Page 57 of Somewhere Only We Know

He picked me up and swung me around. ‘It is easy! Say yes.’

Another month of loving this boy, of having an adventure I’d never forget, of setting aside the responsibilities of home …

‘Yes,’ I said with a bubble of laughter. ‘I say yes.’

Chapter 19

Australia

Harry was waiting on the platform of Leura station, standing tall and broad-shouldered. His attention was on his phone screen, giving me a chance to study him, this boy who’d captured my daughter’s heart. T-shirts, shorts and trainers, all black: his taste in clothes hadn’t altered, I noticed. Brontë had looked like an exotic bird next to him in her thrift store florals. Yet now he looked unrecognisable from the image I had of him at the funeral last year. Then his entire demeanour had been one of a young man defeated by life, his stance bent and his pale face doing its best to mask his emotions. His dark wavy hair was shorter than it had been last time I’d seen him. He’d got a suntan too; I remembered Brontë complaining last summer that he only had to look at the sun and he turned brown.

A look of recognition crossed his face. He smiled, raised his hand.

I felt an ache of sadness that it was me, not Brontë, stepping off the train to meet him and wondered if the same thought had occurred to him. Their faces would have been lit with love and excitement. He’d have swept her up and kissed her, ignoring the looks from other passengers. I knew this because he’d picked us up from the airport once and I had looked on fondly and with slight envy at the youthful exuberance of first love.

I walked towards him, dragging my suitcase behind me, conscious of the fluttering of butterflies in my stomach. Was this a strange thing to be doing, meeting my dead daughter’s boyfriend, ex-boyfriend? Was she even his ex? That sounded wrong, as if they’d chosen to part ways rather than being ripped apart through the actions of someone else.

‘Harry!’ I smiled shakily as I approached him. ‘I made it. Thanks for meeting me. It’s good to see you.’

‘Hello, Maggie.’ His eyes roamed my face. Brontë and I looked alike – had looked alike. Everyone told us so. He was looking at an older version of her, a version which would never exist. ‘Good trip?’

‘Really good.’ I reached for my water bottle and took a sip, conscious of my dry mouth. ‘I loved watching the landscape change the further away from the city we got. I love Sydney and the ocean, but the hills and all the trees, and looking at the countryside …’ I was aware that I was rambling, but couldn’t shut up. ‘Well, it’s beautiful. Only a hundred kilometres away, but it feels like I’m in a completely different place.’

He nodded. ‘It’s a world away from the city. I’m looking forward to showing you around.’

‘You look great.’ My voice broke as I said it, and with it, my heart all over again.

I was pleased to see him looking well; of course I was. But whereas he was a picture of health, my daughter was dead. He’d survived the accident with cracked ribs and broken bones – Brontë had lost her life. Seeing him so young, so alive, delivered a punchy reminder of what I’d lost. For a few seconds, I could do nothing other than stare, the beat of my heart crashing in my ears.

His smile was tentative. ‘I’m getting there.’

His voice still sounded the same, but there was a new, more adult edge.

We stood awkwardly opposite each other, arms by our sides, the enormous loss we shared standing between us like a fracture in the ground after an earthquake.

‘Come here.’ I opened my arms and Harry almost fell into them. ‘I need a hug.’

‘Me too.’ I heard the wobble in his voice, and hugged him tight.

Underneath his T-shirt I could feel his shoulder blades. There was less of him than before and the thought that he’d been suffering to the point of losing weight sent a wave of shame through me. I’d been so wrapped up in my grief that I hadn’t paid enough attention to the hearts of others around me who’d lost her too.

‘I’m sorry I’ve not been in touch more,’ I said, pulling back to look into his blue eyes.

He shook his head. ‘I’m the one who should be apologising. But I couldn’t face … I couldn’t …’ He rubbed his face roughly. ‘Shit.’ Then, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to swear.’

‘It’s okay, Brontë’s not here to tell you off.’

He gave me a bemused look as if to say, really, you’re making jokes?

‘We’re in the way, here. Is there somewhere to get coffee?’ I asked as a family with a double buggy and a teenager pulling two suitcases attempted to squeeze past us without falling onto the tracks.

He rubbed his stomach. ‘Yeah, actually, I’m starving.’

I had a flashback to all the times he and Brontë had showed up at my house and he’d said the same thing. Within minutes they’d be in the kitchen raiding the fridge. ‘When are you ever not starving?’

Harry grabbed the handle of my suitcase, his head shaking slightly. ‘You sounded exactly like her then,’ he murmured.

He still loved her, I realised with a pang.