Chapter Seven #2
The mortgage had been paid off, various policies now paid her a handsome monthly dividend and in a couple of years their pensions would kick in.
It was, of course, no less than she had expected from such a cautious man, who had spent his entire career working in insurance.
She wasn’t super-wealthy, not by any stretch, but knew that not having to worry about popping the heating on and being able to go and buy prawns for her son’s return was a lovely way to live.
A privilege. Not nearly as lovely, however, as having her husband by her side and being encouraged to watch the pennies.
She leaned against the kitchen island and took deep breaths, head bowed, eyes closed, until she felt a little calmer.
A glass of cold water helped too. Eventually, she took a seat at the kitchen table and placed her head on the tabletop, breathing slowly in through her nose and out through her mouth.
‘What’s wrong with me, Jonathan? I have never been the panicky kind and yet look at me!’ She wiped her brow with her fingertips and took long, slow breaths, placed her hands on her thighs and waited for her trembling limbs to settle and her pulse to calm.
‘Bloody hell,’ she whispered, quite drained by the feeling, and she focused on the blue sky through the garden window. Something visual to anchor her, proof there was life outside of these four walls, and that the world kept turning.
It happened like this sometimes, as if an alarm had sounded and she was jumping into action as her adrenaline surged. A feeling not dissimilar to that bit in a dream when you wake just before hitting the floor or nanoseconds before the bogeyman grabs your ankles.
She hadn’t told anyone about these episodes.
It felt a little silly, embarrassing. How to explain that as she sat far from danger inside the safety of her pretty cottage, she felt terror leap in her gut as if she were on a ledge, about to jump, had seen the glint of a blade aimed right at her, was staring down the barrel of a gun or was about to be whipped up into the eye of a tornado.
It made no sense, not even to her. What did she have to feel afraid of?
It didn’t help that she spent many a private moment panicking about it happening. Panicking about the potential panic that a panic attack would bring. And the fear of the fear of the panic, induced... panic.
Go figure.
‘What do you make of it all, puss cat?’
Pickle looked up briefly at the question, as if to express her irritation at being woken from her warm spot on the kitchen windowsill. Here she languished, legs stretched out, tail hanging down towards the sink.
‘Honestly, Jonathan, this cat! She’s got several cushions, a bean bag, even a snuggle pouch, so many places to sunbathe, and yet she wants to lie there next to the taps!
I just bumped into Maeve. She’s got her finger on the pulse as per, knew that Aiden was coming home today, and that Holly would no doubt be fretting and in danger of figuring out what to do with that hand that is nearly always clamped to some part of our son’s body.
’ She laughed out loud, feeling a lot better, as the panic passed.
She stood and unpacked the shopping. ‘Ooh, that sounded wrong, I mean his hand, thigh, arm, shoulder, you get the idea.’
She popped the prawns into the fridge first, breathing a big sigh of relief as she did so. She’d sniff them later to check they were okay, before dousing them in Marie Rose sauce.
‘And please don’t think I’m being mean about Holly, I love the girl,’ she turned towards her uncommunicative, indifferent tabby, ‘and I know Pickle does too. It’d be hard not to.
She’s lovely, sweet, she crochets me socks and scarves, brings me scented candles, I just.
..’ Enya paused, holding the baby gem lettuce to her chest as she ordered her thoughts, whispering into the empty room as was her habit, as if Jonathan were still sitting at the table with his legs stretched out, displaying whatever novelty socks her sister had bought him for Christmas or birthday last, while he read the latest Peter May novel.
‘I just worry sometimes that it’s all they know.
Each other. Their life is alien to me. I was thinking about it just a sec ago, they’ve hardly explored the possibility of other people, have they?
I mean, you and I were young when we met, weren’t we, but how can I put it?
We weren’t daft. We were inexperienced, yes, but I felt like we had our heads screwed on.
We had a plan, didn’t we, you’d finish your apprenticeship and follow your dad into insurance, I’d have our baby, wait till it was old enough to go to nursery and then work around drop-off and pick-up times.
And it worked, didn’t it? Sometimes, I listen to Holly talking about influencing this or that and followers and reels or whatever they’re called and it’s like she’s talking a foreign language!
How can that be a job? Taking pictures of her life and crafts and putting them on her phone?
I just don’t understand it. I want them to be secure. ’
Her phone buzzed on the countertop.
‘Aiden! Hello, lovey, how are you getting on?’
‘Yep, not bad, just checked in, no delays, so I reckon through baggage and whatnot by... I guess, sixish?’
‘Oh, that’s smashing! I’ll be in the usual spot.’ It was so convenient having a local airport that was familiar and not too busy. ‘Are you tired?’ It was always her concern, he worked hard and never seemed to slow down.
‘No, I’m good, I want to erm...’ He fell silent, which was odd and uncharacteristic.
‘You want to what?’ she asked, knowing him so well that she was overly aware of his hesitancy.
‘Nothing. Nothing, Mum.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Just...’
She listened, quietly, hoping her silence might help him gather his thoughts, spit out whatever it was he clearly wanted to say.
‘We’ll catch up on the drive home, maybe.’
‘I’ll look forward to that. Safe travels, love.’
‘Yep.’
And he was gone. Enya held the phone against her cheek for a short while, wondering what her boy might want to catch up about.
‘That was odd, he sounded a bit, don’t know really, just not himself.’ She spoke to Jonathan, who stared at her from the kitchen table. And as was the case since his untimely death, he said nothing.