Love of Grace and Angels Read online

  She climbed into her car and started the engine. It was an earlier start than planned but she couldn’t face sitting at home so full of self-pity a moment longer. She was not that sort of person, not normally, and teetering dangerously close to depression was not where she wanted to be. The day promised to be bright and blue, a very good day for a change in attitude. Grace pondered the possibility that maybe it was she dragging him down and not the other way around, and perhaps starting again in her own mind would help solve it. She had tried and failed before, but then again he hadn’t shown such genuine affection in a long time; maybe the moment was ripe for change. She pulled out of the driveway and set off in the direction of Bath, with the faint hum of optimism stirring.

  *

  Like so many that morning, Grace soon discovered the roads were busy and by the time she reached Bath she was glad of the early start. The winding streets were at a slow crawl and predictably Grace struggled to park. As she drove slowly along Pulteney Street she saw a family sitting in a car, almost filling it. They were animated and seemed to be having some sort of loud game, and whatever it was the mother was laughing heartily. Grace smiled. How refreshing it felt to see such a happy family. She slowed almost to a halt, waiting for the woman’s attention so she could mouth the question are you going? when another car pulled up alongside, the large female driver ferocious in expression.

  In no mood for disagreement, Grace reluctantly moved on and drove to where she knew there could be more spaces, but again the street was full. There was nothing for it but to head across town and park in one of the bigger long stay car parks. She hated the one-way system because occasionally, even after so many years, she still became lost or found herself driving in circles, lulled into repeating the same mistake over and over again. But there was nothing else to be done, and so she joined the end of a long line of slow moving vehicles and started crossing the city.

  Very soon Grace was stuck in stationary traffic, frustrated and heading in the wrong direction. Anxiously, she tried texting her daughters’ news of the terrible congestion on the roads, but the signal was too poor and the messages would not send. She wondered where she could turn off, so that she wouldn’t have to sit in the enormous queue heading back the other way. It might have been chance, or even fate, but in the light of what happened next, Grace went on to reflect that it could also have been her sixth sense kicking in, intuition directing her towards conclusion. It seemed unlikely in some ways, given that intuition requires a degree of initial input from which to work, but she never could quite reconcile herself to the possibility that such a bizarre coincidence was simply that and nothing more.

  The traffic moved forwards enough for Grace to squeeze through the gap between the old mini she’d been following for too long and a low kerb, to take a left. Without knowing where she was heading, she found herself driving up a steep hill lined with Edwardian terraced houses, residents’ cars tightly parked bumper to bumper, narrowing the already narrow way. To consider her route and check for signal, she pulled over near the top, stopping where the road widened a little beside a park, an area Grace had not previously realised existed. From what she could see, the surprise oasis was small, but since the view beyond its neat grassy crest was not visible, it could easily have been huge. Tall trees and mature shrubs edged the higher, northern side, a sheltered back drop for three park benches, evenly spaced and angled for views down across the city.

  The whole parkland scene was raised above the level of the road, so Grace leaned across the empty seat beside her to admire this pretty, new place properly, its blanket of green strikingly sharp against the bright blue sky. But as Grace looked up, so the truth of the morning struck her in one honest blow. There on one of the benches was a form she knew better than her own. Not at the office or in a meeting or visiting some new project, was her husband, sitting and staring at nothing. Impulsively, Grace’s hand reached to open the passenger door, so she could call his name. But greater instinct held her fast, fingers left hooked motionless on the chrome lever. Before she could consider the reason for this hesitation, her husband stood up and as he did he began awkwardly pushing the palm of a hand across his face. Undoubtedly, he was wiping away tears.

  A deadening sensation crept over Grace; a cold, strange, sort of paralyses; akin to something felt long, long ago. Remembered now like it was yesterday, her fiancé of one year told her he didn’t love her. He hadn’t said that he didn’t love her anymore, only that he didn’t love her. And this was because he had never loved her, the part of his confession hardest to bear. He said he was sorry and that he thought he had been in love, but when the true love of his life became available he saw a different future and an untrue past. Today, Grace was again filling with that same dread, terrified this time not of loss, but that her newer, greater, real, past might also have lost something of its truth; that again what had always seemed to be, was not.

