Criss Cross: Friendship can be murder
Page 14
I couldn’t think what to say—I had so wanted to hear those words over the last three years and I had thought I never would.
Our previous attempts at IVF had left us broken, bereaved and hopeless. Did he really want us to go through all that again?
He continued to look at me. He reached out and took my unresisting hand in his two huge paws. His hands were warm and I hadn’t even realised I was cold. A little tuft of hair had been raked out of place by his fingers a moment earlier and stood out on end endearingly, and I put out a finger to smooth it back into place, so full, so full of love and happiness just to be with him.
‘But…’ I said. I couldn’t think of any more words than that. He smiled, lifted our entwined fingers and dropped a light kiss on the back of my hand.
‘I know it was traumatic,’ he said, ‘I know it didn’t work. But I’m ready to try again.’
I closed my eyes, not wanting to relive the pain of previous failures, the despair of the miscarriages I’d—we’d both—endured. I shook my head but he got my attention with a tighter clasp pulling me closer across the table-top towards him. But even as I thought to myself, I can’t go through all that again, his eagerness urged me on.
‘It’ll be different this time,’ he said, smiling, confident, ‘somehow I just feel it. This time it’s going to work. And I won’t be in Dubai or Hong Kong this time, I’ll be here with you the whole time, we’ll be together for every step. And with the Hopkins’ as well to look after you, Darling, I really feel it might work this time. You know what Mrs H was like when she thought we’d got her a cat, just think how she’d dote on us if we gave her baby to coo over! Let’s go for it, Cress. Let’s have a baby!’
I looked at him now, but had to look away again, afraid to let myself be drawn in by his enthusiasm. Yes, what he said was true, but that didn’t mean it would work…
‘I don’t know…’ I pulled my hand free, pulled on my jacket, cold. I looked out of the window to where some children were flinging McDonald’s buns to ducks on a dingy pond.
‘Thomas,’ I began again. He leaned forward.
‘Please, Darling. I know how much it would mean to you. And this time, it means so much to me—I may have been—well, I know I failed you.’ His voice wobbled slightly and I began to protest but he continued. ‘No, it’s true. I wasn’t sufficiently involved emotionally, I know that now. I don’t know why—I just think I wasn’t fully behind the whole thing last time, but this time…’ He looked down at the table, stirred his coffee, then glanced back up to me, his gorgeous eyes on mine. ‘I really would like to be a Dad. We’ve now got the time, the money, the home. We’re older, wiser, healthier, less stressed, more ready. Please Darling. Let’s go for it. Tell me it’s not too late.’
I brushed some tears from my cheeks and glanced quickly over my shoulder, hoping no one had noticed. I tried to smile at him but my lips couldn’t quite do it, and my vision blurred and my voice wobbled and in the end I just nodded and took a big gulp of my cold coffee whilst a huge teardrop rolled down my nose and sploshed onto my jacket. I swallowed.
‘Okay,’ I said, nodding so that he couldn’t miss my meaning. And then, finally, I could smile. He gave me a hankie to blow my nose and wipe my eyes and we sat and held hands and gazed at each other like newlyweds.
It was the best journey we’ve ever taken together. We talked, we listened to music on the radio, we were silent. When we saw the sign telling us it was two miles to Jessica’s village, I was sorry the travelling was almost over. I wanted to drive on and on and on, just Thomas and me, together.
Same day: 11.45pm
Jessica spoils us, she really does. She’s put us in the most gorgeous room usually reserved for visiting dignitaries: her parents or his, or a decrepit old aunt or someone, but this time, seeing as they’ve almost all died since this time last year (how strange!), it’s ours.
You’d expect it to be a bit dark and overpowering in here with all the heavy old panelling and floorboards and beams but because it’s so big and well-lit, it’s not dark at all, it’s just warm and charming.
And of course there’s the odd bit of tartan here and there—well, you’ve practically got to haven’t you? The whole place is done out in the 19th century’s idea of what it would have been like in the 17th century—so there’s lots of plaid and dirks and shields all over the walls—pure kitsch. But at least there’s no bagpipes playing folk tunes on the sound system.
