I just want to say the biggest THANK YOU imaginable to all of you who reviewed the last chapter and commented on tumblr – it was amazing and kind of overwhelming that you cared so much. To the one person who thought the story sucks – all I can say is this is MY Charles and MY Chelsie relationship and if it's not your thing then that's one thing but please don't be mean. I give this story SOOOOOO much of my time and effort, there's no need to be hurtful.
Do go and listen to Joni (Both Sides Now, 2000 version) as you read, she's a genius and this track is the mood I was going for in this chapter. watch?v=aCnf46boC3I
Rows and flows of angel hair and ice cream castles in the air
and feather canyons everywhere, I've looked at clouds that way.
But now they only block the sun, they rain and snow on everyone.
So many things I would have done but clouds got in my way.
I've looked at clouds from both sides now,
from up and down, and still somehow
it's cloud illusions I recall.
I really don't know clouds at all.
Chapter 43 – Both Sides
Thursday, 12th March 2015
Elsie rushed from her car to the pub, holding her handbag above her head as she went, the rain appeared to be coming from both ground and sky as she ran, splattering up her legs and drenching her shoulders.
She pushed open the door, instant warmth hitting her face, and scanned the room for Charles.
From his position by the fire Charles rose to his feet, his pint in one hand halfway to his mouth, and beckoned across to her.
"I'm sorry," she said once close enough, coming around the side of the table to kiss his cheek. "I got caught up and time ran away and then I left at the wrong time and…" She sighed, "So, sorry I'm late. Again."
"It's alright."
"I always seem to be late, don't I?" She swung her bag from her shoulder and took out her purse. "I'm going to get a drink."
"Should we order our food too, it's starting to get busy."
"Oh, we're eating?"
"I thought we were," he felt a familiar anxiousness settle in his stomach where she was concerned of late. A struggle to find time with her, and then a rush once together and forgotten plans… He was beginning to wonder whether this week in Dubai that was coming up would even happen.
"That's fine," she smiled, sinking into the seat beside him. "Do we have a menu? Have you chosen?" She asked, simultaneously opening the menu and slipping her glasses on.
"I have."
"Let me guess – hmm look, pie and chips."
"Ah now you'd be wrong this time see because I am going to try this thing here," he pointed at the Thai platter. "Adventurous."
"That is adventurous. Good choice."
"You're having a positive influence on me."
"Mmm, I might have the same."
"Copy." He smirked.
"Another pint whilst I'm ordering, or do you want to share some wine? Did you drive?"
"Bike. Wasn't raining when I set out."
She got to her feet, noticing the bag beneath the table for the first time; clearly he'd changed when he'd arrived. "Wine then?"
"Yes, you choose."
"Won't be long. Table number?"
"Seventeen."
Once she'd returned with their wine she sat across from him, pouring and settling in for a chat.
"So, busy week again?" He asked.
She wondered if he meant the tone in which his words were said, still she let it go, relationships were nothing if not a mass of misunderstandings and contradictions. "Well yes, it's the last couple of months before exams. Everything's pressure, levels of progress, questions about how we're closing the gap." She rolled her eyes. "I'm boring myself."
"I like hearing about your work."
"I'm sick of it at the moment, I can't wait for Easter."
"You're looking forward to the trip?"
"Of course, sunshine! Aren't you?"
"Well, yes, of course." He didn't want to admit he felt that they seemed to be going backwards in some ways in their relationship. That after Edinburgh she closed herself off from him somewhat and he was still in the dark as to why.
"So do you fancy going for a walk this weekend? Spring is on its way finally, always nice and fresh to be out there this time of year. Whichever day you're free I can arrange to close early or get Thomas in."
"Erm, yes, sure. How about Sunday?" He nodded his agreement as he topped up their glasses. "I'll need to get new boots though, mine have seen better days. I'll call somewhere Saturday and get some."
"Best only do a short one then if you're bedding in new boots. Say ten miles or so."
She coughed on her wine, covering her mouth with a napkin. "Ten?"
"Too much?"
"I'd say five is long enough."
"Sorry. I'm used to going alone. I just plod on."
She wondered if that was how he'd lived his life, plodding on through it, nothing to really shake it up. "Well I wouldn't say I'm unfit but I haven't walked any kind of distance since I was a child."
He chuckled, "Five it is, I'll find something fairly low key. We'll have to build up your endurance."
"We will."
