‘My pleasure. I parked as close as I could to the building. Come on,’ I say a little too loudly, my excitement inadvertently spilling over, ‘let’s get you both home.’
‘I’ve left Gemma to sleep. I managed to get a few hours on the plane, so I don’t feel too bad.’ Gavin is standing next to me in the kitchen. I had forgotten how tall he is, how statuesque, his frame seeming to fill the entire room.
‘Tea?’ I fill the kettle, my back to him as I stare out into the garden.
‘Please. I’m parched.’
‘Air conditioning on the plane most probably,’ I say, as if I am an expert on filtration systems and how they affect passengers’ respiratory systems. I keep doing this – saying pointless, silly things. I’m nervous, fidgety. I shouldn’t be.
I make the tea and we sit at the table, Gavin checking his phone while I stare out of the window. Tiny tendrils of steam curl up, misting my face. ‘It’s good to have you back,’ I murmur. ‘It’s nice to have some life breathed back into this house.’
‘Sorry? Oh yeah, it’s great to be back.’ He places his phone on the table and picks up his cup, smiling at me as he sips at his tea. ‘We’re both back at work tomorrow. Gemma got a transfer over to the UK division of the bank. She considered leaving, starting afresh once we got here but the offer was there so she took it.’
‘I guess I’d better make the most of you both while you’re still around then, eh?’ I give him a wink and have to stop myself from throwing my arms around him and squeezing hard.
‘Have you seen much of Lucy?’
I sigh and raise my eyebrows at him. ‘No, not really. She always seems to be so busy. Have you been in touch with her at all?’
‘The odd text here and there. We were thinking of travelling down to see her. No concrete plans as yet. Just have to wait and see how we get on with jobs and time.’
We move onto other subjects. Lucy’s presence on the fringe of our lives is something that has always bothered me. I make a mental note to visit her sometime soon. Once Gavin and Gemma are settled, I could drive down there, or better still, get the train. Perhaps we could all go together. I don’t want to be a burden but I’m sure she would appreciate a family visit from us.
Warren once said something unforgiveable, not even realising the depth of hurt he caused me with his careless words. A throwaway comment after a glass of wine too many. ‘Let’s face it, Grace. Gavin has always been your favourite.’ He alluded to the notion that Gavin was a substitute for Simon.
I hid my shock and upset with a flap of my hand, turning my back to hide my tears. What if Warren was right? I’ve had lots of time to think about what he said. Did I shut Lucy out of our lives unintentionally? Shames creeps up my spine, burning under my skin. I would never consciously do such a thing. Would I?
But then, this is the man who crept around behind my back sleeping with another woman, meeting up clandestine style, receiving mysterious notes and stashing them in his desk at work. Why should I take any notice of anything that passed through his lips? And yet, his words still needle me, making me uncomfortable, edgy. I love Lucy. I love Gavin equally. Don’t I?
I decide that I will call her later, let her know that I think of her often, that she is as much a part of our lives as Gavin as. My life. I stop, correct myself. It’s a hard habit to break. Warren is still there in my thoughts, will probably always be there, his presence too difficult to ignore. We had so many good years together, ruined only by the unearthing of those stupid bloody letters. Kim was right. I should have thrown them out, all those documents. She is right more often than I care to admit.
Gavin finishes his tea and heads upstairs while I sit contemplating everything – my family, Warren’s death and how I can move on with my life without him in it. And Simon. He is always there, never forgotten, loved always. But now I have Gavin and Gemma to think about. Simon will have to wait. That thought pains me but once they have their own place, I can return my attention to him.
I hear Gavin coming back downstairs. It’s not something I’m used to hearing – the footfall of other people around this place – but it’s a sound I could get used to. It adds a touch of comfort to the cottage, taking away the sharp edges that the prolonged silences often bring.
‘I was thinking about visiting Nana at the care home. I haven’t seen her for ages. I was wondering if you fancy coming along? I don’t know how busy I’m going to be at work once things get going so today seems like a good idea. What do you think?’
I’m not expecting this. It takes me by surprise, catching me in my solar plexus. It’s a thoughtful thing to do. He could have chosen to unpack or do any manner of other more pressing tasks but has turned his thoughts to his ailing grandmother instead.
‘I think it sounds like a wonderful idea. If you give me ten minutes, I’ll be right with you.’ It’s good to have Gavin coming with me on this visit. Even if Mum has a meltdown, it won’t feel as worrisome, not half as gruelling. I have back-up, some support. I have my son with me. Three generations of us together. It will be just perfect.
