Truly I do (4 page)

"I don't know
what to do!" She was wailing, "This, well, this is wrong isn't it.
I - I mean, I'm really only just widowed aren't I? What am I doing
chasing around after you, eh?" She caught her breath and her voice
softened to a hoarse whisper.

"I was so
afraid Russell. I thought you might say 'hey, look, just go away,
stupid woman'! I thought you might not really want to see me again
tomorrow. I don't know what to do - this is all so weird. I feel
weird, I do truly. One minute there I was being a bored housewife
with all my routines, dull days and daily grumbles. Life was easy.
I didn't have to think about it, I just got on with it. My single
biggest problem, my only problem was occasionally wondering what
had happened to the good old days of wine and roses kind-of-stuff.
What was my marriage all about? Why did it get so stale so quickly?
I was just drifting along in a convenient relationship, y'know. I
was only married for five years - but we weren't really lovers any
more. We were just convenient companions for each other - you know?
Then, next thing, he'd been snatched away, snuffed out like a
candle! And I'm supposed to just keep carrying on am I? I'm not
used to being on my own, Russell I'm not . . . I'm not very . . . I
don't know how to do it, I don't know what's right . . . I'm lost
Russell."

Russell
wondered what to say. He couldn't be surprised by this outpouring.
Should he ask her about her husband or should he just focus on her
in the here-and-now? If he sounded sad or sorry would that make
things worse? If he didn't sound emotional how would he sound?
Callous he supposed.

She carried on
- "I sometimes think I should be crying but I just can't. Then I
start and it seems as if I'll never stop. Then I think I hate him
for leaving me and I get angry. Then I remember how I'd thought I'd
loved him, y'know, in the very early days. Then I find I'm crying
because actually our marriage had lost its soul, lost its passion .
. . or had it? After only five years? I don't know. I don't know
what to feel, what to do, what to think. My mind's in chaos. All
those times when you think that you'd be so much better off if you
lived on your own and could just do things your own way, suit
yourself. But then when it's landed on you, you feel guilty, empty,
lonely - how does that figure?"

There was a
long silence. She'd stopped speaking. Still Russell didn't know
quite what to say. "I don't quite know what to say or how to say
it," he confessed to the phone receiver, wishing he could scoop her
up and hold her, "I wish I could make it all all right for you. I'm
so sorry that you're having to go through all this."

She sighed
resignedly. "No-one ever knows what to say." She uttered
mournfully. "I sure wouldn't know what to say to me right now.
There's no answer I don't think. Maybe that's why I'm scared. I"m
sorry to burden you on the phone with all this. I think I just
panicked! Do you - still want to see me again?"

"Tell you
what" he said as he was wishing he could just reach out and fold
his fingers into her hair and kiss her, "I'll phone you back in
about an hour. I'll go and make a cup of tea and finish my house
work. You go and make a cup of tea and fix your face or whatever it
is you women are supposed to do after crying (he hoped she realised
he'd said that tongue in cheek, he hoped it was a stupid enough
thing to have said to make her smile again), and I'll call you in
an hour so that you know I really do want to be your friend.
Okay?"

Controlling
her breath she answered. "Okay." But Russell knew that she was
going to find it hard to put down the phone.

"Go on then"
he encouraged gently, "go put the kettle on, and remember we're
both having a nice hot strong cup of tea, kind of together."

"Erm,"

"What
Julie-Anne?"

"I don't like
tea!"

He felt so
relieved. For the moment at least she was finding her sense of
humour. "Get off with you!" he scolded. "Make coffee, pour a glass
of wine even. I'm going to hang up now 'cos I've got a very special
friend coming tomorrow and I've got to finish my chores. Okay?
Go!"

They both hung
up.

They each
lingered by the phone in case the other called back immediately.
Then they each went to their kitchens. He made a cup of tea. She
stood by the sink and stared out at the shadowy trees in her back
garden.

