The Husband Who Refused to Die

by Andrea Darby

  I realise that Sheena and I are on a see-saw, her downs often coinciding with my ups, and vice versa. I’d love for us to meet in the middle, delighting in the moment when everything around us stops moving, and settles into place.

  I try to let her positive vibes wash all over me while I work. Then Tash, feeling better after some fresh air, drags me into the kitchen to tell me about her latest potential Mr Right.

  ‘I’m seeing him this weekend. He’s posted some topless photos and he’s so ripped, it’s ridiculous,’ she says, hands held rigid on her traffic-stopping patent yellow belt. ‘He’s into boats and sailing. I’ve got a good feeling about this one!’

  ‘I think I’ve heard that before somewhere. I can’t imagine you on the high seas somehow: “Abandon ship, Tash’s windswept hair’s developed a kink”!’

  ‘Cheeky bitch!’

  Back at my desk, I get a text from Ashley. He can come to Tetford on Saturday for a few hours. I’m stoked.

  At lunchtime, I’m lured by the bench, still drowning in confused thoughts of Kirsten and Dan, staring at the trees whilst eating a cheese and celery sandwich, when I turn to see a khaki anorak. I’ve been joined by the little old man I’ve seen sat here so many times. I recognise the mad, flyaway hair – and the coat, which, to my surprise, he’s removing. He drapes it across his thin thighs, smoothing out the material. He’s thinner than I imagined, without the big coat, brown jumper baggy at his chest.

  ‘Lovely day again,’ he says, beaming.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  After a few minutes’ silence, I see a girl with a fluffy white dog heading towards the same narrow path I’d seen the runner take a few weeks ago. It prompts another flash of curiosity.

  ‘Do you know where that leads to?’

  ‘To the old canal path, my dear,’ the old man says. ‘And there’s a gate to the back of the churchyard. It used to be a dead end, the canal’s been overgrown for years, but they’ve cleared a section of it.’ The dead end joke’s clearly unintentional. Only Miss Giggles laughs. ‘My Edith’s buried there.’ I turn to meet a pair of warm, rheumy eyes. ‘I visit her grave sometimes. But I prefer to remember her here.’ He taps the bench. I’m confused. Then it dawns on me. His Edith must be the woman on the plaque. ‘She did so much for the local council they dedicated this bench to her.’

  ‘How lovely,’ I say.

  ‘She campaigned to keep these offices here…’ he points a shaky finger towards our building, ‘… not to let them move to that big industrial estate. She loved this town, fought hard to keep it thriving.’

  ‘I work in there,’ I say, smiling. ‘I remember the campaign well. My boss was so grateful. He’s convinced it saved the business.’

  No reaction. He’s still trapped in his train of thought. ‘We were married for forty-five years. I still miss her terribly. She’s been gone over four years now; may she rest in peace.’ He drops his head. I stand to go, keen to respect the peace he clearly craves. ‘I’m Gordon, by the way.’

  ‘I’m Carrie. Nice to meet you.’

  ***

  ‘What’s up, Mum?’

  I’m sat on the bed. I look up to see Eleanor draped in a towel, hair dripping wet from the shower.

  ‘Why are you crying?’

  The letter’s in my hands. I can’t hide it. I pass it up to her.

  She reads it aloud: ‘Only The Lord Can Choose Your Afterlife. Let God Decide Our Fate.’

  ‘What? Who’s it from?’ Her face is pale, eyes still.

  I tell her about the other two notes, the calls, the car. I’m reluctant to worry her unduly, but she has to know. I can’t tell her that previously I’d suspected Kirsten was responsible, but now I had doubts. The language, the tone; it just didn’t fit.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Report it to the police, I guess.’

  ‘Really?’ Eleanor rubs her head with the towel. ‘I better go and blowdry my hair.’ She pauses at the door. ‘Don’t be upset. Probably just some weirdo.’

  ‘You’re right. Thanks.’ I smile.

  Water has smudged several words on the page. ‘God’ leaps out in a turquoise hue, the rest of the sentence illegible. I put the letter on my bedside cabinet to dry.

