Snowdrops on Rosemary Lane

by Ellen Berry

  Back in his bedroom, Lucy bent to cuddle him as he slumped on his bean bag, then stripped his bed and made it up with fresh linen. ‘Marnie, please go back to bed,’ she muttered as, naturally, his sister had come through to observe the spectacle.

  ‘This room stinks.’

  ‘It’ll fade away in a minute,’ Lucy fibbed, aware of tiredness pressing down on her now. She was no longer conjuring up images of red wine, but of her own bed, freshly made up as was her custom on Friday nights, with candles ready to be lit on her bedside table. Not that there would be anything terribly thrilling going on in bed tonight, she thought irritably – not after Ivan had worried her so much.

  Finally, the children were back in bed. There was a noise at the front door, and she hurried through from the kitchen towards it. But it wasn’t Ivan; in fact there was no one there. The wind had got up, and the door was rattling, that was all. Lucy freed her long hair from its ponytail as she strode back to the living room and checked her phone in case she had missed a call.

  When she heard a knock, ten minutes later, she wondered if she might ignore it, as who could it be at this time of night? It was near midnight, and no one local would dream of calling. Something clenched inside her as she made her way through to the hallway to see who it was.

  Lucy’s breath caught in her throat as she opened the door. Two police officers – one man, one woman – were standing there, and that was the moment when Lucy’s whole life changed.

  Ivan never saw Marnie’s elf costume, or Sam in his reindeer onesie. He never saw his wife or children again because, on his drive home from Manchester on that dark, wet night, Ivan had been killed in a head-on collision twelve miles from Burley Bridge. He hadn’t been on the motorway but a winding B-road, which was unusual. It wasn’t his normal route at all. The other car’s driver survived, with serious spinal injuries; Ivan had seemingly skidded on the wet surface and ended up on the wrong side of the road.

  It was no one’s fault. That was the official conclusion that came out months after the event. It was the fact that water had pooled there on the road surface. But Lucy couldn’t stop thinking that perhaps she was to blame for being so insistent about making a new life here in Burley Bridge.

  You and me will always be a team, Ivan had said.

  As the days and weeks somehow continued without him, Lucy would find herself playing his words over and over as if some terrible loop tape had wedged itself in her brain. And although she knew it was crazy, she couldn’t help feeling furious that he had left her this way.

  He hadn’t kept his promise at all.

  Chapter Nine

  James had been at his dad’s for two weeks now, trying to knock the place into shape and take care of the basics. Christmas had come and gone with Kenny showing little enthusiasm for the roast dinner James had made for the two of them, even though he had cooked his father’s preferred beef. ‘I don’t want some dried-up old turkey,’ Kenny had instructed. ‘I’ve never seen the point of that bird.’

  He hadn’t seen the point of having a Christmas tree, either, but James had insisted on cutting one down from the woods and bringing it into the house. He had even unearthed the box of fragile hand-painted glass baubles his mum had collected, and which he remembered from childhood. Of course, his dad’s Christmas tree business was long gone, but the sight of the small, squat pine strewn with tinsel at least cheered the place up. Crucially, James had also managed to dispose of the stash of supermarket sandwiches by flinging them into bin liners and sneaking outside with them while Kenny was watching a young man being apprehended by airport border security on TV.

  The man’s stash of advent calendars in his suitcase had turned out not to be filled with chocolates, but cocaine. ‘How festive,’ James had remarked as he came back inside, but his dad had merely cheered on the diligent customs officials (this was rich, considering Kenny had been fond of a gnarly-looking joint well into middle age). Fortunately, Kenny didn’t seem to notice that his sandwiches had gone. Perhaps he’d forgotten he’d even bought them.

  Meanwhile, James had kept trying to get hold of Rod. He had gone AWOL on several occasions before, during particularly rocky patches in his marriage – otherwise James might have considered reporting him missing to the police. Finally, after a fortnight of his phone just ringing out, Rod finally answered his brother’s call. ‘D’you realise I’ve been trying to get hold of you since before Christmas?’ James exclaimed. ‘Christ – I thought you were dead!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Rod said. ‘Things have been … a bit complicated.’

