Sowing The Seeds Of Love Part 28

Because the love she'd had for Martin had almost run out. Like an egg-timer with the tiniest quant.i.ty of sand left to trickle through. He'd squeezed the life out of it with his big, rough hands.

And she'd loved him so much.

She wept for her lost love, so strongly held. She missed it and mourned it. And it could have been his for ever if only he'd known how to keep it. All that she had now was resentment. Another dull ache to put up with. Perhaps it would get better as Lance got older and she wasn't so tired all the time. Nowadays, if someone commented on how handsome or entertaining her husband was, she didn't feel proud. Instead she felt anger and a powerful urge to blurt out the truth. She did this once, when the urge to unburden herself became too great.

The woman was called Frances. She was the wife of a colleague of Martin's. She and Myrtle often found themselves thrown together at dinner parties. She'd had a baby girl around the same time that Myrtle had given birth to Lance, and the two women would visit each other's homes in a bid to stave off the madness that often besets the first-time mother, at home alone with her baffling baby.

Myrtle was really just trying to find out if her marriage was normal. That was how it started.

'How's Bill adjusting to fatherhood?'

'Oh, he loves it. He's wonderful with her. I'm sure Martin's the same.'

'Not really, no.' She was sick of lying, trotting out the accepted untruth just to please.

Frances looked a little taken aback, as well she might. Myrtle was not playing the game. 'Maybe he needs more time to get to know Lance.' Her words were designed to rea.s.sure herself as much as Myrtle. 'It doesn't come as easy to men as it does to us.'

She looked so smug and snug in her feminine role that Myrtle wanted to hit her. But she couldn't do that so she slapped her verbally instead. 'I sometimes think Martin's jealous of his own baby. Do you ever think that about Bill?'

Frances looked shocked. 'No, I don't.'

'He's jealous of all the attention I give Lance. He was even jealous of him when he was in the womb. He hit me once, you know, when I was pregnant.'

'I'm sure '

'He did. Flattened me up against a wall. Did your husband ever do anything like that to you?'

'Jesus, Mary and Joseph, no.'

'So it's not normal, then?'

'Of course not. I'd better go.' Frances was gathering up her things. It was clear that she didn't want to know feared getting involved.

After that Myrtle didn't see much of her. She didn't tell anyone else. And the wound in her soul festered and turned into an oozing, weeping carbuncle.

It wasn't all bad. As Lance got older the less wholly dependent he became on Myrtle, and this suited Martin. He liked to play with the boy rough-and-tumble games, throwing, tickling and flinging, that caused him to squeal with delight. Myrtle was glad for Lance that he had an alternative to her sedate reading-colouring-walking routine. It was true that children needed two parents a mother and a father. Although Martin never talked of his own father. And, come to think of it, her brother Roger hated theirs. She hoped the cycle could be broken.

Her more pressing concern, though, was whether or not her son needed a sibling. She had never intended him to be an only child and, given the amount of time it had taken her to conceive him, perhaps they shouldn't delay too long. Her humming and haaing came to an end one day when Martin announced gruffly: 'Lance needs a little brother.'

That was decided, then.

It took six months this time, a lot less than before. Things were good. Martin was happy and so was Lance. Father and son patently adored one another. Myrtle felt happy about her growing family and newly optimistic about the future. But this happy phase in her life was to be short-lived. Because, again, the problems began when her pregnancy started to show. She wasn't sure why this should be so but it was. The constant reminder of her condition seemed too much for Martin. He became surly again, eyeing her belly suspiciously, as if it was an intruder in their home, as if it was none of his doing. The drinking began again. The staying out. She accepted it all with a sense of dread. Lance was the only recipient of Martin's smiles that was when he saw him. More often than not, he'd been asleep for hours by the time Martin fell in the door. There was a new quality to his drinking. It was getting worse. He was getting worse. She wasn't sure if he was drinking more or just wasn't able to hold it as well as he once had. But it certainly seemed to have a hold on him.

