Breach of Faith (26 page)

Martha smiled sadly, “I’d imagine they were relieved that his death wasn’t the end; people live on in their children.”

I nodded, “that was the last time I saw him, in the graveyard. I felt his presence when I was talking to his parents but he didn’t come back.”

“Did they find
Charlotte?”

I smiled gently, sadness filling my eyes. “She looks so much like him, Martha. She’s a gorgeous girl, mature and friendly. Her bitch of a mother told her Angus died years ago.”

Martha held out her hand questioningly and I nodded, passing her my cup, watching as she refilled both with fresh coffee. She looked curiously at me. “What happened when Angus left? Did he disappear in a puff of smoke or something?”

I laughed. “No, it was amazing. A huge glittering staircase made of solid gold came down from the sky with an angel on every step playing a harp. Right at the top stood this massive man with a long white beard, beckoning to Angus, so up he went.”

Martha giggled, “you mean to say that Santa was up there too?”

I nudged my friend playfully. “Actually he hugged me and told me it was time for him to go. I felt terribly tired and that’s probably why I fell for it.”

“Fell for it?”

“The oldest trick in the book. He pointed behind me and said ‘Kate, look at that’. So I turned to look and by the time I turned back he’d gone.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Leaning across the table, Martha gave me a big hug. “I’m so glad you’re back, Kate. I wish you’d visited sooner. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back?”

I shrugged, “everything was such a rush that I didn’t even have time to scratch myself.”

Martha frowned, “the kids must be terribly jet-lagged. You said you’d been back five days and I haven’t heard a peep out of them. I guess they’re not up to playing in the garden yet.” She glanced out the window towards my house next door. “Sleeping now are they?”

I bit my lip, “not exactly.”

“You should have brought them over, I’ve missed them.”

I sighed, “they’re not there.”

Martha glanced sideways at me. “Where are they then? Don’t tell me you left them behind.”

My friend looked so shocked that I had to smile. “No. We’re staying somewhere else for now.”

Martha frowned, “where? And why?”

I suddenly felt very tired. “I told you what Will did in
England?” Martha nodded. “Well, when we flew back in I was stuck in two minds – should I go to a hotel and give us both some space? Or should I go back home and confront him; try to find out what the hell’s going on?”

“I take it you’re wasting money in a hotel,” Martha guessed.

“Not exactly.” I felt my face heat up. Feeling defensive I averted my eyes. “I had to think of the children. What if he hurt them or they saw him hurt me? I couldn’t risk it, especially after what I witnessed.”

Martha raised her eyebrows, “okay, I’ll ask. What did you witness?”

I’d only confided in one other person about that morning when I’d returned from England. Frank. Sighing heavily I turned back to my friend.

“When we arrived at the airport I was tired so I left my car in the car park and took a taxi home; I honestly didn’t think I’d be able to keep my eyes open. It was still really early when we pulled up outside the front of the house, Tom and Kensie were both asleep and I was just about to wake them when Will pulled back the curtains in the sitting room. I was hoping he’d be at work when we got back, but he wasn’t. Anyway, he stood there for a few seconds, he’d obviously just got up and looked so … thoughtful, I guess, he looked just like I remembered him from before; before he went strange.”

Martha nodded, “I haven’t seen him much since he got back, I think he’s ignoring me, but he definitely does seem to be much more in control than the man you’ve described to me.”

“I sat in the taxi and watched him at the window. I was so hopeful. I could almost believe that non of the other stuff had happened … the violence and swearing. It was like I’d gone back in time to before everything had spiralled out of control, to a time even before Frank. He was him … Will. That’s it.” I turned haunted eyes onto Martha. “I suppose it was wishful thinking because I so wanted all the problems to disappear in a puff of smoke.”

Martha patted my hand, “hate to be the one to break this to you but problems don’t just disappear, in a puff of smoke or otherwise.”

I cracked a smile, “like I said – wishful thinking.”

Martha smiled, “so I take it you talked to him. What happened?”

I shook my head, “actually I didn’t get that far. He turned away from the window and that’s when I saw he still had his pyjamas on.”

I stared out of Martha’s kitchen window and thought back to that day. I had been feeling so positive as I sat in the taxi watching my husband. And it hadn’t really been the pyjamas, of course; Will always wore pyjamas; long in the winter, short for summer. The pyjamas were not the issue.

Turning back to face my friend, I found Martha looking sympathetically at me, with just a tinge of embarrassment thrown in for good measure.

“Were they … well, were they … ladies night clothes, then?”

Martha was biting her lip, obviously not sure whether to laugh or cry and a picture burst into my mind, so vivid that I gasped and giggled before I could stop myself. The image faded almost as quickly as it had come, leaving behind not a trace of the pink negligee I had imagined my husband wearing.

“No,” I scolded, “certainly not,” and shook my head, dispelling the last of the pink silk from my mind. “It wasn’t the pyjamas themselves, the real issue was that he had them on in the first place.”

Martha looked confused, “Kate, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Would you have been happier for him to open the curtains with his tackle hanging out?”

I snorted.

Martha pulled another chocolate biscuit from the packet on the table and took a bite. “Well then,” she mumbled through the crumbs, “I think you’d better start again.”

*

The morning of my return

He hadn’t seen me.

Sitting in the taxi, wondering what to do, I silently willed my husband to notice me.

But he hadn’t.

Directly opposite the sitting room window was the doorway leading to the bedrooms. Over to the other side, out of view, was the dining area and kitchen. The curtains in the dining room were still closed.

Suddenly he smiled, the expression lighting up his face, making me smile faintly too. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, my tiredness forcing me into some kind of trance.

