The house is decorated with balloons and there’s a Happy Birthday banner stretched across the bay window. The front door is open and I can see children milling around inside.
‘I’ll just get him settled,’ Cassie says. ‘He’s been here to play loads of times, so I shouldn’t be long.’
‘No hurry. Have a lovely time, Ollie.’ I wave as he walks up the path holding Cassie’s hand, and the smile he gives me as he waves back makes my own mouth stretch into a broad grin.
‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,’ Cassie says as we drive back. ‘I’d have got him there on the bus, but it would have been a mad dash to get back for the AA, and then I’d be worried about picking him up again. Bloody car.’
‘Let’s hope it’s something simple.’
‘Yeah, hope so. I totally took the car for granted when David was alive. He was good with engines. If it broke down, he’d tinker around with it and either fix it immediately or go off and buy some second-hand part and fit it himself. If anything goes wrong now, it costs me a bloody fortune.’
I don’t say anything for a moment. ‘Remind me how long ago it was that you lost your husband?’
‘Nearly five years now. We’d only been married two years.’
‘Oh, that’s terrible. So sad. If you don’t mind me asking, how—’
‘He was diabetic, and he used to do his own insulin injections. He went to a party one night – normally, I’d have been with him, but I’d had the flu and I still felt weak, so I didn’t go. I’m not sure what happened, whether he was careless or whether someone thought it would be funny to get him drunk, but anyway, he missed his insulin, and—’ Her voice catches.
I glance at her and, seeing that she’s struggling not to cry, reach over and touch her arm. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘No.’ Cassie sniffs, then sighs. ‘No, I don’t mind talking about it, it just gets me now and again, that’s all. I’m thirty-seven years old and I’m a widow. I just think it’s shit, sometimes.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ I say again. ‘That’s something we have in common – both too young to be widowed.’
I see Cassie turn her head sharply. ‘Oh, my God, I didn’t realise! When you said you were on your own, I don’t know why, I just assumed you meant you’d split up. Shit, Leah, I’m so sorry.’
I find I can’t speak. I intend to shrug and say something along the lines of, I’m coping, or, I’m getting used to it, but my throat is clogged with tears. Now it’s Cassie’s turn to put a comforting hand on my arm. I bite my lip and nod in acknowledgement.
‘How long ago?’
‘Not long.’ I slow down as I approach the house, flick the indicator and turn into the drive. ‘October last year. He was killed in a car accident.’
Cassie gasps and both hands fly up to her mouth. ‘Oh, my God,’ she says again, ‘how awful. I don’t know what to say.’
I turn off the engine, rest my hands on the steering wheel and sigh. ‘No, it’s hard to know what to say. I think . . . Sometimes I think I still haven’t quite taken it in myself. I keep thinking he’s going to walk back in one day.’
‘I used to think that about David. I couldn’t believe he was never coming back.’
We sit in silence for a few moments, then I take the keys out of the ignition. ‘Come on, let’s go in and get a cup of tea.’
We’re both subdued as we drink tea at the kitchen table.
‘How old was your husband?’ Cassie asks.
‘He’d just turned forty-two.’
‘David was thirty-six. We used to talk about “the future”, as if it was this long period of time stretching out in front of us that we could fill with . . . Oh, it felt so unfair, apart from anything else.’
I nod. God, I want a cigarette. ‘I know what you mean. Did you feel angry? I did. Angry that he’d gone, angry with him for dying, and angry . . . Oh, I don’t know. Just generally very, very angry.’
‘Yes, me too. Sometimes I used to walk round the house crying and shouting at him for leaving me so soon, before we’d even had a baby. Mad, isn’t it? But I think grief can make you go a bit loopy. What was his name, by the way? Your husband?’
‘Oh.’ There’s a beat before I say, ‘Clive.’ It crosses my mind too late that he might have told Cassie his real name rather than the one he used, but she doesn’t react.
‘I expect—’ She stops as her phone vibrates. ‘Hang on, this might be them. Hello? Yes, brilliant, see you in a bit.’ She gets to her feet. ‘They’re just round the corner. Thanks again, Leah. For driving us, and for the chat. It’s good to talk to someone who knows what it’s like.’
