Just Before I Died

by S. K. Tremayne

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘It’s about the day Kath was, you know, found, when you rushed back to see her in hospital.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ He was sealing the bottle with the cork.

  ‘Well, it’s just that you said you drove down, like a madman, but I don’t see how.’

  She wished she hadn’t had that third glass. But she had to go on, now she’d started. ‘Thing is, Dan, you didn’t drive to London, the day after Boxing Day, you got the train. Remember? We discussed it. You wanted to avoid the M5. You left the car here. So how could you drive back?’

  Dan had his back to her, checking the cork was firmly back in the bottle. Slowly, he put the bottle on the shelf behind. Now he swivelled, and smiled. ‘I drove down with Alex Delaney. One of the developers in Truro. He’s got a bloody Aston Martin, gave me a go behind the wheel!’ Dan laughed. ‘He was driving down anyway and I thought, that will be faster than the train. Remind me to buy an Aston Martin when I’m fifty-eight. It’s almost better than sex. Almost, darling.’

  Was he lying? Again? She thought so. She couldn’t tell. Perhaps she didn’t want to tell. Perhaps she should leave it alone. He was right. They were off on holiday first thing tomorrow. Sun and cocktails and the boys, laughing in the pool.

  He pulled her to him and his lips met hers. She felt her doubts yield when he kissed her the second time. Her phone was ringing, spinning on the dining table. From this distance she could see the word KATH on the screen. Maybe, however, it was time to forget about Kath, for a week or two. She’d call her when they got back from holiday.

  Yes. It was time to devote herself to her sons, to her husband, to his kisses. Because he knew how to kiss her. Dan Kinnersley always knew how to kiss her. And she was a lucky wife. She really did have it all. So why did she want to ruin it?

  Tessa didn’t want him to stop kissing her. He’d brought her into the kitchen. Almost carried her. He was still kissing her, expertly, even as he stripped her. And he was pushing her against the fridge freezer. Lifting her up on to the marble counter. More forceful than usual, way more forceful.

  Like he wanted her to forget everything they’d said.

  Two Bridges Hotel

  Saturday morning

  Sitting in my car, outside the hotel, reading my emails, I stare at the last of my hopes draining away.

  Dear Kath, I’m afraid to say Daisy is really rather poorly this morning, so …

  Hey K. Apols for late notice!!! Nancy’s sister has got ballet and …

  Nancy wants to go and there’s this other—

  And one quite comically formal,

  Dear Mrs Redway, it’s with regret I have to say Gabriella is, despite our prior hopes, unable to accept your kind invitation to your daughter’s …

  I don’t even bother with the last one. The subject is enough. So sorry …

  Instead, I close the phone down in quiet despair, gazing at the hotel, the little clapper bridge, the newer Georgian Bridge. Two Bridges, in the middle of the moor. This ramshackle three-hundred-year-old coaching inn, surrounded by rugged moorland, smack bang on the main road across the bleakness of the wilds, beside the chattering West Dart River, would once have been the centre of Dartmoor’s bustle: the yard would have been full of mail carriages, farmers on horseback, and intrepid women travellers in peach and lilac silk shoes being assisted from their broughams by waistcoated porters in hobnail boots. Now it’s coach parties and hikers, birdwatchers and adventure sports enthusiasts, and the old pub, with its vitrines of dead pheasants and old ticking clocks from Widecombe and glass engravings of Queen Victoria, is a good venue for kids’ parties … except this won’t be a party.

  I count how many refusals we’ve had, and how many changes of mind, and how many acceptances. A couple of days ago we were down to six attendees, and that was fine, not brilliant by any means, but not embarrassing. But with these late mind-changes, these last-minute refusals (did they all get together and realize how awkward and sad this celebration might be: did they all agree not to go to the mad girl’s party?) now we have a mere two kids saying yes. It’s exactly as Adam predicted.

  What if no one comes? The humiliation will be appalling, unforgettable. And it’s too late to cancel. I made special cards, little bagged presents for the six kids. Now two kids will get three bags of presents, each.

  If they turn up.

  Taking a big hard grip on my emotions, carrying the special cake I baked yesterday with OMG you’re TEN! written in pink icing, along with lots of sugary birds and hares, which took me at least three hours, I get out of the car and go into the hotel.

