The Family. Louise Jensen
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space with heady jasmine perfume and normality. I had never coped well alone. I wished I could relinquish control entirely.
The ground seemed fluid rather than firm as I made my way unsteadily into the lounge, still wearing my coat and shoes. I flopped onto the sofa, but despite on some level being aware of the soft sigh of the frame as my weight hit the doughy cushions, I still didn’t feel fully present – physically or mentally. I had forgotten how disorientating the period after a seizure is. How debilitating.
‘I wasn’t sure if you take sugar?’ Saffron carried two mugs and a packet of ginger nuts tucked between her elbow and waist. ‘And I couldn’t find any milk but I take mine black anyway. Do you want a biscuit? I don’t know if food helps? I know I’m probably thinking of diabetes but… Are you feeling any better? What happened?’
‘A seizure.’ I didn’t want to call it epilepsy. I’d been free of that label for almost seventeen years. Living without medication for the past ten. My consultant warned me there was a possibility of a relapse. One in twenty-six people will experience a seizure in their lifetime, and with over forty different types they are impossible to predict.
‘What brought it on?’ The worry on her face made her appear younger than she usually did and sparked my maternal instinct. She shouldn’t be the one looking after me.
It was likely that stress had brought it on, but I didn’t tell her that. Instead I closed my eyes and counted to ten – your turn to hide – hoping that when I opened them, I would have again found the me of a few weeks ago, who was fit and healthy.
And loved.
Instead, I was confronted with a lonely beam of sunlight pushing through the slats in the blinds, illuminating Gavan’s empty chair. The circular stain on the Moroccan orange arm, where he would always rest his after-dinner coffee, despite me sliding a coaster across the side table each evening. The things that had irritated me, I’d now have welcomed; that abandoned tube of toothpaste on the windowsill squeezed from the middle, the toilet seat left up, my razor blunted and clogged with foam and thick black hair. Had I nagged him too much? I tried to think of the last time I told him I appreciated him. Almost every day there had been a new kindness for me to unwrap; the way he’d peel a satsuma for me so the juice didn’t sting the sore skin around my fingernails, the giant bar of Galaxy he’d always arrive home with when my period was due, de-icing my windscreen while I was luxuriating under the hot pins of the shower, his patience with Tilly after teenage hormones rendered her snappy and uncommunicative.
And they were just the little things. The big thing, the truth, was that he saved me all those years ago after my parents cast me adrift. He’d be heartbroken to know that I was once again drowning, but this time it was his fault. My eyes were drawn to the letter on the sideboard. I had to save myself, save Tilly. But how? So much was broken, I didn’t know where to start.
‘Laura?’ Saffron’s voice was soft. It was a statement, a question, an inviting of confidence, all of this and more. Saffron seeing me at my most vulnerable at the shop had negated the need for social niceties, and all at once I wanted to weep into my coffee. I glanced at her, on the brink of opening up but, for a moment, afraid of what she might think of me.
‘What is it?’ Her concern gently tugged me over the edge until I plunged headfirst into the unvarnished truth.
‘I’m broke. I’m going to lose my house. My business. And I’ve a daughter to support. Tilly’s doing her A Levels and she’s already had so much disruption this year.’ I didn’t elaborate what. Momentarily, I had a fleeting hope that releasing the words from my churning stomach would calm the almost constant nausea I had felt lately. It didn’t.
‘Oh, Laura. I’m so sorry.’ There was a beat. Her eyes flicked to the huge collage in the ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ frame, hanging above the fireplace. A wall of duck-egg paint and smiling faces. Me and Gavan toasting our fifteen-year anniversary, our blonde heads touching; Tilly and Rhianon starting school, brandishing matching pink lunchboxes and toothy grins; Gavan arched over Tilly’s cot, her hair already a shock of black curls, a look of wonder on his face; my wedding dress that clung too tightly to my stomach – seventeen years later, I was still carrying my baby weight. We had wanted to get married before she was born but we couldn’t afford it. The photos show us jumbled and out of order, we hop from adults to teenagers, toddlers to babies, and back again. ‘It looks like you have a loving family? I’m sure—’
‘My husband died six weeks ago.’ Chilled, I pulled the coat I was still wearing tighter.
‘Christ, Laura, I’m so sorry. And there was me wittering on about fruit and veg boxes.’
There was a pause, her question crackled in the air before she voiced it. ‘How did it happen? If you don’t mind me asking?’
I plucked out the only answer my mind could make sense of and offered it to her.
‘It was an accident.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ The regret in her voice was genuine. I’d never seen her look so sombre before. It encouraged me to tell her more.
‘He fell from some scaffolding at work. The coroner adjourned the inquest pending enquiries, and in the meantime issued an interim death certificate that I sent to our life insurance company. But I’ve had a letter from them today saying they won’t pay out until I’ve had the death certificate proper.’
‘Why? Surely if he’s…’ her voice dropped. ‘If they’ve proof he died.’
‘Apparently they need to establish a cause of death. It’s ridiculous. He fell. It was an accident.’
It was. It had to be.
‘How long will it be before you get the actual death certificate?’
‘I don’t know. The coroner said they endeavour to hold all inquests within six months.’
Another court case, and I knew I shouldn’t feel so frightened this time – I was an adult now – but somehow I still did.
I swear by almighty God to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
But God hadn’t protected me then and he still wasn’t protecting me.
‘I need that money.’ My voice cracked. ‘I can’t pay the rent. We were in arrears anyway and my landlord is threatening eviction. I’ve reached my overdraft limit. My credit cards are all maxed out. The florist doesn’t provide an income anymore. There was an incident a few months ago…’ I choked back a sob. ‘It’s all such a mess. I’d been counting on the insurance money to sort everything out.’
‘You must have grounds to appeal? To get an interim payment to see you through at least?’
I rested my head back, staring at Gavan’s photo, willing my fight to return. When she was small, Tilly was obsessed with The Wizard of Oz. She’d clench her tiny hands into fists and jig from foot to foot like a boxer – ‘put ’em up’ – the lion found his courage in the end. Where was mine?
‘You’re right. I must. I only found out this morning. It’s so hard, being alone. Everything seems ten times more mountainous than it would otherwise.’
‘Perhaps I can help? The man I live with, he used to be a solicitor –’
‘That’s nice of you but I don’t think your boyfriend –’
‘He’s not a romantic partner. He’s…’ This time it was her who hesitated, who seemed afraid of being judged. Fiddling with the fraying hem of her jumper. Looking vulnerable away from the wall of jokes that usually shielded her. ‘We both live at Gorphwysfa. The farm on Oak Leaf Lane.’
‘Of course.’ Oak Leaf Organics grew the produce they sold on their farm outside of town. A small community lived there– bunch of bloody hippies some of the locals called them – but I didn’t know much about them.
‘Anyhoo. Alex.’ Her features softened as she