Chapter 3
THREE
The boys decided to go back to school the day after the funeral, with only a week to go until the half-term holiday.
Nina too thought this was a good idea: anything to get Connor to leave the cave of his bedroom, in which he had huddled himself away since Finn’s passing.
All her efforts at trying to get him to open up to her had been met with monosyllabic grunts of acknowledgement, but very little else.
The sound of his crying filtered under her door in the dead of night and she was torn, unsure whether to leave him to grieve alone or to intervene.
If she were being completely honest, it was hard to find the energy required to further engage with him.
She figured that second best was getting him to open up to his friends, and if this failed, then at least having him out of the house meant he was no longer staring at the four walls of his room.
Declan, too, was quiet, clingier than usual, approaching her for hugs and nestling close to her on the sofa.
Not that this was unexpected. She hoped, however, that the distraction of school could only be a good thing.
Nina had faith that the staff would be kind and make allowances, and that the boys’ network of friends would be helpful.
After a short, silent drive, she pulled in to the kerb on the grey February morning. ‘If either of you want to come home, for any reason at all, just call, drop me a text or tell a member of staff and I will be here within twenty minutes.’
Connor nodded and climbed from the car, slinging his large sports bag over his shoulder.
‘See you later, Con.’
‘Yep.’ He nodded and closed the door behind him.
She watched him walk around to the back of the car and wait by Declan’s door.
‘Come on then.’ He lightly thumped the window.
Declan didn’t need asking twice. He grabbed his rucksack and pushed his glasses up onto his nose, then leaned forward to kiss his mum on the cheek.
He clambered from the back seat. Nina watched in the side mirror as they loped along the pavement side by side, united by this terrible thing that had happened to them.
It caused a lump to rise in her throat and she felt a swell of pride at how Connor, on this occasion, considered his little brother’s feelings.
Pulling into the driveway back home, the phone on the front seat buzzed. It was Kathy Topps.
‘Hi, Kathy.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, as if this could relieve some unseen pressure, and closed her eyes.
‘Nina, I’ve been thinking about you.’
‘That’s kind.’
‘How are things?’
Things are surreal, I am numb, I want to wake up . . .
‘As you’d expect, really.’ It was all she could manage.
‘Well, I wanted to say that I don’t know if you are still intending to grab a break somewhere over half-term, but if your plans have changed, which would of course be completely understandable, I still have an opening for tennis lessons if Declan is at a loose end.’
‘Thanks, Kathy. I’ll let you know.’ She ended the call abruptly and leaned her head on the steering wheel.
What was wrong with the bloody woman? Her husband had died; tennis lessons were about the furthest thing from her mind.
Her phone buzzed again – Mr Monroe, the accountant.
Nina silenced it. She wasn’t up to speaking to him today.
She looked up at the big house and, for the first time ever, felt a little reluctant to go inside.
It was her first day alone, without the boys to care for or a funeral to plan; the first day of ‘normal’, although she was convinced that, for her, nothing would ever feel ‘normal’ again, not without the sound of Finn’s key in the door at the end of the day.
Keeping the house shipshape had always been her preoccupation, and today she sought comfort in the familiarity of her routine. She lugged the recycling box up the driveway and thought of Tiggy. ‘Because you’ve changed . . .’ What had she meant?
After folding the clean bed linen in the laundry room, Nina made her way along the first-floor landing and stopped outside Finn’s study.
She touched the handle, as she had several times over the last week or so, and considered whether or not she had the courage to go inside.
She wondered if he actually had booked something for them over the half-term break; that was always his way: making things happen, bringing them surprises and joy.
She felt a surge of longing, coupled with the now familiar flicker of fear at how she was going to cope without him.
She laid her palm against the doorframe, picturing him inside, working at his desk with a determined expression, sleeves rolled up, oblivious of the hour, as his fingers skirted over the computer keyboard, or shouting instructions to his team over the phone.
She would knock gently and creep in, and he would wink at her, mid-call, as she leaned across and placed a cup of tea or a mug of coffee on his favourite mosaic coaster that Connor had made him at primary school.
