If Only…
By S. Faith, © 2014
Words: 34,644 in six chapters and an epilogue
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art credit: See Chapter 1.
Additional Chapter Note: Tiny bit of gory language in this chapter, but one might expect Mark's dreams to be vivid, don't you think?
Chapter 2: From the Past…
2012, cont.
Mark noticed a distinct irritation start to come over her on a daily basis in about mid-December, one that seemed at its height when he first returned home from work, dissipating as they ate dinner together as a family, and altogether gone by the time the two of them went to bed in the evening.
"Bridget," he began after about a week of this, during their preparation for bed, "is there something wrong? Something been getting on your nerves lately? I mean, beside planning for the Christmas holiday?"
"What? Why? No!" she said sharply. "Of course not—why do you ask?"
The strangely vehement word explosion surprised him. He raised a brow. "The lady doth protest too much," he said calmly, smiling a little. "Tell me about it, darling."
She sighed, slumping down onto their bed. "The new sports teacher. Well, new to us, to Billy I mean, I think. No, he is new, the grumpy old bugger. Anyway. He's absolutely maddening."
Mark listened patiently, but was genuinely surprised to hear her say this, given how much Billy had expressed fondness, even admiration, for the sports teacher whose name was escaping him. "What's so maddening?"
"Oh, I don't know. Nothing specific."
"You're getting terribly worked up over 'nothing specific'."
"Don't you patronise me, Mark Darcy," she said darkly, though offered more of a pout than an icy look.
He couldn't help himself; he chuckled, sat beside her and put his arm around her, pulling her to him. "I would never," he murmured, then pecked her on the temple. "Though you are terribly worked up over my pointing out the inconsistency."
She sighed heavily again.
"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. "I just don't like seeing you so annoyed." He nuzzled into her hair, wondering if the man was making advances, leering at her; he felt himself get a bit tense at the very thought—
"It's really not that big of a deal, but it just rubs me the wrong way," she said, offering a hint of a smile; he relaxed again. "Today, for example. Billy wasn't ready when I did the school run, was playing a bit of footie with his friends. So I called for him two or three times but he was just so into it, I didn't really press… anyway. This Mr Wallaker comes along, strides up, blows his whistle and shouts, 'Billy! Your mum's been calling you!' So Billy snaps to attention, grabs his things and comes to me."
Mark waited for more, and when there was no more, he said, "So… he helped you get Billy to come to you? Where's the problem?"
Her features darkened again. "He's obsessed with discipline, marching one-two-one-two, everything in line, and yes, sir, no, sir."
"I'm not entirely sure that's a fault in his line of work." Sensing a moment too late that his words—sincerely offered, though perhaps unwisely at that precise moment—would further upset her, he said, "Sorry. I am sorry that it's making you crazy."
She sniffed, then turned and embraced him again. "Thank you," she said.
After a lingering cuddle, he kissed her then suggested with a tilt of his head that they finish preparing for bed, which they did; upon slipping under the sheets he turned, held and kissed her which, as usual, led to more. Afterwards, though, with her dozing serenely in his arms, he kept thinking about her words, and felt a bit traitorous for thinking that perhaps the sports teacher had a point about discipline.
…
Since returning from Sudan, Mark had stepped back from forays into dangerous war zones and traded them for tamer consultation work; the near miss, the what-could-have-happened, really underscored how devastated his wife and children would be without him. In more recent months, he took to working in his home office if he could at all avoid driving around in London. Particularly he didn't want to drive in December, now that the weather had turned icy.
Every morning he worked at home he received an email from his office manager that included any phone messages that came into chambers the day before, and the morning of the eighteenth was no different, except for the apology at the top of the message:
Mr Darcy, so sorry this message was mislaid. It's from Friday the 15th. Hope this has caused no inconvenience.
Just below it, a name, a contact number, followed by the note: Will be in London end of December and would like to meet with you, if convenient.
Luc Daviniere was the name attached to the Swiss number. He could only stare at it, his mouth going dry. Anton's son. As much trepidation as Mark felt—he had only ever exchanged a few words with the boy after his father had died—there was nothing to be done about it but to call; the next week was the end of December, after all, and he certainly didn't want him to think Mark was putting him off.
