by Lynda Renham
She looked puzzled.
‘What do you mean? You and I are having a picnic in the park.’
‘So, it’s all over, but he came to my funeral,’ said Henry before thinking.
Imogen tilted her head back.
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ he said quickly.
He put the bottle of wine in the fridge. He didn’t want Imogen to drink any more.
‘What do you mean your funeral?’ she persisted. ‘What on earth are you talking about? Have you been drinking Henry?’
He noticed the sleeves of her dress were creased where she’d obviously rolled them up earlier in the day. If only I had been drinking, he thought; if only that’s all it was, Henry Booker Frazer drinking too much and becoming delusional. But Henry Booker Frazer didn’t drink enough to become tipsy.
‘Why didn’t you say you wanted a baby?’
‘I didn’t know how to Henry. You were always telling people how lucky we were not to have them. My mum said you never stopped boasting about being child free. It was like it was something special.’
She was right, thought Henry. I was proud of it. Proud of our child-free home and our child-free evenings and weekends.
‘The manager’s job, you wanted that too didn’t you? Why didn’t you push more for it? Why weren’t you stronger?’ he demanded, while knowing the truth was that he’d never wanted her to be.
She seemed relieved it was now all out in the open. She could air her grievances at last, her grievances against a man whose only crime had been to love her. Except it wasn’t all out in the open was it, Henry wanted to shout, ‘What about my murder, maybe you have conveniently forgotten about that!’
‘Henry, you have never listened to me. I did say I was keen to take the manager’s job but you dismissed it every time. Just like you’ve often dismissed my feelings.’
‘That’s not true,’ he argued. ‘When have I ever dismissed your feelings?’
‘All the time, Henry. Mum says you’re very self-centred and I agree with her.’
The dull gnawing pain in his stomach had returned. His own fault, he should have eaten more. Getting emotional like this, on an empty stomach, was just asking for trouble. He fumbled in the cupboard for his stomach tablets, those little white pills that opened the doors into moments of painless bliss.
‘You’re getting upset,’ said Imogen, filling a glass from the tap.
‘Take your pills,’ she ordered.
Imogen in charge for once, thought Henry. He swallowed them obediently and sat down.
‘Henry, please let’s not argue.’
Should he tell her about the premonition? But what if he’d got everything wrong? What if it had simply been a dream?
‘I’m going to lie down,’ he said abruptly. ‘I don’t feel good.’
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ Imogen said, wringing her hands. ‘Perhaps you should have a couple of biscuits.’
‘I’ll make a brew,’ his father used to say whenever anything bad happened. Like a brew would put everything right. A brew and two custard creams always used to do it. Henry didn’t like custard creams. They were too sweet for his liking. He glanced at his wife. Her eyes were red. Too much wine or too much crying; Henry wasn’t sure which. He wondered what the stranger would think of them now. Would they still think he and Imogen were the epitome of marital bliss?
Chapter Forty-Two
Henry lay on the bed and listened to the sound of Imogen crying downstairs. It was occasionally interspersed with the slamming of the dishwasher or the gentle hum of the boiler as the hot water ran. He’d get up soon and have some of that chicken. After all, it was pointless to go hungry. His eyes wandered to the wardrobe. He studied it for a few seconds and then wearily pulled himself off the bed. He decided to only venture as far as the doors, he was too nervous to go any closer. Supposing, he went inside, and found himself back where he’d started. No, Henry wasn’t going to risk losing control. He felt stupid being afraid of his own wardrobe. It seemed harmless enough with just shoes, dresses, and the fragrant smell of washing conditioner. Everything was just how it had always been. Then, his eyes moved to the bedside cabinet and its secret. If the baby clothes weren’t there then he’d know it had all been a bad dream. There would be nothing to worry about. He wouldn’t die on Saturday and everything would be hunky dory, as his father would say, just as it always was after a brew and some custard creams. He moved the packets of sanitary towels to one side and there it was the flowery box. Henry’s heart sank and in that moment he felt sure he would have cried if, from behind him, Imogen hadn’t said, ‘Henry, what are you doing?’
