The Life and Afterlife of Charlie Brackwood (The Brackwood Series Book 1) (4 page)

"You don't need to do this now, it's too soon."

The mystery person he was talking to didn't respond.  He tried again.

"Honestly, don't feel like you have to do this just yet.  It will all still be here in a few weeks, I promise you... just leave it."

There was a mixture of pity and defeat in his eyes.  The other person in the room must have turned to face him because his eyes grew soft and heavy with sympathy.

A familiar dressing table behind Russ caught my eye.  It was a grand-looking piece of furniture made of a deep, luxurious wood, perhaps mahogany, and it had a small drawer at the top that opened with a tiny decorative key, the drawer that Lucy used to keep her diary in.  I’d stubbed my toe on that damn’ dressing table almost every night when I turned the light off before hopping into bed beside the woman I love.  It had never occurred to either of us to invest in a bedside lamp, but then if it had I'd never have got to hear Lucy's giggle when I cried out in pain every night.

Russ was in my house, in my bedroom, and there was only one reason why he would be there.  She was standing by the wardrobe, holding up some of my clothes.  The sight of Lucy made me take a sharp intake of breath.  She looked radiant, not a scrap of makeup on her porcelain-pale face, her unruly curls scraped back off her forehead.  She had a frustrated expression on her face, but just seeing her again after what had felt like years set my non-existent heart beating fast.  The last time we were together she had looked so happy, so full of life.  Her future was in my hands and I’d predicted that it would be nothing short of spectacular; together we would have the perfect marriage, the kind others are envious of and try in vain to replicate.  Now I could no longer predict Lucy’s future, and the fact that I had no way of ensuring her happiness caused an unsettling feeling deep within me.

"I'll need to do this anyway.
When
I do it isn't important," she said, voice firm and steady as she turned around to collect more of my clothes from the wardrobe.

My keen eyes observed her carefully; she was wearing one of my jumpers.  It seemed to swamp her tiny, fragile-looking body.  Lucy was a master at disguising her pain, she'd had years of practice, but I knew she was hurting and her hard exterior didn't fool me.  I looked at her hands. She was still wearing her engagement ring. I also noticed her nails had been bitten all the way down on every finger.  She bit her nails when she was stressed and I knew the fact that she had bitten them down that far would have annoyed her, made her feel like a failure.  She'd tried so hard to quit the habit.  This was a sign that inside Lucy was falling apart, and when this happened it was like an avalanche.  Small signs would be the start, a little of the perfect exterior disappearing, like those bitten nails.  Then eventually the pain would gather more speed, become more desperate, become more noticeable, until it was unavoidable and Lucy's entire being crumbled under the pressure.

Russ and I had seen this before when her cousin Gilly died while we were kids.  Gilly was the same age as Lucy. Gentle and mild-mannered, she was easy to like and always carefully protected by her family, including Lucy.  We all adored Gilly. The day she died was a dark day in our young lives and not one we could easily forget. Lucy and she were very close but Gilly was born with a hole in her heart and her days were always numbered.  Even though Lucy was expecting it, she was still distraught by her cousin's death.

At first she’d seemed fine, laughing and smiling as normal.  Then the smile began to slip and she'd start to daydream.  Lucy was so distracted she became oblivious to events going on around her.  Eventually, her schoolwork started to suffer and she distanced herself from me and Russ.  Her pain only became apparent when, during a family function, she decided to run away from home.  Russ and I spotted her escaping to her room during her mum's birthday party, looking distraught.  We decided to follow her.

When we found her she was packing her clothes into a suitcase, tears streaming down her face. Russ and I stood watching in shock for a minute or two. We'd hardly ever seen Lucy cry before and she was ten by now.

"What is it, Luce?  Why are you so upset?" Russ asked softly.

"Nothing, just leave me alone."

"Lucy, you're upset. We're not leaving you like this and we won't let you go anywhere.  Just stop packing, all right?"

I spoke a bit too harshly.  She looked daggers at me, I stared back.  She looked at me with pure hatred.  I wasn't the one to break eye contact.  Then the avalanche struck.  She took a picture frame off her bedside table and threw it at me.  I caught it before it hit me in the face.  I turned it over to reveal a picture of Lucy and Gilly taken when they were five.  I raised my head and looked into her eyes, now shining with tears.

"It's Gilly, isn't it? That's why you're leaving?"

"Everybody is having such a good time, but it's not right.  Gilly isn't here.  She should be here with us.  She's been forgotten...by her own family," said Lucy between sobs.  I looked at Russ. He walked over to Lucy and hugged her tight.

