by Hilary Boyd
May 1991
It had been Gwen’s eyes that he’d noticed first, when she’d been standing at the entrance of a mega-rich PR’s grand house in Primrose Hill, holding a tray of glasses filled with champagne cocktails. She was slim and tall, dressed in a tight black dress, black pumps, legs bare in the unseasonal heat, her thick, chestnut hair tied back in a demure bun at the nape of her neck. Jack felt, as their eyes met, that he’d been hijacked: his integrity swept clean away, like a rug pulled out from under his feet.
At the time, he was beyond caring how he behaved, beyond fearing any consequences, his body and mind so stifled, dried up by long months of grief and the muted, lifeless atmosphere at home. He had tried so hard to reach Stella. But however much he loved her and attempted to support her, she did not seem able to hear, to see, to feel his love. It was as if the solid boulder of grief that existed between them was growing, getting larger and larger until they could no longer even glimpse each other around it.
She tended to Eve in an abstract sort of way, but to Jack she gave no sign that he even existed, and her indifference scorched his soul. ‘You know I adore you, Stella,’ he had whispered to her, only that morning, seeing her looking so sad, so lost as she sat up in bed, his daughter in her arms. She had glanced up, but her eyes were blank; she had merely given him a half-smile and turned away. In his own distressed state, he simply didn’t know what to do. He felt shrivelled, like a winter bulb.
So as the buds burst into blossom on the London trees and the days filled with spring light, he chose life. He chose Gwen. As he left the party, he slipped his card on to the tray she was carrying.
She rang a week later. ‘I’m up for a drink,’ she said, cool as a cucumber.
He’d taken her to a swanky bar in town, which he hoped would impress her. They’d drunk cocktails and flirted. Around ten o’clock, she’d grabbed his hand and dragged him drunkenly round the corner to her student bedsit off Tottenham Court Road, where they’d fallen on to the bed and begun to kiss.
But although earlier in the evening he’d thought to throw caution to the wind as far as his troubled marriage was concerned, the reality of Gwen’s lips on his, the feel of her hand snaking down his body towards his crotch, felt almost monstrous. What the hell am I doing? he asked himself as he pulled sharply away and off the bed, out of the flat and down the stairs into the cold air of the night-time street.
When he got home, Stella – unusually – was not yet in bed. She was still wearing her jeans and T-shirt, feet bare as she stood in front of him in the basement kitchen, the television burbling quietly in the background.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked. She was staring at him strangely, as if she knew. He began to wonder if there were traces of Gwen – a chestnut hair, a lipstick stain – still clinging to some part of his anatomy. He wanted to die of shame.
But then he thought, Wait a minute … Something’s different. It’s like she’s actually looking at me, seeing me, for the first time in months.
Jack didn’t question it. He rapidly covered the distance between them and grabbed her, wrapped her in his arms so tight she couldn’t escape. Then he showered her head with kisses.
‘Oh, God, Stella, I love you. I love you so, so much.’
And this time Stella didn’t ignore him, didn’t object to his embrace, as he feared she might – as indeed, she had done on countless other occasions recently. She clung to him and buried her face in his shirt.
Neither of them was interested in words any more. Jack wanted to show just how much he loved his wife in the only way he knew how. So he bundled her into his arms and carried her over to the sofa, where they made love to each other half-clothed: angrily, passionately, as if it were the first and last time they ever would.
At the time, Jack had hoped this was the beginning of a new era for them both. He knew the moment with Gwen was a shitty thing to do, and he deeply regretted it. For whatever strange reason, however, that night seemed to have moved the boulder, catapulted them both out of their painful lethargy and forced them to see each other again. But it turned out to be a false dawn for Jack and Stella.
29
Stella
Stella woke to the sound of rain. Her heart sank. The image Jack had offered, which had stayed with her all week, of the sunset, the garden … It wouldn’t be the same if it rained. But her mood was determined, although she hadn’t slept until the light came up. She looked at her watch and realized it was after nine. Jumping out of bed, she pulled a cardigan over her pyjamas and went out into the corridor, listening for Arthur. She could hear the muffled sound of the radio and her daughter talking to Arthur, her grandson giggling. Stella smiled, went back into her bedroom and closed the door.