One ring, then two, before a crackle and silence, then, "Daviniere."
Mark cleared his throat. "Bonjour, Monsieur Daviniere. Je suis Mark Darcy; vous avez laissé un message à ma secrétaire, n'est ce pas?"
There was a beat when nothing was said; Mark wondered if his French was perhaps a bit rusty. But then Anton's son said in a friendly tone, in nearly accent-free English, "Mister Darcy! So glad that you called. Please, let us not be so formal. Call me Luc."
Mark smiled. "Please, call me Mark," he said. "The message I received says you'll be in London—is this for business or pleasure?"
"I'm travelling to the UK for the holidays, staying with friends, on break from university. First time over there," he said. Before Mark could wonder why Luc would want to meet with him, Luc continued, "I wanted to make a point to see you. Meet you. My father spoke so highly of you, and I've never had the pleasure before."
Mark thought briefly about the fact that he had been unable to attend services in Neuchâtel for Anton, and felt guilty all over again. He hadn't wanted to explain that he had been too shaken to want to fly abroad so soon after arriving home, but everyone seemed to understand anyway. "I would be honoured, Luc."
So they made arrangements for when Luc would be in town—Mark tentatively invited Luc for lunch with him on the 29th, pending discussion with Bridget—and they parted with friendly words, each looking forward to the meeting.
Mark put the phone down, the smile fading from his lips. He really was looking forward to meeting his old friend's son; he also knew it would be difficult to maintain a happy demeanour when all he would be able to think was: your father is dead, and I didn't have the decency to die with him.
It was ridiculous, of course; he would not have preferred death to living, no one would have, but… survivor's guilt was powerful, an upswell of emotions he thought he was over, and the prospect of staring directly at consequences he hadn't previously had to face was bringing them churning back to the surface.
"Mark? Something wrong? I heard you on the phone just now."
Bridget herself, brows furrowed.
"Nothing wrong at all," he said, though he wasn't sure it was true. "I've just heard from Luc Daviniere."
"Who?" Bridget asked.
"Anton's son. You know… Anton."
She covered her mouth with one hand, then drew it away just as quickly. "Oh gosh. Sorry. I thought it sounded familiar but…. Well, that's out of the blue."
"He's going to be in London next week. I've invited him to lunch at The Ivy next Friday—but we can reschedule if you're busy."
"I've got a better idea, if it's okay with you," she said, tapping her fingers on her chin. "How about dinner here at the house, instead? A bit more of a relaxed attitude; you can sit back, have a glass of wine, chat at your leisure without the bustle of a restaurant around you. I mean, if he hasn't already got plans. Er. How old is he again?"
He smiled, then chuckled a bit. "He's in university. If memory serves, he's about twenty."
"Perfect, then, don't you think?" she asked.
He wondered why this notion hadn't occurred to him first. You know why, Darcy, he thought. A restaurant is more impersonal. "Sounds great," he said at last. It would be a fantastic evening. He would show the irrational part of his subconscious that he meant to be done with it.
He picked the phone up again, pressed redial, and within short order had confirmed dinner at the house on the Friday after the next.
"Can't wait to meet you all," said Luc.
…
The day of the dinner started out promising enough; Bridget had secured the assistance of Chloe in the afternoon so that the two of them could cook together in peace with Chloe tending to the children. Normally they found cooking together to be quite calming and relaxing—particularly as he could be assured the kitchen wasn't going to be set on fire—but the force with which Bridget chopped the chestnut mushrooms spoke of aggravation, even frustration on her part.
"Bridget, what's wrong?"
She slapped the knife down as if suddenly aware she could be dangerous with the thing in her hand. "Sorry," she said. "I'm just… well, you know how I thought taking the kids to the market with me this morning would cure their cabin fever a bit?"
Warily, he said, "Yes…"
"Well, it did, but…. Gah, that man was there. Wallaker."
"At the shops?"
"No, the park."
"Why were you at…? Never mind," he said, interrupting himself. "What did he say that's made you so upset?"
She let out a long breath. "You know, it was the most innocuous conversation; I don't even know why I let it get to me."
"What did he say?" he repeated in a stern tone usually reserved for the children now. "The whole story, Bridget."
