Page 14 of My Kind of Happy

Chapter Five

I could easily have walked to the graveyard where Freddie was buried; it would only have taken me half an hour from Pineapple Road. But Scamp was still getting used to travelling by car and the ten-minute journey was a good length for him: long enough for him to have a nap and short enough for him not to get anxious.

‘See,’ I said, releasing him from his seatbelt harness and clipping on his lead. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’

I was bleary-eyed and shivery after getting very little sleep last night. Hamish and Laura had stayed with me for a couple of hours after the discovery of Freddie’s letter. We’d talked and shared our happiest memories and funny stories about Freddie and I’d woken with a sudden urge to put some flowers on his grave.

The morning had a bite to it, there was a layer of frost on the grass and I was glad I’d brought my gloves and put Scamp in his new fleecy coat. Ethel would be outraged, I thought, smiling to myself, she didn’t believe in ‘dogs being dressed up as dolls’.

I lifted the bunch of flowers I’d brought with me from the back seat, locked the car and together Scamp and I made our way to the far side of the cemetery, the new bit, the saddest bit. Scamp was delighted to be out in the fresh air; he snapped at tufts of long grass at the edge of the path and stopped every few paces to sniff something interesting.

There were a few other people about but I managed to avoid eye contact and reach Freddie’s grave without entering into conversation. There was a man on a bench deep in thought, another with a camera zooming in on a Gothic monument, an older lady kneeling in front of a newly dug grave and a woman rocking a pushchair backwards and forwards to soothe a crying infant inside it.

The floral tributes dotted here and there, on the other hand, always caught my eye: fresh funeral wreaths, little bunches with notes tucked inside, gaudy and bright artificial bouquets, bowls of narcissi. I loved the messages conveyed within the blooms – I’ll never forget you, you are still loved, we will always care. The cemetery may be a place for the deceased, but there was also a lot of life and love to be found here.

And now here I was with a message of my own. For the brother I’d never forget.

At thirty-six, with so much of life still ahead of him, or so he’d assumed, Freddie hadn’t left any special wishes about his funeral. I was sure he’d have wanted to be cremated, quick, fuss-free, efficient, or maybe that was just because it was what I wanted for myself when the time came. But Mum had insisted on having him buried. The pain of losing her child was already so much for her to deal with, I didn’t have the heart to contradict her.

But now, as I looked down on the tidy pea-gravel covered plot with its simple white granite headstone, I was glad to have a physical place to be near him. Mum had moved away from Derbyshire soon after he died. She lived by the sea in Norfolk now; ‘a new start with new faces’ had been her way of moving on with her life. That and the support group she’d set up for other women her age who had lost children.

It had been the same after their divorce. Witnessing her gradual metamorphosis from a besuited loss adjustor for an insurance firm to a purple-haired vegetarian café owner had been baffling for me as an eight-year old. The café hadn’t lasted long and since then, Freddie and I had grown used to Mum changing jobs as often as her hair colour. Perhaps that was why I’d stayed in my job so long, I mused; a subconscious rebellion against the instability I’d felt growing up.

Her current job was in a second-hand bookshop and she was so busy these days I hardly saw or spoke to her. Her efforts certainly seemed to be helping her to get over Freddie’s death. I was proud of her achievements and although Freddie and I had moaned about her at the time, I missed the way she used to interfere in our lives at every opportunity.

I didn’t especially miss Dad. He’d never featured very strongly in my life, even before he’d decided that married life wasn’t for him. Within eighteen months of leaving us, he’d moved in with a dental nurse and they were expecting their first child. I didn’t resent Dad starting again, but I’d probably never forgive him for missing Freddie’s funeral because he couldn’t get a flight back in time from his holiday.

There was a tap near the end of the row. I filled the vase I kept there and took the flowers out of their plastic bag.

‘Hello, Freddie,’ I murmured, brushing some fallen leaves from the gravel. ‘I’ve come for a chat. Hope you don’t mind.’

My breath misted the air as I arranged the bouquet in water: early tulips from the corner shop, plus daffodils, pussy willows and evergreen foliage plundered from Ethel’s garden.

Scamp lay down on the path patiently. I felt in my pocket for a treat and told him he was a good boy.

Later in the year, perhaps I’d plant some bulbs: snowdrops and tête à tête and cyclamen, or maybe grape hyacinths and perhaps sow some nigella seeds for summer flowers. Anything to detract from the stark truth: beneath this cold frozen ground lay Freddie. I took his letter out of my pocket and scanned the words, although I almost knew them by heart already.

‘So, I found your letter. Bit of a shocker.’ I spoke quietly even though there was no one within earshot. ‘I was going to say I wish I’d found it sooner, or that you’d actually posted it at the time you wrote it. But maybe it wouldn’t have had the same impact. It was a fantastic letter, it made me so happy to see your handwriting again. And I know this is a bit cheesy but it felt like the perfect gift at the perfect time. It’s made me hold a mirror up to my life and I don’t like what I see.’

I lifted up the vase to check the arrangement for symmetry and then settled it into the gravel where it would be steady. The sight of flowers brought a smile to my face as ever. Fresh flowers in the house had been a regular indulgence of mine, although I hadn’t bothered for months. Freddie had always marvelled at my creations; he loved flowers but reckoned his fingers were built for motorbike handles, not easily bruised flower stems. But now, with Hamish’s bunch of anemones brightening up the living room, it reminded me how much I missed them.

Scamp nudged my leg with his wet nose and brought me back to the moment. I squatted down beside him and felt for his wiry ears.

‘You, on the other hand, Freddie …’ My voice came out as a croak. ‘You cracked it. All my memories of you are happy. All of them. You had a bloody short life, but you lived it to the max just as you wanted. But you got one thing wrong in your letter: you weren’t an ordinary man, Freddie, you were extraordinary. And I loved you.’

I felt in my pocket for a tissue. Scamp licked his lips hopefully. I gave him another treat.

‘What do I do, Freddie? Is my grief just a habit that I can kick? I hate feeling like this. I hate that every time I think I’m taking a step forward, I manage to take an even bigger one back. My emotions are up and down like a see-saw and I’ve cut myself off from most of my friends because I’m afraid of bringing the mood down. Even Maureen the crystal lady worked out that I’ve forgotten how to be happy. I feel like I’m stuck in a rut. I wish you were here to help me. Can’t you send me a sign? Like a robin landing on your headstone or the sun breaking through the crowds or something, so I know that you’re listening?’

Scamp retched and coughed up a ball of chewed grass and I grinned.

‘Not quite the symbolic gesture I was hoping for,’ I said, bending to stroke his head. ‘But it’ll have to do.’

The dog wagged his tail, proud of himself.

‘So that’s it, Freddie, I just wanted you to know that your letter has given me plenty to think about. I don’t know what comes next, but I do know that I don’t want to let you down. I’ll come and see you soon, tell you how I got on.’

I blew a kiss into the air and turned to leave but Scamp had lifted his back paw and tried to scratch his side.