A Marriage Of Inconvenience

By Ray Timms

The moment her mysterious spinster aunt Olga dies Sue Tinsley is in line to inherit millions. The problem is Sue can only get her hands on her legacy if she is married on the day her aunt dies. Then she crosses paths with virgin Brian Fossett who has just lost both his parents. Tricked into marriage Brian does his best to make his marriage work despite the shenanigans of his unfaithful wife. When, the aunt finally dies Sue has no further need of her irritating husband. She and her lover who happens to be his boss now plot his downfall. Just when his life hits rock bottom Brian meets and falls in love with nurse Lucy Bedwell. From that moment on in a rush of extraordinary circumstances Brian’s life turns around. A Marriage of Inconvenience introduces a host of extraordinary characters set in a series of hilarious situations. It is a rags to riches tale of murder, lust, greed, and love, along with a smattering of some rather interesting facts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray Timms
• Release date: Jul 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370145768

Ray Timms

Retired psychologist counsellor who still plays the drums in a rock band. I am a father of three grown kids. I am married to Jenni and I live in Felpham West Sussex.

Book preview

A Marriage of Inconvenience

Copyright@2016

Smashwords Edition

ByRay Timms.

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Some historical events and characters have been adapted purely in the interest of literary enjoyment.

Dedicated to: Jenni, my wife the love of my life. Through her encouragement I got this done.

A Marriage of Inconvenience.

Chapter one

Splat–rattle.

On the sagging sofa Sue Tinsley rolls her eyes at the sound of the post hitting the cheap laminate flooring out in the tiny hall laid last year by her Scumlord only because she threatened to call in the council about the beetle infested floorboards.

Still in their pajamas and watching Breakfast TV, late for school again, are her two kids Sean aged ten and eight years old Carla. Single mum Sue can hardly be bothered to go fetch it. She imagines along with the usual flyer garbage it’ll be yet more final demands for money she doesn’t have, and more County Court Judgments threatening to take away the crap in the house that’s not hers anyway, it’s her landlords. Last time Ted and Andy, the bailiffs called by, they had a cup of tea, looked around, mentioned something about did she fancy a threesome? What do they think she is, and left empty handed with a flea in their ear.

Sue steps over her two kids sitting cross-legged on the floor eating coco pops from bowls balanced on their knees. She says, ‘you two better hurry up or you’ll be late for school, again. And of course Mrs Trelawny will blame me.’ Whining now, ‘Mrs Tinsley, this isn’t good enough. Your children keep arriving late… blah–blah–blah.’

Gripping her toast between her teeth the thirty-six years old single mum wraps her cheap nylon, purple and white kimono dressing gown around her and heads over to the door.

In the narrow space out in the hall, she encounters the man coming down the stairs, hair mussed up and tucking his shirt inside his waistband.

‘Morning Sue, you sleep well?’ He enquires.

Sue stares at him and blinks. She hardly recognised him. In the pub last night the guy looked ten years younger.

Taking the toast out of her mouth with her free hand Sue smoothes back her hair and then pulls the kimono tighter across her breasts.

‘Hi Paul, yeah, I slept well. You off?’ Sue flattens her back against the wall to let him pass.

‘It’s Peter.’

‘Huh?’ Sue says just wanting him out. Bending to collect up the post, she remembers she’s wearing nothing under her kimono. He had better not….

‘My name… it’s Peter… not Paul.’

‘Whatever.’ Sue mutters opening the front door for him. ‘See you sometime.’ Sue lets him out, doesn’t tell him his fly is open. She closes the front door behind him. ‘Jerk.’

Over the past year, Sue has been getting by on payday loans at a zillion per cent interest. She doesn’t even have a job. What they can they do? Remove my kidneys?

Keeping the cold toast clamped between her teeth, one at a time Sue flips each envelope to check the return addresses. This lot can join the other unopened letters tucked behind the clock on the mantelshelf. These letters are now beyond being irritating.

The white envelope catches her eye. Sue turns this one over and reads the name. Silas Saxby. Solicitor. 2 High Street. Tawny West.

Hmm? Where’s she know that name? Her eyes widen. Jeez, it must be ten years! Why the hell would Olga’s solicitor write to her now? ‘Oh my God!’ Sue needs the wall for support. The envelopes tucked under her arm clatter to the floor. A tension in her chest restricts her breathing. She spits the toast from her lips. Clutching the letter to her bosom she casts her eyes heavenwards and murmurs. ‘Please… oh God, please… please, please let her be dead.’ In a heartbeat, Sue Tinsley goes from despair to euphoria.

