by Dawn Harris
In the end I think they realised the harm I would suffer by not hearing the truth now. Anyway, they said Auntie Jean would tell me the facts, as in their opinion, she had more right than anyone. ‘Don’t judge too harshly,’ Dad murmured, giving my hand a squeeze. ‘We all make mistakes.’
Auntie Jean took me for a walk in the woods the following Sunday, and we tramped in unaccustomed silence through the multi-coloured carpet of fallen autumn leaves for quite some time before she spoke. ‘This isn’t easy for me, Veronica,’ she said. ‘But I couldn’t bear you to hear it from anyone else.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Your father was killed in the war. His name was Paul Thomson and we were to have been married. Then, a week before the wedding, Paul left me for another woman.’
I gasped. ‘Oh, Auntie Jean, how could he?’
A sad smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. ‘She was much prettier than me.’ That was typical of Auntie Jean; she never said an unkind word about anyone.
‘How you must have suffered,’ I burst out passionately, for suddenly everything had fallen into place. It was Auntie Jean who took me out every Sunday and loved me like a daughter. Tears choked me as I realised my father must have deserted her when she was pregnant. At fourteen, I understood the vast difference in social status between an unmarried mother and a respectable widow. I couldn’t imagine anything more terrible than having to give up one’s own baby.
And then she told me who the other woman was. I stood speechless with shock, as she went on, ‘After Paul was killed, I desperately wanted to keep his child in the family. Lucille was against it at first.....’
I protested inarticulately. I couldn’t believe it. Aunt Lucille, whom I’d always liked, had not only stolen Auntie Jean’s fiancé, but wanted her to give up her baby too. How could she be so cruel?
‘I hate Aunt Lucille,’ I exploded with all the righteous anger of youth, forgetting all about. Dad begging me not to make harsh judgements. ‘And I’ll never speak to her again. Never!’
‘But you must, sweetheart,’ Auntie Jean insisted, holding me gently by the shoulders. ‘Don’t you understand? Lucille is your mother.’
STRICTLY PLATONIC
I met Gus on the very first day of what I’d taken to calling my new life – the old one having ended with earth-shattering devastation six months earlier. In truth, I was still reeling from it but, determined to start afresh, I’d left my home town in the Midlands and moved to the seaside.
The weather was perfect, the sun blazed down from a clear blue sky, and I ambled lazily along the water’s edge in shorts and a T-shirt, allowing the tiny waves to ripple over my bare feet. My toes curled pleasurably in the sand, and I was happier than I’d been for a very long time.
An ice cream van was standing in the beach car park and succumbing to temptation, I clambered up the pebbled top half of the beach towards it. I found the ice cream man enjoying an exchange of banter with a group of teenagers. As they left, one of them chortled, ‘Mind that van doesn’t give you claustrophobia, Gus.’
Gus laughed. He had short blond hair, laughing blue eyes, a wide, generous mouth, and being very tall and muscular, did almost fill the tiny van. ‘On holiday?’ he asked as he gave me my ice cream.
I shook my head. ‘I’ve just moved here.’
‘In that case,’ he smiled, ‘I hope you’ll become a regular customer. This is the best ice cream in town.’
He was right about the ice cream – it was absolutely heavenly. The hot weather continued and most days I found my way to the little van. For the ice cream. Not Gus. I go for elegant, sophisticated men. Like Jeremy. My ex-fiancé. Now living in Ashby-de-la-Zouch with my supposed best friend. Hence my new life.
I had always wanted to live by the sea, and I’d been lucky enough to land a teaching post where there was nothing to remind me of Jeremy and his deceit. Gus told me the usual ice cream man had broken his leg, and he was just helping out. When I asked what job he normally did, he replied vaguely, ‘Oh, I can turn my hand to most things.’ Then he suddenly asked, ‘Claire, are you busy on Saturday evening? Only I need a partner for the carnival barn dance and....’
My mouth was already forming a polite, ‘No thanks,’ when he shook a finger at me in mock warning. ‘It’ll be strictly platonic, mind. I’m spoken for. My fiancée’s a teacher like you, but she’s spending the summer holidays in Australia visiting her sister.’ His blue eyes twinkled innocently at me. ‘I’m on the carnival committee, you see, so I have to go to the dance, and it would be the perfect opportunity for you to meet people.’
