Under an Amber Sky

by Rose Alexander

  ‘It’s Petar.’ Frank’s voice was gruff with fear. ‘I just heard from the shop – he’s been involved in an accident.’

  Cries of horror rose up from everyone around the table.

  ‘Oh my God,’ yelped Anna, ‘poor Petar. What sort of accident; how bad is it; is he hurt?’

  ‘Oh Lord,’ uttered Irene, sinking into a chair and casting aside her list.

  Sophie’s head dropped into her hands. She could hardly bear to look at Frank, to ask or hear any more. ‘No,’ she heard herself murmuring. ‘Not Petar. Not Sandra – not another woman widowed. Please no.’

  ‘Frank!’ screamed Anna. ‘Would you please just tell us what the hell has happened?’

  Frank came to the table and leant his hands against its scrubbed wooden top. ‘He’s OK; he’s alive.’

  ‘Oh, thank heavens for that,’ exhaled Irene, speaking for them all.

  ‘I don’t know exactly – the details aren’t clear,’ continued Frank. He had stopped shaking now and looked drained, his round face gaunt with distress. ‘All Sandra’s colleague Vera told me is that he was on the main road, driving back from taking a client to Bar when a truck pulled out from one of the building supplies stores and slammed straight into him. They’ve taken him to the hospital in Budva. Sandra went straight to him, obviously.’

  A silence fell on the room, more profound than all the weeks Sophie had lived there alone, before Frank arrived, and then Anna and Tomasz, Irene and Ton. Amidst the fear for Petar, Sophie wondered if a similar stillness had settled in these rooms, like the damp pall of fog, when Mira had found out that Dragan was dead.

  But Petar was not dead. Sophie forced herself to stop thinking that way. Most people did not die that easily, not even in car accidents. Matt had been the exception, not the rule.

  ‘We must help!’ Irene was up out of her chair, poised, ready to spring into action. Nobody else moved. She sat back down. There was nothing any of them could do – just wait for news and hope for the best.

  ‘When,’ ventured Sophie, tentatively, ‘when do you think we’ll hear anything? Can we contact Sandra? Or perhaps that’s not wise – will Vera keep us informed about his progress? If he’s to stay in hospital for a bit, I’d like to visit. I’m sure we all would.’

  She fell silent while everyone pondered her words, nobody seeming to have any idea of what else to say. Sophie thought of how Petar had helped her when she first arrived, turning up with his taxi whenever she needed him, never minding how unwieldy or ridiculous her cargo. He had always greeted her with his broad smile, his thick moustache that was about six shades lighter than his hair always immaculate upon his upper lip, but not hiding the warmth in his face and eyes that had fallen on the desolate Sophie like cool raindrops in the desert. Nothing had ever been too much trouble. And now it was because of one of those damn DIY stores she had so regularly frequented that this accident had befallen him.

  Frank’s phone buzzed in his pocket. In an instant, he had whipped it out and pulled down his reading glasses from the top of his head. They all stared intently at him as he read the message, hoping for news.

  ‘Just a mate from back home,’ he said, his disappointment almost manifesting as disgust. ‘Checking arrangements, worrying about flights and airports. What’s wrong with people that they practically need counselling before buying a plane ticket?’ He was transferring his worry onto his poor friend whose ears were probably burning right now.

  It seemed to dawn on them all at the same time that the wedding would not be able to go ahead if the news about Petar were the worst. Not because he wouldn’t be there to sort out transport and drive the wedding vehicle, of course, but just because it wouldn’t feel right, it wouldn’t be right, to go ahead in such circumstances.

  ‘You can stop getting your knickers in a twist,’ Frank concluded, addressing his comments to the silent phone, before throwing it down onto the table. ‘You might not have to bother.’ He was voicing all of their concerns. Striding over to his beer fridge, he hauled open the door and pulled out half a dozen bottles. Lumping them onto the table, the dull clanking of the bottles resembled that of funeral bells. Frank uncapped them with a series of short, sharp fizzes, and simultaneously five hands reached out to grab one.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Anna, taking a long slug of the beer then grimacing and giving her bottle to Frank.

