by Ruth Hay
She was moving from sun to shade and back to sun again as she trod the grassy lawns and the concrete and stone paths. She opened up the gates on either side that separated the private from the public garden spaces and continued to walk around freely. It occurred to her that she had never made use of this excess of outdoor space. Why had she never played chases with the grandchildren? Why had she chosen to be inactive instead of active?
With this thought she increased her pace and before she knew it she was circling the house and counting how many times she could manage it before she grew tired. Undoubtedly, it was the walking she had done in the Lake District that had given her the incentive but although her suburban garden could not compare with the rolling open vistas of Cumbria, she had to admit to enjoying the simple challenge and the fresh air in her lungs. No neighbours could overlook her unusual behaviour and she decided to make this a daily activity with a new goal every week. She would search in the bottom of her wardrobe to find old trousers and shoes to make the task comfortable. A pair of sunglasses would complete the outfit. Perhaps, when she had lost a pound or two she would treat herself to some proper exercise clothes.
When she went back inside she saw how much brighter her complexion looked. There was quite a flush on her cheeks and she felt she was standing taller. She would take a shower and do her hair in the new style, adding some light makeup as Zoe had shown her. Ian had phoned to say he would be home by lunchtime. She smiled to think of his surprised expression when he beheld the new, improved version of his wife.
Ian Halder was feeling exhausted.
He had taken advantage of Sandy’s absence to fit in an extra trip south to consult with a planning group working under the auspices of one of Prince Charles’ model housing projects. His boss at Glasgow City Council had been keen for him to participate, thinking it could be an opportunity to make connections in England at the highest levels and might lead to more consultant work in the future. In fact, it had been a series of tours around model homes and endless discussions about energy-saving, green technologies most of which were hardly ground-breaking. By the fourth day, he was fading fast and made an excuse to leave the obligatory debriefing session in the hotel bar to go up to his room and get some rest away from the endless English voices with their variety of accents from Cockney to Downton Abbey.
He had been standing by his door fishing around in a pocket for the key card when he heard a familiar voice saying his name.
“It’s Ian Halder, isn’t it? We met at the Manchester Conference last year. I saw you in the bar last night with a high-powered set. What have you been up to lately?”
“Deborah, nice to see you again.” He reached out for her hand and summoned as much brain power as he could in a scheme to prevent her from dragging him downstairs again when his body and mind were screaming for rest.
“Look, Deb, would you like to come inside for a quick drink? I really don’t want to go back to the bar and we could talk more freely, if you want to?”
Like the modern business woman she exemplified, Deborah Masoud did not look at all surprised at his suggestion. She was not at the career level of the city planners she had seen in the bar but if a few minutes’ conversation with one of them could advance her options she was not going to turn down the opportunity. She smiled warmly at Ian Halder, an attractive, middle-aged male who dressed well and travelled alone. What harm could it do?
Ian allowed her to go ahead of him as he closed the door and rubbed his forehead in a futile gesture to waken up his brain and forestall the headache he could feel emerging. If he could get her out in under thirty minutes he might still get the peace he needed so badly.
“Help yourself to something from the minibar, Deb. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He slung his suit jacket over the nearest chair and escaped into the standard white hotel bathroom, rummaging in his toilet bag for an aspirin or something to quell his headache and keep him awake for the next half hour. All he could find was a foil pack of an anti-histamine he used occasionally when his dust allergy flared up.
Better than nothing, he told himself as he ran the water and swallowed down one pill, then splashed the cold water over his face and smoothed down his hair with his damp hands before going back to the room with a pasted-on smile.
Deborah was seated comfortably on the only armchair with a glass of amber liquid by her side. Ian searched the mini bar for a mixer but found only a beer which he drank from the bottle as he sat down on the side of the bed nearest to his guest.
“What did you want to know?” No point in chitchat, he decided.
She crossed her legs, displaying a length of tanned thigh in the process, and leaned forward eagerly. She had also removed her suit jacket and the blue sleeveless top she wore draped over her sizable chest area, would have been enticing to a man less tired than Ian Halder.
“Did I see Prince Charles’ crest on the folder one of your group held? I was wondering if you heard of any hiring in that sector. It would be a real coup to get into city and town planning for the future king’s company. His mother can’t last forever, after all.”
Ian Halder could not argue with her logic although he felt she had expressed herself rather crudely. He was beginning to remember a colleague’s comments about Deb Masoud’s overweening ambition and wished he had dismissed her at the door, even if it had required him to be rude to her.
“Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. It was a fact-finding mission, not an interview situation. HRH seems to want to spread his ideas as far afield as he can and he has a team of committed men and women to do it for him.”
“So, you agree with his schemes for downscaled town planning?”
“I think there’s a lot to be said for his ideas about environmental technology and saving the best of our historical buildings but with a growing population in the UK, I can’t see how it will be possible in the future to avoid some high-rise towers of some kind, despite the bad reputation the current crop of towers has earned.”
