by Peter Martin
On the way home, this festered in his mind. This was the second time this had happened. In the privacy of his own home, he sat down on the edge of his sofa, and head in hands, broke down and cried. Many things passed through his mind but he believed it involved her husband. He feared he’d lose her to him.
Later that night, having got ready for bed early, he sat dozing in front of the television. At first the faint ring of his mobile didn’t register, but once his head cleared he jumped up; he’d left his mobile in the bedroom.
‘Hallo,’ he said harshly, irritated.
‘Billy? It’s Becky.’
‘Becky, are you, all right? I’ve been worried sick.’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she mumbled. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get away until now. Things are frantic.’
‘You sound worn out. Where are you?’
‘At home. Err … I mean Robert’s home.’
‘But why, what’s happened?’
‘I got a phone call in the early hours of Monday morning from the police to tell me Robert had been involved in a car crash. It’s serious, his girlfriend who was driving has died.’
‘Dear God, how terrible. What are his chances of a recovery?’
‘From what they’ve told me, if luck is on his side, he’ll pull through. Although what quality of life he’ll have is unclear. He’s had one operation, but more are scheduled.’ She began to sob. ‘He has serious back injuries, broken legs, and his face is smashed up. It’ll take him many months to recover. David and I will stay with him until he’s well enough to look after himself. I hope you understand.’
‘Of course, I do. So, when can I see you?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, not for a while.’ She stopped to blow her nose. ‘It’s so upsetting to see him with his face battered and swollen and he’s so helpless … I’m sorry … I can’t deal with this. I have to go.’
‘Please, keep in touch,’ he said, but phone had gone dead.
So, he knew where he stood. Their relationship seemed to have ended abruptly. In a twist of fate Becky and David had been thrown right back into Robert’s lap. Robert didn’t deserve her; he’d left Becky for a younger woman. He couldn’t imagine the pain Becky was going through.
<><><>
Four weeks passed and he lost all hope of ever hearing from Becky again. Then, on the Friday night, on his way home from the pub, he noticed a light on in the kitchen window of her flat. Filled with expectation, he rang her land line.
Excitement came into his voice when the telephone receiver was picked up, and he said, ‘Is that you, Becky?’
‘Who?’ A coarse female voice answered. ‘You must have the wrong number, mate.’
Billy repeated the number he’d dialled.
‘It is the right number, but there’s no one called Becky living here. I only moved in a couple of days ago. Maybe she’s the previous tenant?’
‘Yes, she is. Did she leave a forwarding address?’
‘Nah, don’t know anything about that. I got this flat through an advert in the paper. Mr Swift, the landlord, is the person I’ve been dealing with. You should have a word with him.’
Billy threw his phone against the wall in frustration. What on earth was going on now? Why had she moved out? She could have told him. It must have something to do with that husband of hers.
He’d forgotten she was renting the flat. Maybe he’d pay this Mr Swift a visit. Surely, there was a forwarding address.
But, before he could, the next morning he got a letter in the post.
It began:
Dear Billy,
I’m sorry to write to you like this. It’s the coward’s way out, but there’s no easy way to tell you without getting myself even more upset.
It’s over between us. Much as I like you and everything else, the pull of my husband with whom I’ve shared so many years, and who is David’s father, is too great. The injuries to his back and legs are so severe, despite several operations, it looks like he’ll never walk properly again. He needs David and me more than ever.
In the past few weeks we’ve found one another again, and in the long and painful months ahead, we want to make a go of it. David is happy to have his father back again, and they’re getting close for the first time.
I’ll never forget the time we had together, and neither will David. You helped me get through a very unhappy period of my life, and for that I am eternally grateful. I don’t know what would have happened if the car crash hadn’t taken place – but now it’s pointless to speculate. David and I wish you all the happiness in the world and hope you soon find someone to share your life with. It’s the least you deserve.
Much love,
Becky.
P.S. Please, I beg of you, don’t try to contact me as this would only cause everyone a lot unnecessary pain.
Billy started breathing heavily; despair began to build up within him again. Amidst his tears he screamed, ripped up the letter into many tiny pieces and threw them into the air, watching them flutter down on to the carpet. He then grabbed any item in his path – chairs, tables, cups, saucers, plates, anything he could lay his hands on, throwing them against the wall. When he’d finished the place looked like a bomb site. He plunged to the floor screaming the same thoughts. Why me yet again? What have I done to deserve this?
Later when the hysteria had passed, washed-out, he opened the bottle of Rosé he’d kept in case Becky paid a visit. Within ten minutes, after gulping down a can of lager, he threw the empty wine bottle against the door. Soon afterwards he collapsed in a drunken stupor on the floor.
With no perception of where he was, he awoke with a pounding headache. But at sight of the mess he’d created, it all came back to him and he turned away in shame.
Finally, he sat up feeling sick, but forced himself to stand. As he began the awesome task of clearing up, unimaginable thoughts of hatred formed in his mind, of retribution and reprisals.
<><><>
At work he acted as if nothing had happened. None of the other teachers knew of his relationship with Becky but the Principal, so he had no awkward questions to answer. He wanted to move on, but the whole despicable episode stuck in his craw.
