The Story of Us (52 page)

I tried for fifteen minutes to clear my mind but it refused to empty. The day kept spooling through my tortured head in slow motion. I saw again and again the look in Janet's eyes as she spoke of her dead son and how much she said I had always meant to him. I heard again my own denial, the same denial I had uselessly echoed to Matt when he had made the same claim. I couldn't believe they were both right. That
everyone
had been right.

Was it really possible to have been so blind, to have missed such a vital truth in our relationship? These were impossible questions to answer. And the tragedy of knowing I would never, could never, be sure was crumbling my resolve not to allow my thoughts to reach out for Jimmy. I needed him now, at this moment, more than ever; to hear his voice, to look into the smile that always lived in his eyes for me.

Without pausing to make a conscious decision, I swung my legs off the bed and groped around for my shoes. The lateness of the hour didn't worry me. I knew there was only one place I could go now to ask these questions, to say what I had to say.

The night had turned even colder when I once more walked past the bemused doorman who had bidden me goodnight on my way in only twenty minutes before. The cold wind numbed my face as I turned and began walking swiftly to my destination. If challenged, I could always claim that I'd taken the walk to find relief from my headache, but in reality I needed an altogether different kind of solace. And the location held no horrors for me. How could it? There was nothing to fear from a ghost when they were someone you loved.

The dark streets were almost deserted; it was too cold and late for an evening stroll. My feet crunched lightly on pavements already beginning to glaze with a light frosting of ice. When the wind bit into my face with icy fangs, I burrowed my chin deeper into my scarf and walked into its vicious jaws with steely determination.

My feet faltered for a second when I rounded the last street corner and the church came into view. It stood alone at the top of a hill, with no shops or houses nearby. Its closest neighbour was the town's railway station, and that stood almost two miles away. Even on a clear day, the red-bricked station building was completely obscured by the churchyard's high iron railings. Its isolation was perhaps meant to engender a feeling of peace and tranquillity, but on this dark December night neither of those emotions were foremost in my mind.

As I approached the large arched gate in the railings, I wondered what I would do if it were locked. Climb over? I looked up and surveyed the height of the fence… no, that wasn't going to happen. Come back in the morning, I supposed. Yet the urgency to make this very real and physical connection with Jimmy was so strong, I didn't think I could wait until the following day.

The gate swung open on well-oiled hinges. Strange, I'd felt sure it was going to creak and make the cliché complete.

Once inside the churchyard my courage wavered slightly. Was this an act of total madness, to be wandering around a deserted graveyard at this time of night? Wasn't this just the sort of behaviour I'd always ridiculed heroines for in the movies?

A noise from an approaching car startled me, and instinctively I ducked behind a large oak tree to avoid being picked up in its headlights. I'd forgotten I could be clearly seen by passing cars on the road. Plus, I wasn't exactly dressed for covert manoeuvres in my long white coat. I wasn't sure if I was actually committing a criminal office, or an act of trespass, but winding up at a police station, trying to justify my actions, was not how I planned to end the evening. My brush with disclosure decided me against hesitating further, and as soon as the car was out of sight I drew away from the tree and walked with renewed purpose towards the rear of the church, where the small graveyard was situated.

There weren't many graves in this part of the cemetery. The larger, older section was around the other side, and much of this grassy area was still awaiting the arrival of its new occupants. I supposed the large crematorium in the next town might account for the comparatively few new markers I could see in this more traditional place of rest. I instinctively knew that Janet would have wanted somewhere close by where she could visit her lost son. I also knew that the easiest way to find him would be to look for the best maintained plot.

I didn't have to look at many before I found what I was searching for. Just long enough to read half a dozen moving and heart-wrenching epitaphs as I walked among the granite headstones.
Dearest husband
,
Beloved grandmother
,
Much loved father
. So much grief, so many tears, the frozen soil must be virtually saturated from those emotions.