She sighed, resigned. "On the way home we stopped at the park; I figured I'd sit and have a bit of a rest while they ran around, got it all out of their systems. Suddenly there he is, commenting on me walking to the shops and carrying my own groceries. I told him we were having company for dinner from out of town, and he expressed surprise I wasn't having it catered in," she said, without taking a break.
Given the school, given the reputation, it seemed a fair jest for the man to make. As different as she was from some of the other mums she'd talked about, it was fair to think carrying one's own groceries or cooking for a dinner party was unheard of amongst that lot. It was hard to think of Wallaker's words as anything but joking.
Before Mark could stop himself, he chuckled.
"Mark!" She picked up an oven glove and lobbed it at him. "How can you think that's funny? Like we're too posh to be cooking for ourselves. I mean… how entitled does he think we are?"
"Bridget, consider for a moment some of the other mums. He was probably just taking the piss. That one you talk about a lot, what was her name? Nicorette?"
"Nicolette," she said abashedly; she had called the woman by the name of the smoking cessation gum so many times that even he tended to get confused.
"Right," he said. "Can you picture her cooking for herself? Fetching her own groceries? Walking to the market with her children in tow?"
She pursed her lips, then smirked a little. "No, I guess not really."
"You see," Mark said. "I'm always right. Now. Let's get the show on the road with this beef Wellington."
They had been making the dish together so long that they barely needed to speak to get the tasks complete, and before he knew it, they were clearing off the countertops and prepping the potatoes and the asparagus for cooking a little closer to Luc's arrival time.
Then Chloe was packing up to leave, Billy and Mabel were presenting them with drawings from the afternoon: a footballer by Billy, and a four-legged amorphous blob that was, according to Mabel, a unicorn; both were praised effusively for the effort.
"Hope you have a really nice evening," Chloe said with a smile.
It wasn't until then that it all became very real for Mark. Luc, Anton's son, in his home for dinner, that night.
Bridget went to freshen her makeup, and the children were occupied in the sitting room watching SpongeBob. He had already pulled several bottles of Bordeaux for dinner, and he returned to the kitchen in order to decant one. The homey scent of the baking beef Wellington and potatoes was reassuring, but he could not resist pouring a glass of wine for himself to steady his nerves. He took a sip, then exhaled. Peace, quiet. All would be fine; they'd have a nice night, a good meal, get to know his old colleague's only son.
The front doorbell went off, startling him from his thoughts. Luc had arrived.
With his heart hammering in his chest, Mark went to answer the door. He drew it open to see a handsome young man standing there: short cropped dark hair, hazel eyes, bright smile, the spitting image of his father in his younger days. "Hello," he said. "You must be Mark Darcy."
"And you must be Luc," he said with a smile. "Please, come inside." He stood aside to allow Luc passage into their home… and to steady himself fighting off a wave of dizziness. Luc was saying something, but his hearing had suddenly gotten a bit muffled, tinny—
"Are you quite all right?" Luc asked.
Mark snapped back to the present, bringing his fingers to his forehead. "What? Yes, sorry, I'm fine. I… must have stood up too quickly. What were you saying?"
"I was thanking you for the invitation," he said.
"It is truly my pleasure," said Mark. "Shall I take your coat?" He noticed then that Luc was toting a small carrier bag, when Luc then held up.
"This is for all of you, the least I could do," he said.
Mark took the bag as Luc doffed his coat, took a look inside: a couple of boxes of premium Swiss chocolate. Mark chuckled. "I think Bridget will like these very much."
"You won't?"
"I'm sure I would," he said jokingly, "but I'll probably be lucky to get one before she tucks into them—"
"Is he here?" called Bridget.
"Yes, darling, he is," Mark called back.
At that moment, Mabel came running into the foyer, chased by Billy, the former giggling madly, the latter looking a tad frustrated. They both stopped when they realised they had company. "Oh, hello," said Mabel.
Luc crouched down. "You must be Mabel," he said with a smile.
She screwed her face up in confusion, then looked up to her father. "Daddy, how doeth this thtrange guy know my name?"
"Mabel," scolded Billy, "don't be rude."