“What about the infrastructure, Ian? Isn’t that one of your main interests? I heard your speech a year ago.” In spite of himself, he felt flattered that this smart woman had remembered his interests. There was no denying the admiration on her face. He took another drag from the beer bottle and warmed to his subject.
“It’s all part of the same problem, I’m afraid. HRH can achieve wonders in planning a new community employing all the advanced electronic devices yet created, but Britain’s large cities are complex, intricate systems going back well over a hundred years in many places. Such systems can be repaired to some degree but revamping them to future standards would be an impossible task and would require demolition on a large scale that I can’t believe he would support.”
“And there’s the issue of obtaining land for his new towns and cities,” she responded. “The English landed gentry are not going to be happy to relinquish their family estates for the sake of the immigrant population. Don’t you agree, Ian?”
“Well, I suppose that leaves his own extensive Cornwall properties to be developed then. I wonder how he would feel to have new towns impinge on his precious gardens?”
Conspiratorial laughter met this comment and Ian suddenly realized how imprudent it was of him to be speaking so freely to someone he really knew very little about. He felt a bit woozy from fatigue and then thought the anti-histamine tablet combined with alcohol might not have been a good idea. Things were beginning to get out of hand.
A jolt of fear-based adrenalin surged through him and gave him the energy to stand up and take charge before something embarrassing happened. If she thought she would catch him off-guard and create a compromising situation, she would be disappointed. Even suffering from fatigue as he was, he valued his reputation above everything else. He had seen too many colleagues go down in flames from ill-advised liaisons to take the risk.
“Well, it’s been good to see you again, Deborah, but I am off home early tomorrow and I have things to do tonigh
t so I’ll bid you a good evening.”
There was a certain amount of shock on her face, quickly concealed. She stood and put on her jacket stopping only to finish her drink. By that time, Ian had the door open for her and he did not wait for her to speak again, closing the heavy door behind her with his last ounce of strength before he collapsed on the bed in a cold sweat.
That was too close for comfort.
A long day of plane travel had taken him to Glasgow Airport and a lengthy cab ride would finally deliver him home again. He had not slept well. Dreams and confused nightmares had disturbed his sleep for hours and his head was not clear of the drug in the pill he had taken. He longed for the comfort of his own bed in a quiet house far from the noisy travel centres he had to deal with too often.
The taxi rank outside the airport was functioning with its usual efficiency. He joined the queue knowing the wait would not be long. He hoped the driver would not be one of those talkative types who would quiz him on his destination and his intentions. He prepared a speech intended to cut such a discussion off at the start. Saying he was tired and heading home from work should do the trick if the driver knew his customers well enough to understand what would earn a tip.
Afternoon sun poured through the cab window and Ian Halder must have dozed off for a moment. He woke to see his own front gate in a quiet neighbourhood disturbed only by the purring sound of the cab’s motor. The standard fee from the airport exchanged hands and a few pounds extra for the undisturbed ride, soon saw the silence restored to the neighbourhood.
It was Monday. No weekend lawn movers could be heard. It was too early for the few school-age children still living on the street to be heading homeward. Peace, blessed peace.
The peace continued when he opened the front door and set down his travel bag. No sound of television chatter so his wife was not home. He breathed a sigh of relief. He would nip upstairs to the bedroom for a quick kip but first he needed a small whisky to abolish the lingering headache from the night before.
He was headed to the drinks cabinet in the lounge when two unexpected things gave him a jolt. First, he saw a figure rushing past outside the conservatory doors. That brought his head up with alarm. Was there an intruder on the property?
As he made to investigate, he almost fell over the couch which some idiot had moved out of its accustomed place. Had a burglar already ransacked the house? With adrenalin surging through him he deliberated about which action to take. Call the police or tackle the intruder? Common sense dictated the first action to be the most prudent although instinct demanded a faster response. He had pulled the phone out of his pocket while he hesitated and dialed 99…………….. when something strange occurred. The same dark figure had returned and was again passing by the conservatory windows. It was only a glance but he thought there was something familiar about that figure.
He threw down the cell phone and walked purposely through the conservatory. Whoever the stranger might be, he would find a shock awaiting him on his next circuit of the house.
With head pounding, he crouched down behind a high-backed chair beside the open doors of the conservatory. As soon as he heard the noise of running feet, he jumped up, ran forward and tackled the thief to the ground with a few choice swear words to give him added menace.
His quick first impression was that he had collared a teenager. He had met no resistance and the figure was smaller than he had expected. He was about to deliver a preliminary blow to the side of the boy’s head when a squeaky voice gasped out his name.
“Ian, what are you playing at? It’s me, Sandy!”
He backed off immediately and responded with anger. “What the hell are you doing? Is someone chasing you? Why are you out there? You never run anywhere.”
Sandra rolled over and regained her feet. She recognized her husband’s attempt to save face by blaming her but she had had a weekend to think about things and now was not the time to back down.
