by Freya North
‘You know,’ said Ruth, ‘at the moment, it’s about finding what works for you. If you want to come for AT every day – I’m here.’
‘And if I want to talk?’ said Frankie. ‘If I want to talk about Scott – repeat myself ad nauseam, tell you things I’ve told you a million times? Pore over photos and make you go ooh and ah over them, though you’ve seen them all before?’
‘I’m here.’
‘And if I want to fucking scream that it’s not fair, it’s not fair? If I want to wonder where is he? Where’s he gone?’
‘I’m here.’
‘And what if I just want to lie in your lap, catatonically?’
‘I’m here.’
‘I found a receipt in his truck. I keep it with me. Here, Ruth – read this.’
Ruth looked at the receipt from Melody & Midsomer for a long time. She read the words overleaf. Shwrgel and COFFEE and Mountain & Ocean & Us. She looked at Frankie and shrugged. ‘Beautiful,’ she said. Then she smiled. ‘But no surprise. It doesn’t surprise me, not one bit.’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘Tomorrow – let’s get out. Let’s go for a walk. You look pale and pasty, Frankie. Scott was a fresh-air freak – he’d hate to see you all cooped up. Especially with what’s right here on your doorstep. He loved it.’
Frankie could hear him again. Look at where you live, Frankie. Slow down – or you’ll miss the details. It’s beautiful here.
‘Not tomorrow, Ruth,’ said Frankie. ‘I said I’d go for a walk with my mum. Before she goes home.’
Margaret watched how her daughter walked. She wasn’t looking around or ahead, she was looking down. Not down at her feet, but a little way along; circumspect, as if quicksand was only a stride or two away.
‘Oh good God, how monstrous!’ Margaret barked as a fighter jet from Lakenheath screamed across the sky as if slicing it in two.
‘You get used to them,’ said Frankie. She looked up. God knows where the jet was now. Frankie stopped, squinting up at the sky and then out to sea for a moment. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know what?’
‘I don’t know if this is where I should be.’ She trudged on.
‘We can go, if you like. Have an early lunch somewhere – I liked that place with the patio and the views. The White Horse. We could go there?’
‘Not the beach, Mum. Beyond the beach. All of this – Norfolk. Maybe it’s not my place. Maybe there’s somewhere better.’
Margaret picked up her pace, marching briskly past Frankie.
‘Mum?’
But still Margaret kept walking. Frankie caught up with her.
‘I’m just saying – after everything that’s happened – I just don’t know whether it’s here that I want to be.’
‘Leave your troubles and your sorrow and your regret here? Leave it in the house, pack up, move and miraculously it won’t have followed?’ Margaret looked at her daughter sternly. ‘Your children are settled, this is their home.’
Frankie turned away, stared at the shingle in a scatter over the wet sand like confetti. Maybe it was time for her mother to bugger off back home. Margaret’s response unnerved her, she’d rather expected her mother to say marvellous idea darling, head to the Cotswolds.
‘I wanted to move to Canada.’
‘I know you did,’ said Margaret.
Frankie kicked at a stone badly. It went nowhere. Yesterday’s numbness today a fractious anger. At everything. ‘There are too many memories of him here,’ she said, ‘and there.’
‘In time, that will be a good thing, a comfort.’
‘I like the thought of moving away, somewhere completely new.’ Frankie paused as a dog, wet and sandy, belted past so close that her jeans were sprayed. Sod the dog. ‘I know I can do it. I did it already, remember.’
‘No one argued with you then,’ said Margaret. ‘I know I sniffed that Norfolk wasn’t the Cotswolds and Peta bemoaned it wasn’t Burning Bloody Markets – but the fact that the children were the age they were and your reasons were so sound, we all supported you on that front. We were – are – very proud.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But I’d strongly advise against moving again. It will be for all the wrong reasons.’
Margaret watched her daughter clenching her teeth, looking stonily out to the shore.
‘He liked it here,’ Margaret said gently. ‘He liked thinking of you here when he wasn’t. He thought it suited you well. We talked about that, on this very beach, over Christmas, him and me.’
