‘Are you unwell? You look flushed.’ I put the back of my hand on his forehead to see if he feels feverish. He pulls away from me. His eyes are flashing fear, panic even.
‘I can’t go in there,’ he states flatly.
‘What?’
‘I can’t go into the church.’
I gently tug at his arm. I assume he’s joking, but there’s nothing about his face that suggests he is. ‘What is it, Matthew? What’s the matter?’
‘It’s Becky.’
‘Becky?’ I am instantly seized by a sense of complicated unease – anger and pain. ‘What about Becky?’
‘I should have said something earlier. I’m sorry. Look, I can’t do this.’ He turns away and heads back up the path.
I chase him, pull at the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Matthew, slow down. What’s going on? You can’t do what? Explain it to me.’
He’s at the lychgate before he stops. I watch his shoulders rise and fall, his head bowed, his back hunched. I wait until he turns to me. ‘Becky was religious. Very. We had a church wedding. In a place very much like this one, actually. It was beautiful and big. We had hymns, prayers, blessings, the lot. For all the good it did.’ He looks pained now, as though he is physically hurting. I can almost imagine I hear a heart crack, although I’m not sure if it’s his or mine. ‘And I haven’t been inside a church since I buried her. I don’t think I can again, and I certainly don’t want to be married in one.’ He’s quivering from head to foot now, and I wonder if he’s having a panic attack.
‘OK, OK,’ I say calmly, soothingly. ‘I had no idea. Don’t worry. Take a deep breath.’ Again I feel swamped by a sense of how little I know about his history. Now that I do know how he feels about churches, I ought to feel closer to him; new information should make the bond between us stronger. Yet all I feel is resentment that once again Becky is influencing my life. Should marrying in this church be such a problem for him? After all, it’s not the same church, even if it looks a bit similar. I buried my parents in this exact church; that’s why I want the service here, to feel closer to them. Shouldn’t that take precedence?
While I encourage Matthew to take long, slow, calming breaths, I try to be logical and reasonable. I can’t get frustrated with him. Everyone is different in the way they cope with grief. My parents died thirty-five years ago. Matthew’s loss is still fresh. Are my friends right? Are we rushing this? Should we be taking longer to get to know one another? I feel panicked, gripped with fear that he is going to say as much. That would be unbearable. The sun is settling low in the sky; light flickers and sparks through the treeline, like strobes at a rave. I think carefully about what I should say next.
‘It doesn’t have to be a church wedding.’ I take hold of his hand, weave my fingers between his and then kiss his knuckles. ‘I don’t care where we get married. We have plenty of time to think about it. We’re only just engaged.’ He doesn’t look at me. His eyes are darting around the churchyard. He looks like a trapped animal. One that is prepared to chew off its own foot to escape. I can’t allow that. ‘Hold on a minute. Wait here.’ It’s stupid, but I imagine him driving away without me, disappearing altogether. Vanishing from my life as swiftly as he landed in it. I couldn’t stand that. I feel reassured to know the car keys are in my bag. I run into the church and find the vicar. I hurriedly explain that Matthew doesn’t want a church wedding and apologise for wasting his time. He is polite; he seems used to rejection. ‘Are you popping in on your mum and dad while you’re here?’
It takes me a minute to compute. ‘Oh yes, of course,’ I assure him, more as an honourable exit from the conversation than out of any real desire to stand at my parents’ graves.
Matthew is waiting for me at the end of the path, and a surge of relief almost knocks me off my feet. His hood is up and he’s hunched, but I’m glad to note his breathing has slowed and he seems far less agitated now. I sense the vicar’s eyes on my back and feel duty-bound to follow his suggestion. ‘Will you come and see my parents’ graves?’
‘Right, yes,’ Matthew says. ‘Of course.’
We walk through the ancient graves that cluster closest to the church, towards the plot further afield where there are fresh mounds of earth, fresh flowers too. I pay a gardener to tend my parents’ graves, as I can’t stand the idea of them becoming neglected, even more forlorn. Years ago, I invested in a range of bulbs and plants that ensure a bed of colour throughout most of the year. The gardener visits once a fortnight to clear litter, weed the plot and polish the marble. He sends me photos from time to time, so that I know he’s doing his job. I don’t ask him to do so, I trust him, but I find it quite reassuring – comforting, I suppose – to see the plot looking cared for, kempt. That’s why I can’t compute what is in front of me.
