Sarah Meyrick studied Classics at Cambridge and Social Anthropology at Oxford, which gave her a fascination for the stories people tell and the worlds they inhabit. She has worked variously as a journalist, editor and PR professional. Alongside her day job, she is Director of the Bloxham Festival of Faith and Literature. She lives in Northamptonshire with her husband. Knowing Anna is her first novel. For more information, see
First published in Great Britain in 2016
Marylebone House
36 Causton Street
London SW1P 4ST
www.marylebonehousebooks.co.uk
Copyright © Sarah Meyrick 2016
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Marylebone House does not necessarily endorse the individual views contained in its publications.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Authorized Version of the Bible (The King James Bible), the rights in which are vested in the Crown, and are reproduced by permission of the Crown’s Patentee, Cambridge University Press.
The publisher and author acknowledge with thanks permission to reproduce extracts from the following:
The prayer ‘God bless you today’ is reproduced by permission of the Iona Community
Extracts from Common Worship: Pastoral Services are copyright © The Archbishops’ Council, 2000, 2005 and are reproduced by permission. All rights reserved.
Every effort has been made to seek permission to use copyright material reproduced in this book. The publisher apologizes for those cases where permission might not have been sought and, if notified, will formally seek permission at the earliest opportunity.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978–1–910674–36–9
eBook ISBN 978–1–910674–37–6
Typeset and eBook by Graphicraft Limited, Hong Kong
For my parents, Jeremy and Elizabeth,
in gratitude for their unending love and support
Prologue
Anna is running. Light as fluff, she is fairly flying along the towpath, enjoying the wispy autumn mist rising off the river and the nip of cold air at the back of her throat. A magnificent heron swoops over the water and she feels her heart soar.
She is heading away from Farmleigh towards the woods, and can just glimpse Aston church spire in the distance. On and on she flies, faster and faster, blissfully aware of the oxygen in her lungs, the lifeblood coursing around her body. It is good to be alive on a morning like this. To her surprise, she notices that she’s wearing an unfamiliar sprigged summer dress; not ideal for running, perhaps, but pretty and light and short enough that it doesn’t restrict her movement. Glancing down, she sees that at least she has on her familiar purple running shoes.
‘You see?’ she says to her unknown companion. ‘Everyone said I couldn’t do this any more, but I can! They all seem to think I’m dying. I must tell Theo – he’ll be so relieved!’
Even as she speaks she can hear her words being snatched away by the breeze. The firm surface of the towpath melts beneath her feet and the river fades from view. She is still in flight, but unanchored now, and the fierce joy of a moment ago is giving way to panic. She strains to stay put, to keep her foothold on the ground, to resist the upward pull away from the riverbank. If she can only hang on, she knows she’ll turn the corner, discover some vital piece of information that hovers just out of reach.
Resistance proves futile. The fleeting relief as she wakes and finds herself in the familiar surroundings of her bedroom gives way to a stab of disappointment when reality hits. Here we go again, she thinks. There’s that crack in the ceiling, and the stained patch where the gutter overflowed last winter. The cool air she’s breathing is actually coming through the window she insists is left open, to minimize the smell of the sickroom. She’s back in the foggy world of illness, engaged in the delicate dance between pain and stupor. The exhausting struggle to eat the treats the family carry upstairs for her, to ask Sam about his latest football match, and Beth about her GCSE coursework. To watch the grey hollows in Theo’s beloved face deepen with tiredness and fear.
She reaches out to the bedside table for her phone and glances at the time. 14.08. Tamsin will be coming out of the studio at the end of her lunchtime show. Good timing; she may go straight into a production meeting to plan the next day’s programme, but she’ll probably pick up a text. Anna summons her strength.