‘Surely, you must have other friends who could partner you?’
‘Yes, but they’re all too short,’ he sighed. ‘I’m six foot seven. Can you see me dancing with some slip of a girl whose head barely reaches my chest?’ I laughed, and he asked, ‘How tall are you, Claire? Five foot ten?’
‘And a half,’ I informed him ruefully.
‘Perfect. That’s why I asked you,’ he explained.
I met his gaze steadily. ‘But I hardly know you.’
‘We’ll have plenty to talk about then,’ he grinned.
His enthusiasm was catching, but I wasn’t convinced his aims were as pure as he’d made out. And a new relationship simply wasn’t on my agenda. Jeremy had caused me enough heartache to last a lifetime. From now on I was putting all my energy into my career. Still, I did like Gus, and he deserved an honest answer. ‘Gus, if this is some elaborate ploy to get me to go out with you, don’t waste your time. You’re a nice guy, but you’re just not my type.’
His eyebrows shot up in reproach. ‘You’re forgetting about my fiancée.’
I eyed him suspiciously. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Gertrude Blenkinsop,’ he announced with a heartfelt sigh. ‘And I miss her.’
‘Gertrude?’ I spluttered in disbelief.
He threw me an injured look. ‘It is unusual, isn’t it. She’s named after her great-aunt.’
‘Have you got a photograph of her?’ Any man, parted from his fiancée, would definitely have one.
‘Of auntie?’ he queried, straight-faced. Resting his chin on cupped hands on the tiny counter, he looked at me, puzzled.
‘You know perfectly well what I mean,’ I giggled. His eyes gleamed with mischief as he took out his wallet and handed me a photograph. It showed Gus standing with his arm round the waist of a tall, stunning redhead. ‘She’s lovely,’ I exclaimed in genuine surprise.
He replaced the photograph in his wallet. ‘I’ll pick you up at 7.30 on Saturday then, if that’s okay?’
Why not, I thought. Gus was right, it would be a great way to meet new people, and I had to start somewhere. ‘Strictly platonic,’ I reminded him severely.
‘You bet! It can’t be any other way, believe me.’ He shuddered and, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, pretended to mop a perspiring brow. ‘My Gertrude packs quite a punch.’
His face was a picture of cowardly meekness, but the very idea that this great bear of a man could be scared of anyone, let alone a woman, was so ridiculous that I fell into helpless laughter, in a way I hadn’t for many months. Gus, far from being insulted by my reaction, stood grinning with obvious enjoyment. ‘That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh,’ he commented. ‘You should do it more often – it suits you.’
‘Look, Gus,’ I said, when I’d finally calmed down. ‘I’ll come to the dance, but tell me the truth, is there really a Gertrude Blenkinsop?’
‘Of course there is,’ he insisted indignantly.
That Saturday I joined the crowds watching the carnival floats go by, and strolled round the stalls set out on the nearby playing field. The barn dance was a huge success, everyone was very friendly and Gus behaved impeccably. During the Virginia reel, however, somehow I tripped and fell headlong into his arms. ‘Hey – none of that now,’ he reprimanded primly, though his eyes were dancing. ‘You’ll get me skinned alive.’
Gus saw me home after the dance, and keeping a proper distance as w
e said good night, he said, ‘I thought the evening went very well. Nothing there for Gertrude to worry about. Except,’ he teased, ‘when you threw yourself at me....’
‘I tripped,’ I protested.
‘Yes, so you say, but how do I know you don’t have designs on my body?’
I choked and laughed at the same time, and he held up a restraining hand. ‘All right, perhaps I’ll let it pass this time.’ His tone was severe, but his mouth twitched irrepressibly. ‘Seriously though, Claire, do you think we could continue this platonic friendship for a while? I don’t really enjoy going places on my own, and “Private Lives” is on at the theatre in town next week. I’d really love to see it and if you’d like to....’
Impulsively, I enthused, ‘I would. I love Noel Coward’s plays.’
‘That’s settled then,’ he murmured in satisfaction.
