Sowing Secrets

by Ashley, Trisha

  Just after he vanished the Wevills’ front door flew open and out shot Mona in her beige silk pyjamas, waving a weak torch: Honey, I Blew Up the Gloworm, coming soon to a cinema near you.

  ‘Gone, gone!’ she wailed.

  ‘“And never called me Mother”,’ I finished for her, since we seemed to be in Victorian melodrama mode.

  Owen materialised out of the darkness behind her and silently dragged her back into the hall, slamming the door like a pistol shot.

  I expect I will get the blame for waking the entire village up.

  Our house felt totally empty and cold, and in their neat run behind the cottage even the hens seemed to be moaning in sympathy, although the sharp wail of a peacock would sum up much better how I felt at that moment. Bereft. Deserted. Not Wanted On Voyage.

  I felt everything settle like a huge burden of responsibility on my shoulders, even though all the cottage outgoings including the mortgage are arranged on standing orders from our joint household account, so I need to cope with nothing except emergencies. And Mal’s going to phone me every other day, and email me in between, he says.

  After a while I found he’d left me a little note propped against the kettle, together with some more computer printouts about the delights of Grand Cayman and my new gilt credit card…or should that be the guilt card, in my case, given my hang-up over credit?

  The note mysteriously directed me to look on the desk in his study, where I found three gift-wrapped presents, which I carried down to the kitchen to open, though not without difficulty, since one was quite large and heavy. They contained the following items:

  1) A gleaming chrome fruit and vegetable juicer.

  2) A copy of a detox diet.

  3) A return aeroplane ticket to Grand Cayman, dated late May, standard class.

  Why do I get the feeling there is a causal relationship between these three objects?

  Have conditions been attached? And a nice ring would have been more of a spur, since he has never got round to giving me one—but preferably not an eternity one, since a ring with any sort of time limit like that ‘Forever’ one Tom gave me seems to be an invitation to disaster.

  And since I’m probably still anaemic and need to build my strength up, won’t this make dieting a little difficult?

  What liquidises well with Guinness? Apricots?

  The dead hours between night and day should be banned. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so bleakly depressed in my entire life.

  Just noticed that one of the printouts Mal left me was all about how Grand Cayman was ‘the premier place to celebrate your nuptials’.

  But since I’ve already been nupted (dreary registry office ceremony though it was), I thought it had got in by error until I read the bit where they said it was also the perfect place to renew your vows. Nupted revisited? Is that what Mal meant by my holiday there being a second honeymoon? He was pretty insistent that I buy something special to wear.

  How secretive—but romantic—of Mal! It makes me feel more hopeful about our future together. (And the advert on the same page for Colombian emerald engagement rings was pretty interesting too.)

  I won’t mention it—though I may just hint about the emeralds…

  Rhodri and Nia called in to cheer me up, Rhodri bearing six bottles of champagne, which apparently also contains iron. He suggested I mix it with Guinness, but not in the liquidiser.

  ‘Rhodri is so kind,’ I said when he went off to the kitchen to find glasses.

  ‘Too kind and trusting—anybody could take advantage of him,’ Nia said. ‘Absolutely nothing would get done up at Plas Gwyn if I didn’t take a hand, because tradesmen would swindle him, and he’d let the studios to just anyone instead of good-quality craftspeople who will be able to pay the rent!’

  There is something to be said for a malleable husband. Wouldn’t it be lovely if he and Nia got together once they are over their divorces? Of course, she would have to stop referring to him as ‘you chin-less wonder’ and ‘Lord High and Mighty’, but these are probably only from long habit and don’t really reflect how she feels about him now. And he is not chinless—he’s got a perfectly good one.

  On the other hand, if he carries on making weak Druid jokes like he was today, which were of the ‘a Bard in the hand is worth two in the bush’ variety, he may not live that long.

  Rhodri, of course, thinks Gabe Weston buying Fairy Glen would be brilliant, and can’t quite understand my lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll feel differently when he’s talked to you about it,’ he suggested. ‘He’s really a very nice man.’

