He registered the spin of the car as the phone, flying out of his hand, smacked the dashboard, bouncing back, cracking against his brow bone, just before a large four-wheel drive hit him side on, pushing him into the rear of the coach. The steel frame of his ancient vehicle groaned piteously. George gripped the wheel and, holding his breath, rammed his foot against the accelerator, impulse telling him to get out of this as fast as he could. He hit the crash barrier as the 4x4 ploughed into the driver’s door, and the coach slammed on its brakes forcing the passenger side of George’s beloved car to be concertinaed inwards. He clung to the steering wheel, rigid as he gripped, holding on, determined not to let go.
All movement stopped, it was dark, the air about him filled with the thickest silence. George desperately searched for his voice inside his crushed chest, he could not move, or see anything, he was starting to panic and then he found, deep within, a tiny voice. His joy knew no bounds, he could say his words, just a few words, he would wait, hang on until someone was there to hear them.
He did not know how long he had been holding on, but just as the darkness was merging to grey and there was brightness in the distance, he heard something beside him, the clunk of machinery, a shout. He groped around inside his chest for breath and found just enough to say his words, as loudly as he could.
“Tell my darling girl, always with her, I’ll always be with her.” Then the light ahead turned from glowing golden to searing white and George was free. He released the steering wheel, slumping backwards, a tiny slash of red on his brow, the slightest smile on his white lips.
The paramedic at his side pronounced him dead at the scene, he was sure George had felt nothing, it was instantaneous, over. Later, when he was told that the body in the unrecognisable classic car had been an MP, quite well-known, he remembered he had said something, he was sure of it. Something about my darling girl but he decided not to repeat this, it had been a nightmare of a day, the worst he had seen in nearly ten years in the job, what good would it do? The man had died, along with the others, just another statistic, a wasteful, senseless end.
Paul spotted the RTA report as it flashed up on a computer screen in the newsroom. He was passing through on his way to deliver Marianne a sludge-coloured coffee from the machine. He stopped dead in his tracks at her office door when he heard her repeat the words ‘classic car’ in a deadpan voice. She had been toying with wording for the wedding invitation on her laptop. It was to be a small, informal affair, with jazz, real ale and a fish and chip supper. She dropped the phone, accidently hitting the delete key.
Now, sometimes she woke in the middle of the night, thinking she could feel his fingers in her hair, his breath on her cheek, as he whispered his special goodnight. But George had gone. His darling girl seemed to miss him more as time passed, not less.
Jack touched her shoulder as he squeezed into the pew beside her. George’s sister, Catherine, stood shoulder to shoulder with Marianne, Catherine’s husband, Frank, beside her. Catherine took Marianne’s hand, Marianne tried to focus, beneath the broad-brimmed hat, almond eyes stared at her, eyes that looked just like George’s, except these eyes were dead, eyes with the lights switched off.
The service passed over her quite gently. Frank’s address to the packed assembly was warm and anecdotal, even raising the odd appropriate titter. A chief whip in the Conservative Party spoke of George’s generous and, indeed, selfless dedication to duty. One of George’s oldest friends and a leading light in the Jewish community, together with a Muslim colleague, read funeral prayers from their respective Holy Books. The Reverend Pollock concluded by asking everyone to pray for George’s soul and his family, sister Catherine, brother-in-law Frank and especially his fiancé Marianne.
Marianne looked up at the mention of her name, half-remembering why she was at a large, formal gathering without George. In her head she was in the newsroom, it was noisy, anxious voices, bad accident on the M1, six-car smash, fatalities, juggernaut, school bus, vintage car. Silence. The opening bars of Stairway to Heaven started up. It was George’s funeral.
She was going to be without George for the rest of her life. She felt a sharp pain in her chest, as if she had been stabbed with a knitting needle. She let out a strangled squeak and her knees buckled. Paul, in the pew behind, steadied her. Jack propped his hand in the small of her back. Together, they eased her back into her seat.
