Grace seemed to wake up on Easter Sunday with a dopey smile already on her face. Andrew had arranged a surprise date for them the night before, to mark their last Saturday together before they got married. Knowing that Grace liked classical music—it would have been truer to say that she liked only the good bits of the good composers—he had booked tickets to see André Rieu, thinking that he was paying for the best of the best. Grace burst out laughing when he told her, but quickly apologised and reassured him through giggling kisses that it was very sweet of him and that she was sorry for being a music snob, even if she had no intention of ever not being one. Andrew, who was not a music lover himself, felt a little wounded to have misjudged his nearly-wife’s taste so badly, but nevertheless nudged Grace’s elbow throughout the concert whenever he spotted her enjoying herself.
Andrew had also booked a late supper for after the concert, where they ate their second dinner of the day, having already shared yet another pizza on the couch earlier in the afternoon. They got a little tipsy and giddy at the meal and celebrated with a liqueur coffee afterwards, with Andrew pretending to play André Rieu’s waltzes on the array of half-full glasses on the table.
Though they had kissed in the taxi home, by the time they got to bed they were both too tired for anything other than sleep. When Grace woke up the next morning, Andrew was snoring on his stomach in his usual position, his limbs at ninety degree angles, like the chalk drawing of a body at a crime scene. She smiled to herself when she remembered Andrew haggling with the shop assistant in the late night newsagent to buy her an Easter egg that came with its own mug. The shop assistant wouldn’t drop his price, but Andrew bought the egg anyhow, saying that was what André Rieu would have done. When Grace’s body clock, with its usual inflexibility, prevented her from going back to sleep on that Easter morning, she resisted her habit of getting up early and alone, and instead spooned in behind Andrew, hoping to either wake him up or hold his warmth against her until he did.
Even though she was notoriously awkward about respecting tradition for the sake of it, Grace had conceded that she and Andrew ought to spend the eve of the wedding apart. It would be strange leaving him later on to head over to her parents’ house, where she would stay the night, but then, she thought, maybe it’s not such a bad thing to miss your husband a little bit on the day before you marry him.
Over at Parley View, Helen and Hungry Paul had already made an early start, as they wanted to visit the hospital to bring some Easter eggs to the nurses and patients before organising all the last minute bits and pieces at home ahead of Grace’s visit. They arrived at the hospital a little late, having been delayed when Hungry Paul insisted on checking the best before dates on all the eggs his mother had bought, ignoring her protest that chocolate doesn’t go off. As Helen stood chatting to the nurses, Hungry Paul entered the ward by himself. He could see that Barbara was on the phone to someone, presumably one of her emigrant children, and that the middle bed was empty. The curtain was pulled around Mrs Hawthorn’s bed. Hungry Paul paused outside the curtain and listened for a bit until he could figure out what he would be intruding on if he were to pop his head around. He wanted to give Mrs Hawthorn the egg he had bought for her specially. It was a moment of self-doubt where he wished for a door knocker or doorbell, just to signal his intention and avoid the embarrassment of walking in on a medical examination.
‘Hello,’ he called unclearly, his voice being a little phlegmy having not spoken in a while.
‘Hello,’ he tried again after a few moments.
‘Hello,’ came a male voice. ‘Who’s that?’
Hungry Paul leaned his head inside the curtain to see a well-dressed man—about his own age—sitting in the chair beside Mrs Hawthorn, who was sleeping.
‘Hello,’ said Hungry Paul for a third time, ‘we’re just doing the rounds visiting patients to see if they want a chat. Are you a relative?’
‘Yeah, she’s my mum,’ he said pointing to her with his thumb. ‘She’s asleep though—been snoozing since I got here about ten minutes ago. I’ll give her five more minutes. No point staying here if she’s not even awake. So I’d say you’re okay for today. Thanks though,’ he said returning to scrolling through his phone.
‘I’ll just leave this here then, will I?’ asked Hungry Paul with the Easter egg.
‘I’ll take it. She won’t eat it. I’ll bring it home to the kids,’ the man said, putting it on the floor.
Hungry Paul paused a moment. ‘If you’re under time pressure, I don’t mind sitting with your mother for a little while. I mean, I’m here for the next hour one way or another.’
The man lifted his eyes from the phone and weighed it up briefly before accepting. ‘Actually, that would be great. Doesn’t look like she’ll be awake soon and it’s a bit of a trek to get over here, so it would be good to beat the traffic.’
‘It’s no trouble. Don’t forget the Easter egg,’ said Hungry Paul as the man got his bag and coat.
‘Oh yeah, great. When she wakes up just tell her Daniel was here. Tell her that I waited as long as I could but that I had to go. I’ll try and get back over next weekend if I can,’ he said, slipping through the curtain. ‘Don’t feel you have to stay too long.’
