Love and Devotion (4 page)

He was right. But then neither did Eileen relish seeing the remains of her daughter’s life bundled unceremoniously into plastic refuse sacks.

She could hear Bob in the kitchen washing his hands and asking the children if they needed to use the toilet before they went out. Minutes later, the back door shut and then the car engine started up. He hadn’t even come upstairs to say goodbye.

Moving round the bed that was covered with neatly folded clothes, Eileen looked out onto the landing, where Harriet was sorting through her sister’s shoe collection. Harriet and Felicity had been practically identical in size. As teenagers they had always been borrowing each other’s shoes and clothes. Eileen wondered what was going through Harriet’s mind as she matched up pairs of sandals - strappy high-heels, comfortable slip-ons - and an array of boots — ankle boots, knee-high boots and tasselled suede boots. Felicity had loved her boots. Of the two daughters, Harriet had always been the more conservative and guarded. Whereas Felicity had been a powder keg of enthusiasm, Harriet had played her cards much closer to her chest. To Eileen’s knowledge Harriet had only ever confided in Felicity. Without her sister around, who would Harriet turn to now? It seemed unlikely that the boyfriend in Oxford - a young man they’d yet to meet and who, predictably, they had heard little about — would fill the space Felicity had left.

Neither Eileen nor Bob was surprised that Harriet still wasn’t married. ‘I’m never going to marry,’ she’d announced when she was twelve years old. ‘I’m going to live alone in a huge mansion and I’ll be my own boss with my own company and make loads of money. I don’t want anyone ever to tell me what to do.’ She had spoken with a solemn intensity well beyond her years.

The mansion hadn’t materialised, nor had her own business, but Eileen knew her daughter relished living alone. Whenever she and Bob had visited Harriet in Oxford they had always been taken aback by the simplicity of her life. Her small ground-floor flat in a house just off Banbury Road was simply furnished and, in Eileen’s opinion, verging on the austere. She knew the minimalist look was all the rage, but this seemed such a barren existence. The sitting room, with its clinical white-painted walls held just two reclining leather chairs, a rug, and a double-width floor-to-ceiling bookcase that was sparsely filled with books and CDs. There was a small television. and a hi-fi, but no ornaments or clutter. The bedroom was equally sparse: a double bed, a built-in wardrobe and in place of a dressing table, a desk with a laptop and printer. The only stamp of sentimentality was a collage of photographs Felicity had made for Harriet on her thirtieth birthday. The black-framed collage hung above the printer, and other than a mirror, this was the only object adorning the walls. How different it was for Harriet now, thought Eileen sadly, squeezed as she was with all her things into Felicity’s old bedroom, where she couldn’t move for bumping into something.

With enormous effort, Eileen tried once more to concentrate on what she was supposed to be doing. She picked up a pair of jeans, smoothed out the wrinkles in the legs and folded them carefully. Lovingly.

The Oxfam shop where she used to work two mornings a week - before ME sneaked its way into her life and sapped her energy - would not be receiving any of the bags of clothes. It would be too painful knowing that her old colleagues were picking over her daughter’s belongings. Better for it all to go further afield, to one of the charity shops in Maywood, where there would be less risk of her one day catching sight of a young woman in town wearing something of Felicity’s. That would be too much. It would add another bruise to all those ones she had deep inside, which nobody could see. Overcome by a sudden wave of sadness, she buried her face in a brightly coloured woollen sweater. It smelled so evocatively of her daughter, it caused a sob to catch in her throat. She let out a stifled cry. At once Harriet was by her side. ‘Are you okay, Mum?’

‘It’s all right, I’m just being silly.’ But despite her brave words, she couldn’t fight the misery that had crept up on her as it so often did.

Clearing a space on the bed for her mother to sit down, Harriet reached for the tissue box on the dressing table. It was empty. She went back to the landing, to the airing cupboard where her mother kept a stock of toilet rolls and boxes of tissues. From downstairs came the sound of knocking, followed by a familiar ‘Yoo-hoo!’

