No Tide Waits

By Avril Osborne

Is infidelity any different between two women than it is between man and woman? And is the impact on family members and friends any more difficult to deal with?

Jan is already in a civil partnership with Linda and is well accepted by her father, his wife and her brother and sister. Life seems as good as it can get!
But Jan is about to get swept into the maelstrom of an attraction to Susan, a forceful and determined doctor who has just bought a holiday cottage by the sea, where Jan and Linda live and are fully accepted into the community.
Pushed to the edge of temptation and, it feels, of sanity, Jan lives through several days of crisis, whilst her family try to deal with what is unfolding as well as the issues they are also facing. Who will ‘win’, Susan or Linda? And as the storm of deciding approaches, can Jan see any way to determine how her life should unfold from here?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Avril Osborne
• Release date: Jul 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465835833

Avril Osborne

I started writing when I left a thirty year career in social work. A long held ambition, my interest lies in portraying women’s issues in modern day society, in particular issues of sexual orientation, adjustment and the perceptions of others. I was born and raised in Scotland and read languages at St Andrews University, before going on to train and practice social work in both England and Scotland. My interest in writing was long standing and for several years, Orkney was the beautiful location where I was lucky enough to live and focus on my ambition. I now live in a lovely and tranquil village in central Scotland. I hope you will enjoy my novels and if you would like to contact me to comment on them, please feel free to do so.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

In the late spring gale, she feels diminutive as she struggles through the wind towards the cottage. The waves approach the shoreline, appearing to slow as their height increases, then they break at the moment when the crest starts to move faster than the trough. Jan Roberts knows that there are many ways to know the wrath of the sea. One of these is simply to be on the foreshore during a storm whilst the waves are smashing themselves to oblivion. She stops to catch her breath, allowing herself a few seconds to watch the sea pour onto the outcrop of rocks in front of her. Out on the dark horizon, the rollers are at the height of their speed and force as they rise `above her, and it seems as if they will crash over the beach and engulf her.

Ferries are cancelled, a flood alert is in force and the wind speed is projected to rise to force nine. She knows that she should not be out in these conditions. No one knows where she is. But her need to reach the woman in the cottage is as compelling and powerful as the inevitable spilling of the breakers and the spume they will throw onto the sloping beach. It is early summer, yet those acquainted with this part of the coast would say that such a storm is not unusual for the time of year.

ONE

SUNDAY

Jan’s playing away from home.

Sally’s words come out of the blue, but Ben realizes why his wife has been so quiet all weekend. He also knows that her matter-of-fact tone belies the distress she must be feeling. She worships her sister and the idea of her having an affair would be anathema to her. Jan, she always says, is not typical. When he asks what she means by that, she says that she is not typical of women like that, of course - as if there were a commonly agreed stereotype for women who prefer women from which Jan somehow stands separate. On these occasions, he forbears to challenge her inherent assumptions and prejudices. Instead, he teases her that she sees Jan as an altogether better class of lesbian.

From his vantage point at the tiller, he drops his gaze from the wind indicator on the masthead as the dinghy glides into the bay, its pace accelerated by the incoming tide.

Are you sure? When did you find out? He looks across at his wife as she concentrates on pulling the sheets taut, striving to get that last surge of speed out of the Lazer before they have to lower the mainsail and run the boat towards the shore on its jib. The sun is in his eyes now, making it difficult for him to see her expression.

I didn’t. John did. He saw them in the Mariners. She was with that Benson woman – she’s a doctor, we gather. You know – the one who bought that old fisherman’s cottage along the beach.

The doctor? You think she’s messing around with her? Ben asks, his voice registering his surprise. He has seen the woman. She’s a lot older than Jan with nowhere near the good looks of the gorgeous Linda. They both smile at the nickname that they have for Jan’s partner. Maybe John’s just making two and two equal five, he suggests. You know what he’s like. That doctor woman is at least ten years older than Jan.

Actually, he continues as another thought occurs to him she could be a ten years older version of Linda. Same hairstyle, same colouring. And same build.

Now who’s stereotyping? she laughs.

Maybe Jan’s looking for her lost mother relationship?

Sally ignores his criticism.

John’s likely to be leaping to conclusions, as usual, he insists.

Ben knows she is used to his mildly challenging views on her family. It is his way of holding on to some sense of self. He thinks she is over fond of John, her baby brother, whilst she seems to see it as simply normal that the two sisters should be protective of him. It is a difference of view they have danced around often enough. Ben knows he is being stubborn and should just let it go and resist giving his occasional jibes. But to give up the mild banter would be to succumb completely to a life dominated by the imperatives of Sally’s family life.