Dinner was pleasant enough, though he found one dish a tad too hot and worked his way through a pint or so of water.
It was still raining when they left, "So, you want a lift?"
"Sure, not sure the bike will fit though, don't want to wreck your car."
"Let's see."
They lowered the back seats and Elsie spread out a blanket she kept in the boot.
"Get in," he said as he folded his bike in half and eased it in, "You're getting soaked."
He soon joined her, shaking his head free of water as he slammed the door.
"Come in for coffee?" He asked when they reached the shop.
She glanced to the clock.
"You have work to do." He stated watching her.
"Well, nothing that's needed immediately, its Thursday and I only have a couple of lessons tomorrow. I could do it then."
"Come in then?"
She put the handbrake on and turned off the engine.
They had sex on his couch whilst the coffee pot spluttered and steamed in the kitchen. And it was just that, sex, because she still had her skirt and shirt on and his was still hanging on his shoulders as she moved on top of him. It was quick and frantic and about gratification – though whose he wondered about afterward as he made their drinks.
He missed Edinburgh and making love.
They sat at either end of the couch drinking their coffee, Elsie had her legs curled up beneath her and he found it odd to know that beneath the long skirt she wore she had no knickers on.
"So what kind of time would you like to go?"
"Are you throwing me out?"
"I mean walking, as you well know."
She smiled, cradling the mug in her hand. "I don't mind, mid-morning so we can have lunch after?"
"I thought we might go out for dinner, Sunday night."
She finished her coffee and put the mug aside, stretching her legs out on the couch. He lifted them, laying her feet in his lap, one hand curling around her ankle.
"How about I cook?" She said after a while. "Saturday night instead. You could come over…" She paused, breathing, watching his fingers form circles upon her ankle, his gentle touch enthralling. "…Stay over and then we can walk Sunday morning." She paused again, closing her eyes. "You know I always end up working Sunday night."
She was falling to sleep; he knew the signs, the soft lilt to her voice, the way her head drooped to her shoulder.
"That would be lovely. What time?" He shook her leg a little. "Elsie. What time?"
She opened her eyes, glancing down at him, "Erm, say around seven?"
"That's great, gives me time to close up here."
"Mmm," she closed her eyes again and he lifted her feet from his lap, put his mug down and shuffled onto the couch next to her.
His movements woke her and she twisted onto her side facing him, "I'm not sure it's big enough…"
But somehow he got on, lying on his back with her body half on top of him.
"Just for a moment." He whispered, kissing her forehead.
And then they were kissing properly, and that was what he remembered from Edinburgh – the luxury of just lying with her and kissing endlessly. The feel of her body in his arms, the feeling of being content and happy.
She was the one to move things forward, pushing his shirt off, undressing him as he lie beneath her. And then her own shirt and the awkwardness of getting off the long skirt she wore. Naked on his couch in his warm, small lounge, they made love; her leg over his hip, his strong arms supporting her body as they moved so slowly, so tenderly.
She slept in his arms and when she woke it was after four and she almost fell off the couch. Stumbling into her underwear she bumped her leg on the coffee table and cursed.
"What's wrong? What's happening?" Charles asked, blinking in the lamplight.
"It's 4:07 in the morning and I have to be up for work at 6:00 and we fell asleep." She muttered, and he forced himself to sit up and listen because she sounded so damned angry.
"I knew I shouldn't have come in."
"Don't say that, it was nice."
She felt bad as she looked at him, scrunched up on the couch, puppy dog eyes and rosy cheeks.
"It was," she admitted, "very nice. But now I'll be tired all day and feel mixed up." She hitched up her skirt, "And I feel a bit like a loose woman sneaking out of your flat at this time in the morning to go home and shower."
"Shower here, get in my bed and go back to sleep, I'll set the alarm."
"I can't."
"Why not?" He couldn't help his smile, all this while she'd been dressing her bottom half but she hadn't put her bra on yet and her perfect breasts were bobbing about so beautifully as she moved he wanted to gather her in his arms and worship them.
"Stop smiling." She said, knowing full well what his smile was about. "I can't go into work in the same clothes I wore yesterday." She started buttoning her shirt up.
"Who'd know?"
"I'd know." She leant over him, kissing his head. "Sorry I was brusque with you."
"I don't mind."
"You should. I'll see you Saturday."
"Let me get up and let you out."
"I can manage." She pressed on his shoulder.
"I want to say goodbye properly."
