by Eleanor Ray
Her back ached, probably from sitting in this plastic chair. It was her one piece of garden furniture, decorated with cigarette burns and speckled with bird poo. She stretched up, but the pain in her lower back intensified.
The baby was the size of a blackberry now, the book from the library had told her. Hard to believe that something so small could cause so much discomfort. It would be months before she could feel movement, but already Amy felt as if there was a gentle fluttering inside of her. Tiny legs attempting inchoate kicks. She hadn’t had morning sickness yet. According to a forum on the internet, that could mean it was a boy.
A little Tim.
Tim would love a son. He’d be thrilled when he came home. Amy allowed herself a little fantasy, where he came back from… from where? An impromptu business trip, where he had met all his targets and earned a hefty commission. He’d be horrified that she had been worried; he’d written her an e-mail but forgot to press Send. He’d dropped his phone and it had stopped working, or he would have called. That sounded like Tim. So possible. Although Amy wasn’t showing yet, in her fantasy she had a gently rotund stomach and her face glowed. He’d look at her, know instantly, and his eyes would fill with joy. “Yes,” she’d tell him. “We’re going to have a baby.”
A robin flew down and landed on the ashtray. It perched at the edge, and lowered its beak to the water to drink, unperturbed by the cigarette. Amy held her breath, not wanting to scare the little bird away. It must be ten times the size of her baby, but it looked so delicate and vulnerable to Amy. A precious little life.
Amy felt a wave of optimism. Tim would come back. He had to. She had a part of him, growing inside her. A tie that couldn’t be broken. A thread that would lead him back to her.
The pain in Amy’s back intensified and she stood. Then she doubled over back to her seat, feeling a cramp spread across her stomach.
The robin looked at her, its beady eyes gleaming. Then it fluttered up into the sky. Gone.
Amy hobbled into the kitchen and grabbed her mobile phone, calling an ambulance. She rested her head on the kitchen counter. She took some deep breaths and ran through what the pregnancy books had said.
It was too late for implantation pain. Too early for Braxton-Hicks.
Amy tried to straighten up, and the pain shot through her again.
Then she looked down.
Blood. Running down her leg.
Amy sank down to the floor and curled up, hugging her knees to her chest. The ambulance would be there soon. But she couldn’t help but feel that there was nothing they could do. Amy rocked gently forwards and backwards, willing her baby to be okay.
Chapter Fifteen
It was cold in the early August morning, and Amy held her paper cup of tea close to her, feeling the steam warm her chin. The horizon had an orange glow and it was getting lighter all the time; the sun was busy rising, almost white with the effort of turning the sky blue. Amy decided that if she painted again, she would no longer choose a sunset. She’d choose a sunrise.
Fresh starts.
She took a sip of her tea and turned around to look at the playground. Richard was staring at the hive of activity around what had been the paddling pool, but looked away from it to give Amy a reassuring smile. “It won’t be long now,” he said. They stood behind the police tape, with its strict instructions. DO NOT CROSS.
Amy had no desire to disobey that order. This was close enough.
It had been hard to get to this point. After what had happened in the living room, Chantel ran for help. Later Amy discovered it was Rachel who had called 999, but at the time all she could do was stare at Jack’s hand, poking out from under her things. Twitching like a nervous spider, its movements reflected in the shards of a broken mirror.
Then stillness.
A flurry of confusion followed. An ambulance. The police. She heard Chantel’s voice. “The boxes fell,” Chantel had said firmly. “It was an accident.”
Chantel continued talking to the police officer, her voice low. The officer’s face changed and she called her partner over. Amy sat and watched while the paramedics tended to her head.
The boys had come out to see the emergency vehicles, but Richard quickly shepherded them back indoors. By the time the police car drove off with her and Chantel, only Smudge remained on the pavement outside their house, nonchalantly licking his tail.
Jack was in custody. He’d had a concussion and some bad bruising but would make a full recovery. His problems were only just beginning. Chantel had finally told the police what had happened, eleven years ago. They had taken her allegations seriously.
Now here they were, waiting to see if Tim’s body was buried under the playground.
“What if he’s not there?” whispered Amy.
“The police will find him,” said Richard. “Now that they know where to look.”
If only she’d got that letter earlier. The letter that told her Tim had not betrayed her. The photograph that showed where Tim had breathed his last.
And when.
Sunset.
Chantel hadn’t wanted to come back to this place. Amy understood, but she felt she had to see for herself. Richard came with her. His arm rested comfortingly around her shoulders.
“It is different,” said Richard. “Knowing that someone is dead. I know you’ve suffered loss already, but now it will feel final.”
“I know what it feels like,” said Amy. Without realizing, she’d put her hand to her stomach. Richard’s eyes followed her hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice soft. “I didn’t know.”
Amy looked back at the horizon. The orange line had vanished as if it had been an illusion. The sky was blue. She could feel the heat of the sun starting to warm the air. A shout sounded out, and Amy turned to see scene of crime officers in their white suits flock together like doves. Peering downwards.
“That’s him,” she said. “They’ve found Tim.”
