Fran is out in the garden, apparently undeterred by the damp – ‘Perfect for planting.’
She hugs Bella.
‘You must take some redcurrants when you go. I’ve a freezer full. I know you’ll think of something interesting to do with them. There’s only so much redcurrant jelly one person can get through, even if I ate lamb every night.’
Bella works alongside Fran in the garden, now adept at spotting which are weeds and which are not, what to cut back and what to leave. The sound of secateurs reminds her of Will, the way Fran dips in and out of the borders, casually pulling up a weed as she passes, snipping off a faded bloom. Fran avoids talking about him, Bella notices, and speaks instead of her late husband, Hugh.
‘I still miss him, y’know? It’s over five years ago now. I used to wonder when I’d “get over it” – as if it were some kind of obstacle course. I remember seeing it in my head like a great, craggy rock I’d have to climb. I thought I’d get to the other side, then maybe life would go back to normal. No bloody idea.’ She laughs at herself. ‘Come in out of this drizzle and let’s get some tea.
‘I went through all these different feelings. At first, I just could not believe it. Hughie was so alive, do y’see? I kept thinking I saw him. I followed some man in a similar sort of corduroy jacket halfway around Sainsbury’s. Daft I know.’
Bella shakes her head.
‘It’s not daft.’
‘And I was so angry with him. Why hadn’t he looked after his health better? – he’d already had a minor stroke before – how dare he leave me alone? Then I felt it was all my fault. I should have done something, anything. I was a bad person because I’d let him eat butter. I should have made him take up tennis. When it really sank in, I kept crying in all the most unlikely places. I had to run out of the chemist because I – so stupid – saw that Mycil powder he used to use for his athlete’s foot. And I thought how ironic it was when he didn’t take enough exercise. Then in the garden, I’d be digging up potatoes for supper and I’d suddenly look down and see that I’d dug enough for two and I’d be off again.’
Bella tops up their mugs.
‘But – it did get better.’ Fran waves a hand at Bella’s eyebrow, twitching into a doubting arch. ‘No. I know what you’re thinking. It used to make me so angry when people patronized me with all that time’s the best healer stuff. But my feelings did shift. I haven’t forgotten him, God knows. Things can never go back to being as they were before. Life’s different. I’m different. But the pain’s not sharp now. I can enjoy my memories of him without feeling wretched all the time. And, somewhere along the line, I let myself off the hook.’
There is a silence. Fran gets up and refills the kettle, delves deep into the bread crock for ‘something to toast’.
‘You’ve lost someone, too, haven’t you?’
The clink of the kettle lid. The striking of a match. The soft hiss of the gas.
‘I’m sorry. Perhaps you prefer not to talk about it?’
‘I – it’s not – I find it hard. I don’t. It’s so—’ She presses her lips tight shut, to hold it in, then, suddenly, her mouth trembles and opens, gaping wide. And Bella is babbling. She is so scared – she couldn’t let go of Patrick – she didn’t dare – it would be like a betrayal – he needed her to cling on or he’d be really, really gone.
Around her, the kitchen swims into a blur.
And then she’d met Will and she’d felt bad, guilty for loving him so much – then terrified she’d lose him as well. She wouldn’t be able to bear it – not Will – she couldn’t – she’d be eaten away by the pain of it – cease to exist. And she’d messed things up and driven him away and it was awful. He didn’t even know that she loved him because she couldn’t say it, she was so afraid. She just knew if she owned it, admitted it, he’d be taken away – she’d be punished – she wouldn’t be allowed to be so happy, not for long – just enough to lull her into a false sense of security. She’d get used to him, and life would be rosy, then – BAM – and he’d be hit by a truck or get cancer or flit off to Auckland – and she wouldn’t be able to stand it. Only now she’d lost him anyway, but it wasn’t so very bad because at least she’d expected it, engineered it – at least she knew where she was this way. Really, it wasn’t so very bad. Not so very bad.
And Fran’s arms are around her; she is stroking her hair and holding her. She is making comforting, ssshusshing sounds into her hair.
