Love of Grace and Angels

  Ric considered his options. The boy was large while his friends were not, but there were plenty of them.

  ‘My dad says it shouldn’t be allowed. He says your dad should sort him out. He shouldn’t let him run around like some fucking girl.’ The boy put one hand on his hip and held the other out in front, wrist limp. ‘Oo hello boys, my name is Michelle Mancini,’ the boy cooed, wiggling his bottom, as if offering it.

  Ric recoiled at the memory. What an ignorant pig this boy’s father must have been. Another thought came. Michelle. He had forgotten this detail until now. This, he could see, was probably one of the reasons Mike would not have wanted that name.

  ‘My dad could tell your dad a thing or two,’ stated the bully.

  Ric was not prepared to go into battle about dads. He certainly couldn’t say his dad would shut this other dad’s mouth. Whilst his father was not a small man, he was not a big one either. And, more importantly, he was not a man for the punching of others.

  But Ric was.

  Soon trails of boys were running down the street, Ric at the front, the bully in hot pursuit with his nose streaming red, and the wannabes racing safely behind. Ric tore along, and reaching his house, grabbed the gatepost and swung into the safe territory of his garden. Standing on the short path, he panted, watching the boys stumble to a halt. They would not enter.

  As they stood glaring at one another, Ric noticed the bully’s eyes drift across to the front room window. He turned. There was his little brother, home from school sick, staring out at them all. The bully made some gestures, then wandered off, shouting that he was going to get Ric. His middle finger was raised, so Ric erected his own, shouting you and whose army?

  He went inside. Mike was already sitting on the sofa, watching television. Ric threw down his bag and bounded upstairs to his room.

  Lying on his bed, ignoring his mother calling for him to come straight back down for a snack, Ric picked up a book. It was a beautifully illustrated bible, a gift from his grandmother for his first Holy Communion. The carefully painted pictures fascinated him, and Ric spent hours studying Daniel in the lion’s den, or Jonah inside the whale. Increasingly, though, he liked to examine the angels. They looked out with such calmness and composure, that he could sometimes feel his worries slide away into their willing hands as a physical sensation. The feeling of connection felt good.

  But it was one angel alone that held his gaze long into the night, well after the house and streets had fallen silent. Beneath the covers, torch on, Ric would stare at this single being, not serene as the others, but sad. Lucifer, cast out and lonely. And it was this angel that held his attention now.

  Part Two: One Year On

  Chapter 1

  ART

  ‘Are you ready?’

  Art entered the sitting room where his wife stood waiting, car key in hand. ‘What did you do with Lotty?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve put her in her crate. She’ll be fine for a couple of hours. She’s got a new toy and some treats.’

  ‘Never bothered with a crate for Rawa.’

  ‘She never ate the furniture, Art.’

  ‘No. Or my shoes. Or my books.’

  Art’s wife sighed, ‘Not as many people used crates when Rawa was little. Anyway, she was an easier puppy. But Lotty is getting better.’

  ‘Is she getting better? I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘I know you haven’t. Your feelings regarding Lotty are perfectly clear, but let’s not get into that now. Come on. We should go.’ She waved the car key but did not move, ‘How are you feeling about today?’

  ‘Like I want to get out of this suit.’

  Brushing away dog hairs from her dark grey dress, shed from the white tip of Lotty’s black tail, she smiled a little, ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. You look very nice, by the way.’ A glance at the carriage clock on the windowsill, an antique that until a few days before had sat upon Art’s mother’s mantle piece, revealed some urgency. ‘Look at the time! We really should head off. We ought to be at the crematorium before everyone else.’

  ‘Do you think there’ll be many?’

  ‘No idea. But your mum had lots of friends. Probably from all those coach holidays.’

  Art nodded in agreement and fiddled with his collar, a finger pulling at the top button, trying to loosen the pressure on his throat. ‘This shirt’s too small. It must have shrunk. Do you think it has shrunk?’

  His wife gave another small smile, ‘No.’

  ‘You think I’m getting fat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why do I feel so nervous?’

