‘If Noah was here, I bet he’d have wanted a go on that Penny-farthing,’ I said.
Regan smiled, but his eyes were glistening. ‘He’d probably have wanted me to source another one and do races.’
‘And you’d have tried to sabotage each other,’ Keira added, her voice full of affection. ‘Do you remember that time when he stole one of your pedals so you stole his seat?’
Suddenly the table was alive with conversation and laughter as memories were shared of the tricks the three of them used to play on each other. I lapped up the ones I hadn’t heard before and joined in with others. It was wonderful but it was also an eye-opener to something I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of before – how much my family had been affected by losing Noah. I’d been so angry, so lost, so wrapped up in my own world that I hadn’t paused to think that Georgia and Mark had lost their only nephew, Keira and Regan had lost their cousin and close friend, and my parents had lost their grandson. He’d been such an important part of all their lives and they should have been able to grieve for their loss with me and share their happy memories but I hadn’t let them. How can you help others through their grief when you’ve bottled your own up?
6
The following day, I phoned home to check Mum was fully recovered. She spent most of the call updating me on conversations she’d had with her friends at the party, several of whom I didn’t even know, but at least she seemed keen to chat to me. The call was about to end when she said, ‘We didn’t get to talk about Graeme on Saturday. What happened?’
Surprised at the sudden detour, I rolled out a standard excuse, ‘We wanted different things.’
‘Oh! What was it you wanted? Flynn?’
My stomach lurched. ‘Flynn? Why would you say that?’
‘Because it’s true, isn’t it? He’s your magnet.’
‘He’s my what?’
There was a scrabbling sound and the next voice I heard was Dad’s. ‘Hi, Mel, yes, we’re sorry to hear about Graeme. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. It was for the best.’
‘Good. Well, these things happen. We need to go. We’re meeting friends at The White Willow. Speak soon.’
And before I could say goodbye, he’d disconnected the call, leaving me staring at my phone, flummoxed. I wanted Flynn? He was my magnet? What was that all about?
* * *
A fortnight passed and, even though it occupied most of my waking thoughts – and many of my sleeping ones too – I still hadn’t made a decision about moving or staying, despite daily memes and GIFs arriving from Georgia begging me to return to Willowdale.
There was one week left of January and the bitterly cold snap which had started before Mum’s eightieth was expected to continue into February. My landlord had brought round a couple of electric heaters to compensate for the poor heating but they were only effective in warming the immediate space around them so I’d spent a lot of time working from my bed wearing several layers, a hat, scarf and fingerless gloves.
I hadn’t heard anything from Graeme, not that I’d expected to as he’d made it abundantly clear what he thought of me. With my social life gone, I’d worked solidly but had got myself so far ahead that there was nothing left for me to do this weekend.
Convinced it would be warmer outside than in the flat, I ventured into the city centre. There was nothing I needed and I wasn’t a big fan of shopping anyway, but I did enjoy a spot of window-shopping. What I hadn’t considered was that most of the high street shop windows would be plastered with sale signs and little else to catch my eye.
I was debating whether to return to the flat when a large group of men walked past, shouting to each other and laughing. Presumably they were on a stag do as they were all wearing matching elf outfits except for one who was dressed in a Santa suit. It was an odd costume choice for a month after Christmas but it was a crowd-pleaser, drawing smiles and laughter. Despite my low mood, even I couldn’t help smiling.
I used to love Christmas and New Year. My family had always made a big fuss of both and, although Flynn’s childhood Christmases had been lower-key than mine, he’d fully embraced our game-playing tradition, enthusiastically joining in with charades, pin the nose on Rudolph, a selection box treasure hunt, Pictionary and a whole host more. So much love. So much hilarity. I remembered being doubled up with laughter during the last treasure hunt when Flynn and Noah spotted the largest selection box at the same time and play-wrestled each other for it, only for Keira to swoop in and steal it from them both. Watching them chase her round the garden, calling her a cheat, I’d thought about how blessed I was to have such a wonderful husband, son and family and how life surely couldn’t get any better than that. I could never have known that just a week later, Noah would be dead and that, by the summer, I’d have left my husband, my home, and my beloved family and moved to the other side of the country.
