‘Harry!’
‘Sorry. All right. I’ll think about it.’
‘Okay.’
They were close now. Back on his old patch. As Fran drove along the familiar roads, Harry’s sense of claustrophobia increased. He’d so wanted to get out, to get away from the insistent noise and unremitting boredom, but the thought of trying to pick up where he’d left off made him feel panicky. Because where he’d been before the crash was in a mess – which is what had led to the tragedy. And if it had been bad back then, why would it be any better now? His relationship with his dad was still crap, his friends had all dumped or forgotten about him, except Mo – he couldn’t blame them for that, it’s what he’d have done in the same situation – and Jess was gone. He didn’t see that he had much of a future left. If it hadn’t been for Martha, and Fran and Marcus, he might not have come home at all.
Fran cut into his self-pity by indicating and pulling the car over to the kerb. She parked and turned to face him properly. They were five minutes from home, and three minutes from the ring road.
‘Harry. You need to listen to me. It will get better; or at least it will get easier and then it will begin to get better. It’s a process. Just like surviving inside was. Being outside is no different. You have to make a positive choice. You have to do the thing in front of you, then the next thing after that, and then the next. And that way it’ll slowly start to feel normal. And you’ve got to let yourself feel normal. It’s allowed. Even I’ve learnt that. And if I can learn something that seemed so impossible and beyond me, then you can. You must. That’s your responsibility. And it’s not all about you. So stop being so self-obsessed. Martha needs her brother back, and Dom needs his son.’
Fran leant into the back of the car and grabbed her bag. She fished out her phone. ‘Can you just give me a minute?’ He nodded and watched her compose a text, send it and get a response. She reached to open the car door.
Harry was confused. ‘What’s going on?’
She ignored his question. ‘Come on.’
There was no option but to get out of the car. Fran opened the boot. ‘Your choice, Harry.’
He walked to the rear of the car. There were two small bunches of snowdrops, wrapped in damp tissue, lying in the boot. Harry started shaking his head.
Fran looked at him steadily, calmly, kindly. ‘Martha helped me pick these this morning from our garden.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Yes you can.’
Chapter 86
IT HURT, being this close to the scene of the crash. It still had the power to upend time and push Fran back into the grief, the sense of loss, the awfulness of their daughter’s pointless death. God was still absent from the world, but at least now there was no rage.
It was an accident.
It was a tragedy for them all.
Martha was there with Marcus, waiting for them, as planned. When she spotted her brother she ran, full pelt along the verge, into him. As they hugged, Fran met Marcus’s eye. He nodded in greeting, but her husband knew her well enough not to reach out and take her hand. He would hold her later, in the privacy of their home. They would cry together, probably not for the last time, in the house they were no longer selling. They didn’t want to get away from their memories of Jess any more; they wanted to hold them as close as possible. And they were crying less, and living more. Marcus was right. It was what Jess would’ve wanted. Love always, and happiness, at least some of the time.
Standing behind Marcus – hanging back, as if uncertain of their role – were Tish and Mo. They were holding hands. Fran felt a flare of pleasure. They looked right together. Happy. In love. Fran didn’t begrudge them that. Not any more. Out of tragedy, et cetera, et cetera. Tish was holding a single white gerbera. Fran approved of her choice.
Martha untangled herself from her brother and took a step backwards, leaving Harry rooted to the spot, the flowers gripped in his hands. Fran knew it was down to her to orchestrate what happened next. But Harry was stuck. She smiled, encouraging him. ‘You first.’ Harry gathered himself and set off. Everyone fell into step behind him. As they neared the site, his footsteps grew slower. Had it not been for Martha, he would probably have turned round, but she pushed him forward, encouraging and cajoling in equal measure.
Eventually they made it to the spot.
The proposed memorial to commemorate the crash had never been bought. It had never been engraved in the cursive script that Fran had, after weeks of deliberation, eventually chosen. The plaque had never been erected on the rebuilt wall of the factory. Never been photographed by the local press. Never been shared on social media. And as a result, it had never become a shrine. After Fran had come back to her senses, she realised she didn’t want Jess commemorated for her death. She didn’t want their daughter held up to the community as a memento mori – a grim warning of the risks of growing up and having a life. Yes, Jess was dead, but before her death she had been full of life and love, and that was how Fran and Marcus wanted to remember their daughter. Or at least that was how they were going to try and remember her.
Fran pulled herself back to the task in hand. They were all looking to her for their cues. Chief mourner. The mother without her daughter. The one who had lost the most. And yet that wasn’t true. They had all lost. She knew that now. Felt it. It was this knowledge that had saved Fran. Her grief had been soaringly, destructively egotistical. It had cut her off from everyone, and everything, that mattered. But the only thing that made grief bearable was company. The meeting with Harry had had the desired effect, but not in the way she’d imagined. It had made her recognise that her grief was not unique. The crash had smashed into all their lives, causing damage and pain in ways that she couldn’t deny and couldn’t ignore. The truth was they were all connected by the crash, and by Jess. That legacy of friendship, affection and love had to be honoured, not discarded. She had needed these people to help her feel anything other than bitterness and anger. Just as Harry – and Marcus and Martha – needed her to navigate their loss and their debilitating sadness. Being alone was simply not an option.
Martha, having got her brother as far as she could, stepped away. They all waited. Fran put her hand in the small of Harry’s back. She could feel the tension in him. His body was rigid with memories that were worse than her own, and as deeply felt.
‘She loved you. You loved her.’ Gently she pushed Harry forward. ‘It was an accident.’
Because it was. A dreadful, life-changing accident, which had taken Jess and shattered the rest of them.
Harry hung his head. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I know.’
One more nudge and he managed to move. He walked the small distance to the spot slowly, watched by them all, forgiven by them all.
The traffic flowed by and the cold sun shone, and life went on as normal as Harry knelt and finally laid down his guilt.
Chapter 87
PETE WAS decorating. Claire had been dropping hints about the bedroom needing freshening up for a while. Finally, in a direct move Pete had been unable to ignore, she’d left a paint chart, with the circled options, on the kitchen table. It had made him smile. Many things about Claire made him smile. Her laugh; her robust views on…well, most things; the way she walked as if there was a fire somewhere that she needed to put out; her open-hearted kindness; her Yorkshire puddings. The radio was on, the windows open, fresh air mingled with the paint fumes. Pete was happy, pleased with his efforts. She’d been right – the room had needed an overhaul.