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.
Chapter 4: Summer Nights and Seaside Storms
Early July 2013
With a holiday set for a week after the term let out at the end of July, there was nothing to be done but to wrap up all business before then. Mark in particular was so busy that when he went to bed in the evenings, he was too exhausted to dream. With no dreams, of course, came no nightmares, but the images were still very fresh in his mind, and flashes of them would often pop up at the most inopportune times.
Like during his son Billy's summer concert.
After a day of preparation, the drive to Capthorpe House, which was the site of the summer concert, was rather uneventful. Mabel seemed to think they were on their way to their holiday and kept looking out the window, convinced she could see France. Thanks to the satnav's accuracy, though, they made it there in good time, and they had their choice of patch of ground in the garden in which to set up their stuff.
"Nice the see the whole family turn out."
Mark turned to see Wallaker approaching; he glanced down to Mabel, offering her a smile. "Came to see if Billy needed a hand with his bassoon."
"Yes, that'd be nice, thanks," said Bridget. "Nice place for the concert—how'd you land it?"
"I've got an inside connection," he said with a wink. "It's my family's. Come on, Billy, let's get backstage." With a nod, and a long parting look towards Bridget, he and Billy walked away.
It took Mark by surprise that the venue for the concert belonged to Wallaker's family, even more so that Wallaker was running the concert. "Did you know he was in charge of the music programme?"
She nodded. "I didn't know it was going to be at his family's digs, though."
With strict instructions to Mabel for her to stay nearby, Mark unpacked the meal and they nibbled on their picnic dinner; Bridget sipped from the glass of chardonnay, looking very happy and relaxed, the breeze lifting up and playing with her hair. Mabel sat cheerfully picking at the apple slices and ate half of her sandwich. Billy came by, stuffed some cheese and crackers into his mouth, then ran back to the stage area again.
"Billy," called Bridget after him, to no avail.
"Darling, he's too excited to eat more right now. He'll be ravenous later."
Not long after polishing their dinner off, the chair of the concert came out to heap praise upon Mr Wallaker. Bridget leaned over to say quietly to Mark, "That's Nicolette."
"Ah," was all Mark could respond. He could see what Bridget had meant; she reminded Mark very much of Wallaker's wife, except perhaps a little bit younger, or at least with a better plastic surgeon.
After her talk, the performances began; they were what one might expect from a bunch of Junior-branch-aged children, eager and earnest but ever so slightly off-tempo or out of tune. With nervous anticipation, he awaited Billy's number.
As soon as the song began, an musical introduction by Wallaker on the piano, he recognised the song; it was "I'd Do Anything" from Oliver!, and it was a song he'd heard it countless times before (the film was one of Mabel's very favourites). However, that night, in the cool of the evening, in the intimacy of the venue, at the sight and sound of Billy playing it, he felt like all of reality was slipping away, like everything was pinprick-focused on Billy on the stage and everything was dark and fuzzy on the edges. How close his son and his daughter had come to not having a father. How one split-second decision about a phone call had decided whether he would live or die. Before his eyes came the flashes, as if the landmine explosion was there before him. Suddenly he sat up straight, rubbed his eyes, surprising himself at the wetness he found there. I'd do anything, I'd go anywhere, he thought, and I'll never put myself in that kind of danger again.
He heard his name as if from far away, a hushed panic in the tone, then a slight shoulder-shaking which brought him out of it. He realised it had been Bridget speaking to him, and the look of concern was obvious. Quietly, she asked, "Are you okay?"
"Yes," he said, his voice surprisingly tremulous. "Just fine. Quite moved by the piece, is all."
Bridget looked to him a moment more, offered a smile, then turned back to the stage as the next piece began. He was relieved he had been able to mask his state of mind, the terror and panic he'd felt during what was supposed to be a pleasant, proud moment, mixed with the deep guilt he felt about it; he had, after all, failed to keep his promise to her about seeking help, and that was something he could not recall ever doing before.
