With or Without You: A poignant heart-warming and heartbreaking page-turner Read online

  With or Without You

  A poignant, heart-warming and heartbreaking page-turner

  Drew Davies

  Books by Drew Davies

  With or Without You

  Dear Lily

  The Shape of Us

  Contents

  Part I

  Part II

  Part III

  Epilogue

  The Shape of Us

  Hear More From Drew

  A Letter from Drew

  Books by Drew Davies

  Dear Lily

  Acknowledgements

  *

  To Nanna.

  Part I

  The life-changing accident happened, as they often do, quite unexpectedly.

  They were to head out for the morning. When Mrs Dixit came to collect her husband, he was straightening the only picture in their living room. It was a framed print of the long-windedly named The Artist’s Garden in Argenteuil (A Corner of the Garden with Dahlias) by Claude Monet, but which they both called the one with the flowers. Mrs Dixit knew them to be dahlias – she’d worked in a florist shop after all – but her husband didn’t, so ‘flowers’ they were. If she’d ever referred to the picture as the one with the dahlias, even clarifying it as in the living room, he would have looked at her in puzzlement, and possibly mild disapproval.

  ‘It was crooked,’ Mr Dixit explained. ‘Off slightly.’

  She shrugged in acquiescence, knowing this not to be true. What he meant was, the picture was cluttering up his nice clean wall, and had done for years. This, they would never agree upon: rooms needed pictures, one at the very least – which had always been her compromise. As payback, Mr Dixit was in constant battle with their correct hanging angle, regularly taking them off their hooks to see if they had discoloured his pristine walls.

  Mrs Dixit stood back as her husband continued to tip the painting side to side, ever decreasingly.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘To the left,’ she answered him. ‘The right. Left. Right. Bit more left.’ Each adjustment was so tiny it was practically negligible, and Mrs Dixit had to suppress a smile. She enjoyed teasing him like this, secretly. It cultivated fondness.

  Mr Dixit ran a finger along the top of the picture’s frame, and all affection for her husband dissolved.

  ‘Huh,’ he said, as if surprised about the lack of dust, although he shouldn’t be; Mrs Dixit’s cleaning hours each week were legion.

  ‘Are you ready to go?’ she asked, brushing away the imaginary dust from his finger with hers.

  ‘After this,’ he replied and kissed her hand.

  The Dixits travelled to Stratford on the Central line, because Mr Dixit didn’t like to drive in his own time. The couple sat quietly on the train carriage, covering their ears in sync whenever the scraping noise of the rails became too much for them, which was often. Mrs Dixit read a book about walking in nature, although they rarely walked in nature anymore, and Mr Dixit occasionally toyed on his phone. He was bidding on a set of six vintage polychrome model trains from a Midwest collector, and wanted to make sure he was still on top. He must have been, because he never grunted or sighed, his usual tell for a competing bid. Mrs Dixit, still reading, moved a hand to his left arm for moral support, and he squeezed her fingers with his bicep in reply.

  When they arrived at their station, it was pleasingly empty. Eight a.m. on a brisk Saturday morning was never going to be busy, except perhaps at Christmas, and the Dixits would rarely venture into a shop post-October. It was now 20 February, the festive sales long over. They had come to look at a new washing machine in John Lewis, and the department store wouldn’t be open for another hour. Being so early, to have the place all to themselves, very much satisfied them both. Once they’d entered the shopping mall, they walked along the empty main avenue, watching the assistants in the closed stores, unpacking boxes or squinting at cash registers. Some were dusting or hoovering, especially in the fancier stores.

  ‘Must get a lot of street dust,’ Mr Dixit noted, and his wife, lost in her own thoughts for a moment, and not understanding what he meant, nodded anyway.

