Purple Jade

By David Hughes

All the excitement has gone out of Tom and Lucy Davies’ marriage. Tom is depressed and Lucy increasingly feels that she has been cheated by life and the years have been passing her by. However, for Tom and Lucy and their two daughters everything is about to change and their family will no longer be the same. When Arif comes into Lucy’s life he seems to offer her all the things she never had from Tom and she grabs the opportunity for something different with both hands. Life is good again, but Lucy’s dreams turn to tragedy when Arif gives her more than she ever bargained for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A H Stockwell
• Release date: Sep 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9780722343661

David Hughes

David Hughes trained as a letterpress typesetter in the 1970s, gaining a (now obsolete) City and Guilds qualification at Kitson College of Technology in Leeds, UK. He worked on the Evening Press in York and the South London Press as a Linotype operator. After retraining on the computerised "new technology" he hung up his apron in the early 90s, mainly due to boredom! He keeps in touch with the letterpress scene through his printers' nostalgia website "Metal Type" and keeps up with the practical side of things producing letterpress business cards at Metal Type Printing.

Book preview

events.

Chapter 1

Detective Inspector Becks looked around the room he had just entered. He noticed the single bed littered with fluffy toys, some of which had spilled on to the floor, and the bedside table with the sealed property bag. He walked over to the table and lifted the bag. Twisting it round he noted the confusion of bottles and jars, exposed by its transparency. With a deep sigh he carefully replaced the bag on the table, the contents jarring and jingling as they fought for a place to rest.

A depth of sadness mirrored his gaze as he surveyed the rest of the room. He took in the deliberately prepared neatness of what must have been the untidy habitat of a vibrant teenager, as illustrated by the posters scattered purposely across the walls. His casual glancing was abruptly arrested by a grey shoebox resting in isolation in the centre of the pure-white dressing table. Crossing the room, he looked down at the box. The words ‘To whom it may concern’ had been purposely scrawled in black felt tip across the top, the edges of the words blurred by the absorption of the ink by the cheap card.

He placed a hand at the ends of the lid and lifted it up, placing it subconsciously to one side while looking at the contents. From the box he lifted a packet wrapped in tissue. He unwrapped the noisy paper, exposing a tiny pair of baby’s knitted booties trimmed with pink ribbons. Placing the booties and paper on the lid of the box, he then removed a pack of photos. Quickly shuffling through them, he casually noted that they recorded a child’s history from baby to blonde short-haired teenager with an impish grin. On the reverse of the last photo ‘Susie aged 12’ was inscribed neatly in pencil.

He tapped the photos back into line and quickly placed them to one side, his attention captured by a splash of bright red semi-concealed at the bottom of the box. Reaching into the box, he brushed aside a lock of blonde hair and some ribbons, and a small cardboard box which rattled as he moved it. He hesitated for a split second then picked it up. Removing the lid, he exposed some tiny yellowed teeth. A slight smile creased his mouth for a second as a distant memory of how he too had been a tooth fairy to his kids.

Casting the lid and small box aside, he reached in and lifted the now exposed bright-red book from the box, turning it in his hands while looking for a name or clue as to the contents. The plain red cover stared back at him innocently, reflecting and baulking his quest. Turning back to what he assumed to be the front, owing to the piece of paper which poked out beyond the boundaries of the book, he opened it to find a loose piece of paper had been placed just inside the cover. Lifting it out, he held it to one side, comparing it with the first page of the book; and he noticed that although the neat handwriting was the same, the ink on the loose paper was a different shade and had probably been written at a different time.

Half turning round first to check the bed was clear, he sat down, dropping untidily, as he misjudged how low the bed was, almost falling awkwardly backwards into the soft mattress. Book in one hand, paper in the other, he somewhat resembled a drowning person clasping precious possessions. He wriggled forward to the edge of the bed, leaning forward until he was able to use his legs to sit more securely. Placing the loose page on the cover of the book, he began to read. He could see the words had been deliberately, and forcefully, written, as if to highlight their importance - not just to the writer, but to the reader also:

Should the punishment always be equal and opposite to the crime? If yes, then I can’t complain. I sought and found that which tends to elude most of us. I found happiness, so pure, so simple. Then innocently I was led, led into the darkness, deep into the pit of human misery. I felt sadness; I felt pain so vivid, so intense that I knew, knew in my soul it could only ever be extinguished by life’s end.

The Inspector reread the words then placed the loose page on the bed at his side. He began to read the neatly written words on the first page of the book.

Chapter 2

I know now that my life, such as it was, began and finished on the day I married Tom; up to that time my life at home, school and university had been difficult but bearable.

Although my first job after leaving university meant leaving home, I really didn’t mind because the three years I had spent away from the turmoil of home life had shown that happiness for me was being on my own. Having to exist solely on my grant meant I had spent a great deal of my free time on my own as I tended not to socialise if I couldn’t pay my way.

I had been dreading the day when my studies were finished and I would have to return home. University had been my escape, my bid for freedom. Being the eldest of six girls meant I had been expected to help Mum with the housework and help to look after my sisters. I had to be ‘grown up’ before my time, and this meant there had been little time to enjoy growing up. Despite having so many sisters I would often feel lonely. I was the odd one out, the sensible one, and as my competence of life increased so did the neglect from my busy parents.

To disperse the darkness I would hold my jade up to eye level, stare through it at the light and daydream about the future. My jade - my purple jade - was a rough block of purple plastic rescued from my aunt’s junk box and secreted away during one of our dutiful visits. Yes, I know jade is green, but my jade was a deep purple. It contained, deep within, my secret life, and it was to be kept with me at all times - even as I lay in the solitude of my bed. At night my jade rested under my pillow, under my head, waiting, waiting patiently in case my hand should sneak up and grasp it as I dreamed.

