Chapter 1: A Kiss is Still a Kiss

I was only planning a courteous reminder when I saw them, my wife Glenda and my cousin Philip. They were tightly bound together in a steamy embrace with their tongues searching out the other’s tonsils. Her arms were around his neck, her fingers entwined in his blond hair. One of his hands was caressing her bum and, although I could not actually see the other hand, his arm was at such an angle that he would have to be a contortionist to avoid touching her breast. I only watched for a moment, but, before I turned away, I was convinced by the comfortable way they embraced that this was not the first time they had swapped spit.

I apologise for my rather crude language. I was brought up to have better self-control, but the sight of my wife in a passionate embrace with another man had shocked me. What made her betrayal worse, for a betrayal was how I saw it, was that she had chosen my cousin. We have lived next door to each other all our lives, we now work in the same factory, and he has bullied and belittled me for as long as I can remember. His mother stridently proclaimed his superiority in everything, starting when we were in nappies.

My father, her brother, would occasionally make an inarticulate protest but he soon backed down when she screeched at hm. My mother never raised her voice and was always there to comfort me. The problem was that she truly believed that I was inferior to Philip and her words of comfort undermined my self-confidence. ‘We can’t all be good at reading/writing/football/climbing trees; I still love you, Fred.’ That’s another thing: who Christens their son Fred? It is not a diminutive for Frederick or even Alfred. There on my birth certificate it baldly states, Fred Albert Robinson.

The only adult who paid me any attention was Geoff, Philip’s father. I do not believe that I ever heard him say more than ‘Yes dear’ in the presence of his wife, but he loved fishing and all things outdoors. Philip was too busy excelling at everything else to be interested, so Geoff took me along. I became an expert at casting flies, but I had little interest in catching the fish. I think I had a fellow feeling for the creatures who, like me, only wanted to live a peaceful life without anyone bothering them. While Geoff angled, I studied the flowers. It has become my lifetime obsession.

In fact, it is my love of flowers that led me to stumble on the kiss Glenda shared with my cousin. We were at a regular neighbourhood party that Saturday at the beginning of October. During the summer we gathered for a barbeque in the back yard of one of our homes. Tonight, we had eaten outdoors but people were being driven inside since there was a decidedly autumnal nip in the air. Glenda and Philip were doing their thing in the entry hall by the front door. It was only just after nine, but I had an early start on Sunday, so I sought out my wife to let her know I was off home to bed.

I had no wish to interrupt the many conversations going on, so I wandered around silently, seeking my mate. Later I wondered if one of the other guests would have warned the loving couple if I had asked their whereabouts. Our little crescent had become yuppified, if that term is still used, and I did not fit the new image. Philip did, and Glenda positively revelled in the altered dynamic. She shared the talk of gyms, boutique shopping and scurrilous gossip with great gusto. Our neighbours probably consider that I deserve to be betrayed.

That thought convinced me that there was no point in making a scene, so I slipped out the back door and crossed the two intervening yards to my family home, such as it is. The factory where I am employed as the maintenance engineer, was founded by my great, great grandfather. In the late nineteen-thirties, they built eight cottages for senior managers. I suppose they were top of the range for the time, but they are small and badly designed by modern standards.

Certainly, the present senior officers of the company do not want to live in the company cottages, so they decided to sell six of the two-bedroom, one-bathroom dwellings as starter homes. Philip and I remain as tenants of the company since we both occupy humble positions – not that he would accept that description of his job in sales and marketing. Our new neighbours make a bit of an issue of living together out of wedlock, although I know for a fact that three of the couples are legally married.

As I walked, I considered what I had seen. Glenda and I tied the knot four years ago when she graduated from university after an on again, off again courtship. I cannot truthfully say that I felt strongly one way or another. As the last of the Robinsons working in the factory, I was under some pressure to reproduce so the line could continue. Philip had actually changed his name to Robinson, but that failed to impress Great Uncle Albert. Glenda is the daughter of the finance manager, since retired. The force driving us towards matrimony was Glenda’s mother, Rose.

