mouth had fallen open and her face was now somehow
softer. He sat up, eyes wide with a slight sense of panic
in his chest and a terrible aching void of nothingness in
his gut, topped with exhaustion.
11
Amanda Prowse
‘Kerry? Kerry?’ he said softly. Bending low, he kissed
her face. ‘Sweet dreams, lass. Sweet dreams.’
Instantly he felt his muscles soften with relief at the
realisation that their nightmare was finally over and they
were both free.
Guilt swooped in and punched him in the throat,
leaving him breathless. Relief? She is dead, Nick! Dead!
How dare you?
Reaching for the red cord, he pulled it and sat back in
the chair. In the seconds while he waited for Sharon and
Dr Ned to come in he felt the warmth leave the room.
‘Are you okay, Nick?’ Dr Ned asked, his voice a little
echoey.
He looked up at the face of the man who had cared
for his wife. ‘I don’t know.’ he answered truthfully.
* * *
Nick pulled up onto the steep driveway and looked at
the house, which sat shaded forlornly in the soft bruise of
darkness. He pictured his son, no doubt still lying on his
bed, cloistered in the dark, alone with his own version
of sadness. His eyes were drawn to the small rectangular
window above the front door, from which Kerry would
always ensure a light shone. Regardless of the season, as
soon as night pulled its blind on the day, she would flick
the switch next to the stairs, ensuring that Oliver coming
home from school, he returning from work or any casual
visitor could easily find their way to the front door. The
light in the hallway was, however, more than just an aide
to ensure a stumble-free trip up the path; it was a beacon,
a sign of the life that lay behind the door, the promise of
a warm welcome, a cup of tea, company, home.
12
The Light in the Hallway
Nick looked to the right at John and Liz’s front room
next door, noting the haze of light that filtered from the
sitting room out over the lawn. He felt a stab of something
a lot like jealousy, misplaced he knew, but how come
their lives got to carry on happily, while his whole world
had fallen through the big black hole left by cancer? It
wasn’t fair. Why them? He remembered saying as much
to Kerry when her results came through.
‘Why us? Why you?’
And she had smiled at him in the way she did, as if she
knew the answer and he was still trying to catch up, and
said, ‘Why not us? Why not me? Life throws curveballs;
you’ve got to either catch them and throw them back or
dodge them. That’s it.’
He closed the front door quietly, wary of waking Oliver
if he was asleep and in truth hoping he was, a chance to
delay the appalling conversation they were going to have.
He clicked on the hallway light and slipped off his shoes,
before putting them in the bottom of the cupboard in
the hallway, trying not to look up at Kerry’s shopping
bag hanging on the hook on the back of the door, or her
wellington boots that she slipped into to take Treacle for
her morning and evening walks. Treacle the beagle-cross
who had tumbled into their lives a couple of years ago,
something for Kerry to concentrate on during her treat-
ment, a beloved distraction who was currently being cared
for by his mum and sister across town, one less thing for
him and Oliver to have to think about. Although right
now he missed the little pup, knowing the soft whine of
welcome and the feel of the warm coat under his palm
would have brought some small measure of comfort.
He heard the squeak of the hinge on Oliver’s bedroom
door and took a deep breath, looking up at his skinny boy
13
Amanda Prowse
who stood in his plaid pyjama bottoms and loose t-shirt,
gripping the banister.
‘Come down, Olly.’ His words sounded sticky from
a dry mouth as he made his way into the neat rectangu-
lar lounge where the floral cushions, strategically placed,
softened the burgundy leather sofas and sank down into
the chair in front of the telly.
‘Look at you in your throne. Remote control in one hand,
cup of tea in the other! You look like the king of the castle. I love you, Mr Bairstow. This is a proper posh three-piece suite.
I’m a bit scared to sit on it. I feel very grand.’
‘Nothing could be too grand for you. And if I’m the king
then you’re the queen, so sit back and enjoy your new settee.
Might as well, the novelty will have worn off by the time we finish paying for it!’
He didn’t put the light on; preferring the dimly lit
space, far better suited for this worst of moments.
Oliver sat in the corner of the sofa, coiling his legs
beneath him. He grabbed a cushion, which he placed over
his chest, as if this feather-filled shield might offer a little protection from the verbal blows about to be delivered.
‘It was very peaceful.’ Nick’s voice carried the croak
of someone containing distress. ‘She just went to sleep,
but as I say, it was peaceful and I think at the end of the
day, Olly, that’s the best thing we could ever hope for
the people we love.’
‘Can I go now?’
‘What?’ The boy’s words were unexpected and Nick
felt the shameful glide of relief over his bones that there
was not going to be the storm of emotion, the tears and
anger that he had imagined for so long.
