A Handful of Pebbles

by Sara Alexi

  ‘I’ll walk you to the gate, Mama.’ Nicolaos catches up with her and waves to Sarah, keeping eye contact for a split second longer than necessary. Sarah heads back down the hill.

  Now what? Does she go home and tell Laurence before she knows if Jim agrees to their plans, or should she wait to hear what Jim says, with the risk of the children getting to know first through Helena and then spilling the beans before she has had the chance to explain everything to Laurence?

  Perhaps she should talk to Laurence first. But if Jim vetoes the plan, will there be any going back?

  ‘Don’t be stupid. You won’t want to.’ Sarah speaks aloud as she turns into the gully between the bushes down the road. Her fingers caress the smooth pebble in her pocket as she takes in the hum of the insects in the afternoon heat.

  As the gully meets the road, she heads home to face Laurence.

  Chapter 25

  She turns into her lane when her phone pings. It is a text from Finn.

  ‘So happy. Wedding back on.’

  Sarah lets her head drop back and she smiles. ‘Just let everything come together,’ she asks the blue sky. A cat runs down the lane to greet her, and it winds around her legs. It is one of Juliet’s. The animal arches its back to meet her caress and makes a noise between a meow and a purr. They walk together up the lane. The animal provides enough distraction that Sarah does not think about Laurence, nor does she look up from the cat until, in her peripheral vision, she notices that alongside their hire car is Neville’s. That’s all she needs. His and Laurence’s voices come from inside, through the open door to the kitchen and beyond in the sitting room. Confident that she cannot be seen coming through the gate if they are in the sitting room, she passes noiselessly onto the decking and tiptoes into the bedroom. She really could do with a nap.

  The cottage is built solidly of stone, but the muffled sound of Neville and Laurence’s laughter permeates the layers. Cool to the touch, Sarah leans against the dividing wall, her cheek and hands against the stone. In one particular sandy recess, she can hear their words filtering through distinctly.

  ‘I swear that machine does more to the gallon than my Audi,’ Neville brags.

  ‘But you haven’t really been anywhere. Did you check the odometer when you started?’ Laurence replies.

  ‘No, but you get a feel for these things when you do as much driving as I do.’

  It’s the same old drivel. Neville bragging in his passive-aggressive way, Laurence competing. Pulling herself from the cool of the stone and lying on the bed, she deliberates the best way to tell Laurence. Perhaps not directly at first. Maybe even say she is staying on to get to know Helena’s family. Laurence will not want to stay on with her, she feels certain of that. Besides, he has work. But then, if she does not tell him face to face before he leaves, she will have to tell him by Skype, or email. That’s not good.

  Laurence’s laugh filters through the stones. It grates on her every nerve. Her decision seems to have made her less tolerant even to his voice. What really will she lose if she goes?

  There’s her home, of course, but the house is in his name anyway, as are the cars. She will lose the ease of never worrying about money. That’s hard, but it is not as if she gets the chance to indulge in designer clothes or has racks full of shoes. Laurence buys all those sorts of things for her anyway. She doesn’t need the hairdresser; she can manage to do her own hair, manicure her own nails and, on a reduced income, she would be happy to eat less meat. In fact, she would be happy to not eat meat at all. Well maybe, or perhaps that is just a reaction to Laurence’s meat with every meal policy.

  If she divorces him, maybe, surely, she has a right to a settlement. The papers are full of women who gain vast lump sums from people they have been married to for just a few months. Her twenty-six years is a lifetime compared to them.

  Maybe she would have got her life together and trained in something if she had not married Laurence? Maybe she would have something to offer to the world by now? But she chose to marry him, so she cannot really lay that at his door as though that is his fault. But in a settlement case, surely the cooking and organising, the cleaning and hostessing for him all these years, that must be worth something? If she had been paid for it, would she have saved much? But the truth is she has no idea how divorces work.

  Her laptop lays closed by the bed. The screen springs to life as she opens it. She isn’t sure what to type in, what she is really looking for. Just typing in divorce brings up a host of legal firms offering quick solutions. But there is also a link to a divorce and separation calculator.

