There had been no other disasters, man-made or otherwise. No more trips.
Her travelling companion had died and along with him her desire to step outside of the country. This too she held quietly inside, a new fear that she could quell by staying at home, close to all that was familiar. It was another way she was a little diminished, a little pared back.
The passing years had allowed for some clarity of thought about the whole matter of her husband’s demise. Jonathan hadn’t chosen to leave her, and she now felt guilty at having blamed him at all, remembering how he’d railed against the inevitable, fighting to stay present for as long as he could, knowing that a month, a week, a day could make all the difference. Also, with the lucidity of a mind that wasn’t in turmoil, she understood that he had battled the inevitable for her, aware that he had probably hung on for longer than was comfortable, until she had found her brave voice and smilingly told him that it was okay, he couldgo... she’d be fine, they all would. And besides, he wasn’t leaving her alone. She had her parents, Aiden, Pickle their cat, Holly, who Pickle worshipped with a seemingly ever-increasing devotion. And her older, more glamorous, less lanky sister, Angela.
These words and affirmations were easy, the problem being that much of the time, she wasn’t fine, not at all, despite her assurances to the contrary.
The cat returned, meowing, and lolloped down on to her favoured patch on the floor. Jonathan had presented her with ‘Madam Pickle Paws’ the year before he was diagnosed. As if he sensed there might be a need in her life for the pretty-faced, smarty-pants tabby, who was aloof and far too fancy for small talk or slumming it. In the immediate aftermath of his passing, when Enya had howled into her pillow or lain in a heap on the rug in the small, square sitting room, quite unable to sit up or catch her breath, it was that little cat who would lie on her, purring gently, kneading her with her pickle paws and giving her love. Again, with hindsight, it would have been weird if Aiden, her then twenty-four-year-old, rugby-loving son, had done similar.
Also, she still had Jonathan.
Even though he wasn’t technically by her side, she still saw him, sitting in his armchair or standing by the fridge, looking over her shoulder in the bathroom while she cleaned her teeth, and watching her take the secateurs to her shrubs and flowers as he stood on the patio. She still spoke to him, too.
Like her moments of feeling utterly flustered and anxious for no apparent reason, this too was a secret kept between her and Pickle. He never replied, not directly, what with him being dead and all, but he’d smile or raise his eyebrows and on the odd occasion, frown. And she did hear his words, knowing what hewouldhave said.
Luckily, he had always been predictable.
Chapter Five
As Enya settled back against the bamboo and rattan headboard, happy in the knowledge that Aiden was in Rome, safely ensconced in his hotel and not chained to a grimy wall somewhere dark and dismal, she couldn’t decide whether to read a book or watch something on her laptop, unable to fathom her mood. In truth, it was a little early for bed; she was tired, but not sleepy, desiring rest, but not escape.
It was moments like this she felt the whip of widowhood across her skin, and it stung. What she wanted was Jonathan by her side for a good old natter, or to speak to Jenny, who she knew was out for supper with Phil. Angela, her sister, also a good candidate for an uplifting chat, was currently in Portugal with her husband, Frank.
It was a rare and fortunate thing that she, Angela and Jenny lived happily in a triangular friendship. There was no jealousy if two were together and one was otherwise occupied, a treasured thing for them all. Angela and Frank had gone to stay with Enya’s parents, who had retired a few years back to a new-build estate in the Algarve. Angela, who looked like their dad’s side of the family, loved the sunshine, the cuisine, and her afternoon siesta, whereas Enya, who missed her parents dearly, was not a fan of beach life, preferring to be at home with her favourite mug, latest novel, her own bed, and Pickle to curl up to on the sofa.
‘Boring!’ was how Angela described her.
‘A little homebody!’ Jenny’s slightly kinder suggestion.
They were both right, but she was resolute. Without Jonathan to accompany her on trips, to chat to at the airport, help put her bag in the overhead locker and give their destination to the taxi driver in his phrasebook Portuguese, it all felt like a bit too much.
The quiet of the house had a rhythm of its own, a singular note of silence that grew loud in her ears. She wished Aiden were in his room along the corridor. She wished Jonathan were downstairs checking the doors and windows, about to appear at the top of the stairs on the landing. She wished for a lot of things. Taking a deep breath, she tried to figure out how she had let her life bleed into other people’s to the point where she now felt almost entirely lost without their definition of her. How had it happened to her that at almost fifty-five she was defined only as a wife and mother, or worse, a widow! How could she feel this lonely!
She figured there was no harm in trying Angela.
‘Were your ears burning? We were just talking about you.’ Angela answered the phone with this question.
‘They were indeed, hence, the call.’
‘Right, I’m putting you on loudspeaker. We’re out for dinner!’
There was a vague rustling. Enya cringed, knowing her sister would have no qualms about broadcasting their conversation to whomever might be within earshot.
‘No, don’t do that, Angela! I wanted to ask you—’
‘And why,exactly, shouldn’t she do that, young lady?’
Enya closed her eyes; it was obviously too late, Angela had pressed the button. ‘Oh, no reason, Mum! Just wanted to ask her some boring questions and thought I’d spare you all,’ she lied, pinching the bridge of her nose. ‘Have you all had a lovely day?’
‘We have. Despite your dad having a bit of a funny turn.’
‘I did not have a funny turn! Ignore her, Enya,’ her dad growled.
‘Not a funny turn?’ her mum shouted. ‘He’s right, it’s perfectly normal to have to pull over in the car and vomit on the verge for no good reason. I’ve told him to go to the doctor in the morning, but you know what he’s like!’
Enya cringed, wondering if they were in a busy restaurant, but sincerely hoping they were the only customers, or that if there were others in close proximity, they were deaf.
‘Hecan hear you, you know; I am right here!’ her dad countered. ‘As I say, ignore your mother, love. The reason I was sick was thatsomeoneinsists on wearing that heavy perfume that makes me gag. We were in a very hot car at midday because Frank wanted to visit the Benagil Caves.’
