One Moment, One Morning

  There it is, again: the searing pain that comes with imagining the future. With a mental shove she pushes it away. Then she picks up her pen, and begins to write a list of food she needs to buy. People will need something to eat after the funeral, won’t they?

  The moment Karen turns off the car engine she can hear the screams.

  ‘I WANT DADDY CUDDLE! I WANT DADDY CUDDLE!’

  Her stomach turns over. Her daughter has not had a full-blown tantrum for months – she and Simon have noted this development with a mixture of pride and relief only the weekend just gone, but immediately she understands what Molly is communicating with such urgency. Often it’s a Mummy Cuddle she yells for; now she wants her father. Such a simple request: how Karen wishes she could grant it – she wishes it more than anything.

  Molly’s voice is getting louder. ‘I WANT DADDY CUDDLE!’

  Oh, Lord, thinks Karen, heading up the garden path, poor Tracy. If Molly is audible from here, it must be ear-piercing inside the house. She rings on the doorbell.

  Tracy opens the door immediately.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Karen. ‘How long has this been going on?’

  Tracy raises her eyes to the sky. ‘Since lunch,’ she confesses.

  ‘Oh, Tracy! You should have called.’ Tracy normally feeds the children at half past twelve.

  ‘I wanted you to have some time to yourself.’ She runs her fingers through her hair.

  ‘I know, and thank you – I did get heaps done, but still, you’re a saint, putting up with this for such hours.’

  ‘I WANT DADDY CUDDLE! I WANT DADDY CUDDLE!’ Molly is screaming so loud she has not heard that Karen has arrived.

  ‘Normally I can stop her,’ says Tracy, raising her voice to make herself heard. ‘Or rather, I ignore her, and eventually she runs out of steam, as you know.’

  ‘I WANT DADDY CUDDLE! I WANT DADDY CUDDLE!’

  Karen nods. ‘Usually the best way.’

  Momentarily Tracy guides Karen into the living room so as not to have to bellow so hard. ‘But today she’s just gone on and on.’

  Karen sighs heavily and bites her lip. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In the kitchen, under the table.’

  Ordinarily, Karen would be hardened to her cries; she’s learnt to let them almost wash over her. But the sound of Molly’s pain is excruciating: ‘. . . DADDY CUDDLE! . . . DADDY CUDDLE!’ Karen relates totally; she is longing for a Daddy cuddle herself.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s had an accident too.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Molly has been using the loo pretty successfully since the previous autumn and hasn’t had any mishaps since before Christmas. ‘Pee, I hope?’

  ‘Both.’

  Karen winces.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Tracy smiles, but Karen can tell she is worn out.

  ‘I didn’t even give you a change of clothes,’ she castigates herself. This hasn’t been necessary for a while, so it didn’t occur to her that morning. She has not been thinking remotely straight.

  ‘I put her in some old stuff of Lola’s,’ says Tracy. Lola is her own daughter, now seven. ‘I kept bits and bobs of the children’s for emergencies.’

  ‘Bless you.’

  ‘Really, don’t worry. Though they are a bit big.’

  Karen hurries through to the kitchen. Molly is under the wooden table, scrunched up in a tight ball of fury and upset.

  ‘Your mummy is here,’ says Tracy, her voice raised.

  Karen crouches down. ‘Hello, sweetie.’ She crawls in.

  But Molly is a lorry speeding down the motorway in the rain, so energized it is impossible to stop. She carries on in spite of Karen’s presence: ‘I want Daddy cuddle! I want Daddy cuddle!’, pummelling her fists on the linoleum floor.

  Karen feels powerless, but sits down, cross-legged, touches Molly’s hunched back and ventures, ‘Daddy’s not here,’ her own soul crying out for him as she says it. ‘Will a Mummy cuddle do?’

  At least Molly doesn’t bat her away. Gradually her cries drop to a less desperate level and at last she edges, maintaining her beetle-like shape, over to Karen’s lap and collapses into it.

  They sit like that together for several minutes. A waxed tablecloth encloses them; Karen is aware of the darkness and warmth of their location, the smell of pine: no wonder Molly elected to retreat here. They are in their own private safe haven.

