It felt important to give Claire a strong sense of regret for cheating on Pete all those years ago. She wonders if the bad choice she made back then has manifested itself in her present poor health, like a type of karma. I wanted to show her looking backwards all the time, even as the final days of her life draw to a close. Yet Pete is focussed on the future, he’s constantly looking ahead. I trust that by the end of the story it’s clear that Claire is now also sharing his view.
Illness is something that leaves most of us vulnerable and helpless. That powerlessness felt like a strong motivator for the story. I hope the reader connects with that yearning for control, and can understand how Claire is driven to do what she does, despite her fears. But mostly I hope the reader just enjoys it.
The Shuttle
Shaun Hamilton
Finally! After three years of being on the market and a glutton of pisstakers viewing under false pretenses they sold the house. They’d had to drop the asking price by seventy thousand but still walked away with twenty thousand profit, all of which they put down on the deposit for their new place: a four-bedroom detached house in the middle of the North Wales countryside. Their dream ‘family’ home. And they were proper bedrooms. Three doubles and a single. Not like the two double, one barely single and shoe box they were leaving behind. They were finally out of city living. Urban to rural. Moving closer to his parents - who didn’t necessarily need care but appreciated their son and daughter-in-law’s close proximity following a series of health scares.
“No more breathing in industrial fumes,” Sally said to her husband, closing the door on the removal men with a sigh of relief at discovering nothing broken - yet.
“You mean no more breathing in tyre factory shit!” Paul responded, kissing her deeply before leading her into the christening of their hallway. That night they continued their love-making in the lounge where they slept on the sofa, tired and drunk. Heavy wooden beds were too much to build after travelling 107 miles from England to Wales, unpacking all the kitchen essentials, drinking numerous bottles of Becks and eating chicken chow mein.
It took them four days to empty boxes that had taken four weeks to fill.
The place was perfect for them. Even their parents – notoriously impossible to please in unison - agreed the couple “had got a lot for their money.”
“How?” Sally’s mother had asked; a woman with an eye for a bargain.
“According to the estate agent, the guy’s wife died six months ago and he just wanted rid of it,” Sally answered sadly. “Too many memories I suppose”.
“How’d she die?” Paul’s dad asked, hungry for morbid details.
“He didn’t say and we didn’t ask,” Paul responded. “Besides, I don’t mean to sound cruel but her death led to our benefit. If she hadn’t copped it we’d never have been able to afford this place.”
“Fair point, well made,” said his dad proudly.
For Sally, the house gave her a large conservatory-kitchen. For Paul, it was the picturesque farmland behind them and the pub at the end of their cul-de-sac. Along with multiple toilets, patio doors and a driveway in which they could park both cars and still do a U-turn, they had just about all of their boxes ticked. The only slight downer was the dust: a by-product of the quarry five miles down the road. Its main feature was the hi-rise plant overlooking the surrounding woodland by a good few storeys. Known locally as The Shuttle, the fifty-metre concrete tower gained the name because of its supposed resemblance to the gargantuan monstrosity used by NASA when launching the Space Shuttle. In reality, it was more like a seventies social housing block without the windows - but the aerospace description was deemed more romantic. What Paul found strange was: now that he was here, the structure was always in his sight – either directly ahead or just on the edge of his peripheral vision. But when they were looking for a new home, had fallen in love with the village and ultimately the house, he hadn’t even registered its existence.
“How the hell did you miss that?” Sally asked after Paul’s spluttering at the sight. “It’s like Blackpool Tower! It’s a beacon for anyone within a ten mile radius.”
“Christ knows, but I did.”
“Whatever. It’s still better than breathing in burnt rubber. We shouldn’t really moan about a sprinkling of sand. It’s like being at the beach.” That was the last said on the subject – because neither one, no matter how many times they drove past, ever actually noticed The Shuttle.
Now they were in, it was time to once again start the longed-for family. Paul was forty-three, Sally forty-one. The biological clock’s incessant ticking was growing ever louder. But that was okay. Not only had the house given them a new life, it had given them fresh hope.
***
“We should get a dog.”
Sally looked over at Paul from where she stood in the kitchen, splitting her focus between her husband and the microwave as she waited for the porridge to cook. Sitting in the conservatory, Paul watched the morning news as he drank his third cup of tea. It was 8:02, and they’d been awake since 7:00. In those 62 minutes they had made love in bed and again in the en-suite shower before dressing. To encourage their attempts at a baby, Sally had had to rest with her feet in the air after each ejaculation. Following the session in the shower she had walked cross-legged to the bed, placed a dry towel over the duvet and lay down with her bum on the pillows and her feet high on the wall. While she prayed for impregnation, Paul commenced his brew-making ritual. He needed a minimum of four before work or he would not feel right. Nothing biological, just a ritual; a tried and tested formula.
“A dog? Why do we need a dog?”
“Because,” he answered, grinning like a naughty child, “we wanted one in our last place; wanted one but couldn’t get one because there was nowhere to walk it. Out here, there’s nowhere we can’t walk it! Common land, open fields - farmland! A dog would get us fit without having to fork out on gym bills or starting something cruel like running!”
