CHAPTER EIGHT HARRIET STRATTON

CHAPTER EIGHT

H ARRIET S TRATTON

A UGUST 2002

Harriet sat at the kitchen table. Hugo was walking around the harbour on his morning constitutional, a habit of which she heartily approved. The way she breathed in his absence, a reminder that in his presence she held her breath, overly conscious of her expression, demeanour and language. A little on edge. They had always been a working couple whose lives collided in their early morning bathroom visits and of an evening across the supper table, chattering wildly on shared car journeys and at the weekend. This new exile, where she had no job and he was working from home, meant they were together in the little cottage most of the time and it was a stark reminder of how much she had relished the quiet of their village house when he was out and the kids were at school. The moments of solitude that gave her time to think, reset, plan the minutiae of life: what to make for supper, what needed laundering next, a quick check on the calendar that hung on the wall of the utility room. They were gaps in her working schedule that she valued. Here it was different. They prowled around each other, seeking out space, wary, while she did her best to get through the silences that screamed of all they were each trying so hard to contain.

In the quiet of the kitchen and with her thoughts cluttered, she opened her diary. The cupboards were stocked with the kids' favourite cereal, chocolate nestled in their sweetie tin, and pizzas lurked in the fridge. It was a crass attempt to make them want to be here, to delight them at the prospect of this new life simply by providing the junk and sweet treats ordinarily rationed. The equivalent of a magic trick, clever finger-clicking to draw the eye away from something you were not meant to see. This, like all her conversations with the children and the upbeat, optimistic notes she'd popped into their luggage, felt laced with deceit, and yet she deemed it necessary. Not that it made it any easier to swallow.

Their new rooms were tidy: their beds made in their familiar bed linen, toys packed on to shelves, work desks assembled and lamps on their bedside tables. It was easy to make the place look pretty and homey. Her confidence, however, in them settling into this new environment was not high. It was hard not to bring her own doubts and insecurities into the cottage, and Bear was a sensitive boy. The way he'd held on for dear life when they'd said goodbye, in stark contrast to his usual, casual peck on the cheek, suggested he might already be aware that there was more to being shipped off to his aunt's than giving his mum and dad time to get the house ready.

‘But why, Mum? Why are we moving? I'm goalie next term for the A team!'

‘Because life is an adventure!' She'd offered the salve, a half-truth that in retrospect was demeaning to them both.

The thought of things not working out here, however, filled her with a cold dread that had the power to shake her from sleep in the early hours. To have given up their home, their whole lives in Ledwick Green, only to admit defeat felt like a worse prospect than if they'd stayed put, watched their home life crumble and gone their separate ways. But how would that work? The kids living with her during the week and seeing Hugo at weekends? Splitting the week so it was fair? And where and how would they live? Two bedrooms, two addresses, two birthday parties, two Christmases, two separate lives? It was unthinkable and just the idea of it left her feeling hollow, nausea swirling in her gut.

She did her very best not to harbour such thoughts, determined that they would come out the other side with trust and love restored, determined to work very hard to this end. But what if they failed? What if they couldn't? More specifically, what if she couldn't? What if this whole pantomime of upheaval was for nothing?

‘Stop it,' she whispered, and closed her eyes briefly, breathing through her nose, knowing such musings helped no one, least of all her.

Her heart yearned for reunion with her children and the thought of all four of them sitting around this very table for supper warmed her. It was easy to picture: the kids chuckling, Hugo goofing around for just such an effect, mouths filled with tasty, warming food, a candle flickering, maybe a board game or two after pudding, with the usual high jinks and accusations of cheating and subterfuge.

Normal life.