  ‘There, there. It’s OK. It’s OK. I’m sorry I’m not Daddy. But I’m here, Molster, I’m here.’ Karen wraps her arms around her daughter, stroking her hair softly, until finally Molly gulps down the last of her sobs, her breathing slows and she is quiet.

  Eventually Karen asks, ‘Are you feeling better?’

  ‘Everything ache,’ says Molly, lifting her head.

  ‘Where does it hurt?’

  ‘Here.’ Molly sits up and rubs her tummy.

  ‘Aah, poor tummy.’ Karen rubs it.

  ‘And here.’ Molly touches her forehead.

  ‘Poor head.’ Karen kisses her brow.

  ‘And here.’ Molly returns to her torso, her chest this time. ‘All hurty.’

  Karen knows this exterior pain is a manifestation of interior suffering. She feels all hurty too. As she strokes Molly’s chest, she looks up and sees Luke standing there. He’s pulled back the tablecloth and is peering at both of them.

  ‘Hello, love,’ she says, reaching out for him. She wonders how long he has been watching. ‘Do you want to come in?’

  Luke shakes his head.

  ‘I guess we’d better get up, then.’ She shifts position. ‘Come on, Molly, time to go.’

  Molly squeaks like a distressed baby animal and snuggles in more tightly.

  ‘Now come on, Molster. We do need to get back.’ Before Molly can argue or revert back to tears, Karen carefully manoeuvres them both up and out from under the table.

  ‘Luke, poppet,’ she smiles as she stands, conscious she’s barely acknowledged him.

  Luke says nothing.

  ‘You all right?’

  Luke just stares at her, bottom lip protruding, silent. It’s uncharacteristic; usually he would at least nod or shake his head. But he doesn’t even acknowledge her question.

  ‘Let’s get you both home,’ she says. ‘And then we’ll have a drink and biscuits, and if you’re very good, I might let you choose a DVD to watch on telly. How about Shrek? Would you like that?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Molly without hesitation.

  Luke remains uncommunicative. Maybe he will say more when they are back.

  She would never customarily let them watch a DVD at this time and doesn’t want to break all the rules, but they both seem so distressed that she wants to comfort them in any way she can. And in the general scheme of things, what does it matter? It’s hardly as if excess TV is going to be as psychologically traumatizing as the sudden death of their father.

  ‘Don’t forget these,’ says Tracy, handing her a bag of Molly’s clothes. ‘I’ve run them through the wash but they’re still damp.’

  ‘You’re an angel.’ Karen shoves the carrier up her arm and onto her shoulder. Then with a palm on each head, she guides both children down the hall, Molly looking faintly clown-like in a dress several sizes too big for her; Luke dragging his heels, grumpy and disconsolate.

  * * *

  On the edges of the Firth, where the rich mineral waters flow and the sea breezes blow, stands the distillery. It’s here we go about our daily tasks to bring you one of Scotland’s finest Single Malts, just as we have for over two hundred years. Pour yourself a glass, look at the colour against the light. From the palest gold to the darkest hue, every shade is a reflection of our Highland home.

  Not for the first time, Anna is glad of the distraction of her work. It is an effort to focus, but she is used to that. How many times has she had to repress memories from the evening before in order to write after a row with Steve? She has become adept at ignoring racing thoughts, telling herself that she’ll deal with her own problems later. A
nd although now it is not Steve who is in the back of her mind – it’s Karen and the children – the ability to channel her energies is like a well-exercised muscle; Anna can do it with almost disloyal ease.

  ‘Tea?’ says Bill, pushing back his chair next to her.

  ‘Ooh, yes please.’ Anna looks up. Around her the office is buzzing. There’s music on low volume, mobiles ringing, colleagues chatting. But Anna has been in a world of her own, far north of the border, surrounded by mists and sea air and the scent of seaweed. She enjoys writing descriptive copy like this. It allows her to whisk herself away to another place, almost like magic.

