Author Note:
As ever, and I do mean this very sincerely, many thanks for the reviews.
I'm managing to write more as I'm still on Christmas holidays with more time than usual, but I'm back to work next week. Since work pays the bills3 and I like to eat, c'est la vie and unfortunately I will be back to updating more slowly.
Chapter Eleven – Road To Hell, Good Intentions And All That
The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.
― Joe Klaas
Charles never got that coffee and I got back to work late but just in time for a lecture from snotty-Valerie. To be fair, I was late. So, I take it on the chin for that reason and because arguing with a Lieutenant is never and good idea. Afterwards, me and the clipboard get cracking into the afternoon appointments.
Not taking in a break in the afternoon seems to have cleared my black mark in Valerie's opinion, and we parted company at the end of the shift semi-pleasantly and, thank fuck, that's me for the weekend. I've never been more grateful. It feels like its been a long week.
It's Emily latest nag, wanting me to take some time off. Apparently, I've been looking tired. I think that's polite person speak for I'm looking like shit. I will admit that the view in the bathroom mirror in the mornings hasn't been kind, but concealer is a fab product for hiding more than just eyebags and spots. The 'Molly's Coping' mask I've been wearing has been relying on it quite a bit recently.
I'm being unfair, I know, but it feels like everybody needs something from me. For Charles I am companion and 24-7 cheer squad. For our families and friends, I'm the provider of news and arranger of visits. For Sam, I'm doing the job of parenting for both of us, though I'll be fair to Rebecca she's not kicked off once when I've asked to have Sam at short notice or had to re-arrange his normal visitation days. Chuck my day job into all that lot and there's not much left. I'm running on empty, but I'm still going, so I'm calling that a win.
I think today is the first time I'm willing to admit to myself I'm fucking exhausted by it all. I feel like a circus performer balancing spinning plates and Georgie just chucked another one into the mix with her visit today.
In the first phone call I ever had with Emily, she offered to be a shoulder to cry on or a cocktail drinking partner–whichever I needed. I've got to admit that the latter is very self-indulgently appealing, but I've got more important shit to shoulder at the moment. So, I pin on a smile and walk into his hospital room door.
He's up on his crutches moving when I walk in and it a great thing to see, his physical progress. It's the expression in his eyes that stops me dead in my tracks.
It's an instinctive response in me these days; I'm on guard and worried about what's going on in his nut that has him so worked up. I knowing it's wrong, assessing my husband like he's some sort of emotional unexploded bomb, but I stand quiet and watchful, the hello kiss and hug I wanted from him forgotten.
The tension in him is clear. His body language is practically screaming it. He goes to make a turn towards the bed and wobbles unsteadily.I step forward to help automatically.
"I'm fine.," he snaps, and I step back, wary again as he positions himself awkwardly on the side of the bed and shoves the crutches away so that they clatter angrily against the wall, coming to rest against the chair by the side of his bed.
He swings his legs up on the bed with a wince, the scars on the wounded leg are red against his pale skin as the material of his PJ trousers rides up with the movement. He struggles to elevate his leg onto a pillow but manages.
Normally I'd help, but the hostility radiating out of him has me unsure of what to do and hovering. Once settled, he takes to studying his hands folded in his lap like they're super interesting and the room settles into a hostile sort of silence.
I scan my eyes around, desperate for clues because he's giving me nothing but a forehead creased into frown lines and dark trouble eyes. The room looks the same as it was when I left this morning. Same furniture and equipment, my laptop that I left with him this morning, is open on the side table, charger cable trailing off the bed towards the wall plug.
I'm not sure what I'm looking for. It's not as though I'm going to find a helpful note or Georgie Lane was here sign. Her name popping into my head has me thinking. Did he see her afterwards? I'm sure it couldn't have been before. I checked, he was at hydro-therapy when I found her waiting in his room. Yep, no insecurities on display there. Perfectly reasonable to check where you husband was when not found in his hospital bed.
Fuck-sake, grow some balls, Molly.
Getting annoyed with myself, I take a step closer to the bed, ready to ask him what's going on, because somebody has to say something. He beats me to it.
"When were you going to talk to me about it?"
"Talk to you about what? I– is this about Georgie?"
"Of course, it's not about Lane!"
He turns the laptop around on the table top so the lit screen is facing me. The email app is open. My laptop, my email… The one at the top is from my CO, titled 'BCU Course Confirmation'. My heart sinks. Shit.
"It's in Birmingham, Molly. Bloody Birmingham. Two hours away from the place we call home. I know my regiment is based at Bulford, but you know there's a good chance we might being moving to Catterick or Colchester. That even further away. I thought we were stopping this, being away from each other? I thought that's what we wanted. Then you go and do this!"
Suddenly I'm seeing red. Not the pale, insipid red they paint London buses and post boxes with, oh no, I'm talking about the press this big fucking button and nuclear Armageddon is coming to get you kind of red.
"When was I going to talk to you?"
He's good. I'll give him that. Even has a lip tremble on the word we. He looks furious and vulnerable at the same time, but I'm struggling to get myself passed furious because this has been bubbling away in me for a long fucking time.
"I tried to talk to you about this before you left for Belize. That night, the dinner that you never appear for. That's when I tried to talk to you about it, but you fucked off to Belize with her instead then got yourself speared on a boar trap. Can't say that the opportunity came up since."
That's a lie, right there, but the sarcasm is dripping out of me like poison right along with my temper.
"That's not the point, we talked about this. You taking a UK based role."
"This is a UK based role."
"Two fucking hours away from our home. We talked about this."