Rose really likes me. She admires my steady reliability, and she is the only person apart from my own mother who has ever called me handsome. To be fair, her admiration was conditional. ‘If you straightened up, changed your hair style and dressed better, you could be quite good-looking,’ was how she phrased it. She thought Glenda was much too flighty and would get herself into trouble if she could not be anchored to me. There wasn’t much passion on either side.

We had certainly never shared a kiss like the one I had witnessed in the dark hallway. The question that troubled me as I showered before going to bed, was what my response should be. I could try to raise my game, bringing gifts and spoiling my wife so she would realise what she was risking by having an affair. A few years earlier I would have surrendered, accepting that Philip would always defeat me, whatever the challenge. My recent experience, working alongside him, was that there was very little substance to my cousin. He has all the convincing words but singularly fails to back them up with his actions. It was at that point that a naughty thought sneaked into my head: was Glenda worth fighting for?

I briefly considered sleeping in the spare room, but it would have meant finding a new place to lay out my clothes for the morning which were already on the bed. The alarm was set for five-thirty when I would not be at my best. Careful planning the night before would allow me to dress without properly waking up. Defiantly, I snuggled under the covers in the master bedroom. After all, I was not the one who had been caught in a despicable act. I surprised myself by falling asleep straight away.

My rude awakening came with the return of my wife, if she still merited that title. She made sure I was awake before she went on the attack. “Where the Hell did you get to? You creep round those parties spying on everyone and then you just disappear without saying a word. I’m your wife, dammit, I deserved better than that.” I am slow to gather my wits, so I listened impassively until she stopped to take a breath.

“I saw the scorching kiss you gave Phil.”

“Kiss, what kiss? I don’t know what you think you saw but it was nothing. I kiss a lot of people and I’ve known Phil practically all my life. It was just a friendly peck between two old friends. Anyway, it’s no excuse for you deserting me without so much as a by-your-leave.” It was true that we had all played together as children, but I knew that what I saw was much more than friendly. Her denial of the significance of the kiss simply underlined the importance of the embrace.

She had been removing her clothes as she spoke, and I had another shock when she turned to hang up her dress revealing that her bra had been fastened in the wrong hooks. It had clearly been undone at some point during the evening; she or Phil was probably too drunk to check the refastening. Feeling nauseous, I got up and ran to the bathroom, settling in the end for a long piddle. Glenda was in bed when I returned, lying on her back, her eyes closed, mouth open.

The bedside clock showed three-thirty as I stood in the doorway looking with growing disgust at the woman I had wed four years ago. She was drunk and, true to form, she began snoring. I went downstairs to hunt for an Alka-Seltzer to settle my stomach. I was feeling better as I climbed the stairs, gently burping. I closed the door of the master bedroom before I went into the spare room. Even with that door closed her snoring was audible, although I reckoned I could sleep through it.

I had started to move my clothes off the bed when I realised that I was no longer tired. I would probably struggle to get back to sleep and I had to be up again in less than two hours. Instead of moving my thermal underwear to clear the bed, I put them on, eventually completing my dressing with sturdy hiking boots and a parka. I am cautious by nature, and I was now dressed to survive an Arctic blizzard. It was about five miles to the rendezvous, and I was sure that I could cover that distance in two hours. Despite the audible evidence that my wife was deeply asleep, I crept down the stairs and let myself out the front door, gently closing it behind me.

I stood on the front step, mentally reviewing my preparations. My wallet and mobile phone were on my bedside table, but I had two ten-pound notes in my key fob; I did consider returning to collect the items. That was when I had the wicked thought that I had not cancelled the alarm setting. My wife will be roused by the strident ringing at five-thirty. If I went back to collect my phone and wallet, I would feel honour bound to cancel the alarm, but, if I left now, I could argue that I would suffer as much as her.