"Gilly hasn't been forgotten," I said.  "She will always be in the minds of the ones who love her.  Sometimes people need an escape from grieving, to give them a break from thinking of what they’ve lost.  You need to understand that, Luce.  If you love someone, you can't help but think of them." I hoped that my words would bring her comfort.

She looked slightly calmer.  She seemed to have understood what I'd said and wiped her eyes as she pulled away from Russ.

"I just miss her. I'm still angry about her being taken away from me."

"That's understandable," Russ said.

I was silent for a minute as I tried to ignore the pain in her voice.  I hated to see my Lucy suffer even then.  An idea entered my head, an idea that might just make things a bit better for her.

"Luce, I've just thought of something.  Why don't you write a letter to Gilly? Tell her how you feel and how much you miss her.  Then we'll attach it to a helium balloon and send it to her in the sky."

"I like that idea," Russ put in.

What Lucy needed was closure, to accept the fact that Gilly wasn't coming back.

Eventually, she came round to my idea and the next day we let three bright fuchsia-coloured balloons into the sky, with a personal message to Gilly from each of us attached.  After that Lucy seemed less angry and more her old self.  She would never forget Gilly and we talked about her often over the years, wondering whether she could see us, whether she'd be watching over us as we said our vows. But Lucy found closure that day and it helped to heal a wound that had been left wide open for too long.

I watched my childhood friends with an intensity of sadness I had never before experienced.  I could see through Lucy's hard exterior. This behaviour was a facade, a way to keep people at a distance.  She preferred to give the impression that she didn't need comfort and support while inside she was vulnerable, broken, her fragmented soul silently crying out for someone to put her back together again. In the past that person would have been me.

"You need to take time to grieve, Lucy, this is still so soon.  At least wait until after the funeral," Russ was saying.

"I can't be reminded of him everywhere I go, Russ. Charlie’s not here...he's not with me...and I'm angry with him for that."

Russ looked at her with tears shining in his own eyes. "Are you angry with me?"

"Yes," she admitted, sounding ashamed.  She stared at her engagement ring, clearly trying to keep her emotions in check.

Russ looked down at the plush carpet, the muscles in his jaw visibly clenched.  "I should have followed him, walked him home and made sure he was safe.” My friend’s voice was laden with regret. “I made a mistake and now my best friend is gone.” He looked at her with pleading eyes. “I feel dreadful, Luce, and seeing you like this makes it harder to take."

One tear finally escaped and rolled down Russ's cheek.  His eyes closed and more tears started to fall, silently.  I watched Lucy as she looked up and saw the anguish on his face; her eyes grew soft as they focused on his.  She rushed to his side and held him tightly, stroking his hair.

I watched my childhood friends holding each other tightly as they sobbed, trying to keep themselves from falling apart. I wanted to be with them, to hold on to them just as tightly as they were holding on to each other.  I wanted to take away their pain, to make them laugh instead of cry.  I wanted to dry the tears that flowed because of me.

I couldn't take any more of this; I turned away from the image of my oldest friends, guilty tears stinging my eyes.  I blamed myself for the pain they were experiencing, I had thrown life away so foolishly.  Now I was paying the ultimate price, the torture of being apart from the people I loved and adored, people who made me feel whole.  My thoughts turned to my loving grandparents and I decided I needed to feel the unconditional love of close family.

I realised I had no idea where my grandparents lived and assumed they had a house on the long street I had walked down previously.  I retraced my steps with a view to asking one of the many strangers there if they knew where my dear grandparents lived.  The sun had begun its descent and early shadows could be seen on the distant landscape.

I passed many strangers, all wearing genuine smiles and kindly expressions, and I wondered as I observed them whether my own wide-eyed expression gave away how out of place I felt in this world.

As I walked along the wide street, one of the houses stood out. It was an old converted barn made of beautiful weathered stone.  It had small windows with traditional wooden shutters attached and a huge entrance that was framed by a decorative stone arch.  The doors of the entrance were glass, which I knew were included to let in the daylight.  On the other side of the glass doors I could see a magnificent wooden staircase winding its way up to the second floor.  As I approached the house I saw that the garden was well tended and full of different varieties of peonies; on the driveway stood a silver Mini Mayfair.  The house belonged to my grandparents.  I knew this because I used to visit this exact house in the summer holidays, and the Mini parked on the drive was the replica of the first car I ever drove.

Gran saw me approaching and met me on the path.

"The house looks great, it's exactly the same as your old one," I told her.

