A fleeting look of happiness passes over her face. ‘I better go back upstairs and have that lie-down; my stomach still hurts.’
‘I’ll bring you some lunch later; have a sleep if you can.’
I watch as my older daughter moves slowly up the stairs. A few months ago she would have torn up them; I realise she is still a broken child.
I put my hand to my mouth and discover that it is quivering with emotion. My body is shaking all over with anger. I still erupt inside whenever I see how Annabel has been affected by this.
Dominic did that to her.
I don’t need his meddling sister and her medium. I can still feel the fury when I discovered what Dominic had been doing. When he’d answered the front door bell that evening, I slipped into his study to look up a recipe on the Internet. My own laptop was upstairs and needed booting up, his was already on. As I moved the cursor I couldn’t believe the filthy display in front of my eyes. All were young girls and barely in their teens. As if that hadn’t been enough.
I was frightened when I found he was still alive after I’d pushed the ladder with him on the top, lying in a pool of blood but breathing. His golf clubs were always where he left them - habit you see. All tucked away clean and neat in their smart leather bag. Dominic was the only person I knew who regularly washed his golf irons. One blow did it, and I could have seen a flicker of remorse in those eyes and I could have felt guilt but then I thought of Annabel. He should never have touched our daughter that way. It was already too late when I found out, culminating in our hurried visit to a clinic. I had two daughters whom I had to protect and my only guilt is that it ever happened.
I watch Annabel close her bedroom door at long last a safe haven, and feel relief wash over me.
July 2011 Making A Right by Faith Mortimer
REBECCA WITH TWO C’S
by Faith Mortimer
I first saw her standing at the enrolment desk, clutching her papers in the crook of an arm, cheque in her other hand. She was tall and slim, with long mid-brown hair that fell in soft waves around her face and shoulders. I guessed her age to be middle to late forties. Another contender for night school I thought, she’s probably here for the upholstery or cake decorating classes.
A draught from the double doors caught me as a small group entered, laughing and chattering, their noisy interruption causing the woman in front to look round, a small smile upon her face at their oblivious loud entrance. The enrolment clerk looked over and frowned in annoyance, and as he did, I met her eyes, large, wide and an unusual green. Her smile broadened and I caught my breath. Was she directing that gorgeous look at me?
‘Next please,’ said the clerk. The moment passed as she turned her attention to him.
I daydreamed as she completed her paperwork and handed him her payment. There was no chance she’d be in my Greek Language class!
~~~~~
Surprisingly, the room was packed and after our introductions to each other in simple Greek, the teacher soon got into her swing. She covered the board with the Greek alphabet, not just a foreign language to me but a totally alien one. Few of the characters looked familiar. I sighed, wishing perhaps I’d taken up upholstery myself.
Our lesson was interrupted by a knock at the door and there she stood, my lady with the gorgeous smile.
‘Sorry I’m a bit late, but I had an important phone call just now that I had to deal with.’ She cast an apologetic look around at everyone and the teacher nodded in a friendly fashion.
‘I’m Rebecca by the way, with two c’s,’ she said inching her way in and looking round for an empty desk and chair. For some inexplicable reason I just knew she was going to sit next to me and moved the chair out so she could slide in without any bother. Smiling her thanks she removed a pad and pen from her bag and joined the class. I was smitten.
~~~~~
‘I’m taking the dog out for his walk,’ I say, shrugging into my best leather jacket and scarf.
‘Uh-huh,’ she says, digging into the box of chocolates that rarely leaves her side, eyes glued to her favourite soap of the evening.
Has she actually heard what I’ve said? She never offers to accompany me, and I am glad. Why has it come to this? We rarely do anything meaningful together these days. It was great in the beginning, a new adventure. We met; we dated and I thought we fell in love. Nowadays, she hardly notices if I’m there. She rarely suggests we go out together, or notices what I’m doing. When she returns from work in the evening, leaving her green Mini parked on the driveway she makes a beeline for a snack from the fridge. She usually suggests a takeaway for later; she rarely puts herself out to cook – for me. We eat in silence, plates on our laps, in front of the television.
She knows I’m taking the dog out more regularly; she made a comment some months ago. ‘Good thing Bomber’s got you. I just haven’t got the energy and besides it’s far too cold.’
Yes, Bomber and I go out very regularly, the exact time every morning and evening. She never asks where we go or why I choose those times. She’s more content to snuggle down under the duvet, guzzling tea or red wine.
I fetch Bomber’s lead from the hook behind the kitchen door. He’s there, ready and willing. His feathery tail wags until you think he’s going to lose it and he makes little throaty noises of joy. He’s my one source of love in this place now and yet, I feel guilty in using him to get me out and away from the house.
I close the door behind me and notice there’s been a soft sprinkling of snow. Bomber is overjoyed with all this soft white stuff and snuffles around making little excited barks. Can he know?
Walking down the road toward the wreck I feel an uplifting of my heart. She has a dog like Bomber, an overgrown Golden Retriever, and she’s married too. She meets me every morning and evening, same time, same place for an hour. I live for those stolen hours.
We’ve never said anything, nothing significant. But when I look at her and she gives me that gorgeous smile in return we both know.