  Frank shrugged and drained almost the whole of his bottle in one. ‘We wait.’

  Chapter 30

  By the next morning, there was still no news.

  ‘I asked Vera to keep me informed,’ fumed Frank. It seemed that everyone was bearing the brunt of his anxiety. He had grown so fond of Petar over the months since the rakija party, coming to think of him as a best mate in Montenegro. A man like Frank needed a best mate. Anna grimaced behind his back.

  ‘Frank, love,’ she said, coming up beside him and placing a placatory hand on his arm. ‘Try to calm down – don’t take it out on the rest of us. No news is good news,’ she concluded, hopefully.

  Frank rubbed his hand across his eyes. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, staring at the floor. ‘I’m going to go to the shop and see if anyone’s heard anything.’

  As he turned to go, Sophie was sure she saw the glint of tears in his eyes.

  The idea that they might be heading for a funeral and not a wedding was never far from her mind. She had only ever been to one funeral: Matt’s. It had been unbearable. She remembered odd details from it now, incongruous ones. Such as the red and white warning that stood proud and prominent in the car park, shared between the village church and the school that read: DEAD SLOW CHILDREN PLAYING. They’re not wrong about the dead she had thought, wondering if it had been some sort of sick joke to order the sign for that location.

  They had sung hymns Sophie couldn’t remember choosing and people had given readings she was sure she had never seen before. She tried to say something herself, to read out a poem that Matt had liked – the only one she’d ever got him to show any interest in, ‘To His Coy Mistress’ by Andrew Marvell. She had thought it was strangely fitting, the urging to carpe diem, seize the day, and had wanted to talk about how she and Matt had always tried to do that, had been so happy and so grateful that they had found each other so young and been able to grow up together. They had always tried to make the most of every moment.

  But she didn’t manage to get through anything beyond the first few lines, crumpling up in front of everyone and having to be almost carried back to her seat by her brother.

  Some of Matt’s colleagues had attended – Alex and Steve, and a couple of other blokes that Sophie had heard him refer to but had never met. It was Steve who had come over to her afterwards, when they were back at Matt’s parents’ house, an anonymous 1960s’ semi in a cul-de-sac that Sophie had always thought of as the sort of place that could be the setting for a horror movie – all perfect families hiding dark secrets, mysterious comings and goings in the dead of night.

  Of course, that was a total figment of her overactive imagination born, Matt had said, of reading too much and thinking what she read was real. But the idea of it being both a movie and terrifying seemed to have come true. Except that she still hadn’t really been able to believe it was so.

  She recalled how hard it had been to concentrate on what Steve was saying. She hadn’t wanted his platitudes, had hated him for being the last person who had seen Matt alive. She should have been there; it should have been her holding his hand. If she had been there, he wouldn’t have died; she would have saved him. But it hadn’t been her. It had been a mere work acquaintance, and nothing would ever make that acceptable. It was Steve who had brought up the subject of the death-in-service payment, trying to be helpful, but as a consequence awakening Sophie to the realization, hurriedly pushed away, that her entire lifestyle was built on the premise of two salaries and that without that money everything would have to change.

  Digesting this knowledge, she had taken th
e glass of wine that someone had proffered her and drained it down, felt her head spin, her stomach heave. She had fled to the downstairs loo where she had been copiously sick and had stayed until her mother came to find her and take her home to bed.

  Surely, surely, surely this was not all going to be repeated, but this time with Sandra the grieving widow and everyone else doing what they had done at Matt’s funeral, looking hopelessly and helplessly on, unable to stem the grief?

  Ton came downstairs and made coffee and he and Sophie went back out to the garden. The best thing to do in the circumstances seemed to be to carry on as normal, to keep perfecting their sylvan paradise in the hope that it would still be needed. The rhythm of clipping and cutting and digging and planting was soothing and reassuring at such a confusing time.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll pull through,’ she affirmed to Ton, speaking her thoughts aloud. ‘His taxi was bang up to date, airbags in all possible places et cetera et cetera. He’ll be OK, won’t he?’

