One Step Forwards

'The beautiful journey of today can only begin when we learn to let go of yesterday' Steve Maraboli

Prologue

2018

The Lock Keeper’s Cottage, Wiltshire

Today was always going to be hard. Most of us go through life knowing and celebrating the anniversary of the day we were born – but what about our death-day? Only those left behind get to know that.

Rhys never knew when his would be – but November will never be the same again.

It’s 365 days, two hours, and 15 minutes since he died. Some days have been better than others, but today does not appear to be one of them. I’m out of the house, that’s a good thing. I’m not sat on the sofa wallowing in my own miserable depths. I’m here enjoying a family meal, in a cottage I love, with all my favourite people around me. Except they aren’t all here, they can never all be here again – and that just hurts so frigging much.

Chapter One

Mid-November 2017

Saturday

‘I’ve been thinking.’

Usually, when my fiancée says something like this, I have to prepare myself. It’s not that he doesn’t think, it’s that it’s usually me who starts this kind of conversation. ‘I was thinking shall we have chicken for dinner?’ or ‘I was thinking I’d visit my Nan at the weekend.’ or even, ‘we could get some cheap tickets and see something at Bath’s Theatre Royal.’ When Rhys shares his thoughts it’s usually with a view to something a little bigger. ‘Let’s buy a house’ and ‘let’s get married,’ being the biggest, I’ve been thinkings to date.

He stands up straight waving our well-used dustpan brush in my general direction. I look expectantly across at him, my pink marigolds frothy around the edges with bubbles and the washing-up brush poised midway to the egg and bacon smears on the Sunday brunch plate. I wait. It can take him a while to follow up on such a statement.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he begins again, ‘that programme we watched the other night.’

‘Which one?’ Clearly, this is going to require further effort on my part.

‘You know, the walking one.’

I lower my hand to avoid the escaping rivulet of water running down my forearm.

‘The walking one.’ I repeat his words, feeling just a little bit nervous.

‘Yes, Aimee. You know the one with that Julia Bradbury in it.’

‘Oh, that one.’ I reply slowly, not immediately liking where this particular ‘I’ve been thinking’ might be going, certainly not on a night out to see a show.

‘I reckon we could do that,’ he says, and I wait hoping he’ll add, ‘but we can’t afford it’ or ‘we haven’t got the time.’

But nothing. Just his familiar lopsided grin looking back at me.

I search my brain for a suitable answer, one that sounds a bit like, ‘no sodding way’ or ‘not over my dead body.’ but no words immediately make it to my mouth. So, I stand there gawping slightly, checking that I’ve heard right, that my twenty-eight-year-old fiancé who hasn’t actually done any real exercise for ten years has actually just suggested we walk across England, all one hundred and ninety-two miles of it.

Seeing the look of horror slowly creeping up my face he rushes to say, ‘with an organised group of course. Not on our own.’

‘Right.’ As if that really makes it any better. It’s still a bloody long way.

‘It’s not just like walking the Bath Skyline,’ I say, finally managing to collect my thoughts.

Our only real experience of walking is the annual family Christmas day outing that my sister Chloe usually drags us all out on.

‘It includes mountains and rucksacks, walking boots, and rain. Probably a lot of rain,’ I continue, warming to my argument.

‘Yes, I know.’ Rhys looks down at the floor, his whole body deflated.

I lower the splayed bristles of the washing-up brush into the bowl and prod ineffectually at the pattern of grease and congealing ketchup.

A strained silence lingers across the room between us, a world away from our usual light-hearted banter. Surely, he can’t be serious. I stab at the plate, sending a shower of dirty water straight up onto the front of my favourite t-shirt, the pink, ‘Keep Calm and Eat Cake’ lettering thankfully escaping the worst of it.

‘Look at us, Aimee.’ Rhys waves his arm across our small, terraced kitchen.

I follow his outstretched arm, taking in the basket of washing perched in the corner and a neat row of herbs and spices stacked on the window ledge; a handmade card from one of my sister’s six-year-old charges slotted in behind them.

‘Surely, there’s more to life than this!’ He continues,

And with that, the washing-up brush slides out of my weakened grip and slips into the cooling water. More to life than what? Family and security, love, and laughter

‘Are you saying our life is boring?’

‘No, yes … oh I don’t know.’ He stoops down, yanks open our ‘odds and sods cupboard,’ and deftly throws the grey, plastic-handled brush on top of all the other random cleaning pieces. ‘Not boring exactly, but just a bit ...’

‘Just a bit what?’ My voice rises, and heart quickens, as the promise of a relaxing afternoon, cuddled up on the sofa slips away.

Pushing down on his knees, he unfurls himself to his full six foot, and I follow his gaze towards the kitchen window. Maisey, next door’s fluffy ginger cat, is perched on the wall between our steps and theirs, soaking in the late morning sun. ‘Well ….’ He starts as if to say something, and then with an almost imperceptible sigh, turns back to look directly at me.

‘Well … normal.’ He answers.

‘Normal! Well, what’s wrong with that? I thought you wanted normal.’