The place was built by Jess and Thomas’s great-grandfather, a Lancashire—or was it some other shire—but no, I think it was Lancashire, he was a cotton or wool or something baron, and he wanted a ‘little place in the Heelands’ so that he and his nouveau riche buddies could do a spot of shooting and fishing and wenching to unwind from the strains of 1870s industrial life well away from the prying eyes of their virtuous charity-founding wives. The fact that it’s only forty minutes from the border was neither here nor there and he seems to have decked the whole place out mainly from his imagination.
It’s a bit embarrassing if any actual Scottish people come here, Jess says, or any of those overly-earnest American family history researchers, because they always want everything ABSOLUTELY authentic and are always saying things like ‘But of course that style of tam o’shanter only came into popular use between 1727 and 1734,’ as if one cared, but otherwise I doubt anyone realises it’s basically a pastiche of what Victorians thought of as Gaelicnicity.
Jess’s late father put in the central heating, God bless the man! Jess’s hubby Murdo put in the discreet, well-crafted double glazing, another man upon whose head blessings should be showered! So the result is that it’s actually very cosy in spite of the size of the place, with none of the nasty draughts one would normally expect of an old country place elaborately decorated in generic Gaelic. Thomas and I love it, and if anything (which I hope it won’t) ever happens to either Jess and Murdo, or their four sons or their offspring, it will come to us.
The bed—naturally—Is a four-poster—huge and comfortable—an unusual combination. Obviously we had to try it out, and we were almost late going down to dinner!
When we did walk in, hand in hand, Jess arched an eyebrow at us and said to Murdo,
‘God, they make me sick, anyone would think they were newlyweds.’
Her husband agreed, adding, ‘Good thing we haven’t got other guests here this evening. Surely by this time it should be separate beds eh? And sensible winceyette nighties? Especially for Thomas? Down to the ankle and up to the neck, just like Grannie used to wear.’ He guffawed far too loudly and moved towards the alcohol.
We drank rather a lot of wine over the marvellous dinner. What Jess has lost over time in the svelteness of her figure, (after all she’s had four sons!) she has gained in the generosity and quality of her hospitality, and dinner was a relaxed, indulgent affair; we lingered over it for hours. We talked, joked, teased gently and affectionately. The men told tall stories from their fishing and shooting exploits while we girls talked about the social faux pas we’d had the privilege of witnessing lately, and of the torture of school reunions. It was a wonderful evening.
As we wandered out of the dining-room at last, Murdo slapped Thomas on the shoulder.
‘I might as well let you go up, I know you’ll not be any good to me in the gun room just now. You’ve clearly got other things on your mind. Just keep in mind we’ve got an early start in the morning, and I’ll need you to help me get a few things ready.’
We laughed. I kissed Jess goodnight and we made our way upstairs under their indulgently fond gaze.
Sun 12 August—11.45pm
Today has been the most wonderfully relaxing, romantic day. I’d forgotten that the ‘Glorious 12th’ fell on a Sunday this year, and so the season will begin properly tomorrow as there’s no shooting on the Sabbath, of course! All our worries are behind us and I feel more relaxed than I’ve felt all year.
Mon 13 August—6.00am
We lit the candles last night, tu
rned off the electric light and slipped naked under the covers, laying there drowsy and warm and together. It was like a new beginning. I felt as if we were married all over again. It was bliss.
Now, after what we talked about Saturday morning in the cafeteria, I feel as though we are at the start of something new and wonderful. Hope fills me, even now as I write this whilst Thomas is showering before we go down to breakfast. It’s as if the future is there for us to grab hold of more than it has ever been before. I feel so strongly that nothing is beyond us now, our lives lie at our feet like a newly unrolled Persian carpet, ready for us to take the next step.
