Our Song

by Dani Atkins

  I found myself smiling yet again, as I sat waiting for the first coat of varnish to dry. The manicurist was right: I was a lucky girl. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in one of the salon’s many mirrors, correction – woman, not girl. When your last birthday took you out of your twenties, you probably couldn’t justify hanging on to the title of girl for much longer. I looked again at my reflection, and wondered if David was right, that I didn’t look my age. My naturally blonde hair was cut in a sharp and stylish style that feathered around my face and followed the line of my jaw. It was subtly highlighted to look as though I had just returned from a fortnight in the sun. I had the time and money to spend on make-up, manicures, spray tans and facials. I knew I looked years younger than many of the women I passed in the street, women who were probably around the same age as me. Women who looked stressed and harried by life as they pushed prams along the pavements, hurrying to get to child-minders or nurseries, tugging impatiently on the hands of small children who seemed totally devoid of any sense of urgency. Lucky, lucky me.

  Halfway through the second coat of varnish, the soporific piped background music was interrupted by a jarring ring-tone coming from the direction of my feet. I glanced down and saw the sides of my tan leather bag vibrating gently, as though a tiny creature was trapped within it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I apologised, ‘I meant to put it on silent.’

  ‘It’s no problem,’ assured the manicurist, pausing with her brush in the air before continuing. ‘Do you want to get it?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. It can go to voicemail. I’ll just ignore it,’ I said.

  But the phone wouldn’t stop. A few moments after the caller would have been directed to leave a message, it rang again. I frowned at my bag, as though that might be enough to make them go away.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to answer it?’ the girl questioned.

  I looked down at my brilliant red fingernails, fanned out on the table like the wing tips of an exotic butterfly. I couldn’t touch anything for at least ten minutes without ruining them.

  ‘No. Whoever it is can wait,’ I declared. But apparently they couldn’t, because my handbag remained silent for less than a minute before the phone within it started ringing again.

  ‘I am so sorry about this,’ I apologised.

  The girl stopped to screw on the lid of the clear varnish she had just started to apply. ‘Don’t worry. It happens all the time. Would you like me to answer it for you, as your nails are still wet?’

  There’s something a little unsettling about watching another woman go through your handbag, and I was much happier when she had finally extracted the phone and held it within her palm. She peered at the display. ‘It’s David,’ she read ‘Is he your—’

  ‘Husband, yes,’ I said, biting my lip. He probably assumed I was still at the office, because I hadn’t told him I was taking a few hours off to prepare for a trip I wasn’t supposed to know about.

  ‘Would you mind just telling him that I’m tied up and that I’ll call him back in twenty minutes or so?’ David didn’t know all the members of my team, so with luck he’d think he was talking to one of the juniors.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, pressing the button to accept the call.

  ‘Don’t say anything about where I am,’ I whispered just as she opened her mouth to speak. ‘And nothing at all about New York,’ I added in a panicked rush.

  I sat back, feeling guilty, as though I’d been caught out cheating on him or something, which was totally crazy. As if I’d ever do anything like that.

  ‘Hello. No, this isn’t her, she can’t come to the phone right now, I’m afraid.’ A small silence followed, and because I was studying her carefully while she lied to my husband on my behalf, I saw the precise moment when she became aware that something was wrong. The realisation flooded over her face like a blush.

  ‘What is it, what did he say?’ I asked urgently.

  The manicurist held out the phone to me. ‘It’s not him, it’s some woman.’

  There was no reason to think of her name, but in that brief millisecond as I leaned across the table, it was the only one that crossed my mind. The manicurist held the phone to my ear.

  ‘Hello, who is this?’ I heard the stiffness in my voice.

  ‘My name is Marie, I work at Sunderson’s Department Store. Am I talking to Mrs Williams?’

  Even as I heard myself confirming that she was, my brain was scrolling, computer-fast, down a list of possible reasons for this call. It settled on the only one that seemed logical. David must have lost his phone and this woman had found it somewhere. I liked that solution; it made sense.

