Small Acts of Kindness, page 28
Norton Edbury is very smart though, with his buttonhole and his haircut. I suppose he must be happy. At the very least, I do hope that poor Maxwell has stopped fretting. For days it has been whether Norton’s temperature has gone up or down, and whether or not the marquee reception might go ahead without the risk of him coming into contact with any surfaces which might be contaminated.
I did say, ‘He is hardly going to shake everybody’s hand.’ But a doctor is bound to take these things seriously. Maxwell fears it may be months before we return to normal. That seems pessimistic but he should know, I suppose.
In any case things must be better by June since I have bought my sarong. Rather a bargain in the sales, and such a jolly blue. And the dates are all agreed for Maxwell having Wordsworth.
Here we go, handkerchiefs out. I presume the lady sobbing is the bride’s mother. Same nose. Revolting fascinator.
We are gathered here today. I had forgotten that this vicar has such a strong accent. Newcastle? Somewhere terribly north in any case. And that stoop. Somebody should tell him that it costs nothing to stand up straight. Apart from that, he is rather good. Predictable though. Abiding love, inspirational in the face of such tribulations. To be perfectly honest, it is not as if Norton has had much choice, now is it. Her? Well, yes. She did not have to stand by him. True.
She, Annabella Lucy Hopkins, takes Norton Sebastian Edbury . . . How sweet that lovely little Pom is translating for him. She looks quite pretty out of her uniform. Translating? It is his own language, of course. But I suppose it is best like this. It would take forever if we all had to wait for him to spell it out. Maxwell said it was Norton’s choice to do it this way.
Who is this horsey type coming up to do the reading – such tiny little print, how is anybody meant to read that? Cressida someone? Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediment. Harriet could recite all the sonnets by heart. She loved Shakespeare.
Harriet always said how when a ceremony came to the impediment part, she wanted to jump up and shout out a reason. She said it would have been a good thing for most of the weddings she went to. Of course, they never seem to say the traditional words anymore, ‘speak now or forever hold your peace’. These days so much of it is meaningless waffle about going through life hand in hand or what have you. But nobody ever did stand up anyway. Not even Harriet.
Dear me, look at Annabella’s mother. One would think, given the current concerns, she would not be waving her handkerchief around so.
Maybe Harriet was right. All these weddings, and generally, one knew that they would never be happy, but one never felt one could say. Everybody smiles and sings and pulls out their handkerchief and then – well – sixty-five years have gone and one’s life has disappeared. All those years married and now you’re an old widowed lady with your silly hand that will not grip and your foot that will not lift and your mouth that still refuses to always say the right words. And you make the best of it.
Take these two. Maxwell seems unconvinced that this young lady is right for Norton. He has not said as much but one infers. And, poor girl, I am sure she is a terribly nice person, but how is that good for either of them? He will be so dependent on her and there is bound to be resentment.
And there you have funny Kiki. Not a resentful person at all. I don’t know what it is about her, but she does make one smile, somehow.
Of course, she is not elegant like Annabella. If that were Kiki, she would be fidgeting and looking around or waving at the guests, perhaps, like the toddlers when Vicar puts on the nativity play.
I shall send her an E’Mail this evening. The wedding was fine, I shall tell her, and the weather kept dry.
Such a strong accent, this vicar. He reminds me of an actor. I forget the name but that one who plays miners and criminals.
Annabella is putting the ring on Norton’s finger. And now what happens?
I see. The best man is putting the ring on hers. Maxwell mentioned that she asked him if he might do it and he told her actually he’d rather not.
She’s bending down to give him a kiss. So I suppose that is that.
KIKI
I
T’S NOT ANYTHING TO do with the wedding that I’m crying like this. It’s just that I’m so exhausted. This essay is taking forever and there’s all this other stuff going on. Sue says it’s nature protecting itself from humans doing any more harm to the planet.
So it’s nothing to do with this video that Annabella has put up on YouTube. I’m not even really watching it – which is why I’ve had to start it again – because I’m mostly worrying about this essay – with all these books on the desk here that I should be reading.
Anyway, what can I say? She’s the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen. And Ned. He’s just—
He’s—
I’m so happy for him. For them.
So that’s not why I’m crying. Just tired.
And then there’s this email from Ned, which he must have sent before he went to the church, and there’s the attachment which says ‘music’ and the other one which says ‘words’.
I haven’t opened either of them yet because I have just been so busy and I was studying so late and I’ve just woken up, so I’m only just getting round to it. But of course there’s no reason not to. It’s not like I’ve been putting it off.
I’ll just do it. Now. Just like this. Right now.
So, if I click on the music one – and this play arrow . . .
And . . .
Listen.
That guitar. That tune. I know it. Of course I do. How could I ever forget?
It was Maxwell playing the notes, but Ned telling him what to play. We were sitting in his lovely garden, with the sun shining, and Ned was home just for an hour or two. If I close my eyes now, I can feel the sunshine. There’s Wordsworth and Hector on the ground by my feet. And if I look down to the bottom of the field there’s that big willow tree and the stream. I can feel the breeze.
