Six Weeks in Summer

Six Weeks in Summer

Helen Meikle

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Helen Meikle

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 1

Paul Cornwall died just as the sun was rising on the first day of winter. When his breathing stopped, the silence in the room was absolute, the sunlight slipping without a sound through the slats in the blinds. Even the woman in the chair beside the bed was silent, immobile, until her own breath released on a long sigh, the world turned again, and the moment was gone.

If only he'd waited, Meg thought. If only he'd seen what a beautiful day it was, he might have stayed. But she knew it wasn't true. He'd hated winter. He'd have seen the bright morning as a taunt.

She reached out, her fingers barely brushing his forehead, unfurrowed now for the first time in years. Her hand was trembling, as if she still expected him to brush it away. She stroked aside the dark hair so rarely allowed to fall as it did now, and felt slow tears pool and spill over. Such a waste. So many possibilities unrealised now for so many years. Finished. Over, with no hope of fulfilment.

'Mrs Cornwall?' The nurse at the door looked shocked, as if she hadn't expected this to happen, as if she'd somehow failed at her job. 'I'm so sorry,' she said. 'So sorry.' She hurried forward to lay a hand on Meg's arm and draw her away. 'I should have been here.'

Meg shook her head.

'It's all right,' she said. 'You couldn't have changed it.' Because Paul wasn't a person to fight, to take a positive stand against encroaching death. Only to rail against it, the final insult in the bitter disappointments of his life.

'But still,' the girl said. 'I should have...' She jabbed at the buzzer and the light over the door flashed on, bright and urgent when it was too late. 'I'm so sorry,' she said again.

She was so young, Meg thought sadly, so innocent, despite the things she saw.

And then the room was full of people, hushed and purposeful, alive and busy about the business of death.

They made her coffee in the tearoom while they packed his things. After the long, still hiatus of the night it seemed almost indecent now, that they should pack him out so quickly. Surely he should be allowed to lie there for a while, to settle into death, to find his way through the long tunnel into the next life, if it was there. But what for? They that believe in Me shall not perish, but Paul hadn't believed. And there would be others still alive needing the care, wanting the bed. His clothes, his shoes, his soap and toothbrush and his watch, all in a brown paper bag. Her husband, in a brown paper bag.

'Can we call someone for you?' The sister's eyes were anxious. For me? Meg thought, or for the needy lives backing up while they dealt with death? 'Is there anyone who can come and drive you home?'

Meg shook her head.

'I'm fine', she said quietly. 'Truly, I'm fine.' She stood, lifting the bag from its place on the table. 'You've all been so good, but it's over now. You've got things to do. But thank you. Thank you for...everything.'

The woman looked at her in silence for a moment, then stepped forward and put her arms around Meg's stiff shoulders.

'You're such a good person,' she said quietly, then she turned and hurried out.

Am I? Meg thought. Am I really a good person? There's a blank future in front of me, a whole life to remake. I'm fifty and alone, and I've no idea who I am at all.

The house was just as she'd left it. How could it not be? One cup on the drainer from yesterday's breakfast, the mail unopened on the kitchen table. She'd left yesterday just before lunch and not been back. The bed was still made and the washing folded and waiting to be put away. It was all the same, and yet it was different, because now Paul would never be back. It was as if the house knew, and had taken on an extra quality of silence. Brooding over her. Waiting. Hostile.

Dear God, what was she thinking?

She slid onto a chair at the kitchen table and dropped her head into her cupped hands. She was raving. It was a house, for heaven's sake. What did it know?

More than she did, probably, it wouldn't be hard. There were things she should be doing, people to ring, arrangements to make, if she could think what they were. If only they'd had children, someone to share this with. But Paul hadn't wanted children, and she hadn't fought hard enough to win. What would have been the point? Why subject them to a father who hadn't wanted them? But now... If they'd been there, if they'd existed...

There were dust motes dancing in the sun that slanted through the window and lay gently across her shoulders as she put her head down and finally wept.

It was almost summer when Meg labelled the last of the boxes and called the courier to take them away. It had taken her weeks to sort Paul's clothes and pack up his study. She'd been hesitant - wary - expecting all the time that his hand would reach out from the grave - or the urn at the crematorium, as it happened - and strike her down for such sacrilege. So she'd done it a bit at a time, a drawer here, a cupboard there, his books today and his desk tomorrow, as if that way she could bamboozle his shade into looking the other way. And she'd been scared, she realised now; scared of what she might find. Some final, irrevocable sign of rejection? Some proof that all the years of their marriage had been an empty farce? Or was it the memory of happier times that held her back? Even a letter, she thought, when he'd known he was dying, telling her that she'd mattered in his life. What would she have felt then? Would it have stirred some long-buried emotion into unbearable pain? Was that what she was afraid of?

