52. Sarah
52. Sarah
When I get to Annie’s house that bleak afternoon, there is no giant swaying Father Christmas to greet me. Just his deflated, lifeless form with a pair of black plastic eyes staring up at me in despair.
A young policewoman opens the door and shows me into the living room where Annie sits rigidly upright in Danny’s armchair. She doesn’t see me but stares straight ahead, just like he used to.
I kneel in front of her. ‘Annie, Annie …’
She looks at me but says nothing.
‘Annie, I’m so sorry.’
I put a hand on her knee, and she folds hers over it. With her other hand she reaches out and strokes the top of my head.
‘I know,’ she says. ‘I know.’
And then we cling to each other.
Over my shoulder I watch the policewoman gingerly sit down on the sofa. Her microphone crackles in her yellow jacket. I wonder if it makes her feel safe, being zipped inside that big, cushioned parka with its epaulettes and its police badges and its distinctive Battenberg-pattern fluorescent strips.
If it does, it shouldn’t. Because nothing keeps us safe in the end, does it?
The policewoman’s eyes move nervously across my face, and her expression settles into one of hopefulness, as if I might be the person with the right words to offer to make this unbearable situation better.
But I have nothing.
Danny’s Uncle Meyrick pops his head round the kitchen door. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, cariad ?’ he asks.
‘That would be lovely,’ I say, releasing Annie and getting to my feet.
I think of all the times I’ve offered bereaved relatives a cup of tea in the hospital. The universal drink we all reach for in a crisis, clinging to the notion that somehow the familiar hot, sweet liquid will make us feel better. I doubt any of them really wanted a cup of tea, any more than I do now.
Meyrick shuffles back into the kitchen. A few seconds later I hear the tap being turned on, but the running water can’t drown out the sound of him crying.
‘Where’s Joanna?’ I ask Meyrick when he returns to the living room, his face red and blotchy, his eyes swollen.
He carefully places a tray of teacups down on the coffee table. Only the police officer reaches for hers.
His eyes dart anxiously to Annie. ‘In her room,’ he says quietly. ‘She’s sleeping. The doctor had to give her something.’
Poor Joanna. So distressed that she’s had to be anaesthetized out of her pain.
She’s always worshipped Danny. When I first knew her, she was a tomboy desperately trying to emulate him. She lived in his hand-me-down rugby tops and spent hours outside, in all weathers, happily throwing a rugby ball to him. When he signed up, she got a buzz cut just like his. And then, when he got ill, she chose to study a subject that she hoped might one day help him.
Now she’ll never get the chance.
Poor Annie, too, stunned with grief. Her only son, and the man of the house from the age of six when Alwyn, her husband, died. A routine operation, a new hip to replace the one destroyed by playing rugby. He never woke up from the anaesthetic.
She looks so alone. And small, so much smaller than she appeared last night, even. As if her body, which has functioned for so long in battle mode, has finally given up and now, drained of its adrenaline, is shrivelled and slack with grief. Even her fluffy slippers look too big for her.
She says something, but I don’t catch it. When I move closer to her she reaches for my hand and clasps it tight.
I hear her say, ‘My sweet boy. How can he be gone?’ And then she mumbles the words to herself, over and over and over again, lost in an abyss of private pain.
And so, I stay holding Annie’s hand, grieving with her for Danny. All the while, the image of Carl standing alone at the train station, thinking I’ve changed my mind, gnaws at the edge of my imagination, until I feel the bile rising in my throat and I think I’m going to be physically sick.
When Mum arrives, I ask to borrow her phone and step into the hall, but then I realize that without my phone I don’t know Carl’s number. I don’t even know Jenni’s mobile number, so I can’t ring her to ask Cherub for it. There’s no point messaging him on Facebook either, as he’s already told me he never uses it.
I leave a message for Jenni and Cherub on their landline instead, telling them to contact me as soon as possible. But I know they were due to take the boys to see Father Christmas today, so I don’t expect them to be home and checking their phone messages any time soon.
Defeated, I lean my forehead against the wall and let myself cry. Huge, juddering sobs that shake my whole body. I’m done being brave. I’m done doing the right thing. I just want to see Carl. Hold him. Let him hold me.
I don’t know how long I stay in the hall like this, but it’s long enough for me to feel like I’m no longer fully present. As if my body, entirely hollowed out by grief, has floated away.
I hear a rustle behind me and turn to see the police officer staring at me.
She clears her throat. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ she says kindly. ‘Is there anything at all that I can do?’
And it occurs to me suddenly that, yes, there is something she can do. I explain that I urgently need to speak to someone, but as my phone was stolen I don’t have their number.
She looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, then she smiles. ‘What about a business number?’
Of course! Carl’s dog walking business. The policewoman looks him up online, and I watch as she punches his number into her mobile phone.
She hands it over to me triumphantly, relieved that she has managed to do one positive thing on this otherwise unremittingly awful day.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she says tactfully, and disappears back into the living room.
My heart flips when I hear his voice, but it’s only a recorded message. ‘You know what to do,’ he says, in that warm northern accent of his.
Suddenly I’m lost for words. I’ve been so consumed with getting hold of him, I haven’t thought about what I’m actually going to say to him when I do. How do I tell him that Danny is dead? A friend of his, another comrade in arms that he has looked out for, for so long. Even when Danny had no idea that Carl had his back.
Another death to lay at Carl’s door. Another reason for him to beat himself up with guilt.
‘It’s me,’ I say in a small voice. ‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t on the train. Something terrible has happened.’ I start to cry, I can’t help it. ‘Danny’s dead. Call me when you get this, so I can explain.’
I hang up the phone and go back into the living room. As I do, the ancient mantel clock chimes. Its low off-key chime sounds appropriately solemn on this sad, sad day.
I glance up and my eyes settle on the photo propped next to it of us all standing together in Afghanistan. Danny, who was still feeling well then, looking young and fit and full of life. Me, looking at Carl, who stares straight ahead at the camera.
Then I look at the clock. I never normally look at that clock. I’ve always found it creepy. Sitting in its antique wooden box, the one old thing in an otherwise modern, lively house.
But I look at it now.
The time is 2.30 p.m.