  It’s anger I feel more than anything. I’m angry with Dan, for all he’s left me with. I don’t know what to feel about him any more.

  And I’m beginning to despise cryonics, despite what I say out loud. It’s becoming a burden, one I lack the strength to carry any longer.

  CHAPTER 25

  Preparing for Ashley’s visit is a welcome distraction from recurring thoughts of Kirsten and the menacing mail. I can’t wait to see him again, but the excitement of spending time together is mixed with anxiety over how Eleanor will react. I’m desperate for them to like each other.

  Eleanor’s subdued. I assume that anticipation of her encounter with Ashley’s the cause, although the hate mail’s clearly making her jumpy. Several times, she’s appeared as I answer the phone; lingering, with a quizzical expression, until she knows who’s calling.

  Yesterday, she’d dashed to collect the post seconds after it dropped through the letterbox, watching as I opened it.

  The phone rings after breakfast. It’s Imogen; calling to wish me luck. Eleanor hovers in the hallway, listens for a while, then re-inserts her headphones and heads off.

  ‘Introducing your daughter to your new boyfriend feels so wrong – a switcheroo,’ I tell Imogen. ‘Eleanor will soon be bringing boyfriends home for me to scrutinise and fret over. These past two days, she’s had a face on that could turn toffee sour.’ But I don’t really blame her. I’ll be bringing a man she’s never met, someone I have history with, into our family home.

  ‘Yes, I guess it will be difficult, and strange, for everyone at first,’ Imogen says. ‘But it’ll soon get better.’ I agree.

  Ashley’s train is delayed, so I distract myself with an email to Sheena, telling her I’ve read the story about the reunited family online and pray that her happy ending will come sooner. Forget sending the story to that local reporter; she should hand it to her, and give her a slap for being so misinformed and tactless. I have a list of journalists I want to hit. I share my fears about Eleanor meeting Ashley, how I really hope it isn’t all too painful for her, and how terrified I am of telling Mum about the relationship. I still care about Mum’s opinions, even though I often disagree with them. Our recent chats have been so difficult. I’ve always been selective about what information I relay to Mum about my private life, for both of our sakes, but the latest edits were pretty radical; and I’m uncomfortable with my deception. Mum knows about the begging letters, but not the others. I don’t want to worry her.

  The doorbell rings and I snap the laptop shut, rushing down the hall as if I’m the teenager.

  ‘Hey, good to see you.’ Ashley hands me a leaflet lodged in the letterbox, then leans in to kiss me, rough whiskers scratching my cheek. ‘I was expecting the butler to greet me. Great place.’

  ‘It’s his day off,’ I say.

  He looks different; hair longer, beard much thicker. His face in shadow, the image of him as Hamlet flashes into my mind and my nerves swell. I point upstairs to indicate the coast is clear, then pull Ashley closer for a more prolonged kiss.

  Eleanor appears as we chat in the kitchen, wearing her new white top and fully glammed up. But all the make-up in Boots can’t conceal her look of unease and mistrust. Ashley’s perched on a bar stool, one elbow on the island.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, with a gentle grin. ‘How you doing?’

  ‘Good, thanks.’

  I hold a plate of white chocolate and raspberry cookies in Eleanor’s direction but she declines. Ashley lifts up his coffee cup. ‘You into this stuff like your mum?’

  ‘No,’ she says, sounding terse. She moves closer, eyeing him suspiciously.

  ‘Fizzy stuff? Coke?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s certainly into that,’ I add, hovering nerv
ously.

  ‘I was mad on lemonade when I was your age. Drank bottles of the stuff. Still like it,’ Ashley says. He’s certainly playing it cool. I wonder what stage direction he’s giving himself: (tries not to show signs of the discomfort he’s feeling, to put the surly girl at ease).

  I offer Eleanor a can from the fridge and she grabs it, turning on her heels. ‘See you later.’

  I shake my head in mock despair. I’m so relieved to have the initial introduction out the way, the adrenalin overload dissipating.

  ‘She’s lovely,’ Ashley says.

  ‘I warned you she’s moody.’

  ‘I don’t blame her. She’s very grown up for fourteen.’

