Two dead wives, p.7
Two Dead Wives, page 7
The albums record my life with obvious enthusiasm until I am in my midtwenties, which is when I called off my wedding to Giles and ran away to Paris. The photos I took there must all be on my phone; unfortunately, I don’t know where my Paris phone is. Dad said I had one when I came home from France; perhaps I left it in hospital at one of my many appointments. We’ve searched high and low for it. I’ve looked through the suitcases and boxes that my Parisian friends packed up and sent on as per Dad’s instructions. There are several of them stacked in cupboards, under beds, behind furniture. I have yet to fully unpack; I tend to retrieve things only when I need them. I hoped I’d find my phone tucked away at the bottom of one of these boxes somewhere, battery flat, waiting for new life to be breathed into it. Obviously photos of my recent past and lists of friends in my contacts would be very helpful to me. It’s another frustration that it too has vanished. Dad says he’ll buy me a replacement as soon as we’re out of lockdown. There’s no rush. Whose number would I store?
Tonight, there’s nothing of interest on the TV. We miss standing on the step, clapping into the night air, sending our gratitude to the NHS staff. That act was temporarily hopeful and rousing, but the country has collectively decided that the gesture has already had its day. Now, Thursday evenings are like every other evening. We have to duck away from the flat isolation of the horizon and seashore.
“Fancy a game of cards?” I offer.
This afternoon, as Dad slept, I searched through a couple of drawers under my bed, hoping to dislodge a glimmer of a memory. Nothing doing. I sorted through discarded makeup bags, old school books and notebooks, broken bits of fun jewelry, odd socks and tennis balls. I didn’t recognize a thing. It can be exhausting. Chilling, if I allow it to be. It takes all my energy to believe in a future where things become clearer and I’m once again anchored with a past. Not adrift as I currently feel.
So I’d like a mildly competitive card game to take my mind off the blanks I’m drawing, but Dad clearly has other ideas; he glances hopefully at the shelf where the photo albums are stacked. I pretend not to notice, root about in the sideboard for the playing cards instead. Dad arguably knows me better than I know myself and will be inwardly struggling. He won’t want to overwhelm me, but he’s a parent; there must have been countless times when he’s encouraged me to stretch myself, when he’s known that persevering is good for me. It is the job of a parent to gently push, to believe in their kids even when the kids doubt themselves. If a child falls off their bike when learning to ride it, it’s a parent’s job to get them to hop back on. Poor Dad, I bet he thought those years of balancing cajoling with encouraging were behind us. He must long for me to place our first holiday, remember sports days and school plays. He’ll want me to recall the Easter egg hunts, tea parties, sleepovers; the endless blissful days searching rock pools, bobbing on boats and all the other elements of the perfect childhood that he supplied. He weighs that hope against the outcome that experience has shown is more likely—a night of barely smothered frustration and regret as I come up blank.
It must break his heart that I can’t recall all that he did for me. By not remembering, I’m sort of destroying him too. Memories are richer and fuller if shared, the ultimate affirmation. Since my mother buggered off, there’s only me who can validate his efforts and experiences. My fractured, faulty memory has stolen not only my past, but his too.
Tonight, he has a nervous energy about him, and is oozing that treasure-hunt-excitement vibe I can’t bring myself to douse. I nod and smile as he stretches for a large green photo album.
“Family holiday to Great Yarmouth is in this one, I think.” With something akin to reverence, he opens the album. Do I imagine it, or do the stiff pages let out a sigh?
“You lived on sticks of rock,” he says, chuckling. Pointing to a photo of me where I’m facing the camera and managing to smile while sucking hard on a yard of rock candy. “Your mum started to worry your teeth would fall out before the week was up. You’ll recall that.” He states it like a fact, although it doesn’t make it one. Even if I could recall Yarmouth, I don’t think my mother would have been that worried about my teeth. I look about eight in the photo; she most likely had a foot out the door by then.
