3

Monica had been in hospital for a week now. As I walked towards the reception desk my legs felt wobbly beneath me. It hadn’t occurred to me to wonder what sex my dead grandchild had been, and I didn’t like the idea of knowing. As far as I was concerned it was easier not to know. Knowing whether the baby had been a boy or girl would somehow make it sadder, if that were possible.

When I reached the desk I was greeted by Denise’s kindly face. The black woman was standing up and I noticed how small she was. She had seemed somehow bigger before. She waited patiently for me to speak.

‘My daughter has a question.’

‘And what might dat be?’

‘She wants to know about her child. Was the baby a boy or a girl?’

I felt sick as I heard the words leave my mouth. Denise looked serious and said she didn’t have that information but she would find out. I thanked her and headed down to the hospital forecourt.

For half an hour I sat nursing a cup of watery tea. I couldn’t face being with my daughter. I felt useless and unable to deal with the magnitude of the situation. Worst of all I knew there was nothing I could say or do to fix things for her. It was impossibly hard seeing Monica lying in the hospital bed, fragile and broken.

Psychically she looked much the same – a small nose, those bright green eyes, pointy chin and ebony hair. As a child she had a fringe and wore it in a bob. Now she had long locks and was even more beautiful. I once told her I missed the fringe but she laughed at me and told me not to tell her how to wear her hair.

She’d always been a force to be reckoned with, even as a small child. Monica knew her own mind and could never be told anything. Her father and I used to chuckle at her dogged, independent personality, which sometimes meant she backed herself into a corner.

At school she was so sure she could climb the large tree in the playground she ended up stuck at the top and the fire brigade were called to rescue her. But she was not embarrassed by the event. I remember she rather enjoyed the extra attention and carried the story around with her as if it were a badge of honour. No other child had ever made it as high up that tree as she had and Monica was quick to remind everyone of that fact.

Jim built her a tree house at the end of our wild garden one summer, and she spent many hours there playing and flexing her vivid imagination. Monica once told me that she had decided to become an architect one afternoon as a child in the tree house. She admired the idea of being able to turn an empty space into a home. For as long as I can remember she wanted to build the perfect home. That extended to her work life as well as her own.

I thought about Monica and Tom’s history together. They had met at University College London where Monica took a degree in architecture and Tom studied design. Since it takes seven years to complete an architect’s degree, Tom had gone on to get a job with a web design company while Monica finished university. They had shared the rent on a small lower-ground-floor flat in South Kensington for a number of years before they both started to make money and decided to buy a place of their own. Since both their families coincidentally lived in and around Cambridge, the young couple had chosen North London and Crouch End as a place to build their nest.

Tom was a man’s man. He was a bit rough around the edges and when I’d first met him I didn’t know what to make of him. He wasn’t the sort of chap I would have ever imagined Monica with. She’s a creative, sensitive, impulsive, outgoing, rather wild girl and Tom was the opposite. He liked things to be just so. He was confident, rational and calculated. He never reacted without thinking first. I hadn’t believed their relationship would last but when they announced their engagement I was happy for her. If he was the man she wanted then I would back her all the way. At the time it seemed to be a case of opposites attracting, but I had always worried he wasn’t exactly right for her. Still, it seemed their marriage had been working and the memory made me want to burst into tears.

People buzzed around me getting hot food from the canteen. The smell was as unappealing as the appearance of the meals on offer. I felt sick as it was and sitting there was making matters worse. I stood up and shook myself off in a bid to regain some composure, knowing I needed to return to Monica again. It took a huge effort to push away the hollow feeling left by the void of the grandchild I had never met.

Monica was my only child. Jim and I had planned to have two but my pregnancy with Monica was troublesome and the labour horrific. She was four weeks premature and in those days it was touch and go. We vowed for me never to get pregnant again and promised to instead spend all our time concentrating on the wonderful little life we’d already made.

When I returned to the ward, Richard was there, waiting to greet me. His face was ashen and he looked short and hunched over. The effect of his son’s death was plastered across his grey face.

‘Mary is at home.’ He spoke with a rasping voice. ‘She couldn’t be here today. It was too much for her. Jenny is with her.’

He rubbed his hands together with nervous energy. There was a long silence while he ordered his words. I waited patiently.

‘How is she?’ He seemed unable to speak his daughter-in-law’s name.

‘Devastated, Richard. She hasn’t cried. It is almost as if she doesn’t believe it is real. I’m seriously concerned about her.’

‘Yes, right, yes, poor girl.’

