Flowers for the Dead (9 page)

CHAPTER NINE

~ Witch Hazel ~

Under Your Spell

Nerves make Laura wake early before her trip into London, but it is just as well because it takes her most of the morning to get ready. For the last few years she has been pulling on the first thing she lays hands on, scraping her red hair into a ponytail, and slicking on some mascara because her pale eyelashes bug her otherwise. Today though she is making the effort.

After a long, hot shower she dangles upside down to trim her elbow-length hair, trying to cut as straight a line across as possible. Beside her is a photograph of her with a pixie cut like Audrey Hepburn’s in
Sabrina
and
Roman Holiday
, and she is wearing heavy eyeliner like Holly Golightly as she smiles up at the camera. The edge of a cake with candles glowing is showing on the corner. It was taken on her last birthday with everyone.

Her dad had teased her gently all day about her Audrey Hepburn obsession. “Da-ad!” she had complained loudly, rolling her eyes, but secretly she had been delighted he thought she looked like her icon. He was the one who had taken the photo, standing above her as she had gazed up at him right into the camera. Then she had blown out the candles on her cake and wished that Dean Matthews would hurry up and ask her out. If she had known what was coming, she would have wished for her family’s lives instead.

Her nose tickles with threatening tears, so she throws her hair back with a big swoosh so that she is no longer upside down. Crying the wrong way up is not a good idea, she has discovered. After the accident she had let her hair grow and grow simply because she hadn’t been taking any notice of it. The last thing she had cared about was stupid hairstyles. Now, though, inspired by her old self, she takes the time to put her hair up in a Holly Golightly-esque bun, carefully apply eyeliner and mascara, and put on some natural-looking pink lip stain, before choosing an outfit for the hot day outside.

Finally, Laura is ready. She swallows down the nerves, annoyed with herself for being so ridiculous, and walks to the train station. This is not a big deal, it is just a look round the shops in London. It is something she and her mother used to do together all the time, but which Laura has avoided in recent years. Too many memories. But now it is time to get on with it and go again.

This is not a big deal
, she repeats.

Yet every step feels like she has chosen to wear one of those old fashioned diving suits with heavy metals boots, rather than a short, Sixties-style summer dress and ballet pumps.

As the train picks up speed, nerves kick in with a vengeance, her stomach fluttering. The bright summer sunrays flicker through the branches of the trees on the embankments faster, faster, faster, until it feels like a nervous tick in her brain. Even with her eyes shut she can see the strobe-effect of sun and trees burn through her eyelids, adding to her dizziness, adding to the sense her equilibrium is completely thrown. The carriage door flies open, the catch broken, and rattles in time with her heartbeat.

All Laura’s senses felt heightened at the thought of retracing steps made so familiar with her family. She can almost feel them beside her and the pain is palpable, but she welcomes it. She had wanted the rawness back, and now here it is, just as she is finally trying to break free of the loss.

Family trips to The Tower, the Dungeons, Hampton Court, so many days out, so many memories. Her dad had been fascinated with history; a born teacher, he had had a way of making it come alive.

All those shopping trips with Mum. That time she had persuaded Mum to buy that stupid furry jacket that had made her look like a yeti.

“Just don’t tell your father how much it was,” Mum had made her promise.

Taking pity on Marcus when he had his first ever date, aged thirteen. Laura had gone on the train with him to London, giving him tips on how to act when he got there. Because he might be annoying sometimes but he was her baby brother and she loved him…

Her heart is pattering so fast and feeling so light that it might take flight. She flashes open her eyes to avoid the memories that threaten to drown her. The sun no longer strobes, but is instead constant across open fields. No distraction there.

She looks around the train carriage to derail her thoughts instead. Her eyes fall on the door between the carriages, the door still gaping open and banging against the wall.

A builder opposite her is tearing a piece from his newspaper; clever hands, still a chalky grey from cement dust, quickly folding the paper into a thick strip, then standing to close the door and insert the paper beneath it to wedge it shut.

“Job done,” he mutters to himself, satisfied, when the noise stops.

He returns to his seat beside a young woman who is dressed all in business-like black, but sporting the kind of tan only seen on television shows. Her thumbs move like lightening as she texts, eyes staring intently, big and almost hypnotised.

Beside Laura, a restless businessman flicks through his newspaper, barely pausing on any of the articles, simply scanning them before moving on. He is wearing a smart suit that is a little too shiny on the knees of his trousers and the cuffs of his jacket from over-wear. Laura decides he once had a decent job earning good money, because the suit is expensive, but that he has fallen on harder times because it has been worn so much.

