Marriage and Other Games (49 page)
Twenty One
B
y Wednesday, the girls were begging to go to school. Fitch reeled at the idea at first. But when he thought about it, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. What was the point of them staying at home with him, when he had so much to arrange, so many calls, so many decisions to make? School might provide the normality and security they needed. So he picked up the phone to the headmistress, who was always at her desk an hour before school began.
y Wednesday, the girls were begging to go to school. Fitch reeled at the idea at first. But when he thought about it, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. What was the point of them staying at home with him, when he had so much to arrange, so many calls, so many decisions to make? School might provide the normality and security they needed. So he picked up the phone to the headmistress, who was always at her desk an hour before school began.
‘I think it’s probably best to keep their routine as familiar as possible,’ she told him. ‘The staff have all been appraised of the situation, and we’ve prepared the rest of the children for Jade and Amber’s arrival. Children are surprisingly resilient, you know,’ she added kindly.
So he dropped them off, and the headmistress assured him that she would ring him if they showed any signs of distress. Walking back through the playground, he was stopped by an endless stream of other parents, all offering their condolences, as well as offering to have Jade and Amber if he wanted.
As he walked back home, Norman shot out of the Speckled Trout. He grabbed him by the hand.
‘Mate, I am so sorry.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And listen - if you want the Trout for the do after, just say the word. I’ll lay it all on for you. You won’t have to worry about a thing.’
Fitch considered his offer. The Trout probably was the most appropriate venue. The pub had been such an integral part of Hayley’s life, and it meant that those who wanted to stay on and get plastered after the formalities were over could do so. The alternative was the Poltimore farm or his own house, neither of which struck Fitch as suitable. The Poltimores simply weren’t capable of pulling it together, and he didn’t want his home tainted with the memory of such a traumatic event. He wanted the cottage to remain a haven for the girls.
‘Thanks, Norman,’ he said. ‘That would be great.’
‘Just leave it all to me: the catering, the booze. And don’t worry about the bill. We can sort that out when the time’s right,’ Norman told him, and Fitch was touched.
All in all, the whole village had been incredibly supportive. There was a sort of reverent hush wherever you went, out of respect for his bereavement, but people certainly weren’t afraid to come and give their condolences. Time and again they offered their help. Casseroles had turned up on the doorstep, and tins of homemade biscuits. Letters and cards poured through the letterbox. Darren and Bradley had turned up, subdued, and offered to take him to the pub, the only cure they knew for sorrow.
And Charlotte. Charlotte had been a pillar of strength. She’d taken over, really - sorting out the washing and ironing, the cleaning. Going through his correspondence and putting it into neat piles. Keeping the girls entertained while he was yet again on the phone.
‘Tell me to fuck off if you think I’m interfering,’ she’d said.
‘You’re not interfering,’ he assured her. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
She’d even taken some of the surplus food they’d been given up to Hayley’s parents, and spent an hour talking to her mother. Which was more than Fitch could face. He found his in-laws a strain. They were making a distressing experience even more harrowing.
The only thing he was grateful for was that Kirk hadn’t decided to put his oar in. He had had the good sense not to make himself known in any way. Fitch prayed he wouldn’t want to come to the funeral. It seemed entirely inappropriate, even though no doubt he had had feelings for Hayley. Even though he had been the bad guy in all of this, it can’t have been easy for him, especially when he’d been involved in the accident.
Charlotte told him sharply not to lose any sleep over Kirk’s feelings.
‘If it wasn’t for him, none of it would have happened,’ she pointed out, but Fitch didn’t necessarily subscribe to that point of view. How the hell could you apportion blame? Where did you start and where did you stop?
In the end, he decided he would have to take each day at a time, and just get through the funeral. He sat in the kitchen, surrounded by paperwork.
