If you missed our recent release of Christine Hillingdon's novel The Maddest Kind of Love then we're pleased to present it today as part of this week's #samplesunday.
Blurb
When Carissa and Jaye fell in love, it wasn’t their time. She was planning a wedding and he was already married. Now, twenty years later, they find each other again, but he is planning a funeral and she is married. Cyberspace becomes a confidant to Carissa and Jaye’s staggeringly honest emails about themselves. Things they’ve never shared with anybody. And despite everything, Carissa falls for Jaye all over again.
Their affair is renewed, fraught with guilt and the dangers of being caught. This time it’s so different. Cancer, menopausal sex, and getting to know each other is frustrating, exciting, and exhausting, both mentally and physically. Life is more complicated. Is this the right time?
Excerpt
From: Jaye
Subject: Emailing
Thank you for your kind
words, Carissa. Yes, I have support from friends and family and you now. Thanks
so much for that.
Anne is mostly confined to a
chair, and she needs help with trips to the loo and in the bathroom. She has
had several operations to help prolong her quality of life. What with that and
the medication she is on for pain, she appears to be coping okay.
I guess at the moment I am
stuck in a strange place, somewhere between wanting to be creative and living a
real life again—and being completely disabled by Anne’s disabilities.
At times I do feel sorry for
myself, but I allow that without wallowing in it. I find myself leaving my
supports waiting in the wings because, paradoxically, I mainly want to be left
alone.
Are you still into gardening?
What sort of books do you read nowadays? I have drifted into Epic Fantasy.
I too have written Dark
Poems. I have thought about sharing them. What do you think? Are they too
personal? Best forgotten? Is it a too morbid idea?
I’ll sign off now and close
this email with lots of love.
GK.
GK? What does
that mean? It sounds familiar, but my memory is hazy. Chemo Brain hit in a big
way. That and menopause. I’ll have to ask Jaye for the answer in due course.
I know a
little of what Jaye must be experiencing right away. That wanting/needing
support versus wanting/needing to be left alone. Nathan was wonderful, picking
me up from chemotherapy, taking me to and from radiotherapy everyday for the
duration, yet I shifted away, pushed him out—often.
He even
suggested he shave his head as an acknowledgement of what I was going through.
God forbid! I told him if he did I would never speak to him again.
The constant
ringing of the telephone drove me crazy.
“Leave me
alone!” I would scream and run from the room leaving Nathan to answer it.
From the
solace of my bedroom I would hear Nathan telling the friend or family member
that I was doing okay. Playing it all down. When deep inside I was falling
apart at the seams. In meltdown mode. Unable to cope with the enormity of my
diagnosis.
From: Carissa
Subject: Dark Poetry
So glad we
managed to connect. Yes, I am happy to send you my dark poetry, at least one or
two of them and see how you cope with that. They are all extremely dark. I would like to read yours too. Perhaps
they will give me an impression of normality?
As far as
gardening goes, well the house we have now has quite a small garden, which is
all I wanted. Nathan, as you may remember, isn’t into gardening at all, so I
was able to design it to suit myself, once again, using ideas inspired by our
overseas holidays.
The previous
house had a wonderfully established cottage garden by the time we sold it. But
so labour intensive. I couldn’t keep up with it.
Add to that,
five minutes after we settled into the present house, the Government brought in
strict water restrictions, so a different style of garden was definitely called
for. I have planned for the unknown future in that area.
Since we were
last in contact, Nathan and I have done such a lot of travelling and I have
fallen in love with the Mediterranean style. So that is the type of garden and
house we have now.
The back garden
is a paved courtyard. It has lots of hardy oleanders, citrus trees, a couple of
palms, and a water feature up against one of the rendered brick boundary walls.
There is also a shaded paved area, with a small outdoor setting and a row of
potted plants up against the rendered brick house.
The front
garden is even smaller still but made colourful with standard bougainvilleas
and dwarf oleanders. I even grow succulents. Remember how I used to detest
them? I certainly don’t now that I’ve seen Southern Europe.
