Six days later

 

Chop. Chop. Chop.

My mind struggles to make sense of my surroundings as I reluctantly bridge the gap between sleep and consciousness.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

The sharp methodical sound invades my brain, pushing the blissful oblivion of sleep further and further away. Damp sweat runs out from under my armpits and from the inside of my thighs. The heat inside the cramped tent is almost intolerable. The cool comfortable freshness of night having been replaced by an already hot early morning North Island sun.

“Thanks, Chris. I think we’ve got enough firewood now to get started with.”

Outside I hear Lisa thanking Chris for making a start on the most important daily task in camp. The collecting and chopping of logs to make firewood. Without fire we’re unable to boil and purify water. Without water we can’t drink, or in my case - drink tea!

“Emma, can you take the kettle down to the river and fill it up please?”

“Yes, Mum,” Emma replies dutifully. A few seconds later I hear the clang of the metal pot as Emma plonks the kettle down on the flat rocks next to the smooth Kauaeranga river that flows sedately downstream only a few metres away.

It was Lisa’s suggestion that Chris and I come and join her, Dean and the kids on their New Year camping trip in the Coromandel. We drove up from Christchurch the day after Boxing Day, taking the ferry from Picton, through the stunning fingers of the Marlborough Sounds and across the Cook Strait to Wellington. After one overnight stop and a couple of further photo opportunities, to capture the azure of the crystal blue Lake Taupo and at Rotorua, where the distinctive and overpowering stink of rotten eggs escapes from the hot, bubbling cauldrons of steaming mud pools, we arrived in the beautiful forest of the Coromandel Peninsula and the Shag Stream campsite. Only the Kiwis with their sense of humour would name a family campsite deep within in a conservation area as Shag Stream!

Despite the stifling heat and humidity inside the canvas I delay joining the activity outside, instead stealing the last few moments of solace inside my temporary sanctuary. I know I need a few more minutes to mentally prepare. So I lie on the airbed, staring vacantly upwards, listening out for clues to Chris’s mood. A random daddy longlegs flitters on the inside of the inner tent. Its legs scratching lightly on the polyester. It too is trapped, searching for a way out.

“Please God, let him be amenable today?” I say to myself.

His moods of late are so extreme, blowing hot and cold all of the time. One minute he’s his old self. Fun-loving and playful. Others, he’s distant, moody and absent. His family, though, are amazing and since first becoming friends with his sisters almost four years ago now, I really feel part of their tribe. But because of that bond I also feel I have no one to turn to. I know that if I hurt him, I hurt them.

Despite everything, I really believe he does love me, but now that I’ve moved my life here, given up all those I love for him, left my homeland for him, given up my career and now I’m here - he doesn’t know how to cope. Like the responsibility is too much. So he keeps doing what he does best. He keeps running.

I’m finding myself walking on eggshells more and more, never knowing what might trigger his next mood and the constant uncertainty is wearing me down. So to avoid any unnecessary conflict, I hide. Stay out of his way as much as possible, just as I’m doing now. Pretending to be asleep when he wakes, or when he arrives home late at night. I know some of his moods are triggered by my lack of interest in sex, but not always. If I so much as hold his hand or reach up for a gentle kiss he’ll try and grope me. If I don’t reciprocate then he becomes disproportionately angry, as if he’s punishing me for some unknown crime that I have no idea I’ve committed. Next, he’ll give me the cold shoulder and walk away in a huff. It’s feels like I’m being temporarily abandoned on an almost daily basis.

I’m desperate for his love, so when he leaves I spend hours upon hours in tears. The loneliness is all-consuming. I end up re-running every intricate detail of the previous blow-up in my head, trying to make sense of the situation. Trying to understand. Trying to work out what I’ve done wrong or how I can put it right. I’ve never felt so loved and unwanted all at the same time.

There was a time when I knew exactly what he was going to say. We used to be able to finish each other’s sentences we were so in tune. Whereas now when he looks at me, it’s like he’s conflicted. I wish I could work out what he’s thinking. It feels like I am the physical representation of his own internal demons. Demons that he simply doesn’t know how to deal with or want to acknowledge. Demons that drive him away from me. Perhaps he’s trying to protect me in some way, I don’t know, but once he’s withdrawn it’s only a matter of time before he too needs me again, by which time I’m desperate for his affection and so the unhealthy cycle continues.

