Knowing Anna

by Sarah Meyrick

  Almost inevitably, Ruth got sidetracked. She suddenly remembered the fuchsia cuttings Theo had given her; she wanted to see if they had taken root and were ready for potting on. She only realized the time when William appeared in the garden, fully dressed, and summoned her to breakfast.

  ‘Cutting it fine, dear heart,’ he said, handing her a mug of coffee. ‘Need to be on the road in under half an hour.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Ruth. ‘You couldn’t just . . .’

  ‘Lunches made. Flask filled. Up you go!’

  Ruth went upstairs to shower and dress, and sent up her daily prayer of gratitude to the universe for the blessings of marriage to William. He was endlessly thoughtful and constantly picked up the pieces; she knew she was prone to losing track of time when absorbed in the garden. It was the same for Anna, when she played; Ruth could remember her daughter’s astonishment at the way whole mornings disappeared when she was practising. We do miss you, my darling, she told Anna’s picture in her bedroom. I’m trying to believe it’s getting easier, but it still hurts like hell. A sudden dart of grief pierced her heart, almost taking her breath away with its sting. She sank heavily onto the bed, put her head in her hands and wept.

  They weren’t quite late, thanks to William’s instinct that something was wrong. He appeared at her side, took her in his arms, and rocked her wordlessly until the crying fit had passed. She went without a shower and breakfast, stopping only to brush her teeth, and promised him she would have a bite to eat later if she felt hungry. By the time they reached the retreat house where the pilgrims were staying she was composed and ready to face the day.

  It helped that as soon as she arrived her son-in-law asked her to take a look at Sam’s foot. ‘He’s limping,’ said Theo, who had clearly been loitering in the car park for their arrival. ‘I’m really not at all sure he’s going to last the day. Today’s a long haul again. But of course he won’t even admit it hurts.’

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Ruth.

  ‘Outside somewhere with Milo. I think he’s avoiding me.’

  Ruth, glad to be needed, left William to gather the group’s belongings into the car and took Smith with her into the garden as bait.

  ‘Milo!’ she called. ‘Delivery for you!’

  She watched as the boys hurtled up the lawn towards her. Both were dark-haired and long-limbed, lanky as anything, in the way prepubescent boys so often were. Two of a kind. But whereas Milo was grinning as he ran, Sam was biting his lip. And most definitely hobbling.

  ‘Milo, would you take Smith, please? Tell your mum he’s here? I need to borrow Sam for a minute. Now, young man,’ she said firmly as she steered Sam inside and sat him down. ‘Doctor Granny at your service. May I have a look, please?’

  Sam undid his left trainer and reluctantly peeled off his sock. As Ruth took his misshapen foot in her hand he winced. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘But I need to see what’s going on.’ She felt gently and looked at the skin. The outside of his foot, where the little toe had once been, looked OK. The problem appeared to be on the knobbly gap left by his missing big toe. There was a blister about the size of a five-pence piece on the scar tissue around the metatarsal stump. His skin was red and warm to the touch.

  ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Looks a bit sore. How long’s that been bother­ing you?’

  ‘Only since yesterday.’

  ‘You’ve been soaking your feet in the evenings?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Sam-I-Am?’ At the sound of his pet name, Sam looked up sheepishly. Had he guessed that the nightly soak in warm water was partly a ruse to ensure that either she or Theo caught a regular glimpse of his feet?

  ‘I might not have done last night. There’s table tennis here, and table football, and a really cool ropes course. We all stayed out quite late.’

  ‘I thought perhaps you’d missed your shower.’ She wrinkled her nose in mock disgust.

  ‘But I think it started hurting yesterday morning.’

  ‘In the rain? Do your boots leak?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘And you went to the clinic last week?’ Sam nodded. ‘OK, here’s what we’ll do. You go and wash your stinky feet and find some clean socks. I can dress that blister, but we do need to keep an eye on it so that it doesn’t get infected. So you’ve got a choice. Take a break and keep me company for a bit. Or press on and see how you go. What do you think?’

  ‘Don’t know. I . . . um . . . I . . .’

  Ruth waited. Sam was chewing his lip again. ‘You what?’

  ‘I don’t want to let Mum down.’

  ‘Oh, Sam!’ Ruth reached out and hugged him. ‘Do you have any idea how well you’ve done? Do you know how many miles you’ve walked?’

