11
I meet my mum at 10 a.m. in our favourite patch of the Heath – there are three benches, each with a panoramic view of the park, and I take a seat on our usual one. From here, trees rise on either side, giving way to a deep valley that extends to the city below. London looks like a painting from here – only half-real, blurred by the city haze. It’s busy today: a Saturday morning. Londoners have descended, as they always do on weekends, to get their allocation of leaves and grass. From here, you can almost pretend you’re in the countryside – I breathe a little easier, my feet firmly planted on earth rather than pavement for the first time in a while.
My mum sits down next to me and reaches for my hand.
‘It’s been so good to see you, love,’ she says. I keep my gaze on the park: if I look at her for too long my heart might explode with guilt and I’ll promise to move back to London.
‘You, too, Mum,’ I say, squeezing her hand.
‘That man Jack is really —’ she starts.
‘—Mum, please, don’t start talking about how good-looking he is again.’
‘I was just going to say that it was very kind of him,’ she says. ‘Taking time out of his schedule to be fussed over for hours.’
‘It was,’ I agree, ignoring the twinge in my stomach.
‘I think the ladies appreciated it – it was nice to have a man there who actually wanted to be there, for once. I invited Elizabeth’s husband Tony last month, and he asked if he could watch the football on my television.’
Dad would have wanted to be there , I think, suddenly – he always came to Mum’s book club events, serving drinks and refilling the crisp bowls and being his endlessly charming self. Everyone loved him.
‘Well, since your father,’ she says, as if she’s read my mind. ‘But he was special.’
‘He was,’ I agree. My throat suddenly feels thick, the waves of grief crashing in the near distance. We’re in dangerous territory, now.
‘Mum—’ I say, ready to cut her off but, mercifully, she returns to talking about Jack.
‘There seemed to be something going on between you two, pet,’ she says, and my mouth dries up. ‘Mother’s instinct, I suppose. It isn’t just a business partnership, is it, darling?’
A jolt of frustration hits me that I haven’t covered it well enough; that, somehow, my mum has seen through me. For the briefest of seconds, I consider opening up and telling Mum what happened between us. How much it hurt, how out of control everything felt. How desperately I tried to keep it together – for her, for dad, even as everything else fell apart. I imagine resting my head on her shoulder and letting the tears come. But even at the thought, my chest clenches in fear.
‘It is, Mum,’ I insist, turning to her. ‘Just business.’
Concern passes across her face, as if she can tell I’m lying to her, then it’s gone. ‘I’d just like to see you happy, love,’ she says, squeezing my hand.
‘I am,’ I say, aiming what I hope is a convincing smile in her direction. She sighs and looks out at the view.
‘Your dad used to love this place,’ she says, and this time I don’t get the defence mechanisms up in time. Memories of my dad flash through my mind without warning – playing hide-and-seek in the trees behind us, chasing him across the grass. Racing him to the bench we’re currently sitting on.
‘Mum—’ I say, not trusting myself to say more, hoping she’ll understand from my tone that I need this not to go any further.
‘No, Andie. Please don’t stop me – I need to tell you this in person.’
I have a sudden, desperate urge to end this conversation, but she’s holding my hand and looking at me with her wide blue eyes, and I’m about to leave her and I don’t know when I’ll see her again. So I stay quiet, and she tells me how she’s been going to a grief counselling group for the last year. How it’s helped her to process the loss.
My throat feels like sandpaper, but I squeeze her hand tighter, forcing myself to listen. My own grief sits like a lead weight on my chest.
‘I still love your father,’ she says, looking at me, now. ‘But for the first time since he passed I feel a little less weighed down by it all. Ready—’ she pauses, taking a breath. ‘— Ready, perhaps, to think about moving on.’ Her words land like a stone – it sounds so final. Like she’s describing a job, or a house, not a living, breathing person.
But he’s not, anymore , I think, and it knocks the breath out of me. Then she says a name: Nigel.
