Laura's List

By Dawn Maria Kelly

When life breaks your heart, do you build walls...or bridges?

Single father Tom Kavanagh returns to Ireland from London to rebuild family ties after the tragic loss of his wife, Laura. His life is pulled in different directions by his relatives and close friends, but what would Laura have wanted for her husband and young daughter? Should Tom follow the clues that she left for him in her last list? Weaving intimate details of Tom’s struggle to survive in the present and his yearning to linger in the past, Laura’s List is a funny, sad and ultimately heart-warming tale of love, loss – and finding your way home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dawn Maria Kelly
• Release date: Dec 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781900623476

Book preview

2006

London

A restless wind picked up the remaining autumn leaves and whirled them about Tom’s head as he turned the key in the lock and went into the house. He climbed over a sea of junk mail before roughly stuffing all of it into a cardboard box. Leaflets advertising this year’s local pantomime, Snow White, reminded him that Christmas was just around the corner. Silence weighed in upon him. Unable to face the empty kitchen, he went into the freezing sitting room and slumped onto the sofa. For a brief moment, he imagined it smelled of Laura. He buried his face in the worn creases, willing up a memory of her beside him, laughing, while Marie-Claire pretended to take their picture. With a flash of panic he realised that he could no longer recall the finer details of Laura’s face, only how she looked in photographs.

His lethargy of late had made even the simplest task seem like hard work. The bereavement counsellor, too ready with sympathy and tissues for him to stomach a return visit, had told him to take one day at a time, like an alcoholic, but he was eaten up with anger at being expected to go on working and eating and sleeping when Laura had been denied that right. Drinking didn’t help either, although he had given it his best shot, until he noticed Marie-Claire looking at him as though he were a stranger. Fear of each new day was overwhelming.

Thinking back to the first few weeks after the funeral, he wondered how long he’d imagined he could get away with pretending that life could still be normal if he tried hard enough. Work had consumed him to the point of exhaustion, but he dutifully performed all the necessary tasks for getting Marie-Claire to school every morning while she, in turn, hovered near him, trying to keep him company. He knew that what they both really wanted was Laura, yet they avoided any mention of her. Marie-Claire started to spend more nights away with her friends’ families or her grandparents.

The first serious cracks had started to appear when the school dress rehearsals for the Wizard of Oz got underway. During the last week before the big performance, there were rehearsals every evening, so Tom arranged with his despatch manager and fellow single parent, Jill, to collect Marie-Claire along with her son Nathan some evenings, and he returned the favour on others. His concentration, already poor, began to desert him completely. Errors piled up at his small business, GreenFayre. On that fateful Thursday, he had decided to stay behind at the office to sort out the mess of unpaid bills and unanswered emails, taking advantage of the quiet after everyone had left. The telephone rang a few times, but he ignored it and focused on the task in hand. When it rang yet again he snatched it up and snapped, ‘What is it?’ He listened for a moment, dropped the phone, and ran for the door.

In the admin office at Ravensfield Primary School, Marie-Claire sat like a wilted flower with her head hanging low. Her eyes were swollen from crying and strands of hair were stuck to her cheeks. When Tom appeared in the doorway, she let out a howl, sprang up, and clung to his waist. Sobs racked her body. He would have liked to pick her up and hold her, but try as he might, he could not loosen her grip.

Her teacher, Miss Kruger, regarded him coolly; her perfect, heart-shaped face and Nordic colouring better suited to the cover of a magazine than the chaos of a class room. She rose and patted Marie-Claire on the shoulder. ‘There, there, sweetheart. See? I told you he’d come. Here he is. Shush, there’s a good girl.’

Tom felt a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck as he struggled to meet her eyes. ‘Oh, God. I’m so sorry for holding you up. I was working late and got confused about the day.’

‘She’s been inconsolable, poor thing. Never mind. You’re here now.’