‘It’s not about what Scott wants!’
Margaret glanced at an elderly couple startled by Frankie’s sudden outburst.
‘Scott doesn’t matter any more,’ Frankie shouted, striding ahead not wanting to be followed. ‘Can’t you see?’
Shut up Scott, shut up.
Frankie didn’t want to hear what he had to say. She didn’t want to recall a conversation that they’d had in February. She didn’t want to remember him taking her hand in his while she banged on about Canada and how she believed sometimes it’s a parent’s responsibility to make decisions even if the children don’t like it and other people disapprove.
‘Certainly it’s your responsibility to keep your eyes open to possibilities where your family is concerned,’ Scott had said. ‘But whether we’re here or there, we’re together you and me. Seems to me, right now – at this point in your life, in my life, in your children’s life, in my child’s life – this is a very good place for you. You need to see all the possibilities that are right here on your doorstep, baby. You’re looking in the wrong direction, Frankie.’
Back on the beach today. Alone and out of sorts. Frankie thought how the death of the one she loved was an injustice so cruel, so abjectly wrong, so powerful, so beyond comprehension and any known cure, she had been left chronically injured.
I’ll never properly heal, thought Frankie and she placed her hands over her ears and walked and walked and walked.
* * *
Keith Mawby saw Frankie standing in the lane having a good look at her house. She had her hands on her hips as if she was assessing something gone awry. He thought he’d go and have a look too, see if he could help. Not much a woman knows about clay-pantile roofing. Not sexist, that, just a fact, he reasoned. He stepped down from his tractor and walked along the lane towards her.
‘Hello dear.’
‘Hello Mr Mawby.’
‘Keith.’
‘Keith. I was just – I must get going.’
‘What’s going on here?’ He was squinting up at her roof. ‘Looks well enough to me.’
‘What does?’
‘Your roof.’
‘I wasn’t – I was just. I don’t know if I’m staying or going.’
Keith Mawby had a think about that one. Funny woman this, a famous author you know. Quite nice having her around, even if she likes to keep herself to herself. It was good for the house, good for the lane, having someone around most of the time, and a family at that. Not like the lot before her, holiday home it had been. Not right for an old cottage like this, he didn’t think. Shocking thing about her fella though. Upset Peg no end.
‘That’d be a shame, we’re just about used to having you here,’ was all that came out of Keith Mawby as he loped off back to his tractor.
Six weeks to the day. Bless you, my Scott. A few days without tears but today I couldn’t stop. Sometimes I think I prefer the numbness or the exhaustion, but actually whether it’s anger or sorrow at least I feel something, I know I’m alive.
Half term was about to start. May had brought burgeoning warmth but the sea still kept its chill. It was a special time of year; the cusp of summer. It brought birds and visitors and a steady flow to the garden centres; a time for planting up hanging baskets and window boxes and deciding what herbs would suit which pots. Summer clothes were brought out from their vacuum-sealed winter under the bed and woolly jumpers and warm coats were put away. A time of change and growth; lighter, warmer, longer days.
Frankie had been standing at the window in the kitchen, just gazing out. She didn’t know how long for. Ages. She didn’t want to move, though; Scott was behind her, his arms loosely around her. Oh how she could recall it! And his voice. And what he said, his cheek against hers, a kiss to her neck. Look around you, Frankie. Look right outside your window and way beyond it. Your world is a pretty good place to be in at the moment. Embrace what you have instead of tiring yourself out, hoping for more.
Her stomach rumbling brought her back to the day in hand and she realized she’d skipped lunch again. She cut a chunk of cheese to have with an apple. She looked in the fridge while she ate; she couldn’t give the children pasta again. How about omelettes for supper. But she needed eggs. And suddenly she thought of the lady in Howell’s and that day with the kindness, which seemed so long ago. And she remembered that she still hadn’t paid what was owing.
