Chapter 26

Barbara White looked around the living room. It seemed bigger now the Christmas decorations had been taken down. She was relieved the festivities were over with for another year. Christmas was always a difficult time for her, even after all these years. She went into the kitchen and looked out of the window at the bleak landscape. The lawn was white with a layer of frost, the trees were bare, the thick gnarly branches reaching up into the sky, like cold, naked arms. On the ground, pathetic twigs stuck out of the soil. It was hard to believe, a few months ago, they were resplendent rosebushes, standing proud, their sweet-smelling scent floating on the warm summer breeze. Now, the ravages of winter had decimated the garden she loved. It would be ages before she'd be able to get out there and bring it back to life. The winter was dragging on, and there was no end in sight.

She released a heavy sigh. Turning her back on the window, she flicked the kettle on, looked at the kitchen and wondered when was the last time it had been decorated. It had to be nearly ten years ago. Maybe she should take advantage of being kept indoors on these cold January days and give the house a makeover.

The front door opened and slammed closed.

‘Barbara, are you in?' Harry called from the hallway.

‘Of course I'm in. I'm always in,' she replied. There was a hint of sadness in her voice.

Harry and Barbara would be celebrating their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary in August. As much as Barbara wanted to look forward to a lavish celebration, she couldn't help remembering those who should be part of it and wouldn't be. She couldn't have expected her mother to still be alive, but her sister should be, and her daughter definitely should be.

At six foot one, Harry stood a good eight inches taller than Barbara. He was wrapped up against the elements in a long beige overcoat, thick grey trousers and grey walking shoes. His woollen gloves, scarf and matching hat were all in the same tired-looking dull grey. He looked like he'd stepped out of a Seventies Littlewoods catalogue.

‘It's parky out there,' he said, slamming the two heavy carrier bags on the table.

Barbara went over to unpack them.

‘What have I told you about buying Christmas food?' she admonished, pulling out a Christmas pudding.

‘It was on offer. Only a pound.'

‘Don't you think we've eaten enough of this stuff already?' She pulled out three boxes of mince pies and a Christmas cake.

‘They'll keep.'

‘The shops love people like you. It's their own fault they have to reduce these things. If the prices weren't so high in the first place, they wouldn't have so many left over.'

‘They're bargains.'

‘We don't even like Christmas cake. It's not a bargain if it's just going to take up space in the cupboard gathering dust.' She began putting the useless shopping away, slamming doors and drawers closed.

‘I bought this for you, too,' he said with a grin, pulling out a dark Chocolate Orange. ‘Only one pound fifty.'

‘They're only a pound in Morrisons.'

‘Are they?' His smiled dropped. ‘The robbing buggers.'

The kettle boiled, and Barbara went to fill the teapot. ‘Harry, I've been thinking. Why don't we redecorate?'

‘Redecorate?' he asked, as if he'd never heard the word before.

‘Yes. We could strip the wallpaper in the living room, repaint the kitchen, and I'd love to get rid of that carpet on the stairs.'

‘What's brought this on?'

‘Nothing. I just thought it would be nice to have a change.'

‘I don't know, Barbara, not with my back.'

‘I'm not asking you to lay the carpet, just help me choose one. I'll help out. I like stripping wallpaper. It's therapeutic.'

‘I'm not sure.' He pulled a face. ‘All that mess and upheaval. Do we really need that at our time of life?'

‘You're sixty-five, Harry, not eighty-five.'

‘It just seems like too big a project.'

‘Fine. Forget it.' She turned her back on her husband and poured hot water into the teapot.

‘Is everything all right?' he asked, after he watched her throw the spoon into the sink and slam the teapot down on the table.

‘Everything is absolutely fine,' she replied unconvincingly. She stood back and folded her arms tightly across her chest.

‘Barbara, sit down,' he said, pulling out a chair at the breakfast table.

‘I don't want to sit down, Harry. I want to pop down to B&Q and pick up some paint samples.'

‘Sit down,' he said, raising his voice.

Reluctantly, she sat.

He sat opposite her, took her hands in his and squeezed them gently.

Barbara looked down at their joined hands. She saw liver spots, gnarled fingers, cavernous wrinkles and dulled skin. Getting old was cruel.

‘Tell me what's going on.'

‘Nothing's going on.'

‘You've been in a mood for weeks now. Is it that seasonal affective disorder thing?'