"Yes, we tried to think of other designs but in the end we realised that the only house that would feel like home to us was this one."

"I'm glad you kept it the same. I've missed this house and I've missed seeing you both in it."

She smiled at me as we went inside.  Gramps was at the kitchen table with his feet up on a chair, busily cleaning his pipe.  As I stood watching him it was as though I had been transported back in time. I felt like a young lad again on one of my summer visits.  Gramps looked up at me.

“It's good to know I can smoke this pipe as much as I like and it'll have no effect on my health whatsoever.  I always enjoyed a good smoke.”

I smiled at him and moved over to the window in the large lounge overlooking the drive.  A faint scent of tobacco filled the air as Gramps lit the bowl of the pipe and puffed.  I was not surprised that he had taken up the habit even after his death. I don't ever remember seeing him without his beloved pipe, and he had built up quite a collection of them over the years.  He had died of lung cancer when I was eight and had continued smoking right up until his last breath.  He was a stubborn man who would never do as he was told, especially if any word of advice had come from a doctor.

I watched my grandparents for a while, soaking up the easy atmosphere that filled their home.  Gran brought in a cushion from the lounge and placed it behind my grandfather’s back.  He had suffered with it for many years.  Of course, now he wouldn't be able to feel any pain but I assumed old habits died hard and felt myself smile at the caring gesture.

Movement on the driveway caught my eye and I turned my attention back to the window.  A young man I half recognised was making his way up the driveway.  Suddenly he stopped, shook his head as though he were having second thoughts, and made his way back down the lane.  His familiarity puzzled me.  He was young, a teenager.  I thought back to the events of the day and realised Gran and I had walked past him on this very street.  I remembered the expression of recognition on his face as we’d passed each other.

Whoever he was, he certainly thought he knew me.

Chapter Three

Though it was short, my life on earth was most certainly fulfilled.  As a soul who has passed on, I consider myself one of the lucky ones. While I lived I never experienced severe torment or harm, and I am grateful for that.  My life was for the most part easy, contented and untroubled.  My life was perfect in fact, so perfect that while I lived there I never found myself envious of others. Now I am envious of every soul on Earth, for they have something I myself foolishly threw away.  If only I could say goodbye to my oldest friends, tell them that I am safe and that we will see each other again one day.

As I mentioned earlier, Lucy and I had grown up together, attending the same primary and high school along with Russ.  During primary school we were inseparable; our parents were good friends so it made sense for us to spend a lot of time together.  My first memory of Lucy is on a fishing trip to Bedale with our respective families.  She was seven and I was nine and we spent a week camping and fishing in the Yorkshire town.  I remember that week as one of complete bliss, with an abundance of bright sunshine, laughter and light-heartedness.  A time when I felt free from any worries, enjoying pure childish, non-stop excitement.  As I think about those days I can almost smell the smoke from the barbecue and taste the greasy sausages that had been slightly burnt by my dad.

My favourite memory of that trip is of one perfect day, a day I look back on from time to time and think that if I were ever to be given one to relive again that would be a definite option.  Like all good days it started with a spot of fishing.  Lucy and I had tagged along with our fathers who were both keen on the sport.  The day was warm and bright and brought with it the promise of adventure.  The majority of our time was spent watching our fathers, in complete silence and awe.  That was the good thing about Lucy, she didn't crave constant attention like most girls her age. We could sit together in comfortable silence.  If I needed to talk to someone she would listen intently, without interrupting me, and offer her opinion only after I'd finished.  This, I've since found out, is a rare thing in the modern woman.

Lucy and I sat on the riverbank watching kingfishers dipping in and out of the water and listening to the birds singing their cheerful song.  The sound of summer.  Our fathers' competitive banter filled our ears; we would smile at each other shyly when it became loud and unrestrained.  Our dads were our heroes back then and we were both silently hoping that our respective father would be the one to win the friendly competition.

After a while we indulged in a spot of paddling in a shallow part of the river to cool off. We wiggled our toes and laughed as our feet sank into the mud of the riverbed.  I splashed Lucy with the cool water, and she squealed in delight, and I watched in fascinated silence as the sun shone through the tiny droplets of water, making it appear as though rainbow particles were showering down on Lucy.  Giggling excitedly, she ran from the river and up the hill towards the trees ahead.

"Don't go too far, kids," Lucy's dad warned us.

Even though she was two years younger than me I couldn't keep up with Lucy. I shouted at her to slow down, but of course the stubborn little madam had other ideas.  She was hard to control even then but I had to admire her determination and tenacity.  She ran into a clearing, howling with glee the entire way, intermittently looking behind her to check that I was following.  She stopped so suddenly that I almost crashed into the back of her.

