Love of Grace and Angels

  ‘So,’ said Primrose, ‘you’re coming home.’

  Grace’s face fell. ‘I am, yes.’

  Primrose hesitated, looking first to Ric and then back to her mother. Politely, Ric moved away, far enough to allow a sense of privacy but close enough so he could hear.

  ‘Dad’s been distraught. He doesn’t understand what’s going on.’

  ‘I know,’ Grace sighed. ‘I wish I hadn’t left, to be truthful.’

  ‘You were upset. You reacted.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He’s not having an affair, if that’s what you still think.’

  Ric watched Grace’s face become stony.

  Primrose raised her hands, defensively. ‘You’ve made it my business, Mum. And you haven’t been fair.’ He could hear the wobble in her voice. ‘He’s been crying. Did you know that?’

  Grace did not reply. Instead she called to Ric as she took out her phone. ‘May I have your number? Then I can text you mine.’

  ‘Mum?’ said Primrose, with sudden concern, eyes moving between Ric and her mother. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘What’s going on is Ric has lost his sister. I want him to call me, so we can talk some more.’

  ‘I don’t know it,’ Ric said, quietly, having observed Primrose’s embarrassment. ‘It’s a new phone.’

  ‘It’ll be on the phone itself. Somewhere.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Ric patted his pockets, ‘I don’t seem to have it.’ He realised then that he’d left it charging at his parent’s house.

  ‘I tell you what,’ said Grace, ‘If I jot down my number, then you can text me. Okay? Do you have a pen in your car, Primrose? I seem to have mislaid mine.’

  Chapter 13

  GRACE

  Grace’s heart seemed to fill her mouth as she pulled the car into the driveway, a feeling of cold nausea rising. Never before had she felt so uneasy, and it seemed ridiculous feeling this way when all she was doing was going home. But the house, normally a welcome sight, felt remote, a place from another time, something like a half remembered holiday cottage from childhood. Seeing her husband’s car made matters worse. She paused before opening the backdoor, then, with a deep breath, walked in.

  Grace’s ashen-faced husband was sitting at the kitchen table looking as much a stranger as she felt. His hands rested on the wooden top, fingers against a large mug of what she supposed was tea. He stared at her, as if she were the silent ghost of a stranger who had passed through the house too many times. He neither moved nor spoke.

  Her heart no longer filled her mouth, but sank to the pit of her stomach. She longed to be somewhere else, even back in those dull and monotonous days when she struggled through, not knowing what it was that had changed the man she loved. These were days she would welcome back, because suddenly she worried that knowing the cause would be far worse. A thin and fragile cast of life, before unhappiness, drifted in and dropped over the scene in front of her, and for a fleeting instant, Grace could see and feel the warmth of her happy home as it had once been.

  Her husband broke the silence. The warmth vanished. ‘So you’re back.’

  Grace was silent. Still nothing was clear, except the night here had obviously not been a good one. The table, crumb covered, was stained red with wine, and sheets of crumpled newspaper were strewn across it, as if snatched up and slammed down repeatedly.

  ‘You left, and now you are back. That’s it, is it?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I …’

  ‘Would you mind sitting down?’

  ‘Can I make a drink first?’

  ‘No.’

  Acceding, Grace pulled out a wooden dining chair from where it was tucked against the table, and sat in it, placing her bag amongst the mess. ‘I saw you in the park,’ she said. She could hear the apology in her voice, and part of her wondered at this shifted dynamic; in the space of twenty-four hours, a man who appeared guilty was giving the impression of victim. But the mood filled the air and so she accepted it, this atmosphere tainted with antipathy.

  ‘I am going to ask you a question, Grace, and I want you to answer immediately. If you pause then there will be no need for a reply of any sort.’ His face remained unchanged, the lack of expression lending a hostile edge.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Are you having an affair?’

  ‘What?’ Grace was incredulous. This was not a question she had expected. In fact, it was the last thing she imagined he would say. Ever.