In her minds eye Sue can imagine Police officers smash their way through the great oak door of the isolated Russian styled monstrosity out in the woods. Now tramping through the great halls they come across the semi-decomposed body of her dead aunt.

‘Whoo–hoo!’

Back in the lounge hearing his Mum sound happy for a change Sean looks round at his sister who is only half awake.

Sue needs to think. Olga’s last visit– when was that– two weeks ago? How had she looked? Not Good! Noticeably worse, she recalls. Feebler? Definitely–but then Olga had always looked like she had just stepped out of a sarcophagus. ‘She’s dead. Thank God.’

Sue blows through her cheeks. She recalls Olga, her chest wheezing, standing close enough to make her recoil saying, ‘my beloved Susan, you have been so kind to me. Ven I die, you vill inherit my Palace and all my vealth.’ Olga would then straighten up and giving Sue a look fit to make her blood run cold she’d say, ‘do not disappoint me child!

Of course, this will mean Sue will have to go back to Olga’s weird Old Russian Palace, Anastasia’s Retreat. The very thought sends shivers down her spine. If there was any way she could avoid going there she would. But there are still the bank accounts and life insurance policies to hunt out. She will need to gather up the cash, most likely bundles of it hidden under a mattress, there always is, and of course she will need to carry out an inventory of all the rooms, make a note of what’s there before she has it all auctioned off.

It’s been almost thirty years, Sue’s never been back, not since that day she went there with her Mum as child. Sue hates the place. Memories of what happened to her that day she and her Mum paid a surprise visit on her aunt still haunts her. Sue was six years old and full of questions when her Mum, Katerina Kipper told her about her Russian aunt who lived far away in a castle in secret woods. The child’s imagination became enraptured by her mother’s description of the palace with its gold-topped towers and its corridors of rooms filled with of treasure. It was hot on that long bus ride. Olga was enraged that they would dare turn up uninvited. They only got into the house, as far as the parlour, just inside the front door because Sue needed the loo.

She was on her way back from the cloakroom when curiosity got the better of her. Peeking into each room the child was beguiled by the gold furniture, the huge oil paintings in gilded frames, and the cabinets of shiny objects. She had wandered into the biggest room so far, the one she called the Throne Room. There was a huge gold throne in here, set up on a dais carpeted in red. She was playing at being queen, her eyes fixated on the gold and the silver and the red and purple, her legs swinging, her feet not quite reaching the floor when the giant with eyes as black as a rat’s grabbed her.

In the parlour, Katerina and Olga were engaged in a slanging match. Suddenly Katerina heard her daughter’s screams. Running out to the hall, Olga not far behind, she saw a huge man has her child slung across his shoulder. Katerina began beating on the giant’s back demanding that he put her daughter down. With a sweep of his arm, Olga’s manservant brushes the mother aside. Olga was cackling like an old witch. Pointing a crooked finger in the child’s face she cries, Igor, throw da vicked child in da pit viv da the monster. Let him feed on da child’s flesh. Let him munch on her bones.

Sue will never forget Olga’s parting words, you stupid nosey people. You had no right to come here.

Twenty years pass and Sue was at her Mum, Katerina’s funeral when a wizened old lady leaning on a cane came over.

‘Susan my dear, you remember me? I am your aunt Olga. I am so sorry to hear of your sad loss. You know your Muzzer was very dear to me.’

After their father left them, Sean and Carla, having buggered off with Ingrid, last she heard he was now living in Oslo, having someone, however obscure the relationship was a comfort. Sue doesn’t remember what kind of reply she gave but she does remember her aunt saying. Susan, you are now my sole remaining heir. All my vealth vill now go to you. My money, Anastasia’s Retreat, the land of course, and all my fine jewellery and antiques.

Ironically, three weeks later Olga turned up on her doorstep uninvited. Sue recalling the treasures and the wealth in that Russian palace set in landscaped grounds invited Olga in for tea. Seeing her off at the door Sue had said, "please auntie wont you call again? Come round for Sunday dinner? We could spend some time catching up, eh?’

