extended the year before. It is full of light, people. Above the kitchen door, there is an A4 size photo of Willow on a hillside, her hair wind-whipped, wearing a bright smile. It has been printed out on white copy paper and sellotaped clumsily in place. Julie and I stand in the hallway for a minute, and I see that there are framed photos of Willow lined in rows on a shelf beneath the mirror. At that point, Sally herself emerges from the sitting room to our left and says, ‘Come in you two, it’s cold out here in the hall. Come and get a drink.’ The woman who dealt with my tragedy in such a heavy-handed fashion seems bizarrely determined, outwardly at least, to make light work of her own. I stare at her as she turns to the kitchen. I wonder if her doctor has given her drugs.
*
David and Chloe are at the far end of the kitchen. David sees me and pushes through the other people to get to me – Chloe, of course, stays where she is. David embraces me warmly, as if we are the only two people who understand what is really going on here, which of course we are. ‘I’m so glad you could come,’ he whispers. It occurs to me that although David and I have spoken every day since the accident, we have not seen much of each other. It hasn’t seemed odd before but now, in the comfort of his brief embrace, it does.
Somebody shoves past behind me, bumping my shoulder. David glares past me and for a minute I think he is about to speak sharply – I half-turn but he pulls me back gently with his hand on my upper arm. I lean in to him. He smells of David. ‘I feel so strange,’ I say to him.
‘I know,’ he says softly, still very close to me, speaking into my hair, ‘so do I.’
*
Julie comes to find me after half an hour and says she has to leave to collect the boys. While she and I are talking, David excuses himself and goes to speak to Chloe. I have had enough already. It is my first social event since the accident and just standing and talking has exhausted me. I want to leave with Julie but I haven’t spoken to anyone but David so far and feel I ought to stay. David returns to us and hands me a small glass of sherry. Julie slips away. I sip the sherry and regret it immediately. Even a small sip makes me dizzy. David holds a plate of sandwiches up to me. I pick one up and eat the corner, then stand holding it, not wanting to put it back on his plate. ‘God, Laura,’ he says quietly, ‘I’m worried sick about how thin you are.’
‘I’m okay,’ I say.
‘No, you’re not,’ he replies.
I would like to spend the whole occasion with David but am determined to be brave. I must not be selfish about what has happened to Willow. I must acknowledge who we are mourning here. I go back out into the hall and into the sitting room where groups of older relatives are seated. A woman who is standing by the mantelpiece comes over to me and says, ‘Laura?’
I nod.
‘I’m Willow’s godmother, Vivie,’ the woman says. ‘We met last Easter. It was good of you to come when you’ve got so much on your plate.’ We both grimace at the euphemism, and it comes to me where I have met her before. She was at an Easter-egg hunt one of the other mothers had arranged in the park, a year or two ago. She brought a giant thermos flask of coffee and half a dozen plastic mugs. She told me about why she had never had any children of her own, something to do with being adopted.
We stand in the middle of the sitting room, talking politely, for a while. I think to myself, how well I am doing. I allow myself the tiniest blush of pride at my own ability to talk normally, to transcend the part of me that still wants to scream at the inanity of anything but my own loss. Perhaps this is what the loss of Willow is doing for me, offering me a perspective. How appalling that I should be benefiting, even a tiny amount, from someone else’s misery. Vivie the godmother talks on, quietly, unobtrusively. I nod.
Towards the end of our
*
David and Chloe are at the far end of the kitchen. David sees me and pushes through the other people to get to me – Chloe, of course, stays where she is. David embraces me warmly, as if we are the only two people who understand what is really going on here, which of course we are. ‘I’m so glad you could come,’ he whispers. It occurs to me that although David and I have spoken every day since the accident, we have not seen much of each other. It hasn’t seemed odd before but now, in the comfort of his brief embrace, it does.
Somebody shoves past behind me, bumping my shoulder. David glares past me and for a minute I think he is about to speak sharply – I half-turn but he pulls me back gently with his hand on my upper arm. I lean in to him. He smells of David. ‘I feel so strange,’ I say to him.
‘I know,’ he says softly, still very close to me, speaking into my hair, ‘so do I.’
*
Julie comes to find me after half an hour and says she has to leave to collect the boys. While she and I are talking, David excuses himself and goes to speak to Chloe. I have had enough already. It is my first social event since the accident and just standing and talking has exhausted me. I want to leave with Julie but I haven’t spoken to anyone but David so far and feel I ought to stay. David returns to us and hands me a small glass of sherry. Julie slips away. I sip the sherry and regret it immediately. Even a small sip makes me dizzy. David holds a plate of sandwiches up to me. I pick one up and eat the corner, then stand holding it, not wanting to put it back on his plate. ‘God, Laura,’ he says quietly, ‘I’m worried sick about how thin you are.’
‘I’m okay,’ I say.
‘No, you’re not,’ he replies.
I would like to spend the whole occasion with David but am determined to be brave. I must not be selfish about what has happened to Willow. I must acknowledge who we are mourning here. I go back out into the hall and into the sitting room where groups of older relatives are seated. A woman who is standing by the mantelpiece comes over to me and says, ‘Laura?’
I nod.
‘I’m Willow’s godmother, Vivie,’ the woman says. ‘We met last Easter. It was good of you to come when you’ve got so much on your plate.’ We both grimace at the euphemism, and it comes to me where I have met her before. She was at an Easter-egg hunt one of the other mothers had arranged in the park, a year or two ago. She brought a giant thermos flask of coffee and half a dozen plastic mugs. She told me about why she had never had any children of her own, something to do with being adopted.
We stand in the middle of the sitting room, talking politely, for a while. I think to myself, how well I am doing. I allow myself the tiniest blush of pride at my own ability to talk normally, to transcend the part of me that still wants to scream at the inanity of anything but my own loss. Perhaps this is what the loss of Willow is doing for me, offering me a perspective. How appalling that I should be benefiting, even a tiny amount, from someone else’s misery. Vivie the godmother talks on, quietly, unobtrusively. I nod.
Towards the end of our
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