In Her Wake

by Amanda Jennings

  ‘Fine. I’ll talk to Lainey on the weekend. I’ll let you and Mum know on Sunday. Is that OK?’

  ‘Sure. Thanks. Really hope you’ll be with us. We miss you.’ Fraser patted his brother’s shoulder. ‘Want to grab a drink?’

  ‘I should get back.’

  Fraser laughed and shook his head. ‘She really does have that leash tight, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Shut up, Fraser.’ Henry bristled at his brother’s comment.

  ‘Well, she does. Women shouldn’t tell their husbands what to do all the time. You’ve got to stand up to her. Grow some balls, man.’

  ‘Will you leave it? For God’s sake, you have absolutely no idea what we’re going through.’

  ‘Look, all I’m saying is I’m sure you can have a drink with your brother every now and then without your wife throwing some sort of crazy fit.’

  Henry took a breath to steady himself. Getting cross with Fraser wasn’t going to solve anything. Truth be told, a drink with his brother was exactly what Henry felt like. But Fraser was right. If they went for a drink, by the time he got home, she’d be raging. ‘She’s my wife. I love her and I’m going home because I want to, not because she tells me to. I don’t want you to speak about her like that again. Do you understand?’

  Fraser and Henry stared at each other, both of them tense, both prickling with truths they wanted to tell.

  It was Fraser who stepped back first. ‘Sure, Hen. No problem. I just thought we could have half an hour for a drink. That’s all.’

  The tension in Henry’s body eased ‘I know. Look, things at home are just a bit tough at the moment.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Lainey had another miscarriage, if you must know. She’s not taking it well and she needs me right now.’

  ‘I see. I’m sorry about that. That’s bad luck. Is there anything I can do?’

  Henry laughed bitterly. ‘No, Fraser, unless you can make my wife stop miscarrying, then there’s nothing you can do.’

  Henry saw his brother’s face fall and was stung by guilt. Christ, it wasn’t as if it was Fraser’s fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. All the specialists they’d seen over the last five years had cleared them both of blame. There was nothing wrong with either of them. Nothing to explain the devastating losses with which she was having to cope.

  When Henry got home he found her crumpled in a heap on the kitchen floor. Her head was bowed, her mane of hair falling over face, legs bent at the knee, hands clutching a disintegrating piece of kitchen roll sodden with tears. When she looked up at him, he saw her face was raw from crying, puffy and blotchy, her usually porcelain cheeks streaked with smeared mascara.

  ‘Oh, Lainey, sweetheart. I’m here now. I’m home.’

  ‘Where … have you … been?’ she asked weakly, her words coming between snatched breaths.

  ‘I told you,’ he said, as he sat beside her, putting his arm around her shoulder and pulling her close to him. ‘I went to the club for a game. You remember?’

  ‘I tried to call you at work. I wanted you to cancel it and come home, but the receptionist said you’d left already. It was only four-thirty. How come you’d left already? And then I thought you’d be home, but you didn’t come. I … I thought you’d come … home.’

  ‘My last patient cancelled, sweetheart. Roger said I could go – he said he’d stay on to see anyone who showed up.’

  Her eyes narrowed and a chill set in. He braced himself. ‘Were you with Fraser?’

  The diamond edge to her voice cut through him. He would need to choose his words carefully if he was to avoid one of her turns. He took a breath to steady himself. ‘Yes, I was with Fraser. We arranged the game weeks ago. We played squash. But I came straight home.’

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t cancel the game! Our baby died seventeen days ago. Our baby died, Henry! How could you not cancel? You know how upset I am. You know how difficult this is for me. You know … you … know, Henry.’

  ‘I’m here now, Lainey. I’m here now and everything is going to be alright.’

  ‘You know what, Henry?’ She spat the words out as she got to her feet, then she stood looking down on him, arms crossed tightly. ‘Everything is actually pretty far from all right. Nothing is right. I’m going through all this and you can’t even cancel a game of squash? I don’t even know you. I mean, how can you play a game of squash at this time? Do you have any heart at all?’