  They travelled up the escalators to the food hall and considered their options. Mrs Dixit was hungry, she’d gone to bed on a light dinner, but she let Mr Dixit make the final decision. Of the three places open, he chose the more upscale establishment, and bought two cappuccinos and two cheddar melt toasties, with a chocolate brownie to share. There was a lot of noise coming from the coffee machine: the barista thumping the stainless steel portafilter to loosen the spent granules, the loud frothing required to steam the milk – it made them both wince in unison.

  Afterwards, they sat at a table in the unoccupied main dining area, still in their coats. If Mrs Dixit had known this would be the last meal she’d share with her husband that month, she might have appreciated it more. She would have tried to remember at least three things about his face in motion (the intelligent flick of his eyes, his jaw as he masticated, the way he cocked his head to ask ‘too hot?’ in relation to her coffee, and ‘shall I get more?’ when she spilt her sugar packet with a misjudged tear). Instead, she was distracted as the hot cheese from the toastie scalded the roof of her mouth. To cool her tongue, she made a sucking noise on each subsequent bite, much to the consternation of Mr Dixit – why on earth was she making such a racket? She stopped immediately.

  At eight minutes to nine, they arrived hand in hand at the department store. The shutters were only half raised, and a security guard stood on the other side.

  ‘We’re not open for another ten minutes,’ the guard said, through the shutters, although the Dixits knew the advertised time meant the store should be open in exactly eight. Mr Dixit nodded politely, however, and they waited.

  Inside the store, the washing machine sales assistant wagged his index finger between the Dixits.

  ‘And you are…?’

  ‘Married,’ Mr Dixit replied, and took his wife’s hand again. She squeezed it. They were used to this rigmarole after nineteen years of marriage. Mrs Dixit was only eight years older than her husband, but most people presumed more, due to the uniform whiteness of her hair compared to his complete lack of grey. Mr Dixit’s parents had emigrated to England from India, while his wife’s family had rarely made it past the M25, their lineage not going much further either. This combination of an age gap and differing heritage often resulted in quizzical looks. An occasional concerned citizen asking Mrs Dixit if she was ‘alright’ – if Mr Dixit was bothering her? Or how it worked, the couple being from such different worlds? (For the record, they had both lived their whole lives in Chomley, a district in the north-east of London.) Not to mention the jokey comments about whether he was her ‘toy boy’.

  ‘Kids?’

  They both shook their heads and hoped that would be enough.

  ‘We want one that’s as quiet as possible,’ spoke Mr Dixit. ‘Good value, eco-friendly, easy on delicates, but really, noise is our main concern.’

  ‘Our neighbour,’ Mrs Dixit chipped in. ‘She complains about the spin cycle.’

  This wasn’t true. Mrs Rampersad, their upstairs neighbour, a retired postmistress, had never once said a word about their current washing machine, but it was very noisy, and how could they justify complaining about all the noise she made if they didn’t replace it?

  ‘This one is practically silent,’ the sales assistant said, walking them to a machine.

  ‘Can we turn it on to listen?’ Mr Dixit asked.

  The sales assistant blinked in surprise.

&nbsp
; ‘On a cycle, you mean? It’s not hooked up to the mains.’

  ‘A spin then?’

  ‘It won’t make the same noise without clothes inside.’

  Mr Dixit looked bewildered. He was always good to his taxi customers, never overcharging them and going the extra mile when he could – often literally – so of course he expected the same in return.

  ‘Why don’t we put our coats in?’ Mrs Dixit offered helpfully, starting to take hers off.

  ‘Not possible,’ the sales assistant replied, smacking the top of the machine, and making the Dixits jump involuntarily. ‘You’ll just have to take my word for it.’

  That was enough. They left, Mr Dixit muttering about checking the Which? recommendations instead. The trip had been in vain.

  As they walked back to the station, they were met by an opposite flow of oncoming shoppers. All the stores were open now, and loud pop music could be heard from each, the long avenue filling up with large groups and noisy couples, many with children, and the downstairs food court was already heaving.

