Death be Not Proud (20 page)

“The east bedroom it is, then. Which reminds me…” I swivelled to look at him. “Matthew, I would like to visit Nanna this evening. If we are going tomorrow, it might be…” I hesitated, then decided not to finish the sentence. I didn't need to – all three understood what I had been going to say.

We made our way down the High Street between the Georgian shop façades. Windows glowed with Christmas lights and street decorations danced in the light wind that still blew the occasional flurry of snow between the varicoloured strands, briefly illuminating the flakes in a glow of red or blue or green before they passed once more into darkness. The streets were gritty with slush that clung in clumps to my boots.

I wore the coat Matthew had given me in Maine, but not gloves, as I wanted nothing between his hand and mine except our skin. Before leaving the house, I wrapped his scarf around his neck, tucking it under the collar of his coat, which was still wet and heavy from the morning's sleet. Now I shivered without it and he stopped, uncoiling the scarf and muffling my protests in its soft folds.

“You need this more than I do,” he said, drawing the scarf up and cocooning my ears. “There, that's better.” He stroked away a snowflake from my cheek. “That was very brave and forthright of you – with your parents and the sleeping arrangements, I mean – although I'm not sure if it will endear me to them.”

“I can be brave, especially if I've been plied with your wine
beforehand; it can make me outrageously outspoken and reckless. That is all right with you, isn't it? I mean, I didn't ask you, I just assumed.” I paused when I saw the look on his face. “Now what have I said?”

“
You
assumed, Emma?” he mocked me gently and I clapped my hands over my mouth. He drew me away from the side of the road as a car passed, spraying slushy ice in an arc from its tyres.

“I did, didn't I? I'm so sorry – I broke my cardinal rule. Would you prefer to stay somewhere else, or… er… or to be alone? I didn't mean to assume that you would want me to… oh,
blow
, you know perfectly well what I'm trying to say.”

I tied myself in knots as I realized I had made more than one assumption. The door to the shop closed behind the last customer, releasing a drift of chocolate-scented air into the street. Matthew tipped my chin with a finger, but I avoided looking at him in my embarrassment.

“If there is one thing you are safe to assume, Emma…” he began, and I dared to look at him again, and he held me in a steady gaze, “… that is that wherever you are, I want to be.” My heart lurched, caught off guard. “Now,” he said, “tell me about your grandmother.”

I led us down a quieter side road, and told him about Nanna and how her effervescent personality had brought sunshine into my childhood home. I described how she and Grandpa met, and their connection to Martinsthorpe. Finally, I spoke again of how my grandfather's obsession had dominated my life. Matthew grew quiet, his brow drawn together in concentrated thought. The hushed streets were lit by an occasional lamp, but many occupants had not yet drawn their curtains, displaying their intimate worlds with flagrant disregard for privacy. I loved to look in on other
people's lives, not because I knew them or wanted to know about them, but because they offered a source of stability and continuity which I found comforting. It was the same reason why I liked antiques or why I had become addicted to history. Matthew questioned why I hadn't fled in horror when I found out about his past. The wonder of it for me was why I hadn't taken flight
before
I knew his identity. The fact that he was a walking, talking, loving piece of living history was as much a magnet for me as his intellect, or thoughtfulness, or good looks. I wasn't sure how aware of that he might be, or whether it could be considered relevant now anyway. There were so many questions I wanted to ask him, so much that I needed to know but, as we walked along side by side, the plain fact that he shouldn't exist didn't matter to me at all. Not yet, anyway. I squeezed his hand and his frown cleared, dissolving into the night.

 

Awake and alert, Nanna sat up in a high-backed chair by the window in her new room. She smiled with the good side of her face when she saw me, and I bent down to kiss her soft cheek. Although the sun had long since set, the garden onto which her window looked gleamed prettily in the remains of the snow lit by pools of light from nearby rooms. I had asked Matthew if I could see her for a few minutes alone before I introduced him, and I could see him now through the open door as he waited in the communal entrance hall, studying a reproduction eighteenth-century map of the area.

My grandmother put her hand over mine and looked surprised.

