It was only as I lay in the darkness with the quilt pulled up tight around a body still trying to push the late night chill away, that I realised that the Perseid meteor shower occurred in mid-August. The days were blending into one another and I paid little attention to the date unless something reminded me of it. In that moment I became aware that August was half way over and I had still not heard from Diane and Richard.
I rolled over onto my side and rubbed absently at my cheek, wondering how long I could wait before giving up and accepting that my apology had been meaningless to them, and the past would remain where it always had been, immersed in regret.
Chapter 50 ~ Lacey
She remembers. She sits at the front of the church and listens as the vicar talks about the wonderful man that lies dead in the box in front of her. She wonders if she is at the wrong funeral. She can sense the crowds behind her, almost every seat filled. They are like a wave pushing against her back and she wonders if she will be able to stay seated or if she will be washed into an undignified heap on the floor. She can see herself lying there, her mouth opening and closing as she gasps for air; a fish washed up on a strange and hostile shore.
She knows the church is full. She can tell it in the rustlings that punctuate the vicar’s eulogy. There is one behind her right ear, one over to her left somewhere. There is a sigh, and occasionally there is a sniff and the sound of someone delving into a bag before a nose is blown. She knows that people cry in that room where the angels hear prayers and take them away, where the flagstones hide important graves and the bones decay somewhere beneath her feet.
She knows that they cry and she wants to jump to her feet and scream at them to stop. She wants to ask them why they cry for him, that cruel, vindictive man who stole his only daughter’s life and gave her a pitiful substitute for company. But she knows, beneath her anger and frustration, she knows. They cry for the longevity of him, for the familiarity of him. They cry for the times he saved them, for the times he healed them. They cry because they did not know the man behind the mask and they believe him worthy of their grief.
Her eyes stay dry, empty, another funeral without tears. She looks to her sides and sees the shine of the wood, old, old wood worn smooth with age. She sees the spaces where no-one dares sit, the spaces either side of her. She is alone on her pew and she would have to turn and draw attention to herself if she wanted to see the faces of those who mourned in her stead. She keeps her eyes forwards and listens, as the vicar’s words become a bee buzzing in her head. She wonders why she wasn’t asked to speak, to say a few words. Surely that would be customary. Perhaps they are afraid of what she might say or do.
She buries him in the churchyard next to her mother. She imagines her mother turning on to her side, away from the new arrival as his coffin is lowered. Again she senses behind her the faceless, ignorant mourners. She watches the birds in the trees and doesn’t realise she is supposed to throw a handful of earth to mar the wooden surface that reflects the rectangular hole of sky above it. The vicar moves to her side, prompts her, and she bends to the sound of muttered questions that she knows are about her.
“Ashes to ashes,” he says and she wonders what that means. The Earth is not ash, her father will not be ash, and her father will not be dust. He will be rot; he will be mould, liquid, rank and foul. He will be on the outside what he has always been on the inside and nobody but her will see it, just as it has always been.
She stands at the graveside long after everyone else has gone. She feels someone touch her arm – the vicar most likely, he is the only one that dares to come near her – she hears him speak but it is indistinct and she does not respond. She stares into the ground and wonders if it is truly done with, if he has truly gone. She waits and waits for the sense of freedom. She waits but it doesn’t come. She will never be free of him; her life is his creation. She is alone and untouchable, because of him.
She turns and makes her way out of the churchyard, over the road and up the lane. She keeps her head down out of habit and halfway towards home she forces herself to raise her chin, to ignore the voice that echoes in her head. She feels triumphant just for a moment but as she looks around she realises that the trees look strange, overwhelming. They tower above her and seem to close in as she moves. She shies away from them and lifts her hands to block out the sight. Slowly her eyes slide back towards the ground, she cannot stop them and she doesn’t fight it. She begins to count. She knows exactly when to turn, exactly when to bend to avoid the branch.
She makes her way home and when she gets there and closes the door behind her, she cries.
Chapter 51 ~ Rachel
She sat silently beside me as we drove towards Exeter. The roads were narrow and winding, the hedges grown bigger now that the rain had come to provide sustenance. I had to concentrate far more on my driving here than I had in the city and sometimes I became aware of my knuckles gleaming white as I gripped tightly onto the wheel. I wondered if I would ever get used to it as a lorry thundered around a bend forcing me to brake hard.
From the corner of my eye I saw Lacey’s hand grip the edge of her seat and asked if she was okay.
“I’m fine, just a bit of a nervous passenger that’s all.”
I wondered at how many times she had made this journey. Would I be able to count the number of times on my fingers? Would there be some left over? I didn’t ask, but I eased off the accelerator a little.
Once we got to the main road the traffic increased significantly. Cars laden with luggage until the drivers were blind to all behind them, caravans slowing down the flow as they went up vast hills. I moved into a lower gear, welcoming an excuse to go slower and let Lacey relax.
“Whereabouts do you need to go once we get to town?”
I felt her eyes move onto me as I negotiated the road ahead and then she turned away again.
“I have to go to my solicitors in Southernhay. There are just some things I need to sort out. It shouldn’t take long.”
