One Good Thing, page 30
As her mum, Neesha tried to comfort her daughter. She’d done the right thing. It wasn’t her fault. That’s when Maya told her that she’d lit a candle and left it burning as she’d fallen asleep. She was sobbing so hard it was difficult to hear her speaking, so PC Neesha Sharma did what she was trained to do: she switched from her role as a mother to that of a police officer. She told Maya calmly but firmly that the highly trained firefighters would rescue the boy; that they had special breathing apparatus and would find a safe escape route.
But then PC Sharma saw him: a desperate figure that she knew at once must be the father. His anguish was visceral and, as a parent, it tore at her. Jumping out of his van, he was trying to get into the house, shouting his son’s name over and over again as the firefighters tried to restrain him. He couldn’t go in. It was far too dangerous. He wouldn’t survive the flames and the smoke.
He was with a woman. She was trying to comfort him, while calling out for Harry. PC Sharma didn’t know who that was. The rescue crews only had reports of a young boy trapped inside. That’s when Maya told her mother that there was also a dog in the house. That’s the reason she was alive. A rescue dog, from the shelter that she worked at, had woken her up by barking and alerting her to the fire. If he hadn’t been there, well, it didn’t bear thinking about . . .
PC Sharma looked at the couple, clutching each other now as the firefighters put ladders up against the house, trying to reach the attic bedroom at the back. She felt her breath hold tight inside her chest, as two of them broke a window and disappeared inside. Waited for what felt like the longest time, until one emerged with a small boy in his arms. Watched as the ambulance crew rushed forward with a stretcher. Witnessed the father collapsing to his knees in relief.
She felt the euphoria, followed seconds later by anguish, as the second firefighter reappeared through the window carrying the limp body of a dog.
Harry the Hero
In all the commotion, it’s only after the fire is under control and the paramedics have checked everyone over that a policewoman comes over to talk to me. She introduces herself as PC Sharma, and I later learn that she’s Maya’s mum. We’ve exchanged texts and spoken on the phone, but it’s the first time we’ve met. No one could ever have imagined it would be in these circumstances.
‘I don’t know how to thank you. Your dog saved my daughter’s life.’ She speaks to me as a mother, not as a police officer.
‘Don’t thank me, thank Harry.’
Hugging him as he lies wrapped in a blanket in the back of a patrol car, I find my face streaked with smoke and tears. According to the firefighters’ reports, Harry didn’t just save Maya’s life, he saved Stanley’s too. He refused to leave him, and it was his whimpering that led them to Stanley, and they were both found curled up together under the bed. Stanley has been rushed to hospital; they’re confident he’s going to make a full recovery. Meanwhile the firefighters gave Harry oxygen, in a desperate attempt to resuscitate him.
PC Sharma bends down and strokes his soft head.
‘He’s a hero,’ she says and a look passes between us I bury my nose in Harry’s fur, which smells of smoke and fire and bravery.
‘Harry the hero,’ I murmur, wondering how it’s possible that you can love something so much and feeling a tidal wave of relief as, still wobbly from the smoke inhalation, he manages to wag his tail.
STAGE 7
The Best is Yet to Come
Hey you,
Sorry I haven’t written for a while. The last few weeks have been crazy. So much has happened since my last email about the fire. It’s only now I’ve finally had the chance to sit down and write.
After Stanley was discharged from hospital he went to live at his aunt’s with Ben. They’re going to stay there until their house is fixed up. Luckily the fire damage looks a lot worse than it actually is. It’s mostly smoke damage, but it’s going to need a lot of clearing up and the furniture replacing. Thankfully the insurance has agreed to pay out.
Still, like Ben said, none of that stuff’s important – it can all be replaced. What’s important is that everyone got out safely and Stanley’s made a full recovery. He’s even started at his new school. I think Ben was worried Stanley might be too traumatized to take up his place. Stanley doesn’t like change. It scares him. But when the reporter from the local paper interviewed him, Stanley said that Harry’s bravery had given him courage and made him brave too.
