‘She said we’d had a good run, her and me. That she couldn’t bring herself to be angry about leaving me.’ He was close to tears. But he shook them away. ‘But, my God, she was angry about all of you. About not seeing Ethan grow up, or Nick have children, or Scott get a blooming girlfriend.’
‘I wonder what she’d make of us all.’
He leant forward, and whispered, ‘She’d be extraordinarily proud of each and every one of you.’
46
Fran’s car was already at the farm when Nick pulled into the car park just on ten a.m. He spotted her by the entrance. She was wearing a red and white spotted dress, with a colourful scarf in her hair, like the girl in the wartime propaganda posters – ‘We Can Do It’. It suited her. He discovered that he was pleased to see her. It had been ages, when they were used to seeing each other so regularly. And when she saw him, and smiled broadly, he was relieved as well. He opened the back door. Bea and Delilah slithered out excitedly, seeing their friends, impatient while he released Arthur from the car seat, then retrieved the buggy from the boot.
She watched him walk towards her, and spoke as soon as they were within earshot.
‘Hey, everyone! How are you? Gorgeous day, huh?’
Kissing and squealing and hugs. So far so entirely normal. So far so entirely lovely.
Nick let Fran sort out tickets, then navigate the entrance and a visit to the loo. Carrie might have raised an eyebrow at his submissiveness, but he’d have told her to cut him some slack.
At the farm it was easy to be carried along by the myriad activities on offer, and there was no time for proper talking. Petting zoo, pony rides, tractor safari … The kids chattered incessantly and pulled them in different directions. Fran stayed on the grass with the buggies and the smallest kids while Nick took the big ones to the top of the wobbly slide and saw them into the hessian sacks in which they whizzed, shrieking, to the bottom. He watched their stuff when Fran climbed into the chicken enclosure with their offspring to look for eggs. They both grappled with the sunscreen and the squirming children, who didn’t want to stand still long enough to have it applied. Fran did her own face and looked at Nick, eyebrows raised, until he held out his hand for some.
At lunchtime, they congregated around a picnic table. Nick bought chips and ice-cold juice boxes from the small restaurant, while Fran unpacked a coolbag she’d brought with her: cheese sticks, crudités and cocktail sausages. They made several attempts to start a proper conversation, then laughed at the continual interruptions, and gave up. He would have quite liked to tell her what had happened, with Ethan and Arthur, and the fallout, but the kids were omnipresent.
When they’d finished the savoury offerings, Bea begged to be allowed to buy ice creams for everyone from the van thirty yards away. Nick gave her a ten-pound note, and he and Fran watched as she led the others in a straggly line to join the queue. She kept turning to look back at her dad for reassurance. He nodded and waved.
Fran waved too. ‘She’s a born mum, that one.’
Nick frowned. ‘Maybe she thinks she has to be.’
‘Hey. I don’t think so. She always was, way before …’ Her voice trailed off, then came back. ‘I remember her, from when she was tiny, wanting to look after the others, clucking over them. Don’t you remember how she used to speak for them?’
‘Maybe not a mum – a union leader!’
‘Well, that’d be okay too,’ Fran joked. ‘Girl power!’
‘Absolutely.’
They weren’t looking at each other – they were facing the kids, ever vigilant.
‘So, how’s the big family thing panning out, then?’
Nick considered. ‘Some and some, to be honest.’
‘Okay.’ Fran sighed, and picked at the leftovers. ‘Not exactly all happy families, then.’
There was more, of course, but Nick felt exhausted at the thought of talking about it. He gave a grim laugh. ‘Who’d have ’em?’
Bea had completed her transaction at the van, and had arranged her charges in a circle on the grass to eat their ice creams.
‘That’s adorable. You should get a picture.’
Nick picked up his camera and zoomed in on the group, firing off a series of shots with the telephoto lens. ‘And how about you? What’s going on?’
‘The space has been good.’
He was glad she wasn’t evasive with him.
‘He’s moving out while we’re here. Not stuff, just clothes. We’ve not got to sharing-out-the-records stage yet. It’s him who won’t be there when we get back. I’ve got to tell them.’
‘You haven’t yet?’
‘Nope.’
‘Shouldn’t you do that together?’
‘I wondered that. He says he can’t. He wants me to explain it, and them to have a bit of time to get used to it, and then he’ll come round, once we’re home, and they can ask him questions and things, you know, be reassured that he’s not going far. That he and I are okay in a room together, at least.’
‘Do you think they’ll get it?’
‘Can’t decide. Sometimes I think they’re too young to understand. I tell myself kids are resilient and adaptable.’
‘Both of those things are true.’
‘I know. And it’s not like he’s died.’
The words hung in the air.
‘Sorry, Nick. That was incredibly insensitive.’
He put up his hand to stop her. ‘No. Don’t worry. It’s okay.’
A tear rolled down her cheek. She brushed it away, angry with herself. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Hey.’ He turned to look right at her. ‘Stop it. Don’t you dare say sorry to me. You have been the single most helpful, most present, most kind person to me and the kids since Carrie died. You could never, never need to say sorry to me. Do you hear me?’
She nodded.
‘And no. He hasn’t died. And that’s good. Good for the kids. But that doesn’t mean this isn’t hard for you all. And I’m here. I’m gonna be here. I’m not sure I can be as helpful to you as you’ve been to me, but I can try, can’t I? I want to. You know, in some ways, it’s a relief.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s all been about me, hasn’t it? Poor tragic Nick. You know, at the house, with my sister, my nephew and my dad, who also, by the way, lost his wife, it just makes me realize. What happened to me was shitty. But shitty stuff happens all around. Not just to me. It’s nice to think about other people for a change. It feels … normal. Does that make any sense at all?’
‘It does, actually.’ He had turned back to where the kids were finishing. Arthur was wearing more of his ice cream than he’d eaten. ‘Wet wipes?’ Fran rummaged in her bag.
‘So we’re good?’ He’d wondered if they were going to talk about what had happened that night after supper, but now wasn’t the time.
‘Yeah. All clear.’ There didn’t seem to be a subtext in it, and for that he was grateful. He wasn’t ready to think about it, and she seemed to feel exactly the same, unless what had happened had been nothing at all and she didn’t know there was anything to think about.