Throughout that lovely month of August we spent most of our evenings together. Except for Tuesdays. When I asked what he did then, he studied me for a long moment and finally said, ‘That’s when I wash my hair.’ Which, as his hair was very short, sent me into peals of laughter.
Our time was spent at the theatre, cinema, swimming or walking on the beach, driving out to the Downs and eating at delightful country inns. But if I touched his arm to draw his attention to something, or sat too close in the cinema, up would go those eyebrows. ‘Please,’ he’d reproach in shocked tones. ‘Gertrude wouldn’t approve.’ Yet this gentle giant clearly enjoyed life, and every evening I would arrive home feeling on top of the world. I also started to forget about Jeremy. He, I realised, had never been much fun.
As the long summer holidays gradually drew to a close, and the start of my new job approached, I found myself wishing that the life I’d been leading during these carefree weeks would go on for ever. That Gertrude would fall for some hunk in Australia and stay there, leaving us to enjoy our beautiful platonic relationship. Gus was the best friend I’d ever had. And that’s all I thought he was, until the Tuesday evening before the start of term, when I caught a glimpse of Gus outside a cottage as I was driving along the dual carriageway on the outskirts of town. A glimpse of him hugging a woman with blonde hair.
Pulling into the nearest lay-by, I sat thumping the steering wheel as furiously as if it was a set of tom-toms. Tears stung my eyes. How could Gus do this to me? If he must hug someone, why couldn’t it be me? And that’s when it hit me. I’d fallen in love with Gus without realising it. It was ages before I remembered that only Gertrude had the right to object to him hugging other women. And I said nothing until we were walking along the beach the following evening.
‘Does Gertrude know you’re two-timing her?’ I snapped.
‘Eh?’ For once he seemed taken aback. ‘But, Claire, you know I haven’t laid a finger on you. Except,’ he admitted, ‘when we were dancing.’
‘I’m not talking about me,’ I replied indignantly. ‘Who was that woman I saw you with last night?’
He was obviously startled, but quickly recovered. ‘That sounds like a cue for a very old joke!’
‘I’m serious, Gus.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’ He thrust a hand through his hair. ‘So, you’ve been checking up on me, have you?’
‘I saw you quite by chance,’ I retorted, adding righteously, ‘It’s not very fair on Gertrude, is it?’
He hung his head. ‘I don’t suppose there would be any point in me denying it?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘Oh well, I thought I might as well ask.’ He grinned sheepishly. ‘I guess this is confession time.’ I opened my mouth to speak, but he put a finger gently against my lips before I could say anything. ‘Please, Claire. Will you let me explain everything in my own way? It will mean a short drive in the car first, if that’s okay?’
I agreed, and as we walked back to his car, I asked painfully, ‘Do..... do you really love Gertrude Blenkinsop?’
He took my hand in his and squeezed it. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I really do. She’s wonderful.’
The drive was a short one, as he’d said, and he stopped the car outside the cottage where I’d seen him the previous evening. As we walked up the path, the door opened and out stepped a slim, elderly woman with dyed blonde hair. ‘Gus,’ she exclaimed joyfully. ‘How lovely to see you again. And you’ve brought your young lady to see me at last.’
Gus eyed me warily. ‘Claire, this is my grandmother --- Gertrude Blenkinsop.’
My mouth dropped open and I looked up at Gus. ‘You mean....?’
Gus nodded guiltily. So he didn’t have a fiancée after all, and my heart leapt. Gertrude urged Gus to show me the huge back garden while she prepared tea and scones. When we were well away from the house, Gus admitted, ‘This is where I come on Tuesday evenings.’ Adding with that irrepressible grin I’d grown to love, ‘After I’ve washed my hair.’
‘You lied to me, Gus. Why did you make up that story about a fiancée?’
‘Now, Claire, be reasonable. If I’d told you I was fancy-free, would you have agreed to go out with me?’
‘I guess not,’ I admitted. I raised my eyes slowly to meet his, and what I saw there made me tremble.
‘I knew you were the girl for me the first time we met, but you had that stricken, heartbroken look about you – that “Keep off the grass” expression. You’d obviously had your fingers badly burnt and you hadn’t the slightest interest in me. I thought that inventing a fiancée would make you feel safe, while we got to know each other.’
