ON CHRISTMAS HILL
‘A Seasonal Affair’
Chapter 1 Catherine
It was a filthy day, and everything was going wrong. I was trying not to think about treacherous Oliver and our last-ever date. I was fighting off my latest bout of bronchitis. Wet, dirty snow lay in treacherous clumps along the footpaths, and I just knew we were going to be understaffed again. Sure enough, when I arrived at the post office, where I had been temporary manager for two weeks, the only people to greet me were Doreen (on sweets and cards), Brian (post-office-counter official), and Lindsey (still not quite sure of her position or otherwise). I nodded to them and fished in my pocket for the shop keys.
Brian dropped the cigarette which was clamped between his lips, ground the butt out on the pavement, and gave me a sickly smile, brown teeth and all. “Morning, Catherine. Another cold ‘un. Looks like we’re going to be short-staffed again. Sal just rang me to say she’s still feeling like death warmed up, and Will always takes the full quota of sick days off, so it’s just down to us four.”
I managed a brief reply and even briefer smile as I wrestled with the ridiculously huge bunch of keys whilst juggling handbag, laptop, and coffee cup in my gloved but still-cold hands. As I stepped inside, the icy stale air hit me, and my heart sank even farther towards my boots. Not again! That bloody boiler! For some reason the automatic clock kept sticking, and for the third day in succession the heating had failed to come on. “Give it the usual, Brian,” I managed to say between clenched teeth before walking towards the dreary little pit which was supposed to be my office. Brian’s ‘usual’ was a tweak here and there and then a sharp blow to the clock. It generally worked.
“And when you’ve done that, can you please call the engineer again? I know he said he’s booked up all week, but he may have had a cancellation,” I called out. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why I had accepted this job—even as a temporary post. I was used to working in a full-sized city post office, not some small village shop, even if the surrounding environs were picture postcard. Tiny, thatched, and tile-hung dwellings set in cottage gardens were gorgeous during spring and summer. In early December, bare trees and piles of filthy slush did nothing for me. What had I been thinking?
Doreen followed me to the back of the shop and, looking like an over-dressed polar bear, hovered in the doorway of the office. “Hello, Doreen. Sorry to be tetchy, but I’m not feeling too great myself. Did you want something?”
“That’s okay. Is it all right if we keep our coats on until it warms up? Only Lindsey and me think we’re coming down with the flu, too.”
“Of course.” Flu? What else was going to happen to ‘make my day’? “It shouldn’t take long once Brian gives the heating system some coaxing. Put the kettle on, and make some coffee too…that’ll help keep you going.”
“Are you still going to sort out that pile of rubbish you found the other day?”
Doreen was referring to a collection of mouldy old stuff I had uncovered in the shed. Earlier in the week I had decided to have a clean-up, despite the lingering snowy conditions, and after pulling out empty cardboard boxes, tins, unravelled balls of string, and defunct post-office weighing scales, I also discovered an unopened letter. Goodness knows how long it had lain unattended and forgotten, tucked away in a box behind all the other junk. Apparently, according to Brian, the fount of all knowledge, the previous postmistress hadn’t been known for her tidiness, and she had been there for forty years!
“I am. I’ll go through it after lunch. The parcel scales, although no longer working, are pretty ancient, and if I can polish them up, they’ll make an eye-catching display in the window.”
***
We had the usual morning rush of shoppers buying their Christmas cards and wrapping paper. Even with online shopping, I was pleased to see we had taken in a hefty pile of parcels, which were waiting to be shipped around the world. Everyone, including me, managed a lunch break of some sort, and because more snow was forecast, most people were leaving the village to go home. I gazed out at the frigid scene outside and shivered. Despite Brian getting the heating going, the shop was still registering on the cold-cabinet side. I checked my watch and saw there was barely an hour before closing. Without a moment’s hesitation I decided to send the staff home. There was hardly anyone left on the streets, and I was tired of listening to Doreen’s sniffing, Lindsey’s coughing, and Brian leaving the back door open while he nipped out for a ‘quick ciggie’. They had done their best, and quite frankly, I fancied an hour on my own. I was perfectly capable of closing early and doing some sorting out in the back office. The little pile of curious junk I had discovered beckoned me, and for some reason, I wanted to go through it undisturbed. I was going to treat it as a cathartic exercise, imagining I was ridding myself of Oliver all over again. It was something I should have done long before, and the thought of him made me feel cheap and dirty, somehow.
“Good idea. We can catch the early bus and be home before it’s completely dark,” said Doreen, and Lindsey nodded in agreement. I was slightly startled by how quickly they donned their hats and coats and were out the door before I had taken another breath. Ah! I had forgotten—it must have been bingo night! I visualised the coming scene: they would rustle up a quick meal for their husbands, and then they would be off out, snow or no snow.
I laughed to myself as I shut the door on the three of them, locked it, and withdrew to my inner sanctuary. A cup of tea, two Hobnobs, a spot of paperwork and sorting out, and I supposed I would then do likewise, although without the bingo, which I’ve always loathed. I pride myself as being above that sort of thing. I glanced at my watch again and remembered I didn’t even have to hurry home to pick up Charlotte, my five-year-old daughter. She was staying the night with her ‘bestest friend’ and had been talking about it for days. The thought of Charlotte filled me with warmth. I love her dearly and can’t imagine a life without my little girl.
Picking through the salvaged stuff a second time, I realised most was beyond redemption; water and mould had ruined the paper things. However, there were a few items worth saving, and I put them to one side. I found a couple more stamped letters which had gone astray. Goodness knew how long they had been tucked away. They could be posted the next day. I wondered if any of the recipients still lived at the addresses on the envelopes and shrugged my shoulders. It wasn’t my business; I was just doing what I was paid to do. I decided to put new stamps on the letters and send them, late or not.
I worked steadily until I came to the last item, which appeared to be a letter. The envelope was falling apart, and there was no longer any glue on the flap. The address was just about readable. Inside, I discovered there were one or two sheets of crinkly paper. I looked at the name and address and saw it was meant to go to a woman: a Miss E Seymour at Apple Tree Cottage, Privett Lane, Foxfield, Hampshire.
I wondered how many Foxfields and Privett Lanes there were in Hampshire. Nowadays, of course, we use postcodes, which were introduced between 1959 and 1974. So this letter had probably lain hidden since either before then or during that period. I knew I could easily look up Foxfield on the internet, so I fired up my laptop and did a spot of searching. In less than a minute, I had the information at my fingertips, and I added the postcode.
Because the envelope was so old and decrepit, I knew it wouldn’t last survive the rough and tumble of the posting process, so I inserted the whole thing into a new one. Indeed, as I laid it down, the paper disintegrated, and I was left holding the letter. Maybe it was worthless and too much bother to send, anyway? But I was curious…I was alone and no one would have known. I read what was written there.
My hands were shaking with anticipation as I unfolded the sheets and read.
My Dearest Estelle,
I hope I find you well. After the last enjoyable evening we spent together, I shall not go out tonight, but sit here at home and write to you. I hope you do not think I am being too forward by expressing my thoughts and how I feel about you. I have come to realise that you, Estelle, are my one and only adorable and treasured girl.
My love! After last night—that oh, so special night—I have asked myself every moment of today if such happiness is not a dream. It seems like one, but that which I feel for you is not of earth and yet of heaven. I doubt you realise the depth of my feelings for you. I tried to be calm last night, in case I had to prepare myself for despair. In case you did not feel the same. I wanted so much to throw myself at your feet, my sweet and beautiful Estelle. Did you know that Estelle means star? Estelle, star of my heart and the core of my life. And if my life is not one which I can share with you, then the limit of my devotion can only be the sacrifice of my life. For surely, I would not wish to live without you by my side.