At the conclusion of the final musical number, as they stood, she said brightly, "Let's go find Billy, tell him what a great job he's done!" Before he could say a word or ask what the hurry was, she was heading towards the stage area. He scooped up Mabel into his arms and headed after his wife.
Mark caught her up in time to see her crouching to give Billy a tight hug, then peck his cheek; she drew back to look at him, broad smile on her face and tears in her eyes. "You were wonderful!" she said as she stood up again.
"Billy, utterly fantastic," Mark said with a smile, clapping him on the shoulder with his one free hand. "Well done."
"Thanks, Dad," said Billy, his grin huge and beaming.
"Mark, sorry… watch the children," said Bridget suddenly. "I'll be right back." After a pause she added, "Just… need the loo." She then dashed off in the direction of the main house.
"Mummy must really have to go bad," said Billy, which made Mark chuckle even as he admonished the boy for saying it a little too loudly.
He made small talk with some of the other parents, but it started to dawn on him that Bridget had been gone an awfully long time; long enough that it was starting to concern him, and he decided that he would go looking for her. They headed back to the area where they had been picnicking. Billy started to run around with his friends, and Mark asked Farzia if she minded keeping an eye on Billy and Mabel for a few minutes while he went to find Bridget.
"No, of course not," she said, beaming a smile up at him.
"I appreciate it."
It was full dark by now, though the moon was rising in the sky, casting its silvery glow over the grounds. Mark stopped, got his bearings, could see the house then made off towards it, alert for her presence.
He was approaching the side of the house where the sign pointed towards the availability of toilets when movement caught his eye in the hedge along the wall beyond the door, and he slowed down; the sound of sniffing, crying, a quiet, tremulous voice brought him to a full stop.
Then another deeper voice speaking, though he could not make out the words, before a figure emerged from the hedge. Mark jumped back out of sight.
Wallaker, brows drawn, a look of utter concentration on his face as he made for the house's door, then went inside. Bridget came forth, too, and Mark's mind raced at what could possibly have been going on in the hedge there. He trusted her fidelity implicitly, but was very confused until he saw her bring her hand up to one side of her face then the other in an instantly recognisable movement. She was wiping tears away from under her eyes.
A fury unlike one he'd felt in some time flared up within him: that man had made her cry. He hastened towards her and at the sight of him, she looked taken aback.
"What is going on?" he asked, trying to contain his voice.
"Nothing, it's nothing," she said.
"Your crying in a hedge is not nothing, Bridget," Mark said, straining to keep the anger out of his tone. "What did he say to you?"
"What?" she asked. "He—nothing, he said nothing."
Mark thought of the attraction Wallaker had so obviously displayed and quickly asked, "What did he do then? Did he try… something with you?"
"No!" she said, exasperated. "That's outrageous."
His jaw tensed in his anxiety. "So you're just crying for no reason."
Her eyes were wide and glossy as if she might cry again. "I didn't say that."
What the hell was that supposed to mean? "Bridget, tell me what's going on, because I don't understand—"
Mark stopped short at hearing footsteps approaching; it was Wallaker, bearing a glass of what looked like water.
"Oh, hello," Wallaker said with unexpected casualness. "I was just bringing this to B—your wife."
"Thank you, Mr Wallaker," she said, reaching for the proffered glass, and taking a long sip.
"You're going to be all right, then, aren't you?" Wallaker said, then looked to Mark briefly before adding, "You're in good hands."
"I know I am." She handed the glass back to Wallaker. "And yes, I'll be fine. Thanks for the water."
"Happy to oblige," he said. "Listen, it's a nice night; why don't the two of you have a little walk together around the grounds? I'll make sure Billy and Mabel are all right."
Mark was so surprised by the conversation, so confused, that he didn't say a word; he probably looked as dumbfounded as he felt. What exactly had happened there in the hedge? Before he could think about it too much, he felt Bridget take his arm and say, "That sounds nice; thank you."
They began to walk away just as Nicolette came looking for Wallaker, to ask him if he wanted to say a few parting words, but the rest of it was lost as they moved farther apart from them.
