ONE
Nina caught the red light only a spit away from the entrance to the boys’ school. It was a regular frustration at the beginning of the day and something she tended to see as an omen.
Green light, good day. Red light, bad.
‘What’s for supper?’ Connor asked as he pulled at the seat belt of their Audi and flicked his overly long Bieberesque fringe from his eyes with a well-practised jerk of his head.
‘You’ve only just had breakfast!’ Nina smiled at her son, who sat forward with his school bag on his lap. Her youngest, Declan, gave a chuckle from the back seat.
‘I know, but I’m planning ahead. I’m always starving after my match.’
‘Yes, I’d noticed.’ She pictured him in his rugby kit with mud-caked knees, tearing through the kitchen cupboards with locust-like enthusiasm in a desperate search for carbs or sugar, preferably both. ‘What have you got on today apart from the big match?’
‘Nothing.’ Connor extracted his phone from his pocket and began to text with agile thumbs. She decided not to express her concern yet again that all that texting and game playing would lead to arthritis in later life. It didn’t stop her from thinking it though.
‘Nothing? Is that it? Nothing else to share?’ She willed the light to change. It always made her antsy to wait like this, just inches from the school.
‘Nothing,’ he confirmed.
‘That’s what you always say.’ She pressed the accelerator, letting the engine rev, as if this action might in some way influence the traffic light, encourage it to hurry up.
‘Mum,’ he began, sounding much like a statesman about to deliver a valuable sound bite, ‘it’s just my normal schedule, regular classes! I never know what else to tell you.’ Connor held his phone in the air and raised the other hand. His gesture reminded Nina so much of his dad it made her smile.
‘I know.’ She winked at Declan in the rearview mirror. ‘I just wish you did.’
There was a beat or two of quiet while she listened to the movement of Connor’s fingers as they glided across the screen, punctuated by the odd tut.
‘Spaghetti carbonara, by the way,’ she said, leaning towards him.
‘Huh?’
‘For supper, after your match. Spaghetti carbonara. Oh look, there’s George.’ She raised her hand in a subtle wave.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Connor stiffened, eyes blazing.
She stared at him, taken aback. ‘I was just waving to George.’ She pointed at the boy who was a regular visitor to their house, lumbering along with his sports bag slung across his shoulders.
‘God! Don’t do that! Don’t wave at my friends! That’s so embarrassing!’ He slid down the upholstery until his chin rested on his chest.
‘Really?’ She screwed her face up. ‘Waving? That’s a no-no now?’
‘God, yes!’ He sighed.
‘He . . . he did wave back,’ Declan mumbled. His hesitant tone suggested he was torn between wanting to support his mum and not antagonise his big brother. Connor whipped around to glare at his younger sibling.
The traffic light changed from red and amber to green.
Nina pulled away, more than a little embarrassed. The list of things that were forbidden/discouraged/frowned upon where Connor was concerned seemed to be long and ever changing. She found it hard to keep up. She remembered a time not so long ago when this same boy who now seemed to hold her in such contempt ran out of the school gates and straight into her arms, keen to show her whatever he had made that day, while rummaging in her pockets for snacks. Upon discovering a treat, he would reward her with a kiss on the cheek and place his plump little hand inside hers for the walk back to the car. She looked at the tall, muscular boy trying to sink down below the level of the dashboard while texting furiously and felt a flush of sadness; what wouldn’t she give to feel those chubby little arms around her neck one more time.
Thankfully, the Internet had proved to be her parenting buddy. The many forums she could dip into – asking the anonymous question ‘Why does my teenager hate me?’ – offered reassurance by the bucketload that he didn’t hate her, far from it, but was going through a stage of discovery where his love for his mum might at times feel a little . . . repulsive. But it was just a phase. Nina was happy she was not alone. The messages that most gladdened her heart were those that repeated the wisdom: ‘I have been through this. He will come back to you. He will open up. You’ll see.’ She longed for the day when she’d once again be a person of interest in his life, and not just the inept and profoundly embarrassing cook and chauffeur.