  ‘Lainey, I…’

  ‘Shut up, Henry. Shut up! You know how much I wanted this baby. I thought you wanted it too.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You don’t! If you did there’d be no way you’d meet up with your brother for a game of squash when another of our children has died. You’d be too sad. You’d be too sad to have a fun game of squash with your brother.’

  Henry stood and put his hands on her arms. He spoke softly. ‘I’m sorry. I really am. I should have realised you were too fragile to leave.’ He rubbed her arms, rhythmically, softly, watched her features for signs of softening. Her eyes stayed cold as she considered his words, flicking back and forth, searching his face for God knows what. At last he saw a slight crack in her steeliness, and he breathed out, took hold of her hands. She moved forward and rested her forehead on his shoulder.

  ‘Will you hold me, Henry?’ she whispered. ‘Just sit on the sofa and hold me in the dark until I fall asleep? I feel desperate. I picked up a knife while you were out. I held it against my wrists and thought how easy it would be to end it. All this pain. Will you hold me?’

  ‘Of course I’ll hold you. All night if you need me to.’

  She nodded and then stepped back from. Then she smiled and ran her hands through her hair in an attempt to tidy it up and he saw she was back. Her face had relaxed. The episode was over. ‘So how was Fraser?’ she asked. ‘Was he well? And Abby and the children?’

  ‘He was fine,’ he said, trying to make his voice light so nothing could be read into his words. ‘It was good to see him. He asked about Christmas.’

  ‘And you told him we’re going away? You told him we’re going to the Canaries for some sun?’

  ‘It wasn’t the right moment. But I will.’

  ‘You must. You need to tell him. I need rest, Henry. A break and some sunshine. Just you and me together; we need to be alone. The last thing I need is to be stuck in your parents’ house with those awful, screaming boys. They’re a nightmare and you hate them. Remember how much you hate them? So, you’ll tell Fraser? And your mother? The last thing I need is more stress. Honestly, Henry, I was so close to hurting myself.’

  ‘I’ll tell them tomorrow.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He leant forward and took her in his arms. He felt so helpless. Why couldn’t she just stay pregnant? She needed a baby more than anything else. If she had a baby he’d get his wife back. She would return to normal and they would be happy again.

  FIVE

  I wake feeling disloyal. Restful sleep seems disrespectful to my mother, all ash and bits of unburnt bone in her cold brass urn.

  David is at the kitchen table eating toast and marmalade and reading the paper.

  ‘We’ll head home this morning,’ he says.

  ‘Don’t you think we should stay with my father?’

  ‘We’re on the end of a telephone if he needs us.’ He looks at me. ‘We should give him some space, Bella. I’ll drive you back here in a week or two.’

  ‘When do you want to leave?’

  He glances at his watch. ‘Within the hour. I thought I’d pop to the supermarket first and stock up for him. There’s no food at all in the house and we don’t want him to starve, do we?’

  ‘No,’ I answer. ‘We don’t want him to starve.’

  I call for my father, first in the house and then out of the back door in the direction of the oak tree, but there’s no answer. I knock on his bedroom door, wait for a moment then peep in. He isn’t there, he’s up already, bed made. I hover on the threshold. The room sm
ells of her and is filled with her belongings – her slippers at the foot of the bed, her makeup and perfumes lined up on the mantelpiece, her book and reading glasses waiting patiently on the bedside table – all of them trying to create the illusion she’s alive. I look at the chair in the corner of the room, a small tartan armchair that Henry used to carry through to my bedroom when I was ill. My mother would sit beside me all night, stroking my head with cool flannels if I had a temperature, holding my hair back if I was sick, soothing me with lullabies and rocking me. I remember waking from fitful sleeps, hot with fever, and she’d be there, right beside me, soft whispers of reassurance.

  I back out of the room and walk along the corridor. I pause at the foot of the attic staircase.

  ‘Dad?’ I call up tentatively. I listen hard but can’t hear anything. He could be up there. Maybe sorting out some stuff. I put my foot on the first step but hesitate. My heart thumps. I remember her screaming at me when she found me sitting outside the locked room. She screamed so loud I thought my ears would burst. She ran up the stairs, two at a time, and grabbed my arm. She pulled it so hard I cried out in pain.

