Unsure (Sure Mastery)

by Ashe Barker

  Mrs Richardson is crouching in front of the oven, her hands buried in large oven mitts as she tugs the biggest turkey I’ve ever seen out into view. She turns to welcome us, her ready smile cheery and pleasant. Even Barney, the huge mastiff-cum-mountain lion, opens both eyes and calmly watches us from his place of honour in front of the Aga. Rosie’s bouncing on her father’s lap, obviously bursting to jump off and throw herself at Tom, but Nathan Darke’s arm has tightened subtly across her middle, holding her still.

  Long seconds pass before Nathan Darke’s head inclines slightly and his lip quirks into something not exactly a smile but near enough.

  “Miss McAllister. Tom phoned, said you’d be joining us. I’m sorry to hear about your cat.” He pauses briefly, then, “Please, sit down. Would you like a drink?”

  And that’s it. I’m in. Accepted. The next few minutes are spent with introductions—the dark-haired stranger is Daniel, Nathan Darke’s brother who normally lives in Cumbria but is staying at Black Combe for the holidays. The huge motorbike outside is his apparently. There’s commiseration, too, as Mrs Richardson exclaims over how awful it is to lose a pet, and especially at Christmas. People really ought to be more careful driving around these narrow roads. She wants to know if I’ll be getting another cat, and I shake my head quickly. I explain that I’m not really a pet person—Sadie was an exception. Sadie was different.

  “Oh, how so?” Nathan Darke’s question is genuine enough, I suppose, but I’m not sure how much I want to share. The loss of my mother is still too recent, and the pain too raw. In any case I don’t get to decide. Tom takes the decision for me.

  “Sadie belonged to Ashley’s mother, who died in March.”

  And immediately the floodgates are opened as I am engulfed by Mrs Richardson’s sympathy and vociferous caring. “Oh no, oh, you poor love. Why didn’t you tell us? Is this your first Christmas without her? Oh, how awful…”

  Even Nathan Darke looks uncomfortable as Rosie chimes in with, “My mummy died too. She got ill and I was very sad but now I’ve got a new daddy. Do you have a daddy, Ashley?”

  “Er, no. No, it’s just me now,” I mumble, embarrassed at all the fuss. I really didn’t come here looking for sympathy, but it seems I’m getting it anyway.

  Daniel’s approach is more pragmatic. He hands me a mug of steaming tea, with a promise of something stronger if I want it. Tom just hugs me more tightly, and I realize his arm has never left my shoulders. I’m pathetically glad of his reassuring presence as I feel tears starting to prick my eyes again.

  Nathan Darke leans across the table toward me, his lips flattened in a tentative almost-smile. “I’m sorry, Miss McAllister. I didn’t mean to pry, or upset you. Are you all right?”

  I glance sharply up at him, surprised at his concern. I nod, blinking hard. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just not used to talking about it, that’s all…”

  “That’s not all, though, is it?” Tom’s voice is soft, gentle as he strokes my arm comfortingly. “Ashley’s baby died last year, and then she lost her mother a few months ago, and now the cat. So she’s had a hard time recently, and she’s been feeling very low.”

  Christ, even in the relative peace and quiet, privacy and safety of my own head I never bundle all my losses together like that, look at them all at once. It’s far too painful, far too dangerous. I can bear each blow on its own, in isolation. That way I can split my grief into small installments, manageable bite-sized chunks. But put everything together and it just overwhelms me. Totally. All eyes are on me, and I feel desperately self-conscious. I didn’t come here to put a downer on everyone’s Christmas, my problems are my own. I’ve come to pride myself on being self-reliant, resilient, self-contained. I’ve had to be, especially the last couple of years.

  I look around the table where everyone is gathered. I see the concern in their eyes, all watching me, waiting. I say the only thing in my mind at that moment.

  “Yes, I do miss them.” My voice cracks as the reality, the enormous, endless struggle to live with the aching loneliness seizes me, everything mercilessly and ruthlessly connected as if for the first time.

  And that’s enough. Just a few words, and all my emotional debris is scattered on the table for everyone to look at, to judge, to comment on. And comment they do, starting with Mrs Richardson.