Jimmy's grave stood slightly to one side, clearly newer than its neighbours. The headstone was sparkling white marble which seemed to glow under the winter moon's iridescence. I walked around and steadied myself for a moment before reading his inscription.

Jimmy Kendall. Lost too soon at 18 years
.
Cherished son and loyal friend. Our love for you will live on for ever.

A sob broke from me, so raw with grief it sounded more animal than human in its anguish. I felt my knees begin to buckle and I sank onto the cold grass beside his grave. I had come here hoping to voice all of my feelings but none could reach the surface through the boiling swell of pain that swept me in its path. I had believed that over the years I had reached a place of acceptance, but I realised now that all I had done was pull a thin veneer of pretence over a gaping wound. I was incapable of words; only able to rock slowly back and forth on my knees, repeating his name over and over again.

This was too painful. I wasn't strong enough, either physically or emotionally, to cope with this grief tonight. It was madness to have come. Still hiccupping soft sorrowful sobs, I started to get to my feet and then swayed forward, only stopping myself from falling by flinging out my hand onto the ice-slick turf. My head felt suddenly strange, too heavy for my neck to hold. Then, giving a small helpless cry, my supporting arm gave way and I fell forward onto the cold, unyielding ground beside the grave.

The pain from my head now encompassed my entire neck and shoulders and I wondered if I had somehow struck myself on a rock when falling. But the cold grass beneath my cheek was clear of any obstruction. Very slowly, trying to minimise each movement of my head, I inched back my arms until both hands were flat on the soil on either side of me. I tried to lever myself up but although I exerted every ounce of my strength, my quivering forearms would not comply. After several abortive attempts, I realised I wasn't going to be able to get to my feet that way.

Suddenly the danger I was in was terrifyingly obvious. I was lying, sick and virtually immobile, in a deserted graveyard. No one knew I was here; no one was going to miss me – not until the morning at least. I could
die
here. The thought, so terrifying, managed to pierce through the vice-like pain in my head. I had no idea how long it took to die of exposure, or hypothermia. But I did know that giving up and lying down to die beside the boy who'd lost his own life while saving mine, was not going to happen.

Trying to ignore the agony in my head, I began to attempt to roll gradually onto my side. My progress was slow, each movement sending a paralysing spasm from my neck. I stopped several times to gather my breath, finding the strength to continue not in my desire to live, but more in the knowledge of what losing me, especially in these circumstances, would do to my father.

Eventually, when I had regained my breath a little, I gingerly raised my knees towards my chest. At least that area of my body wasn't in pain, but it did feel strangely numb, which I supposed must be as a result of lying on the frozen ground. With my legs in position, I realised I couldn't afford to tackle my next manoeuvre so delicately. I didn't have much strength left and it felt very much like this would have to be an all-or-nothing attempt. I braced my arm to support me, took a deep breath, held it and rolled with Herculean effort onto my knees.

Bright spots of light pinwheeled behind my eyes; I felt the sway of an incipient faint, and bit deeply into my lower lip to fight back against the weakness. When it had passed, I cautiously opened my eyes. I was still on all fours, and was so grateful not to have succumbed to unconsciousness that it took me a moment or two to realise there was something wrong with my eyes. Seriously wrong. An involuntary cry of pure terror escaped my frozen lips. My vision had virtually disappeared in my right eye, and my left had only tunnel-like vision, the periphery of my eyesight disappearing into a cloudy fog. This, I knew, wasn't anything to do with exposure, hypothermia or intense grief. The loss of sight was the last dire warning link in the chain of medical advice I had so unwisely chosen to ignore.

Telling myself that I couldn't afford to let myself panic, I groped out with my left hand, found the wide marble edge of Jimmy's headstone and pulled myself upright on legs that felt as stable as elastic. I realised I had stupidly left my mobile in the hotel room, so my only chance of aid was to try to get to the road. Hoping they would forgive me for the disrespect, I used the surrounding grave markers as handholds as I made my slow and unsteady way through the graveyard.

