Knowing Anna

by Sarah Meyrick

  It was an elaborate building, for a country church. An information board inside told Tamsin that Jane Austen’s uncle had once been Rector of the parish, a fact that she took delight in sharing with Beth. Awaiting the others, Tamsin wandered up to a side chapel. Peering through the glass she could make out a series of grand tombs. Her eye was drawn to a life-sized white marble effigy of a mother tenderly cradling a child. She tried the door, and was disappointed to find it locked.

  ‘Ah, you’ve found Lady Frederica,’ said Father Stephen beside her.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘A Stanhope. She lived in the big house, up the lane. Chevening. These days it’s the official residence of the Foreign Secretary. Lady Frederica died in childbirth, aged just twenty-one.’

  ‘How tragic! What about the baby?’

  ‘Not sure. But from the effigy I assume the baby died too. Death in childbirth was much more common in the nineteenth century, of course, but it doesn’t make it any less sad, does it?’

  ‘I guess at least Sam and Beth knew their mum,’ said Tamsin.

  When everyone had gathered, Father Stephen invited them to sit in the choir stalls, and drew their attention to the window above the altar.

  ‘You’ll notice it’s modern. Like much of the glass in this church, it was put in to replace the Victorian stained glass that was destroyed by enemy bombing during the Second World War. Can you see what the picture shows?’

  ‘It’s a Christmas card,’ said Sam.

  ‘Spot on,’ said Father Stephen. ‘It’s a nativity scene, created by Moira Forsyth, the same artist who designed some of the windows in Guildford Cathedral. Look at the very top of the arch and there are some rather splendid angels, playing various musical instruments. I rather like the two at the top with those long trumpets.’

  ‘I like the cymbals!’ said Milo.

  ‘Yeah, because they’re noisy, like you, mate,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘Now, earlier today I mentioned St Botolph, the saint whose church this is. Botolph was a Saxon abbot from the seventh century, and from our point of view he matters because he’s the patron saint of pilgrims and travellers. Because of this, four churches at the gates of the old City of London were dedicated to St Botolph. On their way to and from the City, people would stop and pray, and give thanks for safe travel.

  ‘That leads me into our theme for today’s silent hour,’ he continued. ‘Here we are on day four of this journey. I wonder how it feels, to be a pilgrim? And how many of you are still carrying the same things in your rucksacks as when you set out on Saturday? Of course, we’ve got a back-up car, so unlike most pilgrims we don’t have to carry our overnight things with us. Most people who go on pilgrimage don’t have that luxury and end up cutting down their baggage to the bare minimum as the days progress. It’s astonishing how little you actually need.

  ‘I wonder, though, if we might think what else we’re carrying with us? My hunch is that we’re all carrying burdens of one sort or another. Is there anything that feels heavy, that’s weighing you down? One of my favourite verses in the Bible is one where Jesus says, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”

  ‘Perhaps you might like to bring the hard things you’re carrying to God. I know that’s not easy. Some luggage just has to be carried for a while. But there might be ways of lightening the load, perhaps by sharing what we’re carrying with others. Anyway, I leave that thought with you: what are we carrying, and is there anything we can put down? Can we allow ourselves to rest in God’s love?’

  The huge plus of the silence was the lack of distraction, thought Tamsin. That meant the boys – and Smith – could concentrate on the hazards around them, which in this case included the cars and lorries hurtling past. Father Stephen had warned them about the short but tedious stretch of the route that ran alongside the main road beyond the church.

  What was she carrying? While she refused to give house room to the thought that he was a burden, Milo was surely the greatest load that Tamsin carried. Literally in the early days, of course: first in the womb, and then in her arms. Mind you, he still needed carrying today, occasionally; think what happened on Sunday. And that responsibility rested fairly and squarely in her court. Ever since she’d left Frankie she’d been driven by the compelling need to provide for the pair of them. She would do whatever it took to create a stable and loving home for him.

