The Dead Wife's Handbook (44 page)

Chapter 32

There’s a white transit van parked outside our house, its back doors swung open, revealing its contents to any passerby with a tendency towards curiosity. There’s not much to see, just a couple of boxes and a lone oversized Selfridges bag. I wonder whether I’ve been absent only a matter of hours, whether this is the van that will transport my worldly possessions to charity shops and rubbish dumps and recycling centres. If it is, I think I’d rather not be here to witness it.

While I’m contemplating whether to try and will myself away before I see things I may wish I hadn’t, Ellie, Eve and Max emerge from the front door, empty-handed. Max climbs into the back of the van, hands Ellie the Selfridges bag, Eve one of the boxes and carries the final package out himself, closing the van doors behind him with a decisive thrust of his hips. The three of them walk into the house and close the door behind them. I join them inside a second later.

The hall is again filled with boxes, bags and suitcases, but the luggage is not any I recognize. This, I’m guessing, is a day for moving in rather than moving out.

‘Right, that’s the last load and I, for one, am exhausted. I vote for a tea-and-biscuit break. Do you ladies agree?’

‘Dad, why would I ever say no to a biscuit? I’ll make the tea.’

While Ellie runs into the kitchen, I follow Max and Eve into the sitting room and am greeted by changes that signal, once and for all, as if I needed any further proof, that this is no longer my home.

The photographic shrine to my life with Max and Ellie has been removed, a solitary six-by-four framed picture of the three of us together in Greece nestling cosily among the books. The walls are now adorned with art they haven’t housed before; nice art, good art, expensive contemporary art by the look of it. Just not art that Max and I ever owned together. The mantelpiece is now the proud exhibitor of a single eight-by-ten framed photograph of Max and Eve together on a summer’s day at what appears to be a wedding or a garden party. Their arms are draped affectionately around each other’s waists, both of them laughing – not just smiling, but laughing – into the camera. They look happy. Really happy. I wonder whose party it was, or whose wedding. Whether I knew the hosts or whether the event was part of Max’s new social life, a life I know so little about.

I notice that the tatty green armchair, the chair I’d been imploring Max to dispose of since we first moved in together, the chair he’d acquired when he was a second-year student from somewhere I suspected wasn’t a shop but rather a street corner, the chair he’d refused to part company with for the duration of our cohabitation, has finally disappeared, replaced by a small, smart, brown leather sofa. I see that a stripped pine desk has taken up residence adjacent to the French doors at the far end of the sitting room and a new bookcase is waiting patiently in one of the alcoves to be filled with whatever tomes Eve’s brought with her.

It’s strange, witnessing my old house undergo these changes. A bit like going into a neighbour’s home, familiar in shape and size but disconcertingly different in colour, style and furnishings. Or like a memory that contrasts sharply with another’s recollection of the same event, with no clear barometer for which version – if either – is the truth.

Ellie walks in carefully, precariously carrying a tray too weighty for her little arms. She manages to deposit it safely on to the wooden trunk in the middle of the room before edging herself between Max and Eve to settle down on the sofa with them. Max responds with an amused grin and shifts himself to make room for her.

‘Seriously, ladies, I’m pooped. Do you think we’ve done enough for today?’

‘Are you joking, Dad? There’s still loads to do. We haven’t even started unpacking yet. Didn’t you see all those boxes in the hall?’

Max laughs and hugs her towards him.

‘You’re a hard taskmaster, Ellie Myerson, do you know that?’

‘Mmm … well, I wonder where she can possibly get that from? Weren’t you up marking essays until well past midnight last night? And on a Friday night too.’

‘Ah, but that, you see, was only with a view to freeing up the whole weekend to help you move in, wasn’t it?’

‘I don’t know, Ellie. Your dad – he’s the last of the great charmers, isn’t he?’

Ellie and Eve exchange a conspiratorial glance before the two of them pounce on Max and begin tickling him relentlessly.

‘I surrender, I surrender. I admit I’m as much of a task-master as my crack-the-whip eight-year-old daughter.’

‘Too little, too late, Max, don’t you think, Ellie? Get him just below the ribs, that’ll teach him.’

