One Moment, One Morning (41 page)

‘Sofia’s moving to Brighton,’ Lou says, grinning at her girlfriend.

‘That’s wonderful,’ says Anna.

‘Congratulations!’ Karen smiles.

Lou reaches out, pulls her girlfriend to her hip. Sofia blushes.

Anna has a stab of jealousy – she is thrilled for them, yet can’t help but envy their happiness. Don’t be ungracious, she tells herself. It is not your time; it is theirs. Lou is so lovely; she deserves to be happy.

‘Does that mean you’ll be doing the commute?’ she asks.

‘Yes,’ says Sofia.

‘Another one on the seven forty-four,’ says Lou.

‘Great,’ says Anna. She feels a twinge of sadness; her one-on-one chats with Lou will vanish.

‘I go to East Croydon, though,’ explains Sofia.

Ah, thinks Anna, so we’ll still have some time on the train, just us. She wishes she could be less churlish: hopes they are unaware. But it is not yet six months since that day in February; a week less still since she split with Steve. She has no regrets; she knows now he could never have made her happy, even though he has, apparently, joined AA, is doing better. But sobriety is his journey, not hers: he needs to do it for himself, alone. Still, she misses him hugely, doesn’t feel ready for another relationship yet. But as time passes, she hopes that she might be, eventually, with someone new, easier, kinder.

Maybe.

Probably . . .

What she does know for sure is that it has not been easy. Not for herself, for Karen, or the children. Karen still cries daily, Anna knows, though she tries to hide it. Luke still sleeps with his mother every night; Karen admits she is indulging herself as much as him, but must at some stage encourage him back to his room. She will do it too, soon; Karen is like that, brave.

Some day, eventually, Anna hopes, Karen will also meet someone new. It will doubtless take her longer, because she and Simon were together for ages, but again, perhaps not.

Who knows?

Until then, and after that, they have each other. God/Fate/Fortune willing, she and Karen will have one another for many years to come. And other friends, like Lou, and now Sofia.

Suddenly Anna feels like crying, looking round at them all. Four months ago, when the women took on this allotment, it was just a patch of rough land. No beds, no flowers, no vegetables; just a wilderness of brambles and couch grass, badly in need of some TLC. They have forked over the soil and planted it. They have sweated and laughed, been driven mad by excess rain and not enough water, moaned about slugs until Karen relented and succumbed to pellets, and struggled (and failed) to keep it free from weeds. Molly and Luke have helped, as well. Today, there are eight beds in total, each edged with planks of wood. And they have exotic purple and frizzy green lettuces ready, and traditional floppy-leafed ones on their way. They have had rocket a while, and they have ripe raspberries and almost endless rhubarb. Soon they will have beans and broccoli, cabbages and kale, gooseberries, blackberries, pumpkins and plums from a tree that was there already. It may not be the big garden in Hove that Karen so yearned for, but it is more than a viable alternative. Nature has a way of healing the soul; the allotment has been a bridge back to the outside world. That they do it together fills Anna with joy.

So why does she feel like weeping? She stops what she is doing to consider, then realizes.

It is Simon.

Simon would have loved it. The allotment would have been just his kind of place, with its feeling of community and burgeoning life and its vast stretch of sky. And he loved plants so, and planning, plotting space; he would have been in his element.

Then again, maybe he is here. He has returned to the soil, after all. Life, death, the seasons, day, night: it is a pattern, a cycle.

Anna has finished her ice cream, picks up her trowel. Soon she is back on her knees, struggling to edge a particularly tenacious dandelion from the earth.

First off, a massive thank you to Vivien Green, my agent. When Fortune dealt out the cards of my life, she dealt me an ace; words cannot express my gratitude. Secondly, thank you to Sam Humphreys from Picador, who right from the off was 110 per cent behind this novel. Two aces; I am blessed. Not forgetting everyone else at Picador, Gaia Banks at Sheil Land, and all the folk at Digital and Direct.

I would also like to thank the friends who read as I wrote. They are Alison Boydell and Clare Stratton, who helped me hone the first draft and told me when they thought I’d got it wrong. Also Clare Allison, Jackie Donnellan, Patrick Fitzgerald, Hattie Gordon, Emma Hall, Katy Holford, Alex Hyde, Niccy Lowit, Kate Miller, Aiden and Ginette Roworth and Joanna Watson, who all read the draft once I was done and whose insights were invaluable. There’s Diane Messidoro too, and John Knight, for the author photograph. And of course my mother, Mary Rayner, who is my inspiration. Plus thank you, Tom Bicât, not just for reading it even when he doesn’t ‘do’ novels, but for not minding if I got snappy when I was in the throes of creation, and for just being, well, lovely.

Finally, this book is dedicated to my women friends.
In a way, I wrote it for all of you.

*     *     *

For more information on Sarah Rayner, visit
www.thecreativepumpkin.com
.

‘As a reader you can’t help asking yourself what you would have done in similar circumstances, how you would have coped . . . Life-affirming and insightful’

New Books Magazine

‘On our spring reading list’

Elle

‘A moving, subdued reflection on how we survive traumatic events’

Waterstone’s Books Quarterly

‘[A novel] exploring the harrowing pain of loss and grief, family secrets and how a tragic event can force you to be honest about who you really are’

Easy Living

‘Rayner is a swift, efficient plotter, nudging her characters towards the light of congruence and self-reliance. Her Brighton is carefully and affectionately mapped, and her account of the gruelling rituals a death involves is deftly done’

Times Literary Supplement

‘It’s a normal early morning commute from Brighton to London. Normal, until a man has a sudden heart attack and dies. This moving tale of loss and new friendship follows his wife Karen and fellow travellers Lou and Anna as they move on in life’

Star Magazine

‘Rayner has created a gentle, moving story, teasing out the details of the women’s relationships . . . yet somehow, the reader is compelled to turn the page. Ostensibly a book about grief,
One Moment, One Morning
is ultimately uplifting . . . Rayner has cleverly managed heart warming without dipping into sentimentality’

Argus

‘There are books that grab your attention from the very beginning and never let it go.
One Moment, One Morning
is one of them. It is also one of those books that leave a lasting impression and will linger at the back of your mind. Friendship, love, grief, loss, new beginnings – all of this and more can be found in Sarah Rayner’s brilliant fiction. A book hard to put down – even when reaching out for a tissue – and characters so credible and real that I found myself looking out for them on the streets of Brighton’

Sussex Newspaper

‘A moving account of what happens to three women in one week when a man dies on a Brighton to London commuter train. Very impressive’

Bookseller

Sarah Rayner grew up in London and now lives in Brighton with her partner. As well as writing fiction, she works part time as a freelance copywriter. You can visit her website at
thecreativepumpkin.com
.

First published 2010 by Picador

This edition published 2010 by Picador

This electronic edition published 2010 by Picador
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
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www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-0-330-53333-1 PDF
ISBN 978-0-330-53332-4 EPUB

Copyright © Sarah Rayner 2010

The right of Sarah Rayner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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