by K T Bowes
“Mummy!” Nicky called after her, distress evident in his voice. “Come back!”
Emma halted while his pattering footsteps caught her up. Her breath came in shallow hitches, not enough to oxygenate her body and her head swum with a lightness which was eerie in the early morning gloom. “We’ll catch the bus,” she panted and after a quick glance back at Rohan, Nicky honoured an old allegiance and sided with Emma.
His tiny hand in hers felt cold and Emma bit her lip and tried not to cry. Freezing fog shrouded the tree lined driveway and they reached the end as Rohan pulled up alongside. He wound the window down and matched the car to their walking speed. “Get in the bloody car, Em!”
She turned her face away, her body rigid with pain and stubbornness. “No thanks. I’ll buy my own and use that.” She heard Rohan blow out through his lips in frustration. Nicky dropped his bag in the tension and Emma bent and retrieved it, glaring at her son as the swear word tumbled from his lips.
“I told you, I’d help you choose a good car,” came Rohan’s voice again and Emma felt something ping in her chest.
“Yes, but I don’t want you to!” she shouted. “You told me a lot of things but none of it was true. I don’t want anything from you!” Her lips curled back in a sneer as she pointed back at the manor house squatting on the hill like a guilty eavesdropper. “Please be out of my house before I get home tonight, or I’ll burn it!”
“Emma!” Rohan yanked the handbrake on and stepped out of the car. In his confusion he forgot to take it out of gear and it lurched forwards and stalled. The action threw him against the side of the vehicle and a look of pain crossed his face as his leg twisted in the prosthesis. “What’s wrong with you?” He spoke through gritted teeth and Nicky looked up at his mother, his face full of misery.
“What’s happening, Mummy?”
Emma’s poor parenting opened up before her like a void, judging her for involving her son in her relationship mess. Her memory lied to her, telling her it was easier when it was just the two of them, wrapped up neatly in each other without strife. It glossed over her poverty and the awfulness of her circumstances, offering retreat and false security through omission. Emma Andreyev compounded her crimes, heaping on the final indignity as she turned towards her stricken son and unloaded. “Daddy lied to us about when he really got home, baby. He’d been in Harborough for a few days before he deigned to visit us. It appears he has someone else at his old house whom he’d rather spend time with; a certain attractive, well dressed lady. That’s what’s happening, sweetheart.” Her smile was watery and ineffective and Nicky peered round her with a stare of accusation aimed at his father’s astounded face.
“Dolan!” Rohan spat his adversary’s name with bile and shook his head. “Emma, get in the car and I’ll tell you what you need to know. Please?”
“No, thanks! I don’t have the energy to play your games.” Emma stuck her head in the air, infuriated with the hot tear which coursed down her left cheek. She swiped it away, registering it as a betrayal and heard Nicky sniffling next to her. She tugged at the child’s arm and set off down the last few metres of the driveway.
“Emma! You’re upsetting Nicky!”
It was the greatest of insults to Emma’s fragile heart and crossed a line beyond which there was no recovery. She let go of Nicky’s hand and stalked back to the vehicle, her face ablaze with rage. “Don’t you dare criticise my parenting!” she yelled at the top of her voice. “You don’t have the right!” She screamed the last word and swung the bag in her hand. It hit the passenger door with a deafening clang and a long dent appeared in the bodywork as the brick nestling in her son’s homework wrought vengeance for her.
Rohan stood with his hands on the roof of the car and looked at his wife with sadness in his stunning blue eyes. As Nicky broke into a full scale wail, Emma hurried back to him and let them out of the metal gates and onto the wide rural road. They navigated the fast cars of another rush hour and arrived at the bus stop on the other side, both tearful and devastated, gripping each other for comfort.
At school, Nicky didn’t want to go into class and Mrs Clarke looked at Emma with a raised eyebrow. Emma’s tears hovered so close to the surface, she managed a tiny, pitiful smile and the kind teacher patted her hand and distracted her son. “Right Nicky,” Mrs Clarke said, “you can help me wipe the blackboard.”
