Faith (3 page)

The coroner gives permission for the funerals to take place, so more arrangements are required. Caroline is to be cremated the day before Ed, and I’m determined not to go. I can’t. I know I won’t be able to bear all those accusing eyes glaring at me, blaming me for the waste of her precious life. Whatever courage I’m hanging on to by my fingertips would be splintered by that. Helen convinces me otherwise, insists I’ll never forgive myself if I let this occasion pass and I’m not there. She assures me no one will hold me responsible, I had no part in what happened, I wasn’t to blame.

I know different, but I’m becoming used to doing as I’m told. So I do attend Caroline’s funeral, once more hanging onto Helen’s hand to borrow her strength and certainty when my own deserts me.

It’s a huge gathering. Caroline was clearly a popular woman, much loved. I’m amazed that Ed is mentioned in the clergyman’s words as he offers up prayers for the family of the friend and neighbour who also lost his life that day in the same tragic accident. No one protests, no one points out that Ed doesn’t deserve prayers, that he was responsible for Caroline’s death. No one observes that he killed her, an innocent woman, when really it should have been his wife who died on that cold, damp roadside
.

The service ends and the congregation file out. There’s to be a family get-together at a restaurant nearby, all are welcome. Helen asks me if I want to go, but I shake my head, unable to summon up sufficient determination to even get out of the pew. I’m still there when Ewan passes, his head downcast as he strides towards the doors and the outside world. He stops beside me. I know it’s him even though I don’t lift my face.

“Faith? How are you doing?” His tone is soft, holds no note of accusation, no suggestion of blame.

I don’t answer, so Helen once again steps into the breach.

“She’s in shock. It’s been very hard on her. She’ll be alright though, she just needs time.” There’s a short pause, then, “Were you a close friend of Miss Barclay? A relative? Mister…?”

“A friend, and yes, we were close. My name’s Ewan, Ewan Lord.” He offers his hand, which Helen takes. They shake.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Lord. I’m Helen Frazer, Faith’s sister. I’ve been staying with her for a few days.”

“Good, that’s good. This is a difficult time, she shouldn’t be alone.”

“No, of course not. I’m going to be here for a few more days, just to see her through this worst bit.”

I still don’t raise my gaze to look at him, I can’t, just couldn’t bear to see even a hint of reproach in his eyes. Helen and Ewan exchange a couple more pleasantries before he asks if we’re intending to join the family at the restaurant.

“No, we won’t be there. I think Faith needs to get home now. It’s been a strain, and there’s tomorrow of course. We need to get ready for that.” Helen makes our excuses, and Ewan murmurs something about hoping tomorrow goes as well as it might. Then he’s gone, his footsteps echoing around the now almost deserted church.

Ed’s funeral is also very well attended. This surprises me, I had never considered him a popular or gregarious character, too wrapped up in his bikes to socialise. It seems I’m wrong; he was a leading light in the Yorkshire motorcycling fraternity and they are here in force. The chapel at the crematorium is packed, the car park outside bristling with motorbikes, the roar of engines reverberating in the hallowed air.

The vicar says the requisite kind words, bemoaning a life lost too soon, a bright future quashed by tragedy. He calls attention to my courage and fortitude, though I’m at a loss to understand where he thinks he may have discerned those. I am neither brave nor strong. I sit in the front pew listening to my husband’s eulogy, knowing all the while that I’m feeble, helpless, terrified of the future, and worst of all, wracked with guilt.

If I’d not been such a wimp, so keen to avoid a spot of rain, Caroline would have driven home with Ewan and arrived safely. Ed would not have been so inclined to show off and would not have been riding so recklessly. We would in all probability have been safe too, all four of us enjoying whatever we would normally do on a wet Tuesday morning. I wouldn’t be here, a widow, surrounded by men and women decked out in leathers and smelling of petrol, mourning the loss of my husband. Caroline would not have been cremated yesterday, Ewan would not also be contemplating a life without her.

It’s all my doing. All my fault.

* * *

Helen has to return to Glasgow a few days after the funeral, but she returns a couple of weeks later to attend the inquest with me. The coroner listens to the facts, the police forensic evidence, my statement, and Ewan’s. He asks each of us a couple of questions, nothing heavy, just clarifying the circumstances and what we actually saw that day. His verdict, accidental death, seems to me quite correct as far as Caroline is concerned, but as the days have passed, turned into weeks, I’ve become less and less sanguine about Ed’s actions that day.