He bent down and spoke quietly. ‘MC. Listen to Daddy. I’m so sorry, baby. I thought Jill was taking you home. I’d never leave you on purpose; you know that, don’t you?’

She cried even harder, snatching gulps of air in hiccups. All Tom could do was keep his arms around her shoulders and rock her gently.

‘I know you’ve both had a lot to contend with.’ Miss Kruger’s tone was sympathetic but, perversely, he felt sure she was just offering platitudes so that she could get out of there.

Focussing instead on what his daughter needed, he knew he should get her home, fed and safely tucked up in bed. He took hold of her hand, smoothed the damp hair back from her face, and said, ‘Come on, darling girl. We’d best get going.’

Miss Kruger’s handsome face was unreadable as she handed him Marie-Claire’s schoolbag and costume. ‘I think we should talk, Mr Kavanagh. Why don’t you call me, and we’ll fix up a time?’

The sharp, nasal twang in her voice made him feel as if he was being reprimanded. ‘OK, I’ll ring tomorrow. Thank you, again, for looking after her.’

Outside, Marie-Claire looked as lost as Tom felt. ‘I’m so sorry, baby. Shall we stop at the shops and pick up a film and some sweets? Come on. Anything you want.’

Her ravaged face, when she risked looking up at him, made him want to weep.

‘I want my Mummy.’

She did not speak for the rest of the evening.

The next sign that he was heading for a fall came soon afterwards, on his short bike ride to work. Stopping in the middle of a busy junction, he was suddenly overcome with anxiety about facing his workmates. Amidst the blare of car horns he moved onto the pavement and tried to continue on foot, wheeling his bicycle along, but the nearer he got to the office, the more heightened the feelings of panic became. Less than a hundred yards from the door, he got back on his bike and turned around.

Crying off work on the grounds of a virus, he stayed away for a week, then another and another. He fell into a routine of sorts, where he got up, took Marie-Claire to school, then hurried home and went straight back to bed. At first, he managed to get up again in time to collect her, but as his confusion and withdrawal grew deeper he came to depend upon Laura’s best friend, Clare and his elderly neighbour, Bee, to take and fetch her. By the time that Laura’s mother, Marion, appeared out of the blue one evening and bundled them both into her little Renault Clio and home with her to Streatham, he was beyond protest. Her GP paid Tom a call and prescribed a short course of anti-depressants, but the idea of needing to take them depressed him even further. Under duress, and Marion’s watchful eye, he swallowed them down dutifully with his breakfast, or with a cup of tea in bed on the days she couldn’t get him up. Laura’s father, John, took responsibility for getting him out into the fresh air once in a while, which was meant to make him feel better, and sometimes did. As the weeks passed, Tom noticed that although the pills didn’t stop him feeling hopeless, he was more able to function on a day-to-day basis and his searing anger had finally begun to subside.

Marion had cast herself in the role of an overly protective mother hen to Marie-Claire, as if, left untended for even a moment, she might wander off. In protest, Marie-Claire became increasingly self-sufficient, picking out her own clothes, brushing her own hair, and demanding to be called by her proper name. If Tom forgot, and slipped into calling her MC again, she refused to respond. Almost overnight, he was compelled to accept that she was becoming a person in her own right, not just a child, or his daughter.

Most evenings, he let John drag him to the local for a pint or two, which they shared in companionable silence. One night, while he was waiting for John to return from the bar, he was surprised by the sudden appearance of his business associate and good friend, David.

‘Bloody hell, Tom, why aren’t you answering my calls? It’s mayhem at the office. The preferred supplier status for Gaia’s Green Boxes has come through and we’re run off our feet.’ He glanced around to check that John was still at the bar and then dropped into the seat opposite Tom.

Tom gazed blankly back at him.

‘Look, we all know how hard this has been for you, but there’s only so much we can do, Tom. I’m struggling to keep my own business afloat – I’ve only just managed to get this month’s issue of Today’s Cyclist out. GreenFayre’s still growing. It needs you. And it’s even harder now Jude’s upped sticks. My place feels so empty without her.’

