The Dead Wife's Handbook

by Hannah Beckerman

  I look at Ellie, at the uninhibited grin animating her face, and there’s nothing but pleasure lighting her eyes. Whatever anxieties she may have harboured about Eve’s permanent involvement in their lives have clearly long since evaporated.

  I scan the room again and instead of regret for the objects of mine that are no longer present, I feel unexpectedly relieved by their absence. Seeing Eve’s belongings in what used to be my home doesn’t feel like the usurpation I was anticipating but rather a liberation from the debris of the past. I feel suddenly unencumbered, as though all those material possessions had been tying me to the living world by a cord that’s now been cut, releasing me from the burden of my own grief.

  Surveying the house now, the house that was once the location of so many happy times with Max and Ellie, what I unearth are strangeness and familiarity housed under the same roof. It’s not, I know, my home any more. It’s finally letting go of me, as I am of it.

  Max slurps the last of his tea ostentatiously and, proving that he’s as good as his word, leaps off the sofa and pulls Ellie to her feet in the process.

  As the trio troop upstairs in crocodile fashion, I remain in the sitting room with no inclination to follow, keen to allow them the privacy they’ve so often been denied, uneasy about the intrusion that I’ve inflicted upon their lives. It’s time I left them to unpack alone.

  Chapter 33

  Laughter penetrates the clouds and when they finally clear I find myself in the kitchen at home with Ellie and Eve. They’re in the midst of a baking session, the intended outcome of which is, judging by the ingredients laid out and the festive songs emerging from the iPod dock, a Christmas pudding.

  They’re both singing along to the music, Ellie’s nose covered in flour and her hand dipping into the cup of raisins at frequent enough intervals to prompt Eve to reweigh them before adding them to the mixing bowl. They look like a proper team. A proper family. A mother and daughter if you didn’t know better.

  ‘What do we have to do now?’

  ‘It’s really simple, although don’t tell anyone I said so because they’ll be really impressed that we made this from scratch. Once all the ingredients are nicely mixed together, we cover the bowl and secure it with string and then boil it in water for about five hours.’

  ‘Five hours? That’s ages. And then is it ready?’

  ‘Pretty much. We should have made it about three weeks ago really. A week isn’t long enough because ideally we’d feed it some brandy every few days for about a month before Christmas Day to make sure it’s really tasty.’

  ‘Brandy? So will it make me drunk?’

  Eve laughs and dabs some more flour playfully on to Ellie’s nose.

  ‘Possibly, yes. But we won’t have time to do that this year anyway so I think you’ll be fine.’

  Eve places the mixing bowl in a large saucepan and adds boiling water before the pair of them begin clearing up the happy mess they’ve made.

  ‘Eve? You know how everyone says that Christmas is the time of the year when you’re supposed to be most happy? Well, the thing is, sometimes I’m not. Sometimes it’s when I’m most sad.’

  Eve stops wiping down the work surface and turns to face my little girl, a crease of concern between her eyes. There’s a solemnity in Ellie’s expression that’s all the more poignant for its contrast to her playfulness just moments ago.

  ‘Why do you feel sad, pumpkin? Aren’t you looking forward to Christmas? We’re going to have a super time, with Granny and Grandpa and Uncle Connor on Christmas Day and then down in Salisbury with Nanna on Boxing Day. You can’t feel sad about any of that, can you?’

  Ellie seems momentarily swayed by Eve’s enthusiasm, but then her own reservations resurface and her eyes begin to moisten before the saddest, solitary tear trickles down her cheek.

  ‘What is it, Ellie? What’s made you so sad all of a sudden?’

  Eve takes Ellie’s hand and guides her towards the kitchen table, where she sits down and lifts Ellie on to her lap. It’s the most natural of maternal instincts and I can’t fault Eve’s actions. It’s as if she’s been doing it all her life.

