Mummy:
*I'm
surprised to hear the doorbell. Not expecting anyone*
*Wiping
my hands on a towel I head out from the kitchen and open the door. There's a
young woman, well dressed, well-manicured, hair perfectly pinned in place, and
standing on my doorstep. I wonder what she is selling, whether she is lost, and
then I notice the body language.
*She
is confident, aloof, but under it all she is seething. I am a little taken
aback as I sense the waves of anger rising off her. Her hand is clenched in her
pocket, but it doesn't look like a weapon... I frown*
Can
I help you, dear?
Irene:
She
is elegant; regal. Even beautiful. And the sight of her sickens me. Much as I
currently despise myself right now, I loathe her more. After all, I need
someone to blame.
I
draw my hand out of my pocket and hold it out to her, tightening my fist around
the ring until I feel it bite into my palm. I do not wince but rather relish
the pain. It makes a welcome change from the agony in my heart.
I
look her in the eye, much as /he/ had done earlier. Blood oozes from between my
clenched fingers and begins to drip onto the porch. Silently, I open my hand to
reveal the ring, nestled in my skin and bearing the mingled blood of my wronged
beloved, and I.
"Why
did you do it?" I ask, my voice inflectionless.
Mummy:
“When giving
money to the amputated, you must put it directly into their pockets” ― Greg
Campbell, Blood Diamonds.
*In
an instant I have worked it out. The ring I will never forget, of course, and
it doesn't require any Holmes' deductive powers to realise who its current
bearer is. So, Sherlock has done the deed and told Irene the ring's true
symbolism. I sigh quietly, it must have gone badly to result in this bloody
diamond I see before me.
*I
can still feel the waves of anger rolling off her - no, there are no words just
yet that she will hear, that she can hear. Actions are needed first. I take the
bloody ring from her palm and securely grip her wrist, pulling her into the
hall, the door slamming behind us as I tug her towards the kitchen and gently
push her into a chair. I take down the first aid kit, wishing I could dress her
unseen wounds as quickly and effortlessly as I clean and bandage her hand.
*I
put the kettle on, and while it boils I take the ring and wash it. It seems
strange after all these years to feel its weight in my hand again. I resist the
unexpectedly strong urge to put it on, instead placing the wet sparkling ring
back on the table, followed by two tea cups, pot, milk, sugar, and lemon
slices. I sit opposite and look at her.
*She
is still angry, but seems more likely to manage a conversation now. I pour the
tea, pushing a cup towards her, helping myself to lemon. Her eyes have not left
me - watching, waiting. Her question still hangs, hovering in the space between
us, above the ring, unanswered. I sense my words will need to be placed in
exactly the right pockets to ensure any philanthropy. And I find I do want to
be altruistic, for Sherlock's sake.*
There
are many reasons, darling *I sigh* and they are as complex and intertwined as a
gordian knot.
*My
voice is the one I use on an injured animal, soothing, calm, reassuring that it
will all be ok.*
No
need to slice it undone, dear. Why don't you pick a strand and we'll start
there?
Irene:
I
allow her to play host in silence, awaiting her answer. I even let her treat my
hand, my hostile glare not wavering from her eyes. As she sets the clean ring
on the table, my eyes flicker to it, independent of my intention.
The
lapse is only momentary but it still diverts my attention; some of my focussed
rage slips and when my piercing gaze returns to Mrs Holmes, it is clearer.
Finally,
she sits before me and asks.
"Why
don't you pick a strand and we'll start there?"
I
don't hesitate in my answer.
"Why
did you allow Sherlock to take the ring?"
Mummy:
*The
warp thread is not obvious - all you can see are the ridges they make under the
colorful weft threads. But if they weren't there, there would be no tapestry
*I
look at her levelly, prepared to give nothing but honesty. I hope she appreciates
how hard that is, but in her anger for vengeance, I have my doubts.*
I
gave him the ring among many pieces of jewellery. The decision was made in
haste and in temper.
*It
still hurts to remember that day, as he packed the last of his things in cold and
cruel silence. Our differences seemed insurmountable, certainly too great to be
borne under the same roof - and so he went. And in all my anger and frustration
I let him go, even blessed the departure with my gifts. Was there even some
relief in knowing he would not keep in touch, that his absence would finally
drown the truth kicking and screaming inside me?*
Have
you not regretted decisions made thus, my dear?
Or
made an assumption - like he would sell it, along with the other pieces for
much needed cash, in lieu of employment. That you had cleverly disposed of a
problem to the advantage of one you care about, as well as to your own?
