Sowing Secrets

by Ashley, Trisha

  ‘Not Huw and Rhodri!’ protested Carrie.

  ‘OK, I suppose there are always one or two exceptions to the rule.’

  ‘You don’t think Mal is cheating on me, do you, Nia?’ I asked suddenly.

  ‘Only with his boat and the stamps, I should think: they’re selfish pleasures but reasonably harmless, though I don’t think it’s a healthy sign when your husband spends more on his hobby than he does on his wife.’

  ‘Paul didn’t have a hobby, did he? Apart from growing vegetables and stuff?’

  ‘Fishing. He used to get up at five every Sunday morning so he could listen to a live fishing programme called Big Rods on the radio.’

  ‘Go on! You’re making that up, they couldn’t possibly broadcast live fishing!’

  ‘No, it’s true, I heard it once. This man with a slowed-down soporific voice was saying it was a grand day for flies and interviewing someone who caught a trout in 1962.’

  I eyed her doubtfully, but she looked quite serious. And after all, they broadcast live cricket matches, don’t they?

  ‘What’s Huw’s secret vice, Carrie?’ I asked.

  ‘Me.’

  ‘I’ll have to watch Rhodri isn’t glued to rugby matches now we’ve got a satellite dish. He hasn’t got time to sit about watching TV; it’s only supposed to be there for the Restoration Gardener programmes,’ Nia said. ‘Gabe Weston’s getting to the end of the present series, so we will be on soon. Plas Gwyn was the last house to be chosen for the long list. You will both come up and watch it—and help me console Rhodri if we don’t make the shortlist—won’t you? Only I think his stiff upper lip has had about all it can take lately.’

  ‘Yes, of course, we wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ I assured her, and Carrie said she would bring cakes and we could make a party of it, ‘because whichever way it goes, it is still good publicity for Plas Gwyn—and St Ceridwen’s Well.’

  ‘Yes, the secret will be out once it’s on TV,’ I agreed. ‘Then there’s bound to be lots more visitors.’

  ‘The news seems to be out already. You couldn’t miss that huge BBC van, and I don’t think Gabe Weston can go anywhere in Great Britain without being spotted by a drooling fan, from the sound of it. Anyway, Sian phoned me up yesterday, the cow,’ she said unaffectionately of her sister. ‘Somebody passed the rumour on that Plas Gwyn might be on the TV series—it’s not only round the village now, it’s around Wales—so she was pumping me for information. If by some miracle we actually win it, she’ll be up here and all over him like a rash.’

  ‘For the newspaper?’ I said.

  ‘Ostensibly, I suppose, but being male and having fame and money are all it takes to get Sian’s interest.’

  Something else was on my mind, and when I got back I called Auntie Beth, Ma’s sister. She and her husband are GPs up in the Hebrides and their idea of a good time is tramping over the moors with several of the Highland terriers they breed.

  She was out on a call, but I had a nice chat with Lachlan and asked him if he thought I had an abnormally small head. I mean, the more I look at myself in the mirror, the smaller it seems.

  ‘Away with ye, lassie!’ he said, or something equally Scottish in his gorgeous, rolling accent. ‘You’re in perfect proportion!’

  This was reassuring and I am now resolved to stop obsessing about the size of my body parts. (I’ll leave that to the men.)

  There was no email or phone call from Mal, but there was one from Bigblondsurfdude:

  Dear Fran,

  Sorry if I landed you in it, but you really should have told me! It was a bit of a shock. Was that true, about another man? Or were you just saying that because you didn’t want me involved with Rosie? And I’d like to meet her, anyway.

  You still look just as pretty as ever—haven’t changed a bit! I hope that husband of yours appreciates you.

  Love, Tom

  I haven’t answered it yet—I can’t think what to say, though it is rather balm to have Tom’s compliments after what Mal said! Besides, if there is even an outside chance that Rosie might be his, doesn’t he have a moral right to meet her? I’ll have to think about that one.

  I was still undecided what to do for the best when I spoke to her that evening.