He’d never met Robert but from what he could gather the bloke was a condescending adulterous big-head. The type to assume his estranged wife would look after him in his hour of need. And the fact she and his son had, at one point, been almost homeless through his actions, didn’t seem to matter.
If only he knew where he lived.
<><><>
Days turned into weeks. He’d heard Becky had left her job without serving notice and decided to challenge the Principal. At the end of the school day with no other teaching staff about, he went to his office.
‘Sorry to bother you, Mr Gibson. Could I have a word?’
‘Yes, yes, come and take a seat.’ He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. ‘Now, Billy, what can I do for you?’
‘I hear Becky Sanders has left the College,’ he began. ‘I presume it must have something to do with her husband’s dreadful accident.’
‘Yes, it has. Terrible thing. Has been a dreadful strain for her.’ He stopped and shook his head, before adding, ‘Although I hear there’s been an improvement. The doctors have said he’s over the worst but will be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Perhaps when things have settled down, she might teach … err … somewhere else,’ Billy fished.
‘Who knows? I suppose it’s possible. It’s sad, she’s such a talented and popular teacher. But I can’t see her coming back here. She’s living about thirty miles away.’
‘I was wondering, if you have her new address I could go visit them.’ Billy suggested, holding his breath.
‘As I’ve said before that’s not possible,’ was his reply. ‘But I’m going up myself in a few days’ time, I could convey your best wishes to her.’
‘That’s good of you. Thanks.’
An awk
ward silence followed, and Billy realised in Gibson’s usual brusque way he’d been dismissed and got up from his seat.
‘Oh, we’re having a whip-round. Mrs Dawson’s been busy organising it. If you’d like to contribute, why don’t you see her?’
‘Yes, right I’ll do that.’ He hesitated before leaving the room, he had hoped at least to come away with Becky’s new number but realised it would be futile to suggest this.
Outside, Billy stamped his foot in frustration. He had to find her address. Maybe one of the other teachers would tell him, but how could he do that without arousing suspicion?
Soon his eagerness turned into a frenzy, he needed to know where she was. He’d hoped to contact her during the Christmas holidays now only a week away, but as his enquiries had drawn a blank, it seemed unlikely.
During the holiday, while clearing out old paperwork, he came across a scrap book he’d been compiling of his children’s artwork. Tucked away in the back were several of David’s drawings, and flicking through them he stopped to read one of his stories. It turned out to be a letter addressed to Santa Claus, but at the top of the page he’d scrawled 5 Fesent Close – the rest of the address was illegible. He felt giddy with excitement and opened up his laptop. He now had the breakthrough he needed. Obviously the “Fesent” was the child’s way of spelling “Pheasant”.
Within fifteen minutes he found two possibilities. But from the little information Mr Gibson had given, only one fitted the bill – he’d stated Becky lived “thirty miles away” and had referred to going “up” to visit her.
<><><>
But what was intended as a reconnaissance trip proved to be more decisive.
It started with a pleasant drive through hilly green countryside dotted with sheep. Here and there amid the early morning mist distant lights from isolated farms were visible.
At last, having passed through several sleepy hamlets, he noticed a sign swaying in the breeze welcoming visitors to Linbury. The main street hosted a couple of pubs, gift shops, a post office and store, and at the far end where the road forked, stood a church.
Billy stopped the car to google the address on his phone but still couldn’t work out where it was. Most of the houses were interspersed between the main street and a few side streets, none of which were Pheasant Close. If he left the car now, being a stranger, he’d be too conspicuous but once he’d got his bearings, he might find out what was going on with Becky and her husband. He took a swig from his can of Coke, unable to decide what to do next. After considering his options, he got out, donned a baseball cap, and headed towards the church, and the sound of a distant voice.
‘Peppi, Peppi,’ came the voice.
Out of nowhere a small poodle appeared and was now prancing around his feet. He bent down to stroke the animal’s head.
‘Oh, there you are.’ Billy saw an old lady approaching; she spoke as if to a child, ‘I can’t keep up with you, you naughty girl.’ She looked up into Billy’s face, adding in the same vein, ‘And jumping on this gentleman too.’
‘Don’t worry on my account,’ Billy remarked. He picked up the small poodle. ‘You don’t know where Pheasant Close is by any chance, do you?’ he asked, passing the dog over to its owner.
‘If you carry on past the church, you’ll see a narrow driveway. It leads to four or five detached houses.’ She pointed her crooked finger, then went on, ‘It’s there, opposite. It’s hard to see from here because of the trees fronting it.’
Not wanting to continue the conversation, he thanked her and walked off in the direction she’d indicated.
Halfway up the drive his pace slowed; there were the five detached houses spaced out into a semi-circle. He stepped out of view into the bushes. From this vantage point, he could just about make out the number of the house opposite.
Billy decided to spend a night or two in a local B&B. The next morning he woke early; the room he’d booked at The Hangman’s Tree late yesterday afternoon left a lot to be desired. But, with Linbury only a few miles away, it would serve its purpose. And after a light breakfast he was on his way.
