Open Writing

Chapter 9: Brutal Barbs

...How could her husband have treated her so abominably? While he was resting at the sanatorium, here she was, trying to hold together her sanity!..

Ingrid is still struggling to come to terms with her husband;'s deception.

Leanne Hunt continues her story of a deep domestic crisis which is set in a dramatically-changing South Africa.

When everyone had gone to bed and the house was quiet, Ingrid sat down at the computer in the corner of the sitting-room with the dogs, Sputnik and Apollo, curled up at her feet.

It was time to write to her dear friend Rosalie. Although it had been only days since they'd last corresponded, it seemed like weeks. A quick glance at their last exchange of news, containing references to the Middle East and a conference that was due to take place at Neil and Rosalie's church, produced an odd sense of dislocation in Ingrid's mind. Could it really have been just two days ago that she'd come across the incriminating birth certificate which named Nadine Solomon as Tracey's birth mother? Who on earth was Nadine Solomon anyway? Would she ever know?

The image of Rosalie's face formed itself in Ingrid's mind as she stared at the lit screen. Born in Ireland, she had unruly chestnut hair, light green eyes and a slightly drooping mouth which, combined with her serious manner, tended to give the impression that she was always a little disapproving. However, though she had the prim manners of a nun, she was as warm and passionate as a balladeer.

The two had known each other since the age of ten. Finding themselves at the same Teachers Training College, they had studied together and supported each other through many a gruelling practical. Rosalie had been Ingrid's bridesmaid when she'd married Warren, and Ingrid had been Rosalie's matron of honour when she'd married Neil. Though they'd not lived in the same town for thirteen years, their friendship was a special one. Even so, revealing the dramatic events of the proceeding days was going to be difficult. Would her friend, Ingrid wondered, be able to overlook the ugly streak of bitterness that her words would convey?

Drawing in a deep breath, she told herself that she had to believe so. There was, after all, no-one else in whom she could confide. Besides, she was aware of what felt like a dangerously high level of adrenalin flowing through her veins. With the silence of the house around her and the fragrance of jasmine drifting in from outside, she came straight to the point, adding as an explanation: "I remember when I met Tracey on my first visit to Steelesbury. She was a little girl then, barely three years old. They told me that Warren had once had a brother who was two years younger than him, but he had drowned in a swimming pool accident. After that, his mother had started the flower business as a way of getting over her grief. I was told that Tracey's arrival had come as a complete surprise, but that they were thoroughly enjoying being young again. I thought it was wonderful - as, I suppose, I was intended to. I remember being so touched by how excited Warren was about having a sister."

She paused, fingers poised above the keys. Could she risk being really honest? She decided to take the plunge.

"I couldn't help thinking how different he was from my own brothers. Now I see that he was really just like them – a user and a cheat."

There, she thought with satisfaction. That would get the message across loud and clear. Rosalie knew her brothers and the difficulty she'd had in forgiving them for the things they'd done to her while she was young. Evidently, judging from the rate at which her heart was beating, there was still some lingering bitterness present, but she wasn't going to worry about that now. Warren's deception - indeed, the deception of his whole family - was what she must contend with.

Before shutting down, Ingrid activated the security feature on her computer to prevent anyone from accessing her personal mail. Like the birth certificate she had hidden in the study, her letters to and from Rosalie needed to be strictly confidential. Though she didn't like the idea of hiding things away, it was necessary, since the last thing she wanted was for the children to be affected.

To Ingrid's surprise, Rosalie responded immediately. The short, urgent mail contained such an outpouring of sympathy that it made her cry. She could almost hear her friend's soft voice with its familiar Irish lilt, speaking the typed words: "I remember how fond Warren was of Tracey when Neil and I first met him. That time we stayed with you after Debbie was born, I thought he was wonderful…

This is a shock, but you mustn't hate him for it … Think about it from Warren's point of view. He gave up his daughter … a hard thing, and yet he never wavered or even spoke about it … Try to forgive him. I promise to pray for you. Keep writing and we'll get through this together, my friend."

Dear Rosalie! She had a point, Ingrid was forced to admit. It must have taken a lot for Warren to pretend that he was Tracey's older brother for all those years. Yet, as much as it had been good for Tracey, it was unfair to herself. And not just unfair. It was cruel, and insulting.

Yes, very insulting. Telling Rosalie as much, Ingrid went to bed. With her burden shared, she hoped it would be halved, enabling her to sleep.

Guilt at her own harsh words, however, haunted her mind … and with the guilt came increased anger. How could her husband have treated her so abominably? While he was resting at the sanatorium, here she was, trying to hold together her sanity! Her very life had been made a mockery of, and he expected her to deal with it alone! How inhuman could he be?

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