Knowing Anna

by Sarah Meyrick

  Thank God she had lots and lots of pictures – Anna had loved taking photos of them all, to the point that it was really embarrassing – and the day before the funeral Beth had put a whole load onto a memory stick and taken them down to Boots so that she could make a giant collage, because the electronic versions suddenly seemed too insubstantial.

  She had her voice, too, safely stored in her phone, because she was dead lazy about deleting voicemails, and even if it was just Mum sounding rather cross (‘Where are you, Beth, we said quarter past and it’s after half past already and you know I’ve got to get Sam’), or just plain ordinary (‘Mum here, lovey, you forgot your music case, I’ll drop it off at Reception on my way past’), well, that was better than nothing.

  The smell of Mum – that was still in her clothes, especially her chunky South American cardigan (which was a fashion mare, but still), because it was difficult to wash. Beth had raided it from Mum’s wardrobe the day she had died and had slept with it until Sam’s sobbing one night had worn her down and she’d passed it on in desperation.

  The feel of Mum . . . well, that was harder. Could she summon up the memory of a hug? She thought she could just about remember how it felt in those last few days, when she lay on the bed next to Anna after school and moaned about her GCSE Physics mock which had been unutterably crap and told her about horrible Mrs Jones who had threatened her with detention which was seriously harsh, when it had quite obviously not been her fault that some stupid Year Sevens had been pushed out of the practice rooms because she and Charlotte had to record their GCSE compositions.

  By then Mum hadn’t wanted to be hugged, or touched at all really, although she’d tolerated Sam wiping her forehead with a flannel while Beth painted her nails, because she obviously didn’t want him feeling left out. But Beth could tell she was making a major effort. And actually the smell of the sickroom permeated everything. Not that she would ever admit it, but that was one reason she’d done Mum’s nails, because the pear-drop smell of nail varnish remover was sufficiently powerful to cover up all the other smells. Beth shuddered. Even now if she went into her parents’ bedroom she had to fight between sadness that her mother was no longer lying there and relief that at least the room felt like a bedroom again, not a bloody hospital ward.

  Shit. She could feel her guts twisting. She needed to remember other, better times. Before Mum was sick, when things were just boringly normal. With a massive act of will, she summoned a memory of Mum cooking tea. Mum’s macaroni cheese with the crispy top that she loved. Peas (her favourite, Sam’s worst). She could practically taste it. But no; not food, for fuck’s sake! That didn’t help at all. What else? Mum playing the cello. That was safer. Going over and over and over a single bar of Bach to make sure it was exactly right, not just technically but musically, too. How she’d explained this to Beth, shushing Sam when he tried to interrupt, showing her the different ways you could play the bar, and why it mattered. Her patience when they were practising their scales, however hideous the noise they produced. Her impatience – to the point of fury – with technology, with their broadband when it crashed (which was all the fucking time).

  The way she made birthdays so special. Oh God, how was she going to cope when Anna wasn’t there for her sixteenth next month? Would it be like that other awful birthday, her seventh? When Mum wasn’t even there because she’d been delayed by heavy rain in Spain and Dad forgot until the absolutely last possible moment and only got his act together then because Granny Ruth had phoned? And Dad had given her a gross Barbie – which to be fair she would probably have loved even the Christmas before but by then what she really wanted more than anything was a Bratz doll. Which Mum would have known if she’d only been around, instead of in stupid Spain. Tamsin was staying with them then, of course, but she was away that week, something to do with work. And Beth had waited and waited for Mum to phone – and ended up being late for school, so terrified was she that Anna would get the time difference wrong and call when Beth was out, which made Dad cross with her because he had to take Sam to the hospital for a check-up.

  After school, it was almost all right, because Grandpa William and Granny Ruth collected her as a surprise, but when they said they were taking her home to their house for tea she burst into tears. So Grandpa William dropped them at home, after all, and drove to Aston to collect her cake and present. And she’d been right: almost the moment she walked in the door, the phone rang and it was Mum. Mum saying how sorry she was not to be there for her birthday and asking all about her day and telling her that her present was hidden under their bed. And the present was a set of multicoloured fairy lights to hang round her bedroom and was so exactly what Beth didn’t know she wanted that she couldn’t stop herself sobbing down the phone.

