Inner Voice

by Alison Proud

glass of prosecco

The door of the house shut with a bang; David had left for
yet another business trip.

Kate had lost count of the number of times he had been away this year and it was only March.
She made herself a cup of tea and sat looking out into the garden. They’d shared a short embrace  before he left but there was little emotion and no passion. In fact, there hadn’t been much of either in their marriage for quite some time.

She decided today she would go shopping to cheer herself up. At least she would be amongst people in town; she felt lonely at home when David was away. She wandered along the street until she got to her favourite shop. The clothes in here were always tempting to buy. She picked up a few things for herself and then browsed the men’s section. This would look nice on David she thought and added it to her basket. Then that annoying voice in her head said, “what the hell are you doing buying anything for him, selfish bastard”. As always Kate ignored it. She walked to the till and paid for everything including the jacket for David.  

The lady behind the counter smiled and said, “He’s a lucky man, I love that jacket, is it his birthday?"  

Kate replied “No, my husband is away with work, so I thought I’d buy it for him for when he returns."  

“Wow” said the lady, “he’ll be happy when he comes home then”. 

 “No, he will not” went the voice in Kate’s head.  “He’ll be as grumpy as he always is, ungrateful and then he’ll stay away overnight again”.  “Yes, he’ll be very happy” said Kate.


The first week David was in Dubai passed slowly and Kate worried when he didn’t respond to her text messages.  

“He must be so busy on this trip” she told her best friend Sally when they met for coffee. That voice started again “Busy, he just doesn’t care about you”. 

 “Why don’t you just ring him Kate” Sally said. “Yes, I think I will, just to check he is ok”.
Later, Kate called his mobile but there was no answer, she left a message. He never called her back, so she rang his hotel in the evening, and they put her through to his room. This time he did answer but said he couldn’t talk as he was leaving for a dinner. He assured he was ok, just busy. Exactly as she had thought. When the call was finished that voice said, “There was someone with him in that room, you heard another voice, stop fooling yourself." 

Kate shouted, “Shut up, he's busy, he works hard, that’s all it is”.



The only other contact she had with David in the second week he was away was a short text to remind her to collect him from the airport the next day. “Don’t go,” said that oice.  “Leave him to find his own way home”.

Kate paused in her thoughts; would she do that, could she do that, should she?  “Oh, for goodness sake” she said out loud . "He is my husband, of course I will collect
him from the airport."

She left the lift at the airport on the wrong level and realised she was in the departure hall, not the arrivals area where she was meeting David. She glanced at the departure board and took in all the flight destinations. Brussels, Paris, Tenerife, New York, Rome……. she stopped at Rome, oh how she has dreamed of visiting Rome. Maybe David would surprise and take her there one weekend she thought. “Never”, shouted the voice in her head, “he’s more likely to take that woman with him, the one you heard in his room last this week, the one whose lipstick was on his shirt last month, the one whose text message you found on his phone on New Year’s Eve. Go to Rome Kate, do it now, book yourself a ticket, go on, I dare you. Leave him at the airport with no way home.” 

 “Don’t be ridiculous, I can’t do that," Kate shouted out loud. People stared at her and
she scuttled off back towards the lift. She pressed the button for the arrivals hall and watched the lift doors close. That voice started again, at the same time as the text message alert on her phone. It was David asking where she was. She smiled, he was here, she was looking forward to seeing him.
Or was she? She thought about the person in his room, the lipstick, the text. She thought about that voice in her head going on and on, putting doubts in her mind.

Kate put on her seat belt. As they were about to leave the airport her text message alert sounded. “For god's sake Kate where are you, I’ve been waiting for over an hour now”.

She switched off the phone and sat back in her seat.  No voices in her head now.  The only sound she could hear was the loud noise of the plane's engine as it thundered down the runway on the start of its journey to Rome.

Episode 3 Lauren

by Janet Howson

three glasses of red wine

Lauren rolled the stem of her wine glass between her forefinger and thumb, watching the remains of the red wine slosh backwards and forwards. Her thoughts too were swinging from one side to the other, one direction one minute then a completely different direction the next minute. Which should she chose?

