The Real Katie Lavender (37 page)

‘You must have super powers,’ she said afterwards when she was lying with her head on his chest and listening to the steady reassuring beat of his heart. ‘Because that was indescribably wonderful.’

His arm around her, he said, ‘I didn’t disappoint, then?’

‘Well, there was that moment when you . . .’ She felt him raise his head from the pillow and she looked up at him. ‘I’m joking,’ she said.

He put both of his arms around her and kissed her forehead tenderly. ‘It’s raining,’ he murmured.

‘You’re right,’ she said, glancing at the window. ‘Just as well we came back when we did.’

‘I once read that if you make love with someone for the first time when it’s raining, it means that relationship is going to last.’

‘Do you believe that?’ she asked, listening to the rain pattering softly against the glass.

He held her closely. ‘I do now.’

Pen had got into the habit of visiting St Oswald’s every Monday afternoon. People probably wouldn’t understand, but it lifted her spirits to go and tend Neil’s grave. She had a fixed routine – broken only by the Bank Holiday two weeks ago – and she found that the hour spent in the churchyard was something she actually looked forward to. She always hoped to find it empty. She preferred to be entirely alone with Neil.

Today she wasn’t alone. Cecily was with her. Cecily freely admitted that she felt no real comfort in visiting the churchyard, but today she had asked if she could join Pen. She seemed in a distant and faraway mood this afternoon, spending just a few short minutes inspecting the gravestone that had recently been erected for Neil and then wandering off to look at her husband’s grave, something she admitted she hadn’t done in a long while, other than the day of Neil’s funeral, when not surprisingly, she’d said the two deaths had felt inextricably bound together.

The few weeds that had dared to spring up dealt with and the dead flowers replaced with fresh ones which she’d brought from the garden – Achillea ‘Moonshine’, Crocosmia, Campanula lactiflora and pink astilbe – Pen sat on the wooden bench a few yards away from Neil. Late in the afternoon, there was a hint of autumn in the cool air. With the evenings drawing in, it wouldn’t be long before the leaves, already on the cusp of changing colour, would start to fall from the trees and the air would be rich with the earthy scent of decay. For the last two mornings she had woken to the sight of the river cloaked in a diaphanous layer of mist, a sure sign that summer was nearing its end. But whatever the season, Pen couldn’t imagine a time when she wouldn’t come here. Rain, wind or snow, she would always want to be with Neil.

She was constantly being told that she was still in the early stages of bereavement and that she should expect to experience a whole range of emotions. Suicide, she had been told, didn’t conform to the usual laws when it came to grief. As if she needed telling that. Once or twice, when people in the village had been exaggeratedly solicitous with her, she had been overcome with the urge to wage war and throw every foul-mouthed obscenity she knew at them. Scared she might do exactly that, she would hurriedly back away and dash home, where she could defuse her anger in the garden. Never had it benefited from so much ferocious digging! She had to be careful not to reach for the pruning shears when she was having one of those days. But no matter how near to the edge she felt she was being drawn, she refused to give in to it. As battered and as weakened as it was, her stubborn will kept her from the abyss of her grief.

There was a new grave alongside Neil’s. It had appeared last week and at first Pen had been appalled by its appearance, resenting the infringement of what had become her right of ownership over the grassy space – it was where she knelt to tend Neil’s plot. But then she had learnt that the grave was for a four-year-old boy from the village who had died of leukaemia, and her resentment was instantly replaced with sadness.

There were signs that the small grave had been visited since last week; some toys had been placed amongst the heart-shaped wreaths, which were now sadly past their best. There was a plastic cowboy that she recognized from those
Toy Story
films, a blue and white penguin, also made of plastic, and a donkey made of furry grey fabric, the floppy ears and mournful face picked out with white. Had they been the little boy’s favourite toys? But why had they been left on top of the grave? Why hadn’t they been tucked safely inside the coffin before the funeral? How would the family feel if someone stole them? It worried Pen. It worried her immensely. It would be too awful for the family to visit the grave and find the toys gone. They would be heartbroken that someone could act with such malicious intent. It was enough to make her cry just to think of it.

Slow footsteps behind her had her glancing away from the child’s grave. It was Cecily, who, following a stumble last week, was now reluctantly using a walking stick. ‘Are you all right?’ Pen asked her. ‘You look tired.’

Cecily tutted. ‘Don’t fuss. I’m fine.’

