“Pathetic?”
“Not strong enough to manage my own life, to get rid of this thing that’s hanging over me. I mean, I don’t expect to be able to brush it off, but it’s overwhelmed me. I can’t seem to get away from it, even though I’m trying to make a new life.” Her thoughts are tangled and she’s getting confused, but she struggles on. “I don’t know, really. I suppose I can’t see an end to it. I feel I should be able to deal with it better.”
“What do you think would help you deal with it better?”
“Moving on.”
“Do you feel you’re not moving on?”
“I’m trying to.”
“Lisa, you are moving on. Bit by bit, you are making a life that isn’t defined by what has happened to you. It may not be the same future you would have had without that experience, but nonetheless it’s your future and you’re controlling it.”
She looks at him, trying to see the truth in his eyes, to get comfort from his words. But she’s not comforted. There’s a long pause.
“Is there anything else?”
She swallows. “I don’t want to be a victim for the rest of my life.”
*
Guilt. Her worst demon. A terrible, debilitating feeling. It’s the thing that stops her sleeping, drives her away from people, defines her waking moments. It’s all-powerful, relentless, ever-present.
But then of course it is, when Ali is dead. No matter what the situation, however threatened she’d been, however terrified, she has to live with that.
It’s also the reason she’s been avoiding Diana and Geoffrey. She’s been avoiding everyone, but especially them. She’s become an expert at the carefully crafted email; it’s how she’s managed to keep a line of communication open with some of the people she cares about, but hasn’t the strength to see yet. She’s become used to sending a polite but unequivocal email excusing herself from social events or visits.
She hasn’t seen Ali’s parents since the hospital and her recollection of their visit is vague. She knows they’d like to see her, but when she thinks about them, all the horror of that terrible night crowds in on her. She can’t bear their pain, or their kindness.
And yet she owes them. Perhaps she’s making it worse for them by staying away, selfishly denying them their personal recovery, their own way of moving on. In her heart she knows she must see them soon and in her head she’s trying to prepare herself, find a way to face them and not make things worse. As the weeks have gone by, she’s thought about this more and more, wracked by guilt, too cowardly to offer them the morsel of comfort only she can provide.
*
A few days after Lisa’s trip to the city, Jessica calls. She’s coming back at the weekend.
“Shall I get you some food?”
“No, don’t worry, I’ll go out when I get back, stock up a bit. Come over when you’re walking Riley and we can catch up.”
Jessica’s situation has further entrenched Lisa’s mistrust of men. She can’t imagine ever having a normal relationship with a man. Yet she knows they’re not all bad: her father, for one, was by all accounts a gentle, kind person.
This train of thought reminds her of John next door, whose age and fragility place him in the safe category. She’s taken to spending time with him, stopping for a chat after picking up his shopping. He’s good company, with a gentle, self-deprecating sense of humour and a natural interest in other people’s lives.
He’s lonely, though. He walks down to the social club in the village every so often, where he meets old friends for lunch and conversation, but sometimes, if he’s unwell or when it’s too cold and icy to risk the walk, he sees nobody except Lisa and the people at the shop.
She calls Riley, gathers up her keys and goes next door to see if he needs anything.
*
When he comes to the door, she can see that he’s not his usual self. He’s holding a cotton handkerchief, the edges frayed and uneven, and his eyes are watery. He asks her in to his gloomy kitchen, where he puts on the kettle, his hand shaking with the weight.
“Are you all right, John? You don’t seem yourself.”
“Today’s a difficult day for me. The anniversary of my wife’s passing. It’s been five years.” He picks up a small, silver-framed picture, which had been lying face down on his chair and shows it to her. A smiling, white-haired couple look out from a background of blue sky and garden, their arms around each other. His wife looks happy and he looks like a different person, bright-eyed and healthy.
“We were married for thirty-five years,” he turns the picture back to him and strokes his wife’s face behind the glass with his thumb. “We were best friends. Life’s just not the same now.”
“You certainly look happy in the photo. Was it taken in the village?”
“Yes, in our last house. It got too big for us, so we moved here about ten years ago when Elsie got poorly. We couldn’t manage the garden in the other place, though we loved it when we were young. It was a proper country garden. We had roses, hollyhocks, delphiniums, it was so beautiful in summer. The lawn was a menace to look after though, I certainly couldn’t do it now.”
“Elsie looks lovely. Wonderful to be happy together for so long.”
“Yes, couldn’t have been luckier.” He places the picture down and looks at it as the kettle starts to boil, its old-fashioned whistle screaming.
“I’ll do it.” Lisa has got used to John’s kitchen and often makes the tea, saving him picking up the heavy kettle and reaching for the mugs in the cupboard overhead. He sits down, the picture back in his hand.
“When she died, I didn’t know what to do with myself for a while. But her friends were wonderful. Came over all the time, especially to talk about her, remember her properly. It helped me so much. I even learned some things about her I didn’t know before, if you can believe it. Things she did before we were married. I felt closer to her.”
“That was nice of them. Do you still see them?”
“Some of them are still here, though only one or two. I see them at the social club sometimes. The others have died. At my age, your friends start to go. So many funerals.”