Mark tried not to chuckle, but was unsuccessful. Luc stood up again, smiling too; Mabel was always a little charmer. "This is Billy, Luc, and you've already met Mabel," he said wryly. "Billy, Mabel, this is Luc. He's the son of a man I worked with a lot." He looked to Luc. "I respected him, thought of him as a mentor, even though we weren't that far apart in age. And someone I miss a great deal."
Luc nodded. "He'd say the same about you, Mark."
"What's that, Daddy?" asked Mabel, sniffing—a veritable chocolate bloodhound—as she noticed the carrier bag. "Is that candy?"
"Did I hear the word 'candy'?" Bridget appeared then, descending the stairs with a beaming smile. "You must be Luc… such a pleasure to meet you." He handed her the bag, into which she peeked. "And you've brought us… chocolate. My stars. Swiss chocolate."
"You see what I mean," said Mark; Luc laughed.
"Here, let me take that coat from you," she said, eschewing the chocolate for the time being in order to be a good hostess. "Dinner's nearly ready and we'll eat soon, but if you'd like some wine…?"
"That would be lovely, thank you."
"Come on!" said Billy cheerfully. "I'll take you to the sitting room. We were watching SpongeBob, but it's over now. Mummy will get the wine and you can wait with us."
Luc chuckled. "All right, I'll… go with Billy."
"I'll be right there." After the three of them were out of earshot, Bridget turned to Mark, concern playing on her features. "Mark, you're looking a bit peaked," she said quietly. "Are you sure you're okay?"
He nodded. "Just had a little wine before he rang the bell, stood up a bit too quickly… I'll be fine."
"If you're sure," she said warily.
"I'm fine." He handed her the chocolates. "Take this with you, I'll go and make sure the children aren't trying to rope him into Xbox." He smiled. "And try not to eat them all."
"Give me a little credit," she said, but as she walked away he could see her edging the top off of one of the boxes, could hear the paper rustle as she poked her fingers in.
As expected, Billy was pulling out the controllers for the Xbox, handing one to Luc. "Billy," Mark said, "no Xbox now. Besides, we're eating soon."
Billy pouted, but did as asked. Then he brightened. "Maybe later?"
Mark glanced to Luc, who smirked a little, nodded. "Maybe," Mark said. "But only if our guest asks. Sound fair?"
Billy nodded enthusiastically.
"And maybe Hellvanians too?" Mabel asked hopefully.
Mark bent and picked her up, gave her a hug. His darling girl. Mark's eyes began to tear up; he willed those tears back. "If nothing else, Princess, you and I will play with them," he said quietly, causing her to giggle.
"Okay, Daddy," she said. "You do the best Fuckoon voices."
"Better than Mummy?" he asked conspiratorially.
"Yeth," she said, grinning madly.
He glanced to Luc, who looked confused. "That's what she calls the Sylvanians and the raccoon family."
"Ah, thank you."
Bridget arrived just then. "Mummy," said Billy. "Mabel says Daddy does better Sylvanian voices than you."
"It's true, he does better raccoons, but my bunny voice is unsurpassed," she said, handing Luc a glass of wine and keeping one for herself. "Forgive the clutter. I promise it was tidy earlier."
"Small children; don't worry, I understand."
Bridget seemed to realise just then how excellent Luc's English was: "I'm so glad you speak such impeccable English—we'd be lost if we had to rely on my awful French."
Luc chuckled.
"Anyway, in a few minutes, I'll pop down to the kitchen and put in the beef for the last twenty minutes, and then we'll be good to go. Beef Wellington, new potatoes, asparagus. I hope you're up for some standard English fare."
"It sounds delectable," he said. "What about you Billy, Mabel? What do you think of that dish?"
"Yummy!" said Mabel with a squeal.
"The best," added Billy.
Suddenly Mark was overcome with the feeling that he needed to get out of the room. "Darling," he said to Bridget, "why don't I go and tend to the beef? Enjoy your wine."
She looked confused and concerned, but said, "Okay."
He didn't know what had come over him, but once he got to the kitchen he felt better, even relieved. The timer for the roasting portion of baking the beef was just about up, so he lowered the gas mark and set the timer again for twenty minutes.