For Russell
some parts of the next hour rushed past too quickly. He had a hard
time getting to grips with the vacuum cleaner bag which split and
spilled its ghastly grey contents all over the living room floor
when he'd tried to change it for a fresh one. He felt he would
never finish getting the house the way it ought to be. Then he
stopped to think about Julie-Anne, how confusing and painful the
re-adjustments of her life must be right now. How beautiful her
face was when she smiled. How much he liked being with her. How
good she smelled now that he was remembering her. How sensual he
imagined she could be. For that part of his hour the time dragged
as he longed to phone her and hear her voice again.

His hands
actually trembled when he dialled her number.

"Hi Russell,"
she said, sounding grateful.

"How'd you
know it was me? Could have been anybody phoning you!"

"Nah -
no-one's phoned me for ages. You're the only person who's got
nothing better to do, you lay about."

"Hey!"

Their
conversation went on for about fifteen minutes. They discussed the
vacuum cleaner incident; the trees in autumn; how to get through
life in an English country village if you never drink tea and a
funny incident involving the students in Russell's ex-class. From
time to time they said nothing for a few moments and Russell
worried about how she was feeling. Once, she tried to apologise for
phoning him in a panic earlier, but he told her he was glad she
had, and he meant it. Eventually he said, "Listen, I've still got
one or two things to do. How about if I call you back again in
another hour from now?"

"Really?"

"Really!"

"Okay."

. . . Their
final hourly phone call finished at some time after two a.m. when
Julie-Anne promised she'd go to bed and get some sleep so that she
could be with him early in the morning. He stroked the smooth back
of the telephone receiver as he laid the handset in its cradle. He
wondered what the next day would bring. He hoped it would bring
them close together . . . or was she right? Was it too soon to have
designs on her? Was she too vulnerable? Was he too vulnerable?
"Well, in for a penny" he thought, I've taken this too far to back
out now.

*

The next
morning Julie-Anne was surprised to wake up and find that she had
slept. She lay in her bed feeling warm. Lying there she caught
herself wishing that Russell would just walk quietly through the
door and slip into bed beside her. Then she was twisted by a pang
of guilt, surely she should be longing for her husband not some
chap she'd only just met? Now her body felt like a lead weight as
she climbed out of bed - until she caught sight of herself in the
mirror and started to laugh at the thought of what any man would
say about her faded old yellow brushed cotton nightie. Had her
husband ever commented on it? No! He'd never even noticed it. Well,
it was comfy! If Russell was going to like her, even as a friend,
he'd just have to like the true Julie-Anne. He would have to like
she who was comfy in an old brushed cotton nightie . . . with the
hem hanging down a bit and the lace missing from one sleeve! If he
wanted to become more than just a friend then the nightie probably
wouldn't matter. It was worn so thin he could probably rip it off
her like those times in the movies when new lovers just can't wait
to get their hands on each other. "Hah!" she laughed aloud at her
mirrored self. "I've become a boring old frump! I really should
think seriously about smartening up my image."

She thought
again about the idea of Russell ripping off her nightie. He
certainly had all the right muscles, all the right shapes in all
the right places. She reflected on what she'd seen of his body;
smooth, well formed shoulders; a fit, firm, broad chest supported
by a trim waist and strong, slender hips. She'd noticed too that he
had well exercised thigh muscles, the kind that looked as if you
could spit roast them and feast on perfectly formed meat. And his
bum was so-o-o cute, maybe it was all the bike riding, or maybe he
just worked out - but that guy had all the right tones in all the
right places!

While she was
day-dreaming, her hands were smoothing over the front of her chest,
feeling the warm brushed cotton, feeling the sensitive breast skin
underneath as she warmed to her thoughts of Russell. She pulled off
the nightie and stared at her nakedness. Her own legs were firm and
smooth; her breasts were small and didn't droop; the firmness of
her belly and the slight curve of her small hips were pleasing.
Well, she was only in her mid-twenties, hardly likely to be past it
just yet, she decided.

Somewhere deep
inside, a tiny voice added 'yes but you're used goods Julie-Anne.
You're an old married woman, a widow even. Men aren't going to be
interested in you'.