“Are you ready to address the guests, Lauren?” Her close friend and PA, Charmaine, was studying her watch. “If we leave it too long people will start to drift off home. I’ve set up a microphone on the table at the back of the room and the notes for your speech are in the drawer.” She looked at Lauren’s glass. “Do you want a refill? You’ve been playing around with that for at least an hour.”

“What?” Lauren became aware of her friend, “Oh yes, I mean no I had better not have another drink, I must keep a clear head and yes I am ready to do my talk.”

“Great, I will get everyone to their seats.” She disappeared in the crush of bodies, still intent on drinking as much free wine as they possibly could without looking indulgent.

Lauren navigated her way through an endless number of guests who wanted a “quick word” but at last took up her position at the table. She remained standing. She preferred to deliver a talk standing. There would be questions afterwards, then, she could make her escape. She had told her father she would be home by ten o clock, dependant on the traffic. She still called it home even though she had been living in her own house for about five years.

Once everyone realised Lauren was ready to talk the noise died down and she was able to begin. She cleared her throat adjusted the height of the microphone and began.

“Welcome everyone to the opening of the hundredth branch of Homelands Bespoke Estate Agency. It only seems like yesterday that we were gathered to witness the launch of the very first agency in London. Since then we have gone from strength to strength, all of which could not have been done without all your help and support. I would like to mention in particular my father, Len, who encouraged me from the outset and has always been there for me with his valuable advice, not to mention financial support……”

As the audience clapped this reference, Lauren thought back to her childhood when her father brought her up to believe she could achieve whatever she wanted as long as she was willing to work hard and shoulder the disappointments and let downs. Her mother had died young. She could hardly remember her. A tiny figure, slightly stooped, walking her around the hospital she was in, introducing her to the nursing staff. Then that miserable, cold, windy day at the crematorium. It was all in the past now. She had learnt to live without a mother and her father had never married again. She came back to the present and continued.

“So, this branch in Mayfair will operate from Monday and I have full confidence that the appointed staff, managed by Bill Leeman, (pause for another round of applause) will make a great success of it and…..”

The speech continued. Lauren had added a few jokes to lighten the evening up and it all seemed to be received well. She hadn’t had time to run though it again as she had been rehearsing her lines for Midsummer Night’s Dream her Amateur Drama Group’s next production, as the Dress Rehearsal was tomorrow. She was pleased she had got the part of Theseus, not too much to learn, and was enjoying the rehearsals, but the clash of the opening and the play schedule had been taxing and the discussion she knew she had to have with her father had been put off time and time again.

“So that is enough of me droning on, I am sure you all have better things to do with your evening, but thank you again for attending and I hope to see you again when we open further branches.” She raised her nearly empty glass. “Here’s to Homelands and everyone involved in its success.”

“Homelands,” a reciprocal raising of glasses ended the evening as people left their chairs and collected their belongings to make their way home by taxi, tube, train or bus.

Lauren found Charmaine. “I’m off now, got a taxi booked. Would you just tie up the loose ends here and I will see you tomorrow?”

“No problem, a very successful evening. Good luck with your father. I am sure he will be fine with it.” She smiled at Lauren, they had been friends for so long, there was very little she didn’t know about her.

“Thanks, I wish I had your confidence, I am picking Chris up on the way so we can talk to him together. They haven’t met yet.” Lauren gathered up her coat and bag and leaving everything else to her friend she made her way to the taxi.

Lauren had always been able to talk to her father about everything. He had been mother and father to her. He had listened to her problems at school, with her friendships, her fears her life. This was different though. Although her father was relatively liberal about most things, he was also very religious and she feared his reaction to her news.

The taxi arrived at Chris’s apartment. Lauren got out her phone and texted the word ‘Here’. A few minutes later Chris was in the taxi, next to Lauren, looking immaculate in a pale blue suit and white roll-neck jumper. She had taken special care over her hair and make-up, she looked stunning.

“Sorry I’m late, the store opening went on for ever. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m looking forward to meeting him, I feel I know him already the amount of times you mention him.” She gave Lauren’s hand a reassuring squeeze.  “The worst that can happen is that he doesn’t like me and I would have to live with that.”

The taxi pulled in outside an impressive, Victorian detached house. Lauren made a mental note to try and persuade her father to downsize. He had always said the only way he would leave the five bedroomed house was if he had to go into a home. He did not want to be a burden to Lauren.  He would not contemplate living with her, she would marry one day and have children. She paid the taxi and Chris followed her through the front garden with its immaculate lawn and carefully weeded borders.

