The Things I Should Have Told You

by Carmel Harrington

  Chapter Sixteen

  MAE

  ‘This bloody bed,’ I mutter as another spring digs into my back. No matter which way I turn, it’s like sleeping on a breadboard. With spikes. What time is it? For pity’s sake it’s not even two a.m. This night just seems to go on forever.

  Looking at Olly fast asleep beside me, with not a care in the world, makes me want to throw a pillow at him. I only agreed to this trip under duress and now I can’t for the life of me work out why I concurred.

  I know I’ll toss and turn for hours before I finally succumb to rest, our row bouncing around my head, making it impossible for me to sleep.

  Why is it, when I did nothing wrong, that I feel so bloody guilty? I ended up looking like a killjoy, stopping everyone from eating chips. But it wasn’t about the chips. It was about the fact that, once again, Olly took away my voice, chipped away at my parental role.

  I look at him over on his side of the double bed and me on mine. It’s funny, in a non-hilarious way, really, how two people can sleep in such a small space but still feel like there are thousands of miles between them. At home we have a super-king-size bed and yet we always seem to sleep at opposite sides of it. Disadvantage of such a big bed, I suppose. The years of kids sneaking into our bed, too, has just made us accustomed to sleeping with a void between us.

  But in Nomad our bed is a double and the room is what you would call, at best, cosy. Most would call it miniscule. No room to swing a cat, kind of thing. Maybe we will wake up tomorrow morning in a tangle of legs and arms as we have no choice but to roll towards each other.

  On that thought, I begin to feel a bit drowsy and close my eyes and try hard to close my mind so that I can sleep.

  Thump.

  What the hell was that? A loud bang just rattled Nomad.

  ‘Olly,’ I hiss. ‘Did you hear that?’

  He groans something that sounds like, ‘Cornflakes’, turns his back to me and lets out a loud snore.

  Thump.

  A second bang, this time louder.

  ‘Olly,’ I hiss a little louder and give him a dig, for goodness sake, we’re under attack!

  ‘What, what …’ he says, opening one eye.

  ‘There’s someone out there. Did you hear that?’ I point to the ceiling.

  ‘Your imagination is playing tricks.’ He closes his eyes again and, I swear to God, I’m about two seconds away from grabbing my pillow and letting him have it.

  Thump.

  ‘Okay, I heard that.’ Olly sits up, at last.

  ‘What is it?’ I whisper. My mind is going into overdrive, right bang into the area of escaped prisoners or mad axe-men.

  ‘I’ll go outside and take a look. Probably just kids messing from the campsite.’ Olly pulls on his runners.

  ‘Wait,’ I whisper, grabbing his arm. ‘Don’t go out there. That’s what they want!’

  ‘What who wants?’ Olly asks, looking a bit puzzled.

  ‘Whoever is out there!’ I say. ‘Look, they want you to go out, and goodness knows what kind of a trap it is.’

  Olly starts to laugh. I don’t get the feeling he’s taking this seriously.

  ‘Remember that story from years ago about that couple in the car?’ I say to him.

  He looks blank.

  ‘A couple were making out in the car,’ I tell him.

  ‘Lucky feckers,’ he says.

  I decide to ignore that. ‘They hear a noise, so he goes out to investigate. Then a few minutes later, she hears a …’

  Thump.

  We both jump and I’m practically on top of Olly with the fright.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ I say. ‘It’s just like in the story.’

  Olly lifts me off his lap and says, ‘What story?’

  Sometimes my husband is really dense. ‘The one I’m telling you about. The couple! The husband goes out and doesn’t come back. Then the wife hears a kerdump on the roof of the car.’

  ‘A kerdump?’

  ‘Yes, a kerdump.’

  ‘What’s a kerdump when it’s at home?’ Olly asks, grinning.

  ‘A bang,’ I say. ‘It’s another word for a bang.’

  ‘Right,’ Olly laughs. ‘I’ve not heard that one before.’

  ‘Okay smartarse, so she hears a BANG and goes outside to check what happened. And sweet Jesus, Olly, she only sees a mad axeman on the roof and he’s got her husband’s beheaded head in his hands!’