  “Oh, you poor, poor dear.” She shoves Tom’s hand aside and throws her own arms around me, hugging me close. The easy, heartfelt gesture reminds me powerfully and catastrophically of my mother’s hug when she arrived at the hospital the day baby David died, catapulting me back to that awful day. The welling emotion triggered by the memory is way more than I can contain and my fragile defenses shatter. I lose the one-sided battle quickly, and I turn, sobbing, into Mrs Richardson’s arms, great heaving, unattractive sobs as my grief, long suppressed and brutally managed, finally surfaces.

  The volcano has erupted, the molten lava of loss and pain burning and destroying all in its path. I bury my face in Mrs Richardson’s shoulder and let the great, racking gulps of grief flow freely for once, beyond embarrassment, beyond self-consciousness. My secret’s out, everyone here now knows about my lonely, pathetic struggle to survive and rebuild, my painful vulnerability. And the sense of relief is enormous, as though a dam inside me has burst and at last I can let it all go. Be myself. I can see where it takes me, and live with whatever happens.

  Eventually my heaving sobs subside, giving way to gentle sniffling. I become conscious of my audience, who’ve been strangely quiet during my uncharacteristic display of raw emotion. I tentatively raise my head, conscious of my ravaged face. Looking up I see that the room is empty. It’s just me and Mrs Richardson, who’s still gently stroking my back and rocking me like a small child, offering comfort. It feels good, I need this—I’ve needed it for so long. I smile at her, watery but getting there.

  “Where is everyone?” There’s a catch in my voice, but I manage to force out the words.

  “Oh you know what men are like, love. First sign of trouble and they’re off. All found something important to do suddenly. They’ll be back soon enough, I dare say. Now, how about you? Are you feeling a bit better after that? I always say you should let grief out, does no good to bottle things up.”

  Her compassion and concern are nearly my undoing again, but I manage to hold myself together, chewing frantically on my bottom lip to hang onto control. I nod, wiping at my eyes with my hands. What a sight I must be. A handful of tissues are suddenly thrust at me. I take them gratefully and bury my face in the soft mass, playing for time. Eventually I begin to feel I might be vaguely presentable. I look up again, turning to see Daniel and Rosie hovering beside me. They both look distinctly nervous and I start to apologize again for ruining their Christmas.

  “Not at all, love, not at all. You need to be around people at a time like this. We’re glad you’re here.” Mrs Richardson is adamant, her smile just as genuine and welcoming as before my unexpected breakdown. Rosie nods enthusiastically, while Daniel just winks. I can only stare at them, overwhelmed once more by the kindness of the strangers in this house.

  Rosie’s chatter interrupts the moment. “You can look at my presents if you like. I’ve got four new Barbies. And a scooter with lights on.”

  I smile in grateful appreciation. Barbies? Marvelous.

  And that sets the tone for the rest of this extraordinary day. Tom and Nathan return after about half an hour. I suspect they’ve been to bury my poor little cat, but I don’t ask. The meal is wonderful, a traditional turkey Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. Stuffing, Yorkshire puddings, pigs in blankets, soft and fluffy roast potatoes. Even the sprouts are crunchy and delicious although Rosie seems not to be impressed with them. I’ve always loved sprouts, another of my funny little ways. The laughter around the table is light, relaxed as we pull crackers and read out stupid jokes, wear silly paper hats. Even the formidable Nathan Darke looks completely ridiculous wearing a red paper crown. There’s wine, beer, home-made lemo
nade. And over it all is draped the comfort blanket of easy, ready friendship, of people caring for each other, enjoying each other’s company. And including me. I know I’m quiet during the meal, a little overawed, but that’s okay. No one presses me, they just include me and let me be there.

  Afterwards we move into the large sitting room at Black Combe. The log fire is burning, its cheerful flickering presence an extra friend. I offer to help with the washing up but Tom won’t hear of it. I find myself ensconced in front of the television clutching yet another mug of tea, watching Christmas soaps—the highlight of Mrs Richardson’s day. I’ve no idea who’s who and what the storylines are about, but it’s still pleasant. Homely. Rosie snuggles up close to me on one of the three huge sofas, her new Barbies spread around us, and we experiment with the new outfits. The three men disappear back into the kitchen, and I can hear the clinking of glass as they help themselves to more beers to oil the wheels of the clearing-up process. Eventually they join us in the sitting room, lounging around on the various sofas. Rosie deserts me and the Barbies and clambers onto her father’s lap again—clearly a favorite place of hers. Tom takes her vacant place next to me and his arm is once again around my shoulder. I turn into him—and promptly fall asleep.

