Excerpt from Peace Lily

There is something magical about a sunny day in Shetland; a day untroubled by clouds and rain and the air unnaturally still. The sound of children playing, birds singing and lawnmowers humming are the only mild distractions from the feeling of quiet peacefulness. On a day like today, you can’t fail to feel cheerful and glad to be alive. At least that is most people’s experience.

I am not overly fond of sunny days. They bring back too many painful memories. But today, in spite of myself, I look out of my bedroom window and feel energised by the sight of sunlight reflecting off the sea below my house. I am renewed in my determination to shake off my deep depression, and get outside where I belong on such a glorious day. I notice the last of the daffodils fading away in the flowerbeds, and the first blooms of the red tulips bursting through the undergrowth. The garden needs tending and I will make that my priority today.

The garden gate clicks shut and I look down and see Michael striding across the road towards the fields that lead down to the beach. Silvie trots along obediently beside him, despite being off the leash. She has learned to control her energy and speed until she reaches the fields, and then she takes off at speed in pursuit of rabbits, real and imaginary.

I can tell that Michael is in a good mood by the way he walks. He is tall and gangly and has an energetic loping gait, and the happier he is the more he bounces as he walks. I watch him stride along the road to the beach with his new faithful companion.
As he closes another gate behind him Silvie takes off across the field. She is a retired racing greyhound, professionally known as the Silver Bullet. She was never the fastest racer and retired early as a result, although you would never know to look at her now. She is out of sight already.

I am jealous of Michael’s recently acquired pet, and how she has usurped my role as companion to my husband on his long daily walks. Anger simmers deep inside, but more with myself than anyone else. I should be there with him, but he has long since given up asking me, knowing that for the last 10 years the answer has usually been no. So why am I jealous?

I thought he would wait for me. I know 10 years is a long time to wait for your wife to recover from a broken heart, but I really thought he would.

Walking is how we met, all those years ago at Sussex University. He was studying engineering and I was studying English. We both joined the rambling club as a wholesome alternative to closeting ourselves away with our books. We were both serious, hardworking students at the time, and had spurned the usual alcohol fuelled student associations.

Our first date was a walk along the Southdown’s Way, stopping off for a drink at a pub in the countryside. For our second date we drove up to the Chilterns and went for another long walk. And so it continued; until our honeymoon three years later, when we hiked around Chamonix during the summer before we both started proper full time jobs.

We never stopped walking, and we never stopped talking. I thought this was how it would be forever. But it’s my fault we have reached this impasse in our lives, and I count myself lucky Michael still shares a house with me. Many couples don’t get past losing a child and the fact we are still married is a great comfort to me.

Michael has disappeared from view although I imagine he is somewhere down on the beach. I know I have at least an hour until he returns home. I make myself a cup of tea and take it outside while I plan what needs to be done in the garden. I haven’t done any gardening in weeks and therefore an untidy tangle of weeds and flowers greets me. It is so tempting to let in the sheep from the neighbouring fields, as they would see off the weeds within minutes. Unfortunately the flowers would also fall victim to their indiscriminate grazing, although in many ways it would be nice to start with a completely blank canvass.

I am still pulling up the weeds when Michael and Silvie return home. Michael is laden down with the Sunday papers. It’s another habit of his that I used to share. Sunday papers on a lazy sunny day; there’s really nothing to beat it. But I haven’t enjoyed reading the papers for many years now, and I studiously avoid watching the news for the same reason. I cannot bear other people’s misery any more than I can bear my own. So I hide away from the world; which is relatively easy to do, living up here in Shetland. It is a peaceful haven that has provided me with the best means of coming to terms with losing my daughter.

Nothing in life prepares you for such incapacitating grief and loss. Before Lily died I had spent a lifetime reading books and newspapers, watching movies and soap operas. Human tragedy was everywhere, but I managed to kid myself that I would pass through life unscathed. I would only lose friends and family when the time was right; at the ripe old age of at least 99. But life is not like the movies or fiction. It is not even like real life; at least not the real life where horrible things only happen to other people. You can put down the papers, and you can switch off the news when it is too distressing, but when life, or rather death, finally catches up with you, it comes as a crippling shock to the system.

We have lived in Shetland for nearly 10 years now. It was Michael’s response to grief. To move on, start again, and get away from everything familiar that would bring back haunting memories. To some extent I agreed, and so I was content to move with him. I say content, for lack of the right word that describes what I was going through back then. Put it this way, I moved with him. I don’t really remember how it came about.