She smiled. Her husband was right about the fitness and yes, she would have liked a dog back in the city – especially on those nights when Paul stayed overnight at a friend’s house - but there were still issues he hadn’t considered. Balancing the porridge bowls on small trays, she carried them into the conservatory; steam vapours drifted upwards towards the silver November clouds beyond the glass ceiling. Handing him his breakfast, Sally frowned.
“What?” he asked in bemusement.
“How can we look after a dog? Apart from weekends, we have no time for a dog. You’re working at the bookshop from 9 till 6 most days and I’m in the cafe for longer hours than that. When do you think we’re going to have the time to walk it?”
They moved over to the small circular table bought so they could use the conservatory as a lounge-cum-diner. Sally turned the television off as Paul began spooning down hot porridge without waiting for it to cool.
“I swear your mouth is made of asbestos,” Sally said for the umpteenth time in their five years together.
Neither of them had been married before. They’d had long term relationships but the baggage carried over from these had been relatively minimal: Sally had carried a broken heart, provided by an ex who’d been shagging prostitutes behind her back. Paul had simply had enough of a girlfriend who clung to his every breath like chewing gum to hair. If he sneezed she wanted to know the velocity. If he went to the toilet she demanded to know what he’d done, how long he’d been in there and what he’d been thinking about throughout. Single, they’d remained that way for less than six months before they met, sharing an instant attraction on that first meeting in the pub. Within hours they were making love and within days they knew they wanted to be together for ever.
“I’d walk it in the morning before work,” Paul continued, ignoring Sally’s observation. “And if I had to, I’d do it again after work. And on those days when I couldn’t, mum and dad would love to do it for us. Mum’s retirement is driving dad up the wall. I think he’d pay us to let him
walk it if it got him out of the house! Besides, we’ve got a big enough back garden. Its secure, it’s private. There’s nothing wrong in keeping the patio door open while we’re out so it can have a shit.”
She couldn’t argue about the patio door. She’d already left it open without realizing during a shopping trip. “What about feeding it? Hmm? What if it needs feeding while we’re out?”
“Dad’ll do that as well. They’re only a couple of miles down the road, so if we’re going to be late we’ll make arrangements. Either he comes here or we take the dog to theirs. They’d love that. It’d make them feel like they were involved in our lives.”
Sally sighed. She could see there was no point in arguing. Paul had already decided for her. They were getting a dog.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want a dog, it was just that she wanted a baby more. They’d been trying for four years and so far she hadn’t even known a late period. Too many times Paul had held onto Sally while she cried sitting on the toilet; bloodied tissue in her hand. No matter what he said to reassure her, they both knew it was another month gone, another chance lost. His tears would fall into her hair; hers into the void between her legs. And then the blame would start. Blaming herself for not being able to get pregnant, blaming him for not getting her pregnant. It was the only time Sally ever really swore: during those excruciating moments when dreams were crushed. She would call herself “fucking useless”; that he should leave her “for someone he could get knocked up in just a few minutes”. She would tell him he wasn’t “a real man”. A real man would fuck her senseless and impregnate her “with his first ejaculation!” She would spew hate and cruelty at both her partner and herself. And Paul would take it. It hurt like ice in his lungs but he would take it. It wasn’t Sally saying those things. It was the blood between her legs; the poison trickling from her uterus. And eventually, the rage would soothe and the blood would ease its spill. Air, moments before filled with bile, then knew apologies and guilt. Promises that “next month will be the one”.
And every month the promises had been false.
They’d had all the tests; standard and embarrassing. Paul’s embarrassment was masturbating into a cup and handing the end product over to a smirking nurse. Sally’s had been suffering every indignity possible with dyes and fluids being inserted and bloods and eggs being removed. And every time they underwent these and other examinations, the findings all said the same thing: normal. A big, fat, insulting ‘normal’. ‘All clear’. No blockages, no disease, no low counts or lazy sperm. Sally’s uterus was open to Paul’s sperm. There were no biological reasons for their failure – which just made their desperation all the more painful. At least if they knew there was no chance of it happening they wouldn’t have the same futile wait each month; wouldn’t have to repeat the same passionless sexual joining to a schedule usually pinned on the office wall. A schedule entitled: ‘Sally’s Ovulation Cycle’, with notes showing when it was at its peak. Love making dictated by a spread sheet. Positions chosen for best chances of conception rather than most fun.
No reason for failure meant there was nothing they could do. They couldn’t afford the IVF - even with the donations offered by their parents - and budget cuts meant their NHS body had stopped all funding. Paul’s job as a duty manager in a bookshop and Sally’s as a regional manager for a Starbucks-wannabe both paid well enough to keep the wolf from the door but there was little left at the end of each month. Pocket change really. That was why their old house had been so over-priced when they’d first put it on the market. They wanted – needed - baby funds. Besides, television programmes were adamant that there were still people out there dumb enough to fall in love with a house and not care about the cash burning a hole in their pockets! A big hope that held little surprise in its dashing. But the three years of waiting for that elusive sale hadn’t been in vain. They had savings. Not quite enough, but they were closer to giving it a go. It would be nice if the two grand could be used on decorating a nursery or buying a wardrobe’s worth of nappies instead of on something neither of them – if they were honest enough and were asked away from each other - held out much hope for. But they couldn’t afford not to take the chance. Besides, since the SOLD sign went up and the contracts were exchanged, Sally and Paul had both agreed they were looking forward to trying again in the new house; both felt genuine hope for the future.
