“Thanks, sweetheart, he phoned yesterday and left a message. I do want to get in touch – to get to know him.”
After Jenny left I thought about what I needed do that day. One of the first things was to speak to Kirsty, both as my friend and as my boss. So I phoned and asked if I could see her at lunch time. If she was surprised she didn’t let it show. Perhaps Lucy had prepared the ground. Anyway, when I arrived at school she’d put Lesley, the deputy head, on duty over lunch and put the ‘Meeting in Progress’ sign on her office door. She’d even organised coffee and sandwiches for us.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch hour,” I said, as I sat down opposite her at her desk.
“Don’t be daft. I wouldn’t be getting a lunch hour if it wasn’t for you! You know how it is here.” She was right of course. A head teacher rarely gets an undisturbed lunch time. But Lesley was obviously on the ball and we were left alone as I told Kirsty what had been happening.
Like Lucy, she listened. And like Lucy, she was shocked. But she was more direct in offering her opinions and advice. “Don’t shut Tom out, Rosie. I’m sure he never meant to hurt you over Robbie. How can you even think he was unfaithful? Tom loves you and, yes, he’s protective – but I think that’s nice. I’ve always envied you on that score you know.”
“You envy me? Right now, I envy you your independence. Actually, I feel quite pathetic compared to you. I’m fed up being protected and treated like some dependent child. Tom had no right to keep Robbie a secret. Why would he do that? What was he protecting me from? No,” I shook my head, “he was protecting himself more like – that has to be it.”
“I just think you’re going to need Tom – with - you know – well now you’re - you’ve got cancer.” Even the normally forthright Kirsty had difficulty saying the ‘C’ word.
“Don’t be afraid to say it, Kirsty. It’s a fact – I’ve got cancer.” I spoke more sharply than I meant to. The last thing I wanted to do was fall out with Kirsty. Her complete honesty and inability to say one thing and mean another, was one of the things I loved about her. But I didn’t like that she saw me as in need of Tom’s protection and support, and in need of shielding from the fact of having cancer. I wanted to think I could be as strong as Kirsty. She reached her hand out to me across her desk.
“I know,” she said gently. “I know you’re strong, Rosie. I know you can cope. I’m trying to be helpful – and making a mess of it. I can’t believe you’ve got cancer. I don’t know what to say, to tell you the truth. I’m more in my comfort zone doling out advice about husbands.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.” I squeezed her hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you and Lucy.”
“We won’t ever have to do without each other. You haven’t managed to shake me off after thirty years, so it’s not going to happen. The three of us will grow old disgracefully together.”
Kirsty and I met each other in our first year at St Andrews University. She had the room next door to mine in the hall of residence. She was a striking girl – tall and athletic, with auburn hair. She came from the Isle of Skye and spoke Gaelic. I thought her quite exotic when I first met her. On the face of it we didn’t have that much in common. She was studying science and I was doing arts. She was into sports. She played in the hockey and badminton teams and was a keen hill walker. My passions were playing the piano, singing in the university choir and reading, what Kirsty
called,
soppy novels. However, in spite of how different we
were,
Kirsty’s level-headedness and her ability to be simultaneously kind and direct, were qualities that I found reassuring and stabilising. She also had a wicked sense of humour, something that stood her in good stead over the years. We remained friends throughout our time at university and beyond. I was especially pleased that she and Lucy also became friends when I introduced them to one another.
Thirty years later she was still good looking and she’d kept her lovely accent. “Rosie,” she said – I’d always liked how she pronounced Rosie with a soft‘s’ - like the ‘c’ in Lucy - “independence is all very well, but it can be very lonely. And I had no choice, not with my dear ex. Thank your lucky stars, Tom’s not like Gary.”
I looked at
Kirsty
and shrugged. I conceded that she probably knew what she was talking about. Kirsty divorced her husband, years before when their only child, Eilidh, was still very young.
“I don’t know what to believe, Kirsty. But I know that if Tom finds out about me being ill, he’ll leap into action – telling me which doctor to see, which hospital to go to and which treatment to have.”
“Would that be so bad?” Kirsty asked gently.
“Yes, it would, actually. Don’t you remember what it was like when I had the depression – after the twins were born? He had me admitted to that awful place.”
“Of course I remember. He didn’t do it lightly, Rosie. And of course a psychiatric hospital is no picnic-”
“I hated it there! I hated the way the drugs made me feel, but Tom kept telling me they would make me well.”
“And he was right – you did get better.” Kirsty still spoke gently, but as always she wasn’t letting me get away with any display of self-pity or unfairness.
I couldn’t help smiling. She was a brilliant devil’s advocate.
“Yes, in the end, the medication did help,” I said. “And so did having access to that counsellor. She was good – I admit.”
“Well then – perhaps you should trust Tom again…”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I hadn’t realised till now - I’ve never really got over the feeling of powerlessness I experienced then.”
And I didn’t say so to Kirsty but I’d also just realised how much I blamed Tom. “Oh, I know I sound like a spoilt brat,” I continued. “But this is my illness, my body and I want to be in charge for a change.”
“Okay, okay!” Kirsty smiled. “I’ll support you whatever. I’ll help in any way I can. Come here.” She came round the desk and we stood and hugged each other. “But I still think you need to talk to Tom,” she said as she stood back. “Now, as for school – how do you want to play it?”
