Tell Me Good Things by James Runcie

Author:James Runcie
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing

It was typical of her to suggest a moment of daffiness to add detail and lighten the mood. She also reminded me that Rumpole was based on the idea of a triple narrative and that I could replicate this in Grantchester. There should be a crime story that was solved at the end of every episode, a character plot that evolved through the series and a comic diversion to provide light relief. The challenge was to establish an authoritative tone that the reader could trust, keep all the different balls in the air at the same time, and build to a satisfyingly unexpected conclusion.

‘Simple,’ she said, and laughed. Then she kissed me, lightly, on the lips: a blessing and an encouragement.

We spent so many hours reading, writing and talking through ideas that I came to think of my entire marriage as a process of setting out concepts before editing and revising them. It was not just work, it was everything: plans for a meal or a holiday or when we’d see friends or what we’d say to the children.

Previously I had been irritated when I suggested something to my sister Rebecca and she had replied, ‘I’ll have to check with Christopher.’ Then I realised that I did the same thing. Marriage had made me incapable of independent decision-making.

But now that I was alone, there was no one to refer to in the same way, no companion to keep me in check and prevent me doing something bonkers, someone who would understand all and forgive all. I had friends, of course, wonderful friends and fabulous daughters, but I didn’t have a wife.

I tried to imagine the advice that Marilyn would give me if she was still alive. After all, if my marriage of thirty-five years had been so fantastic, I should at least be able to hear her voice in my head. Perhaps I could go on living by pretending she wasn’t dead at all? She was away at work somewhere, in London or Glasgow or staying with friends. But then, after a while, I thought, That’s enough of that. Time to get back home now. The joke’s over.

I found myself coming out with phrases that I had never imagined saying: ‘That was before my wife died … when Marilyn could still talk …’

On being asked about my marital status, with people assuming that I was divorced, I found myself replying: ‘No, I’m a widower … I was married …’

Then, in a restaurant or at a wedding, I had to find a way of being acceptably single: ‘No, it’s just me. Don’t worry. I’m all right.’

Who was saying these words? They were all emerging from my mouth, but I didn’t want to own any of them. Sometimes, I didn’t want to talk at all, or even, perhaps, ever again. What could I do about this emptying loneliness?

I didn’t want to have to keep going over things, especially the last stages of her illness, or talk about how awful it had all

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