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Trust Not The Vow ... Chapter 13

Strangely, the anger did not rise until Rachel reached the bedroom. It was brought on by the condition of the bed: one side rumpled with pillows askew, the other as neat as if it had just been made. For some reason, it was the sight of the sheet's tucked-in corners that made her explode and she vented her fury by chucking anything that came to hand. Gary's travel alarm was the first thing to sail down the stairs, followed by his slippers, his personalised shoe horn, his electric shaver. Eagerly, she pursued the flying objects, praying as she ran that they were broken beyond repair. Downstairs, she seized the willow pattern teapot that was home to a collection of copper coins, and flung it at the wall. Two mugs, three tea plates, and a large oval meat dish were disposed of in similar fashion.

While this was going on, Rex whined by the back door.

By eight o'clock, having finally calmed down, she washed and dressed in her office clothes. Giving her hair a final pat, she went to the lounge for her perfume. She couldn't see it at first, but then she spotted it in an empty fruit bowl on the sideboard. The perfume was the one Gary bought for her birthday, the one she used to create atmosphere, the one she now hated. Spurred by another bout of bad temper, she defiantly grabbed the bottle and squirted liberal amounts on the wallpaper, lampshades, carpets and curtains. She was determined to dissipate every drop; she would rub it on her dear husband's scrotum if ever she got the chance.

I stink, Rachel.

So you do, dear heart.

She slung the empty container in the kitchen waste then called Rex, urging him to hurry if he wanted a walk. His reluctance horrified her. ‘I'm sorry, baby,’ she cried, kneeling by him and nuzzling her chin in his neck. ‘It's not you I'm cross with.’ His tail began to flutter as she stroked his fur. ‘I'll buy you something special after work,’ she promised. ‘A nice piece of mackerel to go with your biscuits?’ The dog's tail moved like an oscillating fan and, as soon as the door was open, he projected himself down the path like a missile with a rotary blade.

As she slammed the front door behind her, Rachel resolved that in future she would devote herself solely to her dog.

It was only when she reached the road that she realised the car had gone. She was so used to it not being there she had passed by without thinking. She stopped to inspect the perfect indentations in the snow, the shallow crater where the car had stood, footprints leading to the driver's door, wheel tracks leading to the road. Rachel reviewed the situation impassively, only mildly irritated; her frenzied attack with the perfume spray had exhausted her rage.

So, Gary had been home. He had sneaked back like a fugitive and departed again without a word, or a knock, or a telephone call. Well, she would behave correspondingly. From now on she would do no cooking. If Gary returned, he could get his own tea. She would slave no more, neither would she sympathise when he ran out of clean clothes. It was enough that she accepted his aversion to sex - there was no call to mollycoddle him as well.

That decided she set out to enjoy a brisk walk around the field.

AT the end of the day, weary and somewhat dishevelled after coping with a constant deluge of correspondence, advice notes, notices and rosters, Rachel left the works, taking the river route in order to calm her fraught nerves. Tugging the crimson bobble hat over her ears and holding a plaid scarf over her chin, she sucked in cold air until it saturated her lungs. She shivered then, and hurried home.

She collided with the smell of perfume as soon as she stepped inside the door; it was like coming up against an immovable screen of incense. She flapped her arms as if that would change the atmosphere.

Stopping only to reassure Rex that she was his for the rest of the night, Rachel went straight to the kitchen to fill the kettle. She set it on the gas to boil. With Rex drooling at her side, she unpacked the bits of mackerel and proceeded to chop it into his bowl. ‘Don't ever accuse me of not keeping promises,’ she said, mixing dog biscuits with the fish. ‘And don't expect this every day. This is a treat for putting up with my tantrums. Tinned stuff will be back on the menu tomorrow.’ She put the bowl on the floor, and waited a few seconds for Rex to demolish the food so she could pick it up again.

From the wall cupboard she collected tea bags and a carton of skimmed milk. She snipped the corner off the carton and threw the scissors into the sink. Then she stopped, the carton in her left hand, a bewildered look on her face. She turned slowly and stared at the mug positioned under the tap. It wasn't there this morning; she had meticulously cleared away every piece of crockery before she left, along with the other debris. The whistling kettle chose that moment to come to the boil and just as she rushed to lower the jet, the door opened and Gary strode in.

It was a shock, seeing him, when she had almost convinced herself he wouldn't return. She was uncertain how to greet him: whether to welcome him with a silent rebuke or create an angry reception. She chose the former, and rancorously contemplated him as he drew out a chair and sat at the table.

