The Last Day

by Claire Dyer

  It’s bad enough, I think, coming back home when it’s just the three of us and there’s Boyd and Honey’s stuff around and I can never predict what state the kitchen will be in, what there’ll be to eat in the fridge. But this? Having Trixie let herself in like this is a diabolical liberty. Oh, to have those days again when it was just me living here! Suddenly I want this fiercely and then, just as suddenly, I don’t.

  ‘Honey’s had an accident,’ Trixie says, somewhat defensively I think.

  My heart judders to a stop. This, I realise, is what fear is; that fear of something happening to someone you care about and the twin pillars of powerlessness and powerfulness that sit at the centre of all of us which tell us, ‘Yes, you can save them,’ and ‘No you can’t.’

  I think of the child in the park, of the tumble of limbs as he fell in front of me, his face as he looked up at me. I feel a shooting sensation down my arms and my palms tingle.

  ‘An accident?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, she fell down the step into the storeroom. Boyd’s at the hospital with her now. She’s probably broken something, but is otherwise OK, I think.’

  Then there’s a knock at the front door. I open it. It’s Colin.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ I say.

  ‘Hi. You ready?’

  ‘Just about.’

  But I’m not. I don’t want to go out. I want to say here and wait for Boyd, but I mustn’t. I can’t.

  ‘Oh,’ Colin says, catching sight of Trixie, ‘I didn’t know you had company.’

  ‘This is Trixie,’ I say. ‘She works with Boyd. And, Trixie, this is Colin – he lives next door.’

  They nod at one another and smile but I can’t seem to say the word ‘accident’. I don’t want Colin to know, not yet, not until I know more about what’s happened. Instead I ask Trixie to tell Boyd that I won’t be back until late, but would like it if he could ring me to let me know how Honey is.

  ‘Will do,’ she says.

  And then Colin puts his hand on my shoulder and says, ‘Let’s go, eh? We don’t want to be late.’

  I don’t look at Trixie as we go out the door and as I close it behind me.

  Honey

  ‘Come on then hop-a-long,’ Boyd says, opening the car door when they get back to the house.

  Getting into the car had been a struggle even though the chair was still pushed back so she could stretch out her leg. The plaster cast reaches to just under her knee and is very heavy, it’s going to take her a while to get her balance and learn how to operate the crutches.

  ‘Cheeky sod,’ she replies, as he bends down and helps lift her leg, turning her in the seat and then putting a hand under each of her armpits and hauling her to a standing position. Next, he leans her up against the car and grabs the crutches from the back.

  Slowly and clumsily Honey makes her way down the path. It’s about six and dusk is well-established, the street lamps are on and the lamps in nearby windows are a pale yellow glow.

  Boyd is following her; she glances back at him, at the concern etched on his face. He’s carrying her handbag and for some reason this makes her want to laugh.

  ‘Suits you,’ she says.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘My bag. Looks good on you!’

  ‘Now who’s the cheeky sod?’

  The front door opens and Trixie’s standing in an oblong of light.

  ‘Oh,’ Honey says, surprised to see her there. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Trixie says, stepping back and letting her edge past her, the muscles in Honey’s arms are already starting to feel sore from the effort. She’s going to have to get much better at this. ‘I have a key,’ she says. ‘Boyd gave it to me ages ago.’

  There’s something about the way Trixie says this which makes Honey uncomfortable but she can’t pinpoint why and shrugs it off. ‘Vita in?’ she asks.

  ‘She was, but she’s gone out.’

  Boyd’s put Honey’s bag down and is resting one of his huge hands on the small of her back as if to guide her.

  ‘Out?’ he asks Trixie. ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘No, but the guy from next door … Colin is his name? Anyway, he called round and they went out together. She said she’d be back late but wants you to call her, to let her know about Honey.’

  Honey is standing in between Trixie and Boyd, looking from one to the other and wishing that Trixie would move so that she could manoeuvre herself to the sofa, when she catches a look that passes between them. It’s an odd look, not one she’s seen before. It’s half-surprise and half-complicit, as if they are reading each other’s minds and are wary about what they can see.