  * * * *

  I wake up the following morning, early as usual. Startled, I look around me at the unfamiliar surroundings. I’m in a double bed, alone. The room is pretty, decorated in pale blue and yellow, the elegant furniture white to reflect the early-morning thin wintry light filtering through the open curtains. The clock on the bedside table says it’s just after eight o’clock. I feel refreshed, invigorated. Eager to be up and about.

  I know I’m at Black Combe, in one of the spare bedrooms. I remember waking up on the sofa late yesterday evening to be told by Tom that it was time for bed. That it might be Christmas but he still had stock to see to in the morning. I thought he meant to take me home, to Smithy’s Forge, and I was sad to be leaving the comfortable warmth of Black Combe for the chilly solitude of my little cottage. But no, no one was leaving. Tom had planned all along to stay over—too many beers to contemplate anything else—and so I was staying too. In no time I was tucked up in this comfortable bed in this pretty little room, half expecting Tom to slide in beside me. I’m not sure I would have stopped him. Instead, though, he just kissed me lightly on the cheek and left Mrs Richardson to show me the en suite and find me something to wear.

  A pretty white nightshirt made of some sort of lacy, silky fabric appeared. “Left behind by Eva,” Mrs Richardson explained, “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. This was her room when she first came here.” Ah yes, the mysterious Eva. The woman Nathan Darke hasn’t heard from. I dismissed her from my thoughts and promptly fell asleep.

  Wide awake now I hop out of bed and get dressed quickly. I want to catch Tom if I can before he goes off to Greystones. I know farmers start work early, and by eight o’clock the day’s half over. But still, it’s Boxing Day and he might be having a lie-in.

  I follow the smell of coffee and the sound of a radio downstairs. I enter the kitchen expecting to find Mrs Richardson there. It would be nice to have a chance to talk to her, to thank her for being so kind to me yesterday. Instead I find my nemesis, Nathan Darke, casually pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  He turns as I come in, leans back against the worktop to watch me. I stand awkwardly in the doorway, self-conscious and uncertain of my welcome. He’s been reasonably nice to me so far, for Tom’s sake. Not warm exactly, he hardly spoke directly to me throughout yesterday, but he was pleasant enough and I felt welcome in his house. Very welcome. Now I’m not so sure. Tom’s not here, there’s no reason why Nathan Darke shouldn’t revert to type. I start to back out of the room.

  “I’m sorry, I was looking for Tom…”

  “He left about an hour ago. Pregnant ewes to check on. Dan went with him—those two both have an unhealthy fascination with sheep’s genitals if you ask me. But that’s what you get for associating with farmers and vets. Coffee, Miss McAllister?”

  I’m nervous, stammering. I need to get away. “No, no, thank you. I must be going. I’ve imposed on you long enough.”

  “Please. Sit down and join me.” Ignoring my refusal he’s pouring me a coffee anyway. “Milk?” He walks toward me, hands me the mug with a smile. He seems genuine enough. I take the cup, but don’t move any farther into the kitchen. “Miss McAllister? Milk?” He’s over at the large American-style fridge, taking out a carton of fresh milk.

  I nod and he places the carton on the large oak table, now clear after yesterday’s feasting. Without being incredibly rude I have no alternative but to go over, help myself to milk. So I do that then sit down at the table. Nathan Darke takes the seat opposite me, leaning back casually as he watches me sip my coffee.

  “I’m sorry. For being here, I mean. Tom insisted and he said… Well, I know you would never have invited me but for him. It’s been wonderful, thank you. I’m very grateful, especially as I know how much you… Well, I know you don’t want me here and I’m imposing on you. I’ll just drink this and go.”

  “I was hoping to get a chance to talk. Alone.” His tone is even. I don’t detect his usual hostility. Still, I’m wary. I know he doesn’t like me, doesn’t trust me. If he had his way I’d be spending my second Christmas in jail. I wait for him to continue.

