Iris Grace Read online

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t move. I’ll go and get help. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  Then he was out of sight. I could hear him running along the track but soon that faded and I was alone. Hours later I heard it: what sounded like a four-by-four vehicle coming my way. A team of French firefighters were soon surrounding me and lifted my body on to a stretcher. I couldn’t have moved a millimetre even if I’d wanted to. We drove along the peaceful tracks back to the main road where I was transferred to an ambulance and given morphine, and after that it was like a dream: everyone trying to keep me awake and me struggling to make sense of the French voices.

  Anima, acrylic, August 2013

  The wait for an MRI was difficult: I was still in the stretcher and unable to feel if I could move my legs. They needed to establish if my fractured vertebra was stable and the thought of never walking again ran like fury in my mind. When the results came in, it was great news: the fracture was stable and I wouldn’t need an operation, which was a massive relief. They predicted that by the end of the summer, after many months of recuperation and physiotherapy, I would be fine. However, the doctor said I would most probably never be able to ride again; the position of the fracture and the severe compression meant that the movement of the horse would cause me pain and I would probably get early arthritis. The news was a huge blow. I had loved horses and ridden since I was a child, and life without them seemed unbearable – all our plans and French dreams were based upon them. So many months later, with me still wearing an uncomfortable plastic body cast, we had to rethink our ideas for the horse-riding holidays. With the French doctors adamant I should never ride again and missing England and our families we decided to return to things that were familiar. By the autumn my cast was off and our property was on the market.

  Arabella at six years old

  We came back for our wedding in December. My mother had arranged it all as I was still recuperating. It was a dreamy English wedding in the evening by candlelight at an eighteenth-century house called Noseley Hall. My mother and I knew it well after many years of working there together creating floral displays for other people’s weddings.

  My parents were with me as I got ready in the bedrooms upstairs. ‘The flares are lit!’ my father said with a wide smile, slightly shaky after the ordeal of lighting over thirty flares that lined the pathway to the church in strong winds.

  ‘That’s great news. I thought you’d never be able to get them all done,’ I said.

  ‘You mean Arthur lit the flares with the blowtorch,’ teased my mother. She knew my father would have needed the owner’s help. ‘Come on, you need to get ready. The photographer wants some photos of you both on the stairs.’

  It was dark as I stepped outside arm in arm with my father and the cold air made me alive with excitement.

  I think he was more nervous than I was. ‘We are so proud of you,’ he said, then he looked distracted.

  Then I saw it: the noble thirteenth-century chapel glowing in the darkness.

  It was pure romantic theatre; my mother had created the most enchanting scene. The chapel was filled with candles and flowers, the windowsills, pulpit, font and altar all bursting with beauty. Once we set foot inside I wasn’t nervous at all: I felt at home and I adored every moment. Even when I forgot my left and right during the vows, to me it was perfect, and looking at P-J I knew he felt it too.

  After the ceremony the evening reception seemed to fly by; before I knew it we were cutting the cake and the speeches were underway. My brother and father made a joint speech. James spoke of times in our childhood: ‘Little Miss Doolittle, an independent spirit with her animals …’ While laughter echoed around the room my father recounted how the wedding preparations began for him at my hen party. ‘Picture seven gorgeous girls on a narrowboat covered in balloons and awash with champagne, with yours truly at the wheel. A shout from another boat: “How many birds have you got there, mate?” “Oh, just the seven today, thanks.” Always the life and soul of a party, his charm and warmth created an atmosphere that was so joyous – the emotions always on the surface, immediate and true.

  P-J carried the last bucket of broken brown tiles out of the kitchen through the front door and when he returned there was a great sense of satisfaction. We were getting there, slowly but surely.

  ‘See, we’ll get it done in no time. I always said this was the one,’ P-J said with a huge teasing grin. He took off his dust-covered Panama hat and we both sat down at the kitchen table for a cup of tea with Meoska lying in front of the green Rayburn.

  ‘So what’s next on the list?’

  ‘Steaming the wallpaper,’ I replied, and went to the cupboard to bring out a rather peculiar-looking piece of kit: a mix between a kettle and an elephant.

  ‘Right, unfortunately I have a very important conference call with somebody in America this afternoon and it might take a while …’

  I knew what was going to happen: the steamer and I had become old friends in France. It’s like when you first meet someone: you don’t immediately get on and then you start to see their qualities. Well, I took the time to get to know this remarkably simple but oh-so-effective piece of DIY equipment, not sure P-J was ever going to.

  As we talked about all the new plans for the house, possible changes, the garden and extension ideas, I realized how much I appreciated his positive outlook on life even though he did avoid some of the work. My arms gesticulated wildly as I tried to show P-J where the extension could go in our cramped little laundry at the back of the house. ‘Sounds fantastic,’ he said, ‘let’s go for it. Why don’t you do some drawings of what it could be like?’

  We didn’t even have the money for it all yet but he never put me down or restricted my thoughts on what we could do. I was the planner, the worrier, always looking forward and rushing ahead, while he had a more relaxed approach, saying ‘Let’s deal with that if and when it happens’ when I was leaping along thinking of all the potential problems.

