by Lucy Dillon
Now it was four in the morning, the rain was accompanied by distant thunder, and the crushing headache seemed to have spread over her entire body.
Gina stared up at the featureless ceiling and felt so lonely she ached.
Everyone else’s life was moving on. Hers was stuck. It didn’t help that she had to take her mother out later: their annual Sunday lunch on what had been Terry’s birthday.
As she was mentally running through the few acceptable lunch venues (nowhere with loud music, ‘garlicky food’, dubious hygiene, etc.) Gina heard a soft brushing noise, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw the door open a crack, letting in a pale slice of light from the hallway.
She turned her head, but not her body, and watched as a long black nose nudged its way into the space, pushing it wider, to be followed by Buzz’s narrow head and dark grey shoulders. Silently, the dog edged through the small gap, gliding on his noiseless paws like a ghost into her room, then hesitated, as if he was making sure she was really asleep before creeping in.
There was a distant rumble of thunder and Buzz cringed, then scuttled into the shadows of the room.
Gina kept still, but inside her heart was hammering. This was the first time she’d ever seen Buzz do anything of his own accord for himself. He was a totally passive creature, waiting to be told he could eat or go out, watching her for signs with those anxious eyes. At night, he’d always just gone to sleep in his basket – grateful, she guessed, to be inside. This was the first time she’d seen him dare take a tiny chance.
Something uncurled inside her, and she rolled over to let him know it was fine for him to be there. But as she moved, the usual shiver of fear rippled over the dog’s coat and he shied back, ears flattened.
‘It’s OK,’ whispered Gina. ‘It’s OK.’
They stared at each other in the morning half-light as the rain drummed on the big window behind the curtain. The whites around Buzz’s jet eyes slowly disappeared as he read her face and saw only encouragement there.
‘It’s OK,’ she whispered again, and with a quiet groan, he sank down against the door and tucked himself into a ball, his nose buried in the solid muscles of his hind legs. Close. But not too close.
Gina lay on her side and watched him pretend to sleep, then sleep for real, as the clock beside her bed edged out of the small hours and into early morning. The rain began to sound soothing. She was inside, warm, safe.
Without warning, at a quarter to six, Gina dropped off to sleep.
At some point in the thirteen years since Terry’s heart attack, it had become a tradition for Gina to take Janet out for lunch on the weekend nearest his birthday, then over to the cemetery at St John’s Church to put some flowers beside his headstone.
Stuart had never been included in the annual lunch: it was just Gina and Janet. And, in a strange way, the spirit of Terry. It was one day of the year when mother and daughter made more effort than usual to be generous to each other, in conscious memory of his years of quiet peacemaking.
This year, Buzz wasn’t invited either, and to make up for his morning at home Gina took him for the longest of their walks, then treated them both to a Sunday bacon sandwich at the café that let dogs in. It was a particularly good bacon sandwich – fresh white bread, lots of tomato sauce, crispy smoked local bacon – and she stopped at the gates of the park to balance it on the brick wall so she could take a Polaroid of it with Nick’s camera.
Gina had noticed plenty of things on the way there, but this was the first moment she wanted to use up a frame of film on. It wasn’t so much the sandwich, she thought, warming the photo under her armpit to speed up the developing chemicals: it was everything. The softness of the morning air after the previous night’s rain, the lingering drops on the leaves, the fact that she was only out at this hour because she was walking the dog, the fun of eating something messy and delicious outside. The whole thing was just . . . enjoyable.
Gina’s head was still thick, but she was surprised by the glimmer of optimism she felt when she looked at the leaves, the sky, the sandwich. Small things, but satisfying; things she knew Terry would have appreciated, in his way. It was like the sun coming out, even though the clouds were still there.
She glanced down at Buzz, and smiled at the ketchup-stained muzzle peering up at her, a twinkle in his eyes as he licked his chops to get the final taste of bacon from between his gappy teeth.
Gina took another Polaroid of him, doing his doggy smile with the leafy park in the background. That was the moment.