  ‘Oh the husband’s head is going kerdump, kerdump, kerdump,’ Olly snorts and he can’t contain his laughter any more.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  ‘That was three in a row,’ I say and feel some satisfaction to see Olly looking a bit more worried.

  ‘Look, relax. There are no mad axeman on the loose outside in the campsite. But I’m sure there are a few kids messing, trying to frighten us. I’ll chase them off,’ Olly says.

  ‘And leave me and the children here, all defenceless. No way,’ I say to him, horrified.

  ‘Okay, so what do you suggest?’ Olly says.

  ‘We ring the police. The gendarme. Get them to come investigate.’

  Thump. Thump. Thumpity thump. ‘Oh feck, it’s getting louder,’ I say.

  ‘Whoever is up there, it sounds like they’re doing riverdance on the roof now,’ Olly says. ‘Look, I’m going outside. If not, the kids will wake up. We don’t want that. Stay here and I’ll be back in a second.’

  He grabs a torch from the kitchen cupboard and goes outside. I look around for a weapon and pick up a small kitchen knife and hold it out in front of me. If a mad axeman is out there, I’m not going down without a fight. I take a peek up at the canopy and see both kids are still fast asleep. That’s good.

  Despite my annoyance with him, I feel kind of proud of Olly. It is brave going out there. He could be facing anything. I pick up the knife, ready to do battle. I can be brave too. Then, less than a minute later I see the door handle of Nomad turn. I get ready to attack, knife outstretched.

  ‘Oh good, that will come in handy. To pare these!’ Olly laughs, throwing something at me.

  ‘Ow!’ I’m confused when an apple hits me on the leg.

  ‘This is an orchard. Orchards have apples and right now they are falling on top of Nomad. That’s your kerdump,’ Olly says smiling. ‘Not a sign of a mad axeman, I promise.’

  ‘Apples,’ I say, feeling a bit foolish.

  ‘Apples,’ Olly replies laughing.

  ‘Sssh, you’ll wake the kids,’ I tell him and turn with as much dignity as I can muster, back to our room.

  ‘Tomorrow I’ll climb up and make sure that there are no more loose apples, so no more kerdumps,’ Olly says and despite myself, I start to giggle.

  ‘Thank you for going out to check,’ I say.

  ‘Sure that’s my job. To protect you from kerdumps,’ Olly says and turns over to go to sleep.

  His job.

  I think about all of the ways he made me feel protected over the years. The countless times he’s told me to stay put while he investigates a creak in the house that has woken us both up, just like tonight. The way he will never let me lift anything that’s heavy. All of our walks and his insistence that I stay on the inside of the path so that if a car was to clip anyone, it would be him. The feel of his hand on my arm, keeping me steady, when the road is icy. Always getting up early to de-ice the car window for me, before I head to work, checking my tyres are okay, because he knows I’ll never think to do it myself.

  Oh, Olly. So many small ways you have made it your job to make me feel safe and I’ve taken it for granted. Have I thanked you enough?

  I reach over and touch his cheek, but he’s fast asleep already. I lie down close to him, feeling the heat of his body warming mine, and whisper my thanks.

  The next morning I awake early. It’s strange hearing noises from our next-door neighbours as they begin making moves to start their day, because at home we live so remotely. Olly is still asleep and I envy him, that ability to sleep through noise. And I
note we have done an admirable job at keeping our distance from each other as we slept too. Somewhere between the kerdumps and now, my annoyance with him over the chips has softened. I’m determined to avoid another row today. I swore to myself I’d cut out the rows with Olly, when Evie told us how she felt a few weeks back.

  In the old days, if Olly and I fought we’d have spent the whole night making up. ‘Never go to sleep on a row’, we’d always pledged. Oh the innocence of those days.

  Back then, even if we hadn’t sorted out our differences, we’d still lie in each other’s arms, in silent mutiny. And, of course, the longer I would lie with Olly’s strong arms around my body, the more my annoyance with him would disappear. It’s impossible to be cross with someone who is giving you comfort. I’d feel his warm breath on my neck, tickling it and then, whether I wanted it or not, desire would follow. He always seemed to be in sync with my body. Because at exactly the right moment, his hand would move down to my breast and he’d flip and tease my nipple till it ached for more. And then that would be it, all thoughts of arguments lost in my need for him.