Never a regular crier, her sob came without warning. It was a surprise when a rush of hot tears trickled down her face and filled her nose and throat. Her sadness was tightly bound in her chest and it didn't take much to set it free. In this case it was this false image. The idea that they could go back to the suppers of old when she hadn't known there was a fault line running through her family, and that her marriage was a lie. Suppers where her biggest concern had been were her potatoes crispy enough and would Hugo like a second helping of gratin? She grabbed the paper serviette shoved into her jeans pocket, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Outbursts like this were a reminder of the cruelty of his actions, and the fact that she was left mopping up, trying to rebuild what had been shattered.

She picked up her pen, as her tears ebbed.

Sitting here crying, which is a shame, as it's glorious today: blue sky, gull song and gentle pockets of warmth when the wispy cloud clears. Ellis is coming down on Saturday with the kids. I've missed them so much! I ache for them, to feel their little arms around my neck, to hear them at play (and at war!). To know they are tucked up and sleeping under the same roof will bring me peace.

It felt like a good idea, coming down alone with Hugo, getting the house straight, giving us time to chat, heal a little, plan before the arrival of the human encyclopaedia and her big brother – my sweet babies. They have no idea what we've been through, no clue as to why we've uprooted them from school and are starting over here in North Devon. It feels a little deceitful, but is a decision made with the very best of intentions.

This summer has been the worst of my life.

I have stumbled, physically and emotionally exhausted, hostage to fits of sobbing and the desire to crumple. My thoughts entirely scrambled.

A feeling of desolation akin to grief has engulfed me, weakened me, and I shall never forget being fearful of leaving the house in case I saw Mrs Peterson and fearful of staying in the house in case she or someone else in the know knocked on the door. I felt like a caged bird and I don't ever want to feel that way again. Coming here was the right thing to do.

I never want the kids to know, never want them to think less of their dad, never want them to know the level of despair I've felt. He is, after all, a great dad, the best, and he loves them, of this I have no doubt. I want them to enjoy the family life they deserve, and what better place to do it than here with the beach on our doorstep, clean air, fresh fish, country lanes and all that this kind of life will bring. It's exciting! And importantly, no one here knows us. And no one here knows her.

He cried again last night, but this was different. He hadn't had a drink and I wasn't with him. There was no gentle discussion that led to the tears, no raising of the topic that might cause such a reaction. I was soaking in a tub full of bubbles when I heard him sobbing in the rear bedroom that's going to be Bear's ... and I liked it. I wanted to reach out and hold him close and tell him it was all going to be okay, but I can't lie, I liked it. Because if he's crying, it means he feels bad, and if he feels bad, it means he's regretful. If he's regretful then it means he loves me, right? It means he too wants to turn back time, and that everything is going to be okay. Does feeling some kind of comfort from his remorse make me a horrible person? I'll talk to Ellis when I see her. She's much better at analysing this kind of thing than I am.

So, Saturday reunion! We've decided to take them on a whistle-stop tour of new school, harbour, beach and then home for supper and their first night in their new home. Bear, once he gets his head around something, is pretty resilient. I'm not worried so much about him physically settling once he sees Hugo and I are okay. But Dilly? I don't know. She may be quiet, thoughtful – she's more like me, takes a while for her to feel comfortable in a new situation. Ellis's presence, her glorious noise, will be a welcome life raft to which we can all cling if things feel choppy.

Hugo says we should get a dog.

He might be right. Is there any situation in the whole wide world where getting a dog does not seal the deal? We'll see. The cottage isn't exactly vast and having to towel-dry a wet, hairy, sand-covered mutt might not be the best idea.

And in reference to a previous entry, I've been thinking: Wendy and Hugo sounds awful! Just awful!

Harriet and Hugo

Hugo and Harriet

Much, much better . . .

Putting down the pen, she wiped away the residue of tears on her sleeve and sat back in her chair. Saturday, just a few more sleeps and the kids would be here. Her face broke into a smile as optimism warmed her from within. What if they succeeded? What if they could? More specifically, what if she could? What if this whole pantomime of upheaval led to a glorious new life here on the North Devon coast?

‘Yes.' She smiled as she stared out of the sash window with its darling view of Fore Street. ‘What if?'