  And I look left, and wince. There’s a whole corner of the lounge bar reserved for Lyla’s party. The Two Bridges holds a lot of kids’ celebrations, and they always do it the same way. I asked them to cater for possibly eight kids and a few adults: I had to give them a rough figure several days ago. So the big long table has twelve plates and twelve sets of see-through knives and forks and bowls of sandwiches and sausages and chicken wings covered in clingfilm and inflated blue balloons tied to the chairs, and my heart throbs with sadness. It will look dismal. Three kids huddled in the corner of a party table set for a dozen.

  This is the last children’s party we will throw for my daughter. She’s ten, and you don’t really do it after ten, do you? The next stop is eighteen.

  So the last party before she grows up will be excruciating.

  Can I do anything to make it better? I haven’t told Lyla about the steady stream of cancellations. I thought six would be enough to distract. Six kids can still make a satisfactory amount of noise.

  Now?

  Setting the cake on the awaiting table, ignoring the expectant, cheery smiles from the bargirls, I step outside into the cold, slanting winter sun, and dial a number. Emma Spalding. Perhaps I can recruit adults to make up the numbers. Why didn’t I think of that before?

  Her answer is swift, and disappointing. ‘I’m so sorry, Kath, but George and I are heading down to Exeter, meeting my daughter’s fiancé. We’d love to otherwise, of course, we love Lyla, but—’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Really, thanks for even considering it.’ I end the call and stand gazing at the moorland road that leads to Princetown. The so-called party starts in half an hour. No, fifteen minutes. And it will be three embarrassed kids – at most – on a table set for a dozen. Adam was entirely right: he warned me against this. We should have done something else: a special film, horse-riding, rock climbing, but I didn’t want my daughter to be the only child at her tenth birthday, blatantly isolated. Now she will feel the loneliness even more keenly.

  A tell-tale crunch of gears. It’s Adam and Lyla. She’s in a long black dress with lacy cuffs, matching her long black hair. She looks lovely: there are hints of the elegant young woman to come. And she’s clearly excited about the party: she’s jumping up and down, doing her happy stim, twirling like a dancer, balletic, and elegant. One day she will be a beautiful, willowy teenager: she will get lots of attention from boys. Will she even know what to do with it? I was awkward, her dad was awkward. I suspect she will be super-nervous and shy and standoffish. She may go her whole life without a boyfriend out of sheer shyness; or she might accept anyone out of loneliness. A junkie, a criminal, anyone. I think of the dead birds she arranged, her growing wariness, even of me and her father. My daughter is getting worse. I have to make this better.

  ‘Mummy, is Lottie coming? And Simon? Like you said? Are they all coming? How many are coming?’

  She is giggling and happy, she hasn’t had a party without her cousins to back her up for years and is understandably thrilled. This is all for her.

  All these people are coming just for her!

  ‘Did you really ask Callum? And Zvetlana? What about Ali? And Jojo?’

  She is clapping her hands and Adam stands behind her, giving me a glare of pure malevolence. This is all on you, Kath, this is all on you.

  Unable to contain her excitement any longer, Lyla runs past me in
to the hotel: she knows it well, she’s been here before, when we’ve had parties with Charlie and Oscar and all their friends, and Dan and Tessa, and other parents, when it’s noisy and fun and followed by the big walk to Wistman’s Wood. My mum loved Wistman’s Wood. I suspect she used to take men there.

  Adam is in a leather jacket, black jeans, stubble as dark as his expression. ‘How many?’ he asks.

  I shrug, helpless. ‘Two.’

  His blue eyes are piercing and accusatory. ‘Two?’

  ‘I hope. They haven’t confirmed.’

  ‘Christ. You have to cancel, Kath.’

  ‘It’s too late! It starts any minute, I put eleven a.m. on the invites.’ I check my watch, and cringe. ‘Five minutes.’

  ‘Jesus.’ He exhales. ‘Jesus Christ. I warned you.’

  ‘I know.’

  He’s right. I’ve made another terrible error. I am a bad mother. Perhaps, with my stupid suicidal brain I shouldn’t even be a mother, I’m not capable. They should take Lyla away from me. I am a danger to my daughter’s happiness. A menace. A madwoman.