"John could be wrong, she concedes. But Jan’s been like a cat on a hot tin roof since Sue Benson arrived in the village this summer. And I’ve seen the two of them out on the cliffs a couple of times."

Doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Ben points out as, with the unspoken ease that comes from having sailed together and executed this manoeuvre a hundred times, they let out the sheets, slow their speed and start gliding gently towards the old stone jetty that now belongs to the yacht club at the edge of the village. A hundred years ago, a sail powered ferry carried passengers from here across the river Clyde to Rothesey. These days, it is home to a tiny fleet of pleasure boats alone. A quarter of a mile further away from the village is the fisherman’s cottage. Ben stares at its white walls and blue painted door as if doing so will reveal the truth or otherwise of Sally’s suspicions.

Do you think Linda suspects anything? Assuming you are right, of course. Ben pulls the centreboard up as the pebbles on the seabed appear below the surface. They ease gently along the side of the jetty, coming to rest just a few feet away from the tiny two-berth yacht that Sally’s father owns.

I’d hate it for her, Sally grunts by way of reply, as she pulls herself up the ladder. And it would crack Dad up.

Everyone loves Linda, Ben agrees, without any trace of irony. Your father especially. I think he would take it particularly hard to see Jan cheating on her.

He’d see it as a flaw of character, Sally says, smiling wryly. He found it hard enough adjusting to Jan being with a woman, but he likes Linda. She has such an open and exuberant approach to life that none of us could help liking her. Jan cheating on her would upset him for all sorts of reasons.

Are you going to ask her? he probes, fearing already the family crisis that might well come from Sally asking that question.

God, no.

Well, he pursues his theme, If you were sure, would you tell Linda?

He looks up at her on the quayside where she is tying the holding knots, absent-mindedly appreciating her sun bronzed complexion and petite frame.

I don’t know. At the end of the day, Jan’s family. She’s my sister. Linda’s not, even if she has been everything we could have wanted for Jan. My first loyalty is to Jan, no matter what. She looks at Ben, seeking affirmation for this view. He nods quietly and waits for her to think for a moment. Then she says, No, I don’t think I would.

But she sounds doubtful as she says it. Ben looks at her as, scaling the ladder with ease, he joins her on the jetty. This summer has suited him. Exercise and sailing have filled out his slim – he thinks skinny - physique and bronzed him. An only child, he cannot really grasp the bond that exists between his wife and her two siblings. He can only accept it. Married now for the best part of ten years, he has long since recognised that his wife came, in a sense, as one of a package. In his eyes, Sally and Jan are the epitome of what sisters should be – friends and confidantes. Well, they are as close to being confidantes as their different orientations will allow. If Sally is right about this and Jan is having an affair, his wife is going to feel somehow personally betrayed. He helps to secure the boat.

Sal, he asks, looking her long and hard in the eye, if it turns out to be true, would you really say nothing? To Linda I mean. It would be collusion, you know. Would you really just stand by and do nothing?

Sally, normally so boisterous, stands looking out over the water, her dark brown, shoulder-length hair blowing across her face. She seems lost in thought. Ben loves her need for values and principles but this time she seems about to face a situation where she cannot do right, whether she gets involved or not. He puts an arm around her and stands silently with her, suddenly filled with a sense of sadness that so much might change, so quickly. He would do just about anything for his wife’s happiness. In just the course of a few days, events have been taking place that are shifting her world on its axis. Last week, he had to confirm to her the news that could shake the very core of their marriage. Now she has the added burden of worrying about her adored sister. Maybe, he reflects, not putting pressure on her is the least he can do right now to support her.

TWO

The day went well till just before five.

John loves Sundays, especially those when the revelry of the night before does not leave its scars of headaches and blazing eyes. But last night was a quiet one, just the two of them. They enjoyed a bar supper at the Mariners, then returned home to their shared cottage – their pride and joy and a monument to what skilled do-it-yourself restoration can achieve.

Hi, was all that Tracey whispered when he drew her sleeping weight into his arms. He will never cease to wonder at the sheer sensual joy of lying beside her slender body when it emerges from drowsiness, her reddish hair inevitably tousled and spiky. This morning, like so many others, she shifted into the intimacy of nuzzling into him before her body stiffened with excitement. All the while, his hands stroked down the length of her back and thighs.

Like most Sundays, their morning lovemaking set them up for the day and drew them into each other’s presence in an unspoken, unquestioned way. As ever, the rhythm of the day was precious. Whilst Tracey showered, he prepared breakfast and went out, briefly, to collect the Sunday papers from the village shop. By the time she came downstairs, immaculately groomed and glowing, he had scrambled eggs and toasted muffins all ready to serve.