She was four months pregnant. She liked to talk to the baby. To hold her hand on her stomach and feel its first flutterings. It had become her habit to go to bed early and feign sleep when Martin came in. The pregnancy gave her an excuse and, besides, she was exhausted anyway. Usually it worked and he left her alone. But not that night.

She tensed when she heard his footfall on the stairs heavy, uneven, ominous. Normally he stayed downstairs and drank some more, falling into a drunken stupor on the couch. She kept her eyelids resolutely closed as he entered the room and sat heavily on the bed.

'Are you awake?'

She lay still as a stone.

'Marnie, wake up.' He shook her shoulder.

Still she didn't react.

'Wake up, you stupid c.u.n.t.' And, with one almighty shove, he pushed her out of the bed.

She struck her forehead on the bedside table and lay stunned for several seconds, vaguely aware that he was coming around to her side of the bed. She looked up at him in abject shock. 'What are you doing, Martin?'

'That'll teach you to ignore me, English b.i.t.c.h.' And he kicked her hard in the stomach.

It was a girl. Tiny, perfectly formed and dead. She would have called her Rose. She wouldn't be able to have any more children.

She stayed in the hospital for a week, staring at the wall as Martin sat on the bed and talked. He was the tender Martin she'd once known. Attentive. Above all, remorseful. While he unloaded his guilt, she weighed up her options. By the end of the week she concluded that she didn't have any. It was the 1960s. At that time, no one of Myrtle's acquaintance was separated, divorced or a single parent. She hadn't spoken to her parents since she'd got married. She loved her brother, Roger, but he was still young, f.e.c.kless and broke. She was fond of Martin's mother and his family, but they would hardly take her in if she left their son and brother. What female friendships she had forged since landing on this G.o.dforsaken island were superficial. And Martin had said he'd stop drinking and that he'd never harm her again. She didn't believe him but it was all she had. On the seventh day, he brought Lance in to see her.

'When are you coming home, Mummy?'

'Now.' She got out of bed and started to dress. She met Martin's eye.

'Thank you,' he mouthed.

35.

Aoife and Seth had spent the morning busily ignoring one another. Aoife, digging up potatoes as if her life depended on it. Seth, messing around by the pond and achieving very little. It was pretty uncomfortable. Aoife would have left a long time ago but she was waiting for the two women from the Mothers' Union. She had taken Mrs Prendergast up on her offer. She'd been in such a tizz at the prospect of organizing the harvest festival or the autumn party, as Kathy and Liam insisted on calling it that the idea of two experienced pairs of hands had been too tempting to turn down. She hoped that she hadn't been too hasty. She also hoped that Seth would clear off home. He wasn't even doing anything.

'You must be Aoife.'

She turned to see two women picking their way daintily through her vegetable patch. They tiptoed around the turnips and greeted her at the garlic.

'You must be...'

'Joyce and Pearl.' Joyce was the spokeswoman.

'Pearl, Joyce, delighted to meet you.'

They all shook hands rather formally and Aoife felt herself on familiar territory. She recognized these women, although she had never met them before in her life. They were the women of her childhood. The women who worked the stalls at church fetes. The women who ran committees. And Joyce was a dead ringer for Aoife's first headmistress. Despite her Catholic upbringing, she had attended the local Church of England school for reasons of reputation and convenience. And these women were unmistakably and indisputably Protestant. She couldn't quite pinpoint what it was about them other than that they were in the Mothers' Union but she knew she was right.

'I must say, Aoife, I've heard a lot about this garden but none of the descriptions did it justice. It's simply glorious. And the vegetable patch is magnificent. I can't remember the last time I saw such healthy chard.'

'Do you grow your own?'

'Oh, yes. Have done for years.'

Here was someone else who knew more about gardening than she did.

They all looked around at the crunching sound on the gravel path. It was Seth, grinning expectantly.

'Joyce. Pearl. This is Seth.'

'Ladies.' Seth proffered his hand and smiled his best smile.

'Joyce and Pearl are going to help with the autumn party.'