‘Have a great day! See you later,’ she called out as her boys climbed from the car. Connor strolled confidently ahead, with Declan trotting behind him on the path, happy to follow in his wake.
She shopped for groceries, lobbing smoked salmon and dainty petits fours into her basket. Back home, she tackled two of the never-diminishing dirty clothes mountains that grew in her laundry room and ran the vacuum over the acres of flooring in their large farmhouse. Finn had suggested more than once that she get help with the housework, but this idea rankled. It was her thing, her job, for want of a better description, and she enjoyed it. It was early afternoon by the time she pulled back into the boys’ school and killed the car engine.
Looking at her reflection in the rearview mirror, she took a deep breath, then exhaled through pursed lips. Steeling herself, she rubbed her palm over the waistband of her jeans, trying to quieten the familiar flutter of nerves as she parked her shiny off-roader among the other sleek models. A car like this was part of the standard requirement when you were a Kings Norton College parent, along with a confident stride, the right accent and a weighty bauble or two glinting on your fingers and dangling from your wrist. She had been gifted the car and the jewellery, but the other two items had proved a little harder to attain. Closing her eyes, she damned the anxiety that left her feeling flustered.
After spritzing her favoured Chanel behind her ears and over her throat, she grabbed her padded jacket from the back seat. The January ground was still hard, and despite the bright blue sky, a chill wind whipped across the playing field. She hesitated at the mini lunch box containing a bottle of water, a ham and cheese sandwich and a bar of chocolate that sat on the passenger seat. She wasn’t sure of the etiquette when playing with the A team. This was the first time for Connor and therefore a big deal for her sports-loving boy. Her instinct had been to prepare snacks, but she was wary of doing the wrong thing, like her earlier waving antics. The thought of embarrassing him or herself sent heat to her face.
Smiling now at the absurdity of her concerns, she thought how ridiculous it was that whether to take a snack or not felt like a decision of such mammoth proportions. She left the lunch box where it was; she could always nip back for it. Hitching her handbag onto her shoulder, she trudged from the car park to the rugby field. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was 1.50. Kick-off was at 2 p.m. There was just enough time to go and find a good place to stand, where Finn would be able to see her easily when he arrived. He’d promised Connor last night he would come. She wished he would hurry up. Nina put her phone in her pocket – it was a useful tool for avoiding eye contact with other parents.
The sports field was busy. Clearly the top team was a big draw; she had never seen quite so many spectators. Her stomach bunched; there were groups of people she didn’t recognise, parents and supporters from the opposing school all wearing the Coteswell Park colours of burgundy and navy, and already calling out instructions to their boys before the match had even kicked off.
‘Come on, Tom!’
‘Keep your eye on the ball, Max!’
‘Stay with your man, Cameron!’
Slow claps followed these shouts, as if these words and gestures could spur their sons on to great things. Nina blinked and looked at the ground, nervous that some of the attention the parents drew to themselves might float upwards and fall on her shoulders. Over the years, her confidence in social situations had eroded. Her world existed within the four walls of their home, ‘The Tynings’, an archaic English word derived from the verb meaning ‘to enclose with a fence or hedge’ – and they had done just that, making a haven for their family. To interact with others exposed the fear that she had nothing of interest to say.
She found it hard to explain to Finn how she felt, knowing he didn’t fully understand what it was like to have grown up in humble circumstances, with shabby rooms and a lack of space. She made no secret of the fact that she loved their home and felt an overwhelming sense of pride every time she walked in the front door. It was where she felt safest, happiest. It lifted her spirits to see how far she had come from the grubby corridors and shared bathroom of her childhood in a rundown Southampton suburb. She had never fully realised how poor they had been, until she grew up and met Finn. Not that he had grown up with the wealth that now surrounded him, but at ten years older, he was more self-assured than her and was well on his way towards success when they started dating. By the time they married, his construction firm was beginning to really take off and they had never had to struggle.
