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Authors: Debbie Howells
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swinging round, catching mine and showing the full force of her agony. “I’m so sorry. . . .”
As I look at her, I see how little it would take for her to shatter into a thousand pieces—like the mug. Even taking her grief into account, she looks terrible. She gets up, pushing away her chair, struggling to hold herself together.
“Why don’t you lie down for a bit, Jo? Try and get some rest.”
Wishing with all my heart I could in some way ease the burden on her.
“It’s just so bloody awful,” I say to Angus that evening.
After the warmth of the day, the night is chilly, and he’s lit the first fire of the season. We’re slumped on the sofa, and I’m leaning against him, my feet up, with a glass of wine, watching the flames flickering against the heavy pattern of the fireback.
“Every time I go over there, it’s the same. She holds it together—just. I’ve no idea how. You know, since the first time, she hasn’t cried.”
“It’s probably just her way of coping. Different people react differently, don’t they?” says Angus. “And God knows what it does to you, knowing someone killed your child.”
“I know.” I’ve thought of that, also. Still do, far too much, imagining pain that can only be an echo of what Jo feels.
We’re quiet. I’m thinking of Grace. She’s called a few times, bright exchanges that leave my eyes blurry and my heart bursting with pride. She’s settling in, breaking away from us. Discovering beautiful, iridescent wings.
“Nice, this, isn’t it?” Angus sits back happily, feet up on the coffee table. “Just you and me . . . There’s actually food in the fridge, no teenagers tearing in and out. And Grace’s doing what we always wanted her to do.”
He’s right. I snuggle against him, feeling his warmth, my feet curled underneath me, trying but not able to savor the moment.
As Rosie’s death blends into the backdrop of our lives, the petals drop on the last of Jo’s flowers, which for weeks have kept arriving. But when I next visit, flowers aside, the sitting room’s changed.
“New sofa?” My surprise must show in my voice, because Jo looks up sharply.
“We were going to redecorate . . . before. ... I’d forgotten all about it until the sofa turned up yesterday.”
“What a nuisance for you. I mean, right now, you could probably do without it.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” she says briefly. “It’s just a sofa. Would you like tea?”
“Please. Have you managed to track down your gardener?” I ask, following her into the kitchen, thinking how this normal, meaningless conversation about things that don’t matter is somehow bizarre.
“He’s not coming anymore,” she says vaguely. “Neal’s found a local boy to sweep up the leaves over the winter. To be honest, right now, it’s the last thing I want to think about. We can find someone new in the spring.”
She’s right. There are more important matters than her garden to worry about. “Tell me, Jo . . . only, how’s Delphine? She’s always at school when I’m here. I never see her.”
She considers her reply. “You know . . . she’s quite surprising. She’s not at all like Rosanna was. The police sent someone for her to talk to—a family liaison officer. But she’s okay. For someone so young, she’s strong.”
It’s a detached assessment rather than an affectionate one, and I look at Jo, wondering if she’s on something. Her tone is flat, her words are measured, and there’s the same numbness about her I saw just after Rosie was found. The same blankness in her eyes. Unless, as Angus says, switching off is the only way she can function.
She turns away from me. “The police told me. How Rosanna used to go to see your horses.”
There’s the smallest edge of resentment in her voice.
“She did—if she was passing by. She’d just walk down across the field to talk to them. Not for very long,” I assure Jo, feeling awkward that she heard about this from someone
As I look at her, I see how little it would take for her to shatter into a thousand pieces—like the mug. Even taking her grief into account, she looks terrible. She gets up, pushing away her chair, struggling to hold herself together.
“Why don’t you lie down for a bit, Jo? Try and get some rest.”
Wishing with all my heart I could in some way ease the burden on her.
“It’s just so bloody awful,” I say to Angus that evening.
After the warmth of the day, the night is chilly, and he’s lit the first fire of the season. We’re slumped on the sofa, and I’m leaning against him, my feet up, with a glass of wine, watching the flames flickering against the heavy pattern of the fireback.
“Every time I go over there, it’s the same. She holds it together—just. I’ve no idea how. You know, since the first time, she hasn’t cried.”
“It’s probably just her way of coping. Different people react differently, don’t they?” says Angus. “And God knows what it does to you, knowing someone killed your child.”
“I know.” I’ve thought of that, also. Still do, far too much, imagining pain that can only be an echo of what Jo feels.
We’re quiet. I’m thinking of Grace. She’s called a few times, bright exchanges that leave my eyes blurry and my heart bursting with pride. She’s settling in, breaking away from us. Discovering beautiful, iridescent wings.
“Nice, this, isn’t it?” Angus sits back happily, feet up on the coffee table. “Just you and me . . . There’s actually food in the fridge, no teenagers tearing in and out. And Grace’s doing what we always wanted her to do.”
He’s right. I snuggle against him, feeling his warmth, my feet curled underneath me, trying but not able to savor the moment.
As Rosie’s death blends into the backdrop of our lives, the petals drop on the last of Jo’s flowers, which for weeks have kept arriving. But when I next visit, flowers aside, the sitting room’s changed.
“New sofa?” My surprise must show in my voice, because Jo looks up sharply.
“We were going to redecorate . . . before. ... I’d forgotten all about it until the sofa turned up yesterday.”
“What a nuisance for you. I mean, right now, you could probably do without it.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” she says briefly. “It’s just a sofa. Would you like tea?”
“Please. Have you managed to track down your gardener?” I ask, following her into the kitchen, thinking how this normal, meaningless conversation about things that don’t matter is somehow bizarre.
“He’s not coming anymore,” she says vaguely. “Neal’s found a local boy to sweep up the leaves over the winter. To be honest, right now, it’s the last thing I want to think about. We can find someone new in the spring.”
She’s right. There are more important matters than her garden to worry about. “Tell me, Jo . . . only, how’s Delphine? She’s always at school when I’m here. I never see her.”
She considers her reply. “You know . . . she’s quite surprising. She’s not at all like Rosanna was. The police sent someone for her to talk to—a family liaison officer. But she’s okay. For someone so young, she’s strong.”
It’s a detached assessment rather than an affectionate one, and I look at Jo, wondering if she’s on something. Her tone is flat, her words are measured, and there’s the same numbness about her I saw just after Rosie was found. The same blankness in her eyes. Unless, as Angus says, switching off is the only way she can function.
She turns away from me. “The police told me. How Rosanna used to go to see your horses.”
There’s the smallest edge of resentment in her voice.
“She did—if she was passing by. She’d just walk down across the field to talk to them. Not for very long,” I assure Jo, feeling awkward that she heard about this from someone
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