Page 14 of The Shape of Your Heart
‘It was. Still is, if I’m honest.’ This time, my voice trembles slightly. ‘Anyway, I’m glad his bookcase is going to a good home. Shall I help you load it up?’
‘Yes. Thanks. Great.’ He sounds slightly flustered, but then I have just told him the saddest story ever.
The bookcase isn’t heavy and we manoeuvre it through the door and into his car.
He pushes the door closed. ‘Thanks again.’ As he stands there, he looks as though he wants to say something. But he clearly thinks better of it.
‘You’re welcome. Enjoy the bookcase.’ Folding my arms, I watch as he turns the car around before driving away.
Going back inside, I’m unsettled. The guy is nice – Nathan – I read his name on his Facebook message. I almost asked him if he’d like a cup of tea, but I stopped myself. Still caught between the past and present, I have no idea how I’m supposed to do that kind of thing, nor if I’m ready for tea with someone new.
Glancing around my living space, I take in the piles of books I still have, stacked higgledy-piggledy on the built-in shelves. I’ve come to think of them as old friends and I have hundreds of them, collected over the years, belonging to various stages of my life. But as I take in the several titles on grief that are recent additions, it occurs to me that what I need to find now is a book for the next part: beginning to live again.
Having started my clear-out, I need to keep the momentum going. Going upstairs, I swallow the lump in my throat. Since Liam’s accident, I’ve kept this cottage exactly as it’s always been. But I’ve a feeling it isn’t helping me; my inability to change anything is keeping me stuck exactly where I am.
Carefully, I fold each item of Liam’s clothing. Every one of them holds a memory: the grey sweater he was wearing the day we met; the woollen socks he used to wear with his walking boots when we went for a hike. Things I’ve bought him, lovingly chosen. Each shirt – a couple from his city days; the white linen one he wore on the hottest days; the patterned one he was wearing the day he asked me to marry him.
But without Liam in them, they are just clothes, I tell myself, adding them to another bag until every last one of them has gone.
As I take the bags downstairs, I’m fighting the urge to put them back in the cupboard. Before I can change my mind, I carry them out to my car. Locking the house, I drive to the nearest charity shop.
After dropping the bags off, I don’t go home. Instead, I drive to the coast path that starts from the beach in New Polzeath, a place where Liam and I used to walk. It’s the best of late summer days and the beach is crowded, though less so than the main Polzeath beach around the headland.
As I walk, around me the long grasses are sun-bleached, the sky an intense blue. There are sheep dotted across the scrubby hills that slope steeply down towards the sea. Passing only one or two other walkers, the further I walk the quieter it becomes.
I imagine Liam walking beside me, the way he’d point out a buzzard or a swallow, or stop to listen to the sound of the wind, bending down to look at a wild flower we hadn’t seen before. Liam got that about details – how it wasn’t about the obvious, it was about the tiniest, simplest of things.
I walk until the sun sinks lower, sending long shadows across the path, lighting the sky in shades of peach. But as I turn to head back towards my car, I question myself. What do I really want? If I can start to imagine a life going on from here, where do I want to live? I have a whole lot of life left –hopefully. Is it wrong to imagine being happy again?
* * *
It’s dark by the time I get home. I open the double doors on to the garden, standing there for a moment, assailed by the array of scents that seem magnified in the darkness. Rose, mint, lavender, geranium, honeysuckle, each one of them identifiable in its own right, yet blended, forming the most perfect of fragrances.
Turning around, I survey the room. Like everything else in this house in the last year, nothing has changed, yet suddenly I need it to. I start shifting the sofa so that it’s closer to the garden, before moving the dining table and chairs so that they’re closer to the kitchen. Then I start taking down one or two pictures that have been there so long, I don’t even notice them any more.
Leaning them against the wall, I study the room, my eyes turning to the framed photo of Liam and me on the fireplace, noticing the flowers in the vase next to it have wilted. Throwing them away, I go outside, cutting a single rose to replace them.
I reposition the vase next to the photo, standing there for a moment as a trace of its scent reaches me, watching as one or two of the petals drop gracefully, until I’m distracted by a knock on the door. Wondering who it is, I go to answer it.
‘Hey!’ When I open the door, Max leans down and kisses my cheek. ‘Thought I’d pop by – it’s been a while.’
It has been, but Max and I will always remind each other of the saddest day in both our lives.
‘It’s good to see you! Come in.’ I stand back to let him in. ‘How are you?’
‘Pretty good.’ It’s the best he can manage, but like me, Max battles with survivor guilt. He closes the door behind him.
‘Would you like a beer?’
‘A beer would be great.’
Going to the fridge I take out two bottles. Passing one of them to him, I watch his eyes dart around the living area, taking in the changes I’ve made.
‘You’ve been busy, Cal.’
‘I’ve done a bit of clearing out.’ My eyes don’t quite meet Max’s. ‘Books, clothes, stuff like that… I thought it was time.’
He nods soberly. ‘It’s probably a good thing. I don’t suppose it was easy, though.’