Same day: 10.45am
It’s mid-morning now and Thomas went off ages ago, all excited like a puppy going out for a run in the park, after a hearty breakfast with Jess and Murdo and a couple of early arrivals.
I’ve never gone shooting or hunting myself, and so I know I don’t really understand the appeal. Probably the closest I’ve come was sitting in that rental car waiting for Huw to show his face before I ran him down—now that really was blood-sport! But even I can appreciate the almost over-whelming sense of anticipation that this morning brought.
Murdo and Thomas were up hideously early, checking the guns and whatnot with Murdo’s man before showering and breakfast etc. Then the chaps all gathered together in the big main hall for a quick dram before heading out, and I just gave him a quick wave and called out that I’d see him later. I went back upstairs for a quick nap then a nice long soak in the bath—returning to society at a far more suitable time!
Jess and I are going to try a spot of Christmas cooking today. Yes, I know it’s only August, but she wants to trial a few new recipes, and as she’s renowned for her cooking skills and expecting a houseful, she obviously isn’t going to wait until December 24th to make sure everything is perfect with her catering plans. She likes to do quite a bit of the ‘special’ food herself at Christmas, so she’s having a crack at a few different things today, which is good news for me as chief taster. It was a relief to find she’d got rid of all the staff for the day, I hadn’t relished trying to squeeze into her kitchen with her cook and maid and butler etc there, and one could hardly have a lovely cosy chat with them all there ear-wigging.
So we will spend the main part of the day in her amazing, state-of-the-art kitchen. Mrs H would be so jealous if she saw it, she’d be pestering me for renovations. Although knowing Mrs H, I’ve probably already signed my approval of them and just don’t realise it and I’ll get home to find everything is completely different! And Jess and I will accompany our baking (well, her baking) with gossiping and drinking wine and while she is mixing, and rolling and baking, I will be in charge of the tasting of all kinds of delicious things. I think I can manage that.
Same day: 4.15pm
We have had a whale of a time this morning and afternoon, I have made an absolute pig of myself ‘testing’ Jess’s recipes for her, whilst poor old Thomas is outside traipsing about the grounds above the house in search of some poor scruffy little bird or another in the surprisingly unseasonal weather. It’s been a bit blowy and changeable, Jessica tells me, this last few days and now—can you believe, it’s actually quite dark and very heavy skies—surely they’ll have to come in soon, they’ll all be drenched and cold. In August! He could have taken me to the Caribbean, but I knew he had to have his shooting in Scotland. Well, I know where I’d rather be—the sun will always lure me. No, second thoughts, actually I wouldn’t, I’m having a fabulous time.
Between fruit tarts, I told Jess what Thomas said about another go at the IVF and she gave me a big hug and said she thought it was a wonderful idea. Then we both had to dab our eyes and blow our noses, so soppy, but I’m so happy today. Everything is coming together so beautifully, and who knows, perhaps Thomas is right and this time it’ll work out. Not that I want to be one of those sextuplet mothers. Twins at the absolute most, one of each, obviously, and preferably the boy will grow up tall and broad and dark like Thomas and the girl smaller and blonde and blue-eyed like me, though I don’t suppose it’ll work out like that.
I wonder how Thomas will feel about calling the girl Natasha? I love that name. And I’ve been thinking of David Thomas for a boy—I know it’s not very exciting, but with today’s penchant for the strange and ridiculous, the so-called ‘individual’ names for children—I think it’s solid and reliable, a name that won’t furrow brows or make people puzzle over the spelling. And it’s too stupid to call a child after a celebrity or other public figure, what if they turn out to be murderers or paedophiles?
I just heard my phone do its funny little message-received beep, so thinking it might be Thomas out in the wilds, bored or just missing me, I fished it out of my bag to check it, nearly knocking my wine over into the bargain. It wasn’t Thomas. It was Monica. Considering I haven’t heard from her since you-know-when, I think it’s a bit bloody pointless just sending a short little text like that.
‘Criss Cross.’
That’s all it said.