Come round 2day or 2moro? Can’t hang on much longer. Dreamt I was running. Running out of time? A xxx
Almost at once a reply pings back. Running, huh? Thought u meant 2 b sick. 2moro after show ok? T x
Anna smiles. Between 2 and 3 safest. Bring kit? A x
Course. Chocolate or gin? T x
Booze + morphine = bad combo, she taps. Choc always good. Though that’s not really true any more, she thinks; but Taz can eat it. Just not flowers. Remind me of graves. C u A x
Lilies in the bin, then. Be there. Love u. T xx
12 miles
Theo
Theo finally ran out of excuses to avoid the loft just before supper on Friday. He played for time until the lasagne was safely in the oven, the table laid and the salad mixed, before reluctantly going upstairs to locate the long metal hook and opening the hatch.
In terms of firsts, a visit to the loft barely counted. Compared with the first parents’ evening in a post-Anna world (Beth’s; petrifying), the first family birthday (Sam’s; wretched) or the first wedding anniversary (still to come), it hardly rated. Nonetheless, he realized he was approaching what should have been a mundane task with a sense of dread. As the ladder rattled down towards him, he steeled himself for what he would find overhead: all those clear plastic boxes with their coloured lids firmly clipped into place, meticulously stacked and neatly labelled in Anna’s precious handwriting. BABY CLOTHES, PHOTO ALBUMS, SCHOOL REPORTS, SHEET MUSIC (CELLO), SHEET MUSIC (PIANO) awaited him. And with it, the unbearable impression that all the loose ends of the life he’d loved more than his own had been tidied up and filed away. So utterly over.
He hovered on the top step, and almost without thinking found himself calculating the distance to the floor below. It was a habit he’d slipped into after the funeral: the odds on achieving a swift and merciful death. If he fell, would he break his neck? Could he be sure of dying? Or would he simply fracture a wrist, end up bruised and embarrassed? See, his father’s voice hissed in his ear. You haven’t got the guts. Call yourself a man?
‘What are you doing up there, Dad?’ By the sounds of it, Sam was standing in the bedroom below.
‘Looking for Mum’s walking boots,’ he called down. ‘I know I put them up here somewhere when . . . when we first found out she was ill.’ As he spoke, he caught sight of them in the far corner under the skylight, next to a box marked CAMPING KIT. He remembered the day he’d carried them up here. The pair of them had come home from the hospital appointment, appalled by the unexpected news the oncologist had delivered, kindly, but clearly, in her clean white office. He could still see the bland British landscapes on the walls, selected presumably in the faint hope of offering comfort to patients caught up in the maelstrom of personal catastrophe. Something to focus on as the unreal words advanced, inoperable and terminal floated in the hospital-scented air.
At the time they had been almost too shocked to speak. Much later, in the middle of the night,
he would awake in a sweat, swamped by a wave of white hot anger, of sheer fury, of utter outrage that the insatiable maw of death was threatening to rip apart his family. Was this some kind of divine punishment by a vengeful God? Returning home from the hospital, though, Theo sought solace in habit and made a cup of tea, simply for something to do. How pathetically British! They sat at the scarred pine kitchen table, clutching their chipped blue and white mugs in silence.
There seemed almost nothing to say. The truth was quite literally unspeakable. Anna was chalk-white, trembling and staring bleakly at the leaflets the doctor had given her.
‘Can I . . . shall I . . . phone anyone?’ he asked.
‘No, not yet.’ She whispered so quietly he could hardly hear. ‘Can’t face it.’
‘Your mum? The schools? Stephen, perhaps?’
‘No!’ The word shot out like a bullet. She took a deep breath to regain her composure. ‘Let’s just . . . keep it to ourselves for now. For today, anyway. Then at least we can begin to make some plans.’ And Theo recognized that this was how it would be: Anna would write lists, make rotas for childcare, fill the freezer, buy Christmas presents she might not be there to give, constructing a raft of careful arrangements in a futile attempt to outwit time. What was the phrase? She would put her affairs in order.
