Chapter Seventeen #3
It was like trying to get those jeans back. She’d never find a pair quite like them. There’d be others but not the same. She hadn’t wanted a baby but it didn’t mean she didn’t want one at some point in her life. She knew that with a fierce certainty. One day she wanted a family.
She closed her eyes. Despite the eddies and swirls around her, she’d resolved something, achieving close to some sort of equilibrium after being out of kilter for weeks.
‘You know, he didn’t even come to the hospital when I lost the baby. I didn’t tell anyone else. I was ashamed.’
‘Ashamed?’
‘Yes. Ashamed that I’d even considered an abortion and that this was my punishment.
Ashamed that he felt like that. Ashamed that I didn’t know that his reaction would be like that.
Ashamed that I loved someone so . . . so heartless.
That I’d got it so wrong with him.’ Her mouth twisted.
‘His relief was palpable. We’d had a lucky escape.
He didn’t even try to pretend that he wasn’t relieved.
I put on a brave face, I did pretend. Made out it was OK. But it got harder and harder.’
‘But he must have been sympathetic.’
‘Not really. That makes him sound like a bad person. He wasn’t.
Just didn’t understand.’ She closed her eyes, suddenly wanting to spill the horrible dirty truth.
‘He got fed up with me feeling sorry for myself. I couldn’t help myself.
It finally dawned on me that he had no idea one night when we went to a new gallery opening. Gallery 99.’
It was a horrible night. She’d wandered around the gallery in a haze of misery, barely registering, in fact almost tripping over, the frankly ugly metalwork contraptions dotted around the floor.
The only thing she remembered about them were that they were hard and sharp-edged when all she wanted was softness and warmth.
She’d tried to talk to Patrick before they went out. Her stomach contracted now at the memory and she put her hand on it, pressing lightly as if that might take away the dull ache.
‘I don’t think I’m up to going to the show tonight,’ she’d told him as she’d tried to pull on knee-high boots and losing the battle when what little energy she had ran out with the suddenness of the last sand grains in an egg timer.
‘Ella, I get that you’re feeling rough.’ He’d pulled his sympathetic face.
The one where his mouth under his sandy moustache stretched wide in an encouraging smile but the eyes stayed watchful.
Just thinking about his mouth gave Ella a pang.
Once she’d loved kissing it, feeling the bristles skating her lips, his beard brushing her chin.
‘But seriously . . . this is going to sound harsh, but I’m doing it for us. You need to pull yourself together. You have to start acting normally again.’
Ella had gaped at him. His words were like physical blows. She wanted to clutch her middle to protect herself from them. He watched as she wrapped her arms around herself, nodding and smiling with patronising sympathy.
‘Your body’s been through a bit of a storm.
But it’s over now. Done. We’ve got to move forward.
You’ll feel better soon. In the meantime, why don’t you try and harness the experience, paint it, sculpt it.
It would make a dramatic installation. Think of it as an experience.
Use it. Create a series of work. It would make a great selling point.
We could say they’re a manifestation of the artist’s angst at losing an unborn child.
It would have a lot of traction with the media. A great human story.’
‘A story?’
He nodded.
But it wasn’t a story, she wanted to say. It was real. I, we, lost our unborn child. It was a real child, Patrick. But if she put voice to the words, she’d have started to cry and she wasn’t sure if she could stop.
That was when she’d given up trying to talk to him about it. That night she realised that Patrick couldn’t understand what she’d lost and worse still, she couldn’t bring herself to make him understand. It was almost as if she wanted to spite him for his lack of empathy.
In stark contrast, Devon moved closer and slipped an arm around her shoulders.
Unable to help herself, she nestled into him.
He smelt of outdoors and life. The shield she’d battled to keep in place for so long, so that she could function day to day, slipped.
Stripped back, all the vulnerability and longing to be safe again came flooding through with a piercing sense of relief.
When was the last time she’d done this? Let someone else be there for her.
Lean on them. Trust them totally to hold her up.
The storm of emotions that she held fiercely in check for the last few weeks loosened.
As she started to cry, Devon’s arms came around her and it seemed right to lean into his chest and feel the rise and fall of his steady breathing.
Silent tears ran down her face, tucked into the heavy Guernsey sweater.
Devon held her closer and let her cry, a soothing hand rubbing her back.
Cocooned against him, like a ship protected in harbour, she closed her eyes.
If she kept them closed she could pretend all the other things didn’t exist. She could stay in this moment, savouring his warmth and strength.
The moment stretched out. She closed her eyes tighter, focusing on the sound of the wind whistling around the hill top and the rough feel of wool against her face and trying not to think about the proximity of Devon’s thighs against hers.
A low level ache of desire snaked through her. She wanted to nuzzle into him.
The gentle hand on her back stilled. Oh God, she was about to make a complete fool of herself. Had he felt that tiny shift of weight? The last thing he needed or she did for that matter. She stiffened, schooling her face, and stepped back.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to unburden on you like that.’
‘Don’t apologise. I’m glad you were able to tell me. It sounds as if you’ve had a tough time.’
With his stern face in profile, his shoulders rigid, she had a feeling he’d been duelling his own demons up here in tandem with her. Whether he’d won or not was not her place to ask, but then he turned to face her.
‘I know about crunch points,’ he said quietly. ‘I keep wondering about going back to Marina.’ He sighed. ‘It would make life easier. Solve all my money problems.’
He shrugged, lifting his shoulders up to his ears, his voice slightly hoarse.
‘If I went back, everything would just go away. I loved her once, why not again? The truth is, I caught her in bed with the film producer. Skinny little guy, nearly twice her age, married as well. Rick. Looks like the weasel he is. Wish I’d punched the little git.