  What a drongo she’d been! She couldn’t understand why she’d stayed with Frankie so long. While she now understood far more about domestic abuse – and her research showed that her own case was just one statistic in a depressing trend – she still berated herself for being a doormat, and far worse, for putting Milo at risk. She didn’t think Frankie would ever have turned on him, but you never knew. And no one wanted a child to witness such behaviour. But they’d survived. Frankie made a half-hearted attempt to win her back, but soon backed off in response to a stern letter from her solicitor. She was pretty confident he was out of their life for good. Thank goodness she’d never given in to the Rossi pressure to marry him. That would have been far more complex to unravel.

  But it hadn’t been easy, starting again. While she knew beyond doubt that she had done the right thing, she had to admit that Milo had struggled with the move halfway around the world and so had she. Along with her face, her self-esteem had taken a severe battering. Rebuilding her confidence required a massive act of will. The week she spent in the shelter was the game-changer, she saw now. The counselling provided by Shelley, her case-worker with an abuse story all of her own, had been spot on. Thanks to her wise counsel, even in those early days Tamsin was able to see that she had a choice over whether she became a victim or a survivor. Shelley also gave her the details of a helpline in the UK, which she called within twenty-four hours of touching down in London before she lost her nerve.

  For a couple of months they camped in a flat in London, sublet from a friend of a friend. She called in favours from everyone she’d ever worked with, and got enough shift work to put food on the table and pay for some counselling. (She even kept on the agony aunt column, until the editor fired her when she wrote an unguardedly robust response to a reader wondering whether to leave her husband.)

  Then, just as she was beginning to feel strong enough to contemplate getting in touch with old friends, the offer of a job as a producer at BBC Radio Hampshire came up. She almost bit the station manager’s hand off, so deep was her desire to get out of London and find a more permanent home for Milo. Anna had been surprised but thrilled by her phone call and insisted that she caught the first train down to Farmleigh.

  Milo had taken a while to adjust to their new life. For the first year or so he was extremely tearful and clingy. He had found London alarming. School was not a particularly happy experience; it was huge, with three parallel classes of children in each year group, housed in a vast dark brick building that resembled a Victorian workhouse and was surrounded by high security fences. The other children were streetwise and tough, and playtime was noticeably rougher than it had been in Melbourne.

  Life at All Saints Primary in Farmleigh was an altogether calmer experience. The school building was bright and cheerful, and the imaginative head teacher had signed up to an eco-scheme that gave the children a vegetable plot and a pond in the playground. Beyond the school gates you could see green fields, and in the middle distance, cows.

  Best of all was Mrs Lewis, Milo’s class teacher, a forbidding-looking woman with grey hair pulled into a bun and thick glasses, who stood no nonsense and had a heart of gold. On day one, she’d swept up Milo, informing him that he was the very person she needed, because they were making a giant collage of Noah’s Ark and no one had remembered the kangaroos and koalas. Milo let go of Tamsin’s hand and followed Mrs Lewis into class without a backward glance. That, and the knowledge that Sam had promised to look out for him at playtime, meant that Tamsin had walked away from the school gates without knots in her stomach for
the first time since their arrival in the UK.

  Two years on, and Tamsin felt they had settled. Until Anna’s illness, life was rosier than she ever dared hope. Were they still carrying the Frankie years around with them? Despite the counselling, she was not given to introspection; she found it altogether safer to pull up the drawbridge on the past. But now she thought about it, Milo rarely mentioned Frankie these days. It appeared she had succeeded in overlaying the memories of his early life in Melbourne with new, happier ones. He had plenty of friends at school, and though he still hero-worshipped Sam she was confident that Milo would survive Sam’s move up to secondary school in September.

  Thank God she’d been back in touch with Anna before she died. She couldn’t bear to think how she would have felt otherwise. If Tamsin had been anxious about re-establishing their friendship, she needn’t have worried. Through a combination of generosity on Anna’s part and wilful amnesia on her own, they’d easily fallen into their old, relaxed intimacy. She’d adored catching up with Beth and Sam – great kids, those two, Beth such a mother hen and Sam so sweetly determined – and they’d both been brilliant with Milo. Theo she’d seen less of, largely because he worked such long hours, and, as she explained to Milo, it was important not to encroach on the Greenes’ rare time together as a family.