  ‘It’s just that when I feel happy at Christmas it makes me feel bad at the same time because Mummy really loved Christmas and I know how sad she’d be that she’s missing out on all the fun.’

  Her confession concludes with a plaintive sob as Ellie loses the battle to hold back the troupe of tears intent on seeing the light of day. Amidst the yearning to take her in my arms and soothe her distress, there’s a deep pride in her too. I wonder whether many children her age could be so thoughtful, so sensitive, whether she was predetermined to be so caring or whether my death has made her more perceptive than she would otherwise have been.

  Eve holds Ellie in her arms and gently strokes her cheek.

  ‘I’m sure you and your mummy had some lovely Christmases together. And even though she’s not here any more, you’ll always have the memories of those Christmases with her, won’t you?’

  Ellie responds with an almost imperceptible nodding of her head. When she begins to speak, her voice is hesitant, barely more than a whisper.

  ‘I think Christmas is the time I miss Mummy the most.’

  And Christmas is the time I miss you most too, my angel, if that’s even possible when every day I miss you with a ferocity I’d have thought unbearable had someone warned me of its magnitude before I got here. I wish you could know just how much, Ellie, how much you’re loved and missed and how incredibly proud I am of you.

  Eve wipes Ellie’s damp face with soft strokes of her fingers.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me about some of the best memories you have of Christmas with Mummy?’

  Ellie takes a few deep breaths, as much to stem the tide of tears as to consider her answer.

  ‘I liked it when I’d wake up and find the sack of presents Father Christmas had left outside my bedroom door and I’d take it into Mummy and Daddy’s room and I’d get into their bed and they’d watch me open all my presents. That’s my best bit of the whole day, I think.’

  I think that was always my best bit too.

  I remember her very first Christmas, Ellie not yet a year old and more eager to practise her new crawling and climbing skills on our bed than to sit patiently between us, Max and I taking it in turns to open presents for her, laughing at her fascination with the wrapping paper and her almost complete disinterest in the toys inside. And then, year by year, that fascination gradually reversing, until her third Christmas when she finally understood that tearing off the sparkly, coloured paper was just a means to an end to reveal the real prize underneath.

  That third Christmas was truly magical. Ellie was giddy with excitement about Santa’s impending visit and she’d followed me round the kitchen, her anticipation reaching fever pitch as I prepared a glass of milk and a mince pie for him and a carrot for Rudolph, full of the speculations evoked by the idea of a man on a sleigh flying through the air to deliver gifts right into her home. She made us laugh with her endless queries and her concern for Santa’s well-being: ‘Won’t he get cold out all night?’ ‘Won’t he be tired not getting any sleep?’ ‘What if the reindeers crash in the dark and he gets hurt?’ ‘What if he forgets to visit our house?’ The last one, I assured her confidently, would never ever happen.

  ‘And what’s been your favourite Christmas present of all time?’

  Ellie barely needs time to think before bouncing on Eve’s lap with the urgency of a newly made decision.

  ‘I know! It was my last Christmas with Mummy and after I’d finished opening all the presents in my sack, Dad said that Santa had left something downstairs for me because it was too heavy for him to carry up to my bedroom. So we all went down into the sitting room and there was a brand new bike with a big red ribbon tied around the handlebars. That was definitely my best Christmas surprise ever.’

  ‘That sounds like a fantastic Christmas Day, Ellie. I’m sure you’ll never, ever forget it. You know, I’
ve just had a thought about what we could do this afternoon. Why don’t we make a memory map about Mummy, to help you keep all your best memories in one place?’

  Eve’s voice is bright and encouraging and, whatever a memory map is, I’m grateful to her for endeavouring to keep Ellie’s sadness at bay.

  ‘What’s a memory map?’

  ‘It’s a big collage of photos, mementoes, souvenirs – anything you have to remind you of your best times with Mummy. We’ll collect together all your favourite things and glue them on to one big piece of card and then we can hang it on the wall in your bedroom so that you can see it every night before you go to sleep and every morning when you wake up. We could make it while Dad’s still out at football. How does that sound?’

