Page 59 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
Nine years.
Nearly a whole decade and yet, the mark he left on this world is still as fresh as the day it happened. Every year since, London comes together as one to mourn. The entire world misses him, still. Which is so weird because they didn’t know him. They only saw pictures of him and liked him because he was insanely attractive to be a royal.
I turn on my side in bed. Digby sleeps soundly beside me, his chest rising with every breath. He never knows how to treat me today. Am I over it yet? Do I need to be on my own? Should he take me for dinner to celebrate the death of my friend? He doesn’t know how to deal with grief because he’s never experienced it. Everyone he still loves is still alive and I don’t think he realises how grateful he should be for that.
I remember a year or so ago, an acquaintance of his from uni died in a car crash. They shared one class together and shared maybe two words but his face still dropped and his body still went stiff the way it does for people when they’re reminded people can die at any given moment. He couldn’t believe it. Said it was so strange for him of all people to die. He’d just seen him the day before in the hallway. Death for people like Digby is so unbelievable and I find that so hard to comprehend.
I’ve never been that scared of dying. When I was little, the thought of being asleep forever frightened me but then Cynthia told me once that whatever I want to happen when I die, will happen because I’ll still be me—just up in the sky, looking down at everyone and that put my mind at ease a bit. I think the knowingness of nothing is scary for everyone. You can’t explain nothing, you can’t comprehend nothing, you can’t control nothing. Nothing is so weightless that not even the strongest of people can carry it.
I sneak out of bed with the darkness of the early morning still slipping into the room. I don’t check my phone or turn the TV on. I wasn’t that close with Theo. My sister was in his year at school. I only ever spoke to him when our families were together—which was a lot—but he was older and all I was interested in was playing with Arthur in the gardens. But the thought of seeing his face on every news channel under the sun—I just can’t do it. All the documentaries, too. All day from now until about eleven at night, they show a Grosvenor documentary. I think I’m mostly just sad for Arthur today. I tried so hard to take at least half of what he was feeling and feel it myself just so he didn’t have the burden of carrying it all on his own.
Evangeline, too.
I know what today will look like for them. They’ll lay some flowers at the gates of Kensington. Make a social media post. And then ask the public to respect them—which they won’t do because for some reason, they think today is the day to hound them with cameras. They might go to the Abbey for a service but I doubt it. They only did for the first four years. After that, they got tired of not being able to mourn in private.
Evangeline will go to school. People will whisper and wonder if she’s okay. Our headteacher will pull her into his office and ask if she needs any support to which she’ll say no and walk out because all he really wants is something to sell to The Sun.
As for Arthur, I don’t know.
I prepare myself to get a call from Connie to say that he's sorry and that Arthur’s been sent away again. I don’t think it would shock me. Disappointment? Sure. But not surprise. I wonder if he’ll go to Oxford. I haven’t been there since he left. No one has, I don’t think.
Would he want me to go and see him? Should I? Is that too intruding? Do I do it anyway and accept that he might not want to see me today?
I don’t know.
I rest my head against the sofa in the darkness.
It feels different now that he’s back. Last year and the year before, me, Spencer and the boys laid some flowers and then went to the Abbey to light candles. I’d take some flowers round to Sophia, too. Maybe bake her something—nothing special because I actually can’t cook at all but maybe a Victoria sponge—and stay for a while. I’d try to talk with Evangeline, see if she wanted to go to Oxford with me but she never did.
I throw some clothes on, press a kiss to Digby’s forehead and then leave. He won’t be up for another few hours and then he’ll go to class. The city is still asleep. I get there ten minutes earlier than expected. But when I pull up and turn my car off, I wonder why I actually came in the first place.
The Oxford house glows in the early morning sun, quite the contrast to my beating heart and hollow stomach. I don’t why I’m so scared to go in.
Maybe, my brain tells me, I came because I know if Arthur does relapse today, he’ll come here because he’ll know I’ll be here. We aren’t tied by a rope, we’re tied by a metal band that won’t snap even if one of us cuts through it.
I walk up to the front, lift up the right plant pot and put the key through the door. I’m not sure why people keep keys underplant pots, everyone knows that’s where you put keys so it kind of defeats the purpose, no?
What A Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong plays on vinyl—you can tell because it has that sound, that real old, crackling sound—when I stand in the entryway which honestly, really fucking creeps me out because Theo had a real knack for old music. He had a vinyl collection worth hundreds of grand. They’re all still here, actually. He never took them home because I think he was a bit embarrassed by it.
I walk through, drop the keys on the side table, knocked for six when I see Arthur standing in the kitchen faffing with a bunch of flowers.
I didn’t know he was here.
If I did I still would’ve come, though.
I stand stock still in the doorway, watching him. Watching the way his eyebrows frown as he bends down to find a vase from under the sink. Part of me doesn’t want to say anything, startle him. He’s ever so peaceful when he’s concentrating on something and I haven’t seen him look so calm in a very long time.
My head screams at me to leave, to let him get on with it. He clearly wants to be alone—I know I would be.
But when I turn around and go to leave—
“Phoebs?”
I turn, face him, not sure if I should smile or not so I don’t.
Arthur pops the vase onto the counter, mouth slightly open as his eyes trace every inch of me through my clothes. I don’t think he knows what to say, either. It isn’t usually like this between us. We’re more fluent in the language of turmoil and screaming and crying and hurting.
Flowers in a quiet country house aren't really what we know.
