Another Way to Fall

by Brooke, Amanda

  The unconventional venue meant that the wedding breakfast could be held there and then. The party could continue afterwards at the bistro but this was the place where all the formalities would take place, including the speeches and, thankfully, the weather didn’t encroach on their plans. Champagne bottles were popping before Emma and Ben had time to draw breath and as they turned around, glasses were being lifted into the air.

  ‘To the bride and groom,’ everyone chorused, as the music started up and Ben led his new bride towards the well-wishers.

  Emma didn’t know who to greet first, there were so many familiar faces. Gina was linking arms with Dan, Ally stood a little more discretely with Peter’s arm around her waist. Mr Bannister was there, as was Jennifer, but Emma had someone else in her sights, the person who deserved the first hug. She ushered Ben in the direction of his father-in-law whilst she walked over and let her mum wrap her arms around her.

  ‘Thank you, Mum,’ Emma said.

  ‘What for? This is your day, your creation,’ Meg told her, reaching up a hand to tuck away a rogue curl from Emma’s face.

  ‘Thank you for everything. For making me strong enough to be happy.’

  ‘And are you happy?’ Meg asked.

  ‘Blissfully,’ Emma assured her. Only now did she notice the eminent figure standing next to her mum. He looked quite different without his white coat and stethoscope. ‘As long as you two don’t come to blows in the middle of my big day.’

  ‘I’ll have you know, your mother and I never fought each other. We were always fighting for you, in our own, sometimes opposing ways,’ Mr Spelling corrected.

  ‘Hmm,’ Emma replied, ‘I’m going to have to trust you on that one while I go and say hello to some of my other guests.’

  Emma gave into her curiosity and walked over to Jennifer and her old boss. She was keen to hear the latest news on Alex who, according to Ally and Gina, hadn’t been seen for over a week.

  ‘How lovely to see you both,’ Emma said as the old man leaned forward to kiss her cheek. Mr Bannister was only in his sixties but years of drinking and smoking had aged him beyond his years. At least beneath his weathered skin, his spirit was still as indomitable and boundless as ever.

  ‘We wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ Jennifer told her, reaching over to touch Emma’s arm gently; there wasn’t a hint of the gushing insincerity that would once have greeted her.

  ‘Why don’t you get this girl a drink,’ Mr Bannister said, raising a meaningful eyebrow to his daughter. Jennifer dutifully disappeared out of earshot.

  ‘I’m glad I’ve caught you on your own,’ he began with a wicked smile.

  ‘Yes, how did that happen?’

  ‘I hope you’ll indulge an old man and let me clear my conscience,’ he said, waiting long enough for Emma to nod her consent. ‘I made a mistake not putting you in charge of marketing, I know that. Alex wasn’t up to the task.’

  ‘I take it by your use of the past tense that he’s no longer in your employ?’ Emma asked and when Mr Bannister told her that he had been sacked the week before, she felt a sense of relief mixed with a little pity, which she knew Alex didn’t deserve. ‘Jennifer made you see sense, then?’

  ‘You’ve influenced her more than you could even begin to imagine and I will be eternally grateful for that. I’m only sorry I didn’t appreciate you when I had the chance.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. Today isn’t about regrets. To hell with the past, or the future for that matter.’

  Mr Bannister didn’t have a chance to respond even if he had been able to think of anything to say. The music had stopped and there was an insistent tapping on a glass as Steven drew everyone’s attention. Emma was summoned to Ben’s side and they stood in the centre of the church, next to a small pond that had been added after the church’s demise. It gave life to an assortment of tall, willowy plants and there were white ribbons tied to every branch and twig, each one conveying a single-word blessing written by their guests, but there was no time to read them. The best man was about to give his speech and Emma wanted to concentrate on every word, even though she already knew it by heart.

