My reflection hasn’t changed. I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing here, but I’m aware that some time has passed because I am starting to feel very cold again. This is a familiar sign that I have ground to a halt, come to the end of the current step and forgotten how to make the transition to the next. But maybe this time my delay is deliberate. The next step will be the hardest of all.
The dress I bought for the occasion is actually quite pretty without being too formal. The navy jacket makes it look suitably smart. Blue because it is Lochan’s favourite colour. Was Lochan’s favourite colour. I bite my lip and blood wells up on the surface. Crying is apparently good for the children – someone told me that, I don’t remember who – but I’ve learned that for me, as with everything I do now, there is no point to it. Nothing can relieve the pain. Not crying, laughing, screaming, begging. Nothing can change the past. Nothing can bring him back. The dead remain dead.
Lochan would have laughed at my clothes. He never saw me so poshly dressed. He would have joked I looked like a city banker. But then he would have stopped laughing and told me that actually I looked beautiful. He would have chuckled at the sight of Kit in such a smart suit, suddenly seeming so much older than his thirteen years. He would have teased us for buying Tiffin a suit too, but would have liked the brightly coloured football tie, Tiffin’s own personal touch. He would have struggled to laugh at Willa’s choice of outfit though. I think the sight of her in her treasured violet ‘princess dress’ that we got her for Christmas would have brought him close to tears.
It has taken so long – nearly a month because of the autopsy, the inquest and all the rest – but finally the time has come. Our mother decided not to attend, so it will just be the four of us in the pretty church up on Millwood Hill – its cool, shady interior empty, echoey and quiet. Just the four of us and the coffin. Reverend Dawes will think Lochan Whitely had no friends, but he’ll be wrong – he had me, he had all of us . . . He will think Lochan wasn’t loved, but he was, more deeply than most people are in a lifetime . . .
After the short service we will return home and comfort each other. After a while I will go upstairs and write the letters – one to each of them, explaining why, telling them how much I love them, that I’m so, so very sorry. Reassuring them that they will be well looked after by another family, trying to convince them, as I did myself, that they will be much better off without me, much better off starting over. Then the rest will be easy, selfish but easy – it has been carefully planned for over a week now. Obviously I can’t possibly remain in the house for the children to find, so I will go to my refuge in Ashmoore Park, the place I called Paradise, which I once shared with Lochan. Except this time I shall not return.
The kitchen knife I’ve been keeping beneath the stack of papers in my desk drawer will be hidden beneath my coat. I will lie down on the damp grass, stare up at the star-studded sky and then raise the knife. I know exactly what to do so that it will be over quickly, so quickly – the same way I hope it was for Lochan. Lochie. The boy I once loved. The boy I still love. The boy I will continue to love, even when my part in this world is over too. He sacrificed his life to spare me a prison sentence. He thought I could look after the children. He thought I was the strong one – strong enough to go on without him. He thought he knew me. But he was wrong.
Willa bursts into the room, making me start. Kit has brushed her long, golden hair, wiped her face and hands clean after breakfast. Her baby face is still so sweet and trusting, it pains me to look at her. I wonder whether, when she is my age, she will still look like me. I hope someone will show her a picture. I hope someone will let her know how much she was loved – by Lochan, by me – even though she won’t be able to remember it for herself. Out of the three of them, she is the most likely to make a full recovery, the most likely to forget, and I hope she does. Perhaps, if they allow her to keep at least one photo, some part of it will jog her memory. Perhaps she will remember a game we used to play or the funny voices I used to do for the different characters in her books at bedtime.
She hesitates in the doorway, unsure whether to advance or retreat, clearly desperate to tell me something but afraid to do so.
‘What is it, my darling? You look so beautiful in your dress. Are you ready to go?’
She stares at me, unblinking, as if trying to gauge my reaction, then slowly shakes her head, her big eyes filling with tears.
I kneel down and hold out my arms and she launches herself into them, her small hands pressed against her eyes.
‘I d-don’t want to – I don’t want to go! I don’t! I don’t want to go say goodbye to Lochie!’
I pull her close, her small body sobbing softly against mine, and kiss her wet cheek, stroke her hair, rock her back and forth against me.
‘I know you don’t, Willa. I don’t want to either. None of us do. But we need to, we need to say goodbye. It doesn’t mean we can’t visit his grave in the churchyard, it doesn’t mean we can’t still think about him and talk about him whenever we want.’
‘But I don’t want to go, Maya!’ she cries, her sobbing voice almost pleading. ‘I’m not going to say goodbye, I don’t want him to go! I don’t, I don’t, I don’t!’ She starts to struggle against me, trying to pull away, desperate to escape the ordeal, the finality of it all.
I wrap my arms tightly around her and attempt to hold her still. ‘Willa, listen to me, listen to me. Lochie wants you to come and say goodbye to him. He really wants that a lot. He loves you so much – you know that. You’re his favourite little girl in the whole world. He knows you’re very sad and very angry right now, but he really hopes one day you won’t feel so bad any more.’
Her struggles become more half-hearted, her body weakening as her tears increase.
‘W-what else does he want?’
Frantically I try to come up with something. For you to someday find a way to forgive him. For you to forget the pain he caused you even if it means you have to forget him. For you to go on to live a life of unimaginable joy . . .
‘Well – he always loved your drawings, remember? I’m sure he’d really like it if you made him something. Maybe a card with a special picture. You could write a message inside if you want to – or otherwise just your name. We’ll cover it in special transparent plastic, so that even if it rains, it won’t get wet. And then you could take it to him when you go and visit his grave.’
‘But if he’s asleep for ever and ever, how will he even know it’s there? How will he even see it?’
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes. ‘I don’t know, Willa. I honestly don’t know. But he might – he might see it, he might know. So, just in case he does—’
‘O-OK.’ She draws back slightly, her face still pink and tear-stained, but with a tiny glimmer of hope in her eyes. ‘I think he will see it, Maya,’ she tells me, as if begging me to agree. ‘I think he will. Don’t you?’
I nod slowly, biting down hard. ‘I think he will too.’
Willa gives a small gulp and a sniff, but I can tell her mind is already on the work of art she is going to create. She leaves my arms and moves off towards the door but then, as if suddenly remembering something, turns back.
‘So what about you then?’
I feel myself tense. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘What about you?’ she repeats. ‘What are you going to give him?’
‘Oh – maybe some flowers or something. I’m not artistic like you. I don’t think he’d want one of my drawings.’
Willa gives me a long look. ‘I don’t think Lochie would want you to give him flowers. I think he’d want you to do something special-er.’