"Can you hear that?" she asked me.  I strained to hear any noise at all in the clearing apart from the sounds of nature surrounding us.

"What?"

"There's a chirping sound coming from the ground."

She started to pace around, peering down.  I looked with her but all I saw were pine needles and the odd butterfly fluttering its wings.

“I can't hear anything,” I said, losing interest and eager to get back to my favourite game of chase. But because it seemed important to Lucy, I continued the search.

“It's around here somewhere, I can hear it,” she said, her voice sounding increasingly distressed.

As I approached a low bush I heard a desperate-sounding cheep.

"Over here, Luce."

I moved aside some of the branches to reveal a small, fluffy, very flustered chick.  It had grey and brown stripes colouring its head and a light grey chest. Its bright round eyes darted back and forth, searching for its mother.  It was holding one stubby wing in an awkward position as though it had been injured.

"I think it's an owl chick," I told her. "It looks injured and it's too vulnerable here on the ground.”

“We need to help," Lucy cried.

I took off my t-shirt and wrapped the baby bird in it.

"We need to take it to my dad, he'll know what to do," I said.

My dad was a nature lover and avid bird watcher so I was confident he would know exactly what to do with the chirping creature. My old man identified the bird as a Little Owl chick and agreed that the bird appeared to have broken a wing.

“We need to take this owl home and nurse him back to health or he won't survive predators in the wild,” my dad told us.

Normally he wouldn't have advised this as he was an ardent believer in allowing nature to take its course but he knew that Little Owl numbers were dwindling, and if they didn't increase soon the result would be catastrophic for the species.

So the Little Owl came home with us where my dad strapped up the injured wing and sternly told us to leave the bird alone for three days.  Of course, waiting so long was a hard task for Lucy.  I saw her more in the three weeks the bird was with us than I ever had up to that point.  She’d named the bird Archimedes and was at our house day and night, feeding it bits of scraps she had persuaded neighbours to donate.  The owl became a project for Lucy and she cherished the moments she could spend with him.  After her experience with Archimedes her empathy for animals grew, and so did my fascination with her.

During the weeks that followed Lucy and I became the bird’s carers, working together as a team the whole summer. Our days were filled with building a warm nest for him, hunting insects, and attempting to teach the owl to fly again.  We didn't know it at the time but we were creating a lifelong bond between us. It became so strong that throughout the years to come we couldn't bare to be apart from one another. Lucy had an unwavering respect for and interest in wildlife that never disappeared in all the time we were together.

I'll never forget the day we set Archimedes free. His wing had healed and he'd managed a small amount of flying around the attic room of my house.  My dad drove us back to Bedale to the exact spot where we’d found him.  Lucy couldn't contain her excitement; she wanted to be the one to set him free.  As we were driving there she was talking about all the things she'd learnt about Little Owls.  How they have a wingspan of fifty-six centimetres and that they weigh one hundred and eighty grams. It was official: Lucy was in love with Little Owls, if not owls in general.

We hopped out of my dad's car and headed towards the clearing in which we’d found Archimedes.  Lucy carried him in a box. As soon as we drew near the clearing he became very vocal
.  Kee-ik kee-ik
.  The cries he gave hurt my ears.

We stood among the trees. It was late evening in summer and the sun was slowly going down.  Beams of light hit the leaf litter in sporadic patterns.  It was beautiful there with a sense of calm about it at this time of day.  I let the peace surround me.

"OK, Lucy, it's time to let him out," my dad said in a quiet voice.

She nodded and placed the box on the ground.  By this time Archimedes was scratching at the sides, eager to be free.  She opened the lid and stepped away, giving him space.

Archimedes stretched his neck as far as it would go so that he could see over the top of the box, sharp eyes focused on his surroundings, head swivelling around to take it all in.  He cocked his head to one side, listening to the other birds in the area.  Fluffing up his feathers, he hopped on to the edge of the box.

I glanced at Lucy, watching Archimedes with great interest and concentration, her green eyes bright with glee.  The owl turned his head to look directly at us. He stared for a long time.  I like to think he was weighing up his options, reluctant to leave us and all the care and attention he'd become accustomed to.  We watched with sadness as he finally spread his wings and flew up among the overhanging branches. I felt both relief and sadness at the release of this fascinating creature, who had beguiled both Lucy and me with his plucky temperament and intelligent eyes.

