The Husband Who Refused to Die

by Andrea Darby

  I can’t see anything for repairing scratches. I flick through a small pile of papers that lie in the bottom of a three-tier letter tray. A few lists remain, several tasks crossed out, others left – never to be completed. I need one of Dan’s lists. A definitive list of things I need to do to get my life in order. And just a dab of his determination.

  Our old willow picnic basket’s still tucked in the corner. I open the dusty lid and out pops a potent memory of when Dan bought it, for our first trip out together in the MG – a surprise he’d sprung on me, no doubt one he’d spent weeks planning. He was so much better at the romance thing than me. I had regular romantic thoughts, but fewer deeds. It shamed me now. Dan had claimed to be working that day, arranging for Eleanor to go to Imogen’s so I had some ‘me’ time. But he’d arrived home just before lunch to take me out in the new car. We stopped off in a beautiful spot called The Beacon. Dan opened the tiny boot, pulling out a blanket and the tawny brown basket, with its robust leather straps and posh striped lining. Inside were proper plates, cutlery – even napkins – and all my favourite foods: potato salad, chicken, various cheeses and chocolate brownies. He’d even organised the weather, a beautiful blue-sky day; now with an added glow of rose-tinted retrospect perhaps.

  We’d talked, about work, and Eleanor – always Eleanor – how we missed her even after just a few hours. We reminisced. We cuddled. We laughed. Dan’s eyes grew excited as he filled me in on the history of the site, how it was an Iron Age Hill Fort and ‘blah blah, blah’. Eleanor must have been about five or six then. It was before Dan’s bid to keep healthy got really heavy. He was still indulging now and then, treating himself.

  I pick up the basket, wondering whether to keep it. I’d never use it. Picnics had to be planned. I put it down, opening the door of a big metal cabinet, expecting more echoes and emptiness. But there’s a laptop, an old one I’d hardly ever seen Dan use. It looks so bulky, already an ancient relic. I take it inside, place it on the sideboard. I’ll ask Mark to clear it. It may be useful for someone, or to recycle.

  It’s after lunch before I look at the day’s post. Ripping open the envelope of what I assume is a third piece of marketing mail, I get an unpleasant surprise.

  It’s another anonymous message, one shocking sentence in the centre of a crumpled white sheet, in that same bold type:

  ‘Only the wicked want to cheat death – they fear what awaits them.’

  The address had been typed on the envelope, not written in spidery handwriting, but it’s surely from the same person. I feel a little spooked. It wasn’t a one-off. Maybe I should report it. I’m on my own. This person really wants to upset me.

  In the shower, I wipe my hand across the misted screen and have a moment of clarity. I’d already started looking for a new job; now I can see number two on my mind’s mission list forming in a clearer typeface: time to move away. For a while I’ve thought, in a vague, unfocused way, that putting the house on the market could be a good idea; a smaller home, new surroundings, a new beginning. I miss London, though France is tempting.

  Until now, I’ve been unsure about it, scared even, but later that day I’m in the estate agents’ on the High Street speaking to a slightly pushy sales manager with stencilled slug eyebrows, and three days later, a valuation has been done, the sale board’s up, Eleanor’s in a sulk and we’re preparing for strangers to ring the doorbell.

  ***

  Pete marches through the door, just as I grab my new ponte jacket, ready for a sharp exit.

  ‘At last – they’ve confirmed. We’ve won the Lorex contract,’ he declares, saggy cheeks lifted with his first full smile of the year. ‘We’ve all got jobs for a little longer.’ I feel a surge of guilt I’m convinced has spread across my face.

  ‘Yes!’ Tash jumps from her chair, clapping. ‘That’s so brilliant.’ She wraps me, and the jacket, in a long-clawed bear hug. ‘Whoop whoop for Carrie.’

  ‘It was a team effort, but yes … well done,’ Pete says, looking bemused by Tash’s outburst. The phone rings in reception, a great excuse for him to exit. He tweaks his testicles, then strides out, still smiling.