*
The flowery box sat on the bed between them. Imogen stroked it lovingly like a pet cat. Her eyes twinkled with tears.
‘How did you find out?’ she asked.
Henry rubbed his eyes with his finger.
‘I just found it one day,’ he said.
It wasn’t a lie. He had found it. He may have discovered it in the weirdest way possible, but he couldn’t tell Imogen that.
‘I wished you’d told me,’ he said sadly. ‘I could have been there for you. It was as much my baby as yours.’
‘Oh, Henry,’ she said bursting into tears. ‘I wanted to tell you.’
‘It was that time that you had the heavy period wasn’t it?’
Imogen nodded, her eyes sad.
Outside a car door slammed, followed by the sound of cheery voices before another slammed door. People living their lives with no idea of what is happening to us, thought Henry. That at 25, Mayberry Terrace a man was fighting to save his life. Imogen pulled away and dropped her head onto the duck feather-filled pillow.
‘I’ve got such a headache,’ she said, her head sinking into its softness.
They’d had the best of everything. Henry had seen to that. No polyester-filled pillows like Imogen’s parents had. Oh no, none of that synthetic rubbish for them. He’d also refused to have the stupid teddy bears on the bed too, even though Cynthia insisted on buying them for her daughter.
‘Children have teddy bears, not adults,’ he’d scoffed.
Cynthia had taken umbrage at that. How was Henry to know she had a whole teddy bear zoo in her bedroom? He was surprised John put up with it.
‘It’s not unusual,’ Imogen had told him. ‘Lots of people have teddies on their bed.’
‘Well, I’m not one of them,’ he’d stated firmly and had relegated the teddies to the top of the wardrobe where he was determined they would serve out the rest of their days. Now, their black staring eyes winked at him. They looked like dead squirrels, judging Henry from their perch on the wardrobe. He wanted to fling them out of the window and under an oncoming car. It would delight him to watch the stuffing pour out of them. Yes, that would put them in their place.
‘Henry.’
He shook his head away from the bears.
‘What are we going to do, Henry?’
I’m going to avoid the park, thought Henry. I’m going to make sure we don’t go near the river. I’m going to make absolutely sure that I’m still here, alive and kicking by Saturday evening. I’m going to make sure that you and your lover don’t murder me. The proof of his premonition lay between them. The discovery of the baby clothes meant Henry’s premonition had been real. And unless he took steps to stop it, in less than forty-eight hours he would be dead.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, falling onto the pillow beside her. ‘Do you promise never to see him again?’
He fleetingly wondered if he could cancel the cheque he’d given Jim. He’d look it up later on Google. Check if there was a time limit to cancelling cheques. When you thought about it, Jim had well and truly had his payment. Yes, that’s what I’ll do, Henry thought joyfully. That would teach him a lesson.
‘I don’t want to see Jim, Henry. I just want you to forgive me.’
Forgiveness, thought Henry. Imogen wanted him to release all those negative emotions and memories. Just like tha
t. Forgive and forget. Put it behind us, isn’t that what people say?
‘I don’t know Imogen. How can I ever trust you?’
Her cheeks burnt with the shame.
‘What have I done? How could I let this happen?’ she muttered.
In that moment Henry knew that Imogen was not planning to murder him. She had deceived him, but that was all. He could change fate. He just had to stay away from the river. Someone had given him a second chance. They could make it work. Things would have to be different. Perhaps they’d talk about children. It wasn’t that late. His mind drifted to Rita. There was something special about Rita, something unique. Henry’s elation of discovering he was no longer dead quickly left him. Life was becoming complicated. Or maybe life had always been complicated and it took dying for him to realise.
‘We lived a lie,’ he said sombrely.
‘Yes,’ she said, grasping at his hand.
Her tear-drenched eyes beseeched him.
‘You won’t make me leave, will you Henry?’
Make her leave? The words shocked him. Henry wasn’t the kind of man to turf his wife out of her home.