“Dad,” she called as she pulled her key out of the lock putting it safely in a zipped pocket. “Where are you?”

“In the kitchen,” came the reply. “Just finishing off the dinner. I didn’t know what time you would get here so it’s very simple.”

Lauren knew what it would be, the same meal he always cooked if he had visitors, not that that was very often.  She pushed the door open to reveal her father with a striped apron on stirring a Bolognese sauce. “Hallo, dad.” He put down the wooden spoon and wiped his hands on his apron, allowing Lauren to give him a hug. “You shouldn’t have gone to all the bother of cooking for us, we were going to take you out for a meal.”

Chris had remained in the hall, waiting until Lauren had greeted her father. She knew their relationship was very close and this made her nervous. How would he take it? A man of his age was very probably set in his ways and opinions.

“Chris, come and meet my rogue of a father, Len, doing his Gordan Ramsey impersonation.”

She took a deep breath and joined the other two. Suddenly aware that she should have brought flowers or a bottle of wine. She, like Lauren had assumed they were dining out.

“Hi,” she extended her hand, her nervous smile betraying her confident voice. “I have heard so much about you.”

“All good I hope.” Len shook her hand firmly. “However, I don’t know much about you. Do you work for Lauren? There are so many names, I gave up trying to remember them all years ago, Chris is it?”

Chris noted the ‘working for’ not ‘working with’. Lauren’s father had immediately slotted her into an employee as opposed to an equal. She tried not to let it annoy her, retaining the smile that had now frozen on her lips.

“Yes, it is Chris, but no I don’t work with, Lauren. I own a shop on the King’s Road in Chelsea, I am an artist, or try to be, so I attempt to sell my paintings there.”

Len weighed this up. An accountant by profession he had never had much time for the art world. When his wife, Lauren’s mother was alive, she would often ask him to join her for an exhibition at the Royal Academy, The Tate Gallery or one of other numerous venues but he had always been able to excuse himself with the pressures of work or golf commitments. He was quite surprised his daughter had got friendly with an artist.

“Chris is a brilliant artist, dad, I will show you some of her work next time I see you. Anyway, let’s open the wine and start the meal.” She steered Chris round to the dining room where Len had laid the table and positioned the obviously expensive, crystal wine glasses.

“He doesn’t like me, I can see it in his eyes. I think I sunk my boat once I admitted to being a lowly artist.” She giggled, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl.

“Don’t be silly. He is like this with all my friends. He sees you as a threat to our close relationship. He still hasn’t recovered from me leaving home and buying my own place.” She gave Chris a reassuring hug before her father entered with the plates of spaghetti. “That looks great dad, I’ll pour the wine.”

Her father had always loved a glass of red wine. She had noticed that since she had left home he had increased his consumption; probably loneliness. She suddenly realised Chris had inadvertently sat in her father’s chair. She could see her father was unsure where to sit, his brow creased, he suddenly looked very old.

“Dad, sit down here. Your food is getting cold.” She pulled a chair out for him, and reluctantly he sat down in the unfamiliar place at the table. He pushed the food around his plate, sipping his wine between mouthfuls.

“I’ve got the dress rehearsal for Midsummer Night’s Dream tomorrow, dad, then it all kicks off from Thursday night. We are doing three nights and a Saturday matinee, are you still coming on Saturday night? I’ve got you a ticket. You could sit with Chris.  She is coming, then we will go on to the after- show party.” Lauren caught Chris’s eye and smiles at her. She was trying very hard to include her and to get her father to like her, before she broke the news to him.

“You’re not in the play then, Chris?”

Chris stooped eating and leaned back in the antique upholstered chair. She was still feeling out of her depth in this expensive house. However, she must make an effort for Lauren’s sake. “Oh no, I couldn’t stand on a stage and act. I have helped Lauren with the set design and costumes. I would like to become more involved in future productions if I am needed.” She took a sip of her wine and carried on eating.

Lauren glanced at her father. He seemed preoccupied and why wasn’t he eating? He usually had a good appetite. Had he guessed? Did he disapprove? She finished off her bolognaise. “That was lovely Dad. Compliments to the chef. Shall I get the ice cream out of the fridge to thaw off a bit?”