‘Did you?’ I muttered. ‘So who’s the woman in the photograph?’
‘An old flame.’ And he roared with laughter. ‘Now, don’t look at me like that. Did you think I’d lived like a monk all my life?’
I shook my head and asked quietly, ‘How many other lies have you told me?’
‘Only one,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t cope with any more – I’d be forever tripping myself up otherwise.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s about my job.’ Gus looked as near to being uncomfortable as I’d ever seen him.
‘Something tells me I’m not going to like this,’ I said. ‘Does the ice cream van feature at all in this?’
‘That belongs to my father. And I was helping him out, as I said. But, I...er....made out I was a jack of all trades.’
‘And you’re not?’
He took a deep breath. ‘I teach psychology.’
I gasped. ‘Psychology?’ I had been stitched up by a man who was an expert on the human mind. I struggled with a mass of conflicting emotions. I knew I should be angry but, through Gus, I’d learned to see the funny side of things again, and I simply dissolved into gales of laughter.
‘There!’ Gus declared, smiling in relief. ‘I knew you’d understand.’
He was looking at me in that very disturbing way again, and in that moment I saw a lifetime of joy and happiness stretching ahead of us. Gus stood watching my face intently and when I smiled, his eyes lit up. Grinning broadly, he held out his arms to me and, without hesitation, I walked straight into them.
MEN WITH BRIEFCASES
I’d never have known about the goings-on in the Avenue if I hadn’t been off work with a badly sprained ankle.
Propped up against cushions on the sitting room window seat, I had a perfect view of all the comings and goings. Rick had placed my crutches, a pile of books and a drink within reach, although the arrangement didn’t suit Henrietta, our cat – I’d pinched her favourite sleeping spot. Not to be outdone, she leapt on to my lap just as my two sons, aged 11 and 13, dashed in ready for school. ‘We’ve buried Henrietta’s offerings, Mum,’ the eldest announced. ‘Only one mouse today.’
‘She must be having an off day,’ I said with a smile.
Rick came into the room, picked up his car keys and said to me, ‘Now, Melissa will be here at lunchtime. And the boys are preparing the evening meal. You’re to stay put. No getting up and pottering round.’
I promised not to and they all left me to it. In fact, a rest from rushing around tryin
g to juggle home, family and a full-time job was rather appealing. It was a heaven-sent opportunity to read a book without feeling I ought to be doing something else. The sun shone through the window, the neighbours were all out at work, and nothing at all was happening in the Avenue. Or so I thought.
Henrietta moved to a corner to do some serious sleeping, I settled myself comfortably and, with a blissful sigh, opened my book. The story was so gripping the morning sped by, interrupted only by the slamming of a car door outside the bungalow opposite. The owners were abroad and, two days ago, a Ms Lovelace had rented the place. I glanced at her visitor, a young man. So Ms Lovelace wasn’t at work today either, but perhaps there was nothing odd in that.
The office where Melissa and I work is just a five minute drive away and, as promised, she arrived to make lunch. ‘Fruit and yogurt okay?’ she asked. ‘I’m on a diet.’
‘Fine,’ I said, suppressing a grin. Melissa’s diets are like 24-hour ‘flu. Tough, but very short lived.
Sinking her teeth into a peach, she indicated my book, chuckled at the title and inquired, ‘Any good?’
I nodded. ‘It’s about a quiet, unattached, rather plain woman, seemingly living on a private income in a peaceful suburb – who gets shot. But there’s no sign of a break-in, nothing’s been stolen and she doesn’t appear to have any enemies.
Melissa opened her yoghurt. ‘Let me guess. The police are baffled, but some smarty-pants private detective steps in and solves the case.’
I giggled. ‘Something like that. He’s already found the first clue.’
Melissa put a spoonful of yogurt into her mouth and pulled a face. ‘Yuk! I hate this fat free stuff.’ But she continued eating it, anyway. ‘Go on, Kelly.’
‘Well, the neighbours never saw anyone visit her – they were out at work all day. But our private detective found some old biddy who used to walk past the place four times a day with her dog. She saw two or three different men going in and out at various times of the day. Men with briefcases.’
