The Sting
It was almost eight thirty and the evening sun had only just begun to cast a filtered buttery glow over the dry, cracked ground in the park. The midsummer celebration was still in full flow; dozens of children running and screaming in bare feet while their parents sat on plaid blankets drinking beer. I sat with my daughters, near the bandstand, the three of us nodding along to the music in a drowsy way. I couldn’t see their eyes behind big, plastic sunglasses.
“Have you seen your brother recently?” I asked, looking around with my hand over my eyes to avoid the blinding light from the low sun.
“He was playing football last time I saw him. Over there,” Lucy, middle child, pointed towards a flaking white goal post at the far end of the field.
I squinted hard and made out a pale little figure sprinting towards the goal that I thought was probably Christopher. He was moving swiftly with the ball at his feet, and then all of a sudden stopped in his tracks, letting the ball roll miles wide of the goal. I frowned, then realised with a jolt in my gut why he had stopped running. Christopher was now running even faster in the opposite direction, splaying his arms madly as he sprung into his father’s arms.
“Dad!” The two girls had spotted this, too, and hurtled towards the football pitch, dodging the minefield of picnicking families.
I sat glued in position, chewing the edge of a paper cup. A shadow cast over me and I turned to see a looming figure with my three children clinging on like monkeys.
“Anna,” said a familiar voice.
“Ben,” I replied curtly.
The three children hovered around him, their milky blonde hair, bleached by a good summer, now matched his perfectly. They chattered excitedly about the hat parade and the bouncy castle and the BBQ food.
“Mm-hmm…oh, really…that’s great,” Ben listened and laughed at the right moments, putting his arm around Christopher when they showed him the handmade rosette he had received for second place in the hat parade.
The theme was ‘Summer’, and we’d found the idea of a giant hat made of bees hilarious, so the four of us stayed up late for a week glue-gunning yellow and black crepe-paper. I opened my mouth to tell Ben about the sticky bees, but couldn’t be sure he would find it as funny as we had. I didn’t know him like that anymore.
Ben amused the kids for a while with a couple of boisterous, running around games, and I sat by myself on the blanket, snapping a couple of pictures on my camera phone. Lucy got stung on her shoulder by a bee and cried a little, but when Ben suggested that it might have been one of the crepe-paper-hat bees, she joined in the joke and forgot about the sting.
As they all collapsed back down next to me, I noticed a chill on the breeze for the first time and the skin prickled on my arms. The sun was starting to set now, and I saw a few dark clouds emerging over a line of tall oak trees. The kids ran to get a round of ice creams with a handful of change Ben had given them, and we were left alone for the first time.
“Anna, I need to ask you about something,” Ben’s tone switched to business, which meant we were about to discuss something serious.
“Go on,” I said.
“I spoke to my parents today, and they want to take all three of the kids away for a few days at the beginning of the Christmas break, to see my brother and his family in Germany,” he spoke clearly with no pauses, like he’d rehearsed in the car on the way.
I bit my lip. The reality that this was no longer my family to visit did not sit well in my stomach. It felt like I’d eaten glass, as I imagined all of them sitting around the dinner table catching up without me.
“My parents…they booked it before I had a chance to…” he sounded apologetic but did not say the words.
“It’s already been booked without even asking me? Well, they can’t go. Your parents will just have to try and get their money back.”
“Get their money back for what?” Chloe had appeared by my shoulder, holding out a dripping ice cream for me.
Lucy and Christopher stood side-by-side, happily smothered in chocolate-and-vanilla goo.
“Nothing,” I said, licking drips off the cone. “It doesn’t matter.”
“We’re just trying to work out if you three can come to Germany near Christmas to see your cousins,” Ben added, with poison dart precision.
The kids squealed with excitement.
“Ben,” I said, disgusted as his low blow.
I gritted my teeth as three pairs of giant, hopeful eyes stared at me intently.
“Ben, can we go for a walk and talk about it over there, please?” I stood up and brushed off, noticing the grain of the woollen blanket imprinted on my bare legs.
I walked to an empty picnic bench on the other side of the bandstand, leaned against the table and crossed my arms. Ben approached me looking at the ground.
“What did you do that for?” I very deliberately kept my voice quiet and even.
“I told you it wasn’t me-“
“Not the trip, telling the kids like that. You got me against the wall. I thought we agreed not to use them as pawns in whatever game you and I are playing?”
“This isn’t a game, Anna.”
“I know that. It’s not fun and it’s never-ending-“
A screech and bang to our left made us both look up. A small, green scattering of sparks appeared above the bandstand. It wasn’t fully dark but the sky was the colour of bruises, and the fireworks were visible enough. I glanced over to Chloe, Lucy and Christopher, who were kneeling up on the blanket, huddled together, pointing upwards. A quick succession of screaming rockets lit up the sky in pink and blue and illuminated their grinning faces.
“What do you want?” I asked Ben, perching on the edge of the table and putting my feet on the bench.
“I want my family back.”
“For God sake-“
Our sad bickering quickly turned to raised voices, swearing and insults. Every conversation between us now was like a dying flower, starting off alright and then falling to bits so quickly, with no way to stop it, and all you’re left with is a fistful of petals. We were shouting now, partly in anger and partly to be heard over the fireworks that were now exploding frequently above our heads. I could see reflections of sparkling, dotted lines in Ben’s eyes as he tipped his head back in exasperation, laughing a cruel, cynical laugh.
A screaming noise at ground level made us both jump. We hadn’t noticed a line of wooden stakes with spinners and fountains that had been placed in front of the bandstand. The area was cordoned off with white-and-orange striped tape, but I still looked nervously for the children, who were, of course, sitting exactly where they had been on the blanket.
“Just take them to Germany,” I said, suddenly sick of the whole conversation.
“This isn’t just about Germany-“
A Catherine wheel started screeching and spinning at the far end of the row of stakes, nearest to the children. Bright peach sparks hit the ground like heavy rain. Ben reached out and grabbed my elbow. I stared at his fingers gripping my slightly sunburnt arm, and noticed he was still wearing his wedding ring.
We both turned at the sound of muffled, more uneven scream, not a firework this time but a child. The peach-coloured Catherine wheel had flown off its stake and was rolling in a jagged line towards the children’s blanket. Chloe and Lucy pulled Christopher by the arms but he tripped, and was screaming, frozen, as the firework hurtled towards him.
I started to run towards him, and heard pounding footsteps as Ben ran past me. The Catherine wheel jerked over a bump and veered off to the left, shedding its last few sparks as it span in a circle and fell on its side like a huge coin. Ben reached Christopher and immediately gathered him up in his arms. I got to him only a few seconds later, as Ben frantically checked his face and hair and arms for any sign of damage, even though we had both seen the firework fall over ten feet from Christopher’s small, frozen figure.
Ben let Christopher drop to the floor when he was happy there was no visible damage. He stalked off and started going mad at the nearest person in a high visibility jacket.
“Ben, please,” I yelled, firmly but not with anger.
I pulled all the children close to me. I could feel Lucy wringing her hands together, and Chloe was sniffing as if she had been or was about to cry.
“I just want to take them home.”
Ben turned to us, casting a glance at each of the three children individually. He picked Christopher up again, took Lucy by the hand and started walking quickly towards the car. Chloe shuffled along behind them.
“Can…can I get take some details from you, please? To fill out a report?” The woman in the high visibility jacket that Ben had been screaming out approached me cautiously, talking in a mousy voice.
Ben turned back looking furious, but I waved him on and quickly reeled off a statement and contact details. I buttoned up my cardigan on the way to the car against the chill. My hand was shaking when I reached out to push the gate into the car park. The event had dispersed quickly after the incident, and only a handful of cars remained on the small square of gravel. I approached Ben’s four-by-four, and tapped on the window frowning when I realised the kids’ weren’t in there with him. He wound down the window.
“They went home with friends,” he said, leaning over the passenger seat.
“What?”
“We bumped in to Caitlin and her kids’ on the way to the car park, and Caitlin invited the girls’ to stay over tonight, and I said they could. Chris went with them, too.”