Where had she put her handbag? She meandered from room to room, finally locating it slung on the back of the chair in the study. What else had she bought that day? She couldn’t recall. There was money in her purse and she grabbed her car keys and left the house. She started the engine but sat in the car awhile, thinking what am I doing here? What am I thinking?
I’m going to walk. It’s a beautiful day. It’s only a mile there and a mile back.
When they’d moved here, she and the children had made it their mission to always walk to the village shop. That didn’t last.
Today, the sky was a-squawk and a-chatter with birds. Frankie thought about Scott. Perhaps the stores sell books about local birdlife. She smiled at a memory of him vaulting the fence at the end of the garden and standing out in the fields with Sam’s binoculars. Greylags, he’d told her. And Canada geese. See, he’d said, I’m not the only one from my country who likes it out here. They spend part of their year here, Frankie had told him and he’d grinned and pulled her in close and given her a kiss and Sam had said yuk! and walked off.
As she walked down the lane, Frankie thought of the lady in the shop, her concern and kindness, her hand on Frankie’s arm. The offer of tea. The shopping not charged for.
‘Maybe it’s not about you today, Scott,’ Frankie said softly. ‘Perhaps they gave me credit at the shop not out of sympathy, not for you, but because it was me. Maybe it wasn’t forgetfulness or charity on Howell’s part. I went home with shopping unpaid for – but it didn’t matter because they know where I am, I’m just up the road.’
But Frankie forgot the eggs for the omelettes. She’d been distracted, chatting to the lady in Howell’s, insisting that she paid what was owing and then realizing she’d need to jog home if she was to make the school run and not be late for Annabel.
Both children looked at their mother that evening.
‘Not pasta again.’
‘It was going to be omelettes.’
‘But there are no eggs, Mummy.’
‘Exactly, Annabel – that’s why it’s pasta again.’
‘But it’s half term now,’ said Sam. ‘And it’s Friday night. Why don’t we go to Wells for fish and chips?’
Though they’d been to the café many times since taking Scott here, Annabel would always privately remember the evening when Scott took her chips and the crispiest piece of batter right off her plate and under her nose. That’s when we bonded, she said to herself. That was the point I decided to like him.
The staff greeted them, happy that they’d be having in, not takeaway.
‘Starting to get busy, isn’t it,’ Frankie said to the waiter as he led on, both of them observing how many tables had been commandeered by visitors.
‘Yep,’ he said. ‘But what’s not to like.’
The food was heavenly. The golden batter ballooning away from the fresh white fish that fell into glistening chunks as soon as the fork touched it.
‘This is my absolute favourite restaurant,’ said Sam.
‘Actually,’ said Annabel, ‘I bet it’s one of the top ten restaurants in the world.’
Frankie looked at her children and looked at the food on her plate. She looked outside at the busy little town welcoming locals and holidaymakers alike. And Scott said to her, see – you live in such a great place and these fries are the best I’ve ever tasted.
‘Mummy.’
If there was something on Annabel’s mind, or if she wanted something, or if she was feeling unwell, she never called Frankie ‘Mum’ – always Mummy. It re-established their dynamic at its most intimate. Frankie had come into her room to say goodnight. She sat on the edge of Annabel’s bed and felt her forehead.
‘Do you feel sick? Maybe you shouldn’t have had a double 99 after such an enormous plate of fish and chips?’
‘I don’t feel sick – that’s just you worrying about synthetic ice cream being so evil,’ said Annabel. Frankie thought, is my baby really soon to finish primary school? Is she really going to get on that bus in September with her brother and enter secondary school? How will she find her way around? How will she know whom to befriend?
‘Mummy.’
‘Yes darling.’
‘I’ve been thinking.’ Annabel sat herself up. ‘I have an idea for a story for you.’
Frankie groaned. ‘Thanks for reminding me. I really must get a grip on the first Just My Luck book.’ A credit-card statement had arrived this morning. She hadn’t opened it.
‘It’s a different sort of story,’ Annabel said. ‘It’s the sort of book that a child might need. Not every child – hopefully. But some of them, some of the time.’
