Love of Grace and Angels

  GRACE’S BIRTHDAY

  Grace lightly replaced the receiver. Everyone was coming. For the first time in a year she felt there was something normal to look forward to, something of the good old days. She hadn’t exactly yearned for the return of this time gone by, only mourned its passing, but at last she felt she could take off her widow’s weeds, metaphorical as they were, and move on from the recent past. She was no longer standing to one side tolerating an existence fraught with hurt, but finally back in her own life.

  ‘When was the last time you saw them?’ Primrose was sitting at the kitchen table, cradling a cup of black coffee. The sun, less high in the sky than it had been, poured in a satisfying yellow light.

  ‘I’m not sure. Quite a while ago, I suppose. Close on a year I should think.’

  ‘A year! Mum! I thought they were good friends of yours!’

  ‘They are. But you know, busy lives and all that. And they’ve had a tricky time. Kept themselves to themselves. Poor Art. Such a lovely man. I wonder how he is feeling. It’s the anniversary of it, you know.’

  ‘Stuff happens, Mum.’

  There, thought Grace, spoke the callousness of youth. ‘Yes. It does.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about you and Dad.’

  ‘Your father and I are fine. Better than fine, actually. And as for stuff, well you are right of course. It can’t be easy though.’

  The room was tidy, clean and cosy, the many glass panels making up the kitchen drew in the sun and stored its welcome warmth, enough that even the stone flags offered comfort underfoot.

  Grace pushed her dark hair away from her face, wishing she had taken time to tie it back.

  ‘This is nice,’ said Primrose, ‘beats being at work.’

  ‘I thought you liked work. I thought you enjoyed hospital life. All that drama.’

  ‘No one in their right mind likes work more than not being at work. And there is no drama in geriatric nursing. Not beyond the occasional wailing tears or toilet accident streaking down someone’s inside leg. You don’t see drama serials about old people, Mum. Only A and E.’

  Grace said nothing, thoughts moving to the preparations required for the dinner party the following night.

  Primrose sipped her drink, ‘You looking forward to tomorrow?’

  ‘I am. You can stay over, if you like. You and Ric.’

  ‘Maybe. Thanks.’

  ‘I must go shopping in the morning,’ Grace continued, sounding less than enthusiastic, ‘that is, unless you need something, and then we could go today after we’ve finished our drinks. It’s not too late. We’ll miss rush hour if we’re quick. Maybe you could drop me to my car, after? It’s been in for a service but I haven’t had time to pick it up yet.’

  ‘Food shopping! Mum, it’s your birthday!’

  ‘I know. But it means that I have tomorrow to shop again if I can’t get everything I need today. Shall we? Say you will.’

  ‘Sure, why not. Shopping’s a pain. Be good to get a few things out of the way. Far less hassle if you have company. But leave your car. There really won’t be time. Get Dad to run you over on Monday.’

  The steady and even sound of crunching gravel distracted them from their chatter. A large and familiar silver BMW drew up and through the glass Grace watched her husband get out. Stooping, he took a bag from the back seat, also retrieving an extravagant looking bouquet.

  Nothing was as it had been. Unavoidably the relationship had altered, necessarily shifting power from him to her. She loved her husband but not in the way she had. It was better. The blind adoration for the flawless and reliable man she mistook him for, a person no one could be, had been replaced by a more informed and honest faith. It had tested them both, and during his long recovery, more than once she had returned to the suspicion that he didn’t love her. And at times, she suspected, he had perhaps wondered about this too. But the old adage was true; what does not break you makes you stronger. They were stronger. And in the face of potential devastation she had not only survived, she had grown. So had he.

  Tucking the bag under his arm and placing the bouquet on the roof of the car, he locked it before stuffing the key in his trouser pocket. He looked smart as he always did, an expensive suit, elegant tie, good shoes and groomed hair. He remained a handsome man, Grace thought, seeming untouched by the years. Grabbing the flowers, a mixture of coloured roses, he came in.

  ‘These are for you. Happy birthday, Sweetheart.’

  ‘They’re gorgeous! Thank you.’