"No, you talked at me about a UK based role for me. Whenever I tried to talk to you about a UK based role for you, you left, or forgot to come home, conveniently. Don't get me started on the foreign tours. I'm not sure you've been able to see beyond what you need in a very long time."
"Was that what you were planning then? Accepting this, relocating and then letting me find out after. Is this some sort of revenge. Are you leaving me?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Look at it from my point of view–"
"Your point of view. I do nothing but look at things from your point of view. What you're feeling, what you're saying, or not saying, what you need from this moment to that. It's all I've been doing since Elvis died and you started pushing me away. I don't have anything more to give you. You've taken all I've got, then you ask me that?"
"I didn't mean it like that."
"Didn't you? Bleedin' sounded like you did."
I'm done, so done. I root around in my bag and pull out the crumbled brown envelope that's been in there for more than two weeks and chuck it onto the end of the bed.
"My A level results. The conditional offer I had for the Nursing Degree at BCU is now unconditional because I passed. Thanks for asking."
I flick Georgie and the boys' card onto the end of the bed as well.
"Hand delivered by Georgie Lane herself today, and yeah, I did deal with that particular emotional grenade for you. While you were at hydro therapy, as it happens."
"Molly–."
"Don't, just don't'. I'm not in the headspace to hear you. I know that unreasonable for plenty of reasons not just because you're wounded, and all, but I have had enough for one night."
"We need to talk about this."
"No, you need us to talk about this. I'm tired and need some time to step out of this for a night. I'm not leaving you. I will talk about this tomorrow, I just can't… Not tonight."
"Molly, wait. I had some news to tell you." he says, apologetic but no quite sorry. That boyish awkwardness is there on his face. The one he shows when he knows he's done wrong but can't quite pull the stick out of his arse to actually find the words to explain why.
"Do you, good for you. So, did I back then but just like you I've got other things to do with my time right now."
Now I'm just being childish and resentful, and I don't like myself very much for it, but I'm struggling to get myself to give him anything but hurt and defensiveness, and that's why I need to leave for now.
"I'm sorry, that was unfair. I need to go."
And I left and went straight to Emily office to hide.
ooOOoo
Emily appears at her office door on my first knock, looks me up and down then grabs me by my elbow and drags me into her office.
"Right spill, what the hell is going on?"
"It's possible I found Georgie in Charles' room. Then we had words. Charles wasn't there, luckily."
"Is she still in one piece?"
"Surprisingly, yes."
"This maybe a stupid question, but why was she here?"
"Because they don't sell stamps in Bulford apparently. She had a card from the lads and a flimsy excuse to present herself in person. That was this morning's misadventure."
"Right…"
"It gets better. I went to see him after work to find he's got he's hump with me. I brought my laptop in for him, didn't I. He read an email from my CO chasin' about the placement on the course at BCU. So now I'm a bitch for not telling him in person even before I threw Georgie's visit in his face and stormed out."
Emily' face says it all.
"I know I promised I'd tell him days ago. I'm an idiot and it's all bloody blown up in my face as you said it would but please don't tell me off again. I've had enough for one day. I just want to go home and hide or something."
"I'm not going to tell you off. I'm actually impressed. If Tom's paramour had arrived at my work or home back then, they'd have been taking me away in handcuffs."
"Look, I know you said you were visiting your in-laws, but–"
"Is Tom around? Sure. He wasn't coming with us due to a convenient meeting. I'll ask him to drop in on Charles, shall I?"
"Please. I need a bit of time, but I don't want him stewing on his own."
"Like I said, you're nicer than me. I'd let him stew."
ooOOoo
The magnolia coloured wall of the rental flat is slowing starting to drive me mad by the time I've been home, showered and forced a sandwich down my gob. Wandering round the flat wearing holes in the carpets isn't helping me settle any.
If I had a tail, I'd have chewed it off by now in frustration. I know I said an evening away from him, and his problems was what I needed but that was all bullshit. Now that I've calmed down, I can see that, because they're our problems not his.
Contrariness, meet Molly. You and I have a lot in common at the moment, unfortunately.
Despite all of my dramatics tonight, and my Nan's favourite saying about letting sleeping dogs lie, I'm thinking of doing something that will throw me right into the thick of everything I said I didn't want to deal with tonight because there's no way I can't. At least not if I want to be able to live with my conscience.
One part of me is questioning my sanity even as I'm calling his number on my mobile, but I need to do something tonight or I'm going to go fucking crazy.
"Chicken, how are doing?"
"Bones? Hey. Look you know that offer of coffee and you shutting your gob and listening? Is that still something you're willing to do?"
He half shouts his reply because wherever he is, it's bloody loud in the background. "I'll always make time for you, chicken."
"Fuck off with the poultry endearments, will you. Where the hell are you? It sounds like you're standing by the M25 or something."
"No, worst, Elephant & Castle in North Camp with this bunch of tossers. Say hello to Dawesey Tossers!"
A chorus of Dawesey in male voices rings out with a very familiar Scottish one perhaps the loudest–Spanner.
"You're a bit previous being out on a school-night right before a tour, aren't you?"
"Officer's privilege, 48-hour pass."
Then I think: fuck it.
"Tell you what, stuff the coffee. I'll be there in thirty minutes. Have the tequila ready."
"And waste good drinking time waiting for you to put your face on? Hell, no. You're gorgeous enough. We'll come to you. Where are you?"
"Farnham."
"The Wheatsheaf on West Street in fifteen minutes. Don't be late, Dawesey. Get your glorious arse down there and we'll meet you."