  ‘What ever next?’ Sarah whispers to herself as she shakes her head and clicks on the link. The majority of the questions are around Laurence’s income, which she does not know the answer to, but as she moves down the list of questions, with growing irritation, it seems there is no value to the daily work she does around the house and Sarah clicks away in anger. Back on Google, she thinks what to type, something, anything to show that her time is valuable. She types in Housekeeper weekly wage, not really expecting anything useful to appear.

  Several sites offer information on hiring home help. One of the link for housekeepers suggests a weekly amount that is way beyond whatever she could have imagined and she exclaims ‘Good grief!’ out loud. Clicking open the calculator tool, she multiplies the weekly figure by fifty-two. With her bed and board taken care of there, would be very little else she would have to spend her money on. Her own clothes if she had the choice, but in this light, she could regard the clothes Laurence bought for her as a uniform. Her eyebrows drop. If her clothes he bought her are uniforms, what was the uniform of the Saturday night dinners? Laurence’s taste in evening dresses was frills around a plunging neckline and high heels. Who would wear a uniform like that? With a grimace and her eyes half-shut she looks up Escort rates out of curiosity. A site with a rather dubious photo at the top offers a list of prices on its front page. Prices for dinner based on hours and location, but nearer the bottom, there are additional prices if there will be an overnight stay. Here, there is discreet link to further individual preferences, but Sarah does not feel brave enough to know more. It’s another world. The figures are mind boggling. One Saturday night three-hour dinner would earn double the weekly wage of a housekeeper.

  With this taken into account, she is sure she could have saved all her wages as a housekeeper if she had been employed by Laurence all these years. Bringing up the calculator, she multiplies the weekly housekeeper’s wage by the number of years she has been married. ‘Oh ...’ She holds in an expletive. She could have bought their large house with its extensive gardens and the one next door outright by now! Looking at the stone wall behind which Laurence and Neville continue their laughing and talking, Sarah closes the laptop and reassesses her position.

  The laptop will not go back on the bedside table without moving her purse, which she puts on her knee. Settling back, she opens her purse and looks at the picture she keeps there of the boys. So young. Joss was about ten when that was taken, Finn only eight. Finn still looks the same. Bless them. There can be no price on them. Behind the picture of the boys is a photograph of her and Laurence on their wedding day. She looks so young but awkward in the dress, which cost so much, it had scared her. She wouldn’t have the same reaction today—she is used to wearing these sorts of clothes now. So much has changed. In the picture, Laurence holds his arm up for her to link with him, his other hand over hers. The gesture looks tender, as if he had sworn to take care of her. Which he had, and does.

  Maybe things would have been different if she had not met Laurence. But maybe her sinking into despair over Torin’s death would have continued, spiralled out of control. She was on the edge of just not bothering to go into work; what if that had happened? She would have lost her job and Liz would have had to pay for rent and food for them both. Poor Liz. There was no way she could have managed. What would have happened? She wouldn’t have had the money to go back to Ireland. Besides, she
would not have left Liz. Would she have become homeless, sleeping on cardboard at the end of the alley where her and Liz’s pokey, damp flat was? Who knows?

  Standing and taking her purse and picture to the wall that divides her from her husband, she leans against it. Maybe he has been her knight in white armour after all. Maybe she is being too harsh on him. Perhaps he deserves better. After all, what has he done, really? He married her, bought her clothes, and gave her an easy and luxurious lifestyle. What had he asked for in return? Not much, really. They had two beautiful boys which she gladly and willing raised, but since then? Well, dinners out, and dinner cooked when, or rather, if he came home. He seldom complained about anything, although he made it clear what he expected, and that kept her busy. Quality cooking, a fully stocked larder and wine cellar and, ultimately, not to have to think about the upkeep of the house or gardens. If a drain was blocked, Sarah must call a plumber; if something heavy needed moving, she had to wait until the gardener came. Laurence wanted his world to run smoothly with no thought at all in return for the lifestyle he gave her. It wasn’t such a bad deal.