Mission completed, he braced himself against the counter with one hand, then, after a moment's consideration, poured another glass of wine with the other. He went over what had just occurred; he wondered why he was feeling so panicked.
It was a sort of panic, he realised. Luc had been robbed of so many moments with his father while still so young. This pleasant domesticity was all serving to remind Mark of what the boy—young man—had lost. It wasn't Mark's fault though; he had to keep telling himself that.
"It's not my fault," he said quietly to himself.
Or at least he intended it to be to himself.
He felt a hand against his shoulder blade, heard his wife's tender voice. "Mark," she said tenderly. "We didn't have to do this if you—"
He turned around to face her. He did not need to explain his thoughts; her expression of sympathy and concern said it all. "I'll be fine," he said. "I realise I'm being ridiculous."
"But you're not," she said. "It's normal to feel sad."
"It's not… sad, really—I mean, I am sad, I do still grieve for Anton, but this… this is…" He trailed off. He did not quite know how to express his thoughts, and felt himself get frustrated at trying to find a way.
She set down her wine glass, took his from him, then wrapped her arms around him, clutching him tightly to her. "I am so incredibly grateful for each and every day we have had with you since the day of the land mine, so fortunate that you are here with me. With us. I can only imagine how you feel at the reminder of what you—"
"Guilty," he murmured. "And guilty for feeling that way because obviously I wouldn't…."
As he trailed off, she pressed her lips against his neck, her breath warm and comforting along his earlobe. "You are a strong man," she said quietly.
"I wouldn't be half as strong without you."
She drew back, looked to him with glistening eyes. "Don't you make me cry, Mark Darcy, not with company here, ruining my makeup," she said with a little smile. She'd said it with the intent to make him smile, too, and it worked. "Come on. Let's gather everyone up for dinner. It's just about done, and my mouth is watering."
The return to the sitting room lifted his spirits: there were Billy and Luc, already deeply engaged in Xbox, with Mabel staring on intently. The two of them couldn't help laughing. He slipped an arm around Bridget's waist, kissed the top of her head.
"I almost don't want to interrupt," he said with a little laugh.
…
He wasn't supposed to be in the vehicle. He was supposed to have stayed behind to call home. Why was he in the vehicle, on the road? "We have to go back," he said; he turned to the driver, to Anton, and he recoiled in horror at what he saw: barely recognisable as human, let alone Anton, with flesh hanging from bones, blood soaking his clothing and skin.
"We must go on," said Anton in an eerie, liquid-burbling voice. "It's your turn. Here we go!"
"No, no, nonono—"
White light flashed; he screamed, felt heat race over his skin, swore he felt it—
Mark woke with a start, gasping for breath, soaked in sweat in the dark of his bedroom in London. London. He was home; he was safe.
He felt Bridget's arm come up and over him to reassure him as she had done so many times before when he'd had nightmares soon after returning from Sudan; he moved closer to her, let her enfold him in her arms and snuggle in close to him. They could talk about it in the morning, but right now she knew it was the last thing he wanted to do, and for that he was grateful.
The rest of his night's sleep was uninterrupted, and when he woke he was in the bed alone, a note tented on his nightstand.
Am downstairs. Made sure your diary was clear for the morning or would not have let you sleep. Message me & will bring brekkies. XX
He reached for his mobile and sent the briefest of notes—Awake, darling—and within minutes he heard her footfalls on the stairs, then the landing.
"Hi," she said gently with a smile, bringing a cup of coffee and a pastry to him.
He sat up to accept both, thanking her but adding, "You know I shouldn't eat that."
"Shush," she said. "You had a bad dream and you need something nice to eat."
He smiled and took a bite.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked tentatively.
He looked down to his coffee cup as if it would help him think. "About what you'd expect. Sudan. This time, though… trapped in the car with Anton. Or what…" He cleared his throat. "What used to be Anton." He shuddered as the dream-image flashed in his mind's eye.
"Oh, Mark." He looked to her again, saw tears in her eyes; he was grateful that he had a firm hand on his coffee when she launched herself forward to take him in her arms, which he appreciated. She kissed his cheek. "That must have been dreadful."
