by Jodi Taylor
I never thought I would, but I did. I was exhausted. It was broad daylight when I woke, still wrapped in my crusty blanket.
‘Gently. Don’t try and sit up in case you set yourself off again.’
‘This is your fault.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Too late for that.’
‘No, I mean, how is this my fault?’
‘If you hadn’t stopped me killing myself all those years ago I wouldn’t be here now.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘Tired.’
I found my arms, got them free of the blanket, and reached for the glass of water on the bedside cabinet.
‘I wouldn’t drink that, Jenny. Just in case. Mrs Crisp will bring some fresh.’
And indeed, at that moment, she knocked and entered. She looked dreadful. Worse than I’ve ever seen anyone look.
‘In that case, you might want to avert your eyes when you clean your teeth,’ said Thomas.
‘Oh, you’re awake at last,’ she said. ‘How are you feeling? Let me help you sit up.’
I pulled myself up and she plumped the pillows behind me. And yes, she had brought fresh water.
‘Just one or two sips, dear. No more. I’ll go and tell Russell.’
I lay back and took stock. I’d vomited copiously all night. I’d slept in my clothes and make-up. Well, if nothing else, once he clapped eyes on me he’d be a great deal more reconciled to our divorce. It might even be all over by next Monday. If I lived that long.
He appeared in the doorway. ‘Still alive, then?’
I shook my head very gently and felt a familiar sensation. I grabbed the bowl, but it subsided. It had to. There really couldn’t be anything left.
‘Don’t do that,’ he said, coming into the room. ‘Dry-heaving is no fun. Take it from an expert. If I run you a bath, do you think it would help?’
I nodded. A bath sounded wonderful. To be clean again.
‘And,’ he said, ‘I’ve sent for your doctor so you need to get cleaned up or he’ll never recognise you.’
‘No!’ I croaked.
‘Too late,’ he said, and went into the bathroom. I could hear the sound of running water. He reappeared.
‘I don’t know which is your favourite bath lotion – I’ve never seen so many – but I’ve chucked a few into the mix. You’re not very fragrant, my love.’
I blushed red with mortification again.
‘Up you come,’ he said, lifting me again. He managed the steps down, no problem at all, and set me gently on my feet. He unwrapped the blanket and unzipped my dress.
I made a small sound.
‘Stop panicking,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Just making things easier for you. Don’t start undressing yet, I’m coming back with your PJs.’
He was back seconds later. ‘Seriously? Shaun the Sheep pyjamas?’
Kill me now.
He turned off the taps and tested the water. ‘That’s fine. I’ll leave you now. Don’t fall asleep and don’t drown or I’ll get the blame. Back in half an hour.’
Then he was gone, leaving the usual vacuum in his wake.
I undressed very slowly, dropping everything in the bin. I never wanted to see any of it again. How people managed to get drunk regularly was a mystery to me. Or why they would want to. I was only ever drinking water from now on. If I wanted to be frivolously irresponsible and let rip, then I’d put a slice of lemon in it.
I lay back in the warm, heavily scented water and closed my eyes.
‘Don’t go to sleep,’ said Thomas, anxiously.
I washed my face clean, then my hair, then the rest of me, feeling a little better with every passing moment.
Half an hour later I was bathed, teeth cleaned – ‘ Don’t look in the mirror. It won’t do you any good at all and it’s not as if you don’t know where your teeth are.’ – and was sitting on my bed combing my hair. I’d had three sips of water and every single one had stayed put. Someone had put fresh sheets on the bed and I climbed in, exhausted, and fell asleep again, waking only when Mrs Crisp brought Dr Williams, who’d known me for ever.
‘Well, Jenny. Mrs Checkland, I should say. What have you been doing to yourself?’
I was looking at Mrs Crisp as he spoke and her face spoke volumes.
‘I think I … drank too much,’ I said, as best I could.
‘And how much did you drink? One bottle? Two?
‘One,’ I said. ‘Glass,’ and he chuckled.
