Another Way to Fall (39 page)
Emma’s fingers tingled as they instinctively searched out the smooth resistance of a keyboard but she knew she wouldn’t be the one to continue her story to its natural conclusion. Fear overtook her as she imagined the power she had held at her fingertips disappearing into the ether. She struggled to move, desperate to look at her hands. Out of the darkness, a flash of orange and gold caught her eye and the small gift-wrapped box that the shopkeeper had given her came into view. The fiery wrapping paper sparkled in the palm of her hand.
‘It’s time to open the box,’ she whispered to Ben.
I had been truly blessed when I met Emma, humbled that she would return my love, astounded by her strength of spirit and immensely privileged to share my life with her. However, it wasn’t only her spirit that was strong, so were her opinions. In short, my wife was pushy.
There was one thing we had never been able to agree upon and I was finally getting the chance to make my case. I would never forgive myself if I failed. Emma had argued that springtime, that vibrant eruption of life bursting out of the darkness to chase away the last remnants of winter, was the season to be celebrated. I couldn’t disagree with that but what I wouldn’t accept was that autumn was the season to be mourned. To prove my point, I was about to take her on a voyage of discovery. We had returned to Paris one last time, only this time there was no blossom fluttering in the breeze like wedding confetti. We were no longer looking forward to married bliss but marvelling at the life we had shared together.
‘I’m out of breath already,’ Emma complained.
Although I knew she was finding our walk through the streets of Paris a struggle, I suspected her reluctance had more to do with a stubborn refusal to accept my opposing view of the seasons but I wasn’t about to give up on the challenge. I knew Emma wouldn’t want me to.
‘Come on, I’ll race you to the park,’ I said, daring her into action.
We set off at a sprint or at least what counted as a sprint by the standards of two octogenarians. When we eventually arrived at the gates to the park, we were both unarguably out of breath but somehow uplifted.
‘What are you smiling at?’ I asked as Emma tried to slow her breathing. She was leaning against one of the large wrought-iron gates, her grey hair having fought its way free from her woollen hat and falling across her beautiful hazel eyes, which were surrounded by a feathering of well-earned wrinkles.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said, staring in awe at the russet-red trail of fallen leaves that led into the park. The path was lined with maples, burnishing leaves of golden yellows, oranges and reds, the exact same tones as the wrapping on the gift box the shopkeeper had given her. The occasional pine tree peaked out from the shadows and their inferiority was telling. They may remain forever green but they looked a tad worn and dull.
‘Let’s find somewhere to sit down,’ I said, leading Emma by the hand and taking her through our enchanted forest.
As we walked, our feet swished through a sea of crisp leaves that crackled like fire underfoot. When we found a suitable resting place, there was still that look of awe on Emma’s face.
‘I wanted you to see this through my eyes,’ I told her.
‘It’s as if the turning leaves are putting every last ounce of strength they have into making a burning impression on the world.’
‘So that they’ll never be forgotten,’ I added, knowing that at last she was seeing autumn in a way she never thought possible. This was not the sight of nature in the midst of its death throes. The trees weren’t seeking her pity, far from it. Their glorious autumnal tones were a celebration of a life well lived in beautiful Technicolor. ‘Emma, I know we haven’t got long left together so I need you to understand something. This is nothing compared to your autumn. Your life has burned an impression on my heart that’s never going to fade.’
‘We’ve had a good life together, haven’t we?’ she said and the smile on her face warmed my heart.
Emma was smiling as she tried to open her eyes but her vision was all but gone. She couldn’t see the branches above her or even make out Ben’s features. She lifted a hand towards his face. His cheeks felt wet.
‘A good life,’ she whispered. Her mouth was dry and her lips cracked and old.
‘Yes, a pretty damned amazing life,’ he assured her, his voice breaking almost as much as his heart.
She looked at him, suddenly focusing perfectly on his dark brown eyes and beautifully long lashes but not on the deep-set wrinkles that reached like spiderwebs towards his greying temples. ‘You’re still as handsome as the first day I met you,’ she said with a sigh. ‘And I couldn’t love you more than I do now.’
‘And I love you, Emma,’ Ben said as he held her tightly in his arms. ‘I’ll always love you.’
‘I don’t know how we fitted it all in,’ she continued, her smile broadening with self-satisfaction. She pictured the tiny gift box still clasped in her hand, its contents having been revealed.