As she and Buzz walked up the path towards the woods, Gina found herself half hoping she might see Nick. She told herself it was so she could show him that she’d started using the camera already, but it wasn’t that: Gina wanted him to see her in a normal state, not the frozen-faced mess she’d been when he’d dropped her off at her house the previous afternoon.
Gina couldn’t remember whether Nick was even in Longhampton today. There’d been some mention of London, of talking to Amanda about the summer house idea. She’d been concentrating in the car on not crying till she got home, and hadn’t said much while Nick had chatted to fill the uncomfortable silence. He’d suggested a film but she’d got the distinct impression he was feeling sorry for her. She hoped she hadn’t seemed rude.
She looked out for him as she and Buzz did their lap, but Nick wasn’t among the weekend strollers in the park. Rachel was, though, accompanied by a couple of volunteers from the charity shop, and her husband, George. They were being towed along by two Staffies, a black poodle, a spaniel cross and a basset hound with ginger eyebrows, all sniffing and jostling each other. As soon as Rachel saw her with Buzz, she waved and headed over, followed by Gem, who seemed to be fighting the urge not to round up the straggling volunteers.
‘Morning!’ she said, beaming. ‘Don’t normally see you out and about on the weekend. Why aren’t you in bed, for God’s sake? Do you want to walk with us? It’s our volunteer walk – everyone who takes a dog round the park gets a bacon sandwich back at the rescue. They’re good sarnies. Some people even do two dogs and come back for seconds.’
‘Would you believe I’ve just had one?’ Gina checked her watch. It was tempting to join Rachel, to offload about Bryony and Stuart, but time was ticking on. ‘I wish I could but I’m supposed to be taking my mum out for lunch. She’s one of those mothers who virtually scrambles the police helicopter if I’m ten minutes late.’
‘Next week, then? It’s good for Buzz to socialise. And for you. Our volunteers are a nice bunch. Oh, and before you ask,’ Rachel added, ‘I’ve got to return a call about that foster place for Buzz in Evesham, so we’re on the case, I promise. Shouldn’t be too much longer.’
‘Good,’ said Gina, although she couldn’t help noting that Rachel had said exactly the same thing well over a week ago now. ‘Good, I’m pleased to hear it.’
Buzz was leaning against her legs, eyeing Gem cautiously.
‘Has he stretched his legs up in the dog park yet?’ asked Rachel. ‘Offlead, I mean.’
Gina shook her head. ‘I let him in, but he just stands there staring at me. I wish he would run. It’s so sad, when you see other dogs belting around up there. They look like they’re having so much fun, and something’s stopping him.’
Rachel stroked Buzz’s shorter ear. ‘It’ll come. When he’s ready. You’re doing a great job.’
‘Really?’
‘Yup. Brilliant. Listen, I won’t keep you – see you tomorrow morning at the shop!’ She smiled and jogged back to join the tail end of the dog herd heading up towards the wood.
Gina looked down at Buzz, who was watching Rachel’s retreating red jacket. She wondered if he’d prefer to go with Rachel and the other dogs, but then he turned his head and looked up at her, ready to do whatever she wanted. Her heart melted. She hoped he hadn’t heard the bit about the foster place.
I should have told Rachel about him creeping into my room, she thought, as they set off towards the gate, then was glad she ha
dn’t, in case it was against some rule. She didn’t want to get either of them into trouble.
‘Isn’t this a lovely day?’ she said aloud, lifting her face to the warm April sunshine. While she was moving, noticing the reds and the yellows of the planted flowerbeds, she wasn’t thinking about Stuart and Bryony. ‘Much nicer to be out here than lying around in bed.’
I’m talking to a dog, she thought, as they passed a couple with a Scottie and exchanged smiles, and I don’t actually care.
Gina had booked a table in a gastropub that Sara the wedding planner had recommended to her on the outskirts of Rosehill. The Sun-in-Splendour was making much of its lunch menu featuring Longhampton’s locally sourced delights. More importantly, it wasn’t a place Janet and Gina had been to with Terry. Lunches in those places, Gina had learned to her cost, ended up in a mournful list of everything that had changed for the worse, followed by tetchy corrections about events they each remembered slightly differently.
