by Caron Allan
Thank God we came home last week right after the memorial service, as soon as the ashes were out of the urn. What with the hysterics everyone was having, and obviously the rest of the shoot was off, there was nothing for anyone to stay for. And we’d had the police and the sheriff and various people upsetting everyone and traipsing in and out of the house and examining the grounds at all hours. Eventually it was ruled as an accident and no one was really blamed, except the procurator fiscal did make the comment that the shooting should have finished much earlier due to the unusually poor weather conditions and the bad light etc.
They’re working on the assumption that it was just an accident, though I know differently. Officially, Thomas was walking along with his gun not broken, tripped over a root or rock or something and shot himself in the neck and up through the face. As if he would do such a moronic thing. No one let me see him, I just saw him in the hall, and as they loaded his body into the ambulance, just a long mound on a stretcher under a long dark cloth. I think I can assume that his lovely face was just a bloody mess. Whatever. There’s not the least suspicion there was any malice involved. Just stupidity. My poor Thomas, and he always took such great care.
Then since we came home, it’s been endless. People I haven’t seen for years, people who didn’t even come to my wedding have been endlessly descending on the house these last few days.
And my sister—I know very well the bitch hated Thomas—because she tried it on with him and he wasn’t interested. He told me all about it—yet she’s going around in a black frock dabbing at her eyes and saying in a delighted hushed little voice how terrible it all is. If she says it once more I will find something heavy and hit her with it, anything to shut her stupid mouth.
Mon 27 August—8.30pm
Thank God my family only stayed for a few hours. But there have been plenty of friends, colleagues, acquaintances, an endless happy stream of them.
It’s that look in their eyes. I know I’ve said it already, but it’s making me insane, I hate it, that look, all coy and anxious and piteous and empathetic. And I know inside they’re enjoying the whole exciting misery of it. Those slanting eyebrows, the heads on one side, the little understanding nods and little noises of sympathy and the little pecks on the cheek and pats on the back. I’m going to punch someone sooner or later. Probably sooner. And once I start, I probably won’t be able to stop, and I’ll just keep punching and punching and punching and punching and punching until their faces are a bloody mess just like his was.
That day. To me now, 13 August is the only date on the calendar, everything else has disappeared. Unlucky for some. It’s a good thing there is a calendar on the wall here in Thomas’s study where I sit to write my journal otherwise I’d have lost track of the date ages ago.
That morning when everything was so, so wonderful, and all the time, lurking in the wings, that doom, that sideways-knocking disaster. I was a fool. I feel so stupid, so humiliated, there I was, fannying around in the kitchen with Jess and her cooking and dreaming about getting pregnant, and he—he was lying in his own blood gazing up at the sky. It’s like a terrible joke has been played upon me.
And it was too soon. I couldn’t say goodbye, I couldn’t hold him, kiss him, make love to him one last time, I couldn’t look back at him as I walked away, couldn’t refresh my memories, which already seem so faded, so dull, so unreal. I feel like the only one not let in on the joke. I feel so—unprepared.
I came back to this house by car, retracing the steps—or rather, the wheels of our journey just days before, but everything, absolutely everything about that same trip was different. It’s like he never existed, like I dreamed him up. My Darling. How can it all be gone so quickly?
We didn’t kiss properly when he went out with Murdo that morning—Jess and I were going to be busy later so after we had our breakfast, I went back to bed for a lay-in before I had my bath and so I barely paid any attention to him going—just a quick wave to him and Murdo and everyone, then I raced myself to get upstairs and under the covers. He called something back to me and it made me laugh, I can’t remember now what it was he said—I was already halfway up the stairs, it didn’t seem like it would matter. I didn’t know that would be my last chance to kiss him or to hear his voice.
I hate wearing black now. I hate flowers. I hate the heady scent of them, drowning all the fresh, freeing air out of the house. I hate finger-foods and soft, muted music.
I hate the way people just stand there looking at me, waiting to see what I’m going to do. I hate the way they all keep trying to hug me and keep telling me, never mind, Darling, it’s shock, that’s all, the tears will subside and you’ll start to feel better.
I heard someone telling some other moron that I needed to move on with my life. It’s only been 14 days. Is that all we get now, to mourn our soulmates? 14 Days? Then it’s time to pick yourself up, dust yourself down, stop standing around like a wraith and have some fun. Let your hair down. Get back on the horse. Plenty more fish in the sea. Time heals all wounds.
I don’t know why she was so surprised when I went over and slapped her.
Move on with my life? Move on with that, bitch!
My life ended with that gunshot that blew my husband’s face off. Tell me how you think I can move on from that.
Thurs 30 August—12.15pm
The day before yesterday, we had another little memorial service down here, for all Thomas’s colleagues and those of our friends and acquaintances who couldn’t get to the main one in Scotland. It went as well as these things possibly can—very much a case of gritting my teeth and getting on with it, and once it was over, going up to my room—once our room—and shutting the door against it and sinking onto the bed to sob my heart out. I suppose the service was rather beautiful. But the words of the minister did nothing to comfort my aching heart—I just don’t want to be comforted—as soon as it stops hurting, I’ll know I’ve forgotten my lover. I don’t want that to happen. So I just listened politely and tried to remember to say all the right things to the right people at the right time.
