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  Things We Never Said

  A Novel by

  Nick Alexander

  BIGfib

  Nick Alexander

  Nick Alexander was born in 1964 in the UK. He has travelled widely and has lived and worked both in the UK, the USA and France where he resides today. Things We Never Said is his 14th fictional work. His 2015 novel, The Other Son, was named by Amazon as one of the best fiction titles of the year; The Photographer’s Wife published in 2014 was a number 1 hit in both the UK and France, while The Half-Life of Hannah is the 4th bestselling independently published Kindle title of all time. Nick’s novels have been translated into French, German, Italian, Spanish, Norwegian, Turkish and Croatian. Nick lives in the southern French Alps with his partner, three friendly cats (plus one mean one), and a few trout.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Fay Weldon for encouraging me when it most counted. Thanks to James for sharing the anecdote which inspired me to write this novel. Thanks to Allan and Sue for their proofing skills and to Rosemary and Lolo for being the most important people on my planet. Thanks to Karen, Jenny, Tina, Diana, Annie, and everyone else who gave me feedback on this novel. It wouldn’t have happened without you. Thanks to Apple for making reliable work tools and to Amazon for turning the writing of novels back into something one can actually earn a living from.

  Snapshot #24

  120 format, black and white. Two children are playing in a sandpit with buckets and spades. The little boy, in a woolly jumper and jeans, is staring at the camera and smiling broadly. The little girl, wearing dungarees and a sweatshirt, has her face obscured by a mop of unruly hair which has fallen forwards as she plays.

  Prologue

  The drive from the funeral parlour to the house takes place in silence. Beside Sean, April, his daughter, stares stoney-faced from the side window. They both cried abundantly during the service but, right now, are feeling more numbed than anything else. Both are thinking about the fact that they should probably say something to comfort or reassure the other but, as none of the normal formulas for filling silences work here – there’s no point, for example, in asking if the other is OK when they’re clearly not – they continue their journey in silence. The risk of provoking fresh floods of tears is just too high, at least until the journey is over.

  On reaching the house, Maggie, one of their most faithful family friends, opens the front door. She squeezes Sean’s shoulder and silently hugs April who, bracing herself against further tears, accepts the hug more rigidly than she intended.

  “The food’s in the lounge,” she says. “And Perry’s making drinks in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks, Mags,” Sean says. “You’re a star for doing all of this.”

  As Maggie retreats into the house, Sean removes his overcoat and hangs it on a hook in the hallway.

  He hesitates between the lounge, where he can hear somewhat incongruous laughter, or the kitchen, where a stiff drink will come at the hefty cost of being forced to talk to his brother.

  “Dad!” April prompts, applying gentle pressure on his elbow. “You’re blocking the hallway. Let’s go get a drink.”

  “Sure. Yes. Sorry,” Sean says, moving reluctantly towards the kitchen.

  “Hey,” Sean’s brother says, looking up as he enters. “How are you holding up?”

  “Um, OK, Perry,” Sean replies. “Can you make me one of those?”

  Perry glances at the bottle of Bombay Sapphire in his hand. “A G & T?” he asks.

  Sean nods. “With plenty of G.”

  “Coming up,” Perry says, already starting to unscrew the lid.

  “Me too, Uncle Perry,” April says. “If that’s OK?”

  “Sure, it’s like a production line, here,” Perry says. To fill the silence that ensues as he mixes the drinks, he adds, “It was a nice service.”

  Really? Sean thinks. Do I really have to do this? “Yeah,” he replies. “It was.”

  Someone squeezes Sean’s elbow and, thinking that he’s chosen the wrong place to stand again, he starts to apologise.

  But it’s just Maggie trying to comfort him. “Are you OK?” she asks, gently. “I mean, considering the circumstances, obviously. Are you as OK as can be expected?”

  Sean takes a deep breath and nods. “I’m exactly as OK as can be expected,” he says. “I just need a stiff drink, but Perry has that under control.”