You see, my sweet, my whole soul is yours, and if by chance—and I tremble at the thought—you love me, you know what must be my joy. My darling, my Estelle, I know no other word for this joy than love.
Please say you will be mine! Soon, in a few months, when I’ve completed the latest overseas tour on my new ship, and then, my angel, you will sleep in my arms. I will hold you in my arms, you will awaken in my arms, and you will live there. We shall be as one. Our thoughts, moments, looks, will only be for each other.
Although we live barely twenty miles apart, I feel as if I am far from you, but I can dream of you and pray that soon you will be at my side. I adore you.
Say yes, my angel. Say yes! Meet me once again at our favourite place on Saturday next, and I’ll know you love me and that last night wasn’t a mistake. If—and I shudder at the thought—you do not feel the same as I and you do not come, then I know I am lost forever.
Adieu, my love, but I hope it is not goodbye,
Sam
I felt all wobbly inside as I put the love letter down, for a love letter it most definitely was. I imagined this man, Sam, and his beloved Estelle. How he must have loved her, judging by the very outpouring of his heart, and Estelle…but what happened? I was aware my own heart was beginning to thud in my chest as I realised what it meant. If she never received this letter, then what became of them? Did they ever meet again? Did they get a second chance? Although there was no date, I could tell from the old-fashioned tone of the writing and the price of the stamp that it was written many years ago.
I felt my own misery welling up. The misery I had been putting aside for the last few weeks. I thought back to my final meeting with Oliver and the awful words we threw at each other. I had felt so wretched since then, and I couldn’t help thinking about the terrible mistakes I made every day. But was I hurting because of my lost self-pride or because I loved him? He used me. I knew that. If only I had ignored his advances in the first place.
I picked up the letter and read it through once more before replacing it back in the ruined envelope. Sam deserved better. I couldn’t trust it to the post; I would deliver it myself.
Chapter 2 Catherine
According to the records, amazingly, a Miss E Seymour still lived at the same address as the one on the old envelope. I wondered if it was my Miss Seymour. It had to be, but why had she never married? It took me about twenty-five minutes to reach the village of Foxfield, and I found the cottage easily, thanks to my satnav. Hurrah for technology, I thought. Without one, no doubt I would have spent ages peering at the names of houses in the dark. It was almost too easy.
I hadn’t telephoned ahead to warn the lady about my visit. I was intrigued to see her face to face. I wanted to see the woman who inspired such a beautiful outpouring of love. I imagined a modern-day Helen of Troy.
I parked in front of Apple Tree Cottage. However, judging from the silhouette against the night sky, it was more than a cottage. It was a substantial dwelling, and the area was definitely very upmarket. Perhaps the property had been in the family for some years. I locked the car then walked up the garden path to the front door. I noticed someone had ventured out that day and made a path through the snow. Judging by the lights shining behind the drawn curtains, someone was at home. For some reason, I felt nervous. Was it because I felt responsible in some odd way? Because the system had let her down and she never met Sam again?
I rang the doorbell and waited.
Chapter 3 Catherine
“Yes, that’s Sam. He looks so distinguished in his naval officer’s uniform, don’t you think?”
I smiled and nodded. He did look fine.
I was sitting in Estelle’s gorgeous living room. It was warm and snug with a roaring log fire blazing away, and she had given me a small photograph album to look through. After her initial surprise when I gave her the envelope, she immediately invited me in for a cup of tea. Two cups and a piece of the most delicious chocolate cake I’ve ever eaten later, we were getting on as if we were long-lost sisters. She was open and friendly and told me something about her life.
It was like something from an old melodrama, and I felt sad as she explained. She and Sam never did meet again, and Estelle married someone else. Despite the marriage lasting nearly forty years, she confessed it was never a joyful one, and she was happier being a widow.
“My husband was a cold fish and a bully. He didn’t like entertaining or travelling and was never happier than when he was at home, with me running around after him. If it hadn’t been for my children, Jack and Naomi, I’d have been dreadfully unhappy. Unfortunately, it took me a long time to conceive, and I’d almost given up hope. Then out of the blue I found I was expecting. Jack was my first child, and Naomi came along a couple of years later. That’s Jack and Naomi in the picture over there on the sideboard,” she said, indicating with her head.
I looked towards the heavy dark piece of furniture and saw a framed photograph of a smiling, dark-haired man of about my age or slightly older, with his arm casually draped around a younger version of Estelle. Even from where I was sitting, I could see a strong likeness between mother and children, and I said as much.
“Yes, they take after me more than their father. Naomi is married and has two children of her own, but unfortunately, Jack’s never found the right girl. I still live in hope, though.”
I swear she was looking at me and sizing up the possibility, and I hastened to change her attention back to her children. “They look very nice, and I can definitely see the family resemblance,” I said in a bit of a rush. “But did you revert to your maiden name when your husband died? When I looked it up, that’s how your house has been registered. The occupier is down as a Miss E. Seymour,” I said, looking away from the photograph, and in an instant I saw a pained look cross her face.
“No dear. That was my sister, Ellen. She never married and lived here all her life with our parents before they passed away. I left home when I married Ken. Unfortunately, I lost Ellen earlier this year, and she left the house to me. I moved back because I preferred it here…it was our family home, after all. Apart from when my children were with me, I never liked living in that other house with Ken. Selling it was an easy thing to do.”
Ah! Mystery solved and I gave her my condolences.
Despite having made an unsatisfactory choice of husband, Estelle seemed to be an amazing woman. She told me she was in her sixties, but because of her energy and vivacity, looked and acted younger. Estelle was tall and slim and moved with a grace I envied. She wore her reddish-brown hair in a smooth bob and just off the shoulder. It was obvious she took care of it because it was well cut and expertly highlighted. Her eyes were large and well spaced, an unusual shade of hazel and fringed with sooty lashes. She was constantly smiling, and bar a few laughter lines, her face was relatively wrinkle-free. She was very pretty, and when she laughed, I instantly recognised how beautiful she must have been when she and Sam were dating. Apart from that, she came across as kind and caring, and I wondered what type of man she had married, one who had been cold and selfish. Thinking back to my own recent altercation with Oliver, it appeared we were both victims of thoughtless men.
We chatted some more, and then when Estelle eventually opened the letter I had taken for her, she took herself off to another room to read it. I was intrigued. I wondered how she would react once she read Sam’s outpourings of love and devotion. Would she feel anything or was it all wistful thinking on Sam’s part? Alone, I remained seated and drank my tea, staring into the hot fire beside me, and brooded over my own affair with Oliver. I knew it was finished and washed away down the pan. The thought still made me feel sick inside…but hadn’t it been inevitable? He had never truly been mine. Some other woman held a far greater claim to him. Oh yes, he always said he would leave her and join me, but had I really believed him? If I were honest with myself, then I would have said a definite no. Oliver liked an easy life and believed his own propaganda.
After a few minutes, Estelle returned to the room, and I noticed how bright her eyes were. We looked at each other, and she gave me a watery smile. I had already confessed to having read her letter before putting it in the new envelope, and I think she felt comfortable with me knowing its contents.
Estelle sat down in the chair opposite me and took a moment or two before speaking.
