Widows

‘Bury him in the garden, in his basket, with his bowls and leads as well. Anything you see belonging to him gets buried with him.’ Dolly kissed Wolf’s head, handed him to Shirley and picked up her car keys.

‘Where are you going, Dolly? Please don’t leave me on my own,’ Shirley pleaded.

‘I’ve got things to do, but I won’t be long. We’ll leave the country together in a day or so. There’s no reason for me to stay now, not with my baby gone. Close the garage doors for me after I’ve left.’

Dolly was out of the kitchen door and in the garage before Shirley could ask her anything else. She limped over to the basket, put Wolf in it, followed by his dog bowl and lead, and then carried everything out to the garden.

As she opened the garage doors and stood by her car, Dolly couldn’t stop herself. The inner pain and numbing grief was just like the day her baby boy was stillborn in the hospital. Harry wasn’t with her at the time — he’d been away on ‘business’ — and she’d been rushed to the hospital in an ambulance with stomach pains. It was weeks before her due date. Dolly could remember the kind midwife handing her over the still-warm body of her dead son. He was beautiful. His pale skin was perfect and, as she put her little finger in his hand, she sobbed her heart out. She was so proud of her little boy for trying so hard; he’d done so well to make it that far and she thanked him for the time they shared. She told him that he had his dad’s features and that she was so very sad not to have known him for longer. The pain of her loss was compounded by having to lie in a ward filled with other women who gently cradled their newborns.

At the time, Dolly hadn’t known how she would tell Harry when he eventually turned up at the hospital. He had been so happy when she fell pregnant; their love had grown even stronger and he had been so affectionate, promising to take great care of them both. He’d been immensely proud at the prospect of being a father — especially to a son — and in many ways Dolly was more upset for Harry than herself. She longed to give Harry everything he desired; she loved him so very much. She’d sensed the moment he’d arrived at the hospital; even before he walked through the doors to the maternity ward, she knew he was there.

She dreaded telling him the heart-breaking news but, as he walked through the swing doors and onto the ward, she knew from the look of sadness in his eyes that the doctor had already told him. Harry was never one freely to show emotion, but he did that day. They wept together and they held each other so tight that Dolly could still remember the feel of Harry’s strong arms round her shoulders. She also remembered his voice as he whispered in her ear... ‘Never again Dolly. I can’t lose any more.’ And that was the moment that her hopes of a family disappeared.

When she and Harry returned home, he didn’t go into work for weeks. He waited on her hand and foot until she was physically well again, bringing trays of food and drink to her bedside and even doing the housework — sort of.

Dolly leaned her head against the roof of her car as she recalled how Harry had helped her deal with their tragic loss — the day he had come home with a tiny white bundle of fur and gently placed him on her lap.

‘I think we should call him Wolf,’ Harry had said with a loving smile. But his eyes had a different message. His eyes said: ‘This is an end to it. This is your baby. Subject closed.’ He wasn’t being unkind; he was being practical. Their lives had to get back to how they were and that couldn’t happen with all the sadness and mourning in the air. Life goes on.

Dolly recalled holding Wolf as a tiny puppy in her arms and rocking him like a baby. He had snuggled down and fallen asleep almost immediately. He had been so content — and so had she. But now... now she felt the pain of loss bursting her body open. A sound — not a cry, but a deep low sound of anguish and anger inched out of her. Dolly turned toward the garage wall and there was a sickening thud as she smashed her fist against it, then another and another as she punched the wall for a second and third time. Only when she saw the red patch on the wall from her bleeding knuckles did she realize what she was doing and stop. The pain that filled her chest filtered slowly to her hand and distracted her from wanting to curl up and die.

Chapter 32

Resnick wiped the remains of the egg yolk with a slice of bread, then sucked on it before swallowing it down and neatly placing his knife and fork on the plate. He slurped his tea and looked round the clean, orderly kitchen. His dirty frying pan and plate were the only things out of place. From upstairs, Resnick could hear the Irish DJ Terry Wogan burbling on his wife Kathleen’s radio. Resnick sighed. Jesus, I hope I’m good at golf.