He shrugged like it was no big deal, and I shook my head in disbelief.
“Ben,” I slammed my hand on the car door for emphasis. “What part of this is so difficult for you? You cannot make decisions without me.”
“What is your problem? They stay over at Caitlin’s all the time.”
“Are you serious-“ I started to raise my voice again.
“For God sake, Anna, will you just get in the car and we can talk about this without everyone hearing about it?”
“Why would I get in the car?”
“Well, how else do you expect to get home?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. I hadn’t brought my car this morning, with the arrangement that Ben would drop us all off home afterwards. I got into the passenger seat, making sure to slam the car door hard. The car smelled like carpet cleaner and artificial oranges due to a jelly-bean shaped air freshener that the kids’ had bought for Ben’s birthday.
“I can’t believe you let them go to a friend’s house after what they just went through,” I said as Ben reversed the car out of the space.
He jerked the car in gear and then drove slowly across the dusty gravel.
“Do you know your kids at all?”
“What?” I shot him a challenging glare.
“They were bloody fine by the time they got back to the car park. They’d forgotten it happened.”
I tutted and rolled my eyes. We pulled out on to a narrow, winding country lane bordered by tall hedges.
“Will you slow down?” I leaned over to the steering wheel to turn his lights up full blast.
He grinned but said nothing.
“What are you smirking you now?”
“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just…rich, coming from you. Girl racer.”
“Please.”
I sat with my arms folded, looking at my reflection in the wing mirror. A few spits of rain started hitting the windscreen. Dashed, horizontal lines appeared on the window like unplayed games of hangman.
“Do they talk about me a lot?” Ben asked suddenly.
“What?”
“Do you they talk about me? Ask where I am, what I’m doing, when they’re going to see me next?”
I considered this for a minute.
“Chris does. When we’re doing something he always says whether he thinks you would or wouldn’t like it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. The girls’ don’t talk about you as much, but I think that’s because they think it will upset me.”
Ben nodded as if this was enough for him.
“Do you think they are coping with this all okay? Are they adjusting?” He said.
“Better than we are,” I replied, looking back out the window.
We took a bend and drove up a slightly wider road, but still equally dark. The rain was falling heavily now, creating wide channels of water on both sides of the road. We were nearly home, and I started thinking about spending the night in the house all by myself.
“Watch out!” I shouted as a huge animal ran out in front of the car.
It was so close to us that it hit the bonnet before I could even make out what it was. Ben hit the brakes hard and the car skidding on the wet road, and span out. I put my arms out and closed my eyes. When I opened them the car had stopped, angled across both lanes. The engine was off.
“What was that?”
I looked sideways at Ben. His eyes were wide and his face was pale.
“I think it was a deer,” he said, exhaling loudly. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I replied. “Is someone out to get us today or something?”
He laughed, quietly, through his nose, then his expression suddenly went serious. He pointed at my hand. I looked down and saw that the bottom of my palm was red, and swelling up. As soon as I noticed it, it started throbbing with pain. It was bruised and tender where I’d smashed it on dashboard.
“Let me see,” he said, taking my hand gently like it was a little bird. “Open and close your fingers.”
I flexed slowly, squeezing an invisible ball.
“Does it hurt?”
I shook my head.
“You’d better move the car, before someone crashes in to us,” I whispered, and retracted my hand.
He turned the key in the ignition and smiled at me, before pulling over on to the grass at the side of the road. He got out to check the damage to the front of the car, while I continued to flex my sore hand.
“Just a smashed light,” he said, settling back in the driver’s seat. “And a hefty dent, obviously.”
“Do you need to call someone out?”
“I’ll call them in the morning. I want to get you home first.”
“What do you think happened to the deer?” I said, looking around.
“I’m pretty sure he just pranced off in to the woods. He was a big one, I think we came off worse,” he said, glancing again at my hand.
We pulled out on to the road again and drove the last five minutes to the house in silence. I started to feel light-headed and a little sick, probably from hitting my head on the window during the spin. Ben pulled in to my drive and cut the engine. I didn’t move, just listened to the rain beat steadily on the roof.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I feel a bit woozy,” I said, touching my head and feeling a bump under my hair.
“Did you hit your head? You might have a concussion,” he said, reaching over to me.
Our hands touched as he rubbed the place where the bump was.
“It’s like an egg,” he said.
I nodded, even though I knew it was small.
“I don’t want you to be alone tonight. I think I should come in and make sure you’re okay.”
He leaned over me and opened the glove box. After rooting around for a moment he pulled out his old house keys, a hand-painted ‘Daddy’ keyring hanging from it. He got out the car and started running towards the house, ducking his head against the rain. He stood in shelter by the front door and waved me over. I hesitated, opened the door with my good hand and splashed in my sandals through the puddles on the path. When I got to the front door he was trying with wet hands to get the key in to the lock. Both sides of the porch were decked with climbing roses that were being battered by the wind and rain. Pink and red petals littered the porch steps like wedding confetti.
“Ben…” I said quietly.
He was still attempting to jam the key in.
“Ben,” I touched him on the wrist. The cuff of his jacket was soaked through.
“Hang on-“ he muttered.
“I changed the locks.”
He pulled the key away from the door sharply like he’d been burned.
“What?”
“I had the locks changed. A month ago.”
I stood still and watched a long time after his car reversed out of the drive. I bent down and picked up his discarded keys from doorstep, and when I opened my fist they were tangled up with a mess of fallen rose petals.
Hesitation
It had taken a few days to grow accustomed to the heat and the intensity of the sun required hourly dips in the pool. No sooner had you left the cool water; you were dry again, and as hot as before. But gradually the body learned to bear the heat, and enjoyed the slow roasting, the skin absorbing the radiation that bronzed and smoothed it. At least, it smoothed the younger bodies. Those older, lined: it coloured them a deep chestnut, the colour worming its way into the crevices and folds of the skin - skin that had been hidden by overhanging skin, folding over the perfection that once lay underneath, a young perfection.
Paul sighed and stretched. Rebecca had been badly burned the previous day, and so they had retreated to the protection of the shade of one of the large poolside umbrellas. He had not burned - he was darker than she, but nevertheless, pool protocol, which seemed to require married couples to lounge side by side, proclaiming their unity in relaxation, meant that he was keeping her company in the cooler - but not cool - shadows. He glanced at his wife, engrossed in her novel. Her neck and chest were still a vivid red, her legs still milk-blue pale. Her right foot, stretched out along the sun bed, hovered between shadow and sunlight, and every now and again she would twitch it irritably, pulling it back into the darkness.
Around the pool, all was quiet. It was too hot for boisterousness, and the young teenagers that had monopolised the pool all morning with their riotous ball games and loud voices had retreated to their apartments for lunch. A young, athletic looking couple toasted themselves with abandon - they had only arrived three days ago, but already their tans were enviably deep and glossy. An elderly British couple read the papers unhurriedly, catching up on news from home,
even though they would be returning shortly. A young family - Swedish? German? - all blond and very attractive, played gently together in the children's pool, the young toddler stomping unsteadily, the baby wide-eyed and overwhelmed.
Paul leafed through his book again. He was about halfway through, but somehow had not been able to concentrate that morning. Hitler's invasion of Poland, though tense and undeniably dramatic, was not striking a chord with him that day. He should have brought some novels, he thought - easy reading, something to escape into at the drop of a hat, and put down again without thought. He had smirked inwardly when he had seen Rebecca's choice of holiday books - middlebrow, middle-class tales by middle-aged women, but now he wished he had done the same. He put his book down, restless. People were beginning to drift back towards the pool, some were heading to the beach, flip-flopping casually along the tiled walkway.
From above, a loud wailing shattered the quiet murmur of the complex. Paul strained to place the sound and spotted a small, rather portly child - dark, Italian - crying loudly on one of the balconies overlooking the pool. He watched as the child stamped his foot, gesticulating at an unseen presence within. He was a rather unattractive boy - overly plump, his hair cut too short, his face contorted in anger. He was no more than about ten, but already in the furious gestures and tone of his voice, Paul could see a certain adult quality. He's like an angry little banker, Paul thought with contempt, and amused himself with visions of the child as a man, shirt straining over his large belly, red-faced and impotent.