‘I said, can I go now?’
‘Of course, but if you want to talk to me, if you want—’
14
The Light in the Hallway
Oliver leapt up, cutting short his dad’s speech as he
walked briskly from the room. He heard the heavy footfall
of his steps as his son ran up the stairs, back to the solace of his bed, no doubt. Nick sat back, taking in the room
that looked appropriately drab and cold in the half-light
and where a thin layer of dust had settled on the surfaces.
He thought about the conversation with Kerry’s mum,
Dora, who had arrived quickly after Kerry had passed. He
stood in the corridor, loosely holding the small woman
who sobbed into her soggy handkerchief, while her friend
Maureen and her daughter, Diane, looked on.
‘She’s … She’s with her dad now, isn’t she?’
Dora looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes wide
with hope. And he had nodded, not sure what he believed,
but knowing that the kindest thing to do at that moment
was to offer a crumb of hope that the woman who had
unimaginably lost her youngest daughter might hold in
her palm when the night felt like it would never end.
Diane, Kerry’s sister, had sobbed noisily as she walked
her mum to the car, her arm across her shoulders, with
Maureen propping her up on the other side, their walk
slow and meandering.
He stood from the chair and made his way up the
&nb
sp; stairs, a quick glance at the bottom of Oliver’s door tell-
ing him that he had turned the lamp off. He hoped his
boy might sleep, wishing at some level that he could turn
the clock back to when Oliver was small and Nick would
sit on the edge of the bed, take him in his arms and rock
him gently, telling him everything was going to be just
fine … This followed by the sharp tip of realisation that if
Oliver were small again, then Kerry would be by his side,
young and fit and healthy, and there would be no need
for the comfort offered over this terrible, terrible event.
15
Amanda Prowse
He locked the bathroom door and stared at her lilac
toothbrush sitting next to his in the pot. He took it in
his hands and cradled it to his chest. This little plastic
bristled stick that she had abandoned many weeks before
had been a symbol of normality, their life together where
night upon night they would stand side by side and clean
their teeth together before bedtime, elbows clashing in
the narrow space between the bath and wall, smiling at
their reflections in the mirrored medicine cabinet because
all was good in their world. Happy with their lot.
A toothbrush – such an intimate object and one now
without use because Kerry was gone. He pictured her
him not to be so silly. It was just a toothbrush. He wanted
so badly at that moment to hold her, to feel her warm
skin beneath his fingertips, that the ache hit his gut like
a punch. Nick slipped down onto the cork-tiled floor,
where his tears broke their banks and his chest heaved
with the heavy weight of loss. His tears came so thick and
fast it was hard to catch a breath. His distress took the last of his energy and, weak with exhaustion, he crumpled,
crawling across the landing to the airing cupboard. With
tears sliding silently down his face he kept his promise;
hauling himself up, he switched the central heating on
to give the house a boost of warmth. He knew how she
hated to walk into the bathroom with chilly toes.
* * *
He woke the next day, as dawn broke. He had slept fitfully,
waking often with a headache that made his thoughts
cloudy. He felt odd; his brain raced ahead, mentally sort-
ing his schedule for the day.
16
The Light in the Hallway
Must get up, have a shower and get to St Vincent’s early, don’t want her sitting on her own … before grief slammed the brakes on his plans and the realisation that he didn’t
have to go to the hospice, in fact would not have to go
there ever again, left him feeling a little lost, now that his routine and his main preoccupation had been removed.
He was desperate for a cup of tea, but was distracted
from the task by the mess that littered the work sur-
faces. He stumbled around the kitchen with the gait
and concentration of a drunk. Slowly, he stacked dirty
dishes and the cold tea-stained mugs into the sink before
abandoning the task halfway through. He opened the
back door of the kitchen to catch the morning breeze.
‘That’s it Nick, let the day in…’ He heard her words as plainly as if she were standing behind him.
Fatigue and forgetfulness lulled him into the arm-
chair in front of the television. The dishes could wait.
Everything could wait. He kept the curtains drawn, not
wanting the prying eyes of well-meaning neighbours
who he was in no doubt would already know that Kerry
had passed. Burstonbridge – or Burston, as locals knew
it – had one school, one post office, one supermarket, two
churches, and seven pubs, and was a place where everyone
knew someone you knew. He and Kerry had grown up
here and their wider families spilled into every street and
cul de sac in the immediate surroundings. Word would
have got around very quickly. He pushed his fingertips
into his closed eyes, trying to ease the soreness born of
crying hard until he had fallen asleep. As he sat like this,
in thought, he heard the flap of the letter box bang shut.
