large, calloused, craftsman’s hands that were capable of creating objects of great beauty. For ethical reasons, he eschewed the use of tropical hardwoods, nowadays working mainly with sustainable, recycled or reclaimed materials. For her fortieth birthday, he’d presented Nancy with an exquisite, sweet-smelling rosewood jewellery box, which had taken her breath away. She hadn’t dared to ask whether he had compromised his ethical standards in obtaining the wood — it frightened her to think he could love her that much.
Thinking of Richard’s workshop, reminded her again of her own business; her shop which had been closed for a week now. Nancy felt no inclination to return to work, and wondered whether she would ever feel that there was any point to anything ever again. In the days since Amy’s death, she had felt inert and heavy, sluggish and unmotivated. The slightest movement required an effort that was beyond her.
She had been awake long before Richard this morning, but was unable to move. Richard, stirring beside her when the alarm went off, throwing his arm about her and pulling her close, had shocked her with his effortless movements and easy affection. Nothing in Nancy’s own heart moved in response, and, more shockingly, even when she thought of Amy, nothing stirred. The absence of emotion was alarming but it was also liberating, freeing her from the need to feel pain. Music blared suddenly from the clock radio as if mocking her — ‘Everybody Hurts,’ by REM.
Richard must have reset the alarm when he came in to kiss her goodbye. Last night, he’d suggested that going into work might take her mind off things. She glanced at the clock; there was still time to open the shop at ten, only half an hour later than normal, but her mood weighted her to the bed and any hope for the day ahead was buried deep under the duvet.
“ Hold on . . .” droned Michael Stipe, but Nancy was adrift. Motherhood had anchored her to her life and now that it was gone, nothing made sense any more, nothing mattered. The next song was one that had been everywhere the summer she first moved to London. Nancy struck out with her arm and hit the off button on the radio, but, stirred by the familiar music, the malevolent worm of her past began burrowing under the covers to torment her.
* * *
Life had dealt her some cruel blows. Nancy’s childhood had been overshadowed by the loss of her parents. As a teenager, she had endured four years of living with foster parents who did their duty by her without love; more often than not, she had been bullied — or worse — by the other children in their care. When Amy came into her life, Nancy swore her daughter would always be loved. What if she had gone a little over the top, if in her eagerness to be a loving parent, she had spoiled Amy in other ways too?
At little more than Amy’s age, Nancy had arrived in London with a backpack containing everything she owned in the world; it didn’t amount to much. Her final foster home had been crowded and chaotic and there had been no money for extras. At sixteen, leaving care with an unfinished education and no prospects, she had moved into a flat-share with three other young people and started work in a Costcutter. In the evenings, she attended a local further education college and took some GCSEs and A Levels and, on reaching twenty-one, she had at last gained access to her parents’ estate and planned to use the money to move to London and apply for a place on an art and design course.
Her home in London was a basement flat in a converted Victorian house on a street lined with tall London plane trees leading up to the gates of Victoria Park. It had been sublet to her by a girl she’d befriended whilst working part-time in a bar on Fleet Street, who had gone off travelling for a year. A stroke of luck at last.
One day, walking in the park, she had met Debbie Clarke. A small boy had run out in front of her, near the lake, chasing the Canada
Thinking of Richard’s workshop, reminded her again of her own business; her shop which had been closed for a week now. Nancy felt no inclination to return to work, and wondered whether she would ever feel that there was any point to anything ever again. In the days since Amy’s death, she had felt inert and heavy, sluggish and unmotivated. The slightest movement required an effort that was beyond her.
She had been awake long before Richard this morning, but was unable to move. Richard, stirring beside her when the alarm went off, throwing his arm about her and pulling her close, had shocked her with his effortless movements and easy affection. Nothing in Nancy’s own heart moved in response, and, more shockingly, even when she thought of Amy, nothing stirred. The absence of emotion was alarming but it was also liberating, freeing her from the need to feel pain. Music blared suddenly from the clock radio as if mocking her — ‘Everybody Hurts,’ by REM.
Richard must have reset the alarm when he came in to kiss her goodbye. Last night, he’d suggested that going into work might take her mind off things. She glanced at the clock; there was still time to open the shop at ten, only half an hour later than normal, but her mood weighted her to the bed and any hope for the day ahead was buried deep under the duvet.
“ Hold on . . .” droned Michael Stipe, but Nancy was adrift. Motherhood had anchored her to her life and now that it was gone, nothing made sense any more, nothing mattered. The next song was one that had been everywhere the summer she first moved to London. Nancy struck out with her arm and hit the off button on the radio, but, stirred by the familiar music, the malevolent worm of her past began burrowing under the covers to torment her.
* * *
Life had dealt her some cruel blows. Nancy’s childhood had been overshadowed by the loss of her parents. As a teenager, she had endured four years of living with foster parents who did their duty by her without love; more often than not, she had been bullied — or worse — by the other children in their care. When Amy came into her life, Nancy swore her daughter would always be loved. What if she had gone a little over the top, if in her eagerness to be a loving parent, she had spoiled Amy in other ways too?
At little more than Amy’s age, Nancy had arrived in London with a backpack containing everything she owned in the world; it didn’t amount to much. Her final foster home had been crowded and chaotic and there had been no money for extras. At sixteen, leaving care with an unfinished education and no prospects, she had moved into a flat-share with three other young people and started work in a Costcutter. In the evenings, she attended a local further education college and took some GCSEs and A Levels and, on reaching twenty-one, she had at last gained access to her parents’ estate and planned to use the money to move to London and apply for a place on an art and design course.
Her home in London was a basement flat in a converted Victorian house on a street lined with tall London plane trees leading up to the gates of Victoria Park. It had been sublet to her by a girl she’d befriended whilst working part-time in a bar on Fleet Street, who had gone off travelling for a year. A stroke of luck at last.
One day, walking in the park, she had met Debbie Clarke. A small boy had run out in front of her, near the lake, chasing the Canada
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