Emma hid in the ladies’ toilets and sobbed her heart out, pressing a fist into her mouth to muffle the noise.
“Emma? What’s wrong? Mrs Clarke said you’re upset. Why aren’t you getting the photos ready?” Freda’s voice sounded tinny in the worn bathroom and Emma blew her nose without elegance. “Is that you crying?” The old lady tapped on the door with her fragile knuckles. “I rode my scooter here. I want to show it to you.”
Emma sniffed loudly and dried her face on toilet paper. It was such poor quality it stuck to parts of her face. It was a puffy eyed and sweaty Emma who emerged from the stall, running her hands over her cheeks to dislodge the tissue. Freda knitted her brow at the state of her and drew her into a gentle embrace. “Dear girl, what on earth’s happened?”
Emma shook her head, knowing if she started she wouldn’t be able to stop. She inhaled deeply and took stock of herself in the mirror, shocked at what her crying had produced. “Please don’t make me talk about it here?” she begged. “Maybe another day?”
Freda smiled. “Of course, dear.” She stroked Emma’s heaving shoulder and stepped across to the basin, running the cold tap with vigour. “Let’s douse those frog eyes with some water, shall we? Or you’ll terrify poor Sam.” The old woman’s ministrations were tender as she dabbed at Emma’s face with a wet paper towel. Her easy maternalism spoke to something deep in Emma’s heart and as fast as Freda cooled one eye, the other leaked painful tears.
Freda cocked her head like a little bird and smiled at her, patting her cheek with compassion in her eyes. “You remind me of myself,” she crooned. “The day I learned Geoffrey Ayers wouldn’t be coming home from the war. I decided when he returned I’d claim him as my father and social rules be damned. I didn’t want the grandeur of Wingate Hall or any riches he could offer; just my father’s arms around me, telling me everything would be ok.” Freda’s eyes took on a faraway look, the pupils dilating as she entered another time and place in her mind. “I cried so hard I thought I’d break. Years later I watched a tsunami devastate a small town and it reminded me of that moment of pure sorrow.” She looked up and focussed on Emma. “Is that how you feel?”
Emma took stock of herself and shook her head. “No. When my father died I felt like I couldn’t breathe and when Rohan went back to the army and left me pregnant with Nicky, it was terrible. My tsunami moment was when Lucya died after taking me in and mothering me. Nicky and I were her whole world and she just dropped dead. I felt abandoned. I couldn’t see a way out; everything seemed too dark to see. But now? Now I’m just angry and feel very stupid.” Emma swallowed and felt the agonised hitch of her chest as her lungs spasmed. The deep breath got stuck half way and she repeated the exercise. “Thanks Freda, for the clarity. I’ve been through worse and survived.” Emma squared her shoulders and splashed water on her face, running the wetness through her dark hair to tame the rampant curls.
“Good.” Freda nodded. “Let’s name and scan some photos. I have a date just after elevenses.”
“A date?” Emma sniffed and used the bottom of her blouse to pat her face dry. Amusement lit her dark eyes. “I don’t think I’ll allow it.”
Freda simpered and did a wobbly pirouette. “You’ll have to run after my scooter to stop me.”
Emma laughed, her heart lighter at the realisation she would live to fight another day. Rohan’s infidelity was debauched, but not disastrous. Anton made sure of Emma’s future security in his clever legal wording which bound everything into a trust. Despite their marriage, Rohan could take nothing financial from her; not that he needed it.
Stepbrother and brother-in-law in
life, Anton watched Emma’s stubborn poverty with dismay as she shook her head at his offers of help. In death, he provided security, ensuring she always had a home. ‘From Russia, with love,’ his will decreed and Emma heaved another sigh, this time of relief.
The women poured over the sepia faces of teachers and pupils long since gone and Emma became engrossed in her task. Time ticked along as Freda filled in names she remembered, writing in her copperplate script with pencil and a notepad. “I can’t recall them all, dear,” she apologised, using a magnifying glass to stare at a dark eyed face sitting along from her younger self. She pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves and pointed to a name in the register of admission. The binding was fragile and the pages yellowing and age speckled. She tapped her index finger. “I think that’s her name. I remember it being an unusual name for the time; Charity Gillespie. Yes, that’s sounding right.” Freda sighed and leaned back in the rickety seat. Removing her glasses, she rubbed at her eyes. “I haven’t been much use, Emma. I’m disappointed with myself.”
Emma flipped her hands out of the white gloves and reached across, running her fingers along Freda’s upper arm. “Don’t be silly, Freda! I wouldn’t have known how old half these photos were without you! Heaps of them aren’t dated and nobody else would be able to guess the year by the height of the ivy growing up the building. I think we’ve got most of them named and dated thanks to you. Hopefully nobody will mind if we’ve messed up the sequence of a few.”
“Probably more than a few.” Freda smirked. She turned and gripped Emma’s wrist in surprisingly strong fingers. “Have you told anyone yet?”
The colour drained from Emma’s face and she shook her head. “I know I should. I just don’t know how.”
“It has to be done, my love. And soon. Are you afraid they’ll end your contract?”
“No.” Emma shook her head. “A few months ago it would have been devastating to lose the income but things are different now. Anton’s gift changed everything. I could volunteer but it occurred to me, you might be grateful for the wage if I could persuade them.”
Freda smiled and her eyes filled with tears. “Fancy you thinking of me. You’re such a precious child. My John left me properly provided for, but thank you for your kind thought.” She knitted her brow and looked Emma in the eye. “Just because you have security doesn’t mean your time becomes valueless, Emma. You deserve to be paid for the hours you do. I’m different. I’m a ninety year old woman with no place else to be and my time is my gift to them. If you want to help them, tell Mr Dalton the truth about his celebration and if they want to continue, perhaps make an anonymous donation to help them get underway.”
“That’s a good idea,” Emma nodded. She looked at Freda, her eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that; about time being valueless?”
Freda rolled her eyes. “Experience, my dear. I once refused payment for something I was entitled to. I worked the hours and then denied the pay. It caused great awkwardness and I sensed an inexplicable loss of status, even though my motives were good. I don’t know what they used my wage to buy, but it didn’t go where I hoped it might. Somehow I became lesser because of it. When we ran out of supplies, instead of using the unspent salary to purchase them, everyone turned to me and expected another radical act of generosity as though I was their provider and not God. No, Emma. You earn it so you take it. If you give it back afterwards, do so and let it go. Knowing how a donation is used often invites offence.”
Emma nodded and let the advice sink into her brain. Freda stood and waited until her old bones settled enough to walk. “I must be off. I want to primp my hair before my date.” She winked at Emma.
“Who’s your date?” Emma asked, feeling the unquenchable need to know.
“Oh, he’s just a lonely old man. He won’t get my money and he certainly won’t get into my underwear. John was my soulmate and nobody else comes even close. This gentleman’s someone new to thrash at Scrabble and that’s enough to be going on with.”
Emma walked Freda to the front entrance and saw her safely onto the bright red disabled scooter. “What did you do?” she asked as Freda turned the key and the little motor sprang to life. “What wage did you refuse?”
“I taught in Nepal at a poor school in the rural villages. At first they were insulted by my refusal to take their wage and then they learned to take advantage. I became a free resource to be used and abused; my time and skills held no value anymore. When John decided enough was enough and I quit, the little school closed. They enjoyed ten years of my free time and stopped budgeting for a teacher. It meant they couldn’t employ anyone after me and I was too burnt out to stay. So I did them great harm with my generosity and ruined something good.”
“No, they ruined it, not you!” Emma’s indignation made her forehead crease and Freda patted her hand with mittened fingers.
“Emma, remember this, child. The best things in life are not free. Someone always bears the cost and sometimes not willingly. Every action has a consequence.” With a wave of her hand she raced through the open front gate, her wavy hair billowing from underneath her woolly hat.
Emma pulled the heavy metal gate closed and heard the catch click shut. She bit her lip and steeled herself to take Freda’s advice. For every action there is a consequence. “Yes, Rohan Andreyev!” she hissed into the wind. Her mind strayed to the person who hid the plaque and misled whole generations about the age of the school. It was time for Emma to do what she did best; research.
Chapter 11
Rohan didn’t come home that night or the next. Twice he tried to see Emma at school and both times she closed the office door in his face. “If you keep turning up here, I’ll ask Miriam in the front office to call the police,” she stated with her lips pulled thin over her teeth and her eyes flashing with danger. Emma was glad Freda didn’t see either altercation, knowing she’d be mortified by their break up.
Freda was away for a few days, razzing around town on her new scooter with the gentleman friend with matching wheels, so fortunately only Sam was present when Emma issued her ultimatum for the third time. “I mean it, Rohan. I’ve nothing to say to you. Until you’re prepared to tell the truth, don’t bother coming to see me.”
Sam watched in confusion as Emma gave a wooden smile and closed the office door behind her, keeping the men apart and attempting to do her dirty washing without an audience. “You need to leave!” she hissed in the tiny corridor outside the toilets, Rohan’s strong chest just millimetres from her face. Emma groaned as a junior class of eight-year-olds trotted past the end of the corridor on their way to a singing assembly, fortunately bouncing straight ahead without seeing the couple standing stiffly apart. “Please go!” Emma repeated, her words hissing through her teeth.
“We’re not done, Em. And you know I can’t tell you everything about my work, so this isn’t fair.” His voice was low and deep, rumbling seductively as he leaned against the door frame. Emma felt tiny in comparison, Rohan’s body far too close. He reached for a curl. “At least let me leave you the car. The bus takes too long and Nicky hates it.”
“That’s nothing to do with you!” Emma bit, smiling at an infant who arrived at the sink next to Sam’s office and dumped a container of dirty paint water in it.
“Hello, Miss Harrington,” the child said, her blonde pigtails swinging as nosiness made her walk into the wall.
“Hello, Keisha,” Emma replied. “I hope there’s as much paint on your paper as on your face.”
The child giggled and skipped off along the corridor, her pleated skirt swinging around her spindly legs. Emma leaned sideways and righted the paint pot, stopping the brown liquid from dripping down the side of the porcelain and onto the floor. It pivoted on the top of a mountain of dirty palettes, brushes and plastic cups, waiting for the classroom assistant to wash them with her bevy of enthusiastic but messy helpers. Emma fought the desire to do it herself, giving her an excuse to turn her back on Rohan.
His strong fingers on t
he top of Emma’s arm swung her easily and she felt her back hit the wall with a tiny thud. Rohan’s tall body blocked her from view as he leaned into her. Emma closed her eyes and resisted his scent, which tumbled through her head invoking memories of loving and being loved by him. His breath smelled of mint as it stroked her cheek and lips, his face close. Rohan’s lips twitched and his blue eyes danced, vibrant and full of challenge. “Miss Harrington?” he asked. “You’ve already abandoned the name I gave you?” Rohan overshadowed Emma physically and emotionally and she sensed it was deliberate.
The back of her head bumped the wall as she looked up at him, her brown eyes narrowed in anger. It was pointless telling him she signed her contract as Emma Harrington, penned in the days before Rohan reinstated their marriage. Only Mr Dalton used her married name because only he knew it. “So what?” she said instead, her voice shaking. Rohan’s proximity confused her, his sexuality demanding a reaction and her temper readying itself to deliver an alternative. “Married people share things, Rohan. They share their dreams and desires, their troubles and their truths. All we’ve ever shared is a bed and a son. It’s not enough. Go back to your secrets and half lies and leave us out of it.”
“You knew what I was.” His voice was lilting as Rohan’s steady hand stroked the soft skin below Emma’s bottom lip, soothing her temper despite her need to maintain it. His calculated touch was always timed to reduce her resolve to rubble with little effort. Rohan’s eyes never left her face, sparkling like jewels as he sensed her weakness. His lips dropped to hers and Emma turned her face away, feeling the heat of Rohan’s mouth on her neck. As he pinched the skin between his teeth she knew that was his target all along, the sacred erogenous zone between her shoulder and jaw.