The Husband Who Refused to Die

by Andrea Darby

  Later, I take Eleanor for a Chinese meal to celebrate my job, and the end of term. While we tuck into spring roll starters, I talk about how there are changes going on in our lives, but I won’t do anything she isn’t happy with. Some things would never change – I love her to bits and her dad can never be replaced, or forgotten. She looks uncomfortable at times, desperate for me to stop – throwing her eyes heavenwards and sighing – but I ignore the peaks on her cringe-ometer, pushing on with my lecture.

  ‘I know, Mum. Jeez,’ she says finally.

  I wait a while, then tell her the police are sending an officer to speak to me in person about the flowers. She chews her mouthful slowly, then sits bolt upright.

  ‘Bethany’s mum did it,’ she says decisively. ‘And all the other stuff – the notes and that.’ I put down my fork with a clang.

  Eleanor blurts it all out, how Bethany’s mum had always made her feel a little unwelcome at their house; how it had got worse recently. A few months ago, in the car after their trip to the cinema, she’d actually yelled at Eleanor for being on her mobile too much. ‘It’s why I haven’t been there – although it’s boring anyway as they haven’t got a computer and Beth’s barely allowed to watch TV or anything.’

  Then Eleanor admits that during one of their fallouts, when Bethany had said her mum thought cryonics was immoral, she’d lost her temper.

  ‘I told Bethany you said her mum was a bit of a fruitcake.’ I tut. ‘Well, you did!’

  ‘Yes, I probably did, but I shouldn’t have done, and you certainly shouldn’t have repeated it outside our house. But none of this proves—’

  ‘I haven’t finished. In our RE lesson, when we were talking about abortion, Bethany said she was against it, that we should “Let God Decide Our Fate”.’ My pulse quickens at those words, the ones in the note. ‘And I’ve heard her mum say it before.’

  ‘But still—’

  ‘So I asked Bethany a couple of weeks ago, and she said it was her mum. She’s really lost the plot. Won’t see a doctor. Apparently, Bethany’s dad hasn’t been living with them for ages. Last time I went there, she told me he was away on business, but she was lying. He wants a divorce, but her mum won’t.’ Eleanor takes a loud breath. ‘Bethany’s been so upset about it all, and she’s staying with her dad at the moment because her mum’s being so weird. Thinks it’s depression, or like a breakdown or something.’

  I hold my hand to my forehead. Words fail me.

  ‘Are you going to tell the police?’ Eleanor nibbles her lip. ‘Please, don’t make a major fuss, Mum.’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t ignore it.’

  Although we change the subject, try to enjoy the rest of the evening, Eleanor picks at her chow mein, and we both pass on pudding.

  Back at home, I make Eleanor promise she won’t communicate with Bethany about the issue until I’ve decided what to do.

  Imogen’s back from Paris, and can’t believe it when I bombard her with all my news. ‘Bloody hell, I’ve been missing the English soaps but you’ve given me a few episodes,’ she says. She’s concerned about my intention to confront Bethany’s mum. I should leave it to the police.

  But Imogen squeals with delight when I tell her about the job. It sounds like one of her girls has found a bucket of sweets in an unlocked cupboard.

  ‘Wowzer, wowzer. That’s brilliant.’ Her bubbles pop down the phone line. ‘Aw, I’m so happy for you, my lovely. You’re due a bit of good news. You’ll love it, I’m sure.’ Another squeal.

  ‘I hope so. I must admit that now it’s sinking in, I’m getting scared.’

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ she rebukes. ‘Have you told Ashley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll move now. There are lots of great rep theatre groups in Birmingham. I did some graphics for a few.’ I told her he was selling the house, and about his mystery mission. ‘Maybe he’s going to ask if he can move in.’

  ‘I wondered the same,’ I say.

  ‘Are you ready for that so soon?’

  ‘I think so. You can’t take things too slowly when you’re over the hill like us.’

  ‘True. And one of you needs to be brave and ask the question, you can’t be Mr and Mrs Evasive forever.’

  ‘Anyway, how did your break go – did the Parisian Palace live up to its name?’

  ‘Oh God, it was gorgeous, and the food was bloody heavenly. I’ve bought back a bouillabaisse recipe to die for – that’s fish stew to you …’ Imogen chuckles, ‘… and we’ve promised ourselves an annual stay.’

