The problem was, thought David, that life never stayed the way it was, neither for the good, nor for the bad. Although they had spent some time in England, Laura hadn’t been so settled and had missed her home town badly. That was no problem. They simply moved to live in Finland, a place David had learned to appreciate, and where he could conduct his business with at least as great an ease as in England. It didn’t matter in the slightest that his English office was so far away as he found he could take an early morning flight, conduct his business and be home by evening, fast even by his standards. But it didn’t last. The short time they were married had been happy, almost blissfully so, until that dreadful day when a traffic accident took away his precious Laura. And not only Laura. Helena too. His beloved Helena. So young. Too young to die. And yet she had. They both had. Something in David died at the same time. He had almost perished with them in the blazing car after the petrol lorry in front had lost control through a tyre blowing out, and jackknifed into them, sliding and slithering on the hard packed icy road. David had managed to unclip his seat belt and crawl clear through the shattered windscreen, bleeding profusely from several deep cuts about his head and chest, but was unable to return to the inferno that already enveloped his wife and screaming daughter. Other vehicles had stopped, and strong hands supported him, while they prevented any hasty action on his part. The shock he felt was shared by his helpers as the choking, bubbling screams rose to an unbelievable pitch before being cut off sharply. Where the screaming ceased for good, the nightmares that followed took much longer to fade.
*
The day was cold, about normal for the time of year. Winter had arrived early, or perhaps it only seemed that way as a result of the circumstances. In the valleys fringing the nearby hills snow had already come to stay. Soon there would be a complete cover. The sun cast its orange light over the tops of the trees but there was no warmth in it. It was too low in the sky for that. Birch bark gleamed silvery white. Like bleached bones, a fitting simile. Somehow it seemed colder than usual, undoubtedly a trick of the mind, considering what was happening on this day. Above eye level, branches bent under the weight of accumulated frozen snow, drifting off in whirls as little flurries of wind caught hold. A late to hibernate squirrel dislodged more snow as it scampered up the trunk of a nearby tree and disappeared into its shelter. In the ground, two rectangular holes. At their edges, two coffins, one rather smaller than the other, neither particularly heavy. Nearby stood a man lost in deep thought, unmoving apart from blinking tears from his eyes. Tears of cold, or tears of sorrow, who could tell? Nor did it matter. Soon the simple ceremony was over, and the graveside figures, so very few in number, dispersed. Someone spoke to the man, clearly asking a question, receiving only a silent shake of the head in reply.
Home again, if it could be called a home now, without voices to keep it alive. Just a house, no longer a home. Yet not totally empty of feeling. Ghosts there were, memories of the past filling the man’s mind as he slumped on the sofa, surveying the room. Just there was where she liked to sit on an evening, sewing or reading under the light. The slight depression in the chair cushion showed it clearly. She could see no fewer than three clocks from there, all in the same room. She had had a passion for knowing the time once, for all her ability to live life at a slow pace, but now she had all the time in the world, the whole of eternity in fact.
Take stock. I, David, early middle age, once happily married with a delightful and precious daughter. Now alone, with only memories to plague. A house. An income which was adequate. More than adequate. No debts. No really close friends, which didn’t matter. No family, not any more, which did matter, but which had to be borne with such fortitude as could be dredged up from the depths of utter misery.
Plenty to do to keep the mind occupied, but no willingness to do it. Willing or not, something had to be done. Eat. Sleep. Sort out clothes and toys. The sooner the better. There were too many memories wrapped up in a doll, a pair of skating boots, a school bag containing a homework exercise that would now never be completed, a collection of teeth the Tooth Fairy had left money for over the years, a calendar with the days crossed off and counting down to birthdays, name days and other celebrations, cupboards and shelves full of clothing, sizes various from baby to present and eternal, never changing age. More cupboards. More clothing. Small women’s in different styles, reflecting the changing fashions of time. Nothing had been thrown out. Now, everything could go. Must go. Even the well loved children’s books. Let the past stay where it was. There was no future to look forward to except for an endless succession of empty, meaningless days, but there was no need to torture an already anguished mind hovering on the edge of instability.
He went upstairs, looking around helplessly, then stretched out on the bed in despair. His mind wandered through a multitude of unwilling recollections, memories he could scarcely bear to think about, but which were perhaps better purged if possible.
England didn’t really suit. Laura liked it for its culture and history, for its openness and friendliness. Never was she made to feel ’’just a foreigner’’, but she considered the climate to be unspeakable. When she became pregnant, David simply transferred his main business interests and sold everything else, bar an office in England. Everything else, that is, except the Bentley, which he was reluctant to commit to over harsh winters, and which he used on his still frequent trips to England. After that, he followed Laura to Finland, where Helena was born. Helena. His beloved girl. And Laura, his beloved wife. Once so close. Now no more.
