Page 10 of A Wish For Jo
Those words were inher voice. The voice he carried with him like a precious gift, as if everything she'd said over the course of their relationship had been stored inside. Every thought shared, every opinion expressed, all tucked away for posterity.
'I won't.' Harvey closed the wardrobe. He eyed the bed, its bottom sheet crinkled and the duvet piled in a heap. When had he last changed the covers? Two, three weeks ago?
A wave of exhaustion hit him and he slumped on the bed, pulling the duvet over his weary limbs. He had nowhere to go, no one to see, nothing that prevented him from seeking solace under a crumpled, stale quilt.
Closing his eyes, Harvey drifted off on a wave of bad smells and worse memories. How could a man have it all — the perfect wife, the perfect life, the perfect career — only for it all to collapse like a badly played game of Jenga?
Lindsey's illness had come first. A cough that persisted, stubborn against the various potions dispensed at the chemist. She'd insisted she was fine. Why wouldn't she be? The woman pounded out miles on the treadmill, made smoothies every morning, and had never smoked in her life. She was a poster girl for the fifty-somethings who stuck two fingers up at articles stating what women of 'a certain age' should wear, or how they ought to behave. A rebel with a clear cause: live life to its fullest, and bugger the naysayers.
Harvey flipped over, trying to turn away from the images of Lindsey's rapid decline and the diagnosis that had stunned them both. The unfairness of it all: his beautiful wife destined to wither away, despite all the drugs, treatments and technology available in the twenty-first century. She fought and she fought, but in the end, the slayer couldn't conquer the dragon.
What had come next? Harvey tried to sort the pieces in his mind. The months of grieving, of waking up and hoping it had been a bad dream. The support of colleagues, being on location filming and escaping himself for a little while. Inhabiting another skin, and shedding the one that kept you flailing around in misery. It had worked for a while to dull the pain.
Snatching the fresher pillow from the opposite side of the bed, Harvey craved a glass of something strong, but hadn't the energy to go downstairs. He'd kept a bottle of whisky by the bed for a while, but he knew that was a road best not travelled.
Funny how life dumps on you from on high, then comes back to dump some more. Harvey could never have anticipated the next cruel twist, and he'd been too numb with grief to see the signs.
A fellow actor went out of her way to cheer him up with small acts of kindness. Things like fetching him his favourite takeaway coffee, often with a sticky bun or a chocolate bar. He'd never admitted to disliking chocolate. He was too polite to say, and in hindsight, he'd been flattered by the attention. And where was the harm in going for the odd drink together once they'd finished a gruelling day of filming? If other people raised eyebrows, Harvey didn't care. It was when she started turning up on his doorstep, claiming she was 'just passing', that the alarm bells rang — but not loudly enough. By the time he realised what she was doing, things were already out of control.
Sod it!Harvey levered himself upright and groaned as his right knee refused to cooperate with the left. Hobbling, he cursed under his breath. He'd let everything slide since losing Lindsey, his job and his self-esteem. At least his friend Johnnie Walker didn't judge or pass comment. They'd sit together for a while, until the edges blurred and the world seemed a little more bearable.
CHAPTER12
'Any plans for the day?'Jo's mum asked as she cleared away the breakfast bits. When Jo had been in her teens, her mum had worked part-time in the local library. A total bookworm, she usually had several on the go: everything from romantic novels and gritty thrillers to cookery books and biographies. Jo had inherited her love of baking from her mum, with Fridays after school set aside for a full-on cake-making session. Unsurprisingly, Jo's friends loved to drop by on a Friday evening to sample the goodies.
'Erm, not really.' Jo grabbed a tea towel and started on the drying up. 'What day is it?'
Her dad laughed, a sound she'd never imagined hearing again. 'You're a bit young to be forgetting things, love!' he said. 'Unlike me and your mum. Lucky I've got my trusty work diary to keep me on my toes, and your mum's always scribbling wee notes to herself.'
'It's Saturday,' said Helen, squirting the greasy frying pan with washing-up liquid. 'Are you not heading into town? I'd come with you, but there's a mountain of ironing to do and your dad's promised to fix the dripping tap in the cloakroom. Married to a plumber, and I still have to join the queue to get a wee job done.'
'Could we do something together? The three of us, I mean.'
Both her parents stared at her. God, had she been such an awful daughter that the suggestion of spending Saturday with them stunned them into silence?
'Are you sure, love? Maybe you're coming down with something,’ said her mum, reaching out to touch Jo's forehead. 'Barbara at the library had a shocking tummy bug last week. I swear she got through a month's supply of toilet roll, and you know how stingy the council is with basic supplies. And the gurgling noises when she—'
'Too much information,' chided her dad. 'If our girl wants to spend time with us wrinklies, that's what we should do.'
'But what about the tap? And the ironing?' Her mum's brow creased, reflecting her anxiety about the ironing.
'Mum, these things don't matter. Who cares if a tap drips for one more day, or Dad wears crumpled boxer shorts? Dad doesn't need razor-sharp folds in his underwear. Do you, Dad?'
Neil had the good grace to look embarrassed. For years, Jo had tried to persuade her mum that she spent too much time dealing with petty details instead ofliving. Her mum argued that attending to little things gave her pleasure: a sense of order in a world dominated by chaos, inequality and injustice. Helen Milligan couldn't change the world, but she'd tried to maintain her own quiet corner with dignity, fabric conditioner and slices of roly-poly pudding.
'Well, you're not at the supermarket today, so I guess we could go somewhere. Where do you fancy, love?'
Jo rifled through her brain, trying to think of a place. A happy place, that would give her new memories to cherish. Somewhere, when this wish ended, that she could revisit to hold on to the happiness and let it wash away the grief she'd carried for so long.
It came to her in seconds. 'Let's go to Largs. We can eat fish and chips and mushy peas and walk along the promenade. And then we can have ice cream — Italian ice cream, gelato — and hope the bloody seagulls don't swoop down and snatch the cones.'
Jo had always loved Largs. Under an hour's drive away on the Firth of Forth, it boasted stunning beaches, an elegant Victorian promenade, and possibly the best ice cream anywhere in Scotland. Not to mention Hasties department store, where you could buy anything from a kilt to tinned smoked mussels. A veritable Aladdin's cave, which brought Aaliyah to mind, it had closed down in 2015 or thereabouts. But this was 1993, and it would still be there in all its eclectic glory.
'I can drive if you like.' Jo's parents owned an ancient Ford Fiesta nicknamed Betty, as well as her dad's functional white van withMilligan's Plumbing Services (No Job Too Big Or Small)emblazoned on the side.
'You haven't passed your test yet, love.' Jo's mum gave her a puzzled look and felt her forehead again. 'She's a wee bit hot, Neil. Why don't you fetch the thermometer from the first-aid kit?'
The heat emanating from Jo owed more to embarrassment at her gaffe than any tummy bug. She'd gained her driving licence days before her nineteenth birthday, after more lessons than she cared to remember.