‘And now I’m getting you all – sno-o-o-t-tty,’ Bella wails.
‘Ssh, ssh. I never liked this shirt anyway.’
Bella’s breaths lurch from her lungs. Her shoulders shake in spasms. Unleashed sobs wrench at her chest. She tries to gulp them down. Tears scrawl mascara in a spidery calligraphy over her cheeks; she wipes her nose with the back of her hand.
‘But it’s much worse than that – m-much worse.’
Fran is still holding her, and Bella looks up at her.
‘I’ve never told anyone. You’ll hate me when you know.’
‘Hush, hush. I could never hate you.’
Bella is quiet now, even calm. She blows her nose and lets out a long sigh as she remembers. At last, it is time to tell.
∼ ∼ ∼
The knowledge has been swirling through her for weeks now, maybe even months if she dare admit it. When had she framed that first thought? Allowed herself to think it? It feels as if it had started deep in her bones, then seeped out, slipping into her bloodstream, making its way to her heart, her head. Now it is like a prickling itch beneath her skin, refusing to be ignored. She can only create the luxury of forgetting when she hurls herself into something else, so she spends long hours at work, gets up early to go swimming, relishing for once the smell of chlorine, climbing up her nostrils, stinging her eyes, scouring her shameful, selfish thoughts. She even begins a tapestry, transferring an old painting she had done of her parents’ house onto graph paper as a guide; in the evenings she has licence to concentrate only on the tiny, colour-pencilled squares, sink into her own tiny stitches, a technician hovering over a microscope, on the verge of discovery.
Patrick comments with a laugh, ‘Anyone would think you had a lover, Bel. All this staying late at the office.’
‘Er … nonsense, darling. Important client, that’s all.’ She had pretended to be flustered to tease him, as if he had found her out, unearthed her great secret, and he had laughed.
But he hasn’t discovered it. Doesn’t seem to have a clue. Bella almost wishes she did have a lover, a proper reason, something tangible, someone else she could point to and say, ‘See? That’s why.’ How simple that would be.
As each day passes, she can feel the gap widening between her intentions and her actions. She watches herself moving around the flat, one step behind her false ghost image, sneering at its bright manner, its smiles. Why can’t Patrick see it? Surely he will suddenly catch a glimpse of her there, shivering behind that horrible smiling façade?
‘Okey-dokey?’ Patrick pats her knee, tapping the crossword in the paper with his pencil in unison.
‘Yup. Fine,’ she answers, feeling like a trained spaniel.
She starts to timetable ‘Telling Patrick’ in her head, then in her diary. Not this weekend because we’re going up to his parents. Not in the week because he’ll be coming back late from that job in Walthamstow every night. Next weekend? Maybe. Then next weekend comes and they have friends for supper or Patrick seems under the weather or she has a period pain. Maybe she’ll do it Tuesday, quickly before it’s in the run-up to his birthday or, oh my God, then it’ll be Christmas. Maybe it’d be better to wait till after then.
And so, now it is January 18th and she is standing in a small white room, looking down at Patrick’s body spread out before her.
‘I’m an impostor,’ she tells herself, ‘a horrible cheat who didn’t deserve him.’ But still, through the shock, she knows she is glad she didn’t tell him, didn’t spoil his last few months; she is glad she never said the wo
rds:
‘Patrick. I can’t do this any more. Be with you. I don’t – I don’t love you.’
∼ ∼ ∼
Fran comes to say good night, tucking her in tightly as if she is a child. Bella pokes her chin over the turned edge of the sheet, comforting as a folded sandwich, and looks around at the rose-patterned wallpaper, with its oddly cheering misaligned joins and irregular edges. The bedside lamp shines on a few bright buttercups, sprawling in a tiny blue jug with sprigs of feathery fennel and daisy-like feverfew. Funny, she thinks, I’ve never noticed how pretty buttercups are before – how perfect each petal is, how smooth. She drifts into a doze, their yellow heads like tiny suns warming her as she closes her eyes.