I
relied, my dear, on his temperament not changing. *looks at you curiously* On
him not discovering any sentimentality, and it certainly not extending to
jewellery of mine. *sighs, her gaze caught by the ring* I never shared the
ring's history - he, well you know those damned skills he has, I was unaware of
giving signals about its- its- *tries to seek a neutral term* its significance,
dear.
*I
purse my lips, knowing full well where her next question will go. It seems
today is the day to pick out the knot that is the folly of younger age - for
youth was by then past being an excuse - and reveal the thickness of the warp
beneath the colourful strands of a reconciliation. Yes, even balanced by his return today, I can still feel the
hole inside me that is his departure, and the reason for it.*
Irene:
The
intensity of the relief that overwhelms me at this confirmation of Sherlock's
ignorance surprises me, derailing my anger further. I try to hold onto it,
reminding myself that this woman before me is the one who hurt Sherlock, as
well as Sherlock and I.
So
my next question is sharp.
"Why
did /he/ give you the ring?"
Mummy:
"Why
did /he/ give you the ring?"
*Sherlock
had asked who gave me the ring, but it would take a woman, yes, a woman to ask
why. That tricky question that in matters of relationships draws upon a
complexity of emotions that defy logic.
*sighs
but proceeds with an even tone*
It
was a long time ago, darling. I was working a job for the Government and he was
the target under investigation. Our… *hesitates* relationship developed,
intentionally, but develop it did. I certainly didn’t discourage it.
*averts
her gaze* I was in fact, his… *lowers voice* …mistress... for a while, anyway.
And well, he naturally gave me gifts. The ring being one of them, dear… *voice
trails off*
*looks
up at you finally, your gaze hasn’t left my face. I can see you analysing,
scrutinising, and dissecting my every word, the anger barely abating. I
tentatively reach out for the diamond ring, still drawn to it despite all this
time*
Irene:
My
eyes narrow. I am unconvinced. Her story is much too simplistic; perhaps she
was Moriarty's mistress, but a mistress is not given a ring by her lover.
Gifts, certainly, but never a ring. A ring symbolises too much. Particularly
such a ring. No, there is much more to this than she has told me.
I
hesitate, however, wondering which part of her story to pursue first.
"You
say your relationship developed.. intentionally. What did you intend, or /want/
from the relationship?? Did you not remember your husband? Or your
/sons/?" I exhale shakily, the thought of Sherlock sending painful shudders
through my chest.
Mummy:
*I
notice her eyes narrow as she thinks through the implications of a diamond ring
as a gift. Her shudder is telling when she mentions Sherlock and the ring. The
ring I now gently caress again in my hand. Oh, I had picked it up then, without
even realising.
*For
a fleeting moment, I wonder what happened to the necklace and earrings that
formed the glamorous diamond set he gave me - wondered what would happen if
anyone knew of the triple proposal that accompanied the three exquisite pieces
of heritage jewellery, and how I came to have only the ring remaining. I
contain a sigh. She is too observant, I must watch my tells. I knew what I
wanted on that day at the same time that I knew I couldn’t have it, because of
my husband and sons.
*Thinking
of them brings me back to her question.*
My
intention, my dear, at least the one I was tasked with, was to find out what I
could of the Professor and his plans. In particular we knew he kept his ideas
in journals in his rooms. *colours slightly as she thinks what else was in the
journals* My -um- strategy was to gain access to those rooms, and the journals.
Which I did, successfully.
But
the price did involve crossing a line… I- well, in all honesty, dear, I suppose
I did cross it rather willingly. *smiles at some distant memories*
My
husband and I were… well our marriage was arranged and as such was more a
cordial upper class social arrangement, although I /was/ fond of him, and we
were both devoted to the boys. I thought we had a good partnership, so I was
certainly hurt when I found out about the mistresses… *her voice becomes small
and a little tight* Yes, well, trust is a tricky thing, I suppose…
But
as to my family, dear, Sherlock had just started University, Mycroft was
focusing on his career with Oliver Fox as his mentor. My husband was always at
work or the club. No one seemed to need a Mummy anymore. *sighs deeply* I don’t
know how much of it was boredom, or my wanting revenge on Siger for his
affairs. And if you haven't seen the Professor's charming side, well... it
would be hard to understand, I suppose, dear, that intensity of being - needed!
So
you see, it is more a case that my husband and sons did not remember me,
darling. *I sigh as I turn the ring around in my fingers, the heart-shaped
diamond glittering in the light. Finally, I lift my gaze to gauge the level of
your judgement*
(incomplete
– stay tuned!)
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