"I left them with Farzia," said Mark. "The children, I mean. To see where you'd gone to."
"Ah," she said.
He drew his arm away and instead slipped it around her shoulders as they walked; he pondered asking her again about what had happened in the hedge, or what had happened prior—
And then like a bolt it came to him. Just as he had been thinking of Billy, thinking of how different things would have been for them had he not returned from Sudan, surely she had been thinking something similar, too. He felt terrible for having not seen it, for having allowed her to run away to cry alone in the moonlight, for leaving another man to come along to help, to come to her rescue, even if it were only a glass of water.
He stopped walking and she did too; he turned to her, placed his hand against her cheek, and said, "I'm sorry. I love you."
Tears ran down over her cheeks again but she smiled, and received the kiss he bent to give her without hesitation or reservation.
"Come on," she said, stroking the back of his neck with her fingers, her cheek pressed against his, "let's get the children and on the road home."
"I like the sound of that."
…
Late July 2013
Soon enough the school term was over, and they were packing their things to head out for their rented cabin for the next fortnight, which was situated near the coast just outside Plymouth. According to everything they had read and the pictures they'd seen online, the place was a perfect pastoral getaway, with a garden for the children to play in, fields of wildflowers to traipse through, and enough fresh sea air to practically guarantee the children would sleep solidly through the night… and the adults could have peace, quiet, and maybe even some intimate privacy.
Upon their arrival after the long drive, the majority of which they spent sleeping, Billy and Mabel scrambled out of the car as quickly as possible, and were both in silent, open-mouthed awe to see the place, like Dorothy viewing a vividly coloured Oz for the very first time. They immediately began running in circles around the garden as their parents unloaded the boot.
"It smells funny here," said Billy as he stopped to catch his breath, as the adults brought the last of the bags towards the cabin.
"Funny how?" asked Mark.
"Dunno," said Billy, sniffing audibly. "It just does."
"Probably because there aren't cars about, it's clean," Mark said. "And we're close to the sea, so it smells a bit salty."
Mabel took in a great big breath, then declared, "Bit fishy too."
Inspecting the interior yielded equal enthusiasm, with the array of windows, through which sunlight poured; the warm wooden floors, plush furniture, and the all-around homey interior. The loo elicited absolute glee; Mabel exclaimed, "Mummeeee, the bathtub's a cow!" Indeed, the white claw foot tub had giant black spots painted on it, very much like a Holstein, which delighted both children.
"I can't wait to take a bath!" declared Billy.
"That's a first," quipped Bridget.
"I wanna live here foreverrrr!" shrieked Mabel as she ran about, waving her arms over her head.
"Wait until they find out there's no McDonald's just 'round the corner," mused Bridget.
"I don't know, there might well be," said Mark. "They seem to be everywhere."
"I sort of hope there's not."
The cabin had two bedrooms; one with a double bed, and one with two twins; it was obvious even to Billy which one of the two were for his sister and him. "Mabel, you can pick which bed you like," he said, in a magnanimous moment.
"Mmmm," Mabel said, bringing her little finger to her mouth in a gesture that was in perfect imitation of her father. "I want de one by de window. In case de owls come by to visit."
Bridget chuckled. "Not sure there are owls here, sweetheart."
"In case dere are." Mabel climbed up on to the bed to look out of the window, mesmerised. "We hafta look for de France, too."
"Right," Mark chuckled. "We sure do."
The kitchen had been pre-stocked with local milk, butter, bread, and some other basics, along with vouchers for a discount with the local butcher's. "That sounds marvellous," said Bridget. "Doing a barbecue, roasting vegetables… we can do a shop at the market we passed on our way in."
"Tomorrow," said Mark. "Tonight we can go to the pub we passed."
To tide the children over, Bridget buttered some bread and poured some milk for them; they declared it the best they'd ever had.
Mabel said in that matter-of-fact tone she liked to adopt, "I know where de milk came from—de cow in dere."
It took them a moment to figure out what she meant, and when they did, they had to fight not to laugh out loud.
