The Mission

by Naomi Kryske

  Simon rose to his feet. Was he leaving? Had her dad’s bristly demeanour offended him? No, her mum had just entered the room.

  “We’ll eat in the dining room,” she said.

  Perhaps the more restful ambiance in the dining room – wood paneling with a soft peach tint above – would soothe her dad’s feathers, Marcia hoped.

  “Fisherman’s stew,” Frances announced. Marcia had told her that Simon always ordered seafood when they went out.

  “Cioppino,” Simon exclaimed. “My favourite. My mum used to make this, but she never used as much seafood. Scallops and clams as well as fish – you have outdone yourself, Mrs. Collier.”

  “Do you speak Italian?” Marcia asked, surprised by his use of the foreign term.

  “I know a few Italian words. Buon appetito.”

  They laughed, but knowing his tendency to understatement, Marcia suspected that he had quite a vocabulary and resolved to ask him more about his facility with languages later on.

  The stew was accompanied by a salad of mixed greens and thick, crusty bread. Over the meal, Simon continued to allow himself to be interrogated. He answered Frances’ queries about growing up in Penzance and mentoring his younger brother. Walt wanted to know about Simon’s days in the Royal Marines.

  “Were you in combat?” he asked bluntly. “In dangerous spots?”

  Simon paused. “Sir, we’ve women here. I’ll just say that when I’d finished reviewing in my mind what would be expected of me and how I would respond, I thought on other things. We were outdoors. Often the nights were clear. I lay under the stars and learnt to recognise the constellations. It helped to focus on things that could last.”

  As the dinner progressed, Marcia watched Simon give his full attention to her mum and then to her dad, which Adrian had never done. He had sought attention, not shared it, and sulked when he didn’t receive it. Why had she been so enamored with Adrian? He had been tall and handsome, with a magnetic personality, but Simon was courteous and patient. Worthy of trust. She wished she could love him without reservation, but Adrian had taught her how dangerous that was.

  Before they left, Walt, nudged by Frances, shook Simon’s hand.

  “You’ll be careful, won’t you?” Frances asked.

  “I will that,” Simon answered, giving her a quick kiss on each cheek. “And thank you for having me.”

  On their way home, Simon seemed preoccupied. “Nice family,” he finally said.

  “My dad was rude to you!”

  “He didn’t shoot at me,” Simon smiled. “I’d be glad for a father like yours.”

  Marcia put her arm through his and leant her head against his shoulder. Simon rarely spoke of him, but she knew that Simon’s dad had left his family. She and Simon had both been abandoned by someone, she realised. Simon might be slow to commit to a permanent relationship, but when he did, he would mean it. She could afford to wait.

  CHAPTER 32

  Wasted. Another day wasted. Alcina’s job at the bakery had not yet begun, so she was still working both shifts at Kosta’s. Although she could not afford to do it, she had taken the entire day off. How could she not? It was her wedding anniversary, and she had wanted to spend it with Tony. What an exaggeration – she hadn’t spent the day with him. She had spent most of the day travelling to see him and returning. She and Tony had only had an hour together. Together? If she weren’t so angry, she would have laughed. How could you consider yourselves to be together when you were in a prison’s public room with others all round you? When you couldn’t touch without incurring the intervention of the guards? When you couldn’t exchange gifts? Or share champagne? Or do anything that would be considered a celebration?

  She had married Tony because he was good in the bedroom, he made good money, and he showed her a good time when they were together. All good. Now everything had been taken away. What did they have to celebrate now? Their happy times were in the past.

  She had wanted to wear something special to remind Tony of their wedding day, so she had tried on her going away dress. She hadn’t worn it to see him, however. It no longer fit her the way it had, caressing her curves so well that Tony couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She’d smiled to herself then, a new bride with a confident, carefree smile, wondering how long he could wait. Would he kiss her in the taxi? In the elevator on the way to their hotel room? Before he had even locked the hotel room door? She had loved having that effect on him.