‘I do, I just don’t want …’

‘Boring,’ I finish for him. And with that, I peel off the marigolds, throw them into the sink and stomp the few metres across our kitchen into the doorway, before twisting back to look at him. ‘Well, if I’m too boring for you, too normal, then maybe you need to marry someone else. Why don’t you see if Julia Bradbury is available?’

‘Aimee ...’

I push on into the hallway, promptly tripping over the extension hose to our pink-faced Heti hoover, and yank out her smooth, black cable, before shoving the plug into the socket and whirring her into life.

Chapter Two

‘Come on Aimee …’ Rhys’ pleading voice booms out above the racket of the hoover.

I’m ignoring him. I know it’s childish and not exactly going to help the situation. But right now, I couldn’t care less. He tries a few more times, before quietly turning round and in a few short strides reaches our back door. I don’t hear him leave, I’m too focused on being mad at him, but the house feels ominously empty as soon as he’s gone; off to potter in the garden, or perhaps he’s gone round to the corner shop. If there’s one thing, I’m good at it’s taking things to heart, and with this latest revelation it’s as if he’s taken a red hot poker and shoved it deep into the core of me … I’ll give him boring … Normal … What’s wrong with normal anyway ..?

With the worn-out living room carpet hoovered to within an inch of its life, I move on up to the stairs and then beyond into our newly decorated bedroom, a plush woolen red rug laid out on the bare wooden floorboards, a faint draft reminding me of the chilled autumnal air outside. I turn the power off, and just as I’m standing on the hoover head to flick the conversion switch to the hard floor bristled version, a shrill triiiing rings out. My phone, previously shoved in the back pocket of my jeans, now perches dangerously close to the end of my grasp.

‘Hiya.’ My sister’s cheerful voice fills the sullen void surrounding me.

‘Hey Chloe, What’s up?’

‘Are you okay? I’ve just had a text from Rhys. Reckons he’s upset you.

Hmmm, there’s nothing wrong with his observational skills then!

Thirty minutes later, after my two-years-older, and annoyingly level-headed sister, has convinced me that Rhys isn’t the arse I’m making him into and that he might – after all – have a teensy weeny point, I press the small red circle on my phone and turn my attention back to Heti.

It’s another half hour before I hear the click of the front door. And the shuffling sounds of Rhys’ shoes and jacket being put away in the understairs cupboard. The regular sounds of our admittedly normal life – quite removed from his mad hatted idea to waltz around the Cumbrian hills like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music.

Not one to enjoy dwelling too long. I know we need to get this over and done with. I might not yet have the answer he wants to hear, but as I pad down the stairs, he looks up and opens his arms. Shuffling into his teddy bear-like embrace, I tell him I will at least think about it, but that I might take a little more convincing.

‘I love you, Aimee Lewis,’ he says hugging me tight and I squeeze him just that little bit closer.

--

‘So, have you thought about it? This coast-to-coast walking thing?’ Chloe asks, a week later, her lycra-clad legs tucked easily under her as her hands, cold from her post-work run, reach towards me.

She takes the blue, stripey mug and I squirm a little inside, ‘Yes..ess and no,’ and glancing at the jumbled written notes Rhys has left scattered on our little glass coffee table, my thoughts dart to crazy rocky paths, rain deluges, and aching legs.

Chloe follows my gaze, and picks up a scrap of paper. Get Fit it says in Rhys’ large and slightly erratic handwriting. She stifles a giggle, looking at me, as I shrug slightly, my face most likely a mix of resignation and amusement. No matter the outcome of this stupid idea, it seems that Rhys has kick-started himself into some kind of fitness regime.

‘He’s got a trial gym membership,’ I tell her, rolling my eyes and flopping into our worn but faithful sofa, my own hands now wrapped around a mug of sweet-smelling hot chocolate.

‘Nice, Good for him, but what about you?’ she asks, before taking a sip of her fancy herbal tea and declaring, ‘mm that’s yum’.

Me? The most exercise I ever get is the occasional sweaty sprint to the number five bus into Bath to my – admittedly rather boring - admin job at The Roman Insurance Company.

‘Well, I haven’t got a trial gym membership,’ I reply, silently wondering how anyone could describe rosehip and hibiscus as yum. ‘

'You haven't got one ... yet!' Chloe adds. She’s trying not to laugh. I’m not exactly God’s gift to the fitness world! And she knows I’ll go all huffy if she does. Instead, we talk about the route, and the company Rhys has found that runs walking tours. Managing to compose herself she asks some practical questions. Like, how many days is it? Fourteen. How many miles a day is it? Between nine and nineteen. Where will we stay? A series of hotels and B&Bs. Where does it go? St Bees Head in Cumbria to Robin Hoods Bay in Yorkshire. And then, how will we afford it? Mmm, a moot point.

Before we have time to delve into that particular conversation, the scratch of a key in the lock and the clatter of the front door, announces Rhys’ arrival home.

‘Hi beautiful,’ he calls from the hall; his voice slightly muffled, as I imagine him sitting at the bottom of the stairs to untie his shoes and kick off his day.

