Wednesday 15 July 2010

Battersea, London

She unwraps the newspaper and is temporarily distracted from her unpacking by the contents. She holds the frame in her hands, staring at the photograph of her, Dylan and Charles taken at Elvis and Georgie's wedding.

Despite the sadness and heartache caused along the way, she's thankful to the two men in the picture who, for very different reasons, were the catalysts that enabled her to achieve everything she has done in the last few years. Her decision to leave, following Dylan's death and Charles getting married, had forced her to take control of her life, had allowed her the opportunity to start writing again and had ultimately given her the lucky break which had led to the publication of her book.

She certainly would not be here, in her newly acquired apartment overlooking Battersea Park, unpacking the boxes which have been stored away for the last three years. She would have married Dylan and whilst she would have been happy, she now knows that she would have been settling without fulfilling her potential.

Potential that one person has always believed in and encouraged. Many years ago, he'd once told her that she'd be brilliant, and although she'd seriously doubted it at the time, she has to admit that he'd been right.

The irony of the situation, that she'd ultimately needed to break from him to do so, was not lost on her.

But now, they're back in contact and have been cautiously, gradually rebuilding their relationship.

It started at Geraint's funeral. As soon as she saw him she knew she was ready and strong enough to have him back in her life and that this time he needed her.

She'd been at the front of the church, supporting a distraught Candy, when she first registered him carrying a corner of the coffin. She couldn't take her eyes off him as he took a seat, along with the rest of the soldiers, on the opposite side of the church. Despite his appearance, immaculately dressed in his No.2 dress uniform, wearing his best unemotional Captain face and respectfully acting out his part, she knew him too well, she could tell by the way he wouldn't meet her eye, that he was struggling.

Candy had asked him to read from Dylan Thomas' Under Milk Wood during the service. He'd stood stiffly and stared fixedly at the back of the church. Although he'd delivered it beautifully, she'd recognised the strain in his voice as he held himself together.

After the service, she'd led Candy out of the church and he'd been there waiting in the churchyard to pay his respects. He'd come up to them still unable to look her in the eye, had opened his mouth to speak, but before he'd had a chance to say anything Candy had spoken to him with barely concealed disgust, "I gave the Army my boy. And they gave me back a flag."

He'd looked completely crushed and had tried to say something, but Candy had walked off and she'd had no choice but to follow. She'd looked back apologetically and finally he'd looked at her. She could see the anguish in his eyes before he regained composure. She'd given him a brief smile and he'd nodded in acknowledgement and she knew they'd taken the first steps back towards each other.

Later, at the wake, she'd been aware of where he was at all times and their eyes had met a few times. Eventually neither of them were in conversation with anyone else and instinctively they'd both headed outside. He'd got there first and as she had walked towards him she could tell that he was nervous. She'd stopped in front of him and there had been an awkward silence before they had both spoken at the same time, "Sorry."

He'd moved towards her, tentatively reaching out to hold gently by her upper arms, "You have nothing to apologise for. I'm the one who needs to apologise."

She'd been firm as she'd looked up at him, "No, I need to apologise for leavin' like I did."

He'd shaken his head sadly and sighed, "Christ. I need to apologise for a lot of things."

She'd shyly smiled at him, "We need to talk, but not now, not here."

He'd moved closer, enveloping her in a familiar strong hug, whispering in her ear. "I've missed you Dawesy."

In that moment, she was reminded of something he once said to her in happier times and as she returned his hug had murmured, "Ditto."

After a few moments, she had pulled away slightly, "Are you allowed to give me a hug? What with being in uniform and that?"

He'd pulled her back into his arms, hugging her even tighter, "I don't fucking care."

-x-

They'd met up again in London two weeks later. He'd picked her up from the hotel she was staying in and they'd just walked around Hyde Park, with her doing most of the talking, filling him in on the events of the last two years, carefully skating around the circumstances of her leaving.

Eventually he'd suggested they stop for a drink and they'd settled on a bench overlooking the Serpentine. He'd gone quiet and serious and she'd known what was coming and how she was going deal with it.

He'd started hesitantly, "So, can we talk about why you left now?"

She'd kept her voice steady, "You know why I left."

He'd looked and sounded guilt-ridden, "I'm so sorry Molly. I wish I'd told you about Rebecca and the baby that day in your kitchen, instead of running away like a coward. The truth is that after you told me how you felt about me, I didn't know how to tell you. I deeply regret the way you found out. I can only imagine how you felt."