We were already on the rocks, that was my crunch point. ’
‘Ouch.’
‘I haven’t told anyone else that. Pride more than anything else.’
‘I don’t know that it’s pride. It’s such a horrible thing to happen. I can’t imagine it but I can imagine why you wouldn’t want to tell anyone.’ She looked at his worried face, guessing that he now regretted saying it. ‘I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone.’
‘Thanks. Come on, you’re getting cold. I think we both need a hot drink. Let’s round up those dogs, they’re probably halfway home without us.’
Whipping her head round, she scanned the hillside below – sure enough, there in the distance, she could just make out the two dogs criss-crossing the path. Her heart lifted at the sight of them. ‘They don’t ask for much, really do they? Life is so much simpler. Walks and food.’
The car journey back to the cottage passed in silence, as if each of them was worn out by the excess of emotion. The two dogs panted happily in the back, steaming up the windows.
When they pulled up outside, Devon got out and opened up the boot to release Tess.
Ella got out of the car, suddenly tongue-tied.
So much had passed between them, and she wanted to say something but didn’t know what.
She was on the verge of asking him to come in for a coffee when Tess began to bark.
She stood at George’s gate, nudging at it with her head, her barks increasing in volume.
‘Tess, stop that.’ Ella went over to grab at her collar but the dog danced away. ‘What’s the matter with you? Stop it.’
‘Probably spotted a cat or something,’ said Devon, trying to close the boot of the car, but Dexter had now joined in and before Devon could stop him, he too jumped out and joined Tess at the gate, barking furiously.
Tess’s head butted the wooden fence, poking her head through the wooden posts and then Ella caught sight of a flash of George’s favourite virulent mustard yellow on the path leading to his front door.
‘George!’ she called out, and ran over, fiddling to unlatch the gate. He lay crumpled on the path. ‘Oh, my goodness.’ Ella ran to his side and bent down. His face had a doughy grey cast with a slight clammy sheen to it. Too scared to touch him, she crouched down next to him.
‘Can you feel a pulse?’ asked Devon, pushing her out of the way and crouching down beside her.
Ella gave him a helpless look, hating feeling so useless. ‘I . . . ’
He placed one hand on the old man’s chest, the other one with unerring accuracy homing straight in on George’s pulse. ‘He’s breathing. Just. And there’s a pulse.’
Now she was beside him, she could hear short rasping breaths.
Devon began to tap George’s sallow face very gently.
‘George, can you hear me? Hello, George. It’s Devon. If you can hear me, give my hand a squeeze.’
Ella watched, dry-mouthed, as Devon picked up the lifeless arm and took George’s hand in his, holding her breath until she saw the older man’s fingers move in a feeble attempt. George let out a weak, breathy, incoherent moan.
‘OK.’ Although Devon’s face looked grave, he managed to give Ella a reassuring but grim smile.
‘He’s alive. Breathing, conscious and has a pulse.
All good signs but we need to get him warm and comfortable.
Can you get blankets and a pillow and I’ll call an ambulance?
’ He fished his mobile out of his pocket.
Relieved that she had a practical task, Ella jumped to her feet and raced back to the cottage.
When Ella returned, Devon was on the phone talking to the emergency services. He nodded towards George’s prone body and then at the duvet.
She knelt and tucked it around George, biting her lip. He looked so uncomfortable lying on the hard path but she guessed they shouldn’t move him. Thank God Devon was here otherwise she wouldn’t have known what to do.
Even now he was giving the person on the other end of the phone concise information about George’s breathing, pulse and age.
‘The ambulance is on its way,’ he said tucking his phone back in his pocket. ‘Well done.’ He leant over George and took his hand again.
‘George. Can you hear me? Don’t try to talk, just squeeze my hand to say yes.’
Ella stared at the wrinkled brown hand, dotted with liver spots and the joints gnarled through years of use, cushioned in Devon’s larger capable fingers.
Something shifted in her chest at the sight of Devon’s broad masculine hands.
Capable, strong and still gentle. They’d offered her comfort earlier.
It was easy to imagine him at work, in command, dealing patiently and calmly with his patients. Animals and owners would trust him.
‘We need to keep him conscious if we can,’ said Devon in a very low voice. ‘I’m going to run inside and just check if he takes any medication and grab some things for him.’
Taking a sharp breath, she nodded and watched Devon leave.
‘Hi George, it’s Ella.’ She took his cold hand in hers and rubbed the back of it, feeling the bones just beneath the skin.
His eyes were glassy and unfocused but every now and then she felt his fingers move beneath hers.
‘You’re going to be fine. There’s an ambulance on its way.
So it looks like it’s my turn to keep an eye on your place.
Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s all locked up properly. ’
Another gentle squeeze butterflied against her hands.
What would have happened if they hadn’t come back when they did?
And how long had he been lying there? Ella looked over at Tess.
Clever dog. She and Dexter, for once, sat side by side at a respectful distance, watchful and still as if on bodyguard detail.
How did they know to do that, when normally they were racing and bounding about like idiots?
‘Tess found you, George. She’s a bit like Lassie. I bet you remember Lassie.’
Quite where she dredged it up, Ella couldn’t recollect later, but she chatted inanely to George for the next ten minutes.
In the quiet of the village they heard the siren coming way before they spotted the blue lights of the ambulance speeding down the road.
At last the paramedics loaded George onto a stretcher, an oxygen mask strapped to his face.
It was only when they went to shut the door, something snapped inside Ella. It felt all wrong, the vulnerable figure tightly wrapped in the red blanket all on his own.
‘Wait. Can I go with him?’
‘Are you family?’
She hesitated. She couldn’t bear the thought of him going on his own and being alone in hospital. ‘Yes, I’m his niece.’