And then there was a gush of something between her legs, a warm dampness in her jeans. Another gush, no control over it, and another, each wave contracting her abdominal muscles, making her groan with pain, forcing her into a deeper bend. Her jeans stained darkly, black spatters on the ground.
Susan, she called – but no sound came.
‘Long day,’ she said.
‘Sure was.’
The few callers had left, the boys were in bed. Larry was presumably halfway to Cincinnati – or maybe the whole way by this time. Could be climbing gratefully into his own bed right now. Vowing, maybe, never to turn his back on it again.
Laura and Gavin sat side by side on Gladys’s couch. While she was washing cups he’d gone to the off-licence down the road and come back with a bottle of red wine. Come in and sit down, he’d said, and here they were. The television was on – a chat show, people in their Sunday best sitting on a curved red couch. The sound was muted.
‘The zoo was good,’ she said, ‘wasn’t it?’
‘Mm.’
‘Ever miss it?’
‘… Sometimes.’
The chat show host was among the audience now, aiming a microphone at a woman who was saying something that made the people around her laugh silently.
‘Remember,’ he said, his eyes still on the screen, ‘a few days ago, you accused me of having an affair with Bernie Flannery?’
She looked at him. ‘What?’ It had come out of nowhere.
‘Do you remember?’
‘… Yes, but I didn’t really—’
‘Well, I wasn’t, I’m not – but I did think about it. I did consider it.’
The words slapped her in the face. Bernie Flannery, early twenties, daughter of widowed Dick the chemist, with whom she still lived. Bernie, who taught the boys basketball after school, who could often be seen out walking her two beagles along the coast road, or giving a hand behind the counter of her aunt Lelia’s café.
Bernie Flannery. Big hearty laugh, long-legged, game for anything. Doing a correspondence course in business studies, always at home when Gavin called with his vegetables. Presented him with a bottle of Baileys for Christmas on his last visit. He’d produced it when he got home, prompting Laura’s accusation.
‘I thought about it,’ he said, ‘for all of five seconds. And then I realised I was only thinking about it because you didn’t want me any more.’
She opened her mouth, but he kept going.
‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘I still love you as much as I ever did. More, probably, since you got sick. The other thing is, it wasn’t my fault you got cancer, but I seem to be getting the blame.’
‘What?’
‘You haven’t talked to me in months, unless you have to. I don’t seem to be able to do anything right these days. You can’t bear me near you – sometimes I feel you don’t even want to be in the same room as me. You didn’t mention the present I got you, you haven’t worn it. And I can’t for the life of me think of anything I’ve done to make you treat me like this. So I can only conclude that you don’t love me any more.’
‘Gavin—’
‘So I think the best plan is for us to separate, for a while anyway. I can come here … I can live here. I’m fairly sure I could get my old job back. We could give it a few months, say until the summer, see how we both feel after that. We’d have to work out some arrangement about the kids.’
‘Gavin,’ she said again, then didn’t know how to go on. Didn’t know how to start.
He gave her a few seconds. ‘So you’re agreed then? That’s what we’ll do?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not agreed. I don’t want you to go.’
She didn’t. The future without him was simply too bleak to countenance. He was Gavin, for Christ’s sake: what would she do if he left?
‘Listen,’ she said. She stopped, took a breath, started again. ‘It was my first time to have cancer,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t very good at it. And even now, when I’m being told I’m clear I’m still terrified out of my wits in case it comes back. I can fight it, I will fight it, if it does come back, but I can’t be sure I’ll win. I’m more scared than I’ve ever been, and that makes me angry, and you got the brunt because if I shouted at you and snapped at you it meant I mightn’t do it to the kids.’
She stopped. Her eyes were swimming. His face was blurred.
‘It’s not much of an explanation, but it’s all I have. You’re my punching bag, you’re what stops me going out of my mind. And I’m sorry that it’s hard on you, and I’ll try to go easier, but you married me for better or worse, so you need to suck it up right now, and wait for things to get better.’