  ‘You should make it more regular than that, and have that longer break you promised me you would. I’d love to have the girls.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Imogen pauses. ‘Anyway, I’ve decided to say ‘no’ to that new graphics contract and I’m reducing my hours on two others.’

  ‘That’s brilliant. Make sure you do.’

  ‘By the way, we looked for the Hotel de Calanthe, but someone told us it had been converted into a luxury spa.’

  ‘Oh, really.’ It was where Dan and I stayed on our honeymoon. I change the subject. ‘So things were OK with you and Ben?’

  ‘Yes, still a way to go, I think, but we had a lovely time, away from work and the girls—’

  ‘And …’

  ‘And, yes, we had a bit of rumpy, helped by a bottle of Moët and some orgasmic almond truffles.’

  ‘Oh, that’s fantastic! Well done, lady.’

  ‘And I’m having the testosterone patch on Tuesday. So when I phone next, you might mistake me for Barry White.’

  We both roar. I just know her nose is wrinkling.

  ***

  That night, my turbulent thoughts drag me back to our honeymoon hotel …

  PARIS, AUGUST 1998

  … ‘Bonjour, beautiful. OK, what’s it to be, a bus tour after breakfast or the Louvre after lunch?’ Dan rolls over to greet me with a sleep-creased face.

  ‘Definitely the Louvre then, gives us a few more hours of – you know…’ I say, with a cheeky smile, stroking my toes across the silk sheet.

  After two bottles of Hotel de Calanthe’s best bubbly last night, we’d made slightly clumsy, alcohol-blurred love, several times, until a nagging soreness down below and Dan’s laboured breathing signalled it was time to sleep. We’d done the same the night before, and the one before that. We’re on our honeymoon, in Paris – capital of romance and carnal capers – determined to relish every minute. We were only staying four nights. It’s all we could afford.

  ‘And what about this evening, darling – a posh meal perhaps, as it’s our last night?’

  ‘Why don’t we wait and see? Be spontaneous.’

  ‘We can’t waste our last day.’ Dan rests his tousled hair against the carved wooden headboard.

  ‘Having saucy sex with your new wife isn’t wasting the day.’ I reach up, digging my nails into his broad shoulders. ‘Come on.’

  Room service arrives just as we’re finishing our honeymoon ritual. Dan grabs the white robe he’d thrown on the floor last night, greets the softly-spoken French waiter with a flushed face.

  ‘Heer iz yor brekfuzt, zir,’ the round-shouldered man announces, placing the trays on the mahogany table, gaze averted, before scuttling out.

  Dan lifts the two silver-domed lids; one in each hand. As he stands, straight-backed, dark features highlighted by the white robe, I imagine him as a Roman emperor holding the trophies of a battle triumph aloft. I suspect Dan would prefer to be envisaged as a sharp-suited businessman holding up six-figured cheques from his latest acquisitions, but it’s my fantasy. Even with bed hair and a crumpled face, he looks ludicrously handsome. I melt.

  ‘Deux croissants et scrambled eggz, madame.’ Dan rests a tray on the ivory bed cover draped over my knees and climbs in.

  ‘I still can’t believe we’re actually married.’

  ‘Four days of wedded bliss.’ His wide smile accentuates his deep dimples. I have another ‘father of the bride’ flashback.
/>   ‘I still can’t get over how drunk my dad was on Saturday. He was hilarious. Although Mum clearly didn’t think so! How many times did he bore people with the story of how he’d told that local newspaper reporter interviewing them for their silver wedding anniversary that the secret to a successful marriage was “wanting the same things”?’

  Dan smirks, scooping out his soft-boiled egg. ‘Yes, it’s the first time you’ve seen your dad drunk in public and the first time I’ve seen my dad not drunk!’

  ‘So, if my parents want the same things, why do they bicker all the bloody time!’ A scary thought strikes. ‘I hope we don’t end up arguing like them.’

  Dan lands an eggy peck on my cheek. ‘Course we won’t.’ He switches to his serious face. ‘So – what do you want?’

  ‘Some ketchup would be good. This scrambled egg’s on the dry side!’

  He shakes his head. ‘We’re in France, you know ketchup is contraband. But seriously …’ he shuffles, ‘… do you still want children?’