The article made the front page, and there was a photo of Stanley with Harry. The headline was ‘HARRY THE HERO’. Can you believe it? Thrown away like a piece of trash, Harry is now a national treasure. But then I always knew he was special. When I think how close I came to nearly losing him in the fire . . . well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. I couldn’t imagine my life without him now. Maya says I rescued Harry, so now he’s rescued us back.
Afterwards the story was picked up by the national press, and the past couple of weeks have been a bit bonkers. It’s like the world can’t get enough of Harry. Maya set up a Facebook and Instagram page for him and he’s got thousands of followers. She even started a hashtag #bemoreharry. Apparently it trended on Twitter. I say ‘apparently’ because I leave all the social-media stuff up to Maya. She says it’s incredible publicity for the rescue charity and donations have been flooding in, plus sponsorship for free dog food and an influx of potential adopters, so they’re delighted. I’m really pleased about that.
I wish you could meet Maya; she reminds me a lot of you at her age. She’s so ballsy and opinionated: She’s going to university at the end of September. I’m glad she’s got that to focus on. She’s been really upset since the fire and she’s been seeing a counsellor. She’s racked with guilt about what happened, but I keep telling her it was an accident; that it was no one’s fault, and what’s important is that she managed to raise the alarm and everyone got out safely.
But she says Ben blames her, and that he hasn’t answered any of her texts. I don’t know if that’s true. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him properly. There was so much going on that night – the terror and then the relief – and we were just so grateful everyone was alive. That’s the only thing that mattered.
Since then I’ve only see Ben once. It was when the reporters came to do the interview, and he was being both proud and protective of his son. I think having come so close to losing him, Ben wanted to wrap him in cotton wool, but he knew it would be the worst thing for him. ‘Stan needs to be able to enjoy every opportunity. He’s not the one that’s scared. I am,’ were his very words.
I wanted to talk to him about it – about the fire, about what happened before – but there were too many people around. It feels weird. Like something changed that night. We’d got so close to something, but now we’re further apart than ever. I don’t know what to do. Maybe I shouldn’t do anything.
Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I suppose I could really do with my big sister’s advice right now.
Anyway I’ve saved the best to last. You’ll never guess what else happened. Yesterday I got an email from a TV producer in Hollywood and we’ve been invited onto some big talk show! Me and Harry. Isn’t that the craziest thing you’ve ever heard? Turns out his story’s gone viral around the world and everyone wants to meet him. They said we can do it via a live link, so Harry doesn’t have to fly. I think it’s going to be next week, so maybe you’ll see it. Though I don’t know if you watch TV where you are.
Where are you, Josie?
I know you told me you needed to be alone and not to contact you, but it’s been two years now, and I have no idea where you are or how you are. Sometimes I worry whether you’re even alive. I try not to think like that because I believe you are. I believe you’re safe and well somewhere. I have no idea if you’re even reading these emails, but I’m never going to stop sending them. I’m never going to stop hoping that one day you’re going to get back in touch.
OK, I know this email is very long, so I’ll stop writing now.
I love you.
x
A Celebration of Life
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without your flat cap. You look very smart.’
‘Gisele always liked me in this suit. Said I looked like Cary Grant.’
‘Cary Grant was gorgeous.’
‘I used to say to her, “I look nothing like bloody Cary Grant, you daft bugger—”’
‘Do you want a tissue?’
‘Nay, I’ll be right.’
‘I’ve got tissues.’
‘Look at me. Now who’s being a daft bugger?’
‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks, love.’
‘OK, Cary Grant, are you ready?’
‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’
Gisele passed away a few days after the fire. I was still reeling from recent events when I received the phone call. Valentine was with her, holding her hand. He said it was very peaceful. It wasn’t unexpected – she’d recently developed pneumonia and had been moved to the local hospital – but we still wept together on plastic chairs, when I went to pick Valentine up and found him sitting in the side ward with a carrier bag of her things.