Patrick is walking ahead of her, but she is finding it difficult to keep up, his long legs carrying him further from her with each step. Breathless, she reaches him at last and she taps him on the shoulder from behind. He turns round and seems surprised to see her there, annoyed even. Then he lies down on the ground, gesturing with his hand, inviting her to join him.
It is cold here, and the air feels thick and clammy on her skin. She stretches out on the ground beside him. In this milky light, even his face before her is a blur. Behind her, she feels the concrete kerb at her back; beneath her, the sharp stones of his grave. They dig into her skin, her flesh, but she tries not to wince, not to let him see. He doesn’t seem to notice them at all. Suddenly, he strikes the headstone with his palm.
‘Good solid headboard, eh?’ And he laughs.
She starts to smile, trying to join in, to share the joke, but his face is at once serious again. As he takes her hand, she gasps; his skin is cold as stone and loose, like the skin on molten wax. She watches him lift her hand, as if it is a thing apart, and guide it towards the headstone. He makes her finger trace the inscription at the base.
R.I.P.
And he looks at her, then closes his eyes. She traces it again, feeling the grooves in the stone beneath her finger, letting them etch the letters in her mind. It is suddenly clear to her, obvious; even a fool could see it.
Now, she knows what he means, knows what it means. R.I.P. Rest in Peace. It is not for the dead, the dead who lie still in the crumbling earth; not for the dead who have no thoughts, no fears, their joys, their pain forgotten.
It is a message for the living.
Early morning. A thin wash of sunlight brushes the room. She opens her eyes and, quietly, begins to weep.
31
She rummages through her sketch-books. Somewhere here, yes. Here. There are several sketches – and her memory.
She begins to paint. It is as she remembers him best, his long form awkwardly folded into an armchair, one leg draped over the side. If only she could capture the way he rotated his foot as he read, first one way, then the other; she could draw it at an angle to suggest it, perhaps. She knows she must paint it all in one sitting, now while he is so clear in her head. She lets his voice wind its way into her ears once more, recalls now his touch with simple fondness, lets the essence of him quicken the sinews of her hands, spilling out onto the paper.
It is good, she realizes, better than she could have hoped. Sometimes, painting was work, work and more work, a battle with the limitations of the paint, the paper or canvas, frustration with the gulf between the image in her head and the insipid translation of it that she set down with her brush. But, occasionally, rare and precious, one came as a gift, flowing from her eyes, her mind, down through her hand, capturing her vision in front of her like a butterfly come to rest.
She phones first, to make sure it will be all right for her to come, saying she won’t stay long, she doesn’t want to impose, feeling her way through the pauses, wondering if she is welcome. The picture is carefully wrapped, laid on the back seat of the car.
As she raises her hand to the knocker, the door sweeps open.
‘Bella!’ Joseph, Patrick’s father, gathers her close.
‘Is that Bella here already?’ calls Rose, running through and undoing her apron.
Their delight in seeing her stings her with shame. There is no word of reproach, no veiled hints that she might have visited sooner. Their apparent gratitude that she’s bothered to drive all that way to come to see them is more mortifying than any criticism could have been. How could she have been so selfish?
‘Come in, come in – and look who’s here.’
Sophie, Patrick’s young sister, jumps up and throws her arms around Bella.
‘Soph! I didn’t know you’d be here.’
‘We haven’t seen you for months. I thought you’d forgotten us.’
‘Sophie!’ Rose frowns at her. ‘Don’t be so rude.’
‘Oh, Mum. Bel doesn’t mind.’
Bella catches a look between Joseph and Rose.
‘Oh, Bel! Don’t cry. Shit. What have I said now?’
‘Language!’ says Rose. ‘Please excuse her, Bella.’
‘No. It’s not that. It’s not you, Soph, really. It’s just me. And you’re all being so nice.’ She takes Joseph’s proffered handkerchief.
‘I can be horrible if you want,’ offers Sophie. ‘Mum says I’m horrible most of the time anyway.’