After their snack, the excitement of the day seemed to catch up with the kids all at once, and in another unprecedented move, with big yawns overtaking their little faces, volunteered to go and take a nap in their designated beds.
"Without even having to be asked," Mark said, impressed. "This is the perfect holiday already."
They took the opportunity to go out into the garden; Mark took in a deep breath of that intoxicating sea air as Bridget slipped her arm around his waist. He reciprocated by embracing her shoulders. "Quite perfect," she murmured.
"Mmm," he said, agreeing. "Come, let's have a sit and enjoy the silence."
He took her by the hand and led her to the covered bench swing on the edge of the patio stones, which afforded them a vista of stunning natural beauty, looking out over the bay at the distant waves gently undulating, the blue sky just with a smattering of wispy clouds, as they swung back and forth, content in each others' embrace.
He supposed it was inevitable that with all of this, the length of the drive, the pleasantly cool breeze, that they should both drift to sleep, too. It was Mabel climbing up onto the seat beside Mark that brought him back to wakefulness.
"Hi, Daddy," she said sweetly, still sleepy, putting her arms around his neck. "Dere you are. I couldn't find you."
"I'm so sorry, darling," he said, feeling downright neglectful.
Bridget woke too and offered reassurances. "We didn't mean to fall asleep out here," Bridget said as Mark sat his daughter on his lap and kissed the top of Mabel's head.
"I'd never go away, darling," Mark said tenderly.
"Did Billy wake up, too?" asked Bridget.
Mabel nodded. "He put on de telly."
Mark chuckled. "Of course he did."
After a few moments of looking out at the water, Mabel asked, looking up at her father, "Is dat de sea?"
"Mm-hm."
"Oh," she said. "It doesn't look dat big."
He laughed. "We're only seeing a small part of it. Come on, let's go indoors." He stood, held Mabel in his arms. "Are you hungry?"
"Yes," answered Bridget. "Let's go back to that pub."
With that special bloodhound-like talent Billy seemed to possess, he had managed find the remote controls, turn on the television and find SpongeBob. Not looking away from the screen, he said with that total unconcern borne from knowing that his parents hadn't gone far, "There you are."
"Did you have a nice nap?" asked Bridget.
"Yep."
"Ready for dinner?"
"Yep."
"Television off," said Mark, "and please say 'yes', not 'yep', when your mum asks you a question."
"Okay; sorry, Dad." He pointed the remote control and the television went off.
They had a jolly time at the pub. Mabel and Billy shared the largest plate of fish and chips they'd ever seen; Bridget had an enormous chicken pasty and a glass of white wine which went to her head much more quickly than usual. Mark settled for a single pint of bitter along with a steak and new potatoes; if this meat was any indication of what was in store at the butcher's, he would be glad to part with his money there, discount or not.
Mark could hardly believe the children had room for pudding, but they polished off a serving of pear/apple/ginger crumble between the two of them. Even Bridget managed to put away most of a serving of sticky toffee pudding cheesecake before conceding defeat.
"Ooof, you're gonna need to roll me out of here like a giant blueberry," Bridget said, sitting back in her chair and patting her stomach. "But oh, that was a fantastic meal."
"Yes, indeed." Mark glanced over, saw Mabel fighting to stay awake. Mark nodded in her direction. "If we're all done, perhaps it's time we head back to our cabin."
She nodded. "Get ready to roll me," she said, winking.
He carried Mabel to the car, while Bridget shepherded a clearly sleepy Billy back to the car. On the short drive back to the cabin, the two of them fell asleep, and Bridget yawned. "Stop that," he teased. "We can't all fall asleep."
After carrying them into the house—Mark with Billy, Bridget had Mabel—without speaking, they stripped off the children's clothes and put them into their pyjamas, and got them tucked under their sheets.
"Bedtime for us, too. I can barely stay awake," said Bridget, yawning again.
"Mm," he said, agreeing, though it didn't surprise him in the least when, after slipping under the sheets, with the silence of the remoteness of their cabin, she pressed herself to him, kissed him, ran her fingers over the bare skin of his chest, all of which he could not resist. As if he wanted to.