Ellie is giggling wildly and Max can barely breathe he’s laughing so hard.

‘It’s … not … fair. You … have … to stop … if someone … surrenders. That’s the … deal.’

‘What do you think, Ellie? Shall we let him go?’

‘Only if he promises that as soon as he’s finished his tea we’ll unpack the rest of your things until it’s time for pizza and
The X Factor
.’

‘I promise … I promise. Anything to get … you two … harridans … off me.’

Ellie clambers down from her vantage point on Max’s chest and Eve flops back on to the far side of the sofa, the three of them still trying to catch their breath.

I look at Max and I notice for the first time how much his face has changed. It’s free from the gloom that’s furrowed his brow and darkened the light behind his eyes for the past two and a half years. It’s the face of a man who’s happy, who’s contented with his given lot, who has, at last, found the peace he’s been in search of for far too long. The face of a man restored to well-being after a painful period of emotional ill health. It’s heart-warming to be reacquainted with the exuberance of the man I married, consoling to witness these qualities returned to him, even if I can’t be there to share them. And I have Ellie and Eve to thank for bringing Max back to himself. He couldn’t have done it without them. Without both of them. I know that.

I look at Ellie, at the uninhibited grin animating her face, and there’s nothing but pleasure lighting her eyes. Whatever anxieties she may have harboured about Eve’s permanent involvement in their lives have clearly long since evaporated.

I scan the room again and instead of regret for the objects of mine that are no longer present, I feel unexpectedly relieved by their absence. Seeing Eve’s belongings in what used to be my home doesn’t feel like the usurpation I was anticipating but rather a liberation from the debris of the past. I feel suddenly unencumbered, as though all those material possessions had been tying me to the living world by a cord that’s now been cut, releasing me from the burden of my own grief.

Surveying the house now, the house that was once the location of so many happy times with Max and Ellie, what I unearth are strangeness and familiarity housed under the same roof. It’s not, I know, my home any more. It’s finally letting go of me, as I am of it.

Max slurps the last of his tea ostentatiously and, proving that he’s as good as his word, leaps off the sofa and pulls Ellie to her feet in the process.

As the trio troop upstairs in crocodile fashion, I remain in the sitting room with no inclination to follow, keen to allow them the privacy they’ve so often been denied, uneasy about the intrusion that I’ve inflicted upon their lives. It’s time I left them to unpack alone.

Chapter 33

Laughter penetrates the clouds and when they finally clear I find myself in the kitchen at home with Ellie and Eve. They’re in the midst of a baking session, the intended outcome of which is, judging by the ingredients laid out and the festive songs emerging from the iPod dock, a Christmas pudding.

They’re both singing along to the music, Ellie’s nose covered in flour and her hand dipping into the cup of raisins at frequent enough intervals to prompt Eve to reweigh them before adding them to the mixing bowl. They look like a proper team. A proper family. A mother and daughter if you didn’t know better.

‘What do we have to do now?’

‘It’s really simple, although don’t tell anyone I said so because they’ll be really impressed that we made this from scratch. Once all the ingredients are nicely mixed together, we cover the bowl and secure it with string and then boil it in water for about five hours.’

‘
Five
hours? That’s ages. And then is it ready?’

‘Pretty much. We should have made it about three weeks ago really. A week isn’t long enough because ideally we’d feed it some brandy every few days for about a month before Christmas Day to make sure it’s really tasty.’

‘Brandy? So will it make me drunk?’

Eve laughs and dabs some more flour playfully on to Ellie’s nose.

‘Possibly, yes. But we won’t have time to do that this year anyway so I think you’ll be fine.’

Eve places the mixing bowl in a large saucepan and adds boiling water before the pair of them begin clearing up the happy mess they’ve made.

‘Eve? You know how everyone says that Christmas is the time of the year when you’re supposed to be most happy? Well, the thing is, sometimes I’m not. Sometimes it’s when I’m most sad.’

Eve stops wiping down the work surface and turns to face my little girl, a crease of concern between her eyes. There’s a solemnity in Ellie’s expression that’s all the more poignant for its contrast to her playfulness just moments ago.