“I always wondered, you know. We seemed so right for each other. I thought he went off on his ship and forgot about me,” she said in a quivery voice before looking up. Her eyes were full of unshed tears, and my heart went out to her. “If only…if only we’d met again. Life could have been so very different. I wonder where he is now and what he’s doing. Did Sam ever marry?”
It was then I remembered my laptop in the car. It would be so easy to look him up and find his address and possibly a telephone number. I may have been unlucky in love myself, but I could do my utmost to see if I could at least put them in touch with each other again.
***
Like before, I couldn’t get over how simple it was to trace someone. When I pulled Sam’s name from the register, Estelle went so quiet I wondered if I was doing the right thing.
“What if he doesn’t remember me?” she asked, fidgeting with a long strand of pearls around her neck. “It was so long ago. He was a sailor, after all, and we all know the old saying about a girl in every port.”
“Estelle! You don’t really mean that. Besides, how could anyone have written a letter like that and not remember? You were the love of his life. It shows in his words.” I didn’t know why, but I just knew he and Estelle had been meant for each other. Something dreadful might have happened, although I was positive they both needed to find out exactly why they had never met up again. “If it were me, I’d do anything to find out how he is and what happened.”
She only took a little gentle persuading, and within minutes Estelle was dialling what we hoped was Sam’s number. I couldn’t help overhearing what Estelle said, and I was filled with a warm feeling knowing that, for once, I had got something right.
Estelle put down the receiver and turned to me with a huge tremulous smile. “Oh Lord! We’re meeting for tea tomorrow at the Old Swan Hotel in town! I can’t quite believe it.” She put one shaking hand against her chest as she groped behind her for a chair, with the other. “He seemed really pleased to hear from me. He’s a widower and retired from the navy years ago.”
“That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”
“And I’m so grateful you took the trouble to find me and bring the letter. Now we have a chance to meet up and cover old ground. Goodness, I’ve come over all dithery.”
“And all because of a letter. Are you all right? Can I get you a glass of water or something?”
She waved me away. “No, I’m fine thank you. Just excited over the prospect of seeing Sam after all this time. Sam said that just before he went off on his new posting, he gave his letter to the postmistress to stamp and send. He knew her, of course, as they were at school together. She must have misplaced it somewhere in the post office.”
“Well, it’s something you can talk about when you meet up. Speaking of which, I really must be going.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink? What about a celebratory glass of sherry or wine?” Estelle asked with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Go on, a small one won’t hurt, and it’s coming up for Christmas.”
As she spoke, her doorbell rang. “Excuse me. I wonder who that can be.”
I knew I should have been going home and getting something to eat. I stood up, ready to say goodbye. Estelle’s visitor gave me an excuse to leave. I had done my good deed of the day, and no doubt she really wanted to be on her own. I heard a delighted girly squeal come from the hallway, and intrigued, I waited to see who her unexpected visitor was. I didn’t have long to wait; within a minute, Estelle was back, looking flushed with pleasure and ushering in a tall dark-haired man. As he turned to look at me, I recognised him from the photograph in the room. It was her son, Jack.
“Jack, I’d like you to meet Catherine—” Estelle stopped and looked flustered. She gave a laugh. “This is crazy. We’ve been chatting for over an hour, but I don’t know your full name!”
It was my turn to feel embarrassed as Jack frowned and gave his mother a puzzled look. I felt myself going red and mumbled, “Sorry, you’re right,” before thrusting out my hand. “We got so involved talking. It’s Catherine Merryweather.” I felt a firm handshake. Up close, I saw Jack’s eyes were a deeper blue than his mother’s, framed with the same dark lashes.
He smiled as he scanned me from head to toe. “I’m pleased to meet you, Catherine Merryweather.”
Obviously delighted to have her son call on her, Estelle insisted I had that glass of wine while she regaled Jack with her story.
“Don’t you think it’s amazing, Jack, darling? After all these years?”
Looking amused, Jack took a sip from his glass and nodded. “I do. Am I allowed to see the letter?”
Estelle hesitated, and I guessed what she was thinking. Sam may have been a boyfriend once upon a time and they didn’t marry. But he wasn’t Sam’s father. The letter was pretty explicit. Sam and Estelle had obviously made love on their last night together. Having met Estelle and seen what an honest and lovely lady she was, I assumed she felt the same way about her lover, Sam. I was sure she wasn’t about to let Jack know the truth. After what she had told me about his father, she had obviously married him on the rebound. It was a secret which could have ruined Estelle’s children’s memories of their late father.
“No, dear. Maybe some other time. The contents are of no interest to you.” She flashed me a look, and I knew she hoped I would help her out.
“I found the letter yesterday, and on a whim, I sought to trace the addressee. Pure chance that your mother was living back here.”
“Indeed.” I got the impression Jack didn’t believe me, and feeling awkward, I again made up my mind to leave as soon as possible. I guessed he thought I was after some sort of reward or payment for my trouble. Well, excuse me. Arrogant man!
As Estelle saw me out, she insisted I give her my telephone number and address. “I’d like to let you know how we get on with our meeting. I feel you have a right to know,” she said in a hushed voice as she scribbled down my details on a pad lying on the hallway table.
Shrugging on my coat, I smiled and whispered in her ear. “I’d like that. You can ring me any time. I hope he’s as good-looking as he was forty years ago.”
Estelle laughed and winked. “I just know he is. I’ll ring as soon as I’m home tomorrow.”
Chapter 4 Catherine
After I got home, I was overcome by a feeling of great lethargy and depression. I told myself it had nothing to do with Oliver and our final parting, and to some extent that was true. Not feeling hungry, I decided not to bother making any dinner and instead poured myself a large gin and tonic and took it through into the living room. I kicked my shoes off, tucked my feet up on the settee, and took a large swig. My eyes fell on a photograph next to the television, and I stared at the faces behind the glass. How things might have been different if they had stood by me six years ago.
I felt a pricking of tears behind my eyes. Christmas was just around the corner, and I had nowhere near enough money saved up to give my daughter the Christmas I longed to give her. As a single parent, I survived on one salary, and after the rent and every other essential bill, there just wasn’t any money left for luxuries. It was often hard making ends meet; call me stubborn, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Charlotte and I were fine on our own. I never asked for any financial help from her father or social services. I suppose it was pride which made me shun seeking help, but when Charlotte’s father disappeared before she was born, I never bothered trying to find him. Keith had been a complete cockroach. I met him during my second year at university and from our first date, I knew my studies were doomed. Keith was the singer in a rock ‘n’ roll band, tall, slim-hipped with sexy come-to-bed eyes. I had gone to one of the group’s gigs with a few university friends, and we grabbed our positions at the front of the dance floor in the hall where they were performing. Gyrating in time to the loud music, it wasn’t long before I felt Keith’s eyes upon me, and when the set was over he was standing at my side.
I remembered the rolled-up reefer between his fingers, the floppy fringe in his eyes, and shoulder-length hair swinging across his face as he leant forward and whispered in my ear. All my friends stood back open-mouthed when we left the hall together. Keith’s arm was slung casually across my shoulders, our hips just touching as he led me over to his car, and we roared off into the night. I was a lost creature from that moment on.
I was young, impressionable, a fool, and a virgin. Within months I was one more statistic. I was a pregnant teenaged student, with shattered hopes and dreams for a promising career and future. Once Charlotte was born, I kept my mind focused on raising my baby daughter. I had little time for romance and, in fact, pushed any thoughts of boyfriends away. I had been hurt, and I didn’t want another Keith.