"No," she pressed more forcefully, "Because that will involve kissing and then I won't leave. I can manage, I know the code for the alarm." She backed away from him, grabbing her bag from the back of the chair. "Saturday."
"I can't wait."
Moons and Junes and ferris wheels, the dizzy dancing way that you feel
as every fairy tale comes real; I've looked at love that way.
But now it's just another show. You leave 'em laughing when you go
and if you care, don't let them know, don't give yourself away.
I've looked at love from both sides now,
from give and take, and still somehow
it's love's illusions that I recall.
I really don't know love at all.
Sunday, 31st January 2016
She didn't watch him leave. She heard a car pull up just after lunch, the angry sound of the tyres on icy gravel, and then Richard's voice and a mumbled conversation.
She stayed in bed. Hiding.
When he'd gone she cried again, because there seemed little else to do. And the endless tears led her to sleep. When she woke it was dark and she was cold and uncomfortable from lying on top of the bed in her clothes. Her head ached and she wobbled, dizzy, as she got up and headed to the bathroom.
The thought of work almost made her cry again and she resolved to take Monday off. She wouldn't usually dream of such a thing, she'd never taken sick days, not even with Joe. But if she told them she had a migraine it wouldn't be far from the truth.
Flopping back onto the bed she reached for her phone from the side table and flicked her finger over it. No messages. No calls. And the background shot of the two of them at their engagement party served as a knife to the gut.
Scanning through her contacts she hit Beryl's name without really considering what she'd say.
"Hi sweetie, what can I do for you? Need me to do a shift with Charlie boy this week?"
"Beryl, I know it's late but I was wondering… could you come over?"
"I can, sure, what's happened, what's wrong?"
She gulped on her words, another sob filling her mouth, "He's left me."
Alone Charles sat in the darkened lounge cradling a rather large brandy. Alcohol, strictly speaking, was off the agenda whilst he was recovering and he'd had little more than a measly glass of red wine since the 'accident'.
He swirled the liquid around in the glass, watching the contents slip higher up the side, timing his actions with the relentless thrum of the tide. When he glanced at the clock he realised it was two minutes to twelve, almost February, and surely staying in a beach house in Cornwall was a far cry from most people's dreams of how to spend the month. But he liked the gloom. He liked the cold. The beach, so vibrant in summer, held a certain kind of misery, abandoned and grey as it was in the winter months.
And the sea raged on.
He swirled the glass harder sending the liquid over the edge and spilling down his hand. Putting the tumbler aside he lifted his hand and licked the brandy from his thumb and thought of Elsie. How Elsie tasted.
The clock turned twelve. Midnight.
"White rabbit," he said aloud, hoping for luck.
Lying on the sofa with her head in Beryl's lap Elsie cried and cried. Too far gone to be embarrassed or ashamed as she let out every ounce of emotion. Her friend's hand rested heavily on her shoulder, the other smoothed her hair back, on the verge of tears herself, on the verge of anger (she'd bloody throttle Charles) but also confusion (he adored her – how had this happened?)
When she'd quieted enough for Beryl to feel comfortable moving she'd poured her a large whisky and Elsie sat – her feet tucked beneath her on the couch – and swallowed it down in one.
"Another?" Beryl asked, standing in front of her with the bottle, and Elsie held her glass out and watched as it was refilled.
Sitting beside her Beryl sipped her own drink, she'd driven there but it had soon become apparent she wouldn't be driving home; she didn't want to leave her alone in this state.
"I'm sorry," Elsie finally said. "I'm not usually like this."
"Sweetheart I know that," she patted her knee. "You're never like this. Not even with him."
Her old friend was right. Even in the darkest moments with Joe she'd never been like this. Never even cried. Certainly never laid her pain on someone else's doorstep. It was all shut away.
"Wanna tell me what happened?"
Elsie shrugged, taking another gulp of whisky. "I don't even know." She swallowed, licking her lips, she hadn't eaten since that slice of toast at breakfast and the alcohol, combined with the exhaustion of crying all day long, was quickly making her dizzy.
"We've been arguing. Ever since he got out of hospital. Non-stop it seems." She huffed, laying her head back on the sofa. "I don't know, maybe I've been too much, smothering him. I just worry you know, I didn't want to lose him, not to a heart attack or…" she took another drink, "…turns out I lost him anyway."
Beryl dug her nails into her palm, "Surely not. Not really."