The funeral was arranged for two weeks later and I helped him organize it. There’s a lot of practical stuff to sort out when someone dies. It brought back memories of Dad’s death; Josie couldn’t stop crying, so it had been down to me to make all the decisions. And there are so many decisions. Before you can even begin to grieve and deal with your emotions, you’re making tea for funeral directors who sit at your kitchen table, handing you brochures of coffins and asking if you want to fork out a grand for wicker or double that for oak. In which case, have you thought about what kind of handles you want? And will that be burial or cremation? And have you spoken to the local vicar to ask when he’s free to do the service?
Two weeks on Tuesday, as it turned out. Valentine wanted everything kept simple. Gisele wouldn’t have wanted a fuss. Just a few of her favourite hymns and some nice flowers to decorate the village church. She loved flowers. Pinks and purples were her favourite, so I contacted the local florists. I also made a simple notice and put it in the post-office window, announcing when the service would be. There was only one thing Valentine was adamant about. ‘Don’t call it a funeral. It’s a celebration of her life.’
He didn’t expect many people to come – putting the notice in the window was really a ticking of a box: what people do when someone dies. He and Gisele had always been one of those couples that you never see without the other. Nowadays they’d probably call it being codependent, but the simple fact was they didn’t need anyone else; they were happiest in each other’s company. Valentine said that on their day-trips in the camper van, one of them would start singing and the other would automatically join in the melody, singing the descant or adding a riff. They harmonized with each other, not just in song, but in life too.
It’s one of those unseasonably warm days in September when summer has second thoughts and decides it’s not quite ready to give centre stage to autumn. Blue skies and sunshine greet the three of us as we walk along the small path from Valentine’s bungalow and descend the hill into the village for Gisele’s celebration.
Harry is coming with us too. Having seen him on the national news, the vicar made no objection to him attending the service, instead making some comment about welcoming all creatures great and small. As the cobbled lane leads us towards the entrance to the church, Valentine asks to hold Harry’s lead. He needs to do something with his hands, which have been flapping around like a trapped bird all morning. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so nervous. I loop my arm through his supportively.
‘Are you all right?’
He’s quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. ‘I was just thinking. I don’t have any family left. It’s only me now.’ He says it so plainly it almost breaks my heart.
‘You’ve got me and Harry,’ I say firmly. ‘We’re your family.’
He manages a smile, but his red-rimmed eyes betray him. I hold him tighter. Normally so stout, Valentine suddenly seems so fragile.
‘Afterwards we can go to the pub, just us three, and raise a glass to Gisele,’ I continue as we gather pace.
He looks grateful. ‘That’ll be grand.’
I haven’t said anything, but I’m hoping for at least a small turn-out. Evelyn has promised to be there, and Ben replied to my text to say he’s coming too. It sounds silly, but I noticed there wasn’t a kiss at the end of his text. Sadly, Gisele’s sister, Agnès, who lives in Paris, isn’t well enough to make the journey, but apparently her son is going to try and make it. And I’ve had confirmation from some old friends in Leeds, and from a couple of nurses at the care home. Even if only a small handful of people come to pay their respects, it will mean a lot to Valentine. He pretends he doesn’t care, but I know he does.
The vicar is waiting for us as we turn the corner. He smiles kindly and steps forward to greet us. I’ve never been particularly religious, but today I feel a burst of gratitude for his reassuring presence.
‘A beautiful day to celebrate the life of your wife Gisele,’ he’s saying now, shaking Valentine’s hand.
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Luckily you’ve been blessed by the weather, so we’ve found some extra chairs and put them on the grass.’
‘Excuse me?’ Valentine looks confused.
‘For those standing outside. I’m afraid inside we’re at full capacity.’
‘Sorry, Vicar, but I don’t know what you’re on about.’
The vicar frowns and, stepping aside, turns and opens his arms in welcome. ‘The whole village is here to pay their respects.’
