Forgive Me Not

by Samantha Tonge

Emma: How’s that going?

  Rachel: Not bad. We met up again yesterday. I’ve done my amends and she says she accepts them and even said sorry for a few things herself. Apparently she was always proud of my degree – just disappointed for me that I didn’t do better. And so worried about my drinking. It made her feel guilty.

  Emma: Why?

  Rachel: Sometimes she felt selfish that she’d sent my father away. She said that at the time she hadn’t been thinking about me – that I might have needed a father in my life and that he could have helped in so many ways. So when I almost flunked my degree, when I began drinking, she blamed herself. I’ve told her that’s rubbish. We’ve talked it all through. We even hugged.

  Emma: Oh Rachel, I’m so pleased.

  Rachel: And to my amazement, she’s even mooted the idea that I could track him down. She says he was a kind person. Even though it was a one-night stand, she’d known him at school.

  Emma: That’s fantastic. I’m so happy for you.

  Rachel: He had ginger hair as well, just like Mum. Just like me… Anyway, how about you? Are you going to the meeting tomorrow night? You didn’t go last week.

  Rachel: Emma? Are you there?

  Emma: I’m… It’s nothing. I’m okay.

  Rachel: Nothing is usually something. Spill.

  Emma: I can’t.

  Rachel: You can. We know the worst of each other. I’m not going to judge. I’m here to help. You know that.

  Emma: I’m sitting in front of a wine bottle.

  Rachel: Is this some kind of joke?

  Emma: No. Oh Rachel, I wish it was.

  Rachel: Oh darling… have you started to drink?

  Emma: Not yet.

  But I will, she thought. I know it. I can’t wait another minute.

  Rachel: Well done. You don’t need it.

  Emma: I do. I’m fed up. Being sober is boring.

  Rachel: What’s so exciting about getting pissed? Blacking out? Waking up wishing you hadn’t?

  Emma: I could just drink for tonight. Take the edge off my feelings.

  That sounded like a plan. How difficult could it be to stop after just one night, now that she’d learnt so much about recovery? It’d be easy, right?

  Rachel: Take those bottles around to your neighbour, then come back to the phone.

  Emma’s grip tightened around the bottle’s neck.

  Emma: I… I don’t want to. They could just stay under the bed. I’ll take them back to the shop tomorrow. Get my money back.

  Rachel: That’s making excuses. We’ve all been there. You’re kidding yourself and you know it.

  Emma: She’ll think I’m crazy.

  Rachel: And if you start drinking, she’ll meet the really crazy you. You don’t want that – proved by the fact that you’ve opened this chat. Something is telling you not to pick up. Just tell her someone gave them to you as a gift but you don’t like wine.

  Emma: But I do like wine. A lot.

  Rachel: No. You used to. Do you want me to come around? I can be there in less than an hour.

  Rachel: Emma?

  Rachel: EMMA? SPEAK TO ME. ARE YOU THERE?

  Emma: Yes. Look, just forget I said anything. I shouldn’t have bothered you. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. I’ll message you tomorrow.

  Rachel: No! No you don’t. You don’t give up your sobriety like that. Remember who you’re doing it for – who set you on this journey.

  Emma: That’s unfair.

  Rachel: No it’s not. You start drinking again, Emma, and you’re letting not only yourself down, but Josephine as well.

  A sob rose at the back of Emma’s throat.

  Rachel: Get around to your neighbour’s.

  Rachel: Emma?

  Emma: I’m back.

  Rachel: You’ve done it?

  Emma: Yes.

  Rachel: Honest?

  Emma: Yes. Thanks so much. I can’t believe I almost threw away everything I’ve achieved. I don’t ever want to go back to being the person I used to be. And you were right. If I start drinking again, I’m breaking my promise to my little girl.

  Emma wiped her eyes and her shoulders relaxed.

  Emma: It was my neighbour’s birthday, so good timing, I guess. What a relief.