  The bed rocks from side to side as Olly wakes and jumps up, walking out the door in less than sixty seconds flat. I don’t know how he does that either. Awake and ready to attack the day in seconds. It takes me at least two cups of tea before I’m able to even speak.

  I can hear him rousing the kids and the water splashing into the kettle. I must doze off again, because a while later I awake to muffled voices from the kitchen. Olly and the children. My first thought is, once again, our fight. The fact that we didn’t even manage to last forty-eight hours on our holiday without incident weighs heavily. The next eight weeks feel like an exhausting prospect. Oh Pops, I know you don’t want this, but the likelihood of me buying a Ryanair ticket home seems stronger by the minute.

  I sigh and close my eyes. It’s been a long time since I felt my husband’s hands on my body. Six months? Yes, about that, I realise, with dismay, since our last failed attempt. I know it must be killing him, this impotency. But I’ve done everything I can to understand, to listen, to be patient. It’s his lack of enthusiasm to do anything about it that irks me. I’m not sure he even misses our intimacy any more. And it’s not just sex. I mean, yes, I miss that, but more than that, I miss being in his arms.

  On the day of Pops’ funeral, we embraced and it shook me. The first time in months I’d felt his arms around me. That’s not the kind of marriage I want. Maybe if he had showed any remote sign of affection towards me these past few months, I wouldn’t have kissed Philip. The dull throb of an impending headache starts me thinking about that problem that needs to be sorted.

  ‘Breakfast is ready,’ Olly calls in.

  I wonder what he would think if I called to him, told him to lock the door to Nomad while the kids ate breakfast outside. What if I asked him to make me forget why I am annoyed with him, in the way he used to?

  I feel reckless, I feel lonely, damn it, I feel horny, so I call out, ‘Olly, can you come here for a minute?’

  I rub under my eyes and quickly throw my head upside down, to fluff out my hair.

  ‘Can it wait? I’m kind of busy right now.’ Curt, clipped tones. Foolishness replaces my recklessness and any thought of sex disappears. It appears that our bodies are not in sync any more.

  ‘It wasn’t important. I’ll be there in a minute.’ I blink furiously to stop tears from spilling.

  I look in the tiny mirror glued to one of the cupboards and wonder what is it that Olly sees when he looks at me. He used to tell me all the time. Declarations of love and admiration were thick and fast. I grew accustomed to them.

  I don’t think I can now become inured to a life that doesn’t include them. So what’s the alternative? A fling with Philip? The truth is that while my body was tempted, I don’t want him. I have no feelings towards him whatsoever. Later today, I’m going to text him and tell him that whatever we almost started is over. This isn’t who I am, getting thrills from a cheap flirtation. Even if my marriage is over, Olly deserves more than that. Damn it, I deserve more than that.

  Because however I look at it, right now, I’m alone, no matter what happens. I can stay in a marriage that no longer makes me happy, or walk.

  I stand up, put a smile on my face and do what I do a lot lately – pretend that everything is fanbloodytastic. Will they notice what a big fat fraud I am? No, it appears not, because they all smile at me in return.

  ‘We made breakfast for you,’ Jamie declares. ‘Me and Evie did it.’

  I look at the table in our dining room and it has croissants, a smorgasbord of fruit, cheeses and pastries on it, plus a steaming pot of coffee.

  ‘Wow, you guys! It looks wonderful,’ I say to them.

  ‘Dad suggested that we make a local breakfast this morning,’ Jamie says.

  ‘We thought we’d make the ultimate sacrifice and forgo Weetabix for some pain au chocolat,’ Olly says, winking at the kids.

  ‘I chose the pain au chocolat, Mam, for us all,’ Jamie says. His face looks solemn as he says this. ‘Not because they are chocolate, but because they are French. I want to be courageous, like you said.’

  I feel laughter begin to bubble up inside me and I’m filled with love for my family. ‘Oh I’d say these are good for a courageous palate alright.’ I pick one up and take a bite. ‘Yep, I’m feeling positively Spiderman-brave right now, after just one little mouthful!’

  Olly is standing by the stove looking awkward. I move further in on the bench and say to him, ‘You better sit down and grab one of these quick, before our “courageous” children scoff them all!’

