Her Frozen Heart

by Lulu Taylor

  But he would probably think she was batty if she wrote something like that. All these years of silence couldn’t be wiped away just like that. She had to observe the niceties. She started again.

  Hi Nicholas, it’s Caitlyn Collins. I’m living in Oxford and wondered if you’d like to meet up and reminisce about old times—

  A knock at the door made her break off. Suspecting the postman, who often had letters for her that didn’t fit through the tiny letter box, she went over to answer it, only to find a small woman in a blue boiler suit on her doorstep, her air wild and rather dirty, with something claggy sticking in it. She had an open, pink, freckled face and very mucky hands.

  ‘Hi! Do you have some cling film?’

  ‘Er . . . yes, I think so . . .’

  ‘Can I borrow some? I’m clean out. I promise I’ll replace it.’ The woman had round blue eyes like two bright buttons in a heart-shaped face. ‘Only I haven’t got time to get to the shops. My clay will dry out.’

  ‘Okay.’ Caitlyn went to the kitchen and the woman followed her in.

  ‘I’m Jen, by the way. Your neighbour. I live right next door. I should have come round before now.’ She laughed. ‘Sorry about that. I’m a pro at displacement. Always do tomorrow what I ought to do today, and you know what they say about tomorrow . . .’

  Caitlyn lifted the roll of cling film out of the drawer. ‘Here. Take it.’

  ‘I only need a little.’ She frowned at the roll and looked at her dirty hands which Caitlyn saw now were covered in the grey-white residue of potter’s clay. ‘But it’ll be tricky to take a bit. I’ll take the roll and bring it back. Promise.’

  ‘Sure. Here.’ Caitlyn held it out.

  ‘You’re a life saver. What’s your name?’

  ‘Caitlyn.’

  ‘You’ve got a little boy, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Max.’

  ‘Oh, great name. Really great. Love it. What’s it short for?’

  ‘Maximilian.’ Patrick’s choice. It had to be suitably imposing, the name of his son and heir. Regal. Imperial.

  Jen laughed. ‘That’s cool. Better than Maxwell.’ She looked around the bright little kitchen. ‘You’ve made this nice and homely. It was a bit chilly when the Robinsons were here.’ She gave Caitlyn a sideways look. ‘Naturally we’ve all been wondering about you. You’ve kept a very low profile, everyone’s fascinated to find out who you are. They’re going to be furious that I’ve stolen a march and got in first.’

  Caitlyn stared at her and Jen burst into a peal of laughter.

  ‘Your face! You look terrified! And so you should be – you won’t be able to so much as sneeze here without us all noticing. But don’t worry, it has its upsides too.’

  Caitlyn managed to muster a smile, though inside she was churning. In London, she’d been anonymous. She’d never even spoken to her next-door neighbours beyond a ‘good morning’ when they’d passed in the street. Here, people were interested in her. They wanted to know her story.

  What will I tell them?

  Jen said, ‘Come over for coffee tomorrow. I’ll show you my pottery. Shall we say ten? You’re usually back by then from dropping off your son, aren’t you?’ She held up the roll of cling film. ‘And thanks for this – I’ll have your refill tomorrow.’

  Caitlyn was unsettled by the morning visit, worried that there would be more neighbours knocking on the door, wanting to know about her.

  I should just tell them the truth. I’m a grieving widow making a new life.

  The words startled her as she thought them. Then she realised with a shock that she was just that. Not just a widow. But grieving.

  I miss Patrick. I miss him so much.

  She was desperately sad. She was lonely. She missed Patrick’s voice and his laugh and his arms around her; his certainty and his ability to make decisions in an instant. She had always been confident that he was steering their ship. Now she’d had to take over the rudder with no experience and sail the little craft into the great ocean on her own. She still found it hard to believe he wasn’t coming back sometime soon, the way he always had. He’d brought vigour, excitement and energy into her life. Without him, she realised, she felt as though she was dying too. Slowly. Bit by bit. And all the time, there were questions tormenting her, buzzing away in the back of her head even when she wanted to ignore them.