  Rachel: The first year is hideously difficult, everyone knows that. Do you remember Tess telling us the main reason people relapse?

  Emma: They stopped drinking but didn’t change their lives.

  Rachel: Exactly. But look at you with your volunteering and your meditation…

  Emma: I think I’ll head out for a walk. The fresh air will do me good. Maybe I’ll stop off somewhere and get a hot chocolate.

  Rachel: Good idea – but ring me before you go to bed. Let me know you’re still okay.

  Emma: Thanks, Rachel. You’re a star. Give Idris a tickle behind the ears from me.

  Emma grabbed her jacket, her purse and her front door keys and headed outside into the brisk air, a renewed purpose in her stride. As she passed through the park gates, she took in the detail of a nearby tree, its branches outstretched as if welcoming the sky. Each leaf looked the same as the next, yet close up totally different. She inhaled the fresh scent of moist soil and the timber smell of a nearby log that had been cut up. Simple things that had been left unappreciated during her drinking years.

  Thank God. Thank God she’d messaged Rachel.

  She sat on a bench and studied the ground. A worm slunk past. A beetle shinier than patent leather tottered under the bench. Over the last years at Foxglove Farm, Emma had become so disconnected from nature, always looking to some imaginary future and never appreciating what was around her. Like the majestic weeping willow. The cacophony of croaks from the pond during mating season. The rich aroma of overripe tomatoes. The thud of goats’ hooves as they played around. Little luxuries compared to life on the streets.

  She bent down and picked a dandelion, and watched seeds drift through the air as she blew on its head. A young mother pushed her little girl on a swing. Every time she stopped and suggested it was time to go home for a bath, her daughter protested loudly, shouting, ‘Again, again!’ and giggling. Emma studied the cute pigtails and bright yellow wellington boots. The mother kissed the top of her head and they held hands tightly when they eventually left the play area.

  It was scary how close Emma had come to betraying the memory of her own daughter. She felt sick at the thought of how just a few moments of madness could have undone months of hard work. Getting through those cravings, giving the wine away… that had made her feel so strong. Staying well meant that Josephine was still with her.

  The GP had signed Emma off work for another two months. That took her to the beginning of June – almost one year exactly after she’d first approached addiction services.

  It was fate, she decided. To celebrate that landmark, she’d take the next step forward. Nothing was going to make her slip back into old behaviours. When this last sick note ran out, it would be time to return to Foxglove Farm.

  Chapter 21

  After her talk – or was it an argument? – with Andrea, Emma headed back to the pet shop. She changed the hamsters’ water, then took one out and stroked it for a few moments. Only two were left. Phil had actually sold three over the last couple of weeks. After replenishing their food bowl, she made herself a cup of tea and took it up to her room. Her bedside drawer was open, and as she went to shut it, she noticed an envelope stuffed underneath some socks. She took it out. It was the letter she’d sent to Andrea. The one her sister had returned without opening.

  She reread it a few times. It had to be worth a last shot. The old Emma would have given up and sought refuge in a bottle. But things had changed. She had changed. She opened the drawer below and fished out a notebook and pen. She and Andrea didn’t seem to be able to have a conversation. Her last hope was the written word. Her chest ached. Andrea felt so bad about the pregnancy. Emma hadn’t wanted that.

  She started to write, occasionally referri
ng back to the original letter. Finally it was ready.

  Dear Andrea,

  I know you didn’t open the last one, but I really hope you read this. I know I’ve used up a million second chances. But hopefully by now you’ve seen that I’m sober. I miss you, Andrea. I want to help around the farm. I want to shoulder my share of the responsibilities that I dumped on you.

  I am so sorry. For everything. All the trouble I caused. The money you had to spend, to bail me out of trouble. The names I called you. The lying. The stealing. Me and my problems taking up so much of your time. That thing with Dean…

  You had every right to be angry. Looking back, I’m surprised you put up with me for so long. We’re sisters, but that doesn’t entitle me to your unconditional love, and I think – I know – I took you and Mum, Bligh, my home at Foxglove Farm for granted.

