Three-And-A-Half Heartbeats (23 page)

She raised hers too. ‘Cheers.’

‘So, what’s the plan?’

She thought about how she should answer. What was the plan? Both immediate and longer term? She really didn’t know. She tried to picture the future for them, but inspiration was thin on the ground. She breathed deeply and looked into his eyes.

‘I guess it’s one day at a time, Tom.’

She held his gaze and he smiled. It was a smile of relief.

‘That sounds good, babe. One day at a time…’

It was somehow agreed that they would spend one night at The Old Sheep Shed and then drive back early the following day. Grace wasn’t sure how she would survive a night on the same property as Huw with Tom by her side; the prospect made her feel awkward, embarrassed. But she needn’t have worried. Huw didn’t appear, neither that night nor early the next day. She wasn’t going to see him again; their whole liaison, the lovely friendship that had sprung from the darkest of springs, was over.

As she packed her suitcase with her belongings, his scent and the memory of him still imprinted on them, she couldn’t stop the tears from falling. Grace pictured him striding away from her in haste the day before, eager to put distance between them. She knew, however, that this was not the image that she would carry with her; instead, it would be Huw in profile, sitting on the deck in the fading light, relaxing in his plaid shirt and dirty jeans, sipping wine or swigging cider from the neck of the bottle as the sun set behind the mountain. Huw, her lovely, lovely friend. She felt like a teenager again, being wrenched from her first love after the summer holidays – pitiful, really, for a woman of her age.

Tom misconstrued her tears. ‘Please don’t cry, love. We’ll be home soon. It will all be okay.’

Home soon. The thought made her cry even harder.

She couldn’t even leave a note; her husband’s presence and attentions were predictably constant. She gathered her stuff together quickly, not caring too much that she might have missed a few items lurking under the bed or in the bathroom. In truth, she hadn’t thought about leaving, not properly, like a teen planning for the next day on the beach who can’t bear to look too far ahead and feels like the holiday might last forever, this was similar. She knew in her heart that a date was red ringed in the diary when she would have to pack up and return to Nettlecombe, but picturing it was another thing entirely. There was so much that scared her about returning home, having to face the knowing looks, the tight lipped nods and the tearful, well-meant interrogations around the kitchen table, and not least what it would feel like to see that spot on the landing, the very place that was branded in her memory. How could she simply step over it every day with armfuls of laundry or holding a cup of coffee, as if it held no significance? She didn’t know if she could.

As she cast her eyes over the Sheep Shed one last time her heart felt like it might burst with all that it tried to contain. She was wary of leaving this place where she had felt a semblance of peace and had tasted the beginnings of happiness, like the first raindrops after a drought, sweet and life-giving.

Grace felt a familiar exhaustion return to her limbs as she turned her car onto the lane, heading home. She scrutinised the contours of the beautiful land that she was leaving – what did she expect to see, Huw waving? The very idea made her laugh.
Pathetic, Grace
. She felt her heart sinking as she hit the main road, covering the miles that would take her away from Gael Ffydd and back to the sadness that awaited her. She hadn’t slept the previous evening, feeling a mixture of guilt and distress in equal measure. Guilt because she felt something akin to anger as her husband lay on the bed that had been her sanctuary, how could she ever explain that a part of her resented him gate crashing this precious retreat, wrenching her from her escape. And distress because she knew her adventure was coming to an end, it was time to go home. Not that she could ever imagine it feeling like home again. She was already missing Huw, missing the balm of his words and his steady, reassuring manner, having to say goodbye to their friendship saddened her. Grace knew that she would not see him again and the pain this caused her was immense.

Sepsis claims 6 million children’s lives every year across the world

Tom stood by the side of the bed and gently shook her shoulder, calling her name to wake her. She reluctantly prised open her eyes and stretched.

‘Mmmmn? What?’ The sleeping tablets knocked her out, meaning that when she woke there was always a second or two where she felt a little muddle-headed, dozy. Had she had a nightmare? What time was it? She wasn’t fully aware.

‘Are you okay?’ He sounded concerned, bending over the bed.

