Writing for Fun
I'm Coming - Vivian Burdon
October 2014
He closed his eyes, listening. The prim, disembodied voice of his secretary flooded the room. 'Madam Duchamp is on line one sir, she insists it can't wait.'
He picked up the large black handset and dismissed the man sitting stiffly across the room from him with a nod of his head. The man jumped up, scattering papers in an awkward attempt to get out of the office as quickly as the nod seemed to command.
'Pierre. Pierre. Are you there? Talk to me Pierre,' a breathy voice whispered in his ear.
'I'm here Cheri,' he sighed, barely audible.
'Oh Pierre, thank God . . . Please . . . she's coming, I'm sure she's coming, I can feel it.'
Pierre tilted his head to hold the handset between his ear and neck. He pressed the button that beckoned his secretary with his released hand. His shaking hand. She appeared noiselessly at his door. Another motion of his head and she was at his side smoothing the pages of the diary that illuminated the rest of his week, 'His life . . . in such a small book,' he thought.
'Pierre, are you still there?'
'Oui, ma petite, I'm here?'
'I'm frightened Pierre, please come.'
'Ok, ok . . . I'll come now . . . Yes . . . Now . . . Yes, Cheri I promise, I will be with you as soon as I can.'
'Pierre . . .' It was a sob now . . . 'Please hurry.'
'Je t'aime,' he whispered as he hung up.
Distractedly he put on the jacket his secretary held out for him. She had ushered him to the door with a gentle 'Go . . . go home, Pierre, Elliot can cover for you . . . He's more capable than you think. Now go.'
In the street he unlocked his car and looked over his shoulder at the window of the office he had just left. She was watching him. She knew that he had planned to take time off when the baby was due because she had helped. She had made sure his diary was kept clear for at least three weeks . . . Would that be enough? She had reassured him it would be. She had booked the ferry ticket too . . . but not now, not yet. 'No,' she had said, 'you should go now.'
The ferry ticket was in the glove box. 'Could you just turn up like this?' He would chance it. He could be home in just under two days, or maybe one if he drove through the night. He drove numbly through the rain and ever darkening sky. A thought running through his head on a loop, like the news stream at the foot of Sky news 'Oh God please let her be ok . . . oh God please let her be ok.' 'And the baby,' he reminded himself.
He hadn't wanted to start a family so soon but she was so lonely, while he was away. They had known the honeymoon was over when the rumours of redundancies at the French office came through. They had been relieved when he was head-hunted by the new CEO in London. And the money was better. And yes, they had agreed, on that kind of money he could even commute by air. People did that sort of thing now didn't they? So nothing need change, it wouldn't be so bad.
They hadn't banked on the new CEO wanting his pint of blood. His top salary meant the company owned him apparently, and he was called on to work evenings and schmooze clients at weekend dinner parties. The CEO was fond of telling them if they didn't like it they knew where they could go. Pierre had just been on the verge of finding out where that might be, when Emily had told him she was expecting. 'What?' he had asked, nuzzling the nape of her neck.
'What do you think, silly?' And then, 'I know it's not perfect but we will need the money, Pierre . . . And it's so hard to find work these days especially here in France.' So he had stayed at the Company and given them a bit more blood.
The brightly illuminated signs for the ferry port loomed through his rain streaked windscreen. Or had he been crying. 'Terrible night sir,' the guy said as he examined Pierre's ticket. 'That will be £20 to pay, sir, if you want to travel now. You can't use that ticket I'm afraid.'
'Oh that's ok.' Pierre had tried to sound more resigned than confused as he passed over the company credit card. He smiled at the man . . . so cheery in his warm comfortable little hut. His shift would be over soon probably and he will go home to supper and a cuddle from his missus.
The second brandy in the ship's bar helped calm his nerves. He watched two young truck drivers play a slot machine. They are so complicated now he thought, not like in my day and the prize money was so big these days too. After the third brandy he felt stupid. What was he thinking? He had miles to drive if he was to get there tomorrow. He needed fresh air. On deck the soft breeze caressed his cheek. It felt like the soft touch of someone who cares. Light and cool and reassuring, like his lovely Emily. Just a few more hours. He could feel a sob building in the depths of his heart. 'I've been overworking,' he told himself, some stupid need to clear the decks before his paternity leave started.