I nod. ‘Yes, I agree.’ This is unexpected, this bond I sense starting to form between us. I take a breath and swallow the lump that’s rising in my throat. ‘I hope they can fix your car, but if not, come and let me know and I’ll drive you back to pick him up.’
As soon as she’s gone, I go upstairs to the bedroom, from where I might just be able to see what’s happening. Sure enough, there’s the AA van pulling up behind Cassie’s Clio. If it can’t be repaired on the spot, I’ll drive her back to collect Oliver and insist on driving them home. She’s bound to invite me in, and then we can talk some more.
I stand there, peering round the curtain like some nosy neighbour for about ten minutes, but my back doesn’t like me standing still for long. I was so excited about them coming today that I didn’t do my exercises this morning.
I go back down to the kitchen for painkillers. If I don’t take something now, I won’t be able to drive; but just as I swallow them, a text comes through: All done – blockage in the fuel pipe. Thx again for all yr help Cxx
Disappointment washes over me. The rest of my Friday, which half an hour ago held the promise of more time with Oliver and another conversation with Cassie, now looks the same as most of my other days – food of some sort, wine this evening, probably too much, and an attempt to distract myself with something on Netflix.
Oliver seems more relaxed the second time, trotting in happily with his rucksack full of toys and colouring books. The house is starting to look sharper, more definite, and the kitchen gleams. As Cassie tackles the spills on the cupboard doors, the spattered, greasy tiles, smeary taps and stained sink, I realise how badly I’ve let things go.
It’s a nice day, so Oliver takes his toys into the garden and plays happily on the grass where I can see him through the window. At eleven, I call to him that Mummy and I are having a coffee break, and would he like a juice break. He runs in from the garden and clambers up onto the kitchen chair, swinging his feet back and forth as he sips at his cup of blackcurrant and apple squash. He seems distracted. ‘I’m hungry,’ he says, and before I can say anything, Cassie says, ‘Oliver, come on. You had a huge bowl of Cheerios before we came out, not to mention toast and peanut butter.’
‘But I’m starving,’ he whines.
‘You can’t possibly be hungry already.’ Then her face changes. ‘Wait a minute, I get it.’ She looks at me and mouths, He’s remembering last week.
Really? I mouth back. Then I turn to Oliver. ‘Ollie, I’m afraid I don’t have any gingerbread men this time, so sorry about that, but—’
‘Don’t apologise, Leah. Ignore him. He’s being outrageous. And Ollie, don’t think we’re not on to you, buddy.’
‘Well,’ I say quietly, ‘I do have something – if it’s okay with you? It’s only sponge cake, I think, with a little jam and buttercream icing.’
‘Oh look, you shouldn’t have. I don’t mind him having sweet stuff now and again, but don’t let him manipulate you into buying cakes and things. He’s not as hard done by as he makes out.’
I laugh. ‘I’m sure he isn’t, but I couldn’t resist this.’ I open the cupboard and take out the Spiderman cake I paid ten pounds for yesterday. ‘I was in Waitrose last night when they started reducing things, and this was down to two quid – I know he likes Spiderman, and . .
. well, it was such a bargain, I thought, why not?’
Oliver’s eyes widen at the sight of the cake.
‘Two quid?’ Cassie says. ‘You’re kidding.’ She leans over and looks at the spidery Happy Birthday written in red and black icing across the middle. ‘Although I suppose it’s not the sort of thing they can shift easily once it’s at its sell-by date.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ I make sure I keep my thumb over the date as I slide the cake out of its packaging and cut him a big slice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
NOW
Ollie has become increasingly used to me over the last few months, and he’s so comfortable here now that he makes a beeline for ‘his’ cupboard as soon as he comes in – I keep some colouring books and a few toys here for him. Only bits and pieces I’ve picked up in charity shops, but he likes to have something different to play with. ‘Hey, Ollie, where’s my hug? Did you have a nice time at Nana’s?’
He nods as he comes and gives me a quick hug. They’ve been down in Cornwall for two weeks, but it seems longer since I’ve seen him. He’s unusually quiet, so while Cassie’s in the sitting room washing the windows, I sneak him a few Smarties and ask him what’s wrong. At first, he won’t answer, but then he mutters that he wanted to play with Gemma and Georgie.