It’s driving me absolutely crazy. I know I can’t keep living like this. It’s exhausting. I no longer feel free. I feel controlled. I can’t breathe, and I have absolutely no clue what to do about it.

Deciding I can’t hide away all day and that if I don’t move soon I will physically melt in the heat, I quickly pull on my togs and a pair of shorts. I slap on some sunscreen and unzip the tent, freeing the daddy longlegs in the process which skitters away as soon as I unzip the half-mooned flysheet.

“Morning, beautiful,” Chris smiles warmly, walks over, leans down and plants a kiss on the top of my head.

 

As night falls and the children are put to bed, we stoke the fire and pull up our deckchairs. Despite the remoteness, the forest is anything but quiet. The natural sounds all around us are loud and comforting. The constant bubbling of the river beside us as it flows over the rocks and shale of the riverbed. Insects and fireflies dance through the rising smoke of the fire. In the undergrowth an undefined rustling escapes where the families of possums and Kiwis hide away from view, and the sound of the light breeze whispering through the swaying branches of the huge Kauri trees in the forest, wraps around us.

I’ve never been anywhere so remote before or so cut off from modern society. In one way it’s unnerving and in another, enriching. To have every modern comfort stripped away, even if only for a few days, has unexpectedly given me the opportunity to reflect on what is truly important. I’ve not looked in a mirror for three days now, my hair permanently pulled back into a scrunchie. I’ve worn the same clothes since I arrived, having learnt very quickly that clothing choices in the bush are made based on practicality rather than fashion. Washing and teeth cleaning is primitive, using the water from the freezing cold water of the river and because nobody else cares about the muck that has accumulated under my fingernails, I decide, neither do I.

I’ve thrown myself enthusiastically into camp life. Helping with firewood duties, collecting and purifying water, cooking meals on the open fire, playing with the children who run around endlessly, their energy seemingly boundless. To pass the time, we play cards, go for long walks, or jump off the cliff into the deep water at Hoffman’s Pool and each evening we light our head torches and settle down around the fire to drink until we’re moderately tipsy and talk until we retire back into our respective tents.

One unplanned advantage of camping, is the lack of soundproofing, meaning Chris has not tried anything on since we arrived. He seems to have accepted that any sounds of love-making that could be heard by the children would be deeply frowned upon by Lisa and Dean, so lying snuggled in each other’s arms at night is as close, physically, as we’ve been.

Dean tops up my travel mug with vodka, so that we all have a full glass ready to toast in the New Year when the clock strikes twelve.

“So Vicky, what dreams and aspirations do you have for 1996?” he asks.

“Oh, I don’t know. Take the opportunity to travel and see some more of this beautiful country, when Chris’s work allows, of course,” I look across in Chris’s direction and he raises his mug and nods his head in agreement. “Make some friends in Christchurch. And next summer we’re going to visit the states and drive across Route 66.”

“Humm, I’m not sure we’ll be able to do that next summer,” Chris adds out of nowhere. “We’ve decided we’re going to wait another year.”

My eyes flash towards him across the glow of the flames. He smiles weakly in return, seemingly unaware of the gravitas or impact of his throwaway comment. What does he mean ‘we’ve decided we’re going to wait another year’? That isn’t the plan. The plan to bridge the gap between our lives now and my route to residency in a year’s time, which then leads to re-employment, to earn my own wage and ultimately to start my career once more.

“Since when, Chris? I thought we were in agreement?”

Sensing the awkwardness in the air, Lisa excuses herself to go and check on the children and Dean becomes preoccupied with his drink, rolling his mug between his cupped hands.

“I’m just not sure we’ll have the cash, Vicky. I think we should go back to London in the spring, work one more summer over there, then come back again here next Christmas and go to the states the summer after that.”

“And where do I and my dreams fit into this new plan, Chris? Have you thought how difficult it will be for me to get a job and then leave again a few months later? It will make me look unreliable on my CV.”

I’m trying really hard to keep my voice level, even though anger bubbles up inside me, like the stinky Satan’s energy that escaped from the mud pools we saw in Rotorua. I’ve spent months researching this adventure across America. I have rolled up maps with felt tip crosses marked all over them. Files and files of notes, leaflets and brochures, all lovingly researched and compiled so that we could both get as much as possible out of this planned trip of a lifetime, and without any thought he has just trashed all those dreams with one unguarded comment. No discussion. No ‘what do you think about this alternative, Vicky?’. This is just another example of how little respect he has for me or my feelings.