And that’s when we see them. Crowds of people, gathered around the porticoed entrance to the church – so many they’re lining the flagstoned path and spilling out into the lane. For a few moments neither of us reacts. We stand and stare, taking it all in. My eyes flick over the faces, so many of them familiar. There’s the landlord from the Crooked Billet, with his family and his bar staff. The ladies who run the local cafe, smartly dressed and without their striped aprons. Sheila the postmistress and Gary the postman.
Oh, look, and there’s Evelyn and the Three Degrees, and several others that I recognize from the different pub-quiz teams. And Maya. She’s here too. Looking red-eyed and emotional, she’s standing apart from Ben, who nods respectfully towards Valentine, but avoids my gaze. I’ve texted him a few times to check on how he and Stanley are doing, but while he always replies, it’s obvious that his feelings towards me have changed since that evening at the hotel.
My throat tightens, but I look away: at volunteers from the village hall, whom Valentine has been showing how to paint and decorate. The farmer and his wife. Local hikers that I’ve seen sitting outside the pub. Dog-walkers, whose faces are less familiar than those of their dogs, which are wagging their tales furiously at the sight of Harry. He responds just as excitedly, pulling at his lead, and I quickly take it from Valentine, who turns to me, his expression one of bewilderment.
‘They’re all here for Gisele?’ His voice wavers, and I squeeze his arm and smile.
‘They’re all here for Gisele.’
And yet while that may be true, it’s more than that. They’re here for Valentine. To support him. To show him he’s not alone. That he’s part of this community, ever since Harry forced Valentine to stop watching life from his window and become part of it again. And as he begins to walk falteringly down the path that leads into the small twelfth-century church, where he’s come to say a final goodbye to his wife of sixty years, he’s buttressed by the strength of the entire village.
I walk alongside him, my arm still linked through his. Losing someone you love is brutal. No well-meaning words or platitudes can ever change that, and yet the villagers’ presence is like a pair of arms hugging Valentine in an embrace. Smiles of affection and solidarity, nods of sympathy and respect, a reassuring hand on his shoulder, a look of understanding. A shared grief. And it doesn’t matter that Valentine might not know every single person here. What matters is that they showed up. They showed up because sometimes it’s only by lifting each other up we are able to bear life’s heavy load.
Inside we’re greeted by the scent and the bloom of flowers. Deep-purple delphiniums and lisianthius, bright-pink cosmos and lilac-edged hydrangeas fill jam jars on the church windowsills, while at the end of the pews the local florists have tied balloons shaped like love hearts. They make Valentine smile, and as the vicar begins his service and we sing hymns, I hear the echo of the crowds singing outside and feel a sense of being a part of something bigger.
It’s uplifting and joyous, despite the sad circumstances, and when I walk up to the lectern to say a few words on behalf of Valentine, who’d baulked at the thought of speaking in public, I fold up the poem by Kahlil Gibran that I’ve rehearsed, with its beautiful words and its profound sentiments. Because, really, is that the best I can do? It might be famous and philosophical, but it’s not remotely illustrative of the two people I’ve got to know, and while my own words will never be as eloquent, they’ll come from the heart.
So instead I tell the packed congregation how Valentine first laid eyes on Gisele as a teenager when he asked her to dance. I tell them about their trip to Paris on a scooter, and how they danced in smoky jazz clubs until they had blisters on their feet. I tell them about Gisele’s tarte tatin and winning second prize at the Dales Show for her dahlias. And I tell them about Valentine winning first prize when she agreed to marry him.
I speak about their daughter Helen, and how much she was loved. About the day we drove to Whitby and they both ate ice-creams and danced together on the beach, to the sounds of the waves and Bill Haley and His Comets. How we weren’t here to say goodbye, because people live on in our thoughts and memories, but instead to say ‘See You Later, Alligator.’ And I tell them how the coffin is wicker and cost a small fortune and, frankly, nobody cares what type of handles it has, because all that’s important is that we’re surrounded by love.