  ‘Cheer up, chicken!’ said Mum. ‘If Dad’s still out, why not ask Granny or Grandpa to rig them up for you? And then, can you draw me a lovely picture to show me how they look and email it to me? Make sure Granny takes lots of photos of you blowing out your candles, and you can send them over too. And I'll see you very, very soon.’

  Even then, through her distress and inarticulate longing for her mother, Beth could remember thinking there was something, something different about Anna, that she sounded more like the old Mum, the pre-hospital Mum. She barely asked after Sam, so that in the end it was Beth who found herself telling her, unprompted, that he was fine and running about and hardly cried at all now when Dad dropped him off at nursery.

  And Mum said that was good news, and asked her what sort of cake she had. Which was perfect timing as Grandpa William arrived at that moment and carried it in, in a big white cardboard box, and it was beautiful, a mermaid cake, made and iced by Granny Ruth especially for her. Beth started crying all over again and handed the phone wordlessly to Grandpa, before seeking comfort from her Granny.

  ‘Beth? You OK?’ Tamsin was all concern. Beth hadn’t realized she was crying. Shit, she thought, bet everyone’s watching. She diverted off the route, down a small footpath to her left, heading blindly for the cover of the wood. Tamsin followed her, took her in her arms and rocked her like a baby. They stood there, swaying together for a moment, until Beth had her emotions in check. She threw herself down under a tree.

  ‘It just hurts so much!’ The words came out in a tangle. ‘It’s so unfair. Why the fuck did she have to die? I don’t even know who I am yet.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Tamsin, sitting down beside her. ‘Let it out. Just let it out. I’m here.’

  ‘Where were you? When Mum was in Spain and it was my birthday? You were away all week.’

  ‘God, Beth-ster, that’s a few years ago, now.’

  ‘It was always so much better when you were there. When Mum wasn’t, I mean.’

  ‘It was a course,’ said Tamsin. ‘Yeah. Definitely. Manchester. But she came back just after your birthday, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. On the Sunday. But she won’t be here for my sixteenth. Or seventeenth. Or eighteenth. How am I going to bear it, Tamsin?’

  ‘I don’t know, doll. But I think we just have to take it a day at a time, put one foot in front of the other. Remember the good times, and be thankful for them. But can we spend your birthday together? Or is it a school day?’

  ‘It’s a Tuesday.’

  ‘OK, well, how about I park Milo with George, and we have a day out shopping the weekend before? In London? Unless you’ve got other plans?’

  ‘No plans. That would be . . . great.’

  ‘Look, I know it won’t be the same, doll. But we’ll have some fun. Max out my credit card? Take stupid selfies? Now look, are you OK to catch up with the others now?’

  Beth got to her feet, brushed a few twigs from her trousers, and offered her hand to Tamsin. ‘Think so. Let’s pretend it was a pee break.’

  By the time they caught up with the others, the walkers had reached a field of granite standing stones.

  ‘Take your time,’ Father Stephen was saying. ‘These standing stones
have been erected here especially for people like us.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Theo.

  ‘Well, they were created to commemorate the Millennium, by demonstrating the spiritual power of words through the centuries. You’ll see there are ten of them, each one representing two hundred years of history. On each stone you’ll find a quotation appropriate to the period. Look, here’s a handout that explains. To start with, this was a travelling exhibition, hard though that might be to believe of something that looks so permanent. But now they’re here for ever. The site was chosen because it lies on the Pilgrims’ Way. The idea is that this is a place for people to rest and reflect. Have a wander and read the inscriptions.’

  Intrigued, Beth moved in for a closer look. Each was a different shape, and the quotations were carved in a range of calligraphic styles. In the beginning the word was. And the Word was with God. That was familiar from carol services at Christmas, even if she didn’t entirely understand it. St Augustine she’d heard of. But Boethius? John Scotus Erigena, however you pronounced that?