  ‘Not really . . .’

  ‘Forty-five! Over four days on the trot. That’s pretty impressive for any eleven-year-old, let alone one without quite the full complement of toes. Don’t you dare imagine for a single second you’re letting Mum down, even if you don’t walk another step. I’m extremely proud of you – we all are – for what you’ve achieved already.’

  Sam gave a diffident smile. ‘Look,’ said Ruth, ‘go and have that wash, and think about it. I’ll fetch my first-aid kit for the dressing and I’ll let Dad know you’re in one piece.’

  ‘Right, everyone,’ said Father Stephen as the group assembled outside the retreat house. ‘Today’s a long day, but at least the terrain isn’t too challenging. We’ll be back on the Pilgrims’ Way proper for quite a bit, and the route is going to be very scenic. Lots of woodland and then some rather lovely open countryside through two beautiful valleys this afternoon. There should be some wonderful wildflowers. And the good news is that the forecast looks fine today. Questions, anyone?’

  ‘What about lunch? Could we just have another look at the map?’ Ruth asked Stephen. She wanted to be clear on the options if Sam chose to take some time out. ‘And does anyone need any shopping done? I’ve got Mary Anne’s grocery list, but if you’re running out of toothpaste, now’s the time to let me know.’

  Lucy or Ella – Ruth could never remember which was which – came over and asked Ruth if she wouldn’t mind buying some shampoo, and Milo put in his usual request for chocolate. Father F showed her the lunch stop on the map: a country park with an award-winning eco-friendly visitor centre.

  ‘Any idea which will be the easier leg?’ she asked. ‘Morning or afternoon?’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘I’m a bit worried about Sam. He’s hobbling, but reluctant to dip out.’

  ‘Poor chap. I’m sorry to hear that. He’s been doing so well,’ said Father Stephen. He turned back to the map. ‘Looking at the contours, I’d say it was six of one and half a dozen of the other. But it’s a long day, all right. Fifteen miles at least. What do you want to do?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. But his dignity is at stake.’ She thought for a moment, and then called him over. ‘Sam? Any thoughts on what you’d like to do today? Because it might be worth my mentioning that I could do with a hand, if you find yourself at leisure.’

  ‘A hand with what?’

  ‘Don’t look so worried! It’s just that according to my guidebook we’re very near a couple of extremely interesting nature reserves. I’m on the lookout for orchids, and I could really do with a pair of young eyes.’

  ‘Orchids?’

  ‘Orchids. Not to mention cowslips, fairy flax and squinancywort. Though it’s probably too early in the year for that.’

  ‘Granny, you sound like a witch. Professor Sprout out of Harry Potter! What do you want all that lot for?’

  ‘Come to think of it, people used to use squinancywort for treating quinsy, which is a nasty sort of abscess on the tonsils. Not to be recommended.’

  ‘Would it work on my foot?’

  Ruth laughed. ‘I’m rather hoping we’ll manage to sort that out with some good old-fashioned TLC,’ she said. ‘And if not, there are always
antibiotics. But I’m taking photos today, not harvesting plants or boiling up potions in my cauldron. Broomstick and black cat safely left at home. Anyway. How about it?’

  ‘Can Milo come?’

  Ruth hesitated. She might be being selfish, but she felt a fierce need to have her youngest grandson all to herself. It was for his own good, too; unwatched by his peers, Sam would allow himself to take it easy. She could – if not baby him, exactly – perhaps spoil him a little. ‘Well . . . I’m not sure it would be quite fair on George if we took Milo. And it probably isn’t really an outing for Smith, either. Bear in mind how slowly I walk with my stick. How about we give your foot a bit of a rest this morning, and then meet the others at the picnic spot? My guidebook tells me there’s a really good café there. If we get there early, perhaps you could escort your old granny out to lunch.’

  ‘Cool. I’ll go and tell the others you need me,’ said Sam. ‘You’re not that old, Granny,’ he added as an afterthought over his shoulder. ‘After all, Grandpa’s a whole year older.’

  ‘Impressive work,’ said Father Stephen, once Sam was out of earshot.

  ‘I’m an old hand,’ said Ruth, absurdly pleased by his compliment.

  ‘Not that old, remember.’