The plan for the day evolved as they finished their orange juice.

How about a hike? Maybe a bowl of soup at Gianni’s?

Tracey grinned at his suggestion. They both knew that John was the decision maker for the weekends. Whatever his choice, it would be something that he thought through carefully – something that he knew she would like to do. And they both enjoy walking.

This particular walk, high above the river Clyde and looking out over magnificent sea views to Aran, then dropping down to the coastline and to the Italian café restaurant, was one of their favourites. In fact, it was the favourite and the first they ever did together, four years ago now, when he first brought her to his home area.

And they have saved the Gianni walk for special from that memorable day onwards. Since there was nothing in particular that was special about today, she would have to guess what surprise he had for her. With a quizzical smile, she accepted readily.

OK, big boy, you’re on. She would play along.

John liked to pace it out along the shoulder of the hill and, since they were tall, angular and fit, they covered the four miles in just over an hour. The coffee house was busy, but the main rush of Sunday lunchers, out in droves for their roast of the day, had now departed on their arduous journey to the next watering house along the coast where a cup of afternoon tea would await them. A young waitress, a weekend schoolgirl employee who has served them on previous occasions, ushered them to a quiet window seat. Tracey has said before that the young girl has taken a shine to John. So he is pleasant but gives no suggestion of having anything other than complete attention on Tracey.

Two soups, please, Tracey smiled.

And two coffees and two slices of fruit cake? the youngster queried with a shy grin, remembering their standard snack.

What have you got on next Friday, Trace? John asked as the waitress set glasses of water down for them. Tracey winced at the question and gave him a reproachful stare.

You know I hate bursting our Sunday bubble before we have to. I don’t want to think about next week.

Tracey is a social worker in the tough upper Clyde world and the way she deals with stress is to live Monday to Friday as one emotional existence and Friday teatime to Monday morning as separate, ‘sanctuary’ time. Why, he could see her thinking, was he breaking the unspoken rule?

Just wondered if you could be free Friday? John persisted gently, eyeing her carefully.

Not getting married, are we? she jested, referring to the main issue between them - his reluctance to commit beyond their current living arrangement. John tried not to let his flicker of disappointment cross his face, but she saw it and had the good grace to say, Sorry.

Thought we might get away, just for the weekend. He reached into his hip pocket and drew out an envelope. He placed it tentatively on the tablemat in front of Tracey. She looked at him, signalling that she was ashamed at the troubled expression she had brought to his eyes. Then she smiled as she read the copy of the e-mail that the envelope contained.

It’s two tickets from Prestwick to Paris, he explained needlessly. They’re budget flights. I think we can just about afford it.

He knew that, even with low cost airfares, it would all add up once transfers, hotels and meals were added in. But he has been putting some money aside and it was a gamble that was paying off. She was delighted.

This is so unlike my safe and steady John, she grinned at him as she spoke and then asked how they were going to find the rest of the money.

"We aren’t. I am. I have a homer this week, rewiring a nineteen-fifties bungalow. Money guaranteed. It will clear the final payment on the new shower room and with what’s left, we can still do this." He waved at the tickets as he spoke.

He was almost pleading but he was feeling vaguely, boyishly pleased with himself. An electrician, John is employed by the biggest house-building firm on this part of the coast and it is the occasional evening work that he takes on privately for cash that makes the difference between an adequate income and a comfortable existence. Until now, the ‘cream’ has gone into the cottage.

I reckoned that after four years of renovation, we can afford to treat ourselves to something a bit special. Can you get the time? he pressed, his voice anxious again.

Tracey reached for her electronic diary, a tool that for whatever reason never leaves her bag.

There’s nothing I can’t change. No court appearances or case conferences.

So it’s yes? He grinned at her, leaning back in his chair.

It’s yes. She raised her glass, as if to toast the moment.

They strolled, rather than walked back to the car, this time taking the opportunity to admire the view and to watch the regatta playing itself out below them, just along the coast from their village. It is late afternoon as they finish the walk.

I wondered about asking Jan and Linda, he says, looking straight ahead, as they are approaching the car park. Finally he looks at her.

Tracey is silent, not returning his gaze. She withdraws her hand from his.

What? she eventually manages, half as question, half as exclamation.

Well, you know. It might be fun. It would be good for them. I mean - it would be good to have them along.

