|
Betrayal
By Carol Scrimshaw
“Goodness, I love this place!” thought Jane to herself as she sank into her favourite chair, clutching her much-needed coffee. She absorbed, as she did each time she sat here, the glorious garden she had created, largely single-handedly, with the achingly beautiful view over the nearby lake. Today the water was shimmering in the unaccustomed Spring sunshine, truly welcome after so many days of seemingly perpetual rain. This morning, walking the dog had transformed the chore of the past sodden days into a joyful treat, relishing every moment of their expedition right around the lake. Johnny, the bouncing Labrador, was now stretched out at her feet, gently snoring after his longer than usual outing.
A small frown crossed her brow as an unwelcome thought flickered suddenly in her memory. Was she really remembering correctly? Had she really heard Tim talking to a man at last night’s drinks party, a man she did not recognise but someone obviously known to her husband. What exactly had been his words? She was sure Tim had said something like: “Well, it may shortly be time to move on”? Surely, she was mistaken. He couldn’t possibly be thinking of selling, could he ? He loved this house, this location just as much as she did. The party had been fun, lots of their friends there, and it went on quite late. She had put the overheard remark aside but it had clearly troubled her unconscious self during the night for it to nudge into her mind so acutely this morning.
“No, I must have misunderstood” she chided herself, pulling herself together and defiantly marching into the kitchen, the beautiful pale wood, hand-crafted kitchen of her dreams which Tim had promised her those years ago and had duly fulfilled. Hadn’t he fulfilled all his promises to her since that time, that awful time? Hadn’t he been faithful, done everything in his power to make amends for what he termed “his one mistake”. “Am I not allowed one mistake in my life, Jane? Am I not human?” He had pleaded and ranted, torn apart by his own grief and his own guilt and, with time, she had allowed her own fury and pain to subside. What she had once thought unforgivable had been forgiven but only at the cost of leaving their old lives, their friends, everything, leaving Natasha’s small body in a cold but lovely churchyard, never to be revisited if sanity were to prevail. It had taken every ounce of her courage to accept this house, this proffered evidence of Tim’s penitence and avowal of love, and to create a new life, a new existence, little by little pushing the memory of her daughter away, into a safe place that she could not allow herself to visit. God knows it had been difficult: fixing a smile when Tim wove the lies to new acquaintances which denied their past, creating a different history for them, one where they had sadly been unable to have a family. She had become a part of this same deception, his accomplice in wiping out the past. She had learned to let him close again, to reclaim his place in her heart, to trust him again. In this beautiful place where they now lived their created life had almost become reality.
“I must keep busy” she muttered to herself, wishing to push these troubling thoughts away. She went to the study, intent upon the punishing task of working on Tim’s business accounts, her contribution to his business being to keep it ordered and legal. She reluctantly picked up a bulging file of receipts, way overdue for sorting and with a sigh she embarked upon the tedious task. An hour or so into the task she saw something which caused her to stop in her tracks: a crumpled receipt dated two days ago for a florist she knew well, one she herself had often used in their former home.
Hardly daring to breathe, she could not stop herself from ringing the number on the receipt. “Oh hello”, she said with enforced brightness. “Tim Groves’ secretary here. Mr Groves asked me to check with you that the flowers he ordered were delivered on Monday. He was just worried that he might have given you an incomplete address.” “Oh yes, I remember that order because I delivered myself” replied the girl. “The flowers he ordered were beautiful and Mrs James was delighted with them.” Jane’s shock was so great that she could barely utter a thank you to the girl before sinking to her knees.
So, incredibly it was still going on. Andrea James was still in his life, the woman who had been instrumental in killing her daughter. She felt she would faint. Five years on, a supposed new life; all those lies, their lives a mockery. That was what he had meant. Not selling the house and moving on. No, he had meant he was moving on from her. Five years ago, she had asked Tim to collect their daughter, Natasha, from an evening play rehearsal as her own car was in the garage for repair. He had been late, very late, and the young girl had phoned her father several times to ask whether he was coming. The calls went unanswered, but the messages lay on his phone, scorching reminders of his failure. Tim had been with his mistress, lingering long after the time he should have been collecting his daughter. When he did eventually tear himself away, he raced across town to Natasha’s school, bundling her into the car and evading questions. He then drove at speed to their home, belatedly concerned at how he would explain things to Jane. In doing so, he collided with a parked van, overturning his car. The emergency services cut him out of the vehicle, and he survived; but their 12 year old, beautiful daughter, Natasha, died of her injuries.
All this horror came rushing back to Jane. She forgot the house, the garden, the view, the lake. All she felt was shame that she had allowed herself to be cheated into betraying Natasha. Suddenly, she knew what she had to do. She flung a few possessions into a bag, urged the puzzled dog into her car, briefly delaying in order to scribble a note on the back of the florist’s receipt. It said: “Tim, this time you have sailed too close to the wind.”
|