  Ruth laughed. ‘I like your young man, by the way. Very charming. And he makes a marvellous macaron.’

  ‘Oh! He’s not . . . I mean, well, ahem . . . Gosh!’ stammered Father Stephen.

  ‘Ah,’ said Ruth, raising her eyebrows. ‘It’s like that, is it? Sorry if I’ve spoken out of turn. Better let you get on. Have a good morning.’

  The nature reserve was just a short walk away from the retreat house. Straddling the ridge, it was divided in two by the footpath: a backdrop of ancient woodland on one side, a sloping grassy meadow on the other. Ruth walked slowly, leaning on her walking stick, in the knowledge that it would do no harm to her knees or Sam’s blister to take it gently. In normal circumstances she was as stubborn as a mule about the stick. She preferred to grit her teeth – quite unnecessarily, she would have told any patient seeking her advice – and push on through the pain, making little or no allowance for her condition. Old habits die hard, she thought. One of hers was impatience. So compelling was her need to get things done that she generally overcame obstacles by simply refusing to admit to their existence.

  She paused, in part to take a breath, but also to admire the panoramic view before them. The weather was clear and you could see for miles – twenty? thirty? – in each direction over magnificent landscape. The downs unfolded below, unscarred here by the motorway, though she was sure she could just hear the thrum of traffic in the distance. The colours were those of early summer: that dazzling fresh green of May in the grass and the leaves, peppered with snowy pink and white blossom. A carpet of wildflowers. A kestrel hovered above on the gentlest of breezes.

  The skyline might be short on white-capped mountains, but other­wise it could have been the opening scene from The Sound of Music. Anna had played the lead role in a school production. Closing her eyes, Ruth could picture her entry on stage, hear her voice in the opening number. ‘The Hills Are Alive with the Sound of Music.’ The memory was so close she could almost reach out and touch it.

  She drew in a deep breath. At this precise moment, for even just a few seconds, it was good to be alive. She and William had married on just such a day as this, the church filled with cow parsley gathered from the hedgerows. Oh, gracious! Had she forgotten their wedding anniversary? Had he? She thought for a moment, and realized with a pang that it would be on Sunday, the day the pilgrimage was due to finish. Would they mark it, and if so how? Neither was given to grand gestures; they shared a healthy scepticism about the manufactured commercialism of occasions such as Valentine’s Day. As war babies, even all these years later they found it next to impossible to splash out on family birthdays. But William had always treated their wedding anniversaries with a special reverence. He took great care and imagination to seek out small but thoughtful gifts for her: an early Elizabeth David cookery book, long before the author was famous, the year after their first ever holiday in France; a beautiful eternity ring, discovered in an antique shop, for their ruby anniversary; and last year, a particularly luxurious hand-cream for gardeners, made from almond oil and shea butter that he’d tracked down in a little shop in Winchester.

  The other thing she discovered, quite by accident, was that William always slipped into church on their wedding anniversary to give thanks for their marriage. She found this out when he mentioned, very much in passing, that he’d bumped into his older brother Richard at a lunchtime service in one of the City churches. Surprised, she remarked that he’d never mentioned going to church during the working day before. It was part of their weekend routine; he was as regular as clockwork in his Sunday churchgoing. In fact they all went in those days. One did. But the working day was usually so demanding that he barely stopped for lunch.

  ‘Don’t often manage it,’ he replied. They were eating Dover sole and drinking cold white burgundy at the kitchen table, a rare extravagance to mark the anniversary without the need for a babysitter. (Their eleventh? Of course it was; that was the night that Thomas was conceived.)

  ‘So what was special about today?’

  ‘Need you ask?’ he said, giving her a look of such intensity that she went quite weak at the knees. ‘I give thanks for your love every day of the year. But today of all days, it’s only fitting that I do that in the house of God.’

  And all over again, she’d been bowled over with love for this quiet but passionate man, whose faith and integrity ran through him like writing in a stick of rock, who had somehow managed to fall in love with her, of all people, with all her imperfections. Now, she thought, we must celebrate on Sunday, somehow, even in our sadness. We simply have to find a way to keep living. And much as I loathe ascribing thoughts to the dead, I really do believe that Anna would have wanted us to try to be happy.

