‘I miss her too.’
‘I talk to her,’ Oliver confessed, staring at the mug in his hands.
‘I talk to her too, and she answers. Or at least I imagine her answering and it helps.’
‘She doesn’t answer me, but she smiles at me and crinkles her eyes up like she used to, and it makes me cry again. I try not to think about her when I’m out and about or with my friends, but when I’m on my own I tell myself she’s at home.’ Oliver sniffed. ‘It’s easy, really. I picture you at work and her in the kitchen or watching the telly and I think she’s there and that I’ll see her soon.’
Nick nodded, knowing he had done similar when the loss of her threatened to overwhelm him at work: she’s at the supermarket, parking the car, chatting to her sister, buying our food . . .
‘I don’t believe she’s gone, Dad, not really. I know it sounds stupid—’
‘It doesn’t,’ Nick interrupted, knowing nothing was stupid and that there was no blueprint for their grief. ‘Not at all.’
‘I wish I could call her, just once. I want to hear her voice and I’d love to talk to her, just to find out how she’s doing. Make sure she’s okay.’
‘Me too. Although that would be some phone bill, eh?’ He tried to lighten the mood and it seemed to work. Oliver smiled and wiped his eyes with his fingers.
‘I keep thinking that she was never very good at travelling by herself, you know, like when we were on the way to Filey or she had to catch a bus – she always got in a bit of a panic in case she went in the wrong direction or got lost.’
‘And she had a habit of doing both.’ Nick chuckled, picturing her wandering off from the car in the wrong direction to where they were heading and him having to call her back: ‘And where do you think you’re going, Missus?’
‘It’s this way, isn’t it?’
‘No, Ker, it’s not!’
‘That’s what I mean, Dad, and I keep thinking . . .’ He paused. ‘I keep thinking that she has had to go on this final journey on her own, all on her own, and I worry about that.’
‘You know’ – Nick coughed to clear the emotion that bloomed in his throat – ‘I don’t worry about that. I don’t know what happens to us when we pass on, Olly, but I am certain that, if at all possible, there would be someone to hold your mum’s hand and show her the way.’
‘Someone like Grandad?’
He nodded, biting his teeth together hard to control his tears. He didn’t want to break down. Not here and not now.
They sat quietly for a second or two as Nick tried to restore his thoughts and beat off the wave of sadness that threatened to knock him from his feet, as it often did. It was Olly that broke the silence.
‘I’m sorry I called you in such a state earlier.’
‘Don’t be sorry. I’m your dad. I want you to be able to call on me any time, and it’s been good to see you and to have a cuppa – really good, worth the drive even.’ He raised the now empty mug in Oliver’s direction as he stood, preparing to leave. ‘But I do think we need a code system for days like these and moments like that.’
‘What kind of code system?’
‘I don’t know, Olly, maybe we could say “code green” if everything is fine, “amber” if we are sliding towards danger or you’re having a bit of a wobble and need propping up and “code red”, which should only be used in extreme emergencies and means get in the car and come down the motorway immediately. You would only need to say “code red” and I’d know that you’re actually saying, “Dad, me or my mental health is in mortal danger” or “The house on fire” or “There’s a meteorite hurtling towards the Earth” – that kind of thing, okay? That should be a “code red”. So I would say with hindsight that today’s emergency would at best have been a mild amber.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair and pulled him into a hug.
‘I think you’re right, Dad. It was a mild amber.’ Oliver placed his arms around his dad’s shoulders and Nick inhaled the scent of him, which was changing from that of a boy to that of a man.
A knock at the door made them spring apart and stand in manly poses, hands on hips, chests wide.
‘Come in,’ Oliver called out in his deepest voice.
Tasha, the girl with the wide, dark spectacles, stood in the door with a big smile.
‘Hi, Olly!’
‘Hey, Tash, this is my dad, Nick.’
‘Oh, Nick. I saw you before.’ She said his name as if it were familiar to her and walked forward with her hands knitted at her chest. ‘Olly told me about his mum and it made me so sad. How are you doing?’
He found her directness refreshing and mature, despite her rather awkward, childlike stance.
‘I think the stock phrase is: I’m doing as well as can be expected.’
She nodded. ‘My dad died when I was five. Olly and I have talked about it a lot. My dad was like way, way older than my mum, but it was still rubbish. I didn’t think he died; I thought he had become a Teletubby and lived in the Teletubby house and that was why he couldn’t come home. And when it came on television I used to sit with my nose pressed to the screen and my mum thought I loved the show; she used to buy me the characters and I even had curtains with them on.’ She giggled. ‘But it wasn’t that – I was looking for little clues that it was my dad inside the costumes. I couldn’t decide which one he was, but I think I settled on Dipsy.’
Nick stared at her and felt his mouth move as if forming a response, but the words failed him.
Oliver laughed heartily. ‘She comes out with things like that all the time.’ He spoke as if the girl weren’t standing in front of him, but his tone was one of affection, and in that instant Nick felt like a gooseberry.
‘Look, I’d better push off. It’s a long drive home.’ He smiled at the girl. ‘Nice to see you again, Tasha.’
‘Sames.’ She nodded and it took him a second to interpret her answer. ‘We have to get ready anyway; we have a freshers’ event tonight in the bar and we need costumes. I’m thinking we should go as cavemen and just scruff up our hair and put on sacks or something and get bones as accessories from the big bin at the back of the canteen.’
‘Is that right?’ Nick eyed his son, who usually shied away from dressing up. ‘I thought you had a load of books to read; hadn’t you better make a start?’
‘The thing is, Dad, one night is not going to make any difference. I need to not get in a flap about it, put it in perspective, and tonight I think beer is more important than reading.’
Nick smiled at his boy and fished in his pocket for his car keys before making his way down the stairs and out into the cold afternoon air. He smiled up at the window as Oliver waved goodbye from his room with Tasha by his side.
He was tired when he got home. Without the fear and adrenaline that fanned his journey there, the drive seemed to take twice as long. And the fact that he was sustained by no more than a cup of tea and three gingersnap biscuits didn’t help.
It had been a long and emotionally draining series of events and the evening had truly pulled its blind on the day. He pulled the car up on to the drive in darkness and pictured climbing the stairs with the usual dilemma. He longed to fall on to the soft mattress and plant his face in the pillow, but at the same time felt the stab of loneliness when he considered her empty side of the bed. The house was eerily quiet and he flicked on the kitchen light before filling the kettle and looking at the dirty dishes from yesterday, and possibly the day before that, still stacked in the sink. He’d do them tomorrow.