Lisa changes the subject, not wanting to make things worse for him, and tells him about Jessica’s plans to come back and her own changes with work. They chat for a while until he seems a bit brighter. She collects the latest shopping list, leaves him with his picture and his thoughts, and with Riley pulling on her arm, walks down to the shop.
Later, the curtains drawn and the fire warming her feet, she remembers John’s words about his wife’s friends and the comfort they’d given him after his wife’s death, Diana and Geoffrey not far from her mind.
*
The familiar semi-detached house looks smaller than she remembers as she approaches from the end of the street. The front garden has been partly paved over since she was last here and a small silver hatchback sits in front of the bay window.
A few houses away she stops for a few moments to gather herself. You can do this. They’re lovely people. They don’t blame you. But her body is rigid, the palms of her hands slick with sweat inside her woolly gloves. She shivers, cold and anxious. For a moment she hesitates, her legs not wanting to move forward.
“Oops,” says a voice from behind her and a small child runs into the back of her legs on a tiny scooter.
“Say sorry, Millie. Sorry, she’s really not good at looking where she’s going.” The young mother smiles at her, she smiles back and the little girl scurries past, head down.
“Sorry!” A piping voice, a lisp, and she’s gone, a determined little figure scooting as if her life depended on it.
The moment has passed and she walks on towards the house where Ali lived.
Once she’s at the front gate, there’s no turning back. The front door opens immediately and they’re both there, smiling, waiting. They hug her warmly and she’s in, the door closing behind her as she follows Diana into the sitting room.
The furniture i
s new but the welcoming warmth is still there, and she remembers the pictures on the walls and the fireplace with its china ornaments as if it were yesterday. In fact it’s only a couple of years since she was last there, though it feels like a lifetime. She sits, consciously trying to relax, as Diana bustles about in the kitchen and Geoffrey hangs her coat in the hallway.
They reappear, like a double act, and start to talk to her together, though at cross-purposes – “How is your mum?” “Where are you living?” They’re nervous too. A tray loaded with cups and saucers, a teapot and a plate of assorted biscuits has materialised and is fussed over while she stammers, trying to answer their questions while controlling her racing heart and the lump in her throat.
“My mum’s fine, actually. She’s got some nice friends in the street, and she likes it there. I’m living in a little village, about an hour away by train. It’s nice. Quite different to life here…” she peters out as they look at her, waiting.
“Why there, do you have friends nearby?”
“No, not really. I needed somewhere quiet. It’s peaceful, not much going on. I’ve got a little dog.” They latch on to her story about John and Riley, wanting all the details. It’s a safe subject.
She asks after Ali’s brother, Connor, and Geoffrey gets up and goes to a small desk by the wall, where he picks up a picture with a dark, polished wood frame. It’s Connor with Ali – larking about, making faces at the camera as they always did. Their young faces are close together, almost touching.
“They always got on so well,” he says, sitting down again. “He’s a sensitive lad, misses her terribly. He’s living with us at the moment. He lost his job late last year. It all seemed to go wrong when she died.” He shakes his head, close to tears. “Hard to make sense of it all…”
Lisa’s caught in the fading echo of his words, unable to respond. She opens her mouth but nothing comes out. She doesn’t know what to say.
Diana reaches over to pat Geoffrey’s hand and he looks away, overcome with emotion. She breaks the silence. “The last time we saw you, you were all bandaged up. They seemed to be looking after you well in the hospital. How are you now?”
“Yes, they were good. It doesn’t hurt any more.” She tries her best but the tears are coming, she can’t hold them. “Sorry…”
“Oh, my dear…” Diana is next to her on the sofa, her arms around her. “We know how hard it’s been for you.” A box of tissues materialises in front of her. “We all miss Ali so much, and we miss you too.”
“I feel dreadful for not coming to see you, but I’ve been… it’s been… I can’t…”
“Your mum’s been telling us how you’ve been getting on. We just want you to know that we’re here and we love you.” Diana has tears in her eyes now and Geoffrey has risen and is standing at the window, his back turned, his shoulders hunched.
“Thank you,” Lisa whispers through the tears and Diana hands her a tissue. Geoffrey sits down again. The faint smell of baking wafts into the room. She reaches for her cup and saucer, which wobbles as she draws it close. She holds the cup in both hands to steady it as she sips.
“Lisa,” Geoffrey says. “Would you like to visit the grave with us?”
Guilt snakes its icy fingers around her throat. The grave. She hasn’t even thought about it. The body of Ali, her best friend, Diana and Geoffrey’s only daughter, is lying in a grave nearby. And she hasn’t even thought about it.
“Would you like to come with us today? We go a couple of times a week. You might like to have someone with you the first time.”
*
The church is a short drive away and Lisa sits in the back of their car, numb, as the streets of her hometown flash by.
“Shall we stop for some flowers?” Geoffrey says. “We normally buy some on the way.”
“Flowers? Yes… of course.” She shakes herself out of her trance.
They stop at a small florist where she buys a bouquet of winter blooms, white and green, their stems encased in cellophane filled with water, a makeshift vase. The woman at the counter asks if she’d like a card to go with it.