In practice that meant a sudden frenzy of tidying, organizing and swooping around the house with black bin liners, clearing away everything that Anna now deemed surplus to requirements. He’d rescued her walking boots and taken them up to the loft, unsure why, but knowing simply that he couldn’t bear to see them binned, just because she had no further use for them. Now, picking them up, he put a hand inside each boot, feeling with his fingers the places where she had stretched the fabric out of shape, where the lining had worn threadbare, the contours that represented the unique imprint of her beloved feet. He lifted the boots to his face, rested his cheeks against the leather and breathed in the earthy smell. Anna, Anna, Anna.
‘Dad, I can smell burning!’ Sam shouted this time.
Theo wiped his wet face on his sleeves. Damn the lasagne! It was his failsafe dish, and he couldn’t even do that properly. He had to get a grip. With a huge act of will, he pulled himself together and unfolded his long body down the ladder to see whether supper could be rescued.
The lasagne was just about acceptable, once he’d scraped off the black edges. Sam made the best of it, with all the discrimination of most eleven-year-old boys. Beth, on the other hand, picked desultorily at the helping on her plate. She sat scowling, curling a strand of her crop of dark red curly hair – Anna’s hair – round and round her finger. Finally she dropped her fork with a dramatic sigh.
‘It’s not that bad,’ he said, fighting a rising bubble of irritation.
‘Whatever.’ She stood up to clear her plate to the sink.
‘Where are you off to?’ he said. ‘What about pudding? There are chocolate brownies.’
‘Uh, gross, Dad. I don’t know how you two can eat so much.’ She glared at Sam accusingly.
‘I’ll have yours, then,’ said her brother, untroubled by her disdain. He was swinging his feet, kicking the table leg.
‘So where are you going?’ repeated Theo. He could hear the tension leaking into his tone.
‘To pack, of course. If I’ve got to come on this ridiculous trek I’m going to need, like, stuff, aren’t I?’
‘Wait! I’ve got something for you.’
Beth hovered at the kitchen door. Theo could feel her indecision. Slam the door or . . . or what? Could her father possibly have anything to pique her interest? His own father wouldn’t have tolerated such defiance, that was for sure. Malcolm would have roared at him, grabbed his collar, reached for the strap. Theo felt a sudden stab of love for his sulky, stroppy fifteen-year-old daughter. Without getting up, he reached behind him. ‘Here. Take these,’ he said, holding out the boots. ‘Try them on.’
Beth stared, as if suspecting a trick. ‘Are they . . . like . . . Mum’s?’
‘Yes. But you’re a six, too. Better than trainers, that’s for sure. Worth a shot?’
Beth stood motionless for a beat. Then she stepped forward, took the boots, gave him an awkward half-hug, and left the room in silence.
Saturday morning was unseasonably cool and breezy. Spring had come late, and brought with it blustery winds that had lasted right until the end of May. Looking out at the garden, Theo could see the apple blossom sprinkled like snowflakes across the lawn. He wondered if the late frost had been enough to jeopardize the autumn crop. No pies, no crumble, no chutney, to see them through the winter. But with no Anna – and this was more her territory than his – that was one less thing for him to worry about. He sighed as the doorbell rang.
‘Beth? Sam? You ready? Derek’s here,’ he called up the stairs. ‘Time we were off.’
Derek, their neighbour, whose own wife Doris had died two years ago, had kept an avuncular eye on the family ever since Anna’s diagnosis. He was always offering Theo help, but in terms too vague to be much use. Theo had seized with some relief on the idea of asking him for a lift into Guildford. Now, as they all piled into his ancient Skoda, the exhaust hanging on by a thread and the seats gritty with biscuit crumbs, he wondered if this had been entirely wise. But Derek’s rheumy eyes had filled with tears at the suggestion. ‘It would be my pleasure, Theo. An honour,’ he said.
It was still early, barely nine o’clock, but a small crowd had already gathered in the Cathedral car park. People were pulling on walking boots, filling water bottles and packing rucksacks.
‘God, Dad, who are all these people?’ Beth demanded as Derek pulled over. Theo suddenly realized that he had been so focused on filling his rucksack, supervising Sam’s packing and shutting up the house for a week, he’d given the other walkers little thought.