“Oh Marianne,” Catherine whispered, squeezing her hand. Marianne sat perfectly still, white-faced and dry-eyed.
“Oh George,” she said, desolate at the realisation of what had happened. She felt as if the life had been sucked out of her and a cavernous vacuum remained. “Poor George,” she shook her head, clearing it of images. “How can I tell Monty? How will he know?” She started to sob, quietly.
The three months since George’s funeral flashed by, yet Marianne seemed to be dragging body and soul through treacle in slow motion. Unsure how she had arrived there, she found herself sitting in the gloom, in the garden of the home they had shared. She had been thrilled to discover a rundown town house at the end of a Georgian terrace and, once George agreed it was perfect, they moved in and immediately started work, adding a gracious new garden room to the gable end of the house. She was sitting under the oak tree looking back at the large hole in the wall the builder had made for the French doors, still covered in thick polythene. It had been knocked-through the week George had died. It had been like that ever since. It was the beginning of September, George had died in May.
Early autumn draped the garden like a shroud. She watched motionless as Monty’s constantly wagging tail and white bottom disappeared under piles of leaves hunting for anything he could chase, catch and obliterate. Even as dusk was settling, she could see the garden was badly in need of attention. A bit like herself she surmised, delicately wiping a drop of snot off the end of her nose. Monty, sensing the mood withdrew from the pile of debris and busied himself at his mistress’s slippered feet, pushing at her ankles with his damp nose.
“Oh Monty stop!” she said grumpily, and then looking into his soft brown eyes, felt immediately guilty and swept him up in her arms, half-squeezing the life out of him. She buried her face in the spot between his ears, sniffing deeply. He still smelled like a puppy, like the very first time she had laid eyes on him. Monty wriggled in her arms and she smelled him again. The garden gate made a dry, rusting squeak as it pushed open.
“How long have you been sitting out here?” called Paul, as Monty jumped from her lap to greet him. It was quite dark, she could hardly make him out as he strode up the path towards her, Monty trotting merrily at his heels.
“Not sure,” she answered, standing, smoothing her skirt. A couple of sheets of paper fluttered to the ground. He stooped to pick them up, she had already started back to the house.
Once inside the newly refurbished kitchen, she automatically flicked on the kettle. Paul, reaching for mugs hanging from the dresser, noticed how strained she looked under the electric light. She pulled a fleece from the back of a chair onto her shoulders, aimlessly opening and closing cupboard doors.
“We don’t seem to have any biscuits…”
“You never seem to have anything these days.” As soon as he said the words, he regretted them. She gripped the back of the chair, he passed her a tissue; she ignored it.
“Sorry,” he offered. She turned blank eyes on him, saying nothing.
“You don’t fancy Ronan’s leaving do tonight then?”
She had completely forgotten they had been invited to a drinks party for Ronan O’Keefe, a star turn in the Art Department, off to pastures new. Ronan and Marianne had joined the Chesterford Chronicle on the same day.
“I just don’t feel…” She sat down heavily.
“That’s okay. No problem. Wish you’d phoned though.”
Paul had been saying okay, no problem, for quite a while but he considered that the time had come to suggest ever so gently, Marianne should start to get back into the swing o
f things.
In fairness, her work could not be faulted. She had the odd day when she just could not function, so either stayed in bed with a hot water bottle and daytime telly or took Monty for a punishing walk, drank the best part of a bottle of whiskey, and crashed. But generally, since George’s death, Marianne had pulled on a semblance of a suit, dragged a comb through her hair, made a stab at the makeup and turned up at the office, still managing to meet her deadlines with a more than half decent piece of work.
Socially though, it had been far more difficult. Apart from a couple of drinks with Paul and a quick supper at Jack and Isabelle’s, she had stubbornly refused to prise herself out of number seventy four Oakwood Avenue.