  She looked pleadingly at Ton for his response, wanting his agreement, his confirmation. He did not look up for a few moments and when he did, a shadow cast its pall across his face. And then he smiled and it was gone and he was Ton again, sure and strong.

  ‘I think he’s going to be fine.’ He gestured towards the top terrace where the wild pomegranate spread its haphazard branches wide. ‘Let’s have a go at that tree now. I’ve got the saw. We need to trim it back a lot, don’t you think?’

  Sophie nodded.

  A few minutes later and Ton was up the tree, his head and shoulders buried in the thick canopy and the sound of a rhythmic sawing filling the air, competing with the ever-whirring cicadas.

  A shout echoed up from down below. Sophie started and turned to look down to the house. Emerging from the garden door and into the sunken courtyard was Frank, and now he was in the open his words, clear in the still air, reached easily to where Sophie stood so much higher up.

  ‘He’s OK. He’s going to pull through.’ Frank was leaping up the slippery grass path – need to fix that, Sophie made a quick mental note to herself – and in seconds was beside her and Ton, who emerged from the tree covered in twigs and smears of lichen, his hair awry and his clothes dishevelled.

  ‘He was unconscious for a bit but he’s come round and he’s fine; a broken collar bone and a fractured shin and ankle but other than that, he’s right as rain.’ Frank was so excited he could hardly get the words out.

  Sophie, speechless, flung her arms around him. Ton shook his head as if he scarcely dared to believe it.

  Detaching himself from Sophie’s embrace, Frank looked from her to Ton. ‘I spoke to Sandra on the phone and she said now he’s awake, he’s already complaining that he’s bored out of his mind. The doctors want him to stay in for a couple more days because of the concussion and Sandra thinks visitors will help keep him cheerful and speed his recovery.’ Frank paused for breath before continuing. ‘So – will you come with me this afternoon? Irene will stay with Tomasz and we’ll go, the four of us, if you’re up for it.’

  Sophie opened her mouth to reply, to say of course she’d go. And then shut it again. As with funerals, she had no experience of hospitals apart from that one terrible day last July. Could she bear to enter the white-walled rooms and corridors of such a place again? She felt sick, hot and feverish at the thought.

  Ton was beside her and his low, measured tones sounded in her ear. ‘If it’s going to help Petar get better, of course we’ll be there,’ he said.

  Sophie was overcome with gratitude. Ton was right; of course she would go. She had to put her own issues to one side, for Petar’s sake.

  Back inside the house, Sophie had a quick shower and ran a brush through her unkempt hair. She should have washed it but didn’t have time to dry it and in any case, using a hairdryer in the daytime when it was still so hot was something to be avoided if at all possible.

  Her eyes fell upon her laptop, gathering dust on the desk in her bedroom. In the midst of the furore, she had not opened her email for a day or two. Usually, she loved the way that not working released her from such daily chores but right now, before the worry about Petar had overtaken all else, she had been obsessively checking on an hourly basis in case there was any news about her application. Seizing a few moments before they all set off to Budva, she quickly logged on.

  Staring at the screen, Sophie could hardly dare to believe what she saw. Good things must be coming in twos because there, in front of her, was an invitation to interview. Her mind went into overdrive, whirring through everything she would have to do to ready herself. Remember how to teach would be the first. She felt rusty and completely lacking in confidence after her months out of the classroom.

  Forcing herself to stay calm, she read through the email from the school principal again. The interview was scheduled for the coming Friday – the day before the wedding. She had to attend, no matter what; her financial situation was dire. She couldn’t afford not to. But that gave so little time to prepare.

  She heard the doors opening downstairs and the rumble of a car’s engine; not Petar’s taxi, but he would be back in action before too long, Sophie hoped. Closing the lid of the laptop and putting the interview out of her mind for the time being, she turned and ran downstairs, taking the treads two at a time. Frank had mended the broken board and she could do this now without fear of calamity; it made her feel young and hopeful.

