Chapter 3

It wasn't like being married. At least, it wasn't like my marriage was. It was, however, a very satisfying relationship in every respect. As time wore on, our nervousness about Leon diminished, but it never disappeared entirely. I was worried, because he was a big man, physically at least, and clearly accustomed to getting his own way through violence and intimidation. I had no resources in the way of self-defence, or weapons skills, to offer any resistance. Denise, I think, was more worried than I, as she had a closer acquaintance with the bully's characteristics. As it turned out, Someone must have been looking out for us, as you'll see. There's a saying I've heard... 'There are no coincidences in the life of a child of God'. I would not lay claim to such a title, but I have no compunction in assigning the title to Denise. But let's see.

We decided to spend Christmas with my mother. In her late seventies, she was as spry and active as many my age and on her own since the death of my father from cancer several years previously. I asked if she minded me coming and bringing my 'house-mate'.

"Of course not, Joseph." Note – she's one of very few who habitually use my full given name. "Will you need one room or two?"

She managed to surprise me in that. "Oh, so long as you don't mind, Mum, one room is fine."

"I'm happy you've found someone to be your companion, Joseph. That's more important to me these days than proprieties."

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. But I wasn't about to deprive myself of my bed-mate in order to pretend Denise and I were no more than 'friends'.

As usual, I asked neighbours to keep an eye on the house, and I set various timers and devices that would turn lights, radios and such like on and off to give an appearance of the house being occupied.

Anyway, we set off a couple of days short of Christmas, suitably clad against the winter cold and damp ... remember, on a motorbike, you have to contend with wind-chill, equivalent to a degree drop in temperature for every mile per hour of wind-speed ... and arrived at my mother's house in Newark, Nottinghamshire, mid afternoon, after five hours. Two hours of that were spent in various cafés and service areas, thawing out.

Mother opened the door. "Come in, come in! Don't let all the heat out! You must be Denise. I'm delighted to meet you. Yes. You're every bit as lovely as Joseph said on the phone. Come on, get that clobber off and come and get warm." I was almost completely ignored, and happy to be so as I stripped off my Barbour suit. "The kettle's not long since boiled, and I'll make tea."

I did wonder what Mum's reaction would be when she saw the colour of Denise's skin. She's of a generation in which a degree of racism is endemic, partly because unquestioned, but if she disapproved she gave no indication of it. Initially, Denise and I sat together on the sofa. Her hand sought mine and I saw my mother smile as she watched. It meant, however, that I had to drink my tea and nibble my buttered scone, left-handed. The rest of our stay, the two women were thick as thieves. Denise even worked with Mum in the kitchen and shared recipes and tips.

We were in blissful ignorance until much later of what was going on at home. While we were at the Christingle service in the Parish church in Newark, a neighbour was ringing the Police to tell them of a man loitering around our house. Unusually, someone both took the report seriously and had manpower to check it out. Two constables, a man and a woman, found him breaking in the kitchen door at the rear of the house, and when they challenged him, he shot at them with a hand-gun. Happily, they were both wearing protective vests and were able to subdue and arrest him. Breaking and entering, carrying a firearm (hand-guns always illegal for a British civilian) resisting arrest, attempted murder, were added to assault occasioning actual bodily harm and possession of class A drugs with intent to supply. There was no chance of bail that time. Once the legal system had ground through the process, he would be spending a considerable time in a maximum security institution, if not as long as I would have liked.

The neighbour didn't have my mobile number, or my Mother's number, but took the trouble to have the broken pane boarded up to secure the house.

So Denise, Mum and I had a peaceful Christmas. We went to sing carols at the Parish Church Christmas morning, then Mum took Denise to initiate her into the secrets of her bread sauce and her preferred thyme and parsley stuffing. Don't ask me about the bread sauce – I only know it consists of bread-crumbs, milk, onion and cloves and is delicious.

We ambled through the ruined castle's grounds, and by the river. There's an old barge by the bridge that someone's turned into a restaurant, and we ate there one evening when it reopened after the holiday. We even visited the aviation museum. I don't suppose Denise was really that interested, but she indulged me. Some of the displays did hold her attention, I think.

Anyway, we were there just over a week before I thought it necessary to return home and prepare for a new term. The evening before we left, while Denise was out of the room, Mum said, "Joseph, she's a good one. Believe me, she told me her history, and I don't think it should matter. You'll be a fool to let this one go."

I just shrugged and nodded. "I just feel she ought to have someone her own age."

"It's not such a big gap," she said. "I've known couples with thirty or more years separation that've done perfectly well."

We heard Denise returning at that point, and desisted in the discussion; I put it out of my mind. The ride home was much like the outward journey; cruising along at sixty, I stopped about every hour when I couldn't feel my fingers and was worried about being unable to control the bike. The pain of returning circulation, accelerated by using the hot-air hand-dryers in the toilets ... hot coffee or chocolate, comfort food.

Obviously, we noticed the broken pane of glass. Our neighbour came across, having seen us arrive, and explained. Actually, there were a lot of calls in the voice-mail of the land-line as well. But we were happy enough to hear Leon was in custody, along with a number of his associates, and unlikely to be free in the near future.

Thanks to the holiday, I was unable to get a glazier to come before I returned to work, but Denise oversaw the repair. She even got paint and went over the putty so it was hard to see there'd ever been a problem.

It was a leap year. The significance of that passed me by, even when Denise demanded we go out the evening of February twenty-ninth. After Fettucino Alfredo and tiramisu, as I was rounding off a thoroughly decadent and satisfying meal with espresso, Denise dropped her bombshell.

"Joe, your mother warned me you'd never get round to asking, so ... will you marry me?"

I stared at her so long her face fell and her eyes glistened with incipient tears.

I reached out and took a limp hand in mine. "Denise, don't cry, please ... you ... really want to marry me? I mean..."

"Joe, I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to. Of course, if you don't, I'll understand. I'll be sad, but I'll understand."

"Sweetheart, I'd love to marry you. I've been on tenterhooks for months, expecting you to leave, and I hated the idea. Yes. I will, dear."

A colleague saw us leaving the jeweller's the following Saturday morning, hand in hand – I didn't notice her, but the gossip hit the school on Monday and it only took until Thursday for someone to pluck up the nerve to ask me if I was getting married. There were a few smiles and congratulations from colleagues, but no more that I noticed. The ceremony was arranged for Easter Saturday, at the Elim church. The Pastor insisted on interviewing us, together and separately. He was obviously satisfied, as the ceremony went ahead.