  Mark’s out interviewing and Barbara has a hospital appointment, a women’s problem she’s keen to keep to herself. ‘I think she’s got that bladder thing, you know that old ladies get when they leak wee,’ Tash conjectured in the kitchen earlier. ‘Not being rude, yeah, but her chair smells a bit – ‘off’ – sometimes when I sit there.’ ‘And I’m supposed to be the one with the olfactory that works overtime!’ I’d said, gesturing to my nose. Tash had looked perplexed. ‘Don’t throw those big science words at me, you know I got a D in Biology.’

  Tash shrieks, startling me. ‘The others will be so stoked.’

  ‘Barbara might wet herself when she hears the news,’ I say.

  Tash laughs. ‘Yay. I can get one of those sweet little Fiats now. And we can all celebrate by getting smashed at the auction. Maybe Pete will get a few bottles of bolly.’ She combs her fingers through her hair, whilst speed texting with one thumb.

  ‘The only fizz we’re likely to get is value lemonade,’ I say, stapling some documents. ‘Still, at least he’s happy and, hopefully, the business is safe.’

  ‘You OK, babe? I’m not gonna lie, you don’t look that pleased.’ Tash sits, peering at me through her lashes, the twins staring up from a low-cut top.

  ‘Just being moody. I’ve been looking at other jobs,’ I blurt.

  ‘Nooo. You can’t leave.’ Tash puts on an exaggerated pout, holding the pose for several seconds. ‘And …?’

  ‘I’ve found one for a staff writer for a women’s magazine. And another working as an assistant arts manager for a small group of theatres. I doubt I’ll get a look in and—’

  ‘Both sound great, babe. Have you applied?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Tash’s phone rings. She picks it up with an exasperated sigh. I pack my bag. The magazine job sounded perfect. It was based in Birmingham, the advert stating no experience was necessary for the right person and requesting samples of writing. I’d brimmed with skippy excitement, then crashed down to earth, hitting several sensible planets on my way. Stupid woman. You’re forty-two – you’ve left it far too late.

  Tash slams down her phone, cutting through my uncomfortable reverie. ‘You so should apply.’

  ‘I will. Don’t say anything. Besides, I’ll probably still be here until I retire.’ I head for the door.

  ‘Pinkie pledge.’ She holds up a polished little finger to seal her promise.

  ***

  An irritating pop tune’s blasting out from a little black box on the kitchen table when I get home. I bust some of my eighties disco moves as I enter the room, the ones that are ‘soo cringe’ if I ever dare to do them in public. Eleanor looks up from her magazine, giving me a look that would make a rugby player’s studs look clean.

  ‘We won that contract.’ I throw two thumbs into the air.

  ‘So that’s why you’re in a stupid mood.’ I flash a cheesy smile. ‘That’s great, Mum. Hashtag proud.’

  ‘Thanks, darling.’ Taken aback, I go to kiss her and she happily lets me.

  I’ve obviously been forgiven for putting the house on the market, though I think Eleanor’s fairly confident the move won’t happen as I haven’t looked at any properties, or even decided where to move to.

  Eleanor disappears upstairs for ages, returning in red skinny jeans and full war paint. I’m not sure who she wants to impress more, any teenage boys who may be at the cinema later, or her maths tutor. It’s hilarious to witness how sweet and obliging she is around him, even when doing algebra, which she hates more than the pink sparkly pyjamas Grandma gave her for Christmas. She’d protested about the idea of a tutor when Dan raised it, but within minutes of seeing him – tall and trendy with boyish looks, messy hair and man bangles – she’d been converted quicker than one of her fractions. It was bizarre to watch your daughter building up a repertoire of flirting techniques way in
advance of your own.

  I tuck myself away upstairs during Eleanor’s maths session, taking my laptop and a bottle of wine. Cutting back on alcohol was third on my invisible mission list, but it could be deferred for a few more days.

  I don’t expect any e-messages from Ashley. I had one a few days ago confirming our plans for Monday and telling me he’d turned down a night out with friends to prepare for his audition. But I check anyway – with a wrench of disappointment, as always.

