Unsure (18 page)

“Tom, I have a confession to make. That day a couple of weeks ago, when you and Nathan were talking in your kitchen. You remember I came in, just before I went home?”

He nods briefly, his head cocked to one side.

I take a deep breath. “Well, I was listening. Before I came in, I was outside in the hallway and I heard what you were saying. About me. I know he wrecked my chances of selling my work in Haworth, and I know why. I heard him call me a thief, and a hard-faced cow. And that he doesn’t want me near his daughter…”

Tom shakes his head, his broad grin giving the lie to his grave tone. “Ah, eavesdropping, Ashley? Such a bad habit.”

“I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help it. I heard my name and…and you shouldn’t have been talking about me. Like that. Discussing me. It was very rude.”

“True enough, I suppose. Okay, we’re quits. I had a feeling you might have heard something. You seemed—upset—as you were leaving. That wasn’t all you heard, was it?”

“No,” I whisper. “There was more. You both made some very—personal—remarks about me.”

“We did, and I’m sorry. Again, I should have been more sensitive. But at least you know what my agenda is as far as you’re concerned. But not today. Today it’s just one friend helping out another. And you do need help just now. Trust me. I’ll handle Nathan. Now, go clean yourself up. Wash your face, put your glad rags on. You’ve gotten half an hour then I’m coming up to get you.” He gives me a gentle shove toward the stairs.

I start to form a protest but he puts a finger gently across my lips. “Shhh, no more. It
will
be okay. I promise. Just trust me. Now, go.”

And I go.

Chapter Twelve

We make the short journey up to Black Combe in Tom’s Land Rover in silence, each of us lost in our thoughts. Mine are dominated by the coming ordeal. I do trust Tom, and if he says it’ll be okay I have no doubt that his satanic friend will tolerate my presence, but only for Tom’s sake. I dare say he’ll even manage to rein in the derision and hostility—at least while there are others around—but I know full well how Nathan Darke feels about me. I am not looking forward to this encounter, not one little bit.

Mrs Richardson’s turkey Christmas dinner, on the other hand, is a completely different matter. I’m starving. Absolutely famished. Can’t remember when I last ate really well. It may even be worth facing Nathan Darke to get my laughing gear round some of Grace Richardson’s home cooking. It’ll be nice to see Rosie again too, I’ve really missed her cheerful chatter on our excursions up on the moors. And that great daft hulk of a mutt of hers, following us around and chasing rabbits.

Tom pulls up close to the back door at Black Combe. I see the black Porsche parked in the cobbled yard and a huge motorcycle propped alongside it. We get out of the Land Rover and can hear laughter and raised voices as we approach the door. I expect Tom to knock but he doesn’t, he just opens the door and steps inside. Before I realize what he’s doing he’s grabbed my hand and drawn me in behind him, slinging an arm possessively across my shoulders to hold me close.

The cheerful laughter and sounds of family merriment are silenced abruptly as we step inside. You could hear a pin drop as five pairs of eyes turn to us, the intruders, outlined in the doorway.

Nathan Darke’s there, sitting casually at the kitchen table. His coal black eyes are fixed on me, his gaze unwavering, assessing. His black hair is loose now, his informal look, and he’s dressed in comfortable faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Rosie’s sitting on his knee, still wearing fleecy pajamas and thick slipper socks even though it’s now late afternoon. She’s grimly holding onto one end of a Christmas cracker, the other end in the grip of a second dark-haired man whom I’ve not met before. He is similar in looks to Nathan Darke, but softer somehow. He’s wearing casual black jeans and a dark gray sweatshirt sporting the World Wildlife Fund logo of a cuddly-looking panda. He smiles openly, and seems genuinely pleased to see us. Both of us.

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 lemonade. 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.