It wasn’t until much later that I met Oliver. So much for not being a fool again. Charlotte was four and a half years old, and I was working in a city sub-post office at that time, filling in for the manager who was off sick. Our rates of pay had just been cut, in keeping with the recession, and spirits throughout the group weren’t running very high. Oliver was part of higher management, and as we minions had just heard about large bonuses, his office inspection visit wasn’t welcome at the time. We all thought it a bit much with the them-and-us scenario.
Oliver, however, had other things on his mind. He was a slick operator, and I was stupid. Under the premise of discussing the future of the office, he took me to lunch in a charming little bistro, and within minutes, I was under his spell. He was blond, broad-shouldered, confident, and oozed charm. Too much so. The day was grey and drizzly; I was fed up with living on a diet of wet, sodden days. As Oliver entertained me with colourful stories of his travels abroad and amusing anecdotes, I listened, entranced. I spent all my spare time amusing my little daughter—not that I regretted having her for one minute—but I couldn’t remember the last time we had spent a day full of sun and joy and I hadn’t been worried about the cost of things.
As I hung on every one of his words, I wondered whether he was married. He was certainly older than I and came over as far more experienced and self-assured. As I felt a prickle of discomfort, I decided to ask him outright. I knew all about being dumped and living a life of misery, and I had no wish to become involved with a married man. Call me old-fashioned, but I had my principles and having an affair with someone married was something I would never have considered.
He smiled, sighed, and pulled an apologetic face. “Separated. We still see each other and get along much better now on our own. I have two sons you see—Ben and Toby—who are eight and nine. They’re fine with their mother, and I wouldn’t do anything to upset their happiness. We used to argue all the time, Beth and I, and being apart we now all get on. Beth is happy with our arrangement…I pay all the bills, see the boys regularly, and life is much more civilised somehow.”
He seemed honest and straightforward. There were many thousands of families living like this the length and breadth of Britain. After our lunch, he leaned forward and with a gentle smile asked if I would like to have dinner with him one evening. “I can’t remember when I last enjoyed a woman’s company as much as I have today,” he said. “Do say yes. I promise there’s nothing more to it than having an enjoyable meal with convivial company. Just see it as a meal between two new friends.”
Like I said before, I was a fool. Perhaps I should have asked myself what it was he and his wife argued about all the time. Acting completely out of character, I agreed. A good neighbour, Delia Simpson, lived a few doors away from us, and I trusted her to babysit for Charlotte from time to time; she was always willing to help out and look after my little girl.
Oliver and I began dating on and off from then on, but it was quite some time before we finally became lovers. There were plenty of reasons: I didn’t feel ready or the venue was never right, and if he visited my flat, I dreaded the idea of Charlotte waking and walking in on us. I had plenty of hang-ups and was still wary of men after Keith’s treatment. The weeks turned into months, and I was given a manager’s post. I knew Oliver had played a major part in getting me the promotion. However, I didn’t care. My salary jumped by another £4000, and I made plans so that Charlotte would benefit. I still couldn’t afford a mortgage, but I lived in hope of marrying and hopefully improving our lot. Two salaries would have made everything so much better.
After some time, I became edgy; I wondered where our affair was going. I was still under thirty, but time was passing by. I longed for more stability in our lives, and it wasn’t happening. I began to feel uneasy. I cared for Oliver, and when he said he loved me, I believed him. Only, so far, he hadn’t done anything more about it. I wanted a full-time man, and above all, I wanted a daddy for Charlotte.
Oliver lived just under an hour away, and although I never visited his place, I made a point of saying I couldn’t see the logic of maintaining two households. We were dining in yet another plush and exclusive restaurant at the time. Oliver loved expensive restaurants, and he said it was a special treat for me, but I really would have preferred being at home together, eating a wholesome casserole, Charlotte tucked up in bed, and my electric blanket already switched on and waiting for Oliver and me. I craved nothing more than a simple home environment where Charlotte and I were loved and safe with the man in my life by my side.
“Oliver, I suppose I’m talking about some sort of commitment. We’ve been seeing each other for some months now. Charlotte gets on well with you, and we—well I was wondering…” I floundered as he paused over his steak and laid down his knife and fork. “You and Beth are separated, you say, although—”
“It’s complicated, I’m afraid. Toby is just about to start prep school, and I don’t want to upset anything. If I introduce him to another woman now, I don’t know how he’ll cope with a new school and everything. Can you try and understand, darling?”
Another woman? Surely, I was more than that?
“Yes, I do. But Oliver, you don’t live with them. You told me so.”
He swallowed a mouthful of Chianti, and I swear he flushed. I stared. “Oliver?”
“As I said, it’s a bit more complicated and difficult than that...”
I felt my anger rising. I had been badly treated before, and I wasn’t going to let myself be pushed around again. “How complicated? Either you want us to be together, or you don’t. Oliver, please understand what I’m saying.”
He cleared his throat and wouldn’t look me in the eye. “You see…I was going to tell you. It’s come as a bit of a shock. Beth is pregnant.”
Pregnant?
“How can she? But…but you don’t live together!” My words came out in a gasp. When Oliver caught the eye of our waiter and motioned for the bill, I knew he was lying.
“You liar! You utter creep! You never left Beth. You’ve haven’t been separated all this time, have you?” I spat out in disgust.
“Catherine…please understand.”
I stood up, my legs trembling, scarcely aware of the interested looks I was attracting from other diners nearby. “Understand? You’re a lying cheat and a bloody coward. You promised it was all over between you. You swore you had a formal separation…all this time it was a fabrication. Well, she’s welcome to you. I never want to see you again.”
“But darling, please listen—”
I picked up the bottle of Rioja wine that was on our table and emptied the contents over his smart new jacket and expensive shirt. With my evening bag in my hand and a swirl of my skirt, I marched towards the restaurant exit. As I approached, the manager handed me my coat with a look of sympathy and opened the door. “Would madam require a taxi?” he asked.
I shook my head, muttered my thanks, and strode out into the night.
That was weeks ago. I thought about resigning, but thoughts of Charlotte going hungry soon had me thinking about my options—which were few. The recession was biting even more deeply. At least I had a job.
I didn’t hear from Oliver, although he must have been incensed by my display of outrage in the expensive restaurant. I had, after all, ruined a five-hundred-pound jacket and shirt. His silence began to eat away at me, and I was sure he would find some way of hitting back. Sure enough, he pulled one over on me by sending me to a dank, little, village shop for a spell of work. I wondered if he would try to have me fired, but decided even he, the Wonderful and Marvellous Oliver, would have a hard job succeeding. I had increased turnover in my usual office by over fifty per cent, and that was during harsh economic times. If he wanted a fight, then he was going to find me a tough opponent. I also doubted he would want his dirty washing aired at an employment tribunal.
I drained my glass and thought about having another. I remembered my mother’s words from years ago: Don’t drink alone if you can help it because it’s the road to ruin. Maybe she was right. It would be all too easy to drown oneself in alcohol.
I turned my thoughts back to that evening and my meeting with Estelle. How amazing that two people were going to meet one another after all those years. If he was as nice as she said he was back then, she was a lucky lady. He was also a widower, so with luck there wouldn’t be any nasty complications. Not like the ones I seemed to attract, anyway.
I pressed my lips together. What was it with me? Why couldn’t I find someone who was decent and honest?