Olga took that as an invitation to turn up, last Sunday in the month, come rain, or shine for eternity and never once did she offer a penny for her food. Sue would remind herself, don’t let it get you down, look at the state of her, she’ll be dead in no time and then Jeez you are going to be rolling in it.

Now approaching her thirty-sixth birthday Sue can at last start to live the life she has always dreamed of. So real is this in her head she thrills at the fine clothes, the shopping trips, the grand five star hotels, owning two houses, one up in town, and another in Cannes, or somewhere equally exotic.

Would she live a life as frugal as her aunts, live as wealthy recluse? Not a chance! Then, there are other benefits to Olga’s demise: no more monthly visits–never again will she have to embrace that skeletal woman–never have to kiss her warty cheeks and then gag on the stink of alcohol, algae and mothballs? No longer will she struggle to pay her bills. No longer will she have to scrape enough money together just to treat herself to a bottle or two of wine, the odd box of chocolates, and perhaps a couple of nights down the pub. Ven I die, my precious, you vill have your revord. All be all my money, Anastasia’s Retreat- the land and all my jewellery vill go to you.

With Olga leaning on death’s door Sue could never see the point in getting a job. It was only a question of being patient whilst keeping the wolves at bay as it were.

Sue feels the tension fall from her shoulders. After all her fawning and pretending to give a shit about the old bat’s pathetic ailments, her patient waiting is about to pay off.

Read the letter. She reminds herself.

Her trembling fingers tug out the single sheet of paper. It was dated three days ago.

The Last Will and Testament of Olga Maria Romanavitch

Dear Mrs Tinsley.

Ms. Olga Romanavitch visited our offices today to instruct me to make certain changes to her Last Will and Testament. Whilst you remain the sole heir to her estate, your great-aunt has made your inheritance subject to one stipulation. For your reference, in particular, the new condition states: It is a condition of my bequest that on the day of my demise my great-niece Mrs Susan Tinsley, the sole heir to my fortune, must be contentedly married. Should my great-niece fail to satisfy this condition I hereby bequeath my entire estate to the Russian Seaman’s Charitable Trust.’ I should advise you Mrs Tinsley I have reliable intelligence to the effect that you are at present divorced and unwed and therefore in breach of this condition of inheritance. Should you wish to avoid a situation where the Russian Seaman’s Mission benefits from your unmarried situation it is imperative that you take steps to remedy this state of affairs. Furthermore, I should advise you that as the executor of Ms. Romanavitch’s estate I shall need to be satisfied that on the day of your aunt’s demise you are indeed contentedly… married.

You need not reply to this letter.

Yours sincerely

Silas Saxby.

After reading the letter three times Sue slides down the wall and sitting on her haunches she screams at the injustice.

‘Noooo! You evil old witch you can’t do this to me.’

Hearing their Mother cry out Sean followed by his sister Carla rushes out into the hall. Their Mum is on the floor cradling her head in her hands. ‘What’s happened mum?’ Sean says.

Brushing past her two kids Sue goes back into the lounge. She snatches up the remote and silences the TV. Turning on her two children Sue snaps, ‘both of you. Go up to your rooms… now!’

Carla’s chin is wobbling when she catches up with Sean stamping up the stairs.

In the lounge, Sue is pacing the room. She is struggling to organise her thoughts. What the fuck! How am I supposed to find a husband before the old bag keels over? Jeez, the woman is already at deaths door!

Snatching up the phone, her hand is shaking when she punches in the telephone numbers. By the time the woman’s voice as dry as dust says, good morning, Silas Saxby Solicitors. Sue is spitting mad.

‘Put me through to Silas Saxby.’ Sue demands.

‘May I have your name please?’ The elderly sounding receptionist enquires with a degree of deliberation that only serves to exacerbate Sue’s rage.

‘Sue Tinsley,’ she snaps. ‘Hurry up this is urgent.’

‘One moment caller.’

Pacing the room Sue is massaging the back of her neck. The woman gets back to her. Sue is convinced Saxby is about to give her the run around.

‘I’m sorry caller,’ the receptionist croaks, ‘Mr Saxby is unable to take your call right now. Would you care to wait, or would you rather that we call you back?’

‘Don’t you dare ask me to wait,’ Sue snarls, ‘put Saxby on the line right now.’

Mrs Broom has been Mr Silas Saxby’s secretary for the past forty-three years over that time she has developed a skin as impenetrable as a Rhino’s. Coolly she replies, ‘just one moment caller.’

