Two Fridays in April (13 page)

She breaks off, overwhelmed without warning by a wave of sadness, a familiar sensation of utter bleakness draping itself over her. What’s the point? What’s the point of any of it? Why is she still insisting on carrying on? Why is she so determined to keep going when the two people she loved most have been taken from her?

She regards Finn’s headstone again, his name chiselled under Susan’s into the granite. What’s she doing here, talking to a ghost? He’s gone, he can’t hear her. He’ll never hear her again.

The darkness settles around her, extends its claws and sinks them deep into her. She lifts her head, tries to push it away, but it refuses to leave.
Give up
, it urges her.
It’s easy: just let go. You have nothing to live for, nothing—

No. NO. With an effort she straightens her back, tightens
her grip on the handle of her shopping bag. She will
not
give up, she will not do that. She will never give up.

‘I’ll come and see you tomorrow,’ she murmurs to Finn. ‘I’ll be here again tomorrow, son.’

She turns and walks away, fighting the urge to throw back her head and howl like an animal. She knows where she must go.

The best thing about him, she has decided, is that he never tells her it’s going to get easier. He never talks about time healing all wounds, or any of that rubbish. He never says anything much really, which suits her fine, because she has plenty to say. She saves them up, all the things she can’t talk about with Daphne or Una, and out they spill as soon as she sits on the brown leather armchair in his butterscotch-coloured little room that always smells of cooking meat, and mint.

He’s good at listening. He’d want to be, in his line of work. The things he must have heard over the years, the regrets and the anger and the frustration that must have been dumped at his feet. He listens when she talks, and occasionally he nods, and sometimes he tilts his head a bit as if he’s trying to figure her out, and mostly that’s about it.

That’s as much as she wants.

He seems unfazed by the awful things she says sometimes, when she can’t stop the fury escaping. The language that comes out of her then, she who never curses normally, swearing like a fishwife sometimes in that poky little place, her rage when it blooms seeming to demand that kind of frowned-upon language.

He never objects, hardly seems to notice the obscenities she sends flying around. He doesn’t mind either when words fail her, and she can only glare at him with particular ferocity. He gives no sign of being put out today as she sits bawling her eyes out yet again, yanking tissues from the box on the table between them, soaking them with her grief.

Today isn’t even her day. Her day is Tuesday. It’s been two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon for the past eight months, ever since she met him, literally went barrelling into him as he stood on the street ahead of her, about to push a key into a lock. Would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her.

Sorry
, he said immediately, even though it was her fault. Not looking where she was going, mind a thousand miles away.
Are you all right?
he asked, a strong hand cradling her elbow, steadying her.
Did you hurt yourself?
His voice deep, his words measured, despite the abruptness of their encounter.
Are you sure you’re OK?

Mo found herself leaning into his supporting arm, wanting to be looked after, craving the sensation of someone taking over after four months of being the one who coped, four months of never letting a crack show. Four months of trying to be strong for Daphne and Una when they collapsed.

The following day she walked again along that street until she came to the door he’d been about to open, right next to a Greek restaurant. She saw a brass plaque with a man’s name on it, and underneath, Counselling Services.

Counselling. Telling your troubles to a stranger who sent you back to your childhood and raked up more muck, often left you worse off than you were at the start. She wanted help,
she knew that, but it wasn’t advice she was after. She carried on walking.

Three days later she returned and stood before the door again. It wouldn’t commit her to anything; she would say she was just making an enquiry. She’d know in a minute if he could help her.

She pressed the brass button above the plaque and waited. Thirty seconds later she pressed it again, and again it went unanswered. She left.

Two days after that she was back again, and this time he was in.

I’d like a word
, she said,
if you have a minute
– and he led her upstairs and into the little room she’s come to know so well.

She met his eye.
I’m not looking for counselling
, she told him.
I know what your sign says, but I don’t want anyone trying to fix me. I just need someone to listen to me, that’s all I’m after. I need a place where I can talk, without anyone talking back
.

I see
. He regarded her politely, his face revealing nothing. If he remembered her from their collision of five days earlier he didn’t let on. If he thought she had a screw loose he kept that quiet too.

So what do you say?
she asked.

I’m a good listener
, he replied.

No hypnosis, or any of that nonsense? No sending me back to my childhood?

Absolutely not
.

Just listening, nothing else
.

If that’s what you want
.

His voice was as calm and steady as she remembered from
their first encounter. Some instinct, the same one that had brought her back to his door, told her that she could believe him. They made an appointment, and the following Tuesday afternoon he brought her into his office for the second time – and as soon as she sat down she began to cry.