Michael is a petrochemical engineer. His ambition at University was to create a greener source of fuel and he harboured dreams of saving the environment. He played a major role in creating a cleaner blend of diesel for cars, but since then his career ambitions have been hijacked by a pressing need to pay the mortgage, and he now works for BP at the Sullom Voe Oil Terminal. Strangely enough he seems to enjoy his work, despite the departure from the research and development interests he used to have. There is a curious macho camaraderie in this male dominated environment that I think he finds restful. Restful, at least, by comparison to his life at home with me.

We walk on eggshells. We tiptoe around each other, constantly monitoring the atmosphere and we choose our words carefully. We have lost the ability to relax in each other’s company. On the plus side we never really argue.

‘Isn’t it a gorgeous day?’ I say, as I stand up and brush off the dirt from my jeans. My back aches after bending over for so long and I stretch up to relieve the tension in my muscles.

‘Uh huh!’ Michael replies, giving a cursory glance at the flowerbeds and nodding his approval.

‘Cup of tea?’ I suggest, as he retreats indoors. He does not reply, but I am not sure he heard me. I go inside anyway to put the kettle on, as I could certainly do with one.

I am doing my best to hold our lives together. I cook, I clean, and I work to earn money as a contribution to our household costs. Our house is normally immaculately tidy, and aside from my recent lapse in gardening, our garden is well maintained. But I do not fulfil all the normal duties of a loving wife.

We have grown so ill at ease with each other in a physical sense that I just cannot bring myself to go near him. Crazy I know, as he is still an attractive man. He has a boyish charm about him; all long limbs and unruly hair, and a cheeky smile that I used to find so seductive. I probably still would if I allowed myself to think that way.

But in the same way that you would never normally consider trying to seduce a colleague or even show unsolicited affection, unless of course you’re blind drunk at the Christmas party, I cannot imagine touching Michael in any way that could be interpreted as sexual. I don’t know what I am afraid of. Rejection? Maybe, but that is unlikely. Enjoying myself? Probably. But I think my biggest fear is that I won’t be able to contain myself emotionally.

I have survived the last 10 years by avoiding all highs and lows. I don’t go to funerals if I can help it; I avoid weddings and christenings too. I turn down most invitations to any kind of event, and as a result my social life is almost non-existent. My only form of entertainment is the selective reading of novels; nothing too sad and nothing too happy. I cannot cope with any extremes of emotion.

 I have dampened down all my feelings and now I don’t know how to lighten up and relax. Alcohol has been suggested on a number of occasions by the one close friend I have left. I have often contemplated turning to the bottle as a way of drowning out the noise of the constant if only, but I sincerely believe this would be the slippery slope towards self-destruction.
Michael sits at the kitchen table with the papers spread out before him. Silvie is curled up in her basket in the corner, asleep already.

‘What would you like for lunch?’ I ask as I put the kettle on and take out the clean mugs from the dishwasher.

‘I’m going to play squash with Robbie later, so I don’t really want anything too heavy,’ he replies, not looking up from the sports pages.

‘OK. How about I make you a sandwich for lunch, and then we can have a roast later tonight?’

‘Yeah sure, that’ll be great.’

It’s riveting stuff, the conversation between a husband and wife who have run out of things to say. And somehow I feel as if I have reached the end of my ability to bear it any longer. I want something to happen. Anything. Anger, tears, recriminations, anything is better than this. And I know it is my entire fault and I have created this monster, but now I have had enough.

I take his mug of tea to the table and set it down before him.

‘Thanks!’

I reach out and run my fingers through the thick curly hair that is just starting to turn grey at his temples. He moves his head, in an almost imperceptible way, as if dodging a buzzing fly. I feel myself blushing in shame and pick up the scattered sections of the newspapers I know he does not intend to read. I take them over to the recycling box and drop them in; pausing only to remove the cellophane wrapping that goes in with the rubbish.

I did try.

I take my cup of tea outside to the garden and sit down on the old stone bench. It is exceptionally warm for early May and I gaze out to sea watching the pleasure boats and fisherman taking advantage of the calm day.

I am 42 years old and I have spent nearly a quarter of my life in mourning and over half of my life with Michael. But when I stop to think about it, most of my life before that one tragic event had been happy and there is a part of me that wants to return to those times, before it is too late. 10 years is a kind of milestone.