Wronged Sons, The

by Marrs, John

  In theory, it was the perfect solution, but I still needed to think about it. You’d invested so many hours in building it from scratch so giving up your share was another way I’d be letting you go. But I had to put myself first and although I’d be waving goodbye to your dreams, you’d be helping me to reach mine. So with Steven’s money and a small bank loan, I was soon to have a business of my very own.

  But just when I had everything mapped out for the year ahead, something - or more accurately someone - came along to throw a spanner in the works.

  Tom caught my eye the first night I began the bookkeeping course Margaret suggested. He was the only person who smiled when I walked nervously through the classroom door. He was classically handsome with dark wavy hair, greying temples and his few laughter lines drew me to his chestnut brown eyes.

  I was stacked from waist to chin with textbooks when Suzie’s Bros pencil case toppled from the top to the floor. Tom’s hand shot out and caught it and he chuckled at Matt and Luke Goss’s cheesy grins. I blushed.

  “I don’t think you’ll be needing all of them tonight,” he began as we queued for a vending machine coffee during the first lesson break.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “All your textbooks, they’re for the entire course,” he said, pointing to my desk. “Unless you’re planning to condense six months into one night?”

  My nervous laugh came out like a pig’s snort and I died a little inside.

  Tom introduced himself and explained how he was about to start his own business in wood sculpture and furniture design. He’d recently quit a successful career as a solicitor to follow his dreams – a brave decision for man in his late-thirties. And, like me, he hadn’t known the first thing about accounts. Already we had something in common.

  “Are you busy later?” he asked as we returned to our seats. “Do you fancy a drink after school?”

  “Me?” I asked, taken aback. “Oh, um, well I’ve got to get home.”

  “How about the weekend then… Saturday night, dinner? That’s if you’re free. Or if you want to.”

  “I barely know you,” I replied, sounding like an uptight virgin from a Bronte Sisters’ novel.

  “That’s what dinner’s for,” he grinned.

  I stared at him blankly, unsure of what to say. Then my mouth stepped in before my brain had a chance to.

  “I’ve got four kids and my husband’s disappeared and he’s probably dead but I can’t be sure because we haven’t seen him in years and I’ve not been on a date since Abba won Eurovision,” I blurted out in a babbling stream.

  He responded with a silent smile until he was sure the onslaught of information had peaked.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know where that came from,” I mumbled.

  “Well, I’m divorced with a bitch of an ex-wife who’s sadly very much alive and I’d love to go on a date with you,” he smiled back at me. “So how’s about it?”

  January 11, 7.35pm

  I wasn’t sure how I’d found myself in a Chinese restaurant sharing a chicken chow mein with a single, drop-dead gorgeous man.

  Dating in my thirties was not such a different experience to dating as a teenager. When I met you, I may have been young but I remembered how naturally we fitted together and how I didn’t want to be chatted up by anyone else. Other boys asked me out, but there’d been a vulnerability that came with you that they didn’t have.

  As a fifteen-year-old, I was embarrassed by my growing boobs and pimply skin. As a thirty five-year-old, I was embarrassed by my sagging boobs and wrinkly skin.

  I started putting my make-up on for my ‘date’ - a word that seemed ridiculous for a woman of my age to use – and glared into that unforgiving bathroom mirror.

  I asked myself what Tom had seen in me. I had more baggage than an airport check-in; my once sparkling blue eyes had been dulled by circumstances beyond my control and my confidence with the opposite sex was at rock bottom. Actually it was lower than that. I was not what you’d call ‘a catch’.

  Twice I almost phoned him to cancel, blaming a sick child, before I reminded myself dating was just another mountain waiting to be conquered. In the end, I had nothing to worry about. Once the butterflies stopped circling my stomach, I was drawn in by his sense of humour, self-confidence and honesty.

  Tom explained how his ex-wife had walked out on him to live with a much younger man. He’d distracted himself from his divorce and high-pressured job by wood carving and creating incredible sculptures and furniture.

  “I don’t know if I can explain it properly without sounding like an idealist or a hippy,” he began. “But one day it was like I had an epiphany. I realised that I was actually capable of doing anything I wanted to if I put my heart and soul into. And being creative with wood gives me more fulfilment than the path I’d mapped out for myself in law. The other lawyers in the firm thought I was mad when I resigned, but I had to give it my best shot even if the odds were stacked against me. Do you understand what I mean?”

  I identified with every word he said. And like me, Tom was new to the dating scene.

  “When I tell women that I quit being a lawyer to do this, I learned a man who wants to follow his heart into the unknown isn’t as attractive as one who knows where his belongs,” he continued. “That’s what I like about you. You didn’t look at me like I was barking mad.”

  Likewise, I’d examined his reactions for any sign of blame when I went into more detail about my life than the rambling coffee machine highlights: one morning, my husband simply fell off the face of the earth.

  “Do you think he’s still alive?” Tom asked.

  “No, I don’t think he is,” I replied. “I’ve been through every scenario of what might have happened, but I don’t think I’ll ever really know. So the kids and I have accepted we’ve lost him.”

  “And you’re ready to move on?”

