Page 28 of A Good Mother
‘Well just you 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 lacklustre speech and frankly indulgent fondness for the whisky.’
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 Cris 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 honouring? And stop trying to foist your beliefs and ridiculous rituals on me because you’re wasting your time, Edmund. As I told you before, I will not be returning any time 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 puce 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 Cris, 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 their marriage. Had it been the opposite, Robin would’ve accepted that God had a wicked side and was far more annoyed with her than she’d previously imagined.
And then Cris, 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 the misguided desire to heal a rift and reunite warring brothers.
When he found her in the garden, knee deep in crocus bulbs, she knew in a heartbeat Cris was nervous; it was written on his face.
‘Mum, can I have a chat? I’ve been waiting for Dad to go out, so we won’t be disturbed.’ Cris 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 Cris 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 trug 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 Lourdes and we’ve been emailing for a while now. Anyway, he’s coming home, here, to see us all and 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, as she listened to Cris 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 Cris 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 Cris, because what could he buy children he’d never met and knew nothing about? He couldn’t possibly have missed them, so 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 all away in a box labelled, ‘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 duel in which she would fight for her family if he sought to bring it down, was sending Robin quietly insane.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
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’ve had, if he’d been a better man.
The irony of her suspicions wasn’t lost on Robin and as she’d 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, preening 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 judgement of her brother-in-law was based merely on the snippets Cris had passed on while they ate dinner, prior to Arty’s eagerly awaited return. A second-hand 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.