‘And what if they don’t?’
‘They will,’ she said, because they both needed to hear that. ‘I’ll calm down after a bit, if they keep telling me I’m clear, and if you stick around for me to abuse. And by the way, I love my present. I just kept forgetting to say it to you – in case you haven’t noticed, there’s been quite a lot going on since you gave it to me. And I was nervous about wearing it in case Poppy pulled the chain and broke it.’
She blinked, and he came back into focus.
He reached up and thumbed away the tears that the blink had sent running down her face. ‘You should have told me all this,’ he said. ‘How you felt.’
‘You should have known.’
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘I’ve got lots of super-powers, but mind-reading isn’t one of them.’
‘I still love you,’ she said. ‘I do. I just – it got pushed aside.’
‘That’s good to know.’
‘They cut off my breast,’ she said. ‘I don’t feel sexy any more. I didn’t think you’d be interested.’
‘I think it would take a hell of a lot more than that to put me off you.’
‘So you’ll stay with us? You’ll put up with a harridan wife for another while?’
He sighed. ‘I’d be a fool to turn down an offer like that.’
‘I might need your help,’ she said. ‘I might not be able to do it without you.’
He smiled then, so tenderly it nearly killed her, ‘About time,’ he said. ‘About time you looked for my help.’
She stood, leaving the rest of her wine. ‘Let’s go to bed.’
They locked up. They switched off the lights and went upstairs. In their room they undressed, and she set aside the insecurities that surgery had left behind, and got into his twin bed, and began the business of repairing her marriage.
‘You’ve had a miscarriage,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
He was about Pa’s age. He wore a suit and he smelt of soap, and his eyes were gentle behind steel-rimmed glasses. He arrived at Walter’s Place about ten minutes after Susan phoned him. He questioned Tilly and told her she’d more than likely miscarried, but that he needed to examine her further.
He waited while Nell was summoned to babysit. He brought Tilly and Susan in his own car to a building that looked too small to be a health clinic, and there he laid Tilly on a trolley and did an ultrasound.
‘Everything is gone,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing else that has to be done. You just need to take it easy for a day or two.’
He drove them back to Walter’s Place and Nell went home, and Susan ran a bath for Tilly and put her to bed afterwards with a cup of tea and two paracetamol.
‘You never said a word.’ Touching the back of her hand to Tilly’s forehead.
‘I told Laura. She knew.’
It wasn’t yet midnight, the day not quite over. ‘Stay in bed tomorrow. I’ll tell Andy you’re not feeling well.’
‘OK.’
‘It’s good you’re not travelling until Wednesday. Hopefully you’ll be ready by then.’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything I can get you, anything you feel like?’
‘No thanks … Sorry.’
Susan brushed away the tear that rolled down Tilly’s face. ‘Silly girl, you’ve nothing to be sorry for. Try to get so
me sleep, and I’ll look in in the morning.’
The door closed softly, and she was alone.
She wasn’t pregnant any more. She wasn’t pregnant. She was filled with relief that the baby she and John Smith had made had decided, after all, not to be born. She was dizzy with relief – she was light-headed with it.
So why was she crying? Why were tears flooding out of her, running down the sides of her face and soaking her pillow? Why, side by side with the relief, was there such a feeling of devastation, of unutterable sadness? Why did it feel like her heart was torn in two?
After a long time – half an hour, more than that – she ran out of tears. She turned on her bedside lamp and saw that it was almost one o’clock in the morning. She padded into the bathroom and blew her nose on toilet paper, avoiding the mirror, not wanting to see what the last few hours had done to her face.
One o’clock plus ten made eleven o’clock.
She took her phone from her bag and climbed back into bed. Her mouth felt dry: she drank from the glass of water Susan had left on the locker. She placed the call and listened to the ringing, picturing the dresser where the phone always sat. She imagined Ma crossing the room to answer it, wiping her hands on her apron.
There was a click. Her heart jumped. A few seconds of fumbling, someone breathing heavily.