“It's cold outside, Nanna. I know, I know, I should have worn gloves. Beth brought the children over this morning. The twins love the snow; they haven't seen much of it in their
short lives, have they?” I held her hand in mine as we looked out of the window together.

“Do you remember when we had snow on Boxing Day when I must have been about…” I wrinkled my nose, trying to think, “… about five, and Beth nearly fourteen – when Dad was stationed in Germany again. And we were in the car because I think we had been to see someone for a second Christmas Day – I can't remember who – and we saw all those moths in the headlights – hundreds and hundreds of them, and I couldn't understand why there were so many moths in winter. And everyone laughed at me except you, and you said, ‘These are no ordinary moths; these are the ghosts of the moths that fly under the summer moon, and they come back as snowflakes to fly again beneath a winter sun.' And when we arrived home and I opened the car door, my feet sank into the snow and I cried for all the lives of the moths that lay there, but you said, ‘Don't cry, Emma; the moths never really die, and next winter they will fly as snow again.'”

I sighed. “There aren't so many moths now, are there, Nanna?” When I looked at her again, a single tear had fallen down the hollow of her cheek. “Nanna?” She crooked her head towards me and the corner of her mouth twitched as she patted my hand. I checked over my shoulder and, seeing Matthew still absorbed, from inside my coat I drew the leather bag containing the journal, removed the book, and placed it carefully on the rug covering her knees.

“You wanted to see the journal, Nanna; this is it. This is what Grandpa and I wanted. This is what it is all about.”

My grandmother made a strange noise in her throat, almost an excited gasp, followed by a grunt of frustration as she tried to open the diary. I raised it to her eye level and opened the first page, then slowly turned the pages for her to see.

“Nanna, how did you know I had the journal? Nobody else knows except you, not even…” and unintentionally, my gaze slipped towards Matthew. “Nobody,” I repeated, and when I looked at her again, she studied my face, then directed her focus towards my heart. “Ah, I understand. You knew because you know me, yes? And because it's what Grandpa would have done. But, Nanna, Grandpa wasn't a
thief
…”

She let out a fierce growl, cutting me short. Alarmed, I interjected, “OK, I know I meant only to borrow it; still…”

Again the sharp retort, and this time I acquiesced before she strained herself.

“No, all right, I didn't steal it and yes, I mean to return it just as soon as I can. In fact…” I had prepared what I wanted to tell her, but now that it came to it, the words stuck. When I spoke again, my vocal cords vibrated uncomfortably against the obstruction. “I… have something to tell you, Nanna; I'm going back to America tomorrow, so I won't be here for Christmas. Also… I've brought somebody to meet you.” I glanced over to where two nurses were trying to engage Matthew in conversation. He wore his polite-but-distant expression as he kept one eye on me, waiting for my signal to join us. Nanna grunted a question.

“He's the doctor I told you about; he came back for me. I don't know what's going to happen next, but I wanted you to know – before I leave – I wanted you to know that this is what I want, what I've waited for. Mum and Dad aren't too sure, but I am, and I want you to be as well.”

She whispered something I leaned forward to catch.

“Yes, I am happy,” I said. “Very.” I might have added “confused”, but she didn't need to know that. “Will you meet him? Please?” She brushed my hand with hers in assent and I tucked the journal away out of sight and motioned to
Matthew. He seemed unaware of the impact of his departure on the thwarted nurses as they watched him move with muscular grace down the corridor towards us. He closed the door behind him, cutting off their view. I moved to one side so that he could greet her.

“Nanna, this is Matthew Lynes.”

My grandmother responded immediately; the old woman's eyes opened wide with the shock of recognition, her thin, bony fingers clasping the bright knitted rug over her knees. She stared at him, her mouth moving without uttering a sound. Matthew looked perplexed as I sat down next to her, holding her clenched hands in mine.

“What is it? What's the matter?” I followed the direction of her gaze and then realized. “Oh, how stupid of me! I should have reminded you, I'm sorry.” I laughed nervously, “Matthew, it's your hair, I forgot; it's just like Grandpa's, isn't it, Nanna? It confused me too, when I first met him.” She moved her hands beneath mine and grunted. “I'll be staying with Matthew and his family over Christmas and I don't know when I'll be back next.”