  ‘You didn’t answer in the way I asked you to.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said yes or no. You said what.’

  ‘My God! Of course I didn’t answer. I never imagined that something like that would be your question! How could you think I was having an affair?’ But Grace knew it was exactly what she herself had wanted to ask, a question for which the courage had not been found.

  ‘Grace,’ he prompted, evenly.

  ‘Never! Never, never, never, have I, nor would I. Never.’ She stared, hard. ‘We’ve been married a very, very long time. Never once have I even thought about it. Never.’

  Her husband’s manner remained unchanged, so Grace assumed that, for whatever reason, he was not convinced. It was an extraordinary situation, she felt, a surreal, dreamlike conversation. ‘What on earth makes you think that I am?’ Grace was frowning, confused. ‘Is this meant to throw me off? To stop me wondering about you? Is that all it is? A decoy or something? Because you can’t possibly believe it.’

  ‘No. And let’s not forget that it was you who didn’t come home last night. It’s you who won’t come near me in bed. It’s you who spends her time with her nose buried in crap; I know what happens, by the way, when people have affairs. They start looking at different stuff than they used to. Romantic films and novels: not really your thing, Grace. Until now.’

  Grace laughed. ‘I think you mean people start going to the gym, take better care of themselves. Smell better.’

  ‘And change in other ways. Be interested in other things.’

  ‘Something people also do that when they are lonely. You’ve been watching daytime telly, I assume.’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Is all this because you are trying to hide something?’

  ‘No. I told you.’

  Immediately Grace wondered why he didn’t ask her what she meant. Wasn’t he curious to know what she thought he’d been hiding? It was time, she decided, to ask the long avoided question, ‘Have you been having an affair? Is that what this is about?’

  ‘No I haven’t. You see how easy it is to answer yes or no without thinking?’

  ‘For God’s sake, I have not been having an affair. Why would I? I love you.’

  His expression changed dramatically, weakening into distress. His eyes fixed on his drink. Grace was bewildered. She said it again. ‘I love you.’

  His mouth tightened.

  ‘What is it?’ she pleaded, softly, feeling now there was something else, something not an affair. ‘Tell me. You’ve been so remote.’

  He didn’t speak, but kept the same rigid mouth.

  Grace kept going, ‘I have no idea what is wrong with … with you … with us … with …Oh, I don’t know!’

  His eyes remained on the mug.

  Grace’s chest heaved uncomfortably with a terrible thought. It was not a new one, but now, faced with the moment of truth, was harder to say even than the question of an affair. ‘You don’t love me anymore.’

  A small smile lifted the corner of his lips, ‘I do. But I thought maybe you didn’t love me.’

  ‘Then why you have told so many lies?’

  At this, he looked up, questioningly.

  ‘Yes. Lies! You know you have. You say you’re here, or working, or at a friend’s house, and then it turns out you’re not. You’ve taken calls in the car rather than the house, and denied being on the phone at all even though I’ve watched y
ou. You’ve been awful to live with. Why can’t you tell me what’s wrong? Is it me? It feels like it can’t be anything else. You don’t want me anymore? Our life. Is that it?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘No what? No you do, or no you don’t?’

  ‘Grace, I have eyes. I can see you are unhappy.’

  This time, it was Grace choosing not to reply.

  ‘I know you. At least, I thought I did,’ he continued, ‘you are in the middle of some kind of crisis, I think. Starting menopause, maybe.’

  ‘Why do you always throw that at me? Do you know how fucking annoying it is?’

  ‘Let me finish. It’s not that, exactly. I didn’t mean it how it came out. It’s more than that. You’ve been acting like you did before, when your sister died.’

  ‘Depressed, you mean.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Grace felt her throat constrict, as the heat of coming tears pricked her eyes. ‘Then why not talk to me? Offer to help me? Why shut me out? If you cared you’d … you’d …’ She couldn’t think what else to say.

  ‘I can’t.’