  ‘Don’t you ever go up there, do you hear me?’ she said after she pulled me down and we were sitting together in the kitchen. ‘It’s dangerous up there. It’s full of furniture that would fall on top of you and crush you, you silly girl.’

  Later I remember Henry moving my shoulder in circles. It hurt so much I fainted and when I woke up he gave me chocolate.

  I tell myself not to be so pathetic and I walk up the staircase. I pause at the door. There is no handle. Just a square hole where the handle should thread. I hold my breath and listen. No sound.

  ‘Dad?’ I say again. ‘Are you in there?’

  But there’s no reply.

  ‘No sign?’ David asks, as I come down the stairs.

  ‘I suppose he might be out walking.’

  ‘Yes, more than likely.’

  ‘Though I’ve never known him go out for a walk before.’

  David stands and stretches his back. ‘Well, you go and pack our bag while I do this shop. I might be a couple of hours. The seal’s degraded on the shower head, that’s why it was dripping. I’ll fix it but I need a few bits from the DIY store.’ He walks over and takes hold of my shoulders. ‘And don’t look so worried; I bet you he’s back before I am.’

  I wait until David leaves and then shout for my father again, unable to keep the panic from my voice. ‘Dad! Henry! Where are you!’

  I walk down the hallway to his study. The door is closed. He could have fallen asleep in his chair. He sometimes does that, and without my mother to marshal him upstairs to bed, it’s possible he’s stayed there all night.

  I reach for the handle and turn it slowly. I push the door open. It’s dark inside. The heavy curtains are pulled shut and there’s a strong smell, warm and sweet with alcohol and damp. I walk over to the window and pull the curtains open. The room floods with light.

  When I turn around, my heart stops.

  ‘Dad?’ I whisper. I want to scream, to run, but I’m frozen.

  My father is at his desk. He is slumped back in his chair, mouth gaping as if calling out to someone. His skin is bleached. His eyes are wide and glassy and stare at nothing. Two deep gashes run up his forearms from each withered wrist and beneath his flaccid hands is a large pool of blood as dark as molasses. Beside it, lying bloodied and quiet, is a knife that belongs in the kitchen.

  SIX

  ‘Oh my days! Who’d have thought he loved her that much?’ says Miss Young, fanning herself as the colour returns to her cheeks.

  Miss Young is the first poor soul I run into – quite literally – as I stumble out of the gate and down the lane, screaming David’s name over and over as I go.

  She does exactly what’s required of someone in this type of situation, she takes hold of my hand and listens intently, allowing her look of calm concern to give way to animated horror as I explain what’s happened in garbled words that barely make sense.

  As I finish telling her, my breathing becomes rapid and shallow. My head spins and my body starts to shake uncontrollably as it succumbs to shock.

  ‘Come on, dear,’ Miss Young says. ‘You need a little sit down.’

  She walks me back towards the house with her arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders. I don’t want to go into the house. I want to be a million miles away from it. But she insists, tells me I need to stay warm, that I need to sit down, and once we’re inside, she settles me on the sofa in the living room, wrapping a woollen throw around my shoulders.

  ‘You sit here while I check the study.’

  She leaves the room and I listen to her footsteps in the hallway, then her smothered gasp of disbelief and some urgent mutterings. When she returns to the living room, she goes straight to the telephone.

  ‘The police, please … An ambulance? Well, you can send one if you want, dear, but I think it’s a bit horse, stable, bolted, because he’s definitely dead, no doubt about it and I’m no doctor.’

  Then she offers me tea, sweet tea, that great British cure-all, suitable for a range of situations including, as far as Miss Young is concerned at least, the discovery of a father’s suicide the day after a mother’s funeral.

  ‘I’ll make a pot,’ she says, wrapping the throw tighter around me. ‘I’m sure those nice young boys will fancy a cup when they get here.’

