‘Three wishes? That’s easy. I wish I’d never met you; I wish I’d never married you; I wish I wasn’t pregnant!’
Stiffening, Ross stared back at her, face hard, eyes leaping with rage, making her shrink away from him. Without another word he turned on his heel, picked up the case he had packed last night and walked out, banging the door of the bedroom shut behind him.
Sobbing, the pent-up tears now streaming down her face, Dylan heard him thudding down the stairs, two at a time. A moment later the front door opened and slammed shut.
Anguish burst out of her. ‘Ross!” she called. ‘Please, wait...Ross, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!’ She slid her legs out of the bed and stood up shakily, her body clumsy in the crumpled white cotton nightdress. It was impossible for her to move quickly. By the time she managed to get to the window the engine of his four-wheel drive was starting up.
Dylan struggled to push down the catch but it was stiff; it seemed to take her an age to get the window open. She could see the dark green vehicle right outside, with Ross inside it, although all she could see of him was his profile: a tough outline, hard-edged cheekbones and jawline, framed in windblown black hair.
‘Look up, Ross! Look up!’ she pleaded as she finally flung the window wide open. Icy wind rushed into the room but she was unaware of it at that instant. She was intent on leaning out, waving. ‘I’m sorry, Ross!’
He didn’t hear or see her, he did not look up. She heard a roar of acceleration, then the sound of the tyres as he took off along the rough, unmade road. She clung on to the sill, listening to the fading note of his engine somewhere in the distance.
Seconds later he was gone, and she was alone, high on the roof of the world, it seemed to her, surrounded by hills and swirling sky.
The red-roofed, white-walled four-bedroomed house was strong enough to keep out the wind from the hills and distant sea which blew so fiercely much of the time. She rarely went out into the garden now, except to cut some of the vegetables Ross grew—mostly winter cabbage and potatoes at the moment, although in spring and summer she’d had an enormous choice to cook with. She had been amazed by how much better things tasted when you had just picked them in your own garden.
She was shivering violently now, her nightie blowing around her. Closing the window with another struggle, she shut the wind out, put her hot, tear-strained face on the cold glass and stared at the bitterly familiar view.
If only she could see another house, a roof, chimneys, a wisp of white smoke curling up somewhere—any sign of other human presence! She ached to see streets, shops and people, theatres and cafés, buses and noise, not this emptiness, however beautiful, where all she could see was trees.
Trees, trees, nothing but trees under the grey, sagging bolster of a sky.
‘I hate you!’ she yelled at the tall Norwegian spruce with its green needle-like leaves, the mountain ash planted at the forest edge which could be very pretty in spring, when it bore creamy white sprays of flowers, and still had some of those red berries the birds had mostly eaten, and a little belt of cypress whose silvery blue pyramid shape was pleasing to the eye. Ross said they’d planted other trees at the edge of the pines to soften the impact of all those conifers, but nothing could disguise the darkness and lack of life beneath their towering presence.
This was not a natural wood of deciduous trees. No oak, no ash, no hazel. No, here you saw a commercially planted, regimented forest laid out in straight lines on what had once been high, open moorland, rich with heather and gorse, where the wind blew free and every inch was alive with birds and small animals. They had all gone, driven out by the smothering trees. They could not live in that dense shadow and neither could she. She hated living here.
The small of her back was aching; she pressed her hand into it, groaning. She couldn’t bear to stay in bed any more; it made her back worse. She might as well get up.
Looking at the clock on the bedside table, she was surprised to see it was already seven forty-five. She had all day to waste, but she might as well get dressed and start on the housework. It took her twice as long as it used to; she never seemed to catch up. At least work would take her mind off her problems, and she would have even more to do tomorrow. This would be their first Christmas together.
Last Christmas Eve she had been staying with Jenny and her husband Phil and their two children, as she had done every year since Jenny had married. This year Dylan wanted to make Christmas very special for Ross, whose parents were also dead and who had not had a family Christmas for years. She had bought lots of decorations. Their tree was already set up and glittering with fairy lights; the rooms downstairs were swagged in tinsel. She had made a Christmas cake and several puddings; tomorrow she would make mince pies, jelly, trifle, all the traditional food of the season.