  If your soul had wings,

  If it could fly away

  Then hope is the anchor

  That will help it stay

  If your heart could sing,

  If it had its own tune

  Then the notes it would choose

  Would never end too soon

  If time was an ocean

  If it touched no shore

  Then your love is a raft

  And through storms will endure

  If your dreams could come true

  If you could bring them to life

  Then Emma and Ben have theirs

  As husband and wife

  Chapter 17

  It had been many years since I had thought of the kindly shopkeeper, decades in fact, but I thought of him now, standing in his mysterious shop full of life’s hidden gifts that had been mine for the taking. He stood patiently watching as I scanned the shelves, searching out something I might have missed.

  ‘By rights they should be bare by now,’ he told me.

  ‘Have I been too greedy?’

  He laughed softly and his belly wobbled. ‘Not greedy,’ he said, ‘just thirsty for life and that’s how it should be. It would have been such a shame to leave the boxes unopened, wasted opportunities.’

  ‘I’m glad you said that because I’m still very, very thirsty,’ I confessed, but then self-doubt set in. ‘Although I’m fairly certain that I’ve already had everything I could possibly think of.’

  The shopkeeper narrowed his eyes. ‘Now might be a good time for reflection.’

  He was right of course. I needed to take stock of my life and although I had achieved so much, I hadn’t done it all on my own. I owed a debt of gratitude to those around me, to the ones who had helped and supported me and most of all, loved me. Inspiration struck. ‘Do you have a gift department?’

  Reaching up towards the ceiling, which looked surprisingly like open blue sky, the shopkeeper pulled down a new set of shelves to reveal row upon row of brightly wrapped gift boxes. Each gift had its own handwritten label, a single word in beautiful script that succinctly described the blessing contained within. My eyes darted from one to the other.

  ‘I can’t see the one that says “happiness”,’ I told him, a mixture of disappointment and surprise in my voice.

  ‘We don’t carry that particular product, I’m afraid,’ he said, but he didn’t sound the least bit apologetic.

  ‘But isn’t that the one that everyone wants?’

  ‘Happiness means different things to different people and at different times in their lives. What we have here,’ he explained, ‘are the basic ingredients. It’s for everyone to make up their own recipes.’

  I glanced back at the boxes and reread each and every label before I was ready to make my choices. I followed my intuition and settled on four: courage, love, hope, and peace. A buzz of excitement grew inside me as I imagined what each of the people I loved would make of their essential ingredients. The shopkeeper was right, each person would create their own recipe for happiness; all that I could do was pass on my blessings for lives that I hoped would be as wonderful as mine had been.

  ‘Do you deliver?’

  ‘Consider it done,’ he said, ‘but before you go, I have a gift for you.’ The shopkeeper took something from his pocket. It was a tiny box, as beautifully and meticulously wrapped as any of those on the shelves, but this was unlabelled and when he passed it to me, it fitted in the palm of my hand. ‘This is something special from that man of yours.’

  ‘From Ben?’ I asked, looking at the box again. The brightly coloured wrapping paper reflected the light, a flaming mixture of oranges, reds and golds. I gently tugged at the bow that tied it all together and it crackled with the sound of dry, autumn leaves. ‘Can I open it?’

  ‘No, not yet. Ben will need to think about what he w
ants to put inside it first and speaking of the devil, I think he’s trying to wake you up.’

  ‘What?’ I mumbled as I felt myself floating somewhere between sleep and consciousness.

  Ben was nudging me, slowly rousing me from my slumber.

  ‘Emma,’ he coaxed. ‘It’s a bit early for a catnap, isn’t it?’

  A magazine slipped off my lap as I tried to sit up in my armchair. For a moment, it sounded like the flap of an angel’s wings and as I opened my eyes, I felt disorientated. The room was in darkness whereas it had been a bright spring afternoon when I had closed my eyes.

  Still groggy, I watched my husband as he switched on a lamp. He was still the man I had fallen in love with all those years ago. I didn’t see the receding hairline or the gentle stoop of his shoulders or the groans as he climbed out of bed each morning and I hoped he could say the same about me. I was starting to feel old and I certainly couldn’t do the things I used to, not without a lot more effort. But I didn’t feel old. In my mind, I was still planning the next adventure.

