Death be Not Proud (2 page)

Mum went over to talk to the nurses, and I was left to gaze at my grandmother from where I stood. Better than expected, she looked well, her face full and her skin still softly coloured, not sallow and drawn. She lay with her eyes closed. I went over to her and tentatively reached out to touch her hand as it rested on the peach-coloured cotton cover, to find it warm.

“Nanna?”

She did not respond. I pulled the high-backed chair close to her bed. The card I sent from Maine weeks ago sat on the bedside cabinet along with the regulated clutter of my family's gifts, a few personal items and a photo of my grandfather in its over-polished frame.

“How are you, Nanna?” I asked softly. “I'm so sorry I haven't been to see you; I've been away but… but I'm back now.”

Her breathing came as a rhythmic pattern of in and out. I held her small hand between my newly liberated fingers, stiffly stroking it in time to her breaths.

“I've been working. I went to America, do you remember? I went to where the journal came from – as I said I would – and I've found it, Nanna; I've found Grandpa's journal.”

Perhaps I hoped that she could hear me or would somehow respond. I laid my head on the bed, the movement of her chest so slight that it barely lifted the bedclothes. I watched as it rose and fell.

“I haven't read it yet, but I will; we've waited so long, haven't we? Will you wait a little longer – until I've read it – then you can tell Grandpa for me, because he'll want to know, won't he? He'll want to know all about it, like the last chapter of a book.” Her breathing halted for a second, and I lifted my head to look at her anxiously, but she seemed peaceful
and the pattern of her breaths returned to their slow, shallow beat. I laid my head down on my arm by her hand and closed my eyes.

“I met someone when I was out there. I think you would like him – he reminded me of Grandpa; his hair is the
exact
same colour – the colour of ripe corn.” I smiled to myself despite the wretched ache somewhere in the middle of my chest.

“But I left him there, I had to. He's different… I can't explain it, there's so much about him that I don't understand and, until I do – until I've worked it out – I can't be with him, I can't go back…”

A soundless tear heralded an unlooked-for stream and I let them flow, glad that Nanna remained unaware of my sorrow.

“Sorry, Nanna,” I managed after a few minutes, the top layers of bandage on my wrist already soaked. “That wasn't supposed to happen. You're stuck in here and I'm blubbing all over the place; what would Grandpa make of the pair of us?”

The faintest touch on the crown of my head startled me and I lifted my face. My grandmother's eyes were open, their faded blue alert. The corner of one side of her mouth lifted in a weak but discernible smile.

“Nanna?
Nanna!
You can hear me? Oh – you heard me,” I said as I realized that she might have heard my ramblings. “I'm sorry,” I said again. “I didn't mean you to hear
all
of that. I'll get Mum for you.” I turned my head and saw my mother still talking to one of the nurses. I felt a slight touch against my fingers and looked down. My grandmother had moved her hand towards mine.

“What is it? Don't you want me to get her?”

Her fingers lifted and tapped against mine again, a slight question in her eyes.

“Oh this – it's nothing; I had an accident, that's all.”

I looked away from her, hating lying. She tapped again, a persistent glare in her eyes. “All right, I was attacked, but I'm fine now; I had someone to look after me.”

I couldn't hide the shake in my voice. Nanna made a guttural sound in her throat made of frustration that she could not speak.

“I bet if Matthew were here he could help you – he's like that – full of surprises.”

Raw pain twisted inside me, but it was worth it just to be able to speak his name. Her fingers fluttered again, accompanied by the smile, and I smiled back. I heard a noise behind me.

“Hello, Mummy, you're looking
much
better,” my mother said over my shoulder.

“You didn't tell me Nanna's awake, Mum!”

“I did tell you she is much better, but you weren't listening, darling.”

She leaned over from the other side of the bed and kissed her mother tenderly on her forehead. Nanna smiled her half-smile in response, then swivelled her eyes to look at me, then back to her daughter again, questioning.