23
Mum is dozing in the chair when we arrive, her head lolling to one side, a thin line of saliva running down the side of her mouth, gathering in the recess of her chin. I touch her shoulder lightly. Her head snaps up, instant recognition in her eyes. It warms my heart to think she still knows me. That ability to know me within a matter of seconds will fade as the disease progresses, her recognition of her family a thing of the past as dementia leaves her locked in a world of fear and uncertainty where everyone is a stranger, every day a terrifying step into the unknown, but for now I will hold onto it, treasure it.
‘And who’s this young man before me, then?’ She props herself up, levering her thin body upwards with her elbows on the wooden arms of the chair. ‘Eeh, it isn’t, is it? Well, well, well,’ she says, her voice a thin squeak, her pale, watery eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘If it isn’t young Simon. Where have you been lately, little fella? Feels like years since I’ve seen you around.’
My knees buckle. I hang onto the back of the chair to steady myself. I want to look at Gavin’s face but at the same time am too frightened to glance his way, to see that startled look in his eyes, the expression of confusion as he attempts to work out what to say or do next.
‘It’s Gavin, Nana. Not Simon. Anyway,’ he murmurs softly, bending down on one knee to get at her level, ‘how are you? You’re looking wonderful. Still as glamorous as ever, I see. A Greta Garbo lookalike.’
And the moment is forgotten. Just like that. Mum chuckles, places her hands on his face and tells him how wonderful he is, stroking and cooing at him. Within seconds, she is captivated by his charms, smiling and giggling like a small child as he showers her with compliments and affection. Her laughter fills the small room, bouncing off the walls and ceiling. My heart swells, pride blossoming in my chest. Why can’t every visit be like this? Gentle, happy. Easy.
Amanda’s smiling face appears around the door. She nods, winks and disappears into her office opposite Mum’s room. Everything feels just right. Perfect. Whether the planets have aligned or there is something in the air, I cannot say but I am reluctant to move for fear of breaking the spell.
‘I’ll pop along to the machine and get us all a coffee, shall I?’ I don’t wait for a reply. I leave them together. They have many years to catch up on although how lucid Mum will be after ten minutes of conversation is anyone’s guess. Her reserves will be used up, her conversational skills as dry as sand.
I linger at the machine, loving the fact that Gavin has taken the time to speak to his nana. They need time to catch up. It’s been a few years. Gavin will have noticed the difference, be shocked perhaps by her general decline as dementia takes hold of her poor exhausted brain and wrings it out until it is desiccated and devoid of anything that resembles the wonderful person she once was.
Mum was too ill, too frail to attend Warren’s funeral. Truth be told, I’m not even sure she knows he is dead. I remember telling her and also remember her staring out of the window, eyes glassy, a look of non-comprehension etched into her tiny features. I chose to not mention it again after that.
Why sit and talk about death to a person who doesn’t understand the concept of death, its finality, what it actually involves, especially somebody whose end could be nearer than we all realise? It’s cruel and unnecessary, so instead we talk about flowers and butterflies and the weather and the war. That’s her favourite. A time when everything was so fragile and terrifying and yet at the same time so comforting, her young life filled with a community spirit that now seems sadly lacking. I sigh, shake my head. That isn’t entirely true. For every Janine Francis, there is a Mr Waters and his family, always ready to help. I banish the maudlin thoughts, focusing on the good, decent people. Gavin, Carrie. They are all out there. Even Kim.
I step away from the machine, my arms loaded up with coffee and biscuits and am almost back at mum’s room when I hear the scream that curdles my blood, turning my insides to water. In an attempt to put down the coffee cups, I accidentally drop them on the floor, the brown liquid spilling and spreading like rivers of mud at my feet. The biscuits drop in a broken heap as I loosen my grip and race to Mum’s room.
My heart throbs with dread at the sight before me. Mum is leaning over Gavin, her hands locked around his throat. As tiny as she is, her rage is all encompassing, a substantial force that fills the room.
Gavin’s leans back away from her, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, his lips parted in shock. He could knock her away with one movement, one slap of his hand, his strong arms catching her off guard, her body taking flight and hitting the nearest wall. But he doesn’t.
He speaks softly, coaxing her, his muffled, strangulated voice a plea. I suck in my breath, chew at the inside of my mouth, helplessness piercing my gut.
‘I’m not him, Nana, I promise. I’m Gavin, remember?’
I turn to shout for assistance but they are already there, Amanda and Rochelle, standing next to me. They bustle through the doorway before I can utter a word: a team of experts at hand, ready to extricate my mother from my son, to prise her hands away from his throat.
‘It’s you! Don’t lie to me. I know it’s you. He’s gone and it’s your fault, you bastard!’ she is shrieking, setting my nerves on edge, each word tearing at me, cutting into my flesh, drawing blood.