Nina waved briefly to the few parents she did recognise on the other side of the pitch, before positioning herself alone on the touchline. It mattered little that her boys had been at the school for over a decade; she watched as other women greeted each other with the loose embrace and wide, comfortable smiles of people who knew each other well and who she imagined chatting over brunch and taking long weekends away together, drinking wine in front of a sinking sun while their respective broods played football on an expanse of grass. Finn often reminded her that rugby was the common bond at these events and that this was a good starting point for conversation between her and the other parents, and what she lacked in enthusiasm for their chosen sport, he and the boys more than made up for.
The invites had come thick and fast when Connor had first started school, the requests as numerous as they were varied: birthday parties, barbecues and even sailing weekends. Her own feelings of awkwardness meant she felt unable to accept, and after so many polite refusals and insincere rain checks, people had stopped asking, saving both parties any further embarrassment. Connor, she knew, wished that she were as sociable as his peers’ parents, expressing his admiration for the gregarious nature of George’s mum, who after a couple of glasses of Prosecco was the life and soul, but it wasn’t that simple. Nina felt bad that she was in some way letting him down, knowing she had got into a rut of isolation, and with every year that passed she felt less capable of climbing out. Finn told her it was nobody’s business and as long as they were happy that was all that really mattered. And they were. This placated her, but didn’t make Connor’s huffs of disapproval any easier to bear.
The match officials checked the pitch, stamping the chilled soil with their heels and walking the perimeter. Nina tucked her chin into her scarf, trying to avoid the wind. She regularly glanced over her shoulder towards the car park, hoping to see Finn loping up the slight incline with his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and his easy smile of apology that always made everything better.
At least fifteen Kings Norton boys had gathered on the pitch. All looked remarkably similar in their navy shorts and navy-and-white-hooped rugby shirts bearing the school crest and motto: Pertinacia, fortitudo et fides – determination, courage and faith. The cluster of boys made her think about those dedicated penguins that walked miles in Antarctic blasts to find food for their young and then waddled slowly back, among tens of thousands of identical-looking chicks, to find and feed their own.
‘I’d be a rubbish penguin,’ she whispered, unable to pick out her son among the troop.
Suddenly there he was, Connor, not five feet away and in the middle of a huddle of boys who were passing rugby balls to each other, catching and spinning them with confidence. He looked taller, older than he had mere hours ago. She was certain that this posturing was as much about intimidating the other team as it was about practising. She caught his eye and remembered not to wave. Instead she raised her eyebrows and smiled.
‘Where’s Dad?’ he mouthed, looking over her shoulder as if this might reveal Finn in the empty space behind her.
She tapped her watch and made a face that was part smile, part groan.
Connor gave a shake of his head and turned his broad back, continuing to throw and catch the ball.
She sighed, angry again. Not only was she going to have to explain or justify Finn’s absence for the umpteenth time, but it also gave Connor the opportunity to let her know where she ranked in the favourite stakes. Not that she needed the reminder.
The referee had a word with the captains of both teams in the middle of the pitch and then, with great enthusiasm, blew his whistle.
The game was on.
Connor was good, fast, present, and seemed to be wherever the action was. She enjoyed the flicker of pride that stirred in her as her son held the ball tight against his chest, head bent, and handed off a tackle from an upper sixth form boy and skirted past him with a set expression of sheer determination on his face.
Where on earth are you, Finn? You are missing all this!
‘You shouldn’t say you’ll be at Connor’s match tomorrow if you can’t be,’ she’d told him as they climbed into bed last night. ‘I think it’s worse for him to be expecting you and be disappointed. Far better if he knows you can’t make it and that’s just how it is.’
‘You make it sound like I deliberately let him down. Work is crazy at the moment.’
Work is always crazy . . . She swallowed the thought, without the courage to say it out loud.
‘Hey, Nina!’