  Practically all the everyday village news I would usually give her was now so peppered with the comings and goings of old lovers that I felt I was tiptoeing through a conversational minefield.

  ‘Are you all right, Mum?’ she asked eventually. ‘You sound a bit peculiar. Distracted.’

  ‘Now you come to ask, I have felt a bit off colour for a few weeks now,’ I agreed hastily. ‘Perhaps I ought to go and have a chat with the doctor and get a tonic or something.’

  She might know a good diet too, because it looks like an integral part of making up with Mal is going to be based on my ability to render myself down to the dimensions of a tapeworm.

  ‘If you’re just going to sing “Keep Young and Beautiful” at me, I’m off!’ Rosie said, disgusted.

  Less than half an hour later she was back on the phone. ‘Mum, I’ve just had a really weird email from Mal.’

  ‘From Mal?’ I echoed blankly. ‘I didn’t know he emailed you.’

  ‘He doesn’t usually; he wanted to tell me all about Tom Collinge turning up, which seemed to have sort of slipped your mind?’ she said sarcastically.

  ‘Oh God!’ I said. ‘Rosie, I was going to tell you, I was just trying to work out how to put it.’

  ‘No wonder you sounded distracted earlier, Mum! Anyway, Mal told me what you said to them both about my father being a stranger and that neither of them believed you, and how deeply hurt he was about it all—what a wuss! I said you’d already told me, and then he said he was sure my real father was Uncle Rhodri! He’s mad.’

  She insisted I gave her my version of the Highlights of the Night, then said, ‘So you really were telling me the truth about my father being a stranger?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you really don’t know who he is?’

  ‘He was a total stranger before that night,’ I said truthfully.

  But maybe there was some new element in my voice because she said suspiciously: ‘Why do I have a feeling you are holding out on me?’

  ‘I can’t imagine,’ I said briskly. ‘I’ve told you the truth, and I know it’s not what you really want to hear, but that’s it. I really don’t for one minute think that Tom is your father, but short of a DNA test we will never know. He—he said he would like to meet you anyway.’

  ‘Did he?’

  She sounded pleased, and I was about to warn her about building castles in the air—or fathers out of surfers—when I thought better of it. She might still be a little girl to me, but she was grown-up enough to make her own decisions.

  ‘You’d better tell Granny before she visits and hears the village version in the teashop,’ she said sensibly, so I did.

  And, actually, it didn’t turn out too difficult. Ma may harbour doubts about my passing lover too, but certainly never mistook Rhodri’s affection for me as anything other than brotherly.

  Dear Tom,

  Thanks for your email. Sorry everything was such a mix-up and Mal got the wrong end of the stick and hit you.

  Actually, it wasn’t me who emailed you in the first place but my daughter, Rosie, in a fit of curiosity after coming across that first note you sent me after finding my website. I didn’t know she’d done it until she forgot to intercept your reply.

  Do believe me when I say that had I really thought there was any chance that you were Rosie’s father, I would have told you about her, but I’m certain she’s not.

  Rosie knows this, and now I’ve had to tell her all about the scene in the pub too, but I’ve left it up to her if she wants to contact you. I’m trusting you on this one, Tom—if she does write, please be kind, but don’t give her any false illusions that you are her father.

  Had it not been for the circumstances, it would have been good to see you again! You
look very fit and tanned—the surfing life down in Cornwall must suit you. Please don’t contact me again, though, since all this has upset my husband and made things very difficult.

  All the best,

  Fran

  I have the greatest sympathy for Pandora now, for once the lid is off the box of ghastly delights it simply won’t jam back on again no matter how you try. All my efforts are merely damage-limitation exercises, and I have a horrible feeling that my lies and evasions are going to beget even more lies and evasions until the whole thing snowballs unstoppably downhill, crushing me into a fairly extensive grease spot on the way.

  It’s been a few days now, and if Rosie has emailed Tom then she is not telling me about it. It is odd and strangely unsettling to think that this substratum of communication might be going on without my knowledge.