  As Bill puts down her cup of tea, there is a bleep. It’s a good time to take a break and check her texts – she has lost her flow already.

  All really getting on top of me, it says. Be nice to chat but I appreciate you’re busy. K xxx

  Anna feels bad. There she was, congratulating herself on being able to blot out the very circumstances Karen cannot escape from.

  She goes into the corridor and rings at once.

  ‘Hello?’ says Karen.

  Anna can tell from that one word that she is crying. How long has she been weeping like this, alone? ‘Oh, my love. You should have called me earlier.’

  ‘I didn’t want to interrupt you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t answer if I was that busy, but it’s rare I can’t speak for just a few moments. So next time, just ring me, please. Though I should have called you. I am so sorry.’

  Karen gulps, trying to stem the tears. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I find it so hard to cry most of the time, too. And now there seems to be no stopping me. The kids are in the other room watching Shrek and I just – I dunno – I was supposed to be calling the funeral parlour about flowers and whether we wanted them or what and I couldn’t face it, I just crumbled. Molly had the most dreadful, dreadful tantrum this afternoon at Tracy’s; I’ve never known her have one quite that bad, it must have been nearly three hours altogether, and all she wanted was her Daddy, and Luke won’t talk to me, he just seems to have clammed up, won’t say a word, yet yesterday he was fine, well not fine, but you know, he talked and he cried and I felt I could help, but I can’t be their Daddy, I never will be able to be and – oh, Anna – why has this happened to me? I just want Simon back! I just want him here, with us! I want him to help me deal with all this!’ She starts to cry even harder. ‘I came home just now and I was trying to do things, but when I opened the tumble dryer, there were some clothes of his he’d put in there on Monday morning – shirts for work – I’ve not thought of washing since so I didn’t know they were there. I just started sobbing, and Luke came in; the expression on his face – it was awful – he looked so aghast.’

  Anna just listens, then after a while Karen calms down a little, and says, ‘I’m so sorry, you’re at work. It’s just today, I’m finding it really hard to cope. Sorry, sorry.’

  ‘Sweetheart, stop apologizing, and stop being so bloody tough on yourself,’ orders Anna. ‘You don’t have to cope. But anyway, you are. Strikes me you’re actually coping very well. Though you can let yourself off the hook a little – no one will mind if you cry. Least of all me.’

  ‘I mind,’ says Karen.

  ‘Well, all right, you mind.’ Anna laughs affectionately. ‘But no one else does, honestly.’

  ‘The children will mind.’

  ‘No, they won’t. What they’ll mind is a mother who bottles everything up and pretends everything is tickety-boo. I’m sure that’s much worse.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Yes. Tears are not a weakness. It’s good to let it out.’ Anna is convinced by this insight; she feels instinctively that Karen’s unshed tears will only fill the well of her sadness more deeply in the long term. Yet at the same time she feels uncomfortable; she is aware that she is bottling stuff up too. This contradiction makes her feel uneasy, so almost immediately she rationalizes the situation: her circumstances are different; she’s not lost a partner; she’s got a living to earn; plus she needs to be strong for Karen. Then again, Karen believes she has to be strong for the children. Once more Anna has the sense that she and Karen mirror one another. Even now their reactions are similar; they both want to be strong for others. They are codependent, as if they are playing a game of Jenga. Pull the wrong wooden peg out of the construction and the whole lot will come down – quite who is going to blow it is anyone’s guess.

  ‘But it’s all my fault,’ wails Karen again. ‘I should have done more . . .’

  Oh, no, thinks Anna. She knows it is crazily soon after the event – barely forty-eight hours – but hearing Karen beating herself up is especially hard to bear.

  ‘Karen—’

  ‘I feel like I killed him,’ says Karen, quietly.

  ‘Oh, honey.’

  ‘I do, though.’

  ‘That’s plain silly.’ Anna wishes she was with her friend in person – she longs to give her a hug. It is so frustrating not being able to reason with her face to face, help her grasp how wrong she is to blame herself. Because here she and Karen do not mirror one another – and Anna is reminded how different their situations really are. Karen is in another place entirely – a world turned upside down and inside out by what has happened. Karen’s loss is of a magnitude that only she can feel. So however hard Anna strives, however much she wants Karen to, nothing she can say will persuade her friend to see events her way.