“Let’s talk about it later, Vicky.”

“Oh we will. I guarantee it.”

“All right you two. Let’s not have a domestic,” Dean interjects as Lisa rejoins the group. “It’s New Year’s Eve. An opportunity for all of us to leave the past behind and to start anew, so let’s have toast - to new beginnings.” He raises his mug.

“To new beginnings,” we all repeat in unison, clanking our mugs together, lightening the atmosphere once again. Even though I still feel the sting from Chris’s last comment, the conversation returns to more light-hearted topics.

I’m fascinated to know more about Dean and Lisa and their lives in the North Island. Similarly to when I first met Chris after knowing Melanie and Michelle for so long, it felt strange when I finally did meet him and Lisa in person the first time I came to Christchurch. It feels like they’ve been a part of my life for so long, having heard so many stories from Chris, his sisters and their mum, yet until now, we’ve never had the opportunity to truly get to know each other. The first time we met we only had a few days together.

Unlike the rest of Chris’s family, Dean and Lisa have never been to the UK, so they are fascinated about all things British. We swap stories about the UK, the places Chris and I have lived and visited together, his time travelling around Europe and how we originally hooked up. They share the story of how they first met, through a mutual friend, when Dean visited Auckland one weekend, met Lisa and basically never left, even though she was involved with someone else at the time.

“Yup. I know that feeling,” I joke, digging Lisa playfully in the ribs.

“One day Chris was our dodgy lodger, sleeping on the sofa of the house I shared with Melanie. The next he’d found his way into my bed.”

“What is it about these brothers?” Lisa looks lovingly across to Dean. “They go after what they want - regardless.”

“Hey, has anyone got any idea what time it is?” Chris asks. Our watches long since discarded. “Ah, who cares? HAPPY NEW YEAR!” He stands up and raises his mug. The sound of his chant echoing around the steep sides of the river valley.

Without question, we all join in. Leaping up out of our chairs and shouting, “Happy New Year,” followed by a rendition of Auld Lang Syne, crossing and linking our arms in the traditional way.

Giddy with laughter and alcohol I fall into Chris’s embrace tilting my head to invite his kiss, as Dean reaches for Lisa to do the same.

A few moments later, we settle back down, still none the wiser to the actual time and no desire to check our accuracy. In this tropical wilderness it simply doesn’t seem important. The others talk amongst themselves, as I lean back in my chair feeling more than mildly drunk. Aware of the sounds of the forest around me which remain unchanged from before the new year moment. I can still hear the sound of the river flowing downstream towards the Firth of Thames. The light breeze still whispers through the trees. The animals continue to rustle in the undergrowth and it strikes me that nature doesn’t give two hoots what time it is. She never will. The sun will rise, the sun will set and the seasons will continue to change, but she will never care what time it is.

I realise in that moment how time, or more specifically the calendar is manmade. A rigid structure that we have invented to help us organise our world.  The thoughts in my mind come thick and fast. A tailspin of deeply profound questions. Who decided there should be 24 hours in a day, 7 days in a week and 365 days in a year? Who decided that everyone around the world would conform to this system of segmenting time? Before I’ve had an opportunity to answer my own questions, the thoughts continue to spill out of my brain at an alarming pace.

What would it be like if we lived our lives unbound by the restrictions of the clock? In fact, what would it be like if we could live free from any man-made confines or judgement? What would my life be like if I could find a way to live without the constant deeply driven need to live up to other people’s expectations? The need to live up to the expectations of my parents and the constant need to do the right thing and not disappoint them. Likewise, what would it be like if I could live my life not needing to be loved by Chris, in fact not needing to be loved by any man? Living in a world where just being me was enough and I was satisfied with that.

It’s a deeply freeing thought, and one that shakes me to my absolute core. I feel a sting of unexpected truth hit me like a bolt of lightning, causing me to catch my breath in my throat and moisture to gather in the corners of my eyes. How much have I been searching outwards for the answers that I now realise lie within myself? How could I ever expect to be happy when I’d given the responsibility of my happiness over to Chris (and to all of the other relationships that have preceded him)?

The pool of tears in the corners of my eyes continues to fill up making the image of the fireflies dancing over the fire in front of me become all fuzzy. I draw strength from the realisation that I am the only person responsible for my own happiness, but also in the realisation that whoever it was who decided there would be 365 days in a calendar year couldn’t do their sums properly. Their miscalculation we call a leap year, but essentially it covers up a mistake. And that is a very comforting thought indeed! The realisation that humans are all fallible, we all make mistakes, and that’s OK.