  He smiles, relief written all over his face, and sits down beside me. ‘What did you want back then? I was making the coffee, sorry.’

  ‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ I answer, looking at the children, who look both happy and relieved that our fight seems to be over. We are long overdue an honest talk about us, but what’s another day?

  ‘I got you some mango, Mam, I know it’s your favourite.’ Jamie is determined to take credit for every choice on the table.

  ‘And I got you the apples,’ Olly pipes in, totally deadpan, causing me to snort with laughter.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Jamie asks.

  Olly and I tell them our ‘Kerdump’ story and our little van is filled with laughter and fun and teasing that makes me remember years of similar moments.

  As Olly and Jamie fight over the last croissant, I watch Evie closely and feel a stab of shame when I notice frown lines in her forehead. She stifles a yawn and somehow or other I know her tiredness is down to us and our stupid row about chips.

  ‘You okay?’ I whisper to her. She shrugs, but won’t look me in the eye.

  I’m supposed to be finding a way to make this better for her. We need to do better. It’s just … well, it’s so fecking hard. I can’t seem to get anything right at the moment.

  Then before I lose myself in a fit of self-pity, Jamie leans in and throws his arms around my neck. As he half-strangles me with his hug, I am consumed with joy. A cuddle, initiated by Jamie. I lift my arms up behind me to pull him over my shoulder and into my lap. I breathe in his chocolaty scent and realise that it’s not all bad. Oh, Pops, maybe you are right. Maybe we do just need time. For this moment alone, this embrace, I’ll put up with every inconvenience. And as I hold my son close to me, my body rejoices in the memory of how much one of his snuggles can change my mood, my day. My life.

  Reluctantly we make a move to get ready. It’s tempting to just stay put, but we’ve a tour to get to. We all head to the dreaded communal showers. When it comes to shower rooms, I’m pants. I’ve never been one of those exhibitionists who feels compelled to wander around the shower room butt-naked.

  But yesterday’s ten-minute shower in Nomad has only proven that Aled does talk a load of bollocks! The water might have been hot, but the trickle that came out of the shower head wouldn’t rinse shampoo off a bald man, never mind me and my mop! I had to keep
changing positions in an effort to get wet all over. It didn’t help that Olly was at the door shouting that we were gonna run out of water if I didn’t get out. Nope. Nomad’s shower isn’t going to be a runner.

  Peeking at Evie’s face, who looks like she’s about to get shot in front of a firing squad, makes me giggle. Like mother, like daughter, she’s always hated this communal malarkey too. But when we arrive at automatic doors that whoosh open wide to the shower room, my expectations begin to grow. The facility is pristinely clean, modern and looks spacious. We scope the area and high-five each other when we see individual showers with doors on them.

  Evie does a quick ‘Yes!’ and punches the air. ‘No offence, Mam, but I didn’t want to see your bits,’ she says.

  No offence taken. I quite agree.

  Chapter Seventeen

  MAE

  Our tour for the Normandy beach trip collects us from reception at the chateau. We’re an intimate group, just four others on the mini-bus plus ourselves. Our driver, Michel, greets us like long-lost family. Double kisses are doled out freely, much to Jamie’s glee and Evie’s mortification. She quickly puts on her earphones to her iPod and tunes out the chatter in the bus. I can see irritation on Olly’s face as she rudely does this and, while I feel the same, I touch his arm and whisper to him to leave her be.

  Michel introduces us to our fellow explorers, two American couples – Mabel, Fred, Joan and Don. They are also touring Europe in motorhomes and arrived in the chateau campsite the previous evening.

  ‘Aren’t you the cutest little thing?’ Mabel says to Jamie, who gives her the benefit of his biggest smile. This elicits an ‘aw’ from the whole group.

  ‘We’re been touring Europe for six weeks now,’ Mabel says. She’s the chatty one, it seems. The others seem happy to let her speak on their behalf.

  ‘My, what a wonderful place it is. We’ve been to Ireland, you know. We just loved it there. Fred’s family are Irish. Tell them, Fred.’

  But before Fred could get a word out, she continued, ‘His great grandmother was a O’Brien from Cork.’ Fred looks like he’s used to not being heard. I feel his pain.