‘Well, Granny Ruth and Grandpa William, for starters,’ he said, spotting his in-laws. As Derek switched off the engine, Theo saw the compact figure of Father Stephen striding purposefully towards them, a clipboard under his right arm, his left hand smoothing his thick silver hair. How could the man look so dapper, even in walking togs?
‘Theo! Bethany, Samuel. Good to see you all!’ The heartiness of the priest’s greeting grated on Theo’s nerves. ‘Do you kids want to stow the bags in your granddad’s car?’
‘How are you, Theo?’ he continued when they were alone.
‘Bearing up,’ he replied, busying himself with the zip on his fleece. Stupid expression.
‘Everyone here?’ Theo cast vaguely around the car park, avoiding eye contact.
‘Not far off,’ said Father Stephen. ‘I think we’re expecting eighteen today. Some people are coming and going over the week, of course. How about we meet and greet together? Perhaps you can introduce me to anyone I don’t know. I’m sure everyone’s waiting to say hello. It’s your gig, after all.’
‘Hardly!’ Theo said shortly. ‘But I suppose I’ll have to do.’ He forced as much of a smile as he could muster, waved goodbye to Derek, and allowed himself to be carried along on the tide of the priest’s bonhomie.
With his parents-in-law he found Anna’s brother Tom. He was touched; he hadn’t been sure that Tom would make the effort. But that was unfair: Tom worked long hours in IT which took him out of the country a great deal. Of course he was busy with his own life. At least he was here. Ruth kissed him warmly in greeting.
‘You persuaded her out of the house, then?’ she said, nodding in Beth’s direction.
‘By the skin of my teeth. She’s missing a party. Someone’s sixteenth. I hope she’ll last the course.’
‘Trust me; she will. And if not, I’m here with the car.’
Mary Anne, the natural leader of the group of women who’d appeared out of nowhere when Anna was pregnant (‘our head girl’, said Anna), was there with her two blonde daughters. So too was kind Catherine, who had quietly left casseroles and cakes on the doorstep during those dreadful few weeks. Both women appeared to have le
ft their husbands at home. Catherine’s daughter (Cleo? Clara?) was deep in conversation with Beth, their heads bent over a phone.
There were a couple of Anna’s colleagues. Jackie, a large Afro-Caribbean woman with a wide white smile, and Celia, whose dark-rimmed glasses and cropped grey hair gave her an eager, owlish look. Celia, as it happened, was also a keen gardener and a loyal customer at Greene Fingers. Which reminded him: he hoped to goodness Sharon was coping at the garden centre without him. It was late in the planting season, but a bank holiday weekend always brought out the punters in force. Thank heavens Mike had been persuaded out of retirement – yet again – to lend a hand. He’d give them a ring later.
Out of the corner of his eye, Theo caught sight of Tamsin pulling up in her old red banger. Instinctively he glanced at his watch. She wasn’t quite late, but he suspected that was more a matter of luck than judgement. Out of the car spilled Milo and another boy of a similar age, snorting with laughter, and struggling to keep their dog Smith under control. That didn’t bode well. And did Tamsin really imagine that she could walk a hundred miles in those sandals?
Anger welled up, a frighteningly physical response, acidic in the back of his throat. Why the hell had it been Tamsin – not him, not the children, not even Ruth or William – who had shared Anna’s last conscious hour? If only he’d realized that the end was so close. But how could he have known? He even remembered smiling at the sound of soft laughter rolling down the stairs to the kitchen where Sam was half doing his homework, and he was making a start on supper.
There’d been no sign that death was poised to pounce. Yes, he knew the pain was worsening, but they’d sorted out the morphine, got it under control. But even before Tamsin left, Anna had fallen asleep. From sleep she slipped into unconsciousness, and twenty-four hours later it was all over. Somehow he imagined there’d be more time, the chance to say goodbye. How was it fair – how could it possibly be fair – that a wife and mother could be snatched from her family six miserable weeks after diagnosis?
Knowing Anna Page 1