‘Oh my God. What the hell?’
‘Moles?’ asks Matthew.
No, not moles; their mounds are neat and natural. The earth in front of me has been hacked at, dug up in a random, aggressive way. The heads of the tulips have all been severed, the jaunty pouts snatched, crushed and scattered. I stare at the disturbed soil, where worms are burrowing through, pink and blue, translucent and alien. I don’t want to think about worms. The air no longer smells clean and fresh; instead it smells of filth and decay. It’s not just the soil and foliage that have been disturbed; there is red paint splattered over the headstones. A lot of it. It is still wet and dripping. It rolls down the white marble, lingering in the engraved letters that spell out my parents’ names, catching in the curves of the vowels, secreted and staining the consonants. The paint rolls closer to my foot. I take a step back. I look about me, but the nearby graves are all undisturbed. Totally peaceful and proper. This is targeted.
‘Who would do such a thing?’ I ask.
Matthew looks aghast. ‘We need to report this. Whoever has done it must be close by. The paint is still wet,’ he says.
‘Yes, yes, we should talk to the vicar,’ I mumble.
‘And the police,’ adds Matthew.
20
June
Matthew thinks I need to talk to Heidi and Gina about what happened to my parents’ graves, and of course the change in wedding plans. ‘You have to tackle it, babe. You know you do.’ I’m not sure which is the harder conversation to make my way into; both seem impossible. I do nothing about seeing them for a couple of weeks, and then he surprises me by inviting them and their families for a walk and lunch at ours on Saturday.
‘Oh, how lovely,’ I comment when he tells me. Although I’m not sure it is. ‘I didn’t know you even had their numbers.’
‘I swapped numbers with Leon that Sunday we went to theirs. I called him and asked for Heidi and Gina’s deets.’ He beams. ‘This is what couples do, babe. They support each other. I’ll cook. It will be awesome.’
It’s a hot day. Too hot. Sweat is sliding down the back of my legs and I’ve changed clothes twice. I feel unusually nervous, and not all that excited about meeting my friends. I know Heidi hates it when it’s too hot. ‘It will be cooler in the woods,’ says Matthew with a reassuring smile.
He makes a good point, and so when everyone arrives, I discourage settling in the garden and instead put on my walking boots, pointedly discussing the route. I feel a walk might be more successful than sitting around. People can find space and have private conversations. That might be more diplomatic.
‘All right, we’re coming,’ mutters Heidi when, for the third time, I comment that it would be good to get going to avoid being out in the glaring sunshine at midday.
Despite my intimate knowledge of the area, the men have taken it upon themselves to lead the party; Matthew, Leon and Mick set the pace. The three girls trail behind. Fifi is wearing her earbuds, listening to her own private world and locking the rest of us out as much as possible. It’s not personal, it’s her age; we’re boring to her right now. By contrast, Aaliyah and Lottie chatter constantly, competing with the birdsong by frequently calling out to us to settle a matter of fact or recollection, or just to laugh at their jokes. I’m glad of the younger two girls. They disguise the silence that has settled between Heidi, Gina and me. We three are walking between the two groups. Our conversation is more stilted. I want to think it’s the heat. I know it’s that I am stressed about what I have to say. Matthew doesn’t know my friends as well as I do. No matter how lovely his patatas bravas and calamari tapas lunch is, I can’t think that today is going to be ‘awesome’, not considering what needs to be said.
I launch in, knowing the longer I leave it, the more tense I’ll become.
‘On reflection, we’ve decided to keep it small. The wedding.’ I hope my tone sounds casual; I fear it sounds defensive.
‘How small?’ Heidi demands, instantly antagonistic.
‘Tiny. In fact we’re going to do it abroad, on a beach somewhere. No formality. No speeches, no suits or long dresses.’ The words tumble out, rough, almost belligerent, because I’m trying to avoid sounding apologetic.
‘What? No, no way,’ Heidi counters firmly. She stops dead, and as we are on a narrow single-file track, I nearly bump into her.
‘It’s her wedding,’ points out Gina. ‘She can do whatever she likes.’
‘Thank you,’ I say with a hint of exasperation.
