From The Ashes- Chapter 1/?
New fic time. After having my creativity sparked by and doing some brainstorming with
mollybeakers, my obsession with a tiny sentence in the one solo interview with Maureen published in the late 80s reared its head again. I've got a plan with this, sort of, I can't say how long it will go yet.
Title: From The Ashes
Pairing: Ultimately: Maureen/Cynthia.
Summary: After an unspeakable tragedy leaves her a young widow, Maureen works to re-build her life out of the shadow of her late husband, with the help of friends, family, and especially Cynthia.
Warnings: Major character death, self-harm and suicide, addiction, depictions of blood (later chapters).
Rating: R for subject matter.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I know nothing, and I mean no harm. Just a case of 'what if'.
From The Ashes- Chapter 1/?- Place So Dark
Sept 1969 - Kinfauns
“Come in, officer.” Pattie’s voice rings through the bungalow, alerting Maureen to their presence. “I’ll tell Maureen you’re here.”
“It won’t take long Mrs. Harrison. “ the officer - Officer Boyle, Maureen is pretty sure, remembering his heavy Scottish highlands accent from a week ago calls down the hallway. She is already putting away her cup of tea in the sink when the elder blonde shows up in the kitchen.
“Officer Boyle is here, Mo.” Pattie stands in the threshold of her own kitchen, blue eyes wide and nervous.
“I knew I recognized that brogue.” Maureen gives a weak smile- it falters very quickly. “I’m coming.” She runs water in the tea-cup and pads through the kitchen down the corridor. The stern officer is standing up in the front room. His partner- a much gentler man with kind eyes, Officer Byrne- stands next to him and gestures to the sofa.
“You may want to sit down, Mrs.Starkey.”
Maureen holds her ground. “I’m alright, I am. Please, Officier Boyle, just tell me.” She knows what he’s about to say, and has prepared for it since that day she walked into the eerily silent- painfully silent- bathroom.
Officier Boyle nods . “Alright. Mrs.Starkey, we’ve completed our investigation and questioning. The evidence and medical reports all points to one conclusion. Your husband, Richard Starkey, died on the 10th of September of shock and hemorrhage as result of self-inflicted cut-throat injury by a hard and sharp object.”
As prepared as she has felt, to have it confirmed by officers that it was indeed suicide, Maureen can’t help herself, and her knees buckle under her. Officer Byrne has her in his arms in a split second and helps her to the sofa. Trying to keep from giving into her emotions, she waves him away. It’s like losing Ritchie all over again and she wants to finally be alone. Or at least just with her extended family. “I’m fine. I am. Thank you, both.” Somehow she keeps her voice from shaking too much.
“We’ll see ourselves out. Thank you for your co-operation in what cannot be an easy time. We are so very sorry for your loss.”
Maureen just nods, and the two officers do show themselves out. Only once they’ve definitely left and pulled out of the drive and she’s left alone in the front room, do the sobs come. Hard, body shaking sobs, the kind that echo through the bungalow. George is the first to emerge, steps quick but stopping short of the sofa. For just a moment. before he sits down next to Maureen, pulling her closer to him. Desperately, she claws at George’s thin frame, clutching his shirt and burying her face in the crook of his neck. “He...Oh George, I ...Ritchie...it was...that is…”
She hears George gasp. “Oh Mo...no. I’m sure he didn’t mean it. Just got ...lost. You said it reeked of alcohol. And he left no note?” George sounds very lost himself, though he’s obviously trying to offer comfort.
Maureen manages to catch her breath as much as she can. “No. No note. I just...it doesn’t matter if he meant to or not, he’s done it. He’s gone. Left me, left the boys, left you lot….I can’t make sense of it.” Another wave of grief crashes over her and the tears start again, though this time they aren’t as desperate. Broken and grieved certainly. But not as body shaking.
Pattie emerges somewhere in the midst of this, and settles on the other side of Maureen, lightly stroking her hair and rubbing her back. “Is...what can we do,Maureen? “
Maureen shrugs, trying to regain her composure. “Nothing more than you’re both doing now.” She draws a few shaky breaths and doesn’t speak for a while as she tries to gather her wits about her. “I need a shower, then I said I’d call Paul when the police were done, so I’ll do that. Then there’s Elsie- oh that poor woman. No mother should bury her own child...” She trails off, gulping back another sob that threatens.
