Page 7 of A Good Mother
Now and then, in her more rebellious moments – usually after a bottle of red and a sneaky ciggie 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 howhehad 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 borne from rage or regret, despair and immense sorrow, or simply the need to do something of her own accord, she’d turned her back on God, and Edmund.
Sod 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 ciggies.
Robin only imbibed 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 north-east 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 lithe arms and fair, freckled skin. She’d always had to be careful; redheads 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 colour 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 favourite colour, her go-to preference in clothes and furnishings, including the feature wall in the vicarage kitchen, brightening what was essentially a draughty, austere abode that had desperately needed a dose of the twentieth century. B&Q had helped her with that, and her trusty paint roller.
Yellow was also her choice of rose which she’d planted under the vicarage 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 topsoil.
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 honour 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 thirty-three 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 criss-crossed 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 headspace. 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 – mention setting up a Facebook group so they could conduct Zoom sermons. I could only see the back of Edmund’s head and tensed shoulders, but I knew from the fervent finger tapping he would be puce with anger. Imagine, him on social media.’
As always Martha just listened. She never interrupted but how could she, when she was six 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 legwork, 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’d piss old Eddie off for a start. Robin smiled because when Martha spoke her voice belonged to a raspy, forty ciggies a day kinda gal who coughed when she laughed. And she had a cockney accent, definitely not from Cheshire.
‘And Babs 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 loves 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 shit.
‘LIFE IS SHIT!’ Robin said it 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 cassock. But you know what? I don’t give a fucking fig, not anymore.’