But there was nothing.

So strange, really, that you could spend twenty-five years of your life with someone, and in the end there was nothing. Time shared, work, holidays, friends. Hopes and dreams that gradually faded until in the end even grief was an emptiness, a hollow ache rather than a burning pain. Perhaps she'd been hoping, rather than fearing; hoping that somewhere, something would really pierce her heart and make her bleed, make her normal, whatever that was. But there was nothing, and in the end she'd packed his things and sent them away, clothes to the charity shop, books and papers to the other partners in his law firm. And now it was done, and he was gone.

She stood in the hall and looked around her. The house was hers, now. The thought disoriented her, made her uneasy. How could it possibly be hers? It had nothing to do with her and never had, except that she'd kept it clean. It had been Paul's, sacrosanct, inviolate and inviolable, and before that his mother's, her sacred and untouchable obsession. His father had lived here as well, she supposed, although the idea seemed vaguely indecent. Monica Cornwall was the sort who made husbands superfluous. She wondered if he'd felt as she did, a guest to the bitter end. But in her case it was the host who'd departed, leaving the guest in possession.

Adriana Voss settled into the meagre comfort of a chair in the departure lounge at Sydney airport and sighed with relief. She'd made it. Thank goodness for Chris... Vigil, she must remember he was Vigil, now... Thank goodness for Vigil. If he hadn't turned up on his way to the airport and insisted they ring a taxi, she'd have missed the plane for sure. But she was here now, and if she'd forgotten anything in the rush, it was too late to worry. As soon as Vigil got back from the newsstand, they could...

'I do love airports, don't you?' a voice piped from her left.

She jumped, and the duffel bag on her lap slid to the floor.

'Oh goodness, I'm so sorry, dear! Were you asleep?' The owner of the voice leaned forward to scrabble with arthritic fingers among the chaos. 'It's just I do get so excited when I travel, don't you?'

Adriana smiled weakly. Airports were pits of pollution, in her opinion - necessary evils that made her ecological soul cringe. But she had to admit the trip itself was exciting. Joining Sea Shepherd in the States...the thought of it still gave her goose bumps.

'There's such a buzz about them, isn't there,' the woman rattled on. 'Like a rush in slow motion - a sort of random dollop of the world dropped into a bowl and stirred.' She turned a dazzling smile in Adriana's direction. 'I do have flights of fancy, don't I. But I'm so sorry, that doesn't excuse... My husband always said...' She dropped two pens and a coin purse into Adriana's lap. 'Now you just sit there, and I'm sure I can...'

'It's fine. Really.' Adriana righted the bag and knelt down beside it. Who'd have thought a single duffel could hold so much? Perhaps she hadn't unpacked completely after the last trip. Yes, there was the organic mosquito repellent, she'd wondered where... And Healing your Soul. That had been a disappointment. But as long as she had...Yes, there it was, Meditations for a Healthy Planet. Her chakra crystals, ticket, boarding pass, clean underwear, lip salve, her rose quartz Buddha, the inevitable tampon that had rolled under her seat...Oh yes, and the mail that she'd grabbed from the table in case there were bills, and the note - the note - for Joey and Rupert...

'Oh my godfather!'

'What's wrong?' The voice above her head was male and totally melt-worthy.

'Vigil!' She staggered to her feet. Thank heavens he was back. And he really was sooo attractive, all that streaky blond hair and those blue eyes. And as for yesterday's stubble... Her hand fluttered towards her cheek, and he grinned.

'So what's wrong, flower?'

'I aahh...' She blushed. 'I... This!' The note was in the hand still wafting in the vicinity of her face, and she clutched it with returning dismay. 'The message I left for the children. I must have picked it up with the mail.'

Vigil shrugged. 'Not much we can do about it now. We'll be boarding any minute.'

'But Chris - Vigil...'

'They'll be fine. You've been away before, and your girl...'

'Joey.'

'She's what now? Nineteen? Twenty? You've always said she was pretty practical.'

'Seventeen,' Adriana murmured. 'And she's wonderful, but they're still... I mean they'll be really proud I'm going, and Joey will be... But I still should have...'

'Is anything wrong? Can I help?' The woman from the next seat lurched to her feet, brow furrowed under her blue rinse. 'It's the least I can do, isn't it, when it was all my fault.'

'No no.' Adriana waved vaguely. 'It's just...'