Regarding
books, I’m into British Crime (yes, I am still in
love with that country) and I also like reading crime novels from other
countries that I have been to.
Regards,
Carissa.
PS: What does
GK stand for?
THE DARK poems are in my poetry file. I don’t re-read
them. Tears will form if I do. The titles alone are enough to enable me to pick
them out and hit the send button.
God! How
will Jaye cope with them? What will he make of lines like “The knife slices
through fat, taking the woman in me.” And “Femininity dumped on a theatre
tray.”
Jokingly I
suggest co-publishing a book. Poems to
read while contemplating suicide. Or Poems
to read while bleeding out . . .
The answer
to the GK initials is in Jaye’s return email: Gentle Knight. The title I once
bestowed on him. How could I forget?
And with
that back comes so many memories . . .
The Botanic
Gardens in full flower, drinking mead, candlelit baths. All those stolen,
illicit hours.
They were wonderful.
And at work.
Trying to be oh-so discreet, yet merely being in the same room with Jaye was
enough to make the air seem alive with the love we had shared. It never ceased
to amaze me how our co-workers couldn’t simply sense it.
From: Jaye
Subject: Dark Poetry
Your poems are
certainly powerful, gripping, and scary too. You poor soul. Your words touched
me deeply.
I have sent
mine though the post. Computer problems my end. Don’t ask. I’m besieged with
them all the time.
I consider I
can’t bemoan my fate to friends because there’s nothing they can say or do to
help, and there is always the danger of boring people rigid. Did/do you
experience that too? It’s strange how—
The telephone
rings, all but yanking me out of my chair. Nathan’s voice from somewhere down
the end of a rather long tunnel, announcing he is on his way home—and did I
need anything from the shops?
I forget to
ask for milk.
My head is
elsewhere.
Yes, I know
about not being able to talk for long periods to people. A few of my friends I
don’t dare to even broach the subject with. They remain stationary before me,
closed off. A “don’t even go there” gaze in their eyes. Too hard for them to
handle. They can only swallow so much and sometimes even less.
I have felt
so alone.
THE POEMS from Jaye (now
renamed GK) arrive the next day. I race back from the letterbox to the kitchen,
tearing the envelope in my haste to read them. I hold the poems in one hand,
the other absently stirring spicy pork on the stovetop.
Tears flood
my eyes, but I brush them away, wanting to read right up until the end. How can
life be so cruel, I wonder? GK wrote of, “Why do I have the impression of
weight, of this nonsense called life? Where has hope and happiness gone?”
But, there
is a lovely surprise waiting in my email box. A happier poem from GK titled
“Recollections.” It lists his favourite childhood memories, and goes on to the
memories of what he calls us. As I
read an amused expression forms slowly on my face.
They bring
back so many memories of my own. I can’t wait to reel them off. Send them back,
but it must be done when I am alone. I know I will have to wait for the time
needed.
It will
come—later . . .
NATHAN AND I are watching a
British whodunnit. I lose the plot. Can’t concentrate. What is going on here? GK
is in my head all the time. I
remember this sensation from before, but didn’t expect it to happen again. Not
now. Now twenty odd years later. When I am how
old, for God’s sake?
I emailed GK
and told him my thoughts about being on rock bottom. How we could at most go
upwards from where we both are at present. GK’s last dark poem was dated a few
months earlier, so maybe he is on the up and up journey at present? But,
somehow I doubt it. Not with Anne the way she is.
Nathan hits
the pause button.
“Time for a
pee and cheese and crackers,” he announces, hauling himself to his feet. I wish
he wouldn’t. He is so overweight. “Humongous Incredibelious,” is how he refers
to himself in a joking matter. But it’s no joke. It annoys me, embarrasses me
at times.
One of our
friends has started referring to him as “Big N,” and although it’s done in a
friendly way, I hate it. Where is the man I married?
I consider
my own bodily changes and GK’s. He has made mention of his own “muffin top.”
But he always went on about that, I remember. Well, he should try implants and
menopause!
Nathan returns with a dinner plate laden with
three different chunks of cheeses and a pile of crackers. His brown wavy hair
is falling over one of his large brown eyes.
