‘Thank you.’
I watched a couple of butterflies dancing past and thought about how someone could be in your life for a relatively short time, yet their impact be so profound that it echoed for years afterwards. I’d shared homes with people for far longer than the summer I’d spent getting to know Madeline, and I couldn’t even remember some of their names.
As yet another tear rolled on down my face, I thought about Madeline’s life, about the tragedies she’d faced. The man she’d loved, and almost lost to the horrors of the war, and then found the strength and the courage to love again.
And I wondered.
I wondered if the best way that I could honour my friend was to pledge to do the same. To dare to love a man again, even though it would mean finding the courage to face my deepest regrets and darkest shame.
* * *
For the next week or so, I listened to my parents’ advice about grief and tried to keep life as gentle as possible. I worked in the garden with Isaac, finding the simple, mindless repetition of digging up weeds and turning over the newly exposed soil a balm to my heart. Arthur brought us a couple of sub-standard, rectangular coffins to plant vegetables in, and amongst that strange juxtaposition of life and death, I found comfort and a contentment that I’d not felt since the carefree innocence of childhood.
I pressed down the clumps of seedlings into rich, crumbly compost and knew in my bones that, like them, it was time to stretch my fragile roots down into the earth here. To settle, to stay.
Connie and Wilf joined us on a couple of mild evenings, as well as on Sunday after the picnic. Those days I found other things to do, such as tidying my sock drawer or flopping on my bed wondering if Connie would ask me to be a bridesmaid, while I tried not to earwig on their conversation through my bedroom window.
One evening Connie left Wilf with Isaac and we met Elsa at the pub for an early meal, full of raucous laughter and earnest conversation.
I gathered yet more feedback at the Barn, and had meetings with my parents to debate which of the new activities would become a regular part of the programme, and what plans we might come up with for the autumn. I ripped up my temporary contract and signed a fresh, shiny permanent one. As we celebrated afterwards with champagne and doughnuts, all of us cried, even me.
I de-escalated arguments, foiled mutinies and broke up three fist and two food fights.
Most days I arrived home exhausted but with a sense of fulfilment that meant even as I collapsed into bed, I couldn’t wait to get back to start all over again the next day.
I sat with my housemates as they insisted upon more practice ‘dates’, and made the momentous, unanimous vote to reduce the number of Chimney Cup events from twenty down to eight. For another task they all came up with a suitable present for a girlfriend. Arthur bought a book on local history. Isaac a voucher for a spa day.
Elliot handed me a photograph frame painted with forget-me-nots, my favourite flowers. It displayed an image from the prom night, only unlike my parents’ picture, this time Isaac was already seated on the tandem, Elliot beside him with one hand outstretched, tugging me towards the bike. All of us laughing. Carefree. Radiant.
‘The present is supposed to be for the girl you want to date,’ I said, trying to control the quiver in my voice as I rested the picture on the kitchen table.
Elliot blinked, once, before lifting his eyes to meet mine with a slow burn that sparked a fire in my belly.
‘Yeah, but Elliot’s not met anyone yet, has he?’ Arthur said. ‘Makes sense for him to choose something you’d like, instead.’
‘Oh, man. This is awesome.’ Isaac swivelled it around for a closer look, wearing the exact same grin as in the picture.
‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ I asked, my words barely a whisper. ‘The reminder of that night…’
Isaac frowned, answering before Elliot could reply. ‘He can’t remember it, so it’s not really a reminder.’
After a second or two, Isaac flipped back to the grin. ‘Probably nice to have a record of the one and only time you looked half-decent, isn’t it?’
‘Well, thank you. It’s… it’s perfect.’
* * *
The first Saturday in July, I was yanking out the weeds in the raised bed coffins when the doorbell rang. By the time I’d reached the hallway, Elliot had already answered it.
‘Coach Elliot. I’ve come to give you this.’
Peeping past him, I saw Ibrahim holding out an A4 envelope.
‘It’s just Elliot now, but thank you.’
Ibrahim stuck his hands on his hips. ‘I’m sorry, Coach, but you don’t get out of it that easily.’
‘Oh?’