Available on: Amazon.com Amazon.co.uk Barnes & Noble Apple iTunes Kobo
‘A Seasonal Affair’
Chapter 1 Catherine
It was a filthy day, and everything was going wrong. I was trying not to think about treacherous Oliver and our last-ever date. I was fighting off my latest bout of bronchitis. Wet, dirty snow lay in treacherous clumps along the footpaths, and I just knew we were going to be understaffed again. Sure enough, when I arrived at the post office, where I had been temporary manager for two weeks, the only people to greet me were Doreen (on sweets and cards), Brian (post-office-counter official), and Lindsey (still not quite sure of her position or otherwise). I nodded to them and fished in my pocket for the shop keys.
Brian dropped the cigarette which was clamped between his lips, ground the butt out on the pavement, and gave me a sickly smile, brown teeth and all. “Morning, Catherine. Another cold ‘un. Looks like we’re going to be short-staffed again. Sal just rang me to say she’s still feeling like death warmed up, and Will always takes the full quota of sick days off, so it’s just down to us four.”
I managed a brief reply and even briefer smile as I wrestled with the ridiculously huge bunch of keys whilst juggling handbag, laptop, and coffee cup in my gloved but still-cold hands. As I stepped inside, the icy stale air hit me, and my heart sank even farther towards my boots. Not again! That bloody boiler! For some reason the automatic clock kept sticking, and for the third day in succession the heating had failed to come on. “Give it the usual, Brian,” I managed to say between clenched teeth before walking towards the dreary little pit which was supposed to be my office. Brian’s ‘usual’ was a tweak here and there and then a sharp blow to the clock. It generally worked.
“And when you’ve done that, can you please call the engineer again? I know he said he’s booked up all week, but he may have had a cancellation,” I called out. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why I had accepted this job—even as a temporary post. I was used to working in a full-sized city post office, not some small village shop, even if the surrounding environs were picture postcard. Tiny, thatched, and tile-hung dwellings set in cottage gardens were gorgeous during spring and summer. In early December, bare trees and piles of filthy slush did nothing for me. What had I been thinking?
Doreen followed me to the back of the shop and, looking like an over-dressed polar bear, hovered in the doorway of the office. “Hello, Doreen. Sorry to be tetchy, but I’m not feeling too great myself. Did you want something?”
“That’s okay. Is it all right if we keep our coats on until it warms up? Only Lindsey and me think we’re coming down with the flu, too.”
“Of course.” Flu? What else was going to happen to ‘make my day’? “It shouldn’t take long once Brian gives the heating system some coaxing. Put the kettle on, and make some coffee too…that’ll help keep you going.”
“Are you still going to sort out that pile of rubbish you found the other day?”
Doreen was referring to a collection of mouldy old stuff I had uncovered in the shed. Earlier in the week I had decided to have a clean-up, despite the lingering snowy conditions, and after pulling out empty cardboard boxes, tins, unravelled balls of string, and defunct post-office weighing scales, I also discovered an unopened letter. Goodness knows how long it had lain unattended and forgotten, tucked away in a box behind all the other junk. Apparently, according to Brian, the fount of all knowledge, the previous postmistress hadn’t been known for her tidiness, and she had been there for forty years!
“I am. I’ll go through it after lunch. The parcel scales, although no longer working, are pretty ancient, and if I can polish them up, they’ll make an eye-catching display in the window.”
***
We had the usual morning rush of shoppers buying their Christmas cards and wrapping paper. Even with online shopping, I was pleased to see we had taken in a hefty pile of parcels, which were waiting to be shipped around the world. Everyone, including me, managed a lunch break of some sort, and because more snow was forecast, most people were leaving the village to go home. I gazed out at the frigid scene outside and shivered. Despite Brian getting the heating going, the shop was still registering on the cold-cabinet side. I checked my watch and saw there was barely an hour before closing. Without a moment’s hesitation I decided to send the staff home. There was hardly anyone left on the streets, and I was tired of listening to Doreen’s sniffing, Lindsey’s coughing, and Brian leaving the back door open while he nipped out for a ‘quick ciggie’. They had done their best, and quite frankly, I fancied an hour on my own. I was perfectly capable of closing early and doing some sorting out in the back office. The little pile of curious junk I had discovered beckoned me, and for some reason, I wanted to go through it undisturbed. I was going to treat it as a cathartic exercise, imagining I was ridding myself of Oliver all over again. It was something I should have done long before, and the thought of him made me feel cheap and dirty, somehow.
“Good idea. We can catch the early bus and be home before it’s completely dark,” said Doreen, and Lindsey nodded in agreement. I was slightly startled by how quickly they donned their hats and coats and were out the door before I had taken another breath. Ah! I had forgotten—it must have been bingo night! I visualised the coming scene: they would rustle up a quick meal for their husbands, and then they would be off out, snow or no snow.
I laughed to myself as I shut the door on the three of them, locked it, and withdrew to my inner sanctuary. A cup of tea, two Hobnobs, a spot of paperwork and sorting out, and I supposed I would then do likewise, although without the bingo, which I’ve always loathed. I pride myself as being above that sort of thing. I glanced at my watch again and remembered I didn’t even have to hurry home to pick up Charlotte, my five-year-old daughter. She was staying the night with her ‘bestest friend’ and had been talking about it for days. The thought of Charlotte filled me with warmth. I love her dearly and can’t imagine a life without my little girl.
Picking through the salvaged stuff a second time, I realised most was beyond redemption; water and mould had ruined the paper things. However, there were a few items worth saving, and I put them to one side. I found a couple more stamped letters which had gone astray. Goodness knew how long they had been tucked away. They could be posted the next day. I wondered if any of the recipients still lived at the addresses on the envelopes and shrugged my shoulders. It wasn’t my business; I was just doing what I was paid to do. I decided to put new stamps on the letters and send them, late or not.
I worked steadily until I came to the last item, which appeared to be a letter. The envelope was falling apart, and there was no longer any glue on the flap. The address was just about readable. Inside, I discovered there were one or two sheets of crinkly paper. I looked at the name and address and saw it was meant to go to a woman: a Miss E Seymour at Apple Tree Cottage, Privett Lane, Foxfield, Hampshire.
I wondered how many Foxfields and Privett Lanes there were in Hampshire. Nowadays, of course, we use postcodes, which were introduced between 1959 and 1974. So this letter had probably lain hidden since either before then or during that period. I knew I could easily look up Foxfield on the internet, so I fired up my laptop and did a spot of searching. In less than a minute, I had the information at my fingertips, and I added the postcode.
Because the envelope was so old and decrepit, I knew it wouldn’t last survive the rough and tumble of the posting process, so I inserted the whole thing into a new one. Indeed, as I laid it down, the paper disintegrated, and I was left holding the letter. Maybe it was worthless and too much bother to send, anyway? But I was curious…I was alone and no one would have known. I read what was written there.
My hands were shaking with anticipation as I unfolded the sheets and read.
My Dearest Estelle,
I hope I find you well. After the last enjoyable evening we spent together, I shall not go out tonight, but sit here at home and write to you. I hope you do not think I am being too forward by expressing my thoughts and how I feel about you. I have come to realise that you, Estelle, are my one and only adorable and treasured girl.
My love! After last night—that oh, so special night—I have asked myself every moment of today if such happiness is not a dream. It seems like one, but that which I feel for you is not of earth and yet of heaven. I doubt you realise the depth of my feelings for you. I tried to be calm last night, in case I had to prepare myself for despair. In case you did not feel the same. I wanted so much to throw myself at your feet, my sweet and beautiful Estelle. Did you know that Estelle means star? Estelle, star of my heart and the core of my life. And if my life is not one which I can share with you, then the limit of my devotion can only be the sacrifice of my life. For surely, I would not wish to live without you by my side.
