A few minutes to herself wouldn’t hurt, she thought as she shoved her things into her suitcase and then stood deciding where to put her toothbrush in Rose’s little bathroom. She’d imagined the drama for the week was going to consist of struggling to make herself understood in her pidgin French, or spending more time sliding down the slopes on her rear end than on skis. She’d done her best to bury the niggling concern she’d felt when Rose’s features had closed down and she’d suggested they might not tell the others about the extent of their relationship. Told herself the holiday would be the perfect way to find out more about Rose and being a part of her life without any of the accompanying scrutiny the full disclosure of their relationship would bring.
Although Rose had outlined what had happened to Clara’s family and Madeleine had been shocked by the tragedy of it, she hadn’t been prepared for the force of Clara’s outburst, the sheer intensity of the emotion she’d just witnessed. She hadn’t been sure what to expect, truth be told. But Clara was clearly existing on a knife-edge.
Madeleine puffed out her cheeks. Her aching muscles and franglais seemed rather insignificant against the backdrop of the environment she found herself inhabiting.
Her frame of reference for the death of loved ones was a little sketchy, if she were being honest. Grandpa Murray and Granny Helen had both passed away before Madeleine had reached double digits in age; she remembered their names and that Granny Helen had been keen on knitting– and gin– but that was as far as her memories stretched. Her mother’s father, ‘Grumpy Ken’, had died a couple of years previously, after a long fight with prostate cancer. Madeleine remembered how sad she had felt, how difficult the last few visits to the hospice had been and how little she’d wanted to be in the crematorium for the service. But Grumpy Ken had been well over eighty. He’d lived a full life, he’d seen his children grow up and produce grandchildren, he’d been a lifelong supporter of the Reds. A devoted darts player in his local pub, at least while he could still see the board well enough to aim.
People were sad at his funeral, of course they were. But the sadness was tinged with the feeling that this was the natural order, that it would have been nice for him to have eked out a few more years but that his death was ultimately acceptable.
It was difficult to even imagine what it must be like to have lost someone in the prime of their life, like Mike. Someone you’d given your heart to. And she was in no doubt that she didn’t have the faintest clue what it would feel like to ride the express train of grief which must accompany the loss of a child.
Rose had told her how Mike and Poppy had been caught in a massive pile-up on a dual carriageway when an articulated lorry hammering along the fast lane had suffered a tyre blow-out. How Clara had been waiting for them at home. How she waited for them to return, completely oblivious to the fact that they never would until the police came to her door.
It was unthinkable.
And the noise Clara had made when she threw the glass? There weren’t words to describe it. Like the screaming of a wounded animal, trapped and beginning to understand that it wouldn’t ever get free, that things would never be right again. Madeleine felt her eyes fill with tears. She barely knew Clara, only knew as much about her situation as Rose had told her, but it was impossible to remain immune to her pain when it was laid so bare. She gripped the edge of the sink and hung on to it for a while, closing her eyes as tears dripped into the ceramic bowl.
After a while, she wiped her eyes, shoving her toothbrush into the spare glass beside the sink. She would unpack later. Her bag could stay down beside the spare bed for now.
Checking her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she headed back along the corridor. Clara’s door was firmly closed and she lingered outside, unsure why– she didn’t intend to knock on the door, or intrude. She had no idea what she would say, anyway.
Upstairs, Rose was sitting at the dining table, resting her chin on her hand. Tania stared through the picture window. With her hands on her hips, she appeared to be taking in the view, but her shoulders were jacked up tight.
‘I don’t know how to help her,’ she said.
‘You can’t magic it better, Tania,’ Rose said, smiling thinly at Madeleine as she took a seat at the table.
‘She doesn’t deserve to have to go through this, though. Does she?’ Tania swung round and looked at Rose, her face tight with concern.
‘No. She doesn’t.’
‘So, what do we do?’
‘Be here for her. That’s all we can do.’
Tania pulled in a breath. ‘But what if that isn’t enough?’
Tania wished she’d taken Gull’s mobile number. She was beginning to think they should hunker down in the lodge with Clara for the remainder of the week. There was no way Clara was going to cope with Christmas Day at this rate. Tania’s grand plans of skiing with her friends in the morning, then enjoying a lazy afternoon eating seasonal food and opening a few gifts were spiralling into nothing more than working out how to survive the day.
There was no way she could meet Gull for lunch the following day. She should have taken his number, so she could phone and cancel, but she hadn’t. Part of her obstinance, her insistence that her attraction to him was nothing more than a passing infatuation, that there would be no reason to want his number. That there was only one thing they wanted from one another.
It didn’t matter. Her priority was Clara, it had to be. Especially after this afternoon. Wrapping her hands around herself, she stared out of the window again. She’d thought Clara was doing OK, had hoped that bringing her back to the mountains would begin to show Clara that the world was still turning, that it was ready for her– whenever she felt ready for it. She’d been so conceited about her plan that she’d persuaded herself that the mountain had worked a little of its magic. She’d taken her eye off the ball, become distracted by Gull, and that wouldn’t do.
‘I’m not sure what you want to do,’ Tom said, his voice quiet. ‘I can hold dinner if you’d prefer?’
While Tania had been studying the view, Tom must have cleared the tea things and laid the table for supper. She hadn’t even noticed how much time had passed.
‘I didn’t realise,’ he said. ‘She just asked me to put the music on. I didn’t realise …’
Rose looked at Tania, the pinch between her eyes telegraphing that it was time to let Tom have a little more information. She was right, it wasn’t as if it was a secret.
‘It’s not your fault,’ she said to him. ‘The thing is, Clara recently lost some people who were close to her. Very close.’
‘Her husband,’ Rose said. ‘Her daughter.’ The last word caught in Rose’s throat as she said it, forcing Tania to turn towards the window again to get control of herself.
‘Oh, my God,’ Tom said. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Car crash,’ Rose said.
