by Helen Brooks
She could be wrong, of course, maybe she was being paranoid, but, whatever, she couldn’t complain.
But she missed him. Terribly. It had been bad enough when she had first left him in the early part of the year, but then she had been reconciled to the fact her marriage was over. She had thrown herself into making her business work and finding herself a home, and, although that hadn’t compensated for not having him around, it had occupied her mind some of the time. Furnishing the cottage, turning her tiny courtyard garden into a small oasis, making sure any professional work she did was done to the best of her ability and drumming up business had all played its part in dulling her mind against the pain.
But now …
Since he had muscled his way into her life again that night in August he’d reopened a door she was powerless to shut. He’d penetrated her mind—and her body, she thought wryly, her hand going to the swell of her belly.
And in spite of herself she wanted to see him, the more so as the sessions with Miriam progressed.
She was finding herself in a strange place emotionally as her deepest fears and anxieties stemming from her troubled childhood and even more troubled teens were unearthed. She had to come to terms with the truth that she’d buried the fact she’d always felt worthless and unloved behind the capable, controlled façade she presented to the world. And as time had gone on something had begun to happen to the solid ball of pain and fear and sorrow lodged in her heart. It had begun to slowly disintegrate, and, though the process wasn’t without its own anguish and grief, it was cleansing.
Gradually, very gradually she was beginning to accept the concept that her confusion and despair as a child had coloured her view of herself. She hadn’t been responsible for her parents’ death or that of her grandmother, or her friend’s tragic accident either. None of that had been her fault.
The miscarriage was harder to come to terms with, her grief still frighteningly raw. It helped more than she could ever express that Miriam had pushed aside her professional status and cried with her on those sessions, revealing to Melanie that she’d lost a baby herself at six months and had blamed herself for a long time afterwards.
‘It’s what we do as women,’ Miriam had said wryly as she’d dried her eyes after one particularly harrowing meeting. ‘Take the blame, punish ourselves, try to make sense of what is an unexplainable tragedy. But you weren’t to blame. You would have given your life for Matthew as I would have given mine for my baby.’
‘Forde said that once, that I’d have given my life for Matthew’s if I could,’ Melanie had said thoughtfully.
‘He’s right.’ Miriam had patted her arm gently. ‘And he loves you very much. Lots of women go a whole lifetime without being loved like Forde loves you. You can trust him—you know that, don’t you?’
But could she trust herself? She wanted to. More than anything she longed to put the past behind her and believe she could be a good wife and mother and a rational and optimistic human being, but how did she know if she had the strength of mind to do that or would she fall back into the old fears and anxieties that would cripple her and ultimately those she loved?
Melanie was thinking about the conversation with Miriam on the day before Christmas Eve. She was curled up on one of the sofas in her sitting room, which she’d pulled close to the glowing fire, watching an old Christmassy film on TV but without paying it any real attention. She had finished work until after the New Year; the ground had been as hard as iron for weeks and heavy snow was forecast within the next twenty-four hours.
She and James had finished the job they’d gone on to once Isabelle’s garden was completed and James had disappeared off to Scotland to spend Christmas with his parents and a whole host of relations, although she suspected it was more the allure of the Hogmanay party his parents always held on New Year’s Eve that he didn’t want to miss. He had invited her to go with him, telling her his parents’ house was always packed full over the festive season and one more would make no difference, but she’d declined the offer. A couple of her friends had invited her for Christmas lunch, and both Isabelle and Miriam had made noises in that direction, but she had politely said no to everyone.
She had forbidden the one person she wanted to spend Christmas with from coming anywhere near her, and although part of her wanted to call Forde and just hear his voice, another part—a stronger part—didn’t feel ready for what that might entail. She had bought him a Christmas card and then decided not to send it because for the life of her she couldn’t find the right words to say. She knew she would have to phone him after Christmas about the next scan; it was only two weeks away now.
