A Good Mother by Patricia Dixon 1

Everand Productions presents A Good Mother by Patricia Dixon. Read for you by Sarah Cullum.

For Tara, with love, respect, and admiration.

Always kiss. Little bird. I have heard what a merry song you sing. Soaring high to the sky on your tiny wing. Jesus little ones are we. And he loves us, you and me. As we share in his care, happy we must be. William H. Parker, circa 1881.

The parish of St. Mary Little Buddington, Cheshire, present day.

Morning has broken. I know this before I open my eyes because outside the dawn chorus is in full song. I picture pale sun rays illuminating the sky while an array of little birds go about their business. No care for their sleeping human neighbors. Stubborn beaks and wings spread wide, joyful in the new day. I know each of them by name, not personally, but wouldn't that be nice? I mean, their song and species, their chirps and trills, whistles and rattles. There was a poster on the wall in school, and after listening to a tiny recording of bird song, we took turns identifying them. I won a prize, a bookmark. I refuse to use it. Such was my pride. And I still have it in my box of treasures.

I listen, remaining motionless apart from my eyelids that open slowly, revealing where I am. Not in our bedroom. The reason why because I couldn't bear to sleep another night by my husband's side. It's been torture. The close proximity to a person who's let me down so badly is oppressive, as though he's intruding on my personal space, but thankfully not the forbidden area of my mind. My thoughts and secrets, my intentions are known only to me. I should have left the fug of our airless, soulless room before, and I feel foolish for enduring it for so long. Especially the pig-like grunts that make me think of the petting zoo at the local garden center. Here, at least I've been able to leave the curtains and the window open. Greet each new day as it begins or ends. Sun, moon, stars, an unexpected pink sunset, and all the elements in their glory.

I hate the dark. Claustrophobia's ally. When I'm exhausted or in a low mood, the sheath of gloom is like a blanket. It smothers me and brings on a panic attack. Invisible fingers wrap around the sineus in my neck. Thumbs press on my windpipe and then the drum of my heart beats morse code for help as my lungs beg for oxygen. I spent most of last night in such torment. Baited first by my conscience an utter lipnumbing fear. But considering what lies ahead of me today, it was expected. Then slowly, as I became resigned to it all, calmness settled and left me cocooned in a wonderful sense of peace.

Anyway, it's here now, mourning. And once it begins, this day will change my life and that of others forever. Some more than most. Lives will end and lives will begin. It's 6:30 a.m. I know this because I heard the motorbike engine as our neighbor rumbled off on his way to work. Regular as clockwork, Joe is same as the milkman. He'll be here at 7:30 a.m. on the button making the last few drops on his rounds of the village. Today is Sunday. One pint of orange, two of milk, fresh bread, and six eggs. Maybe I should have cancelled, but Bobby needs the custom, so it's all good.

I hate Sundays. Have done for so long. Yet today I welcome it and what it will bring. Usually the hours stretch on and on until my shift is finished. That's how I see life as a shift. Rinse and repeat. Another day ticked off the calendar. But it's never truly over. Not really. Because even when the body gives in, the mind carries on. I'm a mother and they never clock off. There's no handy sign to hang on the door saying, "Sorry, we are closed." Mothers never flip the sign. Not really. Perhaps that's added to it all to today. The humongous responsibility that's fallen on my shoulders ever since the children arrived. Since then, it's been down to me. No matter what anyone says, the buck stops here. It doesn't matter if you've just sat down with a cuppper, resting your achy feet and frazzled mind, or your favorite program has started. If they call, you answer. I wouldn't change it, though. Not for the world, because my children are what makes mine go round. Or they did until it all changed.

My hand has been forced and I have to make a choice. One I don't relish and never wished for. And I don't think I deserve. Nevertheless, it has to be done. To look at me sitting here, you wouldn't know what's going on inside. The churn of my stomach that disturbs the butterflies. You'd think I was completely composed or dead, not decomposed. Although there have been moments when I felt rotten to the core and wished I could escape my own mind. One that is riddled with hate. Such terrible anger that bubbles inside, telling me to do things I never would have considered before. Like the thing I'm about to do.

Calm returns and I tell myself there's no rush and I obey because once I push back this duvet, place my feet on the carpet, it will start. No going back. I can't allow my resolve to weaken, but I can delay the inevitable. So, I'll listen to the birds beyond the window and hold on to the last moments of before. One more hour, one more chance to think it through. So, it's all straight in my head. Then, it will be after. This is the part that makes my tummy flutter the most and makes my chest contract because after means stepping into the unknown. What I will do, how, and when I will do it, I am sure of. And I hope that when it's done, my actions will be deemed justified for the greater good. Or at the very least, I'll have spared my family more heartache than is necessary. So until I hear the hum of the milkman's bloat, the clink of bottles, and the creek of the gate, here I will stay, go over it all. Everything that led to today, I need to walk it through in my mind just one more time.

Before chapter 1, March 2020.

Gina Gina sat in silence, pretending to watch the television when, in truth, she was forcing herself not to look at Jimmy, her husband. He was slumped in the armchair opposite, no doubt, trying to take in the ramifications of the prime minister's landmark speech. It wasn't as if they hadn't seen it coming. The press were always one step ahead of the public thanks to leaked memos and inside contacts. Hence, Sky News had been preempting something big for the past 24 hours. Hearing it from the PM himself was still a shock, though. The camera had zoomed in for maximum effect while his familiar, bumbling manner had been replaced with a more statesmanlike approach as he addressed the nation. It was just a shame he hadn't bothered to brush his hair. Boris got on Gina's nerves. full stop. But his shabby appearance and double standards were the least of her concerns. Top of the list was the fact that they all had to stay at home and a new term lockdown now applied to the UK, which had followed in European footsteps.

While the press fired questions at the PM, Gina's brain pinged over its own list of whatifs and whatns. All she knew for sure was that if they stayed at home, safe in their little haven, it might all be okay. And by that, she didn't just mean germfree. For a start, if you had to be locked down, Swallow's Nest cottage was as good a place as any. The envy of many villages, the chocolate box exterior was double fronted with whitewashed walls and a thatched roof, set back from the road on a quiet lane with only two neighbors, one either side. far enough apart to give them privacy near enough not to feel isolated. The front garden was enclosed by a low picket fence, and the lawns on either side of the central path were bordered by flower beds tended by their gardener and about to come into bloom. But it was once he went inside that the cottage truly blossomed. Despite the cottage's age and attractive appearance, they'd swerved a graded listing. After three rounds of planning applications, Jimmy had been given permission to bring Swallow's Nest into the 21st century. The two front rooms of the house had been transformed into a stunning lounge and dining room, thanks to Gina's skill as a lapsed interior designer. It was when you went through to the rear that Jimmy's undisputed talent was fully on show. Courtesy of a two-story extension, the cottage now boasted four spacious onsuite rooms. The fifth had been transformed into Jimmy's home office that overlooked the garden. Below the kitchen's snug diner expanded outwards, where the vated glass roof and biffolding doors allowed the outside in. The manicured lawns boasted a decked dining area with barbecue. And in the corner was a woodclad summerhouse and the children's play area. Home. It was their haven designed by Jimmy for his family to his wife's specifications so that every box on her wish list was ticked. Whenever praise was heaped on Swallow's Nest, he always insisted it was a joint effort. Their design skills combined. Gina, however, saw her input as embellishment. He was the diamond who sparkled, and her jewel attracted a lot of attention, too much, in fact.

While Jimmy appeared to be absorbed by the press conference, Gina watched Max and Mimi playing Tig. At least they were oblivious. But the whole thing would take some explaining in words that a 5-year-old would understand. Their three-year-old wouldn't really care. Ironically though, Gina considered lockdown to be a positive. The conversation she'd imagined having with her children as she lay in bed riddled with anxiety might not happen. All those hours, three months, one week, and four days of driving herself insane, might have been for nothing because the dreadful virus that was rampaging across the world had actually bought her some time.

Jimmy's voice cut into her thoughts and her head snapped in his direction. "Babe, can you turn that off? It's going to be on a soden loop all night, and the whole thing's doing my head in." Picking up the remote by her side, Gina muted the sound. It was quickly replaced by her children's voices on full volume as they played in the garden. They looked happy enough, and that's how she wanted it to stay. Their lives untouched by trauma, not blighted by a disease or the failures of their parents. There was so much to think about, a new way of life to navigate, face masks and frenzied handwashing, benalities like making another trip to the supermarket that only the day before had been pillaged by selfish lunatics. For now, toilet roll was the least of her worries. What Gina needed to know was that what was going on in her husband's head outweighed everything. Ignoring the swirling in her stomach and the wave of anxiety that threatened to crush her sternum, Gina grasped onto a life raft named Hope. Modulating her voice so as not to betray her inner turmoil, she offered up a question. "So that's that. The rumors came true. Are you okay, love? You look really mthered. Are you worried about work?"

Jimmy didn't answer. He seemed lost in a world of his own, and it set alarm bells ringing, causing her default setting to kick in. Desperation veiled by enthusiasm. "I'm sure it'll be fine, and the whole team will get used to functioning from home. And you've got the office here, and best of all, you'll have me. I can be your dedicated personal assistant. I'll even go on the booty run to the kitchen and keep you topped up with coffee." She smiled, the special one that she used on Max when he hovered at the classroom door, or when she needed to pretend that needles didn't hurt, and that Granny's sloppy stew really wouldn't poison them.

Jimmy brushed a hand over his face. "And I'm not worried. My contracts are long-term and I can still do my bit from here and I'm used to remote meetings, so it's no big deal in that respect. The only thing that concerns me are the sites where the builds are about to start. Delays mean more money lost across the board, not least the construction teams who will be stood down. That'll be a worry financially for workforce and the firms that employ them. Let's hope it's only for a few weeks and we'll get back to normal soon. as trust this to happen now when the weather's good. The best bloody time to build." He shook his head and stood. "Do you fancy a brew and some cheeky biscuits while the monsters are occupied?" He looked outside to where Max and Mimi were playing on the grass.

Gina nodded, watching him intently as he headed over to the kitchen, knowing he needed something to occupy his mind and hands. That was Jimmy all over. Apart from being a workaholic, he always saw the whole picture, taking his responsibilities seriously to Gina and their children, his mom and dad, his friends, his work colleagues on each rung of the ladder, but more so those on the lower section with whom he would always have an affinity. Yes, he'd done well. His family wanted for nothing. They lived in a spectacularly beautiful home. He drove a car that turned heads when he pulled up at the golf club. He moved in professional circles, rubbing shoulders with the Cheshire set in between jetting off to Europe and beyond for work. He could hold his own in the boardroom, at sportsman's dinners, in the company of demanding millionaires or town planners with bees in their bonnets. Then again, he was just as happy in the village pub or around at his parents for Friday chippy tea. At the core of Jimmy were his workingclass roots and he clung on to them with a passion. Jimmy's dad was a builder, a self-employed grafter, and as a child, seeing the homes his father created brick by brick fueled a dream. From solid foundations of hard work and a close-knit family, Jimmy followed in his father's footsteps, albeit at the creative end of the process. His talent as an architect aside, her husband Shawn stood out from the crowd. He was her vision of perfection. Even in his tracksuit bottoms and t-shirt that was splattered with some of Mimi's lunch, he still made her heart ache for so many reasons. As he flicked on the kettle, grabbed milk from the fridge, and then rummaged in the cupboard for biscuits, eating as he moved, dropping crumbs everywhere. Gina tried to banish her aches and worries. He made her smile and wonder how a man who was so obsessed by ordered lines ruled by accuracy and precise angles could create so much mess in such a short space of time. And Jimmy had made such a mess. She was sure of it. And not just in her high gloss kitchen.

Chapter 2.

Jimmy never stopped eating, and if the kids caught him raiding the cupboards, her no snacks before dinner rule would crash and burn. But how could she resist him? How could anyone? Don't go there. Focus. She could feel herself descending again, her mood dipping, her mind switching up a gear into overdrive, reminding her of the task at hand, the need to claw back some sense of order. As her tummy rumbled, the threat of failure and lack of food began to overwhelm her. She didn't need to eat, though. The answer wasn't in a biscuit or a bar of chocolate. Instead, she ignored hunger. That was the easy part. And honed in on the present, where they were at, not how her life might turn out.

Jimmy also vied for attention. "Earth to Gina. Do we have any chocolate? I promise I won't tell the kids. I know you've got some stash somewhere, my little Marsbar muncher." He winked, still chewing a jammy Dodger, his blue eyes fixed, smiling. She loved that. when his smile was just for her, even for a second. "Top shelf, inside the box of Alulbran." Gina reveled in his look of joy, a grin spreading across his face, followed by a grimace. "Oh, who in their right mind eats all Bran? Well, definitely not the kids, which is why I hid it there. And don't you dare eat all my stash. Save some for me." He raced over to the cupboard, rubbing his hands together in delight at the prospect of a treat. How she loved him. This disappointing man, whose normally groomed fair hair, currently left to its own devices, now flopped in unruly waves as he delved inside the box. Yes, his trendy beard needed a trim, and the just got out of bed look might soon wear thin, but nothing could disguise his charm or smother his wicked sense of humor and caring nature. Of all his glowing attributes, if you took away the fancy trimmings in looks and life, he was still the guy she'd met at a rugby do, a people person, a decent bloke, or that's what she'd believed. No, she couldn't go there. It was too much to even peep at the pictures she'd painted in her head. She had to deal with the present, smooth the crinkles out of their life, and in turn ease the ones etched across her husband's brow. Even though he'd been worried about the economy at the moment, she suspected the difficult choice between a bar of galaxy or a flake was currently his greatest concern. "Have the galaxy. You make too much mess with a flake."

Jimmy nodded, knowing his own limitations, and stuffed the second choice back in the cereal box while she delved into his mind. "I reckon lockdown is going to be a huge challenge for any employer. But if the government helps out, you'll just need to focus on motivating your team and keeping that side of things on track. But when it's over and everyone can get back to work." How bizarre that even though it had just begun, the mention of lockdown ending caused something inside her chest to flutter and Gina knew why.

When the kettle clicked, she decided to test the water. "Do you think it's going to drive you mad being here with me for days on end?" She'd purposely emitted the children because they weren't the problem. She was. It was she who lacked just like always. She held her breath, watching his eyes concentrating on spooning sugar into his mug because it drove her mad when he sprinkled granules on the worktop. When he looked up, he wore a quizzical expression. "No, not at all. In fact, I think it'll be fun having some time with you and the kids, especially in this weather. We'll just have to make the best of it."

Gina bridled yet forced a smile and turned her anger into a jokey retort. "What make the best of a bad job? Being trapped at home with the wife, deprived of your interesting colleagues and friends. Ah, I get it. I'm the booby prize." A flicker of something crossed his face. He looked troubled, suspicious before turning her comment on its head. "No, I don't mean that, Mrs. Tootie. I mean that it's a situation we didn't expect but could turn to our advantage. When am I ever going to get this chance again? Not be up at stupid o'clock to avoid the rush hour drive into the city to have breakfast with the kids. Be home before bath time. Read Mimi the same fairy story a 100 times or play football with Max. It'll be nice not having to pack family time into just the weekend. For however long it lasts, we can pretend the weekend happens every day. That's what I meant." And even though his words should have brought comfort, they hadn't because he hadn't mentioned her. Not really. He hadn't singled her out. He lumped her in like she came with the deal, part of the package. and it stung like nettles, the blisters of hurt blooming below the surface, out of sight in the place she kept her secret, or more to the point, his secret.

Swallowing her disappointment, Gina chose to rally. "Well, it's not going to be all fun and games because you'll still have work to do, and Max will need to be homeschooled, but I can take care of that. Mimi probably won't even notice, but I think they'll miss their friends."

Jimmy brought over their mugs and sat opposite at the kitchen island. "I'll do my bit. Don't worry about that. I've been saying you look tired lately and you've lost weight again. Don't think I haven't noticed." He gave Gina a look that meant, "Do you want to talk about it?" And in truth, she did, but couldn't because then it would all come out like when you opened the fluff filter in the washing machine and all the gunge and grime dribbled out and then they'd be finished. So instead, she responded with a vacant expression, one that meant move on. So he did.

"Maybe we'll have some kind of daily timetable, you know, to keep the monsters in check so Mimi doesn't go feral and Max does his lessons. If I set aside part of the day for working, I'm sure there'll be plenty of time to do family stuff. After all, I won't be commuting or entertaining clients or wasting an hour for lunch because we can have it here together. See, I'm liking lockdown more and more with every minute." Jimmy took a swig of tea, then stood, his attention drawn to the garden where Max was attempting keepyuppies, and Mimi was having a conversation with her dolls and teddies, who she'd gathered in a semicircle around her. Gina followed his gaze and took in the scene, and held in her mind a moment of childhood bliss, an afternoon cocooned in ignorance of everything that was going on in the world, on the other side of the perimeter fence, or in their parents' marriage. The thing was, Gina wasn't even sure what was really going on there either. Although, she had a very good idea and it had been killing her for too long. Slowly and surely like a disease eating her mind and body.

"Come on, let's go outside and get some sun on our faces, and I'll show Max my superior keepy skills. Let's stick the barbecue on and eat outside. Have you got any sausages?"

"What? Gina was miles away and dragged her eyes and concentration back to Jimmy. "Sausages. Do we have any?"

Jimmy drained the last of his tea and placed the mug on the island. "Yes, we have loads. Some in the fridge and more in the freezer. I'll get them out and wash these up. You go outside. I'll be there in a minute. We'll discuss timets and navigating lockdown later when the kids are in bed." He didn't need to be asked twice, mainly because washing up wasn't on Jimmy's radar, and he was useless at loading the dishwasher. His mom said it was a ploy he'd perfected at 13, and Gina was a fool to fall for it. Yes, Gina was a fool, all right, no doubt about that. Dumping the mugs inside the dishwasher, Gina slammed the door shut and then rested her hands on the cool marble, closing her eyes and taking a moment to compose herself, go over the rules that would govern their lives, that would keep Jimmy at home with her and well away from that woman, the bane of her life. She'd been given another chance. And finally, after all the years of saying her prayers, believing, clinging onto her faith like a talisman, just as she was about to throw the towel in and tell God that he was a big letdown, there was hope. Not that she'd asked for a pandemic, but as an answer to a prayer for the woman who was having an affair with your husband to drop dead. It wasn't far off the mark. As she engaged her slow breathing technique, Gina also admonished herself, taking the blame for allowing a charmed life to lull her into a cycle. Rinse and repeat. She just stood back and let it happen. Being complacent, and the buzz they once had was barely audible, the spark intermittent like a dodgy pilot light. Tutting, she moved towards the window and watched her family at play. Jimmy had Mimi on his shoulders. She was screeching with delight as they dribbled the ball around Max, who'd resorted to cheating, clinging onto his dad's legs as they ran. "Oh, Jimmy, what have you done?" she said to the crazy man in the garden, the one she'd trusted implicitly, loved unreservedly. Then she asked herself a question. Was there a chance she'd got it all wrong? If she had, she vowed never to be in this predicament again. If she hadn't, there was still a chance she could reverse everything, save her marriage, prevent Max and Mimi from the heartbreak of a broken home. It was up to her, her job to protect them and their future. And while she had breath in her body, that's what she would do. And while everyone was terrified of a hidden enemy, Gina knew exactly who hers was. Most people were probably in a state of shock at going into lockdown, dreading being trapped in their homes. But secretly, Gina was rejoicing.

Chapter 3.

Babs dropping her phone into the bag for life that rested by her side, Babs relaxed on her favorite bench to enjoy the early evening sunshine and a spot of bird watching. Ducks to be precise. It was lovely and peaceful on the green, and from their vantage point, she and her feathery friends could watch the residents of Little Buddington go about their business. She was blessed. Babs always thought that when she took a moment to appreciate her surroundings, and today was no exception. Spring was getting itself into gear. The first green shoots were tentatively peeping from the soil in flower beds dotted around the grass area, lining the cobbled path along the edge of the pond. Soon the whole village would burst into life. Spring and summer were packed with sports days, village hall bake offs, the July fate, and lots of weddings up at the church. During the warmer months, the scent from hanging baskets which adorned the lamp posts abundant with colorful blooms, was heavenly. She'd lost count of how many times they'd won accolades, but their victories were welld deserved because Budders, as it was affectionately known, prided itself on looking pristine. This was all thanks to the inddehaticable spirit of the Butters Residence Committee, whose competitive streak never waned, and their determination to get into the best blooming village category in the local paper.

Thinking of past glories made Babs wonder about the future because it was already a lot quieter than normal. Most people were at home, glued to the news channels, keeping up with the evolving lockdown situation. Babs had watched the PM's speech on her phone, and as a consequence, had no intention of hurrying, determined to make the most of her freedom and solitude. That was why she'd left her little Fiat in the co-op car park, and after passing the Senate that stood proud in the center of the green, wandered across to the duck pond. Her excuse for being late would be the humongous queue she'd had to wait in. Right out onto the street it was. In truth, there'd only been three people up ahead. After nipping into the mini market, she often stopped by the pond to rest her aching feet and body. Sometimes she'd even treat herself to a meal deal. Pete would moan if he knew, saying it was an unnecessary extravagance, all £3 pound50 of it. Well, he could sod off because it was nice to eat a sandwich or a fancy poke bowl, the name of which made her chuckle. It was weird, but due to the fact that someone else had made it, the meal deals always tasted much better than her own packed lunch. Her favorite sandwich was prawn mayonnaise, but Bab studiously alternated to add a bit of variety to life. She always had fruit for her snack, though, part of her five a day, and she stuck to water, staying hydrated and fending off the dreaded middle-aged spread.

The church clock said 6:45. Babs knew it was a bit too late for a treat, and she'd done well to resist buying a cheeky Snickers, even though she was starving. She was always bloody starving lately. Her thoughts turned to the three big pizzas she'd brought from the reduced section. Monday's meal was always a quickie, basically because Babs hated them. Mondays, that was, not pizzas. She hated Sundays even more. They were dreary and still reminded her of school and that horrible feeling that lessons loomed. The day would drag. nothing on the telly, then bath, hair washed, and ready for bed. Now she was an adult. She'd swapped maths and English, and instead was starting to dread the whole week. Babs cleaned for a living, and took great pride in her little business. But lately, it was wearing thin, that the daily grind of life in general. She'd worked out that over 30 years of marriage, she must have made around 10,000 evening meals. 10,000. And Pete must have complained about half of them. That's why she'd bought pizza nice and quick. She would have salad with hers, which in her book made it a healthy choice. Pete would definitely moan. According to him, it wasn't a proper meal, so she'd probably end up doing him egg and chips. In fact, she wasn't even sure the three ganit would even eat spinach and ricotta, which meant a fight for the meat feast and the spicy chicken ones. which then made her wonder why she'd even bothered buying the pizzas in the first bloody place. Maybe the shop would take them back, or she could stick them in the freezer, and they could all have egg and chips and a bit of salad on the side for her to show willing.

