7
‘Which one did you say it was again, Mr Hatfield?’ I asked, squinting up at the sky and the vast array of white billowy clouds above us. None of which even vaguely resembled a human face.
‘Just there,’ 87-year-old Mr Hatfield said, pointing his walking stick shakily up at a squished oblong-shaped blob in front of us. ‘Spitting image of my Doris, I tell you. Here, look.’ He reached into the pocket of his corduroy trousers, producing a black-and-white, slightly crumpled photograph of a young woman with perfectly pinned hair and a pussy-bow blouse. My heart swelled at the thought of Mr Hatfield carrying a photograph of his recently deceased wife around with him, wanting to keep her close wherever he went. Jacob tilted his head from one side to the other, eyes squinting as they flicked from the photograph up to the sky and back again.
‘The day after the funeral, I was just sitting out here with my afternoon cup of tea and a fig roll, like we always used to do, and there she was. Been there every day since. Watching over me, she is, my Doris.’ Mr Hatfield beamed proudly, holding one hand up against the weak spring sunshine as he stared adoringly at the sky. I followed his gaze, scanning the random mass of white lacy clouds, like tiny puffs of candyfloss in an otherwise pale-blue sky. But there was no face. I knew that. Judging by Jacob’s dubious expression, he knew that. And deep down, I think even Mr Hatfield knew that. But so great was his love forhis wife of 52 years that he was willing her into places where she was not, categorically refusing to live in a world where she didn’t exist in some capacity. Even if it was in the form of a cloud. I swallowed, twizzling my engagement ring round and round my finger as I tried to ignore the voice inside my head. The one sayingbut isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?
‘Do you see her? Do you see my Doris?’ Mr Hatfield asked eagerly, his eyes wide behind his NHS-issued frames. I recognised the joy on his face, the way he seemed to light up from within. It was the same feeling I had whenever I was with Joe. I forced a smile, trying to clear the lump lodged at the back of my throat, but it wouldn’t budge.
‘Yes, I see her,’ I croaked, blinking back the tears that were threatening to fall. ‘Jacob is just going to take a picture for the paper, OK?’
Jacob frowned.
‘But I don’t see—’
‘Just take the damn picture,’ I hissed, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but here. ‘Well, I think I’ve got everything I need,’ I said quickly, throwing Jacob a knowing look before turning and walking as fast as I could back through the bungalow, trying not to make eye contact with the many smiling iterations of Mr Hatfield and his wife that lined the wallpapered hallway. Outside, I placed one hand against my car door, the other braced against my thigh as I gulped down great mouthfuls of air, my heart stuttering like an engine trying to jump-start into life.
‘Hey, are you OK?’ Jacob wheezed, out of breath from his short jog to the car. He must be worried. I’d never seen Jacob run for anything in his life, except to catch the bride’s bouquet at a wedding two years ago. He also rugby-tackled two ladies out of the way to do so, a detail he adamantly denies to this day.
‘I’m fine. Just needed some air,’ I assured him, raising my hand at a slipper-clad Mr Hatfield, who was wavingenthusiastically at us from his front doorstep.
‘You don’t look OK. In fact, you look kind of .?.?. green.’
‘You get the pictures?’ I asked, ignoring his previous statement.
‘I mean, I gotpictures. Hundreds actually. None of them feature dear old Doris though, whichever way you look at them.’
‘Can’t you work your magic in Photoshop or something?’
‘What, add in a pearl necklace and some pin curls?’ Jacob guffawed.
‘Yes, if that will make the difference. Who are we to tell Mr Hatfield it’s not real? He can see it, he can see Doris up there every day watching over him, so that makes it real, and I for one am not going to take that away from him.’ My heart was beating so loudly I swear I could hear it pounding against my rib cage.Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum.
‘All right, I’ll see what I can do,’ Jacob conceded, holding his hands up when he realised I was being serious. He took another step towards me. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? That can’t have been easy—’
‘It’s fine,’ I said quickly, cutting him off. ‘I’m fine.’ I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince more, Jacob or myself. Although judging by Jacob’s blank stare I was failing at both. I climbed into my car before he could question me any further. I felt guilty keeping Joe a secret from him and Alice. It weighed heavy like a stone in the pit of my stomach. We told each other everything. That’s the way it had always been. But this was different. Part of me worried about what they’d say. But the other part was even more afraid that telling someone, saying it out loud, would be like popping a bubble. Joe here one second, and gone the next.
‘Jenny, look.’
I turned to see Joe sat in the passenger seat, left elbow resting against the window, right hand pointing up at the cloudsthrough the sunroof.
‘That one looks just like my penis!’
‘Nooo, he did not just say that!’
I hid my face in my mug of hot chocolate, shoulders shaking with laughter as I watched Joe’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression of horror beside me. He’d been slowly edging further and further forwards in his seat as the drama intensified, and was now sat on the very edge of Mum’s patchwork-quilt-topped sofa. Now, though, he shifted backwards, feet kicking off from the floor, face hidden behind splayed fingers as we watched one of the grooms admit that if he was sexually attracted to his new wife, he wouldn’t have kissed someone else. As if it was somehow her fault.
We were three episodes into aMarried at First Sight Australiamarathon and Joe was fully invested. He’d reeled off his usualI don’t watch reality TVspiel for a good five minutes as I was making the hot chocolates, and as usual I ignored him. It was a game we liked to play, where he insisted he didn’t liketrashy reality TVas he called it, and I didn’t raise an eyebrow when he inevitably suggested watchingjust one more episodewhen the teaser credits started rolling.
‘Geez, if married life is this full of drama, I’d say we dodged a bullet.’
I stared resolutely ahead at the TV, refusing to take the bait. Joe puffed his cheeks out dramatically.
‘Yeah, just seems likereallyhard work.’
‘Oh, and you’re not?’ I scoffed, shooting a fiery look towards his end of the sofa. ‘It’s the men in this that are all psychos. Except that farmer guy, I guess, but then he’s just weird. That’s all us women have to choose from – psycho, or weird.’ I juggled both hands in front of me like a scale, weighing up which was the lesser of two evils.
‘And which category do I fall into?’ Joe pondered, twisting himself around so that his full attention was on me – my decision apparently far more interesting than the argument currently playing out on the TV. I looked up at him from beneath my eyelashes.