After Janet’s ritual inspection of the loos, before which no food was to be ordered in case there was questionable handwashing provision, the conversation settled into the usual series of questions and answers, starting with a round-up of other people’s news and circling slowly into more contentious waters.
‘How’s Naomi?’ Janet lifted the crust of her steak and kidney pie as if she wasn’t sure what she’d find under it. ‘Have you organised that shed she had you running around half the county for?’
Gina ignored the barb. Janet was very fond of Willow but blew hot and cold about Naomi, whose long-term loyalty would always be tainted by her brother’s association with Kit. ‘It’s finished. It was unveiled yesterday at Willow’s birthday party, and it’s not just a shed, Mum. It’s a multipurpose summer house – I’m really happy with it. One door leads into a Wendy house, and the other leads into a shed for Jason. Tony did an amazing job. I’m seriously thinking about marketing it on the website.’
‘I don’t know why Jason needs a shed. He doesn’t do any gardening. They should just have made a proper Wendy house for Willow.’
‘They don’t want to spoil her. And, anyway, Jason needs a place to get away from it all.’
‘You can’t spoil a lovely little girl like that,’ said Janet, indulgently, then pulled a sad face. ‘And how’s Naomi’s dad? Was he there?’
‘He was. Just back from a golf holiday. Looking very tanned. For a Scotsman, anyway.’
‘Still no partner?’
‘No.’ Naomi’s parents had divorced when she was nineteen; her mother Linda lived in Brighton with her second husband, Eric. Janet had maintained a supportive sadness about Ronnie McIntyre’s single status ever since, even though he’d never looked happier. ‘I don’t think he will remarry now. He likes the freedom.’
‘Well, he’s never here, is he? And poor Linda.’ She sighed. ‘So far away.’
‘Mum, there’s nothing poor about Linda. She does salsa two nights a week, and only has to babysit once a month.’
Janet put down her knife and fork reproachfully. ‘Babysitting your grandchildren isn’t a chore, Georgina. It’s something every mother looks forward to. It’s the most wonderful part of having a family.’
‘Linda’s not that sort of granny. Naomi says she’s already given them the money to go to Disneyland Paris on the condition that she doesn’t have to go with them. Don’t you remember what she was like when Naomi and I were young? Dyeing our—’ Gina stopped herself just in time. ‘Dyeing Naomi’s hair for her? She’ll be great when Willow’s a bit older. A real fun granny.’
Janet sighed her all-purpose have-it-your-way sigh. ‘Have you heard from Stuart?’
‘Actually, Stuart was at the party,’ said Gina. She’d argued with herself on the way over about whether or not to tell her mother about Stuart’s baby, and had decided that she had to, even if it resulted in tears. It wasn’t the best day to drop it on Janet, by any stretch of the imagination, but the teenager in her felt like shaking her mother’s stubborn insistence that he could do no wrong.
‘He probably wanted to see you.’ Janet looked smug, as if she’d been proved right. ‘That’s nice. Did you talk?’
‘No, it wasn’t like that. He turned up with his new girlfriend.’
Her mother’s face fell. Then, with a visible effort, she rallied. ‘Well, it’s good that you’re all trying to get on. Very mature. Did you speak with . . . with the girlfriend?’
‘She’s called Bryony. No, I didn’t, Mum.’ Gina bit her lip. ‘I think I might have tried to, if I’d known she was coming, but it was a bit of a shock. It turns out she’s pregnant.’
Silence spread across the table, like a spilled glass of wine.
‘Oh,’ said Janet, and for the first time she looked furious.
‘What do you mean, oh?’ said Gina. ‘Oh, that’s nice? Or, oh, that’s a shock?’
‘I mean . . .’ she cleared her throat ‘. . . I mean, that’s shabby. Letting you believe he didn’t want children, then going off and . . . doing that.’
‘I don’t think Stuart ever said he didn’t want children,’ said Gina. ‘We just didn’t have them. And it’s probably just as well, considering how things have turned out.’
‘But, Georgina,’ Janet looked distraught, ‘that’s . . .’
This should be me being upset, said a lucid voice in Gina’s head. I’m the one who’s having to deal with all this. How come Mum’s the one who gets to be upset? She doesn’t know the half of it.