So I’ve brushed my hair, cleaned my teeth, and put on my smart jacket, that is really unsuitable for walking a dog, and gone to meet her.
She’s a beautiful girl and I don’t just mean that in looks. She’s quiet, but strong. I know she’s married, because of her ring, but neither of us really mention our partners. In the beginning we decided it was too unfair to talk about them, to air our grievances and disappointment with our sad, loveless marriages. Neither of us wants to slag our partners off.
We keep to safer things. We love our dogs, and her bitch, Megan behaves like she’s in love too with Bomber as she prances and preens around him. It reminds us of the film, Lady and the Tramp. We laugh at their obvious joy and we’re comfortable with each other. She tells me she is originally from Canada, and I think I detect a hint of a transatlantic twang. She likes horses and riding, swimming and walking, and she loves Greece. We discuss plays we’ve seen, and share music; I copy CD’s for her and occasionally we exchange a favourite book. When we agree on a newfound author, my heart beats wildly. I love her long brown curly hair and her smiley eyes and deep luscious mouth that curves into a smile just for me.
Except, this evening she’s not there. I stand in the darkened park near our bench, beneath the lamplight. I watch Bomber scamper around chasing snowflakes and catching them on his tongue. I wonder if she is ill. She was okay this morning. Did her husband suspect? Only there’s nothing to suspect. We haven’t done wrong, not even a kiss. But we both know.
I wait over an hour, and then I think about returning towards home. Home?
My mind flits to my life. Why had it all gone sour? When had we drifted apart, floundered upon the rocks and I stopped living and began to endure? We had been in love, I was sure of it. Yes, we had been young and silly, and living together was all part of the thrill. We overthrew our parents’ misgivings and married blissfully unaware. We were happy for a time, until things were simply wrong.
We lost a child, just four years old to leukaemia. She could never bring herself to have another, and now there was just this empty space between us.
Bomber brings me a stick and I throw it for him. His joyous bark echoes around the parkland. I wonder how long I can carry on like this. It’s been bad for years if I’m truthful. I only come alive when I see her. My heart aches for her. Where is she?
Despondent, I turn to retrace my footsteps, giving one last look around, and there is Megan, bounding up to me. But where is she?
‘Where’s your mistress?’ I ask. Bending down I give her a stroke and notice the collar. There is a tag with a telephone number on it. Is she following? Or is she injured somewhere? I am alarmed, I can’t leave Megan and I need to find her mistress.
‘Where’s your mistress,’ I ask Megan again. ‘Go! Find her!’
Megan stands before me wagging her tail. I repeat my command and she rushes off with Bomber and me following. We walk round the park and I realise it is our usual route and we end up back where we started. I look at the telephone number again and I hesitate. Should I ring her? I am torn. I take out my mobile phone and am just about to dial when it rings.
‘Where are you? You’ve been gone over two hours now and it’s getting late. I wanted a takeaway.’ My heart sinks. Her voice is not the one I want to hear. Vaguely I am surprised she has even noticed I’m not yet home.
‘I lost Bomber for a while,’ I say. ‘He skipped off after a rabbit, but I’ve got him now. We’ll be home shortly.’ I don’t like to lie but I feel I have no choice.
‘Right,’ she says. ‘I’ll make myself a sandwich then, I suppose.’ She sounded cross.
I end the call and go to put the phone back in my pocket, mind made up. Then I pause, shall I make that call? I can hardly leave Megan out here by herself and she might follow me back home. I dither. Ringing her home number means venturing into her and her husband, Jim’s life. Something we both vowed never to do. What if he answers?
I decide I can’t abandon Megan and dial the number. There is a slight pause while I’m connected and then I hear a recorded message. ‘Sorry Rebecca and Jim can’t answer the phone right now. Please leave your name and number and we’ll get right back to you. Bye!’
‘It’s John,’ I say before I have time to change my mind. ‘I have Megan with me. Where are you? She followed me on our walk. What shall I do with her?’
I leave my phone number and prepare to walk home. When I look round for Megan she has vanished. ‘Megan, Megan.’ I call. Bomber looks at me as if I’m slightly mad. Sighing, I turn round and we finally walk home. With the snow falling all around me there is an eerie silence. I scrunch up our drive and I’m surprised to find that Susan has actually managed to put her car away in the garage for once. Judging by the tyre tracks in the snow she’s obviously made a meal of it. Susan’s not the best of drivers. Entering the kitchen I was surprised to see her still up. She gives me a look with what I can only describe as strained, and I am even more surprised to find that she was anxious over my delay.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been waiting ages and ages. It’s far too late for a takeaway now, besides I had that sandwich. I was starving.’ I eye her bulky shape in the unflattering black sweater and skirt. She didn’t look like she was starving.
‘What happened?’ She peers at me. ‘Why are you upset?’
I make my excuses, blaming poor Bomber and his zealous rabbit chasing. Lies again. I can’t tell her the truth.
Later, in bed I lie there staring at the ceiling, watching the car lights chase across the walls. Susan is sleeping soundly. She mutters in her sleep and turns towards me, but I push her away. Oh God! It wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, we’d both have fallen on each other, passionately, ripping our clothes away and devouring lips, tongues, and bodies. Susan had been like a vixen in bed, now there was nothing.