She'd been honest, "It hurt, a lot. Still does, a little to be honest. But, it's in the past. There is nothin' I can do to change it. I've accepted yer married to Rebecca, that you have a child together."

He'd paused, seeming to take in what she was saying, "The thing is… when you told me you loved me I panicked because…."

She'd interrupted him, wanting to move the conversation on, "Look Charles, I'm sorry but I don't wanna go over it. I just want us to return to where we were. I want us to be friends again. I want you to forget what I said. It's the only way this can work."

He'd sounded almost pleading, "Molly, please just let…"

She'd interrupted again, "I mean it."

At that point, they'd been interrupted by a woman and two excited looking teenage girls.

"Excuse me? Sorry to interrupt, but are you Molly Dawes?"

She'd smiled graciously, "Yes, hi!"

"My daughters are absolutely huge fans. Would it be possible for them to have a picture with you?"

"Yes, of course."

By the time they'd taken the picture, had a chat and she'd said goodbye to the delighted family, he'd obviously accepted her request to move the conversation on and didn't try to bring the subject up again.

Instead, he'd teased her, "Look at you, a proper celebrity."

She'd laughed, "Dunno what you mean, mate."

He'd seemed impressed, "Seriously, does that happen often, Dawsey?"

"Nah, only a few times a day."

He'd been incredulous, "A few times a day?"

"No, you prannet. I'm only jokin'. Maybe once a week. I don't mind, it's kinda sweet really."

-x-

In August, she'd taken herself off to Paris for a planned three months to immerse herself in writing the first draft of book three.

When she'd returned to London, they'd met up in early November before she'd started the publicity tour for her second book.

She'd been a little bit shocked at his appearance having not seen him whilst she was away. She'd asked him if he was feeling alright and he'd told her he had a hangover, but she'd thought he looked pale and exhausted and like he'd lost some weight, making him look almost gaunt.

It was during this meeting that she'd finally asked him about his child. In the beginning, she'd been fine not asking, not knowing about this part of his life, but as they got back towards the closeness they'd once known she found it increasingly odd that he never talked about them and finally the curiosity was too much.

She'd opted for a direct approach, "So, tell me about yer child."

He'd looked surprised, had paused before starting, "I have a son, Sammie, he'll be two in December. He was born six weeks early and I missed the birth. I don't think I'm a very good father… something Rebecca reminds me of regularly."

She hadn't expected this. She'd always assumed he didn't talk about his home life to spare her feelings. She'd never entertained the idea that it might not be the picture of domestic bliss she'd always imagined. She hadn't contemplated that he might not be happy.

She hadn't been quite sure what to say, so had opted for something bland and safe, "They always say that first few years of parenthood are the hardest."

He'd looked like he was going to say something, then stopped himself.

She'd reached out to touch his arm reassuringly, "Hey, are you sure you're ok? You know you can talk to me about anythin'."

He'd been silent for a couple of minutes, before admitting, "It's just that I don't seem to be able to function at home. I'm not sleeping well…. I'm having nightmares about Afghan…. about Geraint's death."

She'd felt slightly out of her depth at this admission. He'd always been the strong one in their relationship. "Have you spoken to anyone in the Army, about this?"

He'd shaken his head, "No, you're the first person I've told. I just need to get back on tour and everything will be ok."

She'd gently challenged him, "Are you sure that's the answer?"

He'd sounded confident and determined, "Yes. I just need to get Christmas out of the way and then I'm off again in the New Year."

She'd not pressed him further, but had been worried about him. He wasn't quite the confident, self-assured person she remembered. He seemed to have lost his sparkle and become weary.

-x-

She'd been busy promoting her book for the rest of the year and had only seen him once again, briefly, before he left.

She'd been relieved that he'd looked better than he had the last time. He'd been excited about going back on tour and hadn't mentioned anything about how he was feeling, and she hadn't wanted to raise it, knowing that their time together was limited.

-x-

She takes the photo and places it on the mantelpiece. She kisses her fingers, before gently placing them over his face on the picture and smiles knowing he'll be back soon.

Forward operating base, Helmand, Afghanistan

He's sat on his bed reading her second book. He's smiling because he can imagine her saying the lines.

He is so thankful that she's back in his life, that she's forgiven him for the mess he made of things after Dylan's death. She doesn't realise it, but she is the only thing which has kept him going over the last year. He'd begun to think that everyone would be safer and better off without him in their lives.