Even her close friend Sophie, who was totally disorganised and generally hopeless at the best of times, had tried to encourage her to attend to the ever growing pile of cards and letters on the hall table. But the suggestion Marianne respond to her phone messages, personal emails or texts was met with the same blank look. Why? The world beyond her automated performance in the newsroom, did not register, did not concern her or matter.
Paul pushed a mug of tea in front of her. He pulled out the sheaves of paper he had gathered from beside the bench, placing them on the table before her.
“Anything important?” he asked. She ignored the tea.
“Catherine phoned. Wanted to know why I hadn’t been in touch, only picked the message up because she kept asking me through that bloody machine. Wanted to know when I was going to collect my things. I didn’t know what she was on about. She asked me if I had heard from Snelgrove and Marshall.”
Paul looked quizzical.
“You know George’s lawyer. Catherine became quite insistent. I rummaged through the pile on the table, found the letter and, well, you see, George has left me everything; his half of his parents’ estate, even his half of his mother’s jewellery.” She twisted the ruby and diamond band George had selected from his mother’s treasure trove to be her engagement ring. He had presented it on New Year’s Eve, the day they ‘officially’ announced their engagement. It was too big so Marianne had padded it out with tape until it could be properly sized, so determined was she to wear it on the night.
“Wow,” Paul put his cup down. “Good old George. How does Catherine feel about it?”
“Couldn’t be nicer, I called her back and apologised for being so lax. She laughed, said George knew I didn’t have a mercenary bone in my body, she said that’s obviously why he wanted to take care of me.”
“Well he’s certainly done that. You’ll probably never have to work again, well not really hard anyway.”
“But how organised, so sorted. He’d dotted all the i’s, crossed all the t’s. Not entirely George. I said to Catherine, ‘He didn’t know he was going to be killed in a car crash on the bloody M1’.” She stopped. The room was completely silent, apart from the ticking Grandfather clock in the hall. “But he did know he was going to die from a congenital heart condition, runs in the family, she said he’d known it was on the cards for some time. He’d only told Catherine.”
“And me,” Paul pulled his chair closer to her, “he wanted to assure me you’d be okay.”
Her eyes flickered. She turned to look at him, pink spots of fury rapidly dotting her cheekbones.
“He told you? Why on earth would he tell you?” she spat, “why was I the last to know? Why wasn’t I told what he was going through? The selfish bastard!” She threw the mug across the room, smashing it against the polished chrome range. Paul flinched, then found his voice.
“You know why. He loved you, literally loved you more than life itself. He’d have told you at some stage, but not until he had to. That was George. Why spoil things before they were going to be spoiled anyway?”
Marianne would not be placated, she was beside herself. She banged the table.
“But I loved him, I’d have taken care of him. I didn’t need to be protected, not to know how ill he was, not to be allowed to help.”
“Wasn’t to be,” Paul shrugged, keeping his tone level, bending to pick up the pieces of china, mopping the spilt tea with kitchen towel.
“But why keep it a secret, he deceived me, I can’t believe he’s done this to me…” Her fury bounced off the walls.
Paul moved towards the door.
“Call me later when you’ve calmed down,” Paul’s tone had changed, he was brusque. “When you can put things into some sort of perspective, George was only doing what he thought best. No, you’re right, he didn’t know he was going to die in that hideous car crash on the M1, but he did know he was going to die some time soon, so he did his best to take care of the one thing he really loved, you. Turns out, George really was a good bloke, but you Marianne, you’re behaving like a spoiled brat.” He closed the door gently as he left.
“Well, I…” Marianne plonked herself back at the kitchen table, hands at her cheeks as if she had been slapped.
The sound of crockery smashing had long since signalled Monty to his bed. Marianne sat still in the brightly lit silence until dawn.
Chapter Three –
A Stranger Calls
She telephoned Paul as soon as she thought he might be awake. He was still in bed. He had gone to the party, which had turned out to be rowdier than expected and with good reason he considered, had put himself the other side of two bottles of cheap red wine, a kebab and a very large glass of port.
“Sorry, did I wake you?”
