‘New job!’ Naomi led the toast.
The champagne was fresh and lemony, tingly on my tongue.
We sat and chatted. Suzanne wanted to know about our travel plans. We’d been saving up. I was about to book leave, some of it unpaid. It wasn’t a good time to be doing it really, as there were cuts on the way (I’m a social worker on the emergency duty team). But we had finally paid off our mortgage after twenty-five years, and that made it financially doable. I felt that if we didn’t get away and do some travelling soon, we never would, and I didn’t want to live with that regret.
We had fantasized for ages about seeing more of the world; we’d never been beyond Europe. The idea was that we would take off for two months. If the worst came to the worst and I was made redundant or Phil’s shop went under, then we could always sell the house and rent somewhere. While Phil explained which cities he wanted to visit in the States (New Orleans, Chicago, Memphis, Detroit, San Francisco – music Meccas every one), I watched a toddler diligently placing pieces of gravel in a plastic cup. Someone was blowing bubbles, the light catching the oily rainbow colours as they drifted about the garden.
We stayed another half-hour or so and then left them to it. Phil had a gig that evening at a pub. He played lead guitar. A dream that had turned into a hobby somewhere along the way. They do a mix of rock and blues. He looks the part, an ageing rocker, greying hair down to his shoulders, jeans and T-shirt his uniform. No need for the ubiquitous leather jacket on that warm day. He was growing thicker round the waist but I still fancied the pants off him. And thought there might be a chance to prove it if we got home before too long.
I kissed Ollie goodbye, hugged Suzanne, found Naomi and Alex and congratulated them again. He was beaming and she clapped her hands. ‘I can’t believe it! Now I need some of his luck for my interview.’
‘Fingers crossed.’
At the car, Phil kissed me, long and slow. Just the way I like it.
Everyone’s congratulating Alex. Suzanne’s waiting for Jonty to bring glasses, and she flashes this look my way. A spark of irritation in her eyes, her lips tight. My stomach sinks for a moment. Maybe I’m overreacting? Is she pissed off with Jonty for not being quicker with the glasses? I wait to see if she’ll roll her eyes or pull a face to let me in on the joke. But she doesn’t. She turns away and says something to Mum.
Perhaps it’s not me she’s irritated with. She could just be tired with having Ollie, or she’s got a headache or something and the look wasn’t directed at me. But if it was, what have I done wrong now? Is it because we brought champagne? Or made a thing out of Alex’s job offer? Doesn’t that just make the barbecue even more of an event? It’s not like we’re taking anything away from it.
The glasses arrive, and Alex unscrews the wire cap and pops the champagne. It froths out of the bottle and we fill the glasses and I hand them round then make a toast. I drink most of my glass; it’s so fizzy that it’s hard to swallow fast and my throat burns.
I could just ignore her. But I don’t want to be stuck with this horrible sour feeling inside. So I walk around and sit next to her.
‘He really is gorgeous,’ I say, looking at Ollie. I mean it. He’s so perfect and other-worldly. His eyes are very, very dark, and his head is pointed at the back. He’s delicate and really pretty. ‘How are you?’ I say.
‘Fine,’ she says, though it sounds brittle. But then she says, ‘It’s good news about Alex.’
So maybe I am wrong? ‘Can’t believe it,’ I say, ‘and I’ve got an interview for a teaching assistant job.’
‘Right.’ Ollie’s gone to sleep and she starts to look around as though she needs to get away. The dutiful hostess.
‘Probably be a lot of competition,’ I add.
‘God, yes,’ she says. ‘Anyone can apply, can’t they? For that sort of thing?’
It’s a put-down. A typical Suzanne snub. It’s hard to tell if she’s even aware she’s doing it.
‘Thanks for the support,’ I say, fed up now.
She raises her eyebrows. ‘You’ve got to face facts, Naomi. It’s tough out there.’
‘I know,’ I snap at her. ‘I’m the one sending off twenty application forms a week.’ Why do I let her wind me up like this?
‘Top-up?’ Alex is there holding the champagne out to Suzanne.
‘I can’t.’ She nods at Ollie. ‘Feeding. We’ve got some in the chiller, actually. We were saving it for a bit later on when everyone’s here.’