‘Hello?’ Too loud.
She swallowed. ‘Ma, it’s Tilly,’ she said. Her voice felt rusty.
‘Tilly.’ More breathing. ‘You OK?’
‘I’m fine, I can hear you fine, you don’t need to … Um, how are you, Ma?’
‘We’re OK, we’re good.’
‘That’s good.’
Pause.
‘And Pa? And the kids?’
‘They’re good. Jemima’s right here with me, Robbie’s gone to Markus’s.’
‘You had a good Christmas?’
‘It was fine. We missed you, though. And how’s Bali? You like it?’
She closed her eyes, swallowed back the urge to cry again. ‘Ma,’ she said, ‘I got something to tell you. It’s not bad, it’s just … something you should know.’
‘What’s up?’ Ma’s voice tighter. ‘Something happen?’
Tilly shook her head, with nobody at all to see it. ‘Ma, I’m not in Bali. I didn’t go to Bali.’
Dead silence. Even the breathing stopped.
‘Ma, it’s OK, it’s not bad, honest. I didn’t tell you because—’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in Ireland, Ma. I flew to Ireland, not Bali.’
‘Ireland?’ She said it like it was a word she’d never heard, like it was in a language she didn’t understand. She made it sound like a food she wasn’t sure she liked the taste of. ‘You’re in Ireland?’
‘I thought you might not be happy about me going so far,’ Tilly said. ‘I thought you might worry, so I didn’t tell you. But it’s—’
‘How did you even get there?’ she asked, her voice full of bewilderment. ‘Is someone with you? Did Lien go with you?’
‘No, I came on my own. It’s OK, Ma, I got here fine.’ No mention of Heathrow and what had happened there. No talk of that ever, with her and Pa.
‘Ma,’ she said, ‘I have a sister here. My mother told me when I met her. I came to find her, and I did, and she’s great, she’s really …’
She trailed off. Ma breathed some more. Thousands of miles away, and Tilly could hear her breathing.
‘You got a sister in Ireland?’
‘Yeah, her name is Laura. She’s married with five—’
‘You got a sister,’ Ma repeated. ‘How’d you find her?’
‘My mother told me where she lived. Ma, you should see—’
‘She know you were coming? You planned all of this?’
‘No, Ma, she didn’t know. Nobody knew I was coming.’ She’d leave Lien out of it, no point in involving her. ‘I just came. I did it myself. Just me. Nobody else was involved.’
‘You didn’t get in touch with her beforehand, let her know you were coming?’
‘No, I … just went. I thought I’d just … find her.’ She could hear how implausible it sounded. She couldn’t tell Ma why she’d done it like that. She couldn’t tell her that she hadn’t stopped to think, so scared she’d been of what had lain ahead. What she’d thought had lain ahead.
‘She coulda been gone,’ Ma said. ‘She coulda been someplace else.’
‘I know, but everything—’
‘Tilly, you shoulda told us. You had no right to go making up that story about Bali.’
‘I know, Ma, I’m sorry, I’m real sorry – but it’s OK, honest it is. I had to find her, I just had to, and I thought you mightn’t let me go if I asked.’
Another pause. She could see Ma leaning against the dresser as she struggled to take it all in. She could see her as clearly as if she was standing in the kitchen watching her.
‘You got more family there?’
She hesitated. ‘My father’s in Ireland too, but—’
‘Your father? You mean she knew who it was?’
‘He was her husband, Ma. They were married. It was all – but he didn’t know, she didn’t tell him about me. They fell out, and now they’re divorced, and he – well, I won’t get to meet him, he’s in another part of the country.’
Another few seconds of silence. She waited.
‘Tilly,’ Ma said then, ‘you coming back to us?’
Instantly her throat felt thick with unshed tears. ‘Of course I am,’ she said, pressing the heel of her hand into each eye socket in turn. ‘Of course I’m coming back. I’ll be home early on Friday, just like I said.’