"And this is my wonderful scintillating life," Barbara muttered to the ducks, who completely ignored her. She was used to that, being ignored. Sighing. Babs awarded herself five more minutes, then she'd head off. She wasn't really avoiding going home. It was just that she deserved some me time before what she referred to as the evening shift began. And anyway, she loved the solitude and fresh air, feeling the breeze on her face as it cooled her cheeks that were often on fire. Sometimes she'd sit there on her favorite bench, even if it was pouring with rain. Broly up, her and the ducks enjoying the downpour. Rumor had it that after the war, one of the villagers had taken their own life right there in the pond. Babs thought that that was sad and couldn't ever imagine life being so bad she'd do that. Perhaps she needed to stop being a grumpy sod like Pete said she was charming. But to be fair, all the virus and lockdown business wasn't helping. It was the only thing everyone talked about, and the news channels were relentless, her lot included. Babs was in no mood to listen to them going on and on about it. Face maskers versus non-face maskers. Conspiracy theorists boring the crap out of the equally dreary doom mongers. The Finch family debating team was split 50/50 on the ramifications and regulations regarding the virus, and therefore Babs' 10 pence worth was eagerly sought after. That was actually a bit of a turnup because usually nobody gave a rat's ass what she thought. Babs wouldn't be drawn and instead would stick to Boris's rules, keep her counsel from her place on the fence, and revel in her moment of petty revenge. She'd found she was doing that a lot lately, thinking wicked thoughts, plotting against people who'd crossed her, and hating on random folk who got on her nerves by merely existing. Anything really. Strangers in the street, neighbors especially. People on the telly. Dafted endings in books. Stupid adverts and jingles. Boris and his goofy girlfriend. The wallpaper in her hallway. Babs's house. Not number 10. Her hit list was endless. Her family were especially irritating. Even though knowing them as well as she did, they'd be oblivious of any wrongdoing. Bald Eagle was the worst. That was her semi-affectionate name for her husband, Pete. Now, he really did boil her blood just by being in the same room. In fact, she couldn't actually think of one good thing to say about her husband lately, and he'd probably say the same about her. They weren't getting on. She could feel they were drifting further and further apart, lost at sea. That was a good way to describe them, and it seemed like neither had the inclination to pull their very separate boats ashore, tie them back together, and find a way to anchor their lives.

Bab sighed. She knew that the fault lay with her because she was perpetually in a bad mood, and was turning into a sourfaced old grump, which at 50 wasn't a great look. But she simply couldn't help it. Her face seemed to wear a permanent frown, like she was cross with everyone and everything. And now, Lord help her. After being stuck at home, she'd look like the moody gargoyless above the vicorage door. Even thinking of that place made Bab see. She cleaned there once a week and the church, so seeing as both places brought in regular money, she had to grin and bear it. That vicorage had bad vibes, and she knew exactly why. This train of thought only added to her woes because thanks to the bloody virus they'd be down a wage and it had caused problems at home. She was in great demand in and around Little Buddington, so her small business helped pay the bills. But to Babs, it was more than the money. Even though it wasn't rock and roll, her job was her independence. Her clients were mostly lovely and relied on her. She'd miss them. The only saving grace was that Bald Eagle and their eldest Isaac were classed as key workers and therefore should be out all day. One driving a recycling truck for the local council, the other driving a bus in and out of the city. As for her two daughters, that would be interesting to say the least. Demi, the youngest at 15, hated being off school. Babs understood her moody mare's hormonally induced personality disorder, but at least for a few hours a day, she was the teacher's problem child, not hers. She was now. Sometimes nice Demi went to bed with a cup of tea and her latest book, and then overnight she'd be possessed by an eye rolling sheevil. Nobody ever knew which version would come stomping down the stairs for breakfast. And as the kitchen door opened, Babs hoped it wasn't the girl who could chill the atmosphere with her presence and freeze your blood with a frosty glare. For the most part, though, Demi was a good kid, extremely bright and hardworking, a regular mother's little helper and ally, which was why Babs often forgave the mood swings. After all, she knew exactly how it felt.

Then there was Sasha. What could Bab say about their middle child? That didn't make her sound like the most critical mother in the world. That she was lazy, scruffy, lacked direction, needed to get off her ass and get a proper job, was man mad, and an all round let down. Yes, that summed up Sasha nicely. She'd graduated from university with a 22 in media and journalism and had spent the last nine months going from one job disaster to another. none of them remotely to do with her chosen field of very costly expertise. She'd started off at the garden center until it got too cold. At Frankie and Benise, the piped music sent her mad. At KFC, the sight of raw chicken made her heave, as did the fumes at the petrol station, where, to be fair, she lasted for a whole miraculous month. She endured one full day at Asda where unfortunately the checkout manager was Jodie, Sasha's archeneemy from school. It kicked off during training and Sasha was escorted from the building. And finally, a barmaid at the local pub, which thanks to the bloody virus, was now closed. Babs was convinced that Sasha's student loan would never get paid off unless the bank waited till she drew her state pension. Then they were in with a chance.

The sound of a bird chirping very loudly had Babs delving into her shopping bag. And after a quick rummage, she located her phone and glanced at the screen, tutting as she swiped to accept the call. It was Demi. "Mom, where are you? I'm starving and there's nothing nice in."

"I'm at the checkout queue at the co-op, love. It shouldn't be too long now. Drink some water and make yourself a sane."

An exasperated voice replied, "I can't because Isaac's had all the bread."

"The fat bast greedy pig." Babs raised an eyebrow and uttered the words all her kids hated to hear. "Have an apple. I'll be there soon. Look, I have to go. It's nearly my turn." Chuckling, Babs disconnected and imagined the look of disgust on Demiy's face as she sloped off to the fruit bowl. Sighing. Babs got to her feet. There was no point in stalling, so she said goodbye to the ducks and made her way back to the car. After loading her bag onto the passenger seat, Bab sank behind the wheel and resignedly started the engine, nudged her way out of the car park, and wished there was a long way home.

Chapter 4.

Apart from the lone dog walker, Buddington was deserted and it felt quite eerie. She'd lived there all her life, and it hadn't changed a bit. The tiny Cheshire village wasn't affluent by any means, merely well cared for by the Stowarts. Apart from the retirees and the old guard who, like herself, were born and bred there, most of the inhabitants commuted to the larger outlying towns to work now that many of the farms in the area had scaled down or shut down. Budders had only three main roads shooting off the roundabout with the green and duck pond at the center. On the imaginatively named Main Street, on the vill's periphery, stood the co-op supermarket, taking up onethird of the circumference. It had been built in the early 20s with a few facelifts since then, and Babs had fond memories of shopping there with her mom and nan. In the next third was the Carter's Public House, a popular hostelry with a thatched roof and quirky twisted walls held up from the inside by centuries old timber. And then came the school which was slightly set back in the final section of the roundabout. St. Mary's Primary was the true heart of the community with its village hall, sports field, and tennis courts. It not only served the residents of Bington, but pupils from the nearby village of Gorsworth. All of the Finch children had gone there, as had Babs and Pete, before they headed off to the secondary modern on the outskirts of Macklesfield. That had been such an adventure, catching the bus each morning, leaving the picturesque village behind and experiencing a few hours in a new school with new faces. She hadn't appreciated it back then, how perfect and peaceful village life was, how fortunate she'd been to live there.

Dotted along the three roads out were thatched cottages, beautifully preserved with whitewashed walls and neat gardens, as were the quirky higgledy piggledy rows of farm terraces that were once inhabited by land workers. Nestled safely amongst the lush, rolling Cheshire countryside, Bington had a crime rate of almost zero. This was due perhaps to its isolated location. If a roaming burglar blinked, he might miss the turning. Or perhaps it was the very zealous but mostly redundant neighborhood watch. Anyway, the residents felt safe and secure in their rural idol.

Taking the Gorsworth Road, Babs headed out of the village and towards home, which was in a less picturesque setting behind a purpose-built row of shops on a small estate of houses. A five-minute walk from the chippy offlicence lingerette and subpost office. The Willows had been built in the late 70s. Community homes they were called back then, the countryside equivalent to social housing. She had no idea how the local planners managed to swing the development or who designed the very average set of 10 identical culde-sacs that held an assortment of properties to suit the nuclear family, one of them being her three-bedroom detached. Years later, they'd jumped at the chance to buy their house from the council, but deep down, Babs had begun to hate her red brick, bogstandard home with a passion. It was her prison. That's how she saw it. No longer a cozy family home to put down roots in. It was tired, far too small for purpose. Unless their Isaac finally got a place of his own with his girlfriend Fiona. Demi and Sasha needed a room of their own. Even better, if Sasha managed to keep a job long enough to pay the rent and bugger it off, Pabs could nab the box room and escape bold eagle's snores. Bliss.

She'd had big plans for their family home, but none of them had come to fruition, like new double glazed windows, some of that nice woody decking that Gina Morgan had, and a conservatory with one of those ratan furniture sets. There she would sit and read well away from the blare of the telly and the endless squables about the bathroom or whose turn it was to wash the pots. That made her think of the dishwasher. Don't even get me started on the dishwasher. Of course, none of it was going to happen. Not while Pete had a hole in his ass because his agenda, his wants, his acceptable extravagances came first. Always had. like his season ticket to Macklesfield Town. "It's a family tradition, love, just like the pool team coach trips and those sly little bets she knew he had at the bookies, not to mention the reason his beer belly looked like he was 7 months gone." There was always enough spare for the things Bold Eagle wanted. Not a meal deal from the co-op, though. And it wasn't just a case of money, either. She was a saver and they could afford bits here and there. It was the lack of motivation that hindered her plans and the excuses of course, like his bad back that meant decking was a no no. The leaky windows still had a bit of life in them yet. And sorry love, there's not enough room in the garden for a conservatory. Babs had tuned out his excuses long ago, then just gave up asking. It also saved having a row. So instead, she enjoyed the moments she spent in other people's lovely homes, admiring their tasteful knick-knacks as she dusted, hoovered their plush carpets with the twinkly bits of glitter in, or loading their state-of-the-art washing machines that played a tune when the cycle finished. Best of all was sitting on classy return furniture on the woody deck and having a cup of tea with her favorite client and friend, Gina. Babs had a soft spot for the young mom, who she'd known all her life because she hadn't had an easy time growing up. It had all turned out fine when she found Jimmy, who was dedicated to giving Gina all the things she'd missed out on. And with a mum like hers, Gina had missed out on a lot, including love. They often had a catch up after work in nice weather sitting on the lovely patio with a cup of tea and a biscuit or otherwise in the beautiful kitchen that Babs coveted. Actually, it was mostly Babs who ate the biscuits. Posh ones from M&S. To hell with her diet. Gina didn't eat biscuits. In fact, lately she looked like she hadn't been eating much at all. Perhaps had intended having a tactful word with her because she didn't want Gina falling back into her old ways. The little chat wouldn't be happening anytime soon, but there was always the phone. Babs would keep in touch that way, just in case.

Babs huffed loudly as she poodled onwards. It was that bloody lot in China that she blamed, especially after she'd seen the photos of the wet markets on the news. It had made her gag and put her right off takeaways. She wasn't going to ban them, though, but only because it meant she didn't have to cook. Babs was lost in thought as she left the quaint section of the village behind, mentally going through the menu at the Golden Bridge Chippy as she followed a short expanse of Country Road. And there, up ahead, set at an angle, was the yellow sandstone edifice of St. Mary's Parish Church. It loomed high over the village. The square clock tower and steeple could be seen from most locations, and as far as Babs was concerned, it was a blot on the landscape. It was nothing special as churches go, the kind that little kids drew in crayon, simple in design, oblong, wide arch doors to the front with a flagstone path to the porticode gateway. It was surrounded on all sides by gravestones dating back to the 1800s when it was built. And to the rear, the dry stone walls separated consecrated land from the farmers fields. To the right, almost obscured by the mature trees that lined the perimeter, stood the vicorage. From the outside, parishioners had no reason to believe it was nothing more than their dear vicar's family home. The sandstone facade was adorned by a yellow climbing rose that gracefully wound its way along the archway and above the front door. and in bloom its beauty belied the ugly misery of what was going on behind it, and Babs knew who to blame for that. Again she felt a swell of rage, this time directed at one person in particular, the Reverend Edmund Hillyard, vicar of the parish. Babs despised him. As far as she was concerned, he was a bigoted fake. And if it hadn't been for two things, she'd have told him where to stick his cleaning job. Not just that, she reckoned his boss, not the Archbishop of Canterbury, the one upstairs, would agree. But she needed the money. And no way could she leave Robin, his lovely wife, in the lurch. Not under the circumstances when the poor woman needed all the support and friendship she could get. which was why Babs bit her tongue, averted her eyes, and got on with her work whenever he was around.

Leaving the spectre of St. Mary's behind, Babs put her foot down and zoomed along the country road. And then, after a gentle bend, and another patch

Of greenery, she passed the shops, the golden bridge chippy, and the bus stop with the concrete bench that held the usual gaggle of bored youths. Maybe the lockdown will keep the little boogers on the straight and narrow for a while, thought Babs, as she indicated, left and took the narrow road which led to the willows.

This thought led to another, that even though it had been a sobering moment when the PM made his announcement, money worries aside, there might actually be some benefits to her situation. For a start, she wouldn't be up at the crack of dawn to start her early shift. So, for the first time in ages, she'd have a big lion every day if she wanted. The forecast said it would be a scorcher of a week, so she'd get Isaac to cut the grass, unless it was Pete's turn. Oh, lordy. Another row was on the cards. Sod it. She'd do it herself, and then she could get the deck chairs out, sit in the sun, and read, maybe get a bit of a tan.

Then another thought pinged, and this was the best. If they had to cancel the summer holiday that she was dreading, then the money they'd save could be used for some home improvements. And now Pete couldn't go to the football or pool or the pub or anywhere apart from the cab of his bin wagon. He'd have plenty of free time on his hands, same as Isaac. chuckling at her own cunning, and with her mind still ticking, Bab smiled as she walked up the side path, ignoring the fact that nobody had bothered to bring in the washing she'd hung out at 5:30 a.m. this morning, it just made her even more determined. Things needed to change at Finch Towers, and while she had plenty of time on her hands, not only was she going to take some well-earned rest, she was also going to give them indoors a much needed kick up the ass.

Chapter 5. Robin. Robin was making her way along the flagstone path that skirted the church walls when she spotted the little blue Fiat as it sped by. And even though she'd raised her arm and waved, Babs hadn't noticed her. The sight of the car disappearing into the distance had made Robin sad, and she knew why. It was the notion that had Bab stopped, it would have been Robin's last chance to talk to someone on the outside. A cheeky catchup, a cheery smile, a problem shared. Never mind. Banishing the Mlin, she continued on her route to the sunny side of the church because today of all days she needed some light in her life.

Robin checked her wristwatch, awarding herself 30 minutes of fresh air and solitude before heading back to the vicorage. She'd been desperate to escape the confines of her home that since early morning had echoed with the monotonous sound of her husband's droning, and it really did drone, like one of those flying camera things hovering above your head, the buzzy vibrations invading your ear and burrowing into your brain. Edmund utilized the same tone for every conceivable situation and event where his colorless vocabulary was accompanied by the actual sound of tedium. It was bizarre but true. Edmund had canned the art of conveying misery, distorting words into uninspiring flat sermons that he would project right to the back of the nave. And it didn't matter what the occasion. Sunday service, prizegiving at the summer fate. Even on happy occasions, Edmund nailed it. A wedding would seem more like a death nail. A baptism an ominous portant of a life not yet lived. He was a bloody natural of funerals.

There was an exception, because when he was angry, Edmund miraculously made full use of his range and vocal cords. He loved a good old rant and was in his element. condemning the sinner to eternal damnation, advocating repentance, serving the threat of divine punishment as a side dish. Edmund was a natural and could put any fire and brimstone Methodist to shame. It had happened many times, not necessarily in the pulpit. Most notably, when someone stole the lead off the church roof, he was incandescent and actually drove to the traveler site in the next town to accuse them. stupid move because a week later someone pinched the wheels off his car. Oh, that had really made Robin smile seeing his Honda Civic on the drive on bricks.

Then they'd had the trouble with their son Chris and Tom, Babs's younger brother. An awful time. Just thinking of it made Robin shudder. There was no mirth to be found in that situation, but at least she and Babs had managed to stay friends despite how Edmund had behaved. She should be used to it by now after 33 years, and realized that marriage, hers anyway, was merely a form of earthly torture that she'd just have to live with, a penance for a sin she had willingly committed. Now and then in her more rebellious moments, usually after a bottle of red and a sneaky siggy in the company of old Martha Nottingham, she did wonder if she ever plucked up the courage to leave and divorce Edmund, would this, and her deepest secret be worthwhile mortal sins, worth being locked out of heaven for and spending eternity in purgatory's waiting room? But Robin would never leave Edmund. She knew it. He knew it. And she hated that. His power over her was supreme. At one time aided and abetted by her faith, instilled and nurtured since an early age. Her belief was a gift from God and had brought her great comfort. What hurt Robin deeply was not so much her predicament. It was how he had tainted something that was part of her, something that had filled her heart with comfort and joy. She had never resented it or her parents for the Christian life they led. Her kind and loving father, also a vicar, had been the polar opposite to Edmund. He had been enlightened and progressive, where her husband upheld and followed the doctrines of the church to the letter. There was no middle ground with Edmund, regardless of who he hurt, even his own wife and children.

So it was no surprise, all things considered, after the trouble and the worries over their daughter Willow, that Robin had questioned everything she had ever known. Whether it was to spite or punish her husband, be it born from rage or regret, despair and immense sorrow, or simply the need to do something of her own accord, she turned her back on God and Edmund. Sought him, thought Robin, as she picked up her pace, and headed towards where Martha would be waiting for her. But tonight there'd be no time for wine and siggies. Robin only embibed if she knew it was safe for her to do so when Willow had someone to watch over her. Nate, her son-in-law, was going out soon, so she had to be quick. As she rounded the northeast corner of the church, Robin was caught in the mellow glow of the evening sun, and the warmth of its rays lifted her instantly, causing her to smile and tilt her chin a little higher. It had been another beautiful day, hence her floral maxi skirt and yellow vest top that exposed her live arms and fair freckled skin. She'd always had to be careful. Red heads and the sun weren't a match made in heaven. But Robin loved the outdoors, gardening especially because it was a release, her escape into a world of color and glorious scents. finding calm in ordered rows of vegetables and borders of flowers that when they burst into life brought joy into hers. Yellow was her favorite color, her go-to preference in clothes and furnishings, including the feature wall in the vicorage kitchen, brightening what was essentially a drafty austere abode that had desperately needed a dose of the 20th century. Bing Q had helped her with that and her trusty paint roller. Yellow was also her choice of rose which she'd planted under the vicorage windows all those years before when she and Edmund arrived in the village. A gift to the house, the laying down of roots, and in some ways a putting to bed of things that could never be, burying her deepest desires and secrets under a layer of top soil. Robin didn't like to think of that time too much, but she remembered kneeling on the path as she dug deep, then lowered the sapling into the hole. Tears were running down her cheeks as she prayed for divine guidance, strength, anything God could spare so she might find the courage to honor her wedding vows and navigate married life. Thankfully, that day he'd been listening.

For many years, with the birth of her two children, Robin's cup had, for a time, overflowed with love and gratitude for such wondrous good fortune, right up until the trouble, and then the tragedy that led to Willow's rapid decline. God had held her up, been her rod and staff, guiding her through death's dark veil and the searing pain of loss. He'd taken his share of the burden when the weight of duty was too much to bear. Held her hand tightly when the one she reached for let her down. It was God, not Edmund, who'd done these things. In the past 33 years, Robin would say her husband was the most terrible disappointment of all. But worse than all the things she attributed to him was the loss of something she'd held so dear, equal to the love of her parents and children. her faith.

Striding along the worn pathways that crisscrossed the gently sloping graveyard, Robin was aware of the familiar ball of anger burning like a comet inside her chest, but she forbade it to ruin her moments of freedom. Reaching the far, deserted corner, she stepped around the leaning headstones, exhausted not from daily toil, more from allowing her memories headsp space. There, Robin sat and rested her back against the bumpy wall, stretched out her long legs, and once she was settled, said hello to dear Martha. Well, what a day it's been here. But I'm sure you know what's going on, so I won't bore you with the details. Although Edmund is in a bit of a lather about it all, I suspect it's more to do with him being forced out of his comfort zone. And I did have a bit of a giggle when I heard the bishop. They were on loudspeaker, you see, mentioned setting up a Facebook group so they could conduct Zoom sermons. I could only see the back of Edmund's head and tense shoulders, but I knew from the fervent fingertapping he would be pused with anger. Imagine him on social media.

As always, Martha just listened. She never interrupted, but how could she when she was 6 feet under? So instead, Robin imagined her reply. Dear sweet Martha always agreed. I know what he'll do, though. He'll get Nate to help him set it up and then rope in some poor unsuspecting parishioner to do all the leg work, you know, posting stuff. Then he'll take the credit. Another thought occurred to Robin that at least with Zoom the parishioners could switch the old bore off when he started banging on. I quite fancy having a Facebook account, you know, so that I can have a gander at what's going on in the village and in the big wide world and get in on the gossip. Babs has one and she loves it and tells me all sorts. I think it would be fun. Martha agreed and said she should go for it. What was there to lose? And it had piss old Eddie off for a start. Robin smiled because when Martha spoke, her voice belonged to a raspy 40 siggies a day kind of gal who coughed when she laughed and she had a cocknney accent. Definitely not from Cheshire. And Bab says there are a lot of support groups on there. You know where I could chat to people in the same situation as us. She thinks it would do me good. But then again, I don't think I'd like strangers knowing all my personal business. I get it's a positive thing for people to have a place where they can reach out, share their innermost feelings or worries, ups and downs, and on their worst days know someone is there listening. She smoothed her skirt and contemplated social media. I think I'm a good listener, but I'm not so good at sharing. Not like Babs. There's always something happening at Finch Towers, as she calls it. Bless her. She loved them all really. Even Pete, although she calls him rotten. It's just bluster because she'd do anything for him and her kids. Whereas in my case, when I say I cannot bear Edmund, and if he fell into an open grave, I'd fill it in there and then, I really do mean it.

Robin paused on her last statement, which was a rather murderous or manslaughtery fact, and where her two children were concerned, she too would do anything for them. They were her life, and she would lay hers down in an instant to save either one of them. But that wasn't how it went. She knew that. Nobody got to do a deal with God. Swap one life for another, theirs for someone they loved. Not in her world, the real world that was completely and utterly [ __ ]. "Life is shit," Robin said out loud, making two blackbirds who'd been pecking at the base of a headstone flap and flutter away. "Oops, sorry, little birdies. I didn't mean to scare you. And I can hear you laughing, Martha Nottingham, at me, the upstanding vicar's wife, saying a naughty swear word. Well, I can tell you now I say worse than that. Think them, too. Words so bad I make myself blush purple like the bishop's cassak. But you know what? I don't give a [ __ ] fig. Not anymore."

Robin uncrossed and recrossed her legs so her ankles wouldn't swell and listened to Martha, who'd found her outburst very amusing. Martha said that back in her day in the 50s when she was the land lady at the Carters, she'd heard it all and nothing shocked her. Robin therefore had permission to turn the air blue if it made her feel better. This made Robin smile. She could picture her silent friends so clearly, thanks to a black and white photograph on the wall of the village pub, a kind of rogu's gallery of landlords past and present. It was such a strange thing that a snapshot taken in the 50s could have such an impact and had kickstarted a friendship born from a mutual understanding of loneliness. It was their special story, the tale of Martha and Robin.

Chapter 6. They'd met at awake. if you could call talking to a photograph actually meeting someone, but it would turn out to be a lasting friendship of mutual respect, albeit one-sided and from the grave. Edmund had conducted his first funeral service since moving to Bington, and they'd both shown willing and accepted the invitation to the Carters for the wake. Nowadays, they'd call it a PR exercise, whereas back then it was called being polite and paying your respects to the outgoing celestialbound headmaster of St. Mary's Primary. They'd been in Bington a matter of weeks. Robin was 8 months pregnant at the time, missing her parents and very lonely. In between making a home of the dismal vicorage, she hadn't had time to make new friends, not ones of her own age or whom she'd chosen herself. The only people she'd come into contact with were the parishioners on the church committee and making pleasantries as she shopped in the co-op. So Robin spent much of the day alone, lost in thought as she paddled her way through homesickness. She wasn't about to drown exactly, but on really bad days she swore she could feel the water lapping at her knees, and that had worried her. Edmund had been busy shaking hands and commiserating while Robin occupied herself with the paintings and photographs on the wall.

