Oliver sat in the corner of the sofa, coiling his legs beneath him. He grabbed a cushion, which he placed over his chest, as if this feather-filled shield might offer a little protection from the verbal blows about to be delivered.
‘It was very peaceful.’ Nick’s voice carried the croak of someone containing distress. ‘She just went to sleep, but as I say, it was peaceful and I think at the end of the day, Olly, that’s the best thing we could ever hope for the people we love.’
‘Can I go now?’
‘What?’ The boy’s words were unexpected and Nick felt the shameful glide of relief over his bones that there was not going to be the storm of emotion, the tears and anger that he had imagined for so long.
‘I said, can I go now?’
‘Of course, but if you want to talk to me, if you want—’
Oliver leapt up, cutting short his dad’s speech as he walked briskly from the room. He heard the heavy footfall of his steps as his son ran up the stairs, back to the solace of his bed, no doubt. Nick sat back, taking in the room, which looked appropriately drab and cold in the half-light and where a thin layer of dust had settled on the surfaces. He thought about the conversation with Kerry’s mum, Dora, who had arrived quickly after Kerry had passed. He stood in the corridor, loosely holding the small woman, who sobbed into her soggy handkerchief, while her friend Maureen and her other daughter, Diane, looked on.
‘She’s . . . She’s with her dad now, isn’t she?’
Dora looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes wide with hope. And he had nodded, not sure what he believed, but knowing that the kindest thing to do at that moment was to offer a crumb of hope that the woman who had unimaginably lost her younger daughter might hold in her palm when the night felt like it would never end. Diane, Kerry’s sister, had sobbed noisily as she walked her mum to the car, her arm across her shoulders, with Maureen propping her up on the other side, their walk slow and meandering.
He stood from the chair and made his way up the stairs, a quick glance at the bottom of Oliver’s door telling him that he had turned the lamp off. He hoped his boy might sleep, wishing at some level that he could turn the clock back to when Oliver was small and Nick would sit on the edge of the bed, take him in his arms and rock him gently, telling him everything was going to be just fine . . . This followed by the sharp tip of realisation that if Oliver were small again, then Kerry would be by his side, young and fit and healthy, and there would be no need for the comfort offered over this terrible, terrible event.
He locked the bathroom door and stared at her lilac toothbrush sitting next to his in the pot. He took it in his hands and cradled it to his chest. This little plastic bristled stick that she had abandoned many weeks before had been a symbol of normality, of their life together, where night upon night they would stand side by side and clean their teeth before bedtime, elbows clashing in the narrow space between the bath and wall, smiling at their reflections in the mirrored medicine cabinet because all was good in their world. Happy with their lot.
A toothbrush – such an intimate object and one now without use because Kerry was gone. He pictured her smiling mouth and that slight shake of the head that told him not to be so silly. It was just a toothbrush. He wanted so badly at that moment to hold her, to feel her warm skin beneath his fingertips, that the ache hit his gut like a punch. Nick slipped down on to the cork-tiled floor, where his tears broke their banks and his chest heaved with the heavy weight of loss. His tears came so thick and fast it was hard to catch a breath. His distress took the last of his energy and, weak with exhaustion, he crumpled, crawling across the landing to the airing cupboard. With tears sliding silently down his face he kept his promise; hauling himself up, he switched the central heating on to give the house a boost of warmth. He knew how she hated to walk into the bathroom with chilly toes.
He woke the next day, as dawn broke. He had slept fitfully, waking often with a headache that made his thoughts cloudy. He felt odd; his brain raced ahead, mentally sorting his schedule for the day.
Must get up, have a shower and get to St Vincent’s early, don’t want her sitting on her own . . . before grief slammed the brakes on his plans and the realisation that he didn’t have to go to the hospice, in fact would not have to go there ever again, left him feeling a little lost, now that his routine and his main preoccupation had been removed.
He was desperate for a cup of tea, but was distracted from the task by the mess that littered the work surfaces. He stumbled around the kitchen with the gait and concentration of a drunk. Slowly, he stacked dirty dishes and the cold, tea-stained mugs into the sink before abandoning the task halfway through. He opened the back door of the kitchen to catch the morning breeze.
‘That’s it, Nick, let the day in . . .’ He heard her words as plainly as if she were standing behind him.
Fatigue and forgetfulness lulled him into the armchair in front of the television. The dishes could wait. Everything could wait. He kept the curtains drawn, not wanting the prying eyes of well-meaning neighbours who he was in no doubt would already know that Kerry had passed. Burstonbridge – or Burston, as locals knew it – had one school, one post office, one supermarket, two churches and seven pubs, and was a place where everyone knew someone you knew. He and Kerry had grown up here and their wider families spilled into every street and cul-de-sac in the immediate surroundings. Word would have got around very quickly. He pushed his fingertips into his closed eyes, trying to ease the soreness born of crying hard until he had fallen asleep. As he sat like this, in thought, he heard the flap of the letter box bang shut.
And so it began.
No more than an hour or so later there was a stack of envelopes forming a cushion on the welcome mat. He smiled inwardly at the thought that if Treacle had been home she would have loved it, nuzzling the slender paper gifts containing heartfelt words that had sat poised on the nibs of pens and the tips of tongues since that final diagnosis nearly four months ago: spread . . . metastasise . . . three months, tops . . .
‘It’ll be all right, love. Either way, it’ll all be all right. We have to make the best of it.’
‘How will it be all right, Kerry? How can we make the best of it?’
‘We have to, love, because we have no choice . . .’
‘Dad?’
‘Yes?’ He sat forward with a jolt, so lost in the memory of their conversation that it took him a second to realise Oliver’s voice was real and coming from the doorway.
‘We’ve run out of milk.’
‘Milk?’ He tried to catch up.
‘Yes, there’s no milk.’
‘But there was half a bottle in the fridge when I left last night.’
‘I had some cereal.’ Oliver kicked his bare foot at the bottom of the door.
‘I’ll go and get some.’
Nick stood and waited, looking at the boy, hoping this interaction might be the precursor of something more, a revelation of sorts, questions even, but no. Nothing. He watched his son trudge back up the stairs, noting the dirty soles of his feet. Kerry would no doubt tell him to go and bathe. He grabbed his house key from the little wooden shelf above the radiator, stopping to gather the cards, which he scooped into a pile and plopped on the bottom stair.
The front door was only half open when he saw his mum walking towards him in her pyjama bottoms and an oversized T-shirt. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, and Treacle strained on the leash. He took a deep breath, not knowing if he was ready to face either of them, not that he had any choice.