John, you know that every single Sunday evening is dominated by your family. I barely cope with it as it is. Now you give me a surprise trip abroad. But the real surprise is that your sister is coming along. I can hardly credit it, John. She glowers at him, her hand on the car door, waiting for him to unlock it.

"But there is a reason, Trace," he says, knowing that a row is now almost inevitable. He should have handled this differently.

John, I don’t care what the reason is. I thought this was going to be a weekend for us. Now it transpires it’s not. She slumps into the car and stares through the windscreen, closed off from him.

OK. OK, John concedes, his tone defeated. He knows that taking his sister is not an option.

They drive off in silence, the mood now completely changed. Eventually, as they enter their driveway, Tracey takes her gaze from the road and looks at him.

Was Paris really for you and me, John?

I just thought we could help. I think they have some problems right now.

Maybe you should concentrate on fixing ours.

She goes into the house without saying another word. He can hear the shower running as he enters their bedroom to change his denims. He tries the door to the en-suite. It is locked. He should try to apologise. He can see now how this all looks to her. But what can he do? He loves his sister and his family are central to him, central to him after Tracey, that is. Why can she not accept that? And why does marriage mean so much to her? He gives her all of him that there is to give.

Ten minutes later, he is sitting in the lounge when she finally appears.

Let’s get on with it, she snaps.

With these words, she heads for the front door.

John sighs. Tracey has come to resent their Sunday evening dinners with his family at Tony’s home. Yet, she has acknowledged in the past, she does like John’s father and his wife, Mary. And yes, she readily agreed, she likes his sisters. But, she points out often enough, is John not a bit old to be trotting home every weekend like a child who cannot leave the nest? On a good evening, she concedes, she enjoys the chatter and she likes Mary’s company in particular.

John knows that his partner will not let her hosts down – she is too polite for that. But tonight, he sighs to himself as they make for the front door, it will be hard work. He tries to catch up, but she is ten yards ahead of him by the time he has turned the key in the lock.

THREE

Tony Roberts believes he has every reason to feel satisfied. From the driveway to his garage, just a couple of hundred yards towards the centre of the village from the yacht club jetty, he has spent the day putting the last touches to the mono-block drive. He has done all the work himself and, a fastidious worker, it is the final expert touch to the renovation of the Victorian house he bought nearly fifteen years ago. It sits on the promenade, half way between the jetty and the village centre with its old harbour – the one that replaced the yacht club jetty when the age of the paddle steamer came to this part of the world and is now home to the five creel boats that bring a modest income to the local fishermen. He has watched his daughter and son-in-law head in to shore, and that warm sense of pride filled him, just as it does each time he sees one of his adult children going about their day-to-day business in the village where they all three still live. He and his second wife, Mary, love the separate and yet together lives they all lead, and they could not have been more pleased than when each of the kids chose to stay close as, one by one, they each found their partner.

It’s nearly time to get ready, he hears Mary say as she comes silently up behind him and puts a soothing hand on his neck.

All but finished here, he smiles without looking at her, and then stands slowly, acknowledging how his shoulders ache as he lets Mary knead them.

True to form, she admires his day’s work and they survey the new drive in a moment of silent appreciation, as much of their contentment in each other as in the paving blocks at their feet. He is a happy man – in his wife and in each of his three kids.

Character building, he has always believed, must come from within – from finding one’s own values and them living up to them. This is a tenet he picked up during his young adult wanderings around India. His thinking evolved into a partly eastern philosophy, partly one smattered with a set of Presbyterian tenets – his had been a tough, West of Scotland upbringing, where survival at home, in the school playground and, later, in the dockyards meant fending for yourself. It was a strange mix, the harsh, back street toughness of his upbringing tempered by his search for a gentler, yet still strong life value system.

That particular idea about character building was to stand him in good stead when, twenty years later, in mid-eighties Scotland, he found himself betrayed by his wife Wendy, in favour of a local pushy businessman who owned a car sales franchise. It was a quote that fitted in so many ways, healthy and otherwise. Embittered, he was tempted to abandon the children to his wife and take off back to India. Instead, he decided that he had to find new inner strength and so he took his brood to Kuwait where he worked in the oil industry for a couple of years, nursed his wounds and created the basis of financial security for the future.

He could deal with his pain by scorning his wife’s poverty of character. He could quell his unspeakable anger at the car salesman she ran off with by despising the arrogance of the man’s self-seeking character. And he could move through those early years of grief, rage and sense of victimhood, and then later years of adjustment, by holding character building as a mantra for survival. ‘Be strong, be gentle,’ he counselled the children.