  ‘Not a minute too soon,’ Mrs Dixit said, shaking her head in exasperation as they scuttled down the escalators to escape.

  Back in their pebble-dashed house in Chomley, having just avoided the rain, Mrs Dixit made a tuna and cucumber sandwich for her husband to eat at work. He was planning a long shift, returning after 10 p.m. She gifted him the wrapped sandwiches, and reminded him to check the air pressure in the tyres of his cab. Mr Dixit, on his phone, grunted – Mrs Dixit wasn’t sure if it was in response to her, or because he’d been outbid. Perhaps both. A few moments later, she heard the garage door open, and his taxi pull away – the amber sign switched on for customers – and it would be the last time she could remember her husband having any agency of his own.

  At just after 5 p.m., she received the call.

  ‘Mrs Dixit?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, uncertainly. Why didn’t people ever announce who they were anymore?

  ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news about your husband,’ the unknown person said. A woman.

  Already Mrs Dixit’s brain started to mangle the message. She reflected afterwards it was probably an act of self-preservation. A way for the mind to buy more time to process.

  ‘My husband’s at work,’ she garbled, ‘but you can leave him a message.’

  She already knew that she was responding nonsensically – on some level, she understood.

  ‘No, it’s about your husband. He’s been in a car accident.’

  She didn’t say anything for some time.

  ‘Mrs Dixit?’

  ‘Who is this, please?’ she asked, finding her voice at last. There was a slight tone to it now, not fear, but annoyance. Because surely this was a mistake, or a ruse, or both?

  ‘It’s Nurse Bletchley, at Chomley hospital. Your husband is in a critical condition. Is there someone who you can ask to help you get here?’

  Mrs Dixit considered this question. Was there someone? Not the neighbour, Mrs Rampersad, that was for sure. Mr Dixit would hate her getting involved in his business. Mrs Dixit could ring her sister perhaps, but wasn’t she away?

  ‘I’ll take a taxi,’ Mrs Dixit replied, and on saying the t-word, she thought of Mr Dixit’s polished black cab, pulling out of the garage, sliding away from her, disappearing down the street. Tears welled in her eyes, and she wiped them away.

  ‘Good,’ said the voice on the phone. Nurse something. ‘Come straight away.’

  The phone went silent. Mrs Dixit held it by her side for a few moments, and then placed it on the cradle. When she picked it up again, she dialled a number from memory.

  Cliff answered immediately, his gruff smoker’s voice reassuring.

  ‘Chomley Taxis. Pick-up address?’

  ‘Cliff, it’s Wendy.’

  ‘Alright, Wendy? You want me to pass you through?’

  ‘No, Cliff, there’s been an accident.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You want me to let Naveem know? Nothing serious, I hope.’

  ‘It’s his accident.’ She wondered why he didn’t already know. Surely, they had radios, someone would have called it in? ‘I need a taxi, Cliff. Naveem’s in hospital.’

  ‘Oh, Wendy. That’s why he’s not been in my ear! I thought he was having a kip! I’m putting the word out to the other drivers. Someone will be right over. Is there anything I can do? Do you want me to come to the hospital?’

  ‘No – thank you – the taxi is perfect,’ Mrs Dixit replied, and laughed, because she felt she was being unnecessarily rude to Cliff, but couldn’t help it.

  ‘Of course. There’s someone five minutes away.’

  After thanking him, she put the phone down, and thought, five minutes? Five minutes to do what? Pack some clothes perhaps. What had the nurse said? What condition was he in? She cradled her face with her hands and let out an annoyed ‘huh’ sound, but it was much more animalistic than she was prepared for, more of a Wilhelm scream, and that amount of noise from her small person was unnerving. She stood, staring at the wall, and tried to sense what she should do next. Go back to sleep, she realised. Curl back into bed. To wake refreshed, with everything resolved or undone.