None the less, Pen stood up and offered her hand as support for the old lady. ‘Come and sit down for a while.’

Cecily didn’t argue. She settled herself on the bench and let out a sigh. Adjusting the silk scarf at her throat, she said, ‘Pen, you won’t become obsessed with this place, will you?’

‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’

‘I think it gives you great succour for now, but Neil isn’t only here. He’s everywhere, but most importantly, he’s where he always was, in your heart.’

‘I know that. But it helps being here.’

‘And how are you nursing your wrath?’

Pen looked at her in surprise. ‘My wrath?’ she repeated.

Cecily fixed her with a firm gaze. ‘You’ve done extraordinarily well not giving into it, I take my hat off to you, but it stands to reason that you’d be angry. Not just with Neil for committing suicide, but for the fraud and for having an affair and planning to leave you. It would be nothing short of a miracle if you weren’t furious with him.’

‘I’m coping,’ Pen said in a carefully measured tone.

‘I’ve never told anyone this before,’ Cecily went on, ‘not even Stirling or Neil, but when William died, I was livid with him. I was angry with him for not realizing sooner that he was so ill. “Typical doctor!” I fumed. “Too busy saving other lives to save his own!”’

‘Are you angry now? With Neil?’ Pen asked hesitantly.

‘Goodness me, yes. I think of the waste. The utter waste of such a good life and all the years ahead of him. I also think of what this has done to you and Lloyd.’

‘What do you do with your anger?’

‘You mean, how do I deal with it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I shout at Neil inside my head. I tell him how selfish he was. And I swear at him. I don’t mean a genteel curse, I swear like a good old-fashioned trooper. You wouldn’t recognize me.’

Pen smiled. ‘I feel like that at times. But my anger isn’t directed at Neil. I feel it for the people who try to be nice to me, who think a dutiful word or two of sympathy will suddenly make everything right again. I can see it in their eyes: they’re desperately willing me to snap out of my grief and get back to normal.’

‘It’s understandable. They want the old Pen back. The Pen you are now makes them uncomfortable.’

‘Maybe I’ll always be this way from now on.’

‘Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t. What have you done about Neil’s clothes?’

Taken aback by the question, Pen said, ‘I’m afraid I haven’t done anything. I can’t bring myself to start the job of sorting through his things. I’m putting it off, I know.’

Cecily nodded her head. ‘For years I kept one of William’s pullovers; I couldn’t bear to part with it. It smelt so redolently of him. I had to throw it away in the end; the moths had done their worst to it. I cried like a baby when I put it in the bin.’

Pen tucked her arm affectionately through Cecily’s. She was so very fond of her. Throughout all the years of her marriage, the old lady had been much more of a mother to her than her own.

‘I’ve always been honest with you, Pen,’ Cecily said. ‘So please don’t be upset with me when I say that I’m worried about you. You mustn’t care about what others think of you.’

‘But I don’t.’

‘Yes you do. You know only too well how people perceive you and you’re frightened of appearing differently. What’s more, because you’re so nice, there are those who want to cushion you from the blows. But some blows are inevitable and you have to face up to them. They’re the ones you never see coming.’

Pen frowned. ‘Well I certainly didn’t see this conversation coming.’

‘And now that it has, are you going to confront what I’ve said?’

Pen shook her head. ‘No. Not today.’

Cecily patted her hand. ‘Very well. Now tell me about Lloyd and Katie. I have great hopes for them.’

Thankful for the change of subject, Pen said, ‘I only spoke very briefly with Lloyd late last night when he was driving back from Brighton, so I can’t tell you much. Only that he had a good time.’

Cecily chuckled. ‘He spent the whole of the weekend with Katie, did he? Better and better.’

‘You old romantic, you.’

‘But you must agree with me, they make a fine couple.’

‘I do agree with you, but I have a bad feeling. I think there’s trouble ahead.’

‘There’s always trouble ahead, even in the most perfectly ordered life. They’ll manage. I have every confidence in them. Now, Pen, I want you to promise me something. When I’m no longer around, will you keep an eye on Stirling for me? I’m concerned about him.’

‘Don’t be so maudlin. You’re not going anywhere any time soon.’

‘You’ve never insulted me by being disingenuous before; please don’t start now. Just promise that you’ll look out for Stirling for me.’

‘Why are you so worried about him?’

‘I’m getting the same feeling that I had with Neil shortly before he took his life.’

‘Oh my God! You don’t think Stirling would do the same, do you?’