  Just as he says this, Perry holds out his glass of gin and tonic. The ice cubes tinkle against the glass and Sean’s mind unexpectedly flashes back to a different glass of gin and tonic held by his late wife’s petite hands in the Grecian sunlight. He shakes his head as if to dislodge the memory and braces himself, because, yes, there are no doubt thousands of these memories yet to come.

  “How’s Mum?” he asks Perry. “Have you been out there to see her recently?”

  His brother nods and shrugs simultaneously. “Most weekends,” he says. “And you know… She’s pretty much the same. She doesn’t know her arse from her elbow most of the time.”

  “Right,” Sean says. “Of course.”

  “She’d still like to see you, though,” Perry says.

  Sean restrains a snort. His mother has never shown much sign of wanting to see him, and dementia has done little to improve the situation.

  Armed with drinks, Sean and April move through to the lounge where family friends are telling each other amusing stories about Catherine.

  April leans in against her father’s side and rests her head on his shoulder. “I’m not sure if I can do this, Dad,” she murmurs.

  “Do what?” Sean asks.

  “All of this do you remember when stuff. It just makes me feel like punching someone.”

  Sean smiles sadly and lays one arm across her shoulders. “You don’t have to do anything, you know. You can go for a walk with that boyfriend of yours. You can go to bed. Do whatever feels easiest for you. They’ll all be gone soon enough, and you and I can be as miserable as sin together. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds great,” April says. “OK, here goes.” Then, visibly steeling herself, she straightens and launches herself towards the group. “Hi,” she says. “How are you?”

  “Oh, hello!” a friend of her mother’s says. “I was just telling everyone about your mum’s poor hydrangeas.”

  By four, everyone has left.

  Sean removes his tie and throws himself onto the sofa. He’s had four gin and tonics and is feeling fairly wobbly, but it’s not helping as much as he had hoped.

  “Well, thank God that’s over,” April says, taking the armchair opposite and lifting a sandwich from the small plate on her knees.

  “I know,” Sean agrees.

  “Have you eaten anything?” April asks. “There are loads of sandwiches left. Mags thought she was catering for a football team, I think.”

  Sean wrinkles his nose. “Not hungry,” he says, then, “How long did you say you were staying?” He’s wondering whether it would be easier to be alone with his pain right now, or whether the empty house will be quite simply unbearable. For the moment, he feels so exhausted, so dead inside, that it doesn’t seem to matter one way or another.

  “Until tomorrow afternoon, I expect,” April says. “If that’s OK.”

  “Of course,” Sean replies, turning to look out at the sunlit street.

  “Could we watch a film or something?” April asks.

  “A film?” Sean asks, turning back to face her.

  April nods. “I don’t…” she says, her voice wobbling as her eyes begin to tear. “I don’t know quite what to do with myself. A film might help. Maybe.”

  Sean blinks slowly. “Sure,” he says. “Go for it. The remote’s um…”

  He fidgets
uncomfortably, then reaches below his thigh and retrieves not the Sky remote, but an iPhone. He sighs deeply and frowns at it, then places it on the coffee table.

  “Her phone,” April says.

  Sean nods.

  “God.”

  “I’m not really sure what to do with it,” Sean says.

  “No,” April says. “Just, maybe, stick it in a drawer or something?”

  Sean nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that’s probably best.”

  April finds the remote control down the side of her own armchair and clicks on the television. She starts to surf the list of available films, then pauses. “Can I ask you something?” she says.

  Sean nods. “Of course, sweetheart. Anything.”

  “I don’t want to upset you.”

  “It’s OK. I think I’m at one-hundred percent, anyway. I don’t think I can feel more upset. What is it?”

  “It’s just, you know, that last day. When Mum said we’d be hearing from her shortly?”

  Sean smiles sadly. “Yeah. She sounded like she was making a dental appointment or something. She was off her face on morphine, sweetie. That’s all it was.”

