The Bard, I think, even as he penned entertainment such as "The Taming …," knew that comedy cannot thrive without some misting of tears – carefully disguised though they may be - to help it grow strong. So I think both he and Sally Wainwright, who decorated Piers' and Kate's lives for TV with her own deft dramatic moments, might have had some idea of life's trauma as it was occasionally played out for the Crick family. Perhaps they would nod their heads in recognition of this one.
Tension abounds in their newest tale. If parts of it seem familiar, perhaps you've encountered some hints before. Piers and Kate, you must know by now, have to play the game by their own rules and they simply let us share their story.
My desire was to make you laugh again, but they insisted this must come first.
I Wish That We Were Making Up Again
They needed it.
Both of them.
Drama in the extreme.
It had been an aphrodisiac from the moment they met.
Even now, Kate could still recall those moments confined with the 16th Earl of Charlbury in the lift — matching wits, matching reflexes, matching emotions.
They came at each other repeatedly like oppositional kamikaze pilots pledged to mutual destruction, only to pull up short at the last possible second and high-five each other instead as they headed, side by side and at break neck speed, toward the horizon of sexual passion.
It never grew old.
But today it had grown treacherous.
Today she had misjudged the space between. And the result had been a tragedy.
Piers seldom came unannounced or uninvited to her office. For one thing, he was much too busy and much too little interested in corralling mayhem in public places to simply drop in with their offspring. For another, he had a healthy respect for her position — if his overall view of government was less than appreciative — and he resisted the temptation to casually exploit it.
To be fair, however, she frequently requested his presence there for the sheer joy of showing him off, so he had little reason to expand the privilege on a whim.
He had been there today, however, when she returned from the afternoon session of Parliament — one which had sorely tempted her to verbally sink her incisors into the stiff neck of Keith Aspenall. Her staff, famously in tune with the vibes she could never quite control — even when she realized with part of her mind that they would race over the airwaves in double quick time — had been studiously putting distance between the nation's leading Conservative voice and themselves as the in-house cameras revealed the Leader of the Opposition was absenting the chamber and heading back to her desk.
Piers, however, had been busily overseeing triplet-induced pandemonium within the office and had been unaware, until Kate burst through the door with a snarl, that space was called for.
She remembered later how, as she stalked into the room, he had abandoned the effort to drag Michael from beneath her desk and had stood up and moved toward her with his arms spread wide for a bear hug, but the thought had not fully registered at the moment. Her blood still boiling at the absolute insanity of Aspenall's position, she had slammed her files on the top of her desk, shouted for Tim and glared at all examples of maleness unfortunate enough to be within her domain at the moment.
"And what are you doing here?" she had demanded, stopping her husband cold in his tracks. "I didn't summon you. I didn't ask you to create havoc here. I didn't need any more aggravation than I already have from you — you — you men!" she hissed.
Tim, who had emerged with trepidation from the adjoining office, gauged her fury level and retreated, instead.
"Why, we came to tell you we missed you, didn't we, my fine young men? And we want you to come home with us and stop for ice cream," she recalled him saying.
At that moment, Peter, pursued by a pint-sized Piers-replica they called Rupert, had skidded around the corner of her desk, caught the edge of the files she had slammed down there and sent them flying to the carpet in a papery trail.
Their father had seized the collars of two nursery school-approved shirts with a practiced hand and put a temporary damper on his sons' exhilaration.
"Michael," he had called then, kneeling quickly and peering beneath his wife's desk, and using a voice the third little boy knew better than to test. And suddenly Kate had been looking down — a situation her diminutive size seldom placed her in — on four beloved faces. The three smallest had been paying her scant attention, still intent on escaping the clutch in which their father enfolded them so they could continue their games. But the largest had been eyeing his wife with a subtle warning to get control of herself.
Unhappily, it had simply added to her fury.
"Ice cream is the last thing I need right now," she had sneered, leaning over her sons' heads and bringing her nose within inches of her husband's as he had started to rise. "What I need is for the lot of you to clear out before you destroy my office."