‘I can’t believe all the decisions I have to make. It’s such a bloody responsibility. I mean, how am I supposed to know what hymns Hayley would have wanted? And what coffin do I go for?’ Fitch put up his hands in mock despair. ‘I mean, it would be funny if it wasn’t so . . . not funny. Hayley would have wanted the designer range, lined with red silk. But it does seem a waste. Not that I’m trying to economise,’ he added hastily. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear all this. It’s morbid.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Charlotte. ‘It’s fine. It’s probably good to get someone else’s input.’
He sat down on a bar stool and began to tap a pen against the pad he’d been writing on. Charlotte could see his nerves were jangling, that he was stretched to the limit. ‘My biggest worry at the moment is whether the girls should go to the funeral or not. It just seems like such a terrible thing to put them through.’
Charlotte shook her head. ‘I don’t think you should. It’s not the place for children. Everyone will be upset; they won’t understand.’
‘That’s what I think. But the family are putting me under pressure. My mother-in-law wants them there.’
Charlotte put a hand on his shoulder.
‘They’re your children. You should do what you think is right. But for my money, I think you should wait until after the burial. Then go to the grave, just the three of you. You’ll be able to give them your undivided attention and explain it all to them.’
Fitch gave her a wintry but grateful smile.
‘You’re so right,’ he said. ‘Of course that’s what I should do.’ His face screwed up again with worry. ‘But what do I do with them? I can’t just send them to school while their mother’s being buried. It doesn’t seem right.’
Charlotte thought about it for a moment.
‘I’ll look after them,’ she offered. ‘I’ll come here.’
‘Would you really do that? Would you really do that for me? Because I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be with them.’
‘Of course I’d do that for you, Fitch,’ said Charlotte. ‘Anything.’ There was a small silence. Fitch looked down at the floor, not sure how to express his gratitude. He ran his hand across his stubbly chin.
‘Christ,’ he said. ‘I must look a mess.’
‘Well,’ said Charlotte, tipping her head to one side as she surveyed him. ‘You do quite suit the dishevelled look. But if you want to go and have a shower, I’ll make some supper.’
Fitch looked at her.
‘Thanks for all your help,’ he said softly. ‘I couldn’t manage without you.’
Charlotte went to open the fridge. She didn’t want Fitch to see that her cheeks were a tiny bit pink. ‘Omelette?’ she asked. ‘Or scrambled eggs?’
Twenty Two
T
he day of the funeral was appropriately grey, with a fine mizzle that set in after breakfast and showed no sign of letting up. In some ways, Fitch was grateful. It would have been strange laying Hayley to rest in bright sunshine. He spent the morning looking for an umbrella, and came to the conclusion that he didn’t own one. It wasn’t his sort of thing. A spot of rain had never bothered him in the past. But somehow he didn’t feel he could stand at his wife’s graveside and let rain pour down on him.
he day of the funeral was appropriately grey, with a fine mizzle that set in after breakfast and showed no sign of letting up. In some ways, Fitch was grateful. It would have been strange laying Hayley to rest in bright sunshine. He spent the morning looking for an umbrella, and came to the conclusion that he didn’t own one. It wasn’t his sort of thing. A spot of rain had never bothered him in the past. But somehow he didn’t feel he could stand at his wife’s graveside and let rain pour down on him.
Charlotte had two. A typical banker’s umbrella, large and black, and a pink flowery one. It didn’t take him long to choose.
Charlotte and Fitch had decided that the best way she should deal with any questions from Jade and Amber during the funeral was to tell them the facts. No airy-fairy nonsense about Mummy just being asleep and being able to watch them from heaven. It wasn’t brutal; they just didn’t feel that giving them any false sense of hope would do them any good in the long run. Platitudes and sentimental false truths would only confuse them further.
‘The important thing for them to know,’ said Charlotte, ‘is that she loved them and always will.’
‘It’s just so hard,’ said Fitch, as he pulled on the jacket of his best dark suit. ‘It’s so unfair. They’ve been so good.’
It had broken Charlotte’s heart to watch the three of them over the past few days, each equally helpless and bewildered. Sometimes crying, sometimes laughing, sometimes just being quiet. She’d tried to keep things normal, to keep a sense of routine so they would understand that life still goes on, that their whole world hadn’t fallen apart.