  What did Sara mean when she said I was miserable in my marriage? Was I? I know Patrick was often hard to live with, and things weren’t always easy, but I thought that overall, I was happy. But, she remembered, Patrick had had lunch with Sara without telling her. Sara had said Caitlyn ought to be grateful to her . . . for what? The insidious hints were breeding anxiety that her grief was not real because she was mourning a man she didn’t really know. The worst thing was that she felt she was losing Patrick, the man she loved and married and remembered. He was being replaced by someone different, someone who had secret lunches and something to tell her about Sara.

  Sometimes, lying awake at night and thinking about it, she had the most horrible feeling that Patrick had not really loved her at all. She worried that he’d been confiding his unhappiness to Sara and that she knew the truth about what Patrick felt, and was on the brink of telling Caitlyn. That was what he had been trying to tell her the night he was killed.

  If Sara was his confidante, it would explain why she kept trying to claim ownership of my grief. WE loved him. WE’ll miss him. As though we were on an equal footing with him.

  It was so difficult to believe, though. The Patrick she remembered would not have confided in Sara, she was sure of it.

  Now she stood stock still in the sitting room.

  I’ve got to find Patrick again. The one I knew.

  She climbed the stairs to the spare room and opened the door. Inside was a mound of boxes, packed up against the bed. She half thought of this as Patrick’s room, because all that was left of him was inside it. The boxes contained the clothes of his she had kept, his mementoes, anything that Max might conceivably want later, and the things she had to keep: paperwork, records, certificates. During her interview with Penny Young, the solicitor dealing with Patrick’s estate, she had been handed a sheet of paper.

  ‘We’re finding this more and more,’ Penny had said. She had the perfect manner for dealing with this necessary unpleasantness: formal yet sympathetic. ‘A lot of our clients are making this kind of provision in their wills. It’s increasingly necessary, and it helps speed up probate.’

  ‘What is it?’ Caitlyn was looking down at a list of names in bold – Bank – personal, Apple ID, Email, Bank – joint, Email – joint . . . – and underneath little words of gibberish, scrambled letters and numbers.

  ‘It’s a list of the passwords to the different accounts. So that you can get access to all of Patrick’s online activity. There’s an addendum to the will that goes with it.’ Penny handed her a printed letter signed at the bottom by Patrick in his flourish of a signature.

  I hereby grant my wife Caitlyn access to all my online and protected accounts. She may use them as she sees fit, according to her needs. She will know what to do with what they contain.

  She’d stared, surprised. Then she’d laughed. ‘Of course. That’s so Patrick. He always thought ahead. He always made plans.’

  ‘Sensible fellow,’ Penny said with a smile. ‘I wish more people did the same.’

  ‘Oh, there weren’t many people like Patrick. He always thought of everything.’

  Patrick had renewed their wills once a year but she hadn’t known he’d made this provision. Typical – he liked his games. He liked to spring surprises. I suppose he thought of everything, including this. The life that was half lived in the virtual world was protected by the secrecy of the password. She’d never asked for his passwords. He had never asked for hers. They had a joint email account but it was rarely used. She didn’t even know the pin code for his telephone, which he changed regularly anyway, to stop Max fiddling with it, he said. He’d had a
private life all along about which she knew almost nothing and the door to it had banged shut the moment he had died – or so she had thought. It had occurred to her, as she arranged for his computers to be boxed up along with his tablet and telephone, that it was all useless now, dark and silent. It reminded her of how her mother used to say that all the appliances designed to save labour were so much useless junk once there was no power. That was why, in the home where she and Maura grew up, there was always a mangle in the shed, and a stove-top kettle, and a pile of wood by the fireplace. Just in case the power failed.

  She’d supposed that Patrick’s computers must be accessible by a technology expert, who could unlock it all and access what was stored on it. But why bother? And as for all the places Patrick might have accessed by a password . . . she would have no idea where to start. Until now.