Listen to that. So lovely. I curtsied that day. Top marks, Kiki Moon. Your normal coordinated self. Maxwell made tea in a teapot, while Ned and I chatted. He had his alphabet board. It was his first time out of hospital.
There’s this other attachment too. Words. And it’s not that I don’t want to open it. I do. But I have all this other work. So really, I should be reading more Principles of Veterinary Nursing Ethics and Basic Practice.
I’ll look at this words attachment later. Now’s probably not the right time. Because my essay is due in in—
Oh, bugger it.
Click.
Dear Kiki,
You once told me nobody would ever write a song for you.
So I did.
I hope you like it.
N
BABY MOON
By N. Edbury
There are stars outside my window
but for you it’s not yet noon,
For you are half a world away,
and I miss you Baby Moon.
I think I hurt you badly
and you left me far too soon
and now I am so sorry,
I miss you Baby Moon.
I cannot sing these words out loud
but you helped me find the tune.
Say that you’ll come back to me,
I miss you Baby Moon.
I’m not crying because I’m knackered. I’m not crying because my essay isn’t written, or because we’re all going to be wiped out by this new virus. Like I said, I’m just tired. But this is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read. Or heard. And I’m looking out of my window, and it’s such a lovely night, with all those stars and this moon just sitting up there, and Ned is a million miles away and he has this whole new life. And I’m not in it.
NED
M
Y WEDDING NIGHT.
Terrence – my now live-in carer – has just left us. I have been fed and cleaned and changed and moved. I am buttoned into brand new cotton pyjamas. Leaning against pillows in pillowcases that may have been a gift. Reclining, you might say.
David Bowie is playing from the speaker. Diamond Dogs. 1974.
I have a view of a cloudless night sky. Perfect full moon and stars, above two large vases of lilies on a windowsill. I can smell the flowers from here, sweet and dusty.
My wife is in the armchair just out of sight, though I can hear her chuckling to herself.
‘I’ll be right there, Norton, darling. I’m just commenting on these pictures of the reception that Toby’s posted.’
In the dark sky, the orange light of an aeroplane is flashing out a regular beat as it jets away to somewhere far off.
MRS M
Mary Malley [mmalley1935@gmail.com]
To: Kiki Moon
Subject: To Miss K Moon
Wisteria Cottage,
Thursday 26th March 2020
Dear Kiki,
I hope that you are coping in this strange and distressing time. As you will have heard on the news, we in Britain are now, like yourselves, in what is being termed a ‘lockdown’. It sounds rather like a game show. It has been a strange few weeks. Your president lady keeps popping up on the radio and television.
You do not need to worry about Wordsworth and myself. We are very self-sufficient and, although I can no longer help at church or attend my physiotherapy or speech therapy sessions, I do not suppose it will be for too long. They say they will review the situation in three weeks and we can still go for long walks in the woods. I spent the weekend stewing fruit and my freezer is well stocked, although the village store has no flour which is rather vexing. Vicar called past yesterday to ask if I—
We all know who that silly howl belongs to. When Mr Wordsworth wishes to come back in from the garden, it seems the whole village must know.
One minute, dog, while I find my stick. Patience, animal. And it is raining, is it not. Let me pop on these wellingtons. Really I should return them to Kiki. If anyone were ever to call round and find me wearing them in the garden, they would think I had gone quite mad. Yes, yes, dog, but the door handle is so stiff. Here we are.
Wordsworth. Come.
Oh you pesky boy, all that noise and you are not even waiting at the door. Where have you gone now? Off down the side, I suppose, wishing Maxwell had never fixed the latch on the gate so that you could escape off to search for Kiki. Well, too bad for you, you are stuck here with me and – whoops-a-daisy, slippy paving stones down here. I must have those seen to. So wobbly. I nearly tripped. Look, this one too. And this.
Really, one could have a nasty fall. Wordsworth. Do you think this is clever? Making me come out here to—
Ow!
Blast.
Oh, my.
Bother. Oh, drat.
My arm. Ow.
Look, dog, what you have made me do. I shall have such a bruise on my poor bottom. Gosh, but it hurts. That, Wordsworth, is your doing. And this poor arm. And now, if I can just reach my stick . . .
If I can just reach . . .
My poor arm.
My bottom.
If I can . . .
TWO WEEKS LATER
KIKI
T
HERE ARE NOISES IN my dream but I’m still asleep and it takes me so long to realise there’s another noise too. A different one. And I’m not really awake. You know when you’re not even quite sure if you are or not. It’s not a dream anymore, just sounds and colours or whatever happens in your head when you’re sleeping. But my phone is on the floor next to my bed, charging up. And that’s what the sound is. My phone ringing. I’m opening my eyes but I haven’t got my glasses on, so I’m pressing the screen for ages before I manage to answer it. I’m trying to say ‘Hello’, but it sounds more like, ‘Hmm,’ eh. Like more of a yawn.
Maxwell says, ‘Hello Kiki. It’s Maxwell.’ I’m still yawning, until he says he has bad news and then I’m awake. Wide awake.
It’s like a jolt.
I can feel it in my throat, like shock. I feel quite sick.