"He walked out." She stated, staring at her, "I'm not sure what other message I need."
Beryl opened her mouth to speak but found words would be an intrusion.
"He's shut me out. I don't know, maybe the heart attack was a wake up call, maybe he got sick of waiting for me to catch up, maybe I'm too much to deal with – all this baggage, all this shit I've put him through – Joe and my father and counselling and Anna…"
"You know he wanted all that. It's part of you. He accepted it. He wanted a family – you gave him that."
"Clearly not."
"That can't be what this is about."
"I don't know what this is about. Honestly. Obviously Isobel knows, and Richard, they're more his family."
"That's bullshit. Have you spoken to them?"
She shook her head, emptying her glass again.
"Then you don't know what they know. What he's said. Don't drive yourself mad with supposition."
Elsie groaned, covering her face, "Oh god what a mess. What an absolute mess. I'm going to have to find somewhere to live again, a flat, and selling this place, or buying me out." She felt her voice tremble. "And Anna! What about that? The shop – her livelihood, her home, and the baby on the way and all these bloody wedding plans hanging in the air…" she was panicking, frantic the more she thought about it.
"Don't jump the gun."
"My life's so tied up with his now. That's why I resisted for so fucking long, because nothing lasts, and now look – everyone dragged into this, other people hurt, the whole messy business."
Beryl caught hold of her flailing hands. "Elsie, listen to me, you're getting ahead of yourself. Don't rush into anything, no big decisions, you don't know what's going on with him, what he wants."
"No. But it seems he knows what he doesn't want. Me."
Tuesday 2nd February, 2016
Charles nursed his hand as he walked along the beach, another week or so and this damned pot could be off. He was sick of the weight, sick of the itching, and not being able to do things for himself.
It was freezing cold out yet the sky was an odd milky grey colour, swimming ahead of him, endless. He made his way down to the sea, the tide was out and it was quite a walk but he welcomed the exertion – if the old ticker gave out then it was meant to be.
By the time he'd reached the water's edge he was breathless and invigorated. Staring at the waves for a long time he realised how good it felt to be alone for a change, nothing but his own thoughts, his own wants and needs to meet. He'd lived his life alone it seemed, never had anyone else to please, not really, and it felt good to be back inside his own head. Silent and still.
He kicked his shoes off, used his good hand to tug off socks and push up trousers and then he stepped into the surf, gasping aloud at the pain of the cold water lapping up his ankles.
He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, let the February winds wash over him. Brittle and stark.
"You're brave," a timid voice came from behind him and he reluctantly opened his eyes, he didn't want to interact with any human beings, let alone a stranger.
At his feet there was splashing and he looked down to see a Springer Spaniel by his feet, dashing back out of the water when it felt the cold.
"See, not even she can stand it."
Stepping back from the shore Charles turned, shielding his eyes against the odd light of the sky. Before him stood a woman, younger than him, maybe 38, certainly no more than 40, blonde, petite, almost tiny. If she turned sideways she'd maybe disappear.
"You a local?" She asked, and there was no mistaking her Cornish accent.
"No. Yorkshire."
"Ahh, used to the cold then."
He smiled, "I guess so."
The woman bent to hook a lead onto the dog's collar as it jumped about between them.
"I'm Caroline by the way, this is Maisie."
He reached to ruffle the dog's ears, "Hello Maisie. I'm Charles."
"Good to meet you Charles. You erm, had an accident?" She asked, indicating his arm.
"Car accident. Should be coming off soon."
"Nasty." She turned to stand beside him, looking out over the sea. "Pretty amazing isn't it, especially this time of year, without tourists littering the place up."
"Ha! I'd usually be a littering tourist. I am, in fact."
She smirked, "You're staying around here?"
"Not too far, about twenty minutes walk. My friends have leant me their place. They've got a house further in-land but I like this little cottage, it overlooks the sea."
"Nice. Recuperation?"
"Something like that." He wiggled his toes in the sand, finding the damp grains comforting as they spread between his frozen toes.
"Fancy a cuppa?" She said. "Warm up a bit." She glanced down at his feet. "Good thing round here, nobody really minds if you trail in a bit of sand to the café."
He smiled. "Tea sounds good."
And he set off, following her up the beach.
"So what is it you do, when not risking frostbite on the Cornish coast?"
"I erm, well…" he sipped his tea, "I guess I'm pretty much retired now. I have a book shop, but I'm not really working there anymore."