Within a fortnight, they had a dog.
A week after that, less than a month since moving, Sally missed her period.
***
Despite loving his wife just as much now as he ever had, Paul would never admit to telling Sally everything. For instance, he didn’t tell her about those occasions when she’d cooked meals that made his stomach cry “infamy”. Nor did he tell her about the girls he sometimes admired during the summer months whose skirts were high and inhibitions low. And he certainly didn’t tell her that caring for a dog was harder bloody work than he remembered.
It wasn’t just the walking twice daily. It was the bathing. The feeding. The training. And then there was the playing – ball throwing, tussling and tug-of-wars that ruined biceps and dislocated fingers - and the discipline. He had to be sure she was good around kids so he didn’t end up labeled as a dog owner from hell. But he did it because he loved dogs. Always had. His parents had owned a series of dogs and when he moved into his own place, he’d continued the tradition (Sarah; a Golden Retriever from a rescue home who died too early from stomach cancer). When he and Sally met he had been without a dog because his salary couldn’t buy him a house with a garden or located near anything green. And when he was without a dog, he missed having one. He missed the companionship and the warm welcome he’d receive when returning home from work. He missed the improved fitness persistent walking encouraged. He also missed the sense of security; of knowing that, whenever he stayed at a friend’s house, his partner at the time was protected from potential intruders. But the years without had caused him to look back on a dog’s caring through rose-tinted spectacles. He had forgotten the hard work involved. The dedication required. But it was worth it because both he and Sally adored Delilah.
Only a dog bought from a rescue home could be named Delilah. No one but an abuser would call their pet such a ridiculous name. Sally refused to say it, choosing to call her Denny instead - which seemed to be getting through to the four-year-old Border Collie, and was certainly a lot less embarrassing to shout in the fields whenever she did a runner.
Which happened. A lot.
So far, their ventures out had always been at the cusp of sunset or sunrise, and so far, Denny had done a runner every time.
***
The entrance to the field was behind the pub; a barely-distinguishable stile enshrouded by leafless hedging and stabbing branches. Off the lead Denny could easily slide beneath, her back combed by outstretched fingers; on the lead she had to be carried over. Paul had suffered this indignity only once. She weighed too much, she wriggled too much and at 6:30 in the morning, she whined too much. So since that first day four months earlier he climbed over, she slid under.
They strode up the hill; Paul yards behind Denny who made it her mission to mark every stump or bramble within the field’s large confines. The dawn was still half an hour away so without the aid of street lighting or a decent torch, his walks were precarious. Despite the grass’s growth being stunted during these colder months, the field’s divots were deep and secretive. Twice his right ankle had found one in the last week. Even when the Maglite’s batteries had been in full working order he had managed to fall so when they started their slow death the previous evening, the walk became much more perilous. He’d meant to change the things before they set off this morning but typically they had no spares. They would be changed before tonight’s adventure, no question.
Sweeping the field, the asthmatic beam struggled to catch the red LED lights in Denny’s collar as she zigzagged before him. The collar had been an emergency necessity after their first jaunt. Despite t
he kennels assuring him she was a dog who could be let off the lead, that first morning at 6:45 in the pitch black, she’d darted away from him the second she was free. Whispered calling and curses fell on silent land. It wasn’t until the morning light had started to creep over the horizon that Paul eventually found her: at the stile, cowering in fear. He figured she knew she was in trouble and expected the beatings of old so instead of bollocking her, he gave her stern reassurances; strong words and heavy strokes. Yet she continued to shiver, looking behind his shoulder into the now colourful field at something he couldn’t see.
He could appreciate why she felt afraid – she was a cruelty case; being afraid was a given - but what surprised him more was his understanding her trepidation towards the field. Searching the tar-like night for a black dog with white paws hadn’t been easy and seemed to play tricks with his head. His heart had raced as he thought he’d heard brittle grass breaking under footsteps; the familiar cough of a smoker; felt the whisper of nicotine breath. And when he swung the torch round to find there was no one there - not even the distant orange tip of a burning cigarette – he thought he might piss himself. After all, he’d turned quick enough to catch anyone trying to get out of the way but once he had, all the noises had stopped (all except the one his internal hearing picked up: sheer stupid panic surfing his blood.) If someone had moved he’d have heard them. But there was no one. No walkers; none of the pissheads so familiar to the city and no hungry lovers (again the city). No one. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling of his not being alone; of being watched by someone familiar with the darkness. It made his sweat trickle and his balls tighten. Denny wanted out and Paul likewise.
It wasn’t until he tried to explain everything to Sally that he realised the stupidity behind his reaction. A grown man scared of the dark.
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