Kathy Topps’s shout pulled her into the present. Turning towards Kathy, Nina forced a smile as her stomach flipped. The svelte, ponytail-swinging mum stood with her freshly French-manicured nails resting on her bony Lycra-covered hips. Paying no heed to the season, Kathy was always happy to show off her arms and irritatingly flat tummy.
‘Glad I’ve caught you,’ Kathy said in her breathy tone. ‘Can you believe it, another holiday? I always say the more you pay, the less they seem to be in school, drives me crackers,’ she trilled, batting her hand as if to dismiss the topic like a fly. ‘Anyhoo, is Declan going to be around for the half-term holiday?’
Nina concentrated on keeping her expression neutral. Declan would probably prefer not to spend time out of school with Henry, who had a tendency to be mean if things weren’t going his way – and it seemed things didn’t go his way quite a lot.
‘I’m not entirely sure.’ She coughed. ‘We’re hoping to grab a last-minute break if Finn can get away.’ This would make Finn laugh later in the retelling, the way her fallback was to make him the bad guy. Well, today he deserved it for his tardiness alone.
‘Tell me about it. Trying to get these guys to give dates and make a plan is always harder than it should be.’ Kathy sulked, damning the whole of the male gender. ‘I was thinking that Declan might like to join Henry for his tennis lessons? I think they learn so much better when there’s an element of competition in it, don’t you?’
Competition? No – I think it’s the worst way to teach things. Who needs that added pressure? Rather than voice this, Nina looked down at her tan suede boots and tried to think of how best to explain that unlike his big brother, Declan disliked most sports and would rather be reading in a quiet corner than leaping about on the Toppses’ floodlit tennis court with a private tutor firing balls and instructions at him while Henry sneered at his lack of prowess with a racket. ‘Can I have a think about it and let you know?’
‘Sure you can!’ Kathy raised her palms as if this were not an issue, but the set of her jaw suggested the opposite. ‘Is Connor playing?’ She nodded towards the field.
‘Yes.’ Nina beamed with maternal pride.
‘Wow! He’s done well to get a shot – he’s got to be the youngest on the team by at least two years.’ Kathy turned her mouth down and narrowed her eyes, as if there might be more to it, something underhand or intriguing.
‘Come on, Piers! Keep it tight!’ Kathy suddenly bellowed so loudly with her hands cupped around her mouth that Nina flinched. ‘Going to have to go around the other side and give him some advice. Idiot’s getting bloody mauled.’ Kathy sighed with disappointment and walked away with a slight wave of her dainty hand.
Connor looked in Nina’s direction repeatedly, clearly distracted by his father’s absence. Her jaw tightened with tension. ‘For God’s sake, Finn, hurry up!’ she muttered into the clear sky.
Suddenly she sensed his presence and inhaled the distinct scent of him and she felt her resolve weaken, as it always had. There was something about the way he smelled that she found intoxicating. Her breathing slowed and her shoulders slackened in warm relief as she readied to hear one of his many well-practised excuses for his lack of punctuality. But that wasn’t of concern right now; all that mattered was that he was here.
Only he wasn’t.
The empty field stretched down towards the car park. It was the strangest thing; she was sure he was there, but Finn was nowhere to be seen.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She didn’t recognise the number, but this wouldn’t be the first time he had used some hapless assistant to break the news of his absence.
‘Hello?’ She failed to keep a note of irritation from her voice.
‘Is this Mrs McCarrick?’
‘Yes.’
She gave the thumbs-up to Connor who had just executed a rather nifty zigzag run down the blind side.
‘My name is Leslie Ranton and I am a doctor at Royal United Hospital in Bath.’
‘Oh, right.’ Nina thought hard. What appointment had she missed and who with? Declan’s optometrist? Her gynaecologist? Had she neglected to put something on the calendar? Her eyes rolled at the inevitable inconvenience of having to reschedule.