A man stepped out onto the balcony - evidently the boy's father. The same stout figure, similar weak chin - there was no mistaking the resemblance. He tried to calm the boy, to soothe him, but his efforts only caused the child to cry even louder. A full temper tantrum was underway, and the Father stood helpless in the face of it. 'Give the little bugger a slap', urged Paul, silently, but no such action was forthcoming. The scene was attracting attention now - the young couple eased themselves from their prone position to watch, and even Rebecca had torn herself away from her book.
"What a palaver!" she remarked.
"He ought to give him a good spanking." Paul said, decisively.
"I thought you liked the over-emotional Italians?"
Rebecca shot him a look of cool amusement. As they watched, the child's mother, small and herself none too trim, bustled onto the balcony and swept the child in her arms, with expressions of great concern. The father, useless, flaccid, watched them retreat into the dark of the apartment. Gathering himself for a moment, he scanned the poolside, realising belatedly the public nature of the scene. With a little shake of his head, as if to excuse the turbulent nature of child rearing, he followed his wife and son inside.
"What a horrible little boy," Paul remarked, to no one in particular. Rebecca merely grunted in reply, engrossed in her book again.
Later, the afternoon sun had not diminished in its intensity - if anything it seemed stronger now, insistent, beating down on those below and rendering them immobile. Paul was dozing, book across his chest, but was rudely awoken by a splash of cold water. Irritated, he looked for the source - the little Italian boy from the balcony was paddling clumsily towards the side of the pool and clambered out, ready for another jump. Paul watched him with distaste - the chubby flesh wobbling a little, the small, dark brown eyes that looked on the pool and the poolside as their own, rightful property. The expression of utter, total self-indulgence. The boy hurled himself back into the water with a whoop, blithely indifferent to the comfort and relaxation of those around him.
A feeling of intense dislike washed over Paul, coming from a deep, dark place within, and instantly he was alert, alive - his senses bristling, fine-tuned to the next move. A swift glance across the pool revealed the boy's father - limp, pathetic, unable to control the child - gesturing feebly now and again to make sure the boy didn't hurt himself. Bored with hurling himself in and out of the pool, the child now trotted precariously around the edge, collecting all the inflatable balls and toys floating on the pools surface. Paul watched closely as the boy methodically lined them up along the edge of the pool, chattering to himself. Once the toys were in position to the boy's satisfaction, he began, steadily - but with a force and aim at odds with his size and shape - to kick the toys clean across the width of the pool. They landed variously in the bushes, on people's laps, under tables and chairs, and each kick was accompanied with a delighted yell. The more disruption the activity caused, the happier the boy appeared. Paul's dislike morphed quickly into a searing anger.
"Little shit," he thought to himself, indulging the spreading heat of his hatred.
Rebecca ambled back to her sun bed - Paul hadn't even noticed her absence. She was wearing a shapeless linen shirt that skimmed the tops of her dimpled white thighs. She was, to his eyes at this moment, deeply unattractive.
"Sleep well?" she asked amiably. "You've been out most of the afternoon."
Paul merely grunted in reply. Rebecca scanned his face briefly, gauging the mood, but left off, indifferent, and sprawled out on the sun bed.
"I've finished my book," she remarked - "you can have it if you like. I think you'll rather enjoy it."
Paul, still glaring at the child, controlled - barely - the impulse to snap.
"It's hard to read down here with this kid around."
Rebecca shot him a glance of mild surprise.
"Look - look at him! He's just kicked every single toy across the pool and has no intention of collecting them. If I could speak Italian, I'd give him what for."
"He's a boy. That's what boys do. Didn't you?"
"I was never inconsiderate. High-spirited, maybe, but never bloody wanton."
Rebecca smiled a half-smile, indicating that she didn't quite believe this to be true. Angered, Paul rose abruptly.
"I'm going up."
The evenings were slightly cooler, although not much, but a soft breeze eased the overly warm skin. Strolling through the old town, Paul held his wife's hand, but the pressure of her skin on his, the grip of her fingers, did not bring him closer to her, did not make him feel united. They had eaten well, and he felt bloated, uncomfortable. Paul strained to march, to walk quickly, but the streets were busy, forcing them to maintain a slow pace, and he had to struggle with himself to adjust his rhythm. The beauties were out that night, flitting all around - after a day at the beach, clad in the smallest of bikinis, they dressed themselves not dissimilarly at night - tiny, almost translucent scraps of material floated around bronzed shoulders, breasts, thighs - moulding to each curve, highlighting the perfection of the form. Paul, fully aware he was a walking embodiment of middle-aged cliché, could not help the surge of lust he felt, could not fight the momentary throb of longing as the girls passed.
"Oh look - there's that tablecloth. I'm just going to pop in and have a look..."
Rebecca's voice trailed off. Another bargain to be won. Paul hovered on the street, waiting, watching. When did they ever use a tablecloth anyway? He felt the urge to smoke, although he hadn't done so for years, and had never been what they call a 'serious' smoker anyway. But something in the atmosphere of the place, this bustling, crowded, ancient little town, deserted in the daytime, open through the night, seemed to demand it.
Back at the complex, the pool was empty, quiet - the smooth sheen of the water peaceful and promising. As they walked around to enter their apartment, Paul had the prickling sensation of being watched. When he turned to check, he saw the little Italian boy leaning on the edge of his balcony, following their every move. Paul locked eyes with him, trying to penetrate the blank, smug expression with his hatred and contempt. But the boy's face registered nothing - only a flicker of momentary hesitation - but his stare remained unbroken.
That night, Rebecca rolled to him in bed, fumbling gently for him, but not even flashing thoughts of the nubile young women could arouse him.
"Sorry," he mumbled. "Very tired."
Rebecca, half asleep herself, turned away, uncomplaining. Paul, wide-awake, stared into the dark.
The days passed, uneventful, holiday days, the hours marked only by the shifts in activity - from apartment to pool, a swim, lunch, down to the beach, back to the pool. Paul had instigated the beach afternoons, decisively trying to avoid the presence of the Italian child. Thus far, the plan had been successful, and Rebecca had accepted this change in their daily arrangements without question. Paul, cheered by his solution, was content.
The final evening was spent pleasantly enough - dinner in the restaurant they had favoured most over the past fortnight, a stroll through the busy, vibrant old town. Conversation was slight, but they were at ease in one another's company, and Paul had resolved that he would make love to Rebecca that night, to seal the holiday, end on a high note, so to speak. Turning the corner to their apartment complex, he reached his arm around her peeling shoulders.
"Thank you for a lovely holiday," he told her.
Rebecca smiled at the affection. "You chose it," she reminded him.
"Impeccable taste, as ever."
He gave her shoulders a slight squeeze. She grinned, sensing his playfulness, responding. From out of the blackness of one of the entrance halls, a small form came hurtling out with a loud cry. It was the Italian boy, clad only in his swimming trunks, and with an agility that surprised them both, he leapt nimbly over the wall separating the walkway from the pool. Without hesitation, he threw himself into the calm water.
"What the hell's he doing up at this time of night?!" Paul demanded.
Rebecca shrugged - "He's on holiday too, you know."
Watching the child play alone, chattering to himself, the couple drew apart. From above, the boy's father appeared on the balcony, calling loudly to his son:
"Giancarlo! Giancarlo! Basta!"
That's more like it, thought Paul. But the boy was not to be told, and he clambered out of the pool and stood, stolid, immovable, shouting back at his father, his childish voice strident and insistent. The mother appeared, mildly cross, but her pleas did not move him. Paul watched, his anger mounting with a ferocity that held him rigid. That face - that smug, selfish little face... Agitated, the child gestured wildly towards the pool, fixing his parents with a defiant glare. They gestured back - he responded, but lost his footing, and with a crack that echoed round the courtyard, slipped into the pool, striking his head against the corner. There was a moment of silence, as all four adults registered the event. The boy sank almost instantly. A loud shriek from the mother, both parents disappearing into the blackness of the apartment.