“We visited the maritime museum. My choice. Retrospectively, a big ask for a child, likely you’d have been happier at the Pleasure Beach or the aquarium, but you took a lively interest. You were always so amenable.” He grins at the young me in the photograph. My eyes are bright and I shine back at him, the way I must have when he took the photo; radiating love, basking in it. I would do anything to remember that feeling.
My dad paints a consistently glowing picture of me as a child. Besides being amenable to museum visits, my virtues included (although were not limited to) being sporty (“you always gave everything your best shot”), creative (“exceptionally good at art”), kind to friends, generous, thoughtful, patient... Look, maybe I was a model child, or maybe because I’ve had cancer and nearly died, he has a tendency to be a bit selective. Or—and I like this theory the best—maybe his generous description of me simply demonstrates his absolute love of me, rather than his love of the absolute truth. Being my parent blinds him to any faults: past, present or future. I find this comforting. Some parents do simply dote and only ever see the good in their offspring. Children who are subject to total devotion are so lucky. I feel this in my soul. Loved kids win the lottery. Unwanted kids, lost kids, kids of selfish, neglectful or warring parents are left with holes.
Anyway, I doubt I was as saintly and accomplished as he describes me; who could be? I wonder if secretly I was a little bugger, up to all sorts, just good at hiding it from him. Somehow, I think this is most likely, because I have a sense that I’m not a straightforward person, not like my dad. I have secrets. I just can’t remember them.
“We spent a fortune in the amusement park. Hook-a-duck, whack-a-mole and the rifle range. You always wanted me to win you a cuddly toy,” muses Dad. “You were so certain I could, so I’d end up sinking a fortune to secure whatever piece of tat had caught your eye.” He is lost in the memories, but happily so. I’m lost in the lack of them, not happily so. I rally for him. We are a seesaw. If I’m feeling despondent, he buoys me up; if he sinks, I rush to cheer him.
“The scientists are working on a vaccine,” I say. “Every brilliant brain in the world is focused on it. It’s only a matter of time. Then, once they have that, we’ll be out and about again and I’ll start to remember things.”
“You think?” Dad looks uncomfortable. Not able to hide his doubt.
“Do you fancy a slice of that coffee and walnut cake I made this morning?” I offer. Our harmony comes from knowing when to change the subject.
Dad grins and nods and I stand up and head into the kitchen. I consider a second G&T but decide against it. I know I have to be careful with how much alcohol I drink following my op. Instead I pop the kettle on; I’ll make a cuppa. I open the back door and let the fresh air run through the house. I can smell the sea, salt and sand. I leave the door open as I cut two slices of cake and put them on plates on a tray. I find mugs, tea bags and milk. As the kettle boils, something peculiar happens, swift and sure. I don’t smell the sea; I can smell dank and damp earth.
I don’t suppose it is Paris. In Paris, it’s car fumes, perfume and red wine, right? But I remember the fusty smell of moist earth. I see a fat worm rooting its way through the soil. I wonder whether it is the plot that I briefly tended as a child, but no. This is not a garden, it’s more complicated than that. I sense that there’s something confusing and contradictory about this patch of earth. I’m glad of it and I’m scared of it.
Then, like a flicker in a film, I see a grave. I hate this grave. I know I do.
I stoop and place flowers. I love the flowers; I don’t want to leave them at the cold grave. I will my memory to focus on the headstone. Who is lying under the earth? Who have I brought flowers to? Shudders ripple through my body as I consider that it might be him. The man I bathed with. My heart hiccups, protesting at that possibility. It’s simply not fair that I’m just almost remembering him and there’s a chance that he’s gone already. Before he’s mine fully, I’ve lost him.
Then I see them. Two small children. A flash, a blink. Baby teeth, flushed cheeks, hot little hands in mine. Solemn and sweet. My heart aches for them. They ooze loss and sadness. I bend at my knees so I’m level with them, balanced precariously. One of them snuggles into me. I almost topple, saved only because I put my hand out into the moist earth. Onto the grave. The child’s breath is on my face. He smells of Chupa Chups lollies. He kisses me. A soft sound as his baby lips pucker up and then touch my cheek. The other little boy has his back to me. He keeps his eyes on the flowers. His skinny shoulders are stooped. I don’t know which of them I pity more. Which I should comfort first. There is a man. He turns to me, his dark eyes piercing, pleading. They are kind eyes, but they hold pain and a hint of reserve. He keeps me at a distance while he’s asking me to do something. What? What does he want me to do? Who is he? He is not the man I bathed with.
