the man’s defence. Because he was a Cerulean, perhaps, and I
felt bound to defend them. But Luke had a point. It was a little odd, but not
unthinkable, to meet a fellow Cerulean on the dinner cruise. Yet here, in the
graveyard? The only Cerulean I’d ever seen here was Jude, lurking about in
order to meet me on my first day in Twycombe. The stranger had no reason to be
here. Unless... He was over by my grandfather’s grave. Had he known him?
Perhaps they were friends. But he was so much younger than Peter.
I’d ask Jude about the Cerulean, I decided, and until then
I’d push the matter from my mind. After all, it either meant something, in
which case I’d no doubt know about that in due course, or it didn’t, in which
case there was no point wasting time thinking about it. There were more
important considerations today.
‘I’m ready to go now,’ said Luke.
I turned to him. He looked paler than usual, but calm.
‘Are you sure?’ I said. ‘Because I don’t mind…’
‘… hanging about in a graveyard all day being morose and
wondering “what if”?’
‘Well, if it would help.’
‘No, it really, really wouldn’t.’
He began leading me along the path, out of the graveyard,
and explaining:
‘After Cara was born, my parents gave an envelope to my
grandparents, just in case. Inside was a list of instructions for their
funerals. You know what reading they wanted, the only reading, for the service?
“Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep.” And do you know what song Mum insisted was
played at the end, when we threw flowers and earth into their graves? “What a
Wonderful World.”’
He flung his arm around me and pulled me close. ‘And it is,’
he said. ‘This isn’t a day for moping. Not any more.’
*
Luke and I had dreamed up our date today weeks ago, though
in fact it required little imagination, because we were going back in time and re-creating
our first date.
Lunch at the River Cottage Canteen was just as good as it
had been last year, though this time Luke scribbled down ideas inspired by the
menu for his own cafe. Across the water in Cornwall, after a short ferry ride,
the Edgcumbe Arms pub had all the charm I remembered, and though it wasn’t
sitting-out weather, I insisted we perch on the same picnic bench as before to
watch the boats go by. I even drank a pint of beer again, as I had that day, which
was disgustingly stomach-turning but brilliantly nostalgic.
After our drink, we set out on our walk across the grounds
of the country park – deserted on this gloomy Friday afternoon – and up the steep
hillside to the folly, that crumbling old tower set terrifyingly close to a
cliff edge. This time, we didn’t hesitate before climbing the steps, and when
we reached the top Luke stood behind me, his arms wrapped around me, and I
leaned against him, giddy with vertigo and memories.
It began to rain. The roofless folly provided no shelter,
but we didn’t head for cover.
‘Happy anniversary,’ said Luke.
The first of July. The anniversary of his parents’ deaths.
And the anniversary of our first meeting.
He’d only told me the full story recently: how he’d got up
early that day a year ago to lay flowers on his parents’ graves and then surf
and surf until he was too numb to grieve, but there I was, thrashing about in
the deep water. And after he grabbed me and took me back to shore and dumped me
on the beach, he didn’t feel numb at all: he felt anger, and then concern, and
then compassion, and then... connection.
The thought of that morning made my heart lurch. If he
hadn’t spotted me in the water. If he hadn’t seen past how broken I was. If he
hadn’t fallen for me.
A song was playing in my head at deafening volume: the Stereophonics,
‘If I Haven’t Got You.’ Without Luke, nothing had meaning.
‘I wonder where we’ll be this time next year,’ he said.
‘Here,’ I said. ‘We’ll be right here.’
‘In the cold and the rain?’
‘In a hurricane,
felt bound to defend them. But Luke had a point. It was a little odd, but not
unthinkable, to meet a fellow Cerulean on the dinner cruise. Yet here, in the
graveyard? The only Cerulean I’d ever seen here was Jude, lurking about in
order to meet me on my first day in Twycombe. The stranger had no reason to be
here. Unless... He was over by my grandfather’s grave. Had he known him?
Perhaps they were friends. But he was so much younger than Peter.
I’d ask Jude about the Cerulean, I decided, and until then
I’d push the matter from my mind. After all, it either meant something, in
which case I’d no doubt know about that in due course, or it didn’t, in which
case there was no point wasting time thinking about it. There were more
important considerations today.
‘I’m ready to go now,’ said Luke.
I turned to him. He looked paler than usual, but calm.
‘Are you sure?’ I said. ‘Because I don’t mind…’
‘… hanging about in a graveyard all day being morose and
wondering “what if”?’
‘Well, if it would help.’
‘No, it really, really wouldn’t.’
He began leading me along the path, out of the graveyard,
and explaining:
‘After Cara was born, my parents gave an envelope to my
grandparents, just in case. Inside was a list of instructions for their
funerals. You know what reading they wanted, the only reading, for the service?
“Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep.” And do you know what song Mum insisted was
played at the end, when we threw flowers and earth into their graves? “What a
Wonderful World.”’
He flung his arm around me and pulled me close. ‘And it is,’
he said. ‘This isn’t a day for moping. Not any more.’
*
Luke and I had dreamed up our date today weeks ago, though
in fact it required little imagination, because we were going back in time and re-creating
our first date.
Lunch at the River Cottage Canteen was just as good as it
had been last year, though this time Luke scribbled down ideas inspired by the
menu for his own cafe. Across the water in Cornwall, after a short ferry ride,
the Edgcumbe Arms pub had all the charm I remembered, and though it wasn’t
sitting-out weather, I insisted we perch on the same picnic bench as before to
watch the boats go by. I even drank a pint of beer again, as I had that day, which
was disgustingly stomach-turning but brilliantly nostalgic.
After our drink, we set out on our walk across the grounds
of the country park – deserted on this gloomy Friday afternoon – and up the steep
hillside to the folly, that crumbling old tower set terrifyingly close to a
cliff edge. This time, we didn’t hesitate before climbing the steps, and when
we reached the top Luke stood behind me, his arms wrapped around me, and I
leaned against him, giddy with vertigo and memories.
It began to rain. The roofless folly provided no shelter,
but we didn’t head for cover.
‘Happy anniversary,’ said Luke.
The first of July. The anniversary of his parents’ deaths.
And the anniversary of our first meeting.
He’d only told me the full story recently: how he’d got up
early that day a year ago to lay flowers on his parents’ graves and then surf
and surf until he was too numb to grieve, but there I was, thrashing about in
the deep water. And after he grabbed me and took me back to shore and dumped me
on the beach, he didn’t feel numb at all: he felt anger, and then concern, and
then compassion, and then... connection.
The thought of that morning made my heart lurch. If he
hadn’t spotted me in the water. If he hadn’t seen past how broken I was. If he
hadn’t fallen for me.
A song was playing in my head at deafening volume: the Stereophonics,
‘If I Haven’t Got You.’ Without Luke, nothing had meaning.
‘I wonder where we’ll be this time next year,’ he said.
‘Here,’ I said. ‘We’ll be right here.’
‘In the cold and the rain?’
‘In a hurricane,
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