The Perfect Girlfriend(65)

‘I want to show you something. Come with me.’

I open my door, get out and give my limbs a stretch. Nate gets out the other side and stands looking in the direction of the cottage. I wonder what he’s thinking, and if he’s trying to picture me living here. I wrap a scarf around my neck and do up my jacket buttons in a futile attempt at shutting out the bitter breeze.

‘Come this way,’ I say, crossing the road.

Nate follows as I walk along the path that leads past the cottage, to the rear. Crisp brown leaves, small twigs and random litter – a chocolate wrapper and a takeaway leaflet – chase our ankles as the wind picks up. I catch glimpses of the garden through gaps in the wooden fence. Parts of the jungle have been cleared; the centre of the garden looks like it has been attacked by giant moles.

The old property behind Sweet Pea Cottage no longer exists. Once it was sold, the land was split up into three plots and new-builds were erected around a small cul-de-sac. The gardens are exposed; there is no fencing or anything to mark the boundaries. I stop in front of the middle house. There is a hatchback in the driveway, with a yellow Baby on Board sign stuck in the back windscreen, but there is no one about.

‘I had a brother.’

Nate looks at me, then ahead. ‘What has this house got to do with him?’

‘Nothing. It wasn’t built then. But this was the site where he had an accident. There used to be a dilapidated old farmhouse, which belonged to a couple. They had dreams of turning the place into holiday cottages, but ran out of money mid-project. They struggled on for a few years but the grounds must’ve been expensive to maintain, and the pool was never completely finished. It was a concrete shell, but to us – as children – it was a magnet, even though the deep end collected rainwater and it was slimy and dirty, with moss stuck to the sides.’ I smile at the sudden return of a memory. ‘We used to make up stories about “Pond World” involving frogs and dragonflies.’

‘Did he drown?’

I nod.

‘How old was he?’

‘It wasn’t long after his fourth birthday.’

‘I’m sorry. What happened?’

I shiver. ‘It’s freezing here. It wasn’t like that, the day it happened. It was summer . . .’

I must have been drawn back to that time for longer than I realize, because I’m aware of Nate prompting me.

‘And?’

‘My mum had these moods. And when one engulfed her, it was my job to take William – named after the flower, sweet william – out. Away. Until it passed. Until she could cope again.’

‘You couldn’t have been that old?’

‘Ten.’

‘Then what happened wasn’t your fault.’

It was my fault.

But instead, I say, ‘He had a smile that made me want to look after him, at times. He could make me happy, even when I felt annoyed that I had to look after him. William Florian Jasmin.’ I smile. ‘But he was spoilt too. My mother overindulged him as blatant over-compensation for her inability to parent properly. He could scream when he wanted his own way – and sometimes, it all got too much.’

‘Seems that your mum had a thing about flower names.’ He pauses. ‘So sad, though. What a tragedy for all of you.’

‘She told me once that her first memories were of picking flowers with her mother. Apparently, she had a capricious nature too.’ I shiver.

‘Why did you tell me you were an only child?’

‘What else was I supposed to say?’ I pause. ‘I’ve had enough here. I want to leave.’

As we walk back to the car, I finish the sorry tale with the short version, the one that I told everyone. ‘He slipped and fell. It all happened very quickly. There was no time for me to do anything.’

Nate reaches over and squeezes my hand as I secure my seat belt. My instinct to bring him here seems to be paying off.

I choose the narrow back lanes to the graveyard, six miles away. I inhale the unmistakable smell of manure as we pass remote farm buildings. For several minutes, we get stuck behind a tractor towing a hay baler, sprinkling random stray strands from the rear each time there is a bump in the road. Each time I try to overtake it, another car frustratingly appears on the opposite side of the road.

Nate reverts to silent mode for the whole journey.

The cemetery is surrounded by a tall stone wall. As I pass through the open, black wrought-iron gates I feel hesitant. Perhaps this was a bad idea, after all, because this is the first time that I’ve visited since the funeral. I park, but don’t make a move until Nate opens his door. The sound of the door unlocking jolts me back into this time and this place.

I can’t remember the exact spot. I’ve spent too many years blanking memories out. We wander along the paths among the wonky headstones, trees and the mixture of fresh and decaying flowers until, with perseverance, we locate it. It’s near the edge of the plot by a row of yews.

William Florian Jasmin 1996–2000. We both stand still in front of the stone engraving, silent.

I love you to the moon and back.

I chose those words.

The wind weaves through the branches above, and leaves brush over my boots. I hear whispering sounds. If I believed in ghosts, I’d say hello to him.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’