* * *
“THANKS FOR DOING this.” Tim’s father seemed incapable of letting go of her hand. “And that was such a beautiful speech.”
“I think Tim deserves it,” replied Amy. She looked around the small party at the memorial service. Tim hadn’t been religious, so Amy hadn’t been sure where to hold it. Then she remembered the festival where the band had played, all those years ago. The field was a little out of the way, but she remembered how happy he’d been.
“You’ll scatter the ashes here?”
“We will,” said Amy. She looked to the urn, surrounded by fragrant honeysuckle. Inside was what remained of Tim, mingled with the tiny pieces of Scarlett that Amy had had cremated with him. The bird was too badly broken to be mended this time. “After the concert. I think they are ready to start soon.”
The remaining band members had reunited one last time. Simon, Idris, and Phil. Chantel stood next to her at the front as people gathered. She tentatively took Amy’s hand. The two of them were gradually feeling their way back to friendship. Amy didn’t think she could ever love Chantel like she used to, not after she’d left her for so long. But it felt good to have her back in Amy’s life.
“This is a song about missing a sunset,” said Simon, his face close to the microphone. “It was our signature song, written by the late, great Tim Carver. ‘Already Dark.’ ”
Amy listened to the song, but she found her eyes wandering around the gathering. Erin, Chantel’s elder daughter, had come to stand next to her mother and had taken her other hand. Daniel and Gwyneth, Chantel’s youngest, were holding their arms out like airplanes and careering round. Charles was crouched on the ground, likely inspecting an insect. Alan stood mesmerized by the music he’d never heard his son perform.
And Richard was standing at the back, watching her. She gestured to him, and he came and joined her. It felt odd, listening to Tim’s song with another man.
But she couldn’t miss another sunset.
* * *
“SO WE’VE GOT three categories an
d I’ve brought labels,” said Rachel, clearly relishing her role. “Green for keep. Red for throw away. Yellow for charity shop. Understood?”
Amy nodded miserably. “You don’t have to do this yet,” said Richard. “Not if you’re not ready.”
“I’m ready,” said Amy. It had been weeks since Tim’s memorial service. She had her friend back. She wanted the boys to be able to come into her house. She even wanted the council to be able to fix that stupid chimney. Rachel had arranged an extension with them after all that had happened, but it couldn’t be put off forever. “Let’s do this.”
“Great stuff. Come on, team,” said Rachel, punctuating her sentence with an enthusiastic double clap. “Hop to it. I don’t want to see any slacking. No cups of tea till the kitchen is clear.” She scowled at Chantel. “And no cigarette breaks.”
“Did you really have to invite her?” whispered Chantel. “Just looking at her makes me want a smoke.”
“She’s okay,” said Amy. “Give her a chance.”
“Bottles,” said Rachel, getting straight to work. “All rubbish. Agreed?”
“I’ll need to check them,” said Amy, feeling anxious. “But yes. Most of them can go. Recycling.”
“Newspapers,” said Rachel. “The local paper dating back God knows how long.”
“Eleven years,” said Amy.
“Red?”
Amy hesitated. She knew the truth now. “Yes,” she agreed.
“I’ll move them,” said Richard quickly, grabbing a large pile. A puff of dust rose up and they all watched as the particles gleamed in the sunlight.
“I know what we need,” said Rachel. She produced a box of surgical gloves and handed him a pair before pulling some on herself. “I can’t take any chances on infection,” she said with a nervous smile. “Not in my condition.” The others didn’t notice, but Amy took Rachel’s newly gloved hand and squeezed it. Rachel squeezed back, then released Amy’s hand. “Chantel and Amy, some for you too,” she said.
Chantel reluctantly took the gloves. She sniffed them. “They smell like condoms,” she said.
“Of course they do,” replied Rachel. “They’re latex. Are you helping or not?”
“Helping,” said Chantel. “But I’ll take my chances.” She handed back the gloves and Rachel scowled at her.
“I don’t need gloves either,” said Amy. “Everything is perfectly clean.”
“If you say so,” said Rachel, carefully putting a sticker on a plastic bin. She looked around. “What about these smashed pots?” she asked. “Rubbish?”
Amy looked at the little piles of broken shards. She now believed that Jack had something to do with their destruction. “I need those,” she said. “I thought I might use them for an art project. Keep.”
“Really?” queried Rachel. “You’ve got a garden full of whole ones.”
“Yes really,” snapped Chantel. “Amy can keep whatever she wants.” She smiled at her friend. “It’s so exciting that you’re doing art again,” she said. “I can’t wait to see what you create.”
“Fine,” conceded Rachel. “But we’re still in the hallway and we’ve got the whole rest of the house to sort through.”
“There’s no hurry,” said Richard, placing a hand on Amy’s back. She smiled at the contact.
“Let’s get started in the living room,” said Amy. She went into the room and Richard followed her.
“Broken mirror?” asked Richard.
Amy looked at the mirror, the cracks spreading over it like a spider’s web. “Okay,” she said. “We can get rid of it.”
“What about this clock?” he said, picking it up. “It thinks it’s seven o’clock, but I know for a fact it’s twelve thirty.”
