Just One Last Night

The miscarriage was harder to come to terms with, her grief still frighteningly raw. It helped more than she could ever express that Miriam had pushed aside her professional status and cried with her on those sessions, revealing to Melanie that she’d lost a baby herself at six months and had blamed herself for a long time afterwards.

‘It’s what we do as women,’ Miriam had said wryly as she’d dried her eyes after one particularly harrowing meeting. ‘Take the blame, punish ourselves, try to make sense of what is an unexplainable tragedy. But you weren’t to blame. You would have given your life for Matthew as I would have given mine for my baby.’

‘Forde said that once, that I’d have given my life for Matthew’s if I could,’ Melanie had said thoughtfully.

‘He’s right.’ Miriam had patted her arm gently. ‘And he loves you very much. Lots of women go a whole lifetime without being loved like Forde loves you. You can trust him—you know that, don’t you?’

But could she trust herself? She wanted to. More than anything she longed to put the past behind her and believe she could be a good wife and mother and a rational and optimistic human being, but how did she know if she had the strength of mind to do that or would she fall back into the old fears and anxieties that would cripple her and ultimately those she loved?

Melanie was thinking about the conversation with Miriam on the day before Christmas Eve. She was curled up on one of the sofas in her sitting room, which she’d pulled close to the glowing fire, watching an old Christmassy film on TV but without paying it any real attention. She had finished work until after the New Year; the ground had been as hard as iron for weeks and heavy snow was forecast within the next twenty-four hours.

She and James had finished the job they’d gone on to once Isabelle’s garden was completed and James had disappeared off to Scotland to spend Christmas with his parents and a whole host of relations, although she suspected it was more the allure of the Hogmanay party his parents always held on New Year’s Eve that he didn’t want to miss. He had invited her to go with him, telling her his parents’ house was always packed full over the festive season and one more would make no difference, but she’d declined the offer. A couple of her friends had invited her for Christmas lunch, and both Isabelle and Miriam had made noises in that direction, but she had politely said no to everyone.

She had forbidden the one person she wanted to spend Christmas with from coming anywhere near her, and although part of her wanted to call Forde and just hear his voice, another part—a stronger part—didn’t feel ready for what that might entail. She had bought him a Christmas card and then decided not to send it because for the life of her she couldn’t find the right words to say. She knew she would have to phone him after Christmas about the next scan; it was only two weeks away now.

She rested her hand on the mound of her stomach and in response felt a fluttering that made her smile. That had happened several times in the last week and it never failed to thrill her. Her baby, living, growing, moving inside her, a little person who would have its own mind and personality. She had felt this baby move much earlier than she had Matthew but her friends who had children had assured her it was like that with the second. And with each experience of feeling those tiny arms and legs stretching and kicking she had wondered how ever she’d be able to hand their child over to Forde and walk away. It would kill her, she thought, shutting her eyes tightly. But would it be the best thing for her baby? She didn’t know any more. She had been so sure before she’d started seeing Miriam, but now, the more she understood herself and what had led her to think that way, the more she’d dared to hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, the depression that had kicked in after the miscarriage and that had been fed by the insecurities of her past had fooled her into thinking that way.

‘You’re not a Jonah, Melanie.’ Miriam had said that at their last session as they were saying goodbye. ‘You are like everyone else. Some people sail through life without encountering any problems, others seem to have loads from day one, but it’s all due to chance, unfair though that is. I can’t say the rest of your life is going to be a bowl of cherries, no one can, but I can say you have a choice right now. You can either look at the negatives and convince yourself it’s all doom and gloom, or you can take life by the throat and kick it into submission. Know what I mean?’

‘Like Cassie and Sarah?’ she’d answered. Sarah was the little girl in a wheelchair in the photograph. She was beautiful, with curly brown hair and huge, limpid green eyes, but she had been born with spina bifida and other medical complications. Cassie, her mother, was devoted to her and in the summer Cassie had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, but according to Miriam her daughter was determined to fight her illness every inch of the way. Sarah, young as she was, had the same spirit, her proud grandmother said, and was a joy to be with. Miriam had admitted to Melanie she’d cried bitter tears over them both but would never dream of letting her daughter or granddaughter know because neither of them ‘did’ self-pity.

‘My Cassie must have had her down times over Sarah and now this multiple sclerosis has reared its head, but, apart from in the early days with Sarah just after she was born, I’ve never seen Cassie anything but positive.’ Miriam had looked at her, her eyes soft. ‘You can be like that, Melanie. I know it.’

