Morag Joss - Among the Missing aka Across the Bridge

Rhona stepped forward. As this was the final bridge talk, she said, she was sure the group would want to take this opportunity to join her in thanking Mr. Sturrock. A thin, clacking round of applause rose and died. One by one the three shook Rhona’s and Mr. Sturrock’s hands and then one another’s, and began to drift away, pulling off their hard hats and depositing them on the ground at Rhona’s feet. Colin lingered. It was four weeks since his tribute to the victims and his dead wife. Since then, he had been quieter than ever. He looked as if he might have wanted to speak but instead nodded to Ron and turned away.

Rhona was applying something glittery to her lips and shaking out her hair. She grinned at Ron, who knew what was about to happen; she’d let him in on it two weeks before, apologizing that she couldn’t include him, too.

“And now, John,” she said playfully, turning to Sturrock. “I am spiriting you away. I’m taking you for lunch at the Royal Highland Hotel. I hope you’re hungry?”

“What? Steady on, now. Lunch? The Royal Highland?” Sturrock said. “There’s no need for that.”

“Away you go, it’s on us. Just a wee thank-you from Forward Voice PR. Your talks have helped us deliver a key campaign objective, rolling out the message to our community stakeholders.”

He stared at her. “Fuck me. I can’t just go off having lunch . I need to get back over the other side.” He turned to Ron. “You need to get back over yourself, eh?”

“I’ll be here when you’re ready,” Ron said, smiling.

“It’s all arranged,” Rhona said. “Our managing director Malcolm’s going to join us, and so is Mrs. Sturrock. So there you go. Table’s booked. See you later, Ron. Thanks a lot for waiting.”

Mr. Sturrock was now pleasantly bewildered. “Christ, you in on it, too?” he said to Ron. “Well, thanks a bunch, son.”

After they left, Ron picked up the hats and packed them in the boat, then walked over to get his own lunch at the service station. There were at least two hours to kill, and when he caught sight of Colin there, hunched at the same table as last time, for a moment he considered slipping away. But Colin looked up and saw him, so he bought sandwiches and tea and joined him at the table. From Colin’s face, it was obvious there was no right thing Ron could say, but it wasn’t possible to say nothing at all.

“So. That’s the last of the bridge walks. That’s it, now,” he offered, hoping Colin would pick up on the idea of their finality. What else could the man do? It was the last; there was nothing more to be said or done. Ron knew he was being lazy about Colin’s suffering, but he couldn’t enter into it. He didn’t really like him. While Colin certainly had ample cause to suffer, Ron suspected he was in any case inclined to be sorry for himself.

“If you’re about to say something about moving on, don’t bother,” Colin said. He pulled his pudgy fingers across his face before he spoke again. “That woman with her fucking photos.”

Ron shrugged. “Yeah, sorry, mate. It’s still tough going, is it?”

“Her, everybody. People at work. The number of people that say it. Moving on . They say maybe it’s a blessing I didn’t know her that long, like that makes it better.”

“Aren’t they just trying to help?”

“They think I should be getting over it. Some people tell me I’m lucky, I should be glad I wasn’t in the car with her.”

He blew his nose into a rag of used paper handkerchief with an embarrassing, piteous honk that blasted little wisps of tissue across his chin and cheeks.

“So, anyway, that’s the last of the bridge walks,” Ron said. “No more trailing up and down from Huddersfield. You’ll be getting your weekends back, a bit of time to yourself. Any plans?”

Colin glared at him. “I’ll still be coming. Why would I not still come? She’s still here.”

“Oh. Okay. Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“You know the worst thing people say? They say be glad we weren’t married long enough to have kids. Because imagine what that’d be like, they’d have lost their mother and I’d be left to cope on my own.”

Ron knew how this line of thinking went: grief for loss of what you did have, beside grief for loss of what you did not but might have had, is a lesser grief. He also knew this thinking for what it was, the well-meaning, ill-contrived, and fatuous condolence of outsiders, people uninitiated in loss.

“It’s not like that,” he said.

“No,” Colin said, his voice faltering. “They don’t know how stupid it is. They don’t know how cruel.”

“They don’t mean to be cruel. Nobody understands what it’s like to lose somebody until it happens to them.”

“I don’t mean that,” Colin said. Then his face collapsed and his shoulders started to shudder. The used tissue went up to his eyes, but huge, splattery tears were already dropping on the front of his clothes. Ron watched them roll like raindrops down his barrel chest. “I mean, don’t they think I’d be glad if there was a kid? Don’t they think I’d want to bring it up? I’d do it now if I could, I’d do it right, by both of them. I wish she knew that. I wish we’d had the kid. But we didn’t and now it’s too late.”

“The kid?” Ron said. “You mean you lost one, you lost a baby? I’m really sorry. That’s really tough.”

Colin nodded and cried noisily into his hands. “I never thought I’d want them both so much. They’ve both gone, and it’s my fault. Nobody knows. Nobody knows.”

“It’s not your fault, mate. Listen, it happens. Miscarriages happen. Nobody’s to blame.” Ron now wanted to offer comfort to this large, off-putting man, but his words were having no effect. “Here,” he said, pushing Colin’s mug toward him. “Here, go on, take a swig of that. You need to calm down.”

To his surprise, Colin meekly swallowed some tea, then took another mouthful.

“No point falling apart, is there,” Ron said. “Doesn’t get you anywhere.”

“Sorry. Gets to me, that’s all.” Colin drew a hand over his face.

“Nobody’s to blame,” Ron said again. “Miscarriages aren’t anybody’s fault.”

Colin drank more of his tea in silence. After a while, he said in a flat voice, “She was pregnant. I didn’t tell the police. Nobody knew but me.”

“Why not? Why make a secret of it?”

Colin let out a massive sigh. “I felt guilty. Ashamed. Too ashamed to say.”

“I’m telling you, a miscarriage isn’t anybody’s fault, mate.”

Colin sighed again and took a deep breath. “I’m trying to tell you. There wasn’t a miscarriage. She was pregnant. When she died. What happened, see, I told her to get rid of it. The day before she died I told her she couldn’t have a kid and me as well, I said I’d leave.”

Ron stared at him. Colin’s face was pulpy and unwell-looking; his eyes had an off-center, uneven way of blinking. It occurred to Ron that remorse was, literally, a sickness. Colin was so sick, so unbalanced by it, he looked in danger of falling apart.

“She was my wife. She was going to be the mother of my kid, and I said that to her. I can’t believe I said that to her,” Colin said. “And now there is not one single reason I don’t want that kid. I want them both, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Ron said quietly, “Do you have a photo of her?”

“No. To be honest, I can’t stand to see her face. Only had a few pictures, anyway.” Colin tapped his head. “She’s in my mind. I see her face in my mind. But only here, I only see her when I come here. She hated Huddersfield, she didn’t like the house. I didn’t really listen. I should’ve done a lot of things different.”