  Grace was prevented from finding a vase, her husband insisting she stay put. He had more he wanted to give, he said.

  ‘What’s in the bag, Dad? Presents?’

  ‘I had my present this morning, a beautiful book. I’ll show you in a moment.’

  Her husband laughed, ‘I gave you one of your presents so you had something to unwrap. I couldn’t pick up the other things until today. Here. Happy birthday, round two.’

  Grace’s husband placed three packages on the table, each neatly wrapped in exquisitely patterned paper and tied with soft silver ribbon.

  ‘There was really no need to go mad. It’s just a birthday.’

  ‘You haven’t opened them yet,’ he laughed, ‘you might be disappointed.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Grace pulled the tail of one ribbon and allowed it to fall away. Carefully peeling back the paper, trying not to tear the fragile pen-drawn images of birds and trees, she revealed a long black box and opened it. ‘Ah, how thoughtful! The same as the one I lost. Goodness, I have missed that pen. But it was so expensive. And old. How did you find another?’

  ‘Not so hard. I ordered one from that shop in town. Glad you like it.’ He kissed the top of her head.

  Grace picked up the pen and inspected it, lovingly. Save for missing signs of use, it was identical to the pen her husband had given her ten years before, the cost then more than two weeks wages.

  Lost to all but Ric, that pen had a new place now, still treasured but wrapped in tissue inside the drawer of the travelling box, rather than Grace’s bag.

  ‘Mum! Next one!’

  With equal care, Grace opened the two remaining presents: a fine platinum watch engraved with a message of love from her husband, and an antique gold locket containing a tiny image of Grace’s sister. Momentarily, Grace could not speak.

  ‘I’ll find a vase,’ said Primrose, placing her empty cup in the sink.

  ‘You can change them if you don’t like them, Grace. Any of the presents. I won’t be offended.’

  Grace framed the gifts with her hands, defensively. ‘They’re the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Thank you.’

  Primrose returned to the table with a crystal vase filled with water and a pair of scissors. After admiring her mother’s gifts she began deftly trimming stems before carefully placing and arranging each rose. Grace sat quietly.

  Her husband made himself a cup of tea. ‘I can’t stay long. I have a meeting I couldn’t change, a block of flats too good to miss, then I’ll be home. I’ve booked a table in town for tonight.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘None of your business,’ he grinned. ‘Somewhere nice. So. What are you two up to for what’s left of the afternoon? Any message from our other daughter?’

  ‘Not yet. I expect she’ll call later. Primrose and I are going grocery shopping.’

  ‘Birthday treat,’ joked Primrose.

  ‘Grace! Not today.’

  ‘I need to, for tomorrow’s dinner. Just a quick trip.’ Grace repacked her presents and carried them to another room, placing them out of sight. The house had never been burgled but her instant sense of ownership and attachment was enormous. In telling her husband the gifts were the most beautiful things she had ever seen she’d really meant they were the most thoughtful gifts he had ever given, making them the most precious.

  ‘Come and see, Mum. The flowers look great.’

  Grace smiled at her daughter when she returned. It was a refreshing chan
ge to have her visit during the day, and to see her so happy was a delight. ‘I am guessing all is going well with you and Ric? Such a nice young man.’

  Primrose began tidying up leaves and stem trimmings. ‘Yep. We finished unpacking his stuff last night, before he went off to work.’

  ‘Last night? You’ve been living together for six months! Surely he didn’t have so many belongings that it has taken half a year to get organised? You’ve always been a messy pup but I had hoped a good man like Ric might set you straight.’

  ‘It’s because he is tidy and I am messy that it has taken so long. I had to sort my own things to make space, and that took some time.’

  ‘So you let the poor man live out of a suitcase?’

  ‘Not clothes, Mother. We bought a second set of drawers the first week he was there, so housing his underpants was easy. No, the problem’s been all his DVD’s, and so many books and kitchen things. You know. Stuff. Anyway, we’re all sorted now and it’s great.’ Primrose looked at her mother and with a gentle affection said, ‘Thanks Mum.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For finding him.’

