Chapter 1

The radio alarm came on with its selection of classical music: Friday 16th April 2010. John Pollard immediately swung his legs out of the bed, donned his slippers, pulled his dressing gown round his naked form and descended the stairs.

He followed his habit of many years, first to the kitchen. He switched on the kettle for a pot of tea, smiling wryly when he saw that he had carefully laid out two mugs the night before. Once again he had forgotten he was now alone. Elizabeth, his dear wife, had died three months before, but time and again he found he was doing everything for two. His solitary state still surprised him daily.

While the kettle boiled he used the downstairs toilet, then made the tea, opened the curtains in the living room, checked the barometer, went to the front door and took in the milk. Then he poured the tea and returned upstairs. Outside there was broken cloud and milky sunshine but no sign of ash on the ground from the erupting Icelandic Volcano, whose name no one wanted to try pronouncing.

In some ways this was the most difficult time of the day; this and his final retirement to bed at its end. For over thirty years he had followed this routine, bringing two mugs of tea back to the bedroom and his beloved Elizabeth. He would return to bed and they would entwine themselves in each other’s arms, his thigh between her legs feeling her vulva and she his penis on hers. They would kiss and hold each other as if to say that they would never allow themselves to be parted, but both were powerless before the strength of death to separate them.

Now he brought his tea back to the empty bedroom and sat on the bed to drink it. He could not bear to go back into the cold bed. He had always thought that he would be the first to go, and was sure that Elizabeth would have managed bereavement much better than he had. He sighed, something he found himself doing often. The morning radio show he now tuned to was cheerful as usual and he smiled at the odd stories and jokes the presenter told between songs.

After his tea, he showered, shaved and dressed, and then breakfasted on his usual muesli and a second cup of tea. Now the day stretched before him like each previous day since she left him forever. The days though were not difficult.

After defeating cancer and suffering through its long and unpleasant treatment, he had been able to retire from his Managing Directorship early with a sizeable golden handshake and pension, while Elizabeth still went out to the work she loved. Thus he had spent some years alone in the house during the day, so his days now were no different. It was when he would have begun cooking for the two of them, when she would have returned home in the evenings, and during the long tedious weekends, when the loneliness bit deep.

He stood with his beloved tea before the open patio door, and gazed at the garden, the daffodils blooming everywhere, forget-me-nots beginning to add their blue and the apple blossom gentle pink in the spring sunshine, which was unusually very warm.

It was her garden. It still bore the stamp of her love for it, and he wondered how he would ever manage to keep it looking as beautiful as it was now. It begged the question whether he would stay in the house or find somewhere smaller, more manageable – at least as far as the garden was concerned, for it was large. He turned away.

It being Friday, he did the shopping for the following week, constantly reminding himself that he was buying for one, though as usual he bought rather too much. He shopped locally, making his contribution to reducing greenhouse gases by walking there and back carrying his hessian shopping bags, having long since rejected the plastic bags offered by his local supermarket.

By the time he had stowed the produce it was eleven o’clock and he allowed himself the luxury of freshly made coffee, enjoying the fragrance of the roasted fair trade beans which filled the house.

He had poured himself a mugful, with the indulgence of a little sugar, and was stirring the milk into it when the doorbell rang. His immediate thought was that it would be the postman, though John had ordered nothing bulky, but when he opened the front door it was a woman who stood there.

There was something familiar about her face. She was about his age, early fifties, slim, but with a fullness that betokened motherhood. Her light raincoat came below her knees and she wore sensible low heel shoes. Her light brown hair was either curly or permed and her oval face was friendly, pretty, mature and smiling.

“Yes?” he inquired.

“John? Remember me?”

Even without her telling him her name, as soon as she uttered those first three words he knew her from her voice, even though it had been over thirty years since he had last seen her. Her voice was a rich contralto with a hint of a smile about it. She cocked one eyebrow as he remembered she often did. It was Claire.

“Claire! What are you doing here? You’re the last person I expected to see! Come in! I’ve just made coffee.”

He stood back and she entered.