She rested her hand on the mound of her stomach and in response felt a fluttering that made her smile. That had happened several times in the last week and it never failed to thrill her. Her baby, living, growing, moving inside her, a little person who would have its own mind and personality. She had felt this baby move much earlier than she had Matthew but her friends who had children had assured her it was like that with the second. And with each experience of feeling those tiny arms and legs stretching and kicking she had wondered how ever she’d be able to hand their child over to Forde and walk away. It would kill her, she thought, shutting her eyes tightly. But would it be the best thing for her baby? She didn’t know any more. She had been so sure before she’d started seeing Miriam, but now, the more she understood herself and what had led her to think that way, the more she’d dared to hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, the depression that had kicked in after the miscarriage and that had been fed by the insecurities of her past had fooled her into thinking that way.
‘You’re not a Jonah, Melanie.’ Miriam had said that at their last session as they were saying goodbye. ‘You are like everyone else. Some people sail through life without encountering any problems, others seem to have loads from day one, but it’s all due to chance, unfair though that is. I can’t say the rest of your life is going to be a bowl of cherries, no one can, but I can say you have a choice right now. You can either look at the negatives and convince yourself it’s all doom and gloom, or you can take life by the throat and kick it into submission. Know what I mean?’
‘Like Cassie and Sarah?’ she’d answered. Sarah was the little girl in a wheelchair in the photograph. She was beautiful, with curly brown hair and huge, limpid green eyes, but she had been born with spina bifida and other medical complications. Cassie, her mother, was devoted to her and in the summer Cassie had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, but according to Miriam her daughter was determined to fight her illness every inch of the way. Sarah, young as she was, had the same spirit, her proud grandmother said, and was a joy to be with. Miriam had admitted to Melanie she’d cried bitter tears over them both but would never dream of letting her daughter or granddaughter know because neither of them ‘did’ self-pity.
‘My Cassie must have had her down times over Sarah and now this multiple sclerosis has reared its head, but, apart from in the early days with Sarah just after she was born, I’ve never seen Cassie anything but positive.’ Miriam had looked at her, her eyes soft. ‘You can be like that, Melanie. I know it.’
A log fell further into the glowing ash, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. It roused Melanie from her thoughts and she glanced at the dwindling stack of logs and empty coal scuttle. She must go and bring more logs in and fill the scuttle before it got dark, she thought, rising to her feet reluctantly. James had helped her build a lean-to in her small paved front garden in the summer for her supply of logs and sacks of coal. She hadn’t wanted to lose any space in her tiny private courtyard at the back of the property, and as the front of the properties only overlooked a local farmer’s hay barns there was no one to object. Nevertheless, they had taken care to give the lean-to a quaint, rustic look in keeping with the cottages and as one side was enclosed by her neighbour’s high wooden fence it kept her fuel relatively dry and protected.
When she opened the front door an icy blast of air h
it her and the sky looked grey and low although it was only three in the afternoon. She filled the scuttle to the weight she was happy to carry now she was pregnant and took it inside, before going back for some logs. She took an armful in and then went back for some more, and it was only then she noticed a slight movement close to the fence behind the stack of wood.
Petrified it was a rat—one or two of the neighbours had mentioned seeing the odd rat or two, courtesy of the farmer’s barns, no doubt—Melanie hurried back inside the house, her heart pounding like a drum. As soon as she had closed the door she knew she had to go back and make sure what it was, though. What if a bird had somehow got trapped or some other creature was hurt? Situated as the cottages were in a small hamlet surrounded by countryside, it could be anything sheltering there.
Wishing with all her heart she hadn’t gone out for the logs and coal and were still sitting watching TV in front of the fire, she put on a coat before opening the door again. The temperature seemed to have dropped another few degrees in just a minute or two. There was no doubt excited children all over the country were going to get their wish of a white Christmas, she thought, treading carefully to where she’d seen the movement. She bent down, her muscles poised to spring away if a beady-eyed rodent jumped out at her.
