Sticks and Stones

by Jo Jakeman

  I collapsed as he dropped, feeling our ties sever. My view of Phillip was blocked, as cars swerved and crashed into one another in confusion and panic. The fire engine, which was pelting with purpose towards a fire that couldn’t be stopped, began to brake too late. The car that had mounted the kerb stopped inches from my face.

  I crawled on my hands and knees, looking between wheels and running feet. The fire engine smacked into the back of a heavy vehicle and set the dominoes falling. I heard car after car shunt towards where I’d seen Phillip drop. I could see his legs. His left leg moved, bent, then straightened. And then the last domino, the old white van, was propelled forward by the momentum. It bumped over Phillip’s torso.

  His legs twitched.

  Once.

  Twice.

  And then they were still.

  Phillip Rochester turned to stone before my eyes. He was gone and I was free. I laid my cheek on the cold, hard ground and rolled onto my back. In the sky above me, a rainbow bloomed. Iris.

  I closed my eyes and let gravity claim me as its own.

  FORTY-ONE

  43 days after Phillip’s funeral

  I expect to cry, give way to the emotions I’ve kept bottled up for years, but as the curtains close around the silk-lined coffin, all I feel is lost. The strings have been cut. I’m no longer dancing to anyone else’s tune.

  Naomi squeezes my hand and I squeeze back. I know I’m being watched. I should dab at my eyes, sniff loudly, lower my head, but I’ve been looking at the floor for far too long. I’m done with apologising for who I am. I sit up a little straighter on the pew and tuck my hair behind my ear.

  It’s a new vicar. A woman. Her eyes crinkle at the sides, even when she isn’t smiling. She nods at me. It’s time to leave. Or go to pieces. I stand and hear a collective sigh behind me as they realise I am going to behave myself. Creaking chairs and bones tell me they are moving en masse in a sombre, respectful procession at my back.

  On one side of me, Naomi, and on the other, Rachel. I catch Rachel’s eye and she winks, then stands back to face the congregation, one arm outstretched as if she is my protector. I slip out of the side-door and look up to the spring sky. So blue, so fresh, surprising us all with a preview of summer.

  There are floral tributes on the table, despite me making it clear I’d rather people made donations to the Stroke Association. People like to be seen, judged and declared good. Decent. All the while, wanting to be noticed. Saying they loved her most, knew her best, would be the ones to remember her the fondest. They were welcome to that title. My flowers were simple, red and white. Not because she liked red, but because I did. The card said, simply, Mother, We loved each other the only way we knew how. I wish we’d had more time to make it right. Imogen x

  After Phillip died, we tried to break down walls, build bridges, but we weren’t architects and our foundations were weak at best. I had only just come to terms with the fact that Mother could never be who I wanted her to be and, by expecting more of her than she was able to give, I would always be disappointed. If she could love me for who I was, then, surely, I could love her for who she was too. We agreed that neither of us was perfect, but we loved each other and that had to count for something.

  There are people milling around the courtyard who I think I recognise. I knew so little about Mother’s life, and she mine, that I don’t know which are genuine friends and which have come for the free buffet at the Joiner’s Arms. I nod and thank people for coming, agree that Mother would have been pleased at the turnout and, yes, it was lovely weather for it, wasn’t it?

  Bill is shaking hands and cracking jokes. He seems happy to have a day out. I get the impression that Mother’s wasn’t the only garden he tended.

  Tristan is here somewhere. I saw him when I arrived. He looks handsome in his dark suit and thin black tie. Black looks good on him, but then everything does. I spot him now by the entrance. He’s been cornered by Aunt Margaret. He notices me looking and smiles at me in a way that makes my heart flutter. We’d agreed to take things slowly, though I was wondering about quickening the pace.

  The black car that had followed the hearse has gone. Naomi is on her mobile and signals to Rachel, who links her arm through mine and escorts me round the corner to where the sun is at its brightest.

  ‘Won’t they think it’s rude if I leave so early?’ I ask.

  Rachel raises an eyebrow and reminds me, ‘You don’t care what they think.’

  We walk up the narrow road and I step up onto the neatly mown grass as a yellow camper van swerves wildly around the corner. Gingham curtains sway as the van stops by our side.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ says Ruby through the open window. ‘Alistair was in desperate need of ice cream.’

  Alistair leans over the back of the white leather-look seat and proudly holds his 99 aloft. Old Tom makes a game attempt to lick his ice cream and Alistair laughs. All three of the dogs were reunited with Ruby not long after Phillip’s death. The other two were found locally, but Old Tom walked his tired legs all the way back to Ruby’s home in Brighton.

  Alistair had lost two people he’d loved in the space of two months. I’d readied myself for the nightmares, the attachment issues, the neediness, but he’d taken it in his stride, astounding me with his resilience. I let him sleep in my bed – though that was more for me than for him – and I clung to him as if he was my anchor, when I should have been his.

