by Gwyn GB
Might as well strike while the iron is hot then thinks Katherine, or is he calling her bluff.
‘Great. How about tomorrow night? We can pop out for something to eat.’
‘Tomorrow night is just fine,’ he answers, betraying no emotion in his voice.
‘I’ll pop round about seven then if that’s OK?’
‘That’s just fine.’ he says again. He’s being decidedly cool towards her, but then how can she blame him?
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then. Bye,’ she replies and returns to the yard and the squabbling sparrows, who suddenly launch into the air in a riotous screeching as a couple of magpies fly in to see if they can take advantage of all the fuss.
What is it you say to the husband you’ve barely spoken to for fifteen years? She isn’t even sure there’s anything to be said, when they’ve had all this time to discuss what happened – but haven’t. Perhaps some things are better left unsaid, except... why does the prickly hard knot inside of her burn every time she comes face to face with him? Surely this alone is her reason to at least attempt a conversation - and not just a conversation about the weather either. If she is really honest with herself, what she wants is to broach the things she’d been unable to say when she closed the bedroom door on him in their London flat all those years ago. Stuff which was too raw to say then but now, with the scabs of time, has healed sufficiently for her to be able to talk openly and honestly.
45
1988-1989, London
Katherine knows she over-reacted but she hadn’t been able to help it. She’s felt like a bubbling volcano ever since John joined her in London and this evening his attitude and long face just wound her up. There have been so many things she’s wanted to say to him, to apologise, to hug him and be held like they used to when him putting his arms around her was enough to make her feel secure and protected. Only he can’t protect her from the pain they’ve been through for the past four years and, although it wasn’t his fault at all, she can’t help but blame him for the fact every time she looks at him it reminds her of what’s missing.
Added to that, she now has to watch as day after day he traipses off to work, through the bustle of the city to his little green patch of relief. Then back again. She watches as his complexion pales and his spirit flags. She knows he is only there for her but guilt is an emotion she has no room for anymore. She’s had enough of guilt.
She ends up going to the airport with him. Taking every second she can to try and find the words she needs to say, the words she knows he needs to hear. Only she can’t. How do you tell the husband you love that you can’t let him near you, you can’t bear his touch, his kiss; because if you let him in, allow just one leak of emotion, you know you will crumble and collapse as sure as a sandcastle in the path of the tide.
It is easier when he leaves. It is even easier when she takes her wedding ring off because the questions stop. ‘Have you got kids?’, ‘So I suppose you’re thinking about starting a family?’, ‘Do you not want children? Not want grandkids, something to look forward to in your old age?’ Inside, she wants to scream at them to mind their own business, to say, ‘Don’t you think people without children are childless for a reason?’ Either they’re suffering because they can’t, or simply exercising their own free will and choosing not to: so butt out! She doesn’t. Without John the questions tail off and without her wedding ring on, they cease. The solitude means she can have her chance to heal.
After he’s gone and she’s cried herself dry, she gets angry. Angry that he’s just abandoned her, hasn’t been prepared to live life on her terms - after all her sacrifice, after all she’s been through to try and bear them a child. She persuades herself it is he who is selfish, not her.
Those long dark days and evenings in London during 1989 pass in a blur. She knows John will be thinking she is going out every evening, having fun, socialising; and part of her wants him to think that, to perhaps get jealous and come back and get her. Truth is, there are many evenings she can’t face anybody or anything, when coping at work is the sum total of her strength. So she turns off the phone and just sits in the shadows.
Towards the end of 1989 Katherine watches the demonstrations in East Germany growing until the overwhelmed border guards throw open the gates and hundreds and thousands of people unite the two Germanys. When the crowds begin to chip away at the Berlin Wall - chipping away at oppression and imprisonment, Katherine watches the news programmes and listens to the stories of re-united families, of those who never made it through. She cries along with the cheering, clapping, jubilant crowds until her head pounds. She cries, really properly cries for a whole day, until her body is dry and her emotions wrung out.
As Christmas looms she knows she is too raw to return home, and so she volunteers to work, afraid of how she will cope if she goes back to John and her family. She isn’t sure she’ll have the strength to return to London if she goes back to the warm, safe cocoon of Jersey. After that things just become easier. It’s easier to avoid returning, easier to forget about who she had once been, and easier to ignore her husband and family who still wait for her.
46
May 5th 2008, Jersey
Katherine sits in the living room of her old family home sipping on some Dutch courage and psyching herself up for the evening ahead. The furniture in here has mostly changed with new sofas dominating the space, but the sideboard and nest of occasional tables are still there from her childhood. Her sister and Robert have decorated too. Plain buttercream walls stare back from where she can vaguely remember red flocked wallpaper once hung. She can’t quite conjure up the pattern in her head, but she can still feel the soft velveteen of its design on her fingers. There is also a new wide-screen television in place of their old set; and fresh young family faces have joined the older generations in photo frames around the room. Yet even with her eyes shut, even if she couldn’t see the old granite fireplace at the heart of the room, she will always know where she is for the smell of the old house never changes. It might entertain the aroma of a roast dinner or hold onto the scent of a perfume or aftershave for a while, but underneath it all is the unmistakable smell of home - slightly musty with age, the legacy of the granite shell and oak beams, but with a distinct smell you won’t find in another old house; the scent of her family. Thousands of childhood memories playing in every corner of every room. She shied away from this for so long, resisting the temptation to come back to her nest, to feel swaddled by its security. Why? Had it been simple pig-headedness, or did she really need all this time to gather enough distance between herself and her pain.
