this was meant to be for mills and boon:

The Sun May Yet Break Through
Kaede Kita

In the cold winter a grey cloud of gloom had settled over Philippa. She had felt down before, but never this bad. Stressed at work and lonely at home, her only solace was her friends. Yet she seemed to spend the whole time complaining and they must have been getting a little fed up of it. Her back hurt constantly and her thoughts were heavy with self-criticism, sadness and frustration. She hoped this feeling wouldn’t last much longer. In the depths she wondered who could lift her from this pain? It seemed impossible.
What happened to those good times, laughing and joking? Where did those summers go, full of colour and light? The springtime of her youth seemed an age ago. Even her dog was moping. Bruno would not eat his food and spent much of his time whimpering and scraping at the front door. Philippa eyed the door too. From her position slumped on the armchair with the radio chattering she looked at the lock and half hoped to hear the distant yet familiar sound of a key sliding in and turning the lock.
This was the same front door Calvin had walked out of and never returned. No real explanation had been offered, just complaints and excuses. Philippa suspected there was another woman, but he had been keeping her at such a distance she barely cared anymore. They used to speak into the small hours. He would bring her gifts of bouquets of flowers and beautiful bracelets, whisk her away to Italy for a romantic weekend. That was early on, in the first flushes of romance. Then came the years of awkward silences over dinner fuelled by piling resentments that collapsed into screaming arguments over nothing much. Then soon after came the retaliatory headaches at bedtime and whispered phone conversations in the study. She heard he’d moved to Canada.
The phone rang. Startled by the abrupt chiming Phillipa knocked over her Chianti and it bled over the pink carpet. For a moment she hovered wondering if there was anything she could do about the rapidly increasing stain then slumped down with a frown. She gritted her teeth and picked up the phone with a deep breath.
“Hello?”
“Hi Phillipa.”
“Sarah. Hi. How are you?”
“I’m fine thanks. I was actually calling to ask you the same thing.
“Not bad, why do you ask?”
“You didn’t come out yesterday.”
“Well I was pretty tired from work. I’m sorry. I’m sure you didn’t miss me.”
“Of course we did! We rarely see you these days.”
“Well you know, since Calvin left it’s been hard…”
“It’s been going on longer than that and you know it. I’m coming to see you.”
“Don’t come now. The house is a mess. It’s hard to keep it clean these days.”
“Well, if you don’t want me to come tonight I’ll come tomorrow.”
“Okay Sarah.”
“And I don’t want to hear another word about Calvin. Okay? Tomorrow.”
“Thank you Sarah. I do wonder why you bother with me.”
“Well, you’re my best friend. So sort out the house. I’m cooking.”
“I better go Sarah.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. We’re going to sort out your life.”
“Ha. That’s a big task for one evening.”
“We’re going to try. I’m fed up of your moping. I want to see you happy.”
“I’ve got something on the stove. I better go.”
“Okay. Goodnight Pip. Lots of love.”

After he walked out she burnt his clothes. A big pile of work shirts and cotton underpants blazing in the garden behind the shed. The flames climbed and danced in the cobwebbed shed window. When they had ran out of rooms in the house they made love in that shed, as they had in the autumn leaves under the willow tree and the blanket of soft dusk light. Her mind drifted to the feel of his firm hand on her thigh, his warm breath on her neck. How he would speak her name to her, so softly that it was just for her, but with such weight that she knew she was the only one who existed for him. The memory was almost too much to bear. It didn’t even make any difference that he was dull and balding, she loved him completely and the thought of his name occupied her. The image of his smiling stubbled face made her glow inside, a warm fuzz that brought a wistful tear to her eye. She had loved Calvin since the moment they met but now he was gone forever.
Burning his clothes was supposed to make her feel better about him leaving but it didn’t make any difference. Maybe she was already over it, had even been waiting for it. When he had finally stepped out into the night with a hurriedly packed suitcase of clothes she had washed and a box of stupid superhero comics Philippa felt something akin to relief. A strange, sad and slightly bitter relief. She could do anything she wanted now. All those hours devoted to him and neglecting herself were over. She was free. Yet as much as she tried she could not view the situation in a positive light. Their past was written on the walls of the home she had inherited from her dear mother. That home had been theirs. Cooking for one was never as fun and the domino set that clacked on rainy days was only good for making fragile castles now that stacked up precariously upon each other and inevitably collapsed in a noisy heap. Most of all she missed having someone in her bed to snuggle up to. Another human being to be close to. Now she nuzzled the pillow that his head had dreamt upon and cursed the day she met him.
Yet Calvin was only the final straw. She hated her job. Drudging day by day to the dull orders of a dopey manager. Photocopying and typing. Philippa hated the fluorescent lights that glared above and the computer screen that stared at her impassively day after tedious day. She hated the chatter of her colleagues but joined in enough so as not to get ostracised. She lived for her lunch hour where she would walk to the park and eat the takeaway sandwiches she bought from the shop across the road. Phillipa liked that shop with its soft pink walls and smiling staff. They always had a smile for her and a friendly word, and their sandwiches were the best in town. She could carry them to her spot and watch the swans arch their graceful curved necks against the mirror of the water that reflected the blue sky and sparkled with tiny specks of sun. These moments of peace were becoming too fleeting, and dulled by the fog of misery. Even the chattering of the ducks that used to make her smile inside seemed to grate on her. Something had to change.


