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“No!” he screamed long and loud.
Still screaming, he fell out of bed, shouting. “No, please God! No! Don’t take her away from me. Not again...” His body shook from the sobbing. “Please, not again.”
He reached out for the lamp on the bedside cabinet, switching it on. Lifting the frame that contained Sarah’s photo next to it, he placed the picture next to his heart. Wrapping both arms around his body, he slumped against his bed, drawing his knees up to his chest, hugging the photo, crying softly.
Even after a year, her loss was still painful. He had the nightmare on a regular basis.
Every morning, he’d reach out for her, hoping she’d be there. She never was. He never thought it possible to miss someone so much.
“Sarah,” he whispered, “I never meant it to happen.” He lifted the photo to gaze at her. “I know you didn’t want to go. I’m so sorry.” More tears followed as he held the photo tight. “I should never have made you. You died because me of me, Sarah. How will you ever forgive me? How can I ever forgive myself?”
He lowered the photo into his lap and continued weeping, staring idly at the ceiling, realizing he never could. He knew he would carry the guilt of his wife’s death to his grave. He felt responsible because of an inability to turn his back on something that had nothing to do with either of them.
Chapter Eighteen
Gardener made himself tea. The expansive kitchen was long and wide, lit mostly by strip lighting positioned underneath the fitted units. Beige and magnolia tiles covered the walls and floor. Scattered around the kitchen sat constant reminders of Sarah: several small clay-figure animals she made herself. A wall clock in the shape of a tulip he bought her during a weekend in Amsterdam. He’d never liked it, but he couldn’t part with it now. Spook, Sarah’s cat, joined him at the kitchen table. A fluffy, white half-Persian, she meowed continuously and was constantly grubby because she rarely preened herself.
Stooping, he stroked Spook. Sarah had loved the cat when she’d found her three years ago. The stray had wandered into their garage, half emaciated, full of fleas.
Their first meeting had been a shock to both of them. The cat had jumped out from a bundle of rags, startling Sarah. She eventually won the animal over and nursed it back to health. She chose to call it Spook because of the incident in the garage.
He filled a saucer with milk. “I suppose if I’m having one, you’d better, too.”
The kitchen clock chimed four-thirty. No chance of sleep now. Gardener took a sip of his tea and wandered through to the living room and the dark oak bookcase in the corner. As he scanned the shelves, he smiled to himself at the number of horticultural encyclopaedias his father had. There must have been a copy of nearly every gardening book in print.
He admired his father for his dedication to something that was not only a hobby but also his living. He himself had shown no interest in following his father’s footsteps as a landscape gardener. Even now, he refused to enter the greenhouse at the bottom of the garden.
He selected a book of his own. He studied the cover. He’d waited a year. Perhaps it was time.
He walked into the kitchen and through the connecting door into the garage. He switched on the lights. The extra room was like any other. Along one wall stood a worktop, with a vice attached. He’d put a shelf above it, housing a variety of bottles of all shapes and sizes. They contained every nut, bolt, and washer known to man. Gardening implements and machinery fought for the right to a bit of space. One of the family vehicles permanently lived on the drive.
At the back of the garage sat a hi-fi stereo system with a pair of speakers he had bought at a fire-damaged sale in an auction room off Boar Lane. No one wanted the speakers because they gave the impression they were beyond help. He’d paid ten pounds for the pair. They were the best he’d ever heard.
He put his tea down, switched on the hi-fi, and selected a CD from a pile. More Than A Feeling: The Greatest Rock Anthems Of All Time. He put the CD into the machine, and pressed play.
He walked over to a grey dustsheet covering the focus of his interest in the far corner of the garage.
“I’ve waited a year for you.”
He pulled the dustsheet off. In front of him rested a 1959 T120 Triumph Bonneville – wrecked, of course. It had seen better days. The tyres were bald. The exhaust rusty and hanging off. The seat chewed by rats. The badge on the fuel tank was missing, the tank itself worn down to bare metal. There was no front number plate. The headlamp was smashed. Before their time together was through, he figured he would find a number of other problems.
It was the last thing Sarah had bought him before she died, the present she referred to when she said she had employed the help of his father. Sarah knew he wanted a Triumph Bonneville for as long as he could remember. He’d never found the right one, nor the right time to buy one.
His father found the bike in a breaker’s yard when he had been searching for spare parts for a friend. The owner hadn’t even known it was there. Malcolm told Sarah. She made an offer.
His father picked up the bike that fateful afternoon, waiting until they had gone out before smuggling it into the garage. Sarah knew Gardener would have devoted most of his spare time to the care of the bike.
He knew the restoration of the bike would be therapeutic for him. It would help him to think. He collected his tools and went to work.
He removed the seat first. He stared at it for quite a while, wondering not only where he would be able to buy a new one, but how much it would cost him. He also started wondering about the case. Considering what little he had learned so far, Gardener realized he had his work cut out for him. A lot of questions needed to be answered.
Chapter Nineteen
Jacqueline moved around her aunt’s kitchen with ease and confidence. She knew every inch of the large farmhouse better than her own. She’d lived with the old lady for the better part of her teenage years, until the time she had started her training to become a minister.
To her knowledge, the room’s interior had never changed; it was long and angular with pine-finished units and a polished timber floor. A variety of copper pans hung from ceiling beams. A mixture of live plants and dried flowers enhanced the decor.
The kettle came to the boil as the clock struck ten. Pips on the radio signalled the start of the morning news. Jacqueline finished making the tea. Her taste buds tingled with anticipation as the aroma of freshly baked bread and pastries permeated the room. She selected a couple of cakes, put them on plates, and placed them on the table with the tea. She sat and poured herself a cup. She clasped it in both hands, sipped her tea. It tasted good. She felt good.