  But does it rule out her right to want change, her right to move on?

  Her hands drop, still holding picture and purse, and her head inclines against the stone wall, her cheek revisiting the cool. She has no idea what is right and what is wrong in this situation.

  Neville is laughing hard.

  ‘Do you remember that car you bought from me?’ He seems to think this is funny, but Laurence is not laughing.

  ‘The green one,’ Laurence replies. He sounds a little drunk. Sarah looks at her watch. Well, it is late afternoon. ‘That BMW. Scrapped it quick as I could. It nearly got me killed,’ Laurence slurs.

  ‘Did it? You never said.’ Neville’s laughter subsides.

  ‘Just after the TT races. I was due over in Jurby—you remember that airships company that took over the disused RAF base up there for a while? Well, I knew one of them. Can’t remember what he wanted from me. Anyway, I was in the Albert when he called. Bob was it, Robert, or Regi, can’t remember now. Asked could I pop over, he asked, needed some information from a pilot. Good money involved for such a short trip out, I seem to remember, but it meant leaving the pub.’

  ‘Which is a crime in itself,’ Neville guffaws.

  ‘Anyway, taking the A18 was the obvious choice, cut straight across.’ Laurence is speaking quietly and Sarah can only just pick out the words.

  ‘Hell of a journey using any another route by Isle of Man standards.’ Sarah recognises Neville’s idea of humour. He sniggers at his own joke.

  ‘The A18 was re-opening from the races later that day, so I ignored the closed signs, drove straight past them. Damn fool thing to do, nearly got killed.’ Laurence is trying to cut off Neville’s laughter.

  ‘Clear roads encourage anyone to drive too fast,’ Neville replies, sympathy replacing his mirth, his over-expression suggesting how much he had drunk.

  ‘Wasn’t that! It was a fool of a boy on a motor bike, came careering down the road, no helmet, no control, one foot off the foot plate, hardly got himself round Craig-ny-Baa corner and headed straight at me.’

  ‘You never told me.’ Neville’s voice is genuinely sober now.

  ‘Quick reflexes got me out of that one. Steered around him last minute, straightened up just in time to take the corner. Damn fool. Hit the sump tank on something, bent a wheel rim. When I got to Jurby, I was still sweating. That was first and last time out with that pile of rust. Decided the car was bad luck, so I sold the thing to a farmer up there in Jurby.’ There is a pause. ‘He only wanted the engine. He said the car body could rot in his field for all he cared. Funny old bloke. Still spoke the Gaelic.’

  ‘Sounds like a near thing,’ Neville replies. ‘Ice?’ he asks, his voice quieter, presumably from the kitchen.

  ‘Make it neat this time,’ Laurence says.

  Sarah absorbs the conversation, the picture of their wedding day slipping from her fingers, fluttering to the floor. Mechanically, she lifts her purse, her fingers exploring the pocket behind her driving licence until she pulls out the picture of Torin.

  ‘And I bet the biker drove on completely unaware,’ Neville continues, his voice growing louder again.

  ‘Well, I saw him wobble a bit. I think he might have come off, but to be honest, served him right; shouldn’t be on the roads if he had no control. Nearly killed me,’ Laurence clips.

  He knew. He knew Torin came off and he didn’t stop. No wonder he sold the car to the farmer in Jurby. No wonder the police couldn’t find it, didn’t find it trying to leave the island on the ferry. The cold sweat on her brow runs down her temple. Her hands are shaking so much, she can no longer hold purse or picture. She puts them both on the chest of drawers next to her and grabs its edge as her legs feel like jelly. She sinks, sitting on the bed. What kind of man is Laurence? To hit and run could be fear. it could even be instinct, but to cold-heartedly get rid of the car the same day is calculated awareness. He knew, all right.