  Anna is heading home after work when her phone rings once more. How weird; she has just transferred this particular number into her address book.

  ‘Hello. It’s Lou.’

  ‘I know – I’d just put you into my mobile.’

  ‘Spooky.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Are you on the train?’ asks Lou.

  ‘Yes, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Doubly spooky. But I only just caught it, so I’m at the back.’

  ‘I’m up the front, so it’s probably not worth finding each other now.’ They are approaching Brighton. ‘Still, I was just wondering, how are you? Was your day OK?’

  ‘Fine, I suppose.’ Anna laughs ruefully. ‘Work’s the least of my worries at the moment.’

  ‘Mm. I understand.’ A pause, then Lou asks, ‘How’s Karen?’

  ‘Oh, er . . .’ Anna doesn’t feel she can lie to Lou, who was there when Simon died, after all, but she is loath to have an intimate conversation on the train where a great many people can hear every word. She thinks swiftly. Steve has some painting to finish for a client and will be home late; Karen is spending the evening with Simon’s brother, Alan, so Anna is at a loose end. She’d been looking forward to some time alone, and had planned on having a nice warm bath and an early night. On the other hand, it would be good to talk to someone . . .

  ‘Actually, you don’t fancy a quick drink, do you?’ she asks impulsively. ‘Somewhere near the station?’

  Another pause, then Lou says, ‘Yeah, why not?’

  ‘We could go to that pub on Trafalgar Street. I can never remember its name, but it’s really nice.’

  ‘The one down the far end? I can never remember its name either.’

  They are in sync; they are even forgetting the same things. ‘Yes. On the right as you’re walking down.’

  ‘That would be great. I’ll wait for you at the ticket barrier.’

  As the train clatters past the cleaning depot, freshly spruced carriages glisten shiny and bright in the fluorescent light. Then it slows to pass through signals and finally creeps alongside the station platform.

  * * *

  Lou rang Anna on a whim, because she had been thinking about her and Karen, wondering what she could do to help. She knows this is futile: what has happened has happened, and she also knows she should protect herself, because she has a tendency to give too much, and it’s not as if she doesn’t put a lot of herself into her job caring for people already. Nonetheless, she feels such empathy for them both she can’t ignore it.

  And there
is Anna now, amongst the throng pressing towards the barriers. Lou waves.

  ‘Hi, hi,’ beams Anna when she comes through the gate. She kisses Lou on each cheek.

  Anna seems warmer every time I meet her, thinks Lou. Funny, that. Some people, who seem so friendly on first impression, turn out to be disappointingly superficial, whereas the aloof ones, like Anna, emerge as affectionate and loyal.

  Lou collects her bicycle and they start walking. It’s chilly, and there’s a bridge beneath the station that channels the wind, messing up Anna’s hair. She is wearing shiny dark-green leather boots with high heels that drive her with a click click click down the hill, forcing her to take small steps. Lou’s hair is unkempt regardless of the weather; her trainers are easy to stride in, well worn, comfy. We are an unlikely duo, she thinks.

  ‘Ah, that’s what it’s called,’ says Anna, when they reach the door. The Lord Nelson.

  At the bar, Lou wedges in between a group of red-faced older men and a couple of young guys in duffel coats. ‘What will you have?’

  Anna peruses the wine list. ‘A glass of this.’ She points to a red near the foot of the page. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll get them.’

  Lou notes that Anna has expensive tastes. All the same, she says, ‘No, get the next one.’

  The girl behind the bar comes over, smiles. She’s cute; quirkily dressed, with crazy-coloured spiky hair. She’s younger than Lou – probably a student – and Lou knows at once she is gay. Lou orders Anna’s red and a half of lager for herself. An impatient ‘harrumph’ indicates that one of the older men had been waiting for a while, but she decides to ignore it. So what if she is getting preferential treatment? It’s often the other way round.