Page 49 of The Art of Loving You

‘Norma made this,’ he told me, stroking it tenderly. ‘She used to have the room next to the bedroom as a hobby space. She had a rocking chair by the window overlooking the fields.’

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘It’s our memories. Our life. Remember I told you when we met I’d torn me kecks?’

‘Yes.’

‘This …’ He showed me a charcoal square of heavy fabric. ‘This is a piece of them. You see this one?’ It was ivory, delicate. ‘That’s part of Norma’s wedding dress.’

‘It’s wonderful.’ I ran my fingers over it, marvelling at the small, neat stitches. ‘There’s a story behind every square?’

‘Yep. This floral one here is the pillowcase from the first time we shared a bed.’

‘It must have brought her much joy.’

‘Not always and that’s the point of it, duck. Sometimes it served as a distraction, keeping her going when things were hard, when we couldn’t have a baby, when she became ill. There was also a book she wrote in … It was extraordinary, just like her. She called it her …’ He bowed his head, trying to recall the details. ‘No matter. It’s been lost over time.’ He looked so wistful. ‘But …’ He draped the quilt over both of our knees. ‘The point is Norma found things that lifted her, that kept her going. What’s keeping you going?’

‘I … I don’t know. I’d love to make something like this.’ I fingered the soft material. ‘But I really can’t sew.’

‘It doesn’t have to be a quilt, young Libby. Or a journal. But there should be something, because while you’re using this’ – Sid tapped my head – ‘and these’ – he touched my hands – ‘you ain’t wallowing and I don’t mean that to sound … you ain’t a hippo or nothing but … you need a focus. A project.’ He let his words hang until I caught them.

‘The house?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. That’s a big task but it would be like this quilt you see. A square at a time. A room at a time. There ain’t no rush to complete it. Norma never finished this. Right up until the end she was adding to it. You see this one here …’ Sid pointed out a red chequered piece of material. ‘That was the napkin from an Italian restaurant we went to. She was pretty sick by then, she knew somehow that it would be the last meal out we ever had, and it was. If she was here, she’d still be sewing patches onto this’ – he smoothed out the quilt – ‘because this, life, it’s a work in progress, not a race and Jack knew that. He was always making plans, moving forward. He’d want you to do the same. A square at a time.’

At home I couldn’t stop replaying Sid’s words.

You need a project.

I wandered through the house. There was so much to do it was an enormous undertaking. Every room needed something; plastering, flooring, decorating. But I didn’t need to do it all at once, did I?

A square at a time.

But just one room would take an immense amount of planning and the thought was daunting, frightening, knowing that the success or failure was wholly dependent on me.

The sun shimmered through the grimy windows encouraging me outside. I gazed across the countryside; it was so beautiful here. In the distance, the joyful swoop of a swallow, fearless and free.

Still I felt that low-level anxiety in my stomach, a trapped bird that cawed that everything was transient, breaking me apart with each ferocious beat of its wings.

To clear my mind of its tumultuous thoughts, I decided to go for a walk.

The lambs, bigger now, skipping in buttercup-yellow fields as I meandered along the lane. I walked until my calf muscles were tight and a stitch burned in my side. I walked until a film of sweat coated my skin. I walked until I saw the church spire. And then I knew, subconsciously, that I had had a destination all along.

Despite it being so close by, I hadn’t visited Jack’s grave although Alice had tried to persuade me. She’d been several times, but I was adamant I wouldn’t, couldn’t – and yet my feet had different ideas. I wanted to tell Jack about Norma’s quilt, share that although I wasn’t sure I could manage the renovation, that perhaps I might try.

One square at a time.

He’d have loved that analogy. Although happy still seemed impossibly out of reach I was willing to try positive on for size.

My stomach churned with nerves as I slipped through the black wrought-iron gate. My breath was rapid, sweat prickled my armpits. This first time would be the worst, I knew. Slowly, I headed over to the far side of the church, to the new extension, to Jack, careful not to step on anyone else’s plot, painfully aware that underfoot were people who had once lived, loved, had left behind grieving families and friends.

At last I was under the willow tree overlooking the fields. Shock brought me to an abrupt halt.

There must be some mistake.

I stared in horror at Jack’s grave.

There must be some mistake.

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