  She’d taken the sheet of paper and folded it up, tucking it carefully in the centre of her purse where the notes were stored. It had stayed there all this time, sometimes forgotten and sometimes throbbing like a hot little hidden heart.

  Now she went over to the mound and pulled a box off the top. She had no idea what was inside, all the boxes were marked the same – Patrick. The one she had lifted down was quite light and she stared at the pale brown strip of masking tape that sealed it. Nervousness fluttered through her and her heart began to race.

  What on earth am I afraid of? Patrick’s dead.

  ‘I’ve just got to get on with it,’ she said out loud, and she got her keys out, sliced one into the masking tape and slit it open with one smooth movement. Cautiously, she lifted the flaps of the box and peered inside. She saw a collection of leather boxes that she knew well. They had always sat on top of Patrick’s chest of drawers, holding his collection of cufflinks, shirt studs and collar stiffeners. He liked that kind of thing. He prided himself on having a set of tailor-made evening clothes, both black tie and white tie, all done in the old-fashioned way, with detachable collars and studded fronts, double cuffs joined by oval gold links connected by tiny chains. They would all go to Max, of course. So that meant she knew what was in this box: his dressing table things. The bone tray where he’d laid his watch every night, his bottles of expensive cologne and aftershave, the little leather-bound travel clock. And his collection of watches, come to that. She’d kept them for Max, not knowing if he’d prefer Cartier or Rolex or Dunhill. Later, he could take his pick.

  Patrick loved the finer things in life. He adored them. If it was worth having, he wanted it. She used to tease him that he wanted to be James Bond, with the fancy cars, the suits, the watches, all the toys.

  ‘I just want to be the best version of myself I can,’ he’d told her simply, unsmiling. ‘There are two ways to be in this world – just existing, satisfied with all right. And really living, demanding the best. That’s me. And I’ve done it all myself. I’ve made myself who I am, and I worked bloody hard to get here.’

  He was right, of course. He had made himself, completely and entirely. The ultimate self-made man, sloughing off his past, his family, his accent – anything that didn’t suit him. And dressing up was part of that. He’d cared more about his appearance than anyone she’d ever met.

  She opened one of the leather boxes on the top of the pile and stared at the carefully paired cufflinks, some initialled, some whimsical, some bought by her as a gift – though she’d always had to be careful in case she got the wrong thing. Patrick had been visibly irritated by presents that didn’t strike the right note.

  That’s the thing I don’t understand. With everything he wanted in life, with his incredibly high standards and his exquisite taste – why did he want me? How did I fit in?

  As she thought it, she realised that this question had been bothering her for a very long time. Even before he died, she had begun to feel more and more out of place in Patrick’s world, as though she wasn’t quite the right partner for him, and that he thought so too. He had never said anything of the sort. He had told her he loved her, he had outwardly cherished her with gifts and consideration. And yet . . .

  I always felt there was something going on I didn’t know about.

  And she had always known there was more to Patrick than he told her, even if she barely admitted it to herself.

  Caitlyn lifted her gaze from the leather boxes and surveyed the mound in front of her. Well, it’s all here. He’s given me the key. The question is, whether I want to open the box or not. Once whatever is inside is released, there will be no way to put it all back.

  She picked up her keys again.

  But I have to know. I want the answers.

  There was so much to look at that by the time she had to stop and go to get Max, she had hardly made her way through more than a few boxes. So much demanded her attention. She spent a couple of hours leafing through Patrick’s photo albums, seeing him transform from skinny, tanned student to the handsome, hardworking young lawyer she’d fallen in love with, following him on his holidays and travels, recognising some friends and not others, and then she began to appear in the pictures. I look so young! Just his friend at first, lounging near him on a beach in Greece, sitting up behind him on a motorbike in Egypt, both with checked scarfs as turbans and face masks to protect them from the sand. Then, as they became more intertwined, they were pictured holding hands, snuggling up on a towel, sitting together at dinner. Their private snaps – she smiling up from rumpled bedsheets at him, her hair a bird’s nest; Patrick standing bare-chested with only a towel around his hips, fresh from the shower.