‘I am calling about your husband, Finn McCarrick?’ The woman’s voice faltered a little, even though her tone and words suggested the communication was well rehearsed.
‘Uh-huh.’ She nodded absently, forgetting the woman couldn’t see her.
The woman on the end of the line took a breath. ‘I am afraid that Mr McCarrick has been involved in an accident.’
Nina’s response came out automatic and odd: ‘I don’t think so.’
‘He was brought in an hour ago and I think it would be best if you came to the hospital right away. Is there someone who can drive you?’ The woman spoke softly, as if Nina were a child.
‘Is he hurt?’ Nina held the phone with both hands, waiting for the response, her legs shaking, heart pounding.
The slight pause spoke volumes.
‘I am sorry to tell you, Mrs McCarrick, that he was very badly hurt.’
Oh my God . . . No!
She pictured him leaving that morning, grabbing a slice of toast from the plate on the counter-top, reaching for his keys . . . An ordinary farewell on an ordinary day that was now being made so very extraordinary.
‘Is he . . . is he going to be okay?’ The question slipped past her lips like the sneakiest of poisons, souring her tongue and sucking out any joy that lurked within. She and Dr Ranton were playing a game, with her not wanting to ask if her husband was dying or had died, and Dr Ranton doing her level best to avoid saying anything along those lines.
Again that pause, a silent nothingness that told her more than any words possibly could. How hard was it to say ‘No, he’s going to be fine’? But she didn’t; instead the woman’s words were calm and yet insistent. ‘I think you should come straight to the hospital, Mrs McCarrick.’
And just like that, Nina felt like a child, scared and alone. She pictured the little room in their home in Frederiksberg on that cold day, when the snow lay deep and an icy wind stole warmth from even the cosiest corner. A fire crackled in the open grate, and she, not yet four years old, had watched her dad, Joe, crouch down, resting on his haunches. The stiff leather of his ankle boots creaked with the movement. She sat with her big sister on the red sofa, huddled under a fur throw that absorbed the smell of the fire. She remembered the tears of anguish that snaked down her father’s ruddy cheeks.
This felt the same. Her stomach twisted with the knowledge that there was about to be a seismic shift in her world.
She nodded into the phone and stared at her son. He held her gaze from the other side of the pitch and she noted his stance, his incongruous serenity in the midst of the chaotic jumble of limbs on the pitch.
He looked pale as he walked calmly towards her, as if he were strolling across a meadow, unaware of the grunts, shouts and scuffles of mud-covered bodies all around him. Like a ghost leaving the fray.
She would learn later that she had been making a strange sound, part moan, part scream: a single, guttural yell. This was why her son had walked towards her, but at the time, in her altered state of mind, she was unaware.
Four hours later she put the key into the front door and closed it behind her. The house was silent with a stillness that she had never known before. Kathy would be back with the boys any time now.
Standing in the middle of the kitchen, Nina looked around the room; she couldn’t decide what to do. Even making a cup of tea felt like a Herculean task, as well as utterly pointless. Ordinarily at this time of night, her fingers would be darting in and out of the wide self-closing drawers, reaching into familiar spaces for glass bowls, her hand whisk, or a deep enamel frying pan in the same pale blue colour as her custom-made five-oven range. She would be humming as she made her way across the smooth oak flooring to the double-fronted, stainless steel, larder-door fridge, pulling out all manner of goodies – a quart of double cream; wax-wrapped slabs of bacon; and fat, fresh organic eggs delivered by the farm shop, as she prepared supper for her boys and her man, due home.
But not tonight.