  Sam and Ruth spent a quiet morning pottering in the sunshine. In the grassland they found the fairy flax with its wiry stems and small white flowers. The warmer weather had brought out a cloud of butterflies: she soon spotted a flutter of Common Blues (absurd that something so beautiful was termed ‘common’), and a Brown Argus. She pointed out to Sam a good patch of early purple orchids, resplendent with their dense, cone-shaped cluster of flowers. Nestling in the grass she discovered what she thought was a green-winged orchid, but she’d really need to double-check Keble Martin when she got home. And to her great delight, Sam himself identified a tiny patch of what must be one of the first pale pink common spotted orchids.

  ‘Well done, Sam! Why don’t you take a picture, and then perhaps you could make a note in my flower journal for me,’ she said.

  ‘What’s so special about orchids, Granny?’

  ‘Good question. I suppose it’s a mix of their exoticism and their perfection. Some of the species you find in tropical countries are quite outlandish – huge great blooms, extraordinary, spectacular colours. Everything from tangerine and puce to scarlet and snow white. They’re a bit more restrained in Britain but still rather special. Look how absolutely perfect each flower is. They’re also quite rare, these days, so that makes them extra precious. Though this part of the country is a particularly good area for them.’

  ‘What’s your very best orchid?’

  ‘Ah, that’s easy enough,’ she said with a smile. ‘My absolute favourite is the bee orchid. It’s tiny and velvety and really very clever. I must show you a picture when we get home. It’s actually evolved to look like a bee. That means that bees fly in, and try to mate with the flower. Which of course they can’t, but when the bee touches down, it picks up the pollen. Which it spreads around when it flies off again.’

  ‘Are there any here?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Ruth. ‘Though you do find them in Kent. But it’s a bit early in the season. They’re more of a high summer flower.’

  ‘Well, I think that’s
a bit unfair,’ said Sam.

  ‘Unfair?’

  ‘The flowers are playing a rotten trick on the bees, pretending to be something they’re not. Poor old bees.’

  Ruth chuckled. ‘You’ve got a point,’ she said. ‘But that’s the birds and the bees for you.’

  The morning soon slipped away. Ruth had rather hoped to go in search of any last lingering bluebells, but looking at her watch (and she really was trying to be conscientious about her time-keeping) she realized that the minutes were ticking by and they still had to retrieve the car and drive several miles through the lanes to the meeting place. The Pilgrims’ Way was much more direct. The woods really were at their best at this time of year. Yesterday the smell of wild garlic had been quite overwhelming. The lunch spot itself was a site of special scientific interest and on her list for further exploration. And if she could manage it, the afternoon stretch was supposed to be another hotspot for orchids.

  She and Sam made their way slowly back to the car. Out of the corner of her eye, Ruth watched him walk, and decided he looked more comfortable. Certainly he had regained his colour and was chatting happily, recounting for the nth time the story of Milo falling in the water on Sunday.

  ‘You should have seen him, Granny. He was absolutely sopping,’ said Sam. ‘Uncle Tom had to pull him out like a great big fish and he was squealing. Then Dad ended up giving him a piggyback but he was so wriggly he kept sliding off. It was so cool it was sick.’

  ‘Was he by any chance showing off?’ asked Ruth, doing up her seat belt.

  ‘Oh, I suppose so,’ said Sam airily. ‘But you have to remember, he is only eight.’

  ‘Ah, that explains it,’ said Ruth as she started the car. ‘But what about you? How’s that poorly foot feeling now?’

  ‘Better, I think. I can’t really feel it. Specially now I’m sitting down.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ she said as lightly as she could. She reminded herself, as she had done so often over the years, that the lasting damage the meningitis had inflicted on Sam could so easily have been far worse. To lose two toes to septicaemia was cruel, but other children lost entire limbs. At least he had all his fingers; missing toes were a nuisance, but nothing like so obvious. Her unvoiced fears about brain damage, deafness and tinnitus had all proven unfounded. Sam had, it was true, regressed from walking to crawling for several weeks, but as Ruth told Anna at the time, that was entirely understandable. His foot was badly wounded and extremely sore. He would learn to walk again; and indeed he did. One day he simply pulled himself upright and took a few steps, tentatively at first until he got the hang of it. In fact his balance was overall surprisingly good – he learned to ride a bike with very little fuss, for instance – and he only really wobbled when very tired.