  Grace looked at him through moist eyes. She would not cry. She would sit it out until he explained himself, even though she wanted desperately to leave. That he could say what he just said – acknowledge that he knew she was unhappy – and then admit he’d ignored it, hurt as if it were a betrayal. And perhaps it was.

  ‘It’s me.’ His face and lips trembled, and for the briefest of moments Grace thought of Ric.

  ‘You?’ Isn’t it always, she thought, resentfully.

  Quite suddenly, his eyes were pleading, an expression Grace instantly recognised from many years before; a look she knew from her sister.

  Relieved not to have voiced her thought, Grace stood up and walked swiftly around the table, pulling up a chair next to him and placing an arm across his shoulders. ‘Tell me. What about you? I want to help.’

  ‘I can’t cope,’ he said, almost inaudibly.

  Grace’s ready tears broke free and rolled down her cheeks, but the pressure in her throat was gone. There would be no more crying today. Not for herself.

  ‘I wish you were happy,’ he said.

  ‘I have been feeling down, it’s true. But I am not depressed; please don’t think that. And I don’t want to talk about me. I want to hear about you. Please tell me what it is.’

  She felt a judder ripple through his shoulders, an attempt at taking a breath when his body was instead set for weeping. ‘I’ve been having counselling,’ his tone was confessional, ‘only a few sessions.’

  Grace stared. ‘Why?’

  ‘I said. I can’t cope.’

  ‘Depression?’

  ‘Anxiety.’

  She paused.

  ‘Apparently there’s a difference.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ Grace said, ‘I meant, there is no particular cause? No reason behind it?’

  ‘No affair, you mean.’

  ‘Or illness. Or bankruptcy …’

  ‘No. Nothing. I just …’

  Grace stood up, and from behind leaned over her husband, wrapping her arms around him and resting her cheek on the top of his head. ‘I love you so much,’ she said. It was the first time she had truly held him in so long she wondered if she might not be able to let go. The warmth, the familiar smell, the softness forgotten; all was like coming home.

  His hand rested on hers, ‘I love you too. More than you can know.’

  ‘No more hiding things,’ she whispered. ‘Look what happens. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a burden. I know you feel that I haven’t been there for you. I know you aren’t feeling right yourself. I know that. I do. But I couldn’t. Can’t.’

  Grace hushed him. ‘What I feel is a fool. It’s you that we need to think about now. Between you, the counsellor, and me, we’ll get you through it. You’ll see.’

  ‘God I missed you.’

  Feeling the shudder of tears, Grace turned her face and softly kissed his thinning grey hair.

  Chapter 14

  RIC

  The day was grey and damp, the glorious weekend weather now shining down and raising the spirits of a Monday morning somewhere else, many miles away. Dim light and the quiet patter of rain made Ric lethargic, tired as he already was from the trials of the weekend. He could not work today, he knew, his weariness laying him bare to grief.

  He sat naked and crossed legged on the gold cushion in front of the shrine. All the drawers and boxes were open, and many were empty. A few displayed treasures collected from Grace. There was the long hair of course, literally pinched from her back in the café, but Ric was also the proud owner of Grace’s disposable cup from breakfast on the Downs, for only one cup actually entered the bin. He also had a black pen taken from her bag in the hotel during their first meeting; the piece of paper she used to jot down her telephone number; and the single photograph Ric had managed to snap with his phone through the hotel curtains as she lay half naked and sound asleep, just before he made his way home to face his family. He’d printed it off. Even if his battery died, he would still be able to look at it.

  It was this image he was pondering, longing to touch what for now he could only imagine the feel of. Though Grace’s daughter did not look exactly like her, he thought she had some very definite similarities, in some indefinable manner, and seemed very nice. If necessary, she might prove useful.