“Will,” I whispered.

“That’s twenty two dollars, love.” The taxi driver was waiting patiently for payment.

And the spell was broken. Even though I continued to stare, he was, once again, just Will. And he was speaking.

Not to me, of course, but to who? Who would be there with him at this time of the morning, when he was still in his pyjamas. He’d just got up, for heaven’s sake.

I stared into the room. Will was laughing and nodding then finally he turned to face the person in the room with him.

It was Carl.

And Carl was also wearing his pyjamas. No … that wasn’t quite right. Carl was also wearing
Will’s
pyjamas.

*

Martha thrust her hand into the biscuit packet and pulled out the last one. Looking shrewdly at me, she shrugged and held it out. “I think you need this more than I do.”

I smiled wanly and accepted the biscuit, dipping it into my coffee before sucking off the soggy bit. The eyes I turned on to Martha were sad and confused, “I didn’t really expect to see that.”

Martha gave an encouraging look. “I’ll bet you didn’t. Did they actually … do anything? While you were watching, I mean.” Her nose wrinkled in distaste.

I shook my head, “Will and said something to Carl. Carl laughed and they hugged.” I paused, “but it was a man-hug,” I defended quickly, “you know, one of those thump on the back sort of hugs.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose,” Martha grunted.

I gave my friend a dark look, “then they disappeared from view.”

“What are you doing now? You know you’re always welcome to stay here until you get yourself sorted out.”

I leaned over and squeezed my friend’s hand, “you’d soon regret that offer, I’d end up eating all your chocolate.”

Martha grimaced, “when you put it like that …”

I smiled, “Frank’s already regretting it. He reckons he can’t afford to keep indulging my chocolate fetish and if I don’t stop stuffing my face he’ll be forced to gag me.”

“Frank?” Martha frowned. “Kate, do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” I defended. Frank had been kind enough to offer me, Kensie and Tom a place to stay while I sorted things out with Will and after taking one look at his gaunt face and tired eyes, how could I have refused.

“He’s dying, Martha. He reckons he’s only got a couple of months left. He wasn’t even going to bother with chemotherapy again but he wanted to try to stick around until after the baby’s born. Without the treatment he mightn’t have more than a few weeks to live.”

“Does Will know?”

I took a deep breath, “I don’t think so.”

“When are you going to tell him?”

“When I’m ready.”

“Don’t leave it too long, Kate.” Martha stood up and started to clear the cups from the table, “you still don’t know what’s going on between him and Carl and you also don’t want to force him into someone else’s arms.”

“I know.” I pushed back my chair and stood up. “Do you know what Frank’s done?”

Martha looked up enquiringly.

“He’s sold the bakery and is leaving the proceeds of the sale and his house, everything he owns, to the baby when he dies.”

Martha’s mouth dropped open, “what? Everything?”

I upside-down smiled. “I told him there must be someone else. He said he wanted to be able to give his only child the best start in life, even if he never gets the chance to meet his son or daughter.” A tear ran from the corner of my eye.

Martha stepped over and gave me another big hug. “He’s a good man, Kate.”

I nodded and wiped my face on the back of my hand. “The best. I don’t know what I’ll do without him.”

21 February

I was skulking.

I hadn’t meant it to be like this. When I’d left Frank’s house this morning I’d been looking forward to a day of retail therapy, my ever expanding belly finally demanding an investment in elasticised waists. It was nice being pregnant but right now all I felt was fat.

Frank was shockingly exhausted. He’d bravely offered to take Tom for the day and entertain the little boy until I returned; an offer which brought tears to my over-emotional eyes, but he could hardly look after himself, never mind a child.

Cupping his gaunt face in my hands, I had smiled softly. “You rest, I’ll take him over to play with Rat for the day.”

Frank’s eyes opened wide. “Rat? You’re taking him to play in the sewers with a sharp-toothed rodent?”

I giggled. “Rat’s his friend from playgroup. His name’s Ralph but Tom has problems pronouncing it. He started calling him Rat and the name stuck.”

Frank ran the back of his hand across his brow, feigning relief. “You had me worried, woman.”

Despite his jovial manner, exhaustion and relief gave him away. “You rest,” I repeated gently and took the breakfast bowls into the kitchen, effectively closing the conversation.

Skulking here now, hours later, I glanced at my watch. I’d have to pick up Kensie from school soon, I really should get going. I thought miserably of Frank; he was getting worse every day; lethargic and sick. I knew the nausea had been partly due to the chemotherapy but still … sickness was sickness; and Frank was not getting better.

He never would.

I stared off into space, studying Frank’s thin face in my mind’s eye. The transformation in him had been unbelievable. In just a few short months he’d gone from being the picture of health; strong and beautiful, full of humour and quiet perseverance to … well, to a skeletal zombie-ghost . Some days he even had trouble getting out of bed, showering himself, going to the toilet.

He hated them, his weaknesses. Time and again he’d told me to get out, take the children home, back to Will. He cried easily these days, we both did, so between us a box of tissues didn’t stand a chance.

A few days ago he’d broached the forbidden subject with me.

“I’ve stopped,” he’d announced suddenly over lunch, a half eaten sandwich forgotten on his plate.

“Stopped what?” The question was a formality; I’d known.

“The chemo,” he’d replied and pushed his plate away. It had been one of his better days, where he was feeling and acting almost human.

I paused, my own sandwich hanging limply in my hand. A stray piece of lettuce escaped from between the plump slices of bread and I stared at it as it lay flaccidly on my plate, covered with mayonnaise. Feeling a bit sick I put the sandwich down.