‘Are Gemma and Georgie in your class?’ I ask.
He shakes his head.
‘Oh. How do you know Gemma and Georgie, then?’
He looks puzzled. I’m only just learning the complexities of conversation with a three-year-old. ‘I mean, if they’re not friends from nursery—’
‘Preschool,’ he corrects me.
‘Sorry, preschool. Are they friends you used to play with before you started at preschool?’
He shakes his head again. ‘I gotted them . . .’ He thinks for a moment, then climbs down from his chair and runs into the sitting room. ‘Mummy, what day did I get Gemma and Georgie?’
I hear Cassie answer him, then he comes running back in. ‘I gotted them on Thursday. Mummy says they might get dead when they’re two. Or maybe three.’ He shrugs. ‘Something like that.’
I look at him. Did he say what I thought he said?
‘Gerbils.’ Cass appears in the doorway, smiling as she peels off her rubber gloves. ‘Got any vinegar, Leah? I’ve rinsed them, but they’re still a bit smeary.’
‘Vinegar. Yes, I think so.’ I open the cupboard next to the cooker. Cass comes up behind me and whispers, ‘He wanted a kitten, but I managed to persuade him to go for the gerbils. The bloody things stink the house out, but at least they won’t live too long.’
‘Ah, I see.’ A thought creeps into my head, but I need to assess it properly, so I take my time finding the vinegar. It’s quite a big decision, but I can’t linger; it needs to be now.
‘There. Knew I had some somewhere.’ I hand the bottle to Cass. ‘Good move on the gerbils. Weird coincidence, though.’ I lower my voice. ‘I’ve been thinking about getting a pet myself since . . .’ I swallow. ‘Since Clive died. I’d more or less decided on a kitten. I was looking online last night, believe it or not.’
‘Spooky! Did you find one?’ Cass glances at Ollie, who is now engrossed in his Peppa Pig jigsaw and is humming the theme tune. ‘I feel mean, not letting him have a cat, but it’s just too much of a tie, not to mention the cost.’
‘Don’t feel guilty. Maybe you can get one when he’s older. Anyway, no, I haven’t chosen one yet. But maybe I could get Ollie to come and have a look with me now – might help pass the time until he can get back to his gerbils.’
‘He’d love that,’ she says. ‘You’ll be his friend for life.’
‘Great. I was planning to make up my mind today, so this’ll make me get on with it.’ I walk over to the table. ‘Ollie, listen, there’s something you might like to help me with.’
As I scroll through the photos of cute seven- or eight-week-old kittens for sale or ‘free to a good home’, I find myself becoming quite excited about the idea of having a pet again. We had a lovely black cat called Louis when we were first married, but we were both so upset when he got run over that we never got another one. Oliver is drawn instantly to a four-week-old tortoiseshell, but when I explain that it’ll be a few weeks before it’s old enough to leave its mother, he goes for an adorable little grey tom with a white bib and paws. A brief phone call later, and I’ve arranged to pick the kitten up on Thursday. ‘So he’ll be here next time you come.’ I ruffle Ollie’s hair as we go back downstairs. ‘And you’ll be able to play with him straight away.’
He nods, but I can see he’s disappointed that we can’t have the kitten immediately.
I go to the café on Thursday afternoon instead of Wednesday. ‘Hi.’ Cassie smiles. ‘You’re messing with my head – it’s Thursday today, isn’t it? Missed you yesterday.’
‘Oh, God,’ I laugh, ‘am I that predictable? Thing is, I’m picking the kitten up this afternoon, and I was wondering whether Ollie would like to come with me? If you don’t have other plans, that is. We’d need to pop his child seat over into my car, but if I take him to pick up the kitten then back to mine for an hour, you could grab some “me” time and I could drop him back to you, say, five thirty-ish? How does that sound?’
Cassie’s face brightens. ‘Leah, that would be fantastic! I had a bit of a domestic crisis this morning and it’s going to take some sorting out when I get home, so it would be brilliant if you could occupy Ollie for an hour or so. If you’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘Of course I don’t mind. What happened?’