  In the last letter, I wrote about how we were close and I lingered on happy memories from the past, but this time I’m focused on the now, on going forward. And I can still see what a wonderful person you are.

  You’d have made a brilliant aunt. I know that. My big sister would have set a great example. I couldn’t tell you about the pregnancy at the time: we weren’t in touch and I was trying to stop drinking, trying to stop myself from ever hurting you or anyone else I loved again. But I wished I could have spoken to you. I still wonder if Josephine (that’s what I called the baby) would have had your size sevens or my size fours. She’d have been very lucky to have you in her life. I reckon she would have loved Foxglove Farm.

  That person – the drunk – it was me and it wasn’t. I was ill.

  At the same time, that’s no excuse. I take responsibility for my actions and I am trying to make amends to people in the village.

  Please, Andrea, please don’t ever blame yourself for what’s happened. I’ve so much respect for the way you’ve coped – you’ve held everything together. Mum couldn’t have managed without you.

  Again, I’m really, really sorry and will do whatever it takes to make things up to you both.

  Just tell me what I can do.

  With love,

  Emma X

  She slipped the piece of notepaper into an envelope, sealed it and wished it luck. Then she grabbed her rucksack. Clouds had come in, and for the first time in days, a shower threatened, so she packed her waterproof jacket and umbrella. She’d go back to Foxglove Farm and give Andrea the envelope, and then she needed to speak to Bligh.

  All the way up Broadgrass Hill she thought about him, not noticing the spits of rain. How he’d marched around to the Badger Inn this morning and told Joe to get lost. He’d had no right to do that, yet part of her could harldy believe that he was still trying to protect her despite everything.

  When she arrived at the farm, Gail was in the shop with Andrea. Dash barked his welcome and ran over. Emma knelt down and ruffled his neck. His fur was as wet as her hair.

  Rather than hand the letter over and risk immediate rejection, she went into the farmhouse and up to Andrea’s bedroom. She took the letter out of her dripping rucksack and stared at it for a few moments. Then she bent down and slipped it under the closed door.

  Back downstairs, she heard a tap running in the kitchen. She walked through the lounge and around the corner to see Bligh washing his hands. He wore a short-sleeved checked T-shirt and tight navy jeans. He looked striking with his mariner’s beard. He’d make a great partner for somebody – somebody else.

  He glanced at her, then jerked his head towards a drawer. ‘Could you pass me a tea towel – the other one is wet.’

  She placed her rucksack on one of the kitchen chairs. ‘Bligh… can we have a chat?’

  He emptied the washing-up bowl and dried his hands. ‘I’ve come in for lunch anyway.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’ve got a while before the gas man calls.’

  ‘Gas man?’

  ‘The boiler’s playing up again. I don’t think it will be too long before we need that new one. Would you like a coffee?’

  She shook her head, and drops of water flicked onto her cheeks. She took the tea towel and headed into the lounge, drying her hair. A few moments later, Bligh joined her. They both sat on the sofa. He put his drink on the coffee table. She stared at the watercolour of forget-me-nots and told Bligh that he shouldn’t have visited Joe that morning. He turned red and asked if they were a couple.

  ‘No. Joe’s gay.’

  Those words would have choked her while she was on the streets. Like the idea that she was just an ordinary person rather than a celebrity in the making. The drink had encouraged her ego to see the world as she wanted, not as it was.

  Bligh’s eyes widened. ‘Gay? But… the pregnancy? How…?’

  Emma did her best to explain. Life on the streets was chaotic.

  ‘I’m my own person now, Bligh. I can sort out my own mess.’

  ‘You can’t, Emmie.’

  She took a sharp intake of breath. He’d not called her that for so long.

  ‘You never could manage,’ he continued. ‘You need me perhaps more than ever now. Look… you and me… we’ve a long way to go, but I reckon it could still work out. I’ll help you move back. I’ll talk to Andrea. Now that you’re not drinking, we could go back to how things used to be.’