  Putting the photograph away, Ric’s thoughts turned to the little grey kitten. It had been nice to be with something so new, so fresh and innocent. There had been much passing over the weekend. Not just his love for the fallen Angel and the passing of his sister, but of his parent’s view of her happiness. He had been woken early that morning with a call from his mother. In some ways she had sounded more distressed than when she first related news of Moira’s death. Unlikely as it seemed, a suicide note had been recovered, and now the man responsible for Moira’s premature death was likely to walk free. How there could be no witnesses to an incident in the middle of a small and crowded city was astonishing. But there it was. Angrily, Ric had questioned if a note relating to what seemed an accident was enough. He wasn’t sure why he had felt so cross. But the note was quite specific. Under the wheels, it said. Like a suffragette, his mother had observed, sadly.

  Ric wondered what he would say to this man if they ever met. How it would feel to face his sister’s killer, because whatever the reason for her death, killer is precisely what he was. Lying down, his cheek upon the colourful mat beneath the shrine, body foetal upon the too small cushion, Ric wept, remembering times long ago, when life already challenged but he thought the future might not.

  ‘What you doin’?’ The question, loaded with aggression, was aimed at Ric’s little brother as he inspected a new dress worn by his longest serving best friend, Jenny. ‘Poof,’ added the boy.

  The three of them were playing shops in the street, when the older boy had sidled up. Around them, the surface of the road seemed to sizzle, smelling hot in a way only a road can. It was not a day for bare feet, so the children wore summer sandals; jelly sandals. Ric loathed his.

  The quiet of Sunday was often suffocating, but this particular Sunday was better for it. Whatever the reason, God had been given a day off, and only the sound of a neighbour mowing a patch of green broke the silence. Even the rushing waves of the city were hushed. The street was free of cars; games free from interruption. That was, until the words spoken caused them to suspend action.

  ‘It’s just shops,’ Jenny said, her tone suggesting the boy was stupid.

  He shrugged. ‘So? He’s still a little poof.’ He looked to Mike, and sneered, like Mike was something disgusting.

  Lying at the foot of his shrine, Ric withdrew from the memory to consider it. How terrible it was that even a young boy, probably no more than ten, could think such things; he would not have understood what
he was saying. Though Ric was not able to view it sympathetically back then, part of him now was pleased that he couldn’t. Approximately a quarter of a century on, and still the memory made him boil with hate.

  He remembered wearing his favourite tee shirt that day, because after shoving the boy in retaliation, he’d then worried the tee shirt would be spoiled in a fight. This split second of regret brought with it crashing guilt, shame for considering a piece of clothing might be worth more than standing up for what was right, even if it was only a fleeting notion. This, perhaps, was one reason Ric remembered the moment so well, for the incident itself was not unique. He understood the reason behind the thought now, of course, though the guilt was settled inside him and would never be gone. The fact was, apart from shoes, Ric had not been bought many new things, and the tee was exactly that: brand new. The boy went away that time, without further trouble, leaving the tee shirt safe and the dress something not to talk about anymore; at least, not in public.

  The next day was a Monday, only days before the start of the summer holidays. Ric had been heading home from school alone. It wasn’t far, just a short walk along the road and around a corner. But as he rounded that corner, the boy had stepped out in front of him. A day spent avoiding him in the huge school grounds, had proved pointless. And this time, he had company, a bunch of weedy looking boys with bemused faces.

  At eight years old, Ric was not especially big for his age, with at least half his genes very definitely originating in a family of average size, and amongst them a good handful of late bloomers. Only Mike seemed to have found height, although no one knew if it would last. Rumour had it, there were some tall second cousins once removed, but no one could be sure how tall they really were, since they were all living in America and had never been met.

  Ric stopped in his tracks. He wasn’t afraid, as such. And he wasn’t wearing his new tee shirt.

  ‘What’s up with your brother?’

  Ric made to walk by, but the boy stepped across him, as if already skilled in the art of intimidation.

  ‘Get lost!’ Ric said, frowning hard.

  The boy stood firm, and stared, ‘My dad says your little brother is a little poof.’ The boy laughed, nastily, ‘A great big, little fucking poof.’

  ‘Big and little?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the boy, ‘big and little.’