In all honesty she’s dreading this evening. She’s been avoiding it for years, not because she is worried about how she’ll feel or that it will end in an argument, it’s because she’s scared they’ll no longer have anything in common.
John. Quiet, dependable John. A man who just couldn’t get on in cosmopolitan London. They’d shared a Jersey upbringing but when Katherine went to London she knew she was leaving him behind in more ways than one. He’s spent another twenty years living on this tiny island of just 9 miles by 12, doing pretty much the same thing, while she’s been forging a career and living in the capital city. She’s had conversations with her friends in London that John would feel completely out of his depth with. So what is she scared of? That she’s moved on and left him completely behind? That they no longer have anything in common? That the memory of a relationship she still holds dear in her head and heart will become yet another untruth in her life because she won’t be able to understand what she ever saw in him? Those happy memories of their early years together would instead then become some sad story of a young naïve woman who settled for somebody who just happened to be there, rather than truly falling in love.
All those years of trying to make themselves a family, all the pain, would have been completely pointless.
So she finds herself trying to think of some general chat topics they can talk about when they first meet up. She’s go
ing to ask him about his business, how it’s doing – apparently quite well; how his mother is – apparently not quite so well, about a couple of his old friends she remembers, and they can talk about Haut de la Garenne and what’s going on there. Or perhaps not.
Half an hour later they walk down the road and along the coast to the Le Hocq pub where they’d spent their very first date. Katherine doesn’t miss the irony. There are no longer any other pubs within walking distance, The Priory Inn was turned into houses many years before. She wonders if John has chosen it purposely? They could have taken his car and gone somewhere else. On the walk she runs through her list of chit chat topics, but it’s hard to concentrate. He still wears the same aftershave and scents like songs can take Katherine back to another moment in time in a flash.
‘How’s your mum?’ she asks.
‘Oh not so good now. She’s moved into the cottage attached to my brother’s place in St Marys. Finding it difficult to get around, never been the same since Dad died. She’s just kind of existed since really.’
‘I’m sorry. Do you think perhaps she would mind if I popped up to see her?’
John turns and looks at her now, studying her eyes. Up until this point he’s been keeping his gaze firmly fixed ahead. ‘No of course not, I’m sure she’d like that,’ he replies. Then there’s silence between them, nothing except the sound of their footsteps.
‘How long have those houses been there?’ Katherine, eager to fill the conversational void, nods over to some new homes off to their left.
‘A couple of years now. They wanted to build on the glass houses too but the Parish said no.’
‘Don’t they grow tomatoes there anymore?’
‘No. Barely any tomato growers left, too expensive. The supermarkets just keep beating the prices down and the costs keep going up. Makes it all pointless really.’ John sighs, Katherine murmurs in agreement. By now they have reached the coast road and without a footpath they are forced to walk single file, making it difficult to hold a conversation.
The pub has changed quite a bit since Katherine was last there. It’s now a gastro pub rather than the old fashioned drinking hole it used to be. A young girl, New Zealander by her accent, shows them to a table. It’s in the middle of the room, John points over to one in the far corner.
‘Would you mind if we took that one instead?’ He says to the girl and to Katherine at the same time.
‘No of course not, no problem, come this way,’ the girl answers, checking Kathy to ensure there’s no disagreement. Kathy merely nods and smiles. John always did like his privacy, and if they’re going to have a big talk then he’s not going to want other people around him.
They sit down and John starts to look through the wine list. ‘Red or white?’ He asks.
‘Red please.’ Kathy replies, and nervously chattering adds, ‘I love white in the summer, chilled, but in the winter I have to have red.’ There’s no reaction.
‘How about number fourteen?’ John asks proffering the wine list. Katherine doesn’t take it, he always liked to choose the wine.
‘I’m sure it will be nice,’ she replies.
He nods and snaps the wine list shut. ‘Do you still love scallops?’ John asks looking up at her.
‘Yes I do.’ Kathy smiles, pleased he remembers. ‘Pâté for your starter, followed by steak?’ It’s his turn to allow a small smile now.
‘Maybe,’ he says nodding. ‘Was toying with the sea bass, but I do love my steak.’ The waitress arrives hovering over their table with her notepad, and they order. Afterward without their menus as props they are temporarily at a loss.
John gets the first question in. ‘So, what’s prompted you to come back?’ He’s trying to make his voice sound as normal as possible, but there’s a defensiveness to his tone.
Katherine, in turn, tries to keep her answer as light as possible, mindful of the invisible wall that splits their table. ‘Well, it was a combination of things really. I’ve been thinking about coming back for a while, all the publicity over Haut de la Garenne kind of brought things home to me, and then I got a letter from Elizabeth West, Anne’s mother.’