"Paul - come on!"
Rebecca hopped clumsily over the wall, catching her foot and almost falling. Running towards the pool, she shouted for him again, but Paul was unable to move. Transfixed, mesmerised, a cool, calm voice running through his head. The little bastard's drowning, the little bastard's drowning.
The parents ran, desperate, towards the scene. Rebecca hurled down her handbag and shot a fierce look at Paul, who, even then, could not budge. She jumped feet first into the water, her long dress billowing. The sudden action jolted Paul into life, and he too raced towards the pool's edge. Rebecca, gasping, floundering, brought the boy to the surface.
"Help me!" she ordered, and Paul obeyed, pulling the limp body up onto the side. Galvanised, he snapped into action, put his ear to the boy's mouth.
"It's okay - he's breathing."
Panting, the parents flung themselves down by their child, the mother emitting a low groan.
"It's okay, it's okay," Paul reassured. He looked at the boy's face - calm, expressionless - at the nasty gash on his forehead. With a splutter, the boy coughed up some water, and opened his eyes. Seeing the panicked faces of his parents, he began to wail loudly, and they swooped him up in their arms without a glance at Paul or Rebecca and carried him off.
Paul watched them go, baffled at the intensity of the past minutes. His attention was drawn by his wife, who was still in the pool, trying to haul herself out. He reached out his hand to her - "I can manage" she told him. With a final effort, she pulled herself up and onto her feet. Paul, uncertain, also rose, and stood facing her. Her dress and hair clung to her, outlining her shape, her form - hefty, solid, round. He met her gaze, but it was one he had not seen before, did not know. They faced one another, silent. They were going home the following morning.
Love Potion
Have you ever been to a place that smelt of nothing? There is such a place; a little visited department in The University of Hampshire. There are smells close by of course, anyone who has been there could tell you that. The kitchens smell of frying oil overdue for a change. The toilets smell of disinfectant so strong you feel that the odours they almost mask would be preferable without the chemical blanket that thickens the air for yards around. The student accommodation smells of feet and smoke that is more pungent than ordinary tobacco. I’m not often present on Saturday nights, but I expect if I was I’d smell nothing but vomit and other bodily fluids.
I do not waste my time at university by skipping lectures, drinking, taking drugs and indulging in sordid, casual relationships. I can’t, I work here. Mother did not think my academic ability warranted the wasting of money. Instead of running up student debt I get paid, I’m learning too. My work is in the research laboratory, the place without the smell. The air is cold and dry and smells of nothing. However close I get to Martin I catch no hint of aftershave, no mint on his breath. I myself wear no perfume, an attractive scent would only emphasis my lack of other physical attractions.
The laboratory, or lab, as its inhabitants refer to it, is under the main university building. The lighting is artificial, day and night. There are filters working constantly to provide fresh, odourless air. We do not look out on the same world as those above us; we do not breathe the same air. When I finish work I notice the sights, sounds and scents around me much more than others do, because of this. They are not more real to me though. The real world is down there, where things are discovered, understood, improved. I am part of that world. I help to make things happen.
“Sally, we should talk, join me for coffee after work?”
I nod feebly; frightened that speech would break the spell. Is this true, has Martin really asked me out? He has such a special talent, I admire him. People like him are the reason this lab exists. He makes these sterile white rooms alive, vital. He is a research chemist on secondment from Macintyre Industries. He allows me to assist in his work. Unlike some others, he does not dismiss me as a mere laboratory assistant. He is simply wonderful. He does brilliant work and he’s caring too, refusing to do research on animals, only doing work that is beneficial to all.
“I’ll meet you at Luigi’s about five fifteen OK?”
Good job he is so confident, if he needed a response from me to confirm these arrangements I could not supply it. I am still gazing awestruck, after him, when he turns back.
“Not a word to anyone mind, this is very confidential.” A devastating wink and “I know I can rely on you sweet Sally,” have me leaning against the autoclave to prevent me sinking into an ecstatic gibbering mess on the floor. This is one in the eye for Rebecca. I always knew he would see through her rather obvious charms eventually. Martin has finally chosen dependable devotion over slutty, silicone enhanced student sophistication.
Determined to confirm the wisdom of his choice I venture out at lunchtime to buy perfume and make-up to put on after work. I feel that to wear it is important. I must mark the change from the impersonal relationship we have in the scentless colourless world of the lab. The relationship is changing; he will see that change on my face. I am not used to applying it and underestimate the time required. To recover valuable minutes I sprint to the coffee bar. Arriving hectically red and wheezing, I seek the sanctuary of the toilets. Splashing cold water on my face cools me down slightly but results in dramatic smears of mascara diagonally across each cheek. I get myself sorted out at nearly half past. Martin is not in sight. Has he arrived, found me absent and left again? Anxiety starts my wheezing again; please don’t let him arrive to witness me having an asthma attack. It’s just not attractive.
The smell of coffee is very tempting; I buy myself a cappuccino as it sounds glamorous. A special occasion deserves a special drink. If, when, Martin arrives I shall be sipping a sophisticated beverage instead of waiting pathetically outside. I’m slightly disappointed to find that it tastes rather like ordinary coffee but milkier. It is after six when Martin arrives and all that is left of my coffee is that last mouthful I would not drink for fear of the waiter removing my cup, forcing me to leave. Martin slips into the booth beside me.
“Hi, I’ve got you café latte, hope that’s OK?”
He lifts an eyebrow and although I accept the coffee I know that I shall not be able to keep from trembling with excitement long enough to drink it. Probably just tastes like cappuccino with even more milk anyway. He moves closer.
“Sally my sweet; you have always been such a loyal supportive friend. I really appreciate the extra hours you work for me. No other girl would have been so loyal.” Martin has explained to me how terribly important and completely secret his work must be. I gladly stay late to help him. I cannot claim overtime of course, because of the secrecy. I don’t mind, it means that I can spend a few minutes with Martin as he explains what is required, before leaving me to complete my tasks. I don’t mind being alone in the building, it is just a bit eerie there, but I am used to it now. In the evenings, I am free from Rebecca’s spiteful tongue and the nauseous sight of her draped like an extra lab coat over my Martin. The work is preferable to being at home with mother; I can listen to music or even watch the portable television whilst waiting for distillation equipment and centrifuges to work. I don’t understand the results, but Martin never suggests I am stupid. He always praises my willingness and reliability.
I sigh contentedly as he gazes into my eyes. I know Rebecca often accompanies him on the evenings I stay late, but I’m not jealous. It is me he trusts with his work. I don’t suppose he even mentions the important research to her in the cocktail bars and theatres. She doesn’t matter now, she isn’t here sitting so close to him that a tiny gesture could bring our hands into contact. I watch his fingers, willing my own to stay still. I must not make the first move.
“The next part of my research is the most important yet. I have to do a field trial. I shall need an assistant who is entirely reliable and who will swear never to divulge a word of this research to anyone. Sally, sweet, I know it is a lot to ask but there is no one that I trust more than you.”
His hand lifts, moves and covers mine. Deep breaths, I must take deep breaths, stay in control.
“There is no one who understands my work like you do. Please, will you help me?”
How could I possibly resist that appeal? He needs me. Me, not Rebecca, despite what she says. I will never let him down.
“I will do anything for you, Martin. Anything.”
“Oh Sally, you sweet, sweet girl, I just knew I could rely on you. Come to my cottage this weekend.”
He gives me the address and tells me which bus to catch. We talk for a while longer, well he does; I just listen. He tells me more about his work, how it can prevent war, terrorism and all kinds of terrible things. I cannot meet his eyes; mine stay downcast, marvelling at his strong brown hand covering my soft white one.