  ‘Colin?’ Boyd asks. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ Trixie has, at last, moved and Honey sits down and Boyd, of course, rushes over to put a cushion under her foot. ‘It looked like they were quite familiar with one another,’ Trixie says. ‘At ease, you know. As if they know each other well.’

  At this point Boyd turns and strides into the kitchen, making a low growling kind of noise that Honey’s not heard before either and Trixie leans in slightly and says in a sugary voice, ‘Can I get you anything, Honey? Cup of tea perhaps?’

  Honey nods and says, ‘Thank you, that would be nice. And …’

  ‘Yes?’ Trixie says, again in that sweet voice but looking over now at Boyd, a slight frown creasing her brow.

  ‘… can you pass me my bag?’

  Trixie hands Honey her bag and joins Boyd in the kitchen where Honey can hear them talking about work. They don’t mention Vita again but she can sense that something’s shifted, that Boyd minds that Vita’s gone out somewhere with Colin. Boyd asks Trixie about the sale of the house in Cumberland Avenue but the noise of the kettle boiling drowns out her answer.

  Honey plucks her phone out of her bag to check her emails. She hates not being on top of her work but, before she reads them, she notices there’s a text from a number she doesn’t recognise. She’s not really concentrating when she clicks on it but then it feels as though someone has punched her in the stomach as she reads, ‘Sorry about your fall. Was watching from the other side of the street. Kind regards, The Boatman.’

  ‘Shit,’ she says under her breath and quickly closes the message down and slips the phone back in her bag. How the fuck did he get her number? She thinks back to the people she’s given it to recently: a delivery guy, the man in the shoe repair shop, the mechanic at the garage who had MOT’d Boyd’s car. She’s been getting sloppy. She should be more careful, more watchful. And now Reuben has texted her and who knows what he may do next? Don’t they say that revenge is a dish best eaten cold?

  She feels dizzy and puts her head in her hands. She wants to cry but knows she can’t. She mustn’t give Boyd any further cause for concern. Today has been difficult enough as it is.

  ‘Here you go,’ Trixie says, putting a mug of tea on the table next to the arm of the sofa.

  Honey manages to mutter a thank you and then says, ‘I …’

  ‘Mmmm?’

  Trixie’s tidying, plumping up cushions, straightening Vita’s magazines. Boyd’s on the phone; Honey can hear the rumble of his voice.

  ‘I wonder if you’d ask Boyd if he could help me upstairs when he’s finished on the phone? I think I’d like to lie down. Today’s kind of taken it out of me.’

  ‘Of course, I will,’ Trixie says, smiling.

  At least I’m safe here, Honey thinks. While Boyd and Trixie are around, I am safe. And so she decides to tell her. ‘Trixie?’ she says.

  ‘Mmmm?’ Trixie says again, putting on her coat.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing. I guess you want to get back to Richard.’

  Trixie makes a strange sound as Honey says this; like she has a pain lodged somewhere deep inside of her. Then she says, ‘No, it’s OK. He can wait. What is it? Do you need me to get you anything?’

  Honey thinks then about the times Trixie must have spent here; maybe she and Richard had come round for dinner with Vita and Boyd back when life was simple, bef
ore William. Trixie would have left her boys in the care of a babysitter and they would have got a taxi and Richard would be wearing a loud, striped shirt, the type someone who works in the City would wear. Honey can imagine them sitting around the table with wine in glasses in front of them, the smell of lamb and rosemary in the air. Their laughter would be easy, intimate and candles would flicker and not one of them would know how dramatically things were to change. Not one of them would have imagined that one day she’d be here, with her foot in plaster and her belongings upstairs in the room that she now shares with Boyd.

  And she can see Trixie here after William: Trixie ironing Boyd’s shirts and dusting the mantelpiece; Trixie in the kitchen stirring soup on the stove, creeping upstairs every now and then to check on Vita who is lying in her bed, curled up like an ammonite.

  Boyd is still on the phone so Honey murmurs, ‘I got a text. From the man in the boat.’