  We had pushed ourselves to the limit in recent years. It hadn’t been enough for us to simply see the world, we had devoured it too. My greatest fear was that one day I would be forced to stop even though my thirst for adventure was barely satiated. Time and my body were my enemy.

  ‘Another brochure?’ Ben asked as he picked up the magazine that had slipped from my lap. ‘We only got rid of the grandkids two days ago, don’t you want to take a little breather first?’ When he saw me look furtively back at the brochure, he sighed in resignation. ‘Where now?’

  ‘Deep-sea diving?’ I said, as if I was asking him something simple like suggesting a cheese sandwich for lunch.

  Ben gave a deep, throaty laugh. ‘I need an oxygen tank walking up the stairs these days, isn’t that bad enough?’

  I couldn’t help but laugh too, only my laughter turned into a coughing fit and left me gasping for breath. Ben’s joke applied far more to me than him and he knew it. I had to bang my chest the way that old people do, to remind my lungs that they were supposed to let me breathe and laugh at the same time.

  Ben crouched down next to me and put his arm around my shoulder. ‘You’re still the apple of my eye but you can’t go chasing halfway around the world in search of your lost youth. Maybe it’s time we hung up our walking shoes.’

  I looked at him and wondered where the conversation was leading. Was he getting too old for this or worse still, thinking that I was already past it? I knew I was struggling, the cough I’d had for months wasn’t shifting, but I was still living and I certainly wasn’t ready to be wrapped up in cotton wool. ‘Really?’ I asked.

  Ben giggled like a schoolboy. ‘Nah, of course not,’ he said with a familiar twinkle in his eyes. ‘The magic will never die.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re warm enough?’ Ben asked. They were sitting on a park bench and, having fed the ducks with enough bread to sink them, had retired to a higher vantage point away from the lake. Emma had chosen a seat where they could bathe in the glory of the Field of Hope with its golden sea of daffodils, which had bubbled to the surface since her last visit to Sefton Park.

  March was about to be overtaken by April and the weather continued to improve but despite the mild temperatures, Emma was wrapped in woollen layers complete with hat, scarf and gloves. ‘Yes, Ben. The wool may not be cotton wool but I’m perfectly wrapped up,’ she said, knowing he would recognize the reference to her latest entry in her book.

  ‘I get the message,’ he conceded.

  Emma was working on her story every chance she had, desperate to cling onto the time she had left, but each time she placed her hands on the keyboard she sensed time slipping through her fingers. She was putting a lot of strain on her body to finish it and that building pressure was most evident inside her head. She tried not to rely too heavily on painkillers, which eased the back pain and headaches but which also numbed her mind. She had been forced to change the settings on her computer so the type was larger but it eased rather than cured her bouts of blurred vision. At times, she had resorted to touch-typing with her eyes closed but even that was becoming difficult. There was a distinct weakness in her left side and occasionally her fingers felt numb or completely forgot what they were supposed to do. There were also occasional periods of confusion, frustrating minutes that ticked away as she tried to find the right words.

  All in all, her body could not keep pace with the story that Emma was still creating in her mind and that was where Ben came in. He wasn’t only her fellow traveller and sounding board, he was the assistant who noted down new ideas as they developed and he was the copy-editor who corrected occasional lapses in Emma’s literary prowess. Ben was now spending almost all of his time with her, rarely going to the bistro other than to delegate work to the many willing volunteers or working up new menus that he wouldn’t have time to eat, let alone cook.

  ‘So, are you ready to tell me what’s supposed to be in the box?’ he asked.

  Emma stared out over the daffodils. There were hundreds if not thousands of fluted yellow heads, all swaying carefree in the breeze. Some daffodils had yet to bloom whilst others were looking a little frayed around the edges but the carpet of gold was seamless. In contrast, the sky above was dark and brooding and she had to wait patiently for the sun to pierce the cloud cover and make the field shine in all its glory. When it did, it stung her eyes.