‘Well, there are a number of possibilities here. You drank too much. You ate something that disagreed with you.’ Mrs Crisp closed her eyes. ‘Or you’ve got one of the many bugs flying around at this time of year. Let’s have a look, shall we?
He began to do doctor things.
I reached out and pinched his hand. ‘I can’t have eaten anything … bad,’ I said, carefully, cutting my eyes to Mrs Crisp. ‘We had a … dinner party. Six of us. Everyone else is fine.’
He paused briefly and then said, ‘Well, that seems to dispose of that theory. And quite honestly, Jenny, Mrs Checkland, I don’t think one glass of wine would produce quite such – spectacular – results, so tummy bug it is. When did it start?’
He did all the usual medical things, wrote a prescription and asked Mrs Crisp to take it downstairs.
After she’d gone and he was packing things away, he said, ‘That was a kind thought, Jenny, but unnecessary, I think. I’ve known Lizzie Crisp for years and seafood and chicken notwithstanding, she’s incapable of producing bad food. And as you said, everyone else is fine. No, I think we’ll go with the popular choice, the twenty-four-hour tummy bug. Take things easy for a day or so. Sip water. Eat a little toast when you feel like it. I know you think you’ll never eat again, but you will, believe me.’
‘Thank you. Please don’t mention this to my aunt.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it. You’ll do fine here, Jenny. Plenty of people to look after you, but if it starts up again, let me know immediately and I’ll come straight back.’
Something occurred to me. I’d never had to think about this sort of thing before. ‘Am I a private patient?’
‘One of my favourites, so look after yourself. You might want to approach wine with more caution, next time. Goodbye, Mrs Checkland.’
He closed the door behind him.
I did nothing for two days. On the third day, I rose again, dressed carefully, and trailed down the stairs, with Thomas chirping anxiously every inch of the way.
‘For heaven’s sake be careful on the stairs,’ he muttered, as if I’d forgotten how to put one foot in front of the other. To please him, I inched my way forwards with the speed of a striking glacier. People grew old in the time it took me to make my way downstairs.
In the kitchen, I was given the warm seat by the stove, a cup of tea, and an inquisition into my state of health.
‘Still alive then?’ said Russell.
I glanced down at myself, just to check, and nodded.
‘You poor old thing,’ he said, with easy, if not complimentary, sympathy. ‘I’m taking Mrs C and Kevin into town this afternoon. Sharon will be here if you need anything. Are you OK with that?’
Actually, I thought a quiet afternoon not doing anything would be very pleasant.
I never learn.
Sharon was baking and pleased to have me around. She was trying out new ideas for cupcakes and I happily drank tea and lined trays with baking cases for her. When she’d finished, she chucked it all in the oven and slammed the door.
‘Never be afraid,’ she said, sensing my startled look. ‘Slam the door and show them who’s the boss.’
Someone knocked at the front door. An event so unusual that for a moment, no one knew quite what to do.
‘Well, open it,’ said Thomas, giving us a clue.
Sharon went out, returning a minute later, her face as white as her apron. ‘It’s a man, Mrs Checkland. He says he wants his donkey back or he’s going to the police.’
I went straight
into full-blown panic. I knew this would happen. I told Russell this would happen. You can’t just go around stealing people’s donkeys willy-nilly. I said the owner would turn up. And here he was. And where was our intrepid donkey-napper now the chips were down? If I knew anything, they’d all be in a pub somewhere, while I held the fort – and the donkey – and had to deal with incensed owners, the police, the legal system, and Aunt Julia, because she’d find out about it somehow, if only when Uncle Richard had to try and keep me out of prison.
‘Have you quite finished?’ asked Thomas, amused.
‘It’s not funny. He’ll have to come back when Russell’s here.’
Sharon was waiting. ‘He’s really angry. Says if you don’t hand her over he’ll go and get her himself.’
Oh, my God, what was I going to do? Where the hell was Russell?
‘Oh, he won’t be back for hours,’ said Thomas, unhelpfully. ‘ It’s all up to you Jenny. There’s no one else.’