Without checking with her mother, Harriet leant over the banister. ‘Come on up, Dora.’ If anyone could lift her mother’s spirits, it was Dora Gold. She lived across the road and was her mother’s closest friend. She was two years younger than Eileen but managed to defy the aging process that affected everyone else. She put it down to drinking plenty of water and keeping out of the sun. That and the occasional trip to a private clinic in south Manchester. She’d been divorced and widowed, in that order, and was prepared to kiss as many aging frogs as it took to find husband number three. She was always telling them some tale or other about a date she’d just been on. Harriet hoped Dora had an interesting tale to share with them today. Something that would distract Eileen and take her mind off Felicity.

Dora did better than that. She took one look at Eileen and the piles of clothes on the bed and said, ‘Here’s how we’re going to do this. I’m giving us exactly one hour to sort through everything and then we’re going to load up the car, drop everything off where necessary and then the three of us are going for lunch. How does that sound?’

 

In the end it was only Dora and Eileen who went for lunch. Harriet excused herself by saying she had a phone call to make. She hadn’t seen or spoken to Spencer in three weeks because he’d been away in South Africa visiting distant cousins. It was a trip he’d arranged just days before they’d started seeing each other. Today was his first day back in the office.

Spencer had asked her out three months before Felicity’s death (everything was now measured in terms of pre or post Felicity’s death) and initially they’d kept their relationship from everyone at work - an office romance was such a cliché. When they went public everyone laughed at them. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Harriet,’ Adrian, her immediate boss had said, ‘but it’s hardly the breaking-news item you clearly thought it was.’

What’s more, Ron, the graduate trainee programmer who was supposed to be nestling under her wing while she taught him all she knew, had opened a book on how soon it would be before they came clean. ‘And who won the bet?’ she’d asked, her hackles rising.

‘I did,’ he said proudly.

‘Well, Ron, seeing as you’re such a clever dick, you can put your cleverness to good use and get me my coffee. White, no sugar. And make sure the mug’s clean.’ She’d never pulled rank before, but now seemed as good a time as any to shake the dust from her epaulettes and bring them to his attention.

‘Go easy on the poor lad,’ Spencer had said during lunch, ‘it’s just an office thing. A bit of a lark.’

She knew he was right, but her privacy was important to her.

Spencer had only been at C.K. Support Services for five months, whereas Harriet had been there for five years. It was her second job since leaving university, but despite the lack of career opportunities within the small software house, she hadn’t foreseen a time when she would want to quit. The work, and the level she was at — Senior Analyst - suited her perfectly. She was good at her job, could run rings round most of her colleagues, and so long as they left her to get on with what she was paid to do and didn’t force her to get involved with management decisions or in-house politics, she derived enormous satisfaction from what she did. Some would say that she did nothing but sit with her feet up on the desk staring at a blank computer screen for most of the day. And they’d be right. But that was when she was at her most creative. Computer programming involved a lot of thinking. In fact, the bulk of what she did was in her head. Occasionally, though, she was dragged kicking and screaming away from her desk to help install the software she’d designed.

The first time she’d met Spencer, he’d been sitting with his feet up on the desk, his eyes closed, his fingers drumming rhythmically on the arm of his chair. She’d recognised a kindred spirit and wondered if this would be the meeting of minds she’d always craved. It was no secret amongst her friends that she didn’t suffer fools gladly. ‘Your bog-standard lager-loving footie fanatic stands no chance with you, does he?’ Erin had once remarked. Erin was the same age as Harriet and lived in the flat above hers; she had no qualms about who she came home with after a drunken night out.

As she got to know Spencer, Harriet realised he ticked a good number of boxes, but when he started dropping hints about them moving in together, she instinctively backed off. Living with someone scared her. All that sharing. All that tiptoeing round one another’s feelings. All those arguments over hairs in plugholes and dishes left in sinks. The unmade bed. The wet towels on the bathroom floor. The rolled-up sock stuffed under a cushion. The shoes left just where she’d fall over them. All these things made her reluctant to throw in her lot with anyone on a more permanent basis.

The only person she came close to sharing her life with had been Felicity, and quite naturally it was her sister to whom she turned for advice about Spencer. ‘Am I being stupid?’ she’d asked Felicity.

Expecting her sister to urge her to throw caution to the wind, as she so often did, she had been surprised when Felicity had said, ‘If you have to ask the question, then you’re clearly not ready for such a step.’

