I didn’t wait to respond. I looked at the hospital cafeteria and the shuffling patients and the bright blue day through the skylight and my fingers hit the keys before I knew what I was saying.
I am.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Jake was waiting under the porch when I arrived at the Moving On Circle. It was raining heavily, dense clouds the colour of heather abruptly unleashing a thunderstorm that overwhelmed gutters and soaked me in the ten seconds it took to run across the car park.
‘Aren’t you going in? It’s filthy out –’
He stepped forward, and his lanky arms enfolded me in a swift, awkward hug as I reached the door.
‘Oh!’ I lifted my hands, not wanting to drip all over him.
He released me and took a step back. ‘Donna told us what you did. I just – you know – wanted to say thanks.’
His eyes were strained, and shadowed, and I realized what these last days must have been like for him, so close to having lost his mother. ‘He’s tough,’ I said.
‘He’s bloody Teflon,’ he said, and we laughed awkwardly, in the way British people do when they’re experiencing great emotion.
In the meeting, Jake spoke unusually volubly, about the fact that his girlfriend didn’t understand what grief was like for him. ‘She doesn’t get why some mornings I just want to stay in bed with the covers over my head. Or why I get a bit panicky about things happening to people I love. Literally nothing bad has happened to her. Ever. Even her pet rabbit is still alive and it’s, like, nine years old.’
‘I think people get bored of grief,’ said Natasha. ‘It’s like you’re allowed some unspoken allotted time – six months, maybe – and then they get faintly irritated that you’re not “better”. It’s like you’re being self-indulgent hanging on to your unhappiness.’
‘Yes!’ There was a murmur of agreement from around the circle.
‘I sometimes think it would be easier if we still had to wear widows’ weeds,’ said Daphne. ‘Then everyone could know you were still grieving.’
‘Maybe like learner plates, so, you know, you got a different set of colours after a year. Maybe move from black to a deep purple,’ said Leanne.
‘Coming up all the way to yellow when you were really happy again,’ Natasha grinned.
‘Oh, no. Yellow is awful with my complexion.’ Daphne smiled cautiously. ‘I’ll have to stay a bit miserable.’
I listened to their stories in the dank church hall – the tentative steps forward over tiny, emotional obstacles. Fred had joined a bowling league, and was enjoying having another reason to go out on Tuesdays, one that didn’t involve talking about his late wife. Sunil had agreed to let his mother introduce him to a distant cousin from Eltham. ‘I’m not really into the whole arranged-marriage thing but, to be honest, I’m having no luck with other methods. I keep telling myself she’s my mother. She’s hardly going to set me up with someone horrible.’
‘I think it’s a lovely idea,’ said Daphne. ‘My mother would probably have spotted which tree my Alan barked up long before I did. She was ever such a good judge.’
I viewed them as if I were on the outside of something looking in. I laughed at their jokes, winced internally at their tales of inappropriate tears or misjudged comments. But what became clear as I sat on my plastic chair and drank my instant coffee was that I had somehow found myself on the other side. I had crossed a bridge. Their struggle was no longer my struggle. It wasn’t that I would ever stop grieving for Will, or loving him, or missing him, but that my life seemed to have somehow landed back in the present. And it was with a growing satisfaction that I found, even as I sat there with people I now knew and trusted, I wanted to be somewhere else: beside a large man in a hospital bed who I knew, to my utter gratitude, would even now be glancing up at the clock in the corner, wondering how long it was going to take me to get to him.
‘Nothing from you tonight, Louisa?’
Marc was looking at me, one eyebrow raised.
I shook my head. ‘I’m good.’
He smiled, perhaps recognizing something in my tone. ‘Good.’
‘Yes. Actually, I think I don’t need to be here any more. I’m … okay.’
‘I knew there was something different about you,’ said Natasha, leaning forwards and eyeing me almost suspiciously.
‘It’s the shagging,’ said Fred. ‘I’m sure that’s the cure. I bet I’d have got over Jilly much faster with all the shagging.’
Natasha and William exchanged a strange look.
‘I’d like to come until the end of the term, if it’s okay,’ I said to Marc. ‘It’s just … I’ve come to think of you all as my friends. I might not need it, but I would still like to come for a bit longer. Just to make sure. And, you know, to see everyone.’
