alive. But she
was
alive, and kicking. Three weeks late but perfect.
Around the age of two, Hannah started throwing tantrums, holding her breath until her face went bright red. One time she went blue and stopped breathing altogether. Passed out cold. For a moment Grace had thought she was dead, scooping her up in her arms, screaming her name, until, with a cough, her small eyes opened and she pushed Grace away. It seems she was always pushing her away, all her life, one way or another.
When Hannah was three, on the day before they left Thetford for Glamorgan, during their last trip to the beach, she disappeared. And as they searched for her, calling her name, Grace was lost to a single unthinkable thought. The flood of relief when she was found unharmed, bawling to wake the dead… She’d been spotted by an old man walking his dog, who said he’d seen a large rock fall right next to where she had been playing in pools at the foot of a high cliff.
There were two near-deaths by water, the first not long after returning from Malaysia, during a day out inTatton Park. Hannah had slipped and lost her footing while crossing a shallow brook, and the shock of falling into the water panicked her and she flailed around until Paul waded in and rescued her. The second time was a good few years later, when she was – what? Thirteen? And already lost to Grace by then. She’d stormed off in a mood after an argument, going out in the inflatable dinghy and drifting too far, caught in a current which carried her further and further out. That time she’d been saved by Jason, a strong swimmer even then.
But the last time, when she was nearly sixteen, just before she left home for good, was by far the worst. It was around nine pm on a Saturday night, and as usual Grace was alone in front of the television. Gordon was down at the snooker hall, Paul was out, and Jason had just gone to bed. Grace heard the back door opening and a flurry of whispered voices. When she reached the kitchen there was only Hannah, slumped in a chair, unconscious. She called her name, and shook her, pulled back eyelids to reveal bloodshattered pink. She slapped her across the cheek, but Hannah didn’t stir. Unsure whether to call 999, Grace carried the girl into the lounge and laid her down on the settee. From the kitchen she fetched a cold cloth to soothe her hot brow, all the time saying her name. After ten minutes she phoned for an ambulance; but just as she was ending the call Hannah regained consciousness, storming out before the ambulance arrived, leaving Grace the embarrassment of explaining to the paramedics what had happened.They’d handed her a leaflet about drugs which she still doesn’t understand why she never read.
GRACE RECALLS the first time she’d read the diaries, on the anniversary of Hannah’s death. A year in which, after the first few weeks, even mentioning Hannah’s name had drawn a disapproving silence from Gordon and her two sons. They didn’t seem to feel Hannah’s death the way Grace did; or perhaps, to be fair, they dealt with it differently. For Grace, life had lost all colour and purpose. Something had been torn from her, and all she wanted to do for the remainder of her time alive was roar like a beast at slaughter. Her firstborn was dead, and she knew, in the form of a pain that would never lessen, that nothing could ever be real again.
When she had suggested they all visit Hannah’s grave together to mark the anniversary, Gordon said, ‘It’s been a year now, Grace. We all need to forget, not keep remembering. Hannah’s gone, and we need to move on.
You
need to move on.’
‘But that’s exactly why we should remember her – because she isn’t here,’ she replied.
‘You go, if it means that much to you,’ he said, ‘but I’m not taking the day off work to visit a grave, it’s morbid; and the boys will be at school.’
So she went alone.
It was a sunny October day, the sky bright and cloudless, the light
was
alive, and kicking. Three weeks late but perfect.
Around the age of two, Hannah started throwing tantrums, holding her breath until her face went bright red. One time she went blue and stopped breathing altogether. Passed out cold. For a moment Grace had thought she was dead, scooping her up in her arms, screaming her name, until, with a cough, her small eyes opened and she pushed Grace away. It seems she was always pushing her away, all her life, one way or another.
When Hannah was three, on the day before they left Thetford for Glamorgan, during their last trip to the beach, she disappeared. And as they searched for her, calling her name, Grace was lost to a single unthinkable thought. The flood of relief when she was found unharmed, bawling to wake the dead… She’d been spotted by an old man walking his dog, who said he’d seen a large rock fall right next to where she had been playing in pools at the foot of a high cliff.
There were two near-deaths by water, the first not long after returning from Malaysia, during a day out inTatton Park. Hannah had slipped and lost her footing while crossing a shallow brook, and the shock of falling into the water panicked her and she flailed around until Paul waded in and rescued her. The second time was a good few years later, when she was – what? Thirteen? And already lost to Grace by then. She’d stormed off in a mood after an argument, going out in the inflatable dinghy and drifting too far, caught in a current which carried her further and further out. That time she’d been saved by Jason, a strong swimmer even then.
But the last time, when she was nearly sixteen, just before she left home for good, was by far the worst. It was around nine pm on a Saturday night, and as usual Grace was alone in front of the television. Gordon was down at the snooker hall, Paul was out, and Jason had just gone to bed. Grace heard the back door opening and a flurry of whispered voices. When she reached the kitchen there was only Hannah, slumped in a chair, unconscious. She called her name, and shook her, pulled back eyelids to reveal bloodshattered pink. She slapped her across the cheek, but Hannah didn’t stir. Unsure whether to call 999, Grace carried the girl into the lounge and laid her down on the settee. From the kitchen she fetched a cold cloth to soothe her hot brow, all the time saying her name. After ten minutes she phoned for an ambulance; but just as she was ending the call Hannah regained consciousness, storming out before the ambulance arrived, leaving Grace the embarrassment of explaining to the paramedics what had happened.They’d handed her a leaflet about drugs which she still doesn’t understand why she never read.
GRACE RECALLS the first time she’d read the diaries, on the anniversary of Hannah’s death. A year in which, after the first few weeks, even mentioning Hannah’s name had drawn a disapproving silence from Gordon and her two sons. They didn’t seem to feel Hannah’s death the way Grace did; or perhaps, to be fair, they dealt with it differently. For Grace, life had lost all colour and purpose. Something had been torn from her, and all she wanted to do for the remainder of her time alive was roar like a beast at slaughter. Her firstborn was dead, and she knew, in the form of a pain that would never lessen, that nothing could ever be real again.
When she had suggested they all visit Hannah’s grave together to mark the anniversary, Gordon said, ‘It’s been a year now, Grace. We all need to forget, not keep remembering. Hannah’s gone, and we need to move on.
You
need to move on.’
‘But that’s exactly why we should remember her – because she isn’t here,’ she replied.
‘You go, if it means that much to you,’ he said, ‘but I’m not taking the day off work to visit a grave, it’s morbid; and the boys will be at school.’
So she went alone.
It was a sunny October day, the sky bright and cloudless, the light
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