But it wasn’t a rat that stared back at her. Squeezed into the tiniest space possible, a small tabby cat crouched shivering in its makeshift shelter, all huge amber eyes and trembling fur.
‘Why, hello,’ Melanie whispered softly, putting out her hand only for the cat to shrink back as far as it could. ‘Hey, I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t be frightened. Come on, puss.’
After several minutes of murmuring sweet nothings, by which time she was shaking with cold as much as the cat, Melanie realised she was getting nowhere. She could also see the cat was all bone under its fur but with a distended stomach, which either meant it was pregnant or had some kind of growth. Praying it was the former because she was already consumed with pity for the poor little mite, she stood up and went to fetch some cooked roast chicken from the kitchen, hoping to tempt it with food where gentle encouragement had failed.
The cat was clearly starving, but not starving enough to leave its sanctuary, roast chicken or no roast chicken.
‘I can’t leave you out here. Please, please come out,’ Melanie begged, close to tears. It was getting darker by the minute and the wind was cutting through her like a knife, but the thought of abandoning the cat to its fate just wasn’t an option. And if she started to move the pile of logs it was sheltering behind they might fall and crush the little thing. She had tried reaching a hand to it but was a couple of inches short of being able to grab it.
‘Nell? What the hell are you doing out here and who are you talking to?’ said Forde’s voice behind her.
She swung round and there he was. Whether it was because she was frozen or had moved too quickly or was faint with relief that he was here to help her, she didn’t know, but the next thing she knew there was a rushing in her ears and from her crouched position beside the cat she slid onto her bottom, struggling with all her might not to pass out as the darkness moved from the sky into her head and became overwhelming.
CHAPTER TEN
IN THE end Melanie didn’t lose consciousness. She was aware of Forde kneeling beside her and holding her against him as he told her to take deep breaths and stay still—not that she could have done anything else. She was also aware of the wonderful smell and feel of him—big, solid, breathtakingly reassuring. It was when he tried to lift her into his arms, saying, ‘I’m taking you indoors,’ that she found her voice.
‘No. No, you can’t. There’s a cat, Forde. It’s in trouble,’ she muttered weakly.
‘A cat?’ The note of incredulity in his voice would have been comical under other circumstances. ‘What are you talking about? You’re frozen, woman. I’m taking you in.’
‘No.’ Her voice was stronger now and she pushed his arms away when he tried to gather her up. ‘There is a cat, behind the wood there, and it’s ill or pregnant or both. Look, see for yourself.’ She allowed him to help her to her feet but wouldn’t budge an inch, saying again, ‘Look, there. And I can’t reach it and it’s terrified, Forde. We can’t leave it out here in this weather—’
‘All right, all right.’ Thoroughly exasperated but less panicked now she was on her feet and seemingly OK, Forde peered into the shadows where she was pointing. At first he thought she must be imagining things and then he saw it—a little scrap of nothing crouched behind the logs. ‘Yes, I see it. Are you sure it won’t just come out and go home once we leave it alone?’
Her voice held all the controlled patience women drew on when the male of the species said something outrageously stupid. ‘Quite sure, Forde. And I don’t think it has a home to go to. Whatever’s happened to it, it isn’t good. The thing’s absolutely scared stiff of humans, can’t you see? And it’s starving.’
Forde narrowed his eyes as he tried to see in what was rapidly becoming pitch blackness. ‘It looks plump enough to me,’ he said eventually. ‘In fact quite rotund.’
‘That’s its belly. The rest of it is skeletal, for goodness’ sake. We have to do something.’
‘Right.’ In a way he was grateful to the cat. He’d come here tonight because he’d heard the weather was going to get atrocious and it was the excuse he’d been looking for to see her for weeks. While she’d gone to see Miriam as promised he hadn’t wanted to do anything to rock the boat, and her demands had been very explicit—no contact. But, he had reasoned to himself on the drive from London, she could hardly object to him calling to see if she was well stocked up with provisions and ready for the blizzard that had been forecast for some days. He’d bought half of his local delicatessen just in case, as well as a few other luxuries he could blame on the festive season. He’d been hoping she would be mellow enough to ask him in for a drink, but he hadn’t expected to be welcomed with open arms like this—even if it was due to a homeless moggy. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
‘What are you going to do?’ she said. ‘We have to help it.’