Once again in the confinement of the car he sat in wait, parked just around the corner so he could see their house. He guessed, being Saturday morning, they’d go shopping.
Two hours later the front door opened and out stepped Becky. She turned around and pulled her husband’s wheelchair out of door and down a ramp towards the car, while David ran forward to open the door to the red Tuscan 4-by-4. With difficulty, Robert heaved himself into the passenger seat. He’d angrily waved aside Becky’s offer to help and shouted he could do this himself. Becky shrugged her shoulders, and then adeptly folded up the chair and placed it into the boot.
He waited for their car to pass his, and within the matter of a few seconds, he followed the red 4-by-4 keeping a discreet distance. Now, more than ever before, he suspected her return to her husband was influenced by money rather than a sense of duty.
Fifteen minutes later they were driving along the busy High Street of Freesham, but being determined to chase his quarry three vehicles in front, he didn’t take in what the town offered.
He parked his car a safe distance from the handicapped parking bay, but close enough to see through the rear-view mirror. Becky and David struggled to help Robert into his wheelchair amid more rantings, which quite shocked Billy.
Their first port of call was a cafe not far from the entrance to the car park. After a few minutes Billy walked in discreetly, and ordered a pot of tea. The toast he’d eaten for breakfast had the consistency of cardboard and the burnt taste had lingered in his mouth. He hoped the tea might wash away that taste.
How frustrating, boring even, to keep tabs on them. They were so slow.
From where he sat he saw them eating jam scones and sipping drinks. They weren’t talking much. Then David got up and walked to the toilets. He opened the door, looked inside and came out nodding. Becky got up from her seat and manoeuvred the wheelchair inside, leaving Robert to go to the toilet. They stood outside waiting for him to finish.
Billy had been lucky so far, no one had recognised him. He drank his tea, and pretended to read a newspaper. Then he heard a voice shouting, ‘Get in here and hurry up!’ Obviously, Robert.
Becky looked frantic when the door to the toilet opened and struggled to push the wheelchair out. Robert was shouting at his wife over something.
My God, what a task they faced. Becky must be a saint to put up with it. And to think she’d given him up for this.
What a turn of events, he thought, slipping out of the café. The cold morning air brought him back to reality. He couldn’t believe this had happened right in front of him. And what she and David were going through now didn’t bear thinking about. Would this mean anything for him? He didn’t know. Right now, his pride wouldn’t allow him to have Becky back into his life, having already been spurned once.
CHAPTER 23
On the drive back to Ashfield, his feelings of shock remained. Becky would certainly have a hard time with Robert. And God knows what it would do to David. Maybe Billy was better out of it. But he couldn’t help feeling once again that he faced a life of lonelinesswithout anyone to share it with. Yet he wouldn’t have swapped places with Becky for the world. In some ways hers was worse than his own plight.
At the flat he lay on his bed thinking of Becky and the turmoil she faced. From the look of it at least she’d be comfortably off.
That night Billy slept fretfully. And the following morning wasn’t motivated by the idea of returning to work.
He should have put more effort into the first lesson of the day. After all, they were working towards their exam next year. But somehow he didn’t have the energy. And, anyway, why should he push himself? Morons, all of them … not nearly as talented as someone from his dark, distant past. Huh, and look who she was with: another idiot.
He walked round to each desk handing every student a blank piece of paper. ‘All right, you lot, I want you to write a st
ory, entitled My Most Enjoyable Holiday. He then returned to his desk, sat down, took a newspaper from his briefcase and started reading it. Total silence ensued. He guessed they were wondering what had got into him, setting an assignment more suited to primary school children. But hey-ho, he didn’t care.
And, with their heads down in the eerie atmosphere, they all began their work. Billy waited, expecting one or other of the wise guys in the room to comment. But nothing was said, and after the lesson they all left without a word.
At the next lesson he suggested his students might like a change from a conventional lesson and asked if anyone knew a good joke. At first his proposition was met with raised eyebrows, but once the ball was rolling the whole class joined in, culminating in a most hilarious lesson. Billy had enjoyed himself and vowed to continue in a similar vein.
This carried on for the rest of the day with little work being done. If he carried on like this, his students would fail their exams. But with nothing in his own life, what did it matter to him?
Later at his flat that night, he looked at the huge wad of exercise books he had to mark and was disheartened. He couldn’t face the monotony of it all and picked up the whole pile and dumped them in the trash bin outside the flats. He giggled. Why he found it so funny he didn’t know.
<><><>
Billy’s cynical outlook on life continued as did his attitude towards his job. His non-existent personal life aggravated his lack of interest in his students’ education and their future. His lessons became a stage show; a performance rather than a period of learning. Often his class were asked to write an essay on random subjects: Why England hadn’t won the World Cup since 1966? What makes a world class golfer? A far cry from the curriculum.
When the Head asked to see him, he wasn’t surprised. Standing outside the man’s office, he knocked on the door, wondering what the outcome would be.
Jack Gibson looked up over half-rimmed spectacles as he entered the room.