  By the time Anna’s diagnosis came, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to pop in and out of the Brew House with fresh flowers or home-made cordial or anything else she thought might give Anna a lift. (Anna gave her the very same key on the Lego keyring she’d had all those years ago.) Hell, it was unfair, though. Anna’s death was a bloody tragedy. No wonder Theo looked as though he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  ‘Any thoughts on carrying?’ asked Tom, as the silence ended. The sun was properly out now, and the coats had gone away. George and Milo had stripped to their T-shirts. Theo was holding Sam’s backpack while he peeled off his sweatshirt. William was pouring tea from his flask.

  ‘Plenty!’ said Tamsin. Back off, chum. ‘You?’

  ‘Oh, a bucket of guilt, mainly.’

  ‘Guilt?’ asked Theo, strolling over. ‘You?’

  ‘Why, what have you done, mate?’ said Tamsin.

  ‘Oh, I guess it’s more the things that I didn’t do,’ replied Tom. ‘I wish I’d given Anna more time. Visited you all more. All the time, really, but especially at the end. I can’t believe I thought work was more important than family.’

  ‘There is no health in us,’ said William.

  ‘Sorry?’ asked Theo.

  ‘Bit from the old Prayer Book. Where we ask forgiveness, not just for the things we’ve done which we ought not to have done, but also for the things we’ve left undone. Often think that’s the harder bit, our sins of omission.’

  ‘And does God forgive us, do you think?’ asked Theo, handing the bag back to Sam.

  ‘That’s the promise,’ said William. ‘Forgiveness freely given.’ Theo opened his mouth as if to say more. Then he abruptly turned his back, and walked away.

  ‘Brave of you to admit that,’ Tamsin told Tom. ‘I don’t think any of us realized how little time she had. But I bet you did your best. I guess we all fell short, one way or another.’ Me certainly. Though I tried to make it up to her.

  ‘Well, if this has taught me anything at all, it’s not to put things off,’ said Tom, looking down at his feet. ‘You don’t always get a second go.’

  ‘True enough,’ said William.

  ‘Are we nearly there yet, Mum?’ asked Milo in his whiniest voice. ‘I’m tired. So’s Smith. Look at him. He needs a drink.’

  ‘Well, that we can manage, doll,’ said Tamsin. ‘Fish out his bowl from my rucksack and there’s a bottle of water in there too. Talking of carrying . . . funny how I ended up carrying the Smith kit, huh?’

  ‘He couldn’t carry it himself, Mum. Dogs don’t wear rucksacks.’ Milo snorted with amusement at the thought.

  ‘No, but you could have done, you cheeky monkey!’

  ‘I’m not a monkey, I’m a boy,’ he insisted. ‘And I’m tired.’

  Tamsin looked around for Father Stephen, to get a steer on the route. It did seem to have been a long day. She wouldn’t mind a breather herself. Where was he? It took a moment to locate him, standing to one side of the path. He was talking to someone. Goodness – it was that crazy bloke with the flowers in his hat again. Had he been tailing them all day? She’d leave them be, for now.

  ‘William? Any idea how much further? Think the kids are getting pretty weary.’

  ‘Nearly there,’ he said. ‘See those houses? That’s the edge of the village. Can’t be more than a mile to the centre. Then it’s only a mile on to the place we’re staying. Don’t suppose you chaps could manage an ice cream when we get to the village?’

  15 miles

  Ruth

  Ruth scarcely needed an alarm these days, although she tended to set it anyway. She and William needed to join the walkers wherever they were – and the distance from home was growing by the day – by no later than nine o’clock and there was much to be done before setting out.

