‘Thanks for this.’
He gestures for me to take the chair while he leans against the workbench. It’s awkward at first, but we get into the flow of chatting, and as the rain drums on the shed’s tin roof, I learn that he works in consulting, and I tell him about my job at Speak Now. He’s unmarried, childless, in his early forties, and he’s been working his uncle’s allotment for two years.
‘He has lung cancer,’ he tells me. ‘I don’t think anyone expected him to last this long, but he keeps on confounding the doctors. I hope he’ll be strong enough to come back here soon.’
I think suddenly of Claire, Milly’s mother, whom I was once so close to. We completely lost touch after everything blew up; she never reached out to me, just as I never reached out to her. Now I wonder if she is still alive. It’s been five years since her cancer diagnosis.
‘Sorry, was it something I said?’ Will asks, half-joking, and I realise I must have a strange look on my face.
‘Sorry, I was thinking of something else.’
‘Something sad?’
‘A bit. A family friend I’ve lost touch with. She had cancer, and now I don’t even know if she’s alive or not.’ Saying it out loud makes me feel sadder. I’d thought about getting in touch with Milly’s parents over the years, but I’d always stopped myself, mostly out of fear. What if she refused to talk to me? She would have only heard Milly’s side of the story, and I don’t think I could have borne her rejection along with everything else.
‘That’s tough. Could you get back in touch?’
I shake my head even as I wonder. Has enough time passed? Or too much? ‘I don’t think so,’ I tell Will. ‘Not anymore.’
‘Sometimes life’s like that,’ he agrees, and again I have the feeling that he is referencing something else, something personal. Perhaps his life isn’t straightforward, just as mine isn’t. Maybe no one’s is.
The rain has lessened, and sunlight is peeking out from behind shreds of grey cloud. ‘Thanks for the tea,’ I say as I stand up and hand him the empty mug. ‘I’d return the favour, but I don’t have a shed or even a kettle.’
‘No worries, you’re welcome to pop in here anytime.’
‘Thanks.’ I leave the shed feeling encouraged that I have a new friend. Although I’ve made more of an effort in the last few years to improve my social life, I still have only a small circle of friends and acquaintances, and no one has replaced Milly in terms of intimacy or affection – but I’ve come to wonder if that is no bad thing.
Milly. She drifts through my mind, as she so often does, as I walk home. I know nothing about her life now, nothing at all – whether she’s recovered, well, or even if she is still with Matt. Are they still living in Redland? Has she gone back to work? And what about Alice?
Alice. I cannot imagine her, even though I’ve tried to. I picture a phantom child, a mini-me with blonde ringlets and green eyes. Dimples. But what is she like? Is she quiet or rambunctious, clever or dreamy or shy?
As I turn the corner onto my road, I tell myself to stop wondering. It always hurts, even now, to probe those old wounds, the gaping holes they left in my life. Deliberately I remind myself of all the good things I have – a job I love, supportive friends at work, a garden, and now a new friend. Milly and Alice have no place in my life anymore, I tell myself, as I so often do. Not even in my thoughts. The past needs to stay where it is, where it has always belonged – in the past.
This little recitation relieves me; it anchors me to my present, and it reminds me to be grateful.
Of course, I had no idea then that in just a few short months Milly – and Alice – would be catapulted back into the centre of my life – or that I’d wish they never had to be.
Twenty-Three
Milly
‘Mummy, look at me!’
I smile and wave as Alice, for the first time, proudly pumps her legs and the swing sails upward. Her smile is one of pure joy, her blonde plaits flying out behind her as she revels in the moment, the sky a dazzling blue above her.
‘Mummy, look!’
‘Darling, I am looking,’ I say with a laugh. I’m looking and looking, revelling in this moment as much as she is – her success, her joy, the simple purity of a spring day. After everything, moments like these feel both simple and beautiful, gifts of grace. I treasure them all.
It has been over four years since Anna walked out of our house, leaving Alice in my arms. Those first few weeks and months afterwards felt like a prolonged funeral of sorts, an endless grief as I mourned the death of a friendship, of a whole way of life, because even though we’d lost touch at times, Anna and I had been intimately wrapped up in each other’s lives for over two decades. At least she’d been wrapped up in mine, but after the bombshell of her termination, I realised how little I actually knew her. Our friendship hadn’t been as strong or as deep as I’d thought it was.
It was also incredibly challenging, to navigate motherhood when I was still feeling so fragile and uncertain, my confidence at absolute zero. Everything felt unfamiliar – all the baby apparatus, how to change a nappy, how to make up a bottle, how to hold a newborn, Alice herself. Nothing came naturally, as much as I wanted it to.
Alice cried – a lot. Sometimes she would cry so long and hard, I thought she’d choke or have a seizure. Her face would get red, her fists would flail, her eyes would screw up into puffy slits, and she would become hoarse. She was furious and grief-stricken, because she had lost the one person she’d come to know like no other, as a mother, and she recognised me for what I sometimes still feared I was – an impostor. But since being on the proper medication, I knew that for the lie it was, and I was determined to try with my daughter.
My mother helped in the early days, although she tired easily. She was my rock when I needed one, and our honesty with one another strengthened our relationship in a way I never could have imagined. She took Alice when I needed a break, and she handed her back when I needed to bond with my daughter. She taught me how to change a newborn, how to bottle-feed, how to get through the endless days without feeling like a failure. I couldn’t have done it without her, not when I’d already lost Anna.
My mother, amazingly, is still alive. She stopped chemo three years ago and has remained in