  ‘You didn’t even call Dad on Christmas Day. Even he was worried, and you know he’s never particularly concerned about us—’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve just been off-grid for a while.’

  ‘Off-grid?’ James spluttered. ‘What d’you mean? Where are you?’

  Rod paused, and James heard a female voice in the background. ‘I’m, uh … in Switzerland right now.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m skiing,’ Rod added curtly, as if it should be obvious. ‘Well, not right now – right now I’m talking to you. But I came out for a bit of a break.’

  James rubbed at his short dark hair, his breath forming white puffs as he exhaled. In order to conduct the conversation in private, he was pacing about on the scrubby ground behind his father’s house. ‘Fine,’ he said, keeping his voice steady, ‘but couldn’t you have let me know? I mean, what about Dad?’

  ‘Hmm, well, maybe you could have a go at trying to live with him for a while?’ Rod remarked with more than a trace of bitterness.

  James leaned against the dry stone wall, aware of his father’s two cats eyeing him keenly from the living room window. ‘I know Dad’s not easy,’ he conceded.

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘And of course I don’t expect you to stay here indefinitely—’

  ‘Well, thanks for that,’ his brother snapped. ‘That’s hugely generous of you.’

  James cleared his throat. ‘Okay, I realise you’re pissed off. I wish you’d said something, though. Who are you with, anyway?’

  ‘Just a friend …’

  So, how long d’you plan to be “off-grid”? We really need to get together and talk.’

  ‘No idea,’ Rod murmured.

  ‘Right, okay.’ James paused. ‘But are we talking a few more days, or weeks, or what?’

  ‘It’s kind of open-ended at the moment,’ Rod replied, infuriatingly.

  On that note, the woman – whoever she was – called out for Rod, and they finished the call. Keen to eke out a few more moments alone, James pulled himself up and sat on the wall, gazing out over the valley. It was one of those sharp winter days, blue skied with clear sunshine. Everything seemed incredibly sharp-focused. It was beautiful here, James reflected. Naturally, he’d never noticed quite how stunning it was when he’d been growing up; to him, the hills that swooped so gracefully were just there. He’d taken it for granted that there were rivers to wade in, his dad’s very own woodland in which to build dens, and those long, virtually endless days to fill with adventure.

  Now James was a dad, and, naturally, he’d never want to be too far away from Spike in Liverpool. But he still had a fondness for this part of Yorkshire – which was just as well, as his father was adamant that he planned to stay here for the rest of his days.

  Something had to be done, James decided later as he cleared up after dinner. Although he was no expert, he was aware that if Kenny was showing early signs of dementia, then things were only likely to get worse. James could stay here in the short term, making sure there was food in the house, that the place was reasonably orderly and Kenny didn’t harangue Reena’s houseguests again – but he couldn’t just relocate here permanently. He needed to be close to Spike, and then there was his work, specifically the narrowboat he had started to fit out, and whose owner was being incredibly patient. But he would have to get back to work at some point fairly soon. He had people waiting and a living to earn.


  Once again, James looked up sheltered accommodation in the Liverpool area and tried to coax his father into coming around to the idea by showing him the alluring pictures on his laptop. But Kenny wasn’t having any of it. It was clear now that getting some kind of help – via his dad’s GP, the social work department, or even a private carer if it came to that – was paramount.

  There was one thing for it, James decided. He would have to persuade his dad to go to the surgery for something fairly uncontroversial, in the hope that he could sit in on the appointment and somehow communicate telepathically with the GP (‘Do you think my father might be showing the early stages of dementia?’) while Kenny sat there, oblivious.

  ‘Yes, I think you might be onto something there,’ the doctor would transmit back. ‘But don’t worry, I shall arrange all the help he could possibly need.’