  Self-preservation rushed to her rescue: if there was a problem it might not be to do with Grace herself or with them as a couple. But the thought escaped as fast as it had come. He had lied too many times. He was here, when he should be anywhere but. He was crying.

  Was he meeting someone, she wondered? Had they already met? Was this the aftermath of a break up? Perhaps it was the opening scene of Grace’s own break up, a rehearsal spied from the wings. Did he just want to be away from Grace herself, unable to bear her company any longer? She had been remote, of that she was very aware. For whatever reason, life’s challenges had been weighing heavily, and tasks once carried out unfelt had become burdensome chores utterly begrudged. She was a misery. Perhaps he had not wanted to take her to bed that morning, after all. Maybe he, like Grace on too many occasions, had gone to the bathroom to cry? The look given was saying don’t come up, not do. Was it possible to mistake such a thing?

  There was no urgency to be away. Somehow, she knew he would not look down and see her. As she watched, so he shambled off over the brow of the hill to whatever lay on the other side. Grace straightened in her seat, dark hair pressing back against the headrest. Everything was different. She would not be able to continue as she had – as they had – ignoring the slow collapse of what had once been good. After some time, she shifted the car into gear and slowly left behind what had begun as a delightful discovery, and ended as a marked spot.

  The next hour or more passed without a single moment committing itself to memory. Grace eventually parked not in a car park but a side street amongst the winding maze of narrow city centre roads she happened to come across; a lucky find. She bumped into a friend, the vague acknowledgement washing away as if the two had never spoken, and for a while Grace wandered the busy streets aimlessly. As if her choices were perched whispering upon each shoulder, she swayed between a wish to understand and a longing to run away. Eventually she decided only one thing: her precious girls should not know their parents’ marriage was likely over. But when finally Grace entered the café and sat down, word-by-word her resolve began to fracture until kindness finally prised it apart.

  Chapter 5

  ART’S WIFE

  Art’s wife sat up bleary eyed and sombre, leaned across to pick up some jeans from a chair and promptly lost a tooth, a front tooth. It landed unceremoniously on Art’s dirty underwear, stepped out of the night before with something close to a stumble, and left like two empty pools. The tooth landed in the crotch. She looked on unemotionally before picking it up and inspecting the rogue item; the tooth and not the underpants. What did it mean, apart from her looking like a junky for the next however long; and with the mother-in-law coming, too. Art’s wife sighed dismally. Hers was a mother-in-law mad as a bag of legless frogs but nowhere near as charming.

  Sat on the edge of the bed, two resolutions were instantly made; firstly, Art’s mother would no longer be allowed to stay. Secondly, household consumption of wine and beer would be cut to more healthy volumes. In short, no rude houseguests plus no more dinner parties would equal a life far more agreea
ble. Why Art had insisted on hosting a dinner party the night before his mother arrived was a mystery. He had stubbornly refused all other dates offered, not content with waiting until a more convenient time. But Art was like that, selfish although perhaps not truly aware of it. The tooth – a crown really – could easily be sorted, too. Unlike the other solutions, there would not be the added bonus of saving money, quite the opposite.

  There was still no sound from the dog, more usually known as Rawa, named after a tiny tropical island off the east coast of Malaysia, a holiday too long ago to seem real. Art had chosen the name in an effort to keep the holiday alive in their hearts, because despite his faults, he was the softest man alive. It hadn’t worked. The name needed constant justification and the frustration of endless explanation was the only thing the name came to represent.

  Absently running her tongue through the gap in her teeth, Art’s wife pottered down the stairs with sleeves rolled ready to start on the mess, thankful to have escaped a hangover, regretful at being so tired on a day patience would be required, and somewhat peeved at having lost the tooth. Satisfied, though, that she had made some important decisions. Art would be mistaken if he thought otherwise.