  I grip the mug of tea but don’t drink it. None of my muscles work. All I can do is stare ahead, concentrating every bit of energy I have on keeping my father’s lifeless body out of my thoughts. I become aware of cars pulling up in the driveway. Of muffled voices. People moving to and from the study. The crackle of radios. A woman outside laughing.

  Miss Young sits beside me and rhythmically rubs my knee. I resist pulling away from her, though the contact feels uncomfortable.

  ‘What a thing,’ she mumbles. ‘What a very thing indeed.’

  Miss Young is the vicar’s housekeeper, has been for years and, in the absence of a vicar’s wife, was a regular presence in the church. My mother once mused that there had to be more to the story, though at the time I didn’t know what she meant. On the few occasions I’d met Miss Young she insisted I call her Suzie. But I always use Miss Young; Suzie feels too familiar and doesn’t suit her at all.

  The shadow of a policeman looms over us. I look up at him and in an instant my heart starts to thud and my stomach fills with butterflies, as a deep-rooted fear takes hold.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you now, Mrs Bradford. Would that be OK?’

  ‘David,’ I whisper. ‘I need David.’

  ‘That’s her other half, dear,’ Miss Young adds helpfully. ‘He nipped out a while back. I’m sure he won’t be long. I’ll leave you two to talk.’

  She stands to leave, but I snatch at her hand. ‘Please. Please stay with me,’ I say, my voice catching in my constricted throat.

  The policeman, a tall, thickset man in his late fifties with a lilting Welsh accent, asks question after question after question. I manage to give a variety of one-word replies and non-committal shrugs, and when we’re finished he presses the number of a suicide helpline into my hand. I can’t help but feel it’s a bit late for that now.

  I close my fingers around the card and look out of the window, at the trees standing rigid and tall as if guarding the house.

  ‘Right, I should get going now, really.’ The policeman appears reluctant to leave, hovering on the spot. ‘Will your husband be home soon?’

  ‘Don’t worry about her,’ says Miss Young over my head. ‘I’ll keep the tea flowing until Mr Bradford gets back.’ Miss Young pats my knee briskly as if to say with a steady flow of tea and her company I’d be right as rain in no time.

  ‘That’s kind of you, Miss—’ He pauses, trying to recall her name.

  ‘Suzie,’ Miss Young says. ‘Everyone calls me Suzie.’

  The policeman clears his throat. ‘The guys next door will need a while with the…’
He stops himself and glances at me. ‘With Dr Campbell. If we need to talk to you again, Mrs Bradford, we’ll call you.’

  I nod but don’t speak; I’m starting to feel as if I’m stuck in a television programme, a bizarre reality game show where everyone else is an actor and I’m the unwitting star, like The Truman Show, but crueller.

  The policeman leaves and I relax a fraction. As soon as he closes the door, Miss Young reaches into the pocket of her skirt, then sits beside me on the sofa. She is holding a letter.

  ‘I found this before the police arrived,’ she says. ‘It was on Dr Campbell’s desk and I slipped it into my pocket. Things like this are best kept private. You read it when you’re ready, dear. Maybe another cup of tea first? What do you think?’

  Miss Young places the envelope on my lap.

  ‘I’ll go and feed that cat of yours to give you some space. Call if you need me. Lord only knows what it says.’

  I regard the letter as if it holds anthrax. He’s used his Smythson of Bond Street. It’s his very best writing paper and was given to him by a well-to-do patient years and years ago. He keeps it on a high shelf in his study, in a special leather writing box, and only uses it for the most important occasions. The last time, as far as I’m aware, was when he wrote a letter of condolence to his mother, my unknown grandmother, following notice of his father’s death.

  Seeing my name written across the light-blue envelope in his immaculate copperplate handwriting rams the reality of what’s happened down my throat. I pick up the letter and try to imagine what it says, what reason he might give to explain what he’s done. A part of me agrees with Miss Young, surely he didn’t love her that much?

  I slide my finger along the length of the envelope and tear it open as neatly as I can. Inside is a single sheet of writing paper with a newspaper cutting, brittle and yellowed with age, folded within it. I place the cutting on the sofa beside me and take a deep breath as I unfold the letter.

  SEVEN

  Henry Campbell – 2nd June 2014