  April nods. “Mum didn’t…” she shakes her head gently. “She didn’t, you know, believe in anything, did she?”

  “What, you mean like an afterlife?”

  April shrugs. “Anything, really.”

  Sean shakes his head. “No, sweetie. You know she didn’t.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “That doesn’t stop you believing whatever you want, though.”

  “No,” April says. “I know. Only I don’t either, really.” She glances around the room as if perhaps searching for some manifestation of her mother’s spirit. “I wish I did, really. It would be nice to know she was… you know… living on. Somewhere else.”

  Sean chews his lip and screws up his eyes against a fresh bout of tears.

  He taps his chest with his fingertips. “In here, sweetheart,” he says. “She’s in here.”

  “Yeah,” April says, sniffing and dabbing at her eyes before turning her attention back to the TV screen. “So, a film, eh?”

  “Nothing soppy, though, OK?”

  “No,” April says. “No, I know.”

  Unable to choose anything that might be too emotional, yet not wanting to watch either an action film or a horror movie, April ends up choosing a biopic about the life of Che Guevara, but with her mind wanting only to think about her mother, she finds herself totally unable to concentrate on the film.

  Sean, for his part, falls asleep quickly. Some hours later, when he wakes up, the television has been switched off and the room is empty. He sits for a few seconds, half asleep still, and then, just as he begins to wonder where Catherine is, he remembers. He gasps and sits bolt upright.

  • • •

  Sean sits at the kitchen table and cups the steaming mug of tea in his hands. He glances at the kitchen sink – it’s piled high with washing up – then shifts his focal point to the window and finally to the garden beyond.

  It’s a sunny spring day and he should probably get washed and dressed and get out there. It might make him feel a little better. Or at least, a little less bad.

  But only two days have passed since the funeral and this is his first day alone, so this is allowed, isn’t it? He’s back to work on Monday, so surely he’s entitled to spend the weekend staring into the middle distance, to spend the next forty-eight hours feeling utterly, utterly wretched if he wants to.

  He looks at the rose bush, blowing in the wind. He hears Catherine’s voice saying, “That’ll need pruning as soon as this frost is over.”

  “But I don’t know how to prune a rose bush,” he murmurs, as if perhaps Catherine might hear him. It crosses his mind that there are probably thousands of things he doesn’t know how to do – things he never even realised that Catherine did. He starts to make a mental list but then, realising that it’s just another way of describing her, another route to thinking about the loss, he stops himself. It’s just too painful.

  He’s still sitting, the mug on the table long since cold, when a knock on the lounge window makes him jump.

  He twists in his seat and through the arch between the kitchen and the lounge, sees Maggie peering in, her face framed by cupped hands. He exhales heavily and levers himself from the chair and slopes across the room in the direction of the front door. Cold air bursts into the house as he pulls it open. “I’m not properly up yet,” he tells Maggie, flatly.

  She scans his rumpled clothes, then peers into his eyes in search of… in search of what? Something, anything, perhaps. He sees her see that there’s nothing there. He sees her note the emptiness, and the fact of her observing it makes it become real, makes it become a thing he’s aware of.

  “I brought you sushi,” she says briskly as she raises the pink paper bag held in her left hand. Under her right arm she’s holding a box wrapped in brown paper. “I’ll bet you’ve not eaten anything and I know how you love sushi.”

  Sean nods and reaches for the bag. “Cheers,” he says.

  “It’s from the place on Mill Road. They’re the best, I reckon. May I come in?”

  “Er… do you have to?” Sean asks, wincing awkwardly. “It’s just… as I was saying… I’m not really up yet.”

  “It’s only for a minute,” Maggie says, stepping forward, and in so doing, forcing Sean to move to one side. “Just long enough to check that you’re OK.”

  “OK…” Sean repeats, quietly. He’s not sure what that even means anymore.

  He rolls his eyes at the now-empty doorstep, sighs deeply and then turns to follow Maggie into the house.