Now I get it. We’ve stolen her thunder. But I make myself sound bright. ‘Great! This is nearly finished anyway. I bet yours is a good vintage, isn’t it?’ I say, though I’m not sure if champagne has vintages in the same way wine does. ‘Save the best for later, eh?’
More guests arrive and she goes to greet them. Alex can tell things have been a bit tense. ‘You okay?’ He rubs my back between my shoulder blades, where I can feel the stiffness.
‘Families,’ I smile.
Why can’t I just ignore her? What pisses me off is that I let it get to me. I wish there was a magic formula, something I could just switch on so I’d be immune to her sarky comments or her needling at me. Why do I care what she thinks? It’s not like I want to be her or anything. I don’t want her life; I’m not bothered about status and having loads of money. She never puts a foot wrong, but is she happy? She spends all her time watching eagle-eyed for other people (especially me) to make mistakes. I’m twenty-five and in a steady relationship and I’ve got a degree, and still she pushes all my buttons and I’ve not found a way yet to brush it off. Distance, absence helps. If I don’t see her much. But put us together, and like some species of animal – rabbits or hamsters or something – if we have to share a cage, one of us gets savaged.
Any time I try talking to her directly, being really open about it, saying, ‘Why are you so bitchy to me?’ or ‘Why do you always have to be so negative?’ she either denies it or says she’s simply being honest.
Alex has a job, I tell myself, I’ve got an interview for a post I actually like the sound of, even if the money’s not great, and we will soon have a place of our own. No way is my snotty sister going to spoil it. Fuck her, I am going to celebrate.
I raise my glass and wink at Alex, and he smiles back. ‘To everything,’ I say, and he echoes me and we toast the future.
Before.
When the sun burnished everything and bubbles floated over the laughter and the future brimmed bright, ripe with adventure.
Before.
Were we smug? I don’t believe so. But I dared to be happy, thinking that the girls were grown and building lives of their own, that Phil’s business was ticking over in the teeth of the downturn, and a new generation had joined the family.
There wasn’t any sense of entitlement, but relief rather. Like any family we’ve had our share of bad luck and misfortune. From the terror of Suzanne’s bout of meningitis and the shocks of my dad’s sudden death, Naomi’s teenage high-jinks and my father-in-law’s cancer, to the more mundane upsets of burglaries and credit-card debts. And I didn’t for one minute think this phase of contentment would last – life’s not like that.
It wasn’t perfect. Naomi had been finding it increasingly hard to motivate herself after so many rejections. And Phil, one of the most laid-back people I know, was on medication for high blood pressure. His latest tests had been disappointing, and the GP was keen to try and get it down to an acceptable level. Then there was my mother in a nursing home, lost to dementia. But that hazy afternoon it seemed like things were pretty damn good – and I was thankful. I was counting my blessings.
We left Suzanne’s at about five. Phil set off for his gig at seven. It’s nearby, a place they play two or three times a year, and they don’t need long to set up. I could have gone along, but it wasn’t like I hadn’t seen them a million times, and I was more interested in catching up on some television.
I watered the garden first. We have a small square patch at the back of the house laid with flagstones, so everything is grown in containers. It’s handy: no grass to mow, little weeding to do. Our home is one of four flat-roofed, split-level modern houses, three bedrooms, picture windows, open stairs. When I say modern, they were built in the sixties to replace the end of a terrace that had been demolished. They still look like a glaring anomaly in an area of identical terraced rows. The flagstoned garden is the back yard of the original property. I’d never imagined Phil and me living in what he describes as a little box, without the features and character of the older houses all around. But when we bought it, it was a bargain we couldn’t ignore, on the market at a knock-down price due to problems with the flat roof. It was handy for schools and shops and a great place to raise the kids (apart from the windows, which were smeared with finger marks and kisses, traces of jam and Marmite for months on end).
As I filled the watering can from the butt and drenched the pots, the day was ending, the sky a lavender blue draped with shreds of coral-pink clouds over in the west.
It was five to nine when I sat down and began flicking through the channels, a glass of wine at my side.
It was five past nine when the phone rang. And everything changed.
R
un! Run! Freaking out, fear squirting inside. Run! Can’t move. Something squats on my chest, heavy, cold. Choking. Shout, warn them! Shout for help. Mouth stuck, tongue too. Can’t even open my lips. Scream trapped in my throat, loud and red raw. Got to get away. Get away!