Through the fog of sleep, she registered her husband as the shape that loomed over her. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. You were just shouting out. Who’s Monty?’ he asked.

‘What?’ She was surprised to hear the name, having tried to expunge it from her thoughts for so many days now.

‘Monty?’ he repeated.

‘I… I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tom.’ She closed her eyes to demonstrate that she wasn’t fully awake, and in an attempt to make him go away.

‘You were saying, “Come on, Monty,” and you were patting the duvet.’

‘I have no idea, Tom. I don’t know anyone called Monty and I don’t remember the dream at all.’ She yawned and pretended to doze.

As he disappeared from the room, she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, trying to recapture the dream, the vision, the feeling. It had felt blissful to be back at Gael Ffydd, with the sun coming up over the valley. She had been taking breakfast on the deck. The sun was warm on her skin as the river burbled in the valley below and, again, in her dream she was pregnant. She had even been able to smell the garden – all her senses contributed to the great deception. She had been transported to that special place, where part of her spirit still roamed, where she could breathe deeply and she had felt free.

Tom broke into her thoughts and her daydream as he stepped through the door, forcing her back to where she didn’t want to be, into the bedroom they shared, in the quiet house where childhood laughter no longer rang out, where happiness had been stretchered out one cold, cold morning, along with the heart of the house.

‘Happy birthday, Grace.’

‘What?’ She sat up. ‘Oh God! It isn’t, is it?’

She looked up uncomprehendingly as he stood at the foot of the bed with a tray, complete with Earl Grey tea in her favourite dotty mug, and toast with honey. She gazed at his efforts and swallowed a yearning for sharp black coffee and fresh, organic, sourdough loaves.
Stop it, Grace, just stop it! This helps no one; he is trying his very best.
A small bud vase held a single bloom from the garden. Her instant reaction was to laugh, which she managed to suppress.

She hadn’t even realised her birthday was looming, hadn’t thought about it, but it was of course inevitable. A birthday was the last thing she wanted and the last thing that she felt she could cope with. It was, however, one of many anniversaries, milestones that were to be endured without her little girl, and she knew the first of each would always be the hardest. The day held no appeal; wishing she could fast forward, she just wanted it to be over.

‘Oh, Tom, thank you. That’s really lovely.’ She sat up, leant against the headboard, dug deep and found a smile as he placed the tray on the bedclothes.

He smiled back at her. ‘Did you forget?’

‘I did, yes,’ she replied meekly, slightly embarrassed by the admission, as if this were further proof that she wasn’t firing on all cylinders. ‘I had no idea.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s not like you haven’t got enough other stuff to think about.’ He was holding something behind his back and his manner was hesitant. ‘I don’t know whether to give you this or not.’

He fingered a brown-paper parcel, which he now bought into view. It was a flattish rectangle tied up with kitchen string; clearly, the purchasing of gift-wrap had not been high on the agenda. It mattered little; she was in no mood for a birthday or the frippery that went with it. Didn’t need the marker, proof that, for her, life went on. Didn’t want to have to draw the obvious comparisons with the previous year, when Chloe had bounced on the bed with a fistful of wilted flowers and a birthday muffin with a bite out of the top, yelling, ‘Happy birthday, Mummy! I help you open your presents.’ She’d then set to, ripping open the gifts, flinging strips of paper high into the air like confetti, completely disinterested in the contents, hurling them this way and that while reaching for the next one.

‘Oh, do! Give it here – you know I love pressies!’ Grace feigned enthusiasm and grabbed at the package. It was almost as if Tom was holding it out of her reach. There was a split-second tussle when she had to stretch further to grip it and then pull slightly to get him to release it. ‘Tom!’ Grace smiled at his curious behaviour.

She crossed her legs under the duvet and placed the parcel on her lap. She pulled at the string, ripping open the paper until it was shredded, and there she sat, staring in wonder and silence at the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It was a handmade photo frame. She didn’t move or speak for some seconds. Tom rested on the side of the bed. They were both silent.

The frame was uneven, lumpy and grey in texture, and adorned with stickers of animals and tiny stars. Plastic jewels of various shapes had been pushed into the cast and someone had scrawled into the edge of the plaster with a stick the words ‘For my mummy’.