  I lean over and kiss his forehead.

  ‘You okay, Buster?’

  He nods, ‘You look pretty, Mummy.’

  ‘Are we ready, or what?’ asks Naomi.

  I take my jacket off and slide into the front of the van.

  ‘She’s a beauty, Roobs,’ I say, looking appreciatively around her recent purchase.

  Naomi slides the side-door open and gets in next to Alistair.

  ‘You sure you don’t want to come with us?’ I ask Rachel.

  ‘No offence, but some of us still aren’t ready to let our leg-hair grow and join a commune.’

  I laugh and so does Alistair, though he doesn’t know what he’s laughing at.

  ‘We’ll only be gone a week or so,’ I say.

  ‘And I’ll keep an eye on everything here. Besides, I’ve got a weekend away with Chris Miller.’

  ‘I didn’t think you did relationships.’

  ‘I didn’t think I did policemen, either. Goes to show.’

  She pauses like she’s weighing up whether she should say what’s on her mind. This is so out of character that I feel the fingertip of fear on my spine.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just … enjoy yourselves, yeah? But … but not too much. I want you to come back. And if you find your dream location, or whatever, for this wine bar of yours …’

  ‘I never said I was looking for a wine bar.’

  ‘You can thank me for the idea later. Anyway, make sure there’s enough room for me, ’cause you don’t get rid of me that easily, you know?’

  ‘I know.’

  I smile.

  We hug awkwardly through the open window.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll probably be too busy to answer but, sure, whatever makes you feel better.’

  We drive away and I watch Rachel return to the dark puddle of mourners. Behind me, I hear Naomi unzip a bag.

  ‘I got you a gift,’ she says.

  She hands me a heavy blue cylinder.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Wrong question, duck, you should be asking, Who is this?’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Is it? What’s he doing here?’

  ‘I’m sick of him being under my kitchen sink. Gives me the heebie-jeebies thinking of ’im lurkin’ in my kitchen.’

  I glance at Alistair, who’s engrossed in his iPad. Building-blocks in alternate worlds. A universe away.

  ‘What do you plan on doing with … it?’

  ‘Thought we could dump it somewhere,’ Naomi says.

  ‘Where? I
don’t know. I feel odd about it. Like perhaps we should wait?’

  ‘You know, darlings,’ says Ruby, ‘you can put ashes in fire-works or make them into jewellery, or even tattoos?’

  ‘Why on earth would we want to …’ I begin, but my voice trails off as I look at the urn. I lift him up and he’s heavier than I expected.

  The coroner ruled the whole episode as accidental death, despite the driver of the car saying there was no doubt in his mind that Phillip stepped into the road on purpose. Witnesses said they’d been begging the council for years to do something about that stretch of road. In fact they wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t tripped over the wobbly kerbstone that hadn’t been replaced since that accident when a woman lost her baby. Such a shame. One minute you’re out for a nice morning walk and the next … Bam!

  ‘The important thing,’ says Ruby, ‘is not to get too hung up on it. We should respectfully dispose of his remains. Not for his sake, but for ours.’

  ‘Yeah, but there’s no reason why we can’t have a bit of fun doing it, though, eh?’ says Naomi. ‘I don’t want to do it on me own. I’m not being funny or owt, but it’s something we should do together – symbolic, like. You know, he brought us together. Us being, well, friends, he’d hate it. But, you know, I sort of like it. It’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a family. Talking of which,’ she pauses and takes a deep breath, ‘I’m meeting Helen when we get back.’

  ‘Oh, darling,’ says Ruby, craning to look in the rear-view mirror at Naomi. ‘That’s wonderful news.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Naomi continues, ‘she sounded lovely on the phone. A bit dippy, but, you know, nice. I don’t know what to call her, though. Do I call her “Mum”? I mean, it’s not like she’s been a mother to me, but it don’t seem right calling her Helen, neither.’

  ‘Why don’t you decide when you meet her?’ I say. ‘You could ask her how she feels about it. God, Nay, I’m so excited for you.’

  I settle back into the seat, carefully cradling the urn, scared I’ll spill some of Phillip on the pristine interior of Ruby’s new camper van.

  I put my hand upon Ruby’s on the gearstick.

  ‘Thanks for this. I think we might live to regret going on a road trip together, but still …’

  ‘I bet you we’ll get on like a house on fire,’ Naomi says.

  There’s silence for a moment as the three of us are brought to mind of being locked in a burning house. I can feel the heat prickle the hairs on my arms and my breath catches in my chest, but it’s only the heat of the sun. I start to laugh. Quietly at first, then Naomi and Ruby join in with such vigour that Ruby has to pull the van up at the side of the road in a lay-by.

  Ruby wipes the tears from her eyes, but they keep coming with every laugh. Just the sight of her makes me double up and struggle to regain composure. A bird lands on the lip of the plastic bin by my open window and appears to look at us quizzically. Three mad women.