The moment Robin clapped eyes on the lone land lady and read the name pallet below, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Martha had been the proprietor from 1931 to 1952, and her cheery smile beamed from the frame. Her laughing eyes crinkled at the corner so her crow's feet rested on the bone of her cheeks. When a voice by her side interrupted Robin, she turned and looked down onto the kindly face of a mourner. That's my auntie Martha on my old dad's side. My name's Hilda, by the way, and I know you're Robin. Pleasure to meet you at last. Shame it's under these circumstances, though. Hilda gave a jerk of the head towards the grieving family who were sipping tea at a table in the corner. Robin accepted a dainty handshake and smiled, glad of someone to talk to at last. Pleasure to meet you, too, Hilda. Turning her gaze to the photograph, she delved a little. Your aunt looks a lovely lady. Do you remember her by any chance? Robin was being tactful because her companion couldn't possibly be a day under 70. Oh, yes, like I saw her yesterday. had a tough time. Did Auntie Martha, leaving her family in London to move up here with my uncle Jack? They met at a wedding, a second cousin, I believe. She missed her old mom like mad, she did, but her and uncle Jack were in love, and she was determined to make a go of it. The poor married life. Took to run this place like a duck to water, she did. Always wore the pants, my mom said. an independent woman before her time, I reckon.

Something inside Robin's heart twanged, knowing precisely how it felt to miss your mother, not the independent woman part. "Oh, that's sad. I miss my mother so much, especially with a baby on the way." She rested her hand protectively on her stomach as Hilda smiled at the bump, then chatted on. "And then there was the war. That's what broke her in the end. So my dad used to say. Dread swept over Robin, and for a second she hadn't wanted to ask the obvious, but she did, totally invested in Martha by then. Why? What happened in the war? A sigh, a wistful look, and a hint of a tear preceded the answer. Her parents and younger sister were killed in the Blitz while her Jack and only son, my cousin Tommy, were away fighting. Shouldn't have been allowed in my opinion. Father and son sent off to war like that. Hitler or no Hitler. On the day they left, the whole village gathered on the green to wave the men folk off. They all went together, even my dad. But my uncle and cousin never came back. Nearly killed Auntie Arthur. It did. My mom reckoned Martha wanted to die, to be with them both, and in the end, she got her wish, I suppose.

Robin was clutching her neck, something she did when she was anxious or shocked, and her cheeks were a flame, another subconscious reaction that always left her even more flustered. Why? What happened? Robin looked at the photo. She [snorts] looks so happy in the picture. Uh, well, that's the thing, isn't it? Nobody knows what's really going on inside folks heads or what pain hides behind their eyes. From what I know, she struggled to keep going, putting on a brave face for her customers when Jack and Tom went to war. Then afterwards, when she'd lost them both, Martha carried on as best she could, hiding her grief, putting one foot in front of the other for seven long years. Then one night there was a terrible accident. Hilda paused and moved closer, lowering her voice a notch. The last time she saw her boys was the day she waved them off from the green where the Senate is now. My mom said she'd often find Martha there sitting on the bench late at night, a bit worse for wear, if you get my drift. Robin nodded. Well, anyway, after a few too many gins, Martha often told my mom that she was waiting for her boys and that one day Jack and Tommy would come back for her. Poor Booger. That's why she sat there, watching the road for ghosts. The night she died, she must have gone over there after the pub closed. Robin suspected and dreaded what came next. The coroner's report said it was a tragic accident that she tripped and fell, landed face down in the pond and drowned. The milkman spotted her the next morning. There was a rumor, and mind you, take no notice if you hear it, that Auntie Martha took her own life, but I don't believe that. Some did. Busy bodies in the church a lot. Hilda paused as though realizing her mistake. Sorry, dear, but I speak as I find. No offense meant. Robin felt her lips twitch, amused by Hilda's fauxar. None taken, I promise. It was still a crime back then to take your own life and a sin in the eyes of the church. But thankfully, the reverend at the time was a nice chap, had a good heart, and was a regular here at the pub and stood her corner. Wouldn't listen to all that sinner nonsense, and didn't believe Martha had taken her own life. so made sure she got a nice service and burial up at St. Mary's. Otherwise, she'd have ended up on the other side of the wall with all them sinners from the old days.

Silence fell on Robin and Hilda as they stared at Martha. The only sound came from the mourers, respectful murmurss honoring the deceased, china cups clinking on saucers, and the odd out ofplace ripple of laughter. Robin sighed. That's such a sad story, but I'm so glad that the vicar stood up for her. Has she any family buried close by at the church? Hilda shook her head. No, she's on her own. Jack and Tommy fell in France. Her parents and sister were buried in Hackne, and my parents were cremated. But I do go up there now and then, not as much as I should, but my knees aren't what they used to be. That's by the by though because Martha won't care if I go or not. She's with her boys now and that's what matters. It's how I think of her and my parents. Free at last, happy and together forever.

Movement from behind distracted them for a moment as the barmaid announced that refreshments were being served, which signaled the end of their chat. Hilda smiled. Right. I'm off to get some food before it all goes. And I might treat myself to a large cherry. Oh, this nattering's given me a thirst. Yes, you go and I'll get my husband to bring you a sherry. You sit down and relax, and thank you for telling me about Martha. Robin placed her hand on Hilda's arm and received a smile and a gentle pat in return. Once Hilda had shuffled off to the buffet table, Robin stepped forward, drawn in closer, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to say hello and touch the face of a woman she'd never met on an image taken long ago. Peering at Martha, she whispered, "Hello, my name's Robin, and I'm new here." In return, an imagined voice from nowhere replied, "Hello, darling. Nice to meet you."

It had played on Robin's mind all night. Martha's story had touched her soul, and first thing the next morning, she'd gone to Edmund's study and searched the records of names and plot numbers of everyone buried in the graveyard. It was easy enough to find Martha, and once she had, Robin raced as fast as an 8-month pregnant woman can to Martha's resting place. It was the beginning of their most special friendship. Robin looked at the inscription on the headstone and then down at the plot which she'd fidiously kept tended and brightened up with flowers all year round. What would I do without you to talk to? Eh, we've been through some stuff together, that's for sure. In Robin's mind, Martha nodded, then took a drag of her Siggy. She was exactly as the photo in the pub portrayed her. white blonde hair that always looked lovely. A kind of fluffy Doris Day style, backcombed on top and the side tucked neatly behind her ears, set under space helmet dryers at the salon during her weekly appointment. She was captured in time and Robin's imagination wearing a flowery dress, a riot of summer colors, the new look that became popular after Dior put a bit of oomph back into women's clothing in 1947. The style, 3/4 sleeved, boat necked, and nipped in at the waist, emphasized an hourglass figure. Having [snorts] no idea what Martha wore on her feet, Robin improvised and chose pale pink kitten heels, sling back, a hint of glamour, but sensible enough for working behind the bar all day. Looking down at her own sandal feet, size eight, definitely not kittenheel dainty, Robin imagined her and Martha side by side. She tall and gangly, reed thin and rather bohemian in her choice of attire, whereas her friend would be petite yet curvy and about two feet shorter. Oh, how she wished she could have met Martha in life.

Lifting her face to the sun, Robin was jolted by the sound of a car, louder it seemed, than normal as it sped past, and it caused her to check her watch. Seeing that she'd overstayed, her thoughts moved from sleepy Martha to dinner duties. So with a sigh and a tut, she stood. Brushing the dust from her skirt, she bade goodbye to her friend. I'll no doubt pop by tomorrow, but if not, soon as be good, and don't do anything I wouldn't. As she headed along the path deep in thought, Robin was aware of being followed. The shadow of gloom lurked only a few inches behind her, stealthily, patient, and by the time she'd reached the vicorage, it was ready to pounce. She never looked at the gargoyless above the lintil. They reminded her of Edmund, and instead closed her eyes. Before she stepped inside, Robin rested her hand on the front door in preparation for the hours ahead, avoiding Edmund and focusing her devotions on someone who deserved it, Willow. Just like Dear Martha had been trapped in a world of sorrow, her pain hidden behind eyes that yearned to see their loved ones once again, Robin's daughter was locked in the prison of her mind. And as much as Robin had tried to find the key so she could open the door and get Willow back or set her free, it was nowhere to be found. Edmund failed to see that prayers weren't going to work, and she sensed that Nate was slowly pulling away from the wife he'd promised to love in sickness and in health. Robin would never give up, though, not on her child. So, it was with a deep sigh that she pushed open the door, and leaving Martha and the sunshine behind, she and Gloom stepped inside.

Chapter 7. Gina, I bring it on myself. I know I do. I'm my own worst enemy. If only I had a tener for every time someone has said that to me. For a start, my best friend Willow would be quidds in. You see, no matter how good life is, I find a way to ruin it by giving in to the overwhelming fear that it's all going to go wrong. And yes, I know exactly where it all started. why I do it. The way I cope with it isn't ideal either. The fact is eventually bad luck always turns up and bites me on the bum. 42 Lily Lane. That's where it all began on the day my dad Don came home and caught my mom, Debbie, in bed with the man who drove the road sweeping cart. Apparently, she'd been at it with the bin man, too, and the bloke who came to fit the new bulb to the street lamp outside our house. I reckon she had a thing about council workers and high viz vests. She did book the trend with a taxi driver who brought her home from the pub, which proves my case. He was easy like her. It was a Thursday, almost the end of summer term. I was six and we were due to go camping that weekend. 2 weeks in TMBI and I've been looking forward to it for months. Apparently, after dad thumped the road sweeper, mom threw all dad's clothes out of the bedroom window onto the front garden, then rang the police. By the time I got home, Babs once again swooping in when she saw me waiting at the gate alone. Dad had been locked up, and mom was well into the role of the victim. I remember being so embarrassed because a pair of dad's wifes were tangled in the privets, and the parents and kids who passed by were laughing. While I cried myself to sleep that night, all I could think of was Tmbi, our holiday, and how it had all gone wrong.

Life went downhill from there really. I became that kid who was pulled apart by waring parents because while dad made a big show of wanting me to go and live with him, it was never going to happen. He might have been the more capable, sensible parent, but working continental shifts and living in a bedsit miles away meant he became weekend dad. You know the score. bad atmosphere. Sarky comments when he picked me up. The tutting and door slamming when we were 5 minutes late. Her threatening to ring her solicitor. Like she even had one. Mom never worked again after dad left. Said her nerves were bad and we lived on benefits and the kindness of strangers, friends really, like Babs and Robin. They both took me under their wings. Thank the Lord. Mom struggled to get out of bed on time to walk me to school and I was always late. So seeing as she knew my mom of old, Bab stepped in and offered to take me. She lived next door but one in those days. So each morning as she passed by with her son Isaac, two years younger than me, she'd wait at the gate and I'd rush down the path, cling onto her pram that contained baby Sasha, and off we'd go. One day, as I skipped along eating a slice of toast, Babs always wrapped something in tin foil for me, a crumpet or a potato cake, which I love the most. I passed on a worldly wise thought to my guardian angel. I'm so lucky, Babs. As she pulled the blanket up over Sasha's legs, she asked why. I was happy to explain. Cuz I've got two little birdies to look after me. Babs looked down and ruffled my hair while Isaac marched on ahead, clearly not wanting to be seen with a girl. What do you mean by birdies? I saw a picture in a book at Sunday school of a bird and under its wing was a little chick and it made me think of you and Willow's mom. You're Mrs. Finch and that's a bird and so is a robin. I think Jesus has sent you both from heaven to put me under your wings and take care of me because Jesus is kind and good and loves everyone, even little girls with naughty mummies. At this Bab stalled for a second and looked at me in a strange way, like I'd made her happy and fed up all at once. What makes you think your mommy is naughty? Bella Young told me. She said her mommy won't let her play with me cuz my mommy is a dirty lady and has been naughty with lots of men. I'm not bothered cuz I don't like Bella. She's nasty. And I suppose mommy is a bit dirty cuz she never washes the pots and swears at my dad down the phone which is very naughty. But she's still my mommy and I love her like Jesus tells us to do.

Babs didn't reply straight away and instead put her arm around me and gave me a squishy hug. Then said, "Well, me and Robin are here anytime. So, if you're a bit fed up or anything like that, all you have to do is ask us and we'll pop you under our wings just like this." Bab's kept her arm around me all the way to the gate and has done ever since, which is why now it's my turn to look after her and Robin, too, because in their own ways, they both need as much help as they can get.

When we moved in here and I was 6 months pregnant, I thought it was a sign that the name Swallow's Nest Cottage was telling me I'd found my place. I was a little bird and here I could make my nest. Babs came round and helped me get it all [ __ ] and span. I loved it having her here yaking away while she wiped sawdust from inside the cupboards, then helped me stack the new pots and pans and basically showed me how to look after a home. I'd only ever lived in halls at uni or in shared student houses, so I had no clue where to begin in a huge house. My mom is still a waste of space and wasn't the best role model, so Babs is my surrogate parent. I adore her. I remember telling her she should write a book for dogs like me, but that bloody Mrs. Hinch beat her to it, which is really annoying. It was my idea to take her on as my housekeeper, and we pay her well over the odds. I refused to call her my cleaner because she's much more than that and was a godsend when I had Max and the baby blues grip me and again when Mimi came along. See, that's what I mean. There's always been something, some bloody issue in my life that I couldn't cope with. Things that most people breeze through, but oh no, not me. And as much as Babs and the doctor assured me it wasn't my fault, I blame myself, my past. I loathe me. Flaky Gina Morgan who has to have a meltdown, make a bloody mountain out of a molehill. God, I annoy myself so much. I totally get why I'm this way. It's because I've never felt worthy. That I'm from an underclass. Each time I achieve something or find a happy place, I expect the worst for it to all go wrong, which is where the control thing comes in.

You see, while I was at school, St. Mary's to start with, Babs was a dinner lady and managed to spread her wings across the canteen. She always made sure I got seconds. Food wasn't a high priority for mom. Laga was, so I developed a cunning way of never being hungry. After school, I'd scavenge something at home and then wander around to see Babs or call for Willow. And if they asked had I eaten, I'd say no. I always got a proper tea there. When me and Willow went to secondary school, Robin always sent plenty in a big booty box for us to share. Even when Willow struggled with her maths and they got a tutor in to make sure she passed GCES, guess who was sitting opposite, soaking up what I could, making the most of another freebie. Yes, it did make me feel ashamed. And as I got older, I had to put up with [ __ ] comments from people like Bella Young and her cronies about me being a bit tubby. My devious ways were starting to take their toll. Otherwise, they'd mention my [ __ ] mom, our tatty house, or my shoes that lacked the correct label. Bella always found something to shame me with. Bella was one of those girls who had it all. Lived in a gorgeous farmhouse on the outskirts of the village. Had two ponies, a holiday home, and parents who were able to indulge her every whim. That girl followed me through life like a curse. And whenever I turned round, she was there all through school and then college. I thought I'd never shake her off, but I did because I had something she didn't. Brains and ambition. I also had Robin and Babs and their charity. Because that's what it was, but given kindly in a way that made me feel loved and welcome, especially when I stayed at the vicorage, which in my teenage years was a lot. Willow and I were inseparable. Days out with my dad dwindled when he found himself a girlfriend and mom spent her weekends entertaining. I couldn't wait to get out of our scruffy, smelly pit of doom house. I loved being in the vicorage because the kitchen walls were painted yellow and everyone sat around the table to eat and talk. Even Willow's older brother, Chris, was nice, very shy, and especially timid around his dad, who insisted on calling him his full name, Crispen. Poor Sod. Thank goodness Robin got her way naming Willow. I was a bit scared of Edmund at first, as I was never really sure where him being the vicer, who often looked solemn and ever so important, ended, and a dad and husband began. He was always pleasant enough to me in front of people, even though after hearing a hushed conversation, I realized he was being fake. "Are you sure she's not going to be a bad influence on Willow? We all know about her mother and how she behaves?" Robin tuted. "She's 7 years old and very sweet. She couldn't possibly be a bad influence. And anyway, where's your Christian responsibility? Really, Edmund, what would the boss think? Now, wash your hands for dinner and be nice to our guest. Humility won't kill you." Tears stung my eyes, and I hated my mom so much. From that moment on, I was determined to prove to Edmund that I was a good girl. Now I look back, I think he tolerated the intrusion because it suited his job description, made him feel benevolent. I was the lost sheep that he allowed into his home. But it was Robin who was the true good Samaritan. It's weird, isn't it? How as you get older, you start to see someone differently and a person you kind of woripped, you grow to despise. Putting the Reverend Mr. Hillyard practice narcissist and fake aside, I always think fondly of my time with Willow at the vicorage. And being a member of the church community, being part of a clan, having somewhere to go and belong was a gift. Me and Willow kept the brownie guide law, helped arrange flowers at weddings, rose through the churchy ranks, and got our own cake stall at the summer fate. We even helped Robin tend the graves of people who didn't get visitors anymore. We were totally invested in Jesus. We loved him in every way, even if we'd got the wrong end of the stick and had no concept of monogamy. Me and Willow thought Jesus was very good-looking with his lovely long hair and trimmed beard, those smiley blue eyes, and lovely smile, and agreed he'd make a great husband. He had all the best qualities. When you're eight, you see life in a much simpler form, especially as we were going to share the son of God and would take turns being his wife. Oh, happy days. We treated St. Mary's like it belonged to us and spent hours in the church, taking one pew each where we would sit with a picnic reading Enid Blighton and Jacqueline Wilson. Our grand plan involved going to boarding school together. Then later we'd become brides of Christ and take holy orders. This confusing phase was due to watching the sound of music on a loop. We knew all the songs and would pretend we were nuns, gliding around the nave, clasping our Bibles to our chest, singing Arve Maria. It was so wonderful living in our fantasy world, cocooned in the knowledge that Jesus was our friend and people like Edmund never lied or did bad things. And then poof. Just like that, it all changed. And once again, like with mom and dad, it all went wrong.

Chapter 8. Imagine it like a perfect [ __ ] storm of the mind. I'd managed to separate my home life from the one I'd latched on to with Willow's family and Babs, who always invited me to family dues or for a glass of pop and a biscuit. All was good in the world. And then at 17, it dawned on me that the path I'd trod, getting good grades in my GCES and predicted B's in my A levels meant that eventually I was going to have to move on. Move out and go to uni. Worse, Willow had applied to Cambridge and no way was I going there. It was out of my price and brain range. And anyway, my choice of career wasn't on their curriculum. Freedom came at a cost, but I was prepared to go into debt and get a student loan, knowing I'd have to work to feed and clothe myself, seeing as I'd get no help from my parents. But the thought that me and Willow would be parted, that my safety net would be gone, was the most terrifying thing ever. I had two options. Be brave and strike out alone or forget university. Stay put and get a job. I chose uni and it was hard because while Willow had backup, I was a onewoman team. And then when I was teetering on the edge of the rug, grasping on to the notion that little Buddington, the vicorage and my faith would always be something solid that I could cling on to, Edmund yanked it from under me.

It was a dismal rainy Saturday evening one week before I went to uni. Robin had gone to visit a parishioner in hospital and Willow and me were watching Charmed in the lounge. During the ads, she nipped upstairs to the L just as the vicorage phone began to ring. It was the bishop. That's how he introduced himself. And you'd have thought I was speaking to the almighty himself the way my heart raced. He needed to speak to Edmund as a matter of urgency. So I, always wanting to help, said I'd nip down to the church and see if he was there. Willow was on her way back downstairs, and when I relayed the conversation, she rolled her eyes and said she'd get us some snacks while I delivered the message. Off I went. I've never been scared of the church grounds in the dark. The pathway was illuminated by the street lamp on the corner, enough so I could see my way. I knew the main doors would be locked, so I went around the back. It's a bit eerie in the graveyard, but the dead can't hurt me, and it was too early for the side drinking teens to play chicken among the headstones. I reached the small door that led into the hallway of the vest where I expected Edmund to be, but it was locked. Thinking that he wasn't there, I turned to go. Just as on the other side, I heard voices approaching. I recognized them both immediately. When can I see you again? I hate waiting so long. And from that performance, I can tell you miss me too, my little tiger. Let's do it one more time. Come on, I'll be lonely at home, all by myself. I cringed at my mom's pathetic weedling as I listened, sick to my stomach, but unable to tear myself away. Debbie, you know I'd love for you to stay, but I have to get on, and you've been very naughty coming here. Next time we'll meet on the lane like before." Edmund sounded weird, softer, huskier, like some crap actor. And had I not been so horrified, I'd have laughed. Come on, Eddie. You can't resist this silence, then a giggle. See, you naughty boy. I knew you needed more. A few moments of mom giggling, and then it sounded like they both thudded against the door. I dreaded to think what was happening on the other side, but it seemed Eddie had managed to control the tiger in his tank and my mom. So, when I heard the key rattle in the lock, I turned and ran.

I'll never forget how I felt that night, tormented by the sins that Eddie had committed. That's how I always thought of him after that. Common, normal bloke Eddie, who was once a beacon of virtue, I suppose. In my mind, he'd fallen from grace and the pulpit, smashing his pious, smug face on the floor of the nave. And when he got back up, he was unrecognizable. disfigured body and soul, a hypocrite, an adulterer. I didn't care about my mom because she was a lost cause and I'd morally washed my hands of her long before. But him, how could he? And worse, he made me commit a sin, too, because I lied to my best friend when I said I couldn't find her dad. And to dear kind Robin when she asked me if I wasn't well when I couldn't eat the Chinese food she'd brought home. No matter how much I knew it was wrong, all of it. I couldn't tell them what I'd heard because it would ruin their lives. I so wanted to get out of that house. But where would I go? Home to dirty Deborah Watson, local bike and vicager. Instead, I stayed, averting my eyes when Eddie came home. And as he nipped upstairs for a quick shower, oh, it made my skin crawl. the thought of what they'd been doing in the poor oblivious Robin having to stuff his undies in the washer. I was so confused, shocked, disappointed, too. It took me days to process it. And as much as I'd been nervous about going to uni, I suddenly couldn't wait to go. In temper, I vowed never to step foot in church again because one of God's own was a baddie. I took my rage out on him and his one and only son, even though it wasn't their fault Eddie was a sicko. But I was torn and confused, and that's not a good place for me to be. Looking back, I think being let down like that must have all been too much. So, I bottled it up inside. moving away into halls, enrolling, meeting new people, plus a bout of homesickness that I knew was for my village and a few people in it, certainly not my mom, didn't help. Nor did the worries about how much textbooks cost, food, bus fairs, joining in. I went through the motions in a trance at first, then threw myself into the course, which I began to enjoy. I settled in, made friends, got on with it, and then a few months later, boom. As I

walked into my first lecture of the day, it hit me. I was happy. I smiled and laughed. Life was good.

And no sooner had I thought it, this slimy, horrible hand slid around my heart and reminded me not to get too comfortable because at any moment it could all go wrong. I crumbled right there on the pavement, swallowed whole by a panic attack, unable to breathe, walk, or talk until I was rescued by one of my friends.

It happened frequently after that, and I knew I had to take control of my life, find some order, and not allow a descent into chaos. That would waste everything I'd achieved, throw away all those crumpets and potato cakes, and disrespect the kindness and love that helped me get to that point.

I also realized I'd let Edmund rock my faith because just like one of my favorite childhood stories, one bad apple had spoiled the lot. I was so angry with him and myself. So I went back to church, my place of comfort, allowed myself to believe in my mate Jesus and the lady reverend at the university chapel that they would be my rod and staff and see me through.