A log fell further into the glowing ash, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. It roused Melanie from her thoughts and she glanced at the dwindling stack of logs and empty coal scuttle. She must go and bring more logs in and fill the scuttle before it got dark, she thought, rising to her feet reluctantly. James had helped her build a lean-to in her small paved front garden in the summer for her supply of logs and sacks of coal. She hadn’t wanted to lose any space in her tiny private courtyard at the back of the property, and as the front of the properties only overlooked a local farmer’s hay barns there was no one to object. Nevertheless, they had taken care to give the lean-to a quaint, rustic look in keeping with the cottages and as one side was enclosed by her neighbour’s high wooden fence it kept her fuel relatively dry and protected.

When she opened the front door an icy blast of air h

it her and the sky looked grey and low although it was only three in the afternoon. She filled the scuttle to the weight she was happy to carry now she was pregnant and took it inside, before going back for some logs. She took an armful in and then went back for some more, and it was only then she noticed a slight movement close to the fence behind the stack of wood.

Petrified it was a rat—one or two of the neighbours had mentioned seeing the odd rat or two, courtesy of the farmer’s barns, no doubt—Melanie hurried back inside the house, her heart pounding like a drum. As soon as she had closed the door she knew she had to go back and make sure what it was, though. What if a bird had somehow got trapped or some other creature was hurt? Situated as the cottages were in a small hamlet surrounded by countryside, it could be anything sheltering there.

Wishing with all her heart she hadn’t gone out for the logs and coal and were still sitting watching TV in front of the fire, she put on a coat before opening the door again. The temperature seemed to have dropped another few degrees in just a minute or two. There was no doubt excited children all over the country were going to get their wish of a white Christmas, she thought, treading carefully to where she’d seen the movement. She bent down, her muscles poised to spring away if a beady-eyed rodent jumped out at her.

But it wasn’t a rat that stared back at her. Squeezed into the tiniest space possible, a small tabby cat crouched shivering in its makeshift shelter, all huge amber eyes and trembling fur.

‘Why, hello,’ Melanie whispered softly, putting out her hand only for the cat to shrink back as far as it could. ‘Hey, I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t be frightened. Come on, puss.’

After several minutes of murmuring sweet nothings, by which time she was shaking with cold as much as the cat, Melanie realised she was getting nowhere. She could also see the cat was all bone under its fur but with a distended stomach, which either meant it was pregnant or had some kind of growth. Praying it was the former because she was already consumed with pity for the poor little mite, she stood up and went to fetch some cooked roast chicken from the kitchen, hoping to tempt it with food where gentle encouragement had failed.

The cat was clearly starving, but not starving enough to leave its sanctuary, roast chicken or no roast chicken.

‘I can’t leave you out here. Please, please come out,’ Melanie begged, close to tears. It was getting darker by the minute and the wind was cutting through her like a knife, but the thought of abandoning the cat to its fate just wasn’t an option. And if she started to move the pile of logs it was sheltering behind they might fall and crush the little thing. She had tried reaching a hand to it but was a couple of inches short of being able to grab it.

‘Nell? What the hell are you doing out here and who are you talking to?’ said Forde’s voice behind her.

She swung round and there he was. Whether it was because she was frozen or had moved too quickly or was faint with relief that he was here to help her, she didn’t know, but the next thing she knew there was a rushing in her ears and from her crouched position beside the cat she slid onto her bottom, struggling with all her might not to pass out as the darkness moved from the sky into her head and became overwhelming.

CHAPTER TEN

IN THE end Melanie didn’t lose consciousness. She was aware of Forde kneeling beside her and holding her against him as he told her to take deep breaths and stay still—not that she could have done anything else. She was also aware of the wonderful smell and feel of him—big, solid, breathtakingly reassuring. It was when he tried to lift her into his arms, saying, ‘I’m taking you indoors,’ that she found her voice.

‘No. No, you can’t. There’s a cat, Forde. It’s in trouble,’ she muttered weakly.

‘A cat?’ The note of incredulity in his voice would have been comical under other circumstances. ‘What are you talking about? You’re frozen, woman. I’m taking you in.’

‘No.’ Her voice was stronger now and she pushed his arms away when he tried to gather her up. ‘There is a cat, behind the wood there, and it’s ill or pregnant or both. Look, see for yourself.’ She allowed him to help her to her feet but wouldn’t budge an inch, saying again, ‘Look, there. And I can’t reach it and it’s terrified, Forde. We can’t leave it out here in this weather—’

‘All right, all right.’ Thoroughly exasperated but less panicked now she was on her feet and seemingly OK, Forde peered into the shadows where she was pointing. At first he thought she must be imagining things and then he saw it—a little scrap of nothing crouched behind the logs. ‘Yes, I see it. Are you sure it won’t just come out and go home once we leave it alone?’