  ‘If he talks to me about it. He hasn’t contacted me yet,’ I pointed out, ‘so he’s probably thought better of it. He can’t really think it would be convenient to live here when his work takes him all over the country, can he?’

  ‘It hasn’t stopped him driving up here whenever the fancy takes him, has it?’ Nia pointed out. ‘That sort of huge car probably just about drives itself.’

  ‘They’re coming to film the preliminary scenes at Easter,’ Rhodri said. ‘Perhaps he’s simply waiting until then? He’s going to show me the plans he’s drawn up then too…or did he say he was going to come back and discuss them with me before that? I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘He’ll probably email you,’ Nia said. ‘He must be very busy.’

  When they left, Mona Wevill just happened to be on her drive, polishing her car very, very slowly and looking about as normal as she ever does. She rushed to the fence eagerly, calling, ‘Oh, Mr Gwyn-Whatmire, isn’t it wonderful news about the Restoration Gardener programme! I’m so—’

  Rhodri, the soul of politeness, seemed transfixed by a smile that exposed more teeth than a crocodile’s, but Nia dragged him off with the threat that if he didn’t get into his car and drive, she would. That did it. Nia’s driving is of the ‘treat ’em rough’ school and he wasn’t about to abandon his beloved Spyder to that sort of treatment.

  Mona looked at me as they drove off, and her eager expression closed tightly into bitter resentment as though I had scored points in some game we were playing.

  I wish I had a copy of the rules and/or an impartial referee.

  She made a basic tactical mistake in ignoring Nia, though she would have been unlikely to have fooled her even if she’d sucked up to her from the day they moved here, because Nia is just naturally suspicious of everyone; it’s the way she’s made.

  Although it seemed days until Mal phoned me from Grand Cayman to say he had arrived, I expect that was due to my permanent confusion as to whether he had been flying backwards in time and was going to land yesterday, or forwards, and it would be tomorrow…or something. Anyway, he’d had a good flight and was staying in a hotel until he found a suitable apartment.

  He said he was missing me already, but he didn’t talk for long, and I could hear office noises in the background so I suppose he had to get straight down to work.

  How odd to think of him so far away, and I forgot to thank him for the presents, which were kindly meant, even if not quite what I might have chosen myself—except the plane ticket, I suppose, since that is the only way I will get to see him for the next six months.

  Strangely enough, while at the time his departure felt like some kind of ultimate abandonment, it has proved to be the usual case of ‘out of sight, out of mind’, probably because it’s so hard to take in the length of time before he comes back, and the enormous distance between us.

  I’m more concerned with trying to fight off this dark cloud of depression hanging over my head and threatening to descend. Nothing really seems to matter any more except Rosie, and my maternal worrying over her has intensified to the point where I’m fighting the urge to rush down and check that she’s safe and well all the time, something she certainly wouldn’t appreciate. It’s also unnecessary, since she has been amassing huge mobile phone bills checking up on me since the miscarriage.

  She’s now cautiously started mentioning that Tom has emailed her an
d visited, and says he is a fun person. It’s pretty clear that Tom has never quite got any older, and one day very soon Rosie will mentally outgrow him, but meanwhile I can see the attraction—and he has promised to teach her to surf at some point!

  On the subject of whether she still thinks he’s her father, she is tactfully silent—or maybe they don’t discuss it. They could find out once and for all, of course: the truth is out there somewhere. But then, the truth might not be what either of them wants.

  Oh, well, I expect it will all sort itself out over time. I can’t seem to raise enough energy to care that much at the moment, so long as Rosie doesn’t get hurt.

  At least now I’m back at work in my studio in its nest of thorns, guarded from the immaculate conception of Mal’s lawn by a trellis fence completely covered in a demented, ever-expanding Kiftsgate, and once I lose myself in my work I feel happy again for a while.

