Tricia’s grave had been an elaborate affair. A sturdy headstone topped with an angel, the dates that recorded her truncated existence and the words ‘most beloved’ carved in a large curling script. I had brought Morgan here when she was just six and her mother had been dead for three years. We had brought flowers – a little pot of pansies, I remembered, that we’d dressed up with some ribbon and a Happy Birthday note. Whose decision had that visit been? I couldn’t now remember. Nor did I need to. Whether Jonathan’s, or mine, in an effort to please him, it mattered little. All I recalled was a small girl, uncomprehending and happy, skipping over graves on a bright winter’s day. I looked down at Tricia’s grave now. No pansies. No, now there were roses. Red roses. A big bunch of them, set in the rose bowl that had come with the gravestone. A few were still buds, the majority in bloom, all carefully arranged in the mesh. I stooped to stroke one of the velvety petals. Not a weed, not a grass tuft to be seen.
‘How often,’ I asked quietly, ‘do you come here?’
Jonathan took his hands out of his pockets and drew them both through his hair.
‘It varies. Once a fortnight or so.’
‘When?’
‘God, Sally, does it matter?’ He stepped back and started walking away. I followed. The grass was growing dewy now. It spangled as I walked. Jonathan always bought me flowers for my birthday. Once a year. Lilies, carnations, freesias. Never roses.
‘Yes, it does matter. It matters very much, Jonathan.’ I looked back at the grave. ‘Tell me.’
He continued to walk through the maze of graves towards the gate. Big assured strides along a well-trodden route.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said again.
I caught up with him, then. ‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re probably right. The details don’t matter, do they? Just the – I turned to look at him. ‘Just the fact that you do, Jonathan. Just the fact that you still do.’ He walked on now, but I stopped and looked back. All those graves. All those lives lived and now long extinguished. The timeless process of bereavement, grieving, the cherishing of memories, and of time then moving on. Of people moving on. And there was Tricia’s grave, as trim and well tended as the day it was laid. Jonathan was standing by the gate now, waiting. He was stamping his feet. Glancing around him. Uncomfortable, I realised, at being in this place with me. I felt suddenly as if it was trespass to be here. That this was their place. That I had no right.
I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the damp night air. Well, so be it. It was true. I shouldn’t be here. Because I was alive. I felt alive. My heart was still pumping blood around my body and my body was still whole and youthful and living. As was he, though he’d had to come this far to discover it.
I walked the last few yards towards him lighter of foot than I could ever have imagined, Morgan’s anxious words only catching me up as I reached him. But she was wrong. It couldn’t possibly kill him if I left him, because just as my mother had said to me yesterday, that part of him died on the night Tricia had. I got to the gate. Met his eye and smiled at him. No. Wrong word. Not died. Had simply been chained to this graveyard. Had been so since the day he had settled for a substitute. Someone to take care of him. A mother for his child. I wasn’t about to kill him. Far from it. He could move on now. But not with me. I was about to set him free.
‘I can’t stay with you, Jonathan.’
‘I know that,’ he answered.
‘I can’t stay with you because you don’t love me enough. Can’t love me enough.’ It was such a small thing to say but such a big thing to contemplate. Perhaps that’s why it had taken me so long to do. That and finding out there was someone who could.
‘I do love you, Sally. It’s just – ‘He glanced back up the way we had come. ‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘Not enough. I know that.’ He pushed his hands back in his pockets. ‘Are you going to come home now?’
I shook my head. ‘Not yet. I’m going for a drive. You go home to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow, OK?’ He started to protest, but I waved my hand to stop him.
‘I have my phone. I have Merlin with me. I will be fine. Please go home.’
He looked at me for a moment, then nodded, accepting, and set off down the lane back to his car.
I looked up at the stars, remembering Ruth’s ranting. I could see what she meant now. I’d at last had that slap.
Chapter 32
What DO stomachs do? Do they lurch? Flip? Somersault? Tie themselves in knots? Sitting in my car in the stillness that followed after Jonathan had driven off, I pondered this descriptive conundrum awhile. Because, though I was at a loss to describe it, something of a gymnastic persuasion was certainly happening to mine. And the reason it was happening to mine was because for the first time since that night in that lane all those months back, I could finally see my way clear. I could imagine a life different to the one I’d lived so far. I could imagine myself being loved.