Hungry Paul waited until he had left and then drew back the curtain, which let in a little more of the limited light that the north-facing ward attracted. He took his usual seat and waited beside Mrs Hawthorn, who was pale and had lost weight. He stayed there for the rest of the hour, with Mrs Hawthorn asleep the whole time.
Helen spent her time with Barbara, who had been busy on the phone all morning as her grandkids rang her to wish her a happy Easter and tell her how many eggs they had got. Barbara had finally got word that she was to leave on Tuesday.
‘I got good and bad news, though I actually got the bad news first. Turns out I have diabetes, though they have to give me final confirmation tomorrow when the last set of tests comes back. Maybe I should eat that Easter egg before they confirm it. So that’s the bad news, though it could have been worse, and it was nowhere near as bad as the news I thought I was going to get. The good news, or less bad news, is that they can deal with it using tablets so I won’t have to inject myself or do any of that awful stuff. So, not too bad overall. When you get to this stage you’re always bargaining, settling for things you would have been worried about previously. To tell the truth, it’s my own fault. I got in trouble for not exercising and for eating the wrong things, although when I asked the doctor if it could be genetic he admitted that it was possible. He wasn’t pleased when I threw that back at him—I could see that!’
Helen and Barbara filled their hour easily as they always did, with talk of the wedding and Barbara’s updates on her family and the goings-on in the ward. Apparently the woman in the middle bed just disappeared one day while Barbara was doing tests. She was sent home, although they weren’t told whether it was because she had recovered or whether it was to allow her to be looked after by her family, maybe even with palliative care for all Barbara knew. Ward neighbours had no rights in these things, she said.
Hungry Paul came over for a quick hello before they went home, so Barbara gave him a hug and a kiss to wish him well for Grace’s wedding day, saying that he would be next and for Helen to keep an eye on him. It was the kind of comment that Hungry Paul didn’t usually enjoy, but which he was getting better at dealing with.
The rest of the day was spent on the minor details. Peter and Hungry Paul did a dry run in the car to the church to judge how long the wedding journey would take, and erected the coloured direction signs along the route so that guests wouldn’t get lost, even if the signs looked disappointingly small and illegible once they were in place. Helen got the house ready, as a parade of well-wishing neighbours called over to see Grace, who spent the evening being genial and walking around the house in flip flops, with tissues between her painted toes. There were still some small jobs to be done at the church, which had been off-limits all week because of the Holy Week embargo on wedding activity, but otherwise Grace’s organisational nous meant that everything was attended to, checked and double-checked. Even the flowers arrived on time and were stored in the kitchen, where the radiator was left off so as not to wilt them; a minor panic about the lack of vases to hold them in was resolved with a quick knock on the doors of neighbours who were happy to help.
After a week of take-aways, restaurants and snacking, Grace was happy to relax on the couch with a simple home-cooked meal made by Peter: chicken with fluffy mash and marrowfat peas. It was the kind of food Grace loved but never made herself, she being of the cook book generation that tended to overcomplicate things. Inevitably, Hungry Paul made the suggestion of taking out the Scrabble board, in response to which Grace gave the air a tired punch and said ‘bring it on!’
The game was cagey, with each of them trying to maximise their scores, giving the board a congested look with few two-letter possibilities. This led to long pauses between goes, which were naturally filled by conversation.
‘We’re going to miss all this buzz when it’s all over,’ said Helen, ‘it’s been nice to have something to look forward to.’
‘I’m afraid that if you’re looking at me,’ said Hungry Paul, ‘it will be a while before you get to wear your outfit again.’
‘Maybe we should renew our vows, love?’ suggested Peter.
‘I’d rather amend them. There are a few new requirements I want to put in the small print,’ said Helen, playing ‘fa’ and explaining it was ‘fa’ as in do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do.
‘You’d better not—they might revoke our marriage licence,’ answered Peter.
‘I’ve already revoked your marriage licence—too many penalty points,’ said Helen, slapping Peter’s hand as he tried to put down his word out of turn. ‘Hold on, it’s Grace next.’
‘That’s why I keep saying you need to do something for yourselves,’ pushed Grace. ‘Do a nice break away. Get out of your routine and do something you always wanted to do. Seriously, you just need to book something and make it happen.’
‘I know, I know. I’ll see how we’re fixed after the wedding,’ said Helen.
‘And you should try and do something special too,’ said Grace, turning her attention to Hungry Paul. ‘Maybe go away with Leonard. You have your prize money now, so you could try and do a trip of your own—or maybe do a course, you know, train in something. I don’t know, computer skills or learn to drive, or something like that.’ Grace played ZEN which Hungry Paul knew wasn’t allowable because it is a proper noun, but he didn’t feel like challenging her when it was the eve of the wedding and she was already in the middle of hassling him.