It may have been a coincidence or part of my quest for mental stability, but being a very skint student who was terrified of living her postgrad life in massive debt led to another form of control. Food. Or should I say the lack of it. I truthfully can't remember when it started. Perhaps somewhere deep in my subconscious where strains of nasty Bella making fun of my weight when my two te's habit began to take its toll. Or maybe I caught a glimpse of myself and did not like what I saw.

So I've been the bus and walked everywhere and existed on a fourpack of apples a day or a couple of bananas, a tin of soup, the cheaper the better, and whatever was on the reduced shelf at spa. Losing weight, saving money, being in control. It was my thing, my challenge. Best of all, my hero had fasted for 40 days and 40 nights, so he couldn't chastise me. My mate Jesus was no hypocrite.

The thing was, I took it to the extreme. And that's how it's always been. It's like I have the power to be kind to myself or be ruthless when I feel I don't deserve it. I apply the pressure or take my foot off the brake in my own haphazard, quite frankly, self-destructive way. But I've never succumbed in a way that put me in danger, not like so many poor souls do.

I have peaks and troughs. I'm happy when all is well in my world. But the minute life throws me a curved ball, if I'm stressed or my equilibrium is threatened in any way, I panic and convince myself it's all going to go wrong. I have to take control the only way I know. when I got my first job, met Jimmy, when he proposed, planning the wedding. The only time I didn't succumb is when I had the kids because that was a good time and I put them before me. And I always will. My family is my life.

Anyway, back to Robin and Eddie. When there were the homecomings, I'd endure my mom and spend time at the vicorage playing Let's Pretend because I felt I owed Willow and Robin that. And then there was the trouble with Chris. And once again, I saw the face of the devil reflected in Edmunds and the urge to set Robin free was immense. All I had to do was speak up. Let the cat out of the bag. I was too scared in case it was the wrong thing to do and I made it all worse.

Instead, I use my hate for Eddie as another form of stubborn control and clung on so hard to my secret about him, about me. I also clung to my faith because I refused to let him take that from me again, ever. I kept quiet and Willow was allowed to love her dad like she'd always done. But my heart hurt for Robin because she was stuck in a sham marriage. I could see that then, and I still can now, more than ever since Willow's tragedy.

And now, just when I thought life couldn't get any better, this awful virus is sweeping across the world. But it's not that that I really fear. It's the thought of losing Jimmy. A face from the past has come back to haunt me. And now it's like that perfect mind [ __ ] [ __ ] storm is hovering offshore. And when it hits, it'll swallow me whole. And I can't bear it. And that's why I've begun to take control. And Jimmy has noticed. He always does. That's another reason why I love him so much. I was his world. He said it in our vows. And he is mine, my everything.

It is also why I'm going to embrace being shut in this house. Lockdown has given me double control and will for a while enable me to keep him away from her. Bella Young. She's not going to ruin things for me. She will not take my husband. She will not separate a father from his children. And if she thinks she can, she is wrong. And as God and my mate Jesus are my witnesses, if she tries, I will make her sorry.

Chapter nine. Babs, I am absolutely fuming. I mean, the cheek of it. And as for Pete, he is well and truly in the doghouse. But what's new? Him siding with our Isaac. I couldn't believe it when I walked in last night and saw the leopard print suitcase at the bottom of the stairs and Fiona sitting at the kitchen table painting her nails. I knew without even having to ask what was going on, but I did anyway, just for the hell of it.

"Is that your suitcase in the hall?" She looked up and gave me a nervous smile. "Yes, but I left it there until you came home because I insisted we check with you first, that it was okay, even though Pete said you won't mind."

I played dim. "Check what's okay. Are you both going on holiday? Because I think you're going to be disappointed. And even if you could get off, you don't actually need my permission for a jolly, seeing as Isaac's supposed to be an adult, even if he doesn't act like one."

She had the grace to blush at this point, and as her eyes searched along the hallway, Fiona was saved by a thudding on the stairs that heralded the appearance of dafted and stupid in the flesh. My manchild, Isaac.

"Ah, Mom, you're back. We wondered where you got to. Has fee told you she's moving in? It's a sensible option. Otherwise, we won't be able to see each other. It's okay, isn't it? Dad said it would be." Then a glance at my shopping bag. "Oh, pizza. Nice. I'm starving."

I watched gobsmacked as he began to unload my bag for life. And that cheeky mare got up and put the oven on. My oven in my kitchen. Well, I was furious. And I wasn't going to be walked over like that. I knew it was a done deal and she'd be staying because I couldn't really be asked with the drama of booting her out. Then again, I wasn't going to take the intrusion lying down.

"Uh, excuse me, but why can't you go and stay at Fiona's house?" I refused to say Fee because it's annoying like her.

Isaac paused mid rip of the plastic that covered the spicy chicken pizza. "Fee's mom and dad are properly isolating because of their health issues and it's too dangerous. You know, if me and Fee keep coming and going, we could infect them. So, it's best we stay here in this bubble."

"What health issues?" I turned my attention to Fiona, who was getting plates out of my cupboards. "I didn't know your mom and dad were poorly."

She didn't miss a beat and delivered her lines dead pan. "Oh, yes. My dad has angina and my mom has anxiety issues, so they both struggle. I'm sure I told you. Anyway, having a houseful will only make them worse, so it's best we stay here."

I looked from one to the other. "Have you both lost your minds? A house full? It's not even like this is a bloody mansion. You know, there's loads more room at yours. You even have a conservatory and a downstairs Lou."

At this, Isaac had the cheek to laugh and directed his next quip at Fiona. "Oh. Oh, here we go. Mom's going to remind us that Dad's never built her a conservatory."

I ignored Isaac, not wanting to remove the head of my eldest child in front of a witness and before tea. So, I focused on Fiona. "And I'm sorry, but I don't think anxiety and angina are up there on the danger list for people who should totally isolate."

"I know, but it's already affecting them both. The stress of what's on the telly. Dad's been having chest pain and mom staying in bed because she's scared." Her voice trailed off to a whisper, and I noticed the lip wobble. That was all I needed. Crocodile tears.

Placing the plates on the table, she let out a big sigh. At this point, I had to force my eyes not to roll into the back of my head as I listened to Fiona fake it. Her voice was wobbly and so, so sad.

"Your mom's right, Zach. It's too much of a squash here, and I can tell she's not keen, so I'll get my case and go. I don't want to be in the way." It really annoys me that she calls him Zach. His name is Isaac.

Regardless of my very sensible point, Daftton Stupid took Fiona's bait. "Mom, tell Fee she's welcome. Fee, mom does want you to stay, don't you, Mom." He looked at me like he did when he conneded me into lending him the deposit money for that stupid boy racer car that takes up half the drive.

And you know what? I just couldn't be bothered. Arguing, pandering, standing up on my aching legs for one second longer. So, I gave in out for a quiet, bloody life. And I also had an idea.

"Of course, she can stay. I'm only teasing, but you'll need to sort out some kind of rotor for the bathroom." I turned to Fiona. "And you'll have to do your bit with the housework, too. In fact, from now on, you can be responsible for Isaac's laundry. It'll give me a break and good practice for whenever you both finally booger off and get a place of your own." I added a cheeky wink and a smile. The same one that Pete does when he thinks he's being funny when he's really not. You can get away with anything. If you make out you're being jovial, and Fiona fell for it.

"What are you like, Babs? You do make me chuckle. And of course, I'll do my bit. You won't know I'm here." Fiona had perked up, and the tears had miraculously dried.

So, while I was on a roll. "Tell you what, let's start as we mean to go on. You can do the tea, Fiona. And you'll need to put some oven chips in as there won't be enough pizza. And will you do me a nice size salad while I go for a quick shower?" I'd already decided that Pete was not getting egg and chips. He could suffer and eat the same as everyone else or lump it. And my final demand. "Oh, Isaac, be a love and bring that washing in, will you?" And with that, I left them to it. and headed upstairs. The word touche accompanying a very satisfied smile.

That was yesterday. Today is the first day of my new way of life. The one I came up with while I ate the biggest slice of spicy chicken pizza and then watched everyone else grimace through the spinach and ricotta, then argue about washing the pots. I'm still ignoring Pete. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm totally crapping myself over this virus, and I hate watching the news because of the horror stories on there. Then again, this is the first time in bloody ages I've not been up at stupid o'clock to make packed lunches and drop Demi at school before I go to work. Sunday is my only real day off, and now I have six more.

To add further to my silent enjoyment, if that's the best word for this strange phase in our lives, the rent money from Fiona will compensate a bit for my loss of earnings. You see, there is an upside to being married to a tight ass, and that's the fact that Pete has told Isaac that his living lover has to pay her way. I heard this third hand from our Sasha, who isn't best pleased about our new housemate. I can tell you. I know I'm going to get ear ache from Pete about me not bringing in a wage. It's not like I make a fortune because Pete always preferred me to work part-time, so I was here for the kids when they were little. Andy likes his tea on the table at 6:00 p.m. and the house to run nice and smooth. What I bring in pays for the extras, like our family holidays, Christmas and birthdays, stuff like that. Not a dishwasher, though.

I've been thinking a lot over the past few days and this morning as I had a big lion and listen to the kathuffle for the bathroom about life, my life really. Let's face it, you can't help but take stock when you see what's going on all over the world. Maybe on some deeper level. And yes, despite what my lot say, I can think beyond Finch Towers and the goings on in Emmerdale, but I realize I've been unsettled for a while. I haven't had time to analyze it, so I pushed it to the back of my mind rather than face facts. However, last night during another bout of menopausal insomnia and a hot flush, I allowed my thoughts out of their cage to roam free.

Talking of cages, as Pete snarred away, I was reminded of the petting section at Appleton Garden Center and that smothering someone in their sleep is a crime. I was sorely tempted, though. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. First, I need to stop blaming everything on the menopause and accept that I am unhappy. But that actually makes me feel sad. Are they the same thing? I'm not really sure, but it's the only way I can describe it.

I've realized I'm not happy with my life that consists of a decent, if annoying, husband and three kids who are basically good, but can also be very bloody annoying in their own way. And I'm not sure if I love my husband anymore. Although I am sure, if not positive, that I love my kids. And this has kind of rocked my world. Then another shock wave hit. Is it possible you can be too good at being a mom? Because I am good at it. Those kids are my whole life and I threw myself into being the best mother, albeit in limited circumstances. What I couldn't provide them in a material way, I made up for in love and attention, always being here. In some ways, my kids wanted for nothing. Not where they're being cared for and nurtured is concerned. In fact, I overdosed them emotionally, and now I realize I might not have done them a favor. And have I made a rod for my own back? Am I the reason why Isaac hasn't the meest inclination to move out? I mean, why would he? And I know he's stalling, using saving up for a mortgage deposit as an excuse, renting his dead money, you see. But seriously, he's a grown man.

Okay, so I was never forced into having three kids or being a nursery nurse. It was easy and paid enough for a 19-year-old to have fun. I love the little ones and my colleagues, but I was coasting until my best friend Linda burst into work one chilly February morning with the most exciting news ever. Her last name was Czechley, so we called her Cheeky Checkers because she was such a laugh and always up for a bit of mischief. I was Bubbles. Bubbly Babs, I know. Kill me now. I didn't mind the name back then. It was between us girls until last year at Pete's Christmas D. He introduced me as his other half, the one and only cuddly bubbly babs. I excused myself and cried in the toilet, hating myself and my stupid party frock that was three sizes bigger than my size 10 wedding dress. So, if anyone dares call me bubbly again, I swear I'll punch them.

Anyway, I'm wondering. I do that a lot. So, Linda's auntie had opened a bar in Costalanca and offered Linda a job there for the summer season. And this was the best bit. She could bring a friend. Imagine March through to September, free lodgings, getting paid to serve beer and cocktails in the sun, then spend our days off on the beach. And the best bit, there would be hot, sexy men everywhere. How could I resist a chance of a lifetime? swap changing nappies for sun, sea, and sangria. That lunchtime, we raced to the travel agent on the high street to check out flights and grabbed some glossy broches so we could gaze at Ply Flame. The name alone made us giddy, never mind the photos of miles and miles of beaches and the blest skies you've ever seen. There was only one problem. My boyfriend Pete.

Chapter 10. Me and Pete had been going out for 5 and a half months, and I did like him. I liked having a boyfriend and saying, "Pete's going to pick me up in the van after work," or, "I'm going to Pete's for tea." I liked to fit in. So, after kidding myself that honesty was the best policy and that he'd find someone new once I was gone, I plucked up the courage to end things nice and gently, then I get to Manchester airport with Linda. Until I realized I'd missed my period. And you don't have to be a rocket scientist to guess what happened next.

I wasn't in love with Pete. I kind of grew to love him because what choice did I have? I mean, easy choices. Not one that would mean a visit to the clinic or being a single mom. Either way, I wasn't that brave. So, as my parents reminded me, I'd made my bed and I lay in it. I bloody hate that stupid saying. And Christ, those two wore it out.

I cried so much when Linda said goodbye because I was losing my best friend and my dream. She never came back, not to live here permanently. She married a Spanish guy and they live in a lovely villa that looks out across the Med. I'm pleased for her. I really am. She used to invite me us to stay, but family life always had a way of scuppering that and now we're just Facebook friends. At least we reconnected once the internet revolution arrived and that's nice. And sometimes it's not. It's a constant reminder of what I missed. It's not Linda's fault I messed up. And I was chuffed she still wanted to be friends with someone as boring as me.

Thinking about Linda makes me wonder about our summer holidays this year. And what I say next will sound so bad and ungrateful. But I won't care if we don't go. Honestly, I'll be over the bloody moon. I used to love our summer holidays when the kids were little. We'd go to a static caravan in Whitby and have the best time on the beach or walking along the prom at Scarra. In the evening, we'd get dressed up and go to the club and watch the axe. Just the four of us at the time. Demi was our surprise baby. And although having a newborn as your eldest comes of age and your middle one hits puberty isn't ideal, we muddled through and embraced being a unit of five. We still went to a caravan, but money was getting better, so we ventured south to Cornwall or Devon. I loved it there so much, like another world, it is.

Eventually, everything changed around the time Demi was eight. Pete got promoted and met Calvin, his new counterpart. Calvin is a flash knobed. Penelopey is his flashier wife. Penny to her friends like me. Although she's not really my friend. It's just a tag that I wear to keep the peace. A friend is someone you can confide in who gets you, makes you laugh, and feel at ease. Penny does none of these things, and neither does Cheryl and her husband Barry, another member of the bin crew. Unfortunately, they've become our circle of friends, who Pete thinks are the bees knees, and that's why for the past few years, they have been our social and holiday companions.

Calvin is head honcho. He basically picks the location for our holidays. He books it all. Days out, hire cars, the bloody lot. Cheryl and Penny spend the spring months preparing. And by this I mean by new outfits, getting bits plucked, faked tanned, false nailed, and in Penny's case, a syringe or two of Botox. I can't compete with them, and nor do I want to. The whole Fortnite exhausts me. Yes, I sound so ungrateful because a lot of people would love to go all-incclusive to Tenneref or any of the other destinations I've endured, but all I can think about is the hours and hours I worked all year, the big fat chubby envelope of hard-earned cash that paid for it. And I wouldn't mind if I got a choice, but I don't. Sasha does her own thing now, like Isaac. But I still have my Demi who loves it because she has readymade friends in Cheryl's two daughters. Pete loves it because he gets to hang out with his workmates 24/7. And even though he drives me mad, I remind myself he works hard, too, and deserves a holiday. Who am I to ruin all that? So, I fake interest in Penny's strappy maxi frocks from Primark and her tacky accessories, although I could do without seeing how smooth her Brazilian is. She's very gregarious is Penny, and uninhibited, especially when drunk. life and soul of the party she is. They all say it like it's a badge of honor to be carried home on a deck chair by Barry and Calvin because you're too pissed to walk.

I did ask Pete once if we might go away just the three of us. It was just last year as the spectre of holiday number six loomed. His response stung. The hurt lingers still. We had been to a curry night to celebrate Barry's birthday and the subject of holidays had come up. My heart had plummeted and I refused to join in the discussion and decided there and then that I wasn't going. Later, as I drove us home, I took a deep breath and broached the subject. I had Pete to myself, strapped into his seat so he couldn't wander off mid-con conversation like he always does when he's put on the spot.

"Pete, hear me out on this before you say no. It's just an idea, but it's been on my mind for ages." When he remained silent, I took it as a sign to continue. "The thing is, I really fancy a change. So, next year I'd like to go away on our own with Demi, of course, but have a break from the others. We see them all year round, and I'm tired of doing the same thing every summer."

Usually, his eyes are glued to the road ahead, a terrible passenger, even when he'd had a few. But that night, he swiveled to face me, his voice incredulous. "What? I don't get it. Why do we need a break from our friends? What's wrong with them? They're a good laugh. We're a gang and we've had some brilliant holidays together and you know what they say if it's not broken."

I interrupted snappy and annoyed. "Yes, Pete. I know the saying and it's crap and you might enjoy seeing Calvin and Barry day in day out, but I think it's time we pulled away and did our own thing. It won't kill you or them. And I'd like to choose where we went. Something a bit different. Not all-incclusive or non-stop entertainment. We could go to Linda's villa. She's always asking and has a separate annex we could stay in. I'd love that."

"But it's Calvin's 50th. Turning 50 is a big thing. What? Like my fabulous 50th when we had a family meal at the Brewers Fair. Not a big bash. Why? Because you couldn't be asked to organize anything. and I was not going to throw myself a do. So tell me, why is Calvin's big birthday more special than mine?" I was livid. All the hurt I'd buried deep, the sense of embarrassment, because that's what it was. After all the parties I'd thrown for him and the kids, nobody could be bothered to do one for me. Well, it had fested like a big yellow puss boil, and I'd just given it a good squeeze and splattered it all over the windscreen. It was either puss or Pete's blood.

"You're not even a party person," he blustered. "And you never said you wanted to do, so that's not my fault. I wanted a weekend golf trip with the lads for my 50th. And that's what I got because I spoke up. So if you'd wanted something special, then you should have said, "So don't go blaming me. I'm not a sudden mind reader."

Babs, I gripped the wheel. "Yes, you always get what you want, don't you, Pete? So, now it's my turn. And even though I can't think of anyone more annoying to go on holiday with, I want to go with you and Demi. Not with that lot. Okay."

And then it came. The thoughtless comment, a damning indictment that said more about our marriage than the fact I'd had the audacity to suggest breaking free. "Have you gone mad? It would be boring just the two of us. I mean, what would we do? And our Demi wouldn't have any friends of her own, so she'd be stuck with us all day. Nah, no way. And I'm not going to see Linda either. She's your friend, not mine. I like all inclusive and being entertained. It's what I look forward to all year. Anyway, they'd take the hoof if we even suggested it. It's like a snub."

After his big speech, he folded his arms and stared ahead, his body language telling me loud and clear the decision was made. Everything he'd said was like a slap, one of those that make a cracking sound and sting. But I swallowed down the tears and squeezed the steering wheel because if I'd let go, I reckoned I'd have smacked him in the gob. I couldn't speak at first. Even though I hadn't expected him to be quite so honest, and whether it was the beer that had loosened his lips, they had spoken the truth and told me exactly who he'd rather spend a fortnight with.

When I finally gathered my emotions, my voice was calm, my thoughts collected. "So, what you're saying is that you'd rather ignore the wishes of your wife than offend that lot. You're happy to put your idea of a perfect holiday before mine, not even prepared to compromise." I could hear the anger in my voice, and it was one of those situations where that rage could easily turn to tears and hysteria. So, I forced them both back and waited.

When Pete spoke, I wasn't prepared for the sarcasm, let alone his words. "Oh, stop being a drama queen. I'm sick of your mood swings and the snappy way you talk to me and the kids. It's like living with Jackal and Hyde. It's like tonight you were in a mood and everyone could tell. You need to sort yourself out." I heard this little speech so many times before telling me I needed to go to the doctors and get some pills. And seeing as I'd pulled onto the drive, I didn't even bother to listen to the rest. I got out, slammed the door, and went inside, leaving him to turn off the engine and lock up. Then I slept on the seti for a week.

And you know what it is? It was the memories of our family holidays that did it. When we skimped enough to go away and bundled into our old banger, loaded to the roof with more on top. Yes. At the beginning, it was a rough and ready holiday. Then slowly, we were able to afford a bit more. And once Pete was promoted and I started my little cleaning business, we took our first holiday abroad. I'll never forget how excited we all were going to the airport in a mini bus and then on a plane and even Isaac came along. It was a lovely time. I'll also never forget how that night in the car, Pete didn't give me a chance to tell him what my idea of a holiday would be, to listen to my imaginings. Because it wasn't just for me that I wanted us to break free of the gang. It was for us. I thought maybe if we had some time together, took a walk hand in hand along the beach at sunset, hired a jeep and drove to the mountains to watch the sunrise, or sat opposite each other at a small round table in a little Greek tivera looking over the ocean, we'd reconnect. It didn't have to be abroad, either. I'd have been happy with a beach hut in Skg Ness as long as we talked, laughed, remembered, found our way back to a point in our marriage where even if it wasn't perfect, we had enough in the tank. Some shared dreams, an interest to see us through to the end, the last leg of our lives together. But he didn't. And while I have somehow managed to smother the many disappointments and regrets along the way, when I think of that conversation, the anger reignites. And it's not the menopause. Because everybody blames bloody everything on that. It's us. We don't fit anymore. I don't fit into this life I'm leading, even my soding clothes. And this is the worst bit. What hurts the most is that sometimes I don't feel like I fit into our family either. It's like I'm on the edge looking in, surplus to requirements, but still required to perform motherly tasks, even wely tasks every now and then. And that's not right. Thinking these thoughts isn't right either, and I hate myself even more because of it. So, I've decided during the long and lonely hours since 4:27 a.m. that I'm going to use being in lockdown wisely while I have time to breathe, think, and take some time for me. First priority is staying alive, keeping my family safe. But after that, I need to formulate some kind of plan. If I don't, I fear the chemical reaction that's going on inside my body, plus being married to an insensitive knobheaded and this very unnerving sense of time running out, will do for me. And I'm not done yet. Bubbly Bab's Finch is down, but she's certainly not out.