  ‘Mrs Williams, your husband asked me to call you—’

  ‘He did? I’m sorry. I don’t understand,’ I interrupted, my theory falling to the floor where it promptly shattered.

  ‘He was in the store, shopping for – well, that’s not important – but he . . . he wasn’t feeling very well.’

  In the time it took for me to jerk my hand up, snatch my phone from the manicurist – smudging all my nails in the process – a series of snapshots flashed through my mind: David pushing aside his meal last night, having scarcely touched it; David needing to stop between flights to get his breath climbing the stairs to our flat; his face as he kissed me goodbye that morning, his colour a little paler than usual.

  ‘Is David there? Can you put him on the phone please?’

  ‘I can’t do that right now, Mrs Williams,’ the assistant said with a small choked noise, which bizarrely made it sound as though she was crying.

  Fear slid over and around me like a cloak. ‘Why not? Where is he? Is he there?’

  The woman hesitated before replying. ‘Yes, he is, but he can’t get to the phone right now.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because the paramedics are with him,’ the unknown woman using David’s phone continued. ‘They’re lifting him onto a stretcher right now.’

  ‘Paramedics? Why does he need paramedics?’ There was genuine panic in my voice now. ‘Why is he on a stretcher? Please, tell me what’s happened to him.’

  I could hear someone talking in the background, and the woman took a second or two to reply. ‘They’ve just told me they’re taking him to St Elizabeth’s and that you should meet them there.’

  ‘Why are they taking him to hospital? I don’t understand. He’s just coming down with the flu or something.’

  The woman sounded almost apologetic to have to be the one to break it to me. It was beyond wrong that I was the last one to know. ‘I don’t think it’s the flu, Mrs Williams,’ said the woman kindly, ‘I don’t want to alarm you, but I think your husband may have had a heart attack.’

  Chapter 2

  Ally

  Slow motion. Everything was happening in slow motion. Almost as though I was the one underwater. But it wasn’t me, was it? That had been Joe, under the water in the middle of the frozen lake. What had he been doing there? How on earth had it happened? The policemen hadn’t been able to tell me, which seemed ridiculous, almost negligent in fact. Surely they must have known it would be the first thing I’d ask? Someone should have made it their business to find out.

  ‘Mrs Taylor? Are you alright?’

  What a stupid question. Of course I wasn’t. ‘Yes, yes . . . I’m just . . . I’m . . .’

  I felt as though I had literally been plucked out of my calm peaceful evening and dropped into the terrifying depths of someone else’s nightmare. This couldn’t really be happening, could it? The senior officer had doubtless dealt with many shocked relatives in his time, because he seemed to know exactly what needed to be done. He laid steadying hands on my upper arms and spoke in a firm and measured voice. ‘Take a second. Breathe. Then let’s get everything sorted out here so we can drive you to the hospital.’

  ‘I . . . I’ve got the car, Joe’s car. I can drive myself.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea,’ said the policeman gently. ‘You’r
e not in the right frame of mind to get behind a wheel. And besides, we can get you there a lot quicker. No one is going to stop us for speeding.’

  He was right, the important thing was to get to Joe as fast as possible. He needed me, but even more than that, I needed him, always had and always would. I grabbed my handbag and looked around for my coat, totally incapable of seeing it hanging on the line of hooks on the wall.

  The second policeman, who I hadn’t even noticed had disappeared, emerged at that moment from my kitchen, and from behind him belched a smoky haze smelling of burned food. ‘I’ve turned everything off, but your dinner was just charcoal,’ he advised.

  ‘It’s not mine, it’s my son’s—’ I broke off horrified. ‘Jake!’ I cried, as though I’d left him in a pram and absent-mindedly gone home without him. How could I have forgotten that he was sitting in the lounge watching television, waiting for dinner, waiting for his dad to get home, waiting for the comforting routine of normality which had shattered in tandem with the ice beneath Joe’s feet.

