Chris Cleave Ebook Boxed Set (14 page)

“So what’s confusing you? Is it that you’re not feeling anything much and you think you should be?”

“It’s my husband’s funeral. I should be sad, at least.”

“You’re in control of yourself. You’re not a gusher. Celebrate that.”

“I can’t cry for Andrew. I keep thinking about that day in Africa. On the beach.”

“Sarah?”

“Yes?”

“I thought we agreed it was best that you forget all that. What
happened, happened. We agreed that you were just going to move on, didn’t we. Hmm?”

I pressed my left hand flat against the windowpane and stared at the stump of my lost finger.

“I don’t think
moving on
is going to work anymore, Lawrence. I don’t think I can just continue to deny what happened. I don’t think I’ll be able to. I …”

My voice trailed off.

“Sarah? Deep breaths.”

I opened my eyes. Outside, Batman was still poking fiercely at the pond. The
Today Programme
scolded away on the radio. Next door the neighbor had finished pegging his washing and now he simply stood there, eyes half-closed. Soon he would move on to a new task: the percolation of coffee, perhaps, or the application of replacement twine to the spool of a string trimmer. Small problems. Neat problems.

“Now that Andrew’s, well,
gone,
Lawrence. Do you think you and I will be …”

A pause on the other end of the phone. Then Lawrence—careful Lawrence—noncommittal.

“Andrew didn’t stop us while he was alive,” he said. “Do you see any reason to change things now?”

I sighed again.

“Sarah?”

“Yes?”

“Just focus on today for now, will you? Focus on the funeral, hold it together, get through today. Stop smearing that fucking toast on the
computer
!”

“Lawrence?”

“Sorry. That was the baby. He’s got a piece of buttered toast and he’s wiping it all over … sorry, have to go.”

Lawrence hung up. I turned from the window and sat on the bed. I waited. I was putting off having to go downstairs and deal with Little Bee. Instead of moving I watched myself, in the mirror,
as a widow. I tried to find some physical sign of Andrew’s passing. No extra line on the forehead? No darkening of the skin under the eyes? Really? Nothing?

How calm my eyes were, since that day on the beach in Africa. When there has been a loss so fundamental I suppose that to lose just one more thing—a finger, perhaps, or a husband—is of absolutely no consequence at all. In the mirror my green eyes were placid—as still as a body of water that is either very deep, or very shallow.

Why couldn’t I cry? Soon I would have to go and face a church full of mourners. I rubbed my eyes, harder than our beauty experts advise. I needed to show red eyes to the mourners, at least. I needed to show them that I
had
cared for Andrew, truly cared for him. Even if, since Africa, I hadn’t really bought the idea of love as a permanent thing, measurable in self-administered surveys, present if you answered mostly B. So I gouged my thumbs into the skin beneath my lashes. If I couldn’t show the world grief, at least I would show the world what it did to your eyes.

Finally I went downstairs and stared at Little Bee. She was still sitting there on the sofa, her eyes closed, her head propped on the cushions. I coughed, and she snapped awake. Brown eyes, orange patterned silk cushions. She blinked at me and I stared at her, with the mud still caking her trainers. I felt
nothing.

“Why did you come here?” I said.

“I did not have any other place to go. The only people I know in this country are you and Andrew.”

“You hardly know us. We met, that’s all.”

Little Bee shrugged.

“You and Andrew are the only ones I met,” she said.

“Andrew is dead. We are going to bury him this morning.”

Little Bee just blinked at me, glazedly.

“Do you understand?” I said. “My husband
died.
We are going to have a
funeral.
It’s a kind of ceremony. In a church. It’s what we do in this country.”

Little Bee nodded.

“I know what you do in this country,” she said.

There was something in her voice—so old, so tired—that terrified me. That was when the door knocker sounded again and Charlie answered the door to the undertaker and called down the hallway,
Mummy, it’s Bruce Wayne!

“Run out and play in the garden, darling.”

“But Mummy! I want to see Bruce Wayne.”

“
Please,
darling. Just go.”