He slept as soundly as the brochures had promised; any dreams were pleasant ones, even if they couldn't compare with the reality of their first day of holiday. When he awoke the next morning, fully refreshed, it touched his heart to see that Mabel had joined them during the night, and was curled up to Bridget, who had her arm protectively around her baby.
With a grin, he rose and decided to make coffee and breakfast; he predicted that once the coffee began brewing and the bacon frying, Bridget would rise, too, and he wasn't wrong.
"Look at you," said Bridget appreciatively as she came into the kitchen wrapped in her dressing gown; he stood there in his pyjama bottoms and tee shirt, pushing the bacon around in the pan. "You're a darling."
He looked to her and grinned. "Good morning, missus."
She came up to him, put her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Mmmm," she said in an almost purr.
From the other room, he heard Billy exclaim, "Bacon! Mabel, wake up—there's bacon!"
The two of them could only laugh.
…
As holidays go, this one was one of the best they'd ever had; the children had plenty to do and explore every day; they took short drives into Plymouth and neighbouring towns to investigate; they went down to the coast itself to watch the waves crash into the rocks. He was going to be sorry to have to leave. It was wonderful to not have to think of working, of responsibilities. Everything was on hold.
So he thought.
He supposed the nightmare must have been triggered by the fleeting glimpse of the headline they passed at the newsstand while walking through Plymouth, a bomb taking out part of a peace delegation's motorcade in Syria. Fleeting though his exposure to the headline had been, it had obviously made an impact, as the images in his mind of that armoured vehicle yet again—this time, it was that he could not persuade Bridget and the children not to get in, and the vehicle sped away from him, driving off with his family to the bright flash and booming explosion of the landmine's detonation—brought him out of a dead sleep with a scream that startled a terrified Bridget awake.
The scream sent both Mabel and Billy to shrieking from the other bedroom. Bridget gave him a quick pained look before throwing back the covers and racing to them. He took in a deep breath, swallowed, then followed her.
"Daddy'th hurt! I just know it!" Mabel wailed from Bridget's arms as he came into the room. Billy was bawling uncontrollably, also in her embrace.
"Hey, hey, it's all right," Mark said, joining the three of them; it was then he noticed that Bridget was crying too. He wrapped his arms around them all. "Shhhh," he murmured, stroking Mabel's wild hair, then Billy's, then he reached to touch Bridget's face.
"You promised, Mark," she said in a shaky whisper; it was all she needed to say.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I thought—"
They were gone, thought they weren't coming back, he told himself, but at that moment, Mabel interrupted, her voice surprisingly firm and angry, even as she threw her arms around his neck and hugged her father fiercely:
"Don't scare me like dat, Daddy! I thought you got stabbed or something!"
Billy was still crying inconsolably.
"I'm so sorry to frighten you all," he said. "Billy, come here; you can see I'm just fine."
Billy turned his big brown eyes to his father, lower lip trembling, tears on the verge of spilling over. "What if you weren't?" he asked. "You almost got blowed up once."
His son knew the proper English grammar, but the slip showed the depth of his fears. Mark had no idea that Billy knew anything about the near-miss in Sudan simply because he'd been so young at the time it had happened. From the look on Bridget's face, it was clear she didn't know Billy knew, either. Firmly, Mark said, "Billy. Please come here." With Mabel still clinging to him, he reached out a hand to his son. His own heart was still racing. "I've said I'm sorry and I am."
With the baleful look still in place, Billy finally acceded, and crawled forward to throw his arms around his father, sobbing again. As Mark held his children tightly to him, as Bridget embraced him, pressed up against his back, he began to sob, too.
"Come on," she whispered, close to his ear. "Let's all of us go snuggle back to sleep."
"What if I…" he began to ask, but trailed off. She knew what he didn't say: have another nightmare.
"With all of us there," she said confidently, "you won't."
The two children were light enough that he was able to carry them both back to the main bedroom—particularly as they were still attached to him like barnacles—and with one curled securely into the crook of each arm, the children quickly fell back to sleep, tears still damp on their cheeks.
