I never quite knew what frame of mind Fleur would be when she came out of school. Always active, always talkative. Sometimes life was wonderful, sometimes ‘vulgar’. Vulgar was a word she used frequently; she meant horrible or revolting. ‘How was dinner today?’
‘Vulgar!’
When the memory was returning, the reliving, I put my hand to my mouth, as if in shock. People must have noticed sometimes as I stood in a queue or suddenly stopped in the street or a shop or café and put my hand to my mouth. Anywhere, anytime, always unexpected, the memories rose up and my hand would go to my mouth.
Chapter 22
It was the day I stayed in bed with ’flu. I got up to get breakfast but couldn’t keep still for the aching. I had to go back to bed. Peter said he would take the children to school. If he was late for work, too bad! He would arrange for Miss Watts to keep Fleur after school had finished, and Dan could fetch her and bring her home. He would phone me to confirm these arrangements. I kissed them goodbye and went back to bed. A few moments later, Peter returned and shouted that Dan had forgotten his football, then the door shut and the house was silent.
I only got up once to get a drink of orange, the day vanishing in a feverish, aching dream, but in the middle of the afternoon I woke. It was quarter to three. Fleur would be coming out in three-quarters of an hour, but I knew they would not be back till nearly five, so I went back to sleep.
When the front doorbell rang, I was glad. I didn’t notice the time and even though I felt so unwell, I was excited, as I always was, to see the children after school. I opened the door with my arms ready as usual, ready for their hugs and chatter and saw, instead of the children, a strange woman standing on the doorstep, her face ashen, her voice shaking.
‘There’s been an accident. Please come quickly.’ I had no need to ask – didn’t want to ask – but grabbed a coat, which I slung over my nightdress, and ran with the woman to the waiting car. I lost track of the journey, seeing and yet not seeing. No one said a word. And I fought the hysteria.
Not far from Fleur’s school was a crowd. People everywhere. A police car in the middle of the road. An ambulance. I jumped from the car before it had stopped, stumbled, someone pulled me up. I pushed my way forward through the crowd. Couldn’t hear anything; it’s never real, the silence and the slow motion.
All I saw was the red car. Dan lay in front of it, half in the road, half on the pavement. His body was contorted; blood was trickling from his nose. ‘Don’t touch him, please,’ someone shouted. I took his hand and called to him.
‘Don’t touch him, please. Come on, now.’
I hadn’t thought about Fleur at all until I saw the small body, entirely covered in a red blanket, being carried on a stretcher.
I know I was screaming and fighting to get to the stretcher, but my legs gave way. Someone caught hold of me, but I was so violent, so violently pushing everyone, everything away. They were in my way. Then with a fearful howl I hurled myself at the men with the stretcher. I couldn’t see Fleur; I could only see the red blanket. I tore it away. And Fleur looked at me; her eyes wide open; a piece of chestnut hair had caught in her mouth. ‘Flower!’
Someone said, ‘There’s nothing we can do here. See to the boy.’
Fleur, as planned, had waited with Miss Watts, helping her to tidy up, putting paints away, picking up bits and pieces. Miss Watts gave her a sheet of red sticky paper to take home. She had folded it carefully and put it in her purse, which hung round her neck. She was so excited that Dan was fetching her. She wanted to show him her sums.
Dan arrived at twenty past four. He came to her classroom and looked at all her books and her painting on the wall. She already had her coat on. They walked out through the school gates, Dan holding Fleur with one hand and his football under his other arm. There were a lot of children about. Streams of boys from Dan’s school, having arrived back by bus, were crowding along the pavements. There was a lot of shouting and laughter. Fleur was skipping and talking. Several of Dan’s friends passed and several joked about him having to fetch his sister. Then one boy, fooling around, knocked the football out of Dan’s arms; it rolled into the road. Fleur broke loose from Dan and ran after the ball for him. She didn’t see the red car, but Dan did. He screamed and dived to get her, but it was too late. She was caught under the wheels of the car and killed outright. Dan was tossed up into the air and landed on his head. He was on a life-support machine for seven months before he died.
