"The Quiet Steeps of Dreamland"

This story deals with death by road traffic accident

"I can't sleep" she said to the cat.

Her voice sounded hoarse, as if she might have been screaming in her sleep.

Perhaps she had.

The bedside clock, a present for her twenty first birthday from her mother, blinked steadily.

4.21 am.

The cat, Dickens, surveyed her lazily through narrowed eyes. Yawning, he stretched and smoothly jumped to the floor with a thud. He padded out of the bedroom door, and headed towards the kitchen. Jenny swung her legs out and sat for a moment, anxiety and grief prickling though her , before sliding her feet into her slippers. She followed the cat downstairs.

She fed Dickens then stood at the sink, mechanically filling the kettle with water for a cup of tea she neither wanted nor would drink. It was late summer, and the sky was still inky black, but she knew that within a short time, that would change to a toneless grey, and that she would be able to see the outline of Chris's bike stand where he had changed a tyre the night he died, his baseball cap still slung on the arm of it. She seemed unable to bring herself to move it. Her adult children had suggested uneasily that they could move it, perhaps, put it back in the shed, Mum, they said, not unkindly.

But still it stood, as if by leaving it in place, right outside the kitchen window, he might come back after all.

On the dining room table was a paper and pad. She seemed unable to keep a thought in her head, so it contained an ever growing list of Things To Do. Looking at it with a sense of dread, she saw she had carefully written " Look at his clothes. Just even look" Then underneath- charity shop. Under that, make a meal.

Exhausted before she had even started, Jenny sighed.

" Ok" she said to Dickens. " Well I could see what I'm going to have for dinner, couldn't i? That would be a start." She walked through to the kitchen. Fish, she decided. There was frozen fish in the freezer. Oven chips. As she peered into the cupboard, her gaze fell on a tin of peas. It occurred to her that she and Chris had gone shopping just a month ago. He'd bought mushy peas because he liked them, especially with fish, and he was expecting to eat those peas, and now, now he never would. Sobbing uncontrollably she sank to her knees in front of the cupboard, because the peas! He'd never even got to eat them. And he'd been looking forward to it. And he didn't know that within a week he'd be dead, She cried like a child, great ugly tearing sobs, and she cried for a long time. As the sobs turned to sniffles, she looked down and realised she was actually wringing her hands, like some bloody Victorian wronged woman she thought bitterly, and sniffing loudly she got stiffly to her feet.

" Stupid, you're so stupid" she chided herself. " You get all the way through choosing his funeral music without crying, and end up bawling like a baby over some mushy peas".

Angrily she stomped up stairs. " Just look at his clothes, come on, man up " she said , her nose still running, and she felt around her pockets of her dressing gown for a hanky.

The house was shockingly empty. There were so many places that he wasn't, he was absent from his usual places- she kept half turning expecting to see him- stretched out comfortably, half asleep in his armchair, Dickens resting his ginger head on his beer belly. In the shower, making that little "woo!" noise as he got under the water. Humming tunelessly as he towel dried himself. Some muscle memory made her turn as she got to the bedroom door, expecting his large form snoring sonorously. She was startled, all over again, at the empty side of his bed. Another huge sigh racked her. Flinging open his side of the wardrobe, she saw his trainers first. Slightly turned up at the toes, a bit worn, black and orange.... she had put them carefully away that night as she arrived home from the hospital The police had driven her home and a deep sense of unreality had permeated the whole awkward journey. She had clutched the bag of clothes the hospital had given her. His shoes. The dark green cargo shorts, ripped and torn where he'd hit the road. She wasn't sure what they had done with the tee shirt, soaked with bright blood.

Turning the shoes in her hands, Jenny was tempted, just for a moment, to sniff them, to see if she could catch that comforting and swiftly fading sense of her husband. Then she began to laugh a little hysterically, stuffing her hand over her mouth, in case the neighbours thought she'd really lost the plot. Sniff his shoes! He had awful ,smelly feet, waging a constant battle with athletes feet. That would have finished me off completely, she thought. Still laughing and crying at the same time she shut the wardrobe door with finality.

" That's enough of that for today " she told the cat.

There was some paper work to do with the car. She had got to the point where she could say " My husband has died in a road traffic accident" without breaking, weeping, speaking incoherently or just freezing. The insurance company were solemn, and said they were sorry. Some long lost line from a film- " Don't be sorry, you didn't kill him" rose unbidden to her lips, but she managed not to utter it . How uncomfortable people were with grief. She thought. How badly we comfort the bereaved.

Later she went for a walk, because her counsellor had told her it was good for trauma. Count five things you can see, four things you can hear, three you can smell, he said soothingly. His voice, Jenny thought, was like melted chocolate, smooth, and dark. He could have recited a shopping list and it would have salved her hurt.

The cafe that she went to daily, so that she could sit amongst people and gain some sense of normality was cosy,;quite dark and for a moment she didn't see her neighbour sitting at a table. The neighbour saw her first. A look a undisguised horror crossed her face. She looked around wildly for a moment as though considering hiding under the table. " Ah, hello!" she faltered, when it was blindingly obvious that there was no escape for either of them.

" How are you? I mean, well obviously, you're awful, I mean you LOOK awful, gosh John and I were just so sorry, it's awful news , " she gabbled.

As if to labour how badly they felt for her, John solemnly stood up, reached out and put both arms around her. He was wearing aftershave, quite a lot of aftershave, and Jenny stood awkwardly trying not to sneeze, until he released her, duty done.

She breathed in shakily. " Oh, well, you know, just getting on with it, nothing else I can do, um, I think I forgot some......" and then she turned and left, unable even to formulate some excuse.

She didn't eat the mushy peas. She didn't sit at the table either, the silence thick around her. Instead she took a tray with the fish and chips and sat in front of the television, and then she allowed herself just one glass of wine.

Her daughter rang her .

" How are you mum?" she asked anxiously" Did you get... you know ,did you get Dad's clothes started?"

" Yes!" Jenny lied brightly, " yes and I went for coffee and I saw Shona and we had a lovely chat. She was asking after you all. John hugged me , he's awfully kind"

" Oh good, " her daughter said, sounding relieved" I'll be round at the weekend, maybe we could start on his shed, if you're OK with that, you know if you're thinking about moving, we should try and declutter"

"Great idea " Jenny said reassuringly. She caught sight of herself in the mirror over the fire. Somehow she couldn't even meet her own eyes.

By ten o' clock she was exhausted. Dragging herself to the dining table, shivering a little in the chill now that the sun had gone down, she made a list for tomorrow.

" Throw one thing out. Just one " she wrote.

In bed, she lay for a while and her mouth moved silently. She was reciting the poem she used to tell the children if they were sick, or they couldn't sleep. Was it Walter de La Mare?

" All the birds that flock in heav'n /come singing, home, to sleep" she whispered. " Shhhh. Go to sleep. you're OK, you'll be OK".

Eventually she drifted off.

She dreamt that Chris was coming through the door, rubbing his head a little ruefully.

" Fell off the bike" he admitted, smiling.

" Oh let me see! " she said, and there was a tiny cut on his head.

She could see, so clearly, the short grey hair, the tiny cut, and she could smell his soap, mixed with the indefinable comforting smell of him, just him, there could be no person who smelt just like him. She hugged him and his big belly got in the way and they laughed a bit.

She snapped awake with a huge shuddering intake of breath and sat up, her heart hammering.

4.21am

" I can't sleep" she told the cat.