Tom’s face twisted into a sardonic smile.

‘OK, OK, it’s nothing like it is for you, but we all have feelings. And you’re not the only one to miss Laura, you know.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

David ran his hands through his hair. ‘Well, we all, I mean… Oh, for Christ’s sake, Tom! When I invested, I didn’t sign up for this. I stepped in to help for out for a few weeks, but that was nearly three months ago.’

‘Look, if you’ve had enough, then stop.’

‘Listen, I know you feel like hell, but at least if you come back to work it might take your mind off things. Think about all the effort you’ve put into getting this business off the ground. And what about MC? She needs stability. Life has to go on, Tom.’

‘Does it?’ He thought of all the time and energy he had wasted on GreenFayre, when he could have spent it with Laura.

David rose slowly. He leaned in close to Tom’s face and spoke very quietly. ‘I’ve never had you down as the self-pitying type. Yes, life does go on. In case you’re interested, your so-called close friend, Bee, has just had a mild stroke. As for GreenFayre, Poppy’s handed in her notice and Jill wants a pay rise or she’s leaving. It’s all falling apart, Tom. I’ll carry on covering for you until the end of this month, and then that’s it, I’m off.’ He walked away, shoulders hunched, then stopped and turned. ‘By the way, did you know Clare’s brought MC by the office a few times, and all she can talk about is how much she wants to go home? What about the rest of us, Tom? The ones who are still here?’

He gave a stiff nod to John who was returning with two foaming pints, and disappeared through the door.

‘Everything all right, lad?’

Tom’s heart was beating erratically. He felt a cold sweat of fear at the news about Bee’s health, and about his business, but he lifted his pint, took a deep swallow and forced a smile. ‘Fine; everything’s fine.’

Looking up at the photographs on the wall of his deserted home, trapped under glass like a collection of embalmed moments, it began to dawn on Tom that Marie-Claire’s recent strident behaviour might have been for his benefit. Since the beginning of the new school term in September she had completely overturned the embargo on mentioning her mother, choosing instead to talk about her all the time. She returned from school each day with paintings of her mother and endless, endless questions, as if compelling him to face the fact that Laura could not be filed away as easily as the letters of condolence.

Earlier that morning, while preparing to leave for school, she finally resorted to out and out confrontation. ‘Daddy, when are we going home?’

Tom was slumped at the kitchen table in one of John’s tatty, plaid dressing gowns, rubbing at the stubble on his jaw that would soon have to be called a beard. Reaching towards her for a kiss, he avoided her eyes. ‘I don’t know, darling. We’re all right here, aren’t we?’

She sidestepped him. ‘This isn’t our house. I want to go home.’

He sighed. ‘I know, sweetheart. But there’s no one there to take care of you. At least here, you’ve got Nanny and Grandpa.’

‘You can look after me, and Clare, and Aunty Bee.’

‘Look, MC, I can barely take care of myself at the moment.’

‘Don’t call me that! I want to go home. I want my own things, and I want to be where we lived with Mummy.’

He couldn’t resist a half-smile as he realised that her stubborn expression reminded him very much of himself. ‘She’s not there anymore, darling girl.’

‘Daddy!’ She kicked his chair, her cheeks pink with anger. ‘I know that. But where has she gone? To heaven? Is she coming back? As an animal maybe, or a flower? And where are her ashes? Where have you put her? Where is she?’

‘Oh, baby. Come here.’ Tom reached out to pull her onto his lap but she backed away. ‘Please, Marie-Claire!’

She snatched up her satchel. ‘I don’t care anyway. I just want to go home!’

Marion appeared in the doorway, buttoning up her coat. ‘Is everything all right?’

Marie-Claire shot past her and out the front door, slamming it behind her.

