Authors: Doris Davidson
Anne wished fervently now that she had never encouraged the friendship. If Debbie hadn’t become a regular visitor to the house, Paul would probably never have fallen in love with her. He had never looked at any of the other girls, as far as she was aware. He was normally shy and rather unsure of himself in strange feminine company.
Debbie was a lovely girl, much shorter than Paul’s five feet ten, and so willowy slim that Anne had felt lumpy and gauche beside her. Her silky black tresses, long and swinging round her face, were in direct contrast to Paul’s fair curls, and Anne had been conscious of her own mousey hair, lank and neglected. She must have been blind not to notice the tell-tale signs of Paul’s attraction to the girl.
Debbie had made herself at home straight away, hadn’t been in the least shy when she sat down to that first meal with them. ‘It’s great to have something decent to eat,’ she had laughed. ‘Kate, my father’s wife, can’t even boil an egg properly.’
In the comfortable fullness following the good square meal, they had leaned back in their chairs for a few moments, and then Debbie had jumped to her feet. ‘I’ll help with the washing-up, Mrs MacIntosh.’
‘No, no. I’m accustomed to doing it myself, and please call me Anne,’ she had insisted.
But the girl had been determined, and unusually for him, Paul had helped, too, laying past each dish as Debbie handed it to him. They relaxed in the sitting room afterwards, and the other two had laughed together about some of the actions of their colleagues, giggling over little in-jokes, until Anne felt completely excluded and leaned across to pat Paul’s hand. ‘What about pouring us a drink, dear?’
‘Oh, sorry!’ He had leapt to his feet at once. ‘Sherry for you as usual, but what do you drink, Debbie?’ ‘Sherry’ll be fine, Paul.’
The remainder of that first evening had passed in companionable near-arguments on a variety of topics until Debbie got up to leave. ‘Look at the time. Dad’ll be creating.’
‘Why don’t you run Debbie home?’ Anne had suggested, and that’s when it must have started. ‘Feel free to come round at any time,’ she had foolishly added, while Paul held Debbie’s coat up for her.
‘Thanks, Anne; I’ll keep you at your word.’
And she had. At least once a week she had come to tea and Paul had driven her home each time. He had even stopped phoning to warn her, as it became a recognised thing for the girl to be there every Thursday evening.
It had gone on like that for over three months, until the Thursday that Paul came home alone. ‘Where’s Debbie?’ she had asked.
‘She sent her apologies, but said she couldn’t manage tonight.’ Paul did look rather disappointed, but Anne thought that it was because she’d had everything prepared for supper, and he was upset for her.
The following week, he had rung her in the forenoon to let her know that they would be dining alone that night again, and she felt a stab of disappointment herself.
‘What’s Debbie up to that’s she’s stopped coming?’ she teased when he came home.
Paul had shrugged his shoulders, so she never mentioned it again, and life went on as it had done before they’d ever had their weekly visitor.
Some eight weeks later, she went into the kitchen one morning with the post to find him staring white-faced at the local newspaper. ‘What’s wrong, Paul?’ she asked, anxiously.
Silently, he handed her the page. There, smiling in a frothy white creation, was Debbie, under the headline ‘Beautiful secretary weds American banker from Carson City Nevada, USA. After honeymooning in the Bahamas, the couple intend to make their home in Carson City.’
‘Well,’ she exclaimed indignantly, ‘and she never said anything about him. Did you know, Paul? Did she tell you?’
When he didn’t answer, she looked searchingly at him, and realised with a sinking heart what she should have tumbled to months earlier. ‘You’re in love with her!’ It was a bald statement of fact, not a question, not an accusation.
He had risen blindly from the table, and she heard the front door close quietly as he went out. She had been left alone to wonder. Why had Debbie done such an underhand thing? Why had she allowed Paul to fall in love with her? She must have known - a woman always knows when a man feels that way about her, an inner sense, the magazines called it, woman’s intuition. But what about the other woman in the man’s life? She didn’t always recognise the signs.
Anne’s attention returned at last to the long-neglected kettle, which had been switched on to make coffee. The pseudo-pine Formica worktop was awash with water now, and she hastily flicked the switch up with her thumb. She would have to buy an automatic one if she was going to be as absentminded as this. As she wearily mopped up the puddle, all she could think of was poor Paul. It was hardly his fault that he had succumbed to Debbie’s charms; she was such a lovely girl.