No light. Pitch dark and cold. Buried alive. Suffocating. Can’t smell. Dark, still, silent. No – thumping, hammering. Something, someone, hammering. Thud, thud, thud, thud. Digging to reach me? Nailing me in? Each thud rocks me. Am I the nail? Salt in my mouth, brine.
Help!
The scream echoes round inside my head.
Alex! Mum! Dad!
There! Going up the escalator. I’m running. Legs like rubber bands, heart exploding, yelling and yelling. They never turn. They don’t see me. No one sees, no one hears.
The ground trembles, hammering louder. Everything shudders and cracks. The pillars shatter and collapse, great clouds of dust billow, huge discs of stone fall and tumble, rocking the ground.
Running, dodging, everything thick with gritty dust. The ground splits, like cloth tearing, a massive wrenching noise and the world erupts. Tongues of fire and a blizzard of ash. I can’t stop.
Falling.
Falling.
Like a puppet bumping off the walls of the canyon. Thump, smack, thump. To the bottom.
Crouching in a ball, arms over my head, coughing. I hear the beast coming, a river of molten lava, stone and gravel and debris. Thundering.
Battering me.
Burying me. Deep in pain.
No one will ever find me here.
It was Alex’s mum, Monica, on the phone. We had met briefly a couple of times. I was a little taken aback, then I assumed she was calling about Alex’s new job and began to talk. ‘Alex told us this afternoon, it’s wonderful for them—’
She cut me short. ‘Carmel, listen, I’m sorry, I’ve got some bad news.’
I laughed, I think I laughed, awkward, wrong-footed, trying to deny the danger in her voice. It seemed preposterous that there could be bad news. Was she ill, perhaps? Why was she sorry? My mother? Did she know her? Had Mum had another stroke, or an aneurism? That might be a blessing – something that allowed her to escape from the bizarre and frightening world she now inhabited.
‘What is it?’ I said. ‘What?’
I heard her sniff or swallow, felt my skin chill and my stomach tighten.
‘I’m sorry, there’s been an accident. Alex and Naomi . . . in the car, there was a collision.’
My heart imploded; that was how it felt, a collapse in my chest, pain and my vision blurring. All that was left was the voice on the phone, the words that I was trying to decipher, the gaps between the words where the truth hung.
‘Are they all right?’ I could still speak, though I sounded odd, fractured, jerky. ‘Monica?’
‘I’ve talked to Alex,’ she said. ‘I’m waiting to see him. He’s got broken bones, bruising.’
‘Naomi?’ I was trembling and shuddering. I thought about hanging up. I didn’t want to know. It must be bad; she was breaking it slowly, gently. Couldn’t come straight out with
Oh, she’s great, not a scratch
or
Just a bump or two, miraculous escape.
‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘Alex said they were working on her.’
Working on her.
I swallowed. ‘Which hospital?’
‘Wythenshawe.’
In the taxi, I texted Phil, my fingers slipping, missing the keys, then I realized he would have his phone off while they played. Directory enquiries put me through to the pub. I could hear the band in the background, ‘Stagger Lee’. We once learnt to jive to that, rockabilly style. Broken chicken walk, they called the step, almost like a limp, and the moves included lots of spinning round and away from each other, then back together. Me getting the giggles and losing the rhythm and setting Phil off. I repeated to the barman that he must interrupt the set at the end of this number and tell the lead guitarist, Phil, to ring his wife urgently. A family emergency. He promised.
Phil would be tapping his foot as he played, exchanging banter with Hugh on bass and lead vocals, supplying the odd backing harmony when the fancy took him, jamming with his mates at the end of a perfect day, no idea what was about to hit him.
A collision, Monica had said. So what about the other vehicle? Another car? A bus? A lorry? Where had they crashed? It was about a twenty-minute drive from Suzanne’s to ours. Were they coming back to ours? I couldn’t remember. It’s not like there were any fixed arrangements; they had their own keys, made their own meals. Or were they going to Monica’s? Her house was even closer.
A new moon, a sliver of white, cut the inky sky. The roads were quiet: Sunday evening, people facing work the following morning.
Working on her.
As we approached the hospital, the lights glared out from the corridors and entrance bays, the car park.
At A&E I paid the driver and got out. An ambulance was approaching, still out of sight, but its siren, insistent keening, filled the night.