  Now she was thin, and the dress didn’t complement her. Too thin, Tony would say. The only extra weight she carried these days was on her shoulders, although he didn’t ever acknowledge that. What did he recognise? That she had lines on her face now that others her age did not, damn him.

  The final insult? Tony had not remembered the day. And if she had expressed her anger to him, the guards would have forcibly removed her. Perhaps she should have told him how furious she was. Perhaps she should have let Tony see her outrage. Perhaps then he would have seen how impossibly difficult life was for her instead of whingeing constantly about his situation. Perhaps then he would have recalled that he was married. Wedding anniversary? A day set aside to celebrate your marriage? She cursed aloud. What kind of marriage was this?

  CHAPTER 33

  As the days grew shorter and the nights longer, Jenny continued to struggle with her grief. Father Goodwyn, whom she now called Neil, visited regularly with words of encouragement.

  “Life is so unfair,” she said.

  “Sometimes it doesn’t make sense,” he admitted. “Crying can help. Releasing any feeling actually. I’m not unused to tears; in my Army service I saw many soldiers weep.”

  “Is that what you said to Colin after his father died?”

  “I listened more than I spoke, as I recall. And I learnt to be alert to nonverbal cues. Grief wears a number of guises. This morning, for example, you look tense. Are you having other physical symptoms?” Her shirt looked lopsided, as if she hadn’t fastened the buttons properly, and she hadn’t tucked it into her jeans.

  “Nightmares occasionally. I dream that some part of my body is gone, and when I wake up, I know that it’s Colin. Sometimes it’s easier to sleep during the day than at night.” She heard a two-tone siren and wondered if Danny were responding to another robbery call.

  “Are you eating well?”

  She shook her head with a smile. “Is that why you always bring food with you when you come?” Today he had brought banana nut muffins, which they both sampled.

  “Food helps us relax. So does prayer. ‘More things are wrought by prayer than this world ever knows of.’”

  She recognized the Tennyson quote.

  “Sometimes, in addition to food and prayer, I indulge in a shot of Laphroaig. That’s Scotch – a strong, earthy single malt.”

  “Are you prescribing alcohol?” she laughed.

  “Only in moderation,” he smiled. “But I would prescribe exercise.”

  “I walk on the Heath, but I don’t see how that helps anything.”

  “Jenny, I assure you, being in good physical condition can help us deal with all sorts of other demands. Motion affects emotions. When I first joined the Army, no one told me chaplains needed to be fit. I felt so inferior, being out of shape when everyone else was leaner and tougher. I played a lot of football, to lose weight and to establish relationships. I still try to stay active.” He paused. “Jenny, I want you to know: I see courage in your despair. And in your honesty. Nothing can be healed without honesty.”

  She disagreed. “There isn’t anything brave about it! I didn’t have any choice.”

  “On the contrary. You choose to see me. You choose to face your sorrow. You choose to keep fighting.” He smiled. “There’s a part of you that wants to heal, an unconscious part as well as a conscious part. Psychologists believe this life force comes from your brain, your mind. I prefer to think of it as the God-given desire to live He placed in your heart.”

  “My heart is either broken or dead.”

&nbs
p; “Jenny, you’re wounded, but my faith teaches that despair is not the end. You may stop there for a night, but joy comes in the morning, metaphorically, at least.”

  “Despair is my middle name,” she said bitterly.

  “It takes time to adjust to new situations,” he observed, “but in time I believe you will. When I first returned to England after my military service ended, I counselled a number of young soldiers who had completed their tours of duty. Many felt lost, without purpose. They had brought baggage home with them, because they had all lost something in combat, some part of themselves, perhaps physical, perhaps emotional.”

  “Like my dreams,” she murmured.

  “Exactly so. In combat, as in trauma, one’s feelings are heightened, and it can be difficult finding meaningful ways to spend one’s time. The most important thing I could do was to let them know I cared. And that God did.”