"I'm sure it was seeing Luc that triggered it," he said, his voice unexpectedly throaty. "I'll be fine."
She sat back again, placed her hand on the duvet over his thigh. "You'll tell me if you're not," she said sternly.
"Of course, darling," he said, then added with a smile, "though I don't recall authorising your withdrawal."
"I should make you finish your breakfast first," she said with mock-coolness, "but never could refuse you."
She pushed back the sheet, sat beside him, leaned back against the pillows and pulled him back to sit against her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, allowing him to continue his breakfast without interruption. Until—
"Bridget?"
"Hm?"
"Where are Billy and Mabel?"
"Oh," she said nonchalantly, "I slipped them a sleeping draught. They're down for the count." He didn't have to look at her to know she was kidding. "Daniel came by, offered to take them out to the park."
"He came by," said Mark; he hadn't heard from Daniel in at least a fortnight. "Just so happened."
"Yep." She kissed the back of his neck. "Unbelievable coincidence."
He finished his breakfast then took advantage of the silent, child-free house to hold her to him in a lengthy, lingering embrace, taking refuge in her warmth and unconditional love, feeling all of his stress and worry melt away with every kiss and caress.
"Feeling better?" she asked, resting on one elbow, looking down at him, her blonde hair haloing her head as if she were an angel. She brought her free hand up to his cheek, dragging her nails over the stubble there.
"Quite," he said drowsily. "Thank you." He placed a hand atop hers. "I am constantly reminded that I'm the luckiest man around."
"Convenient, that," she murmured, bending to kiss the tip of his nose, "as I'm the luckiest woman."
As she did this, they both heard the car horn tooting relentlessly outside, causing them to laugh. The horn heralded the return of Daniel and the children, and the sounding horn was their fair warning, a practice Daniel had instituted after a near-miss in returning the children once; "You'd think you two were twenty-five years younger or something," Daniel had said, which had caused Mark to remind him that they had two children under eight.
"I suppose we had better get dressed," he said, smirking.
…
January 2013
It wasn't as if he had never done the school run before. It had just been a long time… and it had been with only one child in school.
Given the daily exposure to their young children (and, by extension, all of the friends of said young children), it was really quite miraculous that Bridget and Mark stayed as healthy as they did. Bridget in particular seemed to have a pretty rock solid constitution, to the point that she resisted accepting the fact that she had a cold even when she did.
And on this day, she certainly did, just one day into the new school term.
"No, I must insist you stay at home and not make it worse," Mark said to her upon hearing her sneezing for the umpteenth time that day then sniffing and using a tissue. "Rest, have some more tea and honey. I'll get the children."
"Are you sure?" she said, her eyes red and rheumy, her nose pink and irritated. "This—" She pointed at her own stuffed nose; it sounded more like 'Dis'—"is really no big deal."
"I must insist," he said again, holding up a hand to say he would brook no further resistance. "We'll be back before you know it."
Mark went first for Mabel—"Daddy! You're not late like Mummy ith!" she exclaimed with a bit more honesty than strictly necessary, he thought—then over to Junior Branch for Billy, arriving there before class was over. He parked the car, helped Mabel out, then walked inside the gates over to where the children would be exiting the building.
The door burst open and a stream of them came flooding out, each met by a parent; no Billy yet, though. With Mabel at his side, running around in figure eights on the pavement, Mark sat and waited, and as the density of children grew thinner and thinner, he actually began to worry. Until—
Billy was accompanied by a tall, well-built man with dark blond hair cropped into what Mark's eyes looked like a slightly more relaxed variant of a military haircut. He wondered whether this was the infamous sports teacher, and if so, it was surprising; from Bridget's descriptions he'd pictured the man to be older if not elderly, certainly grumpier looking, even crotchety. But there he was with Billy, a picture of vigour and health; the two of them both had smiles on their faces as if they'd just shared a joke between them.
"Billeeee!" chirped Mabel.
Billy and the man both looked their way, the tall man's brow furrowing in confusion, then realisation as they drew nearer. Billy smiled, said, "Hi, Dad," and then added in an almost wry manner, "You're on time."
Then the man spoke, confirming Mark's suspicions. "I'm Mr Wallaker," he said, reaching his hand out for a shake. "You must be Mr Darcy. I've heard a lot about you."
