by Anita Waller
To Amy even his kiss seemed to have changed. What began as a light exploratory movement deepened leaving Amy’s senses reeling.
‘Amy…’ John’s voice was guttural. ‘God, I want you.’
She hurriedly pulled herself away from him.
‘We said we would wait.’
‘I know what we said but it’s only two months away now. Don’t you think…?’
‘No!’ She was panic stricken. ‘No!’
He saw the alarm written all over her face and gently moved away from her.
‘Hey, Froggie, come on. It’s no big deal. We just got carried away for a moment. Look, tell you what we’ll do. Let’s arrange these little frogs somewhere and then we’ll make a cup of tea.’ He stood; moving over towards the dressing table scooped them into a box. ‘They could sit on the window sill,’ he added. ‘They’ll look great there.’
He placed them in little groups of two and three and Amy watched in stony silence.
‘There,’ he said when the box was empty. ‘That’s another job done. I’ll go and make us a drink if you want to open the next box.’
When he returned with the tea tray all the little frogs were back on the dressing table in neat, regimented rows and Amy was smiling.
‘Tell me about the book then.’ She took a sip of her tea, staring at him, wondering if he had other secrets he was keeping from her.
He shrugged.
‘It’s just a book. I’ve been working on it for about two years altogether. No, that’s a lie, I suppose. It started in my head when I was at school. I began serious research into it two years ago.’
‘And you never said anything?’
‘Not deliberate. I did my writing after I left you at night. It just never intruded into our life.’ He stared into the flames of the fire. ‘It will one day though, Amy. It’s what I want to do. The journalism has been good, given me some good characters for the future I can tell you, but all I want to do is write. Novels.’
She turned to him.
‘So it’s that serious?’
‘You bet. And if it doesn’t happen with this novel I’ve lost nothing. It’s all experience.’
‘Can I read it?’
He looked at her, unsure of her mood. ‘
Sure. I’ll let you have my copy.’
‘Why didn’t you let me type it up for you?’
‘Would you have? I just never thought. I’m so used to doing my own typing at work I did it automatically. Do you want to take the copy with you tonight?’
She nodded.
‘Yes. Are you open to criticism?’
He laughed.
‘More than open; I’d welcome it.’ There was a moment of silence.
‘I write,’ she said.
‘You?’ He looked at her, a frown crossing his brow.
‘Did you think you’d cornered the market in paper and pens?’
‘No, not at all; it just took me by surprise. What do you write?’
‘Short stories, a little bit of poetry.’
‘And I never knew.’
‘Did I know about your book?’ she countered. ‘Anyway I’ve never considered mine for publication, they’re for me.’
‘Can I see them?’
‘No!’
He stared at her, flinching from the anger in her tone.
‘Whoa! Don’t shout at me. Look, let’s drop the subject shall we until we hear from Alistair Farmer. Come on, I’ll take you home. I think we both need a good night’s sleep.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly, taking his hand. John wasn’t to know that this was the first and last time he would ever hear Amy Andrews apologise for her actions.
The coffee table was looking good. She had collected pictures of flowers, cherubs and other romantic notions and carefully stuck them to an old coffee table that she had found in a second hand shop. The rubbing down had taken some time and she had been meticulous in her placement of the decoupage. She was about to brush on the final coat of seal when Brenda knocked on the door,
‘Can I come in?’ she called.
‘It’s open.’ The door opened and Brenda glanced in.
‘Aunty Jean has confirmed they’re coming and …Wow!’
‘Like it?’
‘It’s absolutely stunning! I had no idea…’
‘I just thought it would look good in the lounge.’
Brenda stared, did a hang-on gesture, then turned and ran down the stairs. She returned with a wooden kitchen chair.
‘Can you do the same to this?’
‘Sure. Where is it for?’
‘For my bedroom; I was going to paint it blue to match the walls but what you’ve done there is wonderful. I’d actually like blue flowers.’
‘No problem, I’ll start to rub it down later. You really like this little table then?’
‘I love it. And when Freda sees it she’ll expect an Amy Thornton original as well.’ Amy laughed.
‘This could be quite profitable! Perhaps this is my real career move!’
She picked up her brush and began her final layer to finish the table. It would look good in their pretty little flat.
She just hoped John would love it as much as she did. But he would – they were a partnership after all.
11
He felt the large horn-rimmed glasses suited him, blended extremely well with the blonde streaked hair and gave him a look of intelligence that complemented his fast developing brain power. Running a comb through the fringe that still persisted in trying to fall on to his forehead, even after four years of being combed back, he knew that his appearance bore no resemblance to the man who had walked out of prison.
He had been gaunt, dark-haired and moustached. Although he hadn’t become totally blonde, the streaks that had been placed all over his head gave an appearance of blondeness without having the problem of dark roots. His glasses did nothing to assist his eyesight – that needed no help. He frequently looked at himself in the mirror, impressed by the change in his face and pleased by the air of gravity the glasses gave him. He regretted he could do nothing about the colour of his eyes but acknowledged that most people trusted anyone with brown eyes for some obscure reason. They might even work for rather than against him.