‘There’s no point getting wound up about it,’ she said calmly, spearing peas on her fork. It was amazing how calm she could be when she was reacting against Janet’s wailing. Maybe she ought to move home for a bit, she thought, just until all Stuart’s revelations were done: she’d be incredibly sanguine, just to prove a point. ‘It draws a line under things.’
‘I will get wound up if it means you’ll never have a family now.’ Janet’s knife and fork rattled on the plate. ‘Not if that was your one chance before the – before your treatment.’
‘Mum, you can’t start thinking what if. What if I hadn’t had cancer? What if I’d got pregnant and then been diagnosed? What then? Anyway, there’s no saying I can’t have children. I’ve got my annual check-up in a couple of weeks – it’s something they can test then, I’m sure.’
Janet sighed. ‘It’s the least they can do. I think it’s an outrage they didn’t offer to freeze your eggs before the chemo. You should sue. I might. I’ve lost the chance to have grandchildren.’
‘Sorry?’ Gina put her fork down. They were heading into territory Janet had fastidiously avoided until now – which had made it much easier to keep her decisions about her fertility private.
‘I was talking to Eileen Shaw from the gardening club. Her daughter’s just been diagnosed with what you had, and she’s being rushed in to have her eggs frozen before they start treatment. I’ve been reading up on it.’ Janet eyed her daughter. ‘It depends on the type of cancer, I understand. Whether they can do it.’
‘I don’t want to talk about things like that over lunch,’ said Gina, firmly. ‘Would you like some chips? They’re hand-cut gourmet ones.’
Janet sniffed. ‘But it’s a medical . . .’
Gina shook the chip basket at her. ‘Chips? Mum?’
She pursed her lips, and took two of Gina’s chips. ‘Hand-cut chips. What else are you meant to cut them with?’
Gina pushed the thimble of tomato sauce towards her, but she knew she’d only bought a little time. The trouble was, once she started telling her mother the cold, hard truth, where would she stop?
This wasn’t the day.
Terry Bellamy,
1949–2001
A much loved son, husband,
stepfather and friend
Terry’s headstone was in the far corner of the cemetery, next to an old sycamore tree that scattered propellers over the neighbouring graves like confetti. It was a simple gold inscription on a plain granite stone. Nothing fashionable or attention-seek
ing, but solid and weathering well, much like Terry himself had been in life.
Gina looked at it, and thought, Thank you, Terry, the same thing she thought every year. Thanks for being the invisible oil in the engine of our family. I’m sorry I didn’t say thank you more often at the time. I’m sorry I screwed up your final hours, although I suppose, in a sense, it meant you could slip away quietly, without any fuss, which is what you’d have wanted.
Although, she wondered, was it really? At the end, you wanted the people you loved around you, holding your hand and making you feel you were a vital link in a chain of affection, that you mattered, that you’d made a mark in the sand, even for a second, before you slipped into oblivion. Terry had been politeness itself to the nurses, the ward sister had told them. That had been the last mark he’d made.
Gina looked up. The view from St John’s wasn’t the prettiest: lots of other graves, and then a rather scrubby field. Not the most inspiring place to spend eternity.
I’d like to be scattered in that view from the dining room of the Magistrate’s House, she thought. In that rolling bosom of fields and woods and open skies, near the apple orchards and the sheep farms, somewhere life goes on, season after season, renewing itself constantly. Not trapped in a graveyard, waiting for my annual visit.
Janet sniffed to signal that she’d said her own silent prayers, and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. ‘He was a good man,’ she said, as she said every year. ‘I wish we’d had longer.’
Gina put her arm around her mother’s waist, and squeezed. Janet had only been married to Captain Huw Pritchard for four years whereas she’d been Mrs Bellamy for ten. Terry had been the one who’d dealt with teenage tantrums and revision and driving lessons and hot flushes and mousetraps.
‘I know,’ she said, and felt her mum lean on her for a moment. Janet was small, and felt smaller in her pink wool swing coat. I’m all she has left now, Gina thought, and her chest tightened. They were both pretty much back where they’d been before Terry had come on the scene.