Hello Kiki. It’s Maxwell. I’m sorry if I woke you but I have some bad news.
Really sick. Like I can taste it.
Because people don’t say bad news unless it’s really bad news. Not just bad. If it’s bad news, but not that bad, like, I don’t know, there was a big storm and the pub got flooded and now it’s going to be closed for a long time, then you don’t need to say it like that.
I know it’s really bad too because Maxwell doesn’t speak again for the longest moment. I’m listening, and I’m feeling sick, and it’s just silence. And I know – he doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to give me this news.
He doesn’t want to say it and I don’t want to hear it.
I want to pull the phone away from my ear and throw it across the room, against the wall above the desk. It would crack and smash and break. I feel so sick – but sick in my chest. Like my heart is ready to just, I don’t know, puke.
It’s the middle of the night. Maxwell knows what time it is here. He knows he’s waking me up. He’s calling me with bad news. And it’s so bad he doesn’t even want to say it out loud.
It must be Ned.
That’s what it has to be. The bad news is Ned. Maxwell’s been so worried about him – he emailed me last week and said how he was going to be full-time at home in the annexe now with Annabella, but with a carer living in the studio. He wrote to me not to worry about them, that everybody was fine, but I could tell Maxwell was scared because of the words he used, like vulnerable and compromised and shielding.
And now he’s calling me in the middle of the night. And he can’t bring himself to say it.
It’s like when you drop something. That feeling you get. It’s like sickness and fear and shock and something more. Like not wanting to believe it. Like you just can’t.
When Yaya died I felt sick all the time. And dizzy. The way you feel after flying halfway across the world, jet-lagged. Like nothing was real. Like I couldn’t believe it. Like I was floating.
I can’t let it be real again. Not Ned.
Because I haven’t even emailed him. Since he sent his beautiful song. Not because I didn’t want to. Because I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
‘Kiki,’ Maxwell says. ‘Are you there?’
He was waiting for me to speak. That was the silence. He was waiting.
I try to say, ‘Yes,’ but my throat won’t say anything. It’s too dry. Too scared.
He’s still waiting. And if I don’t say anything he’s going to ask again if I’m here. And then he’ll tell me anyway. And I force the words out but they don’t sound like me.
I say, ‘Is it Ned?’
And I can’t bear it. Because that thing I dropped is about to smash – into a million billion pieces, and nothing will ever be right again. It will be broken forever.
I don’t want to hear it.
I want to scream as loud as any human being can scream. Or run to the toilet and throw my phone in it. And flush it away. And then stay in bed with my head under my hands and not answer the door or look at my emails. Block it all out.
Ned looked into my eyes. He spelt me his words. He wrote me a song. He married someone else and I’m already a little bit broken. But not like this. I’m not ready.
But I’ve said the words now. ‘Is it Ned?’
And I feel so sick. Because it’s coming. Maxwell is going to tell me. He’s going to say it now. And then nothing will ever fix it.
Maxwell says no.
‘No,’ he says. ‘No, Kiki, not Ned. It’s Mary. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Mary’s dead.’
*
She did not want me to know.
She thought I’d worry so she told Vicar not to tell me that she was hurt and to tell Maxwell and Ned not to say anything either.
She fell over in the garden in the night and fractured her hip and cracked a bone in her wrist.
She was there until morning, when the vicar called past to ask if she needed any provisions or medicine fetching from the pharmacy. He’d been making calls on his elderly parishioners. There was no answer to the door but he heard Wordsworth barking. That’s how he knew.
According to the vicar Mrs M was conscious and, apart from the injuries, she was really all right, if rather cross. He said she was put out at being found wearing my frog gumboots. He called an ambulance. But after putting her wrist in plaster and doing whatever they do with a fractured hip, the hospital sent her to a residential home. For recuperation. They told her she would be at less risk from coronavirus there.
They believe it was in the home that she caught it, because at least eight other residents did too.
‘She didn’t email me,’ I say. I don’t understand. Because she’d have done that. ‘She didn’t call me or email me. I mean, she’d have wanted to do that? Definitely.’
But – Maxwell says – she was on strong painkiller medication. For the wrist and the hip. Morphine probably. She was sleeping all the time, even before she got ill. And then it was just a cough, she said, she didn’t think it could be Covid-19, and anyway, she didn’t want to worry me. She’d let me know when she was better. Except she deteriorated. Quickly. And what with the morphine, and the weakness and the illness . . .
‘Antony called me,’ Maxwell says. ‘Ron – Vicar – had rung to ask if he had your address. She left you a note apparently.’
I still haven’t put my glasses on. The room is a bit fuzzy. I’m staring at the desk and the books in their pile.
‘The post is extremely unpredictable at the moment,’ Maxwell says. ‘I wondered if you might like somebody to scan it and email it over to you before sending?’
*
They must be busy at the care home, because it’s not until the next afternoon that the email comes through. At the top is typed, ‘FAO Ms Kiki Moon. My deepest sympathies on your loss. This is the letter that Mrs Malley wrote for you before she died.’ It is signed by somebody called Clara.