‘You can go and see her if you’d like? It might help the both of you to…’

Richard nodded decisively and took steps towards the door before he froze and began to shake. Immediately I put a hand on his shoulder and guided him to a seat nearby.

‘I don’t think I can go in there. It’s … it’s too much.’

His hands quivered and little beads of sweat decorated his high brow.

‘Richard’ – I perched on the chair next to him – ‘you should go home and be with Mary. I’m here for Monica. Go home to your wife and daughter. You can visit when things have sunk in a bit more, when you feel stronger.’

Large pools of tears gathered in his eyes.

‘I can drive you home if you’d like.’

The man who was normally so matter-of-fact and together seemed like a pathetic orphan. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his Marks and Spencer’s jumper and shook his head. Then he stood up and straightened himself.

‘Please tell her we will come and visit her soon and our prayers are with her.’ He paused. ‘And Tom’s funeral – we will wait until she is ready.’

‘Thank you.’ I rose out of my seat, noticing I was at least three inches taller than him.

Richard left and I watched the distance between our bodies grow with each step he took. I nearly jumped out of my skin when Denise tapped me on the shoulder.

‘Gosh! I’m sorry. I was miles away.’

‘I ave dat information you’s was after.’ Denise handed over a piece of printed A4 paper. ‘It’s all in dare. Tell er dat she can bury de child when she feels ready.’ I nodded with solemn gratitude and made my way back to my daughter.

Monica lay staring up at the high ceiling. The glare in her green almond eyes contained more intensity than I was prepared for. The answers can’t be gained from looking at that spot, I thought, lowering myself gently onto the bed.

‘Where were you?’ Monica sounded frantic.

I decided not to mention my conversation with Richard. Taking a deep breath I handed the death certificate over to my daughter.

‘Here is what you asked for, sweetheart.’

The colour drained from Monica’s petite damaged face. She was not prepared to see it in black and white yet. Her bottom lip quivered while her eyes scanned the words. Slowly and deliberately she lowered the paper and folded it in two. With painful difficulty she placed it on her bedside table and looked at me.

‘It was a boy.’ The words cut through the air. ‘I had a son. Tom and I, we had a son.’

I swallowed hard and inched closer to my daughter, cupping her head in my hands as a river of tears snaked down her cheeks. Watching my daughter, my baby, in such pain was too much. We both cried. We clung to each other and tried to ride the wave of emotion that crashed into us.

Afterwards, we lay together on the bed embracing in silence. We had cried all the tears we could that day. Stroking my daughter’s dark silky hair, I spoke to her softly.

‘The nurse says you can have a funeral for your boy.’ I felt Monica tense.

‘Shhhh,’ I whispered soothingly. ‘You don’t need to think about that now. When the time is right you can put him to rest. Just concentrate on getting better now, darling.’

I think she was too exhausted to argue. A numbing agony seemed to encase her. She held onto me the way she had done as a heartbroken teenager when her first boyfriend had broken up with her. I could sense she felt safe wrapped in my arms. It was all too much for her to cope with now. How could she start to think about burying someone she had never known? Internally, we both pondered the same question. As I read my daughter’s thoughts, even if her doctor advised against it, I just knew she was determined to see the baby’s body. I dreaded the visit we would have to make to the morgue.

Moments later, two male police officers walked in. They approached Monica’s bed and stood silently while we composed ourselves. In an officious manner, the older of the two informed us he had come to ask Monica further questions regarding the crash.

‘My daughter has already answered your questions. She has lost her husband and her child for goodness sake!’

Monica would normally have chastised me for interfering but this time she was grateful for my Rottweiler mode. I did not see what good going over it again would do. And besides, she still couldn’t remember anything. A sensation of paranoid dread poisoned the air around her bed.

‘I understand this must be a very difficult time for you but we do need to get a clear statement. We are just doing our job.’ He spoke with inflated self-worth. I disliked the man.

‘Now look here, officer…’ I stood up, hands on hips and fixed him with a stare. ‘I don’t really give a damn about protocol at the moment. My daughter was not driving the car. She does not remember anything and the only thing you are achieving by being here is to cause her more anguish. Unless you leave here right now I will be making a formal complaint to your department. Have I made myself clear?’

The younger policeman had already taken steps back towards the exit. He knew better than to argue with a mother who was rightly protecting her child.

‘There is no need to take that tone, Madam.’ The rotund officer blew out his cheeks and slammed shut his notebook. ‘We are investigating a very serious and fatal accident.’

Monica watched with mild amusement as the vein in my temple began to throb. She knew what was coming. Pointing at the door, I bellowed, ‘GET OUT!’