“Let me take your coat.”

She slipped it off her shoulders and John placed it on a hanger and stowed it in the Hall wardrobe. It was as if they had seen each other only the other day.

She faced him now, held out her arms and embraced him fondly. He felt the shape of her body, and was surprised that he was comparing her now to what he remembered she was before. She was indeed still slim but fuller, more shapely and her breasts felt bigger as they pressed against him.

“John, I’m so sorry to hear about Elizabeth. What a shock for you!” She had always been demonstrative of her affections and emotions, and she kissed his cheek as she hugged him to her.

They stood locked together for a while. Then John gently disengaged himself and led her by the hand to the kitchen, where he poured her some coffee according to her wishes. They sat at the kitchen table.

“I don’t understand,” said John. “How on earth... ?”

“I’m here with Peter – you remember I married Peter Klinsman? – and my youngest son to visit my Mother. She’s failing fast and she isn’t long for this world, I’m afraid. We’ve been here a week and I wanted to fit in a visit to my sister Ellen and her family. I don’t think you ever met them did you?”

He shook his head. “The only time I visited you at your family home, Ellen was somewhere else. So she’s married with a family?”

“Yes. So I left Peter with Mother and drove down,” she continued. “On the way to Ellen’s, on a whim I called in on Father Gerard and he told me about Elizabeth. So I changed my plan immediately, got your address from him and detoured to come here. I know it’s a stupid question, but how are you?”

John remembered her fluency, light tone and concise delivery. It was what had attracted him to her, back in their university days, that and her slim, rangy body with its small breasts and neat bottom. He hesitated before he answered. More memories were coming of how close they had been, and he knew he could not give his usual banal answer.

“I normally tell people I’m fine. It gets them off the hook, so to speak. They can go away feeling they’ve done their duty and feel reassured that I’m not likely to do anything silly.” He smiled at her, and her grey-blue eyes smiled back. He felt a tug of attraction. A memory.

“You’re not though, are you?” Claire interrupted with a grin. “Going to do something silly, I mean?” He could tell she knew he would not of course: her eyes were twinkling.

“Heavens no!” He laughed, for her question was mischievous.

“So,” she said, now much more serious. “You’re not fine either, are you? Give it to me straight. How are you, really?”

She reached for his hand across the table, taking it in one of hers, and covering it with the other, those soft dancing grey-blue eyes of hers gazing into his.

John sat silent for a while, looking into those loving eyes and his heart warmed to this woman who sat patiently waiting for him to gather his thoughts. It brought the memory of how close they were back then.

“I suppose you could say I’m depressed. Not surprising that, is it? I cry a lot in the privacy of the house. I have to push myself to do the normal life-supporting things; the daily routine. I’m drifting through life at the moment, but then I don’t expect anything else. I’ve read up about bereavement so I know the stages of grief and what’s in store for me.

“I keep expecting her to come home in the evening. I accidentally pour two cups of tea instead of one, you know the sort of thing. I wonder daily if this terrible ache inside me will ever get better as the books tell me it will, but can’t help dreading that it won’t.

“So there you are. For you alone, dear Claire, that’s it, straight from the shoulder – I’ve never told anyone else, but there again, you’ve never been ‘anyone else’ for me.”

She said nothing, but those lovely eyes became more grey, less blue, and shone with tears as she fondled his hand. That was Claire, always emotional, sympathetic, loving, always reaching out, touching, hugging. He was intensely aware of her touch and felt a stirring in his heart.

She was always so special. His mind went back to a time long ago. The inages flashed rapidly, taking no time at all.

A university disco. She was really slim then. She was angular and leggy, her curly hair always tied in a ponytail. She bounced rather than walked and those eyes were always dancing. She was naturally a happy person.

At the disco they joked and flirted, something he normally never did, and at the end he asked her out. To his surprise she accepted. He had never been sure of her feelings for him, there always seemed a certain reserve, a reluctance.

