Bridge Over the Atlantic (10 page)

Chapter Three

Mallory sat stoic whilst people dressed in black fussed all around her. She loved that people cared, but she just wanted them to all just sod off and leave her alone. She hadn’t cried yet. She had just felt completely numb. The ache inside her had been replaced with a strange feeling of…nothingness. People talked about her whilst she sat; as if she had suddenly become invisible.
Does she want a cup of tea? Should she have a lie down? Has she cried yet? Do you think she will move back to Yorkshire?
It irritated her, but she hadn’t the energy to fight.

Mallory kept replaying the Police Officers words repeatedly in her mind. “We’re so sorry Miss Westerman, they couldn’t revive him, they tried but the injuries from the crash were just too severe. Is there anyone you’d like us to call?”

As soon as they had found out, Renee and Ryan had flown straight over to be with Mallory. Cara had to stay home with their new baby boy, Dylan. They had all been amazing, but due to the absence of Sam’s family in the UK, initially, Mallory had been the one asked to identify his body. The image just wouldn’t leave her, it was etched on her cerebral cortex like a horrific tattoo; irreversible; a permanent fixture for her memory amongst all the happiness she’d had up to then. The experience had left her feeling almost anaesthetised.

There had been a discussion about funeral arrangements. Mallory had felt she had no right to even join in the conversation, after all she was
only
his fiancée; they were his
family
. Much to her surprise they had decided that Sam should be cremated and the service held near their new home. Renee and Ryan felt that Sam would have wanted that if he’d had the chance to decide for himself. Plus, they added, Mallory needed Sam to be near her. She should choose what to do with the ashes. After all, Mallory would not be returning to
Yorkshire
. There was nothing to go back for. Aside, that is, from her business and two best friends.

Mallory couldn’t express her overwhelming gratitude for the kindness of the Buchanan’s. She couldn’t really express anything. But she did thank them with a silent hug. Both Ryan and his Mom had cried. Mallory had not. Ryan had felt responsible and had apologised over and over,
If only I hadn’t asked for his help…if only he had followed Mallory as planned…if only.
Mallory had assured him as best she could that she didn’t blame him. What was the point?

The cremation service had been lovely; if that’s even a possibility for cremations. People had come from far and wide to pay their respects. She had sat and listened as people eulogised about her fiancé. Their words had been so kind. She had been asked if she wanted to say anything at the funeral, but she couldn’t even attempt to muster up the words to express her feelings of anger, loss, emptiness and most of all sadness.

She thought about what Ryan had said and about his apologies. She wanted to go back; to make him not go into work on that day. Maybe Ryan was right? Maybe then he would still be alive. If he had followed her instead, maybe that lorry driver would not have lost control on the narrow, rain covered road by Loch Lomond. When she had, for a couple of moments yesterday, been granted a little bit of mobile signal, a voicemail had come through, so very cruelly. She had played the message over and over again…

‘
It’s me my little sexpot! I’ve just left work…it’s about…aaahhh…noon…you must be driving or something…anyways, I’ll be on my way in the next hour…I am sooo excited, baby! You, me and Rubes will have the best time, you’ll see! The BEST!! I love you more than life, I hope you know that and I am so sorry about today. I promise I’ll make it up to you. Don’t go ‘chasing cars’ ‘til I get there, ok babe? See you soon! Love you.
’

Each time she played it she could pretend he was still alive. She could pretend he was just at the other end of the line. It comforted her to hear his voice; the voice of the funny, loving, kind, sexy man who had come into her life and given her so much—loved her so much. How could that be over? It just didn’t seem real. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t cry. When they had attended his Uncle’s funeral over in
Canada
six months ago, Sam had hated how sombre the whole affair was. They stood in the church whilst the choir sang
Abide with Me
and Sam had fidgeted uncomfortably.

“When anything happens to me I want you to promise me you’ll make sure that people wear bright colours, get drunk and laugh about the good times!” He’d whispered.

“Shhh! I am not going to talk about you dying!” She had hissed back at him, feeling rather cross.

