in his eyes. I was even pleased when he took the micky out of my collection of Duran Duran singles in their picture sleeves, although of course I pretended to be affronted.

  He shook his head, a sardonic grin spreading slowly across his face. “I may have a better haircut, but I’m no Simon Le Bon, Izzie. I hope you realise that.”

  I looked up from stuffing handfuls of underwear into my overnight bag. “I’m no Yasmin, either.”

  “I don’t want you to be anyone but you.”

  No one had ever said anything like that to me before.

  That night we made love – a slow, sensuous affair, the softness of Robin’s fingers trickling over my skin and lodging deep into the corners of my mind. It was a voyage of discovery into each other’s nakedness that left me sated, but all the same longing for more.

  Is it distance that makes me remember it so vividly? It’s strange; once we were over I locked those memories away. Why am I punishing myself with them now? Because there’s a chance – a tiny chance – that I can bring them back? Or simply that I might be able to make amends?

  The darkness set in quickly, knock after knock leaving Robin punch-drunk and dazed. Next was the result of the post-mortem: an overdose of painkillers. Jean and I told Robin time and again that Rene hadn't meant to do it, that she’d never have left him, but we could see it wasn't sinking in. And when the police came to question him he crumbled onto the sofa, asking them again and again what they wanted. Jean shielded him. I was his alibi. He would never in a million years have harmed his mother; Jean and I knew it and even the police seemed to accept it by the time they left. I’m just not sure Robin did. That’s all.

  By the day of the funeral he was calm. We went into town early to buy him a black tie. We sat in the park next to the Guildhall, watching the city come to life around us while we waite
d for the shops to open. One of the partners from his firm walked by, on his way to the office. He spoke kindly to Robin, told him to take his time. Robin told him he'd be back at work the next week.

  We were a select band at the crematorium. It was mainly neighbours, but also a man Jean told me had been a boyfriend of Rene’s when Robin was in junior school.

  “If only she'd stayed with Davey, none of this would have happened,” she sighed.

  “Why didn't she?”

  “He was too nice, too normal. She liked a streak of danger in her life, Rene did.”

  Robin had chosen ‘The Green, Green Grass of Home’ to be played as the curtain squeaked and squealed closed in front of the coffin. Robin had chosen the single red rose that graced it. Jean sobbed until I thought she could sob no more but Robin seemed beyond emotion.

  That night he fucked me. There is no other word for his empty-eyed thrusting, and I lay awake afterwards, throbbing and raw.

  The reading light over the bed cast the veins on his eyelids and the black blue bruises beneath into sharp relief. And I was scared, but only for a moment, until he spoke.

  “God, Izzie. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s OK. You didn’t mean—”

  “I really didn’t. It was almost like… you weren’t even there. I swear to you, it will never happen again.”

  So he found his release in other ways, ways that turned his anger and grief back on himself.

  But I didn’t understand – not then.

  Chapter Ten

  Robin

  I don’t think I ever made a conscious decision not to go home. I sent Auntie Jean a postcard from Weymouth and another from Lyme Regis, but by the time I reached Exeter she seemed irrelevant.