“No, no card. Thanks.” She can’t write to Ali. Not any more.
The church is small and unassuming, a grey stone building nestling within a group of cottages, its graveyard at the back stretching out under ancient yew trees. Some flowers lie wilting on the grave and the black granite stone looks heartrendingly new.
In loving memory of Alison Mayfield, beloved
daughter, sister and friend
died 20 June 2013, aged 28
Forever in our hearts
Lisa sinks to her knees, the tears falling, and places her bouquet under the words.
“Oh, Ali,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.”
She stays there for a long time, head bent, thinking of her beautiful friend, with whom she could conquer the world, gone. She wants to remember her alive. Always laughing. That mischievous look in her eye.
Diana and Geoffrey hold back, sitting on a bench nearby. Eventually, as the damp from the grass soaks into the knees of her jeans, she stands up
*
Lisa’s hoping to get back home, but when she starts to say goodbye at the door, they insist she goes in.
“Please come in,” Diana says. “There’s something we want to ask you. It’ll only take a minute.” Reluctantly, she follows them into the sitting room and, coat still on, sits down.
They sit opposite her and glance at each other.
Nervous, wide-eyed, she waits.
“We want to hold a memorial service for Ali on the anniversary in June,” Diana says. “At St Peter’s. We’d really like you to come. That’s all, just come and sit with us on the day. And your mum, too, of course. Do you think you can? Would you like to?”
They’re both looking at her expectantly, but her voice has deserted her.
“It would mean a lot to us.” Their eyes are on her and she can feel their need. She squirms inwardly with the weight of it.
She swallows hard. “I don’t know. Can I let you know? It’s just… I’m still not…”
“Of course you can let us know. You have a think and when you feel strong enough, come and see us again. There’s plenty of time to decide.”
She leaves them standing at the front door together, waving for a long time, as if they don’t want to let her go.
*
At the lake the first signs of spring are showing. Fragile green shoots are pushing through the mud by the side of the path and as they walk through the trees at the edge of the water, Lisa can see new buds on the bare branches.
It’s the first time this year she’s noticed birdsong on her walk. The dawn chorus heralds each day now as she lies most mornings half-asleep, and though she’d rather not be awake, she likes the idea that the birds are calling to each other, making contact, declaring boundaries, welcoming the day.
Ten minutes into the walk she sees a familiar figure materialise in the distance, the pale shape of a wagging dog alongside. The figure waves and as they get closer she can see Jessica’s smile.
“You look a lot better,” Lisa says. Jessica’s face is almost back to normal, the shadow of the bruising only noticeable if you knew. But she’s pale and drawn and there are dark smudges under her eyes.
“Physically, I’m a lot better. I’m getting there.” Jessica had been shocked and angry when Lisa called soon after her long and circuitous route home following the unexpected encounter with Mike. Her voice, no matter how hard she tried, had betrayed her fear. To her relief, Jessica had wasted no time. She called him and made it clear that he wasn’t to talk to Lisa or anyone else about her, that she wouldn’t discuss anything until he was back. He’d agreed – he’d had no choice – and had left for his trip without further contact.
The two women walk for a long time.
“I’ve got to sort out an agreement of some sort,” Jessica says. “But I’m too scared to see him on my own now.”
“I’m n
ot going to offer to come with you.” She’s serious, but she smiles at Jessica’s shocked glance.
“Of course not. I’m so sorry he bothered you, it won’t happen again. He knows I’ve talked to the police.”
“Have you seen a lawyer?”
“Not yet. I need to research it a bit online first, find out what needs to be done for a separation, in the short term.”
“Do you think you’ll divorce?”
“That’s what I’ve decided. I can’t stay with a man who’s prepared to hurt me like that. There’s no way we could get back together.” They negotiate a narrow section of path through the trees.
“I’ve just got to find the courage to talk to him properly, I suppose,” Jessica says.
“Do you have to talk? Why don’t you email? It’s probably best to have it all in writing, anyway. Then there’s no argument and you can choose your words much more carefully.”
It feels strange to be giving advice to someone else when her own life is so broken.
*
She hasn’t seen John for two or three days. When she rings his doorbell, he takes an age to appear. She’s about to turn away, assuming he’s out, when there’s a sound at the door and she hears the key turning.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, did I get you out of bed?” He’s in a worn dressing gown, his ankles poking out from beneath flapping pyjama trousers. His bony white hand clutches a blanket around his narrow shoulders. “Are you not feeling well?”
His voice is dry and croaky. “Touch of bronchitis, been in bed for the last two days. Come in, come in.”
She steps into the gloomy hallway and waits while he closes the door.
“Have you seen the doctor? You really don’t look well.” He looks even whiter, more transparent than usual, and she asks how he’s been managing, if he’s eaten at all.
“No, I can’t get out.” He coughs and the whole of his frail body shakes. He grimaces as if in pain and wipes his mouth with a crumpled tissue.
“The doctor will come to you. Shall I call?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not too bad. What can he do?”
Dare to Remember: Shocking. Page-Turning. Psychological Thriller. Page 10