For the first mile – I can’t get accustomed to thinking in kilometres, although I use the metric system exclusively at work – I forced myself to think about the day ahead. I would be the de facto leader of a trek to show increasingly rare wildflowers to undergraduates and others. The nominal leader is Anne Gardner, Professor Gardner of the Botany department. What began as a hobby when I accompanied Uncle Geoff on his fishing trips has become my great passion. Without planning it, I have become internationally known for my studies on British wildflowers.

In the past five years this excursion in October has become an established tradition. The latest undergraduates have their first exposure to some of the secret places where endangered plants survive. We will, of course, be accompanied by the graduate students as well as a select few enthusiasts from the faculty and the town. Anne discovered my interest in botany while I was still at school and has encouraged me ever since. I had written a paper for the school magazine which she read and enjoyed.

Now, I write a monthly column for an on-line periodical read by botanists world-wide. Anne also encouraged me to talk about my hobby, so I now have a slot on local radio chatting for five minutes every week about what people can expect to see in their gardens and hedgerows. Last year she approached the university senate with a proposal that I should be admitted to a doctoral degree, although I am far from convinced that my musings constitute research that would lead to an acceptable thesis. The very fact that Anne believes I could succeed is a tremendous boost to my self-confidence.

One reason for my reluctance was my trepidation at telling Glenda of my plans. I could not do the work without her finding out and I’m rather afraid that her response would be disparaging, if not totally disbelieving. For the first time since I caught her in Philip’s embrace, I saw a gleam of light. If Glenda can go behind my back to have a passionate affair with my cousin, I am surely entitled to attempt to earn a doctorate without consulting her opinion. Unfortunately, that was the last happy thought I enjoyed on my walk.

I accept that I am a weak character. People have been telling me that all my life, so I suppose it must be true. I do back down from confrontations, like when I agreed to go to technical college rather than university, but I also have a stubborn streak. Once I agree to do something, I try my very hardest to complete the task. Uncle Albert talked me into learning what was required to service the machines in the factory; I now take personal offence if I cannot keep them running at top efficiency.

Unfortunately, I could no longer divert my mind from the wreck of my marriage. It was certainly a task I had shouldered willingly enough, but without great enthusiasm, I must admit. Glenda and I agreed a contract to love and honour each other, forsaking all others. She had publicly broken that agreement; now the question I had to face was whether or not I was still bound by my wedding vows. Up until the moment I closed my front door behind me, I had been feeling depressed at my failure as a husband and disgusted at Glenda’s behaviour as a wife. Now I was angry.

Part of the anger was aimed at my wife, but I could not altogether excuse myself. I knew from the start that there was more to marriage than just a general fondness for the other party. I should have been more forceful in expressing my fears that we were planning on building a life together on shaky foundations. I allowed myself to be swayed by Rose’s certainty that her daughter and I would be good for each other. The bulk of my anger, as so often in my life, fell heavily on Cousin Philip.

Suddenly, my anger was washed away by a wave of shame: I had forgotten Marika, the quiet Dutch girl Phil married on holiday a little over two years ago. They met on a nude beach in Spain where he had fun with her group of friends. At the end of the vacation, he accompanied her back to Holland where they were married in a civil ceremony. Marika has a rather plain face, and she wears her hair short and straight, but Phil assures anyone that will listen that she has the most voluptuous body he has ever seen.

If Glenda and I missed some aspects of character that undermined our relationship, Phil got things totally wrong. He did not realise that Marika had no cultural taboo against nudity, so she stripped off without a thought. Phil assumed that she was daring, perhaps even brazen. He also assumed that her easy laughter in the company of friends she had known from school, meant that she had an outgoing personality. Nothing could be further from the truth; she is painfully shy with strangers. She is no more comfortable in the company of our new neighbours than I am.

Last evening, as at many of the other parties, she and I sat quietly chatting while the others drank and flirted. She wanted to join the trip today but would not approach Philip to ask his permission. I was no better, although I almost plucked up the nerve to offer to talk to him on her behalf. I didn’t, of course, excusing myself instead while I went to tell my wife I was going home. I should have thought about the effect on Marika; she is alone and friendless in a strange country. I, at least, am surrounded by familiar sights and sounds; I also have Anne and the other botanists.