  It was magical. Falling in love with him. Our crazy attraction for each other.

  She felt wistful, nostalgic and yearning, and a feeling of deep sadness soaked into her. The boxes were going to cause pain, she had to realise that. I can’t expect to deal with this without feeling anything. She’d been working hard at not letting things hurt her. A tremor of fear went through her.

  Am I going to have to face this alone? Without him?

  He’s dead, you idiot, her inner voice snapped back. You are alone. Or haven’t you realised that yet?

  Of course I have, she told herself strictly. But this room with all its boxes seemed suddenly like a repository of everything she had so far been most desperate to avoid: memory, pain and knowledge.

  She put down the album, closed the box lid on top of it, and went to collect Max from school.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next day the postman reported that the trains were running to Oxford and the roads to the station were clear. There had been no more snow, but there was no sign of the cold snap lifting either. It was still impossible for the children to get to school, though.

  For the trip to Oxford, Tommy looked out some of her old London clothes, and chose one of her best suits, a beautiful soft grey tweed. It might have the cut from before the war, but there was no doubting its quality. With it, she wore her grey gloves, and a black felt hat with three felt flowers with fake pearls at their hearts, and a string of the real things around her neck, and carried a little crocodile-skin box handbag. She was satisfied with her reflection. Perhaps not quite the girl in the photograph on the piano, but acceptable.

  ‘Gosh, Mummy, you look pretty!’ Antonia said when she came to kiss them goodbye while they were still getting up.

  ‘Thank you, darling. I’m going for a trip to town with Mr Burton Brown. We shall be back when you’re asleep, so be very good for Gerry today.’ She hugged her daughter.

  ‘Does that mean no Latin today?’ came Harry’s muffled voice from under his eiderdown.

  ‘Yes. So enjoy your holiday.’ She blew him a kiss. ‘Be good, you horror.’

  ‘But I like Latin,’ said the muffled voice indignantly. ‘And I learned my third declension last night as well.’

  ‘Very good. Now get up and get dressed.’

  ‘But it’s too coooold!’

  ‘Then do it quickly – it won’t get any easier!’

  Twenty minutes later she and Fred were in the car and Tommy
was steering it out between the gateposts and onto the lane. ‘Oh, this is good,’ Tommy said happily as she began to motor down the lane at a careful speed, wary of the ice. ‘I haven’t been out for such a long time. I went up to Bristol but that feels like half a lifetime ago. Is it snow that does that, do you think? It’s hard to remember a time when the world wasn’t white and grey and slushy.’

  ‘Perhaps it is,’ Fred replied. ‘But you’re right. Charming as the house is, it is good to be out.’

  ‘Yes. Isn’t it?’ Tommy was suddenly filled with good cheer and excitement. A whole day lay ahead, a day of travel and new sights and people, and, of course, Fred. To be alone together all day, without Roger’s gloom or Gerry’s piercing gaze, her mother’s pained judgement, or the constant noise and chatter of the children . . . Well, it’s as though I’ve suddenly remembered what it’s like to be an adult again.

  The car jerked along the lane, grinding over potholes and salt, and Tommy’s gaze slid over to where Fred was profiled against the whiteness outside. His beaky nose and high cheekbones were familiar to her now, and the cut of his lips and shape of his chin.

  I’m looking forward to spending the day with him, she thought.

  ‘Do you know Oxford well?’ Fred asked suddenly.

  ‘Yes, quite well. It’s only twenty-five miles away so we often go for shopping. I was at school there for a while.’

  ‘I’ve never been. I heard of the art shop from a chap I met in the war. He’d been up at Merton and we discovered we both painted. He told me all about it.’

  ‘My friend Veronica’s brother was at Merton. I don’t suppose it was the same man, unless his name was Brian.’

  ‘It wasn’t, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I thought as much. I wonder if Veronica is at home. She was at school with me and lived on St Margaret’s Road.’

  ‘You should have written to her and made a date.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I’m perfectly happy with you.’