Meeting Lydia Page 24

  But later in the evening, her parents’ phone rang after supper and it was Johnny as it often was. But this time the words he spoke sent a chill surging through her body from head to foot; words that would echo for the rest of her life, and she knew that the joyous summer would be cut short and that nothing would ever be the same again.

  “Darling, can you come home tomorrow; Holly’s fine, I’m fine … It’s Dylan … He’s had an accident, been rushed into surgery and he didn’t come through.”

  33

  Aftermath

  Back in London, the house in Beechview Close woke up with an impenetrable atmosphere of brooding grief. Marianne had returned home by train the previous evening, and after a restless night, she was sound asleep when the noise of a lawn-mower from next door filtered through to her unconscious and began to rouse her. Where was she? What day was it? Bit by bit cold reality dawned and a sick and heavy feeling settled in her stomach. She struggled awake, frowning, licking her lips, her mouth dry, and reached out a hand towards Johnny’s side of the bed. She felt the warmth of the sheet that he had just vacated and left her hand there as she turned on her back, wondering how she could face the day.

  Dylan has been killed, she thought.

  Dylan is dead.

  Should one say ‘dead’, or ‘passed away’?

  Dead … dead … dead.

  She played with the word until it lost its meaning. So final, so empty. She had an aunt who was fond of euphemisms for death. Euphemisms that had once made her laugh. Kicked the bucket; snapped the twig; pegged out. So much more palatable than ‘dead’.

  The smell of new-mown grass filtered through the window and tickled her nostrils. Johnny was in the bathroom and she could hear water from the shower splashing on the tiles. He had been very purposeful and busy since she had come back, rarely stopping for more than an exchange of a few words, even eating supper at a different time. She had wanted closeness and reassurance but he seemed even more remote than when she left. Keeping busy was his defence mechanism, she supposed. Perhaps she should try the same. She needed to be strong for Holly.

  The previous evening, Holly had been hunched and tense, arms wrapped round her knees, curled tightly on the sofa. She had lost her characteristic sunny temperament and seemed inhabited by another’s essence, all sharp and brittle and lost. Marianne had never seen her daughter so distraught. Holly’s life had until now been an easy breeze. She had good health, enough money, a good brain and many friends. This tragedy was something new for her. With other members of the family at the other end of the country, the bonds were never strong and she had taken the loss of paternal grandparents in her stride.

  As for the meeting with Edward, how unimportant it suddenly seemed. The candy-floss feeling had dissolved into nothing. How quickly she had reverted to sensible, mature adult with crisis to deal with and others to care for. Of course he had to be contacted and she had chastised herself for not asking him for his phone number when she had given him hers.

  After Johnny’s heart-stopping call, she had found Edward’s parents’ address in the phone book and left a message with his mother. Of course he would understand, said his mother. She sounded like an older version of the voice on the Victoria line tube trains. ‘The next station is Green Park; change here for the Piccadilly and Jubilee Lines. Alight here for Buckingham Palace …’ Velvety smooth, supremely composed, a little wary perhaps, of this woman from long ago who said she was meeting her son.

  Of course Edward would understand … But were they destined never to meet? If she had had his phone number, at least she would have heard his voice. Were the fates dictating that no matter how many plans they made, there would always be something in the way? Did the fates know something that she did not: that a meeting would destroy the uncomplicated camaraderie they shared?

  Tick-tock … It seemed days and days since she had been sitting on her piece of bleached tree trunk by the Solway, watching the children in the sun, full of her own excited anticipation for the imminent meeting. Yet it was less than forty-eight hours ago and her world of hopeful joy was now in tatters.

  Thoughts of Dylan were never far away. She heard Holly speaking his name with love; saw him lolloping through the house, so full of life and hope, exuding charm from those prosimian eyes and grinning on the Greenwich pier when she confronted Charmaine.