“Hmmmm.”
“Sorry… Did I really piss you off?”
“Hmm hmm.”
“Sorry… I was feeling really sorry for myself.”
“Erm?”
“Sorry you had to bear the brunt.”
Silence.
“Really sorry.”
Silence.
“Will you come round later for a drink?”
“ I’ll never drink again…….” Said a thin voice. The line went dead.
Marianne had heard this all before, so invited Paul round for dinner anyway. As the day brightened, so did she. Her night-long vigil had helped put lots of things into perspective. Last night she thought she would never forgive George for keeping his illness a secret, feeling again that awful gall, the gnawing of deceit, the fear that she had been taken in, betrayed. Yet as a new day dawned, she knew she would forgive, had forgiven.
George had considered he was doing the right thing, for the right reasons. His was not a true deceit, just a delaying tactic while he tied up loose ends. He would have told her, in his own time, when the time was right. George had truly loved her, she had truly known love. George deserved to be forgiven, unconditionally.
She sat up in the middle of her large, lonely bed and took a long lingering look at the photograph of them in the silver frame, taken at the National Media Awards, when they had first met. There they were smiling and shiny at the very beginning of their love affair and here she was alone, at the very end.
She touched George’s face with the tip of her finger. Monty scraped at the door, he needed to go out. He looked at her, moving his tail steadily from side to side in anticipation. She smiled. The velocity of his tail increased, she had not stretched her face at him in ages.
Paul arrived at six sharp; fully recovered and back on speaking terms. He brought wine, smoked haddock and olives. He also brought the latest edition of the Chesterford Chronicle, presenting her with the entertainment supplement; a social life was in dire need of restitution. The aroma of furniture polish and fresh coffee mingled pleasingly, a real fire glowed in the grate. It felt more like number seventy four, more like George and Marianne’s home. It felt the best it had since George died.
Marianne gave him a huge hug. He was surprised. Since George’s death she had withdrawn from all physical contact, if an embrace were offered, she would just stand there, stiffly, being hugged but tonight she hugged him right back. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes, eyes that were still sad but not as haunted. Looking into her ey
es he saw Marianne, not George’s ghost. He kissed her forehead, she was going to be alright; the mist had started to disperse.
Monty, sensing a lifting of spirit, snuffled carrier bags excitedly, it was a long time since something approaching delicious had been served in this house.
“We could go and see something hilarious, frivolous and irreverent, the Comedy Festival’s in full swing,” Paul offered.
“Great, nothing stuffy though, I don’t want to have to make an effort, if we can wear jeans and drink beer, that would be perfect,” she called from the kitchen.
Monty turned to face the hall. He padded to the doorway giving Marianne the one yap and twitch of nose that meant there was a stranger in the vicinity. She put the cafetière down as the doorbell sounded, signalling Monty to stay.
Marianne’s former boss, the publisher, Daniel Jacobs, stood in the hallway. Marianne closed the door behind him; she had not seen him for ages. He was immaculately dressed as always, yet today he looked a little piqued, his usual sparkle diminished. Marianne was intrigued, she knew Daniel well enough to know he would never arrive unannounced.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Marianne said lightly. She had always admired him, they had been close colleagues. It was Daniel who had given her the commission in Paris. It was also Daniel who had helped pick up the pieces when she returned from France. A cup was laid against a saucer in the sitting room, a soft chink.
Daniel turned to go.
“You have company, I’m sorry.”
Marianne shrugged, she pushed open the door. Paul’s sandy head was level with Monty’s as they wrestled on the rug, Monty grumbling as Paul tugged at a rolled up magazine. Daniel nodded towards the neat bottom in faded denims.
“Paul, Daniel.” Marianne announced. Paul turned quickly, upending his empty cup on the hearth. He caught it and beamed at them both.
“We’ve met before,” he crossed the room in an easy stride, “one of Marianne’s many awards dinners. I was very drunk and sang My Way badly after the band had finished.”
The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Page 4