‘Oh for God's sake, Harry,' she said, snatching her hands back. ‘No, it is not.'

‘Then tell me. Come on. If you can't talk to me, who can you talk to?'

Barbara looked up at her husband. She stared into his eyes. ‘You're right. Who else can I talk to? There isn't anyone left, is there? It's just you and me,' she said, barely above a whisper.

‘Barbara, what's wrong?' Harry asked, tilting his head to one side like a dog hoping for a treat. ‘You've been distant for a while now. I thought you'd have bucked up over Christmas but…' He trailed off.

Barbara reached forward and held her husband's hands. ‘Harry, why don't we go away?' she asked, an expectant smile on her face.

‘Away?'

‘Yes. You know, a holiday.'

‘We are going. Cornwall in June, like always.'

She resisted the strong urge to roll her eyes. ‘I don't mean in the summer, I mean now.'

‘Now?'

‘Yes.'

‘But it's January. Nothing'll be open.'

‘I'm not talking about bloody Cornwall, Harry. I'm thinking about going for some winter sun. Imagine it, Harry – sat by a pool with a cloudless blue sky above us, sun beating down, a glass of cold beer in one hand and a good thriller in the other. Meals on the terrace of some Jamaican hotel overlooking the sea, watching the sun go down on the horizon.'

‘Jamaica?' He wrinkled his nose.

‘It doesn't have to be Jamaica. Spain. Greece. Turkey. Florida. Anywhere the sun is shining at this time of year.'

‘I don't think so, Barb. You know I don't like flying.'

‘Well, forget America then. We could have a driving holiday. Go through the Tunnel then down to southern Spain for a week or so and drive back. We could stop off at a few hotels on the journey for a few nights. A real road trip.' She gripped his hands harder and looked at him with a smile on her face, her twinkling eyes wide open.

‘A driving holiday? All that time in the car? I'd seize up, Barbara. You know I'm not good on long journeys.'

She released his hands and closed her eyes tight in exasperation. She bit her bottom lip hard, to stop her from saying what she was thinking.

‘Fine,' she said calmly, even though she was seething beneath the surface. ‘Fine. We'll just stay here, shall we? Winter in Newcastle. Cold nights. Cold days. Frost. Ice. Snow. Wind. Rain. Bliss. I think I'll mix myself an Ovaltine cocktail and sit outside with a good book wearing five layers of woollen clothing.' She jumped up from the table and stormed out of the kitchen.

‘Barbara, what the devil's got into you lately?' he asked, going after her.

At the bottom of the stairs, Barbara paused, her hand on the banister. She took a deep breath. ‘You don't get it, do you, Harry?'

‘Get what?'

She bit her tongue. ‘It doesn't matter,' she said, a heavy sadness to her voice. She made her way slowly up the stairs.

‘Is this about Dominic Griffiths?' Harry asked, from the bottom of the stairs.

She stopped, halfway up, and lowered her head.

‘Barbara, we've been over this so many times.' He tried to placate her with a soothing tone.

She turned to face her husband. ‘You can justify that man being released from prison as much as you want. I'm aware what the law says. He was sentenced by a jury of his peers. He served his time and is now free to go about his life?—'

‘He's not free,' he interrupted. ‘He's out on licence. He has to…' He sighed. ‘I'm not getting into this with you again. He's paid his debt to society, and that's that.' He headed back to the living room.

‘For fuck's sake, Harry,' Barbara screamed, running back downstairs. She rarely swore. She hated swearing, but sometimes the situation called for it. ‘Stop talking like a detective. You haven't been one for years. Talk like a father for once.'

‘I haven't been one of those for years either.'

Barbara recoiled. ‘You bastard,' she said. ‘Stephanie may be dead now, but she was alive for thirteen years. We had her for thirteen years, and she will always be in here.' She tapped her head. ‘And in here.' She tapped her heart. ‘She is still our daughter. I am still her mother. And you are still her father. I can't even look at you right now.'

She went back up the stairs slowly. She felt sick and numb. Her legs were heavy, and a tension headache had taken hold of her brain, squeezing it hard like it was in a vice.

At the top of the stairs, she looked at the door next to her bedroom. Stephanie's room. She had last gone in there on Christmas morning to wish her a Happy Christmas. She wanted to go in there now, pull back the Newcastle United duvet, dive underneath, pull it over her head, go to sleep and never wake up again. She had nothing to live for anymore.