Life After You by Lucie Brownlee

Author:Lucie Brownlee
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780753551905
Publisher: Virgin Books

OCTOBER–DECEMBER

‘I think I’m going to make Kate an offer for the house,’ I told Mother.

A look of delight shot across Mother’s face, yet she stayed calm. ‘I think that’s a good idea.’

Having me permanently anchored in the village was music to Mother’s ears. She could keep an eye on me from her vantage just across the road, and buying a house would provide me with another Positive New Focus. Houses require endless attention, from new furnishings to the possibilities of building work, all of which would take my mind off the tragedy which had beset my existence.

‘Why don’t you call her now?’ Mother suggested.

‘Slow down, Mother.’

I could feel myself railing against ‘moving on’ because it seemed synonymous with moving away from Him. I resented Time because with each day that passed, Mark receded further into the past. And it seemed impossible to me that He could ever become part of my past. I wanted Him to be part of my present and future, and of those of our daughter. Which of course, in an entirely abstract way He was. But who wants abstract when all you want is the person?

After consulting the usual line-up of advisors (Mother, Dad, Beth, friends), I made Kate an offer for the little pebble-dashed terrace that had become our home. I needed to feel rooted somewhere; a sense of security to counteract the vulnerability of the past year. Furthermore, the house seemed to have cocooned my daughter and me within its hundred-year-old walls. It felt like a safe haven amid the chaos of life after Mark’s death. And while it broke my heart to think that Mark and I had only ever dreamed of one day owning our own house, the purchase felt like something He would have approved of. More than another pair of shoes, anyway.

I found myself having to decode terminology pertaining to surveys and land rights, contemplate the relative dangers of radon in the soil nearby, contact local authorities, builders, plumbers, electricians, and pay out a fortune for the privilege of their stamp on a piece of paper telling me everything was in order and the sale could go ahead. The solicitor also appeared to lose every single piece of documentation he was sent, thus requiring everything to be sent out twice. A process which should have taken four weeks ended up extending into the New Year, during which I had to face up to another breakdown-inducing scenario. Christmas.

I announced to friends, family and the Competitive Mother at school that I would not be sending Christmas cards this year. Not even those pointless little ones with an illegible scrawl for a name written on them which are ritually exchanged between five-year-olds. For this year wasn’t going to be Happy or Peaceful (and though it was shaping up to be Merry, it wasn’t in the way Competitive Mother meant it). More significantly, card-writing involved contemplating the blank space where Mark’s name should have been, and somehow, a cute Brucie ‘pawprint’ just didn’t cut it as a worthy replacement.

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