  That sounds wonderful.

  Ellie leaps off Eve’s lap, her energy levels restored by such a heart-warming suggestion, and heads for the sitting room.

  ‘I love it. Can we do it now? There’s a big box of photos in the cupboard under the TV and I’ll get my special treasures box from my bedroom too. That’s got loads of things in it from days out with Mummy.’

  As Ellie rushes off in search of tangible memories, I watch Eve watching Ellie, a smile of warmth on her face, a smile of gratitude on mine. It can’t be easy, can it, coming late to this familial party and negotiating her way through the minefield of bereavement etiquette? I’ve spent so much time being envious of her stepping into my role, being jealous of her living my life even though it’s not mine to live any more, I think I may have been blinded to some of her admirable qualities: her kindness to Ellie, her compassion and love for Max and her generosity towards me, the woman who’s done little more than complain about her since that very first date sixteen months ago.

  Perhaps it’s time for the dead to be as generous towards the living as the living are to the dead.

  Ellie’s back at the kitchen table now, rummaging through two big boxes and pulling out various ephemera to show Eve, who’s stuck four sheets of white A4 paper on to a piece of cardboard and is sitting waiting, scissors and glue at the ready.

  ‘What’s this Ellie?’

  ‘That’s my ticket for the Parthenon. Mummy and Daddy took me to Greece and it was the best holiday ever. There was this restaurant we went to nearly every night in Athens ’cos they had the best grilled prawns in the world. And then we went to an island – I can’t remember its name – and the sea was so clear that even when you were in really deep you could still see your toes. And sometimes it was so hot in the middle of the day that we had to go back to our apartment, but we had this really comfy hammock and Mummy or Daddy would lay in it with me and we’d read books together. I want to go back there one day.’

  Ellie concludes her elaborate description of a holiday I hadn’t even dared imagine she’d remember as she rummages around in one of the boxes for more treasures.

  ‘Well, in that case, I definitely think the ticket should go on the memory map, don’t you? And maybe we can find a photo of that holiday too?’

  ‘Yep, definitely. I think I want to be an archaeologist when I grow up. It’s really cool. You get to dig up things from thousands of years ago and then work out who they belonged to. It’s like a jigsaw puzzle but without the picture on the box to show you what it’s supposed to look like. I think that would be an awesome job.’

  She really is special, my little girl. I’ve no doubt her career plans will change countless times over the coming decade, but right now there’s pleasure enough in the knowledge that her current ambitions are inextricably linked with experiences she shared with both Max and me.

  ‘Is that you in this photo, Ellie?’

  Ellie looks at it and giggles.

  ‘Yep, that’s me as the Ladybird when we did James and the Giant Peach at school. Dad has a video of it somewhere and it’s really embarrassing. I was only about five and every one kept forgetting their lines so the teacher kept having to shout them out for us. But Mummy made my costume for me and it was definitely the best costume in the whole play.’

  I remember that costume. It took hours to make. Ellie was the world’s most impatient model during fittings – she’d fidget every time I started making adjustments – but when I finally showed it to her in the mirror, she’d gazed at her own reflection with such wonderment that the hours spent at the sewing machine seemed immaterial. I can still see, so vividly, that look on her face now – the look of someone enthralled by their own transformation.

  ‘There’s loads of other things I still want to find for the memory map, Eve. I want to find a picture of Mummy and me at the piano – I know there’s one somewhere – because she used to teach me tunes like ‘Twinkle Twinkle’. And I want to find my first swimming badge because Mummy and Daddy taught me how to swim. And I’ve got the ticket here somewhere from when Mummy took me to see Mary Poppins at the theatre. Oh, and when we went to the ballet too, The Nutcracker at the Opera House. I want to add those. I was just thinking as well, what about sticking on a page from one of my exercise books when I got a gold star for spelling homework? Because Mummy always helped me with my homework. That would be okay, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘That would be just fine. I think all those sound like lovely things to put on your memory map. You know, Ellie, I know it’s really, really sad that you lost your mummy when you were so young, but it sounds like you had some really lovely times together. In fact, I think you probably had more lovely times with your mummy in those few years than some people have with mummies who are around for much, much longer.’