‘Maybe—we’ll see. I’ve already got a lot on my plate with judo and the post office and the hospital visits.’ Hungry Paul had not yet told his family about the National Mime Association job. ‘And anyway, Leonard has woman trouble. He was supposed to be here tonight, but he said he wanted to take it easy and save himself for the long day tomorrow. I suspect he’s still upset about Shelley.’
‘Who’s Shelley?’ the other three asked in unison.
‘His girlfriend, or I think ex-girlfriend. She has a kid, but I think she and Leonard are still broken up. Some sort of misunderstanding.’
‘Really? Good man Leonard,’ said Helen, ‘At least he’s out there trying. I thought he was going to be a bachelor for life, but there you go.’
‘I suppose it’s a lot of change at once, what with his poor mother and everything,’ said Peter.
‘Poor Leonard,’ said Grace, ‘Maybe he needed the plus one after all. I must remember to say it to him tomorrow. It can be hard being single at a wedding when you’re going through a break-up. I remember doing it once and I ended up all drunk and weepy in the toilets.’
The other three said nothing at this slightly disturbing episode of oversharing from their perfect family member.
Peter laid down ISCHORD onto Grace’s D and gave a triumphant yelp at using all seven letters, only to be corrected that there was no ‘h’ in ‘discord’ and besides, it wasn’t his go.
The evening unwound once everyone’s good intentions for an early night got the better of them. Peter and Helen headed out for a late evening walk together, during which they promised to discuss holiday plans. Just as Hungry Paul was getting set up to brush his teeth, Grace knocked and came in. As in most houses, their family bathroom was a busy concourse where privacy was but an aspiration. As Hungry Paul brushed away, Grace sat on the side of the bath, wearing what looked like a set of pyjamas from the second division, depicting Minnie Mouse eating a hot dog, with little hot dogs all over the trouser section.
‘I’m sorry to be a nag about stuff by the way,’ offered Grace.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, about getting your act together. I don’t mean to be on your case.’
‘It’s okay. I ignore it.’
‘Well, I was hoping you wouldn’t do that either. I don’t like to have to be the sergeant major in the family, telling people to shape up. I want to be the laid-back, popular one.’
Hungry Paul continued to brush with extraordinary thoroughness, leaving a silence that Grace found hard not to fill.
‘What’s going to happen, do you think?’ she asked.
‘Huh?’
‘I mean, are you just going to stay here forever? Are Mam and Dad going to look after you for as long as they’re around? What happens when they’re older?’
Hungry Paul gave a swirl and a spit.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t you worry about these things, or plan for them?’
‘I know that things will take their course. I don’t dwell on them.’
‘I know you don’t. Maybe that’s why I worry about them so much. I’m doing all the family worrying.’
‘Grace, it’s the night before your wedding. Why bring this up now? You should just be looking forward to tomorrow, thinking about seeing Andrew, getting excited about your honeymoon, being married, your future, all that stuff. What’s up? Why be so heavy, tonight of all nights?’
‘This whole time I have been trying to feel enthusiastic about the wedding and about being married, but it feels like the handbrake is on. I can’t let myself enjoy it or be carefree, because I’m not carefree. I can’t move on when I still feel so… so duty-bound about everything.’
‘But why? You’ve always been so kind to everybody, nobody is expecting anything from you.’
‘You say that, but what happens if Mam and Dad need help in the years ahead? What if something happened to one of them and the other fell to pieces? What are you going to be like when they’re gone? I want to just be myself and plan my own life, but I feel this little vortex forming behind me that’s going to suck me back in. Do you know what I mean?’
‘I think so, even if I don’t see it that way. I don’t know what you want me to do or say.’
‘I want you to move on. I want you to become independent, so you can be a positive force in all this. If you’re on your own two feet, then the folks will feel liberated. They’ll live their lives fully. And then, if things play out in a serious way in the future, you and I can be a team. But now, all I feel is that the whole thing will fall to me. No matter what life I build with Andrew, all the problems of Parley View will land at my doorstep saying “Here Grace—fix this.” I can’t be some sort of family superhero.’
‘Who asked you to be that?’
‘Who will handle all the heavy stuff otherwise?’
‘What heavy stuff?’
‘Don’t be so evasive. You know what I’m talking about. The future.’