Dr James Fischer had been called in early again. He was the consultant psychiatrist at Hope Hospital. Like many who have dedicated their lives to the understanding and healing of the human soul he was rather eccentric, but he was a kind man and very popular with nurses and patients alike. He flipped his brown hair away from over the rim of his spectacles and stepped into the staffroom.
“Good morning all. How are we?”
The usual smiling chorus of “fine thank you doctor” echoed back to him. Cleeve Ward was not by nature the most joyful of places but Doctor Fischer and his team made a point of maintaining a healthy optimism and even a certain playfulness. The suffering of his patients mattered to him dearly but he did not believe it helped to be glum himself.
“What’s the problem this morning?”
“Mr Jones still won’t eat. He says somebody stole his silver ring.”
“I’ll have a word with him, hang on.”

Dr Fischer strolled out. He was a tallish man and had a confidence in his step but a skiing injury had left him with a broken left shoulder that had not reset properly. As a result his head was always at a slight angle, which lent him a quizzical air that was enhanced when he arched his eyebrow. The injury was not in fact his fault, but incurred while trying to aid a novice back onto their skis after a minor fall. While the novice moaned and falteringly pressed his boots back into his bindings a snowboarder rushed down at an excessive rate and was not able to stop. Dr Fischer had taken the force of the blow and ended up being taken down strapped to the back of a snowmobile. He always had time for everyone and cared a great deal for his patients but the constant stress of his work left his brow permanently furrowed and his consumption of strong instant coffee must have bordered on toxic the way he slurped cup after cup between appointments. Psychiatrists retire ten years younger than most other doctors, and the way he rushed about people were saying he’d be retired before his fortieth birthday. He rapped three times on Mr Jones’ private room.
“GO AWAY!”
“Mr Jones, it’s Doctor Fischer. The nurse says you won’t eat anything.”
“Someone’s had me ring. That ring belonged my brother.”
“Well we can help you look for it. But first you must eat.”
“I’m not eating a thing ‘til I’ve got that ring. Not for nobody.”
James Fischer allowed himself a slight sigh. This is what he’d been pulled out of bed for. The man must eat but he was hardly underweight. Yet he understood how demoralising it could be for patients in the ward and Mr Jones had been with them for over a month. After such a time personal belongings became your connection to the outside world and regardless of how harshly it was treating you that was not something to lose. When Mr Jones’ wife had passed away there had been nobody to look after him any more and he was left a broken man. Eventually through continued fear for Mr Jones’ safety on the farm his care-worker had recommended an inpatient stay. Day by day he was getting stronger, and nothing delighted James Fischer more than a glimmer of mischief in a once broken patient’s eye, even if they were sometimes a lot of bother.
“Would you like me to send that new nurse in? She’ll be very cross.”
“Don’t be sending her in. She’s worse than my wife was.”
“You miss her don’t you?”
“Not that nurse I don’t. She never gives me a moment’s peace.”
“She’s just looking out for you. If you’re not hungry you can go to the gym.”
“Come off it lad. Just bring me my breakfast.”

It was a funny old place the ward. In the office they had one of those stickers, you don’t have to be crazy to work here but it helps. James had first thought it insensitive but as the years had gone on the gulf between staff and patients was less apparent. Even odder, it had started to feel like home. He had more family here than anywhere else, certainly not where he lived, a bed-sit he shared only with some cacti plants and an aging Labrador that had to be walked at night usually. Basil’s habits were as odd and ingrained as James Fischer’s own and he usually led the walk, expressing his intent for a stroll by nudging the front door at precisely the moment that James put the TV on. Cacti were the only plants he could keep alive. Though despite his lack of free time it was not through standard neglect that they withered but through a compensatory over-watering that bordered on obsessive. Looking after other people took most of his time and energy but it was what he loved to do. What other job could be so fulfilling he often wondered when he was dragged away from another dinner party to counsel a despairing patient. They didn’t call them patients any longer. Service user was the politically correct term. But James preferred patient, because as he always said, healing takes time.