“Well, Ian Halder, it is not a crime to run around one’s property, as far as I know. I wasn’t expecting you till lunchtime.” She dusted down her grass-stained pant legs and tried to retain as much dignity as the situation allowed.
“But, but…. the furniture was moved and the doors open. I thought you were a burglar or something.”
He sounded flustered. For once he was at a loss for words.
“The only thing I may be guilty of, Your Honour, is self-improvement. And now I am about to shower and dress. You will find sandwiches in the kitchen, should you desire them.”
She left with her head held high and a pleased smile on her face. Round One to the lady.
Ian Halder was astonished. Who was this woman? From his position on his knees he watched his wife march indoors and vanish up the stairs to their bedroom. He could not comprehend what had just happened. The family woman, homemaker, quiet listener, child-minder who normally occupied the background space in his home had been somehow taken over by this alien person. He looked behind him to check if the television had left its accustomed corner of the lounge and was relieved to see it was still in place. No matter when he had returned home after one of his business trips, he could count on seeing Sandy seated on the couch watching her TV shows. What had happened to change this well-worn pattern?
On an impulse he stood and went over to the television and placed his hand on top of the set. It felt cold. For some stranger than strange reason, his wife had left the TV off and taken to running around in the garden.
What? Sandy Halder running? Was the moving of the couch also significant?
His first thought was that mental illness had struck. He considered calling the family doctor immediately but as his hand touched the phone he could not figure out what he would say to the receptionist when asked what the reason for a visit might be.
“My wife has started behaving differently,” didn’t sound sufficiently urgent.
“She’s running in the garden,” was no better, and “She’s stopped watching television,” seemed too bizarre.
He really needed more information before he could determine the cause of Sandy’s weird behaviour.
With this decision made, and a temporary delay in serious action assured, Ian picked up his overnight bag and headed upstairs. He could hear the shower running so he would not need to confront his wife just yet.
Time to plan a strategy. Now he was on safe ground. Strategic planning was one of his skill set. However, this was the oddest thing to happen to him in all the years of their marriage.
Was it possibly something to do with empty nest syndrome? He had heard other men discussing such things over a drink or two. At the time he had felt blessed he could always rely on his Sandy behaving normally. No ups and downs with that girl. She ploughed on exactly the same from year to year, totally predictable in her ways. Their daughters had often chided her for never trying anything different in clothes or holidays or even which grocery stores she shopped in. To Ian this had seemed immensely reassuring. He was not fond of change. With a busy lifestyle like his; here today and somewhere else tomorrow, knowing all was the same at his home base was a great comfort to him. He had never actually thought of this from his wife’s perspective. Surely, she was as contented as she had seemed to be? When had she ever protested about her circumstances?
When had he actually asked her how she felt?
As this disturbing thought occurred, the anxiety sweat on his forehead spread to the rest of his body. Was there trouble coming in his marriage?
At once his mind was beset by fragments of stories he had heard in his travels and barely noticed at the time. The whispers about so and so whose wife had up and left him without a word; a colleague who had taken a leave to look after the children when his partner became mentally ill; the wife who was rumoured to have had a sex change…………… Ian Halder had been insulated from all this upheaval.
He had never given a thought to trouble at home. He had never been given a reason to. The fact that his Sandra was happy to stay
at home with the children and not return to teaching was a point of pride with him. He could afford the luxury of having a wife at home, unlike many other men he knew. Yes, he worked hard for it but it seemed to suit both parties. Had this unspoken arrangement changed without his knowledge? Was that even possible?
The sound of running water had ceased. He quickly divested himself of crumpled trousers and sweaty shirt and pulled fresh clothes from drawers and hangers. If he was going to tackle these difficult questions, he wanted to feel in control. He nipped to the downstairs toilet and splashed cold water on face and hands then passed a comb through his brown hair so that the greying wings his wife so admired were arranged neatly around his ears. He wondered whether to move to the kitchen and be discovered there calmly eating his sandwich, or perhaps he should pour that whisky and arrange himself on the couch in a casual fashion? The fact that he was dithering about this minor decision was alarming to him. He stood still, in an unusual brain fog, and tried to compose himself.
Sandra emerged from the shower with a happy smile and a song in her heart. She suspected her husband was waiting for an explanation but she was not about to rush to clarify her decisions. First she would dress in something new, add some makeup and arrange her hair in the attractive swept-up style and then she would enter the ring for Round Two.
She almost tripped over Ian’s discarded trousers by the bed. Tutting to herself at his carelessness she bent down to pick them up and saw they were in a bad condition.
“It looks like you slept in these, Ian. They will have to go to the dry cleaner.”
She shook them out prior to folding them and saw a card flutter to the floor. It was one of the business cards he often brought back from conferences or meetings and she knew he kept them filed carefully in the downstairs office.
She was about to lay the card on his dresser beside the loose change and his watch when she noticed handwriting on the back.