  Trixie looks surprised. ‘How do you know it’s from him?’ she asks.

  ‘He signed it “The Boatman”.’

  ‘What did it say?’ Trixie carries on putting on her coat; she’s adjusting the collar, picking up her handbag.

  ‘That he knows about my fall.’

  ‘You mean he was watching?’

  ‘Yes.’ Honey glances towards the kitchen. Boyd is standing with his back to them and Honey is filled by a powerful kind of love for the goodness in him. He can’t know. He must never know the type of person she used to be: the things she did, the damage and pain she caused. She is sure his love for her isn’t strong enough to bear these truths, she doesn’t want to give him any more pain than he’s already suffered.

  ‘You still got the message?’ Trixie asks.

  She nods. She’s conscious that they’re whispering and that, if he were aware of it, this may make Boyd suspicious.

  ‘Block the number and then delete the text. Don’t respond to it whatever you do.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to …’

  At that moment Boyd turns and starts walking back towards them. ‘Right then, ladies,’ he says, beaming. ‘What are you two conspiring about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Honey says but imagines the guilt written large over her face in capital letters. ‘I did ask Trixie to ask you to help me upstairs, but now you’re off the phone, I can ask you myself!’ She is tipping her head to one side as though she’s flirting with him and hates herself for doing so but needs to distract him, make sure he has nothing to be suspicious of.

  ‘Sure thing,’ he says, bending down to pick up her crutches.

  ‘You certain you’ll be OK,’ Trixie asks. ‘You spoken to Vita yet?’

  ‘No,’ Boyd replies and, again, a look passes between them that unsettles her. ‘I’ll call her later,’ Boyd says, touching Honey briefly on the knee and smiling down at her.

  Suddenly and stupidly, Honey feels like she’s a child in a grown-up drama and that she’s not being told the full story. She’s on the verge of tears but reckons this must be shock and tells herself not to be so silly.

  ‘Come on, hop-a-long,’ Boyd adds, helping her to stand and slotting the crutches under her armpits.

  Honey has the feeling that hop-a-long is going to be her name for a while yet.

  ‘I’ll be off then,’ Trixie says.

  ‘Thank you so much for everything.’

  Boyd lets Honey lean up against him as he reaches out and puts a hand on Trixie’s arm; she moves the keys she’s holding from one hand to another and shifts her feet.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she replies. ‘What are friends for? I’ll see you tomorrow, Boyd.’

  ‘And me?’ Honey asks, letting the warmth of Boyd’s body seep into hers.

  ‘You’re not coming into work, surely?’ Trixie’s voice isn’t so sugary now but Honey guesses it’s because she’s tired.

  ‘I’d like to. I’ll go stir-crazy here on my own all day.’

  ‘Vita may be home,’ Trixie says. ‘Perhaps she can keep you company for a bit.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Honey says and then adds, ‘and thank you …’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ she answers. ‘As I said, it’s my pleasure.’

  And Honey believes her. And then with a nod to Boyd, who has withdrawn his hand from Trixie’s arm and is now resting it on the back of Honey’s neck instead, she leaves. The door clicks quietly after her and yet again Honey feels like weeping and yet again she tells herself this is because of the shock of the fall.

  As they make their way slowly upstairs, Boyd tells Honey he’ll have to inspect the step down to the storeroom at work, fill in health and safety forms, inform the insurers. She says there’s no need, it was her fault – she wasn’t looking where she was going – and he says it can all wait until tomorrow. The important thing is for her to rest.

  She hobbles to the bathroom and then, back in their room, overwhelmed by tiredness, slips out of her clothes and hops into bed.

  ‘Can I get you anything to eat?’ Boyd asks.

  ‘No, thanks. I’m fine. Just need some sleep. I’ll be dandy in the morning.’

  He kisses her on the lips, puts her phone next to the bed, opens a window to give her some fresh air and says, ‘I’ll leave you for a bit then. Call me if you need anything and I’ll check on you in a while anyway, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ she nods, and then he’s gone from the room and she hears him going downstairs.