The sight in my left eye appeared to be decreasing at an alarming rate; the small circle of vision now felt as though I was looking through a narrow tube. I tried to ignore my greatest dread that this might be permanent. I just couldn't allow that thought to overwhelm my mind, or exhaustion to take my body. It was hard, particularly when what I wanted to do more than anything was lie down and close my eyes against this pain-wracked nightmare. Even walking was now proving difficult, and each shaky step I took had all the fluidity of a newly awakened zombie.

As I left the last gravestone support, I thought I could vaguely make out a distant sound. Was that just a train from the station or could there be a car approaching? It was probably not yet eleven o'clock, surely not that late for someone to be driving by? The road, although quiet, might still have the occasional passing car. But from where I stood, in the shadows of the church and its surrounding trees, I knew I would never be seen. The noise grew in intensity. It
was
a car.

‘Help!' I cried out uselessly. ‘Please stop, help!'

I lurched forward, trying to run and raise my arms to flag down the car. It was my last bad idea, in an evening full of them. Running isn't really an option when you can barely stand. Or see. I was already pitching head first towards the ground and oblivion by the time the car's headlights arced into the starlit sky.

The first thing I became aware of was the continuing soreness from my head, which seemed to feel somehow strangely enlarged. I moved it slowly, just the merest fraction, and heard the soft scratch of crêpe bandage against cotton. I tried to raise an arm to investigate but stopped when I felt a painful tug from something embedded in my forearm. It would appear that I was attached to some sort of machine. A persistent beeping sound from a piece of equipment positioned directly behind me confirmed I was probably hooked up to some sort of monitoring device as well as being on a drip. Clearly I was in hospital, but why couldn't I see anything?

I blinked several times. My eyelids felt weirdly unresponsive, and it made no difference, everything was still in darkness. Why couldn't I see? What had happened to me? I felt a powerful wave of panic begin to engulf me. Why couldn't I remember? What was the matter with my head – and my eyes? I strained to recall. In small fragments I could see fleeting snapshots of the day before. I could remember visiting my old house, then a fast forwarded image of being at a restaurant. Then I'd gone back to the hotel. Had I taken a cab? I couldn't remember. Then I'd reached my room… and then… nothing. There was a gaping chasm where the rest of my memories of the evening should be.

I struggled to move, to sit up, even with all the wires and tubes attached. The noise of this ineffectual stirring did however alert someone in the room.

‘Well, hello there. Welcome back to us, Rachel. It's good to see you awake. Let me just call your father.'

There was a sound of a door opening and footsteps rapidly receding down an echoing corridor. I realised I was alone before I could manage to command my numb lips to form a question.

Was she going to phone my dad? Had someone already informed him I was in hospital? Dread at how he would have reacted to that news rippled through me. He was too ill to cope with any more worry in his life right now. I wondered if they could bring the phone to my bedside. Perhaps if he could just hear my voice he'd be reassured that I was OK. But how could I calm and reassure him about my condition when I didn't even know what that was myself? I gave an angry moan of pure, impotent frustration.

‘Hey, hey… none of that now. Everything's going to be all right.' Swift and sure footsteps approached the bed. How was this possible?

I started off the pillow, ignoring whatever agony might ensue. My head was already spinning in shock anyway.

‘Dad? Dad, is that you?'

A warm and familiar roughened hand engulfed my own where it lay on the stiff hospital sheets.

‘Of course it's me, my love.' His breath warmed my face as he bent to kiss my cheek, his beard scratching against me.

‘Oh Dad…' I began, and then, although there were a thousand things I could say,
should
say, none of them managed to come out as I was helpless to stop myself from dissolving suddenly and very noisily into tears.

‘There, there, there,' muttered my dad, frenziedly patting my hand in discomfort. I knew the look that would be on his face, even without the benefit of sight. He had always been fazed by my tears, either as a small child or in my turbulent teenage years. Knowing how difficult it was for him to deal with them, I made a real effort to stem the torrent.