Chapter 11. Robin. Do you know what it feels like to be trapped? Not down a hole or backed into a corner down a dark alley, squished against passengers on the tube or stuck in a lift between floors. I mean by upbringing, loyalty, love, and faith. I'm held prisoner by all of these. Well, I was until something had to give. And in order to stay sane, I've abandoned the one thing that was as natural to me as breathing. Turned my back on God, my beliefs, and everything I held dear because the crippling rage that exists deep inside me had to be exercised. The hate and revulsion I have for my husband, the very Reverend Edmund Hillyard. I cannot bear to look at him or hear his voice, his preaching, the sound he makes when he eats. So I took revenge the only way I could. I withdrew from his life, our marriage, and I suppose one could say my job, one that I truly loved in spite of my wobbly start. It was the role I felt destined for, seeing as at the time there was no route into the priesthood for women. Not in our church of England, anyway. That didn't happen until 1994, and by then I was invested in my marriage and motherhood. Instead of following my vocation, I followed in my darling mother's footsteps and became the vicar's wife. I was so good at it. Gave it all I had. Wiped the slate clean and put my desires and regrets, all that fanciful stuff to bed. Go on with looking after our beautiful baby girl. Making a home, answering the phone, organizing his diary and church events, teaching at Sunday school was my absolute favorite. Best day of the week, especially when Willow and Gina joined the group. Oh, how those two made me laugh. Jesus's very own dedicated disciples. My little helpers. Being the best Vicar's wife ever helped me through the days, years. I suppose it diverted my attention, and back then I told myself it wasn't Edmund's fault, all gods, that I had succumbed to temptation. It was my weakness. And if I focused on priorities, repeated my wedding vows like a mantra, I'd be forgiven. I'd be okay. And it worked. For half my married life, I convinced myself I was happy, that I'd made the right choice. And then, when I was least expecting it, he came back. Not God or Jesus, in case you're wondering if I'd had a visitation from the Almighty. Arty came back. I'm sorry I haven't explained it all properly, have I? I was an only child and totally enamored by our happy, loving family way of life. My father's parish was in a semi-ural glostier town and as I had no desire to go to university once I'd finished my A levels, my father arranged an administrative job at the dascese headquarters in Tukesbury. Around a year later, I met Edmund at a garden party hosted by our bishop. I was instantly taken with this newly anointed, earnest man who'd followed his calling and taken his first appointment in a rougher area of the city. He was only 5 years older than me, yet seemed so worldly wise, well educated, tall, and handsome in a rather James Stewart 1950s gentlemanly way. On his part, it was a slow burn relationship, whereas I was like a giddy cult who couldn't wait to get out of the stable and into the grown-up world of dating and all the bits and bobs that went with it. Yes, that's what me and my best friend Francesca used to call sex. We were so cloistered within our social circle. We existed in a makebelieve world, happy, but so out of touch with reality. Even now, I feel such love for those two naive girls who looked at life from the perspective of Sandra D, thoroughly lousy with virginity. But I'll come back to that in a minute. The rules and regulations around the bits and bobs and marriage. First, I need to explain about Arty. He was 3 years younger than Edmund, a teacher who worked abroad at a private school in Abu Dhabi. He came over for a holiday around the time Edmund and I started courting. Yes, that's what we called it. Now, what can I say about Arty, short for Arthur? He was loud, confident, politically opinionated on the liberal, irreverent with regards to authority of any kind, and to my abject horror, an atheist. So basically he was the polar opposite of Edmund who rather than be irritated by his younger brother took Arty in his stride. The recalcitrant sibling he simply tolerated. I couldn't understand how they could be so diametrically opposed and yes I was offended by Arty's views and comments, his glib attitude to Edmund and my father's vocation. I also felt that while he didn't come right out and say it, he thought I was a bit of a stuckup pri which was why I was glad when he buggered off back to Abu Dhabi and then took another post in Japan. After that, communication between the brothers was via letter and I was glad, especially because he was on the other side of the world. We didn't see him for 2 years, but when Edmund finally proposed and a date was set, Arty came home for the wedding. I suppose I was too wrapped up in the arrangements to be irritated by his imminent return, and my mother and Francesca kept me occupied on the run-up to the big day. So much so that when Edmund rang to say that Arty had flown in a couple of weeks earlier than expected, I was totally blindsided. Being polite, I asked Edmund to bring him for Sunday lunch at the vicorage. I'd resolved to keep the peace and say an extra prayer at morning service, asking that arty buggered right back off again once the wedding was over. I feel it's important to point out that whilst it was the 80s, not the Edwwardian era, because of our faith and especially Edmund's job, sex outside marriage was strictly forbidden. And for a red-blooded young woman in her very early twenties, it was the first time that my beliefs were sorely tested. Unfortunately, my fiance was made of stern stuff. However, it would have only taken a nod and a wink from Edmund, and I would have happily disobeyed the Lord, raced to my bedroom, and got down to some bits and bobbing. Sadly, it was not to be. Edmund and I only ever held hands and shared kisses, and I admit to exaggerating our very chasteed moments. In whispers, as we sat in our regular corner pew at church, I told Francesca the most ridiculous tales of fumbling in the back of his Vauxhall Astra, and red-hot moments of passion in the parlor while my parents were at prayer meetings. privately. I built our wedding night up in my head to equal every single Mills and Boon and Rosman Piltchure I'd ever read. I was bubbling with nerves and excitement about finally knowing what all the fuss was about, because Edmund was reserved in the passion department. I told myself he'd been saving it all up for me. As soon as the bedroom door closed and he saw me in my Janet Ragger lace lip that I'd bought from Debenhams, blushing as I handed it to the assistant, he would explode. I was on the verge myself when I clapped eyes on Arty again at my parents' house on the ver that Sunday afternoon. He took my hand, an action I thought rather unnecessary yet sweet, and looked me in the eye. He said he was so pleased to see me again and gave me a smile that would melt ice. In that very odd moment, something changed in me. Over lunch, I was astonished by the difference in a man who'd previously irritated me to the point of tears. >> [snorts] >> Gone was the bluster, the quips and oneliners, the tendency to take over the conversation with benile or self-absorbed points of view. And then the looks, not fertive. They were aimed as if trying to tell me something. He listened attentively when I spoke, causing me to clam up, not wishing to attract his attention and fall under the gaze of those pale blue eyes. As I tried to swallow my food and concentrate on whatever the others were saying, I told myself not to look at him, then dared myself to disobey. Each time I weakened, his eyes found me. They were waiting. I was in such a flap, asking myself, "Was it a game to amuse and pass the time? Then after he'd have his fun, would the real arty show himself and disappoint me?" But he didn't. It was early evening and while Father and Edmund were examining the rose garden and discussing saw flies, mother had asked me to check the ver for empty cherry glasses. I found Arty sitting alone at the patio table, deep in thought. He looked up, smiled. He didn't say a word at first and held me in his gaze like he was lost in the sight of me. And poof, just like that, I found myself lost in him. Arty recovered himself first. "Hello, you. I was hoping you'd come outside so we could chat. I couldn't get a word in over lunch, and I really have been looking forward to seeing you again." He patted the chair by his side, and like a memeed child, I obeyed, and took a seat. I really couldn't think of one word to say, so instead I waited for him to take the lead, which he did with confidence. and it struck me that maybe he'd been rehearsing what to say. At the time it was a hunch, but I soon found out I was right. Arty had been waiting for years to see me again.

"So marriage. I have to say I wasn't expecting that." When I received Edmund's letter, it was a huge surprise. He was watching me closely as he spoke and when I somehow found my voice was surprised at my own response. "What that he asked or that I said yes?" A smile and then the answer which sounded a bit sad and a bit annoyed all at once. "Both. I didn't think Ed had it in him to take the plunge and be prepared to share himself with a real life human when he's always been in love with God and himself. Obviously, I'd hope that you wouldn't fall under his spell, but you have, and it makes me a bit"

At this point, mother popped her head through the French windows and asked if anyone would like tea. Father and Edmund were out of earshot. Arty and I declined, but Mother was determined to feed and water us all. "I'll just bring the tray out anyway, back in a tick."

When she'd gone, I turned to Arty and asked a question, probably the most astounding of my whole life. And you know something? I think I already knew the answer and wanted him to confirm it right there and then, tempting fate. "And exactly how does it make you feel? Me being under his spell." A heartbeat. I saw his chest expand, his eyes narrow a touch, and then he answered, "Disappointed. Cross, usurped, outmaneuvered, foolish, ridiculously hurt. Need I go on?"

I swooned. It's really a thing. Something I'd read about, but never experienced until then. I struggled to breathe. Take in the magnitude of his words, their meaning. It was only the sound of the hostess tray rattling along the hall and my father and Edmund approaching that saved me. Actually, it was Arty, who masterfully steered attention away from me just for a moment. He focused on Edmund, who was taking a seat opposite me. "I was saying to Robin that now I'm home and seeing as it's only for a short time, I really need to get to know my future sister-in-law. Make sure she's suitable for my old fuddy duddy brother and vice versa. I think that's a splendid idea, don't you, Robin?"

Edmund somehow made questions sound like a command. I nodded. "Yes, that would be lovely, but I'm so busy with wedding arrangements and work."

"Well, you must get a lunch hour. What say I pick you up tomorrow? Would that suit?" With an encouraging smile and earnest eyes, Arty waited. I was struck mute once again and looked to Edmund for a sign that he realized what was going on. "Dearest, don't look so worried. Arty will be on his best behavior, won't you?" Edmund gave his brother a look like he was a 5-year-old prone to naughtiness and off to a birthday party. Arty's response was the epitome of sincere to begin with. "Why, of course, brother dear. Robin will be safe with me. You have my word." Then he turned to me. Mischief written all over his face, his eyes dancing with mirth. "So, what time do they let you out to play? I shall collect you on the dot and treat you to something magnificent. Whatever you fancy, your every wish will be my command."

I gulped, knowing full well that Arty did not mean an egg and crest sandwich and a cup of tea at the Bobbing Cafe. Even Sandra D wasn't that stupid. And yet, while half of my brain was running around in a panic, looking for an excuse, the other half wanted to go so badly. "I take lunch from 12:30. I get an hour, but I only work half day on Mondays."

Arty merely nodded. "Perfect. Then I will whisk you off to lunch, and afterwards perhaps we can stroll along the river or maybe take in a museum. What do you think?"

"I think that would be very nice. Thank you." Nice. I cringed at my trite response as heat flooded my entire body because I didn't want nice. I wanted more.

After an almost imperceptible nod, Arty craned his head in the direction of the vicorage. "Now, where is that tea we were promised?" And as if by magic, mother appeared with her trusty golden hostess trolley packed with handmade delights. The conversation soon flipped to the weather, and our attention focused on cucumber sandwiches and battenburg. As I passed Arty his cup and saucer, his finger connected with mine, ever so slightly and unnecessarily. I left mine where it was, just for a touch, and in doing so, booked myself a room in hell.

Chapter 12. It won't surprise you to know that the hours before I stepped out into the midday sunshine to where Arty was waiting for me, were spent in a state, one that pinged me into the arms of terror, then twang back into the grip of shame. I was buffeted by waves of sheer romanticism, feeding on lines from books that had been my guide book to life. I'd barely slept, averted my eyes from those of my mother over breakfast in fear she might see what lay behind them. At work, I spent the morning making errors or lost in a daydream, jumping if anyone called my name, coughed or slammed a door. I was guilty before the fact and acting like it, too. But nothing, nothing at all would have prevented me from meeting Arty that day. Not the crucifix I wore around my neck or the photograph of my parents on my desk. Not even the one of Edmund tucked out of sight in my purse. Even though I knew it was

Wrong. I still went. What was I expecting? An adventure. I think a dance with the devil. To look temptation in the face and turn away. But not until I'd savored an afternoon of life on the edge, of not being me, to dare nudge the boundaries with my toe.

I was so mixed up, bubbling with hormones and desire, dreamy notions of Grace Kelly weddings, and how wonderful doing bits and bobs would be with Edmund. Of course, I had also, in the darkness of my room, allowed myself to imagine doing bits and bobs with Arty. Oh, the shame. So, to assuage my guilt, I assured myself that lunch with Arty in public was safe and I'd be fine. After all, it was just a bit of fun, our chance to bond and start a fresh.

He was waiting for me on the pavement on the dot as promised. When I reached the bottom of the steps, he smiled and offered me his arm. "Shall we?" I giggled. Lord knows why because it was merely a polite gesture to which I replied, "Yes, we shall." And God forgive me, we did.

We ate lunch at Hart's hotel, the Chukes Mana. He wasn't staying with Edmund. His aversion to all things godly also applied to vicorages, or so Edmund had quipped. However, it transpired that it was much more than that. Lunch was, as I expected, a very polite affair, where Arty showed me his best side, his wit, minus the sarcasm I'd endured in our previous meetings. His inquiring mind focused solely on me. He wanted to know all about my job that was pure tedium to perform, let alone chat about. So during our melonboat starters, I turned the attention to him.

"You seem different to the last time we met. In fact, I'd say you're not the same person. So why the change? Has the Japanese culture rubbed off on you?" That was bold, but it felt like playing a part. I was the leading actress in a film who hadn't rehearsed her lines, so I had to wing it. This panicked me because we only had a few hours and I desperately wanted them not to be fake. Realizing that was almost as startling as Arty's response.

"Well, I'm glad you've noticed I'm on my best behavior, and I'm trying very hard to be good. Now, would you like my cherry?" Arty held out the glass orb that wibbled on his spoon. I blushed to match the fruit, reminded of one of Franchesca's phrases and desperation to lose her virginity. "Heavens no, they're terrible things. I was going to ask you if you wanted mine." Oh, dear God, I actually said that. What was I thinking?

When I dared to look from the cherry to his eyes, they were laughing at me, but not in an unkind way. Then he saved me by lightening the moment. "Shall I flick this one at the sarapus over in the corner, then? See if I get a bullseye. I was a cracking shot at school." Nobody in the refactory was safe from my aim. I relaxed, glancing at the portly man who slurped his Windsor brown suit, then smiled at the image of a young Arty dressed in his gray boarding school uniform, flicking bits of his dinner at unsuspecting teachers and prefects. Apparently, Arty had been a challenge both to his parents and his very expensive school alike. But everyone agreed, apart from his masters, that it was worth every single penny.

"Well, normally I'd encourage you, but I'm starving and don't want to be turfed out before I've had my do soul or my queen of poods. So, behave. And you still haven't answered my question. Who stole the real arty?" Lowering his spoon, he sighed. "Well, I hate to disappoint you, but he's still right here. However, since we last met, I realized the error of my ways and spent the last two years regretting being a complete ass, which is why I resolved to show you a better side to me this time."

"Well, I'm flattered that you're going to so much effort on my behalf and rather taken aback that I was on your mind because I genuinely thought you didn't like me enough to care." Inwardly, I was flattered and also astounded by my own honesty and the fact I was fishing, not necessarily for a compliment, more the truth. When Arty rested back against his chair, his spoon clanging against the plate, his response was laced with exasperation.

"Robin, why on earth would I not like you? That notion is so far from the truth and why I'm here today. To show you that's not the case." And the waiter had returned to remove our plates. And once he'd scooted off, silence descended. So I filled it with words, ones that would alleviate the tension.

"So now we've sorted all that out. Why don't you tell me about Japan and your job and the children? I've never met anyone who's been there, and it sounds like such a fascinating place." Arty lent forward and rested his clasped hands on the table, regarded me for a second or two, and then indulged me in my request, and for the next hour, I learned all about his life on the other side of the world, and about a man who I'd misjudged quite badly, and one that I wanted to know so much more.

The riverbank was mostly deserted as we strolled along in the afternoon sun, walking off our lunch, pointing out bird life nestled in the bank opposite, or peering into the nets of the occasional fisherman we passed by. It was a glorious day in late June, the sky clear, the occasional cloud too small to obscure the sun even for a second. Thankfully, children were still in school, otherwise the shallows would have been full of paddlers, their parents keeping a watchful eye from the grass borders.

Arty had taken off his suit jacket and slung it over his shoulder, and I noticed his tanned forearms glistened with fine golden hairs. Every now and then he came too close, and I skillfully avoided a clash of limbs, not wanting to feel his skin on mine, acutely aware that it would have been too close and personal. I was enjoying the piece, though, and being by the side of someone who didn't feel the need to fill the silence. It was comfortable and companionable, and I realized that I hadn't experienced anything like that with Edmund, and it bothered me. I didn't even like that it had occurred to me not days before my wedding when I should have been sure about it all.

The future, me and Edmund. When we were together, he talked all the time about work, his sermons, discussions he'd had with his peers, parishioners that were thin on the ground at his church. And when he was in the company of my parents, the talk was much the same. And up until the moment on the riverbank, I'd accepted it as part of who he was, what our life would be like together. Yes, we'd chatted about other things when I pushed the conversation in a certain direction, about Edmund's private education, his wealthy parents, who were pillars of the church, now deceased. His two missions to Asia and Africa, his willingness to go wherever the bishop sent him, although he rather hankered after a country parish. Edmund didn't feel suited to the inner city and thought his talents would be served better elsewhere. Nowadays, I know he's lazy and that the suburbs were too much of a challenge. The parishioners not his kind. For Edmund, the archetypal, all-encompassing snob, God's work didn't involve getting his hands dirty.

In the hour or so I'd spent with Arty, I'd heard all about his life so far and dreams for the future. to travel the world teaching, learning about each country and their cultures, broadening his horizons and those of his pupils. He wanted to holiday in South America, drive a mustang along Route 66, whale watch in Alaska, rent a cottage on the aisle of Mull and live like a hermit just for a week or two. One day he would settle in blighty, find a house by the sea, teach at a local school, write a book, learn to play the guitar. Edmund wanted to be a vicar to serve God, rise through the ranks, and have a wife and two children. The end.

Had I asked Edmund where he would like to go on holiday each year? Probably not. Did I complain about his choice of honeymoon destination? A walking holiday in the Breham Beacons, a perfect place for meditation and bird watching? No, that was my fault. It all was. Edmund was my pick, my doing a crowdleaser, just like me. What had I done? Up until that moment, the future had seemed so sure and perfect. So why was there this niggle of doubt, unhelpfully accompanied by a freon of something alien? Every time I looked at Arty, or imagined his body beneath his white shirt and what lay behind the zip of his trousers, I was losing my mind right there on the riverbank as temptation beckoned, and I desperately wanted to follow.

I'd been locked in thought while Arty smoked a cigarette, nodding politely to passes by as we walked in a loop and found ourselves back in the grounds of his hotel. I watched as he flicked the stub into the bin, paused a moment, then looked at me in the eye, the meaning of his next question not lost on me. In that very second, I grew up. That's when I actually became a woman, making a choice that was just for me.

"So, what would you like to do now? Time's running out, and I'll have to return you to Edmund soon." I faltered, unsure how to verbalize my deepest desire, so I held his gaze and threw the ball back to Arty. "What do you suggest?" He looked upwards and for a second imagined he was asking for divine guidance, but no, he was merely looking for the perfect excuse.

"Well, it's a bit of a scorcher, so why don't we head to my room? I'll order us a bottle of something cool and fizzy, and we can sit on the balcony and chat, or whatever you want. How does that sound?" Without a beat of hesitation, knowing exactly what I wanted, knowing that I really had lost my mind and not caring one bit, I replied, "It sounds lovely." Then we headed inside, leaving Sandra D at the door.

Apart from the weekend when I was tied to home and my mother's constant fussing, we met every day during my lunch hour where I almost ran to his hotel room and there Arty would be waiting. A 5-minute dash through the streets, 45 minutes of joy, 10 minutes to tidy myself up and race back to work. It was bliss. It was torture, too, because we both knew it couldn't last or go anywhere. And come hell or high water, I would be marrying Edmund. How could I not? How could I break my parents' hearts, shame them, rock their world? And the strangest thing is, neither I nor Arty spoke of it, the looming wedding, and what it signified, nor did we discuss the fact we were betraying Edmund. It was as though we were facing the end of the world, and had to grasp every last moment until the planet went boom.

It was the Thursday before the wedding, our last meeting, because I had the Friday off to prepare. I was dressing hurriedly, forcing myself not to cry into my tights, shrugging on my dress, slipping into my shoes. I was ready to go back to work and face the rest of my life without Arty when he broke his silence. I can see him now pulling on his trousers and rushing to my side. His hand taking mine, his voice a whisper.

"I'll only ask you once because I have to otherwise it will send me insane not knowing." He paused and I was touched by his nervousness but not swayed because I already knew the question and answer after imagining it for nine days and nights. "Will you run away with me? We could go today. Start a new life in Japan. I can make you happy, Robin. If you give me a chance, if you're brave enough to set yourself free." I knew he'd ask me. Arty had towed the line in order to show me his good side. But that naughty boy, the rebellious teenager, the determined, independent adult, was always in there waiting to show himself, because that's who he was, and I'd come to love him for it. Which is why I forced out the lines I'd rehearsed, knowing that if I wasn't prepared, I would capitulate and do something that I'd never be able to live with. In that hotel room, standing on the blue Axeminster between four beige walls beside a bed of crumpled sheets, a battle commenced. Faith versus Arty. The victor was never in any doubt.

Chapter 13. Gina.

Jimmy appeared on the decking with a bottle of wine and two glasses, barefoot and smiling like the cat who'd found the fridge door open and glugged a carton of cream. The evening was still warm, the sky a dusky blue, and for some reason that neither of them could adequately explain to Max before his bath in bed, "To the right Sammy Sun and to the left, Billy Moon hovered in a planetary faceoff, both determined to light up the Earth." Gina was going to Google it later because even she was intrigued by the sun moon phenomena. Her attention soon turned to her husband, and she smiled at the sight of him as she enjoyed another night off from being soaked in bubbles.

"What are you looking so pleased with yourself about?" Jimmy flopped into the chair opposite. "Because I am a natural at this bedtime, Malarkey. I've even cleaned the bathroom after the slippery dolphins trashed the place. You'll be most impressed when you see. In fact, you'll think Babs has been in with her flash and trusty mop." At this, Gina raised an eyebrow because never in all the years she'd known him had Jimmy been able to clean anything properly. But there was a first time for everything, and the last few days had proved it. 72 hours after they were confined to barracks, Gina was astounded that her gad workaholic husband had slotted into home life and seemed to be reing in their new order. Still, she wasn't going to get her hopes up or let her guard down. just because Jimmy had turned into a domestic god. He would get bored soon like he had of her. She watched as he poured them both a drink and thought it best to stroke his male ego and make the most of a nice moment.

"I'll go and examine your cleaning prowess in a bit while you serve dinner that I have to say smells lovely." Jimmy raised his glass. "Only the finest oven chips for madame. And yes, that pie from M&S was lovingly removed from its packet by yours truly and will be served with a generous portion of peas or beans, whatever your heart desires. I will even rustle up some gravy if you could."

"Okay, stop. You're getting a bit weird now. Please can have the normal Jimmy back." That was a lie because Gina liked this version of him and she wished she'd not said it in case it tempted fate. Telling herself it was ridiculous to be superstitious about casual remarks, she sipped her wine and realized for the first time in ages she was looking forward to her meal.

"Is Max watching a DVD?" "Yes, that one about cute dinosaurs. I'd said you go up and turn it off in an hour." "The land before time and telly off is in half an hour as you well know." Gina raised her eyebrows. "So amaze me. Which story did Mimi make you read?" A loud touch from Jimmy. "That bloody bear hunt one. I'm so sick of it. And no matter how many others I showed her, she insisted on that. I told her I'm not reading it tomorrow. In fact, you can. Does my head in."

Jimmy stretched out his legs and tipped his head back, eyes closed against the fading sunlight, and changed the subject. "Don't you think it's nice, the peace and quiet? The only thing that spoils it is those birds. They're so loud. I wish they had volume control just to turn them down a notch."

"Stop complaining. The bird song is lovely, and you sound like your dad when he moans about people cutting their lawns." He smiled because she was right. Gina loved George, her father-in-law, but Lord, he was a grumpy sod. He drove Alma, his long-suffering wife, mad with his world views, general untidiness and propensity for losing things and blaming everyone else for pinching his stuff. George didn't mean anything by it, though. It was his way. Rough and ready, salt of the earth, and would do anything for his family. Unlike her farway mother and fickle father who she rarely saw, she didn't miss either and referred to them as Debbie and Dawn. They were neither use nor ornament, and so far she'd managed without them.

Don lived in Liverpool with his wife and their two kids, none of whom Gina had any interest in simply because they had no interest in her. Debbie had moved to Leicester with a lorry driver she met on Plenty of Fish. She'd done a flit before the baiffs came and hot trained it to Lester without telling a soul, not even her daughter. Consequently, Debbie only met Jimmy after he'd proposed to Gina, and it was impossible to avoid a trip to Lester any longer. They met at Weatherspoons. Gina wasn't chancing a visit to Debbie's house, knowing what their old home used to look like. So, it was a case of Jimmy, this is my mom. Mom, this is my fianceé, Jimmy. Then awkward handshakes and fake smiles as they met Mike. Gina, this is Mike. Mike, get the drinks in, love. Chairs were pulled from under the table as Mike did as he was told. Then an embarrassing silence was followed by small talk and clock watching. It was the longest two hours, long enough to not eat her salad and refuse dessert while Jimmy made a valiant attempt at building bridges. To be fair, Mike was okay, pleasant, seemingly hardworking, a keen gardener, and on the cusp of retirement. Gina knew Debbie would stay put, an eye on his pension. In return, Mike would be grateful for a warm body and a regular shag when he got home after a continental run. Harsh, but no doubt true. What her bone idol mother got up to while he was gone was anyone's gruesome guess, but it certainly didn't entail working.

