Never Greener

by Ruth Jones

  It hadn’t been love at first sight. That was the one thing Belinda and Callum had always agreed on. A rugby international – St David’s Day 1975, Scotland versus Wales. And the most chaotic match in Murrayfield’s history. The ground was saturated with supporters, bulging at the fences. Both sides had the Triple Crown in their sights so the atmosphere was more than just a bit tense. Belinda had come up from Wales on a coach with her local club, her dad by her side. She’d lost count of how many rugby games she’d been to with him. And unlike a lot of women who went to internationals, she was a genuine fan of the game. Not just there to get boozed up and cop off with a local. She knew her stuff. Learnt it all from her old man, who’d been quite a star in his time – a couple of seasons for Llanelli and a cap for Wales Under 21s. Belinda was the daughter of rugby royalty.

  And there she stood, in her angry red Welsh jersey, no make-up and clutching her can of cider, screeching at the referee, at the teams, at anyone who’d listen. The injustice! The blatantly wrong decisions! The cheating Scots! ‘Knock on, knock on!’ Callum hadn’t noticed her, nor she him. They were too busy supporting their teams. He was in the row behind, kilted and bevvied up, surrounded by his kilted and bevvied-up mates. It was a ten-all draw and they were well into injury time. But when Ian McGeechan finally scored the defining drop goal, Scotland exploded in glory and the souls of the entire Welsh nation – or at least the thirty thousand of them at Murrayfield that day – simply gave up the ghost and died. The Scots went crazy. Spontaneous bursts of ‘Flower of Scotland’ starting up all round, whilst the defeated Welsh woefully wept. Belinda was silent, turned to her heartbroken dad and shook her head. You’d swear they’d just lost a relative.

  Callum, on the other hand, was buoyed up by the Scottish win and a few pints inside him. He noticed her despair and said, ‘Hey, come on, Taffy, it’s only a game!’

  She stared at him for a moment. Opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Then opened her mouth to speak again. Then thought better of it. Callum was thrown by her speechlessness, and not knowing what to say, blurted out, ‘You look like a goldfish when you do that.’

  He was trying to defuse the situation, not entertain his mates, but they made things worse by laughing and cheering him on as Belinda continued to stare. And then out it came, the fiery Welsh spirit he’d long since grown to adore.

  ‘And you, good boy, look like a wanker when I do this!’ And with that, she lifted up his kilt and flashed his boxers to the world. Which, as Belinda had since pointed out many, many times, he shouldn’t strictly have been wearing if he was a true Scotsman.

  ‘Hey! What you doin’!’ he yelled, as she started pouring cider into his sporran. ‘Fuck’s sake!’ It was one of the very few times in his life that Callum actually went red, and with his mates laughing at him as he fumbled with his soggy kilt and fading dignity, he couldn’t have been gladder to see the back of Belinda Lewis weaving her way through the stand. So no, it wasn’t love at first sight.

  But later that night, Belinda was sat in a pub in Rose Street, putting the world, or at least the world of rugby, to rights. Her dad long gone to the B&B, Belinda was left with a few die-hards from the club – mainly men old enough to be her granddad – and a couple of Scots who’d latched on for the craic. ‘He shouldn’t have allowed that second penalty.’ Her voice was croaky now. She was repeating what she’d been saying all day. But no one had the energy to join in any more. The sorrow of Wales’s loss and the hours of drinking were taking their toll.

  ‘Yeah alright, I agree with you!’ came a Scottish voice from the bar. It was Callum, not long stumbled into the pub with fewer of his bevvied-up friends in tow.

  ‘Ah look, it’s the wee goldfish Taffy lass!’

  ‘Ignore ’em,’ Callum said. ‘They’re sore winners.’

  Belinda was too sad and tired to fight back. ‘Sorry about earlier, with your kilt an’ that. It was just bad timing … We should’ve won, y’know.’

  He actually found himself feeling sorry for her. And also found himself staring at her extraordinarily long eyelashes.

  ‘Let me buy you a drink to commiserate.’

  ‘Nah. Sick of drinking, I am.’ And she picked up her denim jacket from the back of her chair and put it on, ready to leave.