  She liked The soul is known by its acts, carved in a tall, thin font. St Thomas Aquinas was onto something there. You could say all the right things and pretend to be squeaky clean but in the end what mattered was how you actually behaved. St Anselm was interesting, too: For I do not seek to understand in order to believe, but I believe in order to understand. For I believe this; unless I believe, I will not understand. The quotation was carved in a spiral, onto a stone with a hammer-like head. God, you always assumed the saints had life sorted, didn’t you? But perhaps faith was as hard for them as it was for normal people?

  And here was There is a tide in the affairs of men . . . in sort of flowing italics. Shakespeare, of course; that was probably, like, compulsory or something if you were a sculptor and British. And T. S. Eliot was here. From Four Quartets. The words still point appeared twice, carved extra big, drawing your eyes to them. Matt would like this. He loved poetry. He’d be able to explain the text to her. She took a picture of the Shakespeare stone on her phone, and messaged it over to him. Guess where now? ‘E’ x

  ‘Beth – over here!’ said Tamsin. ‘Here’s one for you, I reckon. Do not wish to be anything but what you are, and try and be that perfectly. St Francis of Sales, whoever he was, according to Father Steve’s sheet. Spot on, I’d say.’

  ‘I like that,’ she said, suddenly cheered. Ping! Standing Stones. Been there, done that! Mr K xx Beth smiled. Two kisses! But Mr K? Matt’s surname was Walker. Oh. My. God! Did he mean . . . Mr Knightley? Was he saying what she thought he was? She couldn’t keep the grin off her face.

  ‘Everything all right, Beth?’ asked Theo, coming up to her, Sam in tow.

  ‘Yeah, Dad. Like, cool.’

  8 miles

  Stephen

  When the alarm went off, Stephen stretched out luxuriously in the double bed, enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of professionally laundered sheets. The hotel – part of a budget chain – was cheap-ish and cheerful-ish, and while the decor left a lot to be desired, at least it was a step up from the dormitory in the hostel. Which had been very basic. Here, there was even a gym in the basement, something that normally would have pleased him immeasurably, but Stephen felt he could grant himself a rare day’s grace in the circumstances.

  Today’s walk was shorter than the previous two. Some of the group would no doubt be mightily relieved that the target was a mere eight miles. Parts of yesterday really had been very steep. Jackie was struggling, certainly. Celia was on the slow side, too, but whether that was down to solidarity with her friend rather than physical fitness it was hard to gauge. As it was, the pair of them constantly stopped for quite unnecessary drinks and snacks from their rucksacks. They had an unerring eye for coffee and cake opportunities along the route.

  ‘You go on – we’ll catch you up!’ they insisted, waving the group onwards. Stephen found it intensely irritating – he was responsible for keeping the group together, after all – but he supposed that they were simply two middle-aged women doing their level best. They were clearly out of their comfort zones. They were both overweight, Jackie in particular. And if walking was a foray into alien territory, pilgrimage was an entirely foreign language. They’d bailed out at lunchtime yesterday, and bagged a lift with Ruth. Rather easier to manage, actually.

  Otherwise, everyone seemed to be coping. Age was no barrier for William, who looked so at ease striding over the hills that it was tempting to conjure up a parallel life for him as a herdsman in place of the years spent respectably commuting into the City. In contrast, Anna’s brother Tom was puffing a little on the uphill stretches, something Stephen ascribed – cattily, perhaps – to too many business lunches in five-star hotels.

  Mary Anne was treating the walk with customary briskness. Stephen was sure her spare time (never leisure, surely, for that implied time-wasting) included regular aerobics and Pilates classes. Catherine and Tamsin were complaining of stiffness, but cheerfully so. Stephen had no fears about their ability to complete the week. The same went for the teenagers. Good bunch. Nice kids. Even the blessed dog was more or less behaving.

  As for Theo and the children . . . it was hard to tell. Theo appeared to be managing fine physically – no surprises there, of course, he was Mr Outdoors – but Stephen wasn’t at all sure that the same could be said for his emotional state. What was it – four, nearly five months now? Early days, of course. Bereavement took the time it took. Theo had never been the type of man to wear his heart on his sleeve, but he’d most definitely adored Anna. He was the sort of man, Stephen suspected, whose life only came properly into focus when he found love. The trouble was that if someone held you at arm’s length – and Theo’s arms in this instance appeared to be longer than most – there wasn’t much you could do, pastor­ally speaking. You couldn’t make someone open up if they didn’t want to. But Stephen was concerned that Theo’s unhappiness was eating him up. He seemed so hostile, so angry. Stephen feared he was stuck in that destructive phase of grief that could all too easily become a way of life if nothing happened to break the cycle. Lord, help him, he prayed.

