Heart

by Nicola Hudson

  Hugging my arms around my knees, I recalled my English teacher telling us about Virginia Woolf’s suicide: how she had filled her pockets with heavy stones and walked into the river. At that moment, I thought about how easy it would be to do the same: surreptitiously sneak handfuls of pebbles into the pockets of my parka and my bag, and then walk into the sea. Running my fingers over the smooth roundness of a pebble, I considered the impact on others. Sure, it would be painful, but they all had someone to rely on to help them get through: Mum and Dad, Flynn and Cass. They’d cope.

  Looking round, I could see there was nobody close by on that windy, autumnal day. Nobody who would feel obliged to risk their own safety. Nobody to make a frantic 999 call.

  Could I do it? Did I have the guts?

  It was almost like a dare.

  Opening my bag, I scooped up pebble after pebble, dropping them into its dark interior. Scoop. Drop. Shifting the bag closer to me, I revelled in its newfound weight and shape. Would it work? Scoop. Drop. I paused in my secret endeavour when someone walked behind me, my sea-gaze now concealing a deeper secret. As I waited for them to pass, I realised the enormity of what I was doing. Was I actually considering killing myself?

  Shame flooded me. I wasn’t that girl, the one whose whole life revolved around her boyfriend. Was I? Maybe I was. Maybe I had been, at any rate. Shit. This was my life. My life.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket as my brain tried to compute the last few minutes of madness. I looked at the screen: Cass. What was she, a bloody mindreader? Knowing she wouldn’t stop until I answered, I tapped the screen.

  “Christ, Neve, you had me worried then!”

  I gave a brittle laugh before replying, “What did you think I was doing? Finding a bridge to jump off?” Oh, the irony.

  “Nah, that would be too messy. Doing a Plath would be more your style, babe. You know, something dramatic but less painful.” Although there was a smile within her voice, it was worrying how well she knew me; it was only the writer she had got wrong. “I’m only kidding. I just wanted to check how you were doing. You sounded so sad earlier, I couldn’t think of anything else in my lecture.”

  “I did a stupid thing and came to the beach. All it’s done is remind me of him. We sat here one morning—”

  “Stop that. It won’t do you any good. Get up and get walking. Now.” Why did everyone suddenly think it was okay to start bossing me around? “I can’t hear you moving.” Even though she was almost two hundred miles away, it was like she was right there with me. I stood, the weight of my pebble-filled bag making me lean to one side. “Okay, walk away from that place. Talk to me. About anything. Until you can’t see it anymore.” The band around my chest loosened as I walked, telling Cass about my classes, Kema, everything that I hadn’t yet shared with her.

  The further I got from that spot on the beach, the easier it was. I stood at the bus stop, still telling Cass every minute detail of my life away from her. When the bus pulled up, I thanked her and promised to ring her that evening. Carrying the burden of my bag in both hands, I took a seat on the bus and vowed to keep the stones as a reminder to never let myself give in like that again.

  After a quick detour to my room to drop off the pebbles, I grabbed a drink from the coffee shop and made my way to the lecture hall. Being early gave me a choice of seats and, after opting for an empty row near the back, I texted a quick thank you to Cass and drank my coffee. A shadow cast across my notepad alerted me to the arrival of a neighbour. Looking up, I found myself staring into a pair of aquamarine eyes, framed by the longest lashes I had ever seen.

  “Hey, is this seat taken?” His gorgeous American accent made me avoid the obvious, sarcastic response.

  “Uh, no, umm, feel free,” was my wonderfully articulate reply. However, Yankee Boy smiled as if I had just said something witty and sat down. Taking a sip of my coffee to give myself something to do other than stare, I shifted to allow him more space on the bench seating.

  “I’m Garrett,” Yankee Boy—sorry, Garrett—said, hand extended. I mean, who shakes hands at our age? However, I took his hand and shook it, my brain briefly registering that it felt bigger in mine than Jake’s did.

  “Neve.”

  “Is that Irish?”

