Our Last Summer by Jennifer Joyce
Chapter 28
It’s the polish I smell first, shortly followed by a sickly-sweet perfume that makes my nose twitch. The room is bright, with sunlight streaming through the rows of tall windows, the light bouncing off the super-shiny wooden pews. I’m uncomfortable, both from the hard wood I’m sitting on that’s making my bum numb, and the high collar of the top I’m wearing in the stifling heat. A hand squeezes mine. Tomasz. I smile when I see him, relief making me woozy. Or maybe it’s the heat. It really is warm and I don’t appear to be dressed for it. The collar feels as though it’s strangling me. Tomasz isn’t dressed with the heat in mind either. He’s wearing black trousers with a matching jacket. A shirt, buttoned all the way to the top, and a tie. Why is he wearing a suit? Tomasz is a plasterer. He doesn’t wear suits, unless …
We’re in a church. I’m sitting in a pew and the windows that let the sunlight pour in depict religious figures and scenes. Have I jumped forward in time? Is this Heather’s wedding? My eyes flick to the front, to where Reverend Carter is standing at the pulpit. This isn’t Heather’s wedding. Reverend Carter isn’t officiating. He’s no longer Little Heaton’s vicar and hasn’t lived in the village since he moved away shortly after the accident. My eyes flick to the coffin. I hadn’t spotted it, right there beside the vicar. Or maybe I had but refused to acknowledge it. Because to acknowledge it would be accepting the fact that I’m too late. I have jumped back in time, but not far enough to save Ed. The accident has happened and there is nothing I can do to stop it.
There’s a noise. Something between a gasp and a keening. It’s coming from me, I realise as Tomasz releases my hand so he can place his hand on my shoulder and pull me in close.
It’s too late.
I’mtoo late. How can I save someone who’s already dead?
On my other side, there’s a hand on my knee, the fingers applying gentle pressure.
‘You okay?’ Yvonne mouths the words when I turn towards her, and I find myself nodding even though I am not okay. Far from it. She leans over to grab her handbag from by her feet and that’s when I see him. Sacha. Sitting there in the pew next to Yvonne. How dare he? He shouldn’t be here, mourning the loss of Ed’s life when he is the one who was riding the motorbike. The one who sped him off towards his death.
Sacha disappears from view as Yvonne settles back into her seat, pressing a tissue into my hand and flicking one side of her mouth up into a smile of solidarity. But I still know he’s there and it both angers and confuses me. Morals aside, Sacha really shouldn’t be here. He wasn’t originally because not only was he not welcome at Ed’s funeral, he also wasn’t physically able to be there. He’d been in hospital, recovering from the accident because although he’d been wearing the helmet that saved his life, he hadn’t walked away unscathed. So why is he here now, and with Yvonne?
There’s a bit of a commotion from the end of the pew. The pew creaks as bodies move, and there’s the rustle of paper, audible in the otherwise stillness of the room. It isn’t a commotion at all. It’s simply a couple of people standing up. There’s a fresh waft of the floral perfume as they edge out into the aisle. It’s Micha and Franciszek Nowak, the latter hunched over, clutching a bundle of papers that tremble in his hand. Micha rubs her father-in-law’s back before kissing him lightly on the cheek, smiling encouragement as he shuffles towards the pulpit. He pauses as he reaches the coffin. Dark wood, highly polished with gleaming gold fixtures. A spray of pale pink lilies and roses on top.
I sit up straight, twisting in my seat and catch Ed’s eye. I gasp again and Tomasz’s hand squeezes mine. Ed’s sitting near the back of the church. His face is sombre, but he flicks the corners of his mouth up briefly. I try to return the gesture but my face feels numb and I simply stare at him as I feel a flurry of emotion inside: relief to see my best friend alive and well, hope that I can still save him, fear that I won’t. I want to scramble out of my seat to be nearer him, to clutch hold of him, to convince myself that I can – I will – save him but I’m glued to the spot and Franciszek is starting to speak. It isn’t Ed’s funeral. It’s Irene’s.
‘I first came to this country as a young man.’ Franciszek’s voice is hoarse. He clears his throat. Swallows hard. And when he continues, his speech is stronger. ‘I was a pilot. Smart and capable in my uniform but terrified underneath. I was hurt. I didn’t think I would make it. Didn’t want to, to be truthfully honest, not after all the devastation I had witnessed. Had been part of. And then I was brought here, to this village, to rest and to get better, and I met an angel.’
The congregation is silent as Franciszek recounts the story I’ve heard so many times before, but never as beautifully, as poignantly as this moment.
Afterwards, we gather out in the churchyard, where Irene’s coffin is lowered into the plot neighbouring her parents and sister. I hold on to Tomasz’s hand as tightly as I can without snapping the bones of his fingers, wanting to tether myself to him for eternity. Ed is somewhere behind me. I can’t see him but it’s comforting to know he’s there.
