That night, I have a horrible nightmare about Beth. Like all of the worst ones, it’s very simple. She is sitting on the floor facing away from me, in pyjamas, and I’m brushing her long, blonde hair while singing to her. I’m desperate to see her face, but for some reason, she can’t – or won’t – turn around. I just keep brushing, growing more and more distressed that I can’t see her, and becoming increasingly anxious that it actually is her.
I wake with a jolt in the still silence of my parent’s house and listen to James breathing in his travel cot at the end of my bed. The sound should calm me, but all I feel is guilt. He doesn’t deserve this shit – being dragged out for two hours in the car just so he can go to sleep safely, or a mother who’s living in the past when she’s so bloody lucky to have him in her present, because I am lucky. I am. I turn on my back and look up at the ceiling and think briefly about my mum. James deserves better than this from me. Tomorrow I will sort this, even if Ed can’t, or won’t. I think about my husband back at our house, alone. He should have come with us. I should have made him.
I close my eyes, desperate to try and get some sleep, but I’m unable to stop thinking about my dream. It doesn’t take Freud to work out why I’m dreaming about identity, but all I can really see in my mind is the back of that little golden head that is never going to turn around again.
Chapter Twenty
‘Are we going back to the house before college?’ Sandrine asks as she does up her seatbelt, and I lean forward so I can blow a kiss to my father, standing in the front sitting room window waving to us.
‘Bye, bye, Grandpa!’ James shouts, and I wish Dad could hear his enthusiastic farewell.
‘We won’t have time, no,’ I tell Sandrine as I start the car, wave one last time and pull away. ‘But are you sure you’re actually feeling well enough to go in anyway?’ I glance across at her. ‘You could just come to Ed’s Mum’s house with me?’
Sandrine shakes her head. ‘I am much better, thank you. I would like to go to say goodbye to everyone, like we said.’
‘Oh God.’ I remember suddenly. ‘Your passport! We need to go back and get it so I can book your flight.’
She hesitates. ‘Jessica, my mother has booked it already for me, for tomorrow morning. I had a copy of my passport details on my phone and I just texted them to her. I hope that is OK?’
‘Of course!’ I say immediately. ‘That’s great.’
Sandrine looks uncomfortable. ‘I just didn’t want to leave it and for everything to be full. And I know you are busy.’
‘I would have happily done it,’ I say quickly. ‘But now I don’t have to. I’ll still take you to the airport tomorrow though.’
‘Thank you.’ Sandrine smiles gratefully. ‘That would be very kind.’
‘No problem. We’re going to miss you!’
She hesitates again and then, God love her, she says politely: ‘I’ll miss you too.’
‘We are actually just going to stop off very briefly somewhere before we head back.’ I put the indicator on. ‘It won’t take long though, I promise.’
I pull into the petrol station on the main road, which also has a mini Waitrose. Ducking in quickly, I re-emerge with two bouquets which I place carefully on top of our overnight bags in the boot.
* * *
We’ve done another three minutes driving, before I indicate left again and we turn onto the private road that leads to some very nice houses indeed, and the small church where Mum and Beth are buried.
‘Would you just keep James busy for a couple of minutes?’ I ask, as I undo my belt. ‘I’ll leave the keys in the car in case you need them for some reason, but I’m literally just popping in and out.’
Sandrine looks at the churchyard, and I see her make the connection with the flowers. She nods. ‘Of course. We will be fine, Jessica. Take your time.’
‘Thank you.’ I close the door and grab the roses from the boot. Mindful of my promise to get her back to Kent for lunchtime, I hasten quickly through the gate and under the wooden arch, but slow down over the uneven cobbles of the path, which must be lethal for an ageing congregation to negotiate on Sundays. I glance back quickly to see that Sandrine is already sitting in the driver’s seat with James on her lap, letting him pretend to drive. He is pleased as punch; bouncing up and down and suddenly beeps the horn, which makes me smile for a moment at his obvious delight, before it also occurs to me that if he grabs for the handbrake switch they’re going to start rolling backwards down the road. I almost double back, but the look on James’s face stops me. I honestly can’t remember the last time I saw him so happy.
Sandrine glances up, sees me watching them and lifts James’s arm to wave to me. I wave back and turn slowly, rounding the corner of the church. Why can’t I do it myself – let him just have fun like that? I’m always the one putting the brakes on.
I crunch onto the offshoot gravel path which leads me to the two side by side headstones, one slightly older and larger than the other. There are no flowers on Mum’s grave, and on Beth’s sit the withered remains of an earlier bunch. Ben perhaps? I step forward onto the damp, soft grass and take the dead blooms out of the metal stand, to put my fresh ones in. I lift my gaze finally and look at the engraved letters. Beth Davies. Every time. Every time there is the sense of disbelief that it can be real. I turn to Mum’s and prop her flowers carefully too. Then, straightening up, I step back and look at them both, steeling myself to leave.
‘Jessica?’
I jump at the sound of a voice behind me, and turn to find a plump, older woman in an expensive-looking caramel-coloured coat, holding an enormous bunch of lilies and staring at me in disbelief. My former mother-in-law. In seventeen years, she has barely changed. I’m always amazed at how some people genuinely manage to cheat the ageing effect, but right now it’s incredibly unnerving, making me feel as if I walked out on her son only yesterday. She steps forward and draws me into a warm, perfumed hug. ‘I can’t believe it! How are you? Do you know, I almost didn’t come this morning because the usual florist I go to doesn’t open until half past nine, but I thought, no, I’ll do it anyway – and here you are! I’ve always hoped one day I’d bump into you here, and now I have. It was meant! How lovely!’
My mouth falls open at her words. Good grief, could I be as generous to any woman who walked out on James just before Christmas? She is amazing. ‘It’s lovely to see you too,’ I say truthfully.
‘You’ve been to visit your dad, I expect?’ she says, as if we last spoke only recently. ‘He’s well, is he?’
I nod.
‘What lovely flowers for your mum,’ she says kindly, acknowledging them leaning on the headstone. ‘I’ve always liked yellow roses.’ She looks down at the lilies she’s holding. ‘These are too funereal for my liking really, but they were the nicest they had.’ She looks up and smiles again bravely. ‘So, how’s your little boy doing?’
‘He’s very well, thank you. He’s two now and into everything.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘That’s boys for you, they don’t just sit there and colour, or build towers, like girls, do they?’
‘No, they really don’t.’
We both fall silent.
‘I should probably go.’ I gesture uselessly behind me. ‘James is in the car now with our au pair.’
‘Of course, you get on. And safe journey back. You’re very sensible to be leaving at this time on a Friday. You’re still in Kent?’
‘Yes.’