‘I see. What did she want?’ There is no warmth in his voice.
‘She wanted to talk to me, I think to ease her own conscience really. Did you know about Anne’s father?’
John furrows his brow, thinking. ‘Not really had any dealings with the family, but didn’t he get put away for being a paedophile?’ He replies.
‘Yes and apparently everyone thinks that he was also abusing Anne. Margaret told me.’
‘Oh God! Really? Poor girl.’ John’s face softens.
‘Looking back now there were some signs, but when you’re sixteen and completely naive you just don’t notice these things do you?’
‘No of course not, it’s not something we’d have been aware of at that age. It wasn’t talked about like now - there wasn’t the education,’ replies John, ‘But what about her mother?’
‘Yes, what about her mother! She must have known...I know she knew. I could see it in her eyes.’
‘So you still went to see her then?’ John sounds surprised.
‘Yes I didn’t know about the abuse before I went. She’s like some dried up black widow spider just sitting there waiting to die. She knew, and she didn’t do anything to help her daughter. I hope the guilt has been nagging at her all these years.’
John nods. ‘Mmmh, but I’m not so sure those kind of people do feel it you know. If she didn’t help at the time, then I doubt she’s going to develop a conscience later on.’
It’s Katherine’s turn to nod and sigh. ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right. Well then I hope there’s a Hell so she can rot in it.’
‘Has it helped?’ John asks, Katherine looks up a little confused. ‘Has finding all this out and going to see Anne’s mother helped you with accepting Anne’s death? I remember whenever something bad happened you used to say you were cursed. Cursed because you’d driven her to suicide.’
Katherine sighs again. ‘I know. I guess I was a bit self-obsessed about all that. Yes, it has helped actually. I know the truth now at last and although it’s no better for Anne, in fact it’s worse for her, at least I can understand why now. Why she took her own life.’
‘Good. Then it was worthwhile.’ John says smiling gently at her. His smile is the first warmth he’s shown towards her.
It prompts Katherine to give him something in return, ‘It’s not the only reason I came back,’ she adds.
The waitress reappears bearing their starters. Katherine waits until she’s gone before taking a gulp of her wine. It’s time to tell John about her conversation with Margaret. He needs to know her sister is aware of what happened. ‘I had a big chat with Margaret the other day. I told her about the miscarriages.’
John stops chewing and looks up at her, his knife and fork frozen, ‘Good,’ he says surprising her, ‘that’s good. I think we should have told her a long time ago. Did you ever talk to anyone else in London about what happened?’ he presses.
Katherine shakes her head. ‘I didn’t want people to know, I didn’t want their pity, or to feel like a victim...’
John nods his head at this.
‘I know… I know it’s hard to understand,’ Katherine continues, ‘but I wasn’t really thinking rationally. You pray to God, you cross your fingers and try old wives’ tale fertility spells, and you search for some reason as to why it could be happening to you...’ Katherine pauses, John doesn’t interrupt relieved at last she is talking honestly; and then the words seem to tumble from her like a crate of spilt apples. ‘I’m sorry John, I’m sorry we never had the baby we wanted. I’m sorry I left and didn’t come back. I’m sorry for being a coward and for not allowing you to be a part of my life, or for me to support you.’ John puts down his knife and fork. ‘I know I kind of abandoned you, but at the time it was self-preservation, I had to get away. I realise the mistake I made was staying away for so long, thinking I could hide from mys
elf. I might have achieved quite a lot in my career, but hiding from myself is one thing I just could never do.’
John stays silent watching every twitch on her face, the pulse in her temple, the flare of a nostril.
She looks up at him, staring straight into his eyes. ‘September 18th, April 26th, September 3rd, December 14th, March 25th.’
At first a quizzical look shoots across his face, but as she goes on with each date he realises what she’s reciting. It’s the dates of each miscarriage, each day when their hopes were dashed and their hearts shrivelled just a little bit more. He’d never have been able to recall the list like that, he remembers rough dates; the April because it coincided with the potato harvest, one in September because it was close to his mother’s birthday, but for Katherine these dates are etched not just on her memory but on her soul. He thought he’d understood how much harder it had been for her, but the truth is he just couldn’t understand.
He sighs.
Katherine is looking down at the table again, her eyes watery. He knows she won’t have missed that first look of puzzlement on his face.
‘I also thought you’d be better off without me,’ she adds quietly, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘I couldn’t give you what you wanted, what we wanted. I thought perhaps you’d have a chance to find that with somebody else.’
‘That’s ridiculous Kathy,’ John answers quickly, frowning. ‘I said at the time I’d be happy with just us if that’s the way it had to be. I’d far rather have been with you, than without you.’
She looks up at him, there is years of frustration in his voice, tinged with a little anger. The raw emotion between them is too much for her and she drops her gaze again.
‘I’m sorry too,’ he says quietly after a moment’s silence, a weariness in his voice which takes him by surprise. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the support you needed, that you had to go away. I should have been able to help you do that. You shouldn’t have had to face it on your own.’ It’s John’s turn to look down now, words don’t come easy for him, she knows that. ‘I didn’t want people’s sympathy either,’ he adds quietly.