It was the beautiful effort of a three-year-old with the help of a patient nursery assistant. Grace had a vague recollection of Chloe having told her that she’d made her a present, but couldn’t quite remember where or when that had been. Tom had placed a print of Chloe inside the frame; it was one Grace hadn’t seen before and therefore all the more beguiling. She studied her daughter, who had been caught unawares, looking into the middle distance with her gorgeous curls obscuring half her face. She looked thoughtful, her large eyes clear and concentrating. It was perfect.

‘Oh, Chloe! Thank you, Chlo, thank you, Tom! I couldn’t love anything more! It’s brilliant, really brilliant.’

Tom fell forward, catching his wife in his arms as he slumped next to her on the bed. They cried together as they held the frame that their little girl had made with such care and attention for her mummy.

Grace spoke to the ether and kissed the print. ‘Thank you, my darling. It’s beautiful, my clever, clever little girl. I love it.’

She felt a physical pain in her heart. She missed her daughter with a tangible ache that didn’t seem to dull with time. She slid back under the duvet and Tom crept in alongside her. This was where they spent most of the day, hiding themselves away, not wanting to compare it with April the twenty-sixth of the previous year.

The two of them lay together in a loose, passionless embrace. Grace realised that the strongest emotion she felt for Tom just then was indifference. She couldn’t begin to imagine a life without him, but at the same time she couldn’t figure out how to live a life with him. She felt trapped, made even worse because the one person she would usually confide in about such a matter was Tom. Therein lay her problem.

The day ticked by and neither Grace nor Tom demonstrated any real desire to move. Tom occasionally lifted his head to ask, ‘Are you okay?’ in response to which Grace would nod, keeping her eyes closed, incapable of much more.

With her head submerged beneath the duvet, she allowed a montage of fragmented memories to replay in her mind; they were out of chronological order and often confused reality with the imagined. Most of all, she heard the stirring sounds of Tchaikovsky’s strings at Chloe’s funeral and saw the stained-glass window where an angel with her arms outstretched smiled down at her.

At some point she felt herself waking and stuck her head above the duvet. Tom, disturbed by her movement, roused himself into a sitting position. She sat up too, with her back against the headboard.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked again.

‘No. No, I’m not.’ She wedged her hands into her hair and brought her knees up to her chin.

‘What’s up?’ He placed a hand on her back.

‘I think I’m going mad.’

Tom considered his response. ‘I think we both are, at least a little bit. But I don’t think it’s permanent, at least I bloody well hope not.’

‘I think I’m going crazier than you.’

‘Come on, Grace, you don’t seriously want to play “who’s going the craziest”, do you?’

She managed a laugh. ‘Not really.’

She thought about how to phrase the next question and whether she should raise it at all. ‘Can I ask you something, Tom?’

‘Of course you can. Anything.’ He settled his hands in his lap and gave her his full attention.

‘Do you ever see her?’ she whispered with her thumb nail against her teeth.

There was no need for her to explain who the ‘she’ in question was. Tom smiled and closed his eyes. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

‘Where do you see her?’ Again, her voice was small.

‘I see her in the garden, I see her at the supermarket and I see her in the back of the car when I’m driving along. And I see her on the landing.’

‘Does she ever talk when you see her?’ Grace asked, wide eyed.

Tom pondered this, then shook his head. ‘No. I haven’t thought about it until now, but no, she never speaks. She’s always silent.’

‘What is she wearing when you see her?’ Grace whispered.

Tom sniffed back his tears and rubbed his prickly beard. ‘She’s wearing her pink mac and her little pink wellies.’

Grace nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, she is! Her pink mac and her little wellies.’

They both cried then, miserable wretched tears for the miserable wretched predicament in which they found themselves.

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The little green Austin chugged into the driveway and there it sat as the engine shuddered to a halt. Its occupants stayed inside, trying to find the strength to leave its familiar confines. The house looked decidedly gloomy without its usual array of lamps and lights beckoning to them from within. The curtains were drawn and the windows no longer sparkled. It was a house in mourning, unloved and slipping further into decay with each passing day.