‘Well! What was that all about?’ She waited a few moments for him to explain and then glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘I’d better go. Clare’s picking her up today as I’ve got parents’ evening. John’s harvesting sprouts down at the allotment but he’ll be back for lunch. Will you be all right?’

A vision of Marie-Claire’s face when she said she wanted to go home lingered in his mind. Clearing his throat, he replied, ‘I thought, maybe, I’d go over to the house. See if I can sort a few things out.’

Marion’s eyes spoke volumes. ‘That’s a really good idea, Tom, if you think you can.’ She finished buttoning her coat and then tied on a headscarf with a business-like air. ‘Well, I’ll tell Clare to phone here first and see if you’re back. Bye-bye, love.’ She crossed the kitchen awkwardly and gave his shoulder a little squeeze before scurrying off in pursuit of Marie-Claire.

As soon as she left, Tom surprised himself by getting straight up, taking a shower and finding some clean clothes. It took him most of the morning to get going, but by twelve, and after several false starts, he was on the bus home to Wimbledon.

Tom’s eyes swept over all the things that had gone into making this place a home. He and Laura had argued over which of their own things they would keep, and also over the cost of new furnishings, especially the sofa. His hand stroked the seat where he had changed his first nappy, back when the leather was still as shiny as a freshly unwrapped bar of chocolate, and before Ziggy had given it a fashionably distressed appearance by digging himself a bed among the scatter cushions. Tom spotted a picture of the dog wearing Marie-Claire’s sunflower hat while she squeezed her arms around his neck, showing off her two new front teeth. It was the centrepiece of a motley collection of snaps arranged in a montage that dominated the alcove next to the fireplace. Laura had hated traditional displays of framed family photos, but she’d spent a happy Sunday afternoon with him, just after they married, arranging pictures from before and after they met: Laura balanced on a camel, Tom posed beside his bicycle in the Sally Gap, Laura beaming in her wedding dress. The collection had been added to so often over the years that it now occupied most of the alcove above an ornate chest of drawers, which Laura had shipped home from India when she was younger and on her travels. She had been furious when he’d lectured her about the perils of importing hardwoods, but then fallen about laughing when he grudgingly agreed she could not possibly have known about all of that, back before sustainability and fair trade had even been thought of. They had ended the dispute by making love on the sofa, watched from the windowsill by the inscrutable faces of her cats, Yoyo and Sushi, still wary of the interloper and his hound.

Tom sank into the sofa and hugged a tatty merino cushion, which Laura had insisted that they buy, despite the ridiculous price tag. He sniffed it, enjoying the brush of silky fleece against his skin, imagining Laura lying beside him, her head heavy on his chest. It seemed strange to be able to think of her, without having the simultaneous urge to cut away to something else. He’d been so afraid of coming back, but now that he was home, he found it oddly comforting.

As he rolled onto his side, his hand brushed against some paper.

Pulling the seat cushion aside, he could see a crumpled note. He fished it out and opened it, smiling in recognition at the familiar, messy handwriting. It had to be another one of ‘Laura’s lists’, but as he smoothed it out and began to read, he stopped in his tracks. It was a list of local women, but why? As he scanned through the names he recognised all but one of them, and even she sounded familiar. They were mostly women he had known for years; two were currently working for him and one was Marie-Claire’s teacher. Giving closer attention to Laura’s bizarre descriptions it began to dawn on him. This was a list of prospective women that Laura had thought might be suitable for him, after she was gone. What the hell? In a state of utter disbelief, he read through it again, more slowly.

Jill MacKay (40) – single mum, Nathan same age-ish as MC and already great mates, good with animals, bolshie, fun to be with, OK looking (not great), but serious greenie, like Tom, and they work well together.

Susie McCullough (39?) – kind, clever, beautiful, childbearing age still? Bit soft, but no pushover. Might bore Tom a bit on new-age fluffy stuff. Last husband ran off with another woman (– why???)