  He wanted them to get back together? Emma sat dazed.

  A few weeks ago, she’d have given anything to hear him call her by that pet name, but now it just represented the person she used to be. Bligh couldn’t see that she’d changed.

  ‘The thing is, Bligh, I’m not that person you knew before – not the drinking one, nor the girl you grew up with,’ she said gently. ‘It wasn’t just the drink that was to blame for my flaws.’

  He scratched his beard. ‘I don’t understand.’

  She reminded him of their childhood. How sulky she’d get if they raced home from school and Bligh won. Eventually he always let her win because she became so stroppy. And how he’d do her homework for her because she wasn’t good at maths. She was manipulating their friendship before she even discovered alcohol.

  Bligh’s brow furrowed. ‘But we had fun, didn’t we? You were a good friend. You shared treats. Visited me when I was off school ill. You thumped John Barton for calling me names when I wore braces.’

  ‘But it wasn’t an equal relationship. Not really. I took more than I gave. You must have felt that.’

  He glanced away.

  ‘The signs were always there indicating that one day I’d drink to cope with my character defects. I was broken, you know, at the end of my drinking – in pieces on the floor. Rehab helped me put those pieces back together, but in a different way.’

  Bligh placed his hands on her shoulders. Told her to stop making things complicated. Yes, he admitted, it was a shock when she’d come back – he’d told himself that he never wanted to see her again. But now he wanted to give their relationship another go.

  ‘Bligh. No.’

  ‘But I still love you.’ Apparently he’d never stopped. He had denied it for months. He explained how he’d hated himself for it after everything Emma had done. Yet for weeks and weeks, every time the phone rang he’d hoped it was her. ‘We worked together, didn’t we? In the old days.’

  ‘No, we didn’t. It was all about me falling apart and you trying to glue me back together.’

  ‘And if I don’t need to do that now, doesn’t that simply mean things will be even better?’ His hands dropped as she twisted her shoulders.

  ‘So you’d feel exactly the same about me if I wasn’t as needy?’ Her voice softened. ‘Wasn’t that part of the attraction, Bligh? Be honest. Maybe our relationship was also connected to your self-esteem.’

  His body stiffened.

  ‘You always had to dig me out of a problem and – for a short while, at least – I’d be so grateful. Since I’ve got better, done volunteering, helped others, I get it – I understand how good that feels. But where do we go from here if I no longer need your help?’

  ‘So now you’
re saying I’m some sort of misogynist who only wants a damsel in distress?’

  ‘Of course not, but I know it hit you hard, your mum leaving. It’s bound to have had an effect. You did everything for me, Bligh. Maybe it was because you were scared that I’d leave you too.’

  He stared at the floor.

  ‘My father going made me feel something was missing. You and I – we have a lot in common. We just dealt with our low self-esteem in different ways. I sought attention, whereas you gave it.’

  He exhaled slowly. ‘Or perhaps what all this boils down to is what I said before – you used me. On your part, it was never love.’ To her surprise, his eyes welled up.

  ‘Look at me.’ She took his hand. ‘Getting better – getting to know myself and coming back to Foxglove Farm – I’ve come to realise that I think you’re right. I’m so sorry. I did my best. I thought I loved you, but I didn’t.’

  She’d only seen him cry once before, and that was when his dad was diagnosed with cancer. Poor, caring Bligh. How he must miss having his father to look after.

  ‘Part of me did wonder if you and I would make up, but there’s been Joe… the baby… My life’s moved on in all sorts of ways since I left. We could never get back together. I can look after myself now. I want to. I need to, to stay well.’ She needed to carry on being independent. She needed that self-respect. ‘You know that quote Gail always used to laugh about, to do with Eric Morecambe playing the piano? How he was playing all the right notes but just not in the right order? Finally I’ve got things in order and found my priorities. But Bligh… you’re still reading the old, muddled sheet music.’