‘Bloody water tank in the loft burst and the water came through the ceiling in Ollie’s room – it was dripping onto his bed.’
‘Oh, no! Was he okay?’
‘He didn’t even wake up! I thought he’d wet the bed, but then I saw the hole in the ceiling. It’s the second time I’ve had a flood in this house – it was the washing machine last time, but at least that was just the kitchen floor.’ She shakes her head. ‘Had to get an emergency plumber out first thing, so that cost a bloody fortune. I seem to be prone to leaking pipes and burst tanks.’ She gives a half-laugh. ‘In fact, that’s how I met Ollie’s dad.’
I feel my pulse rate shoot up and my face going hot. ‘Oh yes?’ I try not to show how desperate I am for more detail.
‘Yes, a pipe burst in the flat above the shop – I used to have a little florist’s business – the shelves were coming down, and . . . Oh, it’s a long story.’ She glances back at the counter where the queue is lengthening. ‘I’d better get on.’
‘You’ll have to tell me another time.’
‘Yeah, okay. Are you sure about today? There’s quite a mess to clear up, and I could really do with Ollie being out of the way.’
‘Of course I’m sure. And I’d love to hear more about the florist thing sometime.’
‘You’re a lifesaver.’ Cass looks at her watch. ‘I finish in an hour. Shall I meet you at the preschool? I’ll text you the address and we can pop in together to pick him up.’
‘It’s okay – I know where it is.’ There’s a beat before I add, ‘We drove past it that day, remember? When I drove you to the party. See you there.’
Preschool finished five minutes ago, and there’s still no sign of Cass. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel as I watch the stream of parents thinning out, their children skipping along beside them clutching lunchboxes and paintings. It’s another four minutes before I see Cassie’s car pull up opposite. ‘Sorry,’ she says as she dashes across the road. ‘It’s always so bloody hard to get out of that place. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.’
‘It doesn’t bother me,’ I say. ‘I’m just worried about Ollie.’
‘He’ll be fine. He probably won’t even be the last one there.’
In fact, he is the last one there, but only just, and he looks happy enough when he sees we’ve both come to collect him. If the teacher is pissed off, she doesn’t show it, and smiles pleasantly when Cassie introduces m
e.
When Cassie explains the plan to Ollie, a grin stretches across his face and he slips his hand happily into mine while Cass walks on ahead to move the child seat over.
Oliver grips my hand tightly as we wait on the doorstep. ‘What do you think we should call him?’
‘Spiderman,’ he says without hesitation.
‘Hmm. Let’s see what we think when we see him.’
There’s a distinct whiff of cat litter as the door opens, but the woman is big and smiley, and Ollie relaxes his grip as we follow her along the hallway and through an enormous, shambolic kitchen dominated by cats. A large wooden Siamese serves as a doorstop; ceramic cats in all colours look down from cluttered shelves; the cushions on the battered sofa are appliquéd with cat faces, and the walls, cupboard doors and fridge are festooned with feline photos. It takes me a moment to register that there are also five or six actual live cats in the room, perched at various levels on shelves or chairs. A large black and white with a tattered ear rubs briefly round my legs. We follow the woman through the kitchen and out into a long, narrow extension, where the cat litter smell is even stronger. The floor is covered with newspaper, and there are wet patches here and there. ‘They think the litter trays are for playing in,’ the woman says, smiling at a ginger kitten who is leaping about, scattering litter all over the place. There are several cat baskets along the side wall and two large cages at the end, both open. I can see a bundle of sleeping tabby fur in one of the cages, though it’s impossible to tell how many kittens it consists of. ‘We have two litters at the moment,’ the woman explains. ‘But I think you said you were interested in the grey and white? The little boy?’
‘That’s right,’ I say, then, ‘Are you still keen on the grey one, Ollie?’
Oliver’s eyes are wide as he looks around at the bundles of fluff in varying colours, and I wonder if he might change his mind, but he nods solemnly.
‘Right you are, duck.’ The woman puts her hands on her hips and looks around. ‘Just have to find the little tinker.’
The Flight of Cornelia Blackwood Page 11