The One Day You Were My Husband (89)

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When I leave later on, I don’t look around the cabin or say goodbye to it. I just get into the car, desperate to leave. Glancing briefly, guiltily, in the rearview mirror, I see the sea, the bulrushes, Johan’s large wooden picnic table disappearing out of sight, and I feel only relief. I need to get back to my family.

I call Robin again as I leave the woods, heading toward Trosa. This morning, as yesterday, deer graze in the grass by the roadside, unbothered by the cold rain falling in blunt needles on their backs. This time, Robin cancels my call after two rings, which is odd. I try again, assuming he must have mistakenly canceled the call while trying to answer, but this time it goes straight to voicemail.

I imagine his phone battery has died but, for reasons I can’t put my finger on, I’m a little worried. I’ve sent him a message telling him Dad has died, yet no reply?

Has something happened to one of the kids? Is it Raffy? His asthma?

I call Robin once more but, again, it goes straight to voicemail.

I drive on, clouds jamming a low sky. Robin carries fully charged power banks everywhere with him. In his line of work he can’t be unreachable: when we moved to Dartmoor he wouldn’t view any house that didn’t have strong phone signal. If his battery has died it’ll be charged soon enough.

Unless he’s in hospital with Raffy. Unless power banks are the last thing on his mind right now.

No, Robin would have called me straight away. He wouldn’t have stopped calling.

I pull over, wait four minutes and then call him again. My body relaxes instantly as I hear the ringtone. Robin. My rock. Power bank at the ready; he’s charging, just like I knew he would.

But he doesn’t answer.

Are you OK? I message. Are the kids OK?

He reads the message but doesn’t reply.

I call Maya, but she doesn’t answer. She messaged early this morning to say Nicola is not coping, so she’s offered to go and register Dad’s death in Exeter this morning. I imagine she’s driving.

I text Robin my flight times and say that I’ll probably get home around 11 p.m. I tell him I’m still in such shock I can’t really connect with what’s happening, but he doesn’t reply to this either.

On a fence post twenty feet away a large bird of prey sits motionless, watching me. I think it’s an osprey. There was a beautiful photo of one in Johan’s cabin, lifting a fish clean out of the sea with its talons. The bird stares at me, as if seeing parts of me I thought I’d kept hidden.

Does Robin know? is the next thought I have. Has he somehow worked out where I am? Who I was talking to last night?

I shake my head, dislodging the thought. Robin’s probably just trying to find a moment of peace to talk to me properly about Dad. To comfort me without a seven-year-old shouting in his ear.

The rain shower has passed but it’s left a strong wind. My little hire car shakes and the osprey continues to stare at me, seeing everything. My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Johan, messaging via Roof. I feel uneasy reading his messages. We held each other for so long, last night, after Nicola’s call. Longer than two people who once loved each other ever should. When he left for his parents’, neither of us could quite look the other in the eye.

He’s asking how I’m doing, whether I slept. He repeats how sorry he is about my dad. He says he hopes the next few weeks are bearable and that the funeral gives me some kind of closure, and he wishes me luck for the future.

Take care, Carrie, he writes, with X as an afterthought message.

A last kiss.

I’m not OK, I reply, because I have nobody else to talk to in this moment. My husband has gone AWOL and I’m sure everything is fine, but I just have a weird feeling. It’s probably just Dad. I just can’t take it in. I should have been there. I’d have spotted the signs that he was deteriorating.

I just want to be home, and I don’t want to have to travel sixteen hours to get there. I let off the hand brake and check my wing mirrors, just as my phone pings another message through.

But it’s not Robin. It’s my Roof guests, who are arriving at the Pig Shed today. I agreed they could have an early check-in; they flew into Exeter from the Channel Islands this morning. I nearly don’t read it but pull the hand brake up and open the message. Robin’s overseeing this stay in my absence, but if he’s having a difficult time with the kids he might welcome my help.

Hi Carrie, we’re here at the property but the door’s locked and nobody’s around. We’ve knocked on your door but there’s no car and the lights are off, even though it’s quite foggy and gray up here on the moor. Is there a key somewhere that we’ve missed? Could you call me when you get this? Regards, Hazel.

I call Robin and the phone rings. Once again he cancels it. When I call again it just rings out. I try Maya again, because if anyone’s spoken to Robin this morning it’ll be her, but she doesn’t answer.

As human beings we are skilled at talking ourselves down from a panic. We have special phrases that we roll out and, normally, we believe them: I’m sure there’s a perfectly rational explanation. This sort of thing happens all the time. You’re overreacting! But I think we also know, somehow, when it’s time to worry. For me, that time is now.

Something is not right.

I call Hazel, who’s on the edge of anger but calms down when I walk her to the hole in the garden wall where we keep the spare key. I stay with her until she gets inside, cooing happily over the expensive bedding I insisted on, the proper sofa, and the chef’s knives in the kitchen.