  ‘She certainly is.’

  I don’t want to exclude Eleanor, but I know she’ll find lunch for three distressing, so I suggest to Ashley that the two of us go to town.

  ‘Or we could have a look at this photography exhibition.’ I show him the flyer.

  ‘Britain’s Seasides of the South East – sounds good,’ he says. ‘I spent many summers in Margate. I wonder if the photographer can manage to make it look good. Fair play if he can.’

  I chuckle. ‘I’ve never been.’

  ‘Really? We should go some time.’

  ‘Great,’ I say, tentatively.

  Ashley’s in his element at the exhibition, face alight, head cocked in all directions as he stares, at length, at each photograph. At intervals, he stops his wistful gazing to talk to me about the image; the clarity, light, perspective, use of background. There are only a few other viewers and, every now and again, the photographer appears, genie-like, giving us an insight into why and how he took the photo. My wish – which he doesn’t grant – is that he’ll sod off and leave us in peace. I’m enjoying Ashley’s enthusiasm and his eagerness to share it with me. He doesn’t seem to mind my ignorance, that I’m a point and shoot woman.

  Ashley doesn’t mention Kirsten, or the unwelcome mail, and determined not to keep dragging him into it all my problems, spoil our time together, I don’t either. He tells me the local newspaper’s running an appeal story about his nephew. They believe it might speed up the search for the donor. Doctors are quite hopeful.

  Thoughts of that poor little boy accompany me as we stroll home. Seven short years and his body’s failing him. The only image of him I have is from the photograph on Ashley’s Facebook page, his face painted as a lion. A brave little fighter.

  We cut through the park, hand in hand, light rain falling on perfect circular borders packed with pansies, joined only by an elderly couple with a porky pug in a floral mac waddling behind them.

  ‘It’s so different to London, so quiet – a nice change,’ Ashley says.

  My pulse skips at the thought of him moving to Tetford; living together. I squeeze his hand, and, for a moment, yearn for a repeat episode of what happened at his flat the first time; holding hands as we walk the last few streets home, then ravishing each other as soon as the bolt strikes the front door’s latch hole behind us. But, of course, we can’t.

  Back at home, Ashley sits at the kitchen island, flicking through a property supplement, while I order pizza, bemoaning the lack of good local takeaways.

  ‘You get so spoiled for choice in London,’ he says.

  ‘True.’ I want to say I know he loves London; his life’s there. ‘I’ve seen a couple of good jobs in London I’m tempted to go for – assuming I don’t get that theatre job,’ I add. ‘Might be good to get away from here.’

  Ashley stays silent, but his head tips slightly; it could be a nod. I’m struggling to read his mixed messages. It may be premature, but I’m desperate to talk about us, what’s next, to make plans. We’ve both proved so adept at skating around it we could give Torvill and Dean a run for their money. A move to London would be a massive upheaval for Eleanor and me, but it may be good for us both. There are fantastic opportunities for young people in the capital. The other night, Ashley had talked about that very thing, London being a young person’s city, giving me the impression that he may be tiring of it – that a move to Tetford wasn’t out of the question. Earlier, he’d been surprisingly complimentary about the town.

  Eleanor joins us for pizza, occupying the chaise while Ashley sits a decent distance from me on the corner sofa. He leans forward, food box perched on a pile of magazines on the edge of the coffee table.

  ‘Pepperoni and chilli beef – fair play.’ He slow nods at Eleanor, like it’s some big accomplishment. ‘You’re into the spicy stuff, then?’ Eleanor nods back. ‘How about curry?’

  ‘It’s OK.’ She crumples her nose.

  ‘Eleanor’s Princess Piri-Piri,’ I interrupt. ‘If you glazed a sheet of cardboard with it, she’d probably eat it.’

  ‘Funny.’ Eleanor shoots me a deadly look. ‘Actually, I’m not into it that much now.’

  ‘I wish you’d told me, then – we’ve got a freezer full of it.’ She turns for a glare-off; and wins.