“What?”

“The ice cream, dad, shall I get it out of the freezer?”

“Yes, you carry on, I’ll finish this and come and help you. Do you want any more Chris, got plenty left? I can’t eat as much as I used to. Yet another downside of getting old.”

“Oh no, that was lovely, but sufficient, thank you Len. I am leaving a space for dessert.”

Lauren left the two of them chatting, pleased they were at least communicating. After the ice cream she would suggest they took coffee into the sitting room. Then she would break the news to her father. She felt butterflies in her stomach and silently told herself not to be so silly. Still seeking her father’s approval at her age? How ridiculous.

The rest of the meal passed amicably with her father telling anecdotes of Lauren in various past productions and she was pleased to see Chris relaxing and laughing at the appropriate moments. She couldn’t relax though, not until her father had been told.

“Okay,” Lauren stood up and started to clear the ice cream dishes away. “Let’s retire to the sitting room with a cup of coffee. It is much comfier in there. Chris and her father stood up and she went into the kitchen to sort out the drinks. “Anyone for a brandy?”

“I won’t, Lauren, just a black coffee,” Chris replied, “what about you, Len?”

“Just a small one, Lauren.”

Lauren reappeared carrying the tray of drinks, placing them with care on her father’s mahogany coffee table. She found three mats and positioned them on the table.

“Oh, the milk, I always forget you take your coffee white, dad. I won’t be a minute.”

Lauren returned to the kitchen and found the full fat milk her father always bought. ‘None of that semi skimmed or skimmed rubbish in my house,’ he always said. ‘Milk comes out of the cow with cream in it and in this house it stays put.’ Lauren laughed to herself as she poured it into a small jug.
A loud crash and a stifled scream from Chris brought Lauren back to the present. Leaving the milk she ran into the sitting room. Chris was bending over the collapsed form of her father who had fallen awkwardly over the coffee table. The coffee had spilled all over the table and the Axminster carpet.

“What happened?”

“He said he was going to the toilet, got up and the next thing I knew he had collapsed. Is he all right?”

Chris looked frightened.

“Dad, can you hear me?” She shook him gently but there was no response. “Let’s get him off the table at least, I don’t think we will be able to get him onto the settee but at least we can lie him on the floor.” Lauren put her hands under her father’s arms and with Chris’s help she manoeuvred him into foetal position on the floor. She felt panic welling up in her stomach. Why was he not responding? This couldn’t be happening.

“Dad, can you hear me? Speak to me.”

“I will ring for an ambulance. I think we need to get your father to hospital, Lauren.” Chris pulled her phone out of her bag and went outside for a better signal leaving Lauren with her father.

Lauren, sat down on the floor then lay beside her father’s inert body cradling his head with her arms. As she lay there she thought. She still hadn't told the only man she had loved that she and Chris were intending to get married.  Then unexplainably and perhaps inappropriately another thought ran through her shocked brain.  She wouldn't  be able to make the dress rehearsal tomorrow, what would  Shirley say?

Links to previous episodes

https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2019/11/episode-one-shirley-finch.html
https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/01/episode-two-stacey.html

About the author.

Janet taught Drama and English in Comprehensive schools for 35 years. When she retired she found an old book of poems she had written and was spurred to join a Writer’s Group. She has had two stories published in “The Best of CafeLit 8” and one in “Nativity.”  Her novella “Charitable Thoughts” is now ready for publishing and is waiting to see, at last, her name on the cover of a book.

Cheesy

by James McMillan

milky tea

 

Green, blue, lemon, pink, nearly every colour you can think of, the roofs of the market stalls had looked enticing on what had been a sunny day, but the sun had now gone, the customers had disappeared and the traders had taken their trolleys back to their vans and retreated. They would be back tomorrow. 

As the daylight began to fade and the orange streetlights slowly came on, a brown uniformed security guard and his German shepherd dog made their rounds. All the doors and shutters were securely locked, and the guard had seen nothing to concern him, but the dog was restless and seemed reluctant to leave.  The young guard decided to walk around again.

