A Family of His Own. Liz Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ straw hat jammed on her head to protect her fair skin from the sun as she tied the young branches of the peach tree back against the far wall to enhance the kitchen garden.

      Walking amongst the fruit trees of the small orchard she’d planted.

      There was no escape from the pain in darkness and he opened his eyes. And still he saw her, pulling down the brambles as if admonishing his neglect…

      ‘Sara…’

      His mouth moved but no sound emerged, only the thudding of his heart swelling and pounding in his throat. Then he was wrenching at the door, desperate to get to her. It refused to budge and it took a moment for him to realise that it was locked, that the keys were on the kitchen table where he’d thrown them. Out of reach. Because he dared not move, dared not turn away for a second. If he took his eyes off her she’d disappear…

      Instead he hammered desperately at the glass with his bunched fists, wanting her to turn around and look at him.

      If she looked, if she saw him too, everything would be all right…

      ‘Sara!’

      ‘Dom, are you OK?’

      Momentarily distracted, he blinked, half turned…and when he looked back she’d gone.

      ‘Dom?’

      At first it had happened all the time. Everywhere he’d looked he’d thought he saw her. A glimpse of long, sun-streaked blonde hair in a crowd, a ripple of laughter in a restaurant, a flash of her favourite colour had been enough to stop his heart. It had been a long time since the experience had been so vivid, so real…

      Since it had left him feeling quite so bleak. Quite so alone.

      ‘I’m fine, Greg,’ he said abruptly, turning away from the window and realising that he was the object of very real concern. It was an expression he’d come to know well in the months after Sara’s death. One of the reasons he’d gone away, choosing to keep on the move, live and work amongst strangers who didn’t know anything about him. Didn’t know what had happened. People who didn’t have to hunt for words because they didn’t know what to say. People who, after their initial friendly overtures were rejected, backed off and kept their distance. ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘There’s no need to put yourself through this, you know,’ Greg said, putting down the box of groceries he’d fetched from the car. ‘You could leave everything to me. Just tell me what you want to keep and I’ll get it packed up, put in store for you until you…well, until you need it.’ Then, more brightly, ‘It won’t take long to sell the house. You could sell a garden shed in Upper Haughton. It was an astute investment…’

      ‘I didn’t buy it as an investment. I bought it because—’

      ‘I know,’ he cut in quickly. ‘I’m sorry.’

      He shook his head. He knew Greg was just talking to fill the silence.

      ‘Look, why don’t you just come and stay with us until it’s sorted?’

      ‘No.’ Then, perceiving that he had been abrupt, knowing that Greg deserved better, he said, ‘Thank you, but there are things I need to go through. I should have done it a long time ago.’ He turned back to the window, hoping against hope that she’d be there again, but the garden was empty.

      ‘Right.’ There was a pause, then, following his glance out of the window, ‘Do you need some help to sort through…things? It doesn’t have to be anyone you know. I could ask the agency who supplies us with staff if they have someone. It might be easier with someone who isn’t emotionally, well, you know…’

      He knew, but he didn’t want help. He didn’t want anyone. He just wanted Greg to stop looking at him as if he was losing it and instead go away and leave him alone. But the man wasn’t just his lawyer, he was the friend who’d stood at his side as he promised to be faithful to Sara until death parted them. Meaningless words. They were young. In love. They were going to live forever…

      ‘Thank you, Greg,’ he said, taking pity on him, knowing that he just wanted to help but didn’t know how, impotent in the face of such unimaginable grief. ‘Can I let you know?’

      ‘Of course.’ Then, ‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right here?’ he said, looking around. ‘If you’d given me a bit of warning, I could have got someone in to give the place a thorough going over. Your once-a-month people haven’t been doing more than the minimum by the looks of things.’

      ‘That’s all I paid them to do.’ The minimum. He’d told them not to disturb anything. ‘I’ve got water and power. A cellphone. It’s all I need.’

      ‘What about some transport?’

      ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

      ‘Right,’ he said after a long pause, during which he’d clearly debated whether it would be safe to leave him. ‘I’ll be off, then.’ Receiving no encouragement to stay, he continued, ‘If you’re sure? That box of groceries is pretty basic.’

      ‘Don’t worry. I’ve managed to keep body and soul together for six years. I’m not about to starve myself to death.’

      Greg looked as if he was about to say something, but thought better of it. He didn’t need to say anything. Dom had seen the shocked look he hadn’t been quite swift enough to hide when he’d picked him up at the airport.

      He turned back to look once more at the garden and his heart lifted a beat. She was there again, her hat shading her face as she looked around as if seeking something she’d lost. Tall, slender in a pair of baggy denim jeans, a faded turquoise T-shirt. It had always been her favourite colour.

      ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ Greg said from the door. ‘We’ll talk about some help.’

      ‘No rush,’ he said absently, willing her to look up—look at him. Then he was distracted by another movement as a little girl leapt up out of the grass, holding up a loop of flowers. A daisy chain of some kind. Sara put it on the child’s head so that she looked like a little princess.

      He was sure she was laughing. If only he could see her face.

      ‘No rush…’ he said again as the door clicked shut. Hands pressed against the glass, he watched as, having bent to kiss the child, she reached into her back pocket, took out a pair of secateurs and reached down to cut through the thick stem of the brambles. ‘I’ve got all the time in the world.’

      Then he saw that she wasn’t wearing gloves.

      He’d bought her a pair, but she always tore them off, impatient with her clumsiness in the thick, thorn-proof protection.

      As he watched, a bramble whipped back and caught her hand.

      ‘No…’

      She eased it carefully from her skin, then put her thumb to her mouth, sucked it, and, like a recurring nightmare, history began to repeat itself…

      ‘Sara…’

      But her name choked in his throat and he slid down the glass as the image shimmered, then shattered as he slammed his lids shut.

      ‘Heavens, СКАЧАТЬ