Frankie couldn’t imagine her agent turning cartwheels at that. Here’s a book that a few kids might read at some point.
‘It would mean Alice coming back though,’ Annabel said pensively. With a pang, Frankie considered how her daughter often thought of Alice as her biggest rival. Sometimes, Frankie had to admit, Alice won. ‘Do you still think of Alice these days?’
‘Occasionally,’ said Frankie, who thought of her often.
‘It would be about Scott,’ Annabel said, ‘but not about Scott.’
Sometimes, Frankie and the children could talk about Scott for ages. Other times the children had only to mention him and she’d have to leave for a while, go back to the downstairs loo, lock the door, press the hand towel against her face. Not tonight, though.
‘Tell me?’
‘For children,’ Annabel explained. ‘To know what it might feel like if someone special – goes. Dies. How they might react. How it might seem. Make Alice deal with what – I – did.’
Frankie thought, never would I have come up with that one.
‘And Mummy – not just that book but another book too, another Alice. But in that one, Alice is slightly older – say, Sam’s age. The same story – but for children who are—’
‘Sam’s age.’
Frankie sat awhile and stroked Annabel’s hair.
‘I think you should think about it,’ said Annabel.
‘I think I will.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
She kissed Annabel goodnight, then popped in on Sam and told him he could read for as long as he liked. As she went downstairs, Frankie thought how if there was anyone she could truly talk to, it was Alice.
Her grief would be my grief. But I don’t know if she’ll speak to me. I sent her packing to Canada, after all.
* * *
‘Hello?’
‘Frankie?’
Oh God, not Miles.
‘Hi.’
‘How are you Frankie?’
‘I’m –’
‘I wrote to you.’
He had written to Frankie when he heard about Scott; a kind letter telling her that if there was anyone such a thing should not have happened to, it was her but if there was anyone who had the strength and grace to find her way through, it was her as well.
‘Thank you Miles – it meant a lot. How are you? Are you back?’
‘Yes, oh yes. Bogotá can bogger off.’
>
‘Oh.’
‘I was just phoning to see if the children want to come for the weekend?’
The silence on the phone line was a studied one. Miles wondering how she’d respond. Frankie wondering what she was meant to do.
‘I could meet them from the train – and if they have homework, I’ll make sure they do it. Do you remember Z-beds? I bought two for my flat.’
She wondered, what would the children want to do? They’d want to go on a train just the two of them and be met in by their incorrigible father who’d probably be late, they’d want to sleep on fold-up Z-beds and have a little look at what his life was all about.
If she told Peta? If she told Sam not to hesitate to phone Peta for the slightest reason?
‘OK,’ Frankie said.
‘You sure?’ Miles sounded amazed, excited.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You will be –’
‘Oh I will be. Very.’
It was to be the first time Frankie had been in her home without her children, the first time she’d been on her own, since Scott died. Her mother had offered to come up and her sister had invited her to stay. Ruth told Frankie the spare room was at her disposal. But Ruth also knew that it was no bad thing for Frankie just to try it, to figure out where her place was in the house, how she might fit in there, with no one else about. A chance for her to listen to the silence and try and hear what it might say. We’re having a curry tomorrow night, Ruth told her, you’re welcome to join us.
Frankie found that she felt all right if she kept busy. She went to the bits-and-bobs drawer her mother had arranged and took out the hammer. Then she whacked at the nail in the floorboard that had been annoying her for so long. No more socks being ruined. Who’d have thought a bit of banging could be so satisfying. She went from room to room to see what else might benefit from a tap or a whack. If only the groan and gurgle of the water pipes could be solved with a bash. But she didn’t dare. And, as Scott said to her at Christmas, all houses have annoying habits – but so do most people. You just learn to rub along.
Oh to hear his voice again, that soft accent, the timbre. His laugh that was in his eyes as much as his voice. And Frankie thought how the things that are hardest to bear are sometimes the sweetest to remember. She went downstairs and sat at the kitchen table with a glass of wine and a new pad of paper and, with Annabel’s idea in her head, she jotted down a few notes.