An hour or so later Dean and Lisa excuse themselves and retire back to their tent leaving Chris and I alone.

“I’m sorry about the US thing. Dropping a bombshell like that without discussing it with you first.”

“It’s fine, Chris, honestly.” My personal epiphany from earlier eclipsing the latest of Chris’s faux pas. I get up from my chair and walk towards our tent, where I unzip the inside pocket of my pack. Lifting out the contents I walk calmly back towards the fire, where the flames still glow bright red.

Standing stock still, I look down one last time at the long white plastic stick in my hand. The familiar two blue lines in the clear window, faded now but still visible. Taking a long deep breath in, as I exhale I gently throw the pregnancy test onto the fire. It melts instantly as soon as it comes into contact with the heat. Shrinking and disappearing completely in a matter of moments. Realising what I’ve just done, Chris rises slowly from his seat and comes to put a comforting arm around my waist.

“That’s the last physical memory that she ever existed Chris. But it’s time to set her free. Time to set us both free.”

“Do you ever think about what if? What if we’d kept the baby?”

“Chris, don’t ever say that to me again ever, as long as I live.” My voice soft but firm. My eyes closed to stop the tears that well up from spilling over. “Have you any idea the guilt and shame I feel every day? Of course I think about the what ifs. Not a day goes by when I don’t think about her.”

He squeezes my waist gently and I hear him sniff hard. His other hand wipes away his own tears.

“Do you know she would have been due in about a month from now? But I can’t expect you to understand Chris… she was never inside you.”

“I’m sorry I fucked up and I wasn’t there for you.”

“I know you are, Chris,” I say softly. “I can’t deny that hideous night and the month leading up to it was one of the hardest of my life. But I lived through it and I came out the other side. Even if you had been there in support, you wouldn’t have been able to change how I felt. To relieve the guilt I felt then - or indeed still feel now. That is my own burden to bear.”

“And mine too,” he adds solemnly.

“I was so frightened at the thought of becoming a mother so young. By comparison I thought having the abortion would be easy. A quick trip to the clinic and a few hours later it would all be over with… a bit like going to the dentist and having a tooth extracted. But I never expected to feel so pregnant.”

“I never knew that, Vicky. You never said anything.”

“I never appreciated how much Mother Nature takes over your body. Fills you with hormones. And how hard it would be to go against that primal urge, or the all-consuming grief and loss I would feel afterwards. Nothing and no one could have prepared me for that.” Opening up and sharing these feelings and fears, although painful, feels liberating at the same time. “Who knows? That may have been my only opportunity to have a child. And I destroyed that chance. I destroyed that baby.”

“You didn’t destroy anything, Vicky. We made a choice. A moral and legal choice that is absolutely your right to make. You can’t keep beating yourself up like this. We were both scared shitless. Unprepared and frightened. I’m sorry I let you down. I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger when you needed me to be.” He catches a deep sob in the back of his throat and breathes hard, focusing intensively to maintain his composure before continuing. “I know you will make an amazing mother one day. I see you with Emma and Matthew and with baby Jess and I know you’re going to have your own family one day. We’ll have a tonne of babies and they’ll all adore you - I promise.”

“Let’s hope so, Chris.” Although I am left wondering whether I will become the mother to his babies, or whether we’ll have children of our own but not together.

Just then an unusual brown butterfly with distinctive orange spots and stripes, like the markings of a tiger, appears and flutters around the dying embers of the fire. I’ve never seen a butterfly like it. Apart from the fact that butterflies are meant to be diurnal and it should be resting at night, its appearance at this hour is highly unusual. It circles three or four times around both Chris and I as we stand together, hovering directly in front of our faces for a few long moments, before flying off on the last wisps of the rising smoke.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Vicky.”

“Absolutely, Chris. Absolutely.” He squeezes my waist in mutual understanding but there is no way Chris could possibly appreciate the significance of the visit from the butterfly, or how I feel. How could he?

My mind flashes back to the very first night after he arrived when I watched him sleeping on the sofa at Wootton Bassett. Drawn in by his power and masculinity. The beautiful sleeping tiger. Gorgeous and dangerous in equal amounts. Even back then I sensed that once I fell into the tiger’s powerful grasp, it would be impossible to break free. Despite this, I still remember the overwhelming desire I had to reach out and trace the outline of his beautiful face with my fingers.