Just before the service began, I got a text from Monica. It said the same as the last one. Just two words, Criss Cross, but this time followed by several little Xs as kisses. At first I thought she’d accidentally sent the old text again, then I saw the kisses and realised it was a new one, and I cursed myself for not blocking her number.
But now, now I’ve finally realised what it meant. What she meant. What she was saying last time.
She was telling me she did it. Making her proud announcement. Monica killed Thomas.
Same day: 10.10pm
I’m going to kill her. I’m going to rip her fucking head off her shoulders. She’s boasting and sending me kisses to say she has killed my husband. She’s destroyed the most important person in my life and what’s she concerned with? Her little in-jokes and making sure I know her clever, clever secret?
He was my whole life. How could she? How dared she? Just joking about it like that with her bloody little ‘Criss Cross xxxx’. Like she’s just throwing it into the conversation, oh, by the way, I’ve just killed your husband, aren’t I a clever little sausage?
I’m going to kill her.
Sat 1 September—9.35am
The first day of September and already it seems so autumnal. I don’t know if it’s just me, my ‘low mood’, as the doctor terms it, getting the better of me. It seems cooler, and there’s the slightest hint of decay on the sharper breeze that seems to suggest that winter is about to arrive a little sooner than expected. I feel like wrapping myself in shapeless old cardigans and jumpers and hiding in Thomas’s office. I don’t want to see anyone, but thankfully very few people call, they’ve finally taken the hint. Either that or they’re all suffering from compassion-fatigue. Suits me, whichever it is.
I just don’t know what to do. I can’t get interested in anything, can’t rouse myself to anything. Every time I get some tiny spark of enthusiasm, it dies away almost immedi
ately and I‘m left on the old leather sofa in his office, wrapped in scruffy woollens and staring out of the window at nothing, utterly absorbed by my misery.
This time a month ago he was still here with me. I wish I could go back and tell myself to run away with him and hide. Or to kill Monica, it wouldn’t matter if I went to prison, at least then I’d still see Thomas once a fortnight and know that he was alive and safe.
And each day seems the same, no alteration, nothing to distinguish it from its fellows. And my life stretches out in front of me the same, an endless trickle of grey days of nothingness. I feel a slight relief that it’s not August any more, but that’s about all I seem capable of feeling. I’m dead, I think. Or sleeping, like a daffodil bulb. Sleeping under the earth like Thomas should be if only they hadn’t burned him away to dust.
Mon 3 September—10.35pm
I started to sort out Thomas’s things today. I’ve been putting it off, obviously. Actually it wasn’t quite as bad as I’d expected. I mean, once I got over the initial bit of opening the doors and starting to take everything out. At first I felt a bit, guilty, I think it was, very odd. A bit faithless, throwing out all his clothes and things as if he was never coming back, which well, clearly I realise that is the truth but it still felt somehow like a betrayal, a denial of him.
Mrs H helped me, and I was very grateful to her. We did it in little batches, and every now and then, she made a comment like, ‘Do you remember when he wore that shirt to That Do and came home with Cabernet all down the front,’ (though she said it more like cabinet), but it was such a help, we ended up having a lovely little chat about him, all rosy and blind to his practically non-existent imperfections.
Towards the end, when I was getting a bit tired, I got a bit teary, and she knew, didn’t tell me to try and pull myself together or to move on, she just patted my arm and said, ‘Time for a pot of tea, Duckie.’ And she went downstairs and left me to weep a bit, then she and Sid brought up a big tray with strong tea and plates of sandwiches and little cakes.
I kept a couple of his shirts, a jumper, his bathrobe, and his watch, and the pair of cufflinks I bought him last Christmas. Sometimes I just snuggle up in his giant bathrobe, it swamps me of course, but is unbelievably comforting to curl up in it on the sofa.
Miranda Kettle, one of Thomas’s colleagues, (beaky nose, no chin, cheap coffin handles, remember?) came round this evening and was very generous with her time—she was a bit nervous, I could tell when she first arrived, but when she saw that I wasn’t hysterical and she could mention his name, she relaxed, and again, it was quite a nice time in an odd way.
She looked through all his business stuff for me, which reminded me of how Thomas looked through Huw’s stuff, only a few short weeks ago. She gave me a generous amount for his laptop, on behalf of the firm—it’s easier for her to take it away to divvy up the clients etc, so once again, that’s another nagging little thing out of the way. Although I can’t help feeling a bit worried that she is going to make a vast profit out of Thomas’ death—she seemed to be going to huge lengths to keep her obvious glee under control and remain suitably sombre. Oh well, again, I suppose it’s only money, and it’s not as though I’m short of a bob or two. I suppose I’m very lucky…
I’m exhausted though, I feel absolutely wrung out. And teary again. And just full of how much I have lost and how empty and alone I feel and so, so lonely without him.
I can’t face the thought of going to the hair salon, or anywhere else. I don’t think I’ve been out of the house apart from that memorial that went so well.