Perversely, Harriet then tried to prove to herself that she was ready for such a step. She systematically listed everything that she liked about Spencer - his clear-cut way of thinking, his steadiness, his understanding and appreciation that she needed her own space - and gradually some of the fear crept to the furthest reaches of her mind.

But then Felicity died and everything changed.

Spencer was the first person she told about her decision to hand in her notice and move back to Cheshire. They were in his flat when she broached the subject. He was cooking one of his messy meals - every pot, pan and mixing bowl had been used. ‘Aren’t you surprised?’ she’d said when he hardly reacted.

‘Sorry, Harriet, but I saw it coming. It was obvious.’

Never afraid to confront an issue, she said, ‘It’s going to change things between us, isn’t it?’

He’d stopped what he was doing and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Let’s save the crystal ball-gazing for the end-of-the-pier crowd, shall we? For now, you’ve got more than enough on your plate without worrying about us. We’ll find a way.’

But she did worry. And it annoyed her that she did. Being needy had never been on her personal agenda.

 

It was ages before Spencer answered his mobile. Time enough for paranoia to set in. Was he trying to avoid her?

‘Hi there, Harriet. How’s it going?’ The sound of his voice, so easy, so assured, chased away the doubts.

‘Not bad,’ she said, ‘all things considered.’ She wanted to explain what she’d spent the morning doing, but couldn’t be bothered. Would he be interested, anyway? Other people’s problems were exactly that. Other people’s. Given the choice, wouldn’t she rather cross the road than risk being contaminated by grief? Keeping the conversation light, she asked him about work. ‘Anything new to report?’

‘I haven’t been back long enough to know the full ins and outs, but there’s a bit of flapping going on over some new contract or other.’

She felt the pinch of isolation, of not being a part of things. It was hard to accept they were all carrying on without her. Harder still to think of anyone new occupying her old office. ‘What contract would that be?’ she asked.

‘Too boring to discuss. Tell me what you’ve been doing.’

‘No,’ she said, realising that she hadn’t asked him about his holiday, ‘tell me how South Africa was. Did you send me a postcard?’

They discussed his trip and then, because they seemed to be running out of things to say, she told him about packing up the remainder of Felicity’s stuff. She mentioned that she’d kept some of her sister’s clothes and things as keepsakes.

He groaned. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier just to ditch the lot? It sounds kind of macabre, wanting to keep anything your sister wore.’

Anger flared. And just what the hell would you know about it! she wanted to shout at him. But she kept her voice level. ‘It’s more complicated than that. There’s stuff I’ve put aside for the children; they need to be able to remember their parents. When they’re older, they can look through the selection I’ve made and perhaps piece together the memories.’

‘Yeah, I can see that would be a good idea. Look, I can’t chat for long, but are you still coming down tomorrow?’

‘Of course. Why do you ask?’

She caught the sound of background noise, of someone calling to him. When he didn’t answer her question, she said, ‘It shouldn’t take too long to pack up the last of my things at the flat. The agent says the buyer is all set to go.’ She couldn’t bring herself to ask if he was still on for lending a hand as he had promised. Instead she said, ‘Spencer, if you’ve got something to say, just say it.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I’m sure you do.’

A pause. And then: ‘This isn’t the time, Harriet. Why don’t we speak tomorrow? I’ll meet you at your flat as we agreed. Around twelve.’

After a brisk goodbye she rang off. Without the aid of a crystal ball she knew exactly what the future held. It was adios time, inevitably. Why would Spencer want to stay involved with her now that she lived so far away and had two children to bring up? She’d been mad to think it could be otherwise.

Smarting with hurt pride and the sheer unfairness of it, she flipped open her mobile again and scrolled through for the number she always tapped in when she needed a good rant. She’d got as far as putting the phone to her ear when she realised what she was doing. Very slowly, she closed the mobile and held it tightly in her fist. It was one of the things she found almost impossible to come to terms with: accepting that Felicity was no longer around to talk to, that she wasn’t there at the other end of the line to be told the latest office joke, or to fill Harriet in on a missed episode of
Footballers’
Wives, or just to gossip about nothing in particular.