Debbie was still bad with her nerves. Promises were made to ring, and an invite to the wedding would be in the post, followed by tactful reassurances that cost for the big day would be met by the bride and groom. With a look of relief, Debbie, followed obediently by Mike, made a hasty retreat, as did Gina and Jimmy. In the past 7 and 1/2 years, she'd only seen her parents a handful of times. Don refused to be in the same room as her mom, so didn't come to the wedding, which was why Gina walked herself down the aisle. She hadn't even contemplated asking Debbie because that would have been a bluff too far.

As if reading her mind, Jimmy interrupted the birds and her thoughts. "Have you still not spoken to your mom?" "I texted. She's fine. Mike is stuck in Zebuga and she's not best pleased because the sink is leaking. Of course, it went over her head that the poor sod is miles from home and sleeping in his cab in a queue from hell. And before you ask, Don is okay, too. He's been furoughed. That's all I know." This and her tone signaled to Jimmy that the conversation was at an end. He was good at reading signs. A moment passed, then Jimmy piped up.

"I've been thinking." "Uh-oh. Right idea alert." Ignoring her sarcasm, he continued. "Now that I'm around in the mornings, well, all day really, why don't you do something for yourself? Now you've got the best hands-on dad and husband in Cheshire at your service." Gina was flumxed. "Like what exactly?"

"You could start running again. You used to love that, especially in the mornings and evenings. And since we've had Mimi, you don't go anymore. I think it would be good for you." Jimmy's face looked pinched. A sure sign he was worried about how she'd react. "Why? What do you mean it'd be good for me? Are you trying to say I've put on weight or something?" Gina's heart hammered in her chest while her stomach churned, the swell of nausea rising towards her throat. It was true. He was going off her and in his own cat-handed way was giving her a hint.

So when he leapt forward, kneeling in front of her, taking her hands in his, he caught her off guard, as did his words. "Gina, no. Stop that right now. But that's not what I meant at all." His eyes were wide and full of concern as he released his grip and took her face in the palm of his hands. "Please, Gina, you have to listen to me and believe what I'm saying because the last thing I want is you getting sick. And you know what I mean by that, don't you?" He waited for her to nod, then pressed on. "You're beautiful and you haven't put weight on. In fact, it's the opposite. And that's why I'm worried. It was your thing, running. So, I thought it'd be nice for you to start again. Put some color in those gorgeous cheeks and have some time away from here. That's all."

Gina nodded, blinking back tears as she tried to compute what Jimmy was saying. Even though she wanted to believe him, she didn't, and instead translated his concern into something else, paranoia and suspicion. "Why do you want me out of the house? Christ, Jimmy, you've only been home for 3 days and you're sick of me already. That's a great start, isn't it?" And even though she'd tried to put a humorous slant on it, keeping her voice light, she'd meant every word.

Jimmy sighed, kissed her forehead, and tenderly wiped away her tears with his thumbs. "Gina, stop. You're reading this all wrong. I swear it's not that because believe it or not, I love being here with you and the monsters. But it's just that if I'm honest, I'm worried about you. You've seemed distant lately. Edgy, I suppose, and we can't skirt around it. You have lost weight, and I think I know why. What's on your mind, and we need to talk about it."

The panic when it hit made Gina swoon because she did not want to hear what she thought he was going to say. She didn't want to go over that all again. Say her name and have it taint the walls of their home and stick to the furniture. She couldn't bear to listen to his lies, denials, be put down in defense of that woman like last time. She'd snap and in all the loathing for herself and for that [ __ ] [ __ ] Bella Young would come pouring out and worse, he might actually admit to it. Then it would be over. The dream would become a nightmare. Her lips wouldn't move. Her voice was trapped by invisible hands that squeezed her throat. And even though she wanted to run, her legs wouldn't move. So she just sat and stared.

In doing so, Jimmy took it as an invitation to speak. "I've worked it out what's wrong. And part of it is my fault. I know. I've handled things badly and should have realized that going back to work isn't easy when you've been at home for a while. It's natural to lose your confidence and you've always suffered with anxiety. So, no wonder the whole getting a job malarkey is stressing you out. But I thought it's what you wanted." Gina was dumbfounded. So merely nodded.

"And that's why I've been encouraging you when nothing would give me more pleasure than knowing you were always here for the kids and me, of course. Yes, it's a bit 1950s, but who cares? This is our life, and we can live it how we want to." Jimmy paused and tilted his head slightly to one side, as if to gauge how Gina was feeling and thinking. "So, what I'm trying to say is why not leave it for a while or forever, whatever. Get a full-time job or don't. It's fine by me. And who knows what's around the corner. But right now, this bloody virus has put the brakes on a lot of things. So, please stop stressing about your CV and pony recruitment agencies. Stuff them, delete them, and look after you. take some time off from being mom and let me help. Okay."

Gina could actually feel her lips again and her chest wasn't about to snap under the pressure of whatever was crushing her lungs and rib cage. A job. He thought she was nervous and worried about getting a job. Oh, thank God. Thank you, God. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Finally, she got it together and in utter relief flopped forward and wrapped her arms around Jimmy's shoulders, pulling him as tight as she could with arms that felt like jelly. When she'd totally gained control, Gina pulled away from his embrace, kissed him softly on the lips, and then put him straight with a pack of lies.

"Thank you. You're right. I'm being silly and getting in a bit of a tizzy about it all. you know, finding child care for the kids, missing them, meeting new people. I've played it safe, writing the online articles, but getting back out there and actually designing is a bit daunting. So, yes, I was overwhelmed. Like you said, I'm not that great with the big bad outside world at the best of times."

Jimmy opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the voice of Max calling down the stairs. "Mommy, are you coming to say night night? I've turned the telly off, but you haven't given me a cuddle yet." Hearing his words, Gina laughed. "See, and this is why I can't bear to be parted from them. How can I resist that?" She stood, and Jimmy followed suit, but didn't let her run to Max until he'd given her another gentle, reassuring kiss. "Go see Max and then we'll have dinner and some us time. Okay."

Gina nodded and pulled away, unable to speak, utterly overcome with emotion and totally beused. As she headed up the glass staircase and gripped the banister for support, Gina listened to the voice in her head that echoed her thoughts. "Maybe you've got it wrong. Maybe you've misread the signals. misunderstood what Bab saw, misinterpreted the text message. Oh, you're going totally mad. Or Jimmy is a very, very convincing liar." As she reached the top of the stairs and swept Max into her arms, Gina could only pray that she was the one to blame. It might be extreme, but losing the plot was far better than the alternative.

Chapter 14.

She'd stopped by the side of the road, leaning against a dry stone wall while she took a breather and checked her Apple Watch to see how far she'd run. 2 minutes off. She'd beaten the previous day's time. This made Gina smile. That and the fact Jimmy had been right. After just one month, running had given her a new lease of life. She was energized. The endorphin buzz carried her through the day. And better still, rather than being annoyed by hunger pains, she reminded herself that her body needed fuel to sustain and prepare her for another circuit of the village. Appetite was good. It wasn't the enemy. Not only that, she had her very own personal chef making her meals, very nutritious and balanced ones at that, so found herself counting the calories less. But best of all was the feeling that she had when she ran. It was like nothing else, and she'd forgotten how much she'd enjoyed the sense of freedom. Just her and the road as her trainers pounded the ground below, pushing herself harder, loving the trickle of perspiration between her shoulder blades, swiping her forehead to remove the proof she was burning up every ounce of fat in her body.

Sometimes she listened to music, but only when she passed through the village. When she hit the lanes on the outskirts, she preferred the sounds of the countryside, and also it was best to be aware and alert, because apart from the odd car or odd cyclist passing by, the route could be quite deserted. Jimmy made her promise to be sensible and stick to the route she'd shown him, a deviation each day in rotation so she'd be safe, just in case. Yes, they lived in a beautiful part of Cheshire, but it didn't mean they could let their guard down. Bad things still happened in the nicest of places, and Nutters still roamed free despite lockdown.

It was 6:37 a.m. The air was fast losing its chill, and if the forecasters were correct, another glorious day was on the cards. So, Gina fully intended to make the most of her exercise hour before the Morgan family bubble went into action. Jimmy had always been a morning person, so was happy to deal with feeding the monsters while she ran. Then once she returned, showered, and dressed, Gina took over, and he hunkered down in his office for the morning. Homeschooling Max was fun, and Mimi floated between joining in with her coloring book, then wandering off to play with her toys. Gina was in charge of lunch, and the afternoons depended on Jimmy's workload. If he had stuff to do, she entertained the monsters. And while Mimi had a nap, she would work on her column for the online magazine. If Jimmy was free, then they'd all go for a walk along the lane and into the woods. Even though technically she was pinching another hour of exercise time, they doubted anyone would notice or care. It was something of a miracle, but Gina actually found herself looking forward to each day and even dinner. And if she tried really, really hard, she could completely banish the gut-wrenching thoughts that had plagued her during the months before. While she had Jimmy all to herself inside their glorious bubble, she could actually make believe that Bella Young didn't exist.

Gina constantly scrutinized Jimmy's every facial expression and remark, searching for clues. In fact, she was becoming so acutely observant that she could be a body language expert. like those who paid close attention to police suspects during interviews or family members at news conferences as they pled for information. So far, there was absolutely nothing to report. Jimmy was just being Jimmy. He'd not stepped foot out of the house unless it was with her and the kids. He was his usual deaf, funny self, and nothing was too much trouble. He didn't appear to be pining for his lover and was most attentive, extremely so when they were in bed, which was another surprise, unless he was making the best of a bad job until he could see Bella again. Regardless, her heart fluttered when she saw him on the phone, looking serious and deep in conversation or laughing and smiling.

Gina behaved like a covert agent, listening at doors, peering through the sheets as she hung them on the line. She could see him through the huge pane of glass that separated his upstairs office from the garden. And whenever the opportunity arose, she checked his phone for messages and recent calls. While he was in the bath, she'd searched his desk, even his pockets, and the recycling bin for notes. Nothing. It [music] was doing Gina's head in because she'd been so sure he was up to something, and the clues added up. Three wrongs made her [music] right. The lie had come first, then the text. "I've left the key under the pot. Let yourself in and make yourself at home until I get there." He must have deleted it soon after she saw it. And that was a sure sign of guilt. Then the voice note, "I have to go away. Bit of an emergency with the parents, but we can pick up where we left off when I get back if you still want to. Sorry I missed your call. Don't be a stranger." Delete, delete, delete. She could imagine Jimmy erasing Bella's words and being downcast because his bit on the side had buggered off. It made her sick. Actually, physically sick. Maybe Bella had been visiting her parents in Italy and had got stuck there, unable to get a flight back. That's why there'd been no more messages. No point in texting if they couldn't meet up. So, he was making do with her while his lover was away. Unless he was being extra vigilant, extra sly. What if he had a secret phone? A cheat phone? Wasn't that what they were called? What a mug. She bent down to refen the laces in her trainers, telling herself to stop driving herself mad. And if she wanted to know the truth, all she had to do was ask Jimmy or even Bella and have it done with. She was a coward, though. That's why she hadn't punched Bella's lights out long ago. Then she'd have known never to set foot in her house or even glance in Jimmy's direction. Instead, she'd let a vicious [ __ ] get away with it all through her childhood. And as a result, Bella thought she'd make Gina's life a misery again by ruining everything she held dear.

It had started at a prech Christmas party Gina and Jimmy had hosted for family and friends. Gina wanted it to be a sedate kind of gathering, focusing on serving gorgeous food and wine and having a laugh, not a rockous late night bash where her beautiful house might end up worse for wear. They got caterers in with waiters to take care of the guests and joy of joys, the clearing up afterwards. They'd both been looking forward to it for weeks. Gina had thrown her all into turning the cottage into something you'd see in a Christmas edition of Country Life. She was still proud of the photos she'd taken before everyone arrived, of the decorations, the magnificent tree, the glowing fire, and the sumptuous festive feast. Even Carmen was there, friend of the family and owner of Appleton Garden Center, where Gina had bought most of the adorements. Gina and Willow had worked there during school holidays and were close friends with Carmon's middle daughter, Vleta.

That evening, their bohemium buddy was respplendant in a flowing emerald creation that set off her orbin hair, piercings, and notorious fiery temperament. Max and Mimi were settled in the snug with their cousins watching a DVD. So, Gina took the opportunity to spend some time with Vleta. Weaving her arm around her waist, Gina was rewarded with a hug and a huge smile, followed by a clink of glasses. "I have to say, Mrs. Morgan, not only do you throw a fab party, you certainly know how to make four walls look next level amazing. I thought my mom had the knack, but you've put her to shame. Don't tell her I said that, though, or I'll be in very deep poo." Vetta gave Gina a cheeky wink just as the doorbell rang, and Jimmy shot into the hall. The lounge was almost full. Everyone seemed to be happy and chatting away, so turning to Vleta, Gina smiled. "Jimmy's in his element when he's entertaining, so I'll just leave him to it. Right, stranger. Tell me, how are things going at work? And how's Leo?" She didn't finish the sentence because of the look on Vleta's face as she stared over Gina's shoulder, her mouth a gape. Naturally, Gina turned to follow her gaze while Vleta's next words were lost in a haze of panic and utter disbelief.

"Well, she's got a nerve coming here," the cheeky cow. "Who the hell invited her?" Gina didn't respond immediately, too lost in a cold and clammy body that was rigid with shock, swiftly turning to rage. "I have no idea, but it certainly wasn't me." The letter moved closer and whispered, "Bloody Nora, has she been on a sunbed or does she live abroad?" "I'm sure someone said she went to Italy. And that hair. She was never that blonde at school, was she? I remember her being mousy. And I'd bet my next tattoo that those boobs aren't real. Are those lips? She looks like a trout."

Gina was struck mute, watching, hidden in the corner as Jimmy did his host with the most performance and chatted with Bella and Guy, his old friend from university. For some tragic reason, he'd left his boyfriend at home and in a warped quirk of fate chose to bring the evil [ __ ] from hell as his plus one to Gina's home into her perfect life. And whether it was just memories of their school days or an actual portant of doom, she knew there and then that it was bad. While Vleta nipped to the L, Gina sculpted from the room to avoid detection, scurrying off to the kitchen. There, around 10 minutes later, Bella finally pinned her victim down just like the good old days. Gina was fetching cartons of juice for the children, keeping busy and avoiding the evil one when a tap on the shoulder and a red painted talon heralded the arrival of Satan.

"There you are. I thought you might be baking sausage rolls or something tedious like that." True to form, Bella immediately dispensed with nicities and went straight for the jugular. But Gina was older, a bit wiser, and not quite as scared, and had no time for pleasantries either, so bit back. "No, the caterers and staff will take care of all that. So, if you'd like to ask the sumeier for a drink, he's the guy in the dark suit." Gina pointed to a handsome man who was currently beguiling Carmen as he poured her a glass of red. Bella was clearly going nowhere and instead glanced around the room hawkkeyed taking it all in. The bespoke kitchen, the tasteful fixtures and fittings. Gina dressed in Armani. Bella didn't appear impressed, smirking as she delivered her poison laced line.

"Well, I have to say it certainly looks like you landed on your feet. Which reminds me, how's your mom? Is she here? Jimmy just introduced me to his parents. So, where is dear old Debbie?" Gina watched as Bella swung her head from side to side, searching for someone she knew wasn't there. Digging deep, Gina replied, "Yes, me and Jimmy have done well, but that's the reward for hard work and study, I suppose. That's why we invested in this place. He redesigned it structurally, and I took care of the interior. We make a great team." And mom lives in Leicester with her partner, but was too poorly to make it. Debbie hadn't been invited, but Bella would never know that. Already sick of the Inquisition, Gina changed the subject.

"And what do you do these days? And how come you're back in these parts? Don't your parents spend most of their time in Italy?" "Yes, that's right. They followed the sun, but I'm staying here at their place for a while. I'm in between homes, so it's the perfect solution while I house hunt. Which reminds me, Jimmy said you don't work. I suppose that makes you a stay-at-home mom. How sweet. just like Debbie was." The sarcastic comparison was all it needed to rile Gina further. And as much as she wanted to grab Bella by her blonde extensions and ram her face into the wall, Gina sucked in her rage and teetered on the edge of the moral high ground.

"What Jimmy meant is that I work from home and write for an interior design magazine. It suits us both for now, but I'll be back full-time once Mimi starts school. So, if you'll excuse me, I need to circulate. Help yourself to food. There's a buffet in the conservatory, and the waitresses will serve you from the hot plates. Wouldn't want you setting yourself on fire, would we?" With that, Gina turned and walked away, unable to bear Bella's company a second longer. If she thought that was the end of it, she was wrong and a fool. Because for the rest of the evening, each time she saw her husband, Bella was by his side, standing far too close, laughing loudly at his jokes, resting her hands on his arm as she did so. For Gina, the night was ruined the minute Bella stepped through the door.

But it went from bad to worse once everyone had left. "Why the hell did you let that [ __ ] in? You should have told Guy to take her home." Gina knew she was being ridiculous because she wouldn't have had the balls to turn someone away at the door, but she was raging and the hurt she'd bottled up forever bubbled over. Jimmy dragged a hand through his hair. "For Christ's sake, Gina, how the hell was I supposed to know who she was? You're being ridiculous and you know it." Gina didn't care. She had to take it out on someone and it was him.

"And then to make it worse, she was all over you. pouring at you, the bimbo slag. I saw you were lapping it up, so don't even try and deny it. And you told her I was a housewife. Oh, what was it? Oh, yes. Out of work." "I did not say that. She's twisted my words. And no, I didn't like her, as you say, pouring at me. And there's nothing wrong with you being out of work or a full-time mom or whatever you want to call it. It's nobody's business. So, why don't you stop looking for a fight and ruining the night? You're being paranoid and acting like a bloody school girl. Just listen to yourself."

"I'm ruining the evening. And how dare you even say I'm out of work, you cheeky." "Mommy, why are you shouting at daddy?" Gina froze, her head snapped upwards. At the top of the stairs, she saw Max holding on to the banister, eyes wide and tearful. "Max, sweetheart, I'm not shouting at Daddy, so don't worry." She was already halfway up the stairs, her anger turning to shame, then back to anger again as she swooped up her son and carried him back to bed. As she covered him with the duvet and watched while he nodded off, fury consumed her. There was only one person to blame for all this. Ruining her party and upsetting her son, let alone daring to touch her husband. And as God was her witness, Gina swore that Bella wouldn't spoil a second of her life ever again.

It took a few days, but Gina and Jimmy made up like they always did after a row. They made a pact that the bee name would never be mentioned again. and Jimmy promised to speak to Guy and make sure he did the same and knew what a [ __ ] she was. They got back into the Christmas spirit and then enjoyed New Year at Disneyland Paris. So eventually Gina banished Bella from her mind until the day Babs dropped her bombshell and told Gina she'd just driven past Jimmy up by the young farm.

"Are you sure it was Jimmy?" Gina's heart raced and a river of dread swept through her body. "Of course it was him. Everyone knows your Jimmy drives a McLaren. I'd recognize it anywhere. Now, shall I start on the upstairs bathrooms? Then I'll do the kiddies rooms. Back soon." In that moment, Gina's head resembled a meltinthe-middle chocolate sponge. The hot center oozing everywhere. Rendered immobile, she remained on the sofa, trying to hold her dripping, dribbling, mushed up brain together. After a while, one question somehow forced its way through the goo. Why was Jimmy near the young farm when he'd told her he'd be in Chester all day and having dinner with clients? All it took was one quick text asking if he'd arrived in Chester, telling him she missed him already. The reply came 6 minutes and 11 seconds later. He said he was at the conference center. the traffic into the city had been a nightmare and he was about to go into his meeting and that he missed her too. Liar. That's when it all began. The first lie, the text, then the voice note, the nightmare, the return of Bella. Once suspicion took hold, Gina's imagination ran riot. Her paranoia knew no bounds and her latest meltdown began in earnest. It was all going wrong.

Gina checked her watch. Time to make her way home. And then, as she stretched out, she had an idea. The young farm was only minutes away if she diverted from her usual route. What was the harm in taking a look? Seeing if Bella's car was there, or maybe two, meaning she'd shacked up with someone, and that was why the slapper hadn't been in touch with Jimmy. It was worth a look, and she didn't even have to stop running. Just skirt the perimeter of the farm, have a gander, then head home. It was a no-brainer. She had to know. And with her laces nice and tight and her mind made up, Gina reset her watch and began to run.

Chapter 15. Babs.

The sound of her phone distracted Babs from the laptop screen and Jess, the effevescent fitness instructor who was putting all the other online viewers through their paces. Babs ignored the phone and focused on the last few minutes of disco size. This was her time and nobody was allowed to interrupt. Who would have thought that she'd enjoy working out? But she did, and joining the online class was so much fun. Being part of a group with her far away, puffed out buddies who logged on each day. At first, she'd ach and she was feeling so much better in herself and about herself. She'd also joined a Facebook group where each morning they did steps and chatted via messages and another for women going through the menopause. They shared their experiences, gave advice, and swapped healthy eating tips about superfoods and supplements. What Babs liked best was the encouragement and comfort, knowing that others were going through it, felt less like she was going dooi or alone. Babs wished she'd done it before, had the guts to join an online group, but she'd been too shy, and also there never seemed to be enough hours in the day until now. It was Gina who suggested it ages ago when Babs had been there cleaning. She'd had a bit of a funny turn, a hot flush that sent her dizzy and Gina noticed. It was the first time Babs

Had ever mentioned her symptoms. She'd felt dafted, definitely embarrassed about discussing such a private matter, but once she'd started, it was like she couldn't stop. Gina had listened and suggested Babs made an appointment at the doctors and also had a gander at online support groups. It had meant a lot that she'd taken the time to listen.

Many of the women in the group were scared of what was happening in the world, but at the same time determined to make the best of a terrible situation, turning unexpected time at home into a positive, especially their hourly outdoor exercise. Bab saved hers until after tea, where she left whoever was on the rotor for washing up to get on with it. The house was at full capacity, so she relished her walk along the lanes around the estate.

Sometimes accompanied by Demi, who'd reverted to being the daughter Babs remembered, the one that lurked beneath her teenage veneer. They'd chat about all sorts and nothing in particular. And Babs suspected that being away from her peers was good for Demi. It gave her a break from the pressure of being a teenager and social media. And it was nice, just the two of them. Pete, despite being asked, always declined, as did Sasha. Fiona was super glued to Isaac, who was super glued to the remote and never moved from in front of the telly. Anyway, she kept as far away from them as possible because they'd been out there into the world, and the thought of catching anything scared her half to death.

Refocus. That's what Babs had done in order to take her mind off the news. It made her worry. She'd considered sleeping on the sofa because, let's face it, she wouldn't miss anything or be missed in the bedroom. Not these days. She'd also developed her own beauty regime after ordering some face and skin products and vitamins online. She was determined to have summer ready feet and had started painting her toenails. And now she wasn't cleaning so much, her fingernails looked much nicer, too. She was halfway to being glamorous. And now she'd lost a few pounds and summer had arrived, she intended treating herself to some new clothes as well, thanks to her mom's little windfall, as Bridey called it.

