over, nagging and insistent but almost bearable now. It was, he thought, a low-level ache that never really went away. Sometimes, in the dead early hours of the morning, it awoke him to futile tears as he relived the incident and his inability to do anything about it.
And relived, too, his anger.
His anger with himself, for being responsible for letting her take the main road home; and anger with the driver for irresponsibly speeding into Jane, and then driving off when it was obvious what he had done. He, or she. There had been no witnesses to the accident.
A year ago. She would have been sixteen now, studying for her exams.
He gripped the wheel and told himself to stop dwelling. He thought ahead to meeting Anne, going for a coffee at Berly’s. Tonight he’d cook a Thai curry, his speciality, and then they’d watch a film with a bottle of red wine until midnight and blessed sleep.
~
Anne stood amid an island of over-flowing carrier bags, smiling at him as he pulled up before her. He climbed out and kissed her – twenty years married and he still found her irresistible – collected the bags and stowed them in the boot.
“Coffee?” he asked as he pulled from the station forecourt.
“Mmm, that’d be great. How’s the novel going?”
“I’m still wrestling with the blasted program.”
“But think how easier it’ll make writing.”
He thought about that, then said, “Mmm. That’s what I’m worried about. Writing shouldn’t be easy.”
She smiled indulgently. She was forever mocking him for his pose of the artist suffering for his muse.
Before Jane’s death. he had written with facility and speed. Later, when he returned to writing after six hopeless months, the old facility had gone: he’d had to sweat blood for every word. It was as if the sentiments he put on the page had to have behind them a solid bedrock of integrity, for Jane’s sake.
As he pulled up before Berly’s, Anne said, “You always suggest coffee when we come back from town.”
He smiled defensively. “I’m usually in need of a caffeine injection.”
They took their usual table by the window. Berly’s was a trendy organic place, with rough wooden tables and chairs, and local artwork adorning the walls. The coffee was the best in Yorkshire.
“Is it because,” Anne said, looking at him as she stirred her coffee, “you can’t face the main road?”
He shrugged. “It might be. Yes, probably.” He hesitated, then said, “No doubt the same impulse that made me get rid of the car.” How could he have kept it, the car which he’d been driving when he found Jane’s body in the road?
He saw the condemnatory twist of Anne’s mouth. He responded, “You’d probably feel the same, if it’d—”
“I like to think that I’d be able to face it, defeat it, move on.”
“Wish it were that easy,” he said.
She covered his hand with hers and murmured a soft apology.
~
Back home, he helped Anne put the shopping away, then checked the wall-clock.
“I’ve an hour or two before I start dinner,” he said. “I might see if I can get some work done.”
A few months ago, over dinner, he’d mentioned that he was considering writing a novel about Jane, and the aftermath of the accident. He had said it almost shame-facedly, as if seeking her sanction. Not long after Jane’s death, Anne had sought the help of a grief counsellor, and had implored Rhodes to joined her. He’d refused, saying that he would find his own way of coping. He wondered if the novel was his coping mechanism.
He made his way upstairs to his study. He stood before the window for a while, gathering his thoughts. Then he eased himself into his armchair, adjusted the microphone and touched the mouse in order to banish the screensaver – the onrushing starscape which he often stared at for an hour or two when the writing was going slowly.
The stars vanished, to be replaced with the off-white screen of the voice recognition program.
He stared at the
And relived, too, his anger.
His anger with himself, for being responsible for letting her take the main road home; and anger with the driver for irresponsibly speeding into Jane, and then driving off when it was obvious what he had done. He, or she. There had been no witnesses to the accident.
A year ago. She would have been sixteen now, studying for her exams.
He gripped the wheel and told himself to stop dwelling. He thought ahead to meeting Anne, going for a coffee at Berly’s. Tonight he’d cook a Thai curry, his speciality, and then they’d watch a film with a bottle of red wine until midnight and blessed sleep.
~
Anne stood amid an island of over-flowing carrier bags, smiling at him as he pulled up before her. He climbed out and kissed her – twenty years married and he still found her irresistible – collected the bags and stowed them in the boot.
“Coffee?” he asked as he pulled from the station forecourt.
“Mmm, that’d be great. How’s the novel going?”
“I’m still wrestling with the blasted program.”
“But think how easier it’ll make writing.”
He thought about that, then said, “Mmm. That’s what I’m worried about. Writing shouldn’t be easy.”
She smiled indulgently. She was forever mocking him for his pose of the artist suffering for his muse.
Before Jane’s death. he had written with facility and speed. Later, when he returned to writing after six hopeless months, the old facility had gone: he’d had to sweat blood for every word. It was as if the sentiments he put on the page had to have behind them a solid bedrock of integrity, for Jane’s sake.
As he pulled up before Berly’s, Anne said, “You always suggest coffee when we come back from town.”
He smiled defensively. “I’m usually in need of a caffeine injection.”
They took their usual table by the window. Berly’s was a trendy organic place, with rough wooden tables and chairs, and local artwork adorning the walls. The coffee was the best in Yorkshire.
“Is it because,” Anne said, looking at him as she stirred her coffee, “you can’t face the main road?”
He shrugged. “It might be. Yes, probably.” He hesitated, then said, “No doubt the same impulse that made me get rid of the car.” How could he have kept it, the car which he’d been driving when he found Jane’s body in the road?
He saw the condemnatory twist of Anne’s mouth. He responded, “You’d probably feel the same, if it’d—”
“I like to think that I’d be able to face it, defeat it, move on.”
“Wish it were that easy,” he said.
She covered his hand with hers and murmured a soft apology.
~
Back home, he helped Anne put the shopping away, then checked the wall-clock.
“I’ve an hour or two before I start dinner,” he said. “I might see if I can get some work done.”
A few months ago, over dinner, he’d mentioned that he was considering writing a novel about Jane, and the aftermath of the accident. He had said it almost shame-facedly, as if seeking her sanction. Not long after Jane’s death, Anne had sought the help of a grief counsellor, and had implored Rhodes to joined her. He’d refused, saying that he would find his own way of coping. He wondered if the novel was his coping mechanism.
He made his way upstairs to his study. He stood before the window for a while, gathering his thoughts. Then he eased himself into his armchair, adjusted the microphone and touched the mouse in order to banish the screensaver – the onrushing starscape which he often stared at for an hour or two when the writing was going slowly.
The stars vanished, to be replaced with the off-white screen of the voice recognition program.
He stared at the
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