  She heard the shower stop hissing and the familiar clunk as Johnny stepped from the bath. She must get up. She really must, but it was excruciatingly difficult to swap the safeness of the duvet for the unappetising day that lay ahead.

  Where was Holly? What would she say to her today? She felt inadequate; incapable of dealing with a grieving daughter. What would they do, filling in the empty hours before their journey to Sussex tomorrow? A wave of intense heat came over her. She could feel the perspiration creeping through the channels to the surface of her skin and she hauled herself out of bed just as Johnny came back to dress. They grunted at each other, barely exchanging eye contact.

  Holly was already up when Marianne went downstairs. She was sitting in the living-room in jeans and a blue vest top, legs tucked under her like her mother so often sat. Her hair was uncombed and she was gazing into space. She turned, looking sad, as if she hadn’t slept all night.

  “What happens now, Mum? Where do I go from here? He was ‘the one’ … The one that people say you’ll know when you meet. I knew within days – within minutes – of meeting him. You and Dad knew he was special, didn’t you? I could tell you were impressed.” She smiled through watery eyes.

  Marianne sat down beside her and took her hand, brushing the hair from her face, feeling the soft resilience of her cheek. She seemed younger and fragile and oh so precious.

  Holly continued: “You didn’t give him the third degree. Didn’t ask what his parents did or pin him down about his future. You knew he’d sort it out in time. You trusted him. I trusted him. He wasn’t like the others, all full of themselves. He was bright and funny and he made me laugh more than I’ve ever laughed. But he was strong and sensible inside, and he loved me back. He really loved me back, Mum. Not like pretending just so he could get what he wanted. He didn’t play games or try to be something he wasn’t. He was the Prince after all the frogs and I thought that I was so, so lucky to have found him so soon.”

  “You were lucky, love. You will always be lucky to have known such a man and to have him love you.”

  “He was my Antony; my Romeo. We were so happy together. Is that not allowed? What happens now, Mum? There can’t be another ‘one’ for me. That wouldn’t be fair. I won’t get a second chance. I shall be alone forever; I shall never love anyone like I loved Dylan …” And the tears fell freely again as they had done ever since she heard the news.

  Marianne just shook her head. The pain in her daughter’s heart cut at her own sensibilities until she felt them raw and bleeding, but she was at a loss what to say or do. What, indeed, happens now?

  De-cluttering: that was the thing. Keep active; stop the brain from whirring and she padded back upstairs to the bathroom, bleary-eyed with her own unshed tears.

  Throw away ten things, she said to herself after breakfast, because that’s what the Feng Shui experts recommend. Then throw away ten more. She started with clothes, searching her wardrobe and chest of drawers for anything that could go to the charity shop. She began with the mini skirts. Getting too old for these … Or am I? Wouldn’t wear them on a night out with friends any more … Wouldn’t wear them to work … Wouldn’t wear a mini skirt for a meeting with Edward. (Hell, no!) And she began to fold them up and place them in the charity bag.

  But Johnny likes me to wear minis. He thinks they’re sexy … maybe I should keep just one for special occasions behind closed doors … Ha! If we ever have such occasions again … And she took from the bag his favourite black lacy one and put it back on a hanger.

  She found jumpers and tops that had long since been out of fashion. Enormous, shapeless, grunge-style tops that wou
ld fit someone twice the size. Only keep it if it fits, if it suits you, if it’s the right colour, if you really loved it; only keep it if it’s in good condition … She heard the words of the Feng Shui experts and piled them in the bag.

  After this she tackled the stack of books in the spare bedroom-cum-office; paperbacks that would never be read again. In among them were a couple of old sex manuals. She hesitated. Would these be accepted at a charity shop? She wasn’t sure. There was no point in keeping them; they hadn’t been looked at for years. She and Johnny had their routines – not that they were unadventurous, but they knew what worked and what was best left alone. Didn’t want to bin them either after all the stories of people rifling through the rubbish. She could see the headlines: ‘Psychology Teacher in Kama Sutra Scandal.’ She idly flicked through one of them. Photographs of a toned, tanned and attractive couple in acrobatic positions. Never did try half of these! Getting too old now. Too stiff; too creaky! She wondered if she should start doing Pilates or Yoga. She dropped one of the books in the bag, (give the grey-permed, elderly volunteers something to laugh about!) and took the other back to her bedside cabinet, just in case.