  Chapter 4

  ART’S WIFE

  Art’s wife stirred from sleep to an empty bed. She had woken early from habit because Lotty had to be let out to do her business and then ignored as she cried for further attention, while her mistress climbed back into still warm sheets. Rented desk space vacated, Art’s wife had started working from home because Art could not be left. It was an easy change for a graphic designer. The new routine had made for lazy starts and more productive days but she hadn’t bargained for the loneliness brought about by the constant presence of someone who could only look inward. The dog Art believed was bought to ease his sense of loss after Rawa’s death, was really brought into their lives to preserve her own sanity. Lotty was a bundle of carefree joy. She was company in a way Art could no longer be.

  His wife guessed Art must have had a restless night. Sometimes he slept for what seemed like days on end, other times he struggled by for weeks with hardly any sleep at all. He had gone to bed the night before not under the influence of an unruly intoxication, nor was he pitifully and mournfully pissed, instead he slurred and staggered and drooped, the sort of drunk that made for very poor and boring company. It surprised her, then, not to wake up and find a snoring mass lying next to her, although his clothes remained crumpled on the floor by the bed, left where they fell as he tumbled from them. He must have finally managed to fall into some clean ones, she decided.

  Making her way downstairs, wrapped in a fluffy turquoise dressing gown with fine fair hair, pillow-rubbed into a bird’s nest, she could hear Lotty in the kitchen, excited by her approaching footsteps. As she passed the sitting room, a familiar figure caught her eye, slumped in his favourite armchair and wearing only underpants. At first he appeared to be sleeping, but then she saw his eyes were open, staring dully through the window and up into the grey and overcast sky.

  ‘Art?’

  ‘I can’t go,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Tonight. I can’t go.’

  His wife ignored the wild scrabbling at the kitchen door and went to his side. ‘Don’t think about it. Not now. It’s not for hours and hours.’

  ‘I feel unwell.’

  ‘A hangover, perhaps.’ She stroked his head through thinning hair.

  Art turned to face her, ‘I haven’t had one since that day. I can drink and drink and drink, but no hangover. It’s like I can’t even suffer for it. Like a punishment.’

  Ever so slightly, his wife rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll let Lotty out and make us a nice cup of tea. Then we can talk. Do you want a blanket? Feels a bit chilly in here.’

  ‘No. I’m not cold.’

  Art’s wife did as she said and made a pot of tea, but also took a fleecy blanket from an overloaded basket containing a huge pile of clean clothing and bedding that had been left for some time at the foot of the stairs. Lotty trotted after her, trying to catch the corner of the blanket in her teeth.

  ‘Off Lotty! Here you are, Art. Take it.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Regardless, she draped the soft blanket over him. ‘You think I want to look at your naked belly while I have my tea?’ she smiled, ‘this early in the day? Come Lotty. Sit. Good girl.’ Rather than sitting as instructed, Lotty lay down.

  ‘You’re too good to me. I know I’m a drag. If you were to up and leave me, I’d understand.’

  Sitting down, his wife frowned. ‘What sort of thing is that to say! I love you. You’ve had an awful, awful, time of it Art. I want to help you, support you, make you feel like yourself again. I don’t want to walk away.’ Unspoken were the many recent times – selfish moments, she felt – when she had wished she could do exactly that.

  Watching him sip his tea, this unrecognisable husband who drank too much, refused professional care, resisted offers of help from friends and generally took a poor view of himself, made her realise that she must start pushing for progress, albeit gently. In that moment of understanding, it became vitally important to her for Art to come to the dinner party; quite suddenly she knew how to get him there.

  ‘I think, Art,’ she began, looking at him with tenderness, ‘that tonight comes down to this: either you come with me and allow others a chance to be part of your life again, or I will find you a counsellor, someone to visit you here at home, to help you find a way of coping. I have a number that I’ve had for some time,' she continued, despite his attempts at interruption, ‘and I will be calling it first thing Monday morning. Of course, if you want to come to the dinner, say happy birthday to Grace and also meet with a counsellor, then of course that is fine, too. But I am done with scouring the Internet for advice, of reading endless self-help books on your behalf, of racking my brains for ideas on how to make you see it was an accident.’