Pouring the water on to the granules in her mug, she suddenly thought of something else. Perhaps she was judging Debbie too harshly. Perhaps the girl hadn’t wanted to take Paul away from her. Perhaps she had never realised that he loved her. Or … had she known and not wanted Paul to commit himself? She’d been committed already, of course, to her Carson City banker.
Anne laid down the mug without being conscious of drinking the contents. She wouldn’t have stopped Paul from falling in love with Debbie, if she’d known about it. His happiness had always come first with her before anything else. She carried out her usual tasks in the house automatically all day, not having to worry about them. She had never been fanatical about cleaning and Paul always said he liked coming home to a homely house, not a showpiece.
What would happen when he came home tonight, though? What would he say? More important, what would she say? She would have to wait and take the lead from him - that would be best.
Paul was very late. Anne had switched off the oven hours before and had been agonising over whether he would come home at all, when he walked in, tired and haggard.
‘Before you say anything, I don’t want anything to eat. I’ve been walking around since I came out of the office, and I had a sandwich at a snack bar.’ He went off without further explanation, leaving Anne to clear the table and set it for breakfast before she followed him upstairs.
Paul never referred to Debbie again, or to his love for her, and life carried on in a state of limbo until, after nearly a month of emotional strain, Anne plucked up courage to broach the subject. ‘Has anyone been taken on to replace Debbie?’ She watched for his reaction.
His flat voice was the only sign that the name disturbed him. ‘They found a young girl through an employment agency. She’s very popular with all the bachelors, and leads a full social life, I believe.’
Was this his way of telling her that he wouldn’t get involved again, Anne wondered? She felt relieved, yet upset in a way because it proved that he still hadn’t recovered.
Their relationship slowly reverted to almost pre-Debbie; almost, but not quite. In fact, Anne felt the need of something new to occupy her mind. She took to studying the Situations Vacant columns and came across one which read: ‘Are you bored being merely a housewife? Would you like to earn money while you occupy your spare time? Ladies required for Market Research work.’
She dialled the telephone number that followed, and her application was successful. She enjoyed her afternoons interviewing women passers-by, but always made sure that she was home in time to prepare a proper meal for Paul.
‘I should have done something like this before,’ she told him one evening. ‘I feel more human, not like a cabbage any longer. It’s refreshing, meeting other people again.’
Paul’s smile was a little strained. ‘I’m glad you’re not stagnating anymore. You won’t feel so lonely when I leave.’
Anne’s face blanched. ‘When you leave,’ she repeated in bewilderment. ‘What do you mean, leave?’
‘I put in for a transfer to Edinburgh. I felt I must get away, have a change, but I’ll be home every weekend.’
Her drowning senses clutched at a straw. At least he wasn’t leaving for good. She took a deep breath to steady her voice. ‘When do you have to go?’
‘I start a week today, so I’ll be leaving on Sunday.’
Only a few more days left! Oh, Paul, she cried silently, why did you spring this on me when I thought I was coping again? But she was determined not to make a scene. ‘I’ll get everything ready for you to pack,’ she said brightly. ‘Thank goodness I put your grey suit in to be cleaned on Saturday. I’ve to collect it on Thursday.’
‘It wouldn’t have mattered. You fuss too much.’
By the time Sunday morning came round, and with it Paul’s departure, Anne had made herself believe that it was probably a good thing, after all. He would meet different people and, hopefully, would forget Debbie. If this transfer achieved nothing else, that would be a move in the right direction. She hadn’t been sorrowing for herself, only for Paul. He had always come first and foremost for her. If he could regain his peace of mind, he’d come to realise that he shouldn’t be working so far away from home, and everything would be back to normal.
He phoned on Monday night to let her know how his first day had gone. ‘It’s all a bit strange, but I expected that, to begin with. There’s one thing you won’t have to worry about, anyway. The digs the firm arranged for me are clean and really comfortable. Plus, Mrs Martin seems determined to fatten me up a bit. Well, I’ll see you Friday night, so keep your pecker up, tweetie-pie.’