  To: Marianne Hayward

  From: Edward Harvey

  Date: 6th August 2002, 14.15

  Subject: Sad News

  Dear Marianne,

  So very sorry to hear your sad news. Sounds like the rest of the holidays will be difficult.

  Leaving for Maryport shortly.

  More anon.

  Best wishes,

  Edward

  So that was it. Yes, he understood, but there was no expression of disappointment that they hadn’t met. Heigh-ho!

  To: Marianne Hayward

  From: Abigail Ross

  Date: 6th August 2002, 18.06

  Subject: Brocklebank Reunion

  Dear Marianne,

  I’ve just heard there’s an informal Brocklebank reunion on the Sunday of Bank Holiday Weekend. It’s up at Brocklebank. Eightish. Susannah Colquhoun phoned me. She and Willie have organised it with Barnaby Sproat of all people. They bumped into him in Whitehaven apparently.

  I know it’s short notice, but it would be great to see you.

  Maybe you’ll get to meet Edward at last!!

  love

  Abi

  To: Abigail Ross

  From: Marianne Hayward

  Date: 7th August 2002, 19.22

  Subject: Re: Brocklebank Reunion

  Dear Abi,

  Wow! A reunion after all these years! Thanks for letting me know. I am not sure whether I will be able to make it as Holly’s boyfriend has just been killed in an accident and you can imagine things are a little difficult here at present. Had to cut short my stay in Allonby – which was why I didn’t phone you. We are all devastated. I’ll let you know about the reunion nearer the time. Unfortunately Edward is doing a major piece of excavating in the Scilly Isles from the end of August until late-September. But it would be interesting to see what has happened to some of the others – and I’d love to see Susannah again.

  Will be in touch in a week or two. love

  Marianne

  She clicked the Send button and sat back in her chair, remembering what she had been doing when the phone rang to deliver the dreadful news. She had been listening half heartedly to Top of the Pops 2. Donovan was singing ‘Jennifer Juniper’ – black and white footage from the late sixties. Her father had answered the phone and handed it straight over. No pleasantries first. She should have known there was something wrong.

  “Hello, love.”

  Then the news; straight to the point. Best way.

  Donovan’s gentle voice had lilted in the background about dappled mares and young love and being pretty. She would now always associate the song with Dylan’s death.

  That night she dreamed again of Edward and that they met in somebody’s house. It was a cold, dark house with bare brickwork walls and tiny windows through which occasional rays of sun managed to sneak through, casting a dusty beam down to the rustic table and the bare floor. They were children again and Edward wouldn’t speak to her. She followed him round like a dog, waiting, hoping, but he brushed her aside because he was busy making breakfast; frying bacon and eggs in such quantity that he might be feeding an army.

  When she woke she was momentarily thoughtful, experiencing something strangely familiar; a subtle echo of loss from all those years ago; from that September when she went into the fifth form room expecting him to be there, and that horrible feeling of dread and emptiness when his desk remained unfilled and a realisation that he was gone forever spread throughout her being. She was left to face the world of Sproat et al without an intellectual ally; someone that even then she felt could have been her friend.

  She thought of the reunion and of the possibility of going, of facing them again and of settling scores.

  The funeral was a bleak affair as they always are when a young person goes before their time; parents faced with sorrows they never thought they’d have to bear. In Rustington Parish Church with its imposing square tower, mourners crammed inside and spilled outside onto the pathways, paying their respects. The whole of the village seemed to have turned out, together with a vast representation from the local schools and the university.