She whispered something I didn't catch and Matthew drew another chair towards mine and sat next to her. She fixed him with her inquisitional look and he returned it steadily, as if a conversation without words flowed between them. She whispered to me again, the effort strenuous as she tried to vocalize her thoughts. Matthew touched her arm lightly.

“Ask me directly; I can hear everything you say. I live in Maine but I originally came from this region; is that what you wanted to know?”

I disguised my astonishment at his casual revelation by pulling the sagging rug over her lap and tucking it in. Nanna narrowed her eyes, searching for something hidden in the back
of her memory. Slowly, hesitantly at first, she raised her hand and touched his face, and my breath came short and shallow as I waited for her to remember where she had seen his image before – from her childhood, from her youth – when the sun shone through the window of the old church. He didn't flinch, and she rested her hand for the briefest moment on his cheek before sighing and letting it drop. The moment passed, the memory gone, but her lips moved although I didn't hear her speak. Matthew looked up at me.

“Emma, your grandmother would like some tea. Is it possible you could ask one of the nurses?” He saw my eyes flick to the half-finished beaker standing on her bedside table before I rose to do as she asked.

 

Instead of bothering the nurses, I went in search of the kitchenette at the other end of the care home, which would give Nanna and Matthew more time to discuss whatever it was they didn't want me to hear. I found the kettle, and sat on the seating next to the utility area, waiting for it to boil. I leaned my head back and contemplated the strip lighting, feeling suddenly very tired. This wasn't going exactly as planned, although I don't know what I thought would happen. I wanted my grandmother's blessing, I suppose – her approval. I always sought it when things weren't going my way or when I doubted a decision I had made. But it was more than that, and she would understand. I reached out to my grandfather through her, as my last tenuous link to that part of my childhood which made me the person I had become, because he always believed that I could do whatever I set out to do, and do it well. What would he have made of this turn of events that linked our past and present to an unknown future? What indeed?

 

As I put the tea on the locker, Matthew stood up and put his arm around my shoulders. He seemed quite serious and, whatever they had discussed must have taxed her, because Nanna rested her head against the dark green back of her chair, her eyes closed. Wisps of flimsy white hair contrasted with the material, and her skin – tight and thin – stretched like vellum over her cheekbones. Her pulse beat visibly in her neck and she looked very frail.

Before he could answer my questioning look, my grandmother opened her eyes and one side of her face lifted as she saw me – saw
us
– confirming her approval in a way no words could. Then she looked at Matthew and he nodded once, and stopped me before I could sit down, holding on to my hand, his voice quiet.

“Emma, your grandmother is very tired; you need to say goodbye.”

“Of course, we'll go in a minute, but…”

“Emma.” Looking evenly into mine, the changing colour of his eyes conveyed an unspoken message:
It's time to say goodbye.

Crushing realization drained blood from my face, a gathering weight in my chest drowning my heart.

“No, Matthew – not yet! She can't, not now!” I gasped, trying to get around him to Nanna, struggling to free my hand from his grip. Instead he drew me to him, holding me until I stopped fighting. His heart beat evenly against the stuttering pulse of my own. “But Nanna…” I tried, but found my throat closed up.

“She knows, Emma, she's ready. She doesn't want to stay any longer.” His voice mellowed, flowing in calming rivulets. “Your grandmother is content now; she's waited this long and that's long enough. It's time for her to go.”

Resisting the effects of his voice, I pulled away from him, and this time he let me go. “Enough? Nanna, what's enough?” I slid onto my knees next to my grandmother, taking her hand. “Nanna, what's enough? I don't understand. How do you
know
?” I fired the question over my shoulder at him. As I looked desperately at her, she smiled sadly at me, and with a great effort lifted her good hand to touch my face. She looked at Matthew and he held out his hand so that she could take it shakily in her own, placing his palm against my cheek in a gesture of union.

“Emma, this is what she wants, this is what she has been waiting for; let her go.” I clasped their hands to my face – the one thin and dry and faded, the other strong and vital. I closed my eyes and breathed consciously until the overwhelming need to cry receded, mitigated by the stronger desire to maintain control for her sake. I wanted our parting not to be stained with my tears. Finally I spoke again.