For an excruciating forty-five seconds Sue is forced to listen to a crackly loop of ‘Greensleeves.’ Before she hurls the phone at the wall Sue screams down the phone.

‘Listen up you old crow. Put me through to Saxby right now– I am not hanging up– and if I have to, I will stay on the line all day!’

The outburst works. The music stops. Sue has never met Silas Saxby. His voice grates like chalk on a blackboard. An image of Ebenezer Scrooge wringing his hands comes to mind.

‘Good morning Mrs Tinsley, would it be presumptuous of me to assume that you are calling in response to the letter I sent you?’

‘What’s all this bullshit about me needing to be married before I can inherit? I demand to know why Olga has suddenly decided to change her Will. Did you have something to do with this you cheap fuck?’

‘Please, Mrs Tinsley,’ Saxby says sounding hurt, ‘If you continue to use bad language I shall be forced to end this call forthwith.’

Before Sue can respond, Saxby hurries on. ‘My letter is quite explicit on the subject. As to your aunt’s reasons for the inclusion of this clause, I can make no comment. I can however assure you, Ms. Romanavitch was perfectly lucid on the matter in that your inheritance is dependent upon you demonstrating to me,‘ Saxby says with loaded emphasis, ‘ that you must be contentedly married on the day of your aunt’s demise. Should you fail to meet this condition I will ensure that your aunt’s entire estate becomes the property of the Russian Seaman’s Mission.’

‘This is outrageous,’ Sue snarls down the line. ‘She can’t do this to me. I have fed and cared for that old bag for years… you do know that she is likely to drop down dead any moment? What do you propose I do, go out and grab the first available Tom Dick or Harry, and drag him down the aisle, and marry him? Is that what I’m expected to do?’

‘Goodness me, that wouldn’t do at all Mrs Tinsley… not at all.’ Silas Saxby blusters. ‘Such an arrangement would be in clear breach of the clause that clearly states: You must be contentedly married on the day of your Aunt’s death.’

‘Yeah, I heard that already.’ Sue tells him. ‘This is bollocks.’

Adopting a preposterous manner Saxby informs the caller, ‘Mrs Tinsley, I am not prepared to endure your coarse language. I am going to end this call. In future all further communication between us will be strictly by letter. Good day Mrs Tinsley.’

‘Don’t you dare hang up on me, you piece of shit in a cheap suit,’ Sue yells down the phone.

Silas Saxby is mightily offended by this last remark due to the fact that he is indeed wearing a cheap suit. His wife Winifred Saxby a woman known for her fierce abstention of fiscal waste was the benefactor of his attire, and there is little to be done about it. .

Click!

Sue hears the line goes dead. She stares at the phone for some time before hurling it on the sofa. That old cow is trying to cheat me out of my inheritance Shit! I’m screwed. Sue sits down heavily on the sofa and drops her head in her hands. She is too angry to think straight. That is when she has one of those light-bulb moments. Jeez, I get it; this is about Sean and Carla. Lately Olga has been banging on about me leaving the kids and going out at night. The scrawny old cow wants to clip my wings, stop me enjoying myself. What the fuck does she know about raising kids? I bet she’s a virgin. On her tombstone, I’m going to have inscribed: Returned Unopened.

Well, if Olga thinks me getting married will keep me at home she is very much mistaken. I will do what she wants. I will hunt out some unsuspecting wimp, marry him and then the minute I get my hands on her money, he will be history.

Sue was married before, twice in fact, and both times, she ended up being dumped. Both men were stricken with terminal C.A.D, (commitment aversion disorder.) As a result, Sue always vowed she would never hook up with a feller again, Use em, and dump em. She might have had that motto hanging over her mantelshelf.

Her first marriage to Roger ended after six months when he explains, Sue, I need to tell you. And, I know should have told you before, but I’m Gay! Next thing, Roger is packing his bags. He told her he was heading out to Thailand to live with a guy called Antonio. Husband number two, Grieg, he stayed around long enough to sire Sean, and then Carla before the shocking realisation that family life is a chore hit him. Really! He left a note for Sue, bless him to say he’d fallen in love with someone called Ingrid and he has gone to live with her in Oslo.