  She shrugged. ‘Why wouldn’t you? This is your mother’s funeral. And, a not very minor point you should bear in mind is that you don’t actually like public speaking. Remember, you don’t have to say a word if you don’t want to.’

  Art’s thoughts drifted away as his wife took over and tried to make his neck more comfortable, his empty gaze falling on the garden, stomach twisted with nerves, thoughts little more than blank spaces.

  The truth was that since the accident, not only had Art lost his job but also his confidence. Life had gone from a jolly jaunt of gardening, work, friends, dog walks and fun, to an indulgent cocktail of digging, eating and alcohol. Except the comfort found was short-lived, requiring further digging, eating and alcohol in whatever order he deemed fit that morning. This attempt to rectify his sense of purpose and of self did little good, beyond the exercise that prevented weight gain becoming too big a problem. The garden was in perfect order, even better than it had been exactly one year before, when Art’s worries amounted to nothing more than trivial concerns regarding the planting of broad beans, empty fuel tanks and coping with his mother. But now there was no mother to cope with, only the treadmill he had put himself on and the awful stigma that comes with a criminal conviction. He had been lucky, apparently, receiving a suspended sentence in light of the suicide note, the judge choosing to overlook his previous misdemeanour behind the wheel because of his age then, his good character now, and his dying mother. A one in a million outcome, he was assured by his barrister, who had forewarned Art that a prison sentence was more than likely. The trial had been a marathon. Many friends had abandoned him. His wife insisted this meant they were never friends in the first place, but it was a hard truth to swallow. Worse than it all was the unending and relentless guilt, the unforgettable fact that he had taken a life.

  If he could sleep at all then distorted memories woke him. The victim’s face screaming as it hit the windscreen, blood hitting his own face and filling his mouth. The fact he never saw her face, the fact that there was no witness to fill his head with their own memory, the fact that she hit not the window but the body of the car, none of it mattered. And the fact that Art did not see her at all, not until he scrambled from the car already sick in the knowledge that his world had changed, made no difference. The nightmare remained the same.

  ‘Better?’ asked his wife, having undone the top button, hiding the triangular opening beneath the knot of Art’s black tie.

  ‘Yes,’

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  ‘Dog’s whining,’ Art remarked, his flat voice reflecting his less than satisfied feelings towards their new canine companion, the little black cocker spaniel that looked to him like a child’s toy.

  ‘She’ll be fine. She can’t hurt herself. We need to go, Art.’ His wife walked out of the room, a tower of strength in every way. ‘Come on. Let’s get this done. The traffic shouldn’t be too bad, Thursday on the motorway is nothing like Friday, thank goodness.’

  *

  The funeral was awful, far worse than Art had imagined. Safely home, he sat in the sanctuary of the front room miserably reflecting upon it. Nearby, in the kitchen, his wife rustled up afternoon tea.

  ‘I never expected to feel like that,’ he said, calling out, almost as if talking to the emanating sounds of preparation and not to his wife. ‘We had our issues and she was not young, but I can’t tell
you how terrible it felt … I felt … standing there, trying to speak, all those faces waiting for me to share my memories … my feelings.’ Art drew a shaky breath, ‘I couldn’t remember a thing I planned to say. Only that I miss her. Sorry, Pet, if I made a fool of myself …’ he wiped away a tear before it fell, ‘… and sorry about the wake.’

  ‘No need to apologise to me, love. You didn’t feel up to it, so why put yourself through it? And you certainly didn’t look a fool. You looked like a man grieving for his mother.’

  ‘Getting back was better for Lotty, anyway,’ he added, loudly, knowing he had not a single care for how long the animal was caged, simply using her to justify being the first to leave his own mother’s funeral. As it happened, Lotty had eaten the treats, chewed the toy and peed only once, saving further mess for the garden. She was clearly not an animal in too much distress.

  His wife did not comment.