  Woah, a bit heavy for a honeymoon breakfast conversation. We’ve talked about it before, but only casually and after a fair few drinks. I have to reply, he looks so earnest.

  ‘Yeah. One day.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I don’t know. Three maybe.’

  ‘Really? Sounds expensive. Names?’

  ‘Betty, Bob, and Bertha.’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘I really like the name Lara.’

  ‘Oh no! We had a Lara in our class at primary – a right bitch. Stole my favourite ink pen and swore blind her mum had bought her exactly the same one.’ I allow myself a moment to bristle. It still irked me fourteen years on. ‘I quite like Azaria.’

  ‘Is that a name or a make of car?’ Dan’s proud of his joke, eyes flashing.

  ‘Funny bugger. Course it’s a name.’ I give him a playful kick under the cover. ‘She’ll have blonde hair, blue eyes, a large boot and power steering.’

  Dan laughs, although I sense his mild annoyance at my flippancy. Clearly, he really does want a serious conversation during breakfast on the final morning of our honeymoon.

  ‘I like the name Eleanor, too,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, that’s pretty.’

  ‘Any other ambitions?’

  ‘I like the idea of being a published writer.’ Dan stares and I move on swiftly. ‘I don’t know – to earn lots of money, have luxury holidays, shop all the time, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Well, we won’t be able to do that on our wages just yet.’ Dan stares ahead thoughtfully. ‘Wouldn’t it be good to have our own business?’

  ‘I guess. If it means no more taking orders from po-faced Pete.’

  ‘I think we should do it. With our combined skills, we’d be great. We could take a few existing clients with us – charm them!’

  I leave Dan with his thoughts, no doubt planning the finer details of his exit strategy. As I devour a croissant, my mind wanders. ‘I’d love a villa somewhere hot. With a big pool.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan. Shame to earn all that dosh and not have somewhere to relax. Italy?’

  ‘Perfect. Sun, spaghetti – and loads of hot sex.’

  ‘We could have a vineyard – as you seem to be developing a taste for wine. We could bottle it, have our names on the label.’

  ‘Do they have many vineyards in Italy?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Dan raises an eyebrow. ‘You’ve drunk Italian wine, haven’t you?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t look at the labels!’

  ‘You’ve just had another of your blonde moments. Miss Silly Socks.’ Dan hits me with one of his best mocking smiles, then kisses my cheek.

  ‘We can’t all be bloody mastermind,’ I say playfully, pushing my plate aside. ‘Anyway only Dad’s allowed to call me that. And it’s Mrs now, not Miss.’

  ‘I’d like an Aston Martin. With leather seats,’ Dan declares, pulling me into his shoulder and stroking my hair. ‘Any pets?’

  ‘I’d love a golden retriever. I’ve always wanted a dog, but Mum thinks all animals are unhygienic. You should have seen her face when I once asked for a chinchilla.’

  Dan places his hand on mine, fiddles with my beaded wedding band. ‘Anything else on our wish list?’

  I smack my lips. ‘How about croissants for breakfast every day?’…

  I wake up feeling queasy and thinking of croissants. I can’t recall having them for breakfast more than twice since our honeymoon. And what happened to our other plans? We had the big house and the holidays. Dan had his sports car – and the business. There was no vineyard.

  No villa in the Med. No dog; or chinchilla.

  We only had one child.

  Looking back, I’d been so eager to please.

  But I wasn’t sure they were our plans. And life, it seemed, had a wicked way of scuppering even the best-laid ones.

  CHAPTER 30

  I ring the doorbell for the third time, cradling the bundle of paper to my chest. I know she’s in there – I’d glimpsed a figure through the leaded window, sidling from the front room. A dog’s barking.

  The door opens.

  ‘Hi. Eleanor thought Bethany might want these notes – on some of the work she’s missed.’ I hold out the papers with a faltering smile. Ruth’s reluctant to meet my gaze, small eyes darting beneath owlish glasses that swamp her face, deep brackets around a mouth held firm. Her velvety grey hair’s close-cropped in a boyish style but is messy, overgrown. She pushes it to one side, out of her eyes, but still fails to look at me.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  She hesitates; I can tell she wants to say ‘no’, an unfriendly frown forming, chin tucked into the collar of a shapeless shirt. She turns and walks away, heading down the hall and through a door at the end, which she slams behind her.