“I’m just saying, I think it’s sad when people die and all, but you have to try to remember the happy times.” He had squeezed her hand and understanding what he meant she had squeezed his back.

Back in her new reality, the scent of flowers filled the white washed lounge of her cottage.
Her
cottage. Funny how in such a short space of time the plural had become singular.

Ryan had gone straight to the airport after the service. He had to get back to Cara and the baby. Mallory completely understood. She had insisted he go when he faltered at the door of the taxi that had come to collect him.

“I am only a phone call away, Mallory. I consider you my sister and I want you to feel able to pick up the phone if you need anything, okay?” Mallory had nodded and hugged him hard. She felt so guilty for not crying. As if he had read her mind he touched her cheek and said “You’ll cry when you’re ready, don’t feel bad.”
Sweet, just like his brother
, Mallory had thought.

Renee squeezed her shoulder. “Mallory, honey, you should rest” Mallory looked up into sad, bloodshot eyes. “You must be exhausted. You haven’t slept for such a long time and you need to keep your strength up.”

Keep it up for what?
Mallory had wanted to ask it out loud but didn’t.
It’s not as if I have anything to look forward to.

As if she had read her mind Renee continued, “Mallory, come on now, it may not feel like it right now, but you will get through this. We will all help you; you can’t get through this alone. When I lost my husband it felt like my world had come to an end, but it does get easier, honey. But you do need strength to get through this. Please go to bed and sleep.”

The mother of her precious Sam, who should be concentrating on her own grief, was selflessly helping Mallory through hers instead. She couldn’t be bothered to argue or to even speak for that matter so she let Renee lead her upstairs and she laid on the bed she had shared with Sam and drifted off into an uneasy, fitful sleep.

She awoke with a start to an empty bedroom, breathing heavily and sweating. She must have cried out because she heard footsteps bolting up the stairs.

Josie burst through the door. “Mallory?” She lurched toward her distressed friend and embraced her “Oh, Mallory, sweetheart.” She stroked her soothingly “You cried out his name, shhhhhh, it’s alright, shhhhh.” They embraced for what felt like an hour. But then again, time meant nothing anymore. After a while Josie broke away and said, “Do you want to come and eat something? Renee and Brad have made some food. You should’ve seen them, Mally, they were working together like a well-oiled machine those two.” She smiled and held Mallory’s face in her hands. “Come on, lovely, come downstairs and eat, eh?”

Josie, Brad and Renee sat at the dining table with Mallory. Brad and Renee had made sandwiches and had arranged a few other items on plates to try and tempt Mallory’s appetite to return. She hadn’t eaten properly for such a long time now and her weight was falling too rapidly. She tried to eat a little, but really couldn’t be bothered. She hadn’t really spoken to anyone. She simply couldn’t find her voice.

While Josie and Brad tidied up Renee went to lay down in her room. Mallory found herself sitting alone. Looking around her, she suddenly felt claustrophobic, as if the walls of her new home were closing in on her and she needed to get outside; to escape. She wanted to feel the cold air on her skin and to be out there, where she and Sam had made memories. Without another thought she opened the front door, tugging it past its sticking point and walked outside.

The air was cold on her bare arms but she didn’t care. It felt good to feel goose bumps prick her arms. In fact, it felt good to
feel
. She gulped the cold into her lungs and began walking. It was quite dusky out. She walked up onto the bridge and paused at the mid-point. She could hear Sam’s voice here. The wind was getting up and made the air even chillier. She looked out to the Atlantic. Sam had crossed that sea first to come to the UK and then a few more times with her by his side. He would never make that journey again.

She couldn’t bear to look at the view any longer and began walking again. As she walked her feet felt sore. She looked down and realised she hadn’t put shoes on. Her feet had been stocking clad but now the stockings had torn through. It didn’t stop her. She picked up her pace and began to jog; her jog became a run. She had no clue where she was going, but she kept on regardless. Eventually, she came to a stop and looked around her.

It had dropped quite dark by now. She wandered across some rocks and down to the water’s edge. She looked out into the distance past the spit and could see a boat with its light swaying in the wind. Suddenly, a wave of emotion took hold of her body and she let out a loud, angry scream. She screamed and screamed. A blood curdling noise filled with anguish and pain erupted from her body. She dropped to her knees and the tears finally came. The scream turned to a heart rending sob that shook her whole body to the core.

