‘I think I’ll go for a little walk,’ says Cath. It’s just gone eight o’clock. She’s come downstairs to make a cup of tea; sun is streaming
through the kitchen windows.
‘Really, darling? OK. You’ll need to wrap up warm, but it is a lovely morning.’
Cath can tell her mum is pleased. She also knows why: it’s the first time she’s stepped outside the house alone in the weeks she’s been here. She’s been to see the
village doctor on her father’s arm, all unsteady and spaced out, and gone for a drive with her parents a couple of times, but that’s it. The GP told her she was ‘understandably
upset’ and – yet again – to ‘take it easy’, so was of little use, other than signing her off work. Aside from this she’s been in bed, occasionally surfacing for
meals, or, more recently, to join her parents in the living room where she’s sat, curled up on the sofa, watching telly. The programmes skate over the top of her, as if she is beneath a lake
of ice and they are happening up above, on the surface. She seems to feel vacant and anxious wherever she is, however, so before she gets frightened and changes her mind about venturing forth she
says, ‘I’ve got my mobile,’ and heads out of the front door.
Her mother is right: it is bitterly cold. Walking is still very strange, but at least she appears to be able to put one foot in front of the other. The grey stones of the cottages on either side
of the lane are blurry. Gradually, she acclimatizes enough to focus.
It’s not just depression that’s making everything appear other-worldly: there’s been a hoar frost. In an instant Cath is caught up, rapt, as though she’s hallucinating,
has taken a drug. It’s at once beautiful and agonizing, breathtaking and too much to bear. Who would have thought white could have so many shades? A field of furrowed earth is striped pale
silver and brown, delineating the tracks of the plough; trees glisten misty grey, like billowing smoke; a hedgerow sparks platinum and steel. She steps closer and sees a fairytale landscape in
miniature. The briar is covered in hundreds – no, thousands, of miniature spikes; every berry, every twig is preparing for battle, daggers drawn. The frozen florets of autumn’s hogweed
are like small umbrellas blown inside out by the wind. Iced cobwebs swoop between the flower heads; Tarzan’s ropes through a tiny jungle.
On impulse, she breaks off a couple of the blooms; the stalks snap with ease. She carries them back to her parents’ bungalow, mindful of every step she takes, lest they come to harm.
‘What have you got there?’asks Judy, as Cath comes through the kitchen door.
She lays the flowers on the table. ‘I’m going to draw them.’
‘Oh . . . ’ Her mother sounds surprised. ‘They are gorgeous. Do you want a vase?’
‘Please.’
Judy reaches into a cupboard and passes her one.
Gently, Cath places the hogweed inside. ‘Where’s my stuff?’
‘What stuff?’
‘My drawing stuff.’
‘Goodness, darling, I don’t know. Isn’t it at your house?’
‘No. I cleaned out our shed not that long ago. My pots are there, but not my drawing things. It’s years since I did any. But I’ve seen my stuff here, I’m sure.’
‘I think it’s in the study,’ says Peter. ‘I’ll help you find it.’
He’s right. Wedged in amongst the faded hardback books and old magazines that her father saves for only he knows what, is a battered metal box. Although it was originally designed for
workman’s tools, Cath bought it many years ago to store her art materials.
‘Careful!’ says Peter, as she grabs it by the handle and tugs it from the shelf. Ancient photo albums topple, sending dust flying. She props them back up again and returns to the
kitchen.
‘Have you any paper?’ Now she’s had this idea, she’s itching to start.
‘Not proper drawing paper, no,’ says her mother.
‘What have you got?’
‘I don’t know. There might be some lined paper in my desk.’
‘That’s no good.’
‘There’s some plain paper in the printer,’ says Peter, and he goes back to his study to fetch it.
Cath sighs. ‘That’ll have to do.’ She knows she’s being unfair. Neither of her parents is artistic in the way she is, and she hasn’t put pencil to paper in years.
How can she expect them to be prepared for this?
‘I can get you something proper when I go into town,’ says Peter, handing her a wedge of A4.
‘Thanks, Dad.’ She smiles at him, feeling guilty for not being more appreciative. Her mum and dad have been very good to her, especially during the last few weeks. And maybe
they’re not so slow; she’s too impatient. What a nightmare she is.
‘So what are you going to do, then?’ asks Judy, peering as Cath clicks open the fasteners of the box.
