She could jest about it, but she did worry sometimes that he and Holly had rather fallen into their coupledom without testing the water; had they even dated other people? Not that she could recall. They did, however, seem incredibly happy, and that was what mattered.
‘That’s why I thought a lovely supper here might be a treat. Prawn cocktail to start!’
‘Ooh, lovely. He’ll be looking forward to some home-made grub no doubt. My Arthur never liked foreign food. I gave him noodles one night for his tea, threw the bowl against the wall he did! That taught me. Next night I went back to pie, mash and carrots. And do you remember the Jubilee street party when you tried to give him a taco! “Taco! What the bloody hell is that? Are you having a laugh, it’s cardboard!” That’s what he shouted. Oh dear, that put the kibosh on his celebrations. I had to quickly go find him a slice of lemon drizzle to calm him down!’
‘Yeeeeees. I remember. Fun times.’ She smiled, remembering Arthur’s miserable, muttering fizzog that used to appear on this very path on bin day. ‘Aiden actually loves Italian food and that’s where he’s been, Italy, so I’m sure he’s been feasting on pasta and, and...’ Her mind went blank. She couldn’t think of any other Italian food. It happened this way sometimes, a thought hiccup.
‘He wants to watch that waistline, his dad wasn’t exactly a rake, was he? And he certainly doesn’t take after his mum!’
Maeve laughed and Enya reminded herself that Maeve was older and therefore deserving of respect, and that Jonathan would no doubt have chuckled to hear their neighbour of thirty years talk about his ever-expanding girth. She also took little offence, awarethat she was indeed a rake – tall and skinny and about as handy in the garden, her glorious dahlias proof of this.
‘He was not. Used to say he was built for endurance, not speed.’
The irony wasn’t lost on Enya that it turned out her husband wasn’t built for endurance at all. And just like that, the thought of him, confirming that he was not inside waiting for her, kettle boiling, smile on his face,ah the wanderer returns!His favourite refrain. She felt the first flush of anxiety, starting in her feet and rising up the back of her calves; her head felt hot, her face clammy and, as ever, the fear of the panic made her panic.
‘God rest his soul,’ Maeve announced with sudden solemnity.
‘Yep.’ She turned abruptly towards the front door, wanting to get inside, away from... people. ‘Anyway, Maeve, I’d, I’d better get this food inside.’ Again, she plunged her hand into the plum-coloured Radley cross-body bag that Holly and Aiden had bought her as a birthday gift a couple of years ago and which she treasured, trying to locate her key. It was with blissful relief that her fingers touched the cool, slim metal.
Her neighbour stared at her with a slight look of concern.
‘Give Aiden my love, won’t you, and tell him, welcome home!’ Maeve called over her shoulder as she ambled back towards her house, leaving Enya feeling a new wave of guilt at any negative thoughts she might have harboured.
Maeve was part of this small community in Mablethorpe Road, the cul-de-sac of Victorian railway workers’ cottages in Watley Down, once a market town, now a suburb on the outskirts of Bristol, and the place they had all chosen to put down roots, see out their retirement or raise their kids. Each house had been remodelled, extended and added to over the years, but from the front they all looked identical, bar the variety of front-door colours. Theirs was a deep green; Jonathan had chosen it because it reminded him of steam trains and because the cottages had stronglinks to the railway. It had made sense to him at least. The houses were, she always felt, rather like the people who lived inside them, a surprise! No one really knew what went on behind each facade.
‘I... I will, Maeve,’ she stuttered, feeling sweat prickle her skin, ‘and if you need anything, you know the rule, just holler or come right around the back, the doors are usually open!’
‘I know that, my love.’ Maeve ambled inside.
Enya rushed into the hallway and kicked off her sandals, not wanting to mark the freshly mopped oak kitchen floor of the open-plan kitchen-diner at the back of their cottage. An addition that had eaten up a good chunk of their back garden and their savings, but it was no loss. She didn’t miss the slab of sacrificed garden and to sit of a summer’s evening with the wide French doors open was a treat in itself. And when it rained, the water ran in tiny rivers down the windows and beat out a rhythm on the roof in a way that she found quite hypnotic. As for their savings, her husband’s untimely death and his fastidious attention to their finances meant she need not worry about money.