It became the foundation on which he raised his kids. Abandoned by their mother, his offspring – boisterous Jan at five, lady-like Sally at four and good-natured John still only a baby at two – were a daunting prospect. He had the trauma of his own experience to deal with, compounded overnight by the added distress of infants separated from their mother.

In the chaos that ensued the separation, Tony made two vows, one to himself and one to the barely comprehending youngsters. The first was that they would all do very well, thank you, without that woman. This, he would acknowledge later was in the days when he did not fully appreciate - or accept - the importance of children’s access to their absent parent. The second was that he would give them everything that he personally could, chief of which would be the encouragement and freedom to build their characters. Like all his interpretations of philosophy, this one was to mean different things at different times.

It was a guiding principle that somehow strengthened him for his dedication to the children over the next fifteen years or so. Eventually returning and settling in Scotland, he would sometimes be away for days at a time at some offshore terminal. He moved his family around the country to wherever his marine engineering qualifications took him. He had a myriad of daytime and sleep-in carers to look after the children – all of them well qualified, all highly experienced. To the external viewer, he sometimes looked like a macho and neglectful parent. Indeed, he had a concerned visit on more than one occasion from the social work department. But behind the superficial appearance was a father who both fathered and mothered, who washed and ironed and so on. More importantly, he read bedtime stories, cuddled and comforted, and gave every spare moment to them, severally and together.

And he taught them three things as the core of their upbringing. He taught them that their mother had walked out on him and not on them. At least he tried to teach them this. He taught them how to love and cherish each other where otherwise there might have been wounds in each child too big for any reaching out. And he translated Eastern philosophy to them in child-understandable words,

As you grow up, you will get stronger every day by believing in yourself. Find all the good in who you are and like yourself for it.

By the time the children were thirteen, eleven and nine, the birthday greeting in the family was ‘Happy Birthday, Healthy Character’. They barely comprehended; he knew that. But deep inside each one of them, he firmly believed there was a seed that he was watering – a seed that he planted within a few days of his wife’s departure.

He applied the notion of strength of character to working hard at school, to finding personal values of right and wrong and to finding the paths from childhood, then from youth to adulthood.

Earlier, as he watched his younger daughter Sally helping Ben to secure the boat by the jetty wall, no doubt in readiness for a second sail later in the day, Tony Roberts felt a great sense of inner satisfaction at what and who all his kids have become. Yes, even Jan, arguably his favourite and the one who, as a young adult caused him most distress, then heart-searching, has made a good fist of it between her lecturing and her friendship with Linda. He knows he should think of it as a relationship and not just as a friendship, but it is a thought that he still privately struggles with. Nonetheless, his task, he believes, is accomplished. He can proceed with the project, the one that, quietly, he has waited for so many years to undertake. Instilled with a final surge of resolve, he places the last mono block into position with ceremonial flourish and stands back to look at the driveway. He sweeps a hand through his white, shoulder length hair, the hair that makes him look like a latter day Hippy – then puts an arm around Mary’s shoulders, before they head indoors to prepare for the evening ahead.

FOUR

It’s important we each have our own friends. We agreed that, Linda points out, as she comes up behind Jan. Her partner is poring over the computer. So what’s the big deal? she continues.

You seriously don’t mind? Jan Roberts asks, turning to look up at her. Her eyes search Linda’s, as if trying to see behind them to what she is really thinking.

Nope. I seriously, honestly don’t mind, Linda laughs cheerfully, then adds, Should I? She holds her hands up, a mock look of startled concern on her face. She is too certain of their relationship, too self-confident in her knowledge of Jan’s feelings to worry.

Of course not. I was just checking, Jan responds.

Jan turns to scrutinise the screen, open at a Power Point presentation she is working on in readiness for tomorrow’s seminar for undergraduate medical students. Linda knows she hates leaving her lectures till the last moment, but Jan’s week was pressurised with meetings with external examiners. Now she looks on as Jan changes a word here, a phrase there, as if to convey that this is genuinely much more important than what they are discussing

Linda feels that same surge of affection and desire she always does when she stops to study her partner’s deep brown complexion and striking features. Jan’s stare is fixed on the computer, a slight frown accentuating the faintest of lines around her dark brown eyes. These are the eyes that Linda often describes to her closest friends.

When I first saw them, she laughs, I was lost for good. I went into a room in the nursing department of the local college. I was due to meet the lecturer who was to host a guest talk I was giving to the undergraduate students. It turned out to be the stunning Jan. She always pauses for effect at this point.

This lovely creature, Linda shares with her friends, smiled, shook hands and invited me to sit down. I had to turn round to double check what I’d seen in her.

She was