Poppy Henderson (45) terrifyingly posh but not a snob. Clever, fantastic at accounts (Tom could learn a lot!), warm-hearted, bit too timid? Sweet with MC, outdoorsy and practical. Very pretty (pang of jealousy!!!), widow, about over it now?

Meredith Kruger (30-something) MC’s teacher, young but mature, well-travelled. Bright, lively, independent. Says wants kids, great with kids – think she half fancies Tom already…

Jude Lawson

– if Tom ever goes near this woman I will haunt him.

The last line made him start. So, even at the end, she had still hated Jude, which was hardly surprising. But, to think she would have written an actual list, of women she thought might do for him! A sense of outrage began to simmer at the idea that Laura could have been so calculating about his future, and what if news of the list had got around? Imagine if it had been published. As he calmed down a little and examined the list of names more closely, one at a time, he began to smile. Jill McKay – he had known her since first moving to England after dropping out of veterinary school in Dublin, incurring his mother’s wrath. She was now his dispatch manager, and the mother of Marie-Claire’s best friend, Nathan – what was Laura thinking? And who was Susie McCullough, the mystery element on the list? He racked his brains and came up with an image of a fresh-faced girl down at the natural health centre who looked as if she might have just left school. Good God. Grudgingly, he conceded that he could understand why Poppy might have made it to the list, such a handsome, educated and kind woman, although he could not see himself with anyone so orderly. In fact, none of the women on the list even began to measure up to Laura. But Meredith Kruger, Marie-Claire’s teacher, was supposed to fancy him? He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling uncomfortably warm. No doubt, Laura was mistaken, but he kind of wanted to believe it might be true, if only to bolster his battered ego. She was impossibly good looking, and very young! Jude’s name at the bottom of the sheet of paper had given him a jolt, but when he reread the parting shot about haunting him, he allowed himself a smile. He thought of Laura, always so right about everything even when she wasn’t, compiling the list. He laughed. The arrogance, the cheek, the sheer, bloody-minded, control-freak, audacity of it. The Laura-ness of it. The laughter caught in his throat.

‘Hello, Tom? Tom! Are you here?’

Lifting his head from the pillow, Tom registered the arrival of Clare in the hallway below telling Marie-Claire to hold still while she tried to take off her jacket; she must have wriggled free, because moments later she came tearing up the stairs shouting, ‘Daddy!’

Panting loudly, she arrived in the doorway of the master bedroom and came to an abrupt halt.

Tom was propped up in bed, red-eyed and dishevelled, surrounded by photographs and bits of old costume jewellery that Laura had donated to Marie-Claire for playing dress-up.

‘Daddy?’

He opened his arms, but she approached the bed with caution, examining his face carefully for a few moments before climbing into his embrace. He rocked her back and forth, unable to hold back the tears spilling onto her hair.

‘Are we staying, Daddy?’ She nestled against his chest, twiddling a strand of his hair around her finger, reminding him of how she used to twist a lock of her own when she was a baby.

In the doorway, he caught sight of Clare watching the two of them with a wistful expression.

‘Yes, my darling girl. We’re staying.’

Marie-Claire threw her arms around his neck and squeezed him so tightly he could hardly draw breath. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ She held on even tighter.

Clare smiled briefly at him, raised her hand in farewell and withdrew.

*

Winter finally arrived like a late party guest, decked out in cheerful finery and just in time for the main event. Tom did his best to focus on Marie-Claire and what might make her Christmas happy. He felt uplifted by reports of snow. A glistening hoar frost had already transformed the spectral trees and tired bushes on Wimbledon Common into works of modern art. As he crunched his way back to the house with milk, eggs and the morning paper, he was energised by the stiff spikes of grass, quickened and sparkling in watery sunlight, and the glass-bright coating of ice shimmering on the ponds. Arriving home, he glanced up to the bedroom window and saw Marie-Claire’s forehead pressed against the pane. She had made a series of circles in the frost with her hot breath so that he was treated to a disjointed view of her face, an eye here, a nose there, but her smile was unmistakable. Dropping the groceries in the hallway he took the stairs two at a time. Entering her room with a bound and shaking like an exuberant dog, he knew it was his daughter’s laughter that drew him into acting the fool, but it was the gift he needed most that year.