  Ashley snaps the tension, asking Eleanor about school, and drama club. He’s careful not to grill her too much, also directing questions and comments at me, though my contributions to the conversation are all greeted by sharp scowls from my daughter. Ashley’s performing well, I have to applaud him for that. And, to her credit, Eleanor’s being reasonably civil. I think she quite likes him. She even looks a tiny bit impressed when Ashley tells her he was one of the brothers in a three-month touring production of Joseph but the director turned his microphone down low after the first week because his singing was so rank. It prompts memories of his renditions of Blur songs after a few cans of Stella in the student bar – my room-mate describing it as ‘the aural equivalent of running your nipples across a cheese grater’.

  Eleanor flits in and out during the rest of the afternoon and early evening, disappearing to watch TV, communicate with friends, and any other excuse she can muster.

  When I shout to her that Ashley’s leaving she yells ‘bye’ in a distant, uninterested voice.

  We stand by the door, upper bodies stiff, both acutely aware that Eleanor’s just a set of stairs away. I long for him to stay, and say so.

  ‘Well, another three weeks of 1984, then I might be the resting actor again for a while,’ Ashley says, patting his fingers on his jeans.

  ‘That’s OK, you can rest with me,’ I say.

  He grins. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow night.’

  ‘Yes, great,’ I say, trying to hide my disappointment over his early departure with a singsong voice.

  He leans over, kissing me gently on the lips. Then we both jump at a shadow by the front door. I expect a leaflet to drop through, but there’s a strange scraping noise, followed by several taps.

  I reluctantly pull away from Ashley and head to the door. He follows. I can’t see anyone as I open it, so I flick on the outside light. There are shattered eggs shells on the step and, stepping out, I see a slimy substance down one side of the door and on the porch wall.

  ‘Ugh! Eggs. What a bloody mess,’ I say. ‘Probably kids playing a prank.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Ashley runs down the drive. I wait; anxious. He returns, hunched and breathless. ‘I saw a woman running across the road on the right. I’m pretty sure she was carrying an egg box.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘Yes, I couldn’t catch up. She sped off in a blue car.’

  Kirsten, I think, feeling increasingly cross that our farewell’s been spoiled. ‘Was she plump, with ginger hair; a ponytail?’

  ‘No, she looked slim, short hair; blonde, or it could have been grey.’

  Eleanor comes to check out the commotion, then promptly leaves, looking bewildered. Before leaving, Ashley urges that, in the light of recent events, I should report the incident, apologising that he can’t stay longer and risk missing his train.

  I wonder if Eleanor’s been loitering on the landing because she appears at the bottom of the stairs as soon as the door clicks behind Ashley. She’s concerned; wonders who did it. She’s twitchy. Am I going to r
eport it? I say ‘yes’, assuring her we’re safe, she needn’t worry. She watches TV with me for much longer than usual.

  ‘Nice guy, isn’t he – Ashley?’ I say, trying to sound casual as we head up the hall together, Eleanor to go to her room, me to surreptitiously look out the front window and check everything’s locked – again.

  ‘He’s OK. I don’t like his hair. Or his beard.’

  I titter to myself. If that’s the worst she can come up with.

  CHAPTER 26

  A few days after the eggs incident, Mum calls me at work. She wonders why I haven’t been in touch. Just been busy, I say, uncomfortable with the extent of my duplicity.

  Tash has another one of her ‘brain aches’ and leaves early. I’m not convinced whiplash is the cause, more likely the late nights and lemon vodkas; and fretting about her sister.

  I grab my cardigan from the stand. Mark hops up from his chair, giving my shoulders a gentle shake.

  ‘Right, I’ll walk with you to the car.’

  ‘What! You’re leaving now? That’s three times this month you’ve left on time. Are you ill?’

  ‘Work to live, not live to work. I’ve been in since before eight.’ He turns his computer off with a decisive snap. ‘Besides, I’m off out later.’

  ‘Oh yes? Do spill.’

  ‘I’m taking Georgia to see a Beatles tribute act.’

  ‘A big night then?’ I tease, trying overly hard to produce a big smile. He twitches his eyebrows.

  Walking to the car park, Mark urges me, again, to report the eggs attack and all the other happenings. It’s gone too far, and clearly isn’t going to stop.