Cecily shook her head. ‘No, but something’s very wrong with him at the moment.’

‘He’s got a lot on his mind right now, what with Neil and the ongoing police investigation and Katie and Gina.’

‘I know all that,’ Cecily said impatiently, ‘but there’s something else. I feel it every time I look at him. You’d know if there was something wrong with Lloyd, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Pen said quietly. ‘Yes, I would.’

‘Then you’ll do as I ask? You’ll keep an eye out for Stirling for me?’

‘Of course. Come on, we ought to go. I can feel a chill in the air; autumn is definitely on its way. Do you want to come back with me for some supper? It won’t be anything fancy; I haven’t been to the supermarket. It’ll be soup or scrambled eggs.’

‘Do you want the company, or are you fussing over me?’

Pen helped Cecily to her feet and smiled. ‘A bit of both.’

Cecily smiled too. ‘In that case, yes.’

They had finished eating and were checking to see if there was anything of interest on the television when the telephone rang.

‘Hello, Gina,’ Pen said, alerting Cecily to who it was. ‘Oh my goodness . . . But it’s too soon, isn’t it? . . . I’m sorry, of course you know that . . . I’m sorry, I’m thinking aloud . . . No, I don’t have a clue where he is . . . No, he’s not with Cecily, she’s here with me . . . And he’s definitely not at the office? . . . Sorry, yes, of course you would have tried there first . . . Sorry, Gina, I’m not thinking straight . . . Is there anything I can do? . . . Please call me if there is. Goodbye. And try not to worry too much.’

She ended the call and looked at Cecily ‘It’s Scarlet,’ she said. ‘Charlie’s had to take her to the hospital and Gina can’t get hold of Stirling. Nobody can. Nobody knows where he is. He’s disappeared again.’

Not once had Simone stood at the door and waved Stirling off. And not just because she knew that the ever-vigilant hawk-eyed Miss Tinstell would be observing the comings and goings from her window across the road. You only had to leave your wheelie bin or recycling boxes out for longer than was considered acceptable for the wretched woman to knock on the door and protest that the street was being brought into disrepute. She had complained once that Neil had woken her with the noise of his car; it had been nine thirty in the evening.

But the real reason she closed the door the moment Stirling stepped on to the pavement was because it was beyond her capabilities to stand there with a smile on her face whilst waving him goodbye, as though it was perfectly normal what they were doing. It would be too great a lie, too great an act of painful dishonesty. Better to close the door and tell herself that it wouldn’t happen again. That this would be the last time.

Now was the third time she had told herself this lie, and just as before, she was consumed with guilt and self-loathing. But just as before, she knew that it would soon pass and she would be waiting for Stirling to contact her. This time it had been she who had initiated his visit, texting him first thing that morning. He had arrived shortly after she had got back from work, and whilst she had poured them both a glass of wine, he had removed his jacket and tie and placed them tidily on the back of a chair. She had asked him about his day and then without another word spoken they had gone up to her bedroom.

Listening now to the throaty sound of Stirling’s car starting, she closed her eyes until she could hear it no longer. Then she went upstairs. She turned on the shower, stripped off her clothes and stepped into the cubicle. Stirling had showered earlier, and as on previous visits, he hadn’t moved any of her toiletries. He was a very considerate lover.

Lover.

Was that what he was? If not, what was he? Other than a means to vanquish the loneliness and her growing sense of isolation. Colleagues at work had given up trying to talk to her, to jolly her along. They left her alone now, not knowing what to say. Perhaps they were scared to say the wrong thing. She didn’t blame them. They had no comprehension of the depth of her grief; she had only been able to tell them that a close friend of hers had died. She could hardly share the truth with them, that her married lover had killed himself. Thank God the press hadn’t discovered that she was the ‘other woman’ in Neil’s life. She knew, though, that once the inquest took place her anonymity would come to an end. For now, on she went, blindly stumbling from one day to another, never knowing what emotion was in store for her. Some days loneliness and tearful regret at what she had lost would overwhelm her, and then another day she could almost believe that she was successfully moving on. Worst were the times when she wanted to punish Neil for abandoning her, for wilfully throwing away what they had, and what they would have had in the future. Together. They had planned to be
together
. Why had he thrown their dream away? Why hadn’t he shared his deepest worries with her? Why had he shut her out? Why hadn’t he been honest with her? It wouldn’t have mattered what he’d done, she would have stood by him. She would have done anything for him.