He felt better now, driving on the familiar French country roads so close to the haven they had created for themselves . . . All the enthusiasm and energy of youth had reclaimed the bricks and mortar and the old farmhouse had rewarded them with a perfect home. Driving with one hand on the wheel he let his other play with the rain out of the open window, the night breeze sobering him. He fancied he could taste the stew on the agar, feel the comfort of his old brass bed and Emily, stroking his cheek.
This was the way to be . . . calm. Emily needed him to be calm. He yawned. He needed to sleep. He could keep going but he feared an accident. He can call her and say he would be with her very, very soon. He pulled into the gravel drive of the old Auberge they knew from their courting days. He had thought the old fusty rooms and dark furniture a bit creepy, but . . . a torrid, sweaty night in a big four poster bed followed by an even steamier bath in the large cast iron tub had left them madly in love with the place.
The concierge took his coat and ushered him silently into the dining room. 'You should eat, monsieur. Cecile has some beefsteak left and potatoes.'
'Just a glass of wine please, Matilda and maybe some cheese.' The old lady left the room shaking her head. Did he catch a look of sadness in her face? He shrugged, she was old . . . old people looked sad.
Mr Matilda (Emily's joke because he was so hen pecked) returned with a carafe of house red and a glass. 'Would you prefer a single room for tonight Monsieur?' Pierre didn't quite understand the question at first, then it dawned on him, of course he is alone.
'No, no. Our usual will be lovely. Thank you.' He sat quietly and savoured the alcohol as it melted his fear.
Emily got up from her chair across from him and stroked his face. Her soft cool hands were a mystery of strength and femininity. The simple gold band he gave her seemed to highlight the slenderness of her fingers. She swished round the room and whispered in his ear, 'Pour me a glass, sweetheart, I will take it to bed. Don't be long.' She stroked his face again and bent down to whisper something else.
He awoke startled to Matilda shaking his shoulder. 'Your room is ready sir . . . come . . . please . . . this way.'
'I know where it is, Matilda.' The sternness of his own voice shocked him. 'Oh I am so sorry. I am tired; it's been a long trip.' He backed out of the room and started to climb the gloomy staircase in a daze. 'I must call Emily,' he reminded himself. Approaching his room he could see Matilda had turned down the bedclothes and lit the bedside lamp. Through the silence he could hear someone singing a lullaby softly.
'Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop,
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,'
He opened the door and saw a creased depression on the eiderdown shift and the voice came closer.
'When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall.'
He backed into a corner of the room and gasped, 'Emily, what are you doing here? I was coming. Oh Emily my love what's happened?'
The singing turned into a wail.
'And down will come baby, cradle and all.'
A shriek filled the air and he looked towards the bed. The baby . . . he hadn't noticed the baby. 'Oh Emily! What have you done? Why did you come here? I was coming.' Emily's wail started up again piercing his very soul. He staggered back against the ancient wardrobe shattering the glass mirror. He crouched against the wall holding his head trying to keep out the small strangled cry. The baby's cry was slicing through his heart.
Emily started screaming again, 'Where were you? Where were you? You bastard? Where were you?'
Pierre banged his head against the wall. He needed real pain, punishing pain. 'Emily I am so sorry, please stop, stop please I was coming to you. I promised I would come.'
He was battering his head to a pulp to assuage his unbearable agony when a prim voice shouted, 'Now that will do.'
She bent down and helped Pierre up onto the bed. What was she doing here? Why was she here? 'Pierre. Pierre. Look at me. It's Ok. I am going to call for a doctor, you need help. And so do you . . . Madam,' she said crossly to the empty room. Turning back to Pierre she took his shoulders and spoke softly 'You cannot keep letting her torture you like this. It wasn't your fault.'
He let his secretary take his hand and lead him to another room, her room. She gave him a glass of water and held a damp cloth to his bleeding temple. 'But, but . . . Why are you here? How did you . . . ' His words dissolved in his throat.
'The CEO sent me, Pierre. He . . . we have been worried about you. Watching you live this nightmare, then this morning, we knew it had gone too far. We are going to get you help Pierre. You have to forgive yourself. It's been too long.'
Pierre slumped onto the bed and curled his legs into his body hugging them close. His chest heaved as each deep sob opened his heart and allowed his soul to weep at last.