He'd been overwhelmed to see her at the funeral, hardly daring to look at her for fear of losing the small amount of composure he was managing to maintain.

He'd felt so fucking guilty for Geraint's death and had been terrified about facing Candy. He knew he owed it to Geraint to perform his duty and give him the send-off he deserved, but he'd seriously feared he might cock that up to.

It hadn't helped that his return home had been disastrous. Rebecca's contempt for him was worse than ever and she'd taken every opportunity to criticise him, question his decision making and undermine his confidence.

He'd not told Rebecca what had happened on the tour and she had not shown any interest in finding out, so he had been bottling it up, trying to deal with it on his own and failing spectacularly.

Whilst he'd been away, Rebecca had returned to work, leaving Sammie in the care of a nanny for hours on end. He'd hated this idea but knew he had no right to object. Sammie had not recognised him and had cried whenever he was left alone with him.

He knew it was his own fault, but he felt a stranger in his own home and more alone than ever before.

When he'd completed his official duties at the funeral, he had finally allowed himself to look at her properly. She'd been even more beautiful than he'd remembered her. The changes were subtle but effective; she was wearing her hair a little bit shorter, her physique had become noticeably fitter. Her clothes were finer and she wore a small amount of make-up which enhanced her best features and made her stunning green eyes look even brighter and bigger than normal. She was a more grown-up, sophisticated, polished version of the person he knew. When she had smiled at him, even though it had been a brief, apologetic smile, everything he'd ever felt for her had come back stronger than ever.

During the wake, he'd known where she was at all times and had felt hope each time their eyes had met. Later, when they'd both found each other outside and he'd apologised and finally hugged her, he'd held onto her for dear life and not wanted the moment to end, ever.

The next time they'd met up he'd tried to tell her how he felt about her, but she'd not let him do so and had made it clear that she didn't want to discuss the circumstances of her leaving any further. He'd been too petrified of her leaving him again that he had acquiesced.

As he'd watched her deal with her fame in a confident but kind way, he could see how much she had moved on. He'd doubted that, even if he had told her how he felt, she would have been willing to take on someone as broken as him.

And then she'd been gone for three long months, writing her third book in Paris. She'd explained that she needed to immerse herself in writing with no distractions; there had been no invite to visit and she'd had no plans to come back during this time. He'd had no option but to wait out for her return.

The nightmares had started a few weeks after the funeral. He'd relive the moment of Geraint's death over and over again. He'd relive crawling towards the lifeless body, always arriving too late. His timing always wrong. As time went on the nightmares changed and it would be Molly being shot. He'd send her to her death and never get there quick enough to save her.

When they'd met up again on her return from Paris, he'd known that he looked dreadful and had made up some excuse about being hungover.

When she'd surprised him, and asked him to tell her about Sammie he'd been so close to telling her that his marriage was a mistake. That he didn't love Rebecca. That he never had. That he'd married her out of some misguided notion of duty and he regretted it every fucking day. He'd almost told her that he loved her. That he always had. But when it came to it, he just couldn't do it. They were finally getting on and talking. He was too much of an emotional wreck. He didn't trust his judgement. He wouldn't risk jeopardising the fragile recovery of their relationship.

He'd known he had PTSD. He recognised the symptoms. Christ, he'd been trained in what to look out for and had seen it affect other soldiers. He hadn't had any intention of telling her, of telling anyone, but when she'd pressed him on whether he was really alright, it had sort of just slipped out.

He'd told her he was having trouble sleeping and that he was having nightmares. He hadn't told her about the content of the nightmares, that he dreamed about losing her. He'd played it down and thought he'd got away with it. He'd believed it when he'd said he just needed to get back on tour.

The last time he'd seen her, he had felt a bit better, definitely more energised and was looking forward to getting back on tour and away from the suffocation of his unhappy marriage. He knew that it also meant leaving her, but that she was going to be busy with the promotion of her books and starting work on the film screen-play. The fact that she was back in his life was enough to keep him going.

He's interrupted by his Sergeant, clearing his throat and knocking on the tent. He turns to the front of the book, takes a quick look at the dedication, once again much debated in interviews and once again written for him.

"Stay focussed. Stay alert. Stay alive."

He turns over to the back cover, and looks at her picture. He quickly kisses his fingers, before gently placing them over her face on the picture and smiles knowing he'll see her again soon.