She shrugged
away her doubts. It was too lovely a dawn for today to be dragged
down by misery. It was Sunday too, she realised; the village would
be quiet and calm today - fewer nosey neighbours to watch her going
about her visit.

Filled with a
fervent passion to be with him, she dressed quickly in a
close-fitting creamy lambs wool dress. The wool over her thighs and
buttocks did not leave much to the imagination. The soft, rolling
cowl neck framed her face - adding, she thought, a pretty touch to
her overall appearance. Feeling a bit cheeky, she selected hold-up
stockings instead of tights and pulled on her boots with an inward
grin. Her hair was quickly brushed to hang dark, lustrous and
shining down her back over the soft creamy dress. Make up was
lightly but expertly applied to enhance her dark, almond shaped
eyes and moisten and plump her lips. And soon she was stepping out
into the crisp brightening morning to walk down through the village
and find Russell's house.

The earthy
fragrances of English countryside were enhanced by clean, clear,
cold air. The soft sounds of little birds stirring and dried leaves
rustling in the autumn trees was enhanced by the peacefulness of
the early hour. The village green, the store and the pub were
peaceful; lying as they did in the dip of the green valley basin,
silvered by autumn's frosted dew.

She walked
past the side of the store and began the climb up Bramley Orchard
Lane. Here the trees that flanked the lane were ancient apples.
They smelled sweet even though the fruit had been harvested and the
leaves mostly dropped. The orchard meadow grass around the trees
was thick, wet and beginning to lose its vibrant green where tufts
and tussocks overlay one another and turned the stems to hay. Over
the orchard trees she could admire the view of rolling meadow
hillsides sloping gently out of the valley. Atop some of the hill
crests were richly dark forest pines in small clusters, or stray
remnants of deciduous wild-woods where the farmers had cleared
around them to make their fields. Overhead she saw the Surrey sky
was perfect blue and the autumnal sun, although too weak to be
warm, coloured everything with beautiful hues of pink, gold, orange
and amber. Julie-Anne felt alive and excited.

Realising just
how very early it was, Julie-Anne paused at the gateway looking
down the brick cobbled path to the pretty little Lutyens cottage.
The season had robbed the cottage garden of its foxgloves, lupins
and even the roses had faded and melted away. She stared at the
front windows of the cottage and caught her breath when she saw
Russell move through the rooms inside. She saw his golden curls
catch and reflect early morning light and, as he had not yet put
his shirt on, she saw the smooth ripple of his strong shoulder
muscles under lightly tanned skin. Something fluttered deep in the
pit of her belly causing her to think hard about what she was
feeling. This man was deeply attractive, she knew that, but there
was something else about him. He was gentle, he had a sweet nature
and he had been so kind to her.

Could it be
that she was falling in love with him? No. She shook herself. How
could she be falling in love when she was still recoiling from the
pain of the loss of her husband? But had the loss of her husband
really caused her pain? Oh, there was no denying the tragedy of his
death. But she had not really been in love with him. The initial
elation of their short marriage had fizzled away so quickly she'd
hardly known what had happened. She realised now that the romance
and adoration she had accredited to their whirlwind romance was
probably all in her imagination. He'd just acted in the way he
thought he was expected to act, taking her out, buying her dinner
and generally going through the motions of a stereotypical wooing .
. . culminating in his having won the convenience of a wife. And,
very soon after they'd married, that was all she was to him - a
convenience. For the remainder of their five years together they
had just rubbed along, not hurting each other, not hating each
other and not loving each other. How sad. Tears welled up warm and
soft behind her eyes. She let them spill over, comforted by the
familiar feeling of sinking into her own loneliness and lack of
self-worth.

A tiny part of
her still wanted to rush to Russell's front door and bath in the
glow of their warm friendship. But the majority of her conscious
thought now concentrated on a strong inclination to turn on her
heels and run home to sit alone and safe in a darkened corner. 'I
shouldn't bother to fall in love', she thought, 'I'm not worth
loving back - so what's the point. Russell certainly isn't looking
for a wife, not even a silent, convenient one. So what would I get
- rejected! Yeah, big time rejection! I don't want that!'