‘I can’t do it alone.’
‘You’re not alone. Now come on, straighten your hair and go and kick his ass. Not literally. Actually, that was quite funny.’
‘Thomas …’
‘I mean it, Jenny. Stop being so pathetic and save your donkey. You don’t want him to get her back, do you?’
‘You’re beginning to annoy me.’
‘Excellent. Now – get in there.’
‘This is something else we’ll be talking about later.’
But it had worked. He’d focused me on the problem, which was preventing Marilyn from being taken away. And Russell would get me out of prison. Somehow.
‘Gelignite?’
I said to Sharon, ‘I’ll see him in the living room.’
She nodded. ‘Do you want me to stay?’
‘No. Please nip out and … make … sure she’s safely locked up.’
I stood by the fireplace, smoothed my hair and clothes, and indicated she should bring him in.
She was right. He was horrible. He was big and loud and he thrust his belly into the room before him like a heat-seeking missile. I hoped the dismay I felt was not written all over my face, although I doubted it. He peered around the room, instantly assessing the value of everything in it, including me. The window looked out into the garden, so it was only a guess, but I could imagine him arriving in some clapped-out old Jag with an expired tax disc.
He moved into the centre of the room, the dominant position, and embarked upon some diatribe in which his rights, our wrongs, damage to property, theft, Marilyn’s value, and his surprisingly large and completely unsuspected affection for her jostled for my attention.
Not knowing what to do or say, I let him go on. And on. And on. Even when he showed signs of slowing down and offered me the opportunity to speak, I said nothing. He began to repeat himself. I still said nothing and used the time to think. Eventually, he talked himself to a standstill, very red in the face and not best pleased by the lack of opposition.
Finally, I said, ‘Well?’ hoping for another long monologue, during which, with a bit of luck, the cavalry would drag themselves out of the pub and rescue me.
‘I’ve come for the donkey you stole and compensation for the damage you did, or I’ll have the law on you.’
Two weeks ago, I would have been terrified by such a threat but even a short time with Russell Checkland had eroded my morals to such an extent that, scared though I was, I had no thought of handing over Marilyn. And certainly not to this great bully of a man who would punch and kick a little donkey without compunction and snap her little legs like a twig.
Besides, I thought I had an enormous golden horse on my side, who several times in my life, and especially at school, had effortlessly enabled me to face down physical confrontation.
I drew my ragged banner of courage around me and said, ‘Of course.’
From behind the kitchen door, Sharon gasped.
I crossed to the table and rummaged in the heap that was Russell (‘I know where everything is’) Checkland’s filing system.
‘You’ll need this.’ I handed him Andrew’s meticulously detailed and colossal bill.
‘And this.’ I handed him the feed bill.
‘And this.’ I handed him the farrier’s bill.
‘And this.’ I handed him Uncle Richard’s business card.
‘And this.’ I handed him Tanya’s firm’s business card, thus ruthlessly committing two of the most prestigious law firms in town to the defence of a small donkey with the lung capacity of the Mersey Tunnel.
‘What’s all this?’ he demanded, angrily, but after my brief burst of eloquence, I’d reverted to my natural state. Partly to recharge but mostly because I could see it baffled and annoyed him. He’d come expecting a shouting match, during which he would easily dominate me and frighten me into giving him a large sum of money to go away. Well, it wasn’t going to happen. I had a feeling I could see my way out of this.
‘Invoices,’ I said, although he could see that for himself.
‘Plus,’ I rummaged artistically again. He stepped back and that was all I needed to know. I flapped miscellaneous bits of paper. ‘Paperwork from the council relating to the removal of the other dead donkeys. Report from the RSPCA pending prosecution. Request from the police anxious to contact you …’ I let it tail away.
He threw the bills at me and followed them, standing right in my face. Looming. Thinking I had Thomas, I stood my ground.
