Another Way to Fall (37 page)

If your soul had wings,

If it could fly away

Then hope is the anchor

That will help it stay

If your heart could sing,

If it had its own tune

Then the notes it would choose

Would never end too soon

If time was an ocean

If it touched no shore

Then your love is a raft

And through storms will endure

If your dreams could come true

If you could bring them to life

Then Emma and Ben have theirs

As husband and wife

Chapter 17

It had been many years since I had thought of the kindly shopkeeper, decades in fact, but I thought of him now, standing in his mysterious shop full of life’s hidden gifts that had been mine for the taking. He stood patiently watching as I scanned the shelves, searching out something I might have missed.

‘By rights they should be bare by now,’ he told me.

‘Have I been too greedy?’

He laughed softly and his belly wobbled. ‘Not greedy,’ he said, ‘just thirsty for life and that’s how it should be. It would have been such a shame to leave the boxes unopened, wasted opportunities.’

‘I’m glad you said that because I’m still very, very thirsty,’ I confessed, but then self-doubt set in. ‘Although I’m fairly certain that I’ve already had everything I could possibly think of.’

The shopkeeper narrowed his eyes. ‘Now might be a good time for reflection.’

He was right of course. I needed to take stock of my life and although I had achieved so much, I hadn’t done it all on my own. I owed a debt of gratitude to those around me, to the ones who had helped and supported me and most of all, loved me. Inspiration struck. ‘Do you have a gift department?’

Reaching up towards the ceiling, which looked surprisingly like open blue sky, the shopkeeper pulled down a new set of shelves to reveal row upon row of brightly wrapped gift boxes. Each gift had its own handwritten label, a single word in beautiful script that succinctly described the blessing contained within. My eyes darted from one to the other.

‘I can’t see the one that says “happiness”,’ I told him, a mixture of disappointment and surprise in my voice.

‘We don’t carry that particular product, I’m afraid,’ he said, but he didn’t sound the least bit apologetic.

‘But isn’t that the one that everyone wants?’

‘Happiness means different things to different people and at different times in their lives. What we have here,’ he explained, ‘are the basic ingredients. It’s for everyone to make up their own recipes.’

I glanced back at the boxes and reread each and every label before I was ready to make my choices. I followed my intuition and settled on four: courage, love, hope, and peace. A buzz of excitement grew inside me as I imagined what each of the people I loved would make of their essential ingredients. The shopkeeper was right, each person would create their own recipe for happiness; all that I could do was pass on my blessings for lives that I hoped would be as wonderful as mine had been.

‘Do you deliver?’

‘Consider it done,’ he said, ‘but before you go, I have a gift for you.’ The shopkeeper took something from his pocket. It was a tiny box, as beautifully and meticulously wrapped as any of those on the shelves, but this was unlabelled and when he passed it to me, it fitted in the palm of my hand. ‘This is something special from that man of yours.’

‘From Ben?’ I asked, looking at the box again. The brightly coloured wrapping paper reflected the light, a flaming mixture of oranges, reds and golds. I gently tugged at the bow that tied it all together and it crackled with the sound of dry, autumn leaves. ‘Can I open it?’

‘No, not yet. Ben will need to think about what he wants to put inside it first and speaking of the devil, I think he’s trying to wake you up.’

‘What?’ I mumbled as I felt myself floating somewhere between sleep and consciousness.

Ben was nudging me, slowly rousing me from my slumber.

‘Emma,’ he coaxed. ‘It’s a bit early for a catnap, isn’t it?’

A magazine slipped off my lap as I tried to sit up in my armchair. For a moment, it sounded like the flap of an angel’s wings and as I opened my eyes, I felt disorientated. The room was in darkness whereas it had been a bright spring afternoon when I had closed my eyes.

Still groggy, I watched my husband as he switched on a lamp. He was still the man I had fallen in love with all those years ago. I didn’t see the receding hairline or the gentle stoop of his shoulders or the groans as he climbed out of bed each morning and I hoped he could say the same about me. I was starting to feel old and I certainly couldn’t do the things I used to, not without a lot more effort. But I didn’t feel old. In my mind, I was still planning the next adventure.