Jake gave a small smile.
‘We should probably go dancing,’ said Natasha.
‘You can come for as long as you want,’ said Marc. ‘That’s what we’re here for.’
My friends. A motley group, but then most friends are.
Orecchiette cooked al dente, pine-nuts, basil, home-grown tomatoes, olives, tuna and Parmesan cheese. I had made the pasta salad to the recipe Lily gave me over the phone as she was fed instructions by her grandmother.
‘Good invalid food,’ Camilla shouted, from some distant kitchen. ‘Easy to digest if he’s spending a lot of time lying down.’
‘I’d just buy him a takeaway,’ muttered Lily. ‘Poor man’s suffered enough.’ She cackled quietly. ‘Anyway, I thought you preferred him lying down.’
I walked along the hospital corridor later that evening feeling quietly proud of my little Tupperware box of domesticity. I had made this supper the night before and now carried it in front of me like a badge of honour, half hoping someone would stop me and ask what it was. Yes, my boyfriend is recuperating. I bring him food every day. Just little things he might fancy. You know I grew these tomatoes myself?
Sam’s wounds were beginning to heal, the internal damage clearing. He tried to get up too often, and was grumpy about being stuck in bed and worried about his animals, even though Donna, Jake and I had set up a reasonably good animal husbandry schedule.
Two to three weeks, the consultants reckoned. If he did what he was told. Given the extent of his injuries he had been lucky. More than one conversation had taken place in my presence where medical professionals had murmured, ‘A centimetre the other way and …’ I sang la-la-la-la-la-la in my head during those conversations.
I reached his corridor and buzzed myself in, cleaning my hands with the antibacterial foam, as I pushed at the door with my hip.
‘Evening,’ said the nurse with glasses. ‘You’re late!’
‘Had to go to a meeting.’
‘You just missed his mum. She brought him the most delicious homemade steak and ale pie. You could smell it all the way down the ward. We’re still salivating.’
‘Oh.’ I lowered my box. ‘That’s nice.’
‘Good to see him tuck in. The consultant will be round in about half an hour.’
I was just about to put the Tupperware into my bag when my phone rang. I pressed answer, still wrestling with the zip.
I am.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Jake was waiting under the porch when I arrived at the Moving On Circle. It was raining heavily, dense clouds the colour of heather abruptly unleashing a thunderstorm that overwhelmed gutters and soaked me in the ten seconds it took to run across the car park.
‘Aren’t you going in? It’s filthy out –’
He stepped forward, and his lanky arms enfolded me in a swift, awkward hug as I reached the door.
‘Oh!’ I lifted my hands, not wanting to drip all over him.
He released me and took a step back. ‘Donna told us what you did. I just – you know – wanted to say thanks.’
His eyes were strained, and shadowed, and I realized what these last days must have been like for him, so close to having lost his mother. ‘He’s tough,’ I said.
‘He’s bloody Teflon,’ he said, and we laughed awkwardly, in the way British people do when they’re experiencing great emotion.
In the meeting, Jake spoke unusually volubly, about the fact that his girlfriend didn’t understand what grief was like for him. ‘She doesn’t get why some mornings I just want to stay in bed with the covers over my head. Or why I get a bit panicky about things happening to people I love. Literally nothing bad has happened to her. Ever. Even her pet rabbit is still alive and it’s, like, nine years old.’
‘I think people get bored of grief,’ said Natasha. ‘It’s like you’re allowed some unspoken allotted time – six months, maybe – and then they get faintly irritated that you’re not “better”. It’s like you’re being self-indulgent hanging on to your unhappiness.’
‘Yes!’ There was a murmur of agreement from around the circle.
‘I sometimes think it would be easier if we still had to wear widows’ weeds,’ said Daphne. ‘Then everyone could know you were still grieving.’
‘Maybe like learner plates, so, you know, you got a different set of colours after a year. Maybe move from black to a deep purple,’ said Leanne.
‘Coming up all the way to yellow when you were really happy again,’ Natasha grinned.
‘Oh, no. Yellow is awful with my complexion.’ Daphne smiled cautiously. ‘I’ll have to stay a bit miserable.’