  Awoken as usual by the dawn light, she eased her stiff legs out of bed to the floor and went downstairs to make a pot of tea. Over her nightdress she pulled on an old fleece as a concession to the neighbours she judged rather too conventional for their own good, and while the kettle was boiling opened the back door so that Smith could run into the garden to relieve himself. He scampered around the lawn, wagging his tail delightedly. How wonderful to wake each morning with such energy and optimism! She poured the boiling water into the old brown teapot and put it on one side to brew while she retrieved a couple of her favourite mugs from the dresser.

  In the old days, this had been William’s domain. For almost forty-seven years he had brought her tea in bed, always served in a proper cup and saucer. Only since Anna’s death – when sleep had become as elusive as a unicorn – had their roles been reversed. Secretly Ruth had always longed for a big mug of tea without the fuss of a saucer, especially in bed, but she had never told him so, instead gratefully accepting his daily gesture for the act of love it was. Now, though, if he noticed the change in routine or the lowering of his long-dead mother’s standards, he never drew attention to it. It was just one of all manner of tiny ways in which they had both numbly accepted that life would never be quite the same again.

  After a moment’s thought, she decided that she would leave William to sleep for another half-hour while she made a start on her morning chores. Much as the dear man loved walking – and goodness me, he was sprightly for his age – she could tell that the cumulative mileage was beginning to take its toll. Or perhaps it was the day-long company of the other pilgrims. William had always needed his space, at least in part because as the youngest of six children he had spent much of his childhood seeking refuge from his noisy siblings. The periods of silence imposed by Father Friends (as she couldn’t help calling him, to herself anyway) were an unexpected blessing, balm for his soul. Without that, she feared he might come home rather frazzled around the edges.

  Today, if she remembered rightly from the briefing sheet Father F had emailed over, was another long walk, with lots of ascents and descents. But it looked as if the route travelled through some lovely countryside, and should be less overshadowed by the motorway than the last couple of days. In the old days, she would happily have walked with William. Although, if she was honest, it was probably decades rather than years since they’d been out walking together. One got so busy with work, with the children. With her committees. The garden.

  The garden! She mustn’t linger a moment longer. Ruth put down her mug and went to the back door in search of her wellies. Stiffness again as she leaned down to put them on! Were her hips going to be next on the list for treatment, once her knees were sorted? She’d ignored the symptoms for long enough as it was, largely through stubbornness: it didn’t do to give in to pain too easily. She finally agreed to go on the
list for a knee replacement when the grating sound as she climbed the stairs betrayed the extent of her condition to William. She knew in her heart of hearts that surgery on her right knee would swiftly follow the operation on her left. It was a confounded nuisance getting old. Although how I dare complain when my daughter will never see her children grow up, let alone meet her grandchildren, I simply don’t know. What was putting up with a bit of osteoarthritis in comparison?

  Ruth began her rounds, pausing only to admire the wisteria around the back door, which was at its glorious best. It was all very well trying to follow Chaucer’s dictum – that in spring folk longen to goon on pilgrimages – but there really was rather a lot to do in the garden at this time of year. If she’d had any control over the timing she wouldn’t have chosen the last week of May. Still, she had to agree with Theo and Father F that this was probably as good a time as any, psychologically speaking. These early stages of grief were so terribly hard. Having something to look forward to, to plan, had been good for everyone. Herself and William included. And there’d been an interesting article in the British Medical Journal recently, providing solid scientific research to prove what everyone had already suspected: that walking was as good for mental health as it was for physical well-being.

  At least it wasn’t hot this May; watering once a day was easily enough in the cool weather, and last night she’d avoided that job altogether because of the rain. Instead, she’d shoved a casserole to warm in the Aga and just found time to tie in the sweet peas (Anna’s absolute favourite) while William took his bath. The lad next door was more than happy to mow the lawn in exchange for a little pocket money, so that was one less worry. But there was planting to do – the brassicas, for instance, not to mention the runner beans and the sweetcorn – all of which she would normally do this week. They would just have to wait. First things first. She simply must check on the asparagus – such a treat, the first real sign of summer, and she hoped there’d be enough for tonight’s supper – and put straw around the strawberries.