  She bathed in a sense of achievement. She had made it through the birth of spring and with a little more perseverance, she would be around to see what she considered to be the most spectacular prelude to the summer. ‘It’s like I said in the story, that’s for you to decide.’

  ‘And will my wife give me any hints as to what kind of gift she would like to be in the box or do I have to read her mind?’

  Emma tore her eyes away from the daffodils and looked at Ben. ‘This is my last spring,’ she said, her heartbreaking statement a means of conveying how precious the scene in front of her was. ‘It’s such a remarkable time of year. How can anyone look at that field and not be amazed at the transformation? I only hope I get to see the blossom trees in all their glory too. Only then will I be able to face the season that frightens me the most.’

  Ben didn’t answer at first but let his eyes take in every detail of Emma’s face, only then would he turn to face the landscape that she held so dear. He didn’t need to be told that for his wife there could be no natural order to the seasons, summer would not follow spring. ‘You want me to give you your autumn,’ he concluded.

  ‘You read my mind and that’s going to come in very useful,’ Emma said, her words choking on the tears that she would not allow to fall. The tears weren’t for herself but for Ben and what she was about to ask of him. She took his hand and squeezed it fiercely. ‘You need to write the end of our story, Ben. I’m not going to be in a position to do that for myself.’

  ‘I almost wish I didn’t know you so well,’ he said.

  ‘No you don’t,’ corrected Emma.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he agreed with a sigh that barely hinted at the burden that had just been placed on his shoulders. ‘I know what you’re doing, by the way. All of those gifts from the shopkeeper.’

  ‘I am what I am,’ Emma told him. ‘If there’s a problem to solve, I want to fix it. The thing you will want most when you’re facing your grief is me. I can’t be there but my blessings can.’

  ‘Courage, love and hope?’ Ben said, trying to remember the labels on the boxes.

  ‘And peace,’ Emma told him.

  ‘It’s a lot to ask,’ Ben said. His eyes shone with golden reflections but there were no tears to blur his vision. He was keeping his promise.

  ‘I know.’ Emma pulled off a glove and reached over to slip her hand beneath Ben’s jacket. She had her hand over his heart, which was pounding fiercely, but it was his breast pocket that she sought with her fingers and it wasn’t long before she felt the silken smoothness of the photograph he always kept close.
‘This will help.’

  It was the picture Ben had taken of the moment when Emma had come face to face with the Northern Lights. There was a sharp intake of breath and Emma pretended not to hear the suppressed sob that had escaped before he bit down hard on his lip.

  ‘Courage, love, hope and peace,’ Emma repeated. ‘There to see in my face, just in case you forget what they look like.’

  As she held out the photo, a large raindrop splashed onto its surface and Ben hurriedly returned it to the safety of his pocket. Emma meanwhile slipped off her other glove and then her hat to reveal a thin covering of hair and the slithers of silvery red skin that marked her battle wounds but even with her frailties exposed, she felt invulnerable. She lifted her head to the skies, her hands reaching upwards as she embraced the life she still clung to. Heavy raindrops hit the palms of her hand and for a moment they reminded her of tears falling, but as the rain hit her smiling face it washed away all painful thoughts. She was ready to enjoy the moment despite Ben’s protestations that they should run for the car. The sun hadn’t completely given up the fight and Emma was hoping for a rainbow.

  ‘I don’t know why we haven’t done this before,’ I said, slipping off my sandals and letting my feet sink into the warm golden sands. ‘I always thought cruises were for old people.’

  ‘We are old people,’ Ben said, correcting my delusion. ‘But this isn’t exactly your average cruise. Not many people get to hitch a ride on one of those.’ He was looking back towards the ocean where our very own yacht lay at anchor. It reminded me vaguely of the boats I used to watch fighting the choppy waters of the Mersey as they gathered like flocks during the Tall Ships parade, but in the aqua blue of the Caribbean Sea, this singular behemoth looked far grander if not slightly smug.