  Will my arms and legs be less rubbery by rose-feeding time? I can’t ask Ma to stagger round with a full watering can of Up-She-Roses at her age, although I dare say Nia would if I asked her. But I don’t want to be a weak and wimpy drain on my friends, who have already been doing my shopping and, in Carrie’s case, supplying me with home-baked goodies.

  I am certainly eating well: too well. Losing the baby left a big empty space inside me that I have been attempting, unavailingly, to fill with chocolate among other more nutritious things, so surely I should be feeling better by now…

  Got a funny little sketch in the post from Tom today, of him standing on a surfboard while painting at an easel, captioned ‘Catching the big wave!’

  Maybe he missed his vocation as a cartoonist. His painting style used to be rather precise and dead photographic realism. I didn’t know he had this kind of thing in him.

  I’ve just weighed myself for the first time since the miscarriage and discovered that I am nearly two stone over my ideal weight! This may not sound gross to you, but bear in mind that I am only five-four in my bare feet, and slightly built.

  Mind you, if you stretched me a few inches I’d be just right, so perhaps there’s a new dieting angle no one’s thought of yet. The Stretch? Get out your rack and I’ll be your first customer, since clearly I am the sugarplum rather than the fairy Mal yearns for.

  I really need to lose some weight before my second honeymoon in the Caribbean (not that I had a first one anywhere), but, to tell the truth, the idea sounds terribly unreal somehow, despite all Mal’s enthusiasm. He loves it there, has moved into a beachfront apartment, been sailing with someone from the office, and boasts of the searingly high temperatures as though I will find the prospect of being barbecued irresistible.

  Suddenly I feel a bit better, and the cloud, while still hovering, has lifted slightly.

  An alternative women’s magazine, Skint Old Northern Woman, has taken my Alphawoman comic strip too, which has given me quite a boost, and also, now the weather is milder, I’m spending a lot of time communing with the hens, doing studies of them in various mediums. I expect there are lots of hen lovers out there, so maybe I could get some card designs or something out of them. While the Fran March Hen Calendar doesn’t have quite the same cachet to it as my rose one, maybe someone would be interested in it.

  The other good news is that the doctor confirmed yesterday that my iron count was so much better I shouldn’t stand near magnets, but she still didn’t think I should start dieting just yet.

  She is very friendly and, despite nearing the end of my allotted five-minute appointment, I suddenly found myself pouring out to her how the miscarriage had made me realise I really wanted another baby, and about Mal’s horrified reaction. She said men often felt like that because they feared they would no longer be the centre of attention, so their noses were well out of joint, and I told her he had always been jealous of Rosie.

  Then we had a good long discussion on this book we’d both read by Margaret Forster called Good Wives, about how women had to choose between putting their husbands first or their children, and, historically, it seemed to have been expected that the husband would be in pole position, even if it tore their wives to bits to have to leave their children for years while they followed their lord and master wherever their fancy took them.

  Of course there are some women who are so in love with their husband they put them first anyway, but although I am mad about Mal, I’d die for Rosie, so clearly I am not one of them. The doctor said she had the hots for her husband to the extent that she’d sell her offspring to the gypsies if he asked her to, but she was just joking. I think.

  When I eventually came out, everyone in the packed waiting room gave me dirty looks.

  Another little sketch from Tom, this time of me reclining in a nest of thorns like a bosomy, date-expired Sleeping Beauty, and a figure on a surfboard riding a big wave that seemed to be about to crash down on the sleeping princess’s head. I expect Freud would have a field day with it.

  Mal mentioned the diet in last night’s email, and I assured him that the very second my blood count was normal I’d be juicing like mad and doing the detox thing, though it sounds like living hell to me. A physical scourging to go with the mental one over the baby.

  I have read the book now, though—with amazement! Surely this diet wasn’t meant for humans. Maybe I should try it on the hens first. But no, I couldn’t do that, when they always seem pleased to see me, all running up their coop whenever they spot me and then, as is the way of something with a brain the size of a petit pois, all running away again in a fright.