  I think what I’m feeling is jealousy. Rosie has just been mine for so long, I don’t really want to share her. (And she used to feel the same: before Mal she managed to get rid of every boyfriend I ever had, and if she’d been on the spot when I met him she might have managed to put him off too.) I’m also afraid she will somehow get hurt, but Tom was always quite kind except for suddenly ditching me in a callous-young-man kind of way, so I expect he will be nice to her even if she puts him through a third-degree interrogation on his entire life, which, knowing Rosie, is very, very likely.

  Mal’s never emailed or phoned her before, so what got into him? Was it just pique, or did he really think she ought to know? I suspect the former—he’s never done much in the fatherly input line. In fact, Rhodri’s been more of a father figure to her than Mal has, even though he hasn’t been around much. He takes the godfather bit seriously: never misses her birthday or Christmas, and always loves to see her, or hear what she’s up to.

  Perhaps that’s why Mal’s suspicions fell on him. Or maybe the Wevills tapped into the old village rumour supply and passed the idea on.

  I knew Mal’s grievances were still festering away because I didn’t hear from him until the next day, and by the time he rang I’d convinced myself that there would be so many candidates for a contract in the Caribbean that he wouldn’t get it.

  ‘Fran?’ he said, sounding tired. ‘I’ve had the interview—been there all day because they narrowed it down to just three of us and we had to wait for them to decide. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘Well, never mind, Mal. I’m sure another contract will come up soon, a more suitable one, and—’

  ‘But I got it!’ he broke in. ‘They offered the job to me—providing I can be out there by the end of the month.’

  ‘By the end of this month? But that’s impossible, Mal, it’s too soon—and so far away!’

  ‘I thought you might be pleased,’ he said sulkily. ‘There was a lot of competition and the money’s more than generous. It’s not as though I’m doing it just for me either—it’s for both of us: when I get back we can put the past behind us and make a fresh start.’

  ‘I’d rather have you home—we can work things out a lot better if you are on the same side of the damned globe! Please, Mal, don’t take it.’

  ‘Too late: I have,’ he snapped, and put the phone down.

  He came back home rather sullen and defensive, and Ma telling him to his face that he shouldn’t even think of leaving me alone for weeks at a time like he did, let alone for six months, didn’t help.

  However, he has now done one of his quick Jekyll-and-Hyde switches and is trying a charm offensive to win me round to the idea. This is not going to happen, because even without the recent hiccup in our relationship, having your darkly gorgeous husband going off on his own to spend six months on a tropical island with goodness-knows-what temptations is not a thought to gladden a wife’s heart.

  Mal is so good-looking that when he walks into a room other women tend to sit up and point in his direction like hunting hounds (or boxer bitches in Mona Wevill’s case), and it’s just a pity they can’t tell from looking at him that this is a man who likes his pyjamas ironed with creases down the trouser legs and who can throw a wobbler of epic proportions if his breakfast egg is not exactly to his liking.

  Nor am I deceived by his gestures of forgiveness, since I really haven’t done anything to be forgiven for. I can see that he still harbours doubts about whether I am telling him the truth…and now even whether I have been faithful to him since we married! Apparently the Wevills have helpfully assured him that they absolutely refuse to listen to any gossip about me and other men, and they are sure there is nothing in it!

  Since Mal seemed to lose sexual interest in me long before all this, due to my metamorphosis into Blobwoman, all his sudden gestures of affection are not actually leading into the bedroom. I’d be getting worried about this if I felt more in the mood, but not only am I still off colour but I’m now having strange abdominal pangs, so I have finally made that appointment for Thursday with my doctor.

  I was lucky—normally unless you are screaming with agony down the phone they won’t give you one for three weeks, probably hoping you will either give up or die before then, thus reducing the number of people in the waiting room.

  In addition to my being a hormonal disaster area, the cramping pains are getting a bit much. Could it be my appendix after all? Peritonitis can be a killer!

  Where, exactly, is my appendix?