Saturday morning I gaze from the bus relieved that he is indeed waiting for me as agreed. He leans across to open the car door for me, driving away at great speed before I can do up my seat belt. His eagerness matches my own. At his beautiful cottage, he parks the car in the honeysuckle covered garage. The garden is gorgeous and I would like to linger a while looking at the abundant froth of flowers but Martin leads me quickly to the front door. The heady scent of shrub roses and clove pinks is delightful and seems as strong in the house as in the garden.
“I know you would never willingly leak my, our, secret but it is impossible to keep everything quiet.”
“Martin, I have spoken of this to no one.”
“What about your mother, she knows you work late, that you are here today.”
“No, no she doesn’t. She distrusts scientists so I told her I go to the library after work. She thinks I am visiting a museum today.”
“You really are too good to be true. How lucky I am to have found you.”
I feel my face flush; everything is too good to be true. At 37 I may be older than average to feel love for the first time but I am experiencing it fully now.
I sip a glass of chilled wine as Martin explains his discovery to me.
“It’s a completely undetectable poison.”
“But Martin I thought your research was for good. What good can poison do?”
“It depends who you give it too. If Hitler had received a dose, or Saddam Hussein, think how many innocent lives would have been saved.”
“Maybe, but it’s still murder. Can the end ever justify the means?”
“Always.”
He was so sure and I realise, after a long explanation and another glass of wine, so right.
“Why must it be undetectable?”
“Because the government could not risk the political scandal that would be caused if the fact that they’d killed an enemy, however evil, was even suspected. Not everyone is as intelligent as you. Some would not understand.”
“And is it undetectable?”
“Yes. I have carried out some tests already. As you know I work as a volunteer at Sandleford Hospice.”
I did, it was a selfless act, just one more reason for me to love him.
“I have administered the drug to several patients who had only days left.”
“You can’t mean you killed them?”
“No of course not, how could you think it? I gave only small amounts, I suspect that it reduced pain but death was not brought forward. Autopsies were carried out. No trace of any drugs other than those prescribed was found.”
“But surely no one was looking for anything like that?”
“I was.”
“How did you get them to take it?”
“I put it in a drink, not one person noticed a taste or smell, not even when it was in plain water.”
“Would it be noticeable in a dose large enough to kill?”
“You are quick to understand the problems aren’t you? I wondered about that myself but I am now completely sure that it would not be suspected.”
“And are you sure it will definitely kill, if it didn’t shorten the lives of terminally ill people are you sure it will kill?”
“That’s the last test I have to complete. I need to be sure exactly how much is needed and how much time elapses before death occurs.”
“How can you possibly test that?”
“It is a difficult problem isn’t it? That’s why I need your help.”
“Oh darling, of course Sally will help you.”
I look up with shocked hatred to see Rebecca in a flimsy negligee.
“She did say she would do anything.”
Rebecca picks up the bottle.
“Would you like some more wine?”
One Stop Beyond
A large, grey rat slipped into the underground entrance alongside Brenda, no doubt also pleased to escape the annoying drizzle of Friday night. When she spotted its damp fur, Brenda gave a frightened squeal then looked around, red-faced. She shuddered as it squeezed its fat body into an air vent by the ticket office.
Her heels clicked an echo on the tiles of the underground station as she walked briskly in the direction of the District Line, southbound. The office party had still been buzzing when she left, but she had to get the last train home.
An unpleasant blast of stale air rushed along the corridor, signalling a train had just pulled in. Brenda held her breath until it had passed to avoid inhaling it. She knew she was exactly six minutes too early for her train to Wimbledon, but still kept up a steady pace. She ticked along the corridor in her black mac, like a shiny beetle. The air changed to an icy draught and Brenda tugged up her collar.
Several giggling girls teetered towards her on high heels. One wore a bride’s veil, the others sported sparkly wings. They advanced towards Brenda with arms linked. She side-stepped the pink platoon in their flimsy attire and clash of perfume. Rather them than me heading out on a night like this, she thought.
But then, a niggling notion gnawed at her. It might be exciting to go for a night out with friends. She might meet an attractive man, who’d say he’d been waiting all his life for her. He might propose to her and they’d jet off after the wedding for an idyllic honeymoon in the sun and return to work as bronzed newlyweds.
Don’t be silly Brenda, she scolded herself, I can’t even leave Mum on her own overnight, never mind for a honeymoon.... But she smiled and indulged herself the fantasy.
When she arrived on the platform, Brenda assessed the people around her. She didn’t want to get stuck with a drunk who might vomit on her shoes, or a gang of toxic goths.
A pretty young girl, probably from the make -up counter at John Lewis, she thought, bounced past her, leaving a waft of floral perfume in her wake. A couple of teenagers skulked further up the platform. Two suited and booted business types chatted about shares, checking their watches and wincing every so often. Bet they’re late for dinner because they went for a drink. Now they’ll have to explain it to their wives, who are sulking over their third glass of Chardonnay.
Three thirty-somethings, who had obviously been to a pub or two, tried to stop each other falling of the solitary bench on the platform. Brenda tutted as she noticed a tired mother-to-be beside them, shifting from one foot to the other.
Then Brenda spotted him. He was a tall, thin man standing apart from the others in a dark trench coat, hat and horn-rimmed spectacles. He fissled with a grubby newspaper which he slotted under his arm as the last tube train arrived. Hmm, not sure about him, she thought.
The train shuddered as it emerged from the mouth of the tunnel, its fixtures rattling like old dentures as it pulled in. Noting that Mr Sinister now stood about two carriages down, Brenda got onto the train and sat nearest the doors, settling her skirt around her. She released the clasp of her handbag and took out her novel.
Oh no, she groaned to herself as she heard raised voices and shuffling feet. The three men who’d been hogging the bench earlier veered in. When the train lurched into action, they ricocheted off the metal poles and landed on the seat opposite Brenda, the two on either side like bookends for their comatose companion. She looked away and tried to become invisible. When she felt sufficiently brave to cast an investigative glance, she was unnerved by the intense stare of the man in the middle. She dropped her eyes back to her book.
After a minute, Brenda jumped as a swift, sucking sound broke the rhythmic clunk of the train. An angry bang followed, announcing that the door to the adjacent carriage had been slammed shut. She sighed in relief and awaited the ticket inspector, but when she didn’t hear his call for tickets, she looked up. To her horror, it was Mr Sinister... and he was headed in her direction.
Don’t look scared, don’t look scared, her mind chanted in time with her quickening heartbeat and the train gathering speed. As his shadow fell across the book on her knees, Brenda was certain that everyone could hear her heart hammering against her ribcage.
She gave an audible gasp and recoiled slightly as he sat next to her. Her nerve endings screamed.
I can’t even get off and take another train, Brenda thought. Her only solace the fact that she was not alone with him.
His newspaper snapped as he straightened it out. She flinched, but didn’t look up.
The train stopped at West Brompton and a teenage girl got off. A boy greeted her with a kiss. Wish this were my stop, Brenda thought.
Next, Mr Sinister snorted a sneeze into a white handkerchief. Normally, Brenda would have said ‘Bless you,’ but instead looked over at the men opposite. She froze when the middle man’s gaze fell upon her once more and promised herself never to cast eyes upon him again.
A few minutes later, they pulled into Fulham Broadway station where several people alighted from other carriages, but none of her travelling companions moved. The doors shut abruptly, silencing the bodiless drone that advised passengers to “stand clear of the door”. The train rolled on down the District Line. As each station approached she prayed, in vain, that her strange carriage mates would get out.
A new noise drew her attention back to them. The man acting as right-hand prop to his friend had started to tap his foot. It was an irritating little sound. Brenda wondered if he was desperate for the bathroom and pulled her feet in a bit further, just in case. She was suddenly aware of the light dimming and looked up to the roof of the carriage. It flickered and teased a threat of darkness. Please God no! Brenda beseeched. But the bulb seemed to recover and beamed once again.
As they neared the penultimate stop, Mr Sinister coughed and nudged her sharply in the ribs.
“Pardon me, Madam,” he muttered, through a fake cough. Brenda stiffened. She found she was unable to exhale the breath she had just sucked in and did not dare turn her head. When he repeated his actions, she released it with a small cry. The foot opposite stopped tapping. She noticed that its owner was looking at her, frowning.