Bridget was next to Mabel, and reached up to comb her fingers soothingly through Mark's hair. "I'm sorry," Mark said feebly, feeling guilt not only for not keeping his promise, but for putting them all through this, especially during their blissful holiday.
She didn't reply, or if she did, he had already fallen to sleep. Fortunately, she had been right: he did not dream of horror again.
…
The last two days of their holiday would prove to not completely spoilt by the nightmare incident, for which he was thankful, though Billy did seem more subdued than he had been. Mark wondered how Billy had discovered what had almost happened in Sudan, but with the pervasiveness of the internet, he really should have expected it; in fact, he should have explained it all before Billy had had a chance to otherwise discover it accidentally. Mark had never even considered the potential impact, and he could have kicked himself for allowing that detail to escape him.
On their last afternoon at the cabin, he and Billy walked alone through the field of wildflowers while Mabel helped Bridget pack up the suitcase; Mark would return to help, but he wanted a little time to talk to his son before they returned to London.
"Hey, Billy," Mark said, placing his hand on his son's shoulder. "About the other night… I'm sorry."
"It's okay, Dad," Billy said as he turned around and looked up, squinting with the sun in his eyes. In that moment, the way he looked to his father, Billy seemed so very grown up.
"No, I mean… I'm sorry. I should have discussed what happened in… well, it's clear you found out I was meant to be in that vehicle. I never meant to keep it a secret from you. I hope you know that. I just…" He paused. Had he ever considered the day when he'd talk to Billy about what had nearly happened? He had not; not in any serious way. "Well, you're just… it's a lot for someone your age to absorb."
Billy nodded. "I know."
Mark crouched down to meet Billy's eye at his own level. "I'm not taking any other jobs far away from home," he said. "You know that too, right?"
Billy nodded again.
"And we don't have a lot of… well, attacks in London."
"Landmines," corrected Billy, which made Mark inwardly cringe, though was careful not to show it.
"Yes," Mark said, then paused to swallow the lump in his throat. "It's just that sometimes, daddies have bad dreams, too."
"I know."
"I just don't want you to think I'm going anywhere anytime soon. Okay?"
Billy seemed to be studying Mark's features. Suddenly Billy reached forward and threw his arms around Mark's neck, causing Mark to nearly lose his balance, but he was able to steady himself. "I hope the bad dreams don't come back and bother you, Daddy," Billy said tenderly.
"I hope so, too," Mark said, his voice cracking as he spoke, cradling the boy's head at the nape with his hand. He didn't want to let his son go, but knew they had to return. Back to the cabin, back to London, where he had the daunting task of dealing with a problem he was ill-equipped to handle.
It was Billy who drew away first. "Well, come on, Dad, or Mum will pitch a wobbly."
Mark smiled, then laughed, as he stood upright again. Who exactly was the parent, here? "Too right, Billy. Too right." He ran his hand over Billy's hair, made a mental note to take him for a haircut. "Let's walk back."
As it turned out, getting the suitcases all packed up took them very little time—Bridget's theory was that since it all needed laundering, there was no point in folding and organising it, and he had to admit she had a point—so the boys were assigned the task of getting them into the boot.
"Leave room for the meat," she said; they intended on picking up a bit more beef from the butcher on their way home, then having a barbeque upon their arrival.
"Yes, ma'am," he said dutifully.
Within twenty minutes, after a final sweep of the cabin then the stop at the butcher's, they were on their way; Mabel was whiny and began to cry, saying that Saliva would miss the cabin so very much.
"We can come back again," said Bridget, reaching into the back of the car and patting her daughter's knee.
"We have to," said Mabel. "We never saw de France."
It was something Mark had hoped she would forget, but she hadn't. Every time they'd gone to the coast, the clouds had rolled in, frustrating her. "Very true," said Bridget. "We can't give Mr Wallaker the satisfaction."
Someday, thought Mark, he would tell Bridget the truth of it. But not that day.