Mourning Ruby by Helen Dunmore Page B

the paper, because I had printed out his email. It bore no marks of his sweat, and there was no envelope which might have his saliva on the seal.
    I think of you both constantly . He was thinking of Ruby like that, remembering the Disney plasters and the yellow cardigan. He remembered the way Ruby would balance in his arms, lightly, with a straight back and frowning slightly at first. And then breaking into a smile, petal after petal of it, her eyelids, her cheeks, her lips –
    Joe didn’t tell me to turn my mind away, to forget, to make things bearable, to heal myself. He did not write about the stages of grief.
    Winter was coming. The trees and bushes were losing their leaves. Soon they’d be dry and brown, stiff and scratchy, and to all outward appearances dead. But inside, if the frost didn’t burn it away entirely, there was the quick of the plant. It was barely green but if you put your lips to it you could feel that it was moist. How I dreaded the thought that inside my shrivelled self there was something that wanted to come back to life.
    I folded Joe’s letter, and put it away. I blew out the candle, and turned off the lights. The house was so familiar that I could find my way around in the dark. I put on my nightdress and my dressing gown. I walked around the rooms, checking that the lights were off in all of them, the TV unplugged, and everything safe.
    I came to Ruby’s room in the dark. I hadn’t changed her sheets, or washed her pyjamas. The smell of Ruby clung to them.
    I always promised her I would come in and kiss her goodnight after I came back from work. Even if I’m asleep? Ruby asked. Even if you’re asleep, I repeated. I like the smell when you come back from work, she said. Sometimes I forgot, but the next morning I always told her I’d done it. I told her about how she was all curled up and I tucked the duvet round her, and you know what, Ruby, you were snoring. Like this. That made her laugh.
    The thing was to stay in her room. The dark and the Ruby smell melted into me and I hung in time. There were no minutes any more. I didn’t have to hold on.
    ‘I’m here, Ruby,’ I said. ‘Go back to sleep. You had a bad dream.’
    I thought that Adam had come home too, and slipped into the house without telling me. He was waiting in bed, feeling the empty space where I belonged. He knew that I’d come soon, when I’d settled Ruby down.
    I didn’t try to touch Ruby, not even to stroke her cheek. She knew I was there.
    ‘Go to sleep, Rubes,’ I said.
    The days were nothing any more. I had to get through them and I understood why Ruby wasn’t there in them. I would look at my watch as the day drew on and know it was only a few hours now, and then I would be with her again.
    One night the phone kept ringing. It rang for twenty rings and then it stopped, but after a brief pause it began to ring again. I couldn’t answer it. When you’re settling a child down you can’t always get to the phone in time. People understand that.
    Ruby’s bedroom was dark and warm. Water sucked and gurgled in her radiator. I must find the key and bleed it, I thought. The noise was loud enough to keep Ruby awake.
    ‘It’s only your radiator, Rubes,’ I said, in case she thought it was something bad. I moved my chair closer to her bed. I didn’t need to touch her. She could always tell when I was there. She felt my presence just as I felt hers.
    ‘I’m here. Go back to sleep,’ I said. ‘You don’t want to be tired and grumpy in the morning.’
    Ruby was restless. I knew she wanted me to sing to her.
How many miles to Babylon?
Four score miles and ten.
Will we get there by candlelight?
Yes, and back again.
If your heels are nimble and light
We may get there by candlelight.
    ‘My heels are nimble and light,’ said Ruby.
    ‘I know they are.’
    ‘Are yours?’
    ‘Not as light as yours. But we’ll get there, Rubes.’
    The light crashed on. It was Adam standing there in his coat. He came across to me and