  “Yes,” I replied with certainty, “Yes, I am.”

  “Good,” he smiled, and reached out to hold my hand.

  June 12, 7.35pm

  Tom knew without me ever having to explain that I was a repair in progress. I took our friendship slowly and cautiously with post-lesson drinks, pub lunches, coffees and then finally a kiss. Although the front seat of his car outside Argos wasn’t quite straight from the pages of a Jackie Collins novel, it didn’t matter. He’d given my life a much-needed thrill.

  And with that came guilt. Was I cheating on your memory? It was all very well promising till death do us part, but there was no clause in our wedding vows to cover an unexpected disappearance.

  I asked myself what you’d do if the roles were reversed and I wasn’t convinced you’d have moved on. But after all I’d been through; I felt I deserved a spring in my step.

  That said; I still made Tom wait nearly four months before I was ready to make love. I’d become used to my body as a solitary vessel navigated by a crew of one. And Tom was someone who wanted to steer her into fresh waters. With each touch, each stroke and each kiss, I found it hard to concentrate on pleasuring him or feeling him pleasuring me as I was too focused on stopping my body from involuntarily shaking. But when the second time came around, I was much more relaxed, and by the third, I couldn’t wait for more. And there was a lot more.

  I still had inhibitions over what my body had to offer to Tom or any man, so lights-on lovemaking was a strict no-no. The war wounds of five pregnancies gave me as many hang-ups as hang-downs. But Tom didn’t appear bothered. He was no Richard Gere, but I didn’t need a six-pack, tree trunk thighs or the libido of an eighteen-year-old to satisfy me.

  I enjoyed doing coupley things like visiting the cinema and the theatre; taking long walks by the canal with Oscar or visiting woodwork and textile museums. We took an interest in what interested each other and slowly, I began to develop real feelings for Tom, so much more than just a crush on the first boy who’d showed me a glimmer of interest.

  The kids were the only part of my life I wasn’t ready to share. My
relationship with them was as honest as it could possibly be, so I didn’t want to lie by keeping him hidden like a dirty little secret.

  But I didn’t want to rock the boat either. James’ temper no longer had me on tenterhooks and he focused all his energies on his guitar. I was so proud the first time I saw him on stage playing in the school orchestra, that I embarrassed him by being the only mum to stand up and cheer when he finished his first public solo.

  Robbie’s conversational skills were also gradually improving. I’d resigned myself to the fact he was never going to be a chatterbox like Emily. But when he started accepting invitations to school friends’ birthday parties, I knew we’d turned a corner.

  So I began by slipping Tom’s name into conversations here and there, explaining he was a friend of Mummy’s from night school. But as our dates became more frequent, Emily was the first to cotton on there might be more to him than just the man who helped mummy with her maths homework.

  “Can we meet your friend please?” she asked as we fed stale bread to the ducks in park.

  “Which friend?”

  “The one who makes you smile. Tom.”

  “Why do you say he makes me smile?” I asked, and felt my face go bright red.

  “Whenever tell us you’re seeing him, the corners of your mouth go up like this,” she replied, giving me a huge, cheeky grin. “You love him!”

  “Yes Mummy, why can’t we meet him?” chirped James.

  So to my delight and terror, the decision had been made for me.

  July 9, 7.35pm

  I’d both looked forward to and dreaded Tom meeting the children in equal measures. It’d just been the four of us for so long that I’d forgotten what it felt like to be a five.

  The day before he came, I’d had a sit-down chat with the kids to explain Tom wasn’t going to replace you, and if they didn’t like him, they should tell me. I’d always put their feelings before mine so if it meant Tom and I were going to be prematurely nipped in the bud, then so be it.

  By the time he knocked at the door, I was fully prepared for them to charge through the full gamut of childhood emotions like tantrums, awkward silences, hostility and general boundary pushing. How wrong could I have been? They were so inquisitive, well mannered and polite that I thought I might have to reassure Tom I wasn’t raising the Stepford Children. I also felt bad for not giving them more credit.

  Tom was relaxed and had a natural chemistry with them, despite not being a dad himself. He paid each one equal attention and they couldn’t wait to show him their bedrooms and toys. Even Robbie spoke a little to him, a huge sign of his approval.

  As I stood at the kitchen sink washing up the dinner dishes, I closed my eyes and took a moment to listen to our children’s laughter and a man’s voice echoing around the house.

  I’d not expected me, or the walls, to hear that again.

  November 24, 4.45pm

  Introducing another ball into my juggling act was tricky, but I found a way to make it work.

  I was winning in my battle against basic bookkeeping, and Margaret was winding down and dreaming of sunnier climes. Tom knew he was going to come third in line for my attention, after the kids and the boutique. And although we weren’t able to see each other as often as we’d have liked, he understood.

  Twice a week he slept at our house, and once a week when Selena babysat, I’d stay at his. Most evenings he joined us for dinner and would end his day being pulled in three different directions by six hands for bedtime stories and baths.