From his usual place on the roof tops the Cheeseman watched the dog. Should he give it a friendly pat? Not now, he decided, perhaps later. She would be here now; it was time to find her and he was late. She would be in her usual place. As soon as the market finished for the day and everyone had gone home, she came and the first stall she always went to was her friend Sally’s retro clothes stall.

He guessed she would be looking at Sally’s latest finds which would be at the back of the stall, so he swooped down from the roof and through the army surplus stall and the second-hand books stall. Yes, she was there, and he hovered behind her to try and see what she was looking at.

‘Get lost cheesy’. She said without turning around. ‘Sally has found some pretty dresses and I am having a real problem in deciding what would have been right for me’.

‘That blue one with the long sleeves, trust me, I know you so well’.

‘You had your chance and fluffed it mate.'

‘That is a lovely dress, it is so you.’

‘You don’t know which one I am looking at.'

‘Blue was always your colour. You always wore blue tops and jeans and dresses and skirts and shoes and…everything.'

‘Cheesy, that was pathetic, even by your standards. All those years our stalls were in the same row and really close to each other, but you never noticed what I was wearing.'

‘Well, excuse me, I couldn’t see around all those customers who wanted your bacon rolls, your sausage rolls and your fried egg rolls with a tea or coffee to go. You had the busiest stall on the market. And remember I was busy too! I was busy selling cheese. It’s not easy making a living selling cheese. Everybody wants a taste before they buy which is really a free sample and you can’t be too mean in what you cut off and give to them. Because you’re confident the cheese is wonderful, and they are going to love it. But you’ve no idea how much that cuts into the profits.'

‘How come you never gave me any samples of cheese?’

‘How come you never gave me a bacon roll?’

‘I never gave bacon rolls to Ed on the flower stall or George the fudge seller, but they were lovely to me. They used to come around at the end of the day with a little surprise.  I bet they both remember me and know what I used to look good in.'

‘I do remember what you were wearing, sometimes. When we all went to the pub on Christmas Eve; Ed, George and me, you, with your mates,  Yvonne and Sally.'

‘What did I wear then?’

‘You wore a Santa hat.'

‘Everyone on the market wears a Santa hat on Christmas Eve’.

‘But you looked good in yours’.

‘You are wasting your time Cheesy, you had your chance.'

‘When exactly did I have my chance? I must have forgotten.'

‘When we were both living. That would have been the best time really.'

‘Well this is the next chapter. I loved this place. The very best time of my life was spent here. That’s why I asked to come back. I chose it and you must have chosen it too. So, it makes sense to stick together. It really does Wendy.'

‘You can’t even know my name.'

‘Is it not Wendy?’.

‘No, it’s not! And that makes a thousand guesses you have had now.’

‘Oh, come on. Give a guy a break.  All those bacon roll eaters used to call you love or darlin’ or honey.'

‘Those I didn’t mind, petal or flower I never liked much, duck I hated! But I have seen enough now. Let’s have a look around and see if anybody else got any new stock in today.'

‘Is this a sort of date?’

‘Certainly not. Who wants to be Mrs Cheesy?’

‘Sally did.'
‘No, she most certainly did not! Well, are you coming?’
And she was away. He followed her as he always would. 

The German shepherd dog felt a strange coldness touch his head briefly and then allowed the security guard to gently pull him away.  They both liked working at the market. Everybody does. Nobody wants to leave.

About the author

 James loves outdoor markets and any stall selling bacon, sausage, or fried egg rolls.

Strange Meeting

by Jo Dearden

 café latte 

 Jenny drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She watched the rain sluicing down the windscreen, the wipers rhythmically sweeping back and forth. Traffic was at a standstill. She was going to be late. Up ahead, she could see people getting out of their cars, craning their necks.

A siren blared in the distance. An ambulance roared past at an alarming speed.  Eventually the traffic started to move. About a mile down the road, she could see a police car with a flashing blue light. The ambulance next to a car upside down in the ditch. It didn’t look good.

She arrived at the station car park as her train was leaving. She looked at the train timetable. The next train to London was in half an hour. She went into the station café and ordered a large latte. She took the paper cup of steaming coffee to a table at the far end, having noticed a dark-haired man, about her age, sitting by himself at the other end. She glanced at him, but he didn’t look up.

She got her phone out of her handbag. No new messages. She texted Will her boss to tell him what had happened, and she would be late. He responded with a curt reply:

‘Set your alarm earlier if you want to keep this job.’