  ‘Oh! Right.’ He felt strangely disappointed – he wasn’t used to getting the brush-off. With the arrogance of youth on his side, at twenty-eight he thought of himself as pretty good with women.

  ‘I could murder some chips, mind.’

  Something about the way she said it made him see she wasn’t like any other girl he’d ever met, especially on an international day … No agenda, she just wanted some chips.

  ‘But just to be clear, you’re not gonna shag me. Chips is chips, that’s all, good boy.’

  Callum opened the door for her and wondered how she’d managed to read his mind.

  True to her word, she didn’t let him shag her. Or even kiss her. Not that night anyhow. Though she did let him have her address and phone number, telling him that if he really was that keen he’d have to prove it. Which he did. Because twenty-seven phone calls, fourteen letters, two postcards and three months later, she agreed to visit him in Edinburgh.

  Belinda blamed it on the Scottish air and the walk up Arthur’s Seat; Callum blamed it on his irresistible seduction technique – either way, she finally gave in and had sex with him, announcing at the end, ‘Well, that was certainly worth the wait!’

  ‘Yep!’

  She’d turned to him in all seriousness, unexpectedly welling up. ‘No really, Cal, it was. You’ve got me now, babes.’

  And he kissed her extraordinarily long and tear-laden lashes, and said, ‘About fucking time.’

  When Belinda fell in love with Callum, she fell in love with Scotland too. And a year later she was moving into his flat in Portobello, twenty minutes’ drive from Edinburgh city centre, the new Mrs Callum MacGregor.

  She watched the taxi pull away, its tyres sending rain hurtling in a perfect arc, from the gutter onto the pavement. She turned to face the house, but despite the rain, she couldn’t bring herself to walk up to the door. Because she couldn’t bring herself to discover what was on the other side of it.

  She thought about what she’d do if she was wrong. If she put her key in the lock and went in to discover him with a Chinese takeaway on his lap, watching re-runs of the Grand Prix, or trying to iron his own shirt for school tomorrow. She laughed at the image and then fought back tears as she prayed that that’s what she would see. She knew what she’d say to him if she found him there alone – ‘Surprise! My parents have got the kids for a couple of days, thought I’d come back so we could spend some time together … How long is it since it was just you and me, Callum?’ And maybe she was wrong. Maybe this was all part of some post-natal paranoia.

  The lights were on in the front room. She could turn around now and go back, never find out. But she was wet through and cold and exhausted and shaking. And she just needed to know.

  She let herself in quietly. There was music coming from the kitchen: Sade was singing ‘Smooth Operator’ and the comforting smell of baked bread filled the hallway, welcoming her back into her own home.

  Except Callum had never baked bread in his life.

  Her feet left sodden footprints on the carpet as she made her way to the kitchen, her heart pounding louder than the music. The door was slightly ajar and she could see him sitting with his back to her, lost in thought. He was alone.

  He was alone!

  She felt dizzy with relief. And she wanted to sob with joy and go to him, smother him in kisses, tell him she’d been a stupid arse but everything was fine now and couldn’t they have an early night seeing as the kids were safe at her mum’s—

  And just as she was about to call out his name, he turned and smiled.

  But it wasn’t Belinda he was smiling at.

  32

  At first, Kate didn’t recognize her. She’d lost weight since t
he only time they’d met, just three weeks after Ailsa was born. And the rain-soaked mac she was wearing clung mercilessly to her shivering limbs, making her all the more unrecognizable, wet hair framing her horrified face. Nobody spoke. Sade still sang in the background.

  ‘This is no sad and sorry dream …

  Your love is real.’

  Calmly, and with perfect aim, Belinda picked up the near-empty bottle of wine within arm’s reach and hurled it at the music centre, silencing the cruel lyrics that seeped out of the speakers. She stared at Kate, defying her to look away. Kate struggled, but held her gaze.

  The silence was painful. Only the rain outside smashing against the windows filled the excruciating void.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Bel—’

  ‘Since before Ailsa or after?’

  ‘Sit down. You’re soaking. Let’s just … stay calm.’

