Come Away With Me. Sara MacDonald

to you, be with you, on your own…’ Jenny’s voice trailed off.

       ‘Why?’ Adam was uneasy.

       ‘You are so like Tom. So like him. I somehow thought you were my son; that I was your mother.’

       Jenny’s eyes looked bruised and her face seemed to have shrunk under her mass of curly hair.

       ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I must be going mad. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I would never hurt you. Please believe that.’

       He nodded. ‘You’re not very well. It’s going to be OK. I’m going to get Ruth now.’ He hesitated. ‘Could you get to the cottage if I help you?’

       Jenny shook her head. ‘Adam, I’m so very tired.’

       Adam leant forward and touched her hand. ‘You stay there, Jenny. I won’t be long.’

       He turned and started to sprint along the path that curled round towards the cottage and his mother. At the bend he slowed to catch his breath. Behind him, he heard the sound of disturbed birds rising noisily from the water, breaking the silence. He turned. Jenny had got up and put on her heavy coat. She was wading purposefully into the water, flowing in fast and black on the incoming tide.

       ‘No!’ Adam screamed, as he started to run back, his legs pumping, his breath catching painfully in his chest. ‘No, Jenny, no, no, no.’

       TWO

       August 2005

      Rosie lies between us, asleep, fat little bottom in the air; dimpled feet upturned like the inside of pink shells. She is wedged hotly between Tom and me, her face against Tom’s arm. Their breath rises and falls in the same shallow rhythm. Asleep, Rosie still looks like a baby; dark curls stuck to her head, cheeks flushed. I have to stop myself putting my lips to those soft cheeks.

      Tom is half turned towards us, one hand under his head, the other hand on his thigh, his fingers splayed outwards as if to protect Rosie. His face is buried in the pillow, his short hair sticks up, his face damp from the heat of all our bodies in one bed on a close summer night.

      His bare arms and chest are brown and broad. His skin shines with health. He is very fit.

      The window is open to catch every breath of wind and I watch him in the yellow light of a street lamp, my body limp with wanting him, with the urge constantly to touch him. I love these snatched moments, these still nights of watching him sleep. I store these nights against the time when he will disappear again.

      It is the still hour between night and dawn when London stops briefly and in the silence of the dark I can kid myself that I can hear the distant noise of the sea and the seagulls screaming into a new day.

      It is not homesickness, but the luxury of happiness. The knowledge that despite living in a city, I have a life here with the man I love. In a house that fits round us and holds all the people I need to be content, to do the job I love. It is not a perfect happiness because that would be impossible. There are these endless leave-takings which interrupt our lives. I never know where Tom is or when he will be home. These are the shadows.

      I must have fallen asleep because when I wake the birds are singing and sunlight is pouring through the open window. I hear Flo slowly going up the second flight of stairs to the workroom on the top floor. What a wonderful day it was when she joined us. She will be checking the work schedules for Monday. In a while she will come in with tea for us and exclaim over Rosie being in our bed again.

      I stretch contentedly and then reach over Rosie and rub my fingertip lightly over the surface of Tom’s arm. It is as smooth as a roll of silk. My hair falls over Rosie’s face and tickles Tom and they both stir.

      He yawns, opens one eye and seeing me watching him smiles sleepily and turns on his back. He is unconsciously graceful in his movements. He reminds me of a cat.

      He turns to Rosie leaning against him and brushes her hair away from her hot little face. He looks at me suddenly, his eyes intensely blue. It is a rare unguarded moment that shakes me with his vulnerability.

      I have always supposed our love to be unequal. Tom is everything to me. I am important, but not the whole for him. In this moment I see his raw exposed love for Rosie and me.

      I move towards him and he pulls me over Rosie, burying his head in my hair.

      Rosie is instantly awake and laughing. ‘Me! Me! Dada!’

      Tom puts out his arm and scoops her to us, making her squeal.

      Flo knocks on the door. ‘Tea?’ she calls.

      We fly apart and sit up. ‘Yes, please. Come in!’

      Flo comes in carrying a tea tray. She makes a pretend surprise face at Rosie. ‘What are you doing there, young lady?’

      Tom would leap out of bed, but he has no clothes on. ‘Flo, I wish you wouldn’t wait on us. It makes me inordinately guilty.’

      ‘Wisht your noise,’ Flo says cheerfully. ‘I like the kitchen to myself on Sunday mornings, as you well know.’ She puts the tray down and holds out her hand to Rosie. ‘Danielle is bringing back a present from Paris for a good little girl who eats up all her breakfast.’

      Rosie does not want to leave us or the warmth of the bed. ‘Ellie coming home?’

      ‘Tomorrow. Come on, darling, let Mummy and Daddy get dressed, then you can all go out to the park.’

      That does the trick. Rosie climbs over us and toddles out with Flo, who shuts the door on us. We drink our tea but we don’t get dressed. Tom pulls my nightshirt over my head in a practised sweep and we make love with the intensity of knowing we have only seventy-two hours left together before his leave ends.

      I bury my nose in his skin and breathe in his smell. His muscular body emanates a faint edge of danger. He has this sexy trick of trying to keep his eyes open all the time he makes love. His eyes become like purple darting fireflies before they roll back and he explodes. The thrill is his wanting to see me, my face, as he climaxes. When we are out and I see women staring, I think with astonishment, He’s mine. He’s mine. He’s really mine.

      He is holding me so tight against him he is hurting me. ‘Tom,’ I whisper. ‘I can’t breathe.’

      He lets me go, alarmed. ‘Sorry, I’m like a bear, I don’t know my own strength.’

      ‘I like it,’ I say softly, moving to him again. And I do like it. I love the feeling of precariousness in the coiled power of his body; his constant alertness that lies just below the surface, like a second skin. He is unable to switch off totally when he isn’t working or in danger.

      One night we were both asleep and were woken by a noise. In a swift, unnerving movement Tom was out of bed and across the room silently as a shadow. He slid open a drawer, took something out and crept across the landing. I sat up and froze at his catlike stealth. I watched as he leapt forward and pounced. I heard a scream, snapped on the bedside light and ran to the door.

      Tom had someone in a headlock in the dark kitchen. The man was making grunting noises of fear and pain, but it was Danielle who had screamed. She and a boyfriend had come in from the other side of the house to look for coffee. They were both pretty drunk. The man fled down the stairs and out of the front door at record speed. Tom, furious, rounded on Danielle for being so stupidly irresponsible and creeping around in the dark.

      I knew Tom’s anger was not entirely directed at her but at himself too. He could have seriously hurt the man. Danielle was equally furious and embarrassed. From that day on the door between our flats was kept locked at night. Tom and Danielle did not speak for three days and then they made up for my sake.

      That