Truly I do

Truly I Do

by

Katherine West

Published by
Books from The
Village
at Smashwords

Copyright 2010

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***

Julie-Anne
Keillor sat quietly in the window seat of her cottage and gazed out
on the crisp autumnal afternoon. What was it about her life that
she'd got so wrong?

Brimming with
indulgent self-pity she allowed the hot prickle behind her soft,
dark eyes to develop into wet tears; breathed in deeply and gave in
to a sobbing moan. 'It's not fair!' she wailed to no-one in
particular. She looked around the room. There, catching rays of
afternoon sunshine on its dusty glass was a picture of her husband
. . . her dead husband.

Ineffectually
she threw her damp tissue at the photo frame. Soft, white and
crumpled, it fluttered down by her feet having travelled only a few
inches in the dusty air. "What am I supposed to do now?" She
yelled, frustrated, at the man in the picture. "How am I supposed
to be? How do I fill the gaps? . . . Who am I, now?" Through sodden
tears she wailed again, flailing her fists toward him. There, in
the dusty picture, in tropical sunshine, he just grinned stupidly,
saying nothing.

She shifted
around the window seat turning her back on him, allowing herself to
become distracted by the rustle of her black taffeta dress. It was,
she thought, a stupid dress to have put on for a funeral. It was
meant to be an evening dress for cocktail parties. Well, there'd be
no more of those would there?

The thing was,
the funeral had been three weeks ago and she was still wearing the
same dress. How had that happened?

At the end of
each day she'd been to bed - to their bed. She didn't sleep she
just lay there numbed and cold. Then, each day, she'd got up and
put the dress back on. Wearing the dress made her feel as if the
funeral hadn't happened yet, as if she could somehow delay the
reality of it by denying that it was already in the past.
'Everything', she thought, 'is in the past now. My whole life has
just become a past event. I'm twenty-seven, I'm five-foot two, I'm
slim and healthy É and now I have no future. One moment I was the
smart wife of a clever financier - I knew what was expected of me,
what my role was every day. Now I have no role, no purpose, no
identity.' The tears came again, this time she wept quietly. She
hugged herself; her own arms wrapped around her; stroking her own
slender back through the texture of the black taffeta fabric.
Feeling empty, she wished there was someone in this world who could
step in and do the stroking and the soothing for her.

Eventually she
became still again. She sat demurely at the diamond leaded window
of her cottage. She smoothed the skirts of that dress, crossed her
elegant ankles very neatly, folded her slender hands in her lap and
settled there, framed in golden, autumnal sunlight . . .
waiting.

*

Russell
Bryson-Steinar really didn't like being a high-school teacher.

A stubborn
expression spread across his gently intelligent face setting a firm
light in his crystal blue eyes. The skin across his high cheek
bones tightened, straightening out the playful smile that usually
kissed the corners of his mouth.

He didn't
really like riding his bicycle along the village lanes, especially
during the long autumn term when he had to ride out in damp dark
drizzle - and ride back in damp dark drizzle. Surrey was a lovely
county, lush, warm and fruitful in summer. But always it seemed
that the softly rolling hills and ancient leafy woodlands were an
entrapment for relentless chilling damp and bone-soaking mists in
the winter months.

Each cold,
dark school journey seemed to grimly reflect they way he had come
to feel about his job. He was miserable about those pimply faced,
belligerent and badly behaved teenagers in his class room. He'd
come to loath marking their scruffy attempts at homework.

And he
couldn't stand the new Head Master! A pompous double-breasted, grey
jacketed man who insisted on being called "The School Manager". A
pretentious man, Russell decided, who'd arrived from London full of
stupid ideals and targets and weekly meetings. Russell was going to
hand in his notice and . . . and . . . and do what? Who cared? He'd
find some way to occupy his time. With a slight shake of his
angelically blonde head he boyishly flicked curls of mist darkened
hair away from his forehead and rode his dull old bicycle with an
air of resolve.

Skimming over
a frosted puddle, around the sharp corner by the cottage, at the
point where the heavy boughs of a big oak tree blocked the view of
the road ahead - he glanced up and saw that alluring, mysterious
woman again. She'd been sitting by her window every day for over a
fortnight, just staring out. He'd tried waving once but she did not
respond. This time he slowed to a halt at the gate-post and looked.
Observing the cottage scene, he dragged his fingers backward
through his soft, curly blonde fringe, absent-mindedly stroking it
away from his smooth, intelligent face. Gentle autumnal sunshine
was finally breaking through dark grey morning clouds. It bathed
everything in an unreal orange light. Garden trees looked like
paintings, glowing in shades of gold and yellow. They cast long
shadows that melted into the gloom where deep purple cloud still
restricted the reach of the sun's rays.

Shining
glimmers highlighted the panes of the cottage windows. And nestled
amid all the scenery sat the delicate visage of that lonely woman.
She looked even more petite sitting there all alone in her black
dress behind the frame of the cottage window. Even from a distance
her pale face looked so forsaken and remote. It was heart breaking
to think how isolated she seemed to have become.

This was an
icy sharp morning. But Russell was too fascinated to move quickly
on. He pulled his thread-worn blue tweed jacket closed, because
although he'd put on his pale blue cashmere sweater that morning,
the frosted air was tightening the firm muscles of his chest. He
pushed his hands into the warm pockets of his baggy navy corduroy
trousers, he settled against his bike to watch her for a while.

