Page 13 of Forgive Me Not
She’d concluded that all being normal meant was being happy with yourself. Quite the street philosopher she’d become, like a Buddha who favoured company instead of reclusiveness.
She yawned and wished for another caffeine hit to take her mind off the physical niggles in her life, like continual acid reflux, toothache, cuts and bruises from falls, and that cough during the winter.
Joe was a coffee lover, latte being his absolute favourite. He came from London and didn’t even know that goats produced milk. Painful as it was to talk about Foxglove Farm, she’d do so as Joe sat like one of the small children she’d enjoyed babysitting as a teenager, mesmerised by her anecdotes. Like the time Gail rescued two sheep from the same farm, one year apart. Clearly they remembered each other and skipped like lambs when they first met up. Andrea preferred plants, growing vegetables and harvesting fruit, but those animals’ reunion brought tears even to her eyes. Joe always said he could tell Emma would have made an excellent vet, even though she’d failed her A level biology twice.
For his part, Joe talked about London life. The clubs he’d grown up in with an older brother who had a lot of problems. His mum travelled the world as a lecturer whilst his surgeon Dad worked all hours repairing hearts. Neither realised anything was amiss until Joe’s brother died from an accidental overdose. Initially they blamed Joe for not telling them. Then they’d been surprised when guilt sent him down the same avenue. A bigger contrast to Emma’s rural life there couldn’t have been. Yet she and Joe had clicked together like a seat belt and buckle.
The morning passed within hues of cider, everything beige and warm, as if the surroundings had been passed through the sunniest Instagram filter. So Joe wanted details for their new life abroad? Then Emma would work them out. The Starbucks cup filled halfway and she emptied it, stashing her takings in the pocket of her rucksack. A man in a sharp suit gave her a sandwich and told her about free cans of sports drink being handed out in Market Street. He had a good heart.
Mum had a good heart, Emma thought as a little girl walked past, her petite hand enveloped in a woman’s. Would she still have backed Andrea’s decision to throw Emma out if she’d been one hundred per cent well? The diagnosis had come as a shock. Yet secretly even Emma had known it made sense, like the end of an Agatha Christie novel that taunted you for not having seen the clues. Mum had always been a little forgetful – thanks to the menopause, they’d laughed. But then she’d started to forget basic words.That thingamabobbecame a favourite phrase. She would make up her own words – a belt became a waist tie. She was still their mother, though, and would laugh afterwards, brushing off mistakes. Eventually she started relying on Post-it notes and stuck them all over the house, reminding her of things to do and where stuff was. Yet when Emma had left, she was still tending to the livestock; still doing her needlework. Perhaps there was a chance she wouldn’t get much worse for years and years.
How would she be spending Mother’s Day tomorrow? With croissants and home-made jam for breakfast? One of Andrea’s nut roasts for lunch?
Back in the day, Gail could have opened her own vegetarian restaurant with her spicy tofu curry and melt-in-the-mouth vegan beetroot chocolate cake. Every Sunday she insisted that the girls make dessert. When they were little, it might be a simple bowl of ice cream, with Andrea chopping fruit for the top and Emma squeezing on their favourite sauce. Emma would enjoy mothering her latest favourite toy, which meant feeding it her latest culinary creation. Soon, however, she was feeding school friends when the sisters gained skills and could produce the lightest sponge or chewiest meringue. Then they moved onto creating main courses. Gail respected their taste for the beef and chicken they’d grown to love due to Healdbury High School dinners.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Fingers dug sharply into Emma’s scalp. ‘This is my patch. EVERYONE knows that.’
Emma’s face hit the pavement and her heart pounded. For a moment she wasn’t sure what was going on. She heard jangling. Zips opening. Coins scattered across the ground. Grazed cheeks stinging, she opened her eyes. She dragged herself to her feet and rubbed the back of her head. Before she could focus properly, a fist hit the side of her face. She cried out and almost hit the ground again. The scenery swayed. A woman dressed in stained denim collected up Emma’s money. Passers-by backed away. Some stared. Others pretended they hadn’t seen.