"Likewise," said Mark, accepting the handshake.
"Mr Wallaker was just asking about our Christmas holiday, and I told him about the French guy who came to dinner and played my new Xbox game with me, and how Aunt Magda and Uncle Jeremy and Aunt Jude and Uncle Tom all came over for New Year's Eve…" said Billy. He then furrowed his brow. "Wait. Where's Mummy, anyway?"
"She's not feeling well, so I've come instead."
"Oh, I am sorry to hear that," said Wallaker, genuine concern flitting across his features. "It's nothing too serious, is it?"
"Not at all, just your run-of-the-mill head cold," said Mark. "She tried to come anyway, so I had to convince her (as she insisted) that she was not in fact Joan Crawford for not doing the school run—"
Wallaker interrupted him with a loud laugh. "Sorry… I just can see it, really."
Mark smiled too as he considered Bridget's assessment of the man; it seemed he was not humourless after all. "I really thought it best she stay in and rest."
He nodded. "Tea and honey."
"Exactly," he said. "Well, I'd best get them home."
"Yes, I see Mabel's getting restless," said Wallaker with a grin. Mabel had climbed up on the stone wall; Mark sighed. "Pleasure meeting you at last," he said.
"Likewise," said Mark, who then swooped to take Mabel into his arms, grinning quite without thinking of it. "Come on, Princess, time to go home."
Mabel waved comically over Mark's shoulder, calling out behind them as they walked away, "Byeeee, Mr Wolkda!"
Once he'd gotten the two children properly buckled in, he headed for home; Mabel and Billy alternately chattered about their first day back after the new year, but Mark only half listened. It wasn't that he didn't care, because he certainly did. He just wondered how terrible a man this Wallaker could possibly be if even Mabel seemed to like him.
"Mummy!" Mabel said to Bridget, who was passing through the foyer with a cup of steaming hot tea as they arrived home; she ran forward as if to hug her legs, then stopped short. "Don't wanna get sick," Mabel explained.
"Right you are," said Bridget. "So how was school on your first day back, then?"
"It was okay," said Billy. "Think I did okay on my spelling test."
"Spelling test on the first day back," she said. "My word."
"We had a tea party," said Mabel. "And Daddy met Mr Wolkda!"
Bridget swivelled around to look at Mark, one brow cocked in curiosity. "Oh, did you?"
"Yes I did," said Mark, "and I'm not sure what the fuss is about. He seems perfectly nice. He asked after your health, recommended, well, that." He pointed to her tea.
"I'm sure he was perfectly nice, Mark. You're not a—" she began, then forced a smile. "Never mind. Children, why don't you go on and change out of your school clothes, okay?"
They ran upstairs towards their rooms; Mark prompted, "What am I not?"
She sighed. "I need to sit down."
He followed her back to the sitting room, where she'd set up a little blanket nest on the sofa next to a table with a book. "You didn't answer me."
She spread the blanket out over her legs. "Well, I didn't want to insult him in front of the children—I may not like him, but he's still Billy's teacher."
"So what am I not?"
"You're not a woman," she said. "So of course he's not going to be all patronising and condescending to you."
"That hardly seems fair."
"I've met the man countess times, and you met him once, so I think my assessment is likely more correct," she said.
"Have you considered," Mark began gingerly, "that he's taking the piss?"
"Taking the piss? I like to think I have more of a sense of humour than that," she said. "No, I know the difference between teasing and blatant insults. I mean, suggesting I spend my afternoons at the hairdressers and not doing anything more useful than that? How is that piss-taking?"
"Bridget, think again of…" R? L? "…Nicolette. I think she—"
"Even if that is true, the point is that he assumes I am the same way, and that is totally unfair of him."
"Point taken," said Mark. "However, have you ever called him out on this prejudicial behaviour?"
"I—well, no!" she said, turning red. "I didn't want to be rude in front of the children."
"So you'll set him straight at the soonest, yes?"
"This doesn't excuse treating Billy like a machine," she said, changing the subject.