At the end of June one of the brightest constellations in the sky is Lyra. I could pick out Vega at its centre, blinking down at me from its vantage point high in the heavens. It was now ten past three. A ridiculous time to be up for most people. But I wasn’t most people and neither was he. I picked up my phone. The numbers on the display leapt out at me, as if welcoming me back into the sensation of a forgotten embrace. I pressed the connect button and waited for the ring tone. I would find out what time his flight was. That’s what I would do. It didn’t matter that he was leaving now. I would see him and hold him and tell him I loved him. What happened next I was happy to leave to providence. Or fate even. I didn’t care what you called it. Only that I was happy that it would guide me. Guide us. I felt freed from the shackles of not believing in destiny. Able to accept that some things were meant to be, that some things were written in the stars.
The phone rang on. And then a voice answered. The Vodafone you have called is not responding. It may respond if you try again later… Rats. Rats. I nibbled the aerial. Perhaps reception was bad. Perhaps he was in a tunnel. Perhaps, I thought, heart thudding anxiously inside me, he was already in the airport and had switched off his phone. I put my key in the ignition and then thought better of it. I should send him a text message too. If I sent him a text message his phone would beep at him as soon as it was switched on again, wouldn’t it? Yes, that would be best. Send a message, then get there. I scrolled down the menu with feverish fingers. Write messages, it said, the cursor blinking at me. ‘Nick, it’s me,’ I typed out. ‘I’m on my way to the airport. I need to talk to you. Meet me?’ Oh, God, meet me where? Which terminal? Which? North, I decided. It had to be North. He was flying BA, wasn’t he? Or was he? Oh, God. Yes, North. Must be North. Go for North. ‘Costa Coffee?’ I typed. Would Costa Coffee be open? Would anything be open? Oh, why wasn’t he there? ‘Or MacDonald’s?’ I suggested. Then I typed ‘on my way!!!’ and added seven kisses. One for each of the seven sisters. I started the engine, placed the phone down beside me, switched on the headlamps and set off down the lane.
Déjà vu.
The road was big, wide, empty, dark. All the things that country lanes generally are at night. It was flanked by tall trees, all in full leaf now, a dense black filigree against deep inky blue. He hadn’t called back. No message. No nothing. It was now twenty to four. His words kept returning. ‘At some ungodly hour so it might as well be Monday’. Supposing I was too late? Supposing he had already got to the airport? Supposing – my heart sank – he was already on the plane?
No, he couldn’t have, I decided. It was too early, surely. Way too early. Long haul flights didn’t take off in the middle of the night, did they? Another thought occurred to me. Supposing he was still at home? God, why hadn’t I thought of that? Yes, that was it, surely. Packing, most probably. Supposing he was there and hadn’t heard his mobile? Why hadn’t I thought of that earlier? Stupid, stupid. I pulled over, taking care not to drive my wheels up on the verge. I would try him at home. As I pulled into the kerb, Merlin began whining, turni
ng circles on the back seat and nudging at my neck. How long since he’d been out now? God, poor thing! Hours, must be. I opened the car door and climbed out. He bounced out behind me and yomped off to cock a leg at the nearest tree. Home number, home number, where was Nick’s home number? I kept scrolling. Not under ‘Nick’, my devious little brain reminded me. Not under ‘Brown’ either. I kept on scrolling. That was it. Under S. S, for Star. Up came the digits. I pressed call and waited. Ring ring, ring ring. Oh, please be at home.
But he wasn’t. Not even the answerphone message. So final. So definite. So uncontestable. He’d already gone. Gone in every sense possible. He’d even switched off his answerphone. I imagined his apartment, now shrouded in darkness. I imagined him winging his way back to America. I imagined him chalking us up to experience. I imagined his heart mending. His thoughts turning elsewhere. His – oh, God. Gone gone gone. The airport. I absolutely must get to the airport. I slid the phone into my pocket and looked around for Merlin. No sign. He’d been there only moments ago, hadn’t he? And yet now he was nowhere to be seen.