  Eve’s right. We did have lovely times, Ellie and I. I’d look at her sometimes, when we’d be out on one of our trips together to the theatre or to the cinema or just to wander around parks or galleries, and I’d think how lucky I was to have a daughter who was so much fun to be with. I had friends who complained about husbands disappearing off to various sporting activities at the weekend, but to me it always seemed like rather a special gift. All those afternoons with Ellie, just the two of us, milling around town together – I wouldn’t have swapped them for anything.

  Ellie looks at the photo she’s holding now – of her, Max and me ice skating at Somerset House – and suddenly seems less convinced by Eve’s positive analysis.

  ‘But I still miss her. Sometimes remembering nice times with Mummy just makes me miss her even more.’

  Eve retrieves a stray curl from Ellie’s forehead and pops it back inside her red hair clip.

  ‘Of course you still miss her, Ellie. You’ll probably always miss her. But think about all the ways in which your mummy’s still with you, like all the things you’ve told me about this afternoon. Swimming and playing tunes on the piano and doing your homework well; they’re all things Mummy gave you and they’re all things you’ll have with you forever. And I’m sure there are lots of other things too. What about Mummy’s roast potatoes – think how many people are going to enjoy those because she taught you the recipe. You might still be making those potatoes in fifty years’ time, maybe even for your own children, maybe even your own grandchildren, and all because Mummy showed you how to make them. That’s pretty special, isn’t it?’

  Ellie giggles, perhaps at the idea of a potato being special or perhaps at the thought of one day having children of her own.

  ‘So would that be like Mummy teaching me how to do funny voices in storybooks ’cos now I do them to all my friends at school during reading time and everyone really laughs? Or like when she taught me how to draw a dog’s face really easily and everyone in my class thinks it’s really clever?’

  ‘That’s exactly right, Ellie. They’re both very good examples. And it’s true of how memories work too. I never met your mummy but I feel like I know her because of all the lovely memories that you and Dad share with me. So there’s lots that I know about things the three of you did together, and the kind of person she was, even though I never had the opportunity to meet her myself.’

  I’m shocked and not a little humbled. All this time I’ve i
magined that it must be difficult, painful, irritating even, for Eve joining a family with the memory of her predecessor so potent in the air. But now Eve’s telling me I’ve got it all wrong, that these are conversations she not only tolerates but embraces, that she’ll go out of her way to make room for me in her life with Max and Ellie.

  ‘Look how many people you’ve already got on your memory map, Ellie. Not just you and Mummy and Dad but Granny, Grandpa, Nanna, Harriet, Connor … and is that a photo of you with Mummy’s friends at work? You know, even though she died very young, your mummy touched the lives of lots of people and they all have their own memories of her, so in that way she’s still very much here with all of us.’

  Ellie surveys the map she’s made of our life together, and for the first time I feel secure in the belief that Max and Ellie – with a little help from Eve – will be devoted guardians of our collective memories.

  ‘My mummy really was special. She always knew when I wanted my head stroked, and could always make me feel better, however sad I was. At night, when she tucked me up in bed, we’d play this game where I’d tell her I loved her up the sky and round the world and then she’d tell me she loved me up the sky and round the world and back again, and then I’d add on round the moon and then she’d add on one of the planets and sometimes we’d carry on doing it for ages, until we’d gone round the whole solar system. And Mummy would always end by saying she loved me to infinity and beyond, like Buzz Lightyear in Toy Story, and that’s when she’d kiss me goodnight and turn out the light. Sometimes I just want to be tucked up by her again and tell her I love her.’