“I’m really
enjoying this mystery. It has a plot that keeps on twisting. Don’t you reckon?”
It is set in England and the scenery, as always with these programmes, is
simply stunning.
“Yes, it’s
great. It has a good cast of actors as well . . .” I say and go
back inside my head as we both settle back on the couch. The cracker and cheese
Nathan places in my hand glues itself to the roof of my mouth. No appetite for
it.
GK’s poems
pop back up. He wrote of being alone, but life as I know it is a solo experience. It doesn’t matter
whom I choose to share it with. When it comes to the crunch it’s you that has to deal with you.
Years ago I
fell in love. That love so deep, so dangerously deep. One hundred per cent of me offered up on a plate. Not a good
idea. I know that now.
Never again.
The secret,
I’ve discovered, is to keep back ten per cent of myself. Never give my all. A
safety net, there for falling back on if the need should ever arise.
It’s a hard
thing to do. Re-enforcements needed from time to time. Mental reminders.
Ten per cent
of me safe from the world. From life.
AS SOON as Nathan has left
for work the next day, I fire up my computer. Twenty odd years ago I bought a
thunder egg expertly cut into two halves. The next time I knew I was seeing GK
I had taken it with me to the Botanic Gardens and showed it to him—before
giving him half. The sole other half that
exactly matches my half. Has he kept it, I wonder?
I ask one
other question that has been constantly in my thoughts. Anne, does she know of
the emails? Does she use the same computer? I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t
want to hurt Nathan either. He is a good man. The most grounded person I have
ever known. But, at times so grounded I feel like plugging his finger into a
light socket and switching him on.
Nathan knows
Jaye and I are emailing, swapping poems, discussing books and films, but he
doesn’t know anymore than that. He doesn’t know GK is in my head all the time. Doesn’t know I am reliving
all those secret illicit hours GK and I spent together.
The Lake House springs to mind. A beautiful, romantic film
about two people existing minutes outside of the same time frame. Has he seen
it, I ask?
GK replies.
Tells me Anne, too, is aware we are in contact—but nothing more. The fact that
he writes “nothing more” tells me he too is reliving our past times together. I
can sense it between his lines.
GK loved The Lake House. I plan to send him a
copy.
And yes, he
still has his half of the thunder egg!
GK goes on
to tell me something I am totally unaware of. The affair we had together twenty
odd years ago didn’t die a natural death from his perspective at all. He
admitted to having a kind of mental breakdown and being unable to cope with the
two co-existing lives he was living.
He chose to
let me go.
He had to for his own sanity. He had been deeply
in love with me at the time and it was not an easy decision to make.
I am
gobsmacked. I had no idea.
I ask him again about time out from the carer’s
role. I have asked him before, but he has never really answered the question.
Now he does. He manages a few hours a week—his sole respite.
This is not
good news. He will burn out. He could become ill himself.
I feel
frustrated. I want to help. But how?
Music is the
one thing in the world that keeps me sane.
It is one hundred per cent reliable. Always there when I need it, in all its
glorious forms, to suit or change the mood I am in.
It’s my
lifeboat. My religion.
But, I know
GK doesn’t have this in his life. He never did.
He suggests
a phone call during one of his respite periods.
I say yes.
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Author
Christine Hillingdon was born in England and migrated with her family to Adelaide, South Australia in 1963.
She has been writing since school days and received a highly commended prize for a short story in her final year of high school. Since then she has had many short stories and poems published in a variety of literary magazines on and offline. Christine has won a few competitions along the way, including Poems for Passengers. This was a joint initiative between TransAdelaide and the Department for the Arts and Cultural Development, South Australia.
In 2011 Christine self-published a book through Peacock Publications about her twenty-seven years working as a psychiatric nurse at Hillcrest Hospital, South Australia. In May 2016, her children’s book titled The Girl From Far Away was published through Gnome On Pig Productions.
Her first novel of women’s fiction, The Maddest Kind of Love, is through Driven Press.
info@drivenpress.net