I peered into the trees. ‘Merlin! Come on!’
I scanned the length of the verge.
‘Merlin! Come on!’
I glanced wildly around me.
‘Merlin! Come on!’
I ran round the car, up the road, down the road, up again.
‘Merlin! Where are you? COME ON!’
Never tempt fate and name dogs after wizards. Abracadabra. Mine had disappeared.
Swearing, my mother always told me, was the province of the illiterate. Profanity the refuge of the syntactically impaired. Not her words, exactly, but I always took her meaning. Only people with inferior vocabularies swore.
And me. ‘Bloody stupid fucking dog!’
There was no one to hear, of course, so it didn’t really count. But it made me feel marginally better.
‘MERLINNN!!!!!!!’ I called again. What the hell was I going to do now? I had two options. Go and find him or leave him and go. To my shame I gave a microsecond’s thought to the latter, which is presumably what happens when you start affixing swear words to much loved pets. But bloody stupid dog that he was, he was my dog, my much loved pet, and therefore he had to be found. I yanked my bag from the passenger footwell and the keys from the ignition, then slammed and locked the door and set off in pursuit.
It must, I decided, have been a wild animal. Merlin, for all his failings in the mud on the kitchen floor department, was not a dog given to absconding. A squirrel maybe, or a fox. But whatever it was, there was no sign of it now. I started off up the lane in the direction I’d last seen him.
Five to four. Five to four, I thought as I ran. He would almost certainly be at the airport by now. You had to check in about a fortnight before take off these days, didn’t you? And ungodly hours couldn’t mean much after six could they? OK. Keep calm and be sensible. You will find your dog and make it to the airport in time. And if you don’t make it to the airport in time it will not be the end of the world. Don’t be silly. Just remember that –
‘MERLINNNNNNNNNN!!!’
–That he has not gone into outer space, merely to the other side of the Atlantic ocean, which is not so far really. Only – oh, God – thousands of miles. No. Don’t be silly. He’s still working for Drug U Like, isn’t he? Is he? Did he say that? He wasn’t going for the HR job. Yes. He said that, but did he say – did he? No, no. Of course he’s still with Drug U Like. And even if he isn’t, you can still find out his address from someone – from who? – from someone. And you can write him a letter. Or send him an email. And you can tell him all about it – oh, how he’ll laugh! – and then you can send each other more letters, and ….and what? And be pen pals? And – oh, God! But I need to see him! So badly. Don’t be silly. Not the end of the world. You can save up all those vouchers you get in Tesco and swap them for air miles, and some day, some day, you can go out and visit him and you can–
‘MERLINNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!’
–You can sort everything out and – and – but he lives in America, for God’s sake! You can’t sort anything out! He’ll be there and you’ll be here and – and at this rate still stumbling through the undergrowth just off the A bloody 23, most likely. It isn’t fair! If this is what fate has in mind for me, well fate can go fu–
‘Yeeeow!’
I hit the ground running and hit the ground hard. When I opened my eyes and spat the grass from my mouth, my dog was standing on me, licking my face.
I didn’t kill him.
I didn’t even smack him. Despite the dog training school’s stern lectures about the importance of negative re-enforcement, I was just so grateful to have him back that I threw my arms around his flank and held him in a vice like grip till I could struggle to my feet and get my fingers under his collar.
‘You,’ I said, as we rattled back along the verge towards the car, shedding undergrowth like a pair of fugitive scarecrows, ‘will find yourself dispatched to Battersea dogs’ home if you so much as look like you might pull a stunt like that again. You hear me?’
I unlocked the car door and Merlin slithered in guiltily. Twenty past four. Twenty past four! I couldn’t have been more awake if I’d downed fifteen expressos. Oh, why, oh why hadn’t he answered my message? Come to that – come to that – oh, bloody, bloody dog – where the hell had my phone disappeared to?
‘Sorry, love. This one’s full right now. You’ll have to go back to the South Terminal car park and get the monorail back up.’