"You own it?"
He nodded, glancing towards the cake counter – he kept hearing Elsie's voice going through the damned diet sheet the doctor had supplied her with. Her 'rs' rolling over the words 'carrot', "Definitely no carrot cake Charles."
He smiled, remembering.
"And, you're married, children?"
He bit his lip, "I have a daughter." He said, mind racing, tongue thick in his mouth. "She's running the shop, pregnant too."
"Oh how wonderful! What's she having?"
"We don't know, I mean, she wants it to be a surprise."
"That's cute. What do you want?"
He'd never considered that, he glanced at the table, feeling his arm itch. "I don't mind you know, just healthy, her and the baby."
"When she's due?"
"April time." The time he was meant to be getting married.
"And your…wife…she's happy?"
He felt his cheeks rise as he smiled, "She's shocked. But yes, happy, concerned, worried, Anna's still her baby too."
Caroline smiled, nodding her head, "I hear you. My son's seventeen and still my baby."
"Elsie…my erm, my wife… I suppose she would have liked more children herself, it just didn't happen that way." He wondered why he was stretching the truth this way, hiding away behind it. He curled his hand together.
"She's here with you?"
"No, she's working, she's a teacher."
"She has my sympathies."
He smiled, finishing his tea. "She loves it, you know, she's always so busy with it. Gives her all."
"That's good…" Caroline lifted her teacup, draining it, Maisie was fussing by her legs, she'd been sat inside for too long now. "Look I'm going to have to go, this one is ready for her lunch. But if you're here a while, I might see you on the beach again."
"Yeah maybe."
"Maybe another cup of tea?"
He smiled, leaning back in his chair, he knew that tone, he sensed her interest. "Yeah. Maybe."
He dreamt that night. Fitful and sweaty in the strange bed, the distant sounds of a storm out at sea.
A blonde haired woman in the lounge of the beach house, his comfy chair from Yorkshire, laid back in it with her between his legs, on her knees, her mouth right there.
And he'd woken up shouting out, feeling disorientated and agitated. But there was nothing going on down there, when his hand had wandered to his pyjama bottoms, no sign of arousal. There'd been nothing going on down there since the day he'd smashed into that car – a feeling of terror in his chest. A loss of control.
Angry with himself he slammed his hands into the mattress, grimacing at the tightness in his chest.
Monday, 8th February 2016
Surprisingly, Elsie had found it relatively easy to slip back into her old routine. Back at work. Nothing to rush home for. Late nights and early mornings and ready-made meals. Perhaps it was sad, how easy shutting off her feelings had been, but then she'd had many years of practice at that. She could hide almost anything if need be and her feelings were pushed (stuffed, forced) right down to the pit of her stomach so to the outside world she was as she always was – stoic Elsie Hughes.
Anna was worried and she didn't want her to be. Her daughter was pregnant and needed no more added stress so she hadn't told her the full story, had glossed over it as nothing more than Charles needing time to recuperate and that was that.
Inside she'd died.
The worst part was she wasn't even that surprised. It was a condition of her life thus far that meant she always saw the worse side of things. She never expected the best so it was no surprise when the worst happened. And this was the worst.
Worse than being fucked continually for over twenty-five years. Worse than the physical pain of being held down. Worse than the humiliation of being made to do the things she'd had to do. Because her heart was involved this time and it never had been before.
Charles once told her, following their trip to Dubai, that love was a painful thing, and if this was what it brought he didn't want it. How she agreed with him now. The highs of their love, their joy at being together, conveniently forgotten when anger takes over. And she was so angry.
She pulled onto her drive after six thirty and there was a car parked by the front door. Seething she turned her engine off – Isobel – sitting at the wheel of the Jaguar (the very same one Charles had borrowed so long ago to take them out for the day).
They exited their vehicles simultaneously and Elsie hid for a moment fetching her school bags from the boot of hers.
"Hello Elsie," Isobel had said, nervously tugging her bag over her arm.
"I'm not sure I want to talk to you Isobel, and I'm sorry if that's rude but I don't wish to argue with you."
She marched past her, digging around in her handbag for her door keys.
"I'm not here to argue Elsie."
"Maybe not but I fear that's where it will end." She fussed as she tried to balance her bags and get the key in the door.
"Here, let me help." Isobel said, taking the key from her and turning it in the lock.