“You should really rest up, it’s been a long worrying week.” Pattie gently admonishes.
“McCartney can wait, Maureen, he can.” George rolls his eye and scoffs a bit.
“I will have many more weeks like this, I’m sure.” Maureen offers a wry smile, and untangles herself from George’s strong embrace. “Maybe he can wait, but I can’t. There is much to be done, discussed before…” She presses her lips together, closing her eyes against tears. “B-before we lay Ritchie’s body to rest.” A shuddering breath punctuates her sentence. “Excuse me, please.” A bit on the shaky side, she stands up and slowly makes her way down the corridor to the bathroom, trying very hard to ward off the memories that threaten to come up. She’d put them away since temporarily taking up residence in Kinfauns while the police worked as quickly as they could to investigate but having all of it confirmed is making it hard to keep them at bay.
The corridors seem to go on forever. The house, devoid of children- with her mother for a few days while Stella takes a small holiday- is too quiet. And dark. Something is very wrong and as Maureen returns from a shopping trip, she can’t seem to still her mind. It’s a vaguely familiar scenario, and she’s worried she may be just too late. She almost was the last time . But then the smell- just overall foul and brings to mind the one time Tiger got into used sanitary napkins from the bin - hits her when she’s still a great deal away from the bedroom and she goes from worried about being too late this time to the cold feeling in the pit of her stomach that comes with the realization that she's far too late.
The whole time she’s been here, despite both Harrisons insistence that she needn’t do a thing but try to get as much peace and quiet as she can, Maureen’s cleaned the main bath every day. From top to bottom. Not that Pattie is a bad housekeeper, but more it seems to help with the memories. Keeping them from overwhelming her. She normally takes a great deal of solace in the way the room smells of lavender thanks to candles and the way the tiles gleam. But today, it's hardly a comfort. Knowing that - meant or not, the result is the same- her husband ended his own life, that he saw no other way out, that the only enemy he had was his own mind, it's all too painful. As horrible as it would have been if there were some outside force, there at least would be someone else to blame. Someone else to be angry at. Someone else to ultimately forgive.
But when that person is Ritchie himself, it’s another world she isn’t nearly prepared for.
With too many thoughts and feelings swimming in her head, Maureen turns on the shower to the hottest setting, sheds her clothing quickly, and steps under the stream. There are so many things to take care of, so many thoughts to sort through, but none of that matters to her right then. All she knows is that the man she loves is gone, leaving her a widow at just turned 23 with two young boys left fatherless. She’s known this for a week or more but now there is an additional damning factor. This is all done his own hand. ‘Self-inflicted’ keeps echoing in her head. It really is like when she realized he was gone all over again. She sinks to sitting, knees drawn up tightly to her chest, becoming as small as she can make herself, alternating betweening tears, and anger - at God, at Ritchie, at the world, at herself- as the water cools. Only when it’s too cold to stand any longer, does she force herself out.
Though she wants little more than to curl up in her night dress and robe, Maureen knows that she can’t. As she dries herself off and runs a brush through her wet hair, sighing at the amount of strands on it but not at all surprised by them, the words of advice her mother had given her over the phone when they’d last spoken rang in her head.
“Just remember, Mary”- Florence Cox has a habit of calling Maureen by her given name even now (some eight years since she switched it) when there is a serious matter to be discussed. “Richard may have died but you stopping as well won’t do anyone a bit of good.”
“I know Mum, I do. I just...I don’t how I’ll do without him.” Maureen is shocked by how young she sounds to her own self.
“Remember where you grew up, Mary. Your father and I raised you to be a strong woman who could take care of herself no matter how tough it got. You’ll find the strength, you’re a Scouse woman.”
Maureen gives herself one more glance in the mirror. “A very lost, alone, scared Scouse woman, but a Scouse none-the-less.” With a determined nod, she quickly gets her robe on, stepping out of the bathroom. There is much to do and though much is unknown she knows the time to start is now.