  “If God cares, His way of showing it is too subtle for me.”

  He nodded. “Sometimes God seems to be silent, but even during those times, I had strength beyond my own. So when He wasn’t speaking, I believe He was working with other means.”

  “Did you have trouble adjusting?”

  “In some ways. I did find it difficult sometimes, after serving in a combat zone for a number of years, to believe that I was safe. That may be one reason I moved from serving God and country to serving God and the police. It is a haven of sorts.”

  Maybe that was why she felt uneasy. Her time in witness protection had become a haven, surrounded by police officers pledged to protect her. Now she was alone. “I’m a boat without a rudder. I have no husband, no children, no career – sometimes I even feel like I don’t have a country.”

  “Share those feelings with God, Jenny. He is big enough to handle them.” After a short prayer, he left, but not before kissing her on both cheeks in the British fashion. His gentle affection was the only physical contact she received from anyone.

  She started another list in her journal. Grief is:

  1.Silence. She still had so many things to tell Colin, things she couldn’t speak into the empty rooms. Even if she could, her words would only breach the silence briefly, not banish it.

  2.Amputation. Part of her had been cut away when he died. She now realized that she didn’t even know exactly when that was. She knew the day, of course – she’d never forget it – but not the exact time. Had it been mid afternoon when she was driven to the hospital, or earlier? Was he already gone then? It was light, but it had been dark when she had left the hospital with Simon and Brian.

  3.Darkness. Because grief was the black hole of the universe, sucking her in and crushing her, like the dark earth that pressed against Colin’s casket. Before her rape, she had been drugged. She had regained consciousness in a dark, cold room. She had been afraid of the dark ever since and still slept with a nightlight. She hated thinking of Colin alone in the dark.

  4.A prison. With endless remand, because there was no trial date and therefore no possibility of acquittal and release.

  5.Being colder inside than the weather outside. How could her frozen heart produce warm tears? She looked out at the gray sky and wondered if nature grieved. Did the flower mourn the loss of each petal, the tree the loss of each leaf?

  6.Anger. She wished now she had asked more about the terrorist who had killed Colin. What did he look like? How tall was he? Did he have any distinguishing features? Was his hair long or short? Colin had been tall, elegant, educated, tender – he deserved to live! What right did anyone have to take him away from her? Neil Goodwyn had told her once that Royal Army chaplains weren’t permitted to carry weapons. Had he been angry at what he saw? Had he ever wished he had a gun or a knife?

  7.Endless. People were mortal. Why wasn’t grief?

  8.Capricious. Her ups and downs were as sudden as a see-saw’s.

  9.Remembering. Two formal remembrance services had been held recently, a requiem Mass for deceased officers held by the Catholic Police Guild and a memorial ceremony organized by the Met for all officers killed that year. Joanne had accompanied her to both of them. A color photograph of each officer had been included at each event, and seeing Colin’s blue eyes had reminded her of the sad little boy she had seen on the Heath. It had been a school day, and he had been the only child she’d seen on her walk. Was he mourning someone, too?

  She contemplated her entries. Was nervousness a part of grief? Fear? She didn’t think so, but even in broad daylight she was wary. And at dusk the shadows behind the trees unnerved her. She set the journal aside and went into the kitchen. She wasn’t very hungry; leftover soup would be enough.

  After dinner she looked for something to read. She removed the National Trust’s book on Chartwell, Winston Churchill’s home, from the shelf and thumbed through it. She had read about Churchill during her time in witness protection and had been impressed by what he had accomplished in spite of his depression. Because it would have taken trips on both the tube and the overland train to reach the site, Colin had driven from Hampstead to Kent when he took her there. She had been surprised to see a parking lot on the premises. Of course it hadn’t been there in Churchill’s time but became necessary later to accommodate the thousands of visitors.