‘He lost his wife a few years ago, so our situations are similar,’ she starts. They’ve been meeting outside the group, having coffee, sometimes dinner. At first, they mostly talked about their spouses, but now it’s turned into something more. ‘I think you’d like him,’ she says, squeezing my hand. And I want to reply, but my words are trapped in my throat, drowned out by the memories which now come thick and fast: my parents, dancing in the kitchen. My mum, suddenly laughing at something my dad said. She was always laughing when my dad was around.
‘Andie?’ my mum says, my silence now noticeable. She looks worried.
‘That’s great, Mum,’ I say, ‘really great. I’m happy for you.’
She can hear in my voice, can see in my face, that I’m not OK. She reaches for my hand again, her eyes soft and sad. ‘I know it’s big news, love. But I thought – well, I hoped you might like to meet him before you left. I wanted to tell you at our lunch, then bring him here today. But we didn’t get a chance to talk about it, so I hope it’s not all too fast.’
Oh God . I can feel what’s coming. She looks over to her right, and I follow her gaze towards a man walking up the hill. The hill my dad used to walk up, to join us on this bench. The parallel is too much, too painful. I’m under water now, being dragged deeper and deeper.‘Of course, that’s fine,’ I hear myself saying. Then he reaches the top of the hill, and Mum stands, and so do I, my heart pounding in my chest. I’m operating on impulse now, as if pushed by some force outside myself.
‘Hello, Andie,’ he says, reaching out his hand. His voice is so warm, so kind. I take his hand and shake it, his grip firm. Hold it together, Andie. For Mum. ‘It’s so wonderful to finally meet you,’ he says. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’ Of course he has: I’m sure my mum has sung my praises, like she always does. Praises I don’t deserve.
‘I—’ I start, struggling to find the right words. He’s so tall, so warm. So gentle. So much like my dad, even from this brief first impression, that it almost brings me to my knees with grief. ‘You’re so much like him,’ I say without thinking, and in the silence that follows the grief overwhelms my every sense. ‘I mean—’ I start, panicking now, the tears I’ve been suppressing starting to come. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I choke. I want to be happy for my mum, and a part of me is, soaringly so – that she’s found someone, that she won’t be alone anymore. But a much larger part of me is overwhelmed right now by a pain that colours everything around me, turning it to grey.
‘I thought we might go for a short walk,’ Nigel says, kindly. From here, I can see his eyes are grey with flecks of blue. His face is lined, softly creased as if from years of laughter. He seems gentle, his energy soft and unintrusive – just the sort of person my mum deserves. Sadness and guilt spill through me all at once.
I desperately try to make sense of the warring emotions inside me. But I can’t. Even looking at his face for a second longer feels like it’s going to tear me in half. I hide my expression by looking at my watch. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, trying to keep my tone light even through the thickness of my throat. ‘It appears I’m running a little behind schedule. It’s wonderful to meet you, Nigel. But I—’ I clear my throat, hitting my stride now, my voice sounding more normal. ‘—have to leave soon for my flight this afternoon.’ He nods, disappointment colouring his expression, and it makes me feel so sick I can barely breathe.
‘Of course,’ he says, raising his hand to touch my shoulder then changing his mind and letting it hang by his side.
‘I’m sorry to leave in such a hurry, Mum.’ I say, turning to her. ‘But I have to go.’ I squeeze her hand, trying to take a mental picture, one last glimpse of her – so beautiful, so soft. So deserving of a daughter better than me.
‘Call me when you land, love?’ she asks, her tone softly laced with concern.
‘Of course,’ I say, pulling her into one last hug. ‘I’ll see you soon, OK?’
She nods, and I gently brush her arm. Then I turn away, my heart in my throat, and I walk down the hill without looking back. Once I’m out of sight, I start running, and I don’t stop until I reach the edge of the Heath. When I’m far enough away from it all, tears streaming down my face, my breath coming in short, harsh gasps, I pull out my phone and book an Uber back to the hotel.