‘I’ve been coming to that conclusion too. Friends are important, and I know we haven’t been in touch properly for a long time. Let me be one of yours again.’
I was touched by her offer, but not sure we could just pick up where we used to be. It had been a while since we’d shared our true feelings. She sounded so earnest, though, that I didn’t want to make her feel dejected. If nothing else, she meant well.
‘Sure because, actually, the other thing I’ve realized is that most my friends are couples and suddenly I’m the single one. I need a few friends who are outside the couple bubble, see what they’re up to.’
‘Have you been in touch with Jo?’ Sara asked.
‘Only on the phone, which is why I thought I might go and visit with you. She sounded a bit weird, though, if I’m honest, going on about floating up to the hospital ceiling and how she’s not the same person any more.’
‘I guess something like a heart attack is life changing – to be suddenly confronted with your own mortality … oh god, sorry, I’ll change the subject.’
‘No need. I’d prefer people just acted normal, say what they normally would. Let’s go and see Jo. A trip to take my mind off things here would be great. It’s far too quiet. This house was meant to have people in it.’
‘Deal. I’ll get it organized. Any dates you can’t do?’
‘None that can’t be changed.’
‘Excellent. I’ll be in touch. I have something I want to put to you both.’
‘Sounds intriguing.’
‘That’s exactly what Jo said. I’ll tell you all when I see you.’
After I’d put the phone down, I felt a wave of grief threatening. Some days, I felt numb, but others, like today, the sense of loss hit me like a tsunami. Where was my husband? I kept questioning – had he had an experience like the one Jo talked about? Seen a light? And was there anything in my friend Philippa’s idea of the parted sending white feathers to let those left behind know that they are OK. I opened my arms and spoke to the ceiling. ‘OK, Michael, if you can, just send me a sign to let me know you’re all right.’
There was no reply. I didn’t expect one. ‘Keep busy, keep busy,’ I chanted my mantra for coping.
I went upstairs to begin the dreaded task of clearing out Michael’s things. I’d start with the bathroom cabinet and cupboard under the sink, where he kept toiletries and various medications. I still wasn’t ready to face the wardrobes, his clothes and more personal items. I opened a drawer. Toothpaste, razors, Nurofen all thrown in there. He was never one for being tidy.
As I pulled out a few things, I heard a crash from downstairs. My heart began to pound in my chest. Intruder, was my first thought. Our village is small; word would be out that the man of the house was no longer here. I crept down and into the back room where the noise had come from, but there was no one there and all was silent. As I looked out into the garden, I noticed that on the outside of the glass pane in the middle of the French window was the imprint of a bird, like a tiny angel with wings outspread, the feather markings perfectly visible. I went over to look closer. Outside, on the ground beneath the window, a white pigeon was looking very dazed and shaken and there were feathers from the crash floating around the poor thing. Clearly it had seen the reflection of sky and trees in the window and, not realizing it was glass, thought that there was a way through.
I began to laugh. Only five minutes ago, I had asked for a sign from Michael. Was this it? It would be typical of him to have sent a kamikaze pigeon, much more his style and sense of humor than leaving one delicate feather lying about in a fruit bowl. I felt strangely comforted by the angel-shaped imprint on my window and watched as the bird fluttered for a few moments then flew away, leaving the scatter of feathers behind it. Timing, Philippa had said when she’d told me her story. I knew what she meant and went back into the hall chuckling to myself.
Chapter Thirteen
Sara
Present day, December
‘I’m a changed woman,’ said Jo as she bustled around her kitchen.
And looking great, I thought as I watched her. She had a glow of health about her that had been missing the last time I’d seen her. That had been a while ago. She must have been struggling with her health even then, and I cursed myself for not having taken more notice.
We were sitting at the kitchen table by an ancient-looking red Aga in Jo’s old farmhouse on the outskirts of Calne in Wiltshire. All the walls in the house had exposed brickwork that complemented the open beams above on both floors. A tall dresser was weighed down with rows of mismatched colourful china, some of which looked like Clarice Cliff. Jo had always had a good eye. Under the long wooden table lay one of her black Labradors, Arthur, and on a seat in the corner, Dusty the grey cat watched us with suspicion. Everywhere in the house there was evidence of people and interests, guitars and open books in the sitting room, toys stacked in a box by the TV, a jigsaw on a table, a chess set on another smaller one. Every wall in the house was covered in groups of paintings and photographs by family or local artists, making it a fascinating place to wander round. I felt as if I was viewing a private art collection. I’d always loved Jo’s house; it dated back to