  Misconceptions

  It was not my appendix.

  Last night—was it only last night?—I had such severe stomach cramps and haemorrhaging that I was rushed here to the hospital by ambulance, not even knowing I was pregnant until they broke the news to me later that I had lost the baby.

  It’s so hard to take in—difficult to believe that I’d had something so precious and lost it without knowing. I was only about three months gone, so you wouldn’t think a being so newly formed and tiny could stage such a spectacularly awful exit.

  When I married Mal I accepted that there weren’t going to be any more children—only now I suddenly realise how desperately I wanted that baby. They only let Mal in briefly after it was all over, and I was pretty out of it by then, but he probably feels the same way. I don’t know what I’m going to say to him, because I feel so guilty, wondering if it was something I did, like cleaning Ma’s house, or hefting that big heavy bag of hen food about.

  * * *

  I’ve just annoyed the doctors by refusing to have someone else’s blood pumped into my veins to replace the half-gallon or so I lost—but it could have been round anyone; it’s not like they tell you where they got it.

  They have put me on a saline drip instead, which will water down the bit of blood I’ve got left to a pretty translucent pink, and also give my tear ducts a bit of ammunition, since I can’t seem to stop crying even though I haven’t got the strength to sob. I should think my iron count is about nil, and I feel like a burst balloon.

  One of the doctors—I think he was a trainee, because he looked about eight—took a few minutes to tell me that about one in five pregnancies end in miscarriage, and it was just my bad luck I was the one. He also kindly assured me that it didn’t mean I would lose the next, and there was nothing to stop me trying again as soon as I had more opacity than a glass of water and a discernible red blood cell count.

  Try again? When Alison went broody and strong-armed Mal into having that sperm count apparently it took half an hour for each one to doggy-paddle languidly past the microscope, and half of those were going in circles. But I suppose into every generation of sperm a swimmer is born. And if it could happen once, it could happen again…couldn’t it?

  When Mal came back to visit me, bringing my spongebag and other necessities, he was very quiet and sat down next to the bed with barely a word. He looked dark under the eyes from lack of sleep and not only was his dark hair ruffled, but his shaving had evidently been a pretty hit-and-miss affair, proof to anyone who knew him as well as I did that he was unusually upset.

  ‘Mal, I—I’m terribly sorry!’ I said painfully, reaching a
hand out to him, though it was quite an effort to raise it from the bed. ‘I know you said you didn’t want children because you thought you couldn’t have any, and now it seems you can, and I’ve lost it and—’

  ‘But, Fran,’ he interrupted, looking startled, ‘I wasn’t just saying that: I never have wanted children! If I’d realised it was possible, I’d have been more careful—had a vasectomy, even.’ He took my limp hand in his and squeezed it. ‘No, it’s me who should be sorry that you’ve had to go through this, darling.’

  Tears welled up again. ‘I know you’re just being kind, Mal. And the miscarriage was horrible, but the doctor says it was sheer bad luck and I’ll probably be all right next time. So I told him about your sperm count being so low and he said they can do things about that these days—’

  ‘You’re not serious, Fran?’ he said incredulously, paling. ‘I thought if there was one thing we agreed on it was that we didn’t want any children! I mean, apart from the complications you could get at your age, think what it would do to our lifestyle!’

  While we stared at each other aghast (but for different reasons), he suddenly and magically regained all his poise and colour, like a chameleon in recovery.

  ‘Poor Fran!’ he said kindly. ‘You aren’t in a fit state to think logically about anything just now, are you? But I do understand how you’re feeling, and we’ll discuss it later, when you’re better.’

  I nodded, since he seemed to be expecting some kind of response, but my throat was too choked with tears to speak, even if I’d known what to say. But, after all, I’d married him knowing it meant I wouldn’t have any more children, even if I hadn’t realised before today that he actually didn’t want any—so I expect I will eventually settle back into my previous mindset, preferably before I have drowned the entire village in a Niobe of tears.

  But who’d have thought my Achilles would turn out to be such a heel?