She walked into the bathroom, her hand still supporting her back, took off her nightie and dropped it into the woven linen basket, then, avoiding the sight of herself in the mirror, showered, closing her eyes with pleasure under the warm water. Stepping out a few moments later, she towelled herself and put on a robe before going back into the bedroom to get dressed.
Gloomily she surveyed the rack of maternity clothes—she hadn’t been able to afford a large range of them, and she hated the sight of them all by now, couldn’t wait to wear pretty clothes again, in her proper size. The warm cherry-red of a sweater looked cheerful, though. She took that out, and a thin floaty white shirt to wear under it, plus a pair of maternity jeans with an infinitely expandable waist.
Her feet were freezing; she put on two pairs of socks, and then comfortable slippers.
Housework was not her favourite occupation. Especially now that she found it almost impossible to bend down without discomfort, and couldn’t lean across tables to polish them.
Once, she had danced her way through the work, made it part of her daily exercise routine, using the backs of chairs as a barre. Not any more. Just getting through the necessary tasks was exhausting. The idea of ballet was something she simply pushed to the back of her mind.
As she brushed her hair she thought of herself two years ago, light as a feather... what had she been then, a size eight? She was only five foot one and had had a diminutive figure, her breasts small and high, her waist tiny, although her legs were quite long for her height. She had been slender and supple in her tights and black body as she’d rehearsed the new ballets Michael had choreographed for them. ‘Exercises for Lovers’ he had called it, and the title described it perfectly. Two people meeting, falling in love, parting in tears, coming together again. She had loved dancing it.
The intensity of concentration, the physical difficulty of some of the moves, had used up all her energy, but it had been the most rewarding time of her life. The discipline of that work had occupied every waking moment, obsessed her.
If only she-felt that way now! She had thought being pregnant would be as exciting and wonderful as rehearsing a new ballet. Nobody had warned her what it would really feel like.
How ironic that it had been that ballet which had brought Ross into her life and ended her career for ever, changed her body, her life, in ways she had never anticipated.
Stop thinking about it! she scolded herself, dropping the brush on the dressing table. Only another month and it will all be over. Just hold on to that thought.
Slowly she made her way downstairs and began work in the kitchen, washing up the breakfast things Ross had used, tidying the room before getting out the vacuum cleaner.
At midday, flushed and breathless, with swollen ankles, cramped calves, she sat down in the kitchen to eat some soup. Had she had breakfast? She couldn’t remember. Her brain was going too, now!
Once she had been so sure of herself and the future she wanted. She couldn’t be certain about anything any more; she didn’t recognise herself or Ross. Lifting her feet on to a foot stool, she bent to massage her left calf and at that moment the mobile phone began to ring.
He was ringing to say he
was sorry! Eagerly Dylan grabbed for the phone, which she had left on the table. She was so breathless she couldn’t say anything for a second, and before she could the caller spoke.
‘Hello? It’s me, darling—Suzy! I can’t hear you very well, Ross, the line keeps breaking up—can you hear me!’
Dylan opened her mouth to explain that it wasn’t Ross listening, but the other woman didn’t pause long enough to give her a chance.
‘Darling, I’m sorry. I’m going to be late. Alan hasn’t gone yet and I can’t get away without arousing his suspicions! ’
Dylan sat there, frozen in shock, holding the phone so tightly that her knuckles went white.
The other woman laughed. Laughed! Dylan’s teeth met.
‘Can’t wait to get to York. It’s going to be a wonderful night. Oh ... can’t talk any more, he’s coming back. See you soon, Ross.’
There was the sound of a kiss being blown, then the call ended abruptly.
Dylan didn’t move for a long, long time. She couldn’t believe what she had just heard; the words swirled around in her head. ‘Darling’ Suzy had called Ross, in that sultry, intimate voice, and talked about seeing him tonight in York. Hadn’t Ross said that Alan wouldn’t be at this conference? He was staying on duty so that there was someone covering this area of the forest.