Katie sighed as she put the phone down on the table. She had been late a few times with various excuses and although this was genuine, she doubted it would be make any difference. Her phone started to ring loudly. In her hurry to pick it up, her right elbow knocked over the almost full cup of coffee. Brown liquid shot across the table puddling on to the floor. She scraped her chair back and went over to the counter. The attendant was nowhere to be seen.

‘Here, let me help you,’ she heard a male voice. She turned round to see the man she had noticed, armed with paper napkins striding over to her table.

‘Would you like another?’ he said smiling. He patted his pockets.

‘Sorry, I seem to have spent my last change.’

‘Oh, let me buy you one. You’ve been so kind. So clumsy of me. I’m late for work and my boss isn’t too happy.’

The bar attendant came back. Jenny ordered two coffees.

‘Don’t suppose I could have a bacon sandwich too?’ he said.

‘Um, sure.’ She looked at him quizzically.

‘I’ll pay you back.’

‘Ok, great. I’ll have one too.’

‘What do you do?’ he asked her as they sat down with the coffees and sandwiches.

‘I work in an advertising agency. PA to the guy who runs it, but probably not for much longer.’

Jenny sipped her coffee.

‘How about you?’

‘Oh, this and that,’ he said vaguely. ‘Been away for a while, so like you might be looking for something else soon.’

They started to eat their sandwiches. Neither of them seemed to know what to say next.

The loudspeaker on the platform crackled. The next train to London would be arriving at Platform 2 in the next few minutes.

‘Well, thanks. Really kind of you,’ he said.

He picked up his rucksack and swung it over one shoulder and sauntered out of the café door onto the platform.

Jenny went over to the news stand beside the café counter. As she paid for the paper she had chosen, she heard the train arriving. She rushed on to the platform. The man seemed to have disappeared.

She stepped into the nearest carriage and found a seat. Still no sign of him. As the train pulled out of the station she looked out of the window and thought she saw him walking towards the exit. She opened her newspaper. On the inside page there was a photo of a man that looked like the man in the cafe. Above was a headline:

Man escapes from Belmarsh Prison.

In smaller type underneath: Police warn not approach him as he may be armed.

About the author

Jo Dearden trained as a journalist with the Oxford Mail and Times.  She did a degree in English Literature with creative writing as a mature student. She co-edited her local village newsletter for about ten years. She also worked for a number of years for the Citizens’ Advice Bureau. She is currently a member of a creative writing group, which is stimulating her writing again. Jo lives in Suffolk.

Coming Home

by  Misha Herwin

Americano with cold milk

Isabel knelt down by the hearth and put another log on the fire. The wood smouldered, then caught, sending bright tongues of flame up the chimney. The wind roared and moaned, lashing the rain against the windows. Inside, curtains drawn the room was warm and snug.

“I’ve missed this,” Stuart sighed. Half sitting, half lying on the sofa he stretched his legs towards the fire.

I’ve missed you, Isabel thought, but she said nothing. It was too soon. The peace between them too fragile to risk putting any pressure on him. He’d said it himself when he’d turned up that evening. All he needed was the calm she could give him.

“Come on. Come and sit down,” Stuart patted the cushion beside him. “Like you used to.”

In the firelight his face looked younger, less drawn, only the glint of silver in his dark hair told how many years it was since they were first together.

Isabel drew in her breath. She sat down carefully, making sure she was close but not close enough. Stuart liked to keep his distance, until he was ready to let down his guard.

“It’s good to be back,” he said softly, pulling her towards him. A sob rose in Isabel’s throat. All these months without him had been the worst time in her life. The pain had been almost more than she could bear. If it hadn’t been for the girls she would have given up. They had been totally on her side; as appalled as she was that their father could walk out after thirty years of happy marriage.

In spite of all she could say, they had refused to have anything to do with him. It didn’t matter that they had their own homes and families it still mattered that Mum and Dad were still there, the same as always.

At Christmas they’d all come round. Nicky and Rob and their new baby, Anna and Damian and their brood. But Stuart hadn’t been there to open the wine and play with his grandchildren. They hadn’t talked about it. Not even Zack and Libby who at seven and four had been primed not to mention Granddad. And although she wanted to scream and shout and let out her rage just as the storm was raging around the house, she kept quiet and tried to pretend that everything was all right. That she was coping.