Brenda turned and regarded the man beside her, despite her dread. He fixed his pupils on hers, widened his eyes and used them to drag her gaze from the top of the crumpled newspaper down along the inside, until it reached the bottom. A torn piece of notepaper was resting inside. Brenda stifled a cry as she read the words scribbled on it.
Get off at the next stop. The man opposite is dead.
Tears surfaced in her eyes and the words floated and blurred in a macabre dance. She looked over at the slumped figure opposite, then back to her neighbour. Something in his sad stare made her believe him. One of the men facing her leaned over the ‘dead’ man and mouthed some words to his colleague. They both narrowed their eyes and pointed their faces towards Brenda. She was reminded of vultures.
At that moment, the train’s brakes shrieked. Decision time. Brenda took a deep breath, stood up and steadied herself as she progressed along the aisle. She felt the icy stare of the men on her cheek as she passed. As she approached the door, she noticed her reflection in the window. Mr Sinister had also arisen and was moving along behind her.
Brenda hadn’t envisaged this scenario. Oh God! What if he’s going to follow me...or strangle me? The platform might be empty...
She could almost feel his newspaper touch her back. Her spine tingled. As the train shrugged to a standstill, she lurched forward. She looked through her frightened reflection in the train door out onto the dimly lit platform. It was deserted. She couldn’t see Mr Sinister’s face in the window and decided he must be right behind her. As the doors parted and Brenda stepped down, she looked down at her shoes.
Can I run in these? The hairs on the back of her neck stiffened in anticipation of some form of contact from the man. There was none. She could hear the doors of the train closing after her like a heavy curtain.
Immediately, she started to walk. She didn’t look back, nor listen for footsteps. She simply broke into a run towards the exit.
Oh joy of joys, Brenda cried inwardly, seeing a taxi outside the station. She leaned in.
“The nearest police station please...quickly.”
She looked back towards the doorway. There was no one behind her. She breathed a heavy sigh.
When she arrived at Wimbledon Police Station, Brenda found the front desk abandoned. Strains of a conversation floated through from a nearby room . She caught a few words.
“Victim....male...25 years...despatching car now.”
Two officers thumped open a pair of swing doors and rushed past. Outside, an ambulance wailed.
Brenda pushed the doors and edged in.
“Can someone help me, please?”
She leaned around the doorframe. A police officer was seated at a screen.
Brenda gasped at the image. It was her train. She could tell because she could see the back of her head. The officer turned towards her, one eyebrow raised.
“DC Blakely, Madam. May I help you?”
Just then, a fax machine spat out a photograph.
Brenda turned. “That’s him. He’s the dead one!”
“ ‘Dead one’, Madam?”
“The man sitting beside me on the train told me that the man opposite was dead. It’s him. Wait, you’ll see them both now. ”
But as they squinted at the screen, Brenda couldn’t see Mr Sinister. She saw herself get up and lurch forward, but there was no sign of him. As the train pulled away from the platform, she could just make out the shapes of the men opposite, in an otherwise empty compartment.
“I d...d...don’t understand.”
“I think I can explain, Madam. We’ve had a report that a young man has been found on the tracks at the rail terminal. A GP on the scene has suggested he has been dead for a while. No doubt the perpetrators were waiting for an opportunity to dispose of the body. Anyone left in that carriage would have posed a significant obstacle. You are very lucky you left the train when you did.“
“So that man might have saved my life...do you know who he is?”
“Well, this may seem a bit far-fetched, but I think so, Madam...was he tall and thin, wearing a dark trench coat and carrying an old newspaper?”
“Yes, that’s him. Thank goodness you know who he is.”
“Well, over the years, several people have reported that this particular gentleman has warned them of potential danger on the Underground. We’ve been very sceptical, but this is the first time we can link his warning to an actual crime. His name is Edward Potter. Unfortunately, you can’t thank him in person. According to records, he worked on the London Underground for years and was killed a long time ago.”
Brenda’s face paled, “Was it on the 4th of November, 1945?”
Detective Blakely’s eyes widened. “Yes! But, how did ...?”
“... I know that? You see, DC Blakely, it’s only just come back to me this minute. That was the date on the top of his newspaper.”
Bows and Daggers
As soon as I’d promised Mr Winstanley I wished I hadn’t; but it was too late. He caught me on the hop you see, that was the trouble. I thought, ‘what a daft woman I am.’ Have you ever done that? Agreed to something and regretted it straight after? But then you think, ‘Oh, not to worry, it’s weeks off yet.’ But as the day comes closer your stomach churns. Mine did anyway.
Mr Winstanley comes down to the over sixties club where I help out; make tea; hoover around; try to organise games; all sorts. That’s me that does all that by the way, not Mr Winstanley. Mr Winstanley is one of the over sixties ‘members’ as we call them. When they’re not playing bingo, or chess or draughts or computer games, the members chat amongst themselves, I say chat, they usually mutter about how stewed the tea is or how dry the scones were. Mr Winstanley sometimes entertains us with his violin, by playing it that is. When I say, ‘entertains us’ what I really mean is we endure it. Sounds like panic-stricken cats half the time. Mind you at least he does look like a musician with his bow tie and his velvet jacket. Sometimes he even wears a white frilled shirt and when he puts the violin under his chin it hides the gravy stains.
Eventually his arms get tired. We smile and clap and tell him how good it was. When I say ‘we’ I really mean the helpers. Most of the members have already decided it’s time to go to the toilet, or the television room, or both.
Mr Cardew normally stays but he’s quite rude about it all. He sits with his hands covering his ears until the violin stops and then he carries on cutting his nails. Always cutting his fingernails is our Mr Cardew. He used to cut his toenails as well but we had to stop him, especially as he likes to open up the packets of biscuits and offer them around. Right, so you must be wondering exactly what it was that I promised Mr Winstanley. One afternoon, just after he had finished playing his violin and Mr Cardew had taken his hands from his ears, everybody started drifting back into the room.
When he had a captive audience, Mr Winstanley announced that he had entered a competition. It was a musical instrument playing competition at the Civic Hall and he had put his name down for the violin category. There was a disbelieving silence which he eventually broke himself. He went on to invite everybody to go along and watch him but pointed out that they would have to buy tickets at the door.
There was an even longer embarrassing silence. I blinked first. “Yes,” I said, I’ll go; and if anybody else would like to go I’ll give them a lift in the-“ I was going to say mini-bus but when I looked around everybody was focussing either on the ceiling or their shoelaces. The only sound was the click-clicking of Mr. Cardew’s nail scissors.
The day of the competition quickly came around; too quick for me. It was on a Saturday morning. There were a hundred other things I needed to do but I’d promised him – umpteen times! I did entertain the idea of not going to watch him at all then saying how good he had been next time he came to the club, after all, he wouldn’t know if I had been in the audience or not. But that had its dangers when I thought about it.
Supposing I told him his performance was marvellous but it turned out he hadn’t actually gone because he was sick or something. Anyway how would I know if he’d won or not unless I was there?
Of course I knew he couldn’t win. Mr. Cardew told me that. It seems a lady called Rowena Torrisholme always won, at least she had done for the past seven years. She was also the Northern Counties Champion and so anybody from our little backwater stood no chance, especially not Mr. Winstanley.
Mr Cardew was looking quite smug. “How come you’re so well informed?” I asked him. He just smiled and knowingly tapped the side of his nose with his index finger almost poking himself in the eye with his nail-scissors.
So I ended up having to go to the Civic Hall on my own, wishing I was somewhere else; anywhere. When I walked into the foyer there was a man sat at a table wearing a blazer and flannels. He had a stack of tickets. £6 to go in. £6! Well, that was my cinema money blown for that month. Russell Crowe would have to wait. The blazer man directed me up the stairs. At the top I went through the swing doors into the auditorium. The front row was taken up by official looking people with clipboards and laptops. I sat myself down next to the centre aisle about halfway back from the stage. It was then that I realised I had become not part of the audience, but was the audience. Looking around me I felt as conspicuous as a lighthouse in a desert so I moved before anybody noticed. I re-located to the end of the middle row. The worn springs were a bit uncomfortable but at least I was near to the exit.