She grinned up at him. ‘Daddy is that real snow? Is it?’

Tom crouched down beside her at the window and gave her a squeeze. ‘No, darling, only frost.’ He peered out at the heavily laden sky through one of her spy holes. ‘But, maybe later. I can smell it in the air.’ He sniffed around her hair and into the soft fold of her neck, tickling her.

She smacked him on the head, eyes full of mischief. ‘Daddy, stop! Look.’ She pointed to where a procession of ungainly ducks was slip-sliding across the treacherous surface of the pond, like a group of disgruntled old ladies, with their ruffled feathers and quacks of complaint.

‘You might think they look silly now, but wait until they get their white hats on later.’

Marie-Claire jumped up and danced around the bedroom singing, ‘Snow, snow, we will have snow, and wear white hats wherever we go!’ Out of breath, she stopped and put her arms around his knees. ‘Will we be able to make a snowman? And can we go to Aunty Bee’s? She said when it snows, her roof garden looks so lovely that Santa always stops for a rest, even now, when there are no children there anymore. If it snows, can we go? Can we? Please?’

He ruffled her hair. ‘We’ll see, later. Now, Miss, it’s time for your breakfast. Get your dressing gown and slippers on. Hurry up and I’ll make us some pancakes.’

Marie-Claire broke into another jig and then scooped up her dressing gown and began to dance with it. ‘Pancakes, pancakes with strawberry jam!’

Tom shook his head and left her to it, but as he trotted back down the stairs to the kitchen, he began to hum.

All afternoon the snow fell, softly, but insistently. By lunchtime it was obvious to Tom that it was going to settle, so he dragged Marie-Claire back inside for a warming snack of cheese on toast and hot chocolate, and then got her into a dry set of clothes and a woolly hat and scarf before setting out for Bee’s. The walk across the common took three times as long as usual while Marie-Claire waded across any remaining stretches of virgin snow, leaving zigzag trails of her footprints and stopping to exclaim over every snow tipped branch. By the time they opened the gate at Bee’s, it was almost dark.

Bee poured herself another cup of strong black coffee, pointedly ignoring Tom’s disapproving stare. She carefully led the way up to the top of the house with her shoulders at a slight tilt to the white walls, her bony hand gripping the rail. Marie-Claire was in danger of knocking her down as she weaved back and forth, chattering at such speed that neither Bee nor Tom could follow a word of what she was saying.

Turning and pressing her finger to her lips, Bee pushed open the heavy wooden door leading onto the roof. Stepping outside, her breath steamed upwards like cigarette smoke. Marie-Claire’s eyes opened as wide and shiny as a bush baby’s.

Tom knew that the roof terrace had not been part of the original house when it was built in the nineteen twenties and had only come into use when Bee moved in. Although he had been there on the occasional summer’s evening, back when she used to throw spontaneous summer cocktail parties, he had never seen it in winter, or in the dark. Feeling like a small boy in Santa’s grotto, he cast his eyes over the beautiful collection of potted shrubs and art deco statuary, all appearing to have been dusted with icing sugar. He watched Marie-Claire quietly flitting around the perimeter where small lights set into the plaster near the floor gleamed through the snow. The effect was startling.

Bee brushed off a bench and motioned to them to sit down with her. Once again, she signalled for them to be quiet. Overhead, the clouds were clearing, revealing Orion’s belt, low in the sky. Tom nodded imperceptibly, acknowledging the great warrior on his journey across the sky. Marie-Claire slipped her mittened hand into his and suddenly, he felt grateful to be alive. Apart from the distant hum of traffic and their own breathing, everything was still. Then it began: a beautiful, melodic trill, cutting through the night air. They held their breath and listened. The simple opening built