  She reaches out for her phone and blocks the number as Trixie had told her to do and then deletes the message. It feels good to do this; a lucky escape, like she’s been given a second chance.

  She dozes and a bit later is woken by the sound of Boyd’s voice. He’s talking on the phone on the patio below their bedroom window.

  If it’s difficult enough overhearing a conversation you’re not meant to overhear, what’s more difficult is only being able to hear one side of it. It means that you have to imagine what the other person’s saying and the chances of getting this wrong are massive. She lies very still and quiet; her foot feels heavy, her head is full of cotton wool and yet she can still make out Boyd saying, ‘No, there’s nothing you can do. She’s sleeping. You don’t have to come back, but … you should have told me, Vita.’

  There’s a beat of silence before he says, ‘Why? Because it matters. I thought we were friends.’

  Another beat of silence.

  ‘How long has it been going on?’

  There’s a pause while Vita says something and then Boyd says, ‘He doesn’t seem your type.’

  There’s something in the tone of Boyd’s voice that Honey doesn’t recognise. It’s sharp, like a parent’s when they’re talking to a child who’s let them down in some subtle, yet catastrophic way.

  He’s talking again. ‘Were you ever going to tell me? I mean, you going to move in with him, or him with you? Am I in the way?’

  Honey notices the word ‘I’ in this last question; it’s like a pin scratching her skin. He should have said ‘we’.

  She realises he’s talking to Vita about Colin and this is what the look that passed between him and Trixie was all about and it hits Honey suddenly and irrevocably that Vita being with Colin is making Boyd unhappy for some inexplicable reason. Why should he mind? Shouldn’t he be happy for her? It certainly makes Honey happier.

  Boyd must have moved back inside or further down the garden as she can no longer hear him. It’s completely dark outside now and she imagines the sky dotted with stars. She sleeps again but doesn’t dream about the man in the boat. She’d expected she would, but she doesn’t.

  Boyd

  The next morning Boyd is filling the kettle, half listening out for Vita’s footsteps on the stairs. He was here yesterday morning doing the same thing and it seems a lifetime ago but it isn’t, it was only yesterday and they still have five across to do: the clue is ‘tart quality’ and the answer’s eleven letters long. They already have an N and a Y but are stumped and, without it, they can’t answe
r seven across.

  As he switches the kettle on, he thinks of Honey upstairs, her face pale against the pillowcase, the sooty smudges of tiredness under her eyes, those cheekbones. She’d slept heavily, he’d thought she would have her dream again but she didn’t.

  He’ll have to go and inspect the step today; see what it was that caused her to fall. He checks the clock, it’s six-forty. Vita’s late coming down this morning, he thinks.

  And then the front door opens and she’s standing in the lounge, the sky behind her is still navy, she’s carrying her coat over her arm. She looks guilty and, for a second, a pain seizes Boyd’s heart as if she’s been caught out deceiving him in some unspeakable way. Just for that second he’s forgotten they’re no longer together, that Honey’s upstairs. Vita’s obviously just come in from spending the night with another man and, apparently, this is all as it should be.

  ‘Good morning.’ Vita is speaking as though she’s just arriving at a business meeting. The guilt’s gone and in its place is her usual defiance, her brittleness.

  ‘Morning. Kettle’s on,’ Boyd replies, tightening the belt on his bathrobe and looking down at his feet. He’s wearing slippers and has the sudden urge to laugh, as though he’s trapped in some awful sitcom.

  ‘How’s Honey?’ Vita asks, thankfully pulling Boyd back to the tea, this morning, the crossword.

  ‘OK, I think. She slept well.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Nice evening?’ he asks as he puts tea bags in the pot. He tries to say this lightly, but has the feeling it’s come out as somewhat barbed.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She’s put her coat down and has picked up yesterday’s paper. ‘You still haven’t got five across then?’ she says.

  ‘It’s been a bit busy round here.’ Again, his voice is sharper than he intended it to be.

  ‘I bet it has.’

  And then he’s imagining her with Colin: her in bed with Colin, Colin’s hands on her skin.

  The words seem to come out of nowhere. He wasn’t expecting or planning to say them.