He roused himself from a semi-drugged sleep and looked around the room helplessly and with distaste. There was nothing he wanted to do, but the self discipline that had made him a good businessman in the past came to his aid now. He found a number of cardboard boxes, carried them up to Helena’s room and began clearing the clothing. Books and playthings he left for the most part, thinking to dispose of them later as the need arose. He could think of several children who might be glad to receive some of the goods. All that had to come later, when he felt he could face the world again. Other boxes went into his own room, the one he had shared with Laura. Almost savagely, he crammed her clothes into boxes and secured the lids. Every garment brought memories, some poignant, some happy, one or two even sad. It was almost unbearable. At last the job was done. There remained only papers to burn on a bonfire outside, and burn they did with a fierce heat that singed his eyebrows and shrivelled skin on his hands to a smooth, waxy finish. He was glad of the pain, welcoming the opportunity to take his mind off the severe internal hurt he was suffering, welcoming the opportunity to share something of that which others had had to endure. He stared into the flames, hearing again and again the piercing screams of a young girl, trapped and beyond help, calling for a mother who was already beyond helping, feeling again the restraining hands that held him back from anything foolish. The screams had mercifully ceased, cut off abruptly with a bubbling, choking sound that made him nauseous at the very thought. The screams had gone, yet the echoes remained imprisoned in his mind. He felt that he could never be warm enough again, despite the heat of the bonfire.
There remained only letters to write, but even this appalling task was practically completed in the weeks that followed. There was just one more explanation to make. Helena had been writing to a girl of about her own age in Sweden. She had had pen friends before, but they had all fallen by the wayside, as might have been expected from children of that age. This one, however, had kept on writing, almost every week, chatty letters, full of happenings at school and at home. Through the medium of the written word, the girls formed what appeared to be a firm friendship. Indeed, although nothing definite had been fixed, there had been tentative plans to arrange a visit at some time in the near future.
David shook himself mentally. It was a distasteful task, but one that had to be done.
14th April
Dear Fru Lind,
My apologies if this letter seems a little stilted. It is, I should say, perhaps the most difficult letter I have ever had to write in my entire life. It would have been easy simply not to have written it at all, but I felt that I had an obligation to explain why your daughter Emma will not be receiving any more letters from my daughter Helena. The fact of the matter is, and there is no easy way of putting it, that Helena is dead. I realise that seems almost too abrupt, but I don’t know how else to say it. My wife was driving her home from school one day when the driver of a petrol lorry lost control because of some mechanical fault and ran into our car. Both Helena and my wife died in the accident.
This was some time ago, but it has taken this long to go through the formalities, and start to come to terms with a world that has become rather empty. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, but I thought Emma should know. You will forgive me if I leave to you the task of explaining the facts to her, or as much as you think she can accept.
Yours sincerely,
David Howard
A reply had come only a few days later.
Dear Mr. Howard,
I was shocked at the contents of your letter, both shocked and saddened. You may be sure that you have my entire sympathy, for what it is worth from a stranger. You may wish to know that I have told everything to Emma, who was most upset, but has absorbed the fact as easily as children tend to do when they are told the truth. Naturally I broke the news gently to her. She has written a short note of her own, which I enclose in this letter.
To a certain extent I can feel something of what you must be going through, as I have had a rather similar experience myself. My husband died in an industrial accident several years ago, when Emma was only a tiny baby. Perhaps the fact that I had to look after Emma gave me the strength to continue when it would have been very easy to give up. That is one thing you must never do, if you don’t mind a stranger giving advice. It was a struggle at times, and still can be, even now, but a struggle well worth making. Not just for Emma’s sake, but also for my own. She won’t be with me for ever. One day she will leave home to study or to work, or even to get married. When that time comes, I will have a number of activities and interests to fall back on.
It is, perhaps, easier for me as I had a child to bring up. If I understand correctly, you have no other family, but are truly on your own, especially as you live in a foreign country. I am making an assumption about this as I don’t know how you feel about the country you have lived in for (I suppose) several years. Just the same, you must have broken several ties in England when you moved, and it is not always easy to form new bonds in a strange place.
Again, I know something of this, as I have not always lived at the present address. This is a large town, almost a city, and is as impersonal as most places of its size. Originally I came from a small countryside village, and would return there, or somewhere like it, if it was possible. Not that people are unfriendly here, and I like it well enough, but it is not the same as a feeling of belonging. That looks as though I was complaining about my own life, but it is not intended, I just wish to show you that there is at least one person who might understand something of what you feel. Please keep yourself busy and active, as much as you possibly can. Leave yourself no time to think. There is a sense of loss which never quite disappears, but eventually you can learn to live with it. I am quite sure - in fact I know - that at the moment you hardly want to live at all. I beg your pardon for writing like this, but life is still good, even at this time. I hope it helps, just a little. It is not necessary to write back, but if you wish to do so, I would be very pleased to hear from you.
Yours in sorrow,
Frida Lind
Well, it had helped, quite a lot. The childish note that had been enclosed with the letter brought tears to his eyes, but that had helped too. Nevertheless, it was the end of an era. Unable to face every day memories, sick of the operations that repaired his face somehow, but never quite well enough, David sold up and moved back to England, where he wound up his business interests totally and lived in a welcome solitude, unable to face the society of his fellow men. He turned to writing for something to do, rather than for the money it brought in. He had learned to slow down at last. The cost of the lesson, he felt, was too great.