James Hannah - The A to Z of You and Me

What can I say?

She is golden.

‘Twenty-two years I worked there,’ I say.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she says. ‘It seemed like — it seemed like a thing to do.’

‘Just — thank you.’

She gathers up the flowers and sets about arranging them neatly in my water jug. I watch her, amused. Not sure Sheila’s going to like the smattering of rebellion.

‘What?’ says Amber, turning and seeing my look. ‘I’m improvising.’

‘You go for it.’

While she finishes her little act of vandalism, I straighten myself in the bed and try to slap my face into some kind of being. With permission, Amber rinses her fingertips in the bathroom and flicks the excess on to the floor on her way back to the visitors’ chair.

‘I–I wanted to tell you,’ she says, ‘I didn’t exactly go to the garden centre just to get flowers.’

‘No?’

‘Not at first. I wanted to — I wanted to see if I could find her.’ She gestures at my blanket. ‘Your girlfriend, who crocheted your blanket. You spoke so warmly about her, and you seemed so much in love, I wanted — I wanted to see if I could get you to see her again.’

I feel absolutely still. Absolutely calm.

‘I asked the man there if he knew her, and where I might find her. He told me. She — she died, didn’t she?’

Silence.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘She did.’ I look down at my blanket, settle a couple of the stitches.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t want to know and then pretend I didn’t.’

‘No. I wouldn’t want you to.’

She looks up at me and smiles. ‘I cried in front of the man.’

A warm ache rises through my chest as I picture it.

‘Oh, Amber, I’m — I’m really sorry. I should have told you.’

‘No,’ she says, ‘no, no — I shouldn’t have — it was a dumb thing to try and do.’

I shake my head slowly. ‘A lovely thing.’

‘It just made me feel so sad for you.’ She sniffs. ‘I’m sorry, that’s probably not what you want to hear, is it? It’s just — everything’s really on the surface for me at the moment.’ She half-laughs.

‘It is sad. The saddest.’

‘When — when did she die?’

‘Ten years ago, now.’

‘What happened?’

And there it is again. I might have asked the same question before I learned all the questions you’re never supposed to ask.

What’s that in your throat?

My chest swells again as the question washes over me like a sluice of icy water.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude.’

‘No, no,’ I say. ‘I—’

‘It seems so unfair. From the way you were talking about her — everything — she seemed like — she seemed incredibly special.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, absently cupping my arm through the blanket.

‘I don’t know if I could ever be that special to anyone.’

‘Oh, you will.’

She laughs quietly to herself, evidently weighing up her invisible options. ‘I don’t think I’d know where to begin.’

‘Just be. Just be yourself.’

She looks down at her knees, and I feel like I know exactly what she’s thinking.

‘There are people around, people who make you feel energetic,’ I say. ‘And there are people who are just—’ I reach around for the right amount of contempt ‘—they suck the fun out of everything. They’re fun-suckholes.’

‘Yeah,’ she smiles, looking up.

‘Well, you give energy. Look at you. You’re going through the worst you’ll ever go through now, and you’re still being creative. That’s life .’

Amber purses her lips and looks to the floor.

‘Surround yourself with as many people like that as you can — that’s what I think. Energy-givers. Life-livers. People who make you feel most like yourself.’

‘That was how my mum used to be, before she got ill. Really playful, creative, really fun.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I’m worried,’ she says, looking up at me now with tears in her eyes, ‘that I’m only going to remember the little frail woman in that big bed and — that’s not my mum at all. That’s not how I want to remember her.’

I set down my mask, and look into her tearful eyes.

‘Give it time,’ I say. ‘I promise it will change.’

‘Knock-knock …’

A sing-songy voice. A kind voice.

Who’s—?

‘Are you awake?’

Mm?

Sheila. Her face looking down at me now. Look at her mascara. Thick. A bit much today.

‘Hello, lovey,’ she says gently. ‘You awake, are you?’

‘Mm?’

‘I’m sorry to wake you, but there’s someone who wants to say hello, and I wondered if you wanted to see her.’

Amber? Is it Amber back?

‘What day is it?’

‘Still Saturday.’

‘What’s the time?’

‘Half-past eleven.’

I take a moment to clear my throat, try to pull my thoughts into some sort of order. Sheila has drawn away and is talking softly out in the corridor. There’s a mutter and a shuffle.

‘Say to come in,’ I say. ‘Let her in.’

And so she appears in the doorway: Laura.

She’s heavily fortified with make-up, like a caricature of what I remember from all those years ago. It’s a mask to meet me with. But the wrinkles and folds still encroach like bindweed, around her eyes and neck. Everything she’s been resisting over the years. Age creeps up on all of us.

‘Hiya,’ she says, before her mask creases and she crumples into tears.

Ah shit.

‘Aw, come now,’ says Sheila, plucking up a tissue and hurrying over to her. ‘Come on, let’s get you a chair, eh?’ She reaches for a plastic seat from the corridor and Laura allows herself to be settled at the end of the bed.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Laura, slowly pulling herself together, ‘I swore I wouldn’t cry.’

‘There’s no shame in crying,’ says Sheila. ‘We all cry, don’t we? Everybody cries.’

‘Yeah,’ blinks Laura, little girl, trying to be brave. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says again, finally able to focus on me, and then: ‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’

She has only fleetingly met my gaze; she’s spending a lot of time looking around on the floor, checking, checking her sitting position, checking the leg of the chair isn’t nudging the skirting board, checking behind her for — for whatever.

‘Now, you’ve got your coffee,’ says Sheila. ‘How about you?’ she says, looking over at me. ‘Can I get you anything? How’s your water?’

I shake my head — nothing for me. No water. No visitors. I said no visitors.

‘All right,’ says Sheila, retreating. ‘Make yourself at home, and I’ll see you later.’

She exits the room and shuts the door quietly behind her.

Alone together. The shock of her being here at all has quickly given way to — to what? I don’t know. I’m casting around to feel something, but I wonder if I feel nothing.

‘So, how are you?’ says Laura, finally looking at me properly and frowning.

‘Never better,’ I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t, as she begins to cry again.

‘I’m sorry, Ivo, I’m sorry, I just — I was so worried about coming here, but seeing you there like that, in your bed, I feel so stupid about all the years we’ve let slip.’

There it is, the last time Laura and I saw each other, a perfunctory goodbye in the car park of the Yew Tree as the tyres of other mourners’ cars tugged at the gravel around us. Job done, Mum safely in the soil. All organized by me, down to the buffet. Seven years. A lifetime ago.

‘It’s such a waste , you know? Don’t you think what a waste of time all this has been?’