On the stage a man was sitting playing a grand piano. Apart from him and the piano, the stage was empty. I didn’t know what particular musical piece he was playing. It was something classical but boring. Some people on the front row kept jotting down notes on their clipboards; they must have been the judges. Ten minutes, or was it ten hours, later he finished playing. No applause, nothing. A disembodied voice said ‘thank you’ then he stood up and walked off mopping his forehead with his handkerchief. It didn’t look too clean either, I noticed.
There was a bit more activity on the front row, heads put together, noddings, head shakings and more scribbling of notes.
My mind wandered as I scanned the ornate decor of the walls and ceilings and then the disembodied voice brought me back to the moment. “We now come to the violin class. Would our first contestant Mr Herbert Winstanley take the stage please.”
Mr Winstanley walked on from the wings carrying his violin. His eyes scanned the auditorium. I wasn’t sure if he could see me or not so I waved, and he waved back, then all the people sitting on the front row turned around to see who he was waving to. I could feel my ears going red.
Mr Winstanley wasn’t flustered though. He took his time. He sorted out his music sheets, put the violin under his chin, removed it again, edged a page of music about half an inch to one side, put his violin back under his chin, took it away again, rubbed his right eye with his thumb, which can’t have been easy while holding his bow, and then he popped the violin back under his chin yet again. For a few moments he sat there poised and I hoped he’d remembered to take his tablets, but then, a sudden jerk of his elbow and he started to saw away.
Some of the front row twisted round again just to have another look at me. They might have thought I was his wife or, worse still, his tutor. Well at least he knew I was there; he knew I’d kept my promise. I gave it another five minutes then slipped out.
At the bottom of the stairs the man at the table looked up from reading his newspaper surprised. “That was a quick visit,” he said. “Aren’t you staying to see who wins?”
“There doesn’t seem to be much point,” I said. “I believe the same frumpy old bird wins every year anyway, Rowena somebody or other.”
“Rowena Torrisholme.” His eyebrows scrunched together as he said it.
“Yes, that’s it. Do you know her?”
“I ought to,” he said. “She’s my wife.”
The bustling pavements and the sound of the traffic had never been more welcoming. The gap between me and the Civic Hall mercifully widened with each hurried step.
At the next over-sixties day Mr Winstanley was the last to arrive. The absence of his violin was conspicuous. I didn’t want him to know that I didn’t know how he had got on, so I played it safe.
“Did you enjoy yourself on Saturday?” I asked him. He muttered something back that I couldn’t quite make out, then he flopped down into his usual chair.
“Oh come on Herbert, cheer up!” It was Mr Cardew. “No shame in coming second.” Mr Cardew, once again, seemed well informed.
“You came second Mr Winstanley?” I was so excited for him. “Did you really?”
“Well you ought to know; you were there,”
Ooops! “Yes of course I was,” I said. “I think second is a magnificent achievement. Let’s give Mr Winstanley a round of applause everybody.” Before any of the other members could respond, Mr Cardew held his arm up to stop them.
“Not out of two it’s not.” As Mr Cardew said this he gave a horrible sneer that sent his upper dentures sliding forward over his bottom lip. It was like something from a horror film.
“Only two contestants?” I blurted this out and realised at the same time that I was giving myself away again. Mr Winstanley didn’t notice. I carried on. “No shame in that Mr Winstanley. You were up against Rowena Whatsername.”
“Rowena Torrisholme pulled out of the competition distraught because some nasty person-“ He stopped to catch his breath at this point but held up his hand to indicate that he didn’t want to be interrupted. My mind raced. Was I the nasty person who had caused all this because I told her husband she was a frumpy old bird, and then he’d told her?
Mr Winstanley got his breath back and continued. “Some nasty person had cut through the strings on her instrument.” Phew! What a relief. At least I knew that wasn’t me.
“Who came first then?” Mr Winstanley looked daggers at me. I’d slipped up again hadn’t I? But I was past caring now; just curious. He didn’t answer me but turned his face in another direction. I followed a line from his accusing eyes across the room to Mr Cardew. So did everybody else. Mr Cardew was sitting in his chair. He looked quite smug as he unfurled a certificate and proudly held it up so that we could all see. ‘First Prize. Violin Class.’
I was gobsmacked. Everybody else was gobsmacked, apart from Mr Winstanley of course. It was the first time that I’d known everybody at the club all speechless at the same time. We were all in some sort of silent endless tableau. Somebody had to say something to break the spell. That would have to be me of course.
“I didn’t know you had entered the competition Mr Cardew,” I said. “In fact I didn’t even know you played the violin.”
Mr Cardew eased himself softly back in his chair. He rolled the certificate back up and popped it into a pocket in his blazer. “Oh, there’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he said. He put his hand into another pocket and pulled out his nail scissors. He snipped the air with them a couple of times, winked at me, then put them away again.
Although I’d never even seen her, I started to feel a great deal of sympathy for Rowena Torrisholme.
Tripp Switch
Samantha looked at herself in the mirror. Was she really so predictable? She wore the same A-line denim skirt, the same white blouse and the same navy blue cardigan practically every day of the week. She scraped her hair back into the same ponytail and applied the absolute bare essentials of the same boring bargain-basement makeup. Was it really any wonder that Richard was getting fed up with her? She was such a ‘librarian’. Librarian by vocation, librarian by nature …. Was there any wonder the passion in their relationship appeared to have died.
She’d come to realise, of late, Richard no longer wanted to put his arm around her shoulders when they sat on the sofa watching their favourite television programmes. In fact, more often than not, he missed them – he’d been doing so much overtime at the office. He’d made passing comments about the floozies in magazines and his head would be turned by girls in short skirts and provocative tops at the supermarket. When they’d married ten years ago, she really did think they were soul mates. He was studious and well-read, some said borderline ‘nerd’, he listened to classical music and he loved nothing more than strolling through the park with her, hand in hand. But over the past few weeks he’d been distant and cool. He’d even broken his usual routines on more than one occasion and he was spending increasingly more time at the office.
Samantha looked at her watch. It was almost eight. As always, she flicked the switch on the kettle, pushed the toaster down and headed for the door. The bus would be passing the end of the street in precisely seven minutes. Richard would be up before she got on the bus and would devour his tea and toast in hasty mouthfuls and gulps as per usual.
Samantha walked at a brisk pace and lo and behold as she reached the corner of the street the bus was there to meet her. She smiled pleasantly at the driver, showed him her pass and made her way to her usual seat. She opened her bag, took out her reading book (John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, again!) and delved into its pages.
The bus had barely reached the outskirts of town when it came to a rather abrupt halt. The driver dismounted and seemed to be looking at the side of the bus. He clambered back on board and announced that he had a flat tyre. He advised that it may be quicker for passengers to take the next bus from the stop up the road, as it might be some time before the engineers were able to get to him and replace the tyre.
Samantha looked at her watch. It was 8.15 am. After an anxious moment, she realised that actually she wasn’t expected at work until 9.15 am. The library didn’t open until 9.30 am and it was only through choice that she turned up at 8.45 am every morning. She exhaled slowly. For once she would be on time.
She looked out of the window to the park. Streams of suited and booted people were making their way to work. Most had cups of coffee in one hand and newspapers tucked under their arms. Some were carrying large brief cases and …. She looked again. It was Richard, hurrying towards the park gates with a piece of toast hanging from his mouth. He hadn’t even fastened his tie properly. Samantha made to stand up and wave through the window, but he clearly hadn’t seen her – he was far too distracted by a distant figure. Samantha squinted through her thick-lensed glasses as Richard practically ran into the arms of a blonde woman. She sat down with a start and breathed out, she hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath for way over a minute. She watched intently as they embraced and stood holding hands, talking animatedly. They then left the park by the large wrought iron gates at the corner and climbed into a silver soft-topped sports car. Samantha noticeably winced and took a sharp intake of breath, as both the reality of her sightings hit her and at the expanse of thigh the blonde girl exposed as she swung her legs into the vehicle.
