Page 57 of An Enchanted Moment on Ever After Street
‘To you.’
‘To me.’ I think for a minute. ‘Have we accidentally turned into the Chuckle Brothers?’
He lets out a loud guffaw and every inch of tension dissipates and I can feel the way his body sags. I’m the only person on earth who Darcy has ever been this open with, and it makes me feel exceptionally humble.
‘Are you okay now?’ I don’t realise how hard I’ve been holding back tears until my voice wobbles on those words, and he hears it too, judging by the way he lifts my hand to his mouth and presses his lips to it through the scarf.
‘I died that day, Marnie. My life as it was ended then and there.’
Something niggles at me about his wording, but I squeeze his hand because that’s all I can do – hold and listen.
‘It was the metaphorical death of the person I was. Until recently I’ve felt like the good parts of me died and the horrible parts survived. The part that died was the part that still believed in good things – in magic, in fairy tales and happy endings, in there being any good in the world, and what was left in that hospital was a monster who didn’t deserve to still be here. I had a job I loved but I wasn’t physically able to continue. My so-called friends disappeared like snowflakes in sunlight. The only person who was there for me was my father, and his support got me back on track. Doctors saved my life and then nature saved my soul.’
‘Nature… the castle gardens. That’s when you got into it?’
‘Yeah.’ He sounds far away, lost in memories, and for the first time tonight, they don’t sound like they’re all bad ones. ‘When I was discharged, I was still in a horrendous state. I couldn’t live alone, so my father let me move here and stay with him. I needed adjustments – handrails, bath aids, wheelchair access because walking was hit and miss back then, and bless his soul, he let people come and put in everything I needed, and he looked after me like I was a child again. He was seventy-three years old, and yet, at thirty-one, I was the one who needed disability aids and daily nurses visiting. A weird kind of ironic role reversal.’
His laugh is tight and so is mine.
‘But I refused to go out. By then, my injuries weren’t as raw as they were at first, but I still saw the looks from the people in the supermarket every time I closed my eyes, and I didn’t want to repeat the experience. The castle gardens were my dad’s pride and joy. It was the weirdest, contactless job, and as I got stronger, he made me go with him. I had no interest in the outdoors back then, I’d never grown a thing in my life, but he thought it was the perfect way to ease me back into the land of the living. The path through the forest between his house and the castle was always quiet, and the gardens themselveswere completely private. I didn’t have to worry about being seen there. I’d struggled with focus and concentration since the accident, but the rules of gardening were the first things I could keep straight in my head. I pruned things, repotted things and found joy in watching them grow and flourish. I found peace with my hands in the earth. The first thing I ever grew by myself was a rose. I’d taken a cutting from one of my dad’s rose bushes months before, expected it to die, but it grew, and the day that first rosebud opened into a flower, I sat on the ground in front of it and sobbed my heart out, because this monster had brought about a beautiful change in the world. I had been responsible for so much misery, and for the first time, something was better than it was before, because of me. He died three years ago, and I took over full-time – my way of honouring him and what he’d done for me.’
There are tears rolling down my face and I’m in serious danger of causing him more broken bones if I squeeze his hand any harder. ‘Everythingis better because of you. Look at what you’ve turned that one rosebud into, and how much you’ve overcome to get this far. Even your handwriting, Darcy. You’ve got the most gorgeous handwriting I’ve ever seen, and that can’t have been easy after…’
He laughs that sarcastic laugh again. ‘That was my stubborn streak. The early days were a haze of pain and strong medication, the injuries all blended into one, but when they took the bandages off my hand, it was… a shock. I’m right-handed and I remember staring at this battered, bloodied, bruised hand and thinking I’d never write again, and writing had been a big part of my life up until then. I did a lot of pen-on-paper work. It wasn’t the worst injury, but it felt like the most life-altering one. And as the swelling went down and it started to heal, I taught myself to write again using children’s handwriting workbooks, and my obnoxious side pushed me through. It was something Iwas in control of. It became one thing Icoulddo, by myself, just for me.’
All of his handwritten notes suddenly mean so much to me. I’ve always loved his handwriting, but I never realised how much it represented or how much it meant tohim. ‘Can I just say that I reallyloveyour stubborn streak?’
He laughs, genuinely this time. ‘Been a long time since anyone loved anything about me.’
I squeeze his hand pointedly. ‘No, it hasn’t.’
He surprises me by dropping his head to rest against my shoulder just long enough for me to turn and kiss the top of his baseball cap. I expect him to object but he doesn’t.
‘You know it’s freezing, right?’ he says after a while.
‘I do.’
‘You know it’s, like, 8p.m., right?’
‘I do.’
‘You know we should go inside, right?’
‘I do.’ Instead of letting go, I squeeze his hand tighter. Iamfreezing. That cup of tea is making its presence known in my bladder, but the absolute last thing I want to do is let go of his hand. ‘Seriously considering pitching a tent here just so we don’t have to say goodnight.’
‘That would be okay with me.’
The only part of my body that’s warm are the fingers that have been entwined with his, and I clasp his hand between both of mine and lift it to my mouth until I can press a kiss to the back of it and I feel the shiver that runs through him. I can’t find the words to express how much it means to me that he opened up, so I touch my lips to the base of his thumb and trail kisses down to his inner wrist and finally press one into his palm, right onto his life line.
‘You said you stopped believing there was any good in the world, but youarethe good in the world, Darcy. They say thatif you passed yourself on the street, you wouldn’t recognise it as you because in mirrors and photographs, we never see our true reflections, only what we think we look like. It’s other people who see who we really are. We hide from our own reflections until someone comes along and holds up a metaphorical mirror, making us see ourselves as they see us. And youdesperatelyneed to see yourself as other people would see you.’
A full-body shudder goes through him. His glasses are still off so I lean over and press my lips to the skin just under his left eye.
He freezes for a second, and then lets out a sigh and leans into it, so I do it again, mirroring how much I wish I could stroke his face and touch my lips to his. And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like such a distant impossibility tonight.
17
The morning of the book festival dawns bright and cold, with birds singing in the trees and crisp brown leaves to kick up as Mrs Potts and I walk through the forest to work. It’s been raining for days and the river is gushing below us, crashing through the depths of the forestry, winding and dangerous. The banks are steep, the rocks sharp, and if you fell in, you’d have very little chance of climbing back out, but up here, the tree branches are bare enough to let the sunlight through and it’s already started to dry up the muddy paths, and it reflects the positivity of my mood.