The door eased open and Elsie stepped in, stopping to enter the alarm code. "Don't worry," she said as she tapped on the keypad. "I'll start looking for somewhere to live at half term, I'm not going to fleece Charles for half of the house, if that's what you're worried about."
"It never entered my mind," Isobel said gently, still gripping her handbag.
Elsie looked at her for the first time, her eyes were wide, face pale.
"Are you leaving him then?" Isobel asked cautiously.
"I rather thought he left me. But then you'll know more about that than I do."
Isobel shook her head; "I haven't spoken to him since that Sunday when he called wanting Richard."
Elsie bit her lip, "I rather thought…" She swallowed, "I thought it was you who'd he discussed it with."
"Richard told me he wanted to borrow the house in Cornwall, that's it. And he was driving him down that afternoon."
Elsie felt her shoulders sag, her bags slip to the floor. "I'm sorry, I assumed…" She closed her eyes, why had Charles let her believe Isobel was involved?
"Men are clueless," Isobel stated, as if reading her mind. "And I know Charles."
"Better than me? That's what you mean."
"No. Just differently. Longer. I've known him longer, not better." She shrugged. "Shall we have a cup of tea, try to talk?"
Elsie nodded, though she had no idea if the milk she had was even in date.
"Go stay with him. Talk to him. Talk it through." Isobel said, stirring her tea.
"I'm not sure he wants me there." She shrugged, awkwardly sitting across from this woman who she'd had such doubts about for so long. "Sadly, I seem to be the last person he wants to talk to."
"That's not true. I don't believe that. You've heard from him?"
"He calls everyday." She said lightly. "When I'm at work, leaves a message on the machine telling me he's okay and what he's done." She closed her eyes briefly, she'd played every message searching for nuances of emotion, of a reveal as to where he was, where they were.
"Then you're fooling yourself if you think he doesn't want to see you."
"He talks to me of inane things, the weather, dogs he sees on the beach…" she shook her head. "It's like he calls because he feels he should."
"He calls because he wants to talk it through with you, because he misses you. Elsie, you know he loves you."
She twisted her engagement ring on her finger – love – as if that word could fix all woes. "I don't know what's happened." She admitted sadly, feeling almost ashamed by her lack of understanding.
"Call it shock. Call it some kind of post-accident stress. Mid-life worries. Being male – who knows."
"He's shut me out."
"I know."
"Then why on earth would he want me there? He's spoken to you about how he feels more than me, maybe you should be the one going to see him."
Isobel put her cup down lightly on the kitchen table. "Have you ever considered that the reason he didn't talk to you about how he feels is because he cares too much?"
"That's ridiculous."
"He doesn't know how to Elsie. He's never had to. He's never been as close to somebody as he is to you. Believe me, he's never wanted to impress somebody as much as he does you – I remember those first couple of months of dating he'd call me before every single date to go through his plans, so anxious to get it right, to please you."
"I don't need him to impress me, surely we're long past that. And I know this is rude and childish but I hate the fact he discusses me with you – I feel so self-conscious over it."
"He hasn't done it for a long time now, not since your engagement really." Isobel shrugged, "Men are strange beings Elsie. And Charles Carson… Well, you don't meet many men like him."
"None." She agreed.
"He's spent his life alone, you know, searching for something and all of a sudden it's finally here – and then this, a heart attack, a reminder that your time together is not the lifetime he wanted. Sometimes… you know he feels he's missed out on so much. He'd never reveal that to anyone. Never. But Richard and I have watched him through the years, been there, sometimes we worried the loneliness would kill him. Or worse, isolate him."
Elsie crossed her legs beneath the table, feeling a headache form, "I am trying to understand. I tried for weeks – constant bickering and shutting me out. Closing himself off." She laughed bitterly. "It's ironic isn't it, I do the very same thing, I did this in the beginning of our relationship, because letting him in was too hard. And now – he does the same to me."
"He won't know how to say what's in his head. Bloody hell in my experience men never do, my sons were terrible, bottling things away – at least my daughter would come and cry to me. And Charles… he didn't have a mother who he could easily discuss things with so he learnt to cope alone. And now you, you've made him a different person, given him a whole new lease of life…" She breathed deeply, watching Elsie's face, the red flush spreading from chest to cheeks, the doubtful expression.
"So," she searched in her bag, taking out a set of keys and sliding them across the table along with a small note. "I know you break up for half term soon, go see him. Here's the address, he'll likely be in the small cottage not the main house."