  “Well, you’re right about one thing—Tom was very insistent when he phoned me yesterday. It seems he was either coming here with you, or not at all. A package deal. But I’m glad you came. I’ve wanted to talk to you, clear the air I suppose. And Rosie was delighted. She likes you. And Tom definitely likes you. More than likes you, in fact. He wants to fuck you, and that’s not the half of it.”

  I gasp at his bluntness. Nathan Darke does not pull his punches.

  He grins at me, but not maliciously. “I’m not telling you anything you didn’t already know. Let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?”

  “Mr Darke, I…”

  “Nathan. Call me Nathan. And can I call you Ashley?”

  I nod nervously, waiting for whatever might be coming next.

  “Tom wants you to bottom for him. Do you know what that means?”

  Tops and bottoms, Dominants and submissives, Doms and subs. Yes, I know what that means, I think. I did the research as Tom suggested I should. I nod again, hesitantly.

  He continues, explicit to a fault, “So, will you do it? Is it for you?”

  His head is cocked quizzically to one side, his voice gentle. He’s not pressuring me, just asking. I flush, but only slightly. Nathan’s matter-of-fact approach actually makes this stuff easier to discuss. I shrug my shoulders, and realize I genuinely don’t know if it’s for me or not. How strange, that I might even be contemplating this. Nathan knows that too, understands the significance of my uncertainty.

  “The fact that you’re not dismissing the whole thing out of hand suggests this might be a possibility, something you could consider. If you definitely didn’t want to, I think you’d tell me that now. And you’re not saying no, are you? Are you, Ashley?”

  “No. No, I’m not,” I whisper, shocked to hear myself saying this and knowing it’s true. After all I’ve been through, the supreme effort I made to be rid of a man who hurt me, I’m apparently contemplating taking up with another. And I’m calmly discussing it with his best friend. Christ, how did I get into this situation?

  “So, what’s stopping you?” His question is blunt, to the point. I look him in the eye and decide he deserves an equally straight answer.

  “I don’t like men who hurt women. Who hurt me. I’ve been there, done that. I don’t need a man at all, I can get by on my own. But if I do have another relationship sometime in the future I want it to be with someone who’ll be gentle, caring, someone who’ll respect me. Why shouldn’t I have that? Why should I always end up a punchbag, bullied by violent men?”

  The dark gaze across the table is steady, considering. I’ve said my piece—well, he d
id ask—and now I wait. Nathan just watches me for a couple of minutes before nodding slowly.

  “That’s fair enough, Ashley. You do deserve all that. And I can understand that you’re scared, scared of being hurt. Injured. But what Tom’s offering you isn’t a violent, abusive relationship. Far from it. It’s safe and it’s consensual. Or it will be. I know your first encounter with Tom wasn’t, but don’t base your decision on that. And it can be very, very fulfilling if it’s the lifestyle for you. A Dom does inflict pain, that’s true, but he’ll offer you pleasure too. Exquisite pain and intense pleasure, you wouldn’t know where one ends and the other begins. And Tom already cares for you, you must see that. As for respect, I believe so. Hell, even I’ve started to respect you myself so I think Tom’s a goner.” His wry smile is engaging. And his intuitive words leave me speechless. Can it be true? Is there some subtle difference here that I don’t understand?

  Groping around for some insight, some sort of sense to all this, I blurt out the huge question at the heart of my fears. “But—he hit me. That first day. He, he forced me to… You know what he did to me. You both terrorized me. Christ… I thought Kenny was abusive, that’s why I left him. But men like you two scare the shit out of me. Totally.” I drop my gaze, unable to put into words how scared and vulnerable I felt the first time I met Tom Shore. Well, the second time technically. And how affected I was by Nathan Darke’s visit, the episode when he took my camera. And afterwards, when they both came to my cottage. Just reliving the experience is enough to plunge me back into the sheer terror of that day when I fully expected to be gang-raped.

  He watches me, watches my emotions flit across my face. I feel the blood drain from me, as it did that other day. He’s silent, considering. I don’t feel in danger now, but he does scare me. Intimidate me. So does Tom, and I’m not sure I can live with this. Live like this. Again.