Samantha pushed her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose and quickly glanced around her as she checked herself. None of the remaining passengers were taking the slightest bit of notice of her. They were far too engrossed in the daily papers and their sordid, trashy novels.
The remainder of her journey was a bit of a blur. Samantha bade ‘Good Morning’ to the caretaker as she entered the rear of the library and neatly placed her coat on the peg. She wandered into the office and sat down at the desk. Someone had left a magazine open on the table. She glanced at it. Page after page of gorgeous, smiling, pretty girls in bright fashionable clothes, with glamorous make up, tousled hair and tanned attractive men friends.
Reality struck her. She’d bored Richard so much that he’d gone looking elsewhere. He’d sought out the exact opposite to her; blonde (she was brunette), tall (she was quite short at 5’5”), glamorous (well she certainly wasn’t afraid of showing an expanse of leg) and though Samantha didn’t like to cast aspersions she was convinced that this woman wouldn’t be very intelligent – even if she did have a smart car. Actually, it was then that Samantha realised that she didn’t actually blame herself for Richard’s weakness. She merely despised him for it. She wasn’t heartbroken or distraught, she was silently livid. Here she was the quiet, mousey, homely girl. The girl that your parents would be more than happy for you to settle down with. The reliable, steady, trusting kind, with respect and manners aplenty and little ambition other than to please her man. So why the hell after being molly-coddled and waited on for ten years did he now decide that he needed a little more excitement of the unconventional kind! Moreover, she felt quite calm and quite composed, and in a position to exact her revenge. At that very moment it was as if someone had flipped a switch and the lights came on, bright and powerful, after being dark and dormant for a very long time.
Samantha spent the majority of her day, in amongst stamping peoples library cards, giving expert directions and sourcing pretty much every type of literature known to man, doing a little research of her very own.
When Samantha returned home that evening Richard was already there laying the table. They exchanged pleasantries and brusque kisses on the cheek and then Samantha announced to Richard that she’d decided that she was going to update her image. Richard barely feigned interest and continued watching the news. He only broke the distraction to announce to her that he would be taking a business trip the week after next and would be away for the week up North at a conference. Samantha asked all the right questions and made all the right noises, but she knew deep down that there really wasn’t any conference, up North or otherwise.
Whilst Richard was engrossed with his papers later in the evening Samantha checked the messages on his mobile phone. Lo and behold a catalogue of saucy communications, from the ridiculous to the sublime. Each message ended with ‘Penny’ and two large kisses. The latter of these messages referring to a forthcoming week of passion in Manchester and a curt reference to the absent wife!
Samantha was neither surprised nor shocked as she replaced his phone in his jacket pocket and folded his trousers neatly over the back of the bedroom chair. A small part of her was almost relieved. Perhaps this was just what she’d needed to spur her on.
Over the following week she made more than a few changes to Richard’s plans – which she deemed would more than enhance his romantic little break. ‘She rang the Mal Maison in Manchester, dropping her name as ‘Penny’, and insisted that Mr Tripp have a twin room with duckdown pillows and duvets. – They wouldn’t be getting a whole lot of nookie in twin beds, particularly if Richard couldn’t stop sneezing. Oh and a wonderful display of sunflowers and rapeseed – just for good measure. Richard was as temperamental as hell when his hayfever kicked in, even though he denied he suffered.
Richard had already begun to pack his case, with all his freshly laundered Pink Co shirts and neatly ironed trousers. Now normally Samantha left well alone when Richard packed for his business trips, but then this wasn’t just any old business trip was it. Samantha carefully removed a couple of garments to reveal his spare wash bag with a veritable selection of condoms inside (!?*) and a bottle of strawberry flavoured lube oil apparently ‘with a passionate warmth’. She had a seriously nasty taste in her mouth just thinking about it, until a wonderful thought struck her. She took the bottle of lube and raced into the en suite. She perched on the toilet seat and rifled through the bathroom cabinet. She knew she had a bottle of deep heat oil from when she pulled her shoulder last month. Ah ha – yes there it was nestled at the back. She grabbed it and after displacing a little of the lube gave a hefty squeeze of deep heat into the lube bottle. A thorough shake and it looked absolutely no different …. Though she suspected it might be a little warmer that the ‘passionate warmth’ intended! She returned to the bedroom and replaced the bottle of lube in his toilet bag and placed his neatly folded garments back on the top. Samantha made a mental note to loosen the cap of his aftershave bottle after he’d tossed it on the top on Sunday evening. Just so he could smell extra good.
Samantha spoke to Angela her superior the next day at work and asked for a few days holiday herself. Then she went about planning a little ‘me time’. She booked a salon appointment at Toni & Guy for Friday morning. Ellen, one of the students who regularly visited the library swore by the senior stylist Nathan, so she made sure he was able to accommodate her. On Tuesday lunchtime she went to see her ophthalmic specialist and enquired about laser treatment. She was suitably terrified – but, as her mother had always told her ‘Pride is painful’ so she hastily grabbed a cancellation booking for Monday afternoon for the full works. She’d be spectacle free that very same day. Just to top it off she booked a manicure, pedicure and facial peel at the local beautician’s too. Hell, she would actually feel quite girly at the end of this.
After a hurried breakfast and chaste goodbye Richard left bright and early on Monday morning together with his leather suitcase, – no doubt already oozing Chanel Egoiste pour homme all over his pristine garments. Samantha smiled to herself as she thought how apt her finishing little touches were. He’d barely been gone thirty minutes when she herself left the apartment together with the joint bank account card, the funds recently replenished with Richard’s monthly wage and yearly bonus. There would be just enough for her planned spending spree. She’d decided to go to town prior to her eye appointment to take her mind off things and where better than to Harvey Nic’s with the help of a Personal Shopper of course. Before she left the store, two hours later, she had five beautiful new outfits and the joint account was already £3,000 lighter! Oooops! She’d never so much as bought herself a pair of knickers on the joint account before – still, he owed her.
Much to her relief the opticians work was swift and pain free, she can’t have been there more than forty-five minutes. The Receptionist arranged a taxi to take Samantha home, for which she was very grateful. Though by the time she reached home she already had almost perfect vision in both eyes. It truly was a miracle.
By the end of the week Samantha was more than ready for the return of Richard. She was perfectly presented with her newly styled auburn locks, her wonderful Donna Karan outfit, complete with pencil skirt a full three inches above her knee – which her Personal Shopper, Neela, had insisted looked ‘sensational’ and showed off her ‘perfect pins’. She was manicured, pedicured and made up to within an inch of her life and when she looked in the mirror Samantha was no longer recognisable. Though more than a little nervous she felt amazing.
She was sat sipping at a weak gin and tonic when she heard Richard’s key in the door. He roughly dropped his bag in the hall and wandered into the sitting room. He looked grey, narky and harassed and when she inquired he said that the conference had been tedious and hard work. – She knew that he was actually referring to his week away and it hadn’t been the romantic sojourn he’d planned.
When he finally looked at Samantha she thought he was going to fall over. He steadied himself with the back of the sofa and stood mesmerised as he gave her the full once over. His eyes lit up as he remarked at how ‘breathtaking’ she looked. Samantha smiled; this was the result that she’d wanted. She knew from that moment that she needn’t worry about the passion being restored in her life, nor the frequent text-messages from Madam P. He’d played into her hands, she’d reeked her revenge and she’d most definitely come out on top. Not once did Richard mention the £6,000 deficit from the joint account, nor the catalogue of disasters that had ruined his ‘working week.’ Though she did notice he’d taken to wearing white cotton Y-fronts and taking cold showers. However, his attention span was well and truly restored as far as Samantha was concerned and, funnily enough, he never once referred to her as boring ever again. Richard and Samantha lived happily ever after in a world tarnished neither by guilt nor pleasure but boosted by passion. The Penny well and truly dropped.