‘No,’ he said, ‘of course not. I love you.’
Imogen sighed with relief.
‘I love you Henry.’
Henry tightened his jaw.
‘It’s just … well … a roofer, Imogen.’
She bowed her head.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘He’s got nothing to offer,’ said Henry.
‘Not like you,’ assured Imogen.
‘Exactly,’ said Henry.
Imogen searched his face for a sign of forgiveness; a softening of the jaw, a smoothing of the forehead. Anything that would tell her that everything was going to be okay.
‘It will take a while,’ Henry said. At least until Saturday, he thought.
‘Yes dear, we’ll take it one step at a time,’ smiled Imogen. ‘Shall we have some chicken?’
There was the sound of more laughter in the street and car doors slamming. I hate them, Henry thought, I hate them because they’re happy.
‘Perhaps we can think about a baby. You’re not too old.’
Imogen smiled.
‘Yes, we can think about it.’
Chapter Forty-Three
Daphne was doing the late shift due to the staff shortage.
‘Such a pain,’ she’d said. ‘I’d have been happy to have gone home together. Will you be alright?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Rita cheerfully. ‘I’m just being silly.’
‘You should report him, you know, if he’s being a nuisance.’
‘Oh no, I’m sure he isn’t. I’m just being stupid.’
‘All the same, we just don’t need customers from the store chatting us up in the street.’
Rita couldn’t very well tell Daphne that she rather liked Henry; liked him quite a lot if she was honest, although the episode today had unnerved her a bit.
She felt tired. She was working Saturday too. Rita hated it when the store was short-staffed. Still, the money would come in handy. Perhaps she’d treat herself to a takeaway on Saturday, unless there were some samples left over. She’d planned to visit her mother on Sunday. It had been three weeks since her last visit, but she really needed to have a restful day on Sunday. Besides, it was always difficult visiting. Some days she would just sit next to her mother, watching as her head moved in constant motion as if agreeing with sentiments no one else could hear, or perhaps, Rita thought, it was the ruminations of her own mind, mulling over a lifetime that was drawing to a close. If only they could speak to each other. There was so much unsaid. If only they could speak of it.
She left the supermarket and looked around cautiously. There were too many people in the car park for her to spot Henry. Customers were dashing in on their way home. It was the busiest time. She didn’t hurry to the bus stop. There were so many people around, that even if Henry did approach her, she felt certain she would be safe. Although, people don’t rush to your aid these days, instead they turn a blind eye, she thought worriedly and increased her pace. Occasionally, she glanced behind her and then felt stupid for doing so. Finally, she reached the bus stop. There was a long queue and Rita sighed. She’d most likely have to stand when the bus arrived. It felt like all she ever did was stand. Rita had to push and shove to get on the bus. She felt trapped in an endless sea of people and noise. Someone's mobile phone was ringing, a child was screaming in her ear and people shoved each other to get a space. Everyone wanted to get home. Henry wouldn’t get the bus. She imagined he had a very smart car. She’d never asked him what he did for a living. It seemed rather rude. She thought Henry must be a solicitor or something equally as clever. He was always nicely dressed. You wouldn’t dress like that if you were a plumber, thought Rita. She glanced around to see if Henry was on the bus, but it was impossible to see past the sea of people in front of her. He wouldn’t be at her house. Henry didn’t know where she lived.
‘Do you want to sit down?’ a man asked, rising from his seat.
Rita glanced about her just to check there was no one elderly standing up. It wouldn’t do for her to take the seat if an old person could have it. Thankfully, there weren’t any and Rita took the seat gratefully. The bus moved slowly, snaking its way down the congested road. If Henry comes in tomorrow I’ll chat with him, she decided. Ask him if he’s well. She didn’t want him to think she was being stand-offish. The bus came to a standstill and the woman sitting beside her sighed heavily. Rita decided to get chips on the way home. She fancied them and she was too tired to prepare anything else. Then she’d read her book with her legs up on the couch. Maybe she’d get a buttered roll too and have a chip butty. It had been years since she’d had a chip butty. That would make up for losing her lunch today. She wondered what happened to her turkey roll and blueberry muffin. Maybe Henry ate it and the thought made her smile.