Those early days after his release seemed so long ago now. A new name had been a first priority along with the removal of the moustache. The hours and hours he had put in at the gym and at home with his own weights had honed his body to a peak of fitness. He had even come to enjoy the gruelling routine he had set himself and now, established in a job he enjoyed, earning more money than he would have thought possible, he knew the time was fast approaching when he could, with confidence in his ability to carry the pretence through, set out to find the Andrews family.
He was ready.
12
‘I don’t know, Freda. I really don’t know what to do.’
‘You’re absolutely sure they haven’t been to bed?’
Brenda nodded.
‘Couldn’t be more certain. I asked John.’
‘Bit of a cheek, what? Didn’t he think it was a bit nosy? Bit too much the mother-in-law?’
She shook her head, a worried frown crossing her brow.
‘No, I told him it didn’t matter one way or the other. I trusted him completely with my daughter, I just needed to know so that I could talk to Amy and be in full possession of the facts.’
‘And he told you?’
‘What he told me bothered me. He said that Amy insisted they wait until their wedding night and that she hardly even allowed a kiss that was anything other than sisterly.’
‘And you obviously think they’re going to have problems.’
‘I’m sure of it, Freda. She’s so… reserved, prudish even. It’s not surprising but I feel as though I ought to talk to her, but what do I say? I can hardly suggest to my own daughter that she has a bit of a practice at making love before the wedding night, can I? I thought you might have a bit of advice.’
&nb
sp; ‘Why don’t you have a word with Dr. Walters?’
‘Because Dr. Walters has never been the slightest bit of help with Amy.’ There was acid in her tone. ‘He never agreed with me that there was anything wrong. We almost had to bully him into referring us to that psychologist when she was eight, remember?’
‘Then I don’t know what to say. Bit out of my depth – children and things. Never could quite latch on to the idea of little brats and suchlike. Love her to pieces but…’
Brenda sighed.
‘I know and I shouldn’t have burdened you with my worries but with Jack gone, I really have nobody to talk to these days.’
‘Bren, does Amy still have this compulsion to have everything spick and span?’
‘Worse than ever; and if she’s got something on her mind she still pinches herself although that, thank goodness, is nothing like as bad as when you caught her doing it. But I think what’s worrying me most of all is the possibility that Amy isn’t quite right.’
‘Not quite right? Don’t understand. Mentally you mean? We both know she has her hang-ups about men…’
‘No, it’s not something you can stick into a compartment and say it’s a mental problem. Quite the contrary, really. No it’s…down there. I mean, she had a lot of surgery, things stitched back together – what if there’s now an abnormality and they can’t make love.’ Brenda spread her arms as if trying to throw her problems away.
‘What did they say at the time? Is that a possibility?’
‘I don’t know. They said she wouldn’t be able to have children and I know John’s aware of that but I’m sure he hasn’t considered anything else.’
Brenda paused for a moment before continuing. ‘She was six years old when she was put back together, Freda. She’s not far off nineteen now and she’s done a lot of growing. What if something’s gone wrong? She’s never been examined since.’
‘Then it’s obvious. Before she marries she has to see a doctor. She must visit a doctor, no question of that.’
Freda stood, agitated, feeling as helpless as she usually felt when confronted with anything regarding Amy.
‘Can you see her agreeing?’ Brenda was not convinced.
‘What if it was a lady doctor? Let me book her in with Dr. Bakewell – a lot of the ladies are asking for her these days.’
‘I don’t think she would. She never mentions the attack, it’s as though she’s wiped it all away. That’s why I have to tread so carefully.’
Freda moved towards the door.
‘Look, I’ve got to go into work now. If you want me to book her in just ring me. But for goodness sake, talk to her, Bren. Talk to her before it’s too late to do anything about it!’
‘Hello Brenda. It’s Freda. Is Amy home?’
‘No Freda, She isn’t. She said she wasn’t coming home till late. She wanted to go straight to the flat after she’d been to the doctor’s. Is it important?’
‘She didn’t keep her appointment. Is that important?’
‘Oh, God, no! Then I wash my hands of it. I’ve done all I can. If there is something wrong, they’ll have to work it out between them.’
‘Do you want me to talk to her? Although I don’t know how I can get through to her.’
‘No, Freda, leave it. We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed that she’s okay. It’s not just physical though, is it…’ her voice trailed miserably away. How she missed Jack, his strength; he would have known what to do.
She replaced the receiver and crossed to the window. The garden, cloaked in summer colours, looked wonderful, and normally she found it a haven of peace. Today it did nothing to help soothe her thoughts. She clenched her fists, hammered them down on to the worktop.
‘The bastard,’ she hissed, ‘the bastard. He killed my Amelia.’
No words ever passed between Brenda and Amy regarding the aborted appointment. Amy dismissed it from her mind and allowed herself to be carried along with the preparations for the wedding.
On the day of her daughter’s marriage to John, Brenda woke Amy with a smile and a cup of tea, determined to forget all her worries on this special day.