  She whispered her news to Ton whilst they stood under the juniper bushes waiting for Anna to sort something out for Tomasz. Frank was already in the passenger seat, instructing the driver where to go, showing him the hospital’s address where he had scribbled it down on a scrap of paper.

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ Ton said, smiling delightedly.

  ‘It is,’ she agreed. ‘But teaching interviews are gruelling. They want you there all day. You’re grilled by the head, governors, and whoever else they want to invite … Sometimes they even get the kids to interview you. Plus of course you have to plan, prepare, and teach a lesson and I’m not sure I can even remember how to do that any more.’

  Ton was watching her as she explained all this, her face becoming increasingly flushed and her hand gestures wilder and more expansive as she spoke. On his face was an amused grin.

  ‘Finished?’ he said, when she finally ran out of steam and fell silent. ‘Stop panicking. You’ll be fine.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Sophie bit her lip. ‘I’ll be OK. Let’s just hope that Petar is, too.’

  ***

  Pulling up outside the hospital’s revolving doors, Sophie felt the nausea of earlier return. It was all so awfully familiar: the signs in brightest blue lettering, the gleaming white façade that made her eyes throb as it reflected the sunlight. It had been sweltering, that day in July, the heat that descends on London at some point every summer, when the air is stiff and solid and the tarmac sizzles underfoot, throwing hot waves upwards to meet the rays boring down.

  She stood by the car door, petrified in all meanings of the word, and shivered despite the thirty-degree temperature. She could feel her breath catching in her throat, her heart beating faster, too fast, her head starting to swim with lack of oxygen.

  ‘Calm,’ she ordered herself. ‘Keep calm. Breathe. One-two-three … in and out.’ Forcing herself to inhale and exhale slowly and steadily, she clenched her fists tightly. This was about Petar now, not her. She needed to get a grip on herself.

  Frank and Anna had started to walk towards the door, but Ton paused, waiting for Sophie to catch up. When she had pulled herself together and reached his side, he laid his hand briefly upon hers, matching her pace. Immediately, the sense of ever-growing panic subsided, her heart began to beat a regular rhythm again, and the trickles of sweat running down her back dried up.

  ‘It’ll be all right. I’m right here beside you.’

  How did he always know what she was thinking? He was like a mind-reader, a physic who could see inside he
r head. She squeezed his fingers lightly and then released his grip. Throwing her head back and straightening her shoulders, she nodded and gestured the way forward with a flick of her head.

  ‘Yup. Thank you.’

  As they approached the revolving door, Sophie braced herself for the smell she knew would assail her as soon as she crossed the threshold. The doors swung round, the tiled floor of the hospital building was beneath their feet and it hit her: disinfectant and bleach. She felt a sudden rush to the head of a kind that she hadn’t experienced since the day when they had met Irene on the beach overlooking Mamula island and she had opened the bottle of Dettol and smelt its sharp scent of extreme cleanliness that tried to overcome infection, disease, and death. Sophie wavered and swayed, the floor suddenly seeming closer, too close, as her legs buckled beneath her.

  And then Ton’s hands were there, clutching her elbows, steadying and securing her, holding her still while she regained control. She was gasping for breath, forcing herself to absorb the oxygen, leaning heavily upon him as she did so. He stood firm.

  Anna and Frank were in front of the lift, arguing and gesticulating at each other, shouting in whispers, trying to work out which floor to head for, each confident of their own rectitude.

  Sophie ran her hands through her hair and attempted a smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said to Ton. ‘Thank you so much.’

  Bolstering herself, she walked towards the lift and stepped into the car, Ton close behind her. The doors shut behind them and they soared upwards, arriving in a matter of seconds at the third floor.

  They found Petar sitting in an armchair, Sandra perched on the bed beside him. His left arm was bound and held in a sling and on his right leg he wore a ski-boot style cast.

  ‘They tried to take me out.’ He chuckled as they all gathered around him, Sophie and Anna hugging and kissing him, though warily for fear of causing him pain. ‘But they couldn’t do it. It will take more than a ten-tonne truck hitting me at speed to finish me off!’