Placing her hand on the cool granite she let the cold surface suck away the heat of her palm. Her breathing was loud in her ears, as if she were underwater. She swallowed, hoping this might help; it didn’t. She pictured bursting through the surface of the swimming pool last summer, having swum the entire length underwater. Finn sat on the diving board with his Tom Collins over ice in a tall glass, as he whooped and cheered, ‘You did it! The whole length! Go, Nina!’ If the weather perked up over Easter, they would get the pool cleaned and re-create those lovely evenings of messing about in the water. It was her favourite thing to do. Fire up the grill and sit with their legs dangling in the water, admiring the view—
Oh no. The thought stopped the breath in her throat. That can’t happen now. That won’t happen again. There it was: the realisation like a door slamming in her mind. Nina braced her shaking arms on the counter-top, fearing that if she let go, she might tumble to the floor, and if she did, she wasn’t sure she would find the energy to stand up. God, that felt scary, I want to speak to Finn . . . and bang! There it was again.
And again.
And again.
And again . . .
‘Oh my God, Finn!’ She spoke aloud. ‘I can’t imagine a me without you. I can’t picture the kids without their dad. I can’t imagine a world without you in it.’
She wasn’t sure how long she stood leaning on the island in the semi-darkness. Time seemed to be playing tricks on her. She heard the front gate buzz and walked slowly to the entry system and pressed the button, picturing the high metal gate swinging open.
Shuffling into the grand hallway, she stood by the round table, inhaling the scent of flowers from the stunning display, a mixed bouquet ordered weekly, but even this offered no comfort. She expected the boys to run at her, imagined them hurtling through the door, dropping their bags and dashing in, frenzied and loud. She tensed her limbs for just this. It was therefore a shock when instead the door handle slowly twisted and the wide door opened gently, revealing her sons, who seemed to have shrunk in the intervening hours. At the match she had told Connor that Finn had been hurt, nothing more, and given him the instruction to look after his little brother, explaining that Kathy would bring them home. Nina had been too numb to be grateful, too distracted by the task of getting to the hospital and being with Finn.
The boys, in front of her now, were bowed and quiet. Gone was the confident colossus of the rugby pitch and in its place stood a fifteen-year-old boy, his skin pale, his eyes vacant and his mouth tight. Declan whimpered quietly. He was nervous and twitchy, his eyes huge behind his glasses. She could see that the uncertainty, the lack of information, was gnawing at them. Bile rose in her throat at the prospect of what she had to do. She swallowed again and tried to stand tall.
‘They didn’t want any supper. I did offer.’ Kathy spoke over their heads as she loitered in the doorway, her voice quiet, apologetic, as if aware that she shouldn’t be breaking the silence, shouldn’t be there at all.
‘Thank you for . . .’ And just like that, Nina couldn’t remember what she was thanking her for.
‘No worries.’
Nina couldn’t recall if she said goodbye or spoke further, but she was aware that Kathy had gone, and she was grateful.
Connor stared at her. ‘Is he . . . ?’ Nina noticed how he clenched his hands so tightly that his fingers were white. His voice trembled, as if the words were too terrible to voice, the whole idea too horrible to contemplate.
She stared at him, and prepared to engage in the same verbal dance that she and Dr Ranton had perfected earlier. The expression on her boys’ faces told her they too were smart enough to realise that, were they available, words of comfort and reassurance would be the first thing she would utter to make everything feel better.
Nina reached out her arms towards Declan, who stepped forward carefully, then stopped within touching distance. She pulled him to her chest, stroking his thick, dark hair. It felt easier to address Connor without having to look into her baby’s eyes.
‘He died.’ She spoke the words that sounded unreal: how could they be true? ‘Daddy died.’ Declan went limp in her arms, and she held him up until the strength returned to his legs.
She had imagined this exchange on her way home, playing out various reactions from her boys, many violent, some loud and all accompanied by a deafening howl of distress. The silence that enveloped the reduced family was something she could not have predicted. Connor pinched his nose, bowed his head and covered his eyes as his tears ran over his fingers and fell in splats on the wooden floor. The three stood, unified, as their distress seeped from them. She reached out her hand and beckoned her eldest son closer, and with desolation and sadness as their glue, they were all joined, arms around backs, heads touching: a three-headed thing, mourning the equally monstrous event that had befallen them.