And although Thomas’s personal things and work things have all been sorted out, there are still so many little annoying things to deal with. I don’t feel like answering any of the letters and notes of condolence that I’ve received. They are on the sideboard in the drawing room, and there’s already a little film of dust on them, so obviously even Mrs H hasn’t felt like doing anything with them either.
I eat with them in the kitchen now. It’s pointless setting the dining table for one, and anyway, I’m not really interested in eating, so it gives Mr and Mrs H the chance to nag some food into me, and I get some human contact—my doctor says that’s important—and they are the only people I can bear to be around. Usually they just carry on with their lives around me and I let my mind drift off to the moors and that strange and terrible day.
Last night, I went into the kitchen for a glass of water, and they were sitting there at the table, talking. I don’t know what I said, just some casual remark, and then the next moment I was sobbing uncontrollably again. And Mrs H got up and came over and put her arms around me and she hugged me while I cried, then gave me some kitchen paper-towel to blow my nose on when the emotion subsided. She made me some cocoa and toast and while all this was going on, never once told me it would all be all right, let it out, get on with your life, etc etc,. It’s as if she knows those are all lies. She and Sid are the only people I can bear to be with. They are the only ones I can trust.
But I don’t know what is going to happen. With my future, I mean. I’m rich, or will be once all the legal rigmarole is sorted out. The sale of Highgates is almost complete, so that will be a couple of million in the bank, not to mention Thomas’s estate including his pensions and insurances, and of course, this house is all paid for. I’ll never need to worry about money. I suppose I’m lucky. Women lose their husbands every day and have to worry about bringing up their children single-handedly and pay bills and mortgages and how to manage everything on top of their grief. But I’m lucky.
I’ll never have Thomas’s baby. That bright morning in the motorway cafeteria those few weeks ago, when we talked about it again for the first time in ages and we were both so happy…God, it hurts so much just to think of it.
It’s so grey outside today, so dull and overcast. A thin rain is falling but barely enough to wet the ground, it’s almost like a mist. Twinkle has just emerged from under a bush and I can see something feathery hanging from his mouth, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at the irony. I’m going to put my journal away and go and see if there’s anything on television. Little bastard, he can kill it or leave it, I’m too tired to care anymore.
Mon 24 Sep—2.25pm
Well they’ve finally gone, duty done, Cess and Parker I mean, Thomas’s sister and her useless husband, and not a moment too soon. I actually hate them now, even if they are the last members of Thomas’s family (apart from Jess and Murdo—I could never not love them!) I mean, I hated them before Thomas died, and now, having had them here trying to muscle in on Thomas’s fortune and the proceeds of the sale of Clarice’s house, all the while pretending a concern for my well-being and happiness, well I loathe them so much the very thought of them makes me feel sick.
And they never gave me a moment’s peace to collect my thoughts and they made such a fuss if I cried, like I shouldn’t be doing it, or like I should consider getting counselling or something. Like my grief is somehow excessive. But now, thank God, they’ve gone home for a day or two, though coming back about Thursday, so I’m sitting here enjoying the quiet and just watching the garden.
I never thought it was possible to hate anyone this much. Apart from Monica, of course, but that’s kind of a special situation.
And their veiled threats. The insinuation that I have a moral obligation to give them some of the money. That although ‘obviously Thomas did technically leave everything to me’, obviously with Cess being his only relation—and with Clarice being her mother too, it seems only fair, that obviously, in the current climate, I should reconsider my financial needs a little bit, but that I am only one person with modest requirements, and they have a larger household, and there are two of them, and ‘Of course in life, both Dear Mummy and Darling Tommy were so generous and understanding…’ And of course they wanted to ‘Assure me that they wouldn’t even dream of taking any kind of legal action, no of course they wouldn’t, because after all, we are family, and that, after all,
obviously, is what really matters because of course if one didn’t have one’s family where would one be?’
Bastards. I want them gone. For good.
So I had an idea. I did a spot of research on the internet.
As I said, they’ve just popped home, ostensibly to get some more clothes and make arrangements for their housekeeper to get in and out—apparently she doesn’t live in, ‘One wouldn’t want Servants in the old-fashioned sense, no a Daily is much more modern and cost effective, no meals and board to pay for. No, one’s staff these days are effectively contractors, so one has none of the old overheads associated with keeping live-in servants.’ Stupid bitch. I hate her.
Anyway, as far as they’re concerned they will be back on Thursday afternoon with a fresh set of undies and revitalised for making my life a misery. As far as they’re concerned…
However, I now have several small but key components from their car’s engine in a jar in the garage, and at any moment I am expecting a visit from the police bearing the most terrible news. Tee hee!
Tues 25 Sept—10.45am
Dear Mr H informed me, immediately the police had reluctantly left me huddled at the kitchen table sobbing into a hankie on Mrs H’s shoulder, that he had taken the liberty of removing the engine parts I had left in the jar in the garage and buried them deep in the middle of our rather messy compost heap ‘Just in case anyone got ideas’. What a sweet man! I can’t believe he’s aiding and abetting.
Threw out Thomas’s aftershave, his moisturiser, shower gel, all his shaving stuff and even his toothbrush. Seems almost petty to dispose of someone’s toothbrush.