  There is a ringing in her ears and flashing brightness before her eyes. She closes them to see Torin’s body hurtling through the air and the man in the green car look away from her, looking around at the bike on the ground. He saw Torin, saw him sail over the fence. As she ran, the car came to a halt before speeding off. She opens her eyes again. There is a good chance she is going to be sick. The salt in her mouth makes her salivate. Her forehead feels ice cold, her throat constricts, there is nothing but the taste of salt, saliva. The muscles in her neck twitch. She grabs the wastepaper bin, hugging it on her knee. Her stomach contracts and she retches, expunging her horror, her shock, her disgust, her loss until she is gasping for air and there is a stinging in the back of her nose. The father of her children killed her soul mate. She heaves again and pants furiously, holding back the urge to vomit again. But there is no holding back. The beautiful picnic lunch returns as burning acid. One hand across her stomach, her muscles ache, she pants again, and the spasm quietens.

  She lifts her head, looks out of the window at the blue sky and the lush fig tree. The back of her nose is on fire. Putting down the bin, she grabs for a tissue from Laurence’s side of the bed. Blowing her nose does not help. She spits in the paper and wipes her mouth before throwing it in the bin.

  Chapter 26

  Perhaps it’s her duty to tell the police? Would they believe her? The car will have rusted into the ground by now. Laurence would deny ever having the conversation she just heard, and no doubt Neville would back him up. Sarah looks out of the patio windows to the decking and chairs at the front of the house where she had sat holding her boys’ hands. The bottom line is does she want her sons to have a father in prison and a mother who put him there? Sons with wives, maybe one day, grandchildren. How would having a grandfather in jail reflect on them? The incident suddenly seems a long time ago.

  But of one thing she is now absolutely sure: she is not going back to the Isle of Man with Laurence. Back to his house that she has always struggled to call home. She will never load that dishwasher looking through the side window across the lawn as Laurence’s car pulls out of the drive again. She will never pull his shirts from his stop-over bag after a long flight again, never check the pockets of his trousers for change before stuffing them into the washing machine in the utility room. There will be no more chats with Mrs McGee, watching biscuit crumbs gather around her mouth between slurps in her coffee break, duster still in her hand. No more lonely afternoons sitting in the conservatory waiting for the crunch of Laurence’s tyres on the drive, just glad he is home for the sake of some company.

  Maybe she should feel joyous, but, looking in the mirror on the chest of drawers, all she can see are the lines, the wasted years in her eyes and her loveless existence. The man who vowed to love her all these years is the man who killed the only person with whom she had ever really known love.

  No, she will not tell Laurence that she now knows, nor will she tell him her plans. She will
not tell him anything ever again.

  Her phone rings. It’s a Greek number. Nicolaos springs to mind, but she casts the image away before it is truly formed. It could be someone calling from a land line—Helena, Finn, even Joss from the hotel.

  ‘Hello.’ She speaks quietly. Laurence is only next door, and she has not made her presence known yet. While she packs, she would like to keep it that way.

  ‘Hi Sarah? Jim.’

  Sarah lets go of her suitcase, which she is pulling from under the bed, and stands straight.

  ‘Jim, hi.’ She waits. Has Frona said something already or does he want to talk about the wedding?

  ‘So tomorrow the big day, eh?’ He sounds cheerful.

  The days have flown. Surely it cannot be the wedding tomorrow already! The date on her watch confirms Jim is right.

  ‘Oh, the days have passed so fast, I have almost lost track of time,’ Sarah says and then worries it makes her sound irresponsible.

  ‘Greece does that,’ Jim replies as if it is the most natural thing in the world for her to forget her own son’s wedding day. ‘Mama tells me you two have been cooking up a plan?’ For some reason, Sarah is nervous to reply. She looks at her feet shuffling on the bedside rug. He continues, ‘She seems very keen. You know she has been suffering from depression, right?’

  ‘Yes, she mentioned it.’ Sarah straightens and looks out of the back window to the pool and the fig tree.

  ‘Well nothing seems to have worked, it did occur to me that I should come over here with her, have a sort of long holiday to see if being in her Greece would help, but, really, there is no way I could take the time off work. But if you are really willing?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Sarah breaths more easily. He has a pleasant nature. The way he pronounces some words, she now notices, is like Nicolaos. His accent is a mix of American and Greek, but still with a hint of an Australian twang.