And so it began.
No more than an hour or so later there was a stack of
envelopes forming a cushion on the welcome mat. He
17
Amanda Prowse
smiled inwardly at the thought that if Treacle had been
home she would have loved it, nuzzling the slender paper
gifts containing heartfelt words that had sat poised on
the nibs of pens and the tips of tongues since that final
diagnosis nearly four months ago, spread … metastasise …
three months, tops…
‘It’ll be all right, love. Either way it’ll all be all right. We have to make the best of it.’
‘How will it be all right, Kerry? How can we make the
best of it?’
‘We have to, love, because we have no choice…’
‘Dad?’
‘Yes?’ He sat forward with a jolt, so lost in the memory
of their conversation that it took him a second to realise
Oliver’s voice was real and coming from the doorway.
‘We’ve run out of milk.’
‘Milk?’ He tried to catch up.
‘Yes, there’s no milk.’
‘But there was half a bottle in the fridge when I left
last night.’
‘I had some cereal.’ Oliver kicked his bare foot at the
bottom of the door.
‘I’ll go get some.’
Nick stood and waited, looking at the boy, hoping this
interaction might be the precursor for something more, a
revelation of sorts, questions even, but no. Nothing. He
soles of his feet. Kerry would no doubt tell him to go bathe.
He grabbed his house key from the little wooden shelf
above the radiator, stopping to gather the cards, which
he scooped into a pile and plopped on the bottom stair.
The front door was only half open when he saw his
mum walking towards him in her pyjama bottoms and
18
The Light in the Hallway
an oversized t-shirt. Her eyes were red and swollen from
crying, and Treacle strained on the leash. He took a deep
breath, not knowing if he was ready to face either of them,
not that he had any choice.
‘Oh, Nicky!’ she sobbed. The only person still to
call him this and a name he disliked without the heart
to tell her so.
‘We are okay, Mum.’
‘No, you are not!’ She trod the step and wrapped him
uncomfortably in a short, tight hug. ‘You’re not okay, and
you’re still my lad, no matter how old you get. Did you
get my texts? I didn’t know whether to come over last
night or whether to leave you with Olly to talk things
through. I couldn’t sleep. I sat in the chair all night with
Treacle on my lap and I’ve cried a river. It’s so unfair,
Nicky, so bloody unfair!’
‘It is.’ He unhooked Treacle’s collar and hung her leash
on the back of the cupboard door.
‘But a h
appy release, son, a happy release from all her
suffering.’ Again her tears sprang. ‘Where’s Olly?’ She
looked over his shoulder and then up the stairs.
‘In his room.’
‘Shall I go up?’ she asked, grasping at the neck of her
t-shirt, flustered. ‘He might like to talk to his Nan or just want a big old cuddle.’
‘I think just leave him actually, Mum. He’ll know you’re
here and he’ll come down if he wants some company.’
‘Poor little lamb. My heart is breaking for him,’ she
murmured. ‘How was Dora? Was Diane with her?’
‘Dora was…’ He struggled to find the words to ad-
equately describe his mother-in-law’s sense of loss, only
certain that it was similar to his own. ‘She was as you’d
expect, and, yes, Di was with her.’
19
Amanda Prowse
‘Poor woman. Poor, poor woman.’ She shook her
head. ‘It’s every mother’s worst nightmare. I’ve written
to her and will pop the letter through her door.’ She
mopped her tears.
He felt ill-equipped to deal with his mum’s woe,
barely knowing how to handle his own. He pointed out
of the front door.
‘I’m just going to get milk, actually. We’ve run out.’
‘Milk? Don’t be daft! You can’t go out for milk!’ His
mum stood back, shocked.
‘Why can’t I go out?’
‘Because you have to stay in. You have to stay in quietly and sit with the curtains drawn.’
He felt the inappropriate burble of laughter leave his
mouth. ‘I have to stay in?’
‘Yes, Nicky! Your wife has just passed away.’
You don’t need to tell me that! I know it! I know it! I know it!
His mum continued. ‘And you don’t want to be seen
gallivanting up to the shop as if nothing is amiss. What
would everyone think?’
‘Christ, Mum, I wasn’t planning on gallivanting any-
where, and secondly, my whole world is amiss and it has
been for the last few months.’
‘I know that, love, I know,’ she whispered.
He sat back down on the bottom stair and ran his
hand over the stack of envelopes. The truth was he had
been grieving for Kerry for a long time. This might be
the first terrible shock to the community, and all those
who heard the news whispered at the bus stop, canteen
or corner shop this morning, but to him it was, in fact,
the last.
It was the end of a horrible chapter that had drained