  Adam puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Come on. Better make the best of it.’

  We step inside the hotel. Lyla is already sitting at the table, bouncing up and down on her seat. So happy that today she will have friends. Lots and lots of friends, a dozen kids, breaking the winter spell of her isolation. Her new life will begin. Ten years old!

  Adam and I sit to either side of her at the long, empty table. Lyla chatters about who’s coming, Adam and I try to chatter back, but really we sit there mentally contemplating all the food that probably won’t get eaten. A bargirl comes over and says a big Happy Birthday to Lyla and Lyla smiles shyly and hides behind me and I shrug at the bargirl, and the bargirl smiles uncertainly, and she gazes at the empty table, and says, ‘So you’re expecting quite a few?’

  I am wordless, as mute as my daughter. Adam says, ‘We’ve certainly got enough food.’

  The minutes pass. Adam and I talk about the dogs. Adam stands up and goes to the bar, and makes phone calls. Is he planning to escape? Leave me to the disaster I created?

  I sit here alone with Lyla and we stare at the chicken. ‘Are you hungry?’ I ask her. ‘We can start before they get here.’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘We must wait, it’s not polite to eat before everyone is here: you told me that, those are the rules. We must wait for everyone to arrive.’ Already I can hear the urgent nerves in her voice. Is everyone going to arrive?

  Every minute Lyla gets up and looks out of the hotel window, waiting for cars, waiting for her supposed friends. The car park is empty. Sometimes she runs to the main door and stares out. The bar staff are looking at her.

  Lyla runs back. She sits at the table and gazes at the cake. Her happy stimming has stopped, replaced by anxiety. ‘Where are they, Mummy? They are coming, aren’t they? Callum? Zvetlana?’

  I gaze sidelong at my returning husband, he glares back, and suppresses an angry sigh. The bar staff are wondering what to do now: they are looking over at us, unsure, perhaps embarrassed, checking out the party that isn’t happening, the lonely little girl at the end of the big party table with the balloons and the cake and the glittery bags of presents for kids who clearly aren’t going to turn up.

  ‘It’s a long drive for lots of people, Lyla, I mean, the weather and everything.’

  What am I saying? It’s a bright day, cold but sunny: there’s no problem with the weather at all. Lyla looks at me as if she now knows I am lying. I can see the first signs of tears in her eyes. She bravely resists them, tries to smile. It’s the smile that looks like a grimace, fixed and awkward.

  What can we do?

  A noise drags us all to the window again. Hope rises. A big SUV pulls into the car park. It looks as if it has kids in the back. I swap hopeful glances with Adam. I reckon I recognize this car, I’ve seen it outside the school. Yes, I do recognize it. YES!

  Lyla whoops with delight, at last: her first guests. We troop outside the hotel to welcome them. Welcome! Come and have cake and chicken wings and prosecco for the adults!

  Two blond adults and two blond kids get out of the car, and Lyla stands there waving at the kids, overcoming her terrible shyness, being courageous and grown up, she’s so happy to have guests, any guests, so happy to have friends, any friends. But the two boys look at her in bewilderment.

  They must be a year younger than her. I’ve seen them at the school, but they’re not even in Lyla’s class.

  Lyla stops waving, her happy smile fades. She stands there in her special party dress. The two boys frown and say something to their dad and the father shrugs at them, and gives us a distant, brief, puzzled smile, and then this happy family sets off down the path past the clapper bridge.

  They’re not coming to the party, no one is coming to the party: it’s half past eleven, it’s a quarter to twelve. The sun is cruelly bright, the moors serene, though the distant tors are dark and brooding, even in the sun. Lyla stands, rigid, in the car park, staring at the empty spaces, staring at nothing, and no one. Adam gives her a hug, but she shrugs him away; so he turns, with a flash of malice at me, and goes back into the hotel where the table waits inside. Empty. Balloons floating. The cake uneaten.

  The pain is unbearable.

  Lyla’s hair kicks in this subtle breeze. ‘No one,’ she says, quietly. ‘No one came. No one likes me, Mummy. No one at all.’

  I want to hug her until I can squeeze all the sadness out of her. But I can’t. This is it, I think. This is the worst part of parenting, the realization that no matter how hard you try, how much work you do, how much effort you put in, you cannot guarantee your children’s happiness. You cannot protect them from sadness.

