The Telling

sponge. My movements were slow and careful, but my mind felt fresh, as if filled with cool clear water. Across the lawn, the grass was long and tangling, unkempt. I waded through it, getting my Converse soaked. Details caught and held me. A twist of pink and green, tiny entrails that a cat had left after a kill; the fat digestive progress of a slug across a leaf. I lifted drooping shrubbery out of the way, and there were a dozen skeins of flowerbuds hanging underneath; all they’d need was time and bees and sunshine and water to make them fatten and swell and darken into blackcurrants. I picked daffodils. A great heavy sappy bunch of them, each stem snapping with a satisfying puck. I lifted the pewter jug and walked down to the churchyard, my feet squelching.
    I tore away the long grass, so that the name showed. I set the jug down, with the daffodils, on the flat earth. In the absence of any other ritual, I said her name, her maiden name, her nineteen-year -old name, out loud; there was no one there but me to hear it. No flicker of movement, no sense of someone hovering at the edges of my sight. The air was cool and soft; there would soon be rain.
    I tidied up after, took the torn grass to the edge of the graveyard and lobbed it over the wall on to the heap. The sight of the wired-up gate made me glance down at my hand, at the dark scab on the ball of my thumb; it itched, but the flare of infection was gone and it was beginning to heal. I climbed over the gate, into the woods, and headed on, eyes on the dark earth, looking for my phone. I finally found it under the skirts of a holly bush, its battery completely flat, damp beading the surface. I wiped it dry and slipped it into my pocket.
    Back at the cottage, I plugged the phone in to charge. It beeped with missed calls. Forty-three calls from Mark, others from Lucy, Dad, and from friends. I left them all unanswered, for the time being. I had to talk to Mark first, and a phone call to him seemed utterly inadequate. I made other, practical calls: I made arrangements with the estate agents, that furniture charity.
    I took a last walk around the house, moving from room to room, following the grey tracks in the carpet, running my hand up the rough timber of the banister. I paused by the bookcase, stroking the grain of the wood as if it were skin or fur. The house felt serene, and empty. As if a charge had been earthed, somehow; as if a tension had been released.
    I left a set of keys with Mrs Davies. We agreed that it was better for houses to be lived in, and that a young family would be nice; she kissed me goodbye.
    *
     
    The front of the car was still cluttered from the drive up: Dad’s directions, half a packet of chewing gum squeezed flat at one end, a muddle of cassette tapes.
    I drove for five hours, stopping only for coffee, sandwiches and petrol, the car rattling as I nudged it up to seventy-five, to eighty, to eighty-five. I swigged coffee through a plastic lid, eyes sharp for speed cameras, alert for a change in engine tone, for a hint of approaching breakdown. I was passed continually by bigger, sleeker cars. I wished I’d called Mark. At least then I would know what I was coming home to; I’d know if I could come home at all.
    I elbowed my way through London traffic, sneaking through on ambers, nudging across carriageways, almost bouncing on my seat with frustration as I watched the traffic streaming past at junctions, thinking come on come on come on come on come on . I veered into Kirkside Road, and there was just one free space, right down at the far end. I had the car parked in one brisk and careless move. I’d slammed the door and was already heading for home, and then had to turn back and lock the car. I almost ran down the length of the street; a kind of hobbled run, eager and apprehensive, sick with nerves. I climbed the steps two at a time and got the key in the lock and was into the communal hall, and then I stalled at our front door.
    I saw her. Through the textured glass, her figure was smudged and bleary. She was standing looking up at the table; there was something on it, something out of reach, something fascinating. Belly round in front of her, the soft bulge of her nappied behind. I turned my key, pushed open the door. Warmth; the smell of cooking, drying laundry. Cate turned towards the sound, away from the bowl of grapes that had been holding her attention. There was a moment. She looked at me, I looked at her. She pushed a finger