Now she placed the laundry pile on the floor, hesitating before she turned the handle and walked in.
The leather swivel chair still held the indentations of Finn’s shape.
She inhaled the deep aroma of her husband.
It lingered here more strongly than anywhere else in the house, as if his scent, his breath, had been preserved within the fabric, within the walls.
She looked at the antique boxes and silver trinkets that littered the bespoke mahogany desk, still fresh with his invisible fingerprints.
She noticed strands of hair on the rug, his litter in the waste bin, sheets of paper that had been crumpled up in his warm palms and tossed aside; all of it had now taken on new significance.
His everyday possessions: his extra notepads, neatly stacked on the desktop; the pen he favoured when attempting the crossword of a weekend; his china mug with ‘World’s Best Golfer’ written on it, the booby prize when he had come last at a work tournament .
. . All of his stuff, now redundant and waiting to either be sorted, binned or made into relics, gathering dust in a cardboard box.
Seemingly innocuous items had now become so much more than the sum of their parts.
On that first night, she had taken his sweatshirt from the hook on the back of the bathroom door and placed her pillow inside it, taking comfort from the fact that it had touched his skin.
She drifted in and out of sleep between fits of sobbing and howling.
Nina wondered how long she could keep these items in his office preserved in this way.
She climbed into his chair, tears streaming down her face.
She let her hands wander lightly over the desktop, fingering the receipts for materials, letters from council planning departments and a leather penholder with his precious Montblanc pen-and-pencil set inside.
She pulled a little yellow Post-it from the edge of the computer screen and read ‘Mac 64500’.
Probably something to do with his computer.
It was the first time she had properly considered that she needed to get a grip of her situation.
There was no Finn to filter the emails and take care of the household administration.
The call from their lawyer in the days following the accident had been brief and reassuring: he was in possession of Finn’s last will and testament and, as she expected, everything was left to her.
They had tentatively agreed to meet more formally after the funeral.
She pulled the shiny desk handle of his colonial-style, mahogany inlaid desk, and eased the drawer along the runner. Her tears turned briefly to laughter at the sight of its contents: a haul of items that were deemed illicit in their house.
‘Finn!’ she called out. ‘You little pig!’ There were open packets of sweets, mint humbugs, liquorice wheels, jellybeans and bars of milk chocolate.
She thought of the many times she had praised his choice of fruit for pudding and encouraged him with honey in his coffee instead of sugar, and all the while he stockpiled this!
She laid her head on her arms and once again gave in to sobs that robbed her of all energy.
Her eyes were sore and her throat ached.
‘Good for you, darling,’ she whispered. ‘Good for you, my Finn.’
The phone on the desktop rang, making her jump.
Sitting up straight, she closed the drawer and cleared her throat. ‘Hello?’ She held the receiver close to her face, knowing that the last cheek it touched was that of her husband.
‘Mrs McCarrick?’ She didn’t recognise the stern voice.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Mr Paulson, from Kings Norton College.’
‘Oh, hello, Mr Paulson.’ Her heart jumped at the thought that something might have happened to the kids as she tried to recall whether she’d ever spoken to a Mr Paulson.
‘I am sorry to disturb you at this time. And I wouldn’t do so if it weren’t a matter of importance.’
Nina felt her legs weaken. ‘Are the boys okay?’ Her breath came in fast, shallow bursts; she was not equipped to deal with any more bad news.
‘Yes! Yes, the boys are, as far as I am aware, fine.’ He managed an odd little chuckle that to her felt misplaced. ‘I am calling from the accounts department.’
‘Right.’ Get to the point, she thought.
‘It’s about the invoice for the boys this term.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Placing her palm against her forehead, she tried not to sigh in irritation. Surely anything to do with accounts could easily be conducted via email or a phone call at some later date?
‘I think there must have been some oversight,’ he said slowly, ‘but the account has not been settled for the last term, and indeed we have received no payment for this current term, which is well under way.’
‘I’m sorry Mr . . .’ The man’s name had gone clean out of her head.
‘Paulson.’