Fleur’s funeral came and went but I, being totally absorbed with Dan, was hardly aware of it. I did go to the funeral, of course, but my whole being was at Dan’s bedside. My body somehow went through the motions and Fleur, well, I couldn’t register that she was dead. All my concentration and willpower now centred on Dan. All my prayers and faith in God. I was even cheerful, quite certain that my prayers would be answered. There was no way in my mind that this life, with all its potential, with all its love, could go from us. I talked to Dan continuously, read from his favourite books and the sport pages from newspapers. I brought in his Walkman so that he could listen to his tapes. He lay there with the earphones on, the Walkman on his pillow, perfectly still, and all the time the ventilator breathed for him. In-out, in-out. Please God, I want to take him home. Please.
I was convinced that at home he would regain consciousness. I obsessed about putting him in his boat and rowing him up the river. I knew the river, the sound of the oars in water, would wake him up. ‘Is there any way I can take him home – put him in the boat?’ I begged them. But the question was always answered with pitying eyes and shakes of the head. Mad woman, they thought, but understandably so.
Peter got agitated with me, by my continual insistence that everything would be all right, which created in him a complex response of anger and anxiety, yet I saw nothing of this at the time. Only later. Too much later. And so I did nothing, didn’t follow my instincts, and instead left Dan in his hospital bed. Oh, what a terrible coward I was. I was the mother and I knew things they could have never known and I knew that Dan would come back to me if we went home. And yet I capitulated, did nothing. Hadn’t made a scene, hadn’t made a fuss. Oh God, I was so cowardly.
Now I suffered the torture of regret. Why had I been so cowardly? It would have saved him, but I hadn’t the courage of my convictions. I had been too afraid, too afraid of being wrong, of being mad, of finding out that faith didn’t work after all. Better not to know our ultimate nothingness. And so I remained by his bedside, changing his nappies, changing the saline bottles, becoming his full-time nurse. But I knew I was being tested and would be found wanting. If I failed him now, I could never, never in all eternity forgive myself, for, in the last analysis, I had been afraid of looking foolish, of being wrong. Frightened that my faith would not move mountains after all. Frightened of putting God to the test.
Peter, on the other hand, took a view that he described as realistic. He was resigned to losing his son and could not bear to see him for more than a few minutes at a time. Had it not been for me, he would hardly have gone to the hospital at all. My attitude drove him to desperation and, in his grief and driven by his sense of helplessness, he called me stupid and neurotic.
I had almost successfully wiped Fleur out of my mind. But as the months passed and Dan’s condition deteriorated, I began longing for her. I was deserate for her help, as I was so sure that Dan would have woken up for her, with her loving, pixie-bright face, her unquestioning love. She would have demanded he come back to her. Demanded. Hands on hips! Yet how could she bear seeing him like that? Perhaps it was best she wasn’t there.
One evening, I sat on the edge of his bed, stroking his hair. I held his hand. No response. He wasn’t there. The ventilator breathed in-out, in-out, but he wasn’t there. A wave of uncontrolable panic surged up into my throat and I felt myself slipping, slipping slowly, into a black uncontrollable panic. I shut my eyes and repeated, thoughtlessly, ‘Our Father, which art in Heaven,’ over and over again. But nothing.
Nothing at all. I was alone and powerless. Powerless. God was not there to answer any prayers.
As they went to turn off the life-support system, I ran from the room. Ran from the hospital, didn’t stay to say goodbye, to look. Nothing. I drove home, got right under the covers of our bed into complete darkness.
I woke to a dead soul housed inside a live body.
Chapter 23
After Dan’s death, Peter tried to persuade me to go away with him, but I couldn’t. He was kind, wanting to be close to me, but I avoided him. I couldn’t have sex any more; I didn’t dare allow myself to feel, either physically or mentally.
