I forced myself to read to the end of the article. The police were appealing for witnesses and “pursuing every lead.” Why wouldn’t they come here, and find the Saab locked in the garage? I wanted them to come. I wouldn’t lie. Confession is supposed to relieve everyone, especially the guilt-laden. But even if the next headline on the front page of the West Wiltshire Gazette was FATAL HIT AND RUN: DOCTOR’S WIFE GUILTY, would it bring relief, would it make any difference at all?
The piece ended with another photograph of the couple as young teachers: DEDICATED TO YOUTH WELFARE: RUTH AND ARTHUR AT OVERDALE OUTDOOR EDUCATION CENTRE, followed by an unpoetic paragraph about cycling fatality statistics and safety helmets.
I slept in my clothes, and woke up, before the alarm clock sounded, at nine o’clock in the evening. No drifting around the house tonight; the place was eight miles away, not that the distance meant anything in itself, nor did the rain.
The sky and the cold land together had sunk to an equal darkness, reaching a muffled, stony equilibrium through which I walked with the greatest care. Though the dark was not absolute, the night seemed marginless and I disembodied. I kept close by the hedges. Above the rain and the distant sighing of traffic from the motorway I heard everything: I heard the click of an insect’s wings as it landed on a stem by a garden wall and I heard the singing, empty vastness of the sky above me. It occurred to me that I should have been afraid to be out alone on the road at night, but fear didn’t come. Rather, what a freedom it was, to walk under this sky instead of the wide, lit gallery of the sun’s arc, illuminating every act and failure of a day in its long, sad slide towards nightfall.
Above the high open stretch of road near the place, the moon was a dull ellipse of silver through the thinning cloud, and the houses behind the orchard wore the moonlight coldly, like a sheeting of ice. Under the trees, rainwater trapped in the leaves and blossoms fell on me in slower, wetter drops than on the open road. The traffic cones and cordon of tape had gone, but the bank of piled-up flowers and stuffed toys remained; sodden teddy bears and dripping cuddly dogs presided over a floral shrine almost touching in its pointlessness. Among the flowers lay sheets of waterlogged paper bearing half-obliterated messages, like handkerchiefs drenched in charcoal tears. The huge curling letters of RUTH were turning into watery ghosts of themselves, receding into vagueness. Water plocked down and pooled into little crevices in the cellophane under which the offerings of flowers, trapped in bunches by strings and wires, were already darkening with slime. I knelt down and tore at them, releasing from the crackling of wrappings a shower of cold water and a rank, drainy stench. I pulled some of the rotting blooms off their stems and picked at their petals, tidying and primping what was left of their lolling heads. Slippery black stuff clung to my fingers.
Some of the flower heads were luminous; others seemed soaked in grey. Drifting through the smell of the dead flowers came the smell of the dying ones, cold and peppery: carnations, roses, lilies, clouds of angel breath. I picked out the ones that reflected back the moon’s brightness and I discarded the ones that looked dead-they must be, by daylight, the red and orange and purple and blue. All this absorbed me for quite some time. I went through every bunch until I had picked out every pale flower and made a pile of them. The dark ones I threw away over the wall under the trees. When I got to my feet my knees buckled. I was freezing cold; I placed my fingers in my mouth to warm them and the sticky mixture of mud and stalks and crushed petals on my hands tasted bitter, though not poisonous, or at least not yet. It had the tang of something intermediate, something nearly dirty; poised between living sap and the sodden musk of last year’s leaves, it was a sharp, growing taste which was nonetheless prognostic of decay and irretrievable rot.
One by one I lifted the pale flower heads from the pile and cast them out across the road which shone and shifted under the moon and swaying trees like a dark river. Then I started to walk away. At the crest of the hill I turned back. I could make out the swirl of flowers on the road, seeming astronomically distant, pale dots of whiteness gleaming in a paradox of a galaxy: infinite yet bordered, its darkness sheltered by a stand of trees. I turned away, and behind me a constellation of water-laden stars rolled across an endless sky, drifting and dispersing over the spot where she had died.
Dear R
Just as well I’m not venturing out of doors to any extent (legs) because I’d stick out like a sore thumb in these colours.
It’s all way too bright, the cruise wear. I said as much to you at the time but as usual was overruled. And it’s a bit lightweight for June but if I put on enough layers I get by temperature-wise.
Not an issue at night, of course, the colours. Everything gets damped down in the dark. Not just colours. Makes it easier to cope. In the dark it’s not so obvious you’re not here. I can imagine that you are and I just can’t see you.
And I’m keeping busy. I’m trying to get all the Overdale stuff together in one place. Ditto your jottings from the writing group.
You never know when plans are going to fall away to nothing.
People don’t think about things falling apart but they should. People should think about that more. Then they might be more ready for when they do.
A
THE COLD AND THE BEAUTY AND THE DARK
Chapter 4: The Wedding Day Dawns
Evelyn breathed carefully on the long mirror and wiped at it with the corner of her bath towel-she wasn’t risking her lovely velvet sleeve on a misted-up old mirror! It was kind of Mam to let her get dressed in her own bedroom on her Big Day, in front of the grand old walnut wardrobe with the full-length mirror, but it was such a heavy, old-fashioned thing and the mirror glass wasn’t as clear as it used to be. You had to go right up close to get any idea of how you looked.
She stopped rubbing, stepped forward, and peered at herself. She was positively tingling with excitement. Stan might have had a sixth sense, the way the locket matched everything! The silver was just right with the dark green velvet of her suit and the white lace jabot at the neck. She gave a little twirl. She never thought she’d be getting married in bottle green, but it was beautiful velvet, real dress quality. Daphne had seen suits in practically identical velvet on the Ladies’ Floor at Kendal Milne in Manchester and at more than three times the price. It would make the day more memorable, wearing an unusual colour. Dove grey, lavender, and cream were more common if you weren’t in white, but those light colours showed your size and shape and Mam had insisted that come the big day, she wouldn’t set a foot out the door, wedding or no wedding, if Evelyn’s condition was at all noticeable.
“You’ve given me heartbreak, young lady. You’ll not give me a red face to go with it,” she had said. Softening a little, she had gone on, “You’ll be all right, lass. Stan’s a good enough ‘un.”
Evelyn frowned a little in the mirror and fingered the cuff of her suit. The moment you felt the velvet in your fingers you could tell it was good stuff. The dark green was more pine than bottle, when you looked closely, and the jacket had a slight flare at the front and a bit of swing in the back, so nothing would show. And she had her pretty lily-of-the-valley posy, waiting downstairs in the cool of the scullery, that she would carry, and the white silk and lace jabot, her “something borrowed” from Auntie Violet, was the real thing. Auntie Violet had always had style. After today Evelyn would have to give it back, but if ever a special occasion came round again, a plain blouse would do quite well under the jacket. She could probably take a panel out of the skirt as well, that’s if she needed to, if she got her figure back after the baby. Some women didn’t. Anyway, it was hard to imagine the day when she would ever wear the suit again. Evelyn gave herself a little shake. No, how silly of her! Of course! Someday, surely, there would be Daphne’s wedding.