“So she really did become an artist, like she said she would?” he asks, and I tell him too bloody right; you set the New York scene alight. And he grins, his eyes shining, and I almost want to stop the story here, leave him at the part where everything is so promising and bright. But then he asks me to go on, and I know I have to finish your story. For years I’ve been waiting to tell it, Percy. I can’t stop now.
So I tell him how the postcards started to slow down sometime in the mid-seventies. At first they’d be a few days late, then a week or so, and eventually I was only getting them sporadically. I still wrote to you every week, like a worried mother hen, but I wasn’t even sure I had the right address anymore.I’m fine, I’ve just been busy,you’d write, when a card finally came.I’ve had the flu but I’m on the mend.I didn’t believe you for one second, love; you’ve always been a terrible liar. But still, nothing prepared me for that day you rang my doorbell.
Do you remember how I opened the door and couldn’t speak, I was so shocked? I’d never seen a person look so near to death: even with you wrapped up in all those coats, I could see how skinny you were, and you had those dark circles round your eyes. And your hair! My god, that beautiful red hair had almost all gone.
And then came the dark days of your withdrawal. The days when you moaned and cried for hours on end, unable to sleepor eat but refusing to see a doctor. The days when you scratched your skin till it bled, and I had to lie there and hold your hands to make you stop. David would peer in through the door and watch, fascinated, like you were some kind of wild animal. And then, just when we’d got through the worst of it, when you could eat a bowl of soup without being sick, you told me.
I’m pregnant, Pegs.
“What?” Libby says, and the surprise in her voice reminds me of exactly how I felt back then. I mean, you’d been at death’s door a moment ago; how could you possibly be pregnant? But you were so sure. And when you finally let me take you to see a doctor, he confirmed it was true. Somehow, through it all, you’d carried a baby.
Do you remember those months that followed, how excited we were? You got that little flat round the corner, and together we painted a mural on the nursery walls. Well, I say “together,” but you did all the artistic bits. I just stood there and watched. You had color back in your cheeks and you were full of energy, although you were still far too skinny. You used to sing all the time, Bob Dylan and Nina Simone, and you were always dancing. You were so happy, my love. So happy.
I stop then, for the first time not sure whether I should go on. Libby’s watching me, a blissful look on her face ’cos she knows that feeling, that excited bubble when you’re about to meet your baby for the first time. But it’s not just her that’s bothering me. For some reason, I’m suddenly worrying whether you’d want me to tell this part of the story. These are two complete strangers, after all. Would you want them to know?
And then I look up, out over Parliament Hill, and do you know what I see?
A kite. A red-and-white kite dancing in the air above us.And I know then. I know you want me to tell the story. To say his name.
Jack.
I tell them how perfect he was, tiny but utterly perfect. How the midwives wouldn’t look at you properly, but you never noticed because you only had eyes for your son. I tell them about the six days and nights you sat with him in hospital, even when the doctor told you there was nothing you could do and you should go home. How you dressed him in the hat and clothes I’d knitted for him, all far too big, and sang him Bob Dylan and Nina Simone. And as I’m talking, I can see tears in Libby’s eyes, and Frank reaches across and squeezes her hand. But she looks at me and nods, and I know she wants me to go on.
So I do. I tell them how we brought his ashes up here, you clutching the tiny box to your chest. How you said you wanted Jack to play here forever, with the kites, London at his feet. And how, when you opened the box, there was a gust of wind and you howled, a sound I’ve never heard a human make, before or since.
And then I tell them how we returned to the flat in Clapham Junction, how the days turned to weeks and then months, and somehow life went on. How, with your support, I finally mustered the courage to kick that piece-of-shit husband of mine out, and you moved into the flat and took his place, hanging your paintings alongside mine on the walls. How you got a job as an art teacher at a local school, a job you loved and did for the next thirty years. How you became a second mother to David, the support you gave me when he went through his difficult years, how we celebrated the birth of my granddaughter, Maisie, together. And how you wouldcome up here every week, without fail, to sit on this bench and talk to Jack.
And Frank, who’s barely said a word since the start of the story, turns to me then, his mouth open.
“She came here every week?” he says, and I tell him yes, sometimes more than once a week.
And he shakes his head as if he can’t believe me. “I come here as well, have done for decades. This is the bench I always sit on.”
His eyes are wet now, and I think he might start crying. But then he starts giggling.
“Isn’t that something?” he says. “All this time I’ve spent looking for her on the bus, and all along she was sitting up here, right under my nose.”
And Libby starts to laugh then too, and I join in, and before I know it, we’re all cackling, tears running down our cheeks. What a sight we must look! And I don’t even know why we’re laughing, to be honest, but it feels good. After everything that’s happened, by god, it feels good.
When we finally stop, I tell them the end of the story. How we noticed you getting forgetful first, an item missed off the shopping list or a misplaced mobile phone. How you refused to see a doctor for ages until I frog-marched you to the GP. How you never let the Alzheimer’s diagnosis define you. I tell them that you eventually had to give up teaching at the school, which broke your heart, but how you volunteered to run art classes at the local old people’s home. How you swore you’d make it to Maisie’s wedding, and you did, wearing a bright purple dress and dancing with all the young men under the giant glitter ball.
How you died a few days later, twelve years ago this month, with me holding your hand.
How I brought your ashes up here and released you into the sky, to fly with Jack and the kites.
And then I’ve reached the end of your story... our story... and I stop talking.
CHAPTER
45
The three of them sat in silence, staring out over the view. It had been busy up here when they’d arrived, walkers and dogs and a young child flying a kite, but now the sun had set and it had quietened down.
Libby’s mind was spinning with Percy’s story. What an extraordinary life the woman had lived, so uncompromising and brave. And how tragic too. Libby had found the part of the story about Jack unbearably sad, and Frank must have sensed it, because he’d held her hand throughout. Yet Libby hadn’t wanted to stop Peggy because the woman was so caught up in the story, reliving it moment by moment. Libby glanced at her now and saw she’d closed her eyes, a small smile on her face.
Between them, Frank was motionless too, his eyes fixed on the view in front of them. Libby could see how tired he was, and she put her hand on his arm.
“We should probably be getting you back, Frank.”