  ‘How the hell are we still sane?’ I ask.

  ‘We’re not,’ Naomi says. ‘But sane or not, we’re stronger for it. We know what we’re capable of and, more than ever, we know what we want. Am I right?’

  I nod ‘Yes’, and Ruby puts the van in first gear. We cheer as she flicks on the indicator.

  ‘Wait,’ I say.

  I look at the urn. I lift it up.

  ‘What is this?’ I ask.

  ‘You know who it is,’ says Naomi.

  ‘Not who. What. It isn’t him any more, and yet he’s still a burden. A heavy weight, both physically and metaphorically, taking up room in our minds, as we wonder what to do with him. This feels momentous. Like I’m starting again, reborn. I know that sounds cheesy, but … There’s no one telling me I can’t do what I want, that I’m no good. I don’t want to start this new chapter with … this thing still in it. Would you mind if …?’

  I glance at the rubbish bin. Ruby puts her hand on my arm and gently squeezes.

  ‘It’s fine by me, darling. Naomi?’

  ‘You know me – I’d’ve chucked him in the bin yonks ago.’

  ‘So I should …?’

  ‘Do it,’ says Naomi.

  ‘Go on,’ says Ruby.

  I look down at my hand. Though I’ve lost enough weight to take it off, the thin wedding band is still there. It gives the illusion of having separated my finger from my hand. A part of my body that still belongs to Phillip Rochester. I slip it off with ease and roll it between my thumb and forefinger. It weighs almost nothing. Inconsequential. And I wonder why I’ve attached such significance to it all these years. In an instant I throw the ring and the urn into the bin. At the dull thud, flies take to the air, disturbed from their heat-induced stupor.

  I raise my right hand by Ruby’s side. Both Ruby and Naomi grasp it and cheer. I look at them. These newfound friends who know me better than I know myself, who are each a part of me, and I a part of them. Brought together in hardship, but with nothing but respect for each other. I know that we will be friends for life.

  Naomi lets go of my hand and throws both arms around me from behind.

  ‘Can we get out of here before I start blubbing?’ she says. And again we laugh as Ruby presses the accelerator and leaves the past behind us in a cloud of dust.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I must begin by thanking my agent, Imogen Pelham at Marjacq Scripts. She believed in me when I didn’t dare to believe in myself. I had no idea how many people would be involved in bringing my debut to life so I’d like to extend a huge ‘thank you’ to everyone at my publishers, Harvill Secker, who has worked on this book, but especially Jade Chandler, my editor, whose patience and insight I’ll be forever grateful for. I would also like to thank Danielle Perez at Berkley, my editor in the USA, for taking the women of Sticks and Stones to her heart and making their voices heard.

  I have such gratitude for Curtis Brown Creative. Especially for my course tutor, Lisa O’Donnell, and my talented coursemates Jane, Anjana, Andrew, Steven, Yvonne, Osman, Amanda, Johan, Cate, Deborah, Helen, Phil, Nik and David, whose critique and encouragement have been invaluable. The next round is on me.

  York Festival of Writing gave me a life-changing opportunity when they shortlisted me for Friday Night Live and I can’t thank them enough. It also led me to the women who would become my writing group: Roz Watkins, Fran Dorricott, Sophie Snell and Louise Trevatt. They are a talented bunch of writers who I’m proud to call friends.

  The Derby Book Festival – in particular, Jenny, Sian, Liz and Theresa – deserves a special mention. It has been an honour to be involved in the festival since its inception in 2015. Their continuing support means the world to me.

  Thanks also to Alex Davis, the first person not related to me to read the full manuscript. He gave me support, guidance and encouragement, which I treasure.

  Thank you to my friends, too many to mention by name, who encouraged me to write for many years before this book was even an idea. I am indebted to each and every one of those who played a part in keeping me sane, whether offering critique of my work, making me laugh, or topping up my wine glass when empty. I couldn’t have done this without them.

  Finally, and most enthusiastically, I have to give thanks to my family and acknowledge the part they played in breathing life into this book. My sons, Alex and Danny, are my greatest cheerleaders and never complain when I shut myself away to work. They are possibly more excited than I am at the prospect of this book being read by complete strangers and I love them without end. My mum, Julie, provided food and child-care in times of desperation and has never knowingly passed up an opportunity to tell people about this book!

  And lastly, my husband, James. He deserves a page all to himself. His unwavering support when I considered giving up writing all together is the only reason this book exists. In a world blighted by Phillips, he is my knight in shining armour.

  @vintagebooks

  penguin.co.uk/vintage

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  VINTAGE

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  Copyright © Jo Jakeman 2018

  Cover design: www.blacksheep-uk.com

  Cover images: Deposit Photos/Getty Images

  Jo Jakeman has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  First published by Harvill Secker in 2018

  penguin.co.uk/vintage

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library