'Yes you can, actually.' Vigil picked up the mail still sitting in the top of Adriana's bag, flipped through it and selected an envelope just as the PA system blared to life. Qantas flight QF11 to Los Angeles and San Francisco is now loading through gate... He eased open the envelope, pushed the note inside, resealed the flap and held it out. 'If you could post this for us... I'm sure there's a mailbox here somewhere.'

'Of course! Absolutely!' The woman grasped the letter with obvious delight. 'I do so like to help!'

'Thank you.' Vigil flashed her his most charming smile. 'That would be great. And now if you'll excuse us...' He hoisted Adriana's duffel bag onto his shoulder and slid his arm around her waist. 'That's our flight.'

'Thank you!' Adriana called over shoulder as he propelled her into the crowd. Her fingers wiggled in a parting wave, and then they were gone.

Eileen Corrigan settled herself down with sigh of pleasure. It was so nice to be a Good Samaritan from time to time. And it was no bother, she knew exactly which post box she'd use. There was one in Regent Street, just up from Piccadilly Circus. And what's more she'd tie a piece of string around her thumb just as soon as she got to Heathrow, so she didn't forget.

Joey McBride polished the last coffee cup and balanced it neatly on the stack beside the espresso machine. Five-thirty. The sun wouldn't set for a couple of hours, yet, but the light was starting to soften., and the water in the fountain gleamed rather than sparkling. In an ideal world, she'd be at the beach about now. Packing up, probably, her skin a bit tight from salt and the sun, the sand still warm, the first hint of evening breeze ruffling the sea...

In her dreams.

The Awesome Threesome would be in soon, she supposed. Well, they were in most days, weren't they, unless it was raining, and sometimes even then. Two cappuccinos and a long black, and sometimes carrot cake, or sticky date pudding if it was on. But only for two. The long black never ate. Weird. It couldn't be her weight she was worried about, she was thin as a rake already. Maybe it was money. But that didn't make sense either. They were rich, those girls. Designer jeans and Country Road and real leather. Probably skiing holidays as well.

Angel, her friends called her, the long black. Short for Angelique. Joey sighed. Now there was a name.

'Why did you have to call me Joey?' she'd wailed at her mother. But her mother had patted her gently on the head and wandered off, smiling her vaguest, sweetest smile. The truth was, she probably couldn't remember.

'Why Joey?' she'd demanded when she saw her father the following Saturday. 'Why not Jane, or Jenny, or something ordinary like that?'

'Ordinary? Your mother?' Her father had smiled too, but not vaguely. Her father was never vague.

'But why Joey?'

'She was saving native wildlife at the time,' he said. 'It could have been worse.'

They were walking on the beach, that day - something they did quite often when Joey was there - and because she was only seven then, they'd walked quite a way before she got it.

'You mean a joey?' she'd squeaked. 'That sort of Joey?' She'd stopped mid-step, frozen with outrage. 'You mean she called me a kangaroo baby?'

'It could have been worse,' her father said again. 'You might have been Wombat.'

It hadn't consoled her then and it didn't now, but it was useful.

'Why Rupert?' her little brother had wailed into his breakfast that morning. 'Why did they have to call me Rupert?'

'At least it's a proper name,' Joey said. 'At least your father named you after himself, whatever Mum wanted. Just think, she was saving forests, then. You might have got Gumnut.'

But Rupert wasn't consoled either, and she couldn't blame him.

'So where is he now,' he said darkly, 'if calling me his dumb name was so important?'

And there wasn't an answer to that, or at least not one that Joey knew. She remembered Rupert's father more as a presence than a person. Strange socks in the wash, a whiff of after shave, two wine glasses left in the sink. He came on the weekends she spent with Dad, or occasionally in the evenings. He'd wave breezily as he strolled through to carry her mother off on mysterious jaunts that left her vaguer than ever from lack of sleep. Privately, Joey had always thought he was boring and was glad when he'd stopped coming, but she was only eight then, so what would she know?

'He must have cared about you,' she said. 'Otherwise he wouldn't have bothered. Mum was furious when he named you without asking.'

But Rupert only grunted, unimpressed.

Joey sighed again, a deep sigh that seemed to start somewhere around her kneecaps. Here was Angelique, strolling into the courtyard with her long legs and her model's body and her hair like sun on autumn leaves, probably looking forward to a night's clubbing with a hot date. And here was she, Joey, boring dark brown hair in a braid except where pathetic little-girl curls escaped, drying coffee cups and brooding about her little brother. She was almost eighteen for goodness sake, her final exams were over and it was Friday night. She must have LOSER tattooed in fluorescent ink across her forehead.

Angelique Leclair settled herself at a table in the courtyard of the Coffeehouse, leaned back and closed her eyes. Thank god she was here first. A minute, just a minute to