And then they are gone.
I hang on to the back door and take large gulps of the air. Briny once again; there’s no hint of wet soil, just the salty whip of the sea. I turn to the tea tray and snatch up a slice of cake. I cram it into my mouth to stop the distress and panic spilling out; to stop me saying anything aloud that might upset my elderly father. I need to think this through. A thousand scenarios run through my head, almost simultaneously. The most obvious thought is that the boys are students of mine and I attended a funeral with them as a guardian; I’m comforting them as we’re burying one of their parents. How heartbreakingly sad. But I feel incredibly close to them, so possibly they are more than students. I might have been their nanny, or they could be children of a friend of mine. Or a cousin, a colleague. These are my children. My boys. That’s the weirdest thought to flash into my head. How could I have sons and Dad has failed to mention them? Of course not, that’s impossible.
I sigh. The most probable thing is this is a false memory, not real at all. I might have seen something on TV that suggested this graveside scenario to me. There’s a lot of coverage on the news that funeral attendance is being restricted. It’s disturbing, and my subconscious is most likely processing that. As much as I’m desperate to get my memory back, I hope this one is a false memory, because the idea of these two grieving little boys leaves me feeling inflamed and helpless.
Ten Years Ago
10
Stacie
Stacie is looking for Giles. They are meeting tonight at 8:00 p.m. at his mother’s house, but she wants to see him alone and they won’t be left alone this evening. They rarely are nowadays. Just the two of them—cuddled up on a sofa, in the pub, taking a walk—is a thing of the past. Tonight, she, Giles and his parents will sit and watch TV together, or at least she’ll try to watch TV, but no doubt viewing will be frequently interrupted with talk about the wedding. It amazes her that there is anything left to discuss; flowers, dresses, cars, food, drink, stationery, guest lists, gift list, order of service, timings have all been ruminated upon, examined and considered scores of times. Stacie wonders what they will talk about once the wedding is over.
She called Giles an hour ago, but it turns out he accidentally left his phone at the farmhouse this morning and has been without it all day. Heidi, his mum, answered Stacie’s call and explained as much. “I’ve been taking his calls today. It’s so much fun talking to his friends!” she said with a laugh. There are few privacy boundaries in the Hughes family; no locks on phones or even on the bathroom door, no qualms about opening one another’s post. Stacie thinks it is cozy. Or suffocating. It depends on her mood.
Heidi suggested that Giles might be in the south barn. That’s where he keeps his Tiger Supercat kit car, and sometimes, on an evening, after he’s finished his work on the farm but before supper, he works on the car for a bit. Giles is a very sociable man and doesn’t like being left with just his own company, quickly gets bored of it. So normally the minute he finishes work he calls one of his friends, Andy or Jim, and they meet him at the barn, maybe bring a beer along. But as he doesn’t have his phone with him today, there is a chance he’ll be alone.
Stacie sets off on foot because her dad is still in town and he has the car. They share a car, which isn’t often an inconvenience and, even if it was, she can’t afford one of her own so she has to suck it up. The quickest way to the south barn on foot is to take the coastal shortcut. She walks at speed. Hedges quickly give way to simple wire fences that pen sheep off the road, but soon all signs of humanity fall away and there is nothing other than a narrow track and rolling, rabbit-cropped fields.
She spots Prue McCullen in the distance. Prue is paused at the stile and there’s no way of avoiding her. Stacie always feels vaguely uncomfortable with Prue McCullen, who was a teacher at the local primary school for over forty years. Stacie numbers among her past pupils; practically everyone in the village does. Prue might have finally retired last year, aged sixty-five, but she has retained an air of authority over the population of the village. In her company, Stacie immediately feels like she’s forgotten something—her lunch money or homework—or that she has done something wrong, like giggling in assembly.