"Kay-ate," he had said with deadly calm, his head slightly tilted and his green eyes narrowing dangerously.
She had caught a glimpse of Miss Tetley's smirk over his shoulder then and the bitter brew in her gut boiled over.
"Don't you dare take that tone with me," she had threatened, even as he rose to his full height and towered over her with what some would have defined as carefully controlled menace. Her right arm had started on a rage-induced upward path toward his cheek, but he was wise to her ways and he had grasped her extended fingers quickly in his own and brought them to his lips instead. For anyone observing from a distance, he had appeared to be a gentle giant calming a pint-sized fury. Only she had known that even as he had brushed her fingers with his mouth he had been subtly upping the ante.
"Remember what happens to little girls who smack," he had whispered, his eyes widening just a fraction momentarily and the corners of his mouth lifting in a quick and promising grin.
"Remember whom you're speaking to," she had shot back. "I'll have your head, you louty prick."
There had been a terrible silent moment when the world seemed to stand still and they glared menacingly at each other.
Piers — brought back to reality by the stirring of his sons sandwiched between them and growing bored — bowed first.
"Come along, boys. Your mum is very busy. Much too busy to deal with us right now," and he had turned from her, looking for jackets and herding his sons toward the door.
Upon reflection, she could hear his comment as the peace-making, face-saving effort he was generously offering her.
But at the moment, the only thing Parliament's most important feminine member had processed was a public accusation that she was somehow lacking as a mother.
"I AM busy," she had screeched at him as he directed the boys toward the hallway. "But I'll never, ever be too busy for my sons. So don't you even hint at such a thing. I'll NEVER abandon MY boys!"
For half a second she had relished that parting shot, knowing it was one he could not top.
But then he had turned back toward her slowly. His lips had parted, but he had been silent. He had simply looked at her with an expression she could not interpret but would never forget.
And then he had stepped quietly around their sons and simply walked away from all of them.
An hour later — having allowed sufficient time for Piers to pour himself a drink and for the liquor to help him formulate a devastating rebuttal, which she knew she deserved but was still determined to destroy — she had arrived home with the triplets, having sorted the files, wrestled the trio into jackets and bought everyone ice cream, after all.
The house was empty of her husband's normally boisterous presence.
It remained so while she navigated through bath time solo, nixed the watching of a horror movie and resorted to heating up a couple of tins of soup and setting out cheese cubes and apple slices.
Bed time came and went - by an hour. But eventually she bundled the boys in and settled among them with their favorite book. Twice her heart tripped expectantly when she thought she heard the front door open. Twice she was forced to resume reading with a less than steady voice and no one to hold the book for her.
When her sons lisped prayers with mummy and daddy mentioned prominently, she added her own silently. She began with a calm request to make Piers see reason and promise never to put her in such an ill-respected position again.
When she later cleared away the remains of their meal and picked up toys scattered from room to room, she suggested to the Almighty that it would be a good thing to have her husband come home soon and in a conciliatory mood.
When she abandoned any pretense of watching TV or reading the latest Dibden mystery or making notes for the next day's session with the American ambassador, she asked that Lord Charlbury please, please step through the door within the next 10 minutes — safe and sound.
When she stood beneath a shower as hot as she could make it and allowed frightened tears to be washed away with the needle-fine spray, she began to bargain with God.
And when she curled into the center of their light-bathed bed — a suddenly lonely and frightening place — and stared beyond the windows and out into a black, starless night, fighting all the demons that tortured her with visions of a future apart from the only man she had ever or would ever love, she begged shamelessly and repeatedly for his return.
Somewhere in her troubled sleep, she thought she saw him, but he was still walking away from her and no matter how she pleaded, no matter how sorry she said she was as she called out to his retreating form, he would not stop his journey into a black void. She hated the darkness, had feared and dreaded it since her father slipped into death while she huddled in the flickering shadows of his sick room as a child.
Until Piers came to her bed, she had closed her eyes each night with lights blazing brightly all around her.