The wake is held at the Royal Oak, a private event for those wishing to celebrate the life of Irene Nowak. A daughter. A wife. A mother and grandmother. A woman who chained herself to a rail to preserve a castle, with all its history and many more memories to come. Holidays. Weddings. Festivals with fireworks lighting up the sky.
‘Irene was a wonderful lady.’ I place my hand on Franciszek’s arm. He’s making his way around the room, proffering a tray of wuzetka, which became his wife’s favourite, baked with love.
‘She really was.’ Franciszek drags his lips up into a smile, his cheeks creasing with the movement. I notice the pale freckles, just like his grandson’s. ‘I will miss her, very much, every day.’ He nods down at the cakes and pushes the tray towards me. I take one, though I won’t be able to eat it, not with the lump in my throat, and Franciszek moves on.
Tomasz is sitting with his mum, their heads together as they chat, her hand in his, so I wander around the pub in search of Ed. I haven’t spoken to him since I arrived back here and I’m desperate to hear his voice. I spot Yvonne outside, but she’s with Sacha, her hand on his back as they sit at one of the picnic tables, his head bowed. I know he’s just lost his grandmother and he’s grieving, but the sight of them makes my stomach clench and I have to back away.
I pull at my collar as I make my way through the pub. It’s too high. Too tight. Too hot. I need some air but the beer garden is out of bounds with Sacha out there, so I head out of the main door and cross over to the war memorial, perching on the wall. If anything, it’s even hotter out here, the sun glaring down without a cloud to be seen, and I can’t seem to drag in a decent breath.
‘You been to the funeral then?’ Mrs Gacey’s standing outside the minimarket, broom in hand, and she nods across the road towards the pub. ‘They were a nice family, the Keyes. Irene had already left by the time I was born, but I remember her mum and dad, and her sister. They lived at the bottom of the hill, where the new-builds are now, above the post office. Back when we had one of those.’ Mrs Gacey pulls a face and starts to sweep the path in front of the shop’s doorway with aggressive strokes. ‘My Dominic’s coming to stay in a few days. You remember my Dominic, don’t you?’
I nod. I remember Dominic Gacey, but I don’t recall his second visit. I was probably too caught up in the grief after the accident to notice.
‘We’re thinking of emigrating.’ Mrs Gacey stops her sweeping, straightening her back and swiping the back of her hand across her forehead. ‘Selling up and joining the family in Canada. Family’s important, isn’t it? You realise on days like this.’ She aims the handle of broom towards the pub. I follow her gaze and that’s when I see Ronnie, standing outside the doors of the Royal Oak.
‘Hey.’ I don’t think about what I’m doing, what I’m going to say as I scramble down off the wall and march across the road. ‘It’s Ronnie, isn’t it?’
She turns, a frown lining her face because she doesn’t know me. She’s never met me, but I’ve met her and I can remember Yvonne’s face on the night of the accident as though it happened four minutes ago rather than four years, the way her head had flinched back, the rapid blinking as she looked Ronnie up and down. The shaking of her head. The way she’d looked at Sacha with wide eyes, as though he could somehow fix this. Make it all go away. Make it untrue. And then the blast of emotion: the flush spreading from her neck, up to her cheeks, her nostrils flaring, the guttural roar that made me want to cover my ears with my hands.
‘You shouldn’t be here.’ I move myself so I’m standing between Ronnie and the pub’s door.
She pulls her chin back. ‘You what?’
‘You shouldn’t be here.’ And she shouldn’t. The day she turned up at the pub and sent everybody’s lives spiralling was not the day of Irene’s funeral. What is she doing here? Is it the butterfly thing? Have I nudged the events of the timeline and brought Ronnie here earlier?
‘There’s a funeral.’ Ronnie nods at the door of the pub. ‘I was going to go in but when I opened the door I saw all those people. Grieving.’ She shakes her head and looks down at the little girl at her side. ‘We should go. This was a stupid idea.’ She takes the girl’s hand. Her daughter. Sacha’s daughter. The secret he was keeping in Nottingham. She has his mop of dirty blonde curls and the same freckles across her nose and cheeks as Tomasz and his grandfather.
‘Mummy?’ The little girl tugs on Ronnie’s hand. ‘Can we feed the ducks now?’
Ronnie presses her lips into a thin line as she returns her gaze to the pub, as though she can’t decide whether to stay or go. But then she bends, hoisting the girl up by her armpits and resting her on her hip.
‘Come on then, but not here. We’ll go to that big park we saw on the way here. Do you remember the playground with the helter-skelter slide?’ The little girl’s eyes light up and she nods her head vigorously. Ronnie’s gaze lingers on the pub for a few more seconds before she walks away. I don’t say thank you, but I think it, because by leaving now without causing the chaos of that terrible night, she’s just inadvertently prevented a tragedy from occurring.