  “The place looks like a tip, Mags,” he calls out, peering inside the bag at the plastic tray of sushi as he follows her. “I want to be quiet at the moment, that’s all.”

  When he reaches the kitchen, he finds that Maggie has removed her coat. She’s already stacking the dishwasher. “… and just leave the dishwasher door open if that helps,” she’s saying. “That way you’ll automatically dump your plates and stuff in the dishwasher rather than the sink. And once it’s full all you have to do is close it and switch it on. I’ll even put a dishwasher tab in so that it’s all ready for you. How does that sound?”

  “I do know how to stack the dishwasher,” Sean says through another sigh. “I’m just… you know…”

  “Look, I know you must be feeling awful. I can’t even imagine how awful you must be feeling, to be honest,” Maggie says. “But if you let everything go to pot, well, it won’t help.”

  “Maggie,” Sean pleads.

  Maggie pauses and straightens, a dirty mug in one hand. “I know. You want me to leave. I know that. I’m not stupid.”

  Sean nods gently. “This is very kind of you,” he says, “but yes. I just want to be on my own right now.”

  Maggie presses her free hand to her hip and twists her mouth sideways. “I’ll do a deal with you,” she says, gesticulating with the mug. “You go have a shower and change. And in the time it takes you to do that, I’ll tidy up a little bit down here.”

  “But Mags, I…”

  “By the time you’ve finished, I’ll be gone. I promise.”

  Sean nods and swallows with difficulty. Her kindness makes him want to cry but he reckons he has cried enough these last few days. “OK,” he says, turning to leave. “OK. Whatever.”

  He walks to the base of the stairs then pauses and looks back. “Thanks Mags,” he says, his voice croaky. “I um… I do appreciate it, you know.”

  Maggie, who has just pulled on Catherine’s rubber Marigolds says, “I know. Now go wash yourself. Because that’s the bit I can’t do and frankly you’re a bit smelly.”

  By the time Sean has showered, shaved and dressed in fresh jeans and a sweatshirt, Maggie, true to her word, has gone.

  The kitchen surfaces are clean, the room smells of bleach, the dishwasher is chugging away and the dining table, previously covered in a seemi
ngly insurmountable mixture of cups, wrappers, unopened post and random computer cables, is now clear. Only a mug of fresh tea and the wrapped box remain. The box has been carefully set in the exact middle of the table. Sean can imagine Maggie, her head tipped to one side, adjusting it until it’s perfectly centred.

  Though grateful for the gift, whatever it turns out to be, he finds himself unable to summon the energy required to investigate the box’s contents. Or perhaps, more precisely, he finds himself unable to risk the energy that might be required if Maggie’s gift turns out to be touching or moving or emotional in any way. He feels too fragile to take that risk.

  He reaches for the fresh mug of tea, stares at the carefully wrapped box for one second longer and then moves instead to the lounge, where he hurls himself lengthways onto the sofa. As he reaches for the remote, he notes that Maggie has hoovered in here, too.

  Jeremy Kyle’s face fills the TV screen. “So how could you not know that your lover was your brother?” Kyle asks, smug, mocking laughter in his voice. “Please. Do tell us.”

  • • •

  The next morning, Sean has barely reached the kitchen when the landline rings. He switches on the kettle, turns the heating thermostat up a notch (it’s cold and raining outside) and swipes the phone from its base. “April - Mobile” the screen says.

  “Hi honey,” Sean answers. “I’m barely up here.”

  “Mmm, same here,” April replies, the sound of a warm bed somehow present in her voice. “I’m not up at all, actually.”

  “It’s Sunday. It’s allowed.”

  “So they tell me. How are you holding up, Dad?”

  “Well, I’m still here,” Sean says. “And you?”

  “The same, really. I keep bursting into tears, but I suppose that’s normal.”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s totally normal.”

  “Do you want me to drive back up?” April asks. “I’m free all day. I could be there in an hour.”