That day, last autumn, when she’d seen Suzy and Ross together in the forest, she had told herself there could be a perfectly innocent reason for their being together, that she was crazy to jump to conclusions. But this time there couldn’t be any mistake. She wasn’t imagining that phone call or the way Suzy had talked, or what she had said. Suzy hadn’t wanted Alan to hear her; she couldn’t leave yet in case he guessed what was going on!
Slowly Dylan switched off the mobile phone and laid it down. When did they meet? Where did they meet? Obviously somewhere nearby—Ross hadn’t been away since their honeymoon. But he was often out all day and long into the night.
There was only one place where he could have a secret rendezvous—hidden deep among the trees where Ross spent a great deal of his working hours. Her teeth grating, Dylan thought of the small wooden hut where Ross kept many of his tools and instruments; she herself had met Ross there many times in the warmer months, taken him sandwiches and a flask of fresh coffee and stayed to talk for half an hour. Once or twice they had made love there on a low cot bed Ross used on the rare occasions when he had to work all night out in the forest on research projects.
That must be where he met Suzy. How long had it been going on? And how serious was it? Dylan dropped her head into her hands, pressed her palms to her hot, aching eyes. No wonder Ross hadn’t touched her for weeks. No wonder he had refused to take her with him. He’d said wives couldn’t go. The truth was, he was taking Suzy.
But how could he do that without it getting back to Alan? Was Suzy going to sneak into the hotel and keep out of sight? Would they have room service in their room instead of going down to dinner, and then make love all night? In the morning Ross would rejoin his colleagues and while they were in their final session of discussions Suzy would creep out and drive home to an unsuspecting Alan.
Dylan put a hand to her mouth, bit down on her fingers in a spasm of jealousy, to stop herself screaming. The thought of Ross with another woman was agony. She couldn’t bear it.
How could he do this to her? He had left her alone here, frightened and miserable, while he was with that blonde harpy. Poor Alan. He didn’t deserve what Suzy was doing to him. He adored his wife, thought she was wonderful. And all the time...
Rage flared inside her. Well, she wasn’t putting up with it! She was going, leaving Ross. And she wouldn’t be back.
Not giving herself time to calm down, she picked up the mobile phone and dialled her sister’s number. Jenny was out, no doubt doing last-minute Christmas shopping with her two little boys, but her answer-machine was switched on, so Dylan left a message on it.
‘Jen, I’m coming to stay for Christmas—leaving right away.’ she looked at her watch. Amazingly, only half an hour had passed since she’d sunk down here for a rest and a light snack lunch. It seemed an eternity.
Her voice husky, she went on, ‘It’s one o‘clock. I should get to the Lake District by about four. See you then. I’ll be alone. Ross isn’t coming with me. I’ll explain when I get there.’
Jenny had invited them to spend Christmas with her, but Dylan had wanted to spend those special days alone with Ross. The irony struck her forcibly as she slowly plodded back upstairs.
It didn’t take her long to pack. She left a note for Ross.
Suzy rang you on your mobile. I know all about it now, Ross. I’m going to Jenny. Don’t bother to come after me. We’re finished.
She dropped her wedding ring on top of the note. Her marriage was over. Barely a year—and it was over!
She refused to cry. She wasn’t breaking down again; he wasn’t worth it.
Her car was in the garage; the sight of it both saddened and comforted her. Michael had covered it with such enormous, exquisite flowers in metallic, vivid colours, pink and blue and yellow, with huge green leaves.
People stared when she drove into the village, but the little car was still in very good condition. Ross had offered to buy her a new car but she wouldn’t part with her flower wagon for anything. It was her last real link with her old life, with ballet and all her friends. None of them were great letter-writers. At first they had rung her occasionally, but it was months since she had heard from any of them. Michael had sent her a postcard from New York a week ago. He and the company were on the last leg of their tour and he was looking forward to opening there soon. Ross had seen the card on the kitchen table, picked it up and read it, scowling. He was still jealous. He wanted her to forget all about the life she had once led. It was alien to him; he had had no part of it.