Chapter Forty-Four
There was no stopping time. It was like a runaway train. There was absolutely nothing Henry could do to halt its progress. When he awoke on Saturday morning a feeling of dread enveloped him. The anticipation of what lay ahead was too much to bear. The knot in his stomach twisted every time he thought of the premonition.
The smell of freshly made coffee reached his nostrils and he stretched his legs across Imogen’s side of the bed. It was going to be alright, he told himself. Forewarned is forearmed. He was in control. The last two days had been tense. Imogen had been quiet, and Henry had felt resentment consuming their once happy lives. They tried to pretend everything was going to be okay, taking it one day at a time like Imogen had suggested. But each day bore its own new resentment until Henry thought he couldn’t bear it.
It was a clear day. Far enough from summer to have lost the heat and not close enough to winter to have that bite of cold. The sun shone weakly down on Mayberry Terrace. There was a threat of rain but the weatherman had said it was nothing to worry about. It was a good day to go to the park. Calm enough to take a boat out onto the river, Henry thought with a shiver.
He tried to idle away the day. He spent longer than usual in the bathroom, washing his hair twice with the special shampoo and checking his mole closely. Henry wasn’t pleased to see there had been a change. The left side of the mole looked darker. It certainly hadn’t looked that dark the last time Henry had seen it. If you asked Henry it was now looking a bit sinister. He’d go straight to the doctor on Monday morning.
There was a clatter outside, and Henry looked out of the window to see Ray making his rounds. He was chatting to the woman across the road. Henry remembered her milky white breasts and felt a tingle run through him. What was her name now? Margo, yes, that was it, like from The Good Life. It had been decent of her to attend his funeral. Ray turned, saw Henry at the window and gave a wave before clambering back into his milk cart. Henry lifted his hand and then turned from the window and reluctantly made his way downstairs.
A whole day together, thought Henry. The t
ension would be so thick it would suffocate them,
He stopped at the kitchen doorway. The air was thick with the scent of coffee and burnt toast. Imogen turned from where she was standing at the fridge. She was a vision in blue, clashing with their lemon walls. Blue woollen dress, blue dangling earrings and a blue hairslide holding back her hair. The lady in blue, thought Henry. Too much blue that it made his eyes hurt. On the table in front of him was an array of finger food. The kind of food Henry usually tried to avoid unless they were at a party. Pork pies, sausage rolls, crisps, little triangle sandwiches that Henry knew would be curled at the edges by lunchtime.
‘Our picnic,’ Imogen explained. ‘Had you forgotten? It will do us good.’
Henry wanted to laugh. Good for you, he thought. Not so good for me. He needed to find something else for them to do. There must be lots going on. Sam, at the office, was always recounting the great things he’d done on the weekends.
‘There must be loads on today,’ said Henry. ‘Sam is always saying there’s not enough time to do everything.’
‘Sam?’ questioned Imogen.
‘At the office.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, confused.
‘I’ll look on Google,’ said Henry.
‘But Henry,’ she began.
Henry didn’t want to hear her buts and shot up to his little office in the back bedroom, with its well-ordered mahogany desk and neatly stacked papers. No messy child’s bedroom for them. Imogen had been right. He had boasted. He’d been proud of their neat, child-free, Pledge-smelling, home, where even a microscopic piece of dust was unwelcome. Had they missed out? What good was a dust-free house anyway? You couldn’t hang a photo of it on your living room wall like you could your son’s graduation photo.
He opened the laptop with a sigh. Under Things to do today, he discovered there was a craft market in the next town, an art exhibition at the town hall and the opening of a new pie shop in town, welcoming everyone to a free tasting. We could do all three, thought Henry. That would take up the afternoon. He barrelled into the kitchen, waving the printout.