While still at university I applied for many jobs, always touching the envelopes with my jade before posting them. I would often sit through the evenings in darkness and imagine the journey my envelopes were travelling and what sort of person would open them, and I wondered when I should receive the replies. I would casually check the post on the self-appointed days, making outrageous and unrealistic excuses to myself when a reply didn’t - they usually didn’t - arrive.

After the many, many disappointments and the odd interview I was finally offered a job at a water company in their laboratories. When I first opened the letter I was stunned as I read the words over and over again, then ecstatically happy, then mortified with fear as the initial euphoria vaporised and my legs turned to jelly at the realisation of what the letter I was holding meant. Self-doubt invaded my mind. Why me? Why did they want me especially after the interview - the mother of all interviews. First I was late; then the coffee spilt down the front of my blouse; then came the trip as I entered the interview room. It was not just the plain trip over that most would do - oh no, not me! I had to go the whole hog and spill the entire contents of my bag all over the floor. Just for good measures, my half-eaten egg mayonnaise sandwich was overlooked, and I left it where it had landed, under the table. I well remember sitting there anxiously with one eye watching that sandwich, expecting at any moment that a highly polished shoe would squelch the contents into the immaculate carpet.

Sure I had my degree, I told myself, but what about experience - or lack of it, to be precise? Despite my continuing apprehension installed by the thought of failure, my acceptance letter was duly dispatched, putting my mind in turmoil as plan after plan raced through it.

The joy of not having to return to live at home was short-lived as the first month raced by and I returned to my little room at the B. & B. each evening, tired but usually satisfied after a day’s work. I felt lonely and vulnerable, but those feelings were soon to disappear when I moved from the B. & B. into my very own little flat - my first home. I spent all my spare time getting it the way I wanted and felt so proud that I had done everything - the painting and decorating, the carpet-laying. I also assembled the flat-packs, with their stupid instructions and stupidly small amount of squeeze-out glue, which had about as much chance of sticking anything as I had of meeting a handsome prince. Oh, but I did once - when helping out at a play at university. I was the only one who didn’t know that the handsome prince I stood goggling at was really a girl dressed up; not only that, but I learnt later that she had noticed the way I looked at her and had locked herself in her dressing room, convinced that I was some lusting lesbian. No doubt her fears had been fuelled by the stories and comments of the rest of the players!

The next event in my life was when I met Ian. He was a trainee electrician and we met while he was doing some work at our lab. We got on straight away and spent most of our lunchtimes together. We had a lot in common as he was an elder son and, like me, had been put on. His escape had been to move in with his uncle to learn a trade. His uncle, who had his own electrical contracting firm, having no children of his own, had always had a soft spot for Ian - a fact his parents and brothers had found ways of exploiting, much to Ian’s disgust.

It wasn’t long before he started coming round to my flat, to do a little job or share a takeaway, and one thing led to another and we started to sleep together. There was nothing romantic about it; we didn’t plan it - things just happened. It was the first time for both of us - and I can’t say the earth moved for me, but it bloody well hurt! It improved for me after a few more times, and we were well suited - good mates more than romantic lovers. He accepted that I wasn’t an out-and-out feminist and didn’t expect me to dress up in girly things like stockings and suspenders; we just got on with life as it suited us. Sex was something we did when we needed it. We didn’t go through the charade most couples do of being nice to each other with gifts of flowers or chocolates, having a favourite meal, or saying, Oh, you look nice tonight, darling - nudge nudge, wink wink - we just stripped off and did it - usually while we were still watching TV. The nice thing was he always went home, leaving me my space. Selfish? You bet! I wasn’t about to give up my independence to become some man’s slave. Our life continued with an established routine, and it never occurred to me that anything would ever change.

So the devastation I felt while eating our supper one evening, when Ian announced he was getting married to a girl he had known before he met me, was hard to describe. Feelings I never knew I had were suddenly ripped to shreds. I realised that Ian meant more to me than I did to him, and deep down I knew it was me I’d been kidding when I told myself he was just a mate. I did care about him. Dare I say it, I somehow think I loved him. Oh, not in a romantic sense - not in the way you see in films. That is all make-believe anyway. He was more of a brother, I suppose. He had been my first real friend - the first person I had been to bed with. Shouldn’t that mean something to him?

I just sat and listened in a daze as he told me about all the plans he had made. His uncle was giving him a flat rent-free, above one of his shops. He even told me about the honeymoon he had planned; it was just as if he was talking to one of his mates at work. It just never occurred to him that I had or might have feelings about the matter. I half expected him to want to have sex and to carry on talking about his future as he screwed me, or even perhaps still want to pop round after he was married when he fancied a change. I’ll never forget his look of total surprise and annoyance when I told him to get out and be quick about it - and no, he couldn’t finish his pudding first but could take it with him. Then I threw it over him. I slammed the door shut behind him and leant my back against it. Slowly I slid down to the floor and sat propped against that bloody door, the entrance to my space. I felt I had been violated and wanted to seal it off for ever. After getting up off the floor, I ran a hot bath. I wanted to wash away the past; I wanted to be clean again.

I lay in the bath, my toes chasing my jade, my mind feeling the rough corners. Whenever I had something bad in my life I would wash my jade to erase it from my life. I cried a lot that night - even thought about going home. I was hurt. I needed to be on my own, but not alone.

Chapter 3

I was still feeling the effects of Ian’s departure when I met Tom. I was sitting as usual on my own in the canteen at work when he asked if he could sit at my table. I hadn’t really noticed Tom before; he was the sort of person who blended in with the background. He was totally ordinary. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he was boring, but he didn’t have the pinball bounce of Ian. No, he was just ordinary. Almost every lunchtime during the following weeks saw us bumping into each other; and I quite enjoyed our little chats, which had refreshingly