The Flight of Cornelia Blackwood

by Susan Elliot Wright

  Judy was right about sherry being essential at funerals. I can’t remember the last time I even drank sherry, never mind bought any, but we’ve gone through almost two bottles of the stuff today. I decide to have one myself, and Paul agrees we should probably slow down on the whisky, so he pours three glasses while I make the tea.

  We spend the next hour or so talking about Adrian as we drink tea or sip sherry – it’s sickly-sweet but oddly comforting. We don’t talk about the crash, or why he was on that road, or the fact that he’s gone, but about him. Things we remember about him; things he did or said, often funny, sometimes sweet, occasionally annoying. Like the way he couldn’t stop himself from telling you the whole plot of a film or book, including the ending, even if you intended to watch it or read it yourself. There are a few stories I haven’t heard, and I carefully store away the details to take out again and pore over later. I didn’t know about him climbing out of his bedroom window when he was sixteen to go to a party after he’d been grounded, for example. And I didn’t know he’d once gone missing during a family holiday on a farm in Devon when he was four. ‘We had the police out and everything,’ Paul says. ‘And all the time he was fifty feet away, curled up asleep with the pigs. How the hell he wasn’t crushed to death we’ll never know.’

  Helen sits there, smiling good-naturedly, and I wonder whether she’s itching to get back to her daughter and new grandchild, but she seems content to listen to these stories about a man she barely knew.

  ‘He was like that, though, wasn’t he, Leah? If he got it in his mind to do something, he’d do it, no matter what, and the sooner the better.’ He smiles and turns to Helen. ‘Have I told you about the day he brought Leah to meet me?’

  Helen shakes her head, and he goes on to tell her about our ‘whirlwind romance’, and how we’d come and told him we were getting married the following week.

  ‘It was four weeks, actually,’ I say.

  He brushes the words away with his hand. ‘Something like that.’ He’s enjoying himself now, clearly pleased by Helen’s widening eyes, her obvious delight at the romance of the story. ‘I told them they were potty, told them to wait a year at least. But what did I know? Turned out they were right all along.’ He smiles at me, and I feel a rush of affection for him.

  ‘Don’t forget what else you advised us to do,’ I add.

  He looks puzzled for a moment, then his face brightens. ‘Ah, yes. I told them to go and talk to his grandma – my mother. I always turned to her for advice after Audrey died. She lived nearby and she doted on the boys. A clever woman, my mother, with considerable wisdom and common sense.’

  As Paul is relating the story to Helen, I let my own memory wander back to that day. Adrian had described his grandma as a ‘formidable old lady’, so I was extremely nervous about meeting her. I thought she’d be deeply suspicious of me, and protective of her beloved grandson. I remember perching rigidly on the edge of an armchair in her flat while she moved slowly around in her kitchen making a pot of tea and cutting slices of a home-made marmalade cake. When she came in and sat down, she looked at Adrian with a rather stern expression. ‘Well now, to what do I owe this unexpected honour?’

  Adrian came straight out with it. ‘We’re getting married in four weeks’ time and we want you to come to the wedding.’ The silence rang around the room.

  She looked at me, then back at Adrian, still straight-faced. ‘Are you each in love with the other?’ We both nodded and Adrian said, ‘Yes, Grandma, we absolutely are.’

  Her response was a slight inclination of the head. ‘And at what point did you become aware of this deep affection?’

  She hates me, I thought.

  ‘Within about an hour,’ Adrian said with a grin. He didn’t seem remotely concerned at her tone, and appeared relaxed as he leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs.

  For the first time I saw the ghost of a smile taking shape on the old lady’s face as she turned to me. ‘And you, young lady? Did you feel the same instant certainty about this rather reckless young man?’ Her tone had changed; I wasn’t entirely sure, but I thought I detected a hint of playfulness.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I did, actually.’ I hadn’t intended that slightly defiant note, but it slipped out. To my astonishment, she put her hands together and almost squealed with delight. ‘Then I shall give you my blessing. Oh, Adrian, I am so pleased. Is your father happy? Your mother would have been, I’m quite sure. We must celebrate. Leah, my dear, open the left-hand door of that sideboard. You’ll find some sherry. Ignore the one in the green bottle, it tastes like furniture polish – cheap and nasty. We’ll have that rather nice Portuguese one. Adrian, fetch some glasses.’