  Tom had been in a rock group during his university days but his attempts to seduce me away from my George Michael and Phil Collins CDs and towards his Led Zeppelin collection were wasted. But James was more than willing to soak up new sounds so Tom took him to see bands I’d never heard of at music venues in Birmingham and Cambridge and they’d arrive home, singing at the top of their voices and holding armfuls of tour merchandise and tat.

  I let him move his tools and wood into your garage workspace and soon the smell of fresh sawdust wafted regularly around the garden.

  Tom was aware you were a presence that would remain in the cottage for as long as his new family did. But if it bothered him, he never showed it. I grew used to having a man around the house and he reminded me of how much I’d enjoyed it with you.

  And then from beyond the grave, you ruined it all.

  ***

  San Francisco, America, Twenty-Three Years Earlier

  January 7, 3.35pm

  With Betty consigned to a smelted shell wedged into the desert floor, I relied on Greyhound coaches and railways to ferry me around. They carried me up through Canada, then back down into America and towards middle states like Utah and Nevada. But my surroundings were unimportant as long as I kept active. Solitude posed the greatest threat to my state of mind because it allowed me time to think.

  On my arrival in France, I had a firm understanding of how my thought process operated and I’d manipulated it accordingly. If I didn’t want to think about something, it was consigned to a box and then closed tight. But I couldn’t shut Caroline away with such ease.

  Her death began to eat at me like a cancer. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make the lid fit. Flashbacks of her fateful moments galloped around my head like lemmings; pulling me in a multitude of directions, always searching for the cliff’s edge.

  My reaction eventually made me question whether I’d dealt with our confrontation correctly, otherwise why had it played so heavy on my mind? The others hadn’t made me feel like that. Why could I not stop hearing her voice as it screamed my name? Why did my cheek still sting from her slaps? Why couldn’t I blank out the terrified confusion in her eyes when I pushed her?

  I reminded myself countless times it was Caroline who’d forced my hand, and not the other way round. But it wasn’t enough. Every town and city housed an area of dodgy repute making narcotics easy to source once you spotted the familiar signs of decay in its residents. Cocaine became the only thing that kept my thoughts of Caroline sedated.

  I still enjoyed cannabis, but only as my night-time buttress. I’d smoke a few joints and delay retiring to bed for as long as possible, so the moment I slipped into my sleeping bag, I was too exhausted and relaxed to analyse anything.

  I constantly kept moving, and crammed as many activities as I could into my weeks. I’d visit notable landmarks, seek adrenaline thrills like white water rafting and rock climbing, or spend time with other travellers discussing the next place to visit. The more unmarked paths I explored, the less opportunity there was to revisit those I knew too well.

  The prospect of being more than a few days in one location and risk further muddling scared me. But I couldn’t spend the rest of my life running and eventually, something had to give.

  Eighteen months in perpetual motion left my bones begging for rest and my mind longing for unclouded breathing space. And so on the recommendation of others, I settled on San Francisco as a bolthole for respite.

  I stood at the summit of one of the city’s twin peaks on my arrival and understood why so many out-of-towners had left their hearts there. Its magnificent panoramic views; adorable Victorian-style houses and milky, misty skies were as beguiling as they were calming.

  I stayed at the Height Ashbury Hostel, which nestled quietly in the centre of what, twenty years earlier, had been the heart of the hippie insurgence. With its broad-minded reputation and artistic bent, it wasn’t hard to spot by clothing alone those who’d once worn flowers in their hair and preached an ethos of peace and love. San Francisco’s compact nature enabled me to absorb its entirety by foot. It was a world away from the sprawling landscapes I’d scoped from inside train and bus windows. And as my body slowed down, gradually my brain followed suit.

  There were plenty of parks, museums, galleries, architecture and coffee houses for me to relax in and to gawk at the absurd walking shoulder to shoulder with the elegant. I was at home in a city of misfits.

  The hostel’s
vibe replicated that of its surroundings, reminding me of the temporary peace and safety I’d found at the Routard International. Like its predecessor, it too was a former hotel that had witnessed better days.

  However, the only restoration project I had a vested interest in, was me. Until someone made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

  April 20, 5pm

  It was through my exposure to dozens of hostels with varying quality of facilities that I was able to advise Mike, the relatively inexperienced proprietor of Height Ashbury hostel.

  I’d become an expert in the minimal requirements a budget traveller expected, and he leant a willing ear to my suggestions. But what began as a casual proffering of opinions over a jug of Budweiser escalated to an employment offer as manager.

  I had drifted towards the city to gather myself, and three months of being in a fresh environment and my self-medication brought me back to whom I’d been when I first embarked on my adventure.

  And my old self appreciated a new challenge. So a free reign to build a business from scraps was too interesting an opportunity to reject. It would also help my ever-active mind to remain focused with constructive ideas. I hadn’t felt such purpose since I’d walked along the Rue Du Jean as flames from a burning hotel nipped at my heels.

  I held court at twice-weekly travel workshops, in which I’d advise guests of off-the-beaten-track destinations, where to find work without a Green Card and how to make their dollars stretch further. I liaised with hostels cross-country to set up discounts for mutual recommendations. And having briefly once been the guest of a homeless shelter myself in London, I encouraged our patrons to spare a few hours to serve lunches in the downtown soup kitchen.