"Ah yes. The whistle and the discipline," he said, taking a seat at her feet on the other end of the sofa. "You see, Bridget, I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. Billy's growing up before our eyes, and he needs to know when to follow rules—"
"He knows when to follow rules, Mark," she said. "He's got you for a father."
"And a mother who can be a bit lax with them," he said gently. "He needs a little more external structure for reinforcement."
He wondered if he'd gone a bit too far; she looked really upset. "Are you saying I spoil him?"
"You do, a bit."
"And what about you? And Mabel? You spoil the hell out of her."
"I am going to call privileges on this one," he said solemnly. "After all, she saved my life."
Bridget went stone silent, and after a few moments opened her mouth to speak, just as Mabel came dashing in. "Mummy, are you better yet?"
"Not yet," she said, looking to her daughter with a smile before looking back to Mark. Her smile fell and she said coolly, "Go and feed your children. We're not finished with this." She then reached over, took a tissue, and blew her nose.
He knew a dismissal when he heard one.
With Billy working on some homework and Mabel playing with her Sylvanian family within his sight, Mark pulled out the makings of bangers and mash; he got the potatoes peeled in record time as he answered Billy's questions. With the potatoes boiling and the bangers frying up on the hob, he felt a hand on his arm. It could only be one person. He push the bangers in the pan, then turned to look at her.
"Feeling better?" he asked.
"Mm-hm," she said wearily. "Look, about before. I'm—"
"Don't apologise," he said. "I shouldn't have pressed the matter while you're not well. And anyway, you're absolutely right. You do know the man better than I do and have had far more opportunity to observe him."
"Thanks," she said. "And… I'll concede that perhaps I do spoil Billy a bit."
He chuckled. "Just a bit," he said. "We each spoil our children in our own way."
"He's just… he's only going to be a child for so long," she said. "Before you know it he'll be all grown up, go off to uni, get married…"
"I totally understand," he said, then turned and kissed the top of her head. "Now, top up your tea; I'll bring you a plate of dinner if you want some."
She smiled wanly. "I think a tin of broth is all I'm up for."
…
"Come with me."
It was a strange male voice he was hearing through the smoky darkness; the flashing lights were distracting and discombobulating. He felt he had no choice but to follow the sound. Running, feeling the smoke burning his lungs, he was ushered into a small room—
Except it wasn't a small room at all. It was the armoured vehicle, only this time, it was Billy's sports teacher behind the wheel. He revved the engine, shifted the gear stick. "It's about time," he said. "I'll get you out of here."
Panic rose quickly in him; Mark turned and tugged at the handle to open the door, but it wouldn't budge. Wallaker gunned the engine; Mark was thrown back against the seat; they shot forward at top speed, coursing through the rough terrain, bracing himself, expecting the inevitable impact of the land mine—
With a gasp and a violent jerk Mark woke, worried for a moment that he'd again awakened Bridget, but he needn't have worried; she was sound asleep after a dose of night-time cold medicine. He took deep, calming breaths, willing the rapid pulse to slow to something restful, but it didn't do any good. He decided to try to work off the adrenaline by looking in on the children, so he slipped out of bed, put on his robe, and quietly left the room.
First he went to Billy's room. Billy slept soundly on his twin bed, surrounded by his Puffles and other favourite toys, swaddled with blankets and looking peaceful as he could possibly be. The sight made his heart swell with love, helped to calm and centre him; he moved forward to brush his fingers along the hair near Billy's temple.
Next, Mark went to look in on Mabel, who had recently upgraded to a 'big girl's bed'—a twin mattress like Billy's—and she looked incredibly tiny in the middle of it. He nearly started chuckling at the way she seemed to like to sleep, hair swept forward, falling down and obscuring her face while clutching Saliva to her. Gingerly he brushed the hair away to reveal her deceptively angelic face. My little princess, he thought. The reason I'm here with you today.
He then returned to his bedroom, where his wife still slept; she hadn't moved a muscle. Her arm was flung over her head and her mouth was slightly open, softly snoring due to the congestion from her head cold. Still beautiful to his eyes.
He felt inordinately better having reminded himself how much he loved and cherished his family. He drew back the duvet and sheets and slipped in, settling in next to Bridget; the sound of her soft breathing helped lull him back to a tranquil sleep.