When I came to the door, the undertaker glanced at the stump of my finger. People generally do, but rarely with that professional gaze that notes:
Left hand, second finger, first and second phalanx, yes, we could fix that with a wax prosthetic, a slender one, with a light Caucasian flesh tone, and we could use Kryolan foundation to cover the join, and we could fold the right hand over the left in the coffin, and Bob would be your mother’s brother, madam.

I was thinking,
Clever undertaker. If only I was dead, you could make a whole woman out of me.

“My deepest condolences, madam. We are ready for you whenever you feel ready to come.”

“Thank you. I’ll just get my son and my … well. My friend.”

I watched the undertaker ignoring the smell of gin on my breath. He looked back at me. There was a small scar on his forehead. His nose was flattened and skewed. His face registered nothing. It was as blank as my mind.

“Take all the time you need, madam.”

I went out into the back garden. Batman was digging away at something under the roses. I went over to him. He had a trowel and he was lifting a dandelion, pulling its root to the tip. Our resident robin was hungry and he watched from six yards away. Batman raised the dandelion from the soil and brought it close to examine its root. Kneeling, he looked up at me.

“Is this a weed, Mummy?” he said.

“Yes darling. Next time, if you’re not sure, ask before you dig it up.”

Batman shrugged.

“Shall I put it in the wild patch?” he said.

I nodded, and Batman carried the dandelion over to a small part of the garden where Andrew had given a home to such rascals, in the hope that they would attract butterflies and bees.
In our small garden I have made a wild place to remind me of chaos,
Andrew once wrote in his column.
Our modern lives are too ordered, too antiseptic.

That had been before Africa.

Batman bedded in the dandelion among the nettles.

“Mummy, is weeds baddies?”

I said that it depended if you were a boy or a butterfly. Batman rolled his eyes, like a newsman interviewing an equivocating politician. I couldn’t help smiling.

“Who is that woman on the sofa, Mummy?”

“Her name is Little Bee.”

“That’s a funny name.”

“Not if you’re a bee.”

“But she isn’t a bee.”

“No. She’s a person. She’s from a country called Nigeria.”

“Mmm. Is she a goody?”

I stood up straight.

“We have to go now darling,” I said. “The undertaker is here to collect us.”

“Bruce Wayne?”

“Yes.”

“Is we going to the bat cave?”

“
Are we
going to the bat cave.”

“Are we?”

“Sort of.”

“Hmm. I is coming in a minute.”

I felt the perspiration starting on my back. I had on a gray
woolen suit and a hat that was not black but a late-evening nod to it. It didn’t scorn tradition, but nor had it entirely submitted to darkness. Folded up over the hat was a black veil, ready to bring down when the right moment came. I hoped someone would tell me when that was.

I wore navy-blue gloves, which were borderline dark enough for a funeral. The middle finger of the left hand glove was truncated and stitched. I’d done it two nights earlier, as soon as I was drunk enough to bear it, in a merciful hour between insobriety and incapacity. The glove’s severed finger was still lying on my sewing table. It was hard to throw away.

In my suit pocket was my phone, set to quiet mode in case I forgot to do it later. I also had a ten-pound note ready for the collection, in case there was a collection. It seemed unlikely at a funeral, but I wasn’t sure. (And if there was a collection, was ten pounds about right? Five seemed ridiculously mean; twenty obscenely flashy.)

There was nobody left to ask about ordinary things. Little Bee was no use. I couldn’t ask her: are these blue gloves okay? She’d only stare at them, as if they were the first pair of gloves she had ever seen, which was quite possibly the case. (Yes, but are they
dark enough,
Little Bee? Between you and me—you as the refugee from horror and me as the editor of an edgy monthly magazine—would we call that shade blue,
courageous,
or blue,
irreverent
?)

Ordinary things were going to be the hardest, I realized. There was nobody to ask about them. This was something undeniable, now that Andrew was gone: there was nobody left with a strong opinion about life in a civilized country.

Our robin hopped out from the foxgloves with a worm in its beak. The worm skin was puce, the color of bruising.

“Come on, Batman, we have to go.”

“In a
minute,
Mummy.”

In the quiet of the garden then the robin shook his worm, and swallowed its life from the light into darkness with the quick indifference of a god. I felt nothing at all. I looked at my son, pale and
bemused in the neatly planted garden, and I looked past him at Little Bee, tired and mud-stained, waiting for us to go through into the house.