  Left alone by the open front door, I’m unsure what to do. I glance around the little square of sixties terraces to see if anyone’s watching; wondering.

  Then she returns. ‘OK,’ she says, with a slow nod, no explanation, or trace of a smile.

  I follow her into a small back room that feels empty, a touch eerie. There’s a strange, earthy smell. A pair of heavy green curtains are half-drawn, a shadeless lamp on one of two mahogany side tables with spider legs providing most of the light in the gloomy space. On the other table’s a phone face down. My eyes linger on the black handset, recollections of all the mystery calls heightening my anxiety.

  I sit, tentatively, on a small green sofa covered in fair dog hair. Ruth perches on a pine chair a little distance away. Her tiny feet are tucked into a pair of badly worn black desert sandals, one foot scuffing lightly across the textured tan carpet. The barking grows louder, and more frantic, accompanied by a scratching sound. Ruth looks irritated, making a sound like a growl as her head flicks towards the noise, coming from behind the door I assume leads to the kitchen.

  I’m about to speak when she hops up, leaves the room, returning with the dog – a large, lively thing with curly hair on its ears. It jumps on to the sofa next to me, climbing on to my lap and circling wildly. Ruth lunges at the dog, yanking its collar.

  ‘Get off,’ she yells, her voice so loud that both the dog and I cower. ‘He has to see you – then he’ll stop barking,’ she adds, eyes sliding quickly across my face several times. I can smell a faint feminine fragrance.

  She leaves the room again, impatiently pulling the dog with her. I look around. There’s a pile of books by the chair, mostly in shades of brown – torn strips of paper poking out from between pages – and a tiny, old portable TV with a huge aerial on the floor in the corner.

  The barking stops. I lean forwards, craning and squinting at the photos on a low, floating shelf above the fireplace, several of baby Bethany and a more recent one of their family of three – taken in a restaurant. Bethany’s dad, a theology lecturer I recall, is wearing a badge saying ‘The Big 50’.

  I expected more religious paraphernalia, but there’s only a small wooden cross mounted on the wall. It
dawns on me then – the flowers on the drive had been arranged in the shape of a cross.

  ‘I’m cooking,’ Ruth snaps, re-entering. ‘These things catch fire so easily.’

  She sits, a flash of sunlight catching her through the gap in the curtains. Her face looks drawn; sallow, winter skin marked by unfriendly creases.

  ‘What do you want?’ Her eyes move slowly from my legs, up my T-shirt, pausing at my beaded necklace before landing in line with mine for the first time. I reach into my bag, pull out the notes.

  ‘I know it’s you who sent these.’ I unfold one. ‘You damaged my car, and the plants, and threw the eggs, didn’t you?’ She stares; a defiant look. ‘But I think I owe you an apology.’ She looks doubtful, wary. ‘I understand Eleanor told Bethany something I’d said about you that was hurtful, and wrong. But the things you’ve done to me …’ I shake my head firmly.

  She rubs her hands together, making a dry, grating noise.

  ‘You think I’m mad. So do they. Your husband. He’s the mad one.’ I wait. ‘Cryonics is wrong,’ she says, voice hard. ‘Only the Lord will bring a person back – at the Resurrection.’ She looks at the notes, then stares at me with a sober intensity. ‘God has appointed death; Romans, Chapter five.’

  ‘It was my husband’s wish and—’

  ‘And yours.’ She stands, turning her back.

  ‘No. It’s not my wish.’

  ‘You’re lying.’ She swings round, eyes spookily wide. ‘And the money’s disgusting. People are starving.’ She dashes out again. I hear several loud clatters.

  ‘You’ve made it burn dry,’ she says sternly, walking back in. She hovers by the chair, beginning to twitch slightly. ‘Your husband’s evil.’ I’m angry, but concerned by her agitated state. My heart pounds.

  ‘He’s not,’ I say firmly, steadying my breath, trying to sound calm. ‘You clearly need help. What you’ve been doing – it’s not right.’

  She leans over, tears the notes from my hand and pushes me back against the sofa. Her mouth’s close, a sour smell emanating from dry, parted lips.

  ‘His soul will go to hell. HELL.’ I’m pitched into sudden dread. Her hand’s quite firm on my throat. I can feel the hot breath behind her words.