  I force myself to fill out the arts job application and have just filed it when a message pings in from Sheena:

  Hi Carrie. How was the holiday? Plenty of sunshine and relaxation I hope. I can’t believe someone would send that disgusting note. There are some sick people out there! Have you reported it? You shouldn’t feel guilty about Ashley. You’ve been through a lot, he’s separated, you clearly still have a strong connection and owe it to yourself to enjoy it. A strange thing happened earlier today. I found a message on the answerphone and a voice said: ‘This is Geoff … sorry … this is a message for Geoff Caddock. His car’s due for a service.’ The sound was muffled and, for a second, I thought it was him. It knocked me for six. I may end up going totally mad at this rate! Still – good news at work. They’ve promoted me to senior mortgage advisor but agreed to cut my hours so I get to spend more time with the girls! Win, win. Sheena xxx

  I intend to search out some old bits of writing to see if there’s anything I can polish for the magazine job, but find myself staring out the window and thinking of Sheena.

  After the tutor leaves, I question Eleanor about the session and she’s terse as usual. ‘If you must know, we looked at balancing equations and a negative ‘x’ – like you’d understand.’ Mark knows all about a negative ‘x’, I think ruefully.

  Minutes later, the doorbell rings and Eleanor dashes past me in the hallway, barging me with her bulging backpack.

  ‘Hi, Bethany!’ I yell, as Eleanor yanks her friend away.

  ‘Hey, Mrs Colwell.’ Bethany turns, braces blinking in the evening sun. She’s so much younger-looking than all the other girls, still stick thin and flat chested, with short beige hair in a pixie cut.

  ‘Where’s your mum?’ I can’t see the car.

  The two girls are already away down the drive. ‘She’s parked just round the corner,’ Bethany yells.

  ‘Have fun at the cinema, you two.’

  ‘We will,’ Eleanor hollers impatiently.

  Later, so bored with my own company that I’m rearranging the crockery cupboards, I remember the CD I’d ordered. It’s still in my handbag, unopened. I tear off the packaging, unable to suppress a smile at the sight of the cover photo. I used to be one of those sad fans who knew more about the band members than some of their family did: their favourite foods, hobbies, pets (one kept bearded dragon lizards in a tank in his bedroom), vital statistics, crushes.

  I put the CD into the music system, selecting I’ll Be Loving You (Forever). It was a slow track, one of those end-of-the-disco, smoochy ones with potential for some sly tit touching, maybe even groin groping if the dance floor was sufficiently crowded and dark. I stand at the french windows, staring plaintively at the neat criss-cross shadows of the trellis on the lawn as the moody melody washes me with bittersweet memories.

  ‘That’s so loud!’ I jump from my trance to see Eleanor sneering at the CD cover. I turn down the music.

  ‘Did you have a good time?’

  ‘OK, I suppose.’ She shrugs. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘A boy band I used to like.’

  ‘Did they even have boy bands in your day?’

  ‘Yes – and they could sing.’

  ‘Yeah, funny. They look so lame.’ With that judgement, she flounces out, leaving me with my musical musings and to lick some very old, deep wounds.

  CHAPTER 17

  In the end, I pull a sickie. Far from stopping the white lies, they spring to my lips far too readily; the guilt of being untruthful to Pete adding to the stress of seeing Ashley.

  We agree to meet in an old-fashioned tea shop in Cherlsbury, with a façade that belongs in a Dickens’ novel, a basket bicycle leaning against the bowed white window, customers framed in its leaded squares.

  Ashley’s late this time, and I’m jumpy with each chime of the café door. Yet it turns out I’ve got worked up for nothing. He strolls in, all smiles and, although a little stilted at the start, conversation soon flows, with much less awkwardness than we’d left by that fountain, and no mention of regrets in relation to the incident that rendered us both unable to utter a whole sentence immediately afterwards.

  It felt like two old friends catching up, albeit one’s holding a new patent handbag in one hand and hopelessly trying to grip a grudge firmly in the other. Imogen’s right – again – its good to talk more, to revisit our student days and fill in a few details about our lives since, adding colour to the quick and rough sketches we’d drawn for each other.

  Ashley thinks his audition, for an autumn production of As You Like It, went well, though competition was fierce.

  Sadly, our time together’s cut short. We’re sat in the sunny window seat, elbows constrained by the compactness of the pine table and delicate, fine bone china, and the volume of our voices by the proximity of customers, when Ashley gets a call – a last-minute request to do a voice-over for a sick friend. He dallies for ages.