‘Grace, I know that I disappoint you. I know it but I am okay with it. Whatever happens I will do my best. If you’re here I will do my best, if you’re not here I will do my best. There’s no point planning for what you’re trying to plan for. I know that, more than anything, you would like me to see the world your way, to wake up to your way of looking at things and to become the version of myself that you’re most comfortable with. But then what? Are you going to keep checking in on me every few months to make sure I haven’t drifted? How are you going to ensure that once I’m fixed I stay fixed? But what about you—what are you going to do?’
‘Me? I’m the one who’s been holding it together all these years! You’ve been floating about like bloody Winnie the Pooh all your life, spending a whole day looking for a fishing rod, or thinking about the shapes clouds make, while Mam and Dad and I deal with money, jobs, problems, y’know, that sort of thing.’
‘Look. Whatever duty you have imposed on yourself towards me, I now absolve you from it.’ Hungry Paul knighted Grace on each shoulder with the toothbrush and continued, ‘I love you, but I don’t need you to look after me. I haven’t needed you for a very long time. I am not your responsibility. I am not anyone’s responsibility. I am only telling you this now because I think you’re ready to find out that you can’t help me. I am just sorry it took me so long to realise I was holding you back, but not in the way you think. I have been holding you back by letting you hold onto this precious, fictional version of yourself. You’re addicted to your own competence. I should have tried sooner to help you so that you could discover for yourself how impossible it is to help somebody.’
‘Look, I don’t mean to have a go at you, but what changes out of this? Mam and Dad still have to look after you.’
‘This is my home. I live here. They are my family. I love them. I love you too, even with your hot dog pyjamas and all. This isn’t a business relationship. It’s not a transaction. I spend my days with them. I am here whenever Mam wants a little company. I help her with stuff and we chat about this and that. I sit with Dad when he’s reading, and we watch TV together and talk about it afterwards. Nobody keeps count and nobody keeps score. We all think the world of you Grace, but you’re simply not here. You ghost in with your busyness and then ghost off, leaving a to-do list behind you. But that’s okay. I accept you the way you are. I don’t have any expectations of you. But I do wish you were happier, for your sake, but you’re not. You have this strange mix of a victim complex and a superiority complex. And yet, and yet, I am happy. So what do I say when you want me to substitute a bit of your unhappiness for what I have in my life?’
‘So, what’s your advice then? What do you think I should do? If you were the family superhero, what would you do?’ asked Grace.
‘We don’t need a family superhero. You have created a world for yourself where you have this load-bearing filial and sisterly duty, but it’s all over now, if it ever truly existed. The film is finished. You can just be Grace. Be whichever Grace you want. Disappoint us if you want. We’ll love you anyway. Yes, our parents will grow old and yes they will get sick and yes they will die, but that will happen to us two as well. Where you’re wrong is that you think that’s a problem in the future. But it’s not. The answer to that problem is to spend time with them now. Be in their lives so that when the worst happens—which we hope is many years away—there will have been ten, twenty, however many years of Scrabble, University Challenge, curries, walks, gardening and whatever else behind us. And then, when the time comes we’ll know what to do. Not because we’ll have it all figured it out but because we will have had the habit, the practice, of loving them and being with them, and the utter clarity that comes with that. Mam and Dad have enjoyed the wedding so much because they speak to you all the time and you’re calling over, and you’re including them. You being here has reminded them of how much they miss you when you’re busy. They don’t really want a holiday, they just want to know that you won’t forget about them when it’s all over. You need to go and be happy with Andrew, and unfetter yourself from this story you have about your role in the family. And then, when you come over—once a week, once a month, whenever you can, it doesn’t matter—just hang out and be yourself. No versions of Grace any more. Not world-on-her-shoulders Grace; not why-can’t-you-all-get-your-act-together Grace; no deferring-of-happiness Grace. Just come over, and who knows? Maybe I’ll have moved on. Maybe I’ll be a hotshot. Or maybe I won’t. But let’s not test each other. Let’s just be happy. While there is still time.’
Hungry Paul gargled with mouthwash, and then leaned over and gave Grace a hug. ‘C’mon. Teeth time,’ he said tapping the handle of her brush on the side of the sink.
It was difficult for Grace to hear some of that. The competitive side of her wanted to argue back, to counterpunch, but she knew Hungry Paul well enough, and trusted him enough to know that he didn’t care about winning an argument. All his life he had never wanted anything at her expense. And that’s what was hard to hear. An attack would be fine. An attack was something she was durable enough to withstand and retaliate against. But kind truth, gentle truth, was harder.
As she lay in bed, the single bed from her teenage years, she could hear Hungry Paul’s clumsy bedroom routine next door: drawers and wardrobe doors creaking open and closed, looking for something or other. Always, always onto the next thing. Downstairs she could hear her parents coming in from their walk in the evening cold, Helen offering Peter a cuppa, and Peter offering to warm up his wife’s hands.