Much the same as toilet rolls, or rechargeable batteries Sue regards men as creatures of occasional necessity, for sex, or to fix up her old banger. Why, she wonders, would any woman choose to wash a man’s stinking underpants, or, or, to clean the bloody sink after he’d shaved, and, and, why do men never put the loo seat down after them? Urgh!

It’s just as well that men are naturally drawn to her. Sue has the looks and the body and she certainly knows how to flaunt it. Seducing men is fun. Sue loves the challenge and she never tires of sex. For Sue, getting laid is more than just the physical pleasure; it is also the means by which she feels okay about herself. Sue worries how she’ll get by when her looks go.

This situation, the one Olga has created is serious. Olga is liable to shuffle off at any minute. Sue feels screwed. Where the hell at such short notice is she going to find some jerk willing to take her down the aisle… just like that! This is just not going to happen. Sue tells herself she must not sink into despair. Sue gets her head in gear. Start with your little red book.

Her notebook is a little like a hooker’s diary in the sense that written in pencil against the name of every man she ever had sex with is brief annotations on their performance.

Sean and Carla are watching TV in the lounge. Sue is up in her bedroom sitting cross-legged on her bed and sucking on the end of her Biro. Twice now, she has trawled through her penciled notes: married–married–dickless–boring–tight-fisted–weird–cant keep it up– genital warts–prem-ejac–married–mummy’s boy– never again–smells of fish.

Beginning to despair Sue is reminded of what’s at stake. Now, lowering her expectations to rock bottom, she returns to the first page. Halfway through the book she screams out loud and throws it at the wall.

Lying back on her pillows and staring at the ceiling, Sue prays for divine intervention. What she gets is the phone ringing. ‘Fuck! I don’t need that.’

Sue snatches up the phone. ‘Hello.’ She snaps.

Nothing…silence.

‘Hello.’ Sue yells down the phone in no mood to cope with a heavy-breather that doesn’t have the guts to do it properly. Sue was about to let loose a torrent of foul language down the phone when a man finally speaks up.

Brian Fossett finds his voice.

‘Oh, er, h… hello, is that Mrs Tinsley? Brian is not good at making phone calls and he is even less happy when speaking to women. Normally, his Mum would make his phone calls, except this isn’t normal, because she died of a broken heart just two weeks after Dad died from a heart attack.

‘Yes,’ Sue says already irritated by the man. ‘This is Sue Tinsley. What do you want? And before you ask I don’t have any money and I am not buying anything.’

‘I’m er, I’m really sorry if I have called at a bad time Mrs Tinsley,’ Brian bumbles on, ‘I’m Brian… Brian Fossett, a mutual acquaintance… Mrs Cartwright… she gave me your number.’

‘Never heard of her,’ Sue snaps. For Christ’s sake! I am in the middle of a crisis here!

Steadying his voice Brian explains, ‘Mrs Cartwright works at the school where your children attend–she gave me your number–said you do the catering at the school– only… I was hoping that you would quote me for providing light refreshments at m…m…my p…parents W…Wake.’ His voice cracks.

Sue frowns. The idiot has dialed the wrong number. What do I know about catering? If it doesn’t go in a microwave, we go hungry. She was just about to hang up when on an impulse she asks.

‘How many people?’

‘At the Wake?’

As if she were talking to a five-year old Sue spells it out. ‘Yes– how many–people–do you need–me to cater for?’

‘Oh…er, I suppose around twenty, but if its too much bother…’

‘Two hundred pounds including VAT,’ Sue gets in before he can hang up.

‘Oh, two hundred pounds… that sounds wonderful.’ Brian says relieved. ‘You can do it then?’

‘For that price don’t expect anything fancy.’

‘N, no, th… that’s fine. I’m sure whatever you can provide will be absolutely fine.’

‘Do you want cocktail sausages?’

‘Cocktail… oh, er, yeah, sure, that would be great.’

‘That’ll be an extra fifty quid.’

‘Ab…absolutely fine Mrs Tinsley. Thank you so much.’

‘Do you want a vegetarian option?’ Sue says now pushing her luck.

‘Oh, well yes, that sounds good. What do you have in mind?’

‘Cheese sandwiches.’

‘Well. Yes. Excellent, Mrs Tinsley.’

‘Lets see. That comes to three hundred and fifty pounds.’ Sue senses him hesitate. ‘But as you are a friend of Mrs Cartwright I can give you a ten per cent discount. So now we are looking at three hundred pounds.’