Her tone was quiet, embarrassed and I chanced a quick look at her. She was half turned away, her bottom lip nipped between her teeth as though she tried to stop herself from saying more. I changed the subject.
“There’s an art exhibition on at the museum. Nobody well known, I think it’s just local artists showing off their work. Would you like to have a look with me after lunch?”
I felt her eyes move back to mine, saw her cheeks lift in my peripheral vision, “I’d like that,” she said, and her hand relaxed a little more on the seat as we moved closer to the city.
Tucked behind the bustle of the main street, Southernhay was like entering a different world. Vast buildings, many of them old and covered in vines, housed the financial and law firms, as well as the more upmarket estate agents. Gardens ran down the middle of the streets, ringed by the road that stretched in an elongated circle from the top of the street to the bottom.
“Whereabouts do you need to go?” I asked and she gestured vaguely left and up. Parking spaces were few and far between but I found one further up the road and slid the car into it.
“Is this close enough?” She nodded and moved to hurry out of the car. “I’ll wait here for you.” She leaned in through the open door and grabbed her shopping bag.
“I don’t think I’ll be very long, Rachel. Thank you for giving me a lift.”
I smiled and said it was no problem as she straightened up and scurried off, still chewing at her bottom lip.
I waited until she was out of sight before I got out of the car and stretched my legs. The clouds had parted and the sun was shining, the earlier rainfall combining with it to make the air humid and close. I filled the waiting space up with trying to decide where to go for lunch. I didn’t know Exeter well, but I had read something in the local paper about a new restaurant opening up near the Cathedral, so maybe we could go there.
I sat down on a nearby bench and squinted into the sunshine, watching people in suits move up and down the roads and pathways. Bust
ling little worker ants with a mission to complete. I didn’t envy the rigid structures of their working life. I looked down, at my long dark skirt and my Victorian style boots and I thought that I didn’t quite fit in here. City life was almost totally purged from me now and I was glad of it.
I watched them bustle around talking amongst themselves and I sat on the peripherals like a ghost, an observer, wondering at their lives and the thoughts they hid behind the masks of professionalism. I didn’t see any of them smile. I was still wondering about this when Lacey came back, looking relieved. I stood up, tucked her arm through mine and followed the signs to the Cathedral.
We found a restaurant with tables outside, huge umbrellas shading us from the autumn sun as we sat and watched the people picnicking and playing on the grass surrounding the Cathedral. On a bench near the low wall that surrounded the green, a man of indefinable age lay sleeping. His face had a ruddy glow to it, weathered and cracked as he snored softly and occasionally shifted against the hard surface. We watched as he opened one eye and looked at the floor next to him before reaching down and picking up his bag, moving it to his lips and drinking deeply. Nobody paid him any attention.
Children ran in circles, laughing and chasing after pigeons that always seemed to scoot out of the way just in time but never flew far, landing a few feet away, as if they too were enjoying the game. The whole scene was busy but peaceful and I was glad we had come.
While we waited to be served, we talked about nothing of any importance. It was an insignificant conversation that faded with time, becoming nothing more than a stitch in the fabric of growing friendship.
We both chose a stir-fry that when it was put in front of us, piled high in the centre of our plates, looked almost too good to eat, like a piece of art. I picked at it delicately, unwilling to disturb its perfection. Lacey picked up her knife and fork and pulled hers apart like a miner looking for gold. We laughed, drank wine and enjoyed the moment. Afterwards she insisted on paying. I couldn’t imagine that her pension stretched far, but her face was set, determined and I didn’t argue.
After lunch we spent some time wandering around the shops. The differences between Birmingham and Exeter were vast and despite the presence of major shopping chains, Exeter retained the calmer air of a market town. We walked the long line of the High Street and Lacey pointed out St Stephen’s Church, which according to the sign outside was a thousand years old. It bumped its majestic, worn shoulders with modern shops on either side, looking out of place and slightly uncomfortable.
It was a common theme throughout the city centre, this mix of ancient and new. As we made our way in a roundabout direction towards the museum we found another church, tiny and box shaped. Pigeons sat on the roof, seemingly oblivious to the shops with glass fronts and bright signs that surrounded the thirteenth century building.
We climbed the wide steps and entered the museum and as we walked towards the exhibition, Lacey’s hand went to her mouth, “Oh no, the poor thing!”
The room was filled with an enormous giraffe, his head sticking up above the gallery that ringed the room on the first floor. We stood near his feet and looked at him, frozen in time. Lacey reached out a hand and touched his knee, she looked genuinely distraught. Reading from the sign I said, “His name is Gerald, he was brought to the museum nearly ninety years ago.” I looked at her and saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes and I took her by the hand to lead her away.
She looked over her shoulder and I heard her mutter, “Ninety years,” quietly under her breath.
As we moved towards the exhibition room she seemed subdued, kept her head down and her eyes on the floor, as if afraid she might see something else that she didn’t like. I was mesmerised by how quickly her mood could alter and how little she tried to hide it.
The room we moved into was altogether brighter, reflecting colour from every wall. There were paintings of all sizes and shelves displaying sculptures, statuettes, even jewellery and I moved among them finding nothing that stood out for me. The paintings were lovely but I found many of them to be lacking in emotion.