He, however had fallen deeply in love with her and he would admit that he had pursued her. He had wanted her intensely; it was rampant lust. They used to walk and talk a great deal, they went country dancing; they visited friends, and went to the occasional play when they could afford it.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“Thinking of the past. With you.” John ventured after a pause. The day grew warmer and the atmosphere in the kitchen was becoming rather oppressive. He wished to offset further questioning on those lines and, seeing that their coffees were finished, he rose and refilled them.

“Shall we sit on the patio?” he asked. “It’s not often we get such warm weather so early. Especially now we have the volcanic ash everywhere.”

She nodded and they walked through the living room onto the garden terrace. “What a beautiful garden!” Claire enthused.

They sat at the large round table under the shade of the umbrella.

“It’s Lizzie’s garden really,” he said. “I was just a labourer. I don’t know how I’ll manage with it now.”

“You were thinking about our past?” Claire was not about to let the earlier matter drop. He wondered if she had an agenda, but could not imagine what it could be. He capitulated.

“Seeing you again after what is it, thirty-odd years? It just provoked memories of our time together; brought it all back.”

She coloured up. “I was too young, John. Immature. I wasn’t ready for permanence – for marriage.”

“Realistically I don’t think I was either, though I was deeply in love with you. I wonder what would have happened if we’d taken the risk?”

“We’ll never know, John. I married Peter and you married Elizabeth. We both have families. I don’t think we regret bringing them into the world.”

“No, certainly not,” he said. “I often think about that. There would have been other children instead. But I wouldn’t have wanted my life any other way as it turned out. You think you know what you want most of all, but sometimes what you consider second best turns out to be better.”

There was a silence again. Claire spoke again, somewhat tentatively he thought.

“John, I don’t regret anything that happened between us.”

The stress was significant: he knew what she meant. So that was what was on her mind.

The memories flashed through his mind, a series of pictures, taking seconds.

He had wanted her so badly he devised a visit to a married cousin in Brighton, so that he could stop off at her parents’ house. He had set off very early in the morning on his 650cc Triumph Tiger 110 motorbike and arrived at breakfast time in south London.

He remembered clearly the middle-class polite coolness of her parents, who told Claire in his presence that he wouldn’t be able to stay because they were going on holiday, and would leave Claire with only her brother George in the house.

She had hugged and kissed him before he travelled on, and whispered he could call and stay on his way back, when they would still be away on holiday. He had felt so exhilarated at that invitation!

Her brother seemed to ignore him completely on his return, and she had told him to wait until her brother had gone to bed, and then come to her bedroom so they could sleep together all night.

It was not the first time they had been naked in a bed together, but never for an all night stay, and he had a clear picture of the mounting intensity of their feelings as they caressed each other more and more feverishly and intimately until either he rolled on top, or she pulled him over her.

Then it was only a matter of time before his penis was between her thighs and pressed along her vulva. He moved to and fro a little and then he was partly in her. They had kissed and he pushed further, then he lost control and thrust.

She exhaled loudly and pulled him down onto her, so they were hugging with their whole bodies pressed together, he on his elbows and her hands wandering all over his back and bottom.

It seemed to be enough that he was inside her. They kissed and kissed, and then he felt her tears.

“I’m sorry!” he had said urgently, “I didn’t mean–”

“No, not that,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

He did not know what to make of that response and, conscious of the danger of pregnancy, made no further movements. Eventually he pulled out and rolled off her, wiped her eyes with a tissue and they settled to sleep.

He remembered the blood on the sheet next morning, and her urgency to wash it before her brother surfaced. He remembered they did discuss what they had done, but couldn’t remember what they had said. However, from then on, something had changed between them, and not for the better. He left later that day, with her assurances everything was fine, but he didn’t believe her.

It had rained heavily all the way home for five hours, battering into his face as if punishing him for his rash action and his surrender to his lust.

They did have sex a number of times after that, but only with him penetrating her and then being still inside her. Ruefully he thought he was so inept at sex that neither of them ever had an orgasm.

The whole reminiscence had taken seconds, but now he nailed the issue. “It was after we started making love that things began to go wrong.”