The lid opens like a butterfly to reveal three tiers of shelving on either side. Each tier is subdivided into compartments, with various coloured pencils and pastels in each. Long ago she
clustered similar hues together to make them easier to find, just like the balls of yarn she saw in the haberdashery department of John Lewis a few months ago. Given that she’s not used them
in such a while, the contents seem in pretty good condition. And at the bottom she even finds a packet of chalk, a rubber, a sharpener and a ruler.
‘Dunno . . . ’ In spite of her sudden burst of enthusiasm, she still feels removed from everything; it isn’t so easy to know where to begin. Then she spies a dog-eared
cardboard container tucked under the chalks. Yes: it’s the shape of the flower and the texture that interest her, not the colour. ‘Charcoal, maybe?’
No sooner has Cath put charcoal to paper than she realizes it’s far too grainy a medium for such a smooth surface. Charcoal needs texture to bite against, to hold it in place.
Goodness, I’m rusty, she thinks, frustrated. It isn’t easy to pick this up again. Needlework was simple by comparison. She eyes the hogweed before her, appraising its scale. Each
bloom must be over six inches across, never mind the vase: this sheet of A4 is far too small. How annoying.
She’s not well enough to drive anywhere, but there’s a faint possibility the village shop will have something, and it opens early. She pushes back her chair, grabs her coat.
‘Off out again?’ says Judy, trying to keep up.
‘Just Chaplin’s. Back in a tick.’
She leaves the front door on the latch and within five minutes she returns, clutching a scrapbook. As she comes down the hall, she hears her mum say, ‘Well, this is a good sign.’
‘Yes,’ says Peter. ‘She seems a lot better today.’
‘I only hope it lasts.’
Cath supposes her parents are right. Nonetheless she resents being talked about behind her back. She makes a loud huffing noise so they are aware she is there, and rejoins them in the
kitchen.
‘Success?’
‘Mm. This’ll be much better. It’s sugar paper.’
‘I see,’ says Judy, though Cath isn’t sure she does.
She sits back down at the table and cracks open a page.
* * *
‘You know the really spooky thing?’ says Anna, scrunching up her napkin and putting it inside her empty coffee cup.
‘No, what?’
‘You know what day it is today?’
Lou frowns, trying to work it out. Her memory truly isn’t what it usually is at the moment.
‘Promise me I won’t start you off blubbing again if I say?’
Lou looks at Anna, wary. It takes until this remark for her to realize her friend looks tired and worn, too, not her usual perfectly made-up, immaculately dressed self. Her mascara is smudged a
little, her cheeks are blotchy. Suddenly she realizes. ‘Oh shit.’ It’s February: the month Karen’s husband, Simon, died.
‘Is it really two years?’ she says.
Anna nods.
‘Crikey.’ Lou shakes her head in disbelief. But of course: it was a Monday, mid month . . . It figures. Right now they’re whizzing through the station at Gatwick Airport
– that morning they never made it that far. She and Anna were turfed off the train at a station only a few miles from Brighton, and ended up sharing a taxi into London. It’s how they
met.
‘It’s our two-year anniversary,’ Anna smiles, and Lou can see that tears are pricking behind her eyes, also.
She reaches over and squeezes Anna’s hand. ‘And what more apt reminder that good comes out of bad?’
I must remember to call Karen later, she thinks. The realization serves to impel her out of her own self-absorption. Karen she can do something tangible for; her egg recipient she can’t, not directly.
I hope she has people around her to lean on, Lou thinks, and sends a supportive vibe up into the ether, praying it reaches her mirror woman, wherever she is.
* * *
‘You look exhausted,’ says Judy. ‘Let me get you a drink.’
Rich follows his mother-in-law into the kitchen.
‘It’s been a long day,’ he says. Work is more full-on than ever; countless redundancies only mean that those left have to make up the shortfall. The drive to the office down
south from Leeds is bad enough; on top of that, he’s had to come out here to the Dales afterwards.
Nonetheless, as he gulps down a beer, he is glad. He could tell from Cath’s smile as she opened the door to greet him that she is in better spirits. And now she seems keen to show him
something.
‘Look,’ she is saying.
He follows her gaze. There, propped up on the kitchen mantelpiece, is a series of sketches.
‘Hey, love, those are fantastic,’ he says, but his eyes are so tired from the drive that he can’t take them in properly. They seem to be drawings of large flowers, like cow
parsley.