  But Belinda was beyond calm. She’d found an indescribable strength inside her that, had she been required to, would have made lifting a small car very easy.

  Callum stepped towards her, and only then did she turn to look at him.

  ‘DON’T …’ She hissed like an angry cat, spitting the words out. ‘Even. Think. About touching me.’

  Kate knew that she should go, but she also knew this was crunch time. This was when it would all get real. No more hiding, no more meeting in secret, this was when Callum and she would finally get to be the couple she always knew in her heart they should be. This was the start of it. And no matter how awful this next bit felt, it was going to happen.

  ‘Since the summer. When Kate started working at the pub.’ There was no point in lying, Callum thought.

  Belinda nodded at this, as if it was part of the jigsaw in her head that she was frantically piecing together. You start with the corners, she thought. And then the edges. She fought back the urge to be sick.

  ‘Jesus, you came here before! When Ailsa was born. You brought me flowers! I made you coffee!’ And as the jigsaw began revealing its picture, Belinda gained more clarity. Looking out of the window at the black and rain-sodden night, she said quietly, ‘Get out of my house.’

  Kate didn’t move. Surprised, and thrown, Belinda turned and said it again. ‘I said, get out of my house.’

  Kate looked Belinda straight in the eye, her turn to be strong now. ‘No.’

  ‘Kate …’ Callum could see where this was going, but it was too late – the furnace flared, and with a bestial roar from within her, Belinda launched at the woman threatening to steal her husband and shatter her life, and pushed her to the floor, hitting her wildly, screaming, weeping, raging.

  Callum pulled her away and forced his arms around her, partly to protect Kate and partly to comfort Belinda. Helpless within the circle of his familiar embrace, Belinda’s fight drained away from her and she stood there sobbing, letting him rock her gently in his arms.

  ‘Tell her, Callum.’

  ‘Shut up, Kate.’

  ‘Tell her what you just told me. He’s leaving you, Belinda. I’m sorry, but you were going to—’

  But Callum didn’t let her finish. ‘I said shut up. And go.’

  33

  New Year’s Eve, and the cast of Snow White had piled into the Dog and Duck, long-time haunt of anyone working at the Belgrade Theatre. Barney Bennett, aka Dame Lose-it-All, was ordering a round of drinks at the busy bar. The atmosphere was buoyant and festive: they’d had a full house that night and, despite there being a matinee the following afternoon, the cast were all set to get hammered. Except Kate. Who stood a little way off from the rest of them, preferring instead the company of old Mick the stage hand, who was only staying for one because he wanted to get back home to watch Big Ben and the fireworks on the telly with his wife.

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ said Kate. ‘It’s always been overrated, New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘Well, I’m surprised to hear you say that, being Scottish. You near as dammit invented Hogmanay, bab!’

  Barney Bennett handed Kate her orange juice. ‘You sure you don’t want a little vodka in there, you boring old moo?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘No, thanks. Don’t think I could handle the matinee with a hangover. Cheers!’

  ‘Ah, see! You can tell it’s her first job – but she’ll learn, she’ll learn!’ Barney joked with the rest of the cast.

  Kate smiled. She’d known them all for just two weeks and they were a nice bunch. But all she really wanted to do was sleep. She planned on staying for one drink like Mick, then heading back to her digs – a lovely attic room at the top of a family home in Canley. They were away skiing at the moment, so Kate had the house to herself. She smiled at the irony of this – how the old Kate would have seen this as a brilliant excuse for a party, would’ve invited the whole cast back for an all-nighter and worried about the carnage the next morning. But things were different now. Things were sadder. Kate was a different person from the party girl she’d been just a few months earlier.

  A week after the night at his house when it all came crashing down, she’d called him at work.

  To tell him the news.

  At first he wouldn’t take the call – the school secretary kept palming her off with flimsy excuses. But Kate persisted every day for five days, until eventually he came to the phone during his lunch hour. The call lasted just over a minute. She knew there’d be people around him, that he wouldn’t be able to talk freely, but she had no choice.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  Silence.

  ‘Callum, did you hear me?’