It had occurred the day after lockdown, and the actual amount of the Euromillions lottery win remained undisclosed. Her mom loved to be mysterious. It was enough for her to transfer £250 into Babs' bank account with the strict instructions that it was for her and not for Pete. The three kids had been given an envelope with a 20 note inside. Pete got bugger all. Poor Pete. Her mother had always tolerated Pete and shown him respect for the simple reason he was the father of her grandchildren. But there was little love lost.

In the early days, Bab sought to defend Pete, wanting her mom to like him, and if she was honest, for the truth not to sting so much. "He's selfish and lazy. And yes, I know he gets up early for work on the bins, but he's home and sat on his fat ass by 2:00 and that's it for the day. Your dad put in a full shift on the tools at the waterboard. Started at 7 digging holes and laying pipes in all weathers, but he still found the energy to do overtime, do our house up, take you and Tom swimming or to the park, even when he was shattered. Pete's a bone idol sherker who finds time and money for golf and football, but not for his wife and kids."

Babs ignored the memory of Bry's dulit tones, pecking her head and ringing in her ears, and instead followed Jess's warming down exercises. Once she'd waved goodbye, Babs disconnected from the feed and then checked her phone to see who'd been calling. And speak of the devil, it was her mom. Jabbing the call back icon, Babs waited for Bridey to pick up. "There you are. What were you doing? I let it ring for ages." Bridey always cut to the chase. "I was doing my workout, Mom. You know, the one I was telling you about on Facebook. Are you okay?"

"Yes, love. I'm fine. I need one of you to go and collect something from Argos for me. I've bought me and Mavis a marquee each. A what? A marquee. So we can sit outside on the front, whatever the weather, and have a natter and say hello to the people when they pass. Then we're not breaking the law. And we can do the clapping on Thursdays. I can't be doing with sitting inside. I've got us camping chairs, too, with cup holders and a little side table so we can have snacks and stuff. Oh, yes, and nice blankets for our legs in case it gets a bit chilly on the Willie."

Babs giggled at one of her mom's favorite sayings used on toddler Isaac when he ran round the house naked. As always, Bridey was persistent and eager. "So, when can you go? I'll send you the reference number and I'll need that fat lump pete to put it up. Unless you think one of my grandchildren are capable of following written instructions on a piece of paper." Bridey was convinced that the younger generation were physically and mentally incapacitated by overuse of the web, text messaging, and emails, and as a result, couldn't spell or do anything practical and sat on their asses all day talking rubbish. Bridey, on the other hand, was conveniently immune and embraced online shopping like it was a gift sent by God especially for her. Still not sure what her mom had bought, Babs probed, worried also that Bridey's mystery windfall wasn't going to go far at this rate. "Mom, I don't think a marquee will fit in your little front garden."

"Bloody hell, Barbara." She only called Babs by her full name when she was annoyed. "I'm not simple. I check the dimensions, but if it makes you happy, I'll look on my app. Hold on." Some moments and a lot of tutting and deep sighs later, Bridey found what she was looking for. "Right. It's a white PVC gazebo with detachable windows, aluminum frame, and measures..."

"Mom, that's fine. I get it now. A gazebo is a bit different to a marquee, and I think it's a great idea. It'll keep you dry, and if it's too warm, out of the sun." Babs imagined her mom and Mavis on either side of their fence, camped under their gazeos, keeping an eye on the neighbors and taking part in the new tradition, clapping for the NHS workers on a Thursday night. Bridey had worked as a nurse at their local hospital for over 30 years and was really strict with all the family, ringing up to make sure they all went outside to say thank you.

"Thanks, love. I'll send you the details now and I'd be grateful if we could get them put up as soon as. The forecast is lovely for the next week, so I want to get organized."

"Leave it with me, Mom. I'll pick everything up and bring the girls to help. I'm sure between the three of us, we can manage without the men. You'll have to stay inside till it's done, though, and no interfering. I'll see you in a bit. Okay."

After her mom said goodbye, Babs had an idea and opened up the Argos app on her phone and began to search, clicking buy now when she found what she was looking for. Smiling, she pictured her mom and Mavis sitting out at dusk underneath their gazeos, all lit up with solar fairy lights.

2 hours later, after being supervised by her bossy mother, who barked orders through the window, Babs and the girls had satisfactorily completed their task. Bridey and Mavis were sitting in their respective tented areas and loving life while Sasha took photos from the other side of the gate. Blankets were draped over their camping chairs for later. Two mugs of tea stood in the holders and both slipper-clad women were happily enscconced under their matching white gazeos. "With a bit of luck, the solar panels will charge up by tonight, but if not, they'll work tomorrow. Thanks, love. That was very kind of you. I didn't think about lights, but they'll look lovely. I'll pop the money in your account later on." Bridey gave Babs a look that said, "No arguments." The prize pot was shrinking further. "Rightyo, we'll get off then. Ring if you need anything, and remember, don't let anyone get too close." Another withering look told Babs to be quiet, and minutes later, the three of them were heading home.

The grumbling started 2 minutes into the drive, led by Sasha. "At least we got out of the house, and it was nice to see Gran. Better than another evening with Isaac and Fiona. I wish you'd said no to a moving in. Mom, it's too cramped and she spends hours in the bathroom doing lord knows what. Can't wait for her to piss off home."

"Well, I think she's okay." Demi ignored Sasha's wobbly head and the ugly face she was pulling at the mention of Fiona. "She's going to color my hair. Vamp pink it's called. We ordered one off Amazon last night and she said she'll give me a trim, too."

Babs had a question. "Uh, excuse me, Demi. I don't think you're allowed to go to school with pink hair and your dad will have a fit."

"Mom, don't be such a spoiled sport. And if you hadn't noticed, school's shut. I'll rock Vamp Pink, so please let me. If you loved me, you would." Demi winked and gave Babs a nudge while from the back seat came a loud tut. She'd heard the line many times before and always fell for it. But Demi had been a star since lockdown started, not sherking her online lessons and actually making an effort to spend time with Babs. "Go on then. But if your dad tells you off, I'm having nothing to do with it."

"Okay, blame it all on Fiona." Babs was pulling into the cul-de-sac, so being hugged by a giddy girl was a bit inconvenient, as was the sound of her phone ringing. By the time Babs fished it out of her bag, she saw a message from Tom. "Hi, sis. Give me a call when you're free. Need to talk. Kiss." Babs's heart plummeted. Something was wrong. So, not bothering to get out of the car, she waited till the girls had gone inside and rang him straight back.

Chapter 16.

It was sweltering inside Babs's car, and even with the windows down, rivers of perspiration trickled where they really should not, and the back of her thighs stuck to the leather seat and made a squelchy sound when she moved. No matter how uncomfortable she was. Tom came before being cool, and she didn't want the girls to get the gist of what was going on, if there was actually a problem. When he finally picked up after two tries, she braced herself for bad news.

"Hi, sis. How's it going over there?"

"All good here, keeping safe and sanitized. There's not a bit of me that Chris hasn't rubbed down with an antiseptic wet wipe. Or is that too much information?" He sounded upbeat, but that was Tom's way. Always on a natural high, seeing the best in every situation and person, often at his own cost.

"Yes, it bloody well is too much info, and we're all okay. In fact, I've just been to see mom. Wait till the girls post photos on the fam chat. She's a hoot." Babs was mildly relieved, but not out of the woods, knowing he could be stalling, serving her a [ __ ] sandwich, as he called them. It was Tom's tried and trusted way of delivering unsavory news to their parents when he was growing up. It was his special formula, disguising bad stuff in between something good.

"I've got a Saturday job at the dairy, which will easily pay for the dent I made in mom's bumper. And my mate said he'd fix it on the cheap. Well, it's mom I'm ringing about, actually. Mad bridey keeps asking me if I'm okay for money, and if I need some, all I have to do is ask. I think she's stressing because we've had to close the bar and thinks we'll starve to death, but I told her we're okay. So, how much did she win? Because she's acting like she's loaded."

Bab smiled, knowing that her mom just wanted to look after her youngest chick, even if he was over a thousand miles away. "I have no idea, but I'm letting her enjoy keeping us guessing until it runs out. She's obviously not that flush because she only gave the kids 20 quid and Pete got nothing unlike Chris. My husband is the spawn of the devil as far as she's concerned." It was true. And Babs didn't begrudge Chris the £10 Amazon voucher her mom had sent him because he was a lovely guy and the whole family adored him. Well, perhaps not Pete, who didn't go for all that man love and hugging. And quite frankly, the only people he adored were his annoying friends from work. Oh, and himself.

"Are you really okay, though? Not just putting on a brave face for me and mom. Closing the bar and cafe must have been a blow, especially so close to the holiday season." Babs was so proud of Tom, whose beachfront ery was really popular. He'd built himself a whole new life when he and Chris ran off to Spain, well away from that nasty old bigot Edmund.

"Yes, I swear. So, stop worrying. Me and Chris are using the opportunity to revamp the interior and exterior, even the menu. When we do reopen, I want you to come over again as soon as you can and tell me what you think. You're my biggest critic, but I respect your opinions. You know that."

Babs's heart lifted immediately, imagining another long weekend with her brother and Chris. She'd made the trip once a year with Demi and Sasha. Last time just Demi. It was such an adventure, jetting off from Manchester airport, having a cheeky drink in the lounge and another cheekier one on the plane, but it was always over too soon. Pete didn't want to go and moaned about the cost and her missing work, so she'd fibbed and said Bry gave her the money. She adored Alakanti, La Almadra Beach, the bars and shops, the bustle of tourists looking for a great time, the time she'd imagined before her dream of working abroad was shattered. Babs loved to sit in Tom's place, watching the diners and soaking up the atmosphere, and was so proud of her little brother. It always went too quickly, though, her time with him.

"Of course, I'll come over. In fact, I'm going to put the money mom gave me aside for the flight. Then it'll give me something to look forward to. Babs could make do with the clothes she had. Seeing Tom was more important. And while I'm on, Chris is really worried about his mom. You know, being stuck in that creepy vicorage all day with Satan's disciple." This was Tom's name for Edmund, the man who'd said vile things to Chris and by proxy about Tom and the gay community in general.

"I know, poor love. I can give her a ring if you want. Check in and have a see how Willow is doing, too. The poor lamb has some good days, and that always lifts Robin spirits. Gives her hope." I think Babs's heart broke for the young woman who she'd watched grow, served through the hatch at the school canteen, and as she didn't pray, she wished hard that one day Willow would get better.

"Would you? That would be great. Chris facetimed her last night and said he could hear the strain in her voice and she looked tired, too. Then when he spoke to Willow, she barely reacted. It's really got to him. I know it's the drugs and her state of mind, but being so far away makes her feel even more unreachable, and he can't even help Robin with her care."

Babside, remembering with a heavy heart the trouble when Tom and Chris's affair had been discovered. After trying his dandest to split them up, shame them, revile them, and talk Chris into some freaky conversion therapy, Edmund snapped. He threw his son out and banned him from the house. Ever since contact between Chris and Robin had been virtually. They had been so close. Chris and his mom, and what Edmund did was downright cruel. Man of God. Huh?

"I'll give her a ring and ask her to meet me at the churchyard wall one evening. I can take my walk in that direction and we can have an at her. That's not breaking any rules, I don't think. As long as we stay apart and that way she might open up about how she's doing. What do you think?"

"That would be ace. Thanks, Babs. Robin tries to put a front on for Chris, but he knows her so well and could see through it last night. He's got it into his head that she's too isolated now. She's turned her back on Edmund and is focused on Willow, and he wants to know if Nate is doing his bit and not leaving it all to Robin, which I also suspect is the case." Babs knew only too well what was going on at the vicorage and how Edmund ruled the roost, but didn't comment and listened instead. "And now you can't even go round there, and you're probably one of the few true friends she's got."

Babs's mind was made up. "Don't worry, love. Leave it with me. I have an idea how to get her talking and cheer her up at the same time."

"Cheers, Babs. I knew I could rely on you. Now tell me what you lot have been up to and what's going on with mom. You mentioned some photos." Tom sounded much chirpier.

So Bab shuffled, wincing at the sound and feel of her skin as it pulled away from the car seat like cellar tape. Once she was comfier, she regaled her brother with details of Finch family life and the neverending saga of the always empty fridge.

Later that evening, Babs was power-walking her way towards the village. Demiy's school rucksack on her back. Inside was a bottle of coldish white wine and two plastic picnic glasses. She'd taken the wine from the fridge and in its place left a post-it note saying, "Hi, F. Borrowed you wine. We'll replace it ASAP. Needed it for an emergency. Love be kiss." It had amused Babs no end as she left the house with her haul, knowing the hoo-ha that the missing wine would cause, but last week someone had eaten her Friday night treat of maltesers. So tough. Glad to be away from home, Babs was looking forward to meeting Robin, who, sounding thrilled when she rang earlier, had eagerly agreed to meet at the corner of the churchyard. Both of them were convinced they wouldn't be breaking any rules. They'd agreed on 7:00 p.m. by which time Nate would be home and Robin could relax a bit knowing that he could keep an eye on Willow. It was such a sorry state of affairs, and it wasn't as though she was under lock and key 24/7, but due to her unpredictable nature, her manic ups and terrible downs. Robin, more than anyone, had to be vigilant. She'd really had so much to cope with, had poor Robin, and it still flums babs how behind closed vicorage doors a family could be so riddled with problems when to the outside world, they appeared to be so perfect. That's what she'd always thought they were. Lovely Robin, who worked so hard in the community, the glue that held all the committees together, let alone her private life. Lovely Willow, who could be a little eccentric now and then, but was kind and gentle. Shy, sweet Crispen, who played the guitar and wanted to be a musician and was never any bother at all. Edmund was just a bastard. Babs was disgusted with the things he'd said about their Tom, that he was a sinner and all that god-bothering nonsense, and that he'd groomed Chris and perverted him. Really, what a hypocrite. When half the village knew about him and Gina's mom and what they got up to in one of the lanes by the dairy farm. There were rumors he had a mistress over in Macklesfield, too. Nothing would surprise Babs about Edmund. At least Robin had never found out or Gina, because the shame would probably kill them both. Babs had longed to expose the pious prick when he slagged off Tom. She wasn't cruel, though, and no good would come of it. It wouldn't have helped Chris, who had simply fallen in love with a man 10 years older and was so terrified of his own dad, had been hiding his sexuality for years. Fortunately, Chris had gathered the courage to finally stand up to his father, otherwise he'd have been bundled off to some retreat and brainwashed into being straight. The thought of it made her shudder. How dare Edmund be judge and jewelry on another human being's life? Or take the moral and religious high ground when he was a sinner himself and had betrayed his wife and God all in one go. No wonder after Chris left uni and ran away with Tom, Robin's world started to fall apart. And then there was what happened to Willow and how Edmund reacted. Robin has confided in Babs that she was punishing the vicar in her own way and as a consequence the atmosphere in the vicorage was rock bottom. Babs made sure she did her cleaning when Satan was out. Whereas when she cleaned the church he was often around skullking and giving her scathing looks. Babs suspected that the only reason he didn't sack her was because he didn't want any more scandal. After all, the whole bloody village knew what had gone on. Edmund thought he was so clever with his secretly controlling ways, but Babs was a worthy adversary, and rather than resign in a huff at the names he'd called Tom, she stayed on. It was like rubbing his nose in it. Each time he saw Babs, he'd be reminded of the day he came home early from a conference and caught Chris and Tom in flagrante. That's how Edmund had put it when he rang Babs to tell tales on her 29-year-old brother. The bloody idiot. It had given them all a proper laugh. Inflagrante, but she was grateful he didn't say bang at it because that was too much information even for her. Despite the trouble, Tom found his true love. And even though Chris never completed his classics degree, he'd achieved his true dream of being a musician in his band, playing at venues all over Almaria during the summer. And their mutual loss of a brother and a son, plus their loathing of Edmund, had further united Babs and Robin in a friendship and against the enemy. They'd been gone for years now, and while she had been over to see Tom, Robin had never made the trip. And because the man of God, Edmund, was actually incapable of humility or basic kindness, Robin had borne so much alone. It broke Babs's heart, which was why she would always stand by her friend. And if tonight's meeting went well, they could do it again.

As she rounded the bend, Babs smiled when she spotted Robin, her red hair blowing in the breeze, her slender arm waving a welcome. Babs waved back and picked up speed, making the pale-faced woman who lent against the church wall a silent promise. "Don't you worry, love. I'm here now and I've got your back. I'll make sure you're okay. No matter what, we'll get through this and I'll never ever let you down."

Chapter 17.

Robin.

Robin watched as her friend disappeared from sight, giving one last wave as she rounded the bend. It had done her heart good to see Babs again, and the warm white wine they'd shared had certainly hit the spot. There was something about Babs that lifted Robin up. It was the way she managed to make light of things and never let stuff get her down, like her overcrowded house and her overpampered family. Robin knew it was just Babs's way to grumble about them with a roll of the eyes and a quip, finishing her mini rant with, "But I loved them all really." Oh, how Robin envied her friend with her haphazard yet happy family life. But not for a second did she begrudge Babs a second of it, or the sweaty socks she'd found rolled up down the side of Pete's armchair, or the brown stain that Sasha's fake tan left in the shower. It was nice, though, to hear about a normal family who lived, laughed, and quibbled, unlike hers that had crumbled, rotting at the foundations, bent and twisted like the ancient gravestone she passed on her way back to the vicorage.

If only Edmund had become all the things she'd hoped he would. She'd convinced herself that given time she'd mold him, soften the obtuse edges of his austere personality, rub out the thick black lines that guarded his heart, and show him another way opposite to his upbringing. To have that mission had seen her through those early years of marriage and what she knew were terrible mistakes, marrying Edmund and rejecting Arty. Instead of doing what she knew in her heart was very wrong, but oh so right, she'd sacrificed her happiness rather than let her parents down. What was worse, unforgivable, was sacrificing the heart of another. Hurting Arty was like hurting herself. And in doing so, she'd set a course for disaster because that's what she and Edmund were. An utter debacle, a marriage built on lies, infidelity, misguided faith, and now hate. Because she did hate Edmund. She really did.

"Don't think about him now. You've had such a lovely time." Robin chided, "And it'll be such a waste of Babs walking all that way and the penog grigio. So, buck up like she does when she thinks of Isaac still living at home when he's 50." Robin managed to chuckle and was about to say bye to Martha when her phone rang. Seeing the name on the screen, she smiled and sat in her usual place, facing the headstone, her back resting against the wall. Swiping the screen, she was still smiling when she heard his voice.

"Hello, you. What are you up to?"

"I'm with Martha and I've just had an illicit rendezvous with Babs. We shared a bottle of wine. It was so good to see her and have an ata. She looks marvelous, too. All tanned cheeks and jard de vie. Her exercise regime is doing her the world of good." Robin could tell Arty anything, even about her chats with a long-dead woman she'd never met. He knew everything about her via their emails back and forth where she filled him in with the goings-on in the village.

"And are you managing to get out?" Arty was also very direct.

"Not really. No, apart from being in the garden with Willow. She's had a few good days. I persuaded her to keep me company while I did some weeding and I've been reading her angel books out loud. Oh, and we ordered some craft stuff off Amazon. Jewelry making and a paint by numbers. I thought I could entice her to have a go." Robin took every day at a time, but was just glad to report that Willow was out of the house getting some fresh air, because sometimes the vicorage felt like a prison.

"I wish you'd get out more, Robin. Why don't you hook up with Babs? Join her on one of her walks. Surely if you kept apart, it would be okay, and nobody will see you out there. I hate the thought of you being so isolated." The worry in his voice echoed down the line. Robin decided on mirth to fend off Arty's concerns. "Says you, Mr. Living in the French wilderness. I bet you haven't seen a soul for weeks. Unless your drinking buddies have been sneaking in, which wouldn't surprise me." Arty didn't deny her accusation, which made her smile. He was always the rebel.

The next few minutes were taken up by swapping lockdown news from their respective dots on the map. The toilet roll epidemic appeared to be global like the virus until the conversation reverted to them via Chris's concerns for his mom. "I spoke to my nephew yesterday and he's worried about you. He thinks you're struggling with Willow and obviously having to put up with my brother. I'm sure Edmund is missing his pulpit and inflicting his special brand of misery on the congregation. So, I imagine he'll be like a bear with a sore head."

Robin sighed. "You got it in one. Nate has set him up with a Zoom account so he can do a weekly sermon, but most of his flock haven't a clue how to use it, and neither has he, to be honest. He resorted to calling them on the phone, and the air was blue the other day when he had to say the Lord's Prayer about 35 times. Oh, how I giggled." She heard the loud tut that anything to do with Edmund or religion elicited, so swiftly moved on.

"I know Chris is concerned, Babs told me, but I try to reassure him best I can, and I don't go into detail about Willow if I can help it. I'm stuck in the middle protecting them both. An Edmund is never going to change, so I simply avoid talking about him. And let's be honest, being a recluse suits me fine, and lockdown hasn't changed my day-to-day life, apart from having the nice man from Sainsbury's bring my shopping, which I have to say is a revelation and something I could get used to. So, I'll be fine. I promise."

"Well, I bloody won't. I wish I'd got over there before we locked down. I'm still kicking myself over that. I don't know how I'm going to manage not seeing you every month or so. It was torture enough as it was before all this. Maybe I should just find a way. Sod the virus and take a chance."

"Please don't do that, Arty. I'd never forgive myself. I couldn't bear it if something happened to you." She swallowed down the lump in her throat and forced her voice to remain steady. "Just stay there, my love. Be safe. That's all I ask."

After she made him promise and knowing her well, Arty turned the conversation and made her laugh with school stories and the strange sights he'd seen during online lessons with his students. Like the mother of Jolene, who didn't realize the camera was on, so his class watched in fascination as she paraded through the kitchen in her very skimpy bra and knickers. He was about to tell her another story when the sound of a doorbell cut into the conversation. "Burger, that'll be Jared with my shopping. It was his turn to go, so I'll have to get it from his car. Are you in a rush? Because I can call you back. I won't be long."

Not wanting to return to the vicorage just yet, she said she'd wait and keep Martha company. After a swift goodbye, came the all too familiar, disconnected tone. Alone with her thoughts, Robin admitted that part of her had wanted to say, "Yes, get a flight. Row across the channel, anything so I can have you close by. Their secret rendezvous was something she lived for. A [ __ ] of light in the murky gray. She missed him badly and Chris, too. Robin loved her shy son so much. For all the obvious reasons, and also because he'd been responsible for reuniting her and Arty, and for that, she would always be grateful.