He knew, from
the gossip around the village, that her husband had died - killed
in some kind of an accident. Everyone said, "She'll get over it in
time. Just give her time." And no-one did anything to help her.

Russell stared
at her.

She looked so
lovely, pale skinned, serene and sad. Just sitting there, lost to
the world in her sorrowful thoughts. She had long dark hair. It
usually cascaded over her shoulders in rivulets of light reflecting
waves. Now though, it was tired looking, ruffled and badly needing
attention. Russell remembered noticing her around the village in
the past. She'd been delicately bending to feed the ducks on the
village green with her sumptuous hair falling down in a vibrant
curtain that had glistened and shone in the mid-summer heat.

From where he
was now he could see her eyes; dark, sagacious, almond shaped eyes.
She reminded him a little of Audrey Hepburn, he decided. And surely
if she were ever to smile again those eyes would be so lovely, eyes
that now just stared into middle distance, oblivious of the vital
world that Russell occupied. For a moment he was shaken as it
occurred to him that she might be dead herself, just sitting there,
not moving. But then she shifted slightly dropping her gaze to the
floor. She wasn't dead, just sad.

"Perhaps
they're right, she'll get over it. Just give her time," he thought.
And even as that thought was forming he denied it. She needs help.
I need help. But, what can I do? He swung his well exercised,
muscular legs over his bike, pushed the pedal and rode slowly up
the hill. Once again he was making his way to school, to his job,
to his miserable life. Thoughts of that lovely woman had, for the
time being, to be pushed aside. Day-dreams about taking her in his
arms to dance; staring into those sultry eyes over a candle lit
dinner; walking through the green fields under sun-kissed skies
with his arm around her waist stroking and brushing that gorgeous
hair . . . all that would have to linger in the deeper reaches of
his mind.

Right now more
mundane duties called.

At
twelve-forty it was lunch time. Russell walked brazenly into the
Head's office. His heart was thumping but he felt empowered. The
Head looked up. Even the sight of this man's smug face and ugly
grey suit sent Russell's pulse racing harder and made his
temperature rise in a nasty prickly way. Mr. Finnegan! Oh how he
hated Mr. Finnegan.

Finnegan had
made Russell's miserable life even worse. Judging by the disdain in
his expression he didn't rate Russell too highly either. "I
resign!" Russell blurted. He was surprised to hear the rehearsed
words actually come out of his mouth. "I resign!" He said again, as
if testing the idea, "I resign!"

Mr. Finnegan
raised one of his suspiciously femininely plucked eyebrows, "How
old are you Russell?" he asked, smirking.

"Twenty-nine,
sir."

Russell
frowned, what had his age got to do with it? He'd just resigned
hadn't he? What business was it of Mr. Finnegan - his age? "Why?"
He added.

"What are you
going to do with yourself then?" Finnegan turned his attention back
to the sheet of paper on his desk, rather rudely Russell thought,
as if he didn't care whether Russell answered him or not.

"I don't
rightly know." Russell was honest. "But I don't want to stay here
any more, sir. I'm over qualified for this job." It was true, he
was an Oxford graduate of the highest degree. He should have taken
the post offered to him in university and spent his life writing
interesting books or going off on interesting field trips. But
instead he'd wanted to 'come out into the real world' and get some
life experiences before committing himself to the hallowed halls.
He'd been - and still was - a fit, lively attractive young man with
a verve for fun and adventure and a longing for something more than
books and blackboards.

Now he was
ready to realise that he'd disentangled himself from one rut only
to get stuck into another. There was more to gaining life
experiences than this. He needed to get out and stretch his wings
before it was too late. He was also ready to realise that he didn't
have to fulfil his father's decree that a decent man should have a
frugal attitude, a decent job and work in humble circumstances for
his living. Truth was that ma and pa had been dead and buried for
some ten years now and the family holdings had long since been sold
off.

Truth was also
that Russell's grandfather, as he'd discovered, had made massive
fortunes speculating in financial futures and trading in
commodities such as diamonds and rare metals. It was a good thing
that both his father and grandfather had been lucky to escape
financial crisis at various times of global catastrophe and wise
enough to protect their money and invest it well.

Russell was
rich.

It had shocked
him to find out just how much his father had owned, invested and
salted away. But until now, until this very moment in Mr.
Finnigan's office, he'd never felt inclined to take advantage of
it. Until this very moment he'd simply carried on being the
ordinary Jo-Bloe he had always been. His grey, elderly parents had
had a grey and elderly attitude to their son's upbringing. They
simply hadn't taught him, or allowed him, to think of himself as
any kind of a wealthy person. They'd kept all knowledge of their
fortunes a secret. As a result, he was never ostentatious,
extravagant or capricious. Maybe it was time to put away their
plain, boring, almost working class attitudes and learn to be the
billionaire he really was . . .

"Hmmn!"

Finnegan
interrupted Russell's trail of thoughts, "As a matter of fact I was
just looking over your class achievements for last term. Your
results aren't particularly spectacular are they?" He shot a
challenging glance in Russell's direction.

My results,
Russell thought, they're not my results they're the stupid
students' results. It's not my fault they're all lazy little oiks,
I've done my best with a bad lot I'd say. This arrogant swine is
just making excuses! And anyway none of them got anything below a
grade C; it was not as if they'd actually failed examinations . . .
what was Finnegan on about? Aloud he simply said "There you are
then. I resign."