For over half of her allotted hour she sat hunched in a ball as four months of tears rolled out, and all he did was push the box of tissues closer to her. Without saying a word, he had given her permission to stop holding everything in, and out it came.

And when she finally managed to stop she blew her nose and began in a rusty voice to tell him about Finn and Leo, and true to his word he listened, and never once interrupted.

The relief was immense. Every word she uttered made her feel lighter. The tears came back once or twice, but she talked around them, kept on telling him about the husband and son she had lost.

When the clock on the wall told her the hour was up she stopped talking and got to her feet, although he had given no sign that he needed her to finish. She wasn’t one to take advantage.

She’s been seeing him ever since, every Tuesday without fail. She wouldn’t miss it: he’s her safety valve. Today was the first time she’d turned up without an appointment.

He was on his way out when she arrived. About to pull the street door closed behind him, car keys in hand, umbrella under an arm.

You’re off home
, she said, but her face must have given her away, because he shook his head –
No, no, come on in
– and
brought her upstairs, and excused himself to make a phone call. Cancelling or postponing whatever appointment she’d interrupted.

I won’t stay long
, she said when he reappeared – and that was the last thing she was able to say before words deserted her and the tears came flooding out, just like the first time with him.

Now, finally, she wipes her eyes.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Sorry for barging in.’

‘Don’t be.’

‘I don’t know why that happened. I was fine this morning.’ And though he surely recognises this for the lie it is, he doesn’t contradict her.

He asked her last week if she wanted to change to Friday because of the anniversary, and she refused, determined to weather it on her own. Stubborn old fool that she is.

She feels better now, though. It’s bearable again, like it always is after time spent with him. She lays it at his door in all its ugliness and pain, and he takes it without complaint and gets rid of it.

It’s thanks to him she’s working at the charity shop. He admired a jacket she was getting into at the end of a session, maybe a month after she’d begun seeing him.

Charity shop
, she told him, like she’d tell anyone.

He smiled.
Never have guessed
.

I get most of my things there
.

You’d be good behind the counter so
, he replied. Just like that, no more than a bit of a joke – but the remark stayed in her head. A fortnight later she offered her services at the shop. Undoubtedly, it’s helped her too.

She levers herself to her feet. ‘I’ve delayed you.’ Nearly half an hour she’s stayed.

‘Don’t worry about it.’

He doesn’t want to take payment but she insists. He’s her only gift to herself in the week, and worth every penny.

‘You want to leave next Tuesday off?’ he asks, and she tells him no, she wants to see him as usual. Today was different. Next week will be back to normal, and he’s part of her Tuesdays now.

She wonders how long more she’ll need him.

She welcomes the cold air on her flushed face as she makes her way to the bus stop. She wonders can people tell she’s been crying, and thinks by the way nobody meets her eye that they probably can.

The rain begins as she reaches the stop, and she fishes the bonnet from her pocket. She tucks in her hair and ties the plastic straps under her chin. Not exactly the latest fashion but it does the job, and she’s never been one for following trends.

As the shower turns heavy she longs again for her green coat, maybe the only thing in her wardrobe that was bought new. It was a gift from Leo, or rather the money was, on her sixty-fifth birthday.

‘Get yourself something nice in the sales,’ he said. ‘A good winter coat, or a suit.’ It was January, two months after Susan had died, and Mo was putting his little memory lapses down to the after-effects of that. He’d been fond of Susan, he was upset she was gone; that was all there was to it.

By April, that excuse wasn’t working any more. The dread
had planted itself in her head, and each time he forgot to brush his teeth, or went to the supermarket with his slippers still on, or left his key in the front door all night, her fears increased.

The rain is getting heavier. The drops smack like popping corn onto her bonnet. There’s no seat or shelter here, just a pole topped with the bus-stop sign. Two others wait with her: a youth of about sixteen, shoulders hunched within a black hooded top that’s making a terrible job of keeping him dry, and a man in a flat tweed cap, hands shoved deep into his raincoat pockets, whose enormous reddish beard makes it impossible to put an age on him.

Traffic is building up, wipers slicing across windscreens, tyres hissing on the wet road as they pass. It’d be a night for the fire and the telly if she wasn’t going out. She could murder a dinner now, but she has nearly four hours still to wait. She’ll make Bovril when she gets—

Something pokes her in the side. She turns, affronted.

The bearded man gestures with the same elbow he used to nudge her. ‘Someone wants you.’

She hadn’t noticed the car that has pulled up next to them, the passenger window halfway down. She ducks her head and peers inside.

‘Climb in,’ one of her neighbours says, pushing open the door, and Mo gets in gratefully, even if it’ll be non-stop talk all the way home.