‘Is he still writing to you?’ he had asked her, looking up with laser-bright eyes.
‘That’s the first I’ve heard from him in months.’
‘How’s he getting on with his new partner? She looks pretty sexy.’
‘I think Michael’s happy with her.’ She didn’t tell him that Michael had rung her the morning after the first night of this new ballet. It had been rapturously received, but Michael had not been entirely happy with Sasha’s performance.
‘She hasn’t got your fire or your vulnerability,’ he had said, sighing. ‘She’s a little cold.’
She had been secretly pleased to hear that.
‘I still think he’s gay,’ Ross had said.
She’d shaken her head. Michael was intensely masculine, a very powerful man with incredible muscle power although he was so thin. But she knew why Ross wanted to believe Michael was gay. He found it hard to believe that her relationship with Michael had been platonic; they had been partners, friends, colleagues, never lovers, but Ross did not believe in platonic relationships.
As she set off she looked up uncertainly at the sky. There was definitely snow in those clouds. But with any luck she should reach Jenny’s house before the first flake began to fall.
Ruth Nicholls heard the noises just as she was making her lunch. She knew what they meant. ‘Oh, no!’ she groaned. “Fred’s trying to escape again!’
Cleo gazed at her cynically, green eyes aslant.
‘Don’t look at me like that! I know what you’re thinking! What else can I do with him in this weather? He’d freeze to death outside,’ Ruth snapped. ‘And stop staring at my chicken. You aren’t having any of it.’
The thudding noises grew louder. Ruth went to the kitchen window to stare down the garden. The walls of the shed were visibly shuddering under the onslaught.
Angrily, Ruth marched to the back door. ‘I wish I’d never brought him here! He is more trouble than he’s worth.’
Cleo agreed; she detested Fred, who kept trying to murder her, not that he had any chance of succeeding. Cleo was far too quick-witted and fast-moving. She could also read minds. Especially Fred
’s. He had a low-grade mind, cunning yet stupid. Cleo didn’t even have to look at him to know what he was thinking. She lived on a much higher plane. She had been a queen in Egypt and she never forgot it.
For a second she considered accompanying Ruth to watch what happened to Fred, but other impulses prevailed. A delicious fragrance wafted to her; she hummed softly to herself as she leapt upwards. By the time Ruth had reached the shed Cleo was on the kitchen table eating the thinly sliced chicken laid out on a plate, delicately separating it from the uneatable heaps of salad.
Why did that woman eat all this green stuff? Very occasionally Cleo ate a morsel or two of grass, for private and personal reasons, but Ruth actually appeared to enjoy mounds of herbiage. It was inexplicable, but then most of Ruth’s actions seemed extraordinary to Cleo.
From the end of the garden Ruth’s voice rose angrily. ‘You brute! You stupid, destructive animal! Look what you’ve done! It will take me hours to put those shelves back up again.’
Cleo had finished her snack. She lazily turned her elegant head in time to see Ruth hurtling backwards at great speed before she tumbled on to the grass. A streak of grey flashed away up the garden. Cleo yawned in disgust. Fred had won again. When would that woman ever learn?
Oh, well, time to go and take a look at the damage he had done to the inside of the shed. Cleo liked to keep a close eye on everything that happened within her domain.
She stepped out of the open kitchen door then paused, shivering, throwing a glance upwards. Livid, low-sagging clouds massed overhead; there was a strange deadness to the light Wrinkling her nose, Cleo breathed the icy air.
Yes, no doubt about it. Those strange, cold, white things were coming again. She remembered them from other winters. She liked to watch them falling down, if she was feeling kittenish she might even dance on her hind legs to catch them, taste them on her tongue, but they made it very difficult to get about. You sank down into them and they were wet and cold. Cleo hated her smooth, sleek coat to get wet.
The Yuletide Child Page 8