  ‘What do I tell him?’ I asked the two men, as though the uniform they wore gave them all the answers. ‘Should I take him to the hospital with me?’ I saw the undisguised look of sympathy on their faces.

  ‘Is there someone who could stay with him, a family member or a neighbour perhaps?’

  My parents were an hour’s drive away, and Joe’s had retired to the coast several years ago. We were planning to stay with them in the summer and Joe had already vowed that this was the year he would teach Jake how to swim. ‘It’s a life skill, and he needs to know how to get himself out of trouble in the water,’ he had declared. A sob tore its way out of my throat. Both officers tactfully said nothing while I fought to regain control.

  ‘Alice, she lives next door, she might be able to help.’

  ‘You go and explain things to your boy and I’ll knock next door,’ volunteered the officer. ‘Which way, left or right?’

  As my feet took me unsteadily towards the lounge I could hear a familiar theme tune as Jake’s favourite animated TV show begin to play.

  ‘Jake,’ I began, my voice nowhere near as steady as I wanted it to be. I didn’t want to scare him, but it was almost impossible not to, seeing as I was totally terrified myself. Not breathing.

  ‘Jake honey, will you turn that off for a minute?’ His head spun around as though I had just made the most ridiculous request imaginable. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Can’t it wait, Mum? This is my favourite episode,’ he said, with that particular wheedling whine that only those under the age of eight can pull off effectively.

  I glanced at the screen. ‘You’ve seen this one already, and I need to talk to you. I have something important I need to tell you.’

  Reluctantly his small stubby fingers jabbed on the mute button. ‘Is this about Father Christmas?’ he asked, in an anxious tone. ‘Because Tommy Jackson in my class said his mum told him that he wasn’t real. You’re not going to say that, are you? He is real, isn’t he?’

  I looked into his trusting blue eyes and felt something slice through me. Don’t you do this to us, God, I said almost belligerently, don’t you break his heart, don’t you dare.

  ‘Yes, Jakey, of course he’s real,’ I said, using the nickname he had only recently told me he was now much too grown up to be called. I knelt down beside him on the slightly worn carpet and tried to pull him onto my lap. He offered a token resistance, squirming eel-like for a moment, all bony little arms and elbows, before nestling in the familiar dip of my body.

  I raised a hand and smoothed back the long dark hair from his eyes. He needed a haircut. I’d been meaning to book him one for weeks at my hairdresser’s, but I knew he was hoping that Joe would take him for something far more trendy – which I would probably hate – at the local barber shop. I squeezed him a little tighter than I should have.

  ‘Jake, I have to go out for a little while,’ I said gently.

  He stopped trying to see what Bart Simpson was silently doing on the screen and turned to me in surprise. ‘Now?’ he queried. ‘But it’s almost supper time.’

  I nodded and had to swallow several times before I could continue. ‘I know, sweetie, but Alice from next door is going to sit with you and I’m sure if we ask her she’ll make you something nice to eat.’

  ‘But where are you going? You never go out at this time. You’re not teaching a lesson are you?’ He knew my schedule almost as well as he knew the programme times of his favourite shows. I gave private music lessons three evenings a week, but mostly the students came to our house. It was easier that way.

  ‘No Jake. I have to go to the hospital.’

  ‘Why Mummy? Are you sick?’ he shot back, his voice full of worried concern. See God, see what will happen. Take it back. Take it all back right now before it’s too late. Let there have been a horrible mistake; let it have been another Joe Taylor who had done something so ridiculous as to try to cross a frozen lake. Not our one.

  ‘No Jakey, It’s not me. It’s Daddy. He’s had . . . he’s had a little accident and he’s gone to hospital so they can make him better.’

  ‘What kind of accident?’

  ‘He . . . he fell on some ice.’ Not quite a lie, but certainly not the whole truth. Jake didn’t need to know that. Not yet.

  ‘But he’s alright, isn’t he?’

  Not breathing.