'Oh.' Pearl spoke for the first time. 'I thought it was a harvest festival.'

'Well, autumn party, harvest festival it's the same thing, really.'

'Actually, no, it isn't.'

There was an embarra.s.sing silence. Pearl might have been a quietly spoken woman but, Aoife noticed now, she had the mad look in her eye of a religious zealot.

'So,' said Joyce, to everyone's relief, 'tell us what you've got planned so far. Or perhaps we should discuss this inside the house.'

'Oh, I wouldn't want to disturb Mrs Prendergast. It's still quite early.'

'Nonsense. Myrtle's always been an early riser. I expect she's been up for hours.'

'Myrtle!' said Seth. 'You're joking me. No wonder she kept quiet about it.'

Aoife gave him a withering look. 'Ladies, why don't I show you around the garden?'

As they walked away from Seth and the vegetables, Joyce giggled in the high-pitched way peculiar to some women of a certain age. 'Oh dear. I hope we haven't let the cat out of the bag on poor Myrtle.'

'Not at all. I'm sure she won't mind.'

'Are you sure we shouldn't just look in on her first? I'd hate to appear rude.'

'You know, come to think of it, I don't think she's even at home. I saw her heading off about half an hour ago. Probably doing her weekly shop.'

'Oh, that's a pity.'

The two women looked so disappointed that Aoife almost felt sorry for them, but she was under strict instructions from Mrs Prendergast not to let them anywhere near the house. Her exact words had been 'If you let either of those nosy old bags within ten yards of my home, I'll set Harriet on them.'

'What's she going to do? Fart at them until they're both completely asphyxiated?'

'Don't be so cheeky, my girl. I mean it. If you let them anywhere near me I'll cancel the whole thing. Let me remind you that I'm still the owner of this garden.'

Mrs Prendergast had shaken a crooked finger at Aoife. There was a glint in her eye, but Aoife knew she was serious. She'd seen the telltale twitch of the bedroom curtain when the women had first arrived, and imagined their reedy voices floating to the uppermost reaches of the house, where Mrs Prendergast was waiting, watching, checking.

To Aoife's frustration, Seth had insisted on following them. She knew that he knew she had meant him to stay put. Typical. She gave him a look and he grinned back.

The three women chatted as they walked. It came as no surprise to Aoife that Joyce and Pearl were retired teachers.

'What's going to happen on the day?' asked Joyce.

'Well, I thought we'd have a stall selling fruit and veg and that I could make some soup.'

'What kind of soup?'

'Parsnip. We've got a glut at the moment.'

'I've a wonderful recipe for honey-roasted parsnip soup I can give you.'

'I already have '

'Now. Bread.'

'What about it?'

'You have to have some homemade bread to go with the soup. Would you like us to make it?'

'Um. Maybe. I'm not sure. Can I get back to you on that?'

'Fine. What else?'

'I hadn't really thought much further than that.'

'What about a cake stall?' This from Seth.

'Excellent idea!' Joyce beamed at him. 'We can use some of the fruit from the garden. Pies, flans, crumbles. That sort of thing.'

'And jams,' said Seth.

'Oh, yes. Jams, jellies, chutneys. I must say, you're full of wonderful ideas.'

'Oh, he's full of it, all right.'

If Aoife didn't know better, she'd have sworn Joyce was flirting with Seth.

'Now.' Joyce was striding with great purpose towards Emily's sensory garden. 'This lavender. I know it's past its best but it's hanging on in there. I'm sure we could put it to some use. Soaps. Lotions. Scent.'

'What about the roses?' said Seth. 'They're shedding their petals right now. Could you make something out of them?'

Joyce clasped her hands as if in ecstasy. 'Yes! Your husband has such wonderful ideas,' she told Aoife.

'My what?' She could hear Seth snorting with laughter behind her.

'Oh, I do apologize. I a.s.sumed you two were married.'

'Um. No.'

'Where shall we put the vicar?' Pearl seemed quite oblivious to the conversation going on around her.