Prue starts talking the moment she claps eyes on Stacie. Her loud teacher-voice booms across the field. “I’m just drinking in the view, so familiar and yet never boring. I always say that the quality of light in this part of the world is such that the infinite variety of greens in the trees and fields means that one is offered a new masterpiece every day. Don’t you agree, Stacie?”
Stacie nods dutifully. Prue McCullen is the only person she knows who can get away with a non-ironic use of the third-person-singular “one.”
“I was hoping to bump into you today, Stacie. I have something to show you.” Prue nudges a worn rucksack off her back, unzips it with military-style efficiency and roots around. She straightens up and holds out a length of pink ribbon for Stacie to inspect. It flutters on the wind and Stacie’s heart breaks a little. “I got this from Leader’s haberdashery in Williton Cross,” Prue explains. Williton Cross is the nearest small town. Most locals simply refer to it as Williton; the local teens, with their natural tendency to denigrate where they’ve come from, abbreviate to WC. It isn’t really a shithole, more of a serviceable mediocrity, with a string of shops that provide everything you might need, nothing you want. “I think it’s perfect to tie the small flower arrangements to the pew ends. Gary Leader keeps plenty of pink ribbon in stock. Never goes out of fashion, does it? He offered it to me at cost when he heard it was for your wedding. Knows your father. So I took the liberty of putting in an order.”
Prue beams, happy with her result. She never married and so has always had time to mother, or at least govern, the entire village, involving herself from cradle to grave in everyone’s business. She passes judgment on names chosen for babies, offers advice on ways to encourage a shy child to make friends. She always knows which tradesman is reliable, available and not exorbitant. She visits people if they end up in the hospital, and if you have an old piece of furniture you need shifting, she always knows someone who is looking for just that thing. She will childmind and not charge providing your child is well acquainted with the magic words, “please” and “thank you.” Most people are glad of the extra pair of hands at some point in their lives, and so despite the fact that her interest borders on interference, she brooks little opposition on a day-to-day basis.
Motherless Stacie grew up knowing that people expected her to be especially compliant, grateful for any help or attention bestowed. It is obvious from Prue’s stance that she is waiting expectantly for profuse thanks for her assistance in this matter of pew-end flower ribbons. Stacie had wanted the country flowers to be hand-tied with heavy lace and she’d said that she would go to Exeter to source it herself. Prue is a good friend of Heidi Hughes, and Stacie is aware that they have shared a fair few conversations about how “poor little Stacie” knows nothing about hosting a proper wedding. She doesn’t have to listen at doors to hear this sort of thing; they say it to her face. Eighteen months ago, when Stacie accepted Giles’s proposal and wedding planning started, she explained that she wanted the wedding to be free-flowing, spontaneous and carefree; she said that the dress and bouquet had to reflect that. “You know, I want it to look as if I’ve just wandered through a meadow and gathered up great armfuls of blooms. Native wildflowers like cornflower, bluebells, daisies; also grasses because they add texture.”
Prue looked concerned and commented that Giles Hughes was not a boho-wedding sort of boy. No, he was a morning-suit, carnation-buttonhole sort of boy. A traditionalist.
When Stacie first picked out a dress she liked, Heidi commented that it looked like a nightie. She said it with a laugh, but her comment found its aim and Stacie agreed to a lace dress with a high neck, a tight waist and a wide skirt. Prue and Heidi agreed that a traditional bridal bouquet, with lilies and roses and a defined structure, was what was needed, and so they spoke with the florist directly. Obviously the flowers for the pew ends must match. Prue is quite unabashed about using all her considerable energy to keep Stacie on track.
Stacie stares at the pink satiny ribbon. She thinks it’s horrible. It looks like something a seven-year-old might covet, but she hasn’t got the energy to say so. “Very nice,” she mutters. It doesn’t matter anyway. Not one bit. All she needs to do is get to Giles, talk to him. She says she’s got to dash; it’s started to spot with rain now, she’ll get soaked. She climbs over the stile and darts along the track toward the barn.