Stupid cow. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is that supposed to mean something to me? ‘Criss Cross’? Why can’t she send a normal text like anyone else? Why these stupid, childish guessing games? I’ll delete it in a minute. I’m not replying, that’s what she wants, but I’m not playing her stupid games any more. It’s about time she learned some respect for peoples’ lives. I suppose she means, remember when we went to the cinema together.
Jess is calling me, the next batch is out of the oven, so must top up our mulled wine and start knocking back mini-stollen, mince pies, tiny little panettone, cheese straws etc, etc. Heaven! Shame to have a baby belly before being pregnant though! Thomas doesn’t know what he’s missing!
Fri 24 August—3am
Thomas is dead and gone and I am alone.
My Thomas.
All our plans, our dreams, those last few days two weeks ago, it’s as if it never happened. No baby now. No old age holding hands together.
Nothing.
I’m empty, and so is the world. I don’t want to write anything else.
Later: 4.10am
And I wanted him to be buried, laid in the ground in a beautiful polished box, so I could remember him for ever and ever, sitting on the grass beside him, as if he were still there, talking, telling him things, telling him about my life. But they cremated him, burned him to dust and now the dust has blown him away between the rose bushes and there’s nothing left. I can’t find him anywhere. He’s gone. I have to keep fighting the urge to go out and look for him. Because he’s not just out there somewhere, he’s not lost, he’s just—not.
Sat 25 August—11.05am
I feel like my heart’s been ripped out. Is that a cliché? I don’t care. I don’t care what anyone thinks. They look at me, at the broken wretch with the unwashed hair and raw eyes, my nose running as I howl into my jumper-sleeves, curled up like some animal in a ridiculous, over-stuffed, over-designed, over-priced Elegance of a Chair, and I can see there is something that is almost fear in their disgust, their thin veil of sympathy drawn tight across their faces.
Comforters. Visitors. Sympathisers of the Bereaved. Why can’t they all just go and fuck themselves? Leave me alone. And then my rage dies and I hear the words my mind has been screaming at the walls. Alone. And the pain washes over me again. He’s gone and I will never, never again see his dear face, his smile, hear his voice, see his lovely, solemn eyes looking at me.
There’s no more of him, his whole being is at an end and I am so lonely, so afraid, and so fearful of forgetting him.
Same day, later: 2.40pm
I look back over the entries I wrote just over two weeks ago, when my whole world was sunny and happy and I had the man I love by my side. It seems impossible to process the fact that so much can change in such a short space of time. And there I am wittering on about Jessica’s bloody baking whilst out on the moor the only man in the universe that I love was not, as I supposed, having tons of fun shooting innocent
animals—but he was the one being shot. He was being culled, put down like vermin. And I didn’t even know. I didn’t sense it. I was laughing and eating and drinking in Jess’s kitchen. Why didn’t I know?
My first period after Thomas’s death came today and it’s a day or two late. I had half convinced myself I was—miraculously—pregnant, but there will be no baby to remember him by, no one to share Thomas with, and now I am feeling so wretchedly dashed and miserable. Another lost day curled up on the sofa staring at nothing.
My whole body aches with the enormity of what I’ve lost. And I just can’t help it, I just keep saying it again and again. Thomas is dead. I hear my voice saying it out loud and every time, it surprises me. I sound normal. I sound just like my normal self, I can even say it in a happy voice. I look in the mirror and see myself, ruined, wrecked, hollow-eyed, grey-skinned. But outside the trees are leaved, the flowers bloom, the birds even sing. Everything is perfectly normal.
Mrs Hopkins brings me food and drink every so often, and I eat a little of it, or drink some of it, because I know it helps her. At least she’s stopped crying.
Later still: 9.50pm
Mr and Mrs Hopkins drove up to Jessica and Murdo’s to meet me on the 14th. In fact they set off as soon as they heard. And every little thing that needed doing, they did it for me or helped me to do it. They have really been wonderful. But even they keep looking at me with That Look—sympathy and fear together.