The mortgage had been paid off, various policies now paid her a handsome monthly dividend and in a couple of years their pensions would kick in. It was, of course, no less than she had expected from such a cautious man, who had spent his entire career working in insurance. She wasn’t super-wealthy, not by any stretch, but knew that not having to worry about popping the heating on and being able to go and buy prawns for her son’s return was a lovely way to live. A privilege. Not nearly as lovely, however, as having her husband by her side and being encouraged to watch the pennies.
She leaned against the kitchen island and took deep breaths, head bowed, eyes closed, until she felt a little calmer. A glass of cold water helped too. Eventually, she took a seat at the kitchen tableand placed her head on the tabletop, breathing slowly in through her nose and out through her mouth.
‘What’s wrong with me, Jonathan? I have never been the panicky kind and yet look at me!’ She wiped her brow with her fingertips and took long, slow breaths, placed her hands on her thighs and waited for her trembling limbs to settle and her pulse to calm.
‘Bloody hell,’ she whispered, quite drained by the feeling, and she focused on the blue sky through the garden window. Something visual to anchor her, proof there was life outside of these four walls, and that the world kept turning.
It happened like this sometimes, as if an alarm had sounded and she was jumping into action as her adrenaline surged. A feeling not dissimilar to that bit in a dream when you wake just before hitting the floor or nanoseconds before the bogeyman grabs your ankles.
She hadn’t told anyone about these episodes. It felt a little silly, embarrassing. How to explain that as she sat far from danger inside the safety of her pretty cottage, she felt terror leap in her gut as if she were on a ledge, about to jump, had seen the glint of a blade aimed right at her, was staring down the barrel of a gun or was about to be whipped up into the eye of a tornado.
It made no sense, not even to her. What did she have to feel afraid of?
It didn’t help that she spent many a private moment panicking about it happening. Panicking about the potential panic that a panic attack would bring. And the fear of the fear of the panic, induced... panic.
Go figure.
‘What do you make of it all, puss cat?’
Pickle looked up briefly at the question, as if to express her irritation at being woken from her warm spot on the kitchenwindowsill. Here she languished, legs stretched out, tail hanging down towards the sink.
‘Honestly, Jonathan, this cat! She’s got several cushions, a bean bag, even a snuggle pouch, so many places to sunbathe, and yet she wants to lie there next to the taps! I just bumped into Maeve. She’s got her finger on the pulse as per, knew that Aiden was coming home today, and that Holly would no doubt be fretting and in danger of figuring out what to do with that hand that is nearly always clamped to some part of our son’s body.’ She laughed out loud, feeling a lot better, as the panic passed. She stood and unpacked the shopping. ‘Ooh, that sounded wrong, I mean his hand, thigh, arm, shoulder, you get the idea.’
She popped the prawns into the fridge first, breathing a big sigh of relief as she did so. She’d sniff them later to check they were okay, before dousing them in Marie Rose sauce.
‘And please don’t think I’m being mean about Holly, I love the girl,’ she turned towards her uncommunicative, indifferent tabby, ‘and I know Pickle does too. It’d be hard not to. She’s lovely, sweet, she crochets me socks and scarves, brings me scented candles, I just...’ Enya paused, holding the baby gem lettuce to her chest as she ordered her thoughts, whispering into the empty room as was her habit, as if Jonathan were still sitting at the table with his legs stretched out, displaying whatever novelty socks her sister had bought him for Christmas or birthday last, while he read the latest Peter May novel. ‘I just worry sometimes that it’s all they know. Each other. Their life is alien to me. I was thinking about it just a sec ago, they’ve hardly explored the possibility of other people, have they? I mean, you and I were young when we met, weren’t we, but how can I put it? We weren’t daft. We were inexperienced, yes, but I felt like we had our heads screwed on. We had a plan, didn’t we, you’d finish your apprenticeship and follow your dad into insurance, I’d have our baby, wait till it was old enough to goto nursery and then work around drop-off and pick-up times. And it worked, didn’t it? Sometimes, I listen to Holly talking about influencing this or that and followers and reels or whatever they’re called and it’s like she’s talking a foreign language! How can that be a job? Taking pictures of her life and crafts and putting them on her phone? I just don’t understand it. I want them to be secure.’
