Kerry Forrest had for years been nothing more than a name in the school register, one of a pack of girls who were indistinguishable to him and who hung out in a cloud of perfume and giggles, often to be found sitting in a huddle on the bench in Market Square. They were to him and his mates alien and unattainable. But then on one particular day in the summer term, at the age of sixteen, he walked into afternoon class, scanning the seats, looking for Alex and Eric, and he saw her sitting alone on the other side of the classroom. Having only been vaguely aware of her for most of his school life, it was as if he saw her for the first time. She stood out like something shiny in the gloom. He couldn’t take his eyes off her and, along with the quickening of his heartbeat and a dull ache of longing in his gut, he felt the leap of excitement in his chest. This girl, this girl! She had been under his nose all this time and yet here she was, calling to him like something new and golden. He noticed the bloom on her cheek and chest as she slipped from child to woman and then, as if drawn, she looked up and he had no choice but to swallow his fear and speak. Actually speak to this goddess! It took every ounce of his courage.
‘All right.’ He nodded at her, keeping the smile from his face and adding just enough of a sneer to preserve his exploding heart, should rejection or humiliation be forthcoming.
‘All right,’ she answered quickly, before turning her attention to the textbook in front of her. He looked back in her direction as she too lifted her eyes, and for a second they looked at each other, this time with the beginnings of a smile on their mouths and the crinkle of laughter around their eyes.
And that, as they say, had been that.
The following fourteen weekends were spent hand in hand, often just walking and talking. They ventured up on to Drayfield Moor, where the wind lifted their hair and mud clung to their boots. He had picked and handed her a sprig of purple heather, which she pressed and kept in her little christening Bible in her bedside cabinet. Another day they followed the meandering path along the trickle of river that bisected the town, stopping to kiss on the narrow footbridge before sitting arm in arm with flushed cheeks on the bench in Market Square in front of the war memorial. One memorable evening was spent at the local travelling fair which had docked on the outside of town. Here they squealed on the bumper cars and gorged on popcorn. Next came a weekend trip to Filey on the bus, the travelling to and from with thighs touching and fingers entwined just as glorious as walking on the sand, and before he knew it, at the tender age of seventeen Nick had excitedly and keenly proposed marriage to this girl who had captured his heart.
His parents threw a party, his mum happy and his dad quiet, as guests crammed into the small house where relatives, his and hers, took up seats on the sofa and his mates occupied the back garden, swigging from shared cans of lager and taking the piss out of the boy about to be married, while taking it in turns on the rickety swing. When he and his bride waltzed up the aisle, a winter wedding with snow on the ground and a roaring fire in the pub after, Oliver had already and unexpectedly taken up residence in her willing womb and the newly married Mr and Mrs Bairstow were all set. Set for life, that’s what he had thought, standing at the altar of St Michael’s and speaking the words sincerely: ‘till death do us part . . .’
Nick thought about that day now and knew that he could have never in a thousand years have imagined that their parting would come so soon. He felt cheated. He looked at the empty seat next to him.
‘Single bloody duvet. Only us, eh? His room seems nice, though, cosy.’
You did great today, really great, came his wife’s imagined reply.
‘I’m going to miss him. I’m not even home yet and I already wish I’d spent more time with him before he went. I feel like everything has come around very quickly.’
It’s what we always said, Nick; we’ll raise him right and let him fly . . .
‘Aye, we did. But I didn’t think it would be this hard to watch him go.’ He swallowed. ‘I miss you too. So much.’ He cursed the tears that gathered.
You’re doing great, love. It’ll get easier. You’ll see . . .
Darkness had begun to bite on the day as Nick pulled up the steep driveway. His mum must have dropped Treacle off, as he heard her barking at the sound of the car arriving home.
He put the key in the lock and was in truth glad of the dog’s welcome; walking into the echoing silence might have been more than he could cope with today. He put the kettle on and let Treacle out into the small back garden for a run. He watched the steam rise from the kettle and plopped a teabag into his mug, looking forward to the restorative brew. The front doorbell rang. Nick sighed, feeling an instant flush of guilt at the dread he felt. The prospect of having to entertain his mum or Kerry’s mum, Dora, regaling them with each and every detail of Oliver’s arrival at Uni, was not something he wanted to do, not tonight, when tiredness left him feeling a little frayed and now missing Kerry too, so much. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone to mourn.
He flicked on the hallway light and opened the front door.
‘Oh!’ He took a step back, surprised to see Beverly from work on the doorstep. Odd to see her out of context and in casual gear.
‘All right?’ She pushed her hands into the pocket of her jeans.
He nodded.
‘We’re going to the pub’ – she nodded in the direction of the Blue Anchor – ‘a few of us from work, and thought you might fancy a pint?’
‘Oh!’ he uttered for the second time in as many seconds. This was unexpected. He and Kerry had not been the ‘going to the pub’ type and he couldn’t remember the last time he had done anything social.
‘You coming, then?’ Beverly pointed down the lane and took a step backward along the path.
Nick pictured his teabag in its mug on the countertop. ‘D’you know, I think I’ll give it a miss tonight, but thanks for asking, Bev.’
‘Next time, then,’ she said casually, turning and walking back out into the darkness.
‘Yep, cheers.’
He settled Treacle into her basket and climbed the stairs with his mug, letting his eyes run over the neatly made bed, the floral bedlinen chosen by his wife, and again he hoped Oliver was warm enough, comfortable enough, or failing this, having too good a time to care about the discomfort of a single duvet. He again pictured Tasha with her large specs and goofy smile.
Beverly’s knock on the door had unnerved him a little. He was grateful, of course, for everyone’s concern, but at the same time felt her arrival to be a slight invasion of his privacy. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known Beverly, but there was a big difference between knowing her to chat to at work and going as part of her gang to the pub; one thing to receive her condolences across the warehouse floor as she passed through with a clipboard but quite another to have her turn up at his home. She and Kerry had been a year apart at school and, whilst not mates, they were acquaintances.
With his tea drunk and his teeth cleaned, Nick undressed and bundled his clothes into the wicker laundry basket by the door. He wondered why she had thought to ask him. The last thing he wanted was an invite to the pub out of pity. He wondered if his mum or Dora had put her up to it, or maybe his sister, Jen. They were friends. It was his last thought before falling asleep; it had been quite a day. He flung his arm over Kerry’s pillow, as he had done every night since she had gone in to St Vincent’s, and it helped a little, the feel of something beneath his arm. A poor substitution, of course, and the vague scent of her that had lingered on the cotton was now sadly gone.