  A few days later, James broached the subject. ‘Dad,’ he started over breakfast, ‘I wondered if it might be a good idea for you to, um, have a few tests sometime?’

  ‘What kind of tests?’ Kenny asked with a mouthful of toast.

  ‘Just a few medical things. Blood pressure, cholesterol, the stuff everyone gets checked out from time to time …’

  ‘Are you saying I’m falling to bits now?’ Kenny asked, frowning.

  ‘Of course not.’ James was struggling to keep his tone level.

  ‘Why not shove me over a cliff and be done with it?’

  Tempting, James thought – but something must have sunk in as, later that day, his father grudgingly agreed to grace the surgery with his presence. The way things were right now, that seemed like something of a victory.

  They went together the following week, finding themselves sitting side by side in the starkly decorated waiting room of the medical centre in Heathfield. There was no surgery in Burley Bridge, and for that, James was thankful; he wouldn’t have relished bumping into anyone his father knew.

  Kenny’s name was called, and James sprang up from his chair as his father stood up. ‘What are you doing?’ Kenny asked.

  ‘I thought I’d come in with you, if that’s all right?’

  ‘What d’you want to do that for?’ His dark eyes narrowed. Across the waiting room, an elderly woman and a thin, pallid teenage boy – the only other people waiting – were clearly pretending not to be paying rapt attention.

  ‘I just thought it might be helpful,’ James said.

  ‘Kenny Halsall?’ the GP repeated from the doorway. He was wearing tiny round spectacles and had the wiry build of a jockey.

  James looked at him, trying to transmit the message: This is my father; he had fifty-seven egg sandwiches stuffed in his cupboard; could you please diagnose him with something and help?

  Kenny approached the doctor, and both men disappeared around the corner. James inhaled deeply, picked up a ragged copy of Improve Your Coarse Fishing magazine that he had no intention of reading, then dumped it back on the table and strode over to the receptionist. ‘Erm, my dad’s just gone through to the doctor’s,’ he started.

  She nodded curtly as if he really shouldn’t be bothering her. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was sort of hoping to go in with him,’ he continued, keeping his voice low, ‘but he wasn’t too keen on that. The thing is, I’d really like to talk to the doctor about my dad, about the concerns I have, about his memory and behaviour and things …’

  ‘Are you registered with this practice?’ the woman asked. Her mouth was pursed, her lipstick worn off apart from a peachy line around the edges. ‘Because, if you are,’ she added, ‘the best thing to do is make an appointment with your own GP and discuss it with them.’

  She turned back to her screen and seemed to be focusing on it intently. ‘I used to be registered,’ James offered, ‘so maybe I’m still on the system …’ Even as he said it, he knew there was no point in her even checking; there hadn’t been a ‘system’ then, at least no computer as far as he could recall. He was from a pre-systems era when things were written in books and there were drawers of files on everybody. It was the same building, but the last time he was here was probably when he’d chicken pox in something like 1989.

  ‘Date of birth?’ the woman asked. As James answered, his father reappeared, looking unusually buoyant and pleased with himself. ‘Nothing wrong with me,’ he announced.

  ‘Oh, that’s good, Dad.’ James beamed and turned back to the woman.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she barked at him.

  ‘James Halsall—’

  She shook her head. ‘You’re not on the system.’

  ‘Right. Okay. Well, could I possibly get on it?’

  She eyed him with suspicion. ‘You’ll need to take these forms and bring them back.’

  ‘Great.’ He exhaled, aware of his father gazing at him.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ Kenny asked.

  ‘Nothing, Dad.’ He looked at the woman. ‘There’s no chance I could have a quick word with the doctor just now, just for a second—’

  She widened her eyes and shook her head, as if he had expressed a desire to set up a burger stall right here in the reception. ‘No, sorry. He’s very busy today.’ He took the forms from her and stuffed them into his back pocket, aware of his father eyeing him curiously as they left the building and climbed into James’s car.

  ‘So, did the doctor give you any tests?’ James asked.