  A couple of tears run down Lyla’s cheeks and she quickly brushes them away with the cuffs of her pretty black party dress. We stand here, mother and daughter, and she talks quickly, her hands fluttering, her face grimacing. ‘People don’t like me. It’s OK, I like them but they don’t like me. It’s because I don’t understand them, isn’t it?’ She looks up at me. ‘I want to understand them but I can’t. I try to smile and I try to talk but I don’t get it.’

  Her eyes are full to bursting with tears. Her bravery makes it even more painful.

  She is sobbing now. ‘If I was going to die, do you think people might like me more? Would you love me more? Just before I died?’

  I gaze at her, trying not to show my horror. The pine trees bend; I feel myself bending in the winds of this melancholy. Bending, and breaking. Lyla is sniffling, staring at the ground, kicking grit with her special party shoes.

  ‘I really tried, Mummy. I really tried to join in. But they all laughed at me. So I must have got it wrong. It’s my fault.’

  Another car pulls into the hotel car park. It’s a National Park Land Rover. I recognize the people who get out. These aren’t kids. These aren’t guests. These are Adam’s friends: Suzie the ranger from Ashburton, with her partner Alice, and Gavin Davidson. All laughing. Carrying things. Waving at us.

  Two more cars pull in, in short order, and people emerge. Ron from Warren House. Dez Pritchard, and his girlfriend. And Tom, a sheep farmer, lives near Gidleigh, known Adam for decades. And here’s Adam’s cousin Harry who sold me the car, and he’s obviously been via Huckerby, because he’s brought Felix and Randal.

  Everyone is coming across, giving us smiles and hugs. The dogs dash over to Lyla and she kneels down to hug them, and they lick the tears from her face. And all the men and women tousle Lyla’s hair and for once she isn’t shy: she’s so wrapped up in the dogs, her beloved dogs, and Ron says, ‘Hey, Lyla Redway! We hear someone special is having a party! That means a celebration is in order!’

  And I stand here, smiling and tingling and feeling so grateful to my husband. He did this. He made those phone calls: he had a back-up plan. My handsome, loyal, loving, resourceful husband has saved the day. It’s not the party we wanted, but Adam was right, we never could have had that party: Lyla do
esn’t have friends; she wants friends but can’t seem to make them, she is as lonely a child as you can be, and yet adults are drawn to her, she has something that adults can see and appreciate.

  And dogs. And birds and ponies and mice.

  The party has changed beyond recognition. Going back into the hotel, I see that the table is now arrayed with beers and wine bottles, and a lot of the kids’ stuff has gone. Everyone sits down and there are so many people the staff are not embarrassed any more; they are laughing and joking, recognizing friends, swapping gossip, and fetching more chairs.

  Beers are drunk, glasses are clinked, the dogs sit at Lyla’s feet and she smiles shyly at the head of the table as we sing ‘Happy Birthday’, and all the chicken wings have gone, and all the sausage rolls and thick ham and tomato sandwiches have been guzzled, and we order more beer. And it’s all great fun.

  The party mingles with the regular drinkers: I see Suzie talking animatedly with a bargirl, probably flirting, but it doesn’t matter, it’s all good. Adam sits at the head of the table, beer in hand, singing verses from ‘The White Hare’, the Seth Lakeman song that was Adam’s and mine, our song as we dated, our special song. Then some other tunes – ancient folk tunes I’ve never heard before, but I join in nonetheless.

  The good humour is infectious. I feel myself almost forgetting about everything, from the hag stones to the panic at Hobajob’s, from the suspicions about Adam and the car, to the strange idea that I came here, to see my brother. For a beautiful fragment of a day, it’s all gone. Obscured. We are singing. Lyla is smiling.

  At the end of the sing-song, Adam says, ‘OK. Come on, guys. Let’s go and see the pixies in Wistman’s! It’s traditional!’

  And we all laugh and get up and Lyla runs ahead with Felix and Randal, and the adults run after them; even Ron is running, though he’s a little drunk, I think. Adam and I follow behind, and I give him a special hug, and kiss his stubbled chin as we walk from the table. ‘Thank you, Adam. Thank you so much for doing that.’