‘Why do you feel sad, pumpkin? Aren’t you looking forward to Christmas? We’re going to have a super time, with Granny and Grandpa and Uncle Connor on Christmas Day and then down in Salisbury with Nanna on Boxing Day. You can’t feel sad about any of that, can you?’

Ellie seems momentarily swayed by Eve’s enthusiasm, but then her own reservations resurface and her eyes begin to moisten before the saddest, solitary tear trickles down her cheek.

‘What is it, Ellie? What’s made you so sad all of a sudden?’

Eve takes Ellie’s hand and guides her towards the kitchen table, where she sits down and lifts Ellie on to her
lap. It’s the most natural of maternal instincts and I can’t fault Eve’s actions. It’s as if she’s been doing it all her life.

‘It’s just that when I feel happy at Christmas it makes me feel bad at the same time because Mummy really loved Christmas and I know how sad she’d be that she’s missing out on all the fun.’

Her confession concludes with a plaintive sob as Ellie loses the battle to hold back the troupe of tears intent on seeing the light of day. Amidst the yearning to take her in my arms and soothe her distress, there’s a deep pride in her too. I wonder whether many children her age could be so thoughtful, so sensitive, whether she was predetermined to be so caring or whether my death has made her more perceptive than she would otherwise have been.

Eve holds Ellie in her arms and gently strokes her cheek.

‘I’m sure you and your mummy had some lovely Christmases together. And even though she’s not here any more, you’ll always have the memories of those Christmases with her, won’t you?’

Ellie responds with an almost imperceptible nodding of her head. When she begins to speak, her voice is hesitant, barely more than a whisper.

‘I think Christmas is the time I miss Mummy the most.’

And Christmas is the time I miss you most too, my angel, if that’s even possible when every day I miss you with a ferocity I’d have thought unbearable had someone warned me of its magnitude before I got here. I wish you could know just how much, Ellie, how much you’re loved and missed and how incredibly proud I am of you.

Eve wipes Ellie’s damp face with soft strokes of her fingers.

‘Why don’t you tell me about some of the best memories you have of Christmas with Mummy?’

Ellie takes a few deep breaths, as much to stem the tide of tears as to consider her answer.

‘I liked it when I’d wake up and find the sack of presents Father Christmas had left outside my bedroom door and I’d take it into Mummy and Daddy’s room and I’d get into their bed and they’d watch me open all my presents. That’s my best bit of the whole day, I think.’

I think that was always my best bit too.

I remember her very first Christmas, Ellie not yet a year old and more eager to practise her new crawling and climbing skills on our bed than to sit patiently between us, Max and I taking it in turns to open presents for her, laughing at her fascination with the wrapping paper and her almost complete disinterest in the toys inside. And then, year by year, that fascination gradually reversing, until her third Christmas when she finally understood that tearing off the sparkly, coloured paper was just a means to an end to reveal the real prize underneath.

That third Christmas was truly magical. Ellie was giddy with excitement about Santa’s impending visit and she’d followed me round the kitchen, her anticipation reaching fever pitch as I prepared a glass of milk and a mince pie for him and a carrot for Rudolph, full of the speculations evoked by the idea of a man on a sleigh flying through the air to deliver gifts right into her home. She made us laugh with her endless queries and her concern for Santa’s well-being: ‘Won’t he get cold out all night?’ ‘Won’t he be tired
not getting any sleep?’ ‘What if the reindeers crash in the dark and he gets hurt?’ ‘What if he forgets to visit our house?’ The last one, I assured her confidently, would never ever happen.

‘And what’s been your favourite Christmas present of all time?’

Ellie barely needs time to think before bouncing on Eve’s lap with the urgency of a newly made decision.

‘I know! It was my last Christmas with Mummy and after I’d finished opening all the presents in my sack, Dad said that Santa had left something downstairs for me because it was too heavy for him to carry up to my bedroom. So we all went down into the sitting room and there was a brand new bike with a big red ribbon tied around the handlebars. That was definitely my best Christmas surprise ever.’

‘That sounds like a fantastic Christmas Day, Ellie. I’m sure you’ll never, ever forget it. You know, I’ve just had a thought about what we could do this afternoon. Why don’t we make a memory map about Mummy, to help you keep all your best memories in one place?’