It was a thought that made her breathless with pain. Later, much, much later, she’d read that no baby can survive longer than fifteen minutes in utero after the death of its mother, that no ambulance would have reached their cottage in time. But still the guilt has never left her, the belief that she could have done something, anything, to save them both. She should have protected her sister. She should have stopped Jack, somehow. After all, she’d been the only other person there.
As she parks and makes her way to the café, Viv considers phoning her mother to let her know she’s thinking of her, but decides against it. Stella doesn’t like to dwell on today’s date, and that’s understandable. After all, she has her own demons to fight; her own ‘what ifs’. What if she hadn’t gone to work that day? What if she’d fought harder to keep Jack Delaney away from Ruby? Now that Viv has her own child, she feels only too keenly how Stella must punish herself, even after all these years.
She thinks again of the dismal iris-strewn grave, the two names on the temporary wooden cross, and bites back her tears. She and her mother had never once returned to their old village to pay their respects in that crooked and crowded churchyard. Perhaps they should have: perhaps it might have given them some sort of closure. After all, her sister would have wanted her to be happy, to get on with her life. And Vivienne was happy. Yet thirty-two years on the nightmares persist, as if something is holding her back from moving on completely. She wonders if she ever will.
She’s grateful when she opens the door of her café, soothed by its cosy familiarity. She takes in the mismatched wooden tables, the large yellow sofa, the box of children’s toys and shelves full of books and board games, the paintings by a local artist on the wall, and feels her tension ease, glad of a day’s work ahead to distract her. It’s her new employee Agnes’s first day today, and she spends time showing her the ropes. Agnes is eighteen with a nervous little face and round hazel eyes that seem perpetually baffled by the world, but proves herself a fast learner nonetheless, and after the morning rush, the café settles down to its usual steady stream of customers and bustling ordinariness.
It’s heading towards lunchtime when she spots the middle-aged woman with streaks of blue in her hair and shiny orange DMs walking past the café’s windows. She squints in consternation, not quite able to place her. When it finally dawns on her she gives an excited shriek and runs out, calling after the woman’s departing back, ‘Hayley! Hey, Hayley, wait!’
The woman turns and with a shout of recognition retraces her steps and they meet together in a hug.
‘Vivienne!’ she cries. ‘I don’t believe it!’ Her West Country accent is as strong as ever, and she has the same wide, gapped-tooth smile she’d known from when they’d lived together in the commune. They pull apart and look at each other in amazement. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’ Hayley asks.
‘This is my café!’
‘Your …? No way!’
‘Come and have a coffee!’ Vivienne says, dragging her into Ruby’s.
Once they’re seated, Vivienne drinks her in. The changes since she last knew Hayley as a twenty-something student are there – a few crow’s feet, a few pounds extra weight – but apart from that there’s barely any difference. She remembers how Hayley used to turn a blind eye when she and Samar pilfered weed from her stash, how they would hang out in her bedroom for hours listening to her talk about politics and feminism, how she’d give them books to read and lend them her Joni Mitchell albums.
‘I’ve not long moved back to the area,’ Hayley tells her. ‘Went to live in Bristol for a bit, then got a job down here. Been in social work for a decade.’ She beams at Viv. ‘How’s your mum doing? I often think of her.’
‘She’s well. Still running her refuge.’
Hayley nods. ‘Heart of gold that woman, always had.’
‘Do you ever see any of the others?’ Viv asks.
‘Well, Jo moved to Spain, as you know. Sometimes hear from Sandra and Christine, though they split up a few years ago.’
‘Yeah, I think my mum mentioned it. But how about Rafferty Wolf? He must be in his thirties now – whatever happened to him?’ Viv smiles in disbelief at the thought.
‘He changed his name by deed poll to Martin, and works in data inputting I believe.’ When Viv laughs she adds with a grin, ‘I think Christine’s just about over it, but it took a while.’
Next they talk about Kay. ‘She – or rather, he – transitioned a few years ago,’ Hayley tells her. ‘Calls himself Kyle these days. And Soren sadly passed away some years ago, as you probably heard.’
Viv nods sombrely at this. She thinks about her years in the commune, the warmth and support of those women who’d made such an impression on her life and who, like Hayley, must be in their fifties or even sixties. Margo must be in her early eighties. Their eyes meet suddenly, then skitter away. Margo’s is the only name that has remained unspoken by them both and Viv almost feels her there, a malevolent ghost sitting at the table with them. It goes without saying that none of the women kept in touch with the commune’s founder, and Viv still feels the same tug of disgust and confusion as she did all those years before. She hesitates, debating whether to tell Hayley about the time she’d caught sight of Margo a few years back, then decides against it. Her exit from Unity House had been such a painful episode for them all – why dredge it up after all these years?
‘God, you’ve done well for yourself,’ Hayley says, glancing around the café admiringly. ‘I’m so bloody proud of you.’ She raises her eyebrows, ‘And are you married? Kids?’
‘One daughter, very much single. You? Any man in your life?’
‘God no – can’t stand the fuckers,’ Hayley replies cheerfully, and Viv laughs.
The lunchtime rush is getting under way as Hayley leaves for her meeting, promising to keep in touch. Despite Agnes’s help, Viv barely has time to surface before two thirty when things begin to calm down. She’s about to make herself a coffee when she turns to see the doctor walking in.
She smiles. ‘Hello again, did you have a nice weekend?’
He stops and nods. ‘Yes, thank you. I had both days off, so …’
‘Lovely! And did you get up to much?’
He hesitates before answering but then says, ‘Not really, no. I met up with some friends.’
So perhaps no kids, and he doesn’t wear a wedding ring … And then he asks politely, ‘And you? How was your weekend? Not working either, I hope.’
‘No, it was quiet; it’s just me and my daughter, so you know … footie practice and so on.’
‘Ah,’ he says, nodding.
Sensing that he’s about to move off, she blurts, ‘Do you have kids yourself?’
Something passes across his face. ‘A daughter, also. She lives with my ex-wife in Kosovo now.’
‘Oh, I see. That must be hard.’
He nods and gives a slight shrug that seems to say, ‘It is what it is.’ And then with a final smile he goes to his usual table and pulls out his notepad and begins to write.
It’s only half an hour later when a courier arrives to deliver a parcel. It’s a plain cardboard box, long and slim with no business address label – unusual for deliveries to the café. When she opens it she gives a start. Inside is a large bunch of dying irises. There’s no message or note, no indication from where it came, nothing but the flowers, petals beginning to wither, browning around the leaves. It’s not the sort of bouquet sent by a florist – no card, no plant food, no pouch of water – and as she stares uncomprehendingly down at it her heart begins to beat faster. Who would send irises, Ruby’s favourite flowers, on the anniversary of her death? She looks up and meets the doctor’s gaze and, flustered, turns away.
‘I’m