I listened to their stories in the dank church hall – the tentative steps forward over tiny, emotional obstacles. Fred had joined a bowling league, and was enjoying having another reason to go out on Tuesdays, one that didn’t involve talking about his late wife. Sunil had agreed to let his mother introduce him to a distant cousin from Eltham. ‘I’m not really into the whole arranged-marriage thing but, to be honest, I’m having no luck with other methods. I keep telling myself she’s my mother. She’s hardly going to set me up with someone horrible.’
‘I think it’s a lovely idea,’ said Daphne. ‘My mother would probably have spotted which tree my Alan barked up long before I did. She was ever such a good judge.’
I viewed them as if I were on the outside of something looking in. I laughed at their jokes, winced internally at their tales of inappropriate tears or misjudged comments. But what became clear as I sat on my plastic chair and drank my instant coffee was that I had somehow found myself on the other side. I had crossed a bridge. Their struggle was no longer my struggle. It wasn’t that I would ever stop grieving for Will, or loving him, or missing him, but that my life seemed to have somehow landed back in the present. And it was with a growing satisfaction that I found, even as I sat there with people I now knew and trusted, I wanted to be somewhere else: beside a large man in a hospital bed who I knew, to my utter gratitude, would even now be glancing up at the clock in the corner, wondering how long it was going to take me to get to him.
‘Nothing from you tonight, Louisa?’
Marc was looking at me, one eyebrow raised.
I shook my head. ‘I’m good.’
He smiled, perhaps recognizing something in my tone. ‘Good.’
‘Yes. Actually, I think I don’t need to be here any more. I’m … okay.’
‘I knew there was something different about you,’ said Natasha, leaning forwards and eyeing me almost suspiciously.
‘It’s the shagging,’ said Fred. ‘I’m sure that’s the cure. I bet I’d have got over Jilly much faster with all the shagging.’
Natasha and William exchanged a strange look.
‘I’d like to come until the end of the term, if it’s okay,’ I said to Marc. ‘It’s just … I’ve come to think of you all as my friends. I might not need it, but I would still like to come for a bit longer. Just to make sure. And, you know, to see everyone.’
Jake gave a small smile.
‘We should probably go dancing,’ said Natasha.
‘You can come for as long as you want,’ said Marc. ‘That’s what we’re here for.’
My friends. A motley group, but then most friends are.
Orecchiette cooked al dente, pine-nuts, basil, home-grown tomatoes, olives, tuna and Parmesan cheese. I had made the pasta salad to the recipe Lily gave me over the phone as she was fed instructions by her grandmother.
‘Good invalid food,’ Camilla shouted, from some distant kitchen. ‘Easy to digest if he’s spending a lot of time lying down.’
‘I’d just buy him a takeaway,’ muttered Lily. ‘Poor man’s suffered enough.’ She cackled quietly. ‘Anyway, I thought you preferred him lying down.’
I walked along the hospital corridor later that evening feeling quietly proud of my little Tupperware box of domesticity. I had made this supper the night before and now carried it in front of me like a badge of honour, half hoping someone would stop me and ask what it was. Yes, my boyfriend is recuperating. I bring him food every day. Just little things he might fancy. You know I grew these tomatoes myself?
Sam’s wounds were beginning to heal, the internal damage clearing. He tried to get up too often, and was grumpy about being stuck in bed and worried about his animals, even though Donna, Jake and I had set up a reasonably good animal husbandry schedule.
Two to three weeks, the consultants reckoned. If he did what he was told. Given the extent of his injuries he had been lucky. More than one conversation had taken place in my presence where medical professionals had murmured, ‘A centimetre the other way and …’ I sang la-la-la-la-la-la in my head during those conversations.
I reached his corridor and buzzed myself in, cleaning my hands with the antibacterial foam, as I pushed at the door with my hip.
‘Evening,’ said the nurse with glasses. ‘You’re late!’
‘Had to go to a meeting.’
‘You just missed his mum. She brought him the most delicious homemade steak and ale pie. You could smell it all the way down the ward. We’re still salivating.’
‘Oh.’ I lowered my box. ‘That’s nice.’
‘Good to see him tuck in. The consultant will be round in about half an hour.’
I was just about to put the Tupperware into my bag when my phone rang. I pressed answer, still wrestling with the zip.