  She had seen bookshelves from the floor to the ceiling in most rooms and in some rooms, even above the doorways. Churchill had had two desks in his study, one with a chair and the other taller, because he had often worked standing up. Preparation for his speeches in Parliament? She supposed so. At the time she had been struck by how peaceful it felt in the house, with wide, tall windows in many rooms that overlooked the property. What a welcome respite from the pressures of London it must have been for him!

  Some of Churchill’s paintings were shown in the National Trust book, but there were no photographs of the many gifts he had received during his time in political office and afterward. Thinking about them now made her sad, because so many had known and honored Churchill during his life and mourned him upon his death, while there were so few to remember Colin. She replaced the book on the shelf.

  What else? Not a novel – she hadn’t the concentration to follow the plot. Poetry, then, beginning with her old friends, Shelley and Keats. She also read a few selections by Louis MacNeice. Something was missing: anger. She recalled the Siegfried Sassoon poems Colin had brought her long ago, when she was in witness protection and he wanted to help her pass the time. Sassoon had become a vocal opponent of World War I, and some of his work more closely reflected her feelings. In “How to Die,” his words saddened her, because he wrote of actions Colin had not had time to make: “He lifts his fingers toward the skies / Where holy brightness breaks in flame; / Radiance reflected in his eyes, / And on his lips a whispered name.”

  It was in Wilfred Owen that she found a voice with rage enough to match hers. He wrote about the gas, the cold, the dread. At least Colin had died quickly. When she read, “Red lips are not so red / As the stained stones kissed by the English dead,” she remembered kissing Colin’s bloody face and wept again for his loss. Owen was killed in action on November 4, 1918, one week shy of the Armistice. He also deserved her tears, he whose life, like Colin’s, was cut so short.

  CHAPTER 34

  On Sunday, December 8, Jenny didn’t want to get out of bed. Couldn’t the calendar have skipped this day? She forced herself to make a cup of tea. Tea was supposed to be soothing. Still in her pajamas, she stood in front of the closet, unable to decide what to wear or to think of any reason why she should dress today, of all days.

  She went back to bed, taking her photo album with her. There weren’t nearly enough pictures of Colin in it; he had usually been behind the camera, not in front of it. And how insufficient photos were – flat, two-dimensional portraits of a single moment and a single feeling which fell far short of the event they memorialized. Her mobile rang. She considered not answering, but it was Simon.

  “I’d like to take you for dinner tonight.”

  “But it
’s way too cold. And it’s my wedding anniversary.”

  “I know what day it is. Dress. I’ll call by at seven.” He rang off.

  Did he know she wasn’t dressed? No, he probably just wanted her to wear something warm enough. At least she had the rest of the day to figure out what.

  They took the tube to Baker Street Station in central London and walked the remaining few blocks to Langan’s Bistro, whose ceiling featured an unusual collection of upside down parasols. Jenny was amused to see many more wines on the menu than food offerings, although if she ordered the sirloin steak with green peppercorn and brandy sauce, she would be more than satisfied. Simon chose chargrilled swordfish. She listened while he discussed wines with the waiter and then was at a loss to know what to say. Colin should have been sitting across the table from her, enjoying his wine but not pouring her any because she was pregnant with his child.

  When the waiter poured the wine, she blushed in response to Simon’s toast, “To you, Jenny. You’re lovely. Even if you are wearing only one earring.”

  He hadn’t commented on her clothes – a dark blue dress with velvet trim on the collar and cuffs and a flowing drape that moved when she moved – but had somehow noticed she was missing an earring, although she had let her hair fall forward on the side of her face with the naked lobe. “The earring – it was found with Colin’s personal effects. He must have had two in his pocket when the explosion occurred, but only one survived intact.” She paused to settle her emotions and realized she had never seen Simon in a suit and tie. She was a little surprised by how handsome he looked. Remembering her manners, she answered with one of her own: “To you. May you stay safe. And may I see you dressed up more often.”