She’d managed it. Everyone said they’d had a good time and both girls had rung later to see how she was. She’d told them the usual that she was getting used to it, that she quite liked her own space, but it was all a lie. The truth was she’d do anything to have things back like they used to be. Before that terrible night, last May, when Stuart had told her that he wasn’t happy any more, that their marriage wasn’t working and he was leaving her for Pat, the woman he’d worked with since he’d set up his own business.

“She understands me. We’re a pair,” he’d said, kissing her softly, fondly even, before picking up his sports bag and walking out of their life.

And now, in the spring of the year, he was back. Isabel didn’t ask why. She knew that he’d tell her, she had only to wait as she had always done and it would all come pouring out.

“I never knew,” Stuart’s voice broke. “How important the family was to me.”

That’s because the girls won’t talk to you, Isabel thought. Because you still haven’t seen your newest grandson.

“You’re important to them too,” she said. If they didn’t care, they wouldn’t be so angry, she thought and put her hand on his arm. His fingers closed around hers and gave them a squeeze.

“I’ve been thinking…” Stuart’s breath was in her hair, his kiss on her forehead. He moved away from her and poured himself another glass. He held the wine up to the firelight, swirled it round the goblet peering at it as if it held all the answers.

“What I’ve always appreciated about you,” his voice was a little slurred and she was suddenly aware that they both must have drunk more than she’d thought. “Was that you never held me back. You always let me get on with my own thing.”

It was true. From the very start she’d supported him. Listened to his plans for his business, worked to help him get started, then when it all took off, she ran the house looked after the kids, did everything she could to help him succeed. And it had been good, or so she thought. Of course there had been some difficult times recently with the recession but Pat had been a bolt from the blue.

Still it seemed that Stuart had finally seen sense. Come back to the one person who had always loved him, no matter what.

“If you love someone that’s what you do,” she said. “You let them be themselves.”

He put down his glass then and drew her into his arms.

***

In the morning, the storm had gone. The sky was a bright sharp blue and the spring sunlight poured into their bedroom. Half-awake Isabel stretched out her hand. “Stuart,” she murmured. There was no reply. The other side of the bed was empty. She listened for the sound of the shower. She went down to the kitchen hoping against hope he was brewing an early morning cup of coffee to surprise her. She pulled up the blind and saw that his car was gone from the drive.

He’s gone to work, she thought. He’s gone to the office, but it’s Sunday and our first day back together. She sank her teeth into her lips, clasped her arms around her waist waiting for the pain to strike.

Her phone bleeped. A message. He’d sent her message. With trembling fingers Gill pressed the keys.

Thank you for giving me my freedom.

So that was what last night had been all about. Gill sank down into a chair, trying to absorb the shock.  Stuart didn’t want to come back. He wanted her permission to leave. Well he wasn’t going to get it. She was going over there now she would tell him. Tell both of them if she had to.

***

The patch of woodland between the house and the village had been hard hit by the storm. There were fallen branches and twigs scattered all over the path. She was half way along when a flash of white caught her eye. A clump of snowdrops, the flowers pure and white amid the leaf litter were growing between the roots of an old oak. A symbol of hope and new life in the storm ravaged wood. Suddenly her rage drained away. What was she doing? Stuart wasn’t a parcel to be fetched, or a toy to be argued over. Nor did he need to be told what to do. He was free to make up his own mind, just as she was. The trouble was neither of them were grown up or brave enough to do so and take the consequences.

Did she want Stuart back? For the first time since he’d left she asked herself the question. She stood stock still searching for the answer. A pale shaft of sun caught the snowdrops. They looked so frail but were strong enough to push through the cold ground and reach up to the light. It was hard but if they could do it, so could she.

Gill bent down and picked a white flower. Holding it in her fingers she carried it back to the house and her new life.

About the author

Misha Herwin lives in Staffordshire in a house with a dragon in the garden. She writes novels and short stories; some for adults, others for children. Much of her work is inspired by her fascination with the supernatural and the fluidity of time. She has two grown up children and an ever patient husband. When she is not writing she likes reading, gardening and baking. She also runs workshops.

https://mishaherwin.wordpress.com/