  Sitting in the leather armchair in which his elderly mother had waited for news after his arrest, Art gazed across the garden, not absently as before, but actually seeing what was before him. It confirmed for him that, today, everything was worse than ever. For the first time he could remember, he did not want to tend it, the prospect of digging rousing no more interest in him than walking the dog or washing-up. All Art wanted to do was to sit and have his wife tend him. Convicted but with his mother still battling on, his days digging were, in a limited sense, purposeful and planned and his eating habits deeply indulgent. Now, with his mother dead, he felt the next meal was as far into the future as he could see; appetite gone, even this small event amounted to nothing. He wasn’t sure why his wife was bothering to make food at all.

  The year had been a long haul. Laboriously dragging through the months following the accident, Art found each and every day to be a chore, a trial he must endure until it was time to go to bed. Bed drew him back each night with the same promise, an offer of asylum, a place where his mind could safely shut down. But the promise was never kept. Bedtime gave no relief at all, yet still each night he crawled under the covers expecting something. The accident had left him feeling as if his body had been hijacked, that walking beside himself he suffered all the terrible pain of shame and regret with none of the control.

  For a while it had started to ease a little. He’d been verging on finding a way to live again, glimpsing the distant return of a person resembling the man he had once been, when his mother died. They were not conventionally close and he knew her life was nearing its end; he had grieved for her long before she passed. But still the shock hit with a power he could not prepare for. Two such life-changing events in the course of twelve months had been too much to cope with. Thrown back into a mire of depression, Art could only look inward and what he saw he did not like.

  His wife entered the room carrying a tray of tea and things to eat. She placed it on the deep sill next to Art and moved back to the doorway.

  ‘You’re not joining me?’

  ‘After I’ve changed out of this dress, wiped up Lotty’s mess and got her back in the house. She’s wandering around outside somewhere.’

  After she left the room, Art did not touch the tray but instead returned his gaze outside. He had expected the funeral to offer closure on at least part of his sadness, but it had not. He felt no different about his loss today than he did yesterday, the leaden gloom of mourning refusing to lift.

  The day was dry and mostly bright. He could see Lotty, sniffing here and there in the undergrowth, scampering after a leaf tumbling on the waft of a breeze, or patting the ground playfully around some small insect or another. He supposed this excitable animal had been bought to fill the space left by Rawa, to offer focus away from the accident. But the little black bitch had done none of these things, instead aggravating Art with her tying presence and destructive ways. This was his wife’s dog, not his, whatever his wife believed to the contrary. A few minutes passed and he heard her call Lotty’s name, watching then as the speedy black streak scampered across the lawn with apparent delighted obedience, only to run away, treating it all as a game. Unsmiling, Art watched as she playfully circuited the lawn.

  Eventually the front door clicked. Art’s wife appeared with Lotty at her heel, dark eyes gazing up adoringly at the piece of sausage in her mistress’s hand, mouth still finishing the last.

  ‘I thought you would have poured the tea, Art,’ she said, before asking Lotty to sit and giving her the treat.

  Art shrugged. It hadn’t occurred to him. Even so, he did not move.

  His wife reached over and poured tea for them both. She offered Art a biscuit but he waved it away.

  ‘Wonders will never cease. Not hungry?’

  Taking the tea he shook his head.

  As his wife sat down, the telephone rang. Without comment she stood back up and went into the hallway and picked up the receiver ‘Oh, hi Grace.’

  Art remained where he was, passively gazing. It was a rare thing for the landline to ring, but he could find no interest in it.

  ‘No. We haven’t received it,’ his wife said, voice edged with doubt.

  Hearing but not listening, Art sipped his drink. Lotty positioned herself against his legs, caring not at all if she was wanted or not.

  ‘Sounds great! And happy birthday to you. Yes, absolutely, we’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks Grace, yep, bye. Bye.’

  ‘Who was that?’ Art asked.

  ‘You must have heard, Art. It was Grace. She sent an invitation, she said, but I haven’t seen it. Have you?’

  He shook his head, not thinking of the piles of letters that always lay unattended until his wife finally spotted where he had left them.

  ‘It’s Grace’s birthday today and she’s having a small dinner to celebrate. Tomorrow night. Just the usual crowd.’