  ‘See?’ Adrian whispered as he walked past me to go to the kitchen. ‘Told you so.’

  I smile now at the memory, vaguely wondering if that was the last time I drank sherry. I can feel Paul looking at me. ‘You tell her the rest,’ he says.

  I turn to Helen. ‘Dorothea was a firm believer in love at first sight, it turned out. After she’d finished grilling us, she told me about the day she met Adrian’s grandad. Apparently she was having tea with her mother at a posh hotel in London – it was her sixteenth birthday and the tea was a birthday treat – when he walked in with a couple of friends and sat at a nearby table. She said she glanced over at him because she thought he had a nice laugh, but as soon as she did so, their eyes locked and she felt an immediate connection. She leaned over to her mother and said, “See that man with the big moustache and the black umbrella? I’m going to marry him one day”. And two years later, she did.’

  ‘What a lovely story,’ Helen says. Her eyes are shining and I wonder if she’s remembering the husband she lost a few years ago. ‘How long were they married?’

  ‘Sixty-six years,’ Paul says. ‘And they were devoted to each other all their lives.’ He looks thoughtful for a moment, then reaches over and pats the back of my hand. ‘You and Adrian . . . it was right. I’m glad he had . . .’ He swallows and shakes his head. ‘Shouldn’t have been cut short like this. All you went through, the two of you, but you never gave up. You got through it together.’ His voice has gone hoarse again and he clears his throat to disguise it. In less than a minute, the mood in the room has changed from borderline cheery to, well, not cheery. I think we’re all thinking the same thing – that for the last hour or so, the fact that today was Adrian’s funeral has almost slipped into the background.

  It’s clear that we’re all quite tired, and soon we move to the hallway for their coats. I thank Helen again for being here when it’s such an important time for her own family. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ she says. ‘I’ve got three daughters and seven grandchildren – oh, eight now – so a new baby isn’t any big—’ She stops and I see the sudden discomfort breaking out on her face. Her voice trails off. ‘I mean, well, it, um . . .’

  At least that answers one question: Paul must have told her about what happened. Her distress is obvious, and I feel awful for her. I give her a hug. ‘I expect you must be getting used to it now.’ I make a fair attempt at a smile.

  She looks so grateful, I almost want to hug her again.

  After they’ve gone, I can’t settle. I keep having this odd feeling that I’ve forgotten something to do with the funeral. It’s as if it isn’t quite complete, as if there’s something else that needs to happen now everyone’s gone. Then I realise what it is. I’m waiting for Adrian to stop being dead. For him to come back so I can talk to him about it all, find out what he thought and ask him what we’re going to do now.

  CHAPTER TEN

  NOW

  I’ve been avoiding going through his things. I like seeing his jackets hanging in the wardrobe and his iPod on the dressing table where he left it. But when Paul and Helen offer to help, I realise I can’t put it off any longer. Paul goes out to deal with the garage and shed, while Helen follows me up to the bedroom to sort out his clothes. ‘Moral support,’ Helen says. ‘It’s tough doin
g a job like this on your own. How about if I take everything out of the wardrobe and lay it on the bed, then you can have a good look through? Some people seem to think it’s just a matter of bagging it all up and taking it to the charity shop, but I know it’s not that simple.’

  ‘It’s not, is it?’ I’m relieved she understands.

  ‘So, wardrobe first?’

  I nod, and she puts her hand on my arm. ‘This’ll be hard.’

  As I go through the pockets, it flips into my mind that I might find some clue as to why he was out near Castledene that day. I try not to think about it – as Richard said, what matters is, he’s gone. But the question keeps creeping back in. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed each time I find nothing but a half-pack of chewing gum or an old train ticket. I find myself checking the destinations and dates, though: Leeds, April – that was another conference; Derby, a few weeks ago – football with Richard; and there’s one to Cambridge in August. That’ll be the weekend he went down to help Chris lay the new terrace while Judy took the boys to Norfolk. When I’ve finished, I look at the things I’ve retrieved. There’s a pencil sharpener, a couple of elastic bands, a few coins, four ballpoint pens, paperclips, a page from a memo pad with the name of a book and a publication date scrawled on it and half a packet of fruit pastilles. I pick these up and hold them for a long time. I feel my eyes filling up. I am oddly moved by the thought of him going into a shop to buy sweets like a little boy, and then popping a fruit pastille into his mouth and sucking on it while his mind wrangled with educational theory. These are the things that are hardest to throw away, the things of no consequence; things he slipped into his pockets day-to-day without even thinking.

