4
Ch 21
1.
3am
She is wincing with pain, desperately trying to loosen her leg. The vice like grip of the cramp woke her up, and she made her way downstairs to the living room, gingerly, not wanting to disturb Harry. The pain is so intense that she whimpers under a breath.
She has left her massaging cream into the bathroom, but the thought of having to go back upstairs pins her firmly on the couch. She knows that the pain is not merely physical, that it is a symptom of the dull, pounding ache in her heart. Andrew Lawrence and Ros Myers are coming for lunch, and not only does she not want to cook: she doesn't want them here, disrupting the sheltered life which she and Harry have had those past two weeks. All it took was a phone call, she tells herself bleakly, just one phone call from work, and he's already put his walls up again…Not completely, another inner voice tells her, at least you now make love and my God, what lovemaking…Yes, she replies, all the while inefficiently massaging her leg, but sex is not a proxy for talking…and on and on it goes, round her head, with no let up.
'You're in pain.'
She looks up, startled. Harry is standing on the threshold of the living room, in the old crumpled dressing gown which she loves. The expression on his face is familiar to her though she can't quite pinpoint when she has already seen it: intense, almost drinking her with his eyes, but with sadness too. And then she remembers - that long ago night, at Heavensworth, in the hotel corridor, whilst the Italian trade minister was partying….
She looks away. 'It's my leg. The bad one…it's cramping up badly.'
He nods. 'I'll be right back.' He disappears upstairs – a few moments during which she decides that she will not be the one to chip at the walls tonight. These are his walls, and she cannot always be the one to make the first move and expose herself. And if he says nothing, she tells herself firmly, well, you carry on, and accept that this is the man he is. Limited in so many ways, struggling to share and open up. This is the man you love…
He comes back and sits next to her, her jar of massaging cream in his hands. Wordlessly, he gets her to lie on her back, and starts rubbing it on her leg, her hip, her calf, her foot, his fingers kneading her painful, taught muscles. There is nothing sexual about his touch; yet it's not the impersonal touch of a professional masseur. It is a loving, tender touch – the touch of someone who is trying to say something with his hands to the person he loves, something he finds almost impossible to actually put in words.
2.
When he felt the emptiness by his side, he panicked. Without thinking he put on his gown and went downstairs, gripped by irrational fear that she had left him altogether. He saw the lamp in the living room, and his breathing calmed. He also saw the pained, wistful expression on her face. He was almost tempted to tip toe back upstairs, unable, it seemed., to confront her after their difficult evening and extraordinarily intense lovemaking. I can't face talking to her, he thought, not now, not….I'm tired, and it won't solve anything anyway…He had already turned away back to the stairs, confident she hadn't heard him, when a memory of days long gone flashed through his mind: Jane sitting alone in their small, cramped living room, after yet another evening when he had not made it home on time for the children's bedtime; him knowing that she wanted to talk to him about their marriage, but unable to muster the energy and courage for it….and their marriage crumbling, slowly, under the growing weight of their silence…That's what is in store for Ruth and me, he thought, scared. That's the mistake I am already beginning to make with her, tonight.
And so he turned back, and saw that her pain was also very physical, very real. And now he is sitting next to her, offering her relief through the soothing movement of his hands and fingers, not in desire, but in pure love. She is not saying anything, just looking at him. He can feel her eyes on his face. He dares not look at her.
'I've…I've never been good at expressing my feelings', he hears himself says, looking at his hands at work on her body. 'That's….that's always been very difficult for me.'
She says nothing, clearly placing the ball in his court. 'Do you remember when I told you about Jo?' She does of course: he can feel the sudden tension in her leg. 'You left my office', he carries on, doggedly, 'I knew you were right outside. Crying. And I sat at my desk…yet all I wanted to do…' He clears his throat. 'All I wanted to do was to cry with you….to hold you in my arms….'
'Why did you not?', she asks softly. 'I so wanted you to, you know.'
His hands go very still. 'Because if I had, in that moment…the feelings of grief would have been unbearable. Like a dam which bursts.'
'Dams sometimes need to burst, Harry.'
'I know…intellectually, I know that. But…I told you about my father. The hell he turned our lives into. All the time, growing up…I knew that if I showed the slightest sign of fear, of vulnerability…I was done for. And in our job…well, you know what that's like.'
She places her hand on his, lightly. 'It's OK, Harry. I do understand. I understand it takes time, and trust, and….I don't find it easy myself, you know…'
He strokes her fingers, and finally looks at her., and asks her the question which has been plaguing him for over three years. 'When you left…on that dock. Why didn't you let me tell you that I love you?'
She smiles wryly. 'Because if you had, the feelings of grief would have been unbearable….I needed to survive. And in order to survive I couldn't afford to hear those words.'
He helps her sit up and holds her close against him. 'Andrew coming over tomorrow…I don't like it, Ruth. I don't like it one bit.'
'Harry…What are you so scared of?'
He takes his time before answering. 'I'm terrified that he'll rope me back in. That I won't be able to resist…because let's face it, I'm no good for anything else. But this job, the service….it's about death. Grief. Impossible choices. Moral burdens. Intolerable pressure…'
'You've coped with it for thirty years', she points out, 'so what's changed?' She waits for his answer, heart hammering in her chest. Please say it, she begs him silently, please….
'You', he says simply. 'Now I have you when I thought I had lost you forever. And I can't bear the thought that I might lose you again. Either to a bomb…or to my inability to function as a normal man as soon as I swipe my card into the Grid.' His throat feels painfully tight. 'I can't bear it, Ruth. I'd rather stop working altogether.'
She strokes his cheek. 'You can't do that, Harry. This resignation thing….you're not ready to leave the Service, deep down. You know that, don't you? Besides…you forget that I'm due to leave too. And soon….so with only one of us working there…what? What's wrong?'
'Well', he looks away, sheepishly, 'I never passed on your letter to HR. I thought you might change your mind once I'd gone.'
'Harry!'
'I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. But….it all happened after Paris and we were both so….'
'Overwrought. Yes. Fair enough….'
'Do you want to carry on working there?', he asks tentatively.
She yawns. 'Yes. But not with you as your boss. Which creates all sorts of problems. Harry….it's 3:30 in the morning…can we have that conversation tomorrow? I mean, later today?'
He chuckles. 'Yes, we can. Come on, Mule…let's go to bed.'
He helps her up, pleased that she is leaning on him heavily. They get into bed, and snuggle close, naked skin against naked skin. As their breathing slows down, welcoming sleep, she runs her hand slowly over him – not to arouse him but because she needs to touch him somehow, as simple as that. 'I love you', she whispers. 'And we'll find a way through this. Somehow.'
As she finally falls asleep, he allows himself to believe, for once, that things will turn out fine after all.