  ‘Yes.’ And then she heard him address the secretary, ‘Irene, can you give me a moment, please? It’s a personal matter.’ In the background she heard the door shut and Callum gave a deep sigh.

  ‘I’m having an abortion. Tomorrow,’ Kate said, willing her voice not to crack. ‘There’s a place in London. It’s all arranged.’

  ‘Whoah, hang on a minute … you can’t just throw this at me!’ His distress was palpable and she wished more than anything that she could hold him now, inhale the smell of him, kiss his hair.

  ‘I’m sorry, Callum. I know this is difficult for you, but there’s nothing more to discuss. I’m not really sure why I’m even telling you …’

  ‘Nor am I. You’ve obviously made the decision.’

  This made her angry. ‘You got a better solution then?’

  He sighed again. ‘No. No, of course … I just … wish things were different, that’s all.’ And hearing this sliver of tenderness in his voice made her inwardly collapse. ‘Yes. So do I.’ She steadied her voice before finally saying, ‘Goodbye, Callum. I won’t contact you again.’ And as she began replacing the receiver she heard his voice again, weak and muted. ‘Kate?’

  ‘Yes?’ She didn’t know what she was hoping he would say, but she would cling onto any scrap of hope he might chuck at her right now.

  ‘Look after yourself, won’t you?’

  She paused, incapable of finding any more words, and then hung up, resting her forehead on the coin box before weeping herself hoarse. Her prediction had come true. Her heart had broken.

  She brushed aside a tear that had annoyingly escaped as she remembered the conversation from over a month ago. And she wondered what he was doing tonight. If he was with her. Whether Belinda had forgiven him and taken him back. Or whether their marriage was irreversibly destroyed. She surprised herself by wanting it not to be. Seemed a waste to have all three of them suffer. She also figured if Callum and Belinda had split up, then surely he’d have come looking for her? He knew where she was. If he’d wanted to, he could’ve tracked her down and they could’ve got together after all. OK, so it’d be difficult at first – dealing with custody and living arrangements – but they’d have worked something out eventually. She didn’t dare to hope. She hated it when she hoped. Hope was the worst and most debilitating emotion to come out of this mess. She didn’t want to hope. She wanted to accept and move on. She wanted to stop wondering, she wanted to forget about th
e man who’d enslaved her heart and smashed it to pieces. What was the saying? – ‘Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional’ – OK, well she wanted to stop suffering now. New Year. New life. And the steely determination she’d begun cultivating these past few weeks was upon her again, slamming the door shut on any hint of tenderness or vulnerability.

  She’d surprised herself with her own efficiency in terms of what to do next. The most important thing was not to tell anyone what had happened. To keep everything on a need-to-know basis. She’d been offered a three-month contract with the BBC radio drama company, starting a week after the panto finished. It couldn’t have been more ideal, given the circumstances. She loved radio. She could lose herself in it all and still maintain a level of order in her life. Routine and security – that’s what she needed right now. She’d stay with her friend Josie at a knock-down rent in her Brixton flat, then take herself off to Cornwall for six months in April, where her mate Sam had offered her a job in his gift shop for the summer season and the tiny flat upstairs. Yes. It was all mapped out. Routine and security. Routine and security. Until she was through the pain and Callum became nothing more than a big mistake in her sad and sorry past.

  ‘Blimey, you look like you’re ready to kill!’ Nicci the stage manager was offering Kate some prawn cocktail crisps, snapping her out of her reverie.

  ‘Do I? No thanks. Ha! I think I’ve got a bit of indigestion, that’s all.’

  ‘You sure you won’t have a drink? A brandy or something?’

  ‘Nah, I’m gonna head off soon. Need my beauty sleep!’ And she smiled as she watched the merry cast get merrier, hurtling headlong into a mammoth hangover which Kate was glad she wouldn’t have to share.

  She caught a bus halfway back to Canley and walked the rest, passing happy drunks, angry drunks, silly drunks and weeping drunks as she headed for the tranquillity of her attic bedroom and warm, welcoming duvet. It was good to walk. Good for her head, as clear as the December night sky. She let herself in to the quiet house and made her way up to her room.