No, the thought annoys her. That is the old Laura, and she is trying to be new Laura. She knows she must make more of an effort to cheer up and live life. But of course there is no magic switch to flick that will make her suddenly feel okay again. Depression isn’t that simple. Still, instead of imagining his life slowly spiralling out of control, she instead pictures him on his way to an important job interview – which he will ace.

Life does continue after death. And it could be good. She should not concentrate on the negative. The businessman would land his new job, the girl would continue to have no bigger problem than achieving the correct shade of tan, and the builder would find practical solutions forever, just like he had for the train door.

A rattling noise distracts Laura from her thoughts. The piece of paper has come unstuck.

Once the fifty-minute train journey is over, she steps out into Liverpool Street Station. She stands for a moment, a zombie trying to remember how to live. The people around her tut and barge past. Finally, she decides to go to Covent Garden, where it is busy enough to distract her but small enough for her not to feel too overwhelmed.

The Underground is hot, but Laura manages to swipe a place to stand that is right by one of the doors at the end of the carriages. She opens the window and gets a little of the breeze created by the tube train whipping along; it blows the tendrils of her red hair about, pulling at her bun, and cooling the sweat from the back of her neck.

At Covent Garden, she walks slowly through the crowds. Her pale skin glows in the sunshine, the sun making more freckles appear. People flurry towards her like snowflakes in a blizzard, too fast for her to dodge. They whip past her and she feels the rising panic, and is so tempted to close her eyes and let everyone swirl around her, or knock her down. Behind her sunglasses, tears begin to fall and she wipes them away impatiently.

“I’ve got to get over this,” she tells herself.

***

There is a nervous desperation about Adam. He has to find someone soon. He can’t cope alone. All his life he has felt alone. He decides to go to his favourite hunting ground, Covent Garden. He waits for a good two hours then…

He sees her. The One. The sunglasses don’t fool anyone; she is clearly upset. Her face is slack. The whiteness of her cheeks highlight her red nose and lips, swollen from crying. She keeps her head down, trying to conceal it, but her long red hair is up in a bun, so offers nothing to hide behind apart from a few flaming errant strands. Even if she had been successful, there is no disguising her gait. Leaden, slightly hunched, apologetic.

Poor girl. His heart goes out to her straight away, feeling the connection. They are two lost souls who do not fit in. Well, he can help her, he can make her smile again. He can make her love him.

A nonchalant push of one shoulder and he is no longer leaning against the wall. He adjusts his headphone, waits a few seconds for her to be enveloped by the crowd but not lost, then follows a good few steps behind. There is no need to crowd her, he knows. After all, this is not the first time he has followed someone home.

CHAPTER TEN

~ Bearded Crepis ~

Protection

TWENTY YEARS AGO

As Adam grew older he appreciated more and more the space and freedom offered by his gran’s house. In the modest semi his parents lived in in Colchester, conveniently close to the Army barracks for his father, he sometimes felt there was no room to breathe, let alone escape.

It was more than simply the size of the house, of course, or the vast mature garden. As he watched a pair of normally secretive jays bounce from branch to branch on a horse chestnut, the sunshine putting them in the mood to chase one another in flirty fashion, he realised what it was. Here, he did not feel alone. Here he felt understood and at ease. That was why he could breathe easy.

The tiny house in Colchester – he refused to think of it as his home - matched the claustrophobic atmosphere that his mother created. He was getting older and realised fully how terrible was. She was the one with the problem, not him. He wasn’t a bad boy. He did not deserve the dreadful things she did to him.

That knowledge did not set him free, though. It had been indoctrinated into him that he was helpless. No one would ever believe him if he spoke out. Besides, in whom would he confide? He had no friends at school because everyone seemed to sense there was something about him that was different. There was his gran, of course, but the thought of sharing something so degrading with someone so wonderful – and who thought he was perfect - was more than he could stand. Imagining the way her face would cave in on itself with disgust and horror, and knowing that he had done that to her made him tremble. He could never tell her the truth about himself.

Visiting her was his only respite though, and he found more and more excuses to be there. If he begged hard enough, his parents sometimes dropped him off and let the eleven-year-old stay there for a week or two alone during the summer holidays.

Sadly, this Easter break his parents were remaining for a few days’ break themselves. He could hear them talking inside, their voices drifting through the open patio doors. Sara was not an outdoorsy sort, thank goodness, so Adam knew he would be fairly safe where he was.

He sat on the grass, hugging his knees, wincing as he accidentally clutched the painful sandpaper scrape on his elbow, hidden beneath his long sleeves. A cheeky robin sat on a low branch beside him, chirped in greeting, but flew away as Ada approached. Adam stood to greet her, giving her a hug.