We had pushed ourselves to the limit in recent years. It hadn’t been enough for us to simply see the world, we had devoured it too. My greatest fear was that one day I would be forced to stop even though my thirst for adventure was barely satiated. Time and my body were my enemy.

‘Another brochure?’ Ben asked as he picked up the magazine that had slipped from my lap. ‘We only got rid of the grandkids two days ago, don’t you want to take a little breather first?’ When he saw me look furtively back at the brochure, he sighed in resignation. ‘Where now?’

‘Deep-sea diving?’ I said, as if I was asking him something simple like suggesting a cheese sandwich for lunch.

Ben gave a deep, throaty laugh. ‘I need an oxygen tank walking up the stairs these days, isn’t that bad enough?’

I couldn’t help but laugh too, only my laughter turned into a coughing fit and left me gasping for breath. Ben’s joke applied far more to me than him and he knew it. I had to bang my chest the way that old people do, to remind my lungs that they were supposed to let me breathe and laugh at the same time.

Ben crouched down next to me and put his arm around my shoulder. ‘You’re still the apple of my eye but you can’t go chasing halfway around the world in search of your lost youth. Maybe it’s time we hung up our walking shoes.’

I looked at him and wondered where the conversation was leading. Was he getting too old for this or worse still, thinking that I was already past it? I knew I was struggling, the cough I’d had for months wasn’t shifting, but I was still living and I certainly wasn’t ready to be wrapped up in cotton wool. ‘Really?’ I asked.

Ben giggled like a schoolboy. ‘Nah, of course not,’ he said with a familiar twinkle in his eyes. ‘The magic will never die.’

‘Are you sure you’re warm enough?’ Ben asked. They were sitting on a park bench and, having fed the ducks with enough bread to sink them, had retired to a higher vantage point away from the lake. Emma had chosen a seat where they could bathe in the glory of the Field of Hope with its golden sea of daffodils, which had bubbled to the surface since her last visit to Sefton Park.

March was about to be overtaken by April and the weather continued to improve but despite the mild temperatures, Emma was wrapped in woollen layers complete with hat, scarf and gloves. ‘Yes, Ben. The wool may not be cotton wool but I’m perfectly wrapped up,’ she said, knowing he would recognize the reference to her latest entry in her book.

‘I get the message,’ he conceded.

Emma was working on her story every chance she had, desperate to cling onto the time she had left, but each time she placed her hands on the keyboard she sensed time slipping through her fingers. She was putting a lot of strain on her body to finish it and that building pressure was most evident inside her head. She tried not to rely too heavily on painkillers, which eased the back pain and headaches but which also numbed her mind. She had been forced to change the settings on her computer so the type was larger but it eased rather than cured her bouts of blurred vision. At times, she had resorted to touch-typing with her eyes closed but even that was becoming difficult. There was a distinct weakness in her left side and occasionally her fingers felt numb or completely forgot what they were supposed to do. There were also occasional periods of confusion, frustrating minutes that ticked away as she tried to find the right words.

All in all, her body could not keep pace with the story that Emma was still creating in her mind and that was where Ben came in. He wasn’t only her fellow traveller and sounding board, he was the assistant who noted down new ideas as they developed and he was the copy-editor who corrected occasional lapses in Emma’s literary prowess. Ben was now spending almost all of his time with her, rarely going to the bistro other than to delegate work to the many willing volunteers or working up new menus that he wouldn’t have time to eat, let alone cook.

‘So, are you ready to tell me what’s supposed to be in the box?’ he asked.

Emma stared out over the daffodils. There were hundreds if not thousands of fluted yellow heads, all swaying carefree in the breeze. Some daffodils had yet to bloom whilst others were looking a little frayed around the edges but the carpet of gold was seamless. In contrast, the sky above was dark and brooding and she had to wait patiently for the sun to pierce the cloud cover and make the field shine in all its glory. When it did, it stung her eyes.

She bathed in a sense of achievement. She had made it through the birth of spring and with a little more perseverance, she would be around to see what she considered to be the most spectacular prelude to the summer. ‘It’s like I said in the story, that’s for you to decide.’

‘And will my wife give me any hints as to what kind of gift she would like to be in the box or do I have to read her mind?’