  Rawa remained unusually silent and Art’s wife wondered if perhaps the dog had somehow got out during the night, understanding the terrible truth only when she saw the pale yellow mound in the basket. She paused for a moment. Without approaching further, it was clear Rawa had gone. Her once golden coat had taken on the matt shroud of death, as if the very act of dying had dulled each and every hair. What was once vibrant and real now looked sadly artificial. If it wasn’t for the smell of urine and the faint odour of faeces, she might have given in to the improbable hope that lying before her was nothing more than a soft toy, a clever prop in an obscure practical joke. But there was no hope.

  Art’s wife kneeled by the basket and gently stroked the soft hair between Rawa’s ears, noticing with some relief that her eyes were tightly shut. The dog felt familiar yet unfamiliar, the same old Rawa but solid beneath cold fur rather than warm and vital. It was this change rather than her lifeless appearance that sent the first tears tumbling, that and the thought that after almost eleven years loyal companionship, a dear old friend had died alone. How could Art have missed her? She sat quietly with silent tears streaming and a hand gently resting on Rawa for a full twenty minutes. Why did Art’s mother have to come today of all days?

  Despite the unpleasant smell she decided to leave the dog for Art to see, positive he would want that. He loved Rawa and would need to see her exactly as she had been found. Afterwards, he could do the thing he did so well and dig, and together they could create a tiny grave on the far side of the lawn where Rawa loved to lounge in the full sun. There she could lie in peace forever and watch the days come and go, and they could think of her and feel close to her always. Art’s wife was glad she had been the one to take the dog on her final walk, however short, but she also worried that Art would beat himself up unnecessarily about neglecting to do it himself.

  After cleaning up the basket, she moved away and scrubbed her hands before starting to put the kitchen back in order. Continuing with everyday life made her feel sick, as if doing so were somehow disloyal, a way of pretending nothing had happened. It seemed disrespectful to go about household chores when Rawa was lying dead only feet away, but what was the alternative, when Art’s mother could arrive within the hour? The single consolation was that Rawa had lived out her life in full and slipped away peacefully in her sleep, for nothing about the remains suggested otherwise. What more could anyone ask for? Even immortality could not better that.

  The kitchen was not quite the bombsite expected, and with the kettle switched on, Art’s wife emptied the dishwasher of dinner plates and dessert bowls and serving dishes. She rinsed a mug and made an instant coffee while thinking of her husband and wondering how he was getting on. Then she restacked the dishwasher – including those dishes that failed to wash the first time round – gathered empty bottles for recycling, and wiped off all the place mats. She hand-washed crystal goblets and over-sized pans, put the kettle on again and tidied and swept. In less than an hour from when she’d started, Art’s wife had finished, choosing then to take her second cup of coffee outside.

  It was a beautiful morning, cold but promising to be a glorious day, perfect she thought, for taking Rawa to the river, even though swimming was no longer a realistic option. And then she remembered that Rawa was dead, forgotten for only a second but remembered with all the power of that first moment. This time tears did not roll silently but streamed through heartbroken sobs.

  *

  The entire house was immaculate. Art’s wife was immaculate. There were only so many times one could plump cushions and straighten chairs. Still there was no sign of Art and his mother.

  She should be glad, of course, Art’s wife knew. For the later they were, the less time she would have to spend trying to dodge the razor swipes of Mother-in-law’s tongue. But their lateness didn’t sit comfortably. Maybe this was the third thing. First it was the tooth and then dear old Rawa, and now what? A breakdown? Crash? Unless of course, Art running late this morning was the first thing, in which case three of the things had already occurred. Then again, Rawa was really the first thing.