  “Yeah, my dad’s family comes from Ireland. You know, all potato farmers and Guinness drinkers. So, Garrett… is that American?” His laugh was like music.

  “No. It’s an old English name. It’s been around since the twelfth century,” he added, as though it would impress me.

  “Oh. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone called Garrett before. Weird.”

  “Weird, why? Weird that you haven’t met anyone with my name, or weird name, period?” The seriousness of his face was belied by the crinkle around his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m only joking. I’ll just have to make sure you don’t forget the first time you met a Garrett, won’t I?” As he pulled an iPad out of his leather messenger bag, I noticed how well-dressed he was, especially in comparison with the proliferation of hoodies which surrounded us. The light-grey sweater, worn over a blindingly white shirt, looked like cashmere and fit his lean body perfectly, as did the dark indigo jeans which embraced his thighs. I looked up to find Garrett smiling as if pleased to see I had been checking him out. Had I? Pretending to swap my pen, I hid my embarrassment in my bag, fumbling around until the chatter turned into a hush, signalling the lecturer’s arrival.

  Successfully managing to ignore Garrett for the first few minutes, I got suckered in to the lecture on Victorian poetry and the love story of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Whilst I was thinking that this week’s reading might be quite interesting, even if a little depressing given my current state of mind, I felt Garrett move closer and whisper, so close I could feel his breath.

  “Garrett, Barrett, what other arretts are going to make an appearance this afternoon? Will a row of carrots dance across the stage? Will a parrot start following you, repeating your every word?” This was how he was trying to impress me?

  “Just how long have you spent working out words that rhyme with your name?” I asked, with enough of a smile to tell him I wasn’t being wholly snarky.

  “Long enough to mean I’ll have to borrow your notes as I haven’t got anything down so far,” he admitted. I chuckled and went back to my own note-taking, smiling at the realisation that he hadn’t moved away.

  “Do you fancy grabbing a coffee?” Garrett asked as we packed up at the end of the lecture. I was on the verge of refusing when he added, “I could get a copy of your notes, as well.” Never one to stand in the way of another person’s study, or the chance for coffee with a handsome American stranger, I agreed and we walked across the lawned quad to the coffee shop I had sat in with Kema less than twenty-four hours before.

  Again I found myself being told to sit, but this time I was at least given a choice of drink. When Garrett returned, my skinny mocha had a heart-shaped sprinkling of cocoa powder on top. A sudden sense of what I was apparently doing worried me. Did he think this was a date?

  “I didn’t ask for that, honest!” he said as he drew a chair close to me.

  “So, do you want my notes to copy?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation in a neutral direction.

  “Sure.” Before he had finished replying, I had my notepad out of my bag and passed over the pages. He opened up his camera app, took a photo of each page and then handed them back. “Thanks.”

  “Really? That’s it? You’re just taking a photo of them?”

  “I’ll download them into the notes I made later. I’m not one for scribbling out reams of notes I won’t ever read again,” he said, arrogance colouring his tone.

  “You could have done that in the lecture! We didn’t need to come here to do that,” I pointed out.

  “I know,” he said smoothly, “but then you wouldn’t be sat here with me, would you? I didn’t want to miss out on the chance to get to know you better.” His smile was somewhere on the scale between smarmy and endeari
ng. I wasn’t exactly sure where yet.

  “What course are you following?” I was determined to maintain a distant friendliness.

  “English and Media Studies.”

  “Why here?”

  “Why here as in Sussex, or why here as in England?” His tendency to look for double-meanings was in danger of becoming annoying.

  “Either. Both.”

  “Well, as soon as it was clear I wasn’t quite cut out for the Ivy League, my grandmother, who is English, offered to fund me studying in the UK. It was a no-brainer, really. I get a few months at a time away from my Wasp of a mother and all I have to do is drive up to London every couple of weeks and pay the old girl a visit. I chose Brighton as it was far enough away to mean I couldn’t be expected to stay at her house. I love her, but only in small doses. What about you?”