  ‘What about this?’ Helen hands me a smallish cardboard box with a lid. I don’t recognise it, but it looks like it might have once contained stationery – paper, or envelopes. ‘It looks personal – cards and photographs, and so on.’

  I lift the lid and am touched to see some of the cards I’ve made for him over the years. I knew he’d kept one or two, but there are quite a lot here. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘It was at the bottom of the wardrobe, under all those pairs of trainers.’

  Was this just forgotten, or had he hidden it? My heart is pounding again – could this box contain a clue as to what he was doing on that particular road that day? ‘Thanks.’ I replace the lid and put the box on the dressing table to take downstairs. ‘I’ll go through it properly later.’

  We agree that Chris would probably like the CDs of bands the two of them used to be into. There are a couple of good guitars, and I remember Judy saying something about the boys having lessons. Maybe one of the boys would like the iPod, too. We take everything that’s to go to Chris and Judy’s downstairs, and I pack it all in a box in the hall for Paul to take down next weekend. As I straighten up, a pain catches my spine and shoots down my leg, causing me to cry out. Helen comes rushing to my side. ‘What is it? Are you all right?’

  I nod. ‘I’m okay. I moved without thinking, that’s all. I just need to take some painkillers and sit down for five minutes.’ I walk carefully into the kitchen. I haven’t used my stick for days, but it’s easy to overdo it or make a careless move. I swallow a couple of painkillers with a mouthful of cold coffee, then I sit at the table and wait for them to kick in. I feel another wave of sadness as I look at the table, the first piece of furniture we ever bought together. It was the only thing we bought for years because every penny we had – the proceeds from the sale of my flat, all Adrian’s savings – went into buying this house. The place was a total wreck when we moved in, and even the money our dads gave us as a wedding present just disappeared when we started doing it up, but when we found this table in one of those warehouse-damaged clearance sales, we both loved it. The damage to one of the legs was barely noticeable and anyway, we wanted the inevitable marks and scratches to help build its character. We wanted this table to be a tangible reminder of the joys of our lives together, from those first days, to when we became parents and perhaps even grandparents. I trace my finger round the little dents, chips and grooves on its surface. There are not enough of them, not nearly enough.

  Helen puts her head round the door. ‘How about his personal things, toiletries and so on?’

  I don’t answer straight away. Getting rid of the little travel kit he took to the conference with him was easy, because everything was miniature and disposable – bought specifically for travel and not really personal to him. But the things that are here in the bathroom are so Adrian. There’s the electric razor I bought him last year, still plugged in; his sandalwood deodorant and aftershave on the shelf; the Ocean Fresh shower gel he likes – liked – so much. And his slightly worn toothbrush, still at the back of the basin where I got annoyed with him for leaving it. It is these things that nearly fold me over with grief, and yet the thought of them not being here . . .

  ‘I felt the same when I lost my husband,’ Helen tells me. ‘Left all his bits and bobs there for weeks, which was daft, really, because it made it all the harder to clear them out. My sister got rid of it all for me, in the end.’ She puts her hand gently on my shoulder. ‘Would you like me to do it?’

  I nod. I feel that familiar tightening in my throat that I keep expecting to turn to tears, but which always stops just short. I’m sure I’d feel better if I could cry. The sense of loss is definitely physical. I can feel it right in the centre of my gut, a cold, dull ache. I wonder what Paul and Helen must make of my absence of tears. There can’t be many women who still haven’t been able to cry properly six weeks after their husband’s death.