“Look how tall you’ve grown,” she gasped, breaking away to get a good look at him at arm’s length. “You’re the same height as me.”

True, he looked her dead in the eyes now, didn’t have to look up. It was a shock to realise he would soon be bigger than her, grown past five feet two inches.

“Well, it’s just as well I’ve got a little surprise for you,” she added. “I was thinking it would be good for you, now you’re getting bigger, to have your very own space here. Somewhere other than the bedroom. Follow me.”

Eyes twinkling, she led him up the steps to the patio, back into the house, so dark after the blinding sunshine that Adam felt compelled to take his gran’s arm in case she stumbled. Past his parents, who looked intrigued and followed too, and over to the door in the hallway that led down to the rooms on the lower ground floor.

Adam did not come into these rooms often, and knew his gran never used them. The house was far too large for one elderly lady. It was old fashioned, built well before the nineteenth century turned into the twentieth, and reminded Adam of something from a story. It was four storeys tall, with the top floor rooms in the roof space created originally for the servants. Below them were five large bedrooms, each now with an en-suite; the biggest room was of course Ada’s master bedroom, which had a wonderful view from the back of the house across her garden and into the private park which she also part-owned. In fact, each of the properties surrounding the parkland had a key to the private, gated park, which had its own large lake, and in which was held an annual jazz festival. Ada had a gorgeous view across the treetops and could even see a glimpse of the lake glinting in the sunlight, all from the balcony of her bedroom.

The ground floor was accessed straight from the door at the front, but the land sloped away from the back of the house, so that people had to walk down stone steps from the lounge to the garden. There was also a dining room, games room, huge kitchen that also had a table in it where Ada preferred to sit by the Aga range, and an additional sitting room that Ada never used, as well as a library.

But it was down to the basement rooms that Ada now went. At the front they had windows that were barely of any use, as they were very small and at ground level. At the back, though, the massive bays had wonderful views of the garden, the bottom of them clearing the ground easily. Yet, because of the way the steps to the patio swept up beside them, the room was totally private.

Into one of these rooms Ada walked, then stood in the middle and turned, arms out.

“This is your own place, Adam, to do whatever you want in,” she smiled. “Perhaps you could start a new hobby here? Or just sit quietly and read, if you like. It’s entirely up to you.”

“A place of my own?” he gasped, delighted.

“A den,” she confirmed.

“Wow, Mum, that’s great…” started Graeme.

“So, so lovely,” interjected Sara. “Are you absolutely certain? We don’t want to put you out. Don’t you need this room for something?”

Ada laughed. “I’ve plenty to spare. There are rooms that I never set foot in these days.”

“Well, if you’re absolutely certain. I don’t want Adam to take advantage of you.”

“Oh, I don’t think Adam would ever take advantage of me,” replied Ada. The way she gently emphasised the word
Adam
made it clear she thought someone else may well take advantage.

The comment was allowed to slide by, and the atmosphere hurriedly covered with everyone loudly expressing enthusiasm for the boy’s new space, and suggestions for what he could use it for.

Over the following months, Adam visited Ada as often as he could. Almost every school holiday he begged to be allowed to come, and his parents frequently relented.

It was typical of Ada to understand that he needed his own space as he got older. There he could escape his mother and her fake smile, fake manners, fake dyed hair, which all conspired to fool everyone.

As he grew, he learned more about the gentle arts of gardening, which relaxed him in a way nothing else did. It fed the sensitive boy’s love of beautiful things. Despite Ada’s preference for music from her youth, including what Adam found a bewildering love of the Rolling Stones that seemed totally at odds with his lady-like gran, she encouraged him to listen to classical music, convinced he would enjoy it. She was right, of course, and this was another thing to soothe his soul.

Fixing clocks was his own discovery though. He loved the precision of it. It was black and white, right or wrong, there was no confusion, no room for emotions, all that was needed was patience, a steady hand, and a clever, analytical brain; things he possessed in abundance, despite not doing particularly well at school. So, with his gran’s permission, he set up a desk in his den and tinkered with old, broken clocks and watches he came across in skips or charity shops. Tenacious, he never gave up until they were ticking once more.

Fairy tales still remained his ultimate escape though. Through these he learned almost everything he knew about love, because he had no examples around him save for Ada. When he was with his mother back at their house, he used them to float away from reality to a cocoon of safety. Sometimes, if he concentrated hard, he could almost feel that world within touching distance. If he could just discover how to reach out and break through he knew he could live there, safe and sound, happily ever after.