It was now ten to five. I had looked everywhere. In my pockets, in my handbag, in the footwells, in the boot, up the lane, down the lane, under the car, in the lining of my coat, in my handbag again. Everywhere, in short, that a phone might fetch up. But mine was nowhere to be seen. I had toyed with throwing myself on to the wet grass again and simply expiring with frustration, but attractive though the idea was, it would have been a senseless waste of valuable time, so instead I hurled myself back into the car and drove to the airport is if my very life depended on it. Which, as far as I was concerned, it did. And now they wouldn’t even let me in. ‘What?’
‘Sorry love. Busy time. You know how it is. Just take the slip road back out and follow the signs.’ How dare so many people go on holiday right now? More bad karma. More bloody bad karma. The man in the neon peered into the car. ‘You flying, love?’
Only in the face of all common sense. I shook my head. ‘No. No, I’m not.’
‘Leave your dog in the car then, will you, my love? Its chaos enough in there as it is.’
The last of the stars were just beginning to slip behind their veil of daylight by the time I made the South terminal car park. It seemed like such a bad omen, morning sneaking up on me like that. But I was here at least. There had to be some chance. Some tiny chance.
I shot like a missile down the moving pavement that led the way into the south terminal, scattering sleepy holiday makers and bored businessmen alike. Airports were just too big, I decided, conscious as I sped across the clicky-clacky concourse, of the suspicious looks my dishevelment were gathering as I ran. There was a monorail train, thankfully, just about to leave, and I plunged through the closing doors puffing and panting and pulling bits of muddy grass from my clothes.
Standing in the blackness of the monorail terminal I could see I had a fair thatch of grass in my hair as well. I couldn’t give a damn. Some tiny chance. Please.
We clattered on round to the North Terminal and once spewed from the train I shot off to departures, casting wildly around as I ran. The departure boards were many and complicated. This flight to there, departing gate twenty seven. That flight to the other, gate one million and two. I realised with a start that I didn’t even know which airport he was flying to. Did San Diego even have an international airport? If not, would it even be up on the board? I ran my eyes up and down the lists several times. They told me nothing. I may as well have been reading the football results.
&nbs
p; And there was little point anyway. If he’d gone then he’d gone. On the other hand, if he was still groundside, there must be some chance he’d still be at Costa Coffee waiting for me, mustn’t there? Or MacDonald’s. Some chance. Some tiny chance. Mustn’t there? Couldn’t chance be on my side for once?
I had just skirted Tie Rack when chance caved in and helped me. In the shape of a distant blur of brown up ahead. No, no, not brown. Tan. Tan – or, yes. Toffee. I quickened my pace. A tan suede jacket. A toffee suede jacket! But moving away fast. I filled my lungs with air.
‘Nick! I bellowed. ‘Nick! I’m here! Nick, WAIT!’
The world paused for a month while he stopped and turned round. With his mobile in one hand, held to his ear, and a cup of Costa coffee in the other.
Chapter 33
I threw myself at him in the middle of the concourse. As with the dog, it seemed the only thing to do. ‘Oh, God, Nick! Thank God! Where have you been?’
He held tight to his coffee. ‘Right here!’ he said waggling his phone at me. ‘More to the point, where have you been? I’ve been trying you constantly. Why didn’t you answer your phone?’
‘Oh, God, I lost it. And I’ve been in such a panic! I’d been trying for hours! ‘Your mobile, your home –’
He shook his head at this. ‘I left there yesterday. I had to go to a meeting, so I stayed at the Meridien last night.’
‘But why didn’t you answer the mobile?’
‘It never rang. I guess you must have called while I was showering or something. But I got your message just fine so I headed straight here to wait.’ He was grinning at me now. ‘And boy, did I wait. This is my third. Where d’you get to?’
We walked back to the coffee shop arm and arm and I told him. I told him about Jonathan, I told him about Tricia, about Morgan, about my mother, about Merlin running off. He got me a coffee and we sat down in a corner. I felt giddy. Stupid. Delirious. But Nick’s smile was gone now, and he took both my hands. ‘Jeez, Sally. It’s so good to see you.’
Straight on Till Morning Page 34