‘I didn't see the car,’ she ventured, inanely.

‘It's being serviced,’ Gary informed her. ‘I'm collecting it in the morning.’

Fuming, Rachel turned her back and resumed the tea-making task. Not once had he looked at her; proof, she decided, that he was suffering a rare twinge of guilt. Well, let him. She would not give him the satisfaction of enquiring about his nightly prowls.

Putting the tea and mugs on the table, Rachel sat opposite Gary, not because she particularly wanted to look at him, but from that distance she could not touch him.

Gary said, gruffly, ‘I'm sorry about last night.’

Rachel made no reply, merely gazed at the top of his head and waited for him to continue.

‘I misplaced the house keys. Couldn't find them anywhere.’ Gary sipped his tea and for the first time looked over the mug at Rachel. ‘Actually, I came home and hammered on the door, but couldn't wake you.’

Rachel was sure she and Rex would have heard.

‘I slept in the car eventually.’

‘How did you finally get in?’

‘The keys were on the floor of the car.’

‘Come off it, Gary. D'you think I'm green or something? I know you spent the night with Terry. Couldn't keep away from him, could you? First opportunity and you're back there.’ Rachel got to her feet, unable to look at the mixture of contrition and resentment on her husband's face. She went on, ‘I bet skin contact doesn't bother you when you're with him, eh, Gary?’

Gary neither denied the inference nor confirmed it. Quietly getting to his feet, he crossed to the window. With his back to Rachel, he said: ‘Regarding my problem, you must believe what you like. Last night I needed to be alone, to sort myself out. I walked the neighbourhood, if you must know, trying to decide whether it was fair on you to go on living here. In the end, I was still of a mind to stay, because I couldn't visualise life without you.’

The sight of his heaving shoulders dispersed Rachel's own hurt. Gary's pain was more important. She went to hug him, to assure him of her love, and took heart from the fact that he did not jerk away. She and Gary were of like mind: neither could bear to live without the other, no matter what befell them in the process.

THEY lay a distance apart in the double bed. Gary's low-pitched snores had a soporific effect on Rachel and, as she leaned on one elbow to study his face, her eyes grew heavy. She thought how like a baby he was, folded in foetal position, mouth pursed in exactly the same way the neighbour's baby did when offered the breast. Except that babies did not snore and Gary did not crave the breast.

Pins and needles induced her to lie down and massage the afflicted hand, but her misgivings did not go away. She scrutinised the ceiling for a solution to the overwhelming uncertainty of existing in a state of permanent virginity. It would be difficult, struggling through the years without a functioning partner. She could, of course, take on a boyfriend; it wouldn't matter how she achieved satisfaction so long as there was some contentment in her life. Gary need never know, as she would never know what games he played in the privacy of Terry's home.

Even in the chilly bedroom she was uncomfortably warm in the thick pyjamas. Her hands were sweaty and she needed a drink. Sliding stealthily from the bed, she padded along the landing to the bathroom, stepping over Rex who had found warmth by the airing cupboard and had chosen to lie there instead of on his bed. The bathroom tiles, cold beneath her feet, dispelled the heat from her body so she wrapped a yellow bathrobe around her shoulders.

Raising the roller blind she looked out at the tiny garden, half of it illuminated by the moon, the other half hidden in the deep shadow of the trees. She saw the outline of a cat on the fence, eyes shining like pencil torches. Looking at the peaceful panorama, it was hard to accept that so many problems abounded.

WITH her robe belted tightly around her, Rex at her heels, Rachel went downstairs. She closed the door to counter Gary's snores. The room was still warm, though the fire had been switched off an hour since. Rex flopped with a grunt on the hearth rug.

After discarding the robe, she reclined full stretch on the couch and opened the current free magazine. Idly fiddling with the buttons on her pyjama top, she turned the pages. An advertisement for inexpensive beds caught her eye and she considered the possibility of changing from double to twin. It would please Gary … and maybe her too.

She would consult Eric; he had a colleague in the furniture trade. As she mulled the idea over, she absently eased her hand inside her jacket, feeling the softness of her breast.

Don't you ever wear a brassiere?

Never, Mr H! I'm better without.

‘You don't know what you're missing, Gary,’ she whispered.