  “American Studies and English Literature. I liked the uni and was supposed to be coming here with my best friend, but her plans changed. I like being by the sea,” I added, realising it was true; subconsciously I had always been drawn to it.

  “You must be missing her, right?”

  “So much,” I admitted before stopping myself from pouring out my tale of woe. “I have to go. Thanks for the coffee.” I stood and slung my bag over my shoulder.

  “Hold on. Can I have your number? I’d like to see you again before next week’s lecture. Would that be okay?” My hesitation made Garrett jump to the obvious conclusion. “I’m happy to just be friends, someone to sit with in lectures, grab an occasional coffee with. That type of thing.” And I needed a friend, someone to sit with in lectures, grab an occasional coffee with.

  “Umm, okay.” I told him my number and felt my phone vibrate in my bag as he rang to give me his. “I’m off. See you next week.” I didn’t turn back to see if he watched me leave.

  I didn’t want to know the answer.

  I knew I needed to ring Mum and tell her about Jake before she found out about it via Flynn; she would never forgive me for that. But, as supportive as Mum and Dad could be, I didn’t want to actually put into words what had happened.

  Huddled under my duvet, I bit the bullet. Mum answered on the first ring.

  “Hang on, love. Simon, turn the TV down. It’s Neve.”

  “Hello, darling!” Dad shouted from the background, making me smile as I visualised him, knowing better than to try and take the phone from Mum.

  “Your dad says hello. How are you, love?” And that was all it took for the tears to start.

  “I’m okay,” I hiccupped.

  “Well, that’s obviously not true. What’s the matter?”

  “Jake finished with me yesterday.”

  “Oh. Why?” There was no evidence of surprise in her voice.

  “I don’t know. He said he just couldn’t do it anymore. It didn’t make sense, Mum. I thought things were going great. And he was lovely when he was down here but then, all of a sudden, he said that we’re over.” It didn’t make sense, the more I thought about it.

  “Well, maybe he had his reasons, love. You’ve always known he had issues beyond your relationship,” she added. I’d never told her the full story about Jake’s family but, as he has been friends with Flynn for years, I suppose she had always known more than we had discussed.

  “Yeah, but it was nothing to do with any of that. He just said he ‘wanted out’.” The crying calmed as my brain tried to make sense of his words, but hindsight wasn’t making things any clearer.

  “Maybe he realised you were outgrowing him, now that you’re at university, and is doing the honourable thing?” she offered.

  “That’s a horrible thing to say,” I said, outrage increasing my volume. “How can you even suggest that I would think like that?”

  “I’m not suggesting you would, lovely, but he might think it. If he loves you as much as he appears to, maybe he thinks you deserve to be free?” If Jake had thought like that, he would have said it. I knew it. I knew him.

  “I don’t know, Mum. I just know that I miss him. And I miss you. And Dad. And Cass. I miss being at home.” My voice trailed off into a whine.

  “Look, why don’t you come home this weekend? We can drive down and pick you up on Friday night, and drop you back on Sunday. What time do your classes finish on Friday?” She had gone into Mum’s-in-charge mode and secretly I was glad I didn’t appear to have any choice in the matter.

  “I have a seminar which finishes at twelve and then I’m done for the day.” Mum checked on Dad’s schedule and announced they would pick me up at three. I hung up, determined to focus on the weekend ahead.

  Before I even had a chance to decide what to do with the remainder of my evening, my phone rang again.

  “Hi, Cass,” I answered, smiling at the knowledge that she had rung, just as she had promised to.

  “So, are you up for going out on Saturday night?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I’m at Flynn’s and your mum has already been on the phone, saying we have to go home for a family weekend. I think she’s included me in that,” she laughed.

  “Really? In the time it’s taken me to go to the loo, she’s already got it planned?” I shouldn’t have been surprised really. Mum is the master-planner of all family events.

  “Yeah, that’s why I thought you might like some time away from it all. How about me and you go out? Just the cinema or something?” Cass knew exactly what I needed.

  “That would be great. Thank you. How’s your day been?”