  Art pushed deeper into the chair, as if trying to attach himself to the springs. A long sigh escaped. ‘I'm not sure if I am up to it. I don’t want to stop you, of course, but I really don’t feel like going out.’

  ‘You never go out.’

  ‘I do,’ he protested, mildly, ‘We went to the pub for lunch only last weekend.’

  ‘That doesn’t count.’ Sitting down, his wife looked at him with loving concern, ‘Come with me. Please? You really do need to get out and see people. You’re like a hermit.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  She grinned, ‘You look like a hermit…’

  ‘I do not!’

  ‘No. I suppose not. Not today.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘I do. Really I do. But I also know that you have to make an effort of some sort. I don’t expect you to suddenly declare that you want a house party, but it is important that you start taking small steps toward …. Towards … I don’t know … something. It’s been tough for us both this past year. But perhaps after today …’

  His face crumpled.

  ‘Ah. It feels too soon?’

  Putting his cup down, Art rested his head back, cheerless blue eyes cast to the ceiling. ‘I just don’t want to.’

  ‘Love. They’re our friends. I am only asking that you try. We can always make our excuses and leave.’

  Still looking up and not at his wife, he asked, ‘What do you mean by usual crowd?’

  ‘Just that. Them, us, Ted plus his new girlfriend.’

  ‘God, not her?’ he said, looking directly at his wife now, interest vaguely stirring.

  ‘No! She went the way of the all the others, if you mean the diving instructor, or whatever it was she did. No. Another one. And Grace mentioned Primrose is coming, too, with her fiancé.’

  ‘Two people I don’t know, in other words.’

  ‘Art! You know Primrose very well.’

  ‘I meant Ted’s girlfriend, and her boyfriend.’

  ‘His girlfriend’s boyfriend?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Pet: Ted’s girlfriend, Primrose’s boyfriend. Two extra people to cope with; two strangers.’

  ‘And five people you
do know. Five people you can feel comfortable with. Five people you have known almost all your adult life. Five people who love you.’

  Chapter 2

  RIC

  Awake, Ric rolled over in bed allowing an arm to fall into the space Primrose had been comfortably occupying a few hours before. There, he found Oscar the Grouch sleeping in a tight curl. The kitten Ric had fallen for in his early grief, had been named by Primrose, who in choosing to ignore gender had unwittingly heightened her worthiness. The name planned since childhood was agreed upon in the short time before the pair came together as a couple, while Primrose was being quietly and easily seduced. Oscar the Grouch, despite her name, remained a friendly cat. A sociable sort, who liked to share a bed.

  Ric closed his eyes. The clean white sheets were crisp and fresh. The entire apartment seemed crisp and fresh since it had finally been tidied. Ric thought of Primrose and envied her. She was spending the day with Grace.

  The night before had been tiring, Ric’s job as bar tender exhausting. The club was nice, up market, but the clientele were disappointingly no different from those found in any other club. Tonight would be worse, he knew. Always, on Thursday nights in Bath, people got drunk. Why they did so with just one day to go before the weekend was a mystery to Ric. What he did know was that this job, with its fixed hours, was a vast improvement on his previous one as a chauffeur. He could manage his time without discovering at less than a moments notice that he actually had no time at all. The pay was not an improvement, but since selling up and moving in with Primrose, money was not an issue.

  He had hoped to sleep for longer, but the anniversary of his sister’s death was playing on his mind, the nagging remembrance of this-time-last-year driving him from rest. Time had softened the brutal edge of loss, moving Ric on from the bleak fact that he would never again see his beloved sibling. There was space now, away from those feelings of desolation, of decimation. The emptiness left by the deadening realisation that everything she had ever been remained only in memory had lifted into something more positive. He could now treasure those memories, rather than dwell upon their number or quality. And the fact he would never touch or speak with her again came to be simple fact. The distance time afforded had also steadied him back onto his feet, allowing at first for him to function day to day, but eventually to begin enjoying life again. But still, in so many ways, it felt like yesterday. However manageable, the hurt remained.