‘OK then.’ Pause. ‘You’re sure you’re OK, Tilly? There’s nothing more you ain’t telling me?’
‘I’m fine, Ma. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I just thought I couldn’t.’
‘That’s OK … You look after yourself, OK?’
‘I will. I’ll see you soon, Ma.’ Her voice wobbled, more tears treacherously close. ‘You’ll tell Pa where I am?’
A beat passed. ‘I’ll tell him. You want him to come get you at the airport?’
‘No – I can get a bus, it’s OK.’
‘Well, maybe he’ll come pick you up anyway,’ she said. ‘Long trip, you’ll be tired.’
‘No, Ma – there’s no need, honest. I’ll call from the bus and he can come get me at the station in town.’
‘OK,’ she said, ‘he’ll do that. He’ll pick you up at the bus station. You let me know the time, you send me a text.’
‘I will … thanks, Ma.’
‘I’ll say goodbye then,’ she said. ‘You look after yourself, Tilly. You be real careful now.’
‘Bye, Ma.’
A click, and she was gone.
You be real careful now. Tilly pressed the sheet to her eyes. She’d see them soon. She’d be home on New Year’s Day, at the tail end of a year she’d be glad to put behind her.
She set her phone on the locker and lay down. She’d tell them about Roone, and the second family she’d met there. She’d describe the island, and the snow, and the house where she’d stayed. She’d show them all the photos she’d taken.
Laura had been right. Staying in Ireland would have been madness, would have hurt Ma and Pa terribly. She was ashamed that she’d even considered it, ashamed that it had taken losing the baby to bring her to her senses.
She saw things so clearly now. She’d have to report John Smith: Laura had been right about that too. He had to be stopped before he did it again. She wouldn’t press charges; she’d tell Mrs Harvey, the English teacher he’d replaced. She’d tell her everything, and Mrs Harvey would know what to do. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to a court case – but if it did, she’d cope.
She pushed John Smith away and replaced him with Andy. She wouldn’t tell anyone about Andy, not even Lien. She’d go back to Australia and get on with her life, and in time she’d forget him. Right now it didn’t seem at all likely, or even possible, tha
t she’d ever be able to forget him, but people did, didn’t they? Life kept going, people moved on.
Just as well she wouldn’t be doing the rounds with him in the morning. Just as well she had no photo of him either.
She wondered what Nell thought of her, knowing now what she did. And Colette, she’d surely hear what had happened. She hoped they wouldn’t think too badly of her.
And some day, maybe in five years’ time, maybe in ten, she might pay a return visit to Roone, just to see how everyone was getting on. She’d like to meet Poppy when she could talk, and see the changes in her and the other children as they grew up.
After a minute she slipped from the bed and went out into the corridor and tiptoed downstairs, feeling her way in the dark. Her insides ached when she walked. Betsy was where she’d left her a few hours earlier, sitting on the stove. Still a bit damp, but she took her anyway. She brought her back to bed and turned off the light and eventually fell asleep, Betsy lying in the crook of her arm.
TUESDAY
29 DECEMBER
The misty rain that had been falling relentlessly since they’d got up finally petered out as they left the car and walked into the cemetery, just before noon. A slanted beam of weak sunshine slid from behind the clouds as they took their positions with the rest of the mourners at the graveside.
The wooden box that held what remained of Gladys lay on two planks above the hole it was destined for, a mound of earth piled up neatly beyond it. The gravediggers stood a discreet distance away, leaning on their spades and waiting for the short ceremony to be over.
Laura stood between the boys as the priest worked his way through the funeral prayers. Another couple of hours before they could hit the road. She hungered for Roone, she felt its absence acutely.
She wondered how Tilly would be when they got back. Would she have come around to Laura’s way of thinking, or would she still resent being told that her best option was to go home? Poor naive Tilly, falling for the charms and lies of a philanderer, like many a young innocent woman before her. Poor foolish Tilly, having to live with the consequences of her actions.
I’ll be home for Christmas Page 36