  There’s been a fox about, so I’ve just been letting them out for an hour or so before dusk. They scratch about the garden companionably while I potter round pruning my precious rose bushes, before taking themselves to bed in warm straw. We seem to be on a mental par.

  OK, I’ve drunk all the Guinness and champagne, and eaten my way through the food parcels Ma left in my freezer, so my iron count has to be totally restored. I’m just tired out by every little thing because I’m unfit—and so fat that I look as if someone has stuck a super bicycle pump up an orifice and inflated me.

  It’s no use Carrie and Nia assuring me I’m not gross when my mirror tells me I’m nearly spherical. No more excuses: I must diet.

  Once my legs were up to the climb I was drawn irresistibly back to Fairy Glen: I’d missed the solitude and the soothingly hypnotic sound of the water falling, and somehow knew that the process of grieving wouldn’t be complete until I’d spent some time there.

  I got up to the waterfall and rested for quite a while on my favourite rock, then slowly made my way up the more overgrown path to the oak glade and sat on a fallen stone watching a finger of sunshine work its way towards the orange and yellow lichened surface.

  Then I opened my mind to let all the black thoughts flood in: I grieved for the baby I nearly had, and for the way I was naturally losing some part of Rosie too, as she grew older and lived an increasingly separate life. I’d like to have her back with me—but I know she should be out there getting a life, not home with her mum.

  I mourned too for the way Mal and I had moved further apart in more ways than the physical one, so that even if the wound healed over the scar would always remain.

  I even howled over the good times with Nia and Rhodri here in the glen, though short of amnesia there is no way you can lose a happy childhood: it’s with you for ever.

  It was a damn good wallow and I wept floods until I felt empty and sort of cleansed. The black cloud was lifting and receding, letting the light touch me again, and I was conscious once more of the rustling of small creatures and the birdsong.

  With a sigh I blinked and found I was now literally sitting in a golden circle of sunshine: spotlit as if to say, ‘Fran March, that’s enough of that! Now get on with the rest of your life. It’s what you make it.’

  So, maybe things won’t ever be quite the same again, but when Mal and I renew our vows on Grand Cayman it will be a symbol that we are ready to reforge our relationship into someth
ing even better and stronger when he comes home.

  Tom and Rosie’s contact will dwindle naturally into a casual friendship once the novelty wears off, and Gabriel Weston will make his programme and then be gone back out of my life like a passing comet; soon there will be nothing to disturb our lives again; no more old secrets waiting to pounce.

  And as if on cue the bushes rustled and Gabe walked out of the trees into a patch of dappled sunshine and stopped dead at the sight of me, much as Mal had the first time we met—only here was no darkly handsome Celtic prince, but a man who seemed to blend and be one with his surroundings, woodland wild.

  All Cried Out

  Actually, it was a bit eerie for a minute: he blended in so well I thought I’d conjured up some mythical forest being like the Green Man or Herne the Hunter, but then I saw that he was just as taken aback to find me perched on the stone slab.

  ‘Fran?’

  ‘No, it’s Tilly the two-ton tooth fairy,’ I said rather waspishly, angry at being caught out tear-sodden and with reddened eyes like a wet rodent. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you—especially up here!’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t expecting to see you, either—but I prefer my fairies substantial,’ he said, grinning. He walked out from the darkness of the trees and turned into a mere mortal, though the greens and browns of his clothes still fitted the general ambience a whole lot better than my pink duffel coat. Instead of wearing prosaic wellies like me he had on beautiful dark chestnut leather cowboy boots darkened by the damp grass, which should have made him look affected, but actually suited him.

  He got a better look at my face and the grin faded. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude on a private moment.’

  ‘You’re not, I’ve had it,’ I said shortly. ‘I was about to go.’

  ‘Were you?’ He came and perched on the other end of the slab, half-facing me. I bet it felt cold through his cord jeans, because his thick forest-green fleece didn’t reach below his hips…assuming he had any. He could have turned into pure snake for all I know.