He had done it, mentioned her, made it real. It felt akin to dipping his toe in the pool of grief, and it felt cold.
Oliver took a breath and looked up at the glass panel of the front door as his nan made her way up the path with a bottle of milk under one arm and a four-pack of toilet tissue under the other.
Nick let her in and watched as his mother made a beeline for her grandson.
‘Oh, there he is! Oh, Olly! My little darlin’!’ She dumped the purchases into her son’s arms and enveloped Oliver in a restrictive hug. Nick saw the comedy in the moment as his son rolled his eyes over her shoulder and stuck out his tongue, fighting for breath and a little space as his nan almost garrotted him with the ferocity of her loving hold.
And this was how it was, the two of them passing the days, largely in separate rooms, coming together occasionally to calmly and quietly pour cereal or to greet the steady stream of visitors who pitched up, crying, clutching damp tissues and more often than not with a home-made cake, a meat pie or a batch of biscuits in their hands.
He and Oliver would exchange a knowing look and give assurances in the way that was becoming familiar: they were fine, needed nothing and they were grateful for the time the callers had taken to come and see them. Nick fell into bed each night in a state of near collapse. He was bone tired, too exhausted even to worry about his son’s lack of emotional display or to dread the funeral, which was now planned. The George, the pub closest to the church, had been booked for the wake and Nick confirmed that Kerry wanted the same hymns they had had at their wedding; it seemed fitting. One of his last thoughts before falling asleep was what it would be like in the church if no one sang. On their wedding day Kerry had given a rousing rendition of ‘Give Me Joy In My Heart’, as Nick had neither the voice nor the confidence to sing out loud. He hoped someone would pick up the mantle, help him out, now dreading the idea of them all standing in an awkward silence.
You looked so beautiful . . .
You looked so handsome . . .
I felt like the luckiest man in the world . . .
And I the luckiest girl . . .
Nick looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and sat forward on the edge of the sofa, waiting for Oliver to come home. This was it. Two years of hard work and all that they had been through; the results of his efforts would be judged in three letters, single grades printed on a slip of paper. Nick’s palms were a little clammy and he took a deep breath.
It doesn’t matter, nothing does . . . you did your best, son, you can be so proud of that, and you had so much to contend with, more than most people have to face in a lifetime . . . don’t beat yourself up about it, a path will reveal itself to you; it always does . . . we can go with plan B . . . He practised the words of comfort and commiseration. ‘Oh, God,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I don’t think we have a plan B.’
He stood and tried again, in vain, to arrange the cushions the way Kerry had done them. They still defeated him, these pointless floral squares of feathers that sat like unwanted passengers on the sofa and chair, taking up space. He loathed them and yet couldn’t bring himself to throw them away, not when they had been carefully chosen by her hand and had felt the touch of her cheek as she lay on the sofa to watch Strictly with her feet on his lap.
He sat back in the seat and folded his arms across his stomach, his head tipped back, imagining as he often did that Kerry was in the kitchen busying away, as she liked to do, and that all was right in his world . . .
He must have fallen asleep, as the front door crashing open and hitting the shelf above the radiator in the hallway woke him. He sat upright, remembering instantly the reason for Oliver’s urgency, and his heart raced accordingly.
‘Mum! Dad! I did it! I did it!’ the boy called from the hallway. ‘I got three . . .’
And then a bang as if something had hit the floor.
And then silence.
Nick had heard the words loud and clear, so naturally, so comfortably called that it took a second or two for the universe to catch up. He looked towards the door, expecting his son to walk in. After a couple of seconds, he stood and went to investigate the silence. He put his head around the door and knew that he would never forget the sight that greeted him.
Oliver was sitting on the welcome mat, coiled into a ball like a small child with his chin on his chest and his knees raised. His arms were clamped around his shins and his whole body shook.
Nick sank down to join him on the floor, and that was where they sat on the bristly welcome mat that felt anything but. Oliver raised his head and the sight of his distress caused Nick’s own tears to pool.
‘She’s not here, Dad! She’s not here, is she?’
‘No, son. She’s not here,’ he managed through his own distress, hating to extinguish the faint look of hope in his son’s eyes.
‘Oh nooooooo! No!’ Oliver’s wail was loud, deep and drawn from deep within. He banged the floor with his hand. ‘I wanted to say goodbye to her! I wanted to . . . to tell her things and I wanted to say goodbye!’ He sobbed noisily. ‘I didn’t want her to leave me, Dad! I want her here. I want her here with us! And now she’s gone and I didn’t have the chance to tell her . . .’
‘She knew, she knew, love. She knew what you wanted to say to her, she did!’ Nick almost shouted through a mouth twisted with distress.
‘You don’t know that! You don’t know anything!’ Oliver kicked his leg out and smashed it into the wall.
‘I do! I do, son. I was with her when she went. I was there, sat by her side, holding her hand, and I know what her last words were and they were for you!’
He put his arm around his son as his crying subsided a little. ‘They . . . They were?’ He looked up with an expression that was heart-wrenching in its desperate need.
Nick nodded.
‘Yes.’ He ran through the lie in his head, knowing Kerry would understand. Hoping Kerry would understand.
‘What . . . What did she say, Dad?’ Oliver gripped his forearm like a small child wary of separation.
Nick coughed to clear his throat; he ran his palm over his face before speaking slowly and steadily. ‘She said; tell Olly I love him and I know that he loves me.’
Oliver wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, sniffing. ‘She did?’
‘Yes. She did. That’s what she said.’
Oliver smiled briefly through his tears and let out a long, slow breath that sounded a lot like relief. ‘I was worried that she didn’t know . . . didn’t know that I loved her. And that I will miss her.’ He cried again.
‘Oh, she knew, she knew, Olly, and she wanted me to tell you that she knew.’
Again the boy smiled through his distress.
‘Was she in any pain? At the end? I keep thinking of her hurting and it makes me cry.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Not at all. They had given her a lot of drugs and she spoke softly to me and she was calm, not in pain, just sleepy – you know, the way she looked and sounded just before she dozed off on the sofa. Then she just closed her eyes and went to sleep. It was peaceful and quiet and lovely, really.’
Forgive me, Kerry. I’m not a liar, but I don’t know what to do . . .
You’re doing fine. Just fine, my love . . .
Oliver nodded and took his time digesting this. He took another deep breath and sat up straight, sniffing once more and swiping at his eyes. ‘I got two As and a B, Dad. Enough for my place at Birmingham.’