So how could he possibly know that as I stand in front of the fire, watching the last few embers engulf the remains of the plastic tube, knowing that I have released the soul of my unborn child, it’s spirit painted with its father’s markings, that I would at last be free.

Standing together, his arm still wrapped tenderly around my waist we finally give in to the silent tears of both regret and mutual forgiveness that roll down our cheeks before dropping unhindered off the end of our chins, as we watch the beautiful creature disappear into the ether and a feeling of peace descends over us both.

 

Ten days later back in Christchurch, Chris is busy dealing with his shipment that has just landed but not yet cleared customs. There are major problems with the paperwork and with the stock. Two of the cars have been damaged in transit, so now he is battling with the freight handling company to prove liability and claim insurance. I’ve offered my help, but he prefers to deal with all of his business stuff on his own.

Since our camp in the North Island, I feel a renewed energy. A calm strength and inner peace. Chris’s moods still flip flop between the two extremes of powerful passion and moody grumpiness but at least his mood swings are having less effect on me, and I fill my days much like I did the first time I visited Christchurch. Alongside the domesticity of cooking and keeping house, I fill my time by swimming in the morning, then reading and sunbathing in the afternoon, or walking along the River Avon to Victoria Park.

This morning, as usual, I was the first to wake. Padding quietly out of the room so as not to wake Chris, I creep down the internal corridor to take a shower. Freshly washed, damp hair falling over my shoulders, my towel wrapped around my body like a toga, I return to the bedroom to find Chris sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for me. I can tell instantly from the glint in his eye what he wants, but I’m newly washed and not in the mood.

“Come here you,” he says, pulling me into him. His hard-on visibly straining for freedom from his boxer shorts.

“Chris, no.” I attempt to wriggle free from his grip. “I’ve just showered and I’m all clean.”

“I know. You smell gorgeous.” He sweeps my hair out of the way and nibbles my neck roughly.

The last time we made love was back up in the Coromandel on New Year’s Eve. We had to be super quiet on account of the children, but whether that was the reason, it forced Chris to take things really slow. It was the first time since I can’t remember when, where I felt he actually wanted me and not just my body. It was lovely, and I know he also felt the connection. Whereas now, right now, I could just be any old slab of meat and he would shag them anyway. He’s simply woken up horny and I happen to be there… or at least that’s how it feels.

“No, Chris. I said I don’t want to.”

He grabs me round my waist and picks me up, throwing me brutishly onto the bed. My towel falls open leaving me naked and exposed as he kneels over the top of me.

“And I said I do.”

“Chris, get off me. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Trying to make love to you - isn’t it obvious?” he jokes.

“Chris, for the last time, I SAID I DON’T WANT TO!” I scream, my hands pressed flat against his bare chest trying to push him off me. In one swift moment, he grabs both my wrists and pins them down against each side of my head as I struggle in vain.

“Come on, Vicky. Loosen up, will ya?” He says inches away from my face, before leaning in and half-kissing, half-licking the side of my face, and instantly I’m back in Istanbul. I’m in danger and the man in front of me has the opportunity to use physical force to overpower me.

NO MORE! NEVER AGAIN! My internal voice roars inside my head causing my survival instinct to kick in, just as it did back in Istanbul, saving Melanie and myself from the two Turkish guys. Adrenaline flashes in my eyes as I look Chris dead straight in the face.

“GET THE FUCK OFF ME!” I scream at him, spittle gathering in the corners of my mouth. Mustering all of my strength I’m able to roll us both over so that he is now on his back. Off balance, he loosens his grip and I escape. Once free, I run naked to the bathroom and lock the door. The pounding of my heart hammering in my chest, causing my head to pound like a pneumatic drill inside my skull and my short, shallow breaths burn in the back of my throat.

I hear Chris thrash around his bedroom, swearing profusely. A few minutes later the sound of the front door slamming hard reverberates through the house, followed by the sound of the car wheels spinning as he pulls off the drive.

Very calmly and with absolute clarity, I dress quickly, walk purposefully towards the telephone in the kitchen. Clasping my left hand around my grandfather’s necklace, hoping he can send me the strength I need to follow through with my decision, I pick up the receiver with my right hand and make four phone calls in quick succession. As if powered by some outer force I walk numbly back to the bedroom, retrieve my rucksack from on top of the wardrobe and pack up my things.