He’s dead, and not in a position to face the consequences of what he did, the risks he took with his own life and someone else’s. If he’d survived the crash I suspect he would have been looking at charges—causing death by dangerous driving seems fair enough to me. Not that any of this helps with my own feelings of responsibility. Ed was an idiot, and he paid for it. I was a fool, and weak, and someone else paid for my failings.

* * *

I return to work after about six weeks. Em See Squared has been very kind, very patient, but I must start making an effort. I know this, but it’s so hard. I struggle to concentrate, I’m easily tired. The enthusiasm and drive I used to bring to my job seem to have deserted me. I’m contemplating giving in my notice. I can’t face the demands of a busy office, surrounded by people with hectic, meaningful lives. Oddly enough, it’s not as though I need the money. Ed may have been a waster in many respects, but he had superb life insurance. Who would have thought it? Certainly not me. A few weeks after his death I learnt I was in possession of sufficient funds to pay off the mortgage on our terraced house and still have a tidy lump sum left over. All the more reason to retreat into my shell and never come out again.

* * *

It’s been three months since Ed died. I’ve become used to the silence, the endless emptiness. Ed wasn’t always brilliant company, but he was at least here. He made noise, made a mess occasionally. Now it’s just me. I’m quiet, and tidy, and utterly lost.

It’s not even as though there’s any noise from next door any more. Ewan didn’t live there as far as I know, though he did seem to be around a lot. He had an odd pattern now that I think of it. I’d see his car parked outside day after day, week after week, then suddenly he’d be gone. He seemed to be away for a month or two, then his car would reappear. I used to assume they argued perhaps, or maybe he had work that took him away for periods of time. I never asked, and of course I won’t now.

I suppose the house will be sold, though no agents have been round as far as I know. No sale board has gone up. I assume the place is just as Caroline left it.

* * *

It’s Friday evening, four months now since the accident. I’ve made myself eat an unappetising meal of reheated pizza, and I’m wondering whether to swill it down with the bottle of wine I brought home with me. I shouldn’t; the solitary drinking is becoming too much of a habit recently. I never used to drink alone, but these days, what choice do I have? I do everything alone.

I sigh as I head over to my cupboard for a wineglass.

The knock at my kitchen door startles me. It’s not loud, more a light tap. I halt, stand stock-still in my kitchen, staring at the door. I must have been mistaken, dreaming. I don’t have a visitor, no one ever visits, not since Helen left.

It sounds again, louder now, slightly more insistent. Someone’s there. Definitely. It must be trick or treaters. Hallowe’en is just a couple of days away. Pity I don’t have any sweets to offer them.

“Faith, I know you’re in. Open the door.”

I know that voice, I’ve heard it before. But it can’t be, surely not. Why? Why would…?

“Faith, it’s Ewan. Ewan Lord. I want to talk to you. Let me in, please.”

Oh, God! Oh, God, he’s realised. He knows. He’s come to tell me what he thinks of me.

I knew this confrontation was coming, it had to be. Eventually I’d have to face this. But I hadn’t expected it to be now. I’m not ready, not prepared.

Except I am, as much as I’ll ever be. If he’s come to tell me what a stupid, destructive little coward I am, to have it out with me because I got his beloved Caroline killed with my idiotic behaviour, I might as well get it over with. There’s nowhere to hide, and at the back on my mind I’ve been expecting this. Waiting for this. For him.

I step over to the door and turn the key to unlock it. I open it and step back.

“Good evening, Ewan.”

He comes inside and closes the door behind him. Despite my nervousness I go through the ingrained motions of hospitality. I pick up my kettle from the worktop and head for the sink. “Would you like a drink? Tea, was it?” I recall that was what he drank at the café in Hawes, though there’s no reason I should have retained such a trivial detail.

“If you’re having one. Faith, you look like shit.”

Charming
. I turn to him in surprise. This is not the opening I’d expected from him. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve lost weight. Your hair needs a wash. Were you about to drink that?” He eyes the bottle of wine, opened on my kitchen table. “Alone?”