Emma tore her eyes away from the daffodils and looked at Ben. ‘This is my last spring,’ she said, her heartbreaking statement a means of conveying how precious the scene in front of her was. ‘It’s such a remarkable time of year. How can anyone look at that field and not be amazed at the transformation? I only hope I get to see the blossom trees in all their glory too. Only then will I be able to face the season that frightens me the most.’

Ben didn’t answer at first but let his eyes take in every detail of Emma’s face, only then would he turn to face the landscape that she held so dear. He didn’t need to be told that for his wife there could be no natural order to the seasons, summer would not follow spring. ‘You want me to give you your autumn,’ he concluded.

‘You read my mind and that’s going to come in very useful,’ Emma said, her words choking on the tears that she would not allow to fall. The tears weren’t for herself but for Ben and what she was about to ask of him. She took his hand and squeezed it fiercely. ‘You need to write the end of our story, Ben. I’m not going to be in a position to do that for myself.’

‘I almost wish I didn’t know you so well,’ he said.

‘No you don’t,’ corrected Emma.

‘No, I don’t,’ he agreed with a sigh that barely hinted at the burden that had just been placed on his shoulders. ‘I know what you’re doing, by the way. All of those gifts from the shopkeeper.’

‘I am what I am,’ Emma told him. ‘If there’s a problem to solve, I want to fix it. The thing you will want most when you’re facing your grief is me. I can’t be there but my blessings can.’

‘Courage, love and hope?’ Ben said, trying to remember the labels on the boxes.

‘And peace,’ Emma told him.

‘It’s a lot to ask,’ Ben said. His eyes shone with golden reflections but there were no tears to blur his vision. He was keeping his promise.

‘I know.’ Emma pulled off a glove and reached over to slip her hand beneath Ben’s jacket. She had her hand over his heart, which was pounding fiercely, but it was his breast pocket that she sought with her fingers and it wasn’t long before she felt the silken smoothness of the photograph he always kept close. ‘This will help.’

It was the picture Ben had taken of the moment when Emma had come face to face with the Northern Lights. There was a sharp intake of breath and Emma pretended not to hear the suppressed sob that had escaped before he bit down hard on his lip.

‘Courage, love, hope and peace,’ Emma repeated. ‘There to see in my face, just in case you forget what they look like.’

As she held out the photo, a large raindrop splashed onto its surface and Ben hurriedly returned it to the safety of his pocket. Emma meanwhile slipped off her other glove and then her hat to reveal a thin covering of hair and the slithers of silvery red skin that marked her battle wounds but even with her frailties exposed, she felt invulnerable. She lifted her head to the skies, her hands reaching upwards as she embraced the life she still clung to. Heavy raindrops hit the palms of her hand and for a moment they reminded her of tears falling, but as the rain hit her smiling face it washed away all painful thoughts. She was ready to enjoy the moment despite Ben’s protestations that they should run for the car. The sun hadn’t completely given up the fight and Emma was hoping for a rainbow.

‘I don’t know why we haven’t done this before,’ I said, slipping off my sandals and letting my feet sink into the warm golden sands. ‘I always thought cruises were for old people.’

‘We are old people,’ Ben said, correcting my delusion. ‘But this isn’t exactly your average cruise. Not many people get to hitch a ride on one of those.’ He was looking back towards the ocean where our very own yacht lay at anchor. It reminded me vaguely of the boats I used to watch fighting the choppy waters of the Mersey as they gathered like flocks during the Tall Ships parade, but in the aqua blue of the Caribbean Sea, this singular behemoth looked far grander if not slightly smug.

‘True,’ I granted with a satisfied smile.

Technically, it wasn’t our yacht. It had been temporarily loaned to us from a very grateful and extremely rich client of Charlie’s. My son was now a renowned photographer with a very select clientele. Whilst Ben had, to use the shopkeeper’s description, left his box unopened and an opportunity missed, Charlie had shared his amazing gift with the world and thanks to a very grateful customer, Ben and I were reaping the rewards. Apparently, Charlie’s flattering portrait had taken decades off the old gent’s wizened features. We all had our own ways of trying to recapture our youth, I supposed.