towards the village where Jane lived, the village she was driving back to the night she was murdered. I feel a moment of panic, wondering what I’m doing, what I hope to achieve by going there. But for some reason I feel compelled to go.
It only takes five minutes to get there. I park on a road between the park and the pub and get out of the car. The park is small but beautifully kept. I go through the gate and walk slowly down the pathways, admiring the wonderful variety of flowers. The few benches in the shade are taken, mostly by elderly couples having a rest from their afternoon stroll, so I find one in the sun and sit for a while, glad I’ve found somewhere to spend the next couple of hours. I think about Jane, wondering how many times she sat on this bench, how many times she walked this path. There’s a play area at the other end of the park where young children are rocking back and forth on wooden animals and I imagine her helping her children on and off them, or hovering anxiously as they go up and down the slide, as some of the adults are doing. And as always, the guilt I feel whenever I think about Jane presses down on me.
As I watch, wondering wistfully if Matthew and I will ever be blessed with children, a little girl tries to get off her rocking animal and I can see that for all her determination, she’s not going to make it because one of her feet is stuck. Instinctively, I open my mouth to shout out, to warn one of the adults that she’s about to fall but before I can she tumbles to the ground. Her The Breakdown 207
cries of pain bring a man running over but another little girl stretches out her arms to him, wanting to get off her rocking animal, so he scoops her up quickly before stooping to tend to the other child. And as I watch him brush her down and kiss her blonde head, I realise I’m looking at Jane’s husband.
Shock runs through me. I stare at him, wondering if I’m mistaken. But with his photo plastered over newspapers and television for the last few weeks, his is a familiar face. Besides, the little girls look like twins. My instinct is to flee, to leave the gardens as quickly as I can before he sees me. But then I calm down. He doesn’t know I’m the person who could have saved his wife.
He begins to leave the play area, carrying the child who’s been hurt and holding the other by the hand. Both of them are crying as they walk along the path towards the bench where I’m sitting and I can hear him trying to soothe them with promises of plasters and ice cream.
But the one in his arms won’t be comforted, upset by her grazed knees, one of which is bleeding quite heavily.
‘Would you like a tissue for that?’ I ask, before I can stop myself.
He comes to a stop in front of me. ‘It might be a good idea,’ he says, looking relieved. ‘It’s still a bit of a way to the house.’
I take one from my pocket and hand it to him. ‘It’s clean.’
‘Thank you.’
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Sitting the child down next to me on the bench, he crouches in front of her and shows her the tissue.
‘See what this nice lady has given me? Shall we see if it makes your knee better?’
He presses it gently on the graze, soaking up the blood, and her tears miraculously stop.
‘Better, Lottie?’ her sister asks, looking anxiously at her.
‘Better,’ she says, nodding.
‘Thank God for that.’ Jane’s husband looks solemnly up at me. ‘Imagine what it would have been like if she’d fallen onto concrete, like we used to when we were kids.’
He removes the tissue. ‘All gone,’ he says.
His little daughter peers at her knee and, seemingly satisfied, scrambles down from the bench.
‘Play,’ she says, running over to the grass.
‘And now they don’t want to go home,’ he groans, straightening up.
‘They’re lovely,’ I say, smiling. ‘Beautiful.’
‘Most of the time,’ he agrees. ‘But they can be a bit of a handful when they want to be.’
‘They must miss their mother.’ I stop, appalled at what I’ve just said. ‘I’m sorry,’ I stammer. ‘It’s just that…’
‘Please, don’t apologise,’ he says. ‘At least you don’t pretend not to know who I am. You can’t believe the number of people who come to Heston, hoping to bump into me, as if I’m somebody famous. They strike up a conversation with me, usually using the girls as a starting point and then they ask me about their mother, asking The Breakdown
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if she’s at home making the lunch, or if she has blonde