I don’t answer, preferring to concentrate on filling my kettle and plugging it in. When I turn to face him at last, he’s hitched one hip on my table, watching me. He’s waiting for a response.

“Why are you here, Ewan?” Not the most polite welcome, but the best my fuddled brain can manage. I’m not at my best these days, with or without wine.

“I wanted to see how you are. How you’re doing.”

“No, I mean what brings you here? To Oakworth? It’s hardly somewhere you’d be passing. Are you here to collect your things from Caroline’s?” Maybe the place is about to go on the market.

“No. I live here.”

I gaze at him, stunned. “You… How do you…? I mean… Isn’t Caroline’s house going to be sold?”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s not Caroline’s house, it never was. It’s mine, and I intend to carry on living here, at least for the time being. Which makes you my next-door neighbour.”

“I…Oh.” I sit down at my table, my head reeling with all the awful ramifications of this news. He lives next door, this man with every reason to hate me, to resent me and the disaster I brought down on him, on both of us. He’ll be here, accusing, blaming, a constant reminder of what happened, of the tragedy I caused.

“But, I don’t understand. I mean, it was Caroline who lived here. I know you visited a lot, but…”

“She did live here, and so did I when I was in the country. I still do. I have to travel a lot for my work so I’ve never been around that much. I’ve been away for the last four months solid, just got back today. I’d been meaning to drop in when I got a chance, see how you are. I saw your light and decided now was as good a time as any. And as I said, you look like shit. You’ve not been looking after yourself. I’m guessing that sister of yours has gone?”

“Helen? Yes, she has her own family.”

“I see. Is there no one else?”

“No, not really. I do okay.”

“Do you? I wonder. Right, well at least share that bottle of wine with me. I want to talk to you.”

Here it comes
. I sit down opposite him, my head bowed, waiting for the onslaught to start.

“Do you have any glasses, Faith?” His tone is gentle. If he’s gearing up for a confrontation, he’s taking his time about it.

I get up and fetch a pair of long-stemmed wineglasses from my cupboard. I set the stemware on the table and retake my seat as Ewan pours each of us half a glass of wine. He pushes mine towards me, and I can’t bear the waiting any longer.

“I know it was my fault. I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how much I regret what happened, what I did.”

There’s a brief pause, then, “What are you talking about, Faith?”

“The accident. Caroline riding with Ed, and then, and then…” I can’t finish, can’t bring myself to put into words the awful reality of what I caused.

“I know what happened that day. But why would you be saying it was your fault? It was your fuckhead of a husband’s fault.” He pauses again, then, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t come here to slag off Ed.”

“You came to see me. You said that.”

“Yes.”

“To tell me what you think of me.”

There’s a pause. I don’t look up, but I see his hand reach for the wineglass, lift it. A couple of seconds later, he places it down on the table again.

“Oh, and what might that be? What do I think of you, Faith? In your opinion?” His tone is soft, but intense. It never occurs to me to make excuses or try to deflect his contempt. I deserve it. All of it.

“That I was weak that day. That I should have stood up to Ed, made him leave earlier so that we’d be home before the weather changed. That I shouldn’t have offered to swap with Caroline.”

“You didn’t offer. Ed suggested it and Carrie wanted to. You just went along with them.” Again, that even, reasonable tone. Does nothing disturb this man’s quiet calm?

I’d anticipated aggression, a confrontation certainly. I’d expected to be accused, to be on the defensive. Perhaps the absence of all that is what causes my tongue to loosen and the truth to flow so readily.

“I was so glad not to have to ride back. I was cold, tired. So I just let her have my gear and, and…” I can’t continue. I just break down sobbing, drowning in my self-loathing and guilt. Moments later I’m lifted from my chair and find myself clutching at Ewan’s thick cotton shirt as he carries me through into my little sitting room. He settles himself on my couch, me on his lap. I continue to weep, the floodgates opened now as though the events of months ago were only yesterday.

He may have been my nemesis, or so I thought. Now it appears Ewan is more of a catalyst, bringing about a release of the pent-up emotions I’ve been managing to contain up to now. Ewan says nothing, makes no attempt to stop my outpouring of grief. He just sits and holds me until eventually my sobs subside into gulps. I sniffle, try to wipe my nose with my hand, fearful of letting him see my ravaged face. If he thought I looked like shit before…