The officer’s cheeks flushed red and without a word the policeman turned on his heels and left the ward, his small counterpart trailing behind him. Monica managed a smile.

‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘They’ve got a bloody cheek!’ I placed an overflowing carrier bag on the bed. ‘I brought you some things from the forecourt.’ Monica watched as I removed one thing after another from the bag. She remained silent as she viewed the various items.

‘I thought now that your face is beginning to heal you might like some make-up. Help you to feel more like your old self.’ I busied myself looking for the cosmetics I’d purchased.

Although I was wearing the red lipstick and heavy eyeliner I always wore, the tiredness that was plainly hanging off me. My hair was flat and limp.

‘OK, Mum, thanks.’ Monica reached for her make-up. I realised that she had not seen herself in a mirror since before the accident. Above her left eyebrow was a stitched-up gash. The smaller cuts from the glass were now a sprinkling of shrinking scabs. There was no colour in her cheeks and her mouth looked pale and dry.

‘I don’t recognise myself,’ she said as I looked up.

‘You are in there. It’s going to take some time for you to get back to the old you. But with time, you will get there.’

‘I will never be who I was before the accident. Nothing can ever be the same again.’

Three weeks later, Monica was able to move around without assistance. Her consultant had given her the good news that her spine had suffered no damage except for the whiplash. Her leg was still in plaster, and now instead of aching, it itched relentlessly. The cuts on her face had healed and the gash above her eye was on the mend. Her ribs still ached but she was assured that they were getting better. She was hobbling about the ward on her crutches, enjoying the freedom she felt. Her mind as well as her body had kept her prisoner in that bed for too long and I could see the escape was giving her the boost she so desperately needed.

That day was a turning point for more than one reason. Monica arranged with Sister Denise to see her son. She had spent a few hours discussing her grief with the hospital counsellor who had kindly paid her a visit. Cathy, a fat woman with a broad Essex accent, had apparently encouraged her to go and say goodbye to her son. It would help with the grieving process. They also gave her a photograph of him. He looked like he was sleeping. A suggestion was made that she give the child a name. After much deliberation, the eight-month-old unborn little boy was named Joshua.

It also occurred to Monica that she could visit Tom’s body. She longed to see his face one more time. Without embellishing the details, the counsellor advised that due to the extent of the injuries Tom had suffered it would not be wise for Monica to see him. I remembered how much it had helped me to see Jim hours after he’d died. It made it more final somehow, more realistic. It allows for the reality to slowly drip-feed into one’s mind. The fact my girl was not able to benefit from that was a crying shame.

I watched as Monica pushed away the memory of pieces of skull and brain splattered across the smashed windscreen and accepted the advice. It seemed to leave her even sadder than before. The kind bereavement worker had gone on to explain that feelings of guilt, anxiety, depression and post-traumatic stress disorder were common in similar cases. One of the many nurses who had crossed her path had also warned her of PTSD as a potential result of the accident. It seemed grief alone was not enough for my poor darling to have to cope with.

I’d agreed to accompany Monica to see Josh. When I arrived in the ward, she was pacing on her crutches and looking very nervous. I had brought a bunch of yellow lilies and caught myself gripping the stems so tight that I was crushing them. Saying nothing, she sat down on the bed and massaged her temples, as though willing herself to believe that the experience would be cathartic. Then she rose and shuffled towards me. A ginger-haired man in mint-green overalls waited at the door of the ward to lead us to the chapel of rest where the tiny body had been arranged.

‘Ready?’ she asked.

‘Yes, darling. Are you?’

‘No, I don’t suppose I ever will be.’ Monica straightened her head. ‘But let’s do this.’

With one hand firmly around my daughter’s shoulder and the other clasping the bouquet, Monica and I followed the mortician. I could feel Monica tense and shaking.

‘Are the flowers for Josh?’ Monica’s large eyes stared searchingly at the scented petals.

‘Yes. They are for my grandson.’

The three of us floated silently down a maze of corridors before reaching the chapel of rest. Monica froze in terror.

‘I can’t do this. I can’t.’

Her breathing became erratic. I turned to my daughter.

‘You can do this and you must. I am with you every step of the way. I know it’s incredibly hard, darling but you will regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t go through that door. Seeing your father was the most difficult thing I ever had to do but I am so glad I did.’

Monica looked like a rabbit caught in headlights. She closed her eyes and slowly exhaled the air from her lungs, calming herself. When I thought she was ready, I took hold of her hand.

‘Come on, my girl, it’s time to meet your son.’