Now she was crying again and on the verge of giving up on the anonymous contents of the box, when her hands found an unopened envelope. She peered at the front of the envelope. It was Philip’s handwriting and it was addressed to Denise. Chala was about to rip it open, but then decided to get out of the attic first. She let herself down through the hatch slowly and shakily.
Half an hour later she was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, staring at the unopened envelope, but still her fingers did not act. She thought of the fox in distress on the side of the road and of what Philip would have done. She thought of Paul and knew what he would have done. Amanda – Amanda would have snatched the envelope from her there and then. She saw herself wading through shit and trying in vain to shake off the failures that clung to her: the accidental murder, her inadequacy and infidelity as a wife, failure to be there for the father figure who had nurtured her all her life in his moment of need. And now she was about to open a private letter, addressed to a woman whose relationship with Philip began before she was born, a relationship that had nothing to do with her. Didn’t she owe it to Denise, whatever her own feelings, to pass on this letter unopened? How could she condemn Denise after what she herself had done or failed to do?
Her fingers folded the letter away and the image of herself in shit receded. This was a fox she could save.
CHAPTER 11
Colour and laughter. Babies and small children sprawled across blankets on the lawn, surrounded by tiny slices of pizza and juice packets with straws. Adults clustered around the makeshift drinks table, some of them mothers holding glasses of Pimm’s and lemonade, keeping half an eye on their children, and a group of men gravitating towards the barbecue near the walled edge of the garden, where Philip slaves uncomfortably over the coals. Denise floats from person to person, touching someone lightly on the elbow or the shoulder as she passes, making sure they’ve got everything they need, the perfect hostess. She is dressed in some sort of sequined, floaty material, a bright green that brings out the fire in her eyes. Her mouth is painted orange and smiling. She catches sight of Philip and chuckles gently to herself at his awkwardness, grateful for the effort he is making, a wave of almost maternal warmth washing over her as she drifts through the smoke to his side. She reaches up to give him a quick, secret kiss and he looks up from the fire into her eyes. Click – someone has caught a perfect paparazzi moment on camera. Their third anniversary eternalised.
The photo is beautiful. It sits in the small family gallery on the top of a bookcase in the living room. There is another photo of Denise in a green polo-necked sweater and jeans, holding baby Emma up to the sky on a sunny winter day and laughing. And another of the whole family, a slightly self-conscious Philip, one hand on Chala’s shoulder as she crouches in front of him, the other arm pulling Denise towards him. In this one Denise wears bright orange and the ready smile of someone happy to be photographed. Only Emma is too small to realise that she should be looking at the camera. She gazes straight up at her big sister, reaching out to clutch her curly hair.
When Denise leaves, the photos do too. There must have been more than these three, some must surely have gone with her, but these and the one of Denise when they first met have been packed away in a box for twenty-five years.
* * *
Chala sat with the photos spread in front of her on the kitchen table and stared relentlessly at them.
‘You’re not still looking at those bloody photos, are you?’ Paul swept past her towards the sink with the kettle in his hand. ‘Coffee? We’ve got half an hour before we need to leave.’
‘Do you think I should take them and show them to Denise?’ It was only a half-formed thought.
‘Why? To stir things up for her like you’ve done for yourself?’ Paul meant this protectively, Chala knew that, but it grated, this niggling implication that she was making her own suffering worse, as if it was a matter of choice.
‘But they might mean more to her – be more real for her.’
‘I know,’ Paul cut in, with his back to her, pouring the water. ‘You can’t relate to the image of Denise in these photos, your memories are too blurred, too marred by what came after.’
Chala looked at her husband’s shoulders, hunched away from her as if in resignation, and smarted. ‘Oh, I’m sorry if you’ve heard all this before.’
‘Well, I have, haven’t I?’ He was walking over to her now, bringing two mugs of coffee, and smiling warmly in an attempt to lift her, keep things calm before the journey ahead.
Something in her softened and she felt sorry for this man who was trying so hard to help her through the minefield she had entered. Fingers of guilt clutched at her insides. ‘I’m sorry, Paul.’
‘Shh—’ He put his arms around her from behind the chair and his head against her ear. ‘You’ve got enough on your plate for now – coffee and a funeral to go to.’
She laughed weakly and felt protected and wished that she could somehow capture the love she felt for Paul in this moment and keep it alive for ever – like one of the photos that still stared at her from the table. But then, that was the whole problem, wasn’t it? They were just photos, arbitrary moments, there was nothing real about them. She simply could not reconcile the image of this woman in the photos with the haggard, screaming half-memory that lurked in her own mind.
* * *
Amanda was the staunch friend she had always been. Not only had she been the one to call Denise and the few others invited to the ceremony, but it was Amanda who was hosting the gathering after the cremation in her ramshackle family house overlooking the moor, not far from Philip’s own house. She and Chala had talked late into the nights when Chala had made the visit to Philip’s house and batted around the awful question of what to do about the funeral. At first Chala refused to talk about it, couldn’t think about it, but Amanda just kept talking patiently herself, slowly coaxing and forcing her friend to start processing what was happening. Amanda’s husband, Richard, a rather rugged, mountaineering type, who was easy to talk to but difficult to get to know, kept the two-year-old twins at bay and gave the girls as much space as he could.