For a while she just stood there, in the middle of the room. It hadn’t been painted yet, the walls were still hung with a faded pink-and-cream geometric design wallpaper, the floorboards bare, like the rest of the house. She padded over to the chest of drawers and opened the top drawer, pulling out the bamboo box, still wrapped in Jonny’s blanket. She carried it over to the bed, where she sat with it in her lap. It felt warm to her, almost living as she held it between her hands. Her beloved boy, whom she’d kept shielded from the world, refusing to share or let go. His presence had sustained her over the years, calmed her when her grief threatened to overwhelm her. But it had also trapped her. This is the last time, she told herself. And despite the ache in her heart, she knew it was right.
Jack
He gazed at the framed photograph in his hand. The photo – taken, he remembered, by his mother-in-law, during a picnic in Clissold Park to celebrate Jonny’s second birthday – showed the three of them sitting on a tartan rug. Jonny was on Stella’s knee, leaning back contentedly against his mother, thumb in his mouth; Jack had his arm around Stella. None of them was looking at the camera. Patsy had captured the river and the square, pillared, eighteenth-century villa in the background, the late-afternoon sunlight soft on their faces. It was a beautiful photograph, but it seemed – as, indeed, it was – from another era. Jack found it hard to equate who he was now with who he’d been then.
He was in two minds as to whether to give it to Stella. Would it upset her? He felt as if he were walking a tightrope today. One false move and they would both crash and burn. But in the end he decided to take it, see how things went.
Jack noticed his hand trembling as he did up the buttons of his shirt. He’d decided to be smart, although he hadn’t discussed this detail with Stella: it was enough just to get her there. He’d chosen a tailored petrol-blue suit, white shirt and navy knitted silk tie with a squared-off end – one Lisa had given him. Checking his watch, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, bracing himself for his fate.
Stella
The rain had stopped, but the day was still misty and damp, the clouds low in the sky. There’s something ancient, atavistic about this part of the world, Stella thought as she stood in the kitchen waiting for Jack, gazing out on to the sodden garden, the dark rhododendrons and camellia, the copper beech. She sensed a heavy, settled quiet in the wooded hills that spoke of a faith in the ongoing cycle of life. It calmed her nerves.
She hadn’t known what to wear for her son’s memorial. She hadn’t thought to bring a smarter outfit with her, so intent had she been on packing the bamboo box safely. In the end she had to settle for a pair of grey linen trousers and a white cotton, collarless shirt. As she did up the clasp on her necklace of amber beads and pulled over her hand the silver bangle she always wore, she remembered the blue dress and the way it had stuck to her back in the church on that long-ago day of Jonny’s funeral.
Jack was doing his hearty thing: smiling a lot, talking about nothing. Stella recognized it of old and wished he would be quiet. She thought he looked pale, nervous and uncomfortably smart, for Jack. Eve had gasped when she saw her father, and told him he looked ‘dashing’. Which he did, Stella privately agreed.
Soon after he arrived, Eve made a pot of tea and brought out the V
ictoria sponge she and Arthur had baked that afternoon. Her daughter’s gesture immediately brought tears to Stella’s eyes, and to Jack’s too. Because on the top, in white icing, was carefully inscribed a single word, ‘Jonny’, his name circled by glowing candles – which Arthur took great delight in blowing out.
‘I thought …’ Eve presented the cake tentatively, clearly nervous as she checked their faces for some reaction.
Stella couldn’t speak for emotion, so she just pulled her daughter into a warm embrace. It felt like the beginning.
Neither she nor Jack spoke as they drove through the dark lanes, Stella cradling the box in her lap, the pale-blue blanket left behind, at the last moment, on her bed. Jack’s square hands – she’d always loved his hands – were clenched on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed firmly ahead. He wore glasses to drive now, she noticed, with thin tortoiseshell frames.
