High Tide Read Free Page B

snarl-up somewhere, inching along the outskirts of south-east London. Or he may have been on his way to work, rather than from, because being an A&E consultant meant working shifts, so he could have been doing that commute any time of the day or night.
    It was the shifts that had crucified him in the end. Being a widower with two teenage children didn’t sit easily with shift work. He’d always loved his job, and when Louise was alive it had worked perfectly, but … well, everything had changed, hadn’t it, the day she died?
    It was every A&E consultant’s worst nightmare. A cinematic cliché, to have your loved one brought in and rushed to theatre. It was exactly like being in an episode of Casualty or ER . It could have been scripted down to the last letter. The recognition of the stripy scarf as the RTA was brought in, the realisation that it was Louise, the colleague pulling him away as he tried to rush to her side. Being shut in a room while Louise underwent surgery for a burst spleen, a crushed rib-cage, a punctured lung – courtesy of some motherfucker texting on the school run. Those familiar words ‘massive internal injuries’. Followed by ‘I’m so sorry’. A hand on his shoulder. Sympathy and anguish from his own staff, who were paralysed with the shock, even though they dealt with cases like this every hour of the day. But when it was close, when it happened to one of your own …
    Her death turned everything upside down. People said ‘life goes on’, but life as he knew it didn’t. Nothing fitted anymore. Nothing in his life had remained unchanged. Everything was affected. Every tiny little thing.
    How did you throw away someone’s toothbrush when it sat in the mug, expectant and upright? What did you do with the food in the fridge they had bought? Did you carry on eating the spreadable butter until it ran out? Even the radio in the kitchen had been a case in point. They’d had a never-ending battle between Radio 2 (her) and Radio 6 (him). Sometimes they agreed on Radio 4, but otherwise, each of them would retune the DAB radio to their preferred station. Only once Louise had gone, Sam hadn’t the heart to move the dial, so now he was stuck forever more with Chris Evans in the morning.
    Widower. It was such a hunched-up, grey sort of word. Nothing like widow, which had a hint of glamour, conjuring up images of swirling black capes and spider webs. A widow was a challenge, an intrigue. A widower was someone who was cast aside and forgotten. Someone to be avoided in case the state was catching.
    Sam hated being a widower. Not just because it meant his wife, the woman he had loved, was dead. But because no one quite knew what to do with him, socially. Including himself.
    Everyone had been amazing. Colleagues, friends, school staff: there was a seamless rota of people who checked up on him, helped him out, offered to have the kids, brought round casseroles, invited him for Sunday lunch.
    He didn’t want to be ungrateful, but he couldn’t bear the concern and the sympathy. He wanted to be treated like a normal person again. Every time he bumped into someone he could see the concern in their eyes. ‘Is he managing?’ ‘Poor Sam.’ ‘What else can we do to help?’ And he could tell they couldn’t work out when to stop asking how he was, or offering assistance. When did you stop being a widower? Never?
    Anyway, he was fine. He was heartbroken, but he was functioning. He had to carry on. For Daisy and Jim. And actually, for himself. What had happened was cataclysmic, but Sam was not a giver-upper. Life without Louise was empty and difficult and frustrating and made him angry and sad and bewildered, but even the darkest days had glimmers. Moments when he forgot his grief, if only for a short while. Hopefully those moments would start joining up. He would never be the person he had once been, but he could be someone new. Strange though it would be without his wife, his lover, his soulmate.
    He and