  “All right. A boring lecture and a great seminar. More importantly, how’s yours been?”

  “I got through it. I went for a coffee with someone from my Lit lecture,” I offered, determined she would never find out about the bag filled with pebbles.

  “Good. What are they like? Am I going to have to fight it out to maintain my number-one-friend status?”

  “Umm, no. It was just a guy who needed to borrow some of my notes.”

  “That’s what they call it down in Brighton,” she joked, albeit a little warily.

  “God, no. Nothing like that.”

  “That’s probably wise.” Her voice was quieter. “I know you must be hurting like hell, but don’t give in to the rebound thing, Neve. You’ll end up getting hurt again. Just come home and be with everyone who loves you for a couple of days.”

  “Okay, okay. I can’t wait to see you.” I didn’t want to scare her off by admitting quite how much.

  “Me, too. Do you want to talk to Flynn?”

  “Nah, just say hello. I’ve done enough family tonight, thanks.”

  “Okay. Look after yourself. And ring me if you need to. Any time. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, thanks, Cass. I love you.”

  “I love you, too. We all do. Sleep well.”

  I did. Eventually.

  I dust the flecks of soil off the glossy leaves and stand back. Perfect. It will thrive here. Sure, I was only supposed to mow the lawn and do a bit of weeding, but this is my gift to the old woman.

  Stretching my back, the tiredness of a full day’s work infuses my muscles. But I’ve got to carry on. I can probably get another couple of jobs done before sunset. Before dark. Before I go home and face the crap which has no doubt taken place today. Before another night spent thinking about how much I miss her.

  Myrtle. Even just thinking about her name makes me sigh with the reality of what I’ve done. All I ever wanted was to make her happy; that’s where the nickname started. Neve had got all upset when Cass called her Moaning Myrtle one night we were out. Trying to hide how funny I found her stroppiness, I kissed her and called her Myrtle, before telling her the mythology of the plant and its links to love. And, I’ve got to be honest, I love the fact that my girl has the name of something so beautiful. Like her.

  “Do you want another cup of tea, Jake?” My daydream is broken by the old lady’s question. Her voice might quiver with age, but in her smile I can see the young woman her husband must have fallen in love with
decades ago. Just as I am about to refuse, I change my mind. Who knows when she will next see someone? Finding solidarity in our loneliness, I answer.

  “Go on then, but only if you’ll join me!” The beam on her face tells me I made the right choice.

  After washing my hands, I perch on the wrought-iron patio chair which really is too delicate for someone of my size and look at the garden. It is a testament to love. I reckon Mr Jones created it a good forty years ago; it has that old-fashioned, cottage garden feel, all rose bushes and ivy climbing the surrounding walls.

  Mrs Jones carefully places the tray on the table before sitting on the adjacent chair. Bless her. Tea served in bone-china cups and saucers. A few biscuits arranged on a matching plate. It is so many miles away from what I’m used to, it’s on another bloody continent.

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, it’s a pleasure, Jake. You’ve done a good job today. You always do. Jack would be so grateful, knowing that his garden is still looking nice.”

  “You know what, Mrs Jones? I don’t think it was his garden. It was yours. I bet he made this garden for you. He wanted to create something beautiful, just for you. It’s a sign of his love, his passion.” Seeing the glistening in her eyes, I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing but then she places her wrinkled hand, still wearing its wedding ring, on top of mine.

  “That is such a lovely thing to say, Jake. And I think you’re right. He loved this garden and, once we knew there wouldn’t be any kiddies running around in it, he did turn it into something beautiful.” Her eyes take on a faraway look as she faces the garden. “I always loved just sitting here, watching him work. He was such a handsome man. All the girls were envious when he asked me out. He always said that gardening kept him fit. I always said gardening kept him young. I can see him now, in his shirt sleeves, just like it was yesterday.” Her sigh tells of a happy life, now only experienced in her memories.

  “Well, thanks for the tea. I’d better be going now.” I pick up the tray and take it into the kitchen.