‘I do not. You can be perfectly pleasant when you can be bothered, Sophie. But it’s not trendy or wicked or whatever the thing is now, so you try and make out you’re bored by everyone and everything. But now that you’re twenty, it’s just embarrassing.’ Rose sweeps out to the kitchen.
‘Wicked? Mum at the cutting edge of street slang as usual.’ Sophie makes a naughty-schoolkid face and goofs her teeth at Bella. Bella goofs back. ‘Dear God,’ prays Sophie, ‘send me a new mother.’
‘Don’t,’ says Bella, ‘or I’ll give you mine. I’m thinking of hiring her out to improve familial harmony – one week with her and you’d appreciate just how lovely Rose is.’
‘I brought you something, but I don’t know if it’s the right thing.’
‘No need to bring anything,’ says Rose.
‘Just a pleasure to see you,’ says Joseph.
‘Is it your sticky lemon cake?’ says Sophie.
Bella goes out to the car to fetch it. What if they hate it? What if they burst into tears? This could be a horrible mistake.
She holds it close to her body.
‘I hope it doesn’t make it worse. But I did it for you and I want you to have it.’
Bella hands the picture to Joseph. His eyes start to pool above the rims. He nods without speaking. Rose, close beside him on the sofa, clutches his arm. Tears spill down her powdery cheeks, run along the creases around her eyes.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry. I thought – I don’t know what I thought.’
Rose and Joseph are both shaking their heads.
No – they say – that’s not it – they love it – hadn’t expected it – there is nothing they could have loved more – nothing better she could possibly have given them – it’s just, you see – Joseph looks round for his hankie – it’s just so Patrick.
Sophie agrees, it is very Patrick, look at his foot there, you just know he’s winding it round and round like a bloody clockwork toy the way he always did. Won’t Alan love it when he sees it?
Alan is not expected until teatime, so Bella stays for tea. When he arrives, he kisses her cheek and holds her arms awkwardly for a few moments. He looks at her half-sideways, the way Patrick used to.
‘The folks have missed you, you know.’
She nods, abashed.
‘The picture. They’re really chuffed, you can tell. It was a good thing to do. The right thing. Thank you.’
She had forgotten this feeling, this being part of a family, however briefly. How much easier it was to get on with other people’s relatives. Rose has forgotten to defrost the chops she had planned for supper, so Bella insists on making a meal for everyone, spinning a magic mélange out of an eclectic collection of fridge foragings. Sophie then begs for zabaglione and the two stand by the stove, swapping rude jokes a
nd taking it in turns to whisk until their arms are stiff. The sweet golden foam is poured into glasses and they all eat in reverent silence, as if honouring some ancient ritual.
Rose won’t hear of her driving back all that way at night. Bella must be exhausted. The bed’s all made up anyway. They couldn’t possibly let her go back so late. Absolutely not.
‘But I haven’t got my things …’
A clean nightie is presented, a new toothbrush found. She lets herself be fussed over for once.
After breakfast, Joseph walks round the garden with her, impressed by her new-found knowledge as she admires his plants by name. She holds their leaves between her fingers, comforted by the familiar feel of them, letting the names, the scents, roll round her head: thyme, she thinks, lemon balm, rosemary. Rosmarinus officinalis. Ah, rosemary.
‘I’m glad you came. I don’t imagine it’s been easy for you either.’
‘I’m much better than I was.’
Joseph clears his throat and leans over a plant to pull off a dead leaf.
‘You wouldn’t ever have married him, would you?’
Bella is silent, then lifts her gaze to meet his.
‘It’s all right.’ He digs his hands down deep into his pockets. ‘I think I knew quite a while ago. Rose doesn’t. She thinks you were just being young folk, doing the modern thing.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t need to be. It’s no good cheating on how you feel, is it?’
‘S’pose not.’
He folds her in his arms, patting her back.
‘Is that why you’ve kept away?’
She nods into his shoulder.
‘I couldn’t. I felt such a fraud. I thought you’d hate me.’
He tuts quietly into her hair, shaking his head.
Joseph walks her to her car and calls to the others to come and see her off.
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