You see, my sweet, my whole soul is yours, and if by chance—and I tremble at the thought—you love me, you know what must be my joy. My darling, my Estelle, I know no other word for this joy than love.
Please say you will be mine! Soon, in a few months, when I’ve completed the latest overseas tour on my new ship, and then, my angel, you will sleep in my arms. I will hold you in my arms, you will awaken in my arms, and you will live there. We shall be as one. Our thoughts, moments, looks, will only be for each other.
Although we live barely twenty miles apart, I feel as if I am far from you, but I can dream of you and pray that soon you will be at my side. I adore you.
Say yes, my angel. Say yes! Meet me once again at our favourite place on Saturday next, and I’ll know you love me and that last night wasn’t a mistake. If—and I shudder at the thought—you do not feel the same as I and you do not come, then I know I am lost forever.
Adieu, my love, but I hope it is not goodbye,
Sam
I felt all wobbly inside as I put the love letter down, for a love letter it most definitely was. I imagined this man, Sam, and his beloved Estelle. How he must have loved her, judging by the very outpouring of his heart, and Estelle…but what happened? I was aware my own heart was beginning to thud in my chest as I realised what it meant. If she never received this letter, then what became of them? Did they ever meet again? Did they get a second chance? Although there was no date, I could tell from the old-fashioned tone of the writing and the price of the stamp that it was written many years ago.
I felt my own misery welling up. The misery I had been putting aside for the last few weeks. I thought back to my final meeting with Oliver and the awful words we threw at each other. I had felt so wretched since then, and I couldn’t help thinking about the terrible mistakes I made every day. But was I hurting because of my lost self-pride or because I loved him? He used me. I knew that. If only I had ignored his advances in the first place.
I picked up the letter and read it through once more before replacing it back in the ruined envelope. Sam deserved better. I couldn’t trust it to the post; I would deliver it myself.
Chapter 2 Catherine
According to the records, amazingly, a Miss E Seymour still lived at the same address as the one on the old envelope. I wondered if it was my Miss Seymour. It had to be, but why had she never married? It took me about twenty-five minutes to reach the village of Foxfield, and I found the cottage easily, thanks to my satnav. Hurrah for technology, I thought. Without one, no doubt I would have spent ages peering at the names of houses in the dark. It was almost too easy.
I hadn’t telephoned ahead to warn the lady about my visit. I was intrigued to see her face to face. I wanted to see the woman who inspired such a beautiful outpouring of love. I imagined a modern-day Helen of Troy.
I parked in front of Apple Tree Cottage. However, judging from the silhouette against the night sky, it was more than a cottage. It was a substantial dwelling, and the area was definitely very upmarket. Perhaps the property had been in the family for some years. I locked the car then walked up the garden path to the front door. I noticed someone had ventured out that day and made a path through the snow. Judging by the lights shining behind the drawn curtains, someone was at home. For some reason, I felt nervous. Was it because I felt responsible in some odd way? Because the system had let her down and she never met Sam again?
I rang the doorbell and waited.
Chapter 3 Catherine
“Yes, that’s Sam. He looks so distinguished in his naval officer’s uniform, don’t you think?”
I smiled and nodded. He did look fine.
I was sitting in Estelle’s gorgeous living room. It was warm and snug with a roaring log fire blazing away, and she had given me a small photograph album to look through. After her initial surprise when I gave her the envelope, she immediately invited me in for a cup of tea. Two cups and a piece of the most delicious chocolate cake I’ve ever eaten later, we were getting on as if we were long-lost sisters. She was open and friendly and told me something about her life.
It was like something from an old melodrama, and I felt sad as she explained. She and Sam never did meet again, and Estelle married someone else. Despite the marriage lasting nearly forty years, she confessed it was never a joyful one, and she was happier being a widow.
“My husband was a cold fish and a bully. He didn’t like entertaining or travelling and was never happier than when he was at home, with me running around after him. If it hadn’t been for my children, Jack and Naomi, I’d have been dreadfully unhappy. Unfortunately, it took me a long time to conceive, and I’d almost given up hope. Then out of the blue I found I was expecting. Jack was my first child, and Naomi came along a couple of years later. That’s Jack and Naomi in the picture over there on the sideboard,” she said, indicating with her head.
I looked towards the heavy dark piece of furniture and saw a framed photograph of a smiling, dark-haired man of about my age or slightly older, with his arm casually draped around a younger version of Estelle. Even from where I was sitting, I could see a strong likeness between mother and children, and I said as much.
“Yes, they take after me more than their father. Naomi is married and has two children of her own, but unfortunately, Jack’s never found the right girl. I still live in hope, though.”
I swear she was looking at me and sizing up the possibility, and I hastened to change her attention back to her children. “They look very nice, and I can definitely see the family resemblance,” I said in a bit of a rush. “But did you revert to your maiden name when your husband died? When I looked it up, that’s how your house has been registered. The occupier is down as a Miss E. Seymour,” I said, looking away from the photograph, and in an instant I saw a pained look cross her face.
“No dear. That was my sister, Ellen. She never married and lived here all her life with our parents before they passed away. I left home when I married Ken. Unfortunately, I lost Ellen earlier this year, and she left the house to me. I moved back because I preferred it here…it was our family home, after all. Apart from when my children were with me, I never liked living in that other house with Ken. Selling it was an easy thing to do.”
Ah! Mystery solved and I gave her my condolences.
Despite having made an unsatisfactory choice of husband, Estelle seemed to be an amazing woman. She told me she was in her sixties, but because of her energy and vivacity, looked and acted younger. Estelle was tall and slim and moved with a grace I envied. She wore her reddish-brown hair in a smooth bob and just off the shoulder. It was obvious she took care of it because it was well cut and expertly highlighted. Her eyes were large and well spaced, an unusual shade of hazel and fringed with sooty lashes. She was constantly smiling, and bar a few laughter lines, her face was relatively wrinkle-free. She was very pretty, and when she laughed, I instantly recognised how beautiful she must have been when she and Sam were dating. Apart from that, she came across as kind and caring, and I wondered what type of man she had married, one who had been cold and selfish. Thinking back to my own recent altercation with Oliver, it appeared we were both victims of thoughtless men.
We chatted some more, and then when Estelle eventually opened the letter I had taken for her, she took herself off to another room to read it. I was intrigued. I wondered how she would react once she read Sam’s outpourings of love and devotion. Would she feel anything or was it all wistful thinking on Sam’s part? Alone, I remained seated and drank my tea, staring into the hot fire beside me, and brooded over my own affair with Oliver. I knew it was finished and washed away down the pan. The thought still made me feel sick inside…but hadn’t it been inevitable? He had never truly been mine. Some other woman held a far greater claim to him. Oh yes, he always said he would leave her and join me, but had I really believed him? If I were honest with myself, then I would have said a definite no. Oliver liked an easy life and believed his own propaganda.
After a few minutes, Estelle returned to the room, and I noticed how bright her eyes were. We looked at each other, and she gave me a watery smile. I had already confessed to having read her letter before putting it in the new envelope, and I think she felt comfortable with me knowing its contents.
Estelle sat down in the chair opposite me and took a moment or two before speaking.