Nobody had questioned my decision to go to Mexico the following Christmas. They understood my need for space at a difficult time. Georgia had offered to accompany me and I’d considered it, but it was something I needed to do by myself. Everything about that first festive period abroad felt alien – being away on my own, waking up in a hotel room on Christmas Day, the hot weather and bright blue skies – but it served its purpose. Without being surrounded by the traditions and trimmings of a typical British family Christmas and without my family and our party games, I was able to convince myself that it was just a regular holiday and I wasn’t really spending Christmas Day all alone after losing the two people I loved most in the world. Well, most of the time. During the day, there was plenty to distract me but the evenings were hard. I’d return to my room after my meal and, as my bedroom door closed behind me, I had the sense of being enclosed in a prison cell. I hadn’t technically lost my freedom but it felt as though I had. The idea of living my life without my son and husband was so bleak.
I’d stayed away for New Year too. Mum, Dad and Georgia had all tried to talk me out of that, saying I shouldn’t be alone on the first anniversary of Noah’s death. They’d suggested everything from a memorial event to a quiet day together but I couldn’t face any of it. I wanted to be away from the memories. Was it the right decision? To this day, I still wasn’t sure. I might have been more than five thousand miles away from the place where the tragedy took place, but the distance provided no escape from the memories. I’d stayed in my room on New Year’s Day, curled up on my side on top of the bed, clinging onto Noah’s favourite hoodie, aching from the emptiness in my heart.
Going away just before Christmas and returning after New Year had becomemy thingafter that. With working freelance, I rarely took time off so it was a good opportunity to try to relax and recharge my batteries. Graeme had joined me last year and this year, although this year had, of course, been a disaster.
The stag do had disappeared from sight but, as I looked around me, it struck me how many couples, families and groups of friends there were and an overwhelming feeling of loneliness engulfed me.What am I doing here? Why do I insist on staying?
Georgia’s recent words about my move to Newcastle came back to me –How’s that working out for you?Bit of a disaster, truth be told. I’d honestly thought it would be easier to deal with what happened when I was somewhere else but I think it might have been harder. Instead of solving my problems, I’d exacerbated them and added a whole pile of new ones into the mix, including damaging my relationship with my parents.
It was too loud here, too busy. Wanting a place to sit down and think, I pushed open the door of a nearby café but a wall of chatter hit me and I closed it again, shaking my head. If I wanted peace and quiet, I knew where to go instead.
Fifteen minutes later, I was standing beside the statue of Queen Victoria outside Newcastle Cathedral and gazing up at the impressive Lantern Tower. Mum was a Christian and a regular member of the congregation at Willowdale Methodist Church. Georgia and I had attended Sunday School when we were little but hadn’t continued as teens. Mum had been disappointed but had said it was our decision to make and perhaps the church would call us back later in life. It hadn’t done in terms of religion but the buildings had certainly captivated me. I’d been inside the cathedral several times studying the architecture and I’d taken the tour up the tower, taking in the views across the city. At the time, I remembered thinking that they were impressive but city views didn’t speak to my soul like the views from the fells back home.
I stepped through the north porch and breathed in the peace and serenity. There were several visitors milling around, taking photos, looking up at the roof, reading information and speaking in hushed tones. Just ahead of me was a table with tea lights on it. After making a contactless donation, I lit a candle in remembrance of Noah and watched it burning for several minutes. I slowly passed through the nave and into the quire area where I slipped into one of the traditional wooden choir stalls. Bowing my head, I closed my eyes and thought about the crossroads I was at. I pictured my bedroom at the flat – the white flatpack furniture which was falling apart, the faded curtains which were an inch too short for the windows and the chipped mirror on the dressing table. It couldn’t have been more of a contrast to The Bothy – my former family home between Willowdale and Whinlatter Forest – which had been beautifully and tastefully decorated. But, like choosing Newcastle city centre over the countryside, I’d signed the rental contract on the flat because it was nothing like The Bothy or Derwent Rise. I’d invested in a decent bed, desk and bookshelves but I hadn’t bought any pictures or cushions or anything to try to make the flat homely because it wasn’t home and the truth was it never would be. Home was Willowdale. Home was my family. And it was time to return to them.