The sky seemed lighter on the horizon as they neared their destination, the air less heavy with moisture. It wasn’t cold in the old Peugeot, but Stella’s limbs felt icy, almost numb.
Jack
Jack realized, as he drew up on to the patch of flattened grass alongside the white fence belonging to the Morrisons’ old house, that he was feeling oddly calm. There was only one destination, one purpose and one face filling his mind at that moment. He was here. Nothing else mattered.
They sat there, listening to the engine tick-tick as it died.
‘You’ve checked?’ Stella was asking. ‘There won’t be anyone here?’
Jack shook his head. ‘I swung by this morning. No sign of life in either house.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘Stella …’ Jack glanced over at her. She met his eye and he felt a bolt of tenderness touch his heart as he saw her uncertainty, her tangible fear. He felt he was in charge of her feelings today. He’d started this; he had to make it right. He reached over to pick up the photograph from the back seat. Handing it to her, he said, ‘I thought …’ then he stopped, not knowing what he thought.
Stella took it from him, and for a long moment just gazed at the image in silence. Then her face softened and she smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, smoothing her thumb across the glass. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she added as she clutched the frame to her chest.
They sat there, neither speaking. Then, ‘Ready?’ Jack asked, laying a reassuring hand on her cold one. Without waiting for her assent, he unclipped his seat belt and opened the car door.
Stella
She tried to get her breath as she clambered out of the car, clutching the bamboo box. She felt Jack’s hand on her arm. It was so familiar that for a split second she forgot they were not together, not still man and wife.
They stood looking at the barn. The images, the smells of that day were returning thick and fast: jasmine, wood-smoke, lavender from the row of plants against the white wall of the Morrisons’ house – although they were no longer there. It was hard to believe she was actually in this place, that this wasn’t just another nightmare, like the ones that had haunted her sleep for decades. The worst and most vivid, which swum, unwelcome, before her eyes right now, was of the small flash of yellow cotton poking between the plastic cover and the pool’s edge. She looked up beseechingly at Jack. Can I do this? she asked herself.
‘We’re here now,’ he replied, as if she had spoken out loud. His certainty gave her courage and she leaned on his arm, allowing him to hold the box for the first time. It was a small victory, letting it go, but she did not feel strong enough to walk alone.
Jack reached up with his free hand, just as she remembered Henry Morrison doing, to pull back the metal drop bolt on the wooden door to the garden. He pushed on the door and they walked in single file along the narrow cut beside the house.
The garden was stunning. Even in her distress, Stella was able to acknowledge this. The bare bones had been there all those years ago, but that vision had matured, been nurtured and developed. The Mediterranean theme was now fused with traditional British plants and a Japanese influence. Bamboo and lavender rubbed shoulders with blue-black larkspur and sunflowers; water flowed around smooth stepping stones. The colours were harmonious, the overall atmosphere in the still, damp air one of tranquillity and peace.
As she and Jack stood silently on the gravel path, Stella found her eyes drawn only to the area of the garden where the pool had been, remembering where Henry had led her. But she could see only the green of a box hedge, trimmed smooth and domed.
Jack raised his eyebrows in the same direction.
Stella nodded and felt her throat constrict as they walked down the path towards the hedge. She swallowed hard, keeping her eyes down, not wanting to see, not wanting to be here, on the verge of running away. But she knew she would not. Not this time.
Stella and Jack
There was a black, bow-top metal garden gate set into the hedge. Jack lifted the catch, blocking her view as he swung it open, walking ahead of her into the space beyond. We have to see it again, just once, he thought, his gut clenching with dread. Then we can focus on Jonny.
Reluctantly, Stella followed him, head still lowered, steeling herself. She heard Jack’s soft intake of breath and finally looked up.
What they saw rendered them both speechless. There was no pool and absolutely no sign that there had ever been one there. In its place was a breathtakingly beautiful rose garden. The air was thick with the buzzing of bees and the delicate scent of hundreds of roses, laid out with infinite care, the bushes partitioned by paths of mellow York stone, the blooms glowing soft and luminous in the evening light.
Jack looked at her, a smile of wonderment on his face. ‘For Jonny?’