“I always wondered, you know. We seemed so right for each other. I thought he went off on his ship and forgot about me,” she said in a quivery voice before looking up. Her eyes were full of unshed tears, and my heart went out to her. “If only…if only we’d met again. Life could have been so very different. I wonder where he is now and what he’s doing. Did Sam ever marry?”
It was then I remembered my laptop in the car. It would be so easy to look him up and find his address and possibly a telephone number. I may have been unlucky in love myself, but I could do my utmost to see if I could at least put them in touch with each other again.
***
Like before, I couldn’t get over how simple it was to trace someone. When I pulled Sam’s name from the register, Estelle went so quiet I wondered if I was doing the right thing.
“What if he doesn’t remember me?” she asked, fidgeting with a long strand of pearls around her neck. “It was so long ago. He was a sailor, after all, and we all know the old saying about a girl in every port.”
“Estelle! You don’t really mean that. Besides, how could anyone have written a letter like that and not remember? You were the love of his life. It shows in his words.” I didn’t know why, but I just knew he and Estelle had been meant for each other. Something dreadful might have happened, although I was positive they both needed to find out exactly why they had never met up again. “If it were me, I’d do anything to find out how he is and what happened.”
She only took a little gentle persuading, and within minutes Estelle was dialling what we hoped was Sam’s number. I couldn’t help overhearing what Estelle said, and I was filled with a warm feeling knowing that, for once, I had got something right.
Estelle put down the receiver and turned to me with a huge tremulous smile. “Oh Lord! We’re meeting for tea tomorrow at the Old Swan Hotel in town! I can’t quite believe it.” She put one shaking hand against her chest as she groped behind her for a chair, with the other. “He seemed really pleased to hear from me. He’s a widower and retired from the navy years ago.”
“That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”
“And I’m so grateful you took the trouble to find me and bring the letter. Now we have a chance to meet up and cover old ground. Goodness, I’ve come over all dithery.”
“And all because of a letter. Are you all right? Can I get you a glass of water or something?”
She waved me away. “No, I’m fine thank you. Just excited over the prospect of seeing Sam after all this time. Sam said that just before he went off on his new posting, he gave his letter to the postmistress to stamp and send. He knew her, of course, as they were at school together. She must have misplaced it somewhere in the post office.”
“Well, it’s something you can talk about when you meet up. Speaking of which, I really must be going.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink? What about a celebratory glass of sherry or wine?” Estelle asked with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Go on, a small one won’t hurt, and it’s coming up for Christmas.”
As she spoke, her doorbell rang. “Excuse me. I wonder who that can be.”
I knew I should have been going home and getting something to eat. I stood up, ready to say goodbye. Estelle’s visitor gave me an excuse to leave. I had done my good deed of the day, and no doubt she really wanted to be on her own. I heard a delighted girly squeal come from the hallway, and intrigued, I waited to see who her unexpected visitor was. I didn’t have long to wait; within a minute, Estelle was back, looking flushed with pleasure and ushering in a tall dark-haired man. As he turned to look at me, I recognised him from the photograph in the room. It was her son, Jack.
“Jack, I’d like you to meet Catherine—” Estelle stopped and looked flustered. She gave a laugh. “This is crazy. We’ve been chatting for over an hour, but I don’t know your full name!”
It was my turn to feel embarrassed as Jack frowned and gave his mother a puzzled look. I felt myself going red and mumbled, “Sorry, you’re right,” before thrusting out my hand. “We got so involved talking. It’s Catherine Merryweather.” I felt a firm handshake. Up close, I saw Jack’s eyes were a deeper blue than his mother’s, framed with the same dark lashes.
He smiled as he scanned me from head to toe. “I’m pleased to meet you, Catherine Merryweather.”
Obviously delighted to have her son call on her, Estelle insisted I had that glass of wine while she regaled Jack with her story.
“Don’t you think it’s amazing, Jack, darling? After all these years?”
Looking amused, Jack took a sip from his glass and nodded. “I do. Am I allowed to see the letter?”
Estelle hesitated, and I guessed what she was thinking. Sam may have been a boyfriend once upon a time and they didn’t marry. But he wasn’t Sam’s father. The letter was pretty explicit. Sam and Estelle had obviously made love on their last night together. Having met Estelle and seen what an honest and lovely lady she was, I assumed she felt the same way about her lover, Sam. I was sure she wasn’t about to let Jack know the truth. After what she had told me about his father, she had obviously married him on the rebound. It was a secret which could have ruined Estelle’s children’s memories of their late father.
“No, dear. Maybe some other time. The contents are of no interest to you.” She flashed me a look, and I knew she hoped I would help her out.
“I found the letter yesterday, and on a whim, I sought to trace the addressee. Pure chance that your mother was living back here.”
“Indeed.” I got the impression Jack didn’t believe me, and feeling awkward, I again made up my mind to leave as soon as possible. I guessed he thought I was after some sort of reward or payment for my trouble. Well, excuse me. Arrogant man!
As Estelle saw me out, she insisted I give her my telephone number and address. “I’d like to let you know how we get on with our meeting. I feel you have a right to know,” she said in a hushed voice as she scribbled down my details on a pad lying on the hallway table.
Shrugging on my coat, I smiled and whispered in her ear. “I’d like that. You can ring me any time. I hope he’s as good-looking as he was forty years ago.”
Estelle laughed and winked. “I just know he is. I’ll ring as soon as I’m home tomorrow.”
Chapter 4 Catherine
After I got home, I was overcome by a feeling of great lethargy and depression. I told myself it had nothing to do with Oliver and our final parting, and to some extent that was true. Not feeling hungry, I decided not to bother making any dinner and instead poured myself a large gin and tonic and took it through into the living room. I kicked my shoes off, tucked my feet up on the settee, and took a large swig. My eyes fell on a photograph next to the television, and I stared at the faces behind the glass. How things might have been different if they had stood by me six years ago.
I felt a pricking of tears behind my eyes. Christmas was just around the corner, and I had nowhere near enough money saved up to give my daughter the Christmas I longed to give her. As a single parent, I survived on one salary, and after the rent and every other essential bill, there just wasn’t any money left for luxuries. It was often hard making ends meet; call me stubborn, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Charlotte and I were fine on our own. I never asked for any financial help from her father or social services. I suppose it was pride which made me shun seeking help, but when Charlotte’s father disappeared before she was born, I never bothered trying to find him. Keith had been a complete cockroach. I met him during my second year at university and from our first date, I knew my studies were doomed. Keith was the singer in a rock ‘n’ roll band, tall, slim-hipped with sexy come-to-bed eyes. I had gone to one of the group’s gigs with a few university friends, and we grabbed our positions at the front of the dance floor in the hall where they were performing. Gyrating in time to the loud music, it wasn’t long before I felt Keith’s eyes upon me, and when the set was over he was standing at my side.
I remembered the rolled-up reefer between his fingers, the floppy fringe in his eyes, and shoulder-length hair swinging across his face as he leant forward and whispered in my ear. All my friends stood back open-mouthed when we left the hall together. Keith’s arm was slung casually across my shoulders, our hips just touching as he led me over to his car, and we roared off into the night. I was a lost creature from that moment on.
I was young, impressionable, a fool, and a virgin. Within months I was one more statistic. I was a pregnant teenaged student, with shattered hopes and dreams for a promising career and future. Once Charlotte was born, I kept my mind focused on raising my baby daughter. I had little time for romance and, in fact, pushed any thoughts of boyfriends away. I had been hurt, and I didn’t want another Keith.