“Emma's fine; nothing time won't heal.” She looked at me. “Darling, I need to talk to Nanna for a minute…”

I nodded and kissed my grandmother's warm, soft cheek. “Thank you,” I whispered in her ear; “I will come and see you again soon.” She grunted in her throat, her blue eyes watching my face.

 

That evening, I sat in the dining room and ate for the first time in days. It felt cold by the great floor-to-ceiling windows that let in a steady stream of air through the insubstantial
frames, and I remembered that I needed layers of jumpers to survive the raw winter here. I moved around to the other side of the table, closer to the electric fire that did its best to make inroads on the chill. Dad pushed the kitchen door open with his foot, carrying several plates and bringing with him a waft of cooking-scented air. He laid a plate of hot food in front of me, spirals of steam rising.

“Your mother said not to wait, and tuck in while it's hot. It'll do you good – put some colour in your cheeks,” he said in an attempt at being positive. I regarded the food with a singular lack of enthusiasm. “Come along now,” he chivvied, “step to it. Chop, chop. Remember what the doctor said. We don't want you ending up in hospital now, do we? And it'll take a load off your mother's mind,” he added, as the door began to open and she came in.

The increased mobility of my hands made eating much easier, although my right arm ached with the effort and my left hand could barely grasp a fork. My parents said nothing but the questions were not far away. I sensed they were waiting for me to eat something before they started. I was right.

“What a very pleasant young doctor you saw today,” my mother ventured. I put my fork down and waited. Dad had almost finished his food and he eyed my near-full plate.

“Eat up, Emma; don't let it go to waste.” Mum shot him a glance and he shut up; she continued.

“He said that you're healing very well and your stitches can come out in a week's time; that's good, isn't it?”

I loathed being humoured.

“The thing is, darling, he is a little concerned…”

Here it comes
, I thought.

“He mentioned that you have some bruises that weren't caused by… well, by the attack, and that you said that they
were self-inflicted. He thinks that you might benefit from a little help.”

My dearest mother – always trying to be diplomatic – but she might as well have just come straight out with it and said: “The doctor thinks you're off your rocker, darling, and you should be committed.”

I had to laugh. Dad looked shocked.

“It's not a laughing matter, Emma. What your mother is trying to say…”

“I know what's being implied, Dad,” I cut in, “but they weren't self-inflicted, not in the way he means, so I don't need any
help
– of any kind.”

I moved my plate away from the edge of the table, ready to rise, the silver fork sliding to one side, the remnants of my fragile hunger gone.

Dad frowned at the food on my plate. “And that's another thing – you're not eating; it can be a sign of emotional difficulties. It's nothing to be ashamed of; it can happen to anyone.”

I stared at him and then at Mum in disbelief.

“I don't need any help because there's nothing emotionally wrong with me. I've told you, I need time to get my head straight about… things… but I don't need anyone to do it for me. I just want to be left alone to get on with it.”

I pushed my chair back, the legs scraping painfully across the stone floor as they left the quietening pile of the rug, and picked up my plate to take it through to the scullery.

“So if
you
didn't make those bruises, darling, who did?”

The subtle approach, direct but always when I'd dropped my guard; Mum knew me well. She saw me falter and stood up, taking the plate from me and putting her arm around my shoulders. I looked straight into the depths of her eyes, inflicting as much sincerity as I could pile into a few words.

“
Nobody
has hurt me, Mum.” I ducked out from under her arm, reclaiming the plate, and into the steamy kitchen. I washed my plate under a stream of hot water, the steam condensing almost immediately on the uneven stone walls. There were sounds of subdued whispers, then the door opened behind me and I heard the heavier tread of my father's footsteps, but I didn't turn around.

“Emma, did that
man
do this to you?”

For a moment I didn't know to whom he referred, then anger flashed through me, blood rushing to my face.

“Matthew has
never
hurt me. How can you accuse him, after all he's done?”

