Ellie was as relieved and thankful as the rest of us. But I thought she wasn’t surprised.

Twenty-Five

Mark

Two months later

Here I am, a survivor. Patched up. People don’t always get what they deserve. And believe me, sometimes that can work in your favour.

The thing that happened to me – the sound of something popping like a cork shooting out of a bottle, then the explosion of blood in the brain, the blurring vision, the agonising pain – it could happen again. But then again, it might not. I have been lucky. Or so they tell me. And on reflection, I have to acknowledge that this is true. Just to be here is enough. And as for the people who are missing, well… I know I’ll get my chance to join them one day.

I made a mess of things, didn’t I? And then I made it worse by trying to tidy it up. I thought that if I could keep them separate – the different parts of my life, the two wives, the children – I’d be able to manage. The failures of the old life wouldn’t bleed into the new one. But in the end they did. And now I understand that they never were separate, really, and I’ve stopped trying to manage. It’s all I can do to try to manage myself, let alone trying to draw lines between the lives of other people. It’s out in the open now, all of it. They will just have to fend for themselves.

My recovery has been fast, almost miraculously so, I’m told. You see? Lucky again. I got my mobility back within a month or so, though it’s still not what it was. I’ve given up driving, and have to walk with a stick. As for words, what I mean in my head and what comes out of my mouth are two different things. Luckily I have a patient wife. More patient than I deserve.

And, as it turns out, I also have an ex-wife who is prepared to be forgiving. Again, infinitely more so than I deserve. No wonder that when she found out that Ava was getting married in a church that was a ten-minute walk from our old house, it was an outrage too far. I’d behaved for years as if I could cut her and Daisy out of my life, just like that. She showed me that I couldn’t.

And so here we are, in a cemetery in a village south of Kettlebridge, a quiet, grassy place in a sheltered spot not far from the river. Jenny and I are both carrying flowers. And all of us are on our way to where Felix is.

We’ve walked from the pub in the village – a stretch for me, but just about manageable. I’m the slowest, the one at the rear; Jenny is hanging back to stay at my side, while Ellie and Ava lead the way. It’s a glorious summer day – blue skies, warm but not sweltering, and the air smells of cut grass and flowers. I am doing my best to take it all in, to take it slowly and not get frustrated because I can’t move the way I used to.