  ‘You can’t turn it down,’ I say.

  Ashley screws up his nose, tells me it’s for a national TV advert for injury lawyers.

  ‘Oh my God, of all the people!’ I exclaim.

  ‘Ha, only joking – it’s a solar panel ad for local radio.’ He adopts a pompous broadcast voice. ‘Are your bills going through the roof …?’ I laugh, pinching my nose to suppress another hay fever sneeze.

  Ashley turns serious. ‘I guess the money’s good for very little effort. It’ll help pay a few bills, maybe keep the rust bucket on the road a little longer. But I don’t want to mess you around – go so soon.’

  ‘Don’t worry – honestly.’ I’m not sure I sound convincing.

  I’ve brought the letter I keep hidden in my jewellery box. I’m not sure why; perhaps in case he’d planned to hit me with bad news, so I could respond with a vengeful, emotional stab. It doesn’t feel right, but I can’t stop myself. I pull it from my bag, ignoring the voice urging me to resist, the surge of dread.

  ‘Do you remember writing this?’ I hand the sheet across the table, pen now faded in the deeper creases left by constant folding and unfolding. A wobbly smile forms as I follow his eyes along the opening words: To My Leading Lady.

  He scans in a stretched silence and I shuffle uneasily, tugging at my tunic.

  ‘Wow, yes, I do now,’ he says.

  ‘It was when I had glandular fever.’

  Ashley nods, reading on. He’d sent two letters. I was ill for weeks, and he had assessed college performances – couldn’t risk catching it – so we didn’t see each other. He’d told me he missed me terribly, but loved being on stage with such talented fellow students. ‘This is absolutely what I want to do,’ he’d declared with more conviction than ever before.

  Dan had found the letters when we moved house. He wasn’t cross – he’d mocked the smattering of Shakespearean language – but I’d felt bad about keeping them, so threw one away and found the hiding place for the other.

  Ashley’s squirming, mouth pulled askew. I will his eyes to linger on the last two lines. He’d called me ‘my love’ and signed off ‘yours for eternity’. Words he’d uttered before, but for me, the print gave them power, and permanence. Yet it was only about a month later that he disappeared. In the margin, I’d written ‘Fucking Liar’ in huge, dark, angry felt-tip capitals, but scribbled it out later. You could still see it if you looked hard enough.

  Ashley hands back the letter with a roll of the eyes, a little shamefaced. I feel cruel, unsure why I’ve shown him, what I hoped to achieve.

  ‘What a jerk I was. I’m amaz
ed you kept it.’

  Feeling ashamed, I make no comment, nudging the conversation swiftly on with inane chat about the antiquated décor.

  Ashley leaves me with cash to settle the bill, and a kiss on the cheek. We talk about seeing each other again. Nothing concrete, nothing that can’t be wriggled out of, just a motion ‘in principle’, subject to indecision and procrastination. Maybe I could go to London, or he could visit Tetford, or meet in-between? The multiple choice thing again. Ashley stands to go.

  ‘Maybe you could check out my new flat.’ As soon as I nod, I realise what a biggie that option is.

  ***

  ‘So how did it go with Bradie?’ Tash stirs the coffee, a chance to check out the nails, bedecked in red, with blue tips.

  ‘Not Bradie, Bardie, you know, Shakespeare, The Bard.’ I chuckle.

  ‘Oh – got you.’

  ‘Yes, fine – though he had to dash off early. He’s invited me to London again.’

  ‘Oh my God. Are you going to go, you naughty lady? I wonder whether he’ll tell his wife he’s meeting an ex? I bet he won’t, the sly dog.’

  ‘They’re separated.’

  ‘O-o-oh.’ Tash grins stupidly, returning the milk to the fridge.

  ‘Back to work, slackers!’ Mark’s voice carries through the gap in the half-closed kitchen door. ‘And mine’s white with sweetener.’

  ‘Cheeky bugger. How about a “good morning” before making your demands?’ I put my head round the door, but he’s gone. I wonder if he’s been listening to our conversation.