  ‘Oh I’m sure he’s going to be just fine,’ I said, the lie burning my throat, my tongue and my lips on its way out. ‘But I need to go and see him and . . . and they don’t let children in the ward he is in.’ I added another lie to the pile. ‘So Alice will stay with you, and after I’ve checked Daddy is okay I’ll come back home and tell you how he is.’

  I heard a click and looked up. Alice Mathers, my next-door neighbour, was standing in the doorway. She was still wearing her fluffy pink carpet slippers and an old-fashioned apron with a frilly edge that she always wore when cooking. She was trying very hard not to cry, and was mostly succeeding.

  ‘Hello, Jake. Do you mind if I come and sit here with you?’ she asked, crossing over to the two of us. She didn’t say a word to me, she didn’t need to. She picked up my hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘Go,’ she mouthed.

  My own eyes began to water and for just a moment we stared helplessly at each other. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be,’ I apologised.

  She shooed my words away. ‘You’ll be as long as you need to be,’ she said brusquely. ‘Don’t you worry about us. We’ll be fine.’ She glanced at the flickering animation on the television. ‘Jake and I will just see what mischief this Bert boy has got himself into, and then we’ll fix something to eat.’

  ‘Bart. His name is Bart,’ Jake corrected with a giggle.

  My smile was watery. Alice was great with him. She had three grandchildren and the youngest was about the same age as our son, so she always knew just the right things to do and say.

  ‘Okay Jake, I’m going now,’ I said, hugging him tightly and kissing him on the cheek. He squirmed away and jumped with gusto onto the settee cushions as though it was a trampoline. Joe was always telling him off about that.

  Not breathing.

  ‘Bye Mummy. Wish Daddy better.’

  I nodded fiercely.

  ‘Phone from the hospital,’ whispered Alice giving me just one brief hard hug. It was as though she knew my brittle nerves couldn’t withstand a lengthy one. ‘Joe’s fit and strong, he’ll get through this,’ she said huskily. I bit my lip so hard I could taste the coppery tang of tiny bloody droplets when I swallowed.

  The policemen were waiting for me in the hallway. ‘All ready?’

  ‘Yes, please can we hurry?’

  But before I was out of the door I was stopped by a cry from my son. ‘Wait Mummy, wait.’ He thundered up the stairs, and across the upstairs hall, making the entire ceiling vibrate from his pounding little feet. He reappeared moments later and barrelled down the staircase and into me. My arms flew around him as he th
rust a very dog-eared and much-loved plush toy lion into my arms. It was the toy he still needed to sleep with; the one we had to hide when friends came round to play, or during sleepovers. But the one that had to be carefully packed in every holiday suitcase, and tucked firmly under his arm and beneath his chin each night.

  ‘Take Simba to Daddy. He always helps when I feel sick. Simba will make Daddy better, I know he will.’

  I cradled the small, slightly grubby toy in my arms all the way down the path, into the waiting police car and through the streets which flashed by in a blur as we raced towards the hospital.

  Charlotte

  I jumped to my feet. ‘I have to go.’

  I was halfway to the door before I realised I had picked up none of my belongings and had absolutely no idea where the hospital was, much less how I was going to get there. Fortunately the salon staff sprang into action, and one of them even went out into the lightly falling snow to hail me a taxi, while the girl who had been painting my nails retrieved my coat, and helped me into it.

  Still in a daze I pulled three twenty-pound notes from my bag and thrust them into her hand. ‘I don’t know if that covers everything,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. We can sort it all out next time,’ she assured, walking me to the door. ‘And try not to worry, I’m sure your husband is going to be just fine. My dad had triple by-pass surgery after his heart attack last year, and he’s doing really well now.’

  I know she was trying to reassure me, but as I ran towards the waiting black cab, I found her words more worrying than comforting. Her father was probably in his late fifties or early sixties, but David was only thirty-one. He took good care of himself, ate sensibly, didn’t smoke and used his gym membership two or three times each week. Heart disease shouldn’t be knocking on our door for many more decades, if at all.