‘Will I do?’ Fitch stood there in the middle of the kitchen, awkward in his smart clothes. He looked amazingly handsome, his dark hair touching the collar of his jacket, his shoulders broad.
Charlotte swallowed down the lump in her throat.
‘You’ll do,’ she nodded.
He took a deep breath in to steel himself for the afternoon ahead.
‘I don’t know what time I’ll be back,’ he said. ‘I expect it will go on a bit. And I need to be there for the family.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll put the girls to bed. I’ll be here.’
She rushed across the room to hug him, wishing she could take some of the pain away. She breathed in the smell of him, then felt him kiss the top of her head lightly.
‘Thanks,’ he whispered, then quickly let her go.
She watched him leave the room. She felt filled with emotions she couldn’t quite identify. Then she told herself sternly that she was bound to feel strange. It had been a gruelling time, with everything slightly heightened, slightly surreal. If she felt closer to Fitch, it was because they had been thrown together by the tragedy. Nothing more.
She took a tray of sandwiches into the girls for lunch. They were in the living room, half-heartedly watching television. They barely ate.
Eventually Jade turned to her, eyes wide.
‘We’re worried that we might forget what Mummy looks like.’
‘Well,’ said Charlotte carefully. ‘You’ve got lots of photos, surely.’
‘Not really,’ said Amber. ‘There’re no really good ones of her. We’ve looked.’
Charlotte racked her brains, horrified by their plight. They needed some reminder of their mum, something to hold on to, something to comfort them when they were missing her.
‘I tell you what,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we do a picture? I’ll help you. A nice big picture that you can put up in your bedroom and look at whenever you want.’
Their faces lit up.
‘Go and get your paints,’ Charlotte told them. ‘I’ll get some paper.’ They scampered out of the room to do her bidding. Charlotte sighed, hoping that she was doing the right thing. Of course she was, she told herself. The wrong thing had already happened. Hayley was dead. Anything, anything at all she could do to help from now on was going to be the right thing.
The funeral service went as well as could be expected. The entire village seemed to be there, as well as most of the hunt and the shoot, shuffling in wearing rain-spattered wax jackets. The air smelled of wet wool and damp dog.
Catkin stood out in purple velvet, a touch of glamour amidst the drabness. She refused to wear black to funerals. She did a wonderful reading, the congregation rapt as she recited the words to ‘Every Breath You Take’, one of Hayley’s favourite songs. It had been Charlotte’s idea, and Fitch knew that Hayley would have got a kick out of a celebrity at her funeral. She went in for that kind of thing.
The burial, by contrast, was horrendous. The wind whipped cruelly through the graveyard. The rain had fallen harder than ever, making the grave slippery and waterlogged. As the first soggy clods of earth had hit the coffin, Barbara had given a keening wail and collapsed onto her eldest son. The noise had continued throughout the vicar’s carefully chosen words. No one could wait to escape to the warmth and comfort of the pub. The rush to leave the graveside was almost indecent.
Fitch lagged behind, wanting to thank the vicar and the undertakers for making sure everything ran smoothly. He was in no rush to get to the Trout and be faced with more commiserations. Not that he wasn’t grateful for people’s kind thoughts, but he was tired of it all. It was time to move on. He was clinging on to the thought of tomorrow, when he could get back to normal.
Other books
Ever After by Anya Wylde
Conviction: Book 3 of the Detective Ryan Series by Andrew Hess
Sweet Sunshine by Jessica Prince
Pieces of a Mending Heart by Kristina M. Rovison
Going for Gold (An Olympic Medal Romance Book 1) by L.V. Lewis
Everblaze (Keeper of the Lost Cities Book 3) by Shannon Messenger
CLAIMED BY A HIGHLANDER (THE DOUGLAS LEGACY Book 2) by Margaret Mallory
Initiation by Jessica Burkhart
Naked by Raine Miller