The branches overhead began to sway again in the breeze and she could hear the crisp red and gold leaves sparking off each other. With her hand still touching Ben’s cheek, she looked in awe at her fingers, which had held the power of life. And even when her hand slipped from his face, the impression remained. Her fingers had shone.
I could hear soft words that wrapped around me like loving arms. My family were telling me how much they loved me and I tried to hold on fiercely to the sound of their voices. As I struggled, I heard one voice, stronger than any other. She was telling me that it was alright to let go, that I had fought long enough, and her words calmed me.
I had reached my autumn years and with soaring relief, I gloried in all that I had achieved. The dazzling colour and light that danced across my closed eyelids was almost blinding, images of blustery days at the edge of the river, looking out towards the horizon; rippling views of barren desert with the pyramids rising up from the sands; piercing blue skies that remained out of reach no matter how tall the skyscraper; the smell of a newborn baby and apple blossom twirling like snowflakes through the air as a rickety swing swept back and forth. As so many breathtaking memories came flooding back, I felt compelled to visit the kindly shopkeeper one last time. It was time to close my account.
Look out for Amanda’s next book,
The Missing Husband
, published July 2015
When Jo pretends to be asleep as her husband leaves the morning after an argument, she doesn’t realise how deeply she will come to regret the opportunity to say goodbye. By nightfall, her life has changed irrevocably.
David has disappeared and there doesn’t seem to be any trace of him. But Jo is five months pregnant and her marriage is full of secrets – not least, the little white lie she told him five months ago …
As the mystery around David’s disappearance shows no sign of being solved, Jo must ask herself how far she is willing to go for the perfect family – and if she has crossed that line already?
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This book was inspired by my son, Nathan Valentine, and I would like to take this opportunity to thank those who cared for him during his two-year fight against leukaemia. My immense gratitude goes to the staff at the Oncology Unit at Alder Hey Children’s Hospital; it’s a credit to you all that not all my memories of the hospital are bad ones. I would especially like to thank Nathan’s consultant, Russell Keenan, his bone marrow nurse, Helen Webster, and the nurse he fell in love with, Pat Wood. I haven’t been able to return to the hospital since Nathan’s death but I think of you all often.
By the same token, I also wish to thank: Jane Bullock at Cancer Research UK; Eddie Hinks at CHICS; Tracey Cunningham at Click Sargent; Vikki George at Postpals; Madeleine Fletcher at the Imagine Appeal; Eleanor Moritz and the team at BBC North West; John Lippitt at the Alder Centre; and all the truly amazing volunteers at the Child Death Helpline.
Writing this book wasn’t easy and I am indebted to Natalya Jagger for all of her assistance in my research. I have been truly inspired by Natalya’s dedication and commitment to BT Buddies, a small charity that aims to help those suffering from high-grade brain tumours. Thank you, Natalya.
As always, I want to thank my family and friends, especially my mum, Mary Hayes, and my late father, Gordon Valentine, both of whom have been ‘invisible’ in my life at times (Mum, if you haven’t read the book yet then don’t worry, being invisible is a good thing!). I also want to thank my sister, Lynn Jones, and my brothers, Chris Valentine, Jonathan Hayes and Mick Jones, whose support I would be lost without.
Thank you to all of my friends for their continuing support and encouragement. You have asked me often enough if I’ve written any real-life characters into my books and as always the answer is, no … or at least not quite … but one or two references might sound familiar. On that note, I would like to give special mention to ‘the team’ who make office life far more entertaining than it should be. You are: Paula Pocock, Lynette Lockyer, Ronnie Farrell, Colette Gill, John Lally, Jenna McCool, Lee Jones, Jane Nolan, Abi Looker and honorary member, Nicola Hodge.
This novel has gone through many iterations and it is the book it is because of the invaluable advice and guidance from my agent Luigi Bonomi of LBA Literary Agency and my editor Sarah Ritherdon of HarperCollins. Thank you both as always for your continuing kindness, generosity and support.
And finally, a big thank you to my daughter, Jess, who deserves an acknowledgement all to herself. She’s the one who puts up with my glares if she comes within ten feet of me when I’m writing. I hope I make it up to you the rest of the time and, if I don’t, then I will … we still have a lifetime to go.