The screaming inside Chala softened and slowly she found herself talking through tears about what Philip would have chosen. Chala knew he would have hated to be buried, a prisoner for duty visits and pointless flowers over years to come, but she recoiled from the notion of some morbid ritual around an urn full of ashes.
‘What about the cliff where you got married? We could go there after the cremation and you could throw the ashes into the sea. Wouldn’t that somehow feel like the right sort of thing to do?’ Amanda shared none of Chala’s suspicions about suicide, so there was no irony in her suggestion. Each time Chala had raised her fears, Amanda had simply smoothed them down, like the mother she was.
But Chala was acutely aware of the irony. ‘How could you even think of that?’
Amanda indulged her, made other suggestions, none of them palatable, and then tentatively hinted that maybe she should give the ashes to Denise.
‘Fuck Denise. She wasn’t there for him in life. Why should she have him in death?’
Amanda flinched at the vehemence in Chala’s voice. Chala saw it and wished for her friend’s serenity.
‘You don’t know how it was for her, Chala.’
Chala looked up at her friend. It might have been Philip talking. She realised suddenly what a powerful influence Philip must have been in Amanda’s own life, how much she too must be grieving, and she put her arms around her friend.
In the end Amanda had persuaded Chala that they needed a certain amount of ritual to help them through and they had sketched out a plan, but the ashes were something that Chala would decide on later, something she was not yet prepared to part with.
And so Paul and Chala had left their coffee mugs in the sink, done the long drive down to Devon and spent a restless night at Amanda’s house before the cremation at eleven on a Friday morning.
Everyone was read
y to go – everyone except Chala. She had insisted that Paul leave her to be alone for a few moments before she joined them all. She looked at the appalling rings under her eyes in the mirror, pulled the rebellious red curls into a knot at the back of her head and flinched at the sight of herself, dressed up to witness the burning of a body in a box. Then she started to shake, and fumbled through her bag for a beta blocker. She was just about to pop the pill when Amanda strode into the room.
‘Don’t Chala. Not if you can help it.’
‘Don’t what?’
‘You know what – that pill. I just think it would actually be better for you to allow yourself to feel what you feel. This is not—’
‘Not what, Amanda?’ Suddenly Chala felt that no one really knew her, knew the worthless core of her. ‘I even took one of these for my own wedding!’ She lashed out, wanting to shock her friend into some kind of realisation of the distance between them.
‘I know that.’ Amanda’s voice was gentle.
‘You knew?’
‘Chala, I’ve known you for ever. I guessed.’
Chala felt the salt in her eyes and put the pill down. ‘Oh Amanda, you are the best friend in the world.’ She moved over to Amanda and hugged her. Finally, both shaken, they let go of each other and Chala took a deep breath.
‘Come on then. Let’s do this thing.’
* * *
There were already people there when they arrived at the crematorium. Chala fought back the sensation that she was attending some sort of wedding ceremony. Men in suits were standing under a magnolia tree whose petals were already starting to open. Women, chic in black, fussed with neat handbags. Their eyes lifted towards the small entourage walking along the path from the car park: Richard pushing a twin pushchair; Amanda on one side of Chala, holding an immaculate bouquet of wild flowers she had picked before anyone else got up; and Paul on the other side, holding Chala’s hand, seeming to carry her along above the ground, as Philip had done on the day of their wedding.
As they drew near the figures that hovered outside the doorway into the crematorium, one figure separated itself and stepped towards them. Chala stopped walking and felt the flesh of Paul’s hand around her nails. When she thought about it afterwards the most incredible thing about that moment was the fact that she recognised Denise. She didn’t deduce that it must have been her or find her oddly familiar or see traces of the photos she had studied, she simply and irrefutably recognised her – it was strange. It was only much later that she would be able to take stock of what Denise looked like now, but there was a poised elegance about her, an air of self-sufficiency, which was inviting rather than intimidating. She wore strong dark orange lipstick, and the faded green of her eyes still shone. Her hair, now streaked with grey, was cut almost in a bob, and the deep lines around her eyes and her smile betrayed only the fact that she had lived.
Chala didn’t move. It was Denise who broke the silence.
‘Chala.’
She said nothing else, simply stood in front of her and looked straight at her.
The men cracked. Richard bent over the pushchair to pointlessly adjust some item of clothing on the sleeping twins; Paul put his arm around Chala’s waist and opened his mouth to speak.
‘It’s OK,’ said Chala first, looking at Denise, still shocked at knowing this woman.
And then suddenly there were people pouring out of the crematorium and it was their turn to go in and the two groups mingled unwittingly for a few moments as people milled past each other. Amanda took charge and indicated where people should sit. There were skylights in the wooden roof and sunshine poured through, illuminating the floral arrangements on the raised decking at the end of the room. People took their places on wooden benches facing the podium and Chala was vaguely conscious of Denise on the other side of the aisle, also in the front row, just to the right of her range of vision. She sat, mutely aware of her hand, lifeless in Paul’s, and unable to take her eyes away from the curtained hatch that loomed ominously behind the flowers, the tunnel that would deliver the man she had grown up with to eternity. Except there was no such place as eternity, and everything happening now was for the benefit of people left behind.