  It was at that moment the telephone rang, the modern burble so much softer and less intrusive than old-fashioned ringing, but even so, Art’s wife was startled. The unexpectedness of being alone with death had sharpened her senses uncomfortably. When she returned to the kitchen to answer it, trembling a little from shock, her eyes automatically fell upon Rawa, fresh sorrow tugging inside. If only Art would come home. She picked up the receiver. After the initial greeting, Art’s wife listened solemnly without another word, save for confirming she would come straight away.

  When the call was finished she stood for a moment looking blankly at nothing in particular. Inwardly she had slumped to the point where she could barely function, feeling that drop by drop, life was becoming determinedly futile. An incident the officer had claimed in a tone that revealed nothing, and no more was said, although it was obvious Art had been caught drink-driving. Why had she let him go out when he was still over the limit, and why had she allowed him to drink so much in the first place, without comment? In fact, why had she not insisted the dinner party happen another night, and more importantly held firm over his mother’s constant visits? This, she suspected, was the real root of the problem: if not Art’s mother, then at least his need for a good dose of Dutch courage every time she came to stay. With a struggle, Art’s wife tried to rise above the near overwhelming feeling of hopelessness, her practical inner-self appreciating that nothing is ever achieved on the back of self-pity. The fact was her husband needed her more than he ever had, and so with a final wallowing and sorrowful sigh she picked up her phone, keys and bag.

  All things good seemed to have been turned upside down. She supposed that the tooth would have been lost regardless and the dog would have died anyway, but even so, she felt that all the bad luck in the world had bundled itself up and landed on their doorstep, and all because of a dinner party that never felt right from the moment Art picked the date. The whole event had been hanging over her like the sword of Damocles. Of course, she knew to a man like Art it had seemed a ridiculous worry. After all, five old friends gathering over a bite to eat was something to look forward to, something easy and relaxing. But why had it not felt that way? Was it the looming visit from Beelzebub’s sister? Clearly it was. She wondered if Art really understood how evil his mother was, or at least, how wicked she could be. Mother-in-law was the topic of many long conversations, when friends would back her up, exposing the woman’s spiteful words for what they were. Still, regardless of whatever anyone said, Art remained trapped under her spell. If Death were stalking the house then perhaps he would have the decency to take Art’s mother too, she thought guiltily, for if nothing else she would make a wonderful assistant given her gift for
making a person desperate for a quick end.

  Making her way to the door, she was about to leave when she remembered Rawa. The day was shaping up to be warm and the body could not remain inside the house indefinitely, and who knew how long everything would take at the police station. The simple fact was the dog would have to be buried or frozen. Burying would be most respectful, but freezing would be quickest and would also allow Art, when he finally came home, to see her.

  Throwing her things to one side, Art’s wife searched the kitchen for inspiration. With the last pedal-bin and dustbin liners used up that morning, she would have to concoct something. All she could find was a handful of carrier bags, none of them large enough to contain a golden retriever, but between them enough at least to separate dog from food. Additional bags strategically placed at either end would prevent bodily fluids travelling further than would be hygienic, she decided.

  Ever efficient, Art’s wife rearranged the chest freezer before spreading out the plastic and ensuring there were no gaps. Next, feeling to be the wickedest woman alive with the exception of the obvious, she wrestled the body up onto the table. Dead dogs of this size could be staggeringly heavy, she discovered, and it took every ounce of strength to raise the animal. The task was made marginally easier thanks to rigor mortis: dead, but not exactly a dead weight. There, as planned, one bag became a crude nappy while a smaller one pulled over the dog’s mouth gave Rawa the look of a canine victim of kidnap. With the dog prepared, freezer lid reopened, the body was hauled from the tabletop. Art’s wife half staggered and half scurried under the weight, before dropping Rawa’s remains into the glacial temporary morgue. After confessing regret, the lid was lowered. It wouldn’t shut. The dog was set too high. With enormous effort the solid corpse was heaved out and taken back to the table so a much deeper space could be created. With the protective plastic reset, Rawa was put back and Art’s wife hurried to the car.