Monday Mirth

Doctor's Retirement

At the end of 2011 I posted a slightly embellished article about an incident in the doctor’s surgery; shortly after that I had a bit of a moan because I’d heard the doctor was retiring. It was such a shock to his loyal patients and I wondered what I could do to lift the occasion. Let’s face it, there’s not a lot a girl can do when a man decides to get out of her life but I felt I had to do something.

So I made a card. I chose the above picture, a scene from our local country park, and turned it into a greeting card with this inscription on the inside.

Then I set about writing a story in letter form. Since I had so recently composed the above mentioned article, I decided to utilise some of it in the letter. This sort of thing saves on brain power and I’m all for saving what’s left of mine. This is what I ended up with.

~~~

The waiting area felt summer warm although in December one would expect otherwise. There was also a smell of lavender, possibly sprayed when the room was devoid of people or, more likely, the scent worn by a female patient. A small overhead radio, set to provide music, was responsible for a lot of toe tapping in tempo. One elderly bearded gent grinned as he rapped his knuckles against his walking stick before breaking out in a shrill whistle. Next to him was an old lady in a grey coat with hair to match. Probably his wife, I thought, noticing the way she frowned.

There were only four chairs, three occupied by men and a fourth by the aforesaid old lady. I could understand the old guy next to her not standing up to give me a seat but there was no excuse for the other two. Women’s libbers have a lot to answer for, don’t you think? I couldn’t even get to sort through the books even if I’d wanted to.

A peal of laughter filtered out from the doctor’s room. Someone, it sounded like a man, was enjoying the visit here. But then, didn’t we all.

Mostly the atmosphere was hushed, that is until the little guy nearest the leaflet rack suddenly announced that Doctor Broomhead was about to retire.

His neighbour, a rough diamond if ever I saw one, rounded on him, saying ‘You’re havin’ a larf, aint you, mate?’

‘No,’ the little man whispered, seeming to shrink as he said it. ‘He’s going at Christmas.’

‘Well,’ said the bruiser, ‘that ain’t on, mate.’

The woman in grey piped up then, ‘It must be his age,’ she said.

‘Well, I ain’t havin’ it,’ went the guy, who was now red in the face and looking as if he was ready for a punch-up. ‘What about his patients, that’s what I want to know. Don’t our years of loyalty count for anything?’

I had to admit he had a point. Still the doc had to go sometime; it was just that now didn’t seem like the right time.

Another burst of laughter. Someone was certainly enjoying a bit of a joke.

I got to thinking about the doc, remembering the first time I came to his surgery. I was impressed by his caring manner. Before moving to the area I’d been looked after by a younger medical practitioner who hadn’t developed much savoir-faire. It was so refreshing to have a doctor who not only cared but went out of his way to be a friend. And I swear he could perform miracles. Look at the time I was turned down for a hip operation by a local hospital, when the doc took steps to get me seen elsewhere. I was in and out in no time. While others were on a two year waiting list, I walked out with a brand new hip. That man was high up in my estimation. Miracle performer par excellence!

It struck me then that Charles Broomhead’s objective was to make us all feel cheerful. Certainly there was never a dull moment with him. As well as having a typical bedside manner he is everything a doctor should be, practical, sensible, soothing, and friendly. Above all he instils a sense of wellbeing in his patients. I guess I shall soon have to use the past tense, and that’s sad!

While I waited I got to thinking about my visits. Regardless of why I needed to see him I always looked forward to visiting the surgery because I knew Doc and I would banter with each other. He would tease about the WI and the cakes but he always showed an interest. Yes, I have to say that if ever I felt a bit low he would sweep it away in a trice and I always came out of his room feeling good. I reasoned that it was because we’d known each for years but in reality he treated everyone the same.

I should have suggested he had a motto printed and framed in his room … something to the effect that laughter is the best medicine … and now it’s too late.

There’s only one way to deal with bad news and that’s to face it head on. So… have a great retirement, Doc, and I hope you flippin’ well miss us like we’ll miss you. Cheers, don’t you go worrying about us now, just enjoy your retirement.

Written by me and approved by him

(that’s because both my Guy and I are/were patients)

~~~

An appointment was made to see the doctor and on the due date I took the card and story with me. After he’d taken my blood pressure, we had a nice little chat. He told me about the plans he'd made for his retirement and I remarked that he should be having a rest instead of racing across seas in yachts or doing mature university courses in photography. Heehee, he said that I hadn’t taken it easy when I retired so why should he. There was no answer to that. At the end of the session I handed him the card, wished him well, and that was that. Amen! I have yet to meet his replacement but right now I’m still getting over losing a brilliant doctor.