Glue

Erm, nervously posting a longer story and would be glad of any comments...

(This one was shortlisted for the Chipping Norton Literary Festival 2017, but didn't win. Better luck another time maybe!)

Glue

It was summer, a cool day with heat pressed out of it by a heavy sky. The dusty air smelled of rain to come. A fitful wind worried our ankles and little gusts prinked the weighted hem of the piper’s kilt. It was only a small group outside the house, mostly family. The friends would be waiting at church.

People shuffled on the path, careful not to step onto the newly clipped lawn or tread over the tidy flowerbeds. Cupped furtive cigarettes in fingers raised cover a cough. Exchanged muttered greetings and awkward embraces, or blew their noses and tried to make it look discreet for our benefit. A well-meaning unkindness of ravens in ill-fitting seldom-worn suits and skirts yanked from the backs of musty wardrobes, in shades of charcoal and ebony, none quite matching. Nobody wore a hat – except the piper.

Then a crunch of wheels and a collective murmur of breaths as the cars swept up the driveway. Doors opened noiselessly. Feet appeared in shoes shiny enough to dazzle a sergeant major, followed by immaculate black tailoring and crisp white collars.

The crowd parted as the bearers walked to the front door, which swung wide seemingly of its own accord as they mounted the step. The piper coughed discreetly, settled the bag more comfortably under the crook of his arm and raised the mouthpiece to his lips. Ready.

Endless moments later the door opened and she emerged as he blew the first note. Such a small casket balanced on those burly shoulders, almost concealed by the drift of roses and freesias that lay on top. A wisp of their perfume stole past our noses as the coffin was borne to the hearse. The large platform inside was so full of floral tributes and, incongruously, a single silver balloon, that a good deal of manoeuvring was required to make space for the star of the show. And all the time the piper played and, at last, our pent-up tears fell.

The piper stepped out; heavy skirts swinging and pipe tassels bouncing, fingers flying over the chanter, the music stretching out behind him like a windblown scarf. Wrenching our hearts with the sweet sadness of the haunting tune. As if the day needed any more pathos.

The cortege moved into line behind him – hearse, limo, mourners on foot. You and I in the limo, next to each other and yet apart, separated by a chasm that had opened long before the day she left us. I looked down at my hands, twisting the wedding ring round and round until my finger was rubbed and red. You weren’t wearing yours. You hadn’t done for months.

The procession trailed slowly past the other houses on the quiet road, watched by unseen eyes behind drawn curtains. Out into the main street and on past the village shop, closed while we passed, shoppers grim-faced and silent on the pavement. Respectful grief, and protocol followed. It didn’t appease the despair gnawing at my guts or prevent your shoulders from sagging. Both of us were remembering and neither of us would talk about it.

Like all babies, she was perfect. Delivered to us, not through the agony and joy of childbirth, but by a sensible woman in lace-up shoes holding an infant carrier. And in it, neatly wrapped in pink pyjamas and a fleecy blanket, our prize. A gift beyond value. Our last chance at a longed-for antidote to infertility. We’d be too old to adopt again.

We called her Lillian, after her our mothers, Lily and Anne. The unexpected windfall of their very own grandchild sent them both into competitive overdrive. Grandmotherhood offered the perfect outlet for unresolved maternal instincts and any visit heralded a new toy or a hand-knitted garment. Each confided in us Anything I can do; I can pop over any time, nothing’s too much trouble for my darling Lillian.

We vowed not to spoil her – she was just a normal girl after all – yet in our hearts she was a little piece of heaven. Of course she was naughty. We expected that. We hadn’t expected to find a swathe of wallpaper picked off the wall at cot height by little fingers that should have been fast asleep.

Or the unwelcome touch of socked feet against the cold hardness of snails happily making slime trails inside our Wellington boots. Or the jolt at discovering hanks of hair under Lillian’s bedroom rug, only to realise that it wasn’t hers but cut from the dolls in an attempt at hairdressing. She was very disappointed when I explained that their hair doesn’t grow back and her dolls would have to stay bald.

One day, I noticed her scrutinising me from the doorway as I applied some make-up. She disappeared smartly as I finished. After a suspiciously quiet few minutes I located her in the utility room, mirror in hand, drawing wobbly lines round her eyes and colouring in her lips. With permanent marker. Luckily there was no allergic reaction although she looked alarming for days.

When Lillian was six, we gave in and bought the kitten she had spent the previous year begging to have. Her face lit up with delight as she cradled the tiny creature in her palm and announced We have to call him Algernon. Fortunately, the cat never held his name against her and took to travelling about the house draped round her shoulders like a fur stole.

We drew the line at her efforts to dress Algernon in a onesie and slide him into bed beside her. The cat had borne her indignities well but having us seeing him peering out of a Peppa Pig outfit was too much and we suffered the back treatment a long time. Even when coaxing him from huffiness with his favourite prawns, he only relented long enough to gobble them up before turning away, tail lashing. We dared not laugh.

Eventually the cat forgave us his embarrassment. Coincidentally it was the same day that we were eating a supper of roast chicken, his second favourite, and allowed him to wheedle a slice or two from us at the table. All three of us ruled by an iron paw. Which cat lover isn’t?