‘Good morning, sweetheart. It’s a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky.’
Amy struggled up from sleep, tentatively opening one eye.
‘Time is it?’ she mumbled, and then, as realisation dawned ‘Oh God! What time is it?’ She sat up in bed both eyes wide open. Brenda laughed.
‘Don’t panic. It’s not nine o’clock yet. You’ve bags of time. Now get this bit of breakfast down you and I’ll go run your bath.’
Amy smiled at her mother as she took the tray and suddenly Brenda knew that everything was going to be all right and that John and Amy would be fine; she could forget all her worries, cancel her doubts. The sun would shine on to them.
* * *
‘Are you anywhere near ready, Pat – or shall I come up and give you a hand?’
Pat Farmer smiled at her reflection in the mirror.
‘You can come up but forget the hands, David Farmer. You come anywhere near me and we’ll never get our jobs done.’ She leaned forward and applied a small amount of mascara to her lashes. She pressed her lips together to seal her lipstick. Not bad, she thought, not bad at all.
‘Happy?’ he asked, his slow smile stealing across his face. She turned to see her husband of six months standing in the doorway. ‘If you’re ready, I ought to be getting you over to Amy’s, she probably needs you to fasten buttons and such like.’
‘You know I’m happy. If John and Amy are half as happy, they’ll do okay.’
‘Do you think they will be?’
She paused and looked at him.
‘That sounds serious. Don’t you think they will be?’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘I…’
‘David?’
‘Well, you know, with that happening all those years ago, it’s bound to have left its mark, isn’t it? I don’t mean physically, or at least…’
‘David! You’re waffling!’ She stared in surprise at her normally articulate husband. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
The realisation that Pat knew nothing of her best friend’s ordeal hit David squarely between the eyes.
‘You’re not seriously telling me that Amy has never spoken of it?’
She began to feel exasperated.
‘David, for heaven’s sake, Amy has been my other half for seven or eight years now and I’m about to be her matron of honour – are you telling me there’s something she’s never told me about?’
He nodded, feeling sick. He’d assumed that Amy would have told Pat.
‘So are you ready?’ he said a shade too brightly. ‘I’ll drop you off at Amy’s then I’ll go straight on to John. I told him I’d be there for about ten o’clock…’
‘I’m not moving.’
‘What?’
‘Not until you tell me what you’re talking about. I assume John knows whatever it is, does he?’
David nodded.
‘Oh yes, he knows. It’s why we’ve always looked after her. She… she was raped.’ He stumbled slightly over the word and Pat’s mouth fell open.
‘Raped?’ It came out as a whisper. ‘Amy? Raped?’
‘Six years old, Pat. Cutest little kid you could imagine. A guy called Ronald Treverick got hold of her up on the playing fields and tore her apart. That’s what I meant when I said I wondered if they could be happy. It’s bound to come between them, isn’t it?’
She stared at David, horror etched on her face.
‘And she’s never said a word. All these years…never a word. And I thought we were friends.’
‘That’s probably why she never said anything. Think about it, Pat, you were the ideal friend for her, somebody who knew nothing about it. With you, she could be natural, not have to pretend that everything was okay. Don’t think badly of her over this – especially today.’
‘It’ll make a difference, David,’ Pat sa
id slowly.
She felt as though her brain was stuck in first gear. She was seeing a frightened face – a face that belonged to Sonia Dawes, hanging over a cliff edge and held by the one girl who would rather she was dead. An image of fingers slowly opening filled her mind and finally she knew she had been right. She also knew she could do nothing about it, that Amy must never learn that her secret had been discovered. Amy had deliberately killed Sonia – she needed help, not recriminations.
‘Will you tell her that you know?’ David looked closely at his wife, watching conflicting emotions cross her expressive face.
‘One day, perhaps.’ She paused. ‘Was he caught?’
‘Oh yes, straight away. He must have been out of prison for some time now, but I don’t think he’s come back here. Look, I’m sorry I brought it up, today of all days. Can we forget it and go and enjoy this wedding?’
‘Sure.’ She smiled up at him, at the man who had recently walked down the aisle with her. ‘Let’s go and make it a grand day for them, shall we?’
He took her arm and smiled down at her.
‘And may I say Mrs Farmer, that you look ravishing? The bride will have to pull her finger out to outshine you today.’ He bent and kissed the top of her head. ‘And guess what? I love you. Do you think anyone would notice if we were a bit late…?’
‘Later, later, Superstud. Come on, let’s get on our way.’ She pulled him from the bedroom with a laugh.
* * *
Pat was quiet on the journey, lost in her thoughts. It was only when David pulled up outside Stonebrook Cottage that she spoke.
‘What damage did he do?’
‘Huh?’
‘The rapist. What damage?’
‘I understand she can’t have children.’
‘Oh, God, no!’
‘Hey, come on.’ He pulled her to him, holding her tightly. ‘John’s aware of it all, more so than I am, obviously. But we’ve talked. They’ll adopt.’