  Marianne noticed that nearly all the young people were wearing black. She prayed for Holly’s safety and knew that there were no words that would comfort Dylan’s family, for such a loss produces grief beyond the grief when other loved ones go. A grief that would pummel their hearts and leave a void that could not be filled. The grief would lead to guilt, to madness, to certain knowledge that life would never be the same again; that though there may be joy, it would be a hollow joy with the catch of breath when memories impinged upon the present.

  “I want to know what happened, Mum,” Holly had said in the car on the way to Rustington. “But how do I ask? Who do I ask? I want details. I want to know whose fault it was and if he suffered. I want to know how long he took to die?” She sniffed and began to sob again.

  “Remember, love, that they will be heartbroken too. They might not want to talk about such things.”

  “Then I’ll never know. We may not meet again.”

  “Let’s wait and see how the land lies,” said Johnny without averting his eyes from the road ahead. “They may want to tell you. You might not need to ask.”

  “I wish today was over,” said Holly. “Why is it that time can go so slow?”

  When they stood round the grave in churchyard, Marianne was struck by the total lack of siblings and how lonely Dylan’s parents looked with their arms around each other. That’s what it would be like if we lost Holly. The whole investment gone in an ill-conceived second. She shuddered at the thought.

  The immediate family and close friends went back to Dylan’s parents’ house on the edge of Rustington. Marianne was surprised at the number of similarities with Beechview Close. All the questions that she had refrained from asking Dylan were answered in a moment. But she wished it hadn’t been this way.

  “Oscar Hellebaut,” said Dylan’s father, holding out his hand to Marianne then Johnny.

  Marianne knew from asking Holly earlier that he was Principal of a local FE college. This was a time when talking shop would be a preferable option to the topic that was foremost in everybody’s mind.

  “Hellebaut is an unusual name,” she said, realising that she hadn’t known his name until now.

  “It’s Belgian. There’s only one other family in England as far as we know. In Nottingham. The Hellebauts come from a long line of organ builders … but somehow the musical genes seem to have passed me by. Tried to play piano and guitar, each without success.” He smiled weakly.

  “The music in the church was lovely, though,” said Marianne, struggling at first for words, then almost without her brain engaging, she found herself talking about Dylan and how much she had liked him during their brief meeting.

  Oscar Hellebaut nodded. “Everyone loved Dy
lan. He had charm and charisma and you don’t see much of that among lads of his age.”

  All around there were respectful voices and sympathetic eyes.

  It was during a quiet moment when many people had gone that Carmen Hellebaut, Dylan’s mother, came up to Marianne and Holly.

  She was a tall, thin woman with Dylan’s eyes and curly brown hair reluctantly subdued by two large black slides. “So good of you all to come,” she said, shaking hands. Then she kissed Holly on both cheeks and smiled, sadly. “I expect you would like to know what happened, dear.”

  Holly nodded.

  “You know what the young are like … always in a rush … We always told him to be careful who he got in a car with. Not to be a passenger with anyone who’d been drinking … you know …

  “Anyway, it seems that it wasn’t Danny – the boy who was driving – who was over the limit, but the fellow driving the Porsche. Lost control and veered across the carriageway. Sent Danny and Dylan ploughing into a tree. Passenger side completely crumpled. He didn’t have a chance, love.

  “He was barely alive when the fire brigade cut him out. Probably unconscious from the start. He wouldn’t have known much about it.”

  “But Danny walked away, unhurt. How?”

  “Just the way things happen sometimes, dear. Danny feels terrible; says he wishes it had been him. It wasn’t his fault. He is not to blame.”

  “I don’t know what to say to him,” said Holly. But later she did a very brave thing: Marianne watched her go over to Danny and give him a hug.

  “Johnny, there’s a Brocklebank reunion at the end of the month,” broached Marianne later in the day when they had returned home and changed from funereal black into something more comfortable. “At the hotel that it is now.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Don’t know if I should leave Holly.”