She would not venture into any shadow alone willingly, although no one knew that secret except her husband. But now she had no choice but to run after him. Whatever waited in the inky unknown must be braved. However she must humble herself she would. Nothing mattered but to hold on to him.
He was not moving quickly, only purposefully and sadly. But it took all her strength to reach him. She reached for his hand, gasping with the effort in her mind, and he stopped, but he made no familiar and comforting move to gather her to himself. And his face was so sad it broke her heart.
"I didn't mean it," she cried. "You know I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. I know it was a terrible thing to bring up. I know she hurt you ..."
He shook his head and looked down at her with a bitter little smile twisting his lips. "We didn't need her," he said finally of the mother who had abandoned him as a six-year-old.
She knew that had never been true; however, she wouldn't argue it with him. Because she knew something more.
"But you need me. I know you need me, so don't try and get rid of me," she cried and threw herself at him, her arms reaching up to pull him down.
They fell into the darkness together.
It did not matter that she could not see what was coming. It only mattered that she could feel him beneath her. She put her head on his shoulder, her left arm reaching across his chest with her fingers curved loosely around his neck, her left knee bent and resting on top of his thigh. And she finally drew a peaceful breath as his arms gathered her in closer and his lips brushed her forehead.
Other dreams chased themselves through her troubled sleep as the night wore on, but the only one she would come close to remembering afterwards was a simple and momentary impression of her husband gently kissing her wrist and then tucking the blankets snugly around her body.
It was the image that came to her when she opened her eyes as the clock crept toward dawn. But then she realized she was still alone. Her heart plummeted again and she caught her breath on a sob, wondering how she could have slept for even a moment without Piers beside her; wondering where he was and if he would ever forgive her; wondering if she would live in darkness the rest of her life.
It took a moment for Kate to realize that something was different. Then it came to her. The only light in the room now was the dim glow from the small reading lamp on her side of the bed.
Someone had cut back the glare she had surrounded herself with when she crawled into the lonely bed the night before.
Someone had known that if she awoke before the sun came up, she would no longer need their shadow-chasing power.
Someone had been there, instead, to hold back the darkness.
"Piers," she whispered, but there was no answer.
She made herself sit up; forced herself to leave the bed. And she almost fell as her feet tangled in the discarded clothing lying in a pile on her husband's side.
He's here, her heart sang, and she flew to the door and down the landing.
Somewhere… somewhere … he was home again.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she stopped in confusion and another sudden burst of fear. She should have seen him by now, should have heard him by now, should have sensed him by now. His boundless energy should have touched her by now.
"Dear God, don't let this be a dream," she pleaded. "I need him so."
She heard a sharp, tinkling sound like glass making contact with something solid and she turned toward the door of Piers' study with a pounding heart.
He was there. It must be him.
But suppose he had shut the door to keep her out. Suppose he no longer wanted her. Suppose he could not forgive her. Suppose he put her out of his heart and mind.
She swiped at the tears streaming down her face and flew to the door, jerking it open and praying he would let her cross the threshold and come back into his life. Praying he would realize he would always need her.
It took a moment, in the darkness, for her to see him on the far side of the room. He was stretched out in a chair drawn up before the window, where there was just enough light from the street to guide her footsteps. She hesitated only a second and then hurled herself toward him.
Every passion she had ever entertained welled up inside her as she reached hungrily for her husband and climbed into his skirted lap.
Her cheek found its place against his heart and she captured him with an arm about his neck.
It registered in some corner of her mind that he was dressed for distress and was reeking of whiskey. Kate had only one cure to offer for any of that.
She tipped her head up and whispered, "You can't possibly get rid of me, you bloody great guzzling beast. I'm here to stay, my boy."
His arms tightened around her. They were, the gesture said, eternally bound.
He smiled; she knew it even in the darkness that was slowly giving way to a new day because the warm glow spread through his body and then bathed her.
He gently kissed her forehead, her eyes, her lips.
And as quiet passion – utterly at odds with both their natures - enfolded them, she did remember to thank God.