‘Leave my stuff alone,’ Emma shouted, and lunged forward, but the woman swiped again, narrowly missing her target before she turned the rucksack upside down and shook out its contents.
Emma rubbed the side of her head. It felt sticky and wet. Like a caged animal, she paced from side to side. This wouldn’t have happened with Joe. He was always meticulous about finding safe territory. She should have guessed this prime spot was already claimed. She’d got lazy and hadn’t scouted the street the day before.
She should have stayed on familiar ground, amongst people who’d defend her. That was how she and Joe had first met – except then it was she who’d saved him. Two kids were trying to steal his money. He was out of it and couldn’t protect his belongings. Emma had run at them screaming. Once they’d scarpered, she’d sat down with him. He’d insisted on sharing his takings.
Finally the woman threw down the rucksack and folded her arms. Emma shoved her few belongings back into her bag, grabbed her coat and, still feeling disorientated, slunk away. Eventually she found Beth, who took her to the nearest public toilets, tidied her up and gave her a chocolate bar – Beth’s favourite Twix. Emma gave her half back. They went to the railway bridge and sat on the ground. Beth shared some wine she’d shoplifted earlier.
‘Just a one-off, mind. I ain’t going soft.’
‘You’re a good mate, Beth,’ said Emma, and wiped her mouth.
Feeling fuzzy and calm, she hugged her knees. This was the last straw. It was time for her and Joe to leave England behind. She raised the bottle to her lips again, as grandiose plans formed of how to raise the money for those flights.
14 months before going back
It happened towards the middle of April, on a night when time seemed to get stuck. The evenings were much lighter now. This was good for takings. Joe and Emma had pooled their earnings and managed to raise the money necessary for a room in a bed and breakfast. That was a rare treat. Clean sheets. Hot water. Safety. A solid night’s kip.
Cosy under the covers, they sat in bed, on the lumpy mattress, eating fried chicken. Joe had just smoked out of the window. Hotel staff became unfriendly if the wrong smell wafted out from under a door. With a satisfied sigh, Emma leant back against the soft pillows. She threw the empty takeaway box on the floor and downed the remains of a large brown plastic bottle.
Right at that moment, life was good. Leaving Foxglove Farm was the best thing she’d ever done. She was independent, answerable to no one – mistress of her own destiny. This was what life was about – having fun. She ignored the quieter voices in her head that asked how her mum was doing; that sometimes wondered, late into the night, if Andrea ever thought about her younger sister.
‘Give me a cuddle,’ she said, and burped. Life would be fantastic when they were living abroad.
‘Fuck off, Ems,’ Joe said in the same slurred tones.
Emma smiled and snuggled up to him. Her hand slid under his shirt and made contact with skin. She stroked his chest. He must have cared, because he held his fingers over hers. His touch healed her recently familiar sense of rejection. Her hand spread out and soaked up the intimacy.
‘Let’s just pretend, for one minute, that we don’t have to wake up tomorrow,’ she murmured. ‘That this night is our only existence and will last forever. Close your eyes. This could be our own proper house. We might both have jobs. Lots of friends. Money to spend on clothes. Let time stand still, Joe. Just for one night.’
She kissed him on the mouth that told bad jokes or offered comforting words. He didn’t respond, so she pulled her hand from under his and moved it downwards.
‘Emma… we shouldn’t…’ But eventually his breath became rasping. All she’d ever wanted to do was make him happy. Desperate kisses juggled with awkward limbs. Joe’s eyes loomed above hers for a few seconds before his head turned away and he reached his height of pleasure.
Heat gushed through Emma’s body and the room spun for a second. Yet why did she feel such a sense of emptiness when it was all over? Joe turned his back on her and lay separate. He must be tired. Yes. That was it.
Yet when morning arrived and both of them were in bed wearing no underwear, Joe still kept his distance. More than that, he lay as far away from Emma as possible and… her insides squeezed… why instead of the dawn chorus did she hear him quietly crying?
The sense of rejection returned.