She hadn’t noticed the figure running across toward her from the water. Suddenly she was scooped up and wrapped in a large blanket, or was it a coat? She didn’t know and didn’t care. She had no clue who had picked her up, but it didn’t matter.

She must have passed out as she seemed to rouse back into consciousness as she felt herself being placed into a vehicle of some kind. The engine started and the heaters were turned up full. The welcome warmth began to melt her ice cold skin and she opened her eyes. She couldn’t see much. It was night time. The figure that had climbed into the driver’s seat flicked on the map-reading light.

“Here, take this,” the deep, Scottish accented male voice resonated through her. She looked up slightly to see a flask lid filled with steaming liquid “C’mon
Yorkshire
lassie, drink it. You need to get warm. You could’ve caught your death out there.”

“I don’t care.” She finally spoke without looking at his face. Her voice was frail and wavering.

“Aye that’s as maybe but there are plenty that do care. Now drink.” Mallory took the cup and warily took a sip. It was coffee but it had a kick that burned her throat and made her cough.

“You’re not a whiskey drinker I take it?” The voice spoke again. He sounded familiar but she hadn’t even looked up.
He could be some axe wielding murderer,
she thought. Then she reasoned,
okay maybe there aren’t that many axe wielding murderers who rescue their victims from freezing beaches and then give them whiskey before they chop them into little bits.
She looked up to see who the Good Samaritan was and gasped.

“You?” Was all she could muster.

“Well, I was me last time I checked, but then again I have been known to have a grumpy-arsed side too.” He smiled. They sat in silence for a few moments. “I didn’t catch your name
Yorkshire
Lassie but I’m Gregory. My friends call me Greg.”

“So you mostly get called Gregory then on account of having no friends?” She replied snidely, immediately regretting her comment.

He held his chest as if he had just been shot, “Ouch, I think I deserved that, eh?” His eyes were warm. “So are you goin’ to tell me your name, Miss Yorkshire Lassie?” He asked.

“Please don’t call me that.” Tears stung her eyes and one escaped down her cheek.

“Okay, so tell me your name then?” His voice had softened.

“Mallory,” she informed him, wiping away the single tear with the back of her hand.

“After the mountaineer, eh?” She nodded; surprised that he didn’t need the explanation that most people did. There was a long pause. “Did he call you that?” He rubbed his nose, “The name Miss Yorkshire Lassie I mean. Is that what he called you?”

“A version of it, I suppose…Miss Yorkshire…that’s what he called me.” She smiled as she heard his voice in her head.

“Ah, I see. Sorry. If I had-a-known I would’ve called you something else.”

“What would you have called me? You didn’t know my name anyway.”

“Probably ‘
Wee Crabbit Lassie
’” His mouth curled up at one side so she knew he was jesting.

“And what does that mean?” Her eyes squinted at him suspiciously as she was fully aware that it was probably an insult.

“Ohhh…it means pretty and quiet.”

“It
does
not! I know you’re being mean. Tell me the truth,” she chastised.

“You sure? Okay, you asked for it.
Wee
as in little and
crabbit
as in bad tempered.” He visibly winced, as if he expected her to thump his arm.

“Huh, you can talk!”

“Aye, that’s true.”

Greg knew she was right. He hadn’t exactly made the best first impression to the village newcomer. He deserved all he got. He watched as she stared into the cup of steaming liquid and his heart ached. He understood her grief more than she could possibly know. He wanted to reach out and comfort her; tell her things would get easier. But what was the point? She clearly didn’t like him, so what would his words mean?

After a few moments he dared to speak again. “You alright now?” he asked his guest passenger.

She didn’t speak. She just shook her head slowly as the tears came again. She covered her face with one hand as her shoulders shuddered.

Greg removed the cup from her hand and he moved toward her sliding an arm around her shoulders. “Hey, c’mon, shhhhhh, you’ll be fine. Shhhh. It gets easier, I promise you that.”