Amy looked at it. It was a pretty little clock face set into a gorgeous mahogany frame. “Keep,” she said. “It probably just needs new batteries.”
“And the lighters?” said Richard. “They mainly seem to be the ones you can buy from the corner shop. And I keep treading on them. And you don’t smoke.”
“Keep,” said Amy. She closed her eyes and imagined being back in that field, listening to Tim sing and seeing the tiny flames dancing, waving from side to side in time with the music.
“This one is broken,” said Richard, holding up a green plastic lighter with a crack.
Amy snatched it from him. “I need it,” she said.
“They are a bit of a hazard for Daniel,” said Richard gently. “I wouldn’t want him here with this fire-starting equipment all over the floor.”
Amy hesitated. He had a point. “Gather them up and we’ll put them in a box,” she finally said. “I’ll put it somewhere Daniel can’t reach.”
She thought she heard a small sigh from Richard, but he obeyed, scooping up a handful of lighters. “Remember the council needs access to the house.”
“A box of lighters won’t stop them,” said Amy. “They’re little.”
“There are hundreds of them. How about you keep your favorites?”
Chantel came in then. “Are you pressuring my friend?” she asked. “Because if you are, I owe her one tower of boxes crashing down…” She mimed pushing over the boxes and laughed.
“Don’t joke about that!” Amy exclaimed. “Do you realize how many china birds were damaged beyond repair?” She thought again of Scarlett, her tiny body broken into too many pieces to count.
“I’m sorry,” said Chantel. “I do want to support you. And I think putting the lighters in a box is an excellent idea. But those birds…” She shivered. “They are hideous and they give me the creeps. I don’t like the way they are always watching me with their beady little eyes.”
“You like them, don’t you?” asked Amy, turning to Richard.
Richard suddenly seemed excessively interested in his shoe. Finally he looked up. “I don’t,” he said. “Sorry.”
“I don’t care what either of you thinks,” said Amy. “I was happy with my birds for years. When neither of you were around, they kept me company.”
“But I’m here now,” said Chantel. “And so is Richard.”
“I can’t cope with this,” said Amy. She began to shoo them out of the room. “I need some space.”
Amy closed the door and sat with her back against it. She looked up and her towers of possessions loomed overhead. She wanted to get rid of her stuff; she wanted a normal house. A normal life, whatever that was. She imagined Chantel visiting with the girls. Richard and the boys coming over for dinner.
She got up and went to the box of recipe books. They were sturdy and, unlike the birds, had barely been scuffed in the fall. She needed these to help her cook for the children—that was only sensible. She got one of Rachel’s green stickers and put it on the box. Keep.
There were some loose cookbooks too, so she labeled those. She opened a box and found it to be full of bottles of hand cream. She squeezed a small amount onto her hand and rubbed the silky lotion into her skin. The scent of honeysuckles flooded the room. She’d use the hand cream; it would be silly to throw it away. She put a green sticker on the box.
The next box was a miscellany. Key rings, a few vases just big enough for a handful of honeysuckle. A large number of clocks.
Amy took out a little travel clock. It was plain black and had an attached case that kept it from breaking and could be used as a stand. It wasn’t particularly nice, and it didn’t seem to work. Amy put a red sticker on the clock, then felt sick and ripped it off again. She returned the clock to the box.
This was harder than she thought. Even now.
Next, Amy took out a handful of key rings. One was a pretty amethyst with a metal hoop looped through it. She popped it into her jacket pocket, planning to use it for her keys. She found another, this one branded Nottingham Forest Football Club. She must have picked it up in a charity shop for Mr. Trapper and forgotten to give it to him. She put that in her pocket as well. She’d take it to the office on Monday for him. He’d been very amenable when she’d asked to reduce her sche
dule to three days a week to give her time to paint again.
Following that train of thought, Amy went back to her hand-cream box and selected a small tube of jasmine-scented cream. It was unopened and Carthika would appreciate it. She put it in her pocket too, feeling it bulge reassuringly. She’d let Chantel and Rachel take a few tubes too, to thank them for their help.
The birds next, decided Amy. Perhaps she didn’t need quite so many. But which ones to give away?
Not the kingfisher, certainly. Amy put a green sticker on that one. Not the shell owl. And not the gorgeous parakeet, nor the friendly sparrows or the jay or the canaries. She wasn’t ready to say good-bye to any of them.
Amy went to get another green sticker and discovered she had only one left. She went back into the hallway. “I need more stickers,” she told Rachel.
Rachel frowned at her. “You’ve got loads,” she said, looking at the pages in Amy’s hand.
“I need more green ones,” she replied.
Rachel sighed. “This is going to be a long day,” she said. “I’ll go find some more.”
“Where are my bottles?” asked Amy.
“Recycling,” said Rachel. “You agreed, remember?”
“But I need to check them first,” said Amy, feeling panic sneak up inside her.
“They are in the front,” said Rachel with another sigh. “Be my guest.”
Amy went into the front garden and saw Chantel and Richard sitting on the wall next to each other, looking out at the road. Chantel had a cigarette in her hand, and they seemed to have found a comfortable silence that Amy didn’t like. Amy went to the bottles and began to bring them back indoors.