  It’s almost half past one, I realise. I don’t feel like eating, but Helen and Paul must be getting hungry. I take a block of frozen leek and potato soup out of the freezer. Adrian was alive when I made that. Again the tears clot in my throat. I put the soup on to heat, pick up my cigarettes and unlock the back door. I can hear Paul moving around in the garage, so now is probably a good time. I’ve only had three today – I try not to smoke when there are other people here. I’m halfway through the cigarette when I hear Helen’s voice behind me. ‘Do you think I could pinch one of those?’ My astonishment makes Helen giggle. ‘Goodness, the look on your face!’

  I close my mouth. ‘Of course you can.’ I offer her the pack. ‘But I’m a bit surprised.’

  ‘Once in a blue moon, that’s all. I gave up properly years ago, but a bereaved lady shouldn’t have to smoke alone.’

  I like having company while I smoke. It’s the reason I started in the first place. I’d become friendly with a few of the other patients and at one point, I was the only one in a group of six who didn’t smoke. Once I’d started, I found it surprisingly easy to overcome my horror at what it was doing to my body, and I liked the comforting repetition, the way cigarettes became a sort of punctuation to the day.

  When Paul and Helen have gone home, I open the box Helen found in the wardrobe and start to sift through the contents. There are a handful of photographs of Adrian as a child, one with him and Chris and both parents, a few of him with his mum. There’s one of him at about three years old on a seesaw with Chris, his mum holding him in place so he doesn’t fall. Then I find one of me sitting on a bench with a glass of wine in my hand, shielding my eyes from the sun. I remember that day – we’d had a picnic in the park. We’d only been together about a week. As well as the photos, there are loads of cards – birthdays, anniversaries, valentines – possibly every card I ever made him. The earlier ones were quite elaborate – proper white card and with bits of ribbon and other things stuck on the front. Some are no more than a folded piece of paper with a badly drawn heart and a few kisses dotted around. I have some like this that he made for me, too, and I treasure them just as much as the others. I pick up a folded piece of thin green paper. For a moment I wonder why he has one of my old pay claims in this box, but then I see the writing on the back and I remember. Good morning, husband, and happy first day of the rest of our marrie
d lives. It looks like we’ve missed breakfast, so I’m going out to look for some rolls or croissants. Love, your wife xxxx

  The first day of our honeymoon in Lyon. My vision blurs and I blink to clear it.

  I look up at the picture on the wall. Adrian smiling and tanned in a light grey fitted suit, the rose in his buttonhole drooping a little in the heat. And me in a floor-length burgundy dress with spaghetti straps, hair pinned messily on top of my head, grinning and holding a tied bunch of white roses with wispy trailing ribbons. We invited about forty people, and even though some of them thought we were mad, most people got caught up in the excitement of arranging everything in just four weeks. It was touch and go, but we got there. There was a simple lunch of cold poached salmon, potato salad and asparagus, followed by strawberries and cream, with plenty of wine and champagne to go with it. And thanks to Adrian’s grandma, who still had a weekly ‘baking day’, we even had a small wedding cake which she iced herself. It was the most amazing day, and even the sceptics admitted it was possibly the happiest wedding they’d ever been to. We couldn’t get a photographer at such short notice, but Paul, Richard and Abi, my friend from work, all took lots of pictures, and in every photograph of that day there’s not a single person who isn’t smiling or laughing. We were so ridiculously happy that it just spilled out onto everyone else. We knew we were meant to be together; we just knew.

  I take the picture down from the wall and wipe the dusty glass with the sleeve of my t-shirt. I search Adrian’s face for some clue, and as I look into his eyes I ask him silently, Where were you going?

  I’m too tired to go through the desk tonight and my back is aching quite badly, so I swallow some painkillers and climb into bed. Automatically I reach for Adrian’s t-shirt, which I bunch up against my face, burying my nose in the fabric. At first, the smell of him was so close and warm that I could fall asleep almost believing he was lying next to me, but now his precious scent is fading, and soon it’ll be gone completely. A few tears leak from my eyes and I let out a small sob as I whisper his name into the pillow, but my tears don’t last and I’m left with that dull ache behind my eyes. If only I could cry properly, loudly, like a child. I take his watch from the bedside table and settle down to sleep with it clutched tightly in my hand. It still works, although the glass casing was damaged in the crash. As I lie there in the dark, the watch face cool against my cheek, I am comforted by the sound of it ticking, by hearing the wheels and cogs of the mechanism continuing to go round even though his heart is no longer beating.