Anne was overcome by happy tears when he rang off. It sounded as though he were coming back to normal again, getting over Debbie. ‘Keep your pecker up, tweetie-pie.’ That had always been his tagline when he rang to say he’d been kept late at the office, or couldn’t get home on time for some reason or other.
Paul had looked after her and comforted her ever since that dreadful day just over two years ago, when her whole world had crashed around her. She had thought she would never get over her husband’s death in that horrible, senseless crash. To think that an uncaring, drunken apology for a man could have … Ah, it was still too painful to think about, but now that she had picked up the threads of life again, she would be able to cope without him; even make new friends again.
They had both survived his first unhappy love affair, but there would be other girls for her nineteen-year-old son.
***
Word count: 2119
Sent to
Woman’s Realm
21.1.86 - rejected 2.3.86
Sent to
My Weekly
4.4.86 - rejected 3.5.86
Sent to
Annabel
9.6.86 - rejected 25.7.86
Sent to
People’s Friend
9.10.86 - rejected 29.11.86
Four rejections? Always hopeful, I did not bin this story, but never had the nerve to send it out again. Probably just as well.
‘But Grandad, I’m tired. Why can’t we sleep in a bedroom?’
‘I told you, Sean, Grandad hasn’t paid for a bedroom, just two seats.’ Arthur Rowse sighed and wished that British Rail employees wouldn’t leave the sleeping compartments with their doors sitting open - the boy would never have known about them if he hadn’t seen them for himself. ‘We’ll easily manage to sleep in here. It’ll be great fun, won’t it - not sleeping in a bed?’
He slung his duffel bag up on to the luggage rack and sat down, his heart sinking at the sight of the little boy’s disappointed face. Stretching out a gnarled, weather-beaten hand, he patted the fair, curly head. ‘It’ll be easy. Put your feet up and lie down with your head on Grandad’s knees and you’ll be asleep in no time.’ He hoped fervently that no other travellers would want to come in.
‘When I waken up, will we be in Scotland?’
‘Like enough, Sean.’
‘Will I see the mountains, Grandad?’
‘Once we’re in Scotland, you’ll see them, I promise.’
It was 11.15 p.m., and their train was still standing in King’s Cross station. They had left Yarmouth at 3 o’clock that afternoon, so it was little wonder that the boy was tired. Plus, he’d been up at six to wave goodbye to his father and mother, on their way to Aberdeen where his father had taken a job as an engineer with an oil company. As most of their belongings had gone on ahead of them, it was just the odds and sods which had been loaded into the boot and back seats of their Capri.
The two adults and baby Susan had taken up all the space in the front of the car, so Arthur had volunteered to take Sean by train, trying to postpone the evil hour of parting. It was going to be a long, lonely journey back to Yarmouth by himself.
The six-year-old settled himself down and was very quiet, and Arthur wasn’t surprised to see that he had fallen asleep already, his long, surprisingly dark eyelashes resting on his flushed cheeks.
With a shudder, the train drew slowly out of the station, and Arthur shifted his hip slightly to take his pipe out of his pocket. Puffing contentedly, he wondered how Nell and he would fill their lives now that the young folk had left. His wife was probably lying awake right now, going over their John’s life from the time he’d made his first squawking appearance.
Nell was going to miss John and Marge, his wife, but it was he, Arthur admitted to himself, who was going to miss young Sean most. He’d been the boy’s slave since the day the small dimpled hand had first clutched his finger and taken over his heart. How proudly he had taken out the pram to show off his grandson to his fisherman friends, and when at last the boy was old enough to walk with him, it had always been the harbour they had headed for.
Since Sean had started school, of course, they’d only been able to go out together on Saturdays and Sundays, except during the holidays, when they had set off early every day, rain or shine. ‘Was that the boat you used to go on, Grandad?’ Sean would ask a dozen times. ‘When I grow up I’m going to be a trawlerman just like you and go out to sea in my boat.’
Arthur had been pleased about that. It had gone some way to make up for the disappointment he’d felt when John had refused to follow in his father’s footsteps. Sean loved to hear stories of his grandfather’s experiences in the Royal Navy during the war, and, especially just lately, of the time he’d been in Aberdeen. Arthur remembered that time, taken off a minesweeper and spending four weeks in Foresterhill Hospital after having his appendix removed. He hadn’t really seen much of the place, but had told the boy that it was a beautiful city, clean but cold.