  He shrugged.

  Her tone remained as sympathetic as her intention was unwavering, ‘Make no mistake. You will see this counsellor if you don’t come.’

  ‘Fine. If that’s what you want.’ It was a sullen and ambiguous response, tipped with resentment but laden with a neediness that could not be ignored.

  Recognising a victory of sorts and so choosing to make her exit, Art’s wife stood up. ‘Art, I love you, I always have. I just want my husband back. I’ll take my tea up with me, have a shower and then take Lotty for a walk. You can come with me on that walk if you want, or not. Up to you.’

  *

  Art’s decision that he would go to Grace’s for dinner became evident as the day wore on. Throughout the day, he yo-yoed between acceptance and denial, but to yo-yo was progress.

  Sometimes he showed no interest in the clothes his wife had laid out for him on the bed, suggestions, she claimed, made just in case he should choose to come. She clarified her actions: this was not an attempt to push him or to govern his appearance, which occasionally brought to mind images of greasy sleeping bags and shop doorways. Rather, it was designed to relieve him of additional worry. If he chose to go he could change without thinking about it. At other times he became fretful about his appearance, concerned what the others might think of him. Had he looked this old and fat the last time they’d all met? There were also silly statements she chose to ignore; such as he’d wore a suit yesterday so why should he be smart again today. It was clear Art was going with her, but plainer still was the fact that she was going no matter what her husband chose to do.

  Art did not join his wife on the dog walk, giving her ample privacy to call Grace. It did not seem fair on Art, or the other guests, to be there without some kind of advanced warning. He would not cause trouble, she knew, but his potential silence might be made easier for everyone concerned with a degree of insider understanding. As Lotty scampered like a small black rug, pulled and turned by unseen strings, Art’s wife talked easily with her old friend.

  ‘Do you think he’ll be alright with people he doesn’t know?’ asked Grace. ‘He’s never me
t Ric, or Ted’s girlfriend. Goodness only knows what she is like.’

  ‘The usual, I expect, although she can’t be worse than his wife was. Running off with the window cleaner. I mean, who runs off with the window cleaner? Not that there is anything wrong with being a window cleaner, of course. But she had rather expensive tastes. I can’t believe he would ever have been able to offer her much.’

  Grace laughed. ‘You obviously haven’t employed one for a while. Exorbitant.’

  ‘And clichéd.’

  ‘Quite. Ted does make some terrible choices. But what about Art, will he manage?’

  ‘I have no idea, Grace. Not really. It certainly would be better if he sat with friends, though. He’d find new people tricky. Perhaps at the end of the table, sandwiched by people he knows, so he can choose a conversation or sit quietly if he’d prefer, without feeling out of place.’

  ‘Good idea, then he won’t be opposite anyone he doesn’t know, either, because I shall be sitting at the other end of the table. I can’t imagine someone in his condition making conversation with anyone Ted is likely to bring.’

  ‘With any stranger, really. My worry is he might just walk out. Or hide in the loo. It’s a small group you’ve invited, Grace, which is better than lots of people, but it will make avoiding talking harder.’

  ‘Is he really that bad?’

  ‘He’s a mess. You don’t know the half of it, Grace. It’s been so awful. He was just beginning to feel a little better when his mother died. God knows what he’d be like now, had they been close. It doesn’t bear thinking about. It’s not as if her passing was unexpected, either.

  ‘Apart from the odd pub lunch and walk, this evening will be the first thing he has done since the accident. And his drinking is out of control, so I am apologising right now for that. He’ s sure to get completely plastered. I stopped replenishing the bottles but he went online and ordered crates and crates of wine from the supermarket. Not a thought for what else we might need. I couldn’t believe it when the delivery came. Not a carrot, tea bag or bar of soap in sight. Just wine. Oh, and one pizza. Can you believe it? Four hundred pounds that delivery cost and it contained precisely one meal. One meal for one person!’

  Grace chuckled a little, before apologising.

  ‘No need to be sorry. It is funny, looking back. Sort of, anyway.’