Meanwhile Lillian progressed through various modes of transport from space hopper to stilts to bicycle, collecting gravel-sprinkled grazes and aubergine bruises in the process. She only cried if she couldn’t have a dressing big enough to impress her friends. Sticking plaster envy disguised as bravery.

She loved being outside whatever the weather. Especially if she was helping Daddy in the garden. She spent hours toiling over the weeding, triumphantly rooting out every bulb and bloom of your prized Lily of the Valley and watering her carefully tended dandelions. You had to creep outside after dark with a torch and replant the wilted remains in a far corner of the garden. They survived, until Algernon took to biting off the flowers and strewing them on the lawn.

Cooking was another obsession. Swaddled in an oversize apron, she soon mastered the art of making pastry and the exciting possibilities of modelling the dough until it became grey and shiny. Only then could it be baked and presented for parental consumption. Thankfully the fruits of her labour improved considerably after she began to add jam to the tarts and eggs to the quiches.

Her chocolate brownies, however, were legendary, as was the mess in the kitchen afterwards. The chocolate that escaped being smeared everywhere made them gooey and soooo moreish. Each mouthful a warm paste of chocolate, nuts and raisins that comforted and soothed even as it settled on the hips. At least a million calories and worth every single one.

Watching her growing up was privilege and we were ever grateful to the woman in lace-up shoes. So we tried very hard not to argue when Lillian was around. She was the one thing we always agreed about, she had the gift of making a day better just by being in it. We had fun doing things together as a trio – it was as a duet that you and I failed.

Life’s ups and downs somehow became insurmountable hurdles instead of stretching challenges. You started spending more time visiting far-flung customers to ‘get out of the office’ and it was only Lillian asking forlornly Mummy why doesn’t Daddy like us anymore? that prevented you from staying in hotels most nights. I had a succession of part-time jobs during school hours, but there were still the empty evenings to fill after Lillian’s bedtime. I resurrected my schoolgirl diary habit and poured my resentment into its welcoming pages.

It wasn’t always like that. Some nights we tried to rekindle the passion of the early days, giving and taking pleasure, tantalising each other until we could hold out no longer, twining together as shudders of release washed away our lingering bitterness. It wasn’t the kind of consuming desire that left a trail of cast off clothing, shoes and underwear around the house but something quieter, gentler, and more sustaining.

But those spontaneous utopian hours were rare. I missed feeling the soft scratchiness of your hair under my cheek as I rested my head in the dip of your chest before a goodnight kiss. I yearned for an unexpected hug as you passed. Did you miss the imprint of my lips on yours as you left for work, or the scent of our laundry while you were working away from home? I wonder.

I know we both considered other partners. Realised Lillian was more important.

We were having another row that last afternoon. One of those intense silent quarrels where the air crackles with indignance and petty resentments blossom into calamities. I think it was about whether we should take time off together or separately during the school holidays, and how that would affect Lillian. She wandered in as we were hissing at each other, stopped mid-step and ran outside without a word.

She pounced on Algernon who was lazing on a patch of sun-warmed grass and didn’t want to be moved. He batted at Lillian with a velvet paw, then reluctantly heaved himself upright and sauntered onto the path. She followed, calling him and promising treats.

He stopped, waiting until her arms were almost within scooping distance, and then darted into the front garden. Lillian followed, just as we emerged from the back door. Algernon glanced back. Saw us all in hot pursuit. Decided he didn’t like what he saw. He ran down the driveway, leapt the hedge, sped across the cul-de-sac and over the main road, legs moving from jogging to bounding in a furry blur. Lillian dashed after him. So did we.

The noises seemed to go on and on in my head, long after the brakes had stopped squealing and the tyres skidding. Long after the double thud of impact and landing. I still hear the sounds in my dreams. Still see the unmoving bundle of little girl and the van driver vomiting at the verge. Still feel the unending voiceless scream in my mind.

The pain is part of us. Like a wound that scabs over while underneath the scar grows deeper. Loss marks us in a way that only other grievers can see.

The service is over. When it came to the tributes, neither of us had been able to speak and the vicar had read our words for us. The coffin was borne to the churchyard and we kept with tradition, helping the bearers to lower her into the hereafter. Her casket seemed almost weightless. And all the time the piper skirled and more tears flowed, as if they could never stop.

As we step away from the graveside, a sudden roar overhead makes me look up. A silver jet streaks across the sky and is gone. Lillian getting a fast track to heaven perhaps. I turn towards you and as I do, I see a tiny flash of light. A silver balloon is floating skywards.

Our eyes meet, the same thoughts forming.

So now what? What happens next? What do we do? Whatever can we do?

She was the glue that held us together.

Now we find out if there is anything left worth sticking.

You take my hand, and squeeze it gently. Just like you did all those years ago. Maybe there is hope, after all.

Perhaps…

That is the future. Now we must acknowledge the mourners in the church hall, who are tucking into the funeral tea already, as if life had returned to normal. For them it has, it’s only you and I who are ripped apart without an idea of how the pieces fit together. Some people are even loitering outside, lighting illicit cigarettes and watching the gravedigger shovelling soil over Lillian.

The clods of earth make dull thumps as they land, like a slowing heartbeat. Soon they will stop forever.