  ‘Oh yeah, he put that thing on my arm, the blood pressure thing,’ his father replied. James sensed him still studying him intently as he pulled out of the car park. ‘You think I’m going mad, don’t you?’ Kenny added.

  ‘Of course not, Dad,’ James said.

  ‘Why did you want to talk to my doctor, then?’

  ‘Just, you know, to see how things are.’

  His dad regarded him steadily as they waited at a red light. ‘You think I don’t know you threw all that food away.’

  ‘What food?’

  ‘My sandwiches!’

  James let out a gasp of exasperation. ‘Oh, Dad. I was just trying to clear out the—’

  ‘Well, don’t try anything,’ Kenny said firmly. ‘You know I hate waste.’

  As they fell into a rather surly silence on the drive back to Burley Bridge, James wondered what to do next. The thought of suggesting to his father than he might be suffering from anything more than perpetual ill humour filled him with horror. But then, James was an adult man of forty-one, and sometimes, being an adult required one to face up to bloody awful situations and figure out a way of dealing with them.

  No matter how maddening he was, and how fervently he railed against the idea of any kind of ‘help’, James was determined that he would not let his father down.

  Chapter Ten

  Sometimes it was hard for Lucy to remember what she was like before the accident. But, somehow, the weeks had gone on and she was still here, alive. Christmas had happened, apparently, although naturally it had been a write-off. Lucy’s parents had arrived at Rosemary Cottage, and Lucy had a vague recollection of a few presents and a cobbled-together dinner, and her mother cooking and cooking as the days went on – mostly pies, as it happened, as if copious quantities of pastry might save them all. But Lucy was still a mother herself, which required her to be stoic and strong – all those motherly things – so she did her best and tried not to fall to pieces in front of Marnie and Sam.

  You were supposed to hold it together, just because you’d given birth. You had to comfort your children when they were inconsolable and stand there, clutching their hands because you’d decided it was best for them to go to Daddy’s cremation, to say goodbye properly with the other people who loved him. As if you were capable of making any kind of rational decision. Should they have gone? Was it too traumatising for them, even though Lucy had somehow got it together to find a young, female celebrant who had followed her request to make the ceremony a celebration of Ivan’s life?

  It was beautiful – everyone had said so. Well, nearly everyone. Lucy became convinced that Iva
n’s mother, Penny, had glanced at her with fury – as if she thought she were somehow to blame for the accident. Perhaps she was being hypersensitive, and of course, his parents were devastated too. Ivan had been their only child, and although they were hardly demonstrative, she knew they adored him. Back in their North London semi, his childhood bedroom had remained just as he’d left it when he’d departed for university at eighteen years old.

  In contrast, Lucy had always suspected that they had never fully approved of her. Penny was a retired ward sister, while Nigel had worked as a quantity surveyor. She’d sensed that they had viewed her job in lingerie as faintly ridiculous: ‘Underwear? Really?’ Penny had remarked, paling slightly as if Lucy had explained that she was a pole dancer, and would they like to come watch her next show? Their move to Burley Bridge, and the opening of their B&B, had clearly baffled them too.

  ‘What d’you do all day, Lucy?’ Penny had asked one day last summer.

  ‘I do most of the stuff connected with the guests,’ she’d explained, her jaw set tight with the effort of remaining pleasant. She’d wanted to add, as well as looking after the children and the house and doing my floral commissions. Of course she hadn’t said that – but Christ, it was hard to be civil sometimes. It had been her in-laws’ first visit to Burley Bridge; they were obviously uncomfortable with venturing beyond the North Circular, and had apparently been appalled that Ivan had chosen to stay on in Manchester after university.

  Penny dropped the phrase ‘The North’ regularly into conversation: ‘Are you sure there’s enough of a holiday market in The North, Lucy?’ And, ‘Do you think people in The North really want this kind of sophisticated breakfast menu?’ As if bread and dripping, shovelled in before they clomped off in clogs to plough the fields, was more the normal kind of fare.