So, I realized—life had finally broken through. How silly it looked now, my careful set of defenses against nature: my brazen magazine, my handsome husband, my Maginot Line of motherhood and affairs. The world, the real world, had found a way through. It had sat down on my sofa and it would not be denied any longer.

I went through the house to the front door to tell the undertaker we would be with him in a minute. He nodded. I looked behind the undertaker at his men, pale and hungover in their coattails. I have drunk gin myself in my time and I recognized that solemn expression they wore. One part pity, three parts I’ll-
never
-drink-again. The men nodded at me. It is a peculiar sensation, as a woman with a very good job, to be pitied by men with tattoos and headaches. It’s the way people will always look at me now, I suppose, as a foreigner in this country of my heart I should never have come to.

On the street in front of our house, the hearse and the limo stood waiting. I went out into the driveway to look through the green glass of the hearse. Andrew’s coffin was there, lying on bright chrome rollers. Andrew, my husband of eight years. I thought:
I should feel something now.
I thought:
Rollers. How practical.

On our street the semidetached houses stretched to infinity in both directions. The clouds scrolled across the sky, blandly oppressive, each one resembling the next, all threatening rain. I looked back at Andrew’s coffin and I thought about his face. I thought about it dead. How slowly he had died, over those last two years. How imperceptible it had been, that transition in his facial expression, from deadly serious to seriously dead. Already those two faces were blurring together for me. My husband alive and my husband dead—they now seemed only semidetached, as if under the coffin lid I would find the two of them fused like Siamese twins, eyes agape, looking to infinity in both directions.

And now this thought came into my head with the full clarity of horror:
Andrew was once a passionate, loving, brilliant man.

Staring at my husband’s coffin, I clung to this thought. I held it up before my own memory like a tentative flag of truce. I remembered Andrew at the newspaper we both worked for when we met, having a shouting match with his editor over some lofty point of principle that got him gloriously fired, on the spot, and sent him striding fierce and beautiful into the corridor. The first time that I thought,
This is a man to be proud of.
And then Andrew practically tripping over me eavesdropping in the corridor, openmouthed, pretending I was walking past on my way to the newsroom. Andrew grinning at me, unhesitatingly, and saying,
Fancy buying a former colleague a spot of dinner?
It was one in a billion. It was like catching lightning in a bottle.

The marriage cooled when Charlie was born. As if that one lightning strike was all we got, and most of the heat from it had to go into our child. Nigeria had accelerated the cooling and now death had finished it, but my disaffection and my affair with Lawrence had come first. That was what my mind was stuck on, I realized. There was no quick grief for Andrew because he had been so slowly lost. First from my heart, then from my mind, and only finally from my life.

This, then, was when real sorrow arrived. This was the shock that set me trembling, as if something seismic had been released deep inside me and was blindly inching toward the surface. I trembled, but there was no release of tears.

I went back inside the house, and collected my son and Little Bee. Mismatched, dazed, semidetached, we walked to my husband’s funeral. Still shaking, in the pew, I understood that it isn’t the dead we cry for. We cry for ourselves, and I didn’t deserve my own pity.

After it was all over, someone or other drove us home. I clung on to Charlie in the backseat of a car. I remember the car smelled of stale cigarettes. I stroked Charlie’s head and pointed out the everyday things that we passed, invoking the comfort of houses and
shops and cars by the hopeful magic of whispering their names. Ordinary nouns were what we needed, I decided. Everyday things would get us through. Never mind that Charlie’s Batman costume was covered in grave mud. When we got home I put it in the wash and I gave him the clean one. When it hurt too much to prize open the box of washing powder, I used the other hand.

I remember sitting with Charlie while we watched the water flood into the machine, rising behind the round glass door. The machine lurched into its familiar grinding preamble, and Charlie and I had a perfectly ordinary conversation. That was the worst moment for me. We talked about what he wanted for lunch. Charlie said he wanted crisps. I demurred. He insisted. I acquiesced. I was a pushover at that moment and my son knew it. I conceded on tomato ketchup and ice cream too, and there was triumph in Charlie’s face and horror in his eyes. There was extraordinary pain behind the ordinary nouns.