‘Wow, thank you Mrs Tinsley, that it is very nice of you.’ Brian says thinking best not mention her maths is not that good. ‘The Wake is in the Memorial hall. Do you know where that is?’

After hanging up, Sue is feeling a little better. She might not have a husband yet but three hundred quid for doling out a few plates of sandwiches to a bunch of old crusty farts on drugs and plastic replacement parts that’d happily sink their dentures into any old crap. I’m not putting on anything fancy. It’s a Wake for fucks sake not a Wedding Breakfast. This’ll be money for old rope.

‘Unbelievable!’ Sue mutters out in the kitchen where she cracks open a bottle of red and thinking a small glass of the old vino, might help her concentrate on the thorny issue of finding a husband before Olga’s internal workings decide to pack it in.

Five to four. On the day of the Wake Sue’s Nissan Micra is the only car in the Tawny West Memorial Hall car park. Sue parks up near the doors and doesn’t bother to lock the car. Standing by the entrance is a dough-faced woman with a set of keys in her doughy hand.

Enid Doughty, the key holder and caretaker takes an instant dislike to the underdressed woman hired to do the catering.

Inside the cold and draughty hall Mrs Doughty reminds her, ‘don’t touch the room thermostat–don’t flush paper down the loo’s–there is to be no alcohol–no loud music– and no kissograms… we don’t want that sort of thing here, and be sure to clean up after you. I am not a cleaner.’

With Mrs Doughty’s back to her Sue flips her the bird. Sue smiles benignly when the caretaker looks round.

‘Push the keys through the letterbox when you’re done.’ Without another word the key holder waddles off.

Losing both his parents in their early sixties within two weeks of each other and Brian only being twenty-nine has understandably left him in shock. The neighbours regarded the Fossett’s as quiet unassuming folk, people you’d never see drinking in the local pub. In the summer, should the sun be shining you might have found George and Margaret Fossett with their only child Brian sipping a lemonade shandy outside the Three Crowns, but mostly, they stayed home, Margaret cleaning and cooking whilst George could always find something to do in his shed. The neighbours spoke of Brian as being a shy boy, not one for friends, and certainly not a person to ever be seen with a girlfriend.

Neighbours tend to gossip more about what they don’t know about other people than what they do know. That is a human condition. So, time to time, the folk who live nearby might call round at number 42, just to enquire how the Fossett’s are doing, that sort of thing. George and Margaret were always welcoming and a slice of Margaret’s Victoria sponge’s always made the visit worthwhile. Their boy, Brian, might call down hello from upstairs.

Awfully sorry, Brian is busy. He likes to build things in his bedroom, George would explain while Margaret wore a benign smile. Shy lad is our Brian. It was never any different.

As an accountant, George worked all his life for the same firm. When he retired, he was presented with a fifty quid brass clock and Margaret got a bouquet of carnations, and a box of Dairy Milk chocolates. Margaret, if you weren’t to include the two days a week she gave up helping out at the WVS, never had a job. George was of the opinion that women are less discontent when left to tend to the home.

With no great ambitions aged sixteen Brian left school and straightaway took a job at Precision Pumps Intl, a family run business owned by Lord Curmudgeon. His lordship, and with his wife along their daughter Veronica, live over at Greystone Manor. Lord Fergus Curmudgeon is the Eighteenth Baron. William The Conqueror granted the First Earl, the title.

Having been a loyal and trusted worker for thirteen years it was only fitting that Lord Curmudgeon should attend the funeral. Outside the chapel he told the young man, ‘if you need to talk, you know where I live. You’re a good sort Brian.’

After it was all over, his parent’s cremation, the whole thing felt all too rushed. It was if George and Margaret Fossett never having been a burden to a single soul were now too much trouble; move them on, next please! People, dressed in black, wearing solemn expressions shook Brian’s hand, murmured condolences, and moved on like they too were in a line and in a hurry. There didn’t seem to be enough time to take it all in. Next thing, he was looking down at the wreaths and bouquets and reading the kind words. To him, leaving all those cut flowers to wilt and die in the chill March wind up against the wall felt much like the loss of his parents; such a waste. He was struck by the thought that the mourners present would go to bed that night, get up the next day, get on with their lives wait their turn.

The mourners stand and shiver in the car park.

Brian Fossett wasn’t at all sure what the protocol for these things are. Should he be marshaling people, telling them what they should now do? Then at no particular signal the mourners take it in their heads to head off to yet another Wake.