Disgusted, I flung down the tea-towel I had just picked up to dry my plate; it missed the draining board and sank below the bubbles left in the washing-up bowl. I went to push past my parents as they stood blocking the doorway.

“Don't be angry, darling, but you did leave the States in a hurry – what else were we to think? That broken table in your room… and you had been out with him all day; I mean, what else…”

“Not
that
, Mum.”

Guilt twisted my voice. I was angry all right – angry at them for even suggesting that Matthew would have purposefully hurt me – but furious with myself for all the doubt and fear I had put them through – and tormented by what Matthew himself might be feeling right now. They let me pass and I slammed out of the kitchen, through the panelled sitting room and up the stairs. In the fading light, the watchful eyes of my ancestors followed me, the only points of light in portraits blackened with age.

 

I reached the sanctuary of my room. I seemed to make a habit of wrecking people's lives. Guy had deserved it and I felt little guilt in that respect. But my parents? If I were in their place and I saw my child behave in the way I acted, and witnessed the damage I bore, would I not also have come to the conclusion they had logically reached? And Matthew? I turned and buried my face in my pillow.

 

Matthew – what have I done to you? Would you ever believe me if I said that I loved you beyond boundaries, and that the only limits to that love were those defined within the mess in my head?

 

I made certain to be seen eating and drinking regularly, and my parents watched me, never leaving me in the house alone. Despite the size of the building, I felt confined and couldn't clear my head enough to think. Flashes of thoughts and images lingered on the edge of dreams I wasn't sure I had, words and faces tugging at my memory but always just out of reach.

 

I woke early several mornings later and lay under the thick duvet listening as the first birds began to stretch their voices; but the world sounded remote. Climbing out of bed, I drew the curtains to one side, letting in the feeble dawn. A dense fog shrouded the windows. I washed and pulled on my clothes, and found my quilted coat that I hadn't worn since the fight with the bear. From under my bed I dragged the bag that had lain there since my return home. Through the soft wool of his scarf, the hard edges of the two books – one the transcription of the little Italian treatise Matthew had made for me, the other the journal I had stolen – made their
presence known. I dared not look at them, placing them instead on my desk and, doubling the long scarf around my neck, I went quietly downstairs.

My parents still slept as I let myself out of the house and made my way past the Town Hall, crossing the road to the Norman arch where the entrance to the ancient passage made a black mouth in the golden stone. I entered it as I had always done as a child – with a sense of crossing a threshold into the past.

 

Beyond the passage, the Meadows were silent except for the soft rush of the river running through them and away under the bridge. Shaggy tufts of grass, decorated with beads of glass, left my shoes saturated within minutes of wading through them. Out here I found a sense of freedom I hadn't felt for days. Out here, in my solitude, thoughts and ideas began to coalesce, and from the disorder in my mind, take shape.

 

By the time I returned to the house, traffic piled up the hill, filling the air with heavy fumes and protesting engines. The front door opened before I could turn my key in the lock, Dad's face instantly relieved when he saw me.

“I just went out for a walk,” I explained a bit defensively as I went into the hall. Mum came out of the sitting room, cup in hand. Her brow cleared when she saw me and I started to unzip my coat.

“We have a visitor, darling,” she said brightly. I bristled, because what she meant was, “
You
have a visitor”, but I didn't let it show. She went back into the sitting room where I heard her say something, and a man's voice answered. My father helped me out of my coat.

“Do this for your mother, Em,” he said quietly; “she's
finding all this a little tough.” I looked at him with a degree of surprise at his uncustomary sensitivity, but he didn't elaborate and instead indicated the open door.

The wiry, white-haired man stood up when I entered.

“Hello, Emma – it's been a long time.”

He held out his hand and I shook it automatically; he was careful not to squeeze too hard. I remembered him as a friend of my parents.

“Mr… Taylor.”

“Mike, please – it must be at least eighteen years since I last saw you.”