So I went back to part-time work at the hospital and was soon offered a full-time job as personal assistant to three consultants in the ophthalmology department. I joined the tennis club, although I hadn’t played tennis for years; I went to art classes. Friends were kind and asked us out a lot. I entertained them in return, denying the emptiness of the house when they left. It was all a dream.
Peter couldn’t bear my coldness, you see; it’s perfectly understandable. He had to escape, I understand that now. I don’t blame him at all for staying away and then preferring to be with someone else. I never blamed him. I was numb to it. But the beautiful house, Dan and Fleur’s house, became unbearable. The river. The boat. The bedrooms were always tidy. There was nothing to do. No one to shop or cook for, no washing, ironing. I was an empty shell within an empty shell and in the end the house was sold; the boat was sold. I moved to where I am now and Peter remarried just afterwards. I sent him a card saying I would never again be as happy as I had been with him and the kids. And I was sorry. At least I did that.
You know, for a while I thought I’d cracked it, that I was doing really well. I was so busy. I never stopped. But then inevitably the exhaustion set in, so much so that I can remember the night I came back from work and sat in the chair, quiet, empty, but I not having to do anything. I didn’t have to talk or be jolly or anything. I just sat there and I remember thinking, This is your home. You are safe here. I was too tired to run away any more. Even if it meant being alone for ever. That’s how it felt, a strange kind of relief. From trying. So, home became a cave in which I could hide. In the end, home became a kind of escape and I went out less and less as feelings of panic connected with the outside became increasingly hard to control. Friends assumed that I was ‘all right now’, as I seemed more content to be at home. At work, I was as bright and breezy as ever, I’m sure that’s true. Everyone knew, of course, but nothing was ever said. And the rawness disappeared and I thought about Dan and Fleur as if they belonged to another life, dispassionately.
When people asked me if I had any children, I always hesitated. If I said no, I was killing them off once more, denying them. If I told the truth: ‘I had two children but they were both killed in a car accident,’ the general responses of, ‘Oh! I’m so sorry,’ or, ‘How dreadful!’ were as vacuous as would be my retort of, ‘Yes, pretty dreadful, really,’ and so I avoided the questions at all costs.
For a time, I got into the habit of lying. Making up a complete life history for them both, based, of course, on what I guessed might well have been the truth, had they lived. That was rather fun; it brought them alive, made them people again. It was the only opportunity I had of referring to them, because those who knew never mentioned them. It was as if they had never existed. But with others? Strangers? How far would I be able to take the lies? It was all right pretending about such things as O levels and A levels; I might even get away with the university bit. ‘Oh! reading theology at Leeds,’ but then what? What about girlfriends and boyfriends, husbands, wives, children? Could I be the fictitious grandmother I would like to be? Already at dinner parties I sat and listened as the chatting guests flaunted their various children. Masses of photographs passed round, school plays and choirs, sports medals and exam successes, holidays, parties and general get-togethers accompanied by detailed explanations of their ‘funny little ways’. I had nothing to say. Nothing at all. And nobody seemed to notice.
Chapter 24
I looked at my watch; it was nearly ten o’ clock. I lit another cigarette and blew a cloud of pale grey smoke into the air, where it moved slowly in the sunlight and then disappeared. From somewhere I could hear the sound of men’s voices. If there was someone in the garden, I would ask if I could have a fork or a spade so I could weed some rose beds. I didn’t want to sit doing nothing all day. Perhaps, too, they would like me better, notice me more if I did something for them.
I stubbed out the cigarette under my foot and threw the remains into the earth. The voices were getting fainter and so I hurried through the archway and saw two of the brothers standing by the cedar tree. They had their backs to me and appeared to be watching the rabbit, which was still tied to the tree. I recognised the young spotty brother at once, but the other one I wasn’t so sure about. Was he one of those who had been reading in the library? In any case, neither of them turned towards me and so I had to speak to their backs.