It never occurred to his neighbours that Brian might have no means of getting to the Memorial Hall other than take the bus, which involved a considerable walk to the bus stop. Waving them off, Brian now wishes that he’d learned to drive. He didn’t like to ask any of his neighbours for a lift.

Lord Curmudgeon, nice of him to come, shakes Brian’s hand and says, ‘Brian, my boy. Dash it all. Bad business eh? Can I give you a lift?’

James Bassett, his Lordship’s chauffer nods when he opens the rear door. Sitting right alongside his lordship in a Rolls Royce feels odd. It’s as if he has crossed into another social class, one where he doesn’t belong. He should have taken the bus.

Lord Curmudgeon is tapping on his seat with his leather gloved when he says to Brian, ‘Awfully sorry to hear of your sad loss Fossett. Fraid I can’t stay for the Wake got a dashed business meeting. I have to say you losing both folks like that… dashed unfortunate… most unfortunate eh. You should take a few days orf, find your feet, that sort of thing, there’s a good chap.’

‘That’s very kind of you Lord Curmudgeon, but Mr Dodds will be expecting me back at work tomorrow.’

‘Nonsense, dear boy! I will have a word with that damn son-in-law of mine. He’s far too brusque with you chaps. Leave it to me.’

Entirely appropriate for a Wake, Tawny West Memorial hall is cold, and damp. Sue Tinsley places her hand on the cast-iron radiator by the door. Stone cold! She locates the heating thermostat and ignoring the Do not touch sign she turns it up to max. Way off in the distance there is a noise, sounds like a boiler firing up.

Best she can say about the kitchen is it appears to be clean and functional. The fold-up tables were at the back of a cupboard buried under musty smelling Scouts tents, a broken tombola drum, a tangle of bunting, a framed photograph of the Queen, and a mop and bucket. Hauling these out and setting them up in a line along the back wall by the kitchen incurs some collateral damage to her purple nail varnish.

Sue was annoyed at this Brian Fossett, the man who hired her, Why wasn’t he here to help? She supposes he must be at his parent’s funeral. That would make sense. Had she known she would be expected to do all the manhandling she’d have stung him for another hundred quid.

The tea boiler is making bubbling noises.

Sue made the sandwiches last night. She wrapped them in tinfoil and left them on the kitchen worktop. No point in putting them in the fridge if it doesn’t work. The cold sausages she picked up on the way over when she paid for the half a tank of petrol. The petrol station didn’t have a tin of pineapple chunks so it would have to be just cubes of cheese on cocktail sticks.

Sue surveys her fare: triangle sandwiches– white bread–crusts on already, beginning to curl at the edges–fillings: cheese and tomato, or cheese and pickle, or cheese on its own– for anyone who doesn’t eat cheese, there are the shriveled cocktail sausages, or the Jaffa cakes–for the more discerning connoisseur, there is the cheese spiked with cocktail sticks. Folk with a dairy intolerance have a choice… they can go without.

Sue’s crisp white blouse is a little tight across her bosom and perhaps a little low-cut. Her black pencil skirt maybe a little high at the hem. Already Sue is regretting not wearing something warmer.

The water in the tea urn is cold, and the radiators don’t get any hotter than tepid!

Wakes are rarely as gloomy as this one. Sue counts them, twenty people in total. What’s she doing with her life? She checks her watch and sighs. Three quarters of an hour she’s been here and not one of the old buggers has taken so much as a sausage. Waste of bloody time! Still, can’t complain, you’re getting three hundred quid for this.

From behind her tables, back of the hall, there was no mistaking the man she spoke to on the phone. Brian Fossett is the only person young enough to be an orphan, poor lamb. She is thinking those clothes must have come out of his dead father’s wardrobe. Sue feels irritated by his lack of good manners. He could at least have come over and said hello or enquired can I help?

Watching these old folk Sue can just imagine these old codgers eyeing each other up and thinking, wonder which of us is next?

As long as Fossett pays her in cash and she gets out of here by six Sue couldn’t care less that he doesn’t want to speak to her. He probably smells of mothballs anyway.

Sue watches the orphan circulate. His hair could do with a cut. Look out! He’s coming over. I’ll make sure he knows I want cash.

Brian feels embarrassed that he hasn’t gone over to speak to the catering lