Tortured Hearts - Twisted Tales of Love - Volume 3

by Jacqueline Pye

  Half an hour later when Charles entered the bedroom, he was aware of a feeling of frost. Grace could chill a room faster than an air-conditioning unit when she chose.

  “What was he doing in the kitchen?” she asked, her consonants clipped.

  “Nothing.”

  “I mean, why was he in the kitchen?” The tone was exasperated.

  “He lives here, darling.” He tried to nuzzle her neck, but she moved away.

  “If he is to live here at all, it must be in the garden. That’s what dog kennels are for.”

  “He’s never had a kennel.”

  “Well, buy one tomorrow.” With that, she put herself neatly into bed and turned out her bedside light.

  Young, or in their case, not so young, love being what it is, it took no more than a few minutes of gentle persuasion from Charles to restore happy marital relations and the room was decidedly warmer when they eventually drifted off to sleep.

  They were woken by a scraping noise at the bedroom door. Grace sat up in bed with a jerk.

  “Burglars, Charles,” she whispered. “Call the police. You couldn’t have set the alarm.”

  “It’s only Eggy,” he said, drowsily, trying to pull Grace back into his arms. “He’s used to sleeping in here with me.”

  “What? In the bedroom?”

  Was it disgust or horror he heard? He sighed. He didn’t tell her that Eggy had always slept on his bed. He and Eggy were going to have to mount a charm offensive to overcome her prejudice. The dog was good at that, would roll over with his paws in the air at any hint of disapproval. It was part of what made him so lovable. One of his friends owned a Rottweiler, almost uncontrollable. That was an animal to be frightened of, not like dear, old Eggy, with his sloppy kisses.

  “He’s going to ruin the paintwork,” she hissed at him. “Take him downstairs and shut him in the cellar, or something.”

  Charles put on a robe and left the room. Eggy bounded down the stairs with him, certain either a walk or a snack was on the cards. Charles led him to his basket by the Aga and gave him a chew.

  “There, old boy,” he said, stroking the dog’s ears. “Have to stay down here for a while until the old girl gets to like you.” He sat on the floor with him and stayed for a while, reluctant to leave his faithful companion to a lonely night in the kitchen.

  When he finally returned to bed, Grace was asleep. He lay awake, listening to Eggy’s mournful barks from the kitchen and the sound of his paws scraping on the door. Luckily, Grace, not tuned as he was to the needs of his hound, was not woken by these sounds.

  Matters did not improve over the next few weeks. Poor Eggy was banished from the house when Grace was around. Charles made up for it by walking him more often. Hampstead Heath was their preferred playground. They romped in the sunshine and tramped happily in the rain. He was slightly sad to realise that, most of the time, he and Eggy had more fun together than he and Grace.

  He felt disloyal to Eggy, though, in admitting to himself that he preferred Grace in his bed. Dog might be man’s best friend but the pleasure derived from Grace’s supple and perfumed body beat Eggy’s bedtime charms hands down. Eggy farted richly. Grace didn’t fart at all.

  Grace ordered a splendid kennel from Harrods. Eggy hated it. Charles let him continue to sleep in the kitchen. Grace hated that.

  Eggy’s barking at night kept Grace awake. His claws dug grooves in the kitchen door. Charles and Grace had their first real fight.

  “He can’t help it, darling,” he said. “He has always slept upstairs with me. I don’t think he is going to give in until I let him come upstairs again.”

  “He’s not coming upstairs in my house.” Heavy emphasis on the “my”, Charles noticed. He couldn’t understand how a woman so soft and loving could turn into cold stone in an instant. “And the kitchen door needs to be repaired.” She left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Charles’ ability to coax her coldness into passion began to wane. The bedroom became the chilliest room in the house.

  Eggy somehow got hold of one of Grace’s new shoes and left teeth marks on the heel and chewed through the ankle strap.

  “My new Jimmy Choo’s! That’s the final straw. That dog has to go. Today.”

  Charles rang his friend, who agreed to help. He loaded the car with Eggy’s toys and basket and the two of them walked Hampstead Heath together. Charles kicked the ground moodily, while Eggy jumped around him, waiting for a game. He remembered all the good times they had had. Eggy had always been there for him. Now he was turning his back on his best friend. The dog had snuggled up to him when he was lonely, made him laugh when he needed cheering up.

  He drove to his friend’s house, feeling like a traitor. He blinked back tears as he walked down the garden path without him.

  The compensation Grace attempted to provide, affectionate and gracious in victory, made him feel worse.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” he said, rolling over onto his side of the bed. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Perhaps I’m coming down with the flu.”

  She turned her back on him. “Perhaps you need Viagra,” was the sharp retort.

  Matters didn’t improve. He pined for his best friend and couldn’t perform to Grace’s satisfaction. She took to singing the Rolling Stones hit in the bedroom. They had only been married for three months and he felt he had made the worst mistake of his life.

  Her friends came to tea and stopped talking when he entered the room, knowing smirks on their faces.

  He visited Eggy. “He’s off his food,” said his friend. Charles sat on the floor and cuddled Eggy. They put their heads together and smooched. Charles took him on the heath and they had a great time. He blew his nose hard and wiped his eyes when he left the dog behind again.

  Grace was out when he arrived home. She was out a lot lately. They hadn’t been out together for weeks. He didn’t like her friends much anyway. He slumped in front of the television, wondering how his life could have fallen apart like this.

  Grace came in late, clearly tipsy.

  “The Delavigne’s have asked me to join them on holiday,” she said, slurring her words. “I didn’t think you would want to go.”

  “No,” he agreed. “Where are you going?”

  “Sardinia. They’re chartering a boat. We leave at the weekend.” She collapsed onto the sofa and kicked off her shoes. “It’s not working between us, is it, Charles? I’ll be away for three weeks. Perhaps you would be so good as to move out before I return.”

  “What?” He was unhappy, but he hadn’t thought that Grace felt the same. “I’ve got nowhere to go.”

  “Not my problem, darling. Go and stay with one of your friends. Anyway, I’m off to bed. You might as well use the spare room. Good night.” She lifted herself off the sofa and staggering slightly, left him.

  He saw a friend the next day and made arrangements. He returned to an empty house in the late afternoon. Closing the kitchen door, he went into the drawing room and had a brandy. He wondered what time she would come home tonight.

  He hadn’t long to wait. The sound of her keys in the door alerted him.

  “Hello,” she said. “You’re still here then.” Her tone was friendly, but brittle. “I’m going out to dinner, just came home to change. Dying for a cup of tea though. Would you be an angel and make me one?”

  “Sorry,” he said, putting his brandy glass down and getting up. “I was going up for a quick shower before going out myself. I’m a bit late.”

  As he left the room and climbed the stairs, he heard her heels clacking on the hall tiles as she went down the corridor to the kitchen. He smiled and listened.

  He heard a snarl, menacing growls and a shrill scream. Then scuffling noises and more screams, rising in volume. The hairs on his arms rose at the sounds.

  “Help! Charles! Nooo….” The screams ceased abruptly, but the scuffling, snarling noises continued. Tiptoeing back downstairs, he peered over the banister rail. The kitchen door was cl
osed but thumping and dragging noises came from the other side. He went down the corridor and put his ear to the door. He heard slobbering and snuffling noises that made his blood freeze.

  “Grace? Grace,” he called, “are you all right?”

  There was no reply. He went to the phone and dialled the emergency services.

  “Ambulance, please. We may need the police as well. There’s been an accident with a dog….”

  He had only agreed to look after his friend’s Rottweiler for the afternoon, he told the police later. They had to shoot the dog in order to remove what was left of poor Grace. The ambulance men collected chewed pieces from all round the kitchen floor before they could zip up the body bag. He closed the kitchen door on the bloody mess after they had gone. His cleaning lady could deal with that.

  Eggy came home the next day.

  Cutting out the Cancer

  So. This was it, Mary realised. This was how she was to escape. Narrowing her blue eyes behind her tortoiseshell glasses, she squinted at the light box on the wall. The mass was obvious. A huge, dark shape on her brain, sucking away on her very essence. Not the first leech she had encountered in her fifty one years on earth, she thought bitterly. How ironic that her life should be taken away early, when she had never even really lived.

  The consultant’s voice snapped her back to his words. She ran her unadorned fingers along the hem of her woollen cardigan as she allowed him to spout on, spitting words like ‘prognosis’ and ‘end-stage’ out into the space between them.

  Drawing breath, Mary stared him straight in the eye.

  “Doctor, just tell me straight please, how long?”

  The man’s shoulders sagged at her words. It’s relief, Mary thought. He is relieved to cut to the chase.

  “Mrs Chandler, you have about 6 months to a year. I am so sorry. The tumour is in such a place that we just cannot operate, but we can start a course of…”

  Mary shook her head, causing her immaculate bun to release a wisp of greying hair. The doctor noticed how small and neat the woman looked. She looked ten years older than her years, a small, dowdy woman dressed in brown, clunky shoes and carpet bag to match her autumn look.

  “Doctor, I have no interest in prolonging the inevitable, I assure you. I understand the situation.” And with his protests ringing in her ears, she turned and left.

  As she opened the doors and walked to her modest box car, she took note of the life around her. Families walking around, wailing children, infirm pensioners, pregnant women. How strange that she would miss out on all these stages. Middle age to death in two easy stages. No lines, no waiting.

  She had been a child once she imagined, but having no pictures or warm, fuzzy childhood recollections to recall, she had always felt like the middle aged woman that she was. Oh, she had memories alright, but not many she wished to recall. Her mother, Kathy Chandler, was a driving force in her life, always had been, and Mary had never managed to break free of her, or her tyrannous ways. Even Mary’s father had died early to escape his own wife.

  Mary’s father was a wonderful man, a well-read man of books and imagination, of life and adventure. She had often stayed awake nights remembering his smell, the way he felt when he snuggled her into bed and read her stories of Huck Finn, Moby Dick, and Gulliver’s Travels. Stories full of love, and friendship, and the journeys of heroes. These story times were the best times of her life. It came as no surprise that she ended up as a librarian. Her mother was incensed, disgusted at her choice to work such a dull job. Mary was all too aware of her mother’s aspirations for her, but a Stepford wife of some rich dullard, being neither an actual job or life path she could even stomach, did not happen. Her father was ecstatic that she had dug her heels in for once in her life and taken the job. He called her the vault keeper of worlds; which in a way, she supposed she was.

  Adoring her job came easy. It was a means of being close to her father and the times they shared. Working in a building full of words was a dream come true for her, she would live there if she could. Anything but return home to her matriarchal captor.

  Her father had slipped away one night, in his bed, after a short illness. It came so fast and unexpectedly that Mary never really understood what had happened. Her mother, Kathy was tight-lipped about his demise and had forbidden talk of his death, or even his life. It was as though he never existed. Mary, as a timid and fragile six year old girl, had simply learned to stop asking, but she never stopped wondering what had happened.

  From that day to this, the two of them had lived in the same house together, and although she was now a grown woman of means, slipping out of her mother’s shadow was the biggest non-achievement of her life. The biggest, but not the only.

  Mary reached the car and leant against it to catch her breath. Her hands shaking, she reached for the locket around her neck. Gasping huge mouthfuls of air, she waited for her beating heart to slow down and then opened the gold clasp. Her father had left this locket for her after his death, along with the house and everything in it. Her mother had been incensed at the time, and trashed her father’s name around town. She loved to play the poor, lone widow, making her late husband out to be the villain of the piece, and her only child as the spoilt princess. She had tried to contest the will even, but her lawyers advised her that trying to take a house from a six year old girl would not paint a good picture for the locals, and as Mary was a minor, she would still have the house to raise her child in. So her mother had relented, using the bitter taste left in her mouth to continually spit acid at her young charge at every opportunity since.

  Staring at the tarnished heirloom, the picture of her father alongside hers swam and blurred as her eyes teared up. At least she would join him soon. They would once again be together, free to pursue the adventures that they had only ever read about in life. Let the old bitch die alone, she thought, suddenly surprised at her inward strength. Mary the mouse, as she was known locally, had suddenly developed a roar that only impeding death and the first sweet taste of freedom could conjure. Closing the locket, she carefully placed it under her dress and over her heart, then headed for home.

  ****

  Silently slipping her key in the front door, Mary entered her lifelong dwelling and quietly pushed the door to a click. Crossing the porch, she slithered her clunky brogues from her feet and placed her foot on the bottom step.

  “Mary? Mary, is that you? Where have you been? The library closed two hours ago!”

  Sighing, Mary wearily dropped her shoulders and headed for the lounge. She had hoped for a nap before dealing with her mother. Her head ached, her shoulders sagged. The morning had taken quite a toll on her. She entered the room.

  Sitting in her chair, cane in hand, her mother stared at her from her close-set, brown eyes.

  “Well? I asked you a question, Young Lady….where have..”

  Mary took stock of the figure before her as it prattled on from its throne. Her mother was a harpy, a bitter, twisted woman who did nothing but look down on everyone else. Why had she been so scared of this woman for so long? She had wasted her life, she realised now. Mary had so many plans, of becoming a writer, a wife, a mother. She had imagined her childhood home many times; full of books, life and laughter; of grandbabies, love, games and Sunday roasts. She had imagined her and her husband sitting on the porch, reading Byron and watching the world go by, just as she and her father had. But this house was a prison, a breathless, vacuum packed mausoleum. Her father’s things were whipped away as soon as his lifeless body was, and replaced with gaudy porcelain dolls and doilies. She hated this house. Not only for what it was, but also for what it had never become.

  “Mary Francis Chandler, ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME? I AM TALKING TO YOU!”

  Her mother was venomous now. Mary shuddered as she saw spittle foaming at the corners of her mouth, her puckered, old lips pulled into a grimace. This woman was the creator of her life and the destroyer of it too. Brain tumour shmain tumour, this woman was the real parasite
.

  Speaking in a low voice that rose to a crescendo, she finally acknowledged her mother. “I heard you, mother. Now for once in your life, you will listen TO ME.”

  Mary watched the wizened figure snap back in the chair, physically recoiling from her retort. Stifling the sudden bubbling urge to slap her face, she smiled at her mother; an eerie, unsettling smile. Kathy stared at her daughter, a mixture of shock and disbelief dancing in her piggy eyes. Not once in her life had she ever talked back to her.

  “H-how dare you, I am your mother!”

  Mary’s head pulsed with the pain of her headache. Now or never she thought. I either get rid of her once and for all, or make a plan to join Father even faster than the tumour express. Sitting down in her father’s old chair, the one piece of him that still remained, the chair she had cried for and protected at six years old, she fingered the patch she had sown lovingly onto the left arm, where her father had once leant his books and worn a hole in the fabric. Being in this chair always made her feel closer to him, and stronger, as though his essence had lingered somehow. She stared across at the old woman and grinned.

  “Mother, you are the utter bane of my life. For once in your life, you will shut your mouth and listen to me. I want you OUT... today... gone for good. I will pay for a nursing home, flat, whatever, but you will take your bony arse and your useless shit and you will leave my house today. I never want to hear from you again, let alone stare at you for another minute longer than I have already endured. Understand?”

  Mary enjoyed the stunned look on the old bitch’s face before she added, “Oh, and Mother Dearest, I have already changed my will. Upon my death everything will be sold and the money will go to the library. So make the most of my picking up the tab for your care while you can, for once I am gone, you will have to find another donor to suck blood from.”