Being read to by his gran was still so soothing too. He was too big to curl up on her lap, so instead he sat on the closest sofa, hugging a cushion as she recited from
Tales of Myth and Faerie
. Muscles he had not known were tense relaxed. His stomach stopped churning. The frozen feeling in his brain melted away.

“You’re too old for baby stories,” his dad said one night, openly laughing.

“Oh, well, there’s no harm,” replied Ada.

She gave him a look and they both left the room. Adam sighed. Did they really imagine he couldn’t hear them talking in the hallway? He did not even have to move from his place on the sofa for their whispered exchange to reach him.

“Don’t be so hard on him, he’s only young still,” Ada said.

“He’s eleven, Mother, and growing up fast. At least he would be if you let him. He should be outside, playing football, getting into mischief, not hanging around with his gran, listening to fairy stories. No wonder the kid has no friends! He’s got to start being a man.”

“You grew up fast, Son,” said Ada gently. “You always felt the need to be the man of the house for me because you didn’t have a father. It made me sad at the time because you had no childhood, but it was your choice. Don’t take your son’s childhood away. He isn’t like you; he isn’t ready to grow up yet. Let him be whoever he wants to be.”

Fat chance of that, Adam thought bitterly. His dad wanted him to be more manly and tough, to be a replica of himself. His mother wanted to control his every thought and movement. Neither of them liked what they saw. He was a disappointment to everyone but his gran.

He picked at a scab on his knuckle, only stopping when blood dribbled down his hand and he had to suck it away.

Over the next few days though, his father seemed determined to make Adam his pet project. Adam could almost imagine him giving it a name: Operation Man Up, or some such. The boy was utterly miserable as he was dragged to a cricket match at Edgbaston, bored to tears by the bewildering ins and innings, outs and not-outs. Graeme did not understand his son – but now he tried hard to engage with him.

The military man had no interest at all in flowers, but seized the opportunity to do some gardening with Adam. Digging was something his father could understand. It was practical, manly, hard work. When they were done, they leaned on their spades. Adam was panting, and the smell of sweat and freshly turned earth mingled together. His father was barely out of breath.

“I need a permit for these guns,” Graeme joked about his biceps. It was the kind of banter that bonded men in the army – but was utterly wrong for Adam.

“Tell you what,” his father enthused, “let me show you how to build up your muscles. You should do some press ups; that’s the thing. It’ll work the stomach too. Do them like this, see?” He got on the floor, demonstrating.

Adam watched his dad do the move. Again and again and again. The ease with which he executed it was not inspirational it was depressing. He would never be half the man his dad was. He would let him down again, be a disappointment yet again.

Still, he tried.

“No, no, no. Not like that. Look at what I’m doing. See. It’s like this. See how my arms are under my shoulders and my back is completely straight. Now you try.”

What Graeme thought was encouragement came across as criticism. “No, engage your stomach muscles too…”

That night, arms aching, Adam managed to escape into his den. The one place where no one was meant to disturb him, his very own hidey-hole guaranteed by his gran.

As he fiddled with a clock the door opened and his dad came in. Adam groaned inwardly, but decided to take a chance and ignore him. Perhaps then he would get the hint and go away. He picked up a cog with a pair of tweezers and manoeuvred it into place.

“You’ve got really steady hands,” Graeme marvelled.

Adam looked at his dad. He was serious. He actually looked impressed. The boy’s joy lit up his whole soul. Adam wanted to throw his aching arms around his father in gratitude, but knew that was not something Graeme would enjoy; it simply wasn’t appropriate. There was always a physical distance between father and son. No hugs, just claps on the back or soft punches to the shoulder.

“You really love taking things apart, don’t you, son. Finding out what makes them work. You know, those are perfect skills for bomb disposal. We’ll see you in the forces in a couple of years, eh.”

His dad clapped him on the back and wandered away, but Adam’s heart sank back to its usual place in the pit of his stomach. He did not want to be a bomb disposal expert. He did not want to join the army.

Was that really the only way to get his dad’s approval?

“Be a man,” he was always being told. He never quite measured up.

What was a man, anyway? His gran was always talking about how a real man was a gentleman. She had very set ideas about how they should act, and ladies too. At least Adam knew he was a man in his gran’s eyes.

For the next few days Adam continued to be tutored in the art of workouts by his well-meaning but ill-advised father. He was almost glad when it was time to return to Colchester and school. Almost but not quite, because with his father gone Adam was at the mercy of his mother.

To kill time he would wander home slowly from school. Or rush out as soon as he had eaten, on the pretext of having to study at a friend’s house. Like he had any friends. Instead, he walked the streets as twilight fell, looking into rooms with their lights on, and watching normal life unfold in front of him.