After that day she insisted that we return to the clearing every summer in the hope of catching a glimpse of Archimedes.  This trip was one we took religiously and we would return year after year up until my death.  We were never fortunate enough to see our feathered friend again after his release but I like to think he was still there, perched high in the trees, looking down upon the kind-hearted humans who had nursed him back to health.

Lucy returned to the clearing just once more after my death, though it wasn't Archimedes who was on her mind then.  What was once a place where childhood innocence and a blossoming friendship were remembered was now a place of loss and sorrow.  After my death the clearing had become a dark place for her.  The day she returned there after my death is one I've tried hard to forget.

After Archimedes was released back into the wild I didn't expect to see Lucy at my house as often, but I saw just as much of her as I had before.  We enjoyed each other’s company so much that we became inseparable.  Lucy was a tomboy and loved nothing more than climbing trees and getting muddy; she was also the best goalie me and Russ had ever played against, and was never bothered by cuts and bruises.

She became one of the guys very quickly and never really seemed to have any girl friends. She dressed in jeans and t-shirts, and whenever her mum tried to put her in a dress Lucy would express her distaste by climbing up trees and rolling around in the mud so the dress ended up stained and ripped and could never be worn again.  Her sister, Emelia who was two years older than Lucy, was the girlie type and the two sisters had little in common.  They grew closer as time passed and Emelia introduced Lucy to the world of makeup and high heels.  Emelia shared the same point of view as her mother and would constantly try to get Lucy to wear pretty dresses, but she was stubborn and would not be forced.

When I was twelve and Lucy was ten we decided we wanted to build a treehouse. The main reason for it was to use it as a vantage point and spy on our neighbours.  We were obsessed with the notion that something exciting was happening in our neighbourhood right under our noses, and we wanted to find out what.  Our plan was to ask for binoculars for our birthdays and, from our newly elevated position, spy on anything and everyone.  The thought of this provoked great excitement in us and we enlisted Russ into the plan.

After some harassment we managed to gather pieces of scrap, paint and nails from our fathers, the DIY kings.  After drawing up some basic plans and with some guidance from my dad, Project Treehouse was underway.  The house was built in an old oak tree in my back garden. My parents were strict about certain things but they thought building a treehouse would be educational and would keep me out of mischief.  Of course, we were always reminded by my father that safety was paramount and he was often called upon to complete the tricky parts of the construction.

By the time the school holidays came around I had already completed the childish drawings that would act as our blueprint.  That year a heat wave swept across the UK and provided the good weather necessary for us to complete our project.

My dad had a sound system, a combination cassette and record player. He placed it on the garden table so that we could listen to music as we worked.  He had a good collection of recordings from his old vinyl records for us to choose from.  Those days of summer were filled with water fights, the smell of distant barbecues and the sweet, smooth melodies of the Beach Boys mixed in with the steady beating of the hammer.  I still can't listen to the Beach Boys without remembering those days with vivid clarity. It's funny how music can help to embed memories into our receptive brains.  I can still hear Lucy's high-pitched voice singing along.

The three of us worked on the treehouse every day and, like clockwork, my mum would bring us egg and cress sandwiches at one o'clock and then homemade ice lollies at three.

People would often see the three of us pottering around the village together and comment on what great friends we were, but at this point in our friendship the statement couldn't have been further from the truth.  Though my friendship with Lucy was blossoming, Russ was often hostile towards her and I wondered whether he had become jealous of her and of our sudden closeness.  He would become nasty when we were giggling at something and would come over and tell Lucy she was doing things wrong, that girls knew nothing about treehouses and he didn't want her helping me and him to build
our
house.  I knew that Russ's harsh attitude and caustic words upset Lucy but she would never show it. Instead she gave as good as she got.  Sometimes their bickering mounted to such an intensity that I would have to step in and become the voice of reason at just twelve years of age.

Once the treehouse was finished we used it as our secret hiding place, somewhere that closed us off from the rest of the world and allowed us to become absorbed in our own imaginings.  I received binoculars for my birthday and the three of us took it in turns to use them.  We dedicated all of our time to spying and our neighbours’ secrets were revealed to us in return.  They were never big secrets. We saw Lucy's sister, Emilia sneaking around with her current boyfriend, someone her parents would disapprove of.  We saw Mrs Brown's husband, the recovering alcoholic, exit the pub with a bottle of whisky tucked away in his coat pocket, and we observed an explosive fight between a group of friends that required breaking up with the help of a retired policeman.  But our biggest accomplishment was saving the life of a much-loved member of the village.