A harsh wind blew up from the moors and cut his skin. Nick pulled his scarf up over his mouth, glad of the warm glow that radiated along his limbs, his exertion providing the fuel for him to climb up the hill to the graveyard. He gripped the stems of the small bouquet which Jean in the florist’s had fashioned for him, a neat posy of rust-coloured marigolds and fronds of greenery, along with the obligatory sprig of purple heather, which had been present in every bouquet he had ever given Kerry, both before and after her death. He looked at them now; such a soft, beautiful thing to leave at the cold, hard grave where sad and mournful thoughts lingered. He wished it were not the case that he had given his wife more bouquets in death than he had in life. He wished a lot of things . . .
Standing now at the brow of the hill, Nick caught his breath, looking out over the wide bowl of Burstonbridge below and the russet-and-gold tapestry of farmland beyond. Beautiful.
‘I can see everything. It feels like we are on top of the world up here . . .’
‘That’s how I always feel when I’m with you, Kerry, like I’m on top of the world, like I can do anything.’
‘Oh, shut up, Nick, you old softie!’
‘Do you reckon we’ll bring this baby up here?’
Nick had looked at the bulge of her stomach beneath her coat, her pregnant state alien, petrifying and yet at the same time so familiar, the impending birth fearful and exciting in equal measure. ‘I reckon we might . . .’
Walking slowly along the ridge, he made his way to the plot where Kerry had been laid to rest alongside her dad, and he bent low, placing the bunch of flowers on the grave, where the fresh words of remembrance and the cruel, short dates of her time on Earth had been added to her father’s headstone. He tried not to look at the vast floral display left by her mum in a fancy silver-coloured urn, where wire held each flower proudly in place, and he tried not to feel the paw of inadequacy bat his conscience at the thought that Kerry’s mum and Diane came here more regularly, left more extravagant blooms and no doubt cried harder.
It’s not a competition . . .
He heard her words and gave a snort of uncomfortable laughter. ‘I know it isn’t, but I feel it nonetheless, the feeling that your mum and family don’t think I’m doing enough, not doing things right.’ He paused, looking behind him and all around to make sure there was no one around before he carried on the conversation.
‘You know I’ve always felt a bit like that with them, and the truth is, Ker, I don’t know how to be. I feel sad most of the time, but you already know this, and then when I do feel the gloom lift a little bit, I feel guilty, as though that’s not allowed – I don’t know what is allowed. And I don’t know what to do about Olly; how much should I contact him? Interfere? I think if I haven’t heard from him then things must be going all right, but then I read about kids away from home who are lonely or struggling and I feel worried sick about him.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The house is so quiet. I can’t tell you how much I hate coming home to a dark house without the hall light on. I’m still lost, Kerry. Still lost, and I wish—’
‘Now then, Nick!’
He turned sharply at the shout in time to see Diane walking along the ridge.
Bloody brilliant . . .
‘Di.’
‘Ah, you brought flowers.’ Her tone hinted that this gesture was long overdue. She bent down and instantly started clearing weeds from the plot, balling them and popping them into a carrier bag she unfurled from her pocket. ‘I like to get rid of these; they strangle the flowers and plants. Mum and I take it in turns.’
He was at a loss as to how to respond, aware for the first time of this rota in which he wasn’t included. His next thought was that if they had asked him to participate he would not have had the time – or worse, the inclination . . .
‘How’s Oliver? Mum said she misses him.’
‘I bet she does, Di. I do too.’
‘Yes, but you’ve probably had some contact, unlike her. I mean, it’s hard enough losing her daughter, but the thought of losing contact with her grandson too . . .’
He could only picture his mother-in-law sobbing and clinging to him and was ashamed of the shiver of unease he felt, as if her sadness were cloying and he wanted nothing less than to be coated with it. ‘That’s not going to happen.’ He shook his head as if to emphasise the point. ‘And the way I look at it is, if he’s too busy at Uni, too preoccupied with life to call his gran, then that probably means he’s having a good time. I know we all miss him, but I know more than that we all just want him to be fine, happy.’
‘Oh God! Yes of course! But they do have phones in Birmingham?’
He held her gaze and bit his bottom lip – better than giving voice to the words that queued up on his tongue. He’s eighteen, lost his mum, is away from home, finding his feet; give him a bloody break . . .
‘I hear what you’re saying, Di, and when I do finally speak to him, I’ll mention it would be good to call his gran.’
She nodded and gave a small, satisfied hum. They both turned to look at the headstone.
‘Can’t believe it’s been nearly four months. Some days it feels like yesterday and others a lifetime.’ He made the observation more out of the want of small talk than anything else.
‘Three months, nine days and six hours . . .’ Di tilted her chin. Again, she had won, knowing more accurately how long it was since his wife had passed away.
‘I’d better get on, Di, I’m on a late shift.’ He nodded his head down the hill in the general direction of Siddley’s. ‘See you around.’
‘Yep.’ She took a sharp intake of breath. ‘See you around.’
Nick checked the printed inventory against the batch number on the pallets and gave the thumbs-up to the forklift driver to proceed with loading. He stood back and watched as the forks slid beneath the wooden pallet, stacked high with plastic-wrapped boxes, and slid them with ease into the back of the waiting truck with its door rolled up and the tail lift lowered.
‘What you doing tonight, Nick?’ Eric shouted across the yard.
‘Nothing.’ He stared at his mate, as if there might be any other answer.
‘Fancy coming to quiz night?’
‘Quiz night?’
‘Yes, up at the Blue Anchor, all in teams, three pounds each to play and we answer general knowledge questions and the winning team takes the pot. It’s a bit of a giggle and we have a pint.’
Nick considered his friend’s invitation. ‘I’m not very good at general knowledge.’
‘You don’t have to be, you mardy bastard. It’s not about knowing the most; it’s about getting you out of the house, about mixing with people and not sitting in watching rubbish telly and talking to Treacle.’
‘I like rubbish telly,’ Nick said in his defence, unable to deny the lengthy conversations he had with the pooch.
‘We all do, Nick, but not every night. Come out, Barbara!’
Nick laughed. ‘I don’t know . . .’ He tried to imagine going to the pub and being sociable and immediately pictured Di clearing weeds from the grave. ‘I don’t know if I’m up to it.’
‘You’re never going to be up to it if you don’t make the leap. I can’t force you, but I think it’ll do you good.’