16
NOW
Dear Lexie,
After winter’s slumber, it’s that time of year again, when the landscape starts coming to life. I see it in the lengthening daylight hours, in the wild daffodils carpeting the woodlands. As I plant more bulbs in Mary’s garden, I imagine you crouched down next to me, studying one of the bulbs before planting it, seemingly amazed at the potential for life it held.
Nature’s incredible, Mum. Not just the bulbs, but the way the trees sleep through the winter months, yet somehow know exactly when to stir into life again.
Remember when you had a passion for planting things? From hyacinth bulbs to acorns to avocado stones, watching as roots developed, then a shoot appeared. You marvelled how each of them held as yet untapped potential. But this perpetual, beautiful cycle of life is how it is for us, too.
After a few days, when I’ve heard nothing from Mary, I start to think I probably won’t. But Lucy was right. I am under pressure, not just financially, but emotionally. It’s the right time for me to move, wherever that is to, and keen to move things along at home, I arrange some valuations from estate agents.
There is no longer any question in my mind about if I’ll move. It’s become a matter of when, my mind already cutting ties to the past as I pack up your old room into cardboard boxes. You weren’t precious about ‘stuff’, as you called it. You valued books, photos, music, memories. I empty the drawer of your old notebooks, take down your photos, pick up your beloved Eeyore, packing them carefully. All of them will come with me, either to Mary’s or wherever else I end up.
Dealing with your clothes isn’t so easy. Each item brings back an image of you – the faded jeans and baggy hoodies you used to wear to the animal shelter that were exchanged for figure-hugging tops when you went out with your friends.
Folding each item, I pile them on the bed, then sit down amidst them, picking up a comfy old sweater you loved, feeling its softness under my fingers before holding it to my face. As I breathe in, the faintest trace of your scent comes to me, as fleetingly I imagine you here with me, suddenly missing you, desperately, viscerally.
They’re just clothes, I tell myself, swallowing the lump in my throat. They hold no meaning without you. Getting up, I pile them into bags to take to a charity shop, before hesitating, I remove the old sweater and put it in the box with Eeyore.
‘It’s amazing how much stuff there is,’ I tell Lucy the next day. ‘I’ve only done a couple of rooms… I didn’t realise I was such a hoarder.’
‘You’re not that bad,’ she says. ‘What will you do? When the house sells? I’m sure it will – it’s in such a great location.’
‘I’ve been looking.’ I take in her expression of surprise. ‘There’s a small terraced house on the way out of town, down a close, overlooking the sea.’
‘Sounds expensive,’ Lucy says. ‘Lovely, though.’
‘It’s both,’ I admit. ‘But if I’m doing this, it has to be to somewhere I think I’ll love.’
‘Still nothing from Mary?’ Lucy asks.
‘No. I’m guessing her grandson probably talked her out of the idea.’ I imagine her house selling, my cutting garden ripped up, as someone else puts their stamp on the place. But I was only ever a guardian; it was never mine.
‘Maybe it wasn’t to be,’ Lucy says. ‘Listen, if your house sells quickly and you need a bolthole, you know you’re welcome to stay with me.’ She breaks off. ‘Does Ollie know your plans?’
‘Not yet. I wanted to be sure before I spoke to him. I’m going to pop in on my way home tonight.’
This evening, when I get to Ollie and Jenna’s house, as I reach the back door, I can hear Harrie’s high-pitched wailing. Wondering if I should come back another time, I turn to go back to my car, but then the back door opens.
‘Mum?’ Ollie looks flustered as he stands there. ‘Sorry, it’s Harrie. She won’t stop crying.’
‘It sounds as though you have your hands full,’ I say hesitantly. ‘I can come back another time.’
‘Now is fine. I know Jenna would love to see you.’
As I go inside, Harrie’s crying seems to step up a notch. ‘I remember you doing the same. I used to put you in the car and take you for a drive. It worked every time.’
‘Really? Maybe I’ll try it.’
They both look shattered. But I remember how it feels when your baby cries and won’t stop. Ten minutes later, as Ollie drives away with Harrie in her car seat in an attempt to quiet her, Jenna lets out a sigh. ‘The house is a mess, but there never seems to be any time. I had no idea how exhausting motherhood could be.’ She puts the kettle on. ‘Tea?’
‘Please.’ I sit down at their kitchen table. ‘Your house is always homely. And this is the tough bit. It gets much easier.’
‘You mean demanding in different ways.’ She smiles. ‘I’m looking forward to all of it, Edie. It’s just that I feel so helpless when Harrie won’t stop crying.’
‘We’re hardwired to respond to it.’ There’s something about a baby’s cry. ‘I don’t think there’s any getting around that.’