Reflected light from the nearby motorway made it possible to discern the outline of large objects. I became aware that I was approaching the café that was my target. I arrived much sooner than I expected. Either I had overestimated the distance from home, or the cold and my agitated condition drove me to march at a faster pace than I intended. There was no light showing in or around the building. My watch was lying with my phone and wallet on my bedside table.

I slowed my pace as I neared the building only to be startled by dancers stomping on a wooden floor. I stopped to search for the music but all that came was a wail. It took a moment to identify it as the bleat of a sheep, so I assumed that the ‘dancers’ were sheep loaded onto a lorry. I turned towards the animals and was startled again when a voice addressed me from about waist height. “Are you the mechanic?”

“I’m a mechanic but not the mechanic. Jim doesn’t open until eight and he may be a bit later since its Sunday.” I could now discern pale features as the man rose from his seat on the steps up to the cab. “I’ve a hundred SIL in the back and I wanted them well on their way to their new home before the sun got too hot. Now I’ve two hours to wait before the repair can get started.” I asked if he knew what the problem was.

“I’m a forensic accountant, at least I was. I know you put diesel in and turn the key. Everything else is a mystery.” At my request, he shone a powerful torch into the engine compartment where it was immediately obvious that the problem was a damaged fanbelt. “I know where Jim keeps his spares. Once Pat opens the café, she’ll let me have the key and I can get you on your way in ten minutes.”

He combined profuse thanks with an interrogation. How did I come to know so much; did I work for the owner; why was I alone on foot at six o’clock in the morning. Before I attempted an answer, Pat drove up to open the café. She tossed me the keys to the workshop before she went inside, turning on the lights as she went. My new friend let me go while he introduced himself as Dave. Before the door closed behind me, I heard him ask if I was reliable.

He kept quiet when I reappeared moments later muttering about having to borrow tools. I prefer my own, but I certainly wasn’t going to trudge back five miles to collect my truck. “So, what’s a sort of forensic accountant doing with a lorry load of sheep, and what is SPL?” He laughed. “A forensic accountant asks a lot of questions, and I stopped being one a couple of months ago. I’m afraid I can’t get out the habit of asking questions.” The sheep began stamping their feet again, so he excused himself while he begged a pail of water from Pat.

He returned as I was tightening the final bolts. “It’s SIL, by the way and it means sheep in lamb. A vet has checked the ultrasound to confirm that all my ladies are pregnant.” I closed the engine cover and collected the tools. “How much do I owe you?” Difficult question: “Well, Mr. forensic accountant, the belt probably retails at about a fiver including VAT so let’s call it a tenner to include the use of the tools.” He wanted to pay for my time but settled for buying me breakfast when I told him I owed him for providing me with a distraction while I waited for the café to open.

After I put the tools back on the rack, I washed up in the little toilet in the workshop where I knew there would be Swarfega to get rid of the grease. By the time I stepped into the brightly lit café, Dave had made himself at home. There was no one in sight as I hung up my parka, but I could hear voices and laughter from the kitchen. Pat appeared as I went towards the table closest to the kitchen, carrying two plates; Dave was right behind her carrying his own plate. I couldn’t see the contents, but the smell of bacon gave me a compelling cue.

There was still someone in the kitchen, alone, I assumed, since she burst into song. Certainly female, and young, I judged, as she was singing the latest chart-topper. Her voice was light and pleasant, but she was la-la-la-ing quite a bit since she didn’t know the lyrics very well. Pat had put a plate down beside Dave, now seated, and another opposite, gesturing to me to sit there while she took the seat beside our visitor.

“Morning lover,” she smiled fondly at me. “Still trying to take the bread out of my grandkids’ mouths.” She must have seen my puzzled look because she stopped eating and jerked her thumb in the direction of the diva in the kitchen. “That’s Madge. She’s one of yours, going on your epic trek with you. She agreed to help feed the hordes first, then she’ll do the late shift with Liz.” Interesting, but not the reason for my puzzlement.