We moved around the room and after a few moments Lacey lifted her head, taking in the details of the paintings around her. I stood in front of a smaller painting that had caught my eye. Here there was emotion. The painting was heavily textured, but subtle. It was a tree in the moonlight. The artist had painted a dome shaped willow in deep greens; the curved dome of its upper branches reflected the blue tinged light from the full moon that hung in the blackened sky. It was simple, beautiful, haunting and as Lacey joined me I pointed out to her the subtlety of the artist’s work, the way the blue moonlight interacted with the green of the tree. She looked at it for a long moment, her eyes squinting, her head cocked to one side. I watched as her eyes moved across the surface before moving back to mine.
“It looks like a dinosaur!” she said and I looked back at the canvas, trying to see it through her eyes.
“You’re right, it does,” I replied and we laughed and moved on.
Later, we had stopped off at a supermarket on the way out of town to pick up various bits and pieces and by the time we got back in the car, evening was approaching. The air was calm and still, the clouds all gone. Everything looked soft, ethereal.
We were silent, but it was the contented silence of a day well spent. I lost myself in thoughts of Lacey’s reaction to the long dead giraffe, wondering at the way she felt everything so keenly. There was a beauty in it somehow, as if she were slightly more human than I was, more empathic. I thought it a shame that she had never had the chance to be a mother.
A yelp from the passenger seat made me jump. Lacey’s face was pressed up against the passenger window, her hands either side of it, flat against the glass, her eyes were on the sky. I pulled up in the gateway of a nearby field and asked if she was okay and she nodded, pointing. I followed her finger and saw a rainbow coloured hot-air balloon high up in the sky. The road was quiet behind us and I could hear, through my open window, the thrust of the burners as it moved closer to where we watched hundreds of feet below.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” she said, her voice full of awe and magic. I looked up again, trying to see what she was seeing but it was still just a balloon floating above its basket.
“I’ve always wanted to go in one of them.” She sounded wistful, as if she knew now that she would never get the chance. “It would be like flying, like being a bird.” She lowered her head and turned to look at me. She looked sad and I patted the back of her hand. I started the engine and headed home.
Chapter 52 ~ Lacey
Silence. It draws out before her like a long forgotten canal, sluggish and indolent. The house fills with it. The quiet feels different somehow without him here. Though she never spoke to him, always turned from him with eyes full of loathing, she realises now that she had the choice. She could have spoken to him if she wanted to. There was freedom in that silence, there was life in it.
This is different. She feels it pressing against her, heavy and clumsy and she shrinks from it. The house fills with it until she can see the walls bend before its passage. It forces its way out through the locks, under doorways; it seeps through the tight edges of windowpanes and she wonders if it will take her with it.
When the radio is on or the TV occupies her front room and keeps her company, the sound is almost too much for this place. The silence pulls away like a snail’s eye touched by a careless finger; it shrivels and cringes back into corners and alcoves. She fights the urge to say ‘shhh, stay silent, the house is afraid.’ She turns down the volume, watches the pictures and feels the house settle around her.
The silence becomes familiar, it becomes her friend and finally she realises that inside that silence, inside the house, she is safe; finally. Her father is truly gone, she has no need to fear him, no need to sleep uneasily because of what might happen when she does.
The oppression inside the walls lifts and begins to fade slowly away as the memories of him becom
e distant. She becomes lighter, less afraid. She finds inside her the person she could have been and she begins to find happiness in small things. Time passes and she gets lost among the seasons, drifting through the rooms, watching through the windows.
Chapter 53 ~ Rachel
I was outside in the front garden when the phone rang. I ran to answer it and snatched the receiver up just before the answer phone kicked in. As I spoke, slightly breathlessly, I looked back at the hall floor and frowned at the trail of mud I had left behind me.
“Hello, is this Rachel Moore?” a distinctly masculine, gruff voice asked. “I’m sorry to call like this. My name is Paul, I’m Martha’s husband.”
“How can I help you?” I asked. Since moving to the village I had had very little contact with my landlady, other than the meeting in the graveyard and a brief visit to the house when she dropped off copies of the annual safety checks for me.
“I just wanted to keep you informed really, well at Martha’s insistence that is. Unfortunately, Martha suffered a heart attack a couple of days ago, she’s in hospital at the moment.” The words stuttered from him, a staccato beat as he passed difficult news to a stranger. It made me think of bubbles rising through water to burst on the surface.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. How is she?”
“They think she is going to be okay, they’re just keeping an eye on her for a couple more days. I just wanted to let you know because the number you have for Martha is her mobile number. She asked me to give you a ring and let you have my number in case there are any problems. Do you have a pen?”
I wrote the number down and said thank you, asking him to pass on my best wishes before he hung up. After my initial rush of sympathy for the woman I couldn’t help but be selfish, cross my fingers and hope that my tenancy here was safe. I gave myself a shake and pushed those thoughts aside, turning instead to wonder about Martha and how, with everything that was going on, she could give thought to making sure that I was okay and knew what was going on.
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