‘You finished that fast,’ says Cath. He looks down at his beer: the bottle is nearly empty. It is helping – he can feel himself relaxing.
She passes him another from the fridge and says, ‘They’re not that good. I’m dreadfully out of practice.’
He sips more slowly, examining the sketches further as he does so.
They look familiar, then he realizes why: they remind him of the patterns on the pottery Cath unearthed in the shed. There’s the same eye for detail, the same fluidity of line. It seems
she’s only used two colours: white and black, yet in a few simple strokes she’s captured the essence of the blooms.
‘Aah, here they are,’ says Cath, as the 4x4 pulls up outside the house. The vehicle looks enormous in their narrow street of terraced houses – none of their
neighbours has anything remotely this size. She runs to greet them, opens the passenger door. ‘Hello!’
‘Hello, Auntie Cath,’ say the two boys from the back seat.
‘How was your trip?’ she asks her brother.
‘Knackering. Roadworks on the M1.’
‘I thought there must be a hold-up. I’m sorry to hear that. Come in, come in.’
While Mike is still yawning, Alfie and Dom unclip their seatbelts and wriggle out of the car onto the pavement.
Cath follows them towards the house. ‘Do you need a drink?’ she asks them.
‘Yes, please.’ She fetches each of them a Ribena. She’s stocked up the fridge specially.
‘What they could really do with is a run in the garden,’ says Mike. ‘They’ve been cooped up for hours. Go on, you two. See who’s fastest four times round the lawn.
Have your juice after.’
Cath opens the back door and out they go without protest – clearly they need to let off steam. She and Mike stand watching them through the kitchen window.
‘It looks really lovely out there,’ says Mike. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Thanks.’ Cath is pleased to have his praise: he’s not one to go into raptures.
‘It’s so much tidier than ours.’
Cath’s heart twists. She knows he means it as a compliment, but she wouldn’t mind exchanging their carefully manicured space for a lawn worn by children playing and a patio cluttered
with toys.
‘So how are you?’ he asks. ‘It’s been months.’
‘I’m OK. Much better than I was.’ Cath blinks back tears. Being shown sympathy unlocks her upset. But she’s done enough crying over the last three months – she
wants to make this visit a happy one.
‘So I gather.’ Their mother will have kept him posted. ‘How long have you been back here?’
Cath says, ‘About a fortnight. It’s good to be with Rich properly.’ In the end she stayed with her parents far longer than the two weeks her mother originally mooted. She
needed to return to the womb herself, it seems, to heal.
‘I’m so sorry about everything.’
‘Thanks . . . Was Sukey OK about not coming?’
‘Mm . . . I think she was a bit hurt you didn’t want to see her, but she does understand.’ Cath can feel him check her expression before he says, ‘You know, she
isn’t always the ogre you make out.’
‘I’m sure. It’s just I can’t face any criticism right now.’
‘I think she’s mellowed in her stance.’
There he goes again, thinks Cath, brokering peace between us. ‘Really?’ She tries to keep cynicism from her voice.
‘Yeah, really. She was very upset to hear you’d lost the baby. I was surprised myself at the strength of her reaction. She cried when I told her.’
‘Oh.’ She feels a twinge of guilt at not inviting her sister-in-law as well.
‘Still, it’s nice to see you just us anyway.’ Mike reaches for her and gives her a hug across the shoulders.
‘Ditto.’ He’s right: they rarely get one-on-one time. Maybe he wanted some too.
* * *
‘Mum?’
‘Lou!’ says Irene. ‘How are you getting on? Any news?’
‘I wish.’ Lou is walking along the seafront, on her way to meet Adam for a morning coffee. It’s a good moment to call her mother for a catch-up. Since Christmas it seems there
is new chemistry between them – there’s more warmth to their conversations and Irene appears to enjoy getting regular updates on her pregnancy. ‘I’m so uncomfortable
it’s untrue,’ Lou complains. She can’t imagine how she ever used to think going to the Meeting Place cafe was a pleasurable stroll; she’s exhausted, her feet are swollen and
she’s not even halfway. She’d do anything to be able to sit on her bike and freewheel all the way there, but her cycling days are over for the time being.
‘Not long now, though.’
‘It could still be at least a fortnight. They won’t induce me till I get to forty-two weeks.’ Lou wipes sweat from her brow. For April it feels unseasonably warm.