  In the following weeks our English village house slowly transformed room by room and P-J was busy making some alterations to the garden. The tall tree that had blocked so much light and covered our view was taken down branch by branch until all that was left was a tree stump that was the perfect seat to soak in the glorious view.

  On our trips up and down the steep part of our garden we came up with another plan: sowing a wild-flower meadow in the orchard. We cleared strips of grass and prepared the soil, then sowed the seeds before the cold weather came. I couldn’t wait to see the vibrant poppies in bloom, the chamomile, blue cornflowers, foxgloves and the cheerful ox-eye daisies. It would be a haven for birds, butterflies, dragonflies and bumblebees. Over by the hedge we would have red campion for a little pink among the grasses and corn marigold would add a touch of yellow. As I learnt about the grasses I started to love their names and their individual characters, which were adding a little fun into our orchard. Meadow foxtail with their tall flowering heads waving in the wind like cheeky foxes’ brush tails and their light feathery seeds taking flight in the air as if by magic. Yorkshire fog, a tufted, grey-green downy grass with tightly packed flower heads that have a purple-red tinge to their tips. Both the leaves and the flowers have a soft appearance that is so inviting to touch. What we didn’t factor into our master plan was that it would take till mid-summer the following year for it all to cover over and bloom. Our orchard looked rather like a graveyard that winter and the following spring: not quite the idyll I had imagined. The impatient part of me couldn’t help but feel disappointed, but nature has its own pace and will not be rushed, so with the saying ‘all good things come to those who wait’ in my mind I waited patiently.

  The house was a continual work in progress but as soon as the old dining room was turned into a meeting and editing room for my wedding-photography business it was time for me to focus on my career. We had many more plans and ideas to improve our home, but for that to happen we needed the extra income. I wanted to update the profile p
hotograph for my website, so I went into the local studio in town to get it done. It turned out that they had looked at my work before I came in and what I thought was going to be a portrait shoot turned into a job interview. A few weeks later I was the lead wedding photographer for a well-renowned portrait studio in town and wedding bookings were steadily coming in. The classic English countryside all around us is dotted with fine stately homes and private estates that very often open their doors for weddings and parties to help pay for their upkeep. So I captured couples’ memorable days in these beautiful surroundings and, even better, with my mother already an established wedding florist, we were able to work together on many occasions.

  It meant a great deal to both of us after so many years with oceans between us. I had worked alongside her before: when I was growing up I helped with the flower business and learnt how to arrange them. She would teach me along the way, saying the names of the flowers as we worked and telling me how to condition them. She would create arrangements for me to copy and step in if I was losing my way, but I never felt like she was telling me what to do. It felt more like suggestions: ‘A little looser here, maybe more there. How does it look if you turn it this way?’ She would talk about the flowers, their characters, what they needed, how best to use each one and when they were in season.

  ‘Tulips,’ she would say, carefully pulling the lower leaves from the stem, ‘have soft stems.’ She showed the bottom to me. ‘At first glance they look strong and straight with an almost military feel but actually they respond better to gentle treatment. There’s no point pushing them hard into the wet foam; they’ll break. You need to create a small hole with a pencil, like this, see, and then slip them in.’ She recut the bottom of another stem at an angle. ‘This gives a better grip and also more surface area for them to drink.’ Then slowly she pushed the tulip into the foam. ‘In time they’ll open but they do have a mind of their own, turning to find the sunshine, bending and curling as the petals open.’ Without knowing it I learnt a great deal.

  I loved how she adored horticulture. Flower magazines and books filled the bookshelves in our old playroom, and fresh flowers were always in vases on tables and windowsills. My childhood garden was at first glance a simple country garden, but each bed was beautifully thought out and the garden held many magical memories for all of us. It was opened once a year for charity and people would wander around its different ‘rooms’ and enjoy themselves immensely, as we did, in such colourful harmonious surroundings. I had my own part too, where I used to have a go at growing vegetables and I created a pond with my father. Really it was more like a puddle, but it was surprisingly full of wildlife. Even though it was filled in many years ago, frogs still return to the spot each year – the knowledge passed down through generations.

  Meadow Foxtail, acrylic, June 2013

  My mother’s flower arrangements were always spectacular; she really understands proportion and never feels restricted by what others have done. Her displays were sometimes on a monumental scale and I would fill with pride as I saw the guests’ reactions as I was photographing the weddings. People would gasp in delight as they came into the church or the marquee, and they were always a talking point. With her background as a set designer for the BBC, coupled with her love of flowers and English country gardens, it was a brilliant combination.

  At first wedding photography was a nerve-racking job. I felt so much pressure, but the more I did the less intense that feeling became and I was able to enjoy it. It is, however, exhausting work being on your feet for a whole day and late into the night and running about, all the while trying to be discreet with an air of dignity and authority. Some of the weddings were unforgettable; the amount of time and thought that had gone into them astounded me and I made sure I captured every intricate detail. I liked to use natural light whenever I could and my favourite parts of the day were when I could just mingle, capturing those happy candid moments, all the laughter and joy that surrounds a couple’s special day. I had to push myself to be confident for the large group photographs, with sometimes up to four hundred people staring at me while I got the shot of them all in front of a grand venue. It was a challenge for me, but adrenalin and my love of photography pulled me through.