‘Don’t give me any of that crap, lady. You stole my donkey and that’s an end to it. Now I’m guessing a bleeding heart like you won’t want to give her back so you just give me her price, the value of the gate, something for my expenses and trouble coming here today, and we’ll say no more about it. A nice lady like you won’t want to see her name in the papers and I’m guessing those relatives of yours will pay a lot to keep it out as well.’
I couldn’t shout and bluster like he did. It wouldn’t work. I couldn’t bludgeon him with words and sarcasm like Russell. I had to develop my own defence.
Once again, I allowed him to run down. When he appeared to have finished, I said, ‘Whatever,’ and turned away as if I’d lost interest.
I could actually feel him swell with wrath. Perhaps winding up a potentially violent bully was not such a good idea. I moved away as casually as I could. He wasn’t going to involve the police. He didn’t want Marilyn back. He just wanted money. He’d heard we’d suddenly acquired a donkey – you can’t hide Marilyn, except two miles underground, maybe – done his research, and picked on me as the weakest link. Which I was, but I was really fed up with people thinking so. Unaccustomed rage clouded more than my judgement.
‘You pathetic weasel! Do you really think I’m afraid of a bag of piss and wind like you? There is no way I’m handing her back to you, so take that great belly and your stupid, fat, purple face and just fuck off out of it, will you? Preferably before my husband gets back because you might think I’m a cow, but he’s a total bastard and these days he’s just looking for some low-life scum to give a good kicking. To.’
I got a bit confused with the grammar there.
He stepped back in surprise. I should have followed up my advantage, but I had nothing left. He came at me again, angry at having given ground and raised his hand.
Shit! Thomas, where are you?
The kitchen door crashed open and Sharon surged magnificently into the room, clutching one of Mrs Crisp’s cherished Le Creuset frying pans. Something that could easily kill if wielded in anger.
‘I’ve called the police,’ she shouted.
Why hadn’t I thought of that?
‘Get out. Now.’
I grabbed some hideous vase and brandished it menacingly and I really don’t know what would have happened next, but at that moment, everyone heard Russell’s Land Rover clattering into the yard.
Sharon lowered her potentially fatal frying pan. ‘Mr Checkland is back. I’m sure he’d love to meet you. Would you like to stay for tea?’
He
was already heading towards the door. I could hear Russell shouting in the kitchen, shouting for me, Sharon, anyone, what was going on?
Bully boy was struggling with the front door, which in true Checkland style, was not performing as expected.
Both Sharon and I were still clutching our weapons as Russell entered and took in the scene at a glance.
With a jerk of his head, he indicated we were both to leave. Now.
We did.
The last I saw and heard was Russell advancing to the front door and saying gently, ‘Can I be of any assistance?’
Thomas was already in the kitchen.
‘Where were you?’
‘I was with Marilyn, keeping her quiet.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, she was upset.’
‘She was upset? I’ve just faced down that man and you weren’t there?’
‘Yes, the important part of that sentence was “I’ve just faced down that man” …’
‘No, the important part of that sentence was, “You weren’t there.” I was all prepared to wallop him with that hideous purple thing and Sharon was there with the Le Creuset and where were you? Oh, yes, in the stables with Marilyn who was in no danger at all.’
‘Well, she didn’t know that. She was most distressed, poor thing.’
‘And so was I.’
‘ No, you weren’t. Once you got into your stride, you were well away. Actually, Jenny, I think you might be turning into a bit of an adrenaline junkie. You might want to watch yourself. ’
Before my adrenaline had time to spike even further, Russell came back into the kitchen, looking very pleased with himself.
He put his arm around Sharon, saying, ‘You were wonderful. There’ll be a little something extra in your pay packet this week with my compliments and best wishes.’
Now was the moment for Mrs Crisp to snort and say she would be lucky if there was anything in her pay packet at all, let alone a little extra, but, unaccountably, she said nothing. She was unpacking her shopping and putting things away quietly, not meeting anyone’s eye. I would have liked a little time to think about this, but Russell grasped my wrist and pulled me into the chilly dining room.