Robin never thought she'd see Arty again. Not after he disappeared on her wedding day. But at the time she'd been glad he was gone. It had made it easier. On the eve of her wedding, Robin had gone through a gamut of emotions. She'd even dared to pray for a miracle that time could be rewound back to the garden on the day she was introduced to Edmund. Here she would have made pleasantries, then left him to sip his pimms while she helped her mother in the kitchen or feigned a migraine. Anything other than become embroiled in a relationship with him. As she lay in her bed, dear Francesca by her side, more than likely dreaming dreams of meeting Prince Charming at the reception, Robin also waited for the sound of stones being thrown against her window. For Arty to be in the garden below and beg her one more time to elope with him. Quite ridiculous, really, because she wouldn't have had the guts to go. Maybe she would. Robin would never know. She'd managed to march through the day, because that's what it was, a regimented order of service, then the reception, and the part she dreaded most, the wedding night. From the second she saw Arty waiting by the altar with Edmund, the scowl on his face, the way he averted his eyes, and the set of his jaw and shoulders told her that he wouldn't forgive her for what she was about to do. The real Arty was back. It was torture, and Robin accepted it as her punishment for all those glorious lunchtimes spent with her lover. How bizarre that on what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, she acknowledged her sin and bore the brunt of Arty's anger like a horsehair shirt. When he skillfully avoided congratulating her, made the shortest best man speech in the history of wedding breakfasts, and managed to add a note of sarcasm that only she heard when he toasted the happy couple. She took it all on the chin. He disappeared immediately after the meal. Not that Edmund noticed because he was far too busy doing the social rounds, chatting to the dullest bunch of wedding guests ever. What a revelation the day was. Like those Hian hours with Arty in his room, consumed with lust and what she now knew to be the real thing. A love that made you weep, cry out in ecstasy, crave, and cover so badly that even thinking of it sent a swell of heat through one's body. Even that was part of her divine act of penitence, thoroughly deserved, willingly taken. But if Robin thought the day was bad, God hadn't quite finished with her yet. The next morning, as they left the city center vicorage that she would now call home, the tears that stung her eyes were born from so many things and nothing to do with her new mascara. Memories of her wedding night clung to her skin, a taste of what was to come searing her brain. A fumble in the dark, her nighty raised just enough to ease the task. A minute or so of one-way pleasure. Then the broad glaze was tugged neatly into place, followed by a peck on the forehead and the sight of his pajama-ed back as he turned on his side facing the wall. Tears fell freely for her parents, who she missed already, and her bedroom with the candy-striped wallpaper, and Teddy, the battered bear she'd had since birth, who she'd left behind and would be wondering where she was. Robin didn't cry for Arty, though, because he was gone, checked out of his hotel, or so Edmund told her when he rang to ask him where the ruddy hell he disappeared to. The slight was discussed on the train journey to Wales, reiterating that she'd no idea why he'd done a flit, agreeing with Edmund that it was very bad form, but not unexpected. She took each crack of the whip, self-flagellation by proxy. According to Edmund, as he droned on, and Robin tried to focus on the beauty of South Wales from the train window, it was a foregone conclusion that Arty would blot his copy book. Edmund had got used to his brother's flighty, inconsiderate ways, and was mildly surprised he'd even agreed to be best man, seeing as he clearly wasn't, especially as Arty had made Edmund feel most uncomfortable as they waited in the church, because it was quite clear he still despised everything the place stood for, and in turn his own brother. "Well, you just wait until I speak to him. He can't hide in Japan forever, and I will take him to task over his rudeness to you and your parents. It was most embarrassing. Everyone asking after him, never mind his lackluster speech and frankly indulgent fondness for the whiskey." It turned out that Edmund was wrong, because Arty could and did hide in Japan for what seemed like forever. Robin knew full well he engineered and exacerbated the row when Edmund finally got hold of him. Why, when Willow was born, he refused to be her godfather and to return for the christening to meet his only niece. Same when Chris was born, and according to Edmund, he had the audacity to ridicule their son's name. "Why the hell would you saddle a child with a name like that after our father, an utterly bigoted man who lacked anything remotely worth honoring? And stop trying to force your beliefs and ridiculous rituals on me because you're wasting your time, Edmund. As I told you before, I will not be returning anytime soon. I cannot be saved by you or anyone, and nor do I want to be. Now, please let me get on with my life, and you get on with yours. I wish you and your family well, so let's just leave it there. Take care, Edmund." Robin had been hovering in the hallway and made her presence known as Arty ended the call, leaving Edmund staring at the receiver, his face pus as he turned to her in astonishment. "That's it. My brother and I are finished. How dare he speak to me like that?" It wasn't often Robin resorted to sarcasm, but on that occasion she simply couldn't resist. "Whatever happened to forgiveness, Edmund? Surely you can find it in your heart, or at least rustle up a parable that will guide you." The sound of the receiver being slammed into the cradle told her otherwise as she watched him stomp off, speaking to his back as he grabbed his coat and hat. But no matter, we'll carry on as planned and have a lovely christening for Chris, just like Willow's. Turning with a smile, Robin heaved a sigh of relief, knowing that Arty would stay away, and as a consequence, she would be spared the trauma of seeing his face again.

After that, Robin's best foot kept moving forward, making the most of a very bad job by throwing the love she didn't have for Edmund into loving her children and being the best Vicar's wife in the county, making amends the only way she knew how and all the time, hoping that him upstairs would eventually forgive her sin. For years, Robin trundled on, for the most part, content. Happiness came via the children who she swore would not be joined by more siblings and the kinship she found in the parishioners. Life was bearable if she focused on the good things in her world, like living in a beautiful part of the countryside, and conversely having a husband who was disinterested in the conjugal side of marriage. Had it been the opposite, Robin would have accepted that God had a wicked side and was far more annoyed with her than she'd previously imagined. And then Chris, out of the blue, decided to contact his long-lost uncle. Robin had no idea that her shy and sensitive son had tracked Arty down, or that they'd been secretly corresponding for months. Maybe his inquiring mind had created a family mystery he thought he should solve, or in an attempt to garner praise from his hard-to-please father, had misguided desire to heal a rift and reunite warring brothers.

When he found her in the garden kneedeep in crocus bulbs, she knew in a heartbeat Chris was nervous. It was written on his face. "Mom, can I have a chat? I've been waiting for dad to go out so we won't be disturbed." Chris hovered, looking sheepish. "Of course, darling. Now, is this a serious sit at the table kind of chat or will here do on the grass with your muddy mum?" Robin hoped it was the latter, not like when Chris told her he didn't want to go to scouts anymore or Sunday school either. That was a biggie, and the fallout had lasted for quite some time. "No, here is good." He sat cross-legged and began fiddling with the pokey-out bits of wicker on Robin's truck, and in his clumsy teenage way, he made a hash of his little speech. "The thing is, I have a confession and a bit of a surprise for you, too. He told me I had to tell you because it wasn't right. Keeping secrets." Robin's heart plummeted, and she strained to hold a neutral expression as horror stories of online grooming flashed before her eyes. "Who? Who told you? What secrets?" She watched as he took a deep breath and tension zinged through her core, tightening every muscle in her body. "Uncle Arty. I tracked him down. He lives in France in a village just outside Lords. And we've been emailing for a while. Anyway, he's coming home here to see us all. And I said I should tell you so you can be prepared. I think he meant get him a room ready or something, but he's going to ring dad. Build some bridges, he said." All that Robin could think of as she listened to Chris and forced a smile to her lips was that she was ever so glad that she was sitting down because she knew for certain that her legs would not have held her up.

Days passed in a blur, and in all her years, Robin couldn't remember experiencing such all-consuming fear and nerve-jangling excitement rolled into one each time she thought of Arty's imminent return. Fear that he'd had some kind of epiphany, maybe a breakdown, because she'd seen how fragile his temperament could be. She wouldn't be surprised if he still hated her. And now that Chris had opened the door, Arty was coming back to cause trouble for the hell of it. To tell Edmund and the children what a wicked woman she was, lay her life to waste. Because why else would the prodigal return? There'd been no cards, letters, or phone calls to Edmund. Just a gift token each year for Willow and Chris, because what could he buy children he'd never met and knew nothing about? He couldn't possibly have missed them. She doubted he longed to be an uncle, fill some void in his bachelor life. The lure was unlikely to be Edmund. Hence, she didn't trust him. Not after all this time. He was a stranger. The essence of the beautiful man she'd lain with had faded with time, and she'd been able to lock it away in a box labeled "my moment of madness." Been strict with herself, forbidding even just a peep inside. It had been a necessity to enable her to get on with it, and now he was going to ruin all the progress she'd made. Resistance was futile, though. The thrill inside her chest and the swirl deep down in her gut could not be ignored. No matter how many times she summoned the image in her head, pressing down hard with the plumpest pillow she could find to smother the notion that to see him again was all she'd ever wanted. Madness. That's what it was. Like the day all those years ago when he'd invited her for lunch, asked her to come to his room. It was happening again, and Robin could sense him getting closer, the miles between her and the village he lived in France closing by the hour. The potent promise of forbidden fruit, the challenge that awaited her, the battle between abstinence and temptation, a jewel in which she would fight for her family if he sought to bring it down, was sending Robin quietly insane.

Chapter 18.

The stage was set. Edmund had little option other than to play the part of a benevolent man of God, to lead by example and accept the olive branch offered by his recalcitrant brother. Maybe he was curious, too, but Robin suspected Edmund wanted to show off, brag about his growing closeness to the bishop and the church hierarchy, still oblivious and arrogant enough to believe that Arty would even care. Edmund would be eager to parade his wife and children to demonstrate how being an adult should be done and what Arty could have had if he'd been a better man. The irony of her suspicions wasn't lost on Robin, and as she polished the dining table and arranged the flowers in the hall, she'd heard herself laugh out loud, followed by a snort of derision. There he'd be, pining himself at a job well done, when, in truth, Edmund's house was built on false foundations and a bed of lies, a shameful secret shared. How Arty would enjoy it. This judgment of her brother-in-law was based merely on the snippets Chris had passed on while they ate dinner prior to Arty's eagerly awaited return. A secondhand and possibly tame version of his uncle's life told via their correspondence. Never married, Arty had split with his partner of six years quite recently. No big drama because it was on the fizzle anyway. He'd never had children, but had taught thousands of the little buggers all over the world before settling in France, where he taught languages at a local school. Arty had sent photos that made her internal organs and other bits and bobs do strange things because apart from the obvious telling of time, he hadn't changed a bit. Still the same rakish smile, that look in his eye.

Willow was excited, too, and had quizzed Robin while she poured over her parents' wedding photos, gazing drearily at the tall, handsome man scowling from the back row. "So why did he stay away so long? And why did he and Dad fall out?" Looking down at the photos, she squinted. "They're nothing alike, are they? Poor Dad. He definitely missed out on the cute Jean." Willow, being her usual forthright self, had stated the obvious. Arty was clearly the most handsome of the brothers by a mile, and that was before you added charisma and all the other stuff that was coming back to haunt Robin by the hour.

"It wasn't a falling out so much, more a conflict of opinions because your uncle, it was still impossible to say his name because it made it all too close and personal. Well, him and God have never got on. He's a confirmed atheist and when he sets his mind..."

To it, can be very belligerent and knows how to wind your father up. Then the million-dollar questions. Does he not wind you up, too? I don't mind if people have different beliefs. I like it. In fact, we should just live and let live. I can imagine Dad can't cope with any resistance or insubordination, but when you talk about Uncle Arty, you sound more forgiving. Did you like him when you met him?

What to say? The truth in its barest form seemed best. Not the first time, no. I thought he was obnoxious and opinionated, and I was offended by his views and couldn't wait to see the back of him. But then the second time he'd mellowed and I saw a different side, although I suspect he was just towing the line before the wedding and then after he'd done his duty, he was off. Willow was enthralled.

So what happened next? Your father pushed his luck, wanted him to be your godfather. He said he couldn't get back, which was fair enough because Japan isn't exactly round the corner. But when it came to Chris, I think it was the final straw for both of them. Your uncle point-blank refused. I can imagine. Then the killer question. Are you looking forward to seeing him again?

The heat that spread upwards from her chest to her neck and cheeks was hidden from view thanks to Robin's vigorous and industrious cleaning of the hob. Her answer was concocted during a moment of panic. And yet, as much as she wanted to deny Arty, she couldn't. So, to her surprise, her words spoke the truth. "Yes, actually, I think I am. But I'm also a bit nervous, so I hope he's going to behave because otherwise he'll spoil it for Chris and that will make me cross."

Willow nodded and flipped another page of the album. "Well, I'm going to take him on face value and give him a chance. I really want to get to know him and all about Lords. I've always wanted to go. Fancy a devout atheist living there." Robin allowed herself a chuckle because the same thought had crossed her mind the second Chris mentioned it. However, Willow was on a roll. So, Robin tuned back into the Arty show. "And not just that, rellies in this family are a bit thin on the ground. Then as far as Chris is concerned, he's already on team Arty. Honestly, have you heard him? Uncle Arty canoed down the Nile and has been to the Antarctic and to Peru to see the Inca treasure and worked in a sheep farm in Oz and met the Queen. I think Chris has been looking for a hero and he's found one in Uncle. Bless him."

Willow's words made Robin's heart sink. The notion that her son had looked elsewhere for a role model pained her greatly. Sadness consumed her and then anger that Edmund had fallen short again. A terrible husband and father whose focus was on the church and himself. The spotlight always dimmed where his family were concerned. He was a man of God first, maker of rules and regulations second, father third, lover unplaced.

Willow, oblivious to Robin's inner turmoil, rattled on. "So, that only leaves Dad. Do you think they'll get on?"

"Okay." Willow looked up from the wedding album and scrutinized her mother's face. "The fact that they've been in touch via email and Dad's invited him for lunch tells me it'll be fine. Although, I wasn't surprised Arty has booked into a hotel. Vicorages aren't his thing."

Willow laughed. "What? Like he's the Antichrist?"

"Yes, something along those lines. And anyway, we don't have a spare room, so it's best all round." Willow persisted. "Do you think it'll be awkward? I mean, there's a huge gap to fill in, isn't there? I hope it's not going to be cringe while you pass the trifle and Dad avoids his favorite subject. And what about me? Do you think he'll think I'm a god bother? I bet he'll think I'm a real nerd. I know. I could wear my fancy dress nuns outfit for a laugh. I bet that will be a conversation starter."

At this, Willow convulsed into giggles, highly amused by her own self-deprecation, and Robin was reminded of how Arty had made her feel the first time they met. What a state of affairs. Willow was obviously feeling a little self-conscious. Chris was eager to meet his long-lost uncle, who was some kind of legend. And as for Edmund, he'd play the game and wait for Arty to mess up and revel in his brother's inferiority. As for her, she floated between giddy Sandra Demode, albeit an older, less naive version, and wishing he'd change his mind regardless of how disappointed Chris would be. Then on top of that, it really irked her that one man could affect all of them in such a way. Days before his arrival, she'd scrutinized her appearance in the bedroom mirror, peering closer to count the crow's feet under her eyes, wondering who the prodigal brother was expecting when he rolled up. The 20-year-old bride he'd last seen on her wedding day, or the 38-year-old mother of two, wrinkles and all. So, she didn't go to the fancy salon in Chester for her roots done because of Arty. And as for the new dresses, they were in the sale, and she loved a bargain. The reason she couldn't sleep the night before was because she had so much to think about and do, like prepare the vegetables, cook the roast. Edmund would want it to be perfect, hence her jitters. Nothing else.

By the time Chris shouted from the landing, "He's here!" and raced down the stairs to open the door first and greet the uncle who he'd begun to hero-worship. Robin had to hide her trembling hands by taking hold of Willow's. The moment he walked through the door, Robin knew. She fell hard, flat on her face and right back in love with Arty, who in his pale blue shirt rolled up to his elbows, faded denim jeans, and tan suede boots, must have coordinated his casual clothing to match his casual air. Like he'd only seen them last week, Arty handed out hugs to Chris and Willow. "Hey, what a sight you two are. Even more grown up in the flesh." Then a firm handshake and a smile to Edmund. "Good to see you, Ed. You're looking well." And finally, his eyes rested on Robin. "And here she is, the beautiful Robin. Not changed a bit, just as I remember." He stepped forward, arms outstretched, and as he wrapped her in a hug, whispered in her ear, "In all of my dreams." In that moment, Arty reclaimed what had always been his.

Over the following week, Arty entranced Chris and thoroughly beguiled Willow. They soaked up his tales of daring-do and his views on the world, society, whatever subject arose, regardless of how out there and opposed they were to Edmund's. It was like a breath of fresh air blew through their home each time he turned up, often when Edmund was out. And in between discussing the Middle East conflict and the Premier League, Robin felt Arty's eyes on her whenever nobody was looking. She knew he was waiting. So was she. And when it happened, Robin was ready. Readier than she'd ever been in her life for anything ever. They were in the garden like garden proposals were their thing. The sun was about to set on a June day, and even though she'd taken up a relaxed pose on the deck chair, every sinew in her body was taut. Chris was practicing his scales in the dining room. Willow was out with Gina, and Edmund was somewhere on the planet, and thankfully not in Robin's orbit. She and Arty were drinking gin and tonic. She gulped hers down, glad of the extra slug she'd added in the kitchen. After dispensing with the usual banalities they adhered to in company, Robin decided it was time she asked him the question, not daring to look sideways when she focused on the bluebells that jiggled in the evening breeze. "Why did you really come back? I need to know."

Arty didn't miss a beat. "For you. It was time." Panic and euphoria swept through Robin. Another gulp. Another question. She couldn't stop now. "What do you mean? I'm still married. Or have you conveniently forgotten that? Like you forgot I existed for 18 years."

"I've never forgotten you, Robin. Not for a year, a day, sometimes a minute. But I had to let you go. It was wrong of me to ask you to elope. Stupid. It finally dawned on me over the years that was too much to expect from someone as wonderful as you." Robin kept her eyes on the bluebells as he continued. "But I still saw you in my dreams and in my imagination. You were being a good wife and mother, not letting your parents down or bringing shame to their door. And I didn't begrudge you that for a minute because that's what love is. Doing what's best for someone even if it kills you inside. And it did almost kill me. Leaving you behind. But I had to go. I simply couldn't stay and watch you with him."

Tears rolled down Robin's cheeks, and she didn't swipe them away because they were a testament to how she felt in that moment, how his words had affected her. She wanted him to know that she felt the same. When Robin managed to speak, her voice betrayed her. "Anyway, you were right about all of it. And if it's any consolation for the mess we got ourselves into. I thought of you so much, even though I tried desperately not to." She sucked in a breath to steady herself. "But you still haven't told me why now. Why you think it's time?"

He made a sound that was half laugh, half sigh before answering. "Coming from me. He of little faith in anything. This will sound hypocritical, but when I got the email from Chris, I saw it as a sign." He paused, turned to look, and she met his gaze and smiled before raising her eyebrows at his revelation. "And then, slowly, by reading between the lines, I began to form a picture of your life, how it had turned out, and how, as much as Chris is very sweet and loyal, he is somewhat naive. And being a teacher for so long means I'm fluent in the language of teenagers."

Robin's tears continued to trickle, and when Arty lifted his hand as if to wipe them away, her heart flipped, but he faltered, and for that she was glad, wary of being seen. Instead, he laid his hand on the arm of his chair, a millimeter from hers, as she fought the urge to hook her little finger through his. Instead, she wondered out loud what Chris had said. "What on earth has my son been saying in those emails?"

She braved a longer glance at Arty, who stroked her arm, then removed his hand quickly before answering. His touch had burned a mark in her skin. "Nothing bad, especially not about you, which would be totally impossible. Chris adores you, and so he should. He merely confirmed my fears about Edmund, that he had become the husband I expected, a carbon copy of our own father with a dollop of God on top. It made me sad. So, I came to rescue you."

Robin held him in her glare. "And how exactly will you do that considering also I haven't actually sent out a flare or requested an intervention? And there's still the matter of my wedding vows and being a mother to my children. And I am not running off and abandoning them now or ever."

"Oh, don't worry about any of that. Mere details and nothing we can't fathom as we go along. And anyway, I have most of it worked out." Robin gasped because there it was, the irresistible confidence mingled with a sprinkling of arrogance, accompanied by a look of such mischief that it made you want to be part of the game. She stared, dumbfounded and partly petrified of asking what he meant. So Arty filled in the details for her. "I respect your limits, Robin. I admire you for every bit of who you are. So I will never ask you to leave Edmund or your wonderful children or the life and the village you seem to love. I will simply wait until you are ready. And even if you aren't ever, then I will take any snippets I can get. Whatever morsel you can spare, whenever you can fit me in."

Robin's heart pounded. "That's impossible. I couldn't expect that of you. It's cruel and unfair."

Arty shook his head. "I disagree. I've done without you in my life for too long. My period of mourning is over and Edmund has had his chance and blown it. So now it's my turn. Our chance to find a little bit of happiness in this bloody awful world."

Robin bit her lip, forbidding the sob to escape because what Arty said was true. Edmund had had his chance to love her like she needed to be loved. She'd been a good vicar's wife, endured whatever the job title and marriage had thrown at her. She'd paid her penance. And if God didn't think being married to a cold, dispassionate narcissist was enough, then tough. He could send her to hell. She was probably going anyway, so why not make it worth her while?

"And what exactly are you suggesting, seeing as you live in France? Love letters straight from the heart. Do you think that will sustain us?"

"I most certainly do not. I propose something far more thrilling and clandestine because if we're going to do this, let's do it properly and set the world, our hearts, and the bed on fire like the last time."

When Arty swiveled in his seat to look at her, into her, at all of her, Robin saw a mirror image of how she felt, longing and a love like she'd never known before. And in that tiny capsule of time, only the two of them existed, counted. "What are you suggesting?"

With a wicked look in his eye, he recited words from a scene in her parents' garden many moons before. "Well, you must get a lunch hour. What say I pick you up tomorrow? Would that suit? And they say it's going to be a bit of a scorcher, so maybe after we've eaten, we could head to my room. I'll order us a bottle of something cold and fizzy, and we can sit on the balcony and chat. Or whatever you want. How does that sound?"

Robin heard the catch in her throat, but managed to answer, remembering her young self, Sandra D, standing in the forecourt of his hotel. And even if she didn't sound bold, then this time she did. "I think that would be lovely."

Robin's bottom was numb from sitting chatting to Arty, who'd called her back the second he'd collected his shopping. She really needed to get inside and make supper. So, as much as it pained her, brought the conversation to a close. "Listen, you, I need to get off. Willow might be hungry and I've been gone a while. So, I'll call you tomorrow and check you're behaving."

"I will have you know I always behave unless I'm with you and I'm getting thoroughly peeved because being good is utter torture." This made Robin smile, knowing exactly what it was like. Yet it also reaffirmed their feelings for one another. "Yes, my love, it is. But it will soon be over. And I expect you on the first flight out the minute they say it's safe."

"I promise I will be at the front of the queue for a ticket. But before you go, how is Willow? You didn't say." Arty had grown to adore Willow, becoming the best uncle, present and correct at all her milestones. He was her ardent supporter, who, despite his thoughts on the church, was furious with Edmund for swaying her from her vocation. And through all of what followed, the trouble with Chris, and the carnage of tragedy, not once had he begrudged his niece and nephew for the hold they had on Robin. There had been the briefest of opportunities once they'd flown the nest, but she was a mother first and foremost, and then a grandmother who wanted to be hands-on, not far away. And now she was Willow's carer, determined and devoted, going nowhere fast.

"We've had a few good days, actually. I ordered more angel books, as she calls them. She still pours over the photo album, and sometimes she sleeps with..." Robin couldn't bear to say it, so moved on. "But at least she's not had one of her episodes for a while." Willow rode the waves of her depression, and when she was up, had discovered the power of angels and believed every word in the book she bought online.

"That's good. And when I come over, I'll bring her some knick-knacks from the shrine. A girl can never have enough holy water and rosary beads." Arty loved to tease Willow, and she'd always taken it in good part, countering his quips by darting over and making the sign of a cross on his head and demanding in the most dramatic voice that Satan left his body. How Robin yearned for her child to be like that once more.

"Yes, she will. Now bugger off and sleep well. I really do have to go." Once they said their goodbyes, Robin stood, wincing at her bruised bottom and creaky knees, and after dusting off her skirt, headed down the uneven path to the vicarage. As she passed the door of the church, she paused and laid her hand on the door, closed her eyes, and made a silent prayer. "Hello, it's me, the fallen one. Just dropping by to say I'm sorry again for being a big disappointment and to remind you that even though I'm in your bad books, not to take it out on Willow and if you can, amongst all the other stuff you've got going on, do you think you might give her a break because she's a good girl, the best? That's it. And don't forget, let's keep this between us. Don't want anyone knowing I still care. I always will."

Chapter 19.