Afterwards, she found it difficult to remember the exact sequence of events. The coffin had been carried down the aisle like a bride, to the sound of Jacqueline du Pré. Then there were a few words and a song sung by Amanda. Chala had been surprised and almost angry to catch sight of Denise with tears streaming down her face, oblivious to all around her, but beyond that there was nothing really, just a numbness.
Back at her house, Amanda had plied everyone with cava and olives and sausage rolls in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere and encourage people to comfort each other with gentle memories. Chala had the sensation of circling, cat-like, padding in and out of conversations just long enough to ensure that they only skimmed the surface of her consciousness, always aware of Denise in another part of the room. They had not spoken yet and Chala realised she was biding her time, gathering strength for the moment they would face each other. She thought about taking the beta blocker in her bag, but it would take an hour to work properly and she wasn’t sure she could postpone the moment for that long.
* * *
When it happened, it caught her off guard. Paul had just taken Chala’s empty glass to refill. Chala looked quickly around the room, unable to see Denise and suddenly alarmed that she might have left already. Then, turning back, she found that Denise was approaching her, had sought her out, obviously waiting for a moment when she was on her own. She fought with conflicting emotions: a feeling of being trapped, of curiosity, and again, this deep, disconcerting sense of recognition.
‘You’re a brave woman, Chala. This must be desperately hard for you.’ It didn’t sound patronising or like a platitude. Chala felt a flood of questions gasping for air inside her and yet no words formed on her lips. Denise looked as though she didn’t expect her to speak. ‘You must have been tortured by questions over the years, and now th… I wouldn’t blame you if you had no desire to see me after so long, but I want to thank you for being brave enough to let me come to the funeral.’
‘It was Amanda who persuaded me.’ Chala was struggling to put some distance between them. There was too much empathy. ‘But I’m glad you came. I’m glad you still cared enough to come.’ Chala tried to hide the accusation in her voice.
‘Me too.’ Denise’s response was strangely ambivalent. Yet she hardly looked racked with remorse. The lines on her face had a softness; there was no bitterness there and she seemed at ease with herself. Chala longed to cut through the caution between them and articulate the questions that had lain latent inside her for so many years, but suddenly she felt nauseous and weak.
‘Are you OK, Chala? Listen, this is all too much. We shouldn’t try and talk here. I’m leaving now. I just wanted to say thank you personally and’ – she reached inside her handbag and handed Chala a handwritten card with her contact details on it – ‘if you want to meet up I would love to see you. Just give me a call if you feel like it.’
For the first time she looked awkward and Chala was vaguely aware of an impulse for some kind of physical contact, but then she remembered the fox in her own handbag. ‘Wait. Hold on a moment. I’ve got something I need to give you.’ And she dashed into the hallway, grateful for the diversion. She opened her bag and picked out two envelopes – one held the photos that she had contemplated giving to Denise, but this she put back. Suddenly she wanted to keep those photos. The other was the envelope addressed to Denise.
She returned, breathless, to Denise’s side. ‘I found this in a box in the attic. I haven’t opened it.’
Denise took the letter and stared down at it, slowly registering Philip’s handwriting after all these years. Chala waited for the shock to settle. When Denise looked up, her eyes were wet.
‘You really are very brave – much braver than I ever was.’ And they placed their hands on each other’s shoulders lightly f
or a second, before Denise pulled away and Chala turned to look for somewhere to sit.
CHAPTER 12
Her feet sink in the impossibly fine white sand. She is panting as she climbs, each footprint feeling sacrilegious, hollowing out another shelf in the side of the dune. She can feel him getting closer, hear him panting too. She looks for the top of the dune, but distances are deceptive; the white knife-ridge against the blue sky looks as far away now as it did when she started. She braces herself, dragging her right foot up to get a hold in the sand, but suddenly he is upon her, grabbing her left foot and pulling her down beside him. They lie at an angle against the side of the dune, letting the adrenalin subside, gazing at the expanse of white and blue all around them.
‘If you could build a house anywhere in the world, where would it be?’ This is one of those places that brings out what Paul affectionately calls her lottery obsession: the temptation of the second conditional.
‘Well, it wouldn’t be half-way up a bloody sand dune, that’s for sure.’ He rolls over on top of her, refusing to indulge her this time, planting his lips on hers to shut her up.
Later on the same day, they sit on a tree trunk by the small brai that Paul has lit and watch the chops start to sizzle in the late evening light. Their little igloo-shaped tent is pitched a few feet away. Amazingly, there is no one else at this campsite on the edge of the sand dunes. People must be put off by the fact that, apart from the neat little concrete barbecues in each plot and the occasional tap, there are no amenities here and you have to bring absolutely everything, including drinking water, with you. Chala jumped at the idea when Paul suggested it and so they had left the comfort of the quirky little B & Bs around Cape Town to come and camp for a couple of nights.
Chala is tucking into her third lamb chop, her fingers oily with animal fat, her hair still sticky with sand that she has been unable to wash off, when Paul laughs suddenly.
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