  Bethany was a worry, too; her face was unhealthily pinched and pale, though Stephen was heartened to observe her apparently at ease with Tamsin. Last night he’d even overheard her giggling like the schoolgirl she too rarely allowed herself to be. Samuel seemed to be managing surprisingly well with the walk – Stephen had been worried about how he would find the steep ascents, in particular – but so far, so good. There was always the option of a lift with his grandmother if he ran out of steam. Ruth was keeping a watchful eye on them all, he could tell. He could feel her checking her grandchildren and son-in-law for signs of strain each lunchtime, and he’d overheard her reminding Samuel to soak his feet in a bowl of warm water before she left for the evening.

  He ran through his mental checklist for the day. First off was a service at the parish church. He was rather looking forward to seeing it; he’d read that it had a rather splendid whitewashed interior and some interesting wall hangings. It was dedicated to St Katharine of Alexandria, a fourth-century martyr once the object of an astonishing medieval cult, but now somewhat neglected. Shame, really; she was a notable scholar (unusual for a woman in her era) and no slouch when it came to arguing the Christian cause. According to tradition, hearing of her Christian convictions, the Roman Emperor Maxentius had pitted her against fifty of his most learned philosophers and she’d out-argued the lot of them in her defence of her faith, making the Emperor so cross in the process that he’d condemned the so-called wise men to death and thrown her in prison. Feisty, in other words.

  When incarceration failed to dampen her ardour – she set about converting her fellow inmates – she was condemned to die in agony on the eponymous Catherine Wheel. There was something rather distasteful in the thought that her name lived on only through a firework. But no less peculiar, perhaps, than the annual burning of the effigy of the Catholic plotter Guido Fawkes. What inex
plic­able habits we fall into, he thought.

  As usual, Stephen had prepared all his homilies before setting out. But was he judging the tone right? A sudden dart of anxiety shot through his soul. Anna had been so specific, so clear about the pilgrimage element of the walk. She wanted her friends and family to have a taste of her own experience on the Camino. He feared his concern not to frighten the horses might mean he was leaning too far in the other direction. Had he compromised by trying not to be over-churchy, and serving up poetry instead of the Gospel?

  Where were the group, when it came to faith? William, if he remembered correctly, was a churchwarden at St Mary’s, Aston, five miles down the road from Farmleigh. Bethany and Samuel had come to All Saints with Anna, of course, but even so a little sporadically, as was the reality for all families these days. The old pattern of boiled eggs, church and Sunday roast was no more, a long-gone era swept away by rugby practice and Sunday trading.

  He knew a great many Farmleigh families through All Saints Primary; assemblies on Wednesdays, class visits to church, Harvest Festival, carols at Christmas, Mothering Sunday and Easter all punctuating the school calendar as surely as the liturgical seasons. You saw the children in between times through Brownies and Cubs when they carried their banners at parade services. The more musical ones were scooped up into the church choir by Jenny, who as well as teaching Year One at All Saints, served as his highly talented choir director.

  What a godsend she was, quite literally! When he’d arrived at Farmleigh twelve years ago, music at All Saints was definitely in the doldrums, with a stubbornly deaf organist and a handful of obdurate, elderly choristers who weren’t prepared to sing in parts. One or two even believed that reading music was beneath their dignity. Changing that – the sense of defeat had been palpable – had been like turning round a tanker, but he’d managed it somehow. Force of character and a great deal of heartfelt prayer. Now All Saints had a choir it could be proud of – not quite cathedral standard, of course, but really not all that far off in his humble opinion. Or possibly, not very humble. Certainly good enough to enhance worship and inspire the spirit and, he admitted with an unworthy thrill, a source of some envy among the neighbouring clergy. But it was a bit of a revolving door. Secondary school meant more homework, new interests and activities, and it was all too easy for churchgoing to slip off the radar.