She was too surprised to make sense of it. No pool. No pool. It felt as if a soft, healing balm were wafting across her pain as she gazed around at the beautiful space. No pool.
‘Oh, my God,’ she said, holding her hand to her mouth. ‘I wish we’d known.’
‘It must have been here a long time,’ Jack said. ‘Giovanna never said.’
But then she and Jack had not spoken to the Morrisons after the funeral. Jack, because he’d blamed them for the hole in the hedge, Stella because she talked to no one. Did they do it for Jonny? Stella wondered. She had never met the owners of the barn – they had been in Spain at the time and Stella had never been back to the house.
‘I used to ask myself how people could swim in a pool where a child had died,’ Jack said. ‘Stupid of me to assume they could.’
Jack placed the bamboo box on a stone seat beneath an arch covered with cascading, fairy-pink roses, miniature and perfect. All around them was a riot of subtle pinks and creams, crimson and gold, apricot, cerise and pure, velvety white. Stella could feel her heart’s rapid fluttering beneath her ribs. They sat on the bench in silence, the box between them. Stella breathed in the heady scent of roses, felt the sun on her face and Jack’s hand in hers, warm and alive. Jack sensed his body begin to sing, as if all the cells in his body were waking from a deep sleep.
‘We loved him so much,’ Stella whispered, tears streaming down her face.
Then they began to talk about Jonny – together, properly, for the first time since the day he’d died. The dam had burst and they interrupted each other in their eagerness to share memories of their son: how he sucked his sponge in the bath and hated having his hair brushed; how he loved cucumber and bananas and loathed orange juice; how long and thick his lashes were on his cheeks when he slept; the delicious way he smelt, the soft chubbiness of his thighs.
They laughed, their voices suddenly loud with the joy of him, as if he were there with them again, alive. They cried through their laughter, too. But their tears, for the first time, were no longer pent up and bitter, held back for fear of where it would lead them. They both found themselves embracing their sorrow like a friend.
Neither had any idea how long they sat there, but both felt lightheaded, dazed in that magic place that didn’t seem part of the real world.
Jac
k lifted the box, raising his eyebrows. ‘The light’s going,’ he said, indicating the soft, golden haze on the horizon.
They both stood up, suddenly alert. He prised open the casket, the bamboo lid tight with age, and handed it to Stella. She shut her eyes for a moment, murmured her son’s name, then tipped the box towards the earth beneath the sheltering roses, finally doing what she had always vowed she would not: scatter her son, Jonny Holt. She handed the box back to Jack and he continued what she had started until the stream of ash faltered and there was nothing left.
‘Goodbye, my dearest, most beautiful boy,’ Stella whispered, feeling Jack’s arm go round her trembling shoulders.
‘Rest in peace, little one,’ Jack echoed, his voice choking, his body strong against her own.
He was gone. In the rays of the setting sun, surrounded by the scent of roses and the sounds of nature, they watched the wisps of their beloved son sink down into the dark, welcoming earth.
30
What happened next did not entirely come as a shock to Stella. They drove away from the house in silence – not the tense silence that had accompanied their arrival; this was somehow joyful, alive, almost vibrating with the knowledge of what they had just achieved. There seemed no need to talk.
‘I’ll drop you home,’ he said as the car wound through the lanes.
But Stella couldn’t face Eve yet. She didn’t want to talk about what had just happened, she didn’t yet have the words.
‘Is Lisa at the cottage?’ she asked.
Jack shook his head. ‘She’s working tonight.’
‘Can we go to yours, then?’
‘Of course.’
Stella texted her daughter to tell her she would be another hour. Jack put a pizza in the oven and opened a bottle of red wine. They sat opposite each other across the kitchen table, both overcome. They talked about Jonny. But as the wine went to work on her exhausted body, and the bond created in the rose garden lingered around her like a soothing mist, the conversation – always so easy between them – slowed, as if by mutual consent. And in its place began a gentle, playful flirting. She did not resist. Tonight she was free, crazy and completely reckless. She had done what she thought was impossible. She had done it with Jack.