"Of course you'd have more than one bloody house down there," she quipped.
Isobel laughed, "You see, that's what Charles likes about you, you speak your mind, so go do just that."
Tears and fears and feeling proud, to say "I love you" right out loud,
dreams and schemes and circus crowds, I've looked at life that way.
But now old friends are acting strange, they shake their heads and they tell me that I've changed.
Well something's lost but something's gained in living every day.
Sunday, 14th March 2015
Elsie was lying on her side facing the window, the bed sheet tucked between her thighs. Behind her an equally naked Charles pressed up against her, his head above hers on the pillow afforded him the vantage point of looking down at her. His face rested in the softness of her hair, inhaling the scent of it, though his senses were already overwhelmed with her scent – it filled the room that cold March morning.
Stretching one arm over hers his hand trailed down her arm that lay out before her on the bed. His fingers travelled the length, down, then back up, etching each freckle into his memory, committing to touch the bumps of tiny moles, the slightly grainy texture of a healing cut where she'd scratched her arm on a low hung branch whilst out walking.
Then down again, his eager hand sliding over hers, his large fingers dwarfing hers as they slid between them.
"So, what would you like to do today?" He said, breathing in her hair.
Her eyes slowly opened and she breathed deeply, he felt her chest expand, her back move.
"The walk maybe? The one we'd planned."
"I'm not sure I have the energy." She said quietly. "Hell of a week."
He kissed her head; she'd seemed out of sorts when he'd arrived the previous night. He hadn't pushed, with Elsie he'd learnt not to, she'd been more emotional since Christmas and he didn't understand why. The bottom line was – he'd decided one particularly depressing night whilst staring into his brandy glass – that he wanted to be with her. And if that meant crumbs, dating her once a week, then he was content to just go with it until whatever funk she'd descended into lifted. For some unfathomable reason he entertained this little idea that he might be the one to bring her out of it. Though if he reflected back on past relationship disasters he had no evidence to support his theory.
"Why?" He asked gently.
"Some issue with coursework," she sighed, glancing down to where his hand folded with hers, at how his fingers stroked hers repeatedly. "Reports of cheating by another colleague, so we all had to be scrutinised. They brought our department review forward by three weeks so it's observations, work scrutiny, task setting, our marking and feedback, the progress being made. Lots of stress – in a nutshell."
"And was this person cheating?"
She shrugged, "I don't know. I don't blame her if she was, the pressures can be tough to handle. But I'm exhausted."
"No walking then," he smiled lightly, turning her hand over, his thumb working circles in her palm. She watched as his fingers travelled lightly this time up the under side of her arm, her skin was paler there, the freckles, so abundant on the other side, were scarce, he touched her wrist, they both watched the beat beneath the skin.
"Why teaching?" He whispered, he'd asked before and she'd avoided it, turned it round to his career choices instead.
She closed her eyes, "I love my subject I suppose." She said, feeling rather lethargic. She wanted to ask him to spend the day in bed with her and worship her body over and over again as he just had only minutes ago. "I've always been interested in History – hence all these trips to old houses I keep making you do." She smiled a little, "Maybe that's what we could do today, another old house."
He resisted commenting, he wanted to hear about her choices, didn't want to take her focus from his question.
For a while they were quiet, she watched as he repeatedly stroked her arm, she flexed her fingers and his came down to fold with hers again and she spoke.
"When I was at school – and I'm not being big-headed here, believe me – I think I was fairly smart. I was sharp, savvy, I liked to learn. But I didn't look the part. I was from a working class background, maybe even low working class. My hair was often tangled and flyaway, my clothes were hand-me-downs and I often went to school smelling of manure following the morning rounds."
She smiled and he allowed himself to do the same.
"I was ignored." She drew in a tight breath, "I mean what did that little girl matter? She'd be a farmer, marry a farmer, bear him many children. Why did she need an education? Much more valuable to focus on those who were easy to progress, those of a better class, a better background." She didn't voice it but in her mind she thought, 'people like you Charles, people who speak the way they're meant to.'
"And so I guess I thought wouldn't it be good if I could help just one little girl who was like me? Show her there's more to life. Of course it's not nearly as romantic as that."
She paused again, closing her eyes, enjoying the feel of his fingers on her skin – open adoration.
"Sometimes I think about that little girl's dreams – the way we see the world at that age, marriage and children and love and a nice house, all those things. I wonder what happened to her dreams. Because suddenly you're in your fifties and looking back and thinking 'god, what did I do with my life.' Of course she seems a million miles away from me now."
