Chapter 8

Wendy Richardson-Andersen:

I suppose the name tells the story, doesn’t it? But not the whole story. All my life, until I met Olaf, males were only interested in me as a target. I was seen as ‘butch les’ because I didn’t date and was deeply into sports and martial arts. Some guys would try it on, but I never felt I could trust them and had nothing in common with them. So I reached the age of twenty nine – yes, really – still technically a virgin. I say technically. My hymen split thanks to sports, and any remnant was dealt with by my acquisition of a ... toy. I’d about given up the hope of romance, of having my own family, but then came Timothy Jameson and his mother. I was impressed with Olaf Andersen the first time I met him and subsequent encounters only strengthened the attraction I felt. I watched him with young Tim, and with Ingrid. I saw that he formed a good relationship with the boy, and didn’t ... bother ... Ingrid.

When it became apparent that Ingrid was not interested in Olaf, despite his virtues, I tentatively offered an outing which might interest him. We got on well together. Even though we did get on well together – and continued to do so – he didn’t make any move on me, so I decided that I needed to overcome my lack of confidence in ... interpersonal relationships, to be pedantic. The flood gave me an unexpected opportunity to live at The Mews, temporarily, at least. It allowed me to grow closer to Olaf, too.

He cared for me, fed me ... and made no approach. What to do?

It was easy to just go with the flow, but I did worry. In the end, I gathered my courage and asked Olaf to go to a dance, a ceilidh. We had fun. A lot of fun. Later, after the dance, Olaf jokingly asked if I’d like him to scrub my back in the shower. I said that sounded like a great idea. From there to bed together was an easy transition even if both of us had some embarrassment issues! It seems that both of us had done some research; I sucked him off to avoid possible premature ejaculation. I expected him to go straight to intercourse, and was wet and receptive enough, but no, he ate me out to a most satisfactory climax. Our joining ... was just perfect. In the morning I wondered if I’d stepped out too far, but he asked me to marry him. My positive response was immediate.

From there it was simple to move to living together pending our actual wedding.

Ingrid married Charles Harrison in the village church at the end of June. The little church – an ancient and lovely building, if small – was hardly overwhelmed by the tiny congregation. I sat with Olaf and one or two of Ingrid’s colleagues on the bride’s side, while on the groom’s side were his parents and the rest of Charles’ colleagues. Tim carried a little cushion bearing the rings, and once the rings had been exchanged, came back to sit with us. The ceremony was conducted by the Vicar, an elderly man with a very serene manner. After a catered meal in the church hall, the happy couple departed to spend a fortnight in Scandinavia, leaving Tim with us.

We arranged to meet the Vicar to arrange our wedding for a month hence, once Ingrid and Charles had returned and taken Tim to live with them. It seemed appropriate for the ceremony to be conducted by Charles Harrison...

Before then – I’m trying not to get ahead of myself – there was the small matter of relatives. Family. Mine, that is. Poor Olaf had no living relatives.

Olaf Rødhåret Andersen:

I do not like London, and I especially do not like driving in London. However, if I was going to marry Wendy, I needed to meet her parents. Being who I am, I wanted to ‘ask for her hand’. We decided that her motorbike was the appropriate means of transport. I suppose Ruislip isn’t exactly in London. I mean, okay, it’s a suburb, I suppose, and quite a pleasant one in its way, and near enough to the M25 to be accessible. However, inside the M25 is nearer the City of London than I care to be, usually. Other than visits to museums, using the train to get there, that is.

So Wendy pulled us up in the drive of a pleasant-looking semi-detached villa, one of quite a number very similar. Do not ask me what sort of architecture – I’d guess from the thirties, but what do I know? We dismounted and each took a duffle bag with our needs for a couple of days. The door opened as we approached, revealing a stocky man, maybe five foot ten and heavily built.

“Mel! Come in, come in ... and who’s this?”

Wendy went to him and embraced him. “Dad, this is Olaf Andersen.”

He released her and came to me, hand outstretched. “Welcome, Olaf! Do come in. Do you drink?”

“Yes, sir, I do. As often as I can.”

“Good! What’s your favourite tipple? Oh, and it’s Dennis, please.”

“Um ... Well, Dennis, that depends. Coffee or tea, perhaps drop of whisky, maybe a beer...”

“Lunch will be half an hour or so. How about a tot of whisky as an appetiser?”

“Sounds good, um, Dennis.” I was finding it a little uncomfortable to address Wendy’s father by his Christian name, but he ushered me into a small but comfortable study and waved me to an easy chair before pouring two shots of golden whisky into glasses. I recognised the shape of a Glenfiddich bottle.

“Do you need anything with this?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, I don’t think so.” I sniffed at the liquid. “I sometimes have a splash of water, but this is fine, thank you.”

He settled in an adjacent chair and sipped, as did I. I rolled the smooth liquid around my tongue before swallowing.

“You’re the first young man Mel’s brought home,” he began.

“Excuse me? Mel?” I queried.

He sighed. “Our daughter was Christened Melina Wendy,” he explained. “She’s insisted on using Wendy for years. Her mother and I always call her Mel and she tolerates it from us. But I was saying ... we’ve worried about her, you know. She’s never brought anyone home, male or female, other than school or college friends.”

“I didn’t know about her name,” I commented, “but ... I know that Wendy ... sorry ... your daughter has...” I hesitated, “we have quite a lot in common, I think. We’re both sort of shy, though in different ways. She’s my first girlfriend, and she says I’m the first man she’s wanted to be close to.”

He nodded. “This is the point where I ask you what are your intentions toward my daughter...” he smiled, to show the question was a formality rather than a challenge.