“It’s just taking so long, Sarah. Why do I still feel so awful?”
“I don’t know Pip. You were always one of the melancholy ones.”
“This is different.”
“I know.”
“I’m not just moping you know, sometimes I just… just…”

Phillipa burst into tears. Great, heaving squalling tears. Like an ocean had been building up behind her eyes but had just broken the flood barriers. Sarah put her arms around her, cradled her sobbing friend. Sometimes it’s all you can do. When the crying stopped Phillipa started speaking, first falteringly, then a great torrent, the thoughts that had been plaguing her pouring out in sweeping surges like the tears that ran down her face.

“Do you ever wonder what it’s all about? I mean what are we alive for? I don’t know. I mean, nobody every really loved me. Not my parents. I was just a burden to them like I am to all of you. I’m useless, pathetic. And I feel ugly. Men don’t look at me anymore. Never. I feel like a big fat waste of space. I used to be beautiful but something changed. And now I just think all the time, how long? How long must I put up with all this? This weight, always on my shoulders, this knot in my stomach. The hurt so deep inside I can’t even tell you where it is. I’m so sad Sarah, I’m hurting. All those men over the years just used me and threw me out like a rag. I feel tainted. And work. It’s awful. I hate that too. There’s nothing in my life, just you, and it’s not fair on you Sarah I know it. It’s just not fair. I’m pathetic.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“Why not? It’s how I feel. Do you know what Sarah? I wish I’d never been born. It makes me so sick just looking out in the road. At all the stupid people. They don’t have to suffer like me, just plodding about, drinking cardboard coffee. Going out and getting drunk and being blindly cruel to each other then forgetting about it and doing it again to someone else. Life is just a stupid waste of time. And I’m not playing anymore. All the pain, the wars, it’s horrible. But I don’t care. I just want to get to sleep at night without these awful nightmares. Those half-lit hours alone burying my head under the pillow, willing sleep to take me, hoping not to wake up again. I feel like screaming, I really do.”
“I don’t know why you’re saying this. You’re going to make me cry too.”
“It’s alright for you. You’ve got Mike and the kids. You have an important job. People respect you. It’s always been like that, even at school. All the boys loved you. I’m going to be left on the shelf. And you’ll all forget about me. Just get out Sarah I’m moaning too much. I’m sorry, really I am. This is why I don’t come out. I’m no fun anymore, just this horrible person. I must make you sick.”
“Stop it.”
“I’m tired Sarah.”
“You’re okay. You’re just in a slump. Things will get better.”
“What if they don’t?”
“You battle on. Bravely. Until they do.”
“What if this gets worse? I can’t go on like this. I can’t see a future.”
“I don’t know what to say.”

This was the first time Phillipa had said any of this out loud. For a long time she had felt the weight of her loneliness, but it was more recently that the light of hope was dimming. She felt ashamed of herself for feeling this way. The moments ground by, the clock ticked haltingly. Through the blinds light slanted in catching the dust that hung in the air. Sarah caught Phillipa picking at a scab on her arm. First it looked like an oven burn, but at second glance it was too thin. A long cut that couldn’t have happened by accident.

“Pip, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you should talk to someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. I’m here for you, but I don’t know how to help. We’re going to make things okay though. I know you can get over this. We’ll beat it together.”
“How?”
“Somehow.”


“Good morning Vicki.”
“Good morning Doctor.”
“Could you tell me what I’m meant to be doing today?”
“Of course. Did you sleep last night? You look exhausted.”
“What, more than usual?”
“About the same.”

Vicki was James’ secretary. Organised and with a jolly temperament she was the glue that held his team together. Without her he would be lost, as she was fond of reminding him, and for which he gratefully acknowledged even more often. James was an excellent psychiatrist, the best that Hope Hospital had, perhaps ever. His patients all loved him and he led them through their problems with sensitivity, understanding and intelligence. Somehow organising his own life seemed to be another matter. He was almost neglectful of himself, forgetting to eat for hours on end. When it came to when appointments were and attending meetings Vicki was a lifesaver. Beyond all that, she doted on him. They always carried themselves professionally but her affection for him was obvious. Not that his scattiness didn’t irritate her ever, but she put it down to his mind being occupied with the many patients on the ward. Sometimes she wished he could just forget about it for a few days and take a holiday, but they needed him. And in a way, she felt, he needed them.