He glanced at her. She was literally wringing her hands. Feeling that chances like this didn’t come that often, he gestured towards the cottage. ‘Go and open the door and get ready to close it again once I get the thing in the house.’
‘But you won’t reach it,’ she almost wailed.
‘I’ll reach it.’ If there was a God, he’d reach it. Once she was in position in the doorway to the cottage, he reached into the narrow void between the fence and the logs. He heard the cat hiss and spit before he felt its claws but somehow he got it by the scruff of the neck and hauled it out so he could get a firm hold. He realised immediately Melanie was right, the poor thing was emaciated apart from its swollen stomach, which, if he was right, was full of kittens.
He had grown up with cats and a couple of dogs and now he held the animal against the thick wool of his coat talking soothingly to it and trying not to swear as it used its claws again. But it hadn’t bit him. Which, in the circumstances, was something. Especially as it was frightened to death.
Melanie was all fluster once they had got it into the house and shut the door but he still held onto the cat, which had become quieter. ‘Nell, warm a little milk in a saucer, and we’ll need some food.’ He sat down on one of the breakfast bar stools, holding the cat gently but firmly. ‘Have you got a cardboard box we could use as a bed for it?’
She shook her head as she slopped milk into a saucer and then began to chop some chicken up. ‘I can fetch a blanket if you like? I’ve several in the airing cupboard.’
‘Anything.’ The cat had calmed right down but was still shaking. He loosed one of his hands enough to begin stroking it and to his surprise it didn’t squirm or try to escape, but lay on his lap as though it was spent. Which it probably was, he thought pityingly. How long it had been fending for itself was anyone’s guess, but it hadn’t done very well by the look of it. He coul
d imagine it had been a pet that had got pregnant and—with Christmas coming up and all the expense—had become expendable to its delightful owners.
Melanie brought the saucer of milk over and held it in front of the cat as it lay on his lap. It took seconds to finish the lot. Her voice thick with tears, she said, ‘The poor thing, Forde. How could someone dump a pretty little cat like this?’
So she had come to the same conclusion as him. ‘Beyond me, but I’d like five minutes alone with them,’ he said grimly. ‘Try the chicken now. I don’t want to put it down yet in case it bolts and we frighten it trying to catch it again.’
The chicken went the same way as the milk. Opening his coat, he slipped the cat against the warmth of his cashmere jumper and half closed the edges of the coat around it, making a kind of cocoon. ‘It needs to warm up,’ he said to Melanie, ‘and holding it like this is emphasising we don’t mean it any harm. That’s more important than anything right now.’
‘Shall I get some more milk and chicken?’ she asked, putting out a tentative hand and gently stroking the little striped head. The cat tensed for a moment and then relaxed again. It was clearly exhausted.
‘No, we don’t want to give it too much too quickly and make it sick if it’s been without food for a while. Leave it for an hour or two and then we’ll try again.’
She nodded, her hand dropping away. Then she looked him straight in the eyes and said honestly, ‘I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life. I didn’t know what to do.’
Anyone. Not him specifically. But again, better than nothing. He grinned. ‘I left my white steed in the car park but it’s good to know I can still warm a fair maiden’s heart. Talking of which, there’s various bits and pieces in the car I need to fetch in a while.’
‘Bits and pieces?’
‘I wanted to make sure you were stocked up with provisions in view of the snow that’s coming.’ Considering how well he’d done with the moggy he thought he could push his luck. ‘And I was hoping we could perhaps share a meal?’ he added with a casualness that didn’t quite come off. ‘Before I go back?’