  Everything seemed to be slotting into place. It was a great deal of work and we would often take on too much but we both felt it was all coming together. We had talked about trying for a baby but with our move back to England the timing had never felt right. I was a nest-maker and needed to get everything prepared but I was feeling more settled and ready than I had before, so we decided that we were ready for the next chapter in our lives. I imagined us having a child together, a little boy or girl running through the meadow, learning to ride, enjoying the beautiful countryside that I had grown up in and loved. As we chatted in the kitchen about trying for a baby, with Meoska on my lap, we laughed about what she would think about the new addition, how much I wanted to see them playing together. P-J’s thoughts were of adventures, travels in the future with his child, how much fun we would have exploring faraway places through new eyes. We were both very excited and it felt fantastic to be moving forward – a little scary of course but thrilling.

  By the new year I was pregnant. We were delighted but tried to keep it a secret for as long as we could. But my sudden disinterest in a glass of wine at Sunday lunch with my parents gave us away in no time and my mother hugged me with such a big smile. Both our families were excited about the baby as it was their first grandchild. P-J was the first of three siblings to marry and it was the same for my side. I seemed to be swamped with hugs, all overjoyed at the thought of this new life coming into the family. My father is never one for holding in his emotions so I would suddenly be hugged or my hand squeezed as we took their dog for a walk up to an old farm where I used to ride as a child. He was so happy we were moving on to the next stage in our lives and excited to meet his first grandchild. Old clothes and toys from our childhoods were found and we started to prepare, buying all the things we needed. Our parents would chat about everything they would do with him or her as they grew up. My father wanted to go fishing, go on special holidays. My mother, who loved the mountains, wanted to go skiing, and P-J’s mother wanted to go riding. All of them, of course, conveniently missing out the first five years and jumping to the fun bits. Even the topic of schools was discussed and researched. It was a busy time with my work too, with a full summer of weddings already booked in. Some were alarmingly close to my due date so I made plans, bringing in more help and putting back-up photographers on standby. As I edited photographs during the week with Meoska purring on my lap I was very happy. My latest scan had showed that all was normal and fine with our baby girl and in between work I was getting her nursery ready.

  Then one morning there was a knock at the door. The man on the doorstep was clearly upset and said that there was a cat out on the road: she had been hit, not by him but another driver who had driven off. Since we were the closest house he thought it might have been ours.

  I looked out on to the road and saw her. Meoska was lying completely still. I ran over, took off my jumper and wrapped it round her, carrying her back towards the house. She was breathing, but only just. I grabbed my keys and put her on the front seat of the car and then ran back to the house, shouting upstairs to P-J who was in his office. I caught a glimpse of him at the door as I turned out on to the road, but there was no time to say anything else.

  As I made my way to the vets I knew we were losing her. I could feel myself starting to lose control as tears ran down my cheeks. She died in my arms before we even got to the surgery.

  I couldn’t believe she had gone. I wanted her to get up and shake it off, to hear her meow and for her to nuzzle into me. I felt like my heart was breaking. This little soul had been there for me through the hardest of times, my best friend. I had never been lonely with her there and our house felt empty without her. We buried her in the orchard and for many weeks I sat in the garden under the appl
e trees thinking of her. All those pictures I held in my mind of Meoska playing with our child hurt terribly; the thought that they were no longer possible was like an ache.

  I don’t know if it was my hormones or the sudden loss of my friend, but I found it hard to recover from that day. Meoska had become so much a part of our family and I missed her dreadfully. I started to struggle with many aspects to do with my pregnancy, mainly an increasing fear about the birth.

  The closer we got to my due date the more I feared hospitals. I had enquired about a home birth but was told they couldn’t guarantee it. Then, when I visited the wards they were so chaotic and busy. The noise and constantly changing staff unnerved me and I was starting to lose my confidence. Everything that surrounded birth began to bring a sense of dread. My heart would beat hard and I would feel like I was suffocating every time I thought of the hospital.

  So I researched. I wanted to find a private midwife who could help me regain my confidence and help make this a positive experience. Then I found Sue, the most kind-hearted and motherly midwife who did that and more; she became a friend and helped me in so many ways. Her experience and time with me certainly shaped what was to come. She taught me to be patient and to keep trying, and above all to trust my body and my instincts. After our sessions I would feel empowered and no longer scared. I began to feel what our baby was going to be like, getting a sense of her character. She would always move when music was played and she loved jazz the most. I felt calm in nature and spent a great deal of my spare time out on walks with P-J. We left from the back of our house, through the orchard, over the fence and along the footpaths to the gorse-covered hill. From this hill you can see for miles, to our local town and beyond. We talked about what we thought she was going to be like. I had a strong sense that our child would be unique in some way and wanted to find a special name for her. I know everyone probably thinks this, so maybe my feeling was completely normal, but sometimes I wonder if that feeling was a sign, that my body understood her better than any test ever could.