“I’d like to start my sick leave right away. I don’t think I can do the job justice at the moment. But I’d like to say cheerio to the kids, give them some kind of explanation.”
“Of course, do you want to do that today – you could go in after lunch. I’ll ask the supply teacher to give you a bit of time alone with them.”
“Yes please. I’d like that.”
“And the rest of the staff, what do you want me to tell them?”
“For now, could you just say I’ve got leave of absence for personal reasons and I’ll be back some time after the summer
holidays.
I’ll tell you when I’m ready for everyone to know, I promise. I know I can’t keep it secret in the long term. But I want to tell the children and – yes – Tom, when I’m ready. I don’t want to be rushed and I want them to hear it from me.
“All right, if that’s what you want. I’ll be discreet.” Then the bell rang and Kirsty gave me another hug. “I’ll go and see your supply teacher and tell her to wait ten minutes before coming along to the class. You go and say your goodbyes.”
So I went along and surprised Primary Three with my presence. I settled them on the carpet and told them that I was starting my summer holidays early. I said I had an awful lot of stuff to sort out at home, and that Miss Mackinnon had kindly said I could have some extra time off. I told them they’d have another teacher for a while, and that I’d see them when they were big Primary Fours. They seemed genuinely sad that I was going and I struggled not to cry in front of them. But I knew that, for now, I couldn’t give them the attention they deserved. I needed to go and get my life sorted out.
When I arrived home in the early afternoon there was still no sign of Adam. Toby made it known that he needed to go out, so I set off down to the beach with him. It was a lovely afternoon, the kind we often got in late May,
a
tantalising glimpse of summer but accompanied by a stiff easterly breeze. The sky was clear and the tide was well out. I threw a stick for Toby and, as we covered the length of the beach and back again, I was able to think. The astringent sea air cleared my head. By the time we were heading back to the house, I’d made some decisions.
While I still had the house to myself, I made a few phone calls. The first was to my motherin-law, Evelyn, to see if I could go round to see her later. She seemed delighted to hear from me and said she looked forward to seeing me. She didn’t betray any curiosity about hearing from me in the middle of a weekday afternoon. Next I called Lucy to discuss her brother and his tenancy of my father’s flat.
And after that I called Robbie. Jenny had said he’d be working at the supermarket that day so I wasn’t surprised when my call went straight to voicemail.
I wasn’t consciously aware of what I was going to say to him. But there was a subconscious compulsion at work. I found myself leaving a message inviting him to join us for dinner the next day, if he wanted to, and if it was all right with his Mum. I tried to sound both welcoming and casual at the same time.
After I hung up, the possible folly I’d just committed hit me. I hesitated. Should I call back and leave another message – withdrawing or postponing my impulsive invitation? The girls had been furious at Tom’s obliviousness to their feelings about confronting Robbie, and now here I was - acting without consulting them. And, as for what Tom and Adam might make of what I’d just done… But, I reasoned, Jenny had seemed happy to give me Robbie’s mobile number and Sam – well - she liked Robbie, and she’d surely understand my need to get to know my nephew. Wouldn’t she? No, it would be all right – it would be all right – I’d explain and hope they’d understand –and if they didn’t…
The phone rang, forcing me to abandon my qualms. It was Angus Campbell’s secretary. She said they’d had a cancellation on the operating list for the coming Tuesday and that Mr Campbell would like me to come in then for my operation.
And that was the moment when the full significance of what I was facing made its real impact. All my worrying about Robbie, about
who
to tell about my illness and what to say – none of it mattered - it was just so much displacement activity.
Everything fell away from me. I felt I was on the edge of a void. I shuddered, touched all over by an icy coldness, my hands clammy on the phone. I struggled to breathe. The secretary’s voice seemed muffled, far away.
“Mrs McAllister, are you still there? Can you hear me? I need to explain…”
“Yes, yes I’m here. I’m listening.” I spoke quickly, just ahead of the nausea that was overwhelming me. I clamped my back teeth together, tried to concentrate on the woman’s words. She was saying something about fasting and anaesthetic. I couldn’t really make sense of it. I was terrified. I had cancer. A surgeon was going to slice off my breast…
“So we’ll see you on Tuesday then?” The voice was as calm as ever.
“Yes,” was all I managed to say, before hanging up and fleeing to the toilet to throw up.
It was some time before I could get up off the bathroom floor, but eventually I did. I washed my face, cleaned my teeth,
brushed
my hair. Gradually I came back to myself. Slowly the panic subsided. But the underlying fear remained. I realised it would be a long time before that receded – if it ever did. But I also realised I couldn’t – mustn’t give into it. Doing nothing – hoping it would all go away was simply not an option.
Chapter Eleven
Before I left for my motherin-law’s, I realised I’d better phone Mr Campbell’s secretary back. She didn’t seem surprised that I’d taken in very little of what she’d said before, and explained the admission procedure again. I managed to remain calm enough to scribble down the main points of what she told me.
Then, slightly later than planned, I drove to Evelyn’s. Tom’s mother lived near Haddington, about ten miles inland from Gullane. Haddington was the old county town of East Lothian and is a very pretty, well to do place. Holdfast Cottage was a traditional Scottish, one and a half-storey, white-rendered, stone building. Surrounded by a walled garden, it sat well back off the road. As I was expected, the large, solid, wooden gates stood open. My heart lifted as the car rolled up the gravel driveway. I loved the solid, thick-walled, old house where Tom spent the later part of his childhood and I loved my motherin-law.