She turned her hand over, flat on the bed and his lay on top of hers. Lifting her fingers she pressed the tips to his and he did the same, measuring, comparing.
"Your hands dwarf mine." She said, and he closed his hand around hers as if to emphasise her point.
"Tell me one of her dreams, the little girl." His voice was so low, so full of warmth and care.
She closed her eyes, smiling indulgently, "Why? Are you going to make it come true?"
"Maybe I'll try."
He kissed her shoulder, the back of her neck and she twisted her head round, meeting his mouth very briefly and then sliding her arms around him until he drew her into a tight hug.
"Perhaps she just wanted to be held by someone who didn't want anything from her." She murmured against his skin.
He opened his mouth to speak then stopped himself – he did want something from her, he wanted her to want to be held by him and nobody else. Always.
"Goodness," she said eventually, disentangling herself from him. "How maudlin I am this morning." She tapped her hands on his shoulders. "I'm sorry. This winter weather brings my mood low."
"Not long until our trip. Couple of weeks and then plenty of sunshine."
"I'm looking forward to that. I can't quite imagine it being warm and sunny elsewhere in the world when it's so bloody miserable here."
"I'm looking forward to spending time with you," he wanted to add, 'not just seeing you once a week' but he bit his tongue.
"Hmm, an entire week with me, you may change your mind. I can be difficult you know."
He raised his eyebrows, "Compared to me?"
Smiling she rolled out of his arms and lay on her back stretching, her eyes focussed on the ceiling, he wondered what was going through her head, what had distracted her. But as soon as the expression had come upon her face it had gone again and she got up quickly, reaching for her dressing gown.
"Come on, get up, I'm going to take you out for breakfast. Somewhere nice. And you can have one of those big English breakfast things you like."
He patted his tummy, for some unfathomable reason not in the slightest concerned about lying naked in front of her. "This is why I have this."
"Oh, but I rather like it."
It was small steps, barely even visible, but to him it felt like she was beginning to open up.
Friday, 12th February 2016
Charles had spent the majority of the day walking. His arm was free (at long last) and the removal of the plaster cast had not only lessened the weight he carried on his arm but gave him some sort of hope. His ribs had healed well too, his bruises long gone, only the scar remained – a pinkish cruel line now that inched its way down his chest.
He avoided touching it when he took a shower. Avoided looking.
Time marched on and he counted every day he was away from Elsie. Finding reasons to leave messages on their answer machine, delighting in the sound of her voice when he called it. He recalled hearing her voice that first time in his shop, by the door with her scarf trapped and her ridiculous expression of shock. He heard her voice at night when he laid down to sleep, words of love, promises, the first time she'd told him she loved him – when he stood on the beach and looked out to sea he could visualize it again. How she felt in his arms, the way she'd blushed as she'd said it. And there, in the damned airport, 'marry me' and all his dreams coming to him at once.
It felt so lonely without her there.
There were too many things in his head, too many things he couldn't say, didn't have the words for. It was easier to be alone, he'd decided.
He trampled over the rough winter earth, up on the cliff edge looking over the southern coast. The battering of the sea upon the rocks, the emptiness of the coves. How it had always been, how it always would be. England. His second love, he realised. He smiled as he recalled Kate Bush and whilst alone and isolated up there said the words aloud, 'Oh England, my lion heart. I'm in your garden, fading fast in your arms.' To him there was nothing more beautiful, he'd travelled, enjoyed it, but coming home to this land, green and pleasant, it was part of his soul, like coming home to Elsie.
Closing his eyes he allowed the coarse winds to whip past him, leaving his skin chapped and raw.
He turned for home when the rain started, and made it back soaking but refreshed, washed clean by the familiarity of it.
The door key was in his trouser pocket and he was fiddling in there when he walked the steps to the front of the beach house, not noticing the car parked haphazardly on the gravel strip to the left of the small building until he was upon it.
He stopped and stared, rain battered and exhausted, and there she was, sitting in her car staring back at him.
He felt his heart beat.
I've looked at life from both sides now,
from win and lose, and still somehow
it's life's illusions I recall.
I really don't know life at all.
I made myself cry at the end of this one – and I knew this was all going to happen…Spent 4 hours in a coffee shop today writing this to get it up quick for you, hope the 'feels' are doing okay Brenna! X