  A taxi beeped, and for a second Mrs Dixit imagined she’d been given God’s pardon, or she’d daydreamed the nurse calling after all, but when she hurried to the window, she could see it was not Mr Dixit waiting in her driveway of course, but some unknown driver, and the harsh reality set in anew.

  Mr Dixit was asleep. That’s what it looked like at least. He always slept on his back, and although he rarely snored, he grumbled. Now, he was silent. There was only the beep of the machine nearby, keeping him alive.

  ‘How long does a coma last?’ Mrs Dixit asked, once the doctor had gone.

  ‘Days, weeks, months?’ the nurse said with a shrug, although her eyes were very kind.

  ‘But on average?’

  ‘They can still hear everything, you know,’ the nurse replied, sidestepping the question. They both watched Mr Dixit, as if they would catch him eavesdropping. ‘It’s important you talk to him on your visits.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Whatever you like. What you’ve been up to? Keep him included. Helps with recovery.’

  Mrs Dixit mulled this over. She had a habit of grinding her teeth when she concentrated; ‘bruxism’, it was called.

  ‘Some people bring a stereo,’ said the nurse. ‘Did your husband like music?’

  ‘Bossa nova,’ Mrs Dixit replied, flatly, and then remembered her husband was possibly listening. ‘Brazilian music from the fifties and sixties. He’s a collector,’ she announced, more brightly. ‘All his albums are on vinyl though.’

  ‘Maybe you could play him a selection on your phone? Make a playlist?’

  ‘I don’t think he’d like that. Too tinny. He’s very particular about sound quality.’

  The nurse smiled professionally. She’d spent enough time on this patient today.

  ‘Can I ask one more thing?’ Mrs Dixit touched her forehead.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What am I supposed… to do?’ The nurse gave her a quizzical look. ‘I mean, is there anything I can actually do? Other than wait? There must be something?’

  The nurse patted Mrs Dixit on her shoulder.

  ‘Stay strong, for his sake.’

  ‘How?’

  The nurse smiled again, one that signalled the imminent termination of their interaction.

  ‘Imagine what your husband would do if it was you lying there,’ she said, squeezing Mrs Dixit’s shoulder as she left.

  He’d wait too, she supposed. And probably check on his eBay bids.

  Mrs Dixit ran a bath when she returned home. It was too hot initially, so she left it to cool.

  I should call his mother, she thought, and normally the idea would make her recoil. Now though, she felt nothing.

  Her own parents had been gone almost a decade, dying three months apart, her father from prostate cancer, and her mother,
it seemed, from a lack of will to carry on alone. Not that Mrs Dixit had ever been close to them. She quietly blamed them for her inherent shyness and standoffishness – they seemed critical of everything she did, never accepting her marriage, and blatantly favoured her younger sister, keeping a cool distance from their eldest daughter right up to their deaths. It was one of the things which had bonded Mrs Dixit to her future husband, both having unfavourable parents.

  Mrs Dixit dialled the number, noticing the absence of emotion. No anxiety at the dial tone. When a woman’s voice picked up, her heart didn’t even beat faster.

  ‘Naveem’s in hospital.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I’m sorry, we are very busy,’ the other Mrs Dixit said, and hung up.

  Mrs Dixit put the phone down again and felt a surge of anger flowing up from her stomach, rushing through the arm still holding the phone, until she picked it up again and punched the redial button.

  ‘A lorry hit him,’ she said, more loudly this time. ‘He has a head injury. He’s in a coma.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘Which hospital?’

  ‘Chomley.’

  The phone went dead.

  The bath was stone cold when Mrs Dixit remembered it, so she let out the water. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten.

  1 day since the accident

  In the morning, she showered and ate some toast. The bread caught in the rungs of the toaster, smoking and blackening, and the smoke alarm went off. Soon, there was the inevitable knock on the front door.

  ‘I heard a wailin’’ Mrs Rampersad said, one hand on the door frame for support. ‘Where’s what’s-his-chops then?’