‘Hi gorgeous,’ replies Chloe – a mischievous grin spreading across her face. A brief silence then Rhys is there, his head leaning into our small living room as his body follows. There’s nothing delicate about him. He’s not fat exactly, but he’s not skinny either.

‘Ha ha, the evil sister is here’ he laughs, a strange mock-sinister voice replacing his usual dulcet tones. Putting my now empty mug on the small coffee table I reach up towards him as he swoops in to plant a smacker on my puckered lips, last week’s argument thankfully buried.

‘Do you love birds never stop’ sighs Chloe.

‘Nope’, grins Rhys, pulling at his tie and landing on the sofa between us in one well-practiced flop. ‘This is what I like’ he continues, ‘being greeted by not one but two beautiful women after my hard day slaving away’. Chloe and I shuffle apart slightly as our infiltrator nestles in, and as I lean into the warmth of my fiancé he reaches a shirted arm around me. ‘So, what’s new Chlo?’ he asks as if he hasn’t seen her in ages.

‘Oh, you know, tonnes of fabulous men lining up to whisk me off my feet and declare undying love.’

‘Just the usual then’ Rhys replies, poking her in her skinny ribs.

‘Yeah, just the usual,’ she laughs twisting away from him, her free hand rising to support the precariously held rosehip and hibiscus.

Enjoying the fun, I snuggle in closer to Rhys, breathing in the smell of home. Sitting here with two of my favourite people, what more could I wish for?

Chapter Three

Sunday

‘Come on baby light my fire,’ I sing, not caring that my tune is very likely out, and not fit for ears other than mine. As the last beats of the golden oldie track fade away I look up at the clock, lifting my wooden spoon from the thick white gloop. Twelve fifty-five - it’s later than I’d thought. Chloe, Dad, and Nana Lewis will be here any minute. No one is ever late for the monthly family roast dinner.

Spoon poised for action I shout to Rhys, ‘Can you get the wine out of the car?’

Silence.

‘Rhy-s’ I yell, tutting as my usually brilliant white sauce threatens to stick. It’s not hard to hear each other in our house; it’s not exactly a mansion.

Sighing, I give a good hard stir, pressing heavily onto the wooden spoon and the sauce runs smooth, result. I pour it over my haphazardly chopped cauliflower pieces and then turn to the sink, cascading cold water onto the scraped pan. Flicking the wetness off my hands, I dry them ineffectually down my flowery apron. I’m in my domestic goddess get up as Chloe calls it.

‘Rhy-s’ I try again as I leave the kitchen, expecting at least a grunt or a vague. ‘yeah’ - but nothing. He must be focused on that bloody exercise Strava app thing my darling sister introduced him to. I’m starting to feel really pissed off now, if I’m making a roast dinner the least he could do is sort the wine out, they’ll be here soon.

Heading out into the hall I reach huffily for my trainers (bought for comfort, not exercise) shove a socked foot into each and push the laces down around the sides - I won’t be out long. ‘I’ll go then, shall I?’ I call into the ether, and as I reach for the front door it swings easily towards me.

Strange I’m sure I was the last in and that I’d locked it.

Stepping outside, the slight autumn chill seeps through my thin cardie, and I wrap my arms across my body - briefly trapping my inner warmth. Another step lower and the brisk air hangs with earthy dampness, as the golden leaves jostle on the ground. The beauty of recent fallers stacked dry, and crisp hide the rotten mush beneath, and the slight tang of decay dances slowly on the air.

As my right foot lifts, I pause; the gate I’d closed is hanging open and a small crowd of people are gathered in the road by our white Astra hatchback. The blood beat of my heart thuds against my chest and a tightness in my stomach tears up towards my throat.

Reaching for the metal handrail, my left hand closes around its cold hardness, my breath and body suspended somehow - as an electrifying pulse surges through my frozen body.

‘Rhyyyyys.’ Panic erupts from somewhere deep inside. The screech of my voice pierces the air. Faces turn quickly, the naked truth spread across horrified gazes.

One …

two …

three steps and my feet land swiftly on the final concrete slab.

The outside world falling back as the tunnel of my vision focuses on just one thing.

He’s sprawled on the ground beside our car, a wine bottle shattered in jagged pieces, the rich velvet liquid pooling around him on the dirt-edged tarmac. Chloe is there, kneeling at his head and my dad is turning towards me. My left leg stretches out - power rising through me as my foot finds the pavement. I’m running as fast as I can but as I try to join them the air, sucked into my lungs, has nowhere to go, it won’t come out and it feels like the world is closing in around me. As my legs falter, I feel strong arms around me, holding me up.

‘I’ve got you.’ My dad, his words foggy and distant. ‘I’ve got you’, I hear again, and I know I must be breathing; in and out. Time blurs and I’m collapsed beside Chloe; Rhys’s face is pale, and his eyes staring. Chloe is leaning over him her cheek hovering above his mouth.

But even as the wail of the siren fills the air, I know it’s too late.