It wasn’t until much later that I met Oliver. So much for not being a fool again. Charlotte was four and a half years old, and I was working in a city sub-post office at that time, filling in for the manager who was off sick. Our rates of pay had just been cut, in keeping with the recession, and spirits throughout the group weren’t running very high. Oliver was part of higher management, and as we minions had just heard about large bonuses, his office inspection visit wasn’t welcome at the time. We all thought it a bit much with the them-and-us scenario.
Oliver, however, had other things on his mind. He was a slick operator, and I was stupid. Under the premise of discussing the future of the office, he took me to lunch in a charming little bistro, and within minutes, I was under his spell. He was blond, broad-shouldered, confident, and oozed charm. Too much so. The day was grey and drizzly; I was fed up with living on a diet of wet, sodden days. As Oliver entertained me with colourful stories of his travels abroad and amusing anecdotes, I listened, entranced. I spent all my spare time amusing my little daughter—not that I regretted having her for one minute—but I couldn’t remember the last time we had spent a day full of sun and joy and I hadn’t been worried about the cost of things.
As I hung on every one of his words, I wondered whether he was married. He was certainly older than I and came over as far more experienced and self-assured. As I felt a prickle of discomfort, I decided to ask him outright. I knew all about being dumped and living a life of misery, and I had no wish to become involved with a married man. Call me old-fashioned, but I had my principles and having an affair with someone married was something I would never have considered.
He smiled, sighed, and pulled an apologetic face. “Separated. We still see each other and get along much better now on our own. I have two sons you see—Ben and Toby—who are eight and nine. They’re fine with their mother, and I wouldn’t do anything to upset their happiness. We used to argue all the time, Beth and I, and being apart we now all get on. Beth is happy with our arrangement…I pay all the bills, see the boys regularly, and life is much more civilised somehow.”
He seemed honest and straightforward. There were many thousands of families living like this the length and breadth of Britain. After our lunch, he leaned forward and with a gentle smile asked if I would like to have dinner with him one evening. “I can’t remember when I last enjoyed a woman’s company as much as I have today,” he said. “Do say yes. I promise there’s nothing more to it than having an enjoyable meal with convivial company. Just see it as a meal between two new friends.”
Like I said before, I was a fool. Perhaps I should have asked myself what it was he and his wife argued about all the time. Acting completely out of character, I agreed. A good neighbour, Delia Simpson, lived a few doors away from us, and I trusted her to babysit for Charlotte from time to time; she was always willing to help out and look after my little girl.
Oliver and I began dating on and off from then on, but it was quite some time before we finally became lovers. There were plenty of reasons: I didn’t feel ready or the venue was never right, and if he visited my flat, I dreaded the idea of Charlotte waking and walking in on us. I had plenty of hang-ups and was still wary of men after Keith’s treatment. The weeks turned into months, and I was given a manager’s post. I knew Oliver had played a major part in getting me the promotion. However, I didn’t care. My salary jumped by another £4000, and I made plans so that Charlotte would benefit. I still couldn’t afford a mortgage, but I lived in hope of marrying and hopefully improving our lot. Two salaries would have made everything so much better.
After some time, I became edgy; I wondered where our affair was going. I was still under thirty, but time was passing by. I longed for more stability in our lives, and it wasn’t happening. I began to feel uneasy. I cared for Oliver, and when he said he loved me, I believed him. Only, so far, he hadn’t done anything more about it. I wanted a full-time man, and above all, I wanted a daddy for Charlotte.
Oliver lived just under an hour away, and although I never visited his place, I made a point of saying I couldn’t see the logic of maintaining two households. We were dining in yet another plush and exclusive restaurant at the time. Oliver loved expensive restaurants, and he said it was a special treat for me, but I really would have preferred being at home together, eating a wholesome casserole, Charlotte tucked up in bed, and my electric blanket already switched on and waiting for Oliver and me. I craved nothing more than a simple home environment where Charlotte and I were loved and safe with the man in my life by my side.
“Oliver, I suppose I’m talking about some sort of commitment. We’ve been seeing each other for some months now. Charlotte gets on well with you, and we—well I was wondering…” I floundered as he paused over his steak and laid down his knife and fork. “You and Beth are separated, you say, although—”
“It’s complicated, I’m afraid. Toby is just about to start prep school, and I don’t want to upset anything. If I introduce him to another woman now, I don’t know how he’ll cope with a new school and everything. Can you try and understand, darling?”
Another woman? Surely, I was more than that?
“Yes, I do. But Oliver, you don’t live with them. You told me so.”
He swallowed a mouthful of Chianti, and I swear he flushed. I stared. “Oliver?”
“As I said, it’s a bit more complicated and difficult than that...”
I felt my anger rising. I had been badly treated before, and I wasn’t going to let myself be pushed around again. “How complicated? Either you want us to be together, or you don’t. Oliver, please understand what I’m saying.”
He cleared his throat and wouldn’t look me in the eye. “You see…I was going to tell you. It’s come as a bit of a shock. Beth is pregnant.”
Pregnant?
“How can she? But…but you don’t live together!” My words came out in a gasp. When Oliver caught the eye of our waiter and motioned for the bill, I knew he was lying.
“You liar! You utter creep! You never left Beth. You’ve haven’t been separated all this time, have you?” I spat out in disgust.
“Catherine…please understand.”
I stood up, my legs trembling, scarcely aware of the interested looks I was attracting from other diners nearby. “Understand? You’re a lying cheat and a bloody coward. You promised it was all over between you. You swore you had a formal separation…all this time it was a fabrication. Well, she’s welcome to you. I never want to see you again.”
“But darling, please listen—”
I picked up the bottle of Rioja wine that was on our table and emptied the contents over his smart new jacket and expensive shirt. With my evening bag in my hand and a swirl of my skirt, I marched towards the restaurant exit. As I approached, the manager handed me my coat with a look of sympathy and opened the door. “Would madam require a taxi?” he asked.
I shook my head, muttered my thanks, and strode out into the night.
That was weeks ago. I thought about resigning, but thoughts of Charlotte going hungry soon had me thinking about my options—which were few. The recession was biting even more deeply. At least I had a job.
I didn’t hear from Oliver, although he must have been incensed by my display of outrage in the expensive restaurant. I had, after all, ruined a five-hundred-pound jacket and shirt. His silence began to eat away at me, and I was sure he would find some way of hitting back. Sure enough, he pulled one over on me by sending me to a dank, little, village shop for a spell of work. I wondered if he would try to have me fired, but decided even he, the Wonderful and Marvellous Oliver, would have a hard job succeeding. I had increased turnover in my usual office by over fifty per cent, and that was during harsh economic times. If he wanted a fight, then he was going to find me a tough opponent. I also doubted he would want his dirty washing aired at an employment tribunal.
I drained my glass and thought about having another. I remembered my mother’s words from years ago: Don’t drink alone if you can help it because it’s the road to ruin. Maybe she was right. It would be all too easy to drown oneself in alcohol.
I turned my thoughts back to that evening and my meeting with Estelle. How amazing that two people were going to meet one another after all those years. If he was as nice as she said he was back then, she was a lucky lady. He was also a widower, so with luck there wouldn’t be any nasty complications. Not like the ones I seemed to attract, anyway.
I pressed my lips together. What was it with me? Why couldn’t I find someone who was decent and honest?
Available on: Amazon.com Amazon.co.uk Barnes & Noble Apple iTunes Kobo