‘Hello! Good morning!’ And then they turned without expression, as if they had known I was approaching them all the time. They didn’t seem pleased.
‘I was wondering – do you think I could have a spade or a fork or something? I thought I’d have a go at weeding in the rose garden.’
They stared at me, incredulous, and I wanted to laugh.
‘That would be all right, wouldn’t it? I like gardening and it’d give me something to do. That rose garden is a bit of a wreck, isn’t it!’ I shouldn’t have said that.
‘Well, I don’t know.’ It was the spotty one, and he clearly didn’t know what to say. He turned. ‘There are some things in the shed, aren’t there? We’re going there, anyway.’
The other nodded.
They led the way down by the visitors’ block, passed my room and beyond, to a wild, nettle-ridden patch on the far side, where stood an old wooden garage.
The ‘reading brother’, as I thought of him, pulled open one of the double doors and the inside flooded with light. Against one wall leaned two bicycles with baskets hanging from the handlebars. Spiders’ webs hung from the spokes of the wheels. The walls were lined with wide shelves on which lay wooden storage trays, but all they contained now were dry, wrinkled leaves and dust. Red clay flowerpots were piled in corners amongst seed trays and bean sticks. Along one side was a row of hooks from which hung various dog collars and leads. At the back there was a workbench and leaning against this were various gardening tools, but to reach them it was necessary to squeeze past the shiny green motor mower, which stood in the middle, looking quite out of place amongst the dust and the cobwebs.
‘Give me a hand with this. Better open the other door.’ And the spotty brother unbolted the second door and tugged it open. At once, hordes of brown lice scattered, disturbed by the moving doors. The two of them pushed out the mower and then almost simultaneously wiped the dust from their spotless habits. In contrast to the younger, rather gangling man with the acne-covered face, the other was handsome with his immaculately cut, thick wavy hair, his tall, stylish bearing and his habit,which hung elegantly down to the top of expensive leather shoes.
‘Now, what exactly do you want?’ The ‘reading brother’ sounded vaguely impatient. ‘Have a look. There are various things here.’ He led me to the back of the shed and picked up a fork. ‘Will this do?’
‘That’s fine.’ I took the fork from him. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know your names. I’m Rose Gregory.’
I looked at the faces, but the slight warmth I thought I had detected before, the warmth that encouraged me to ask their names, had gone. The man still standing beside me looked questionably towards his companion who said, ‘Stephen,’ and moved self-consciously towards a half-open toolbox standing in the nearby corner.
‘I’m David,’ said the other, and for a moment he actually looked at me! I know I smiled.
‘Are you going to do some gardening, too?’
He shook his head. ‘
Mending the chicken run. Some of the wire needs replacing.’
‘What? You keep chickens?’ The idea pleased me. There was nothing more wonderful than collecting eggs. I had done it as a child when we had stayed on a farm for a few days. It was one of my happy childhood memories.
‘Not now. Too many foxes about. Haven’t had chickens since I’ve been here. Became a dogs’ run.’
‘What’s it going to be for now – as you’re mending it?’
‘I don’t think we’re sure,’ the good-looking one, David, mumbled, and actually gave a hint of amusement.
‘It’s not for Brother Joseph’s rabbit, is it? Or is it?’
He shrugged. ‘Not sure, as I said.’
I changed the subject. ‘How long have you been here, then?’
‘Six years,’ and he turned away and joined Stephen by the toolbox.
‘And you?’
‘Just coming up to nine months.’
‘Not long, then.’ I wanted to ask if he was happy, if it was all right here.
‘But we’re moving in five weeks.’ He sounded a bit despondent.
‘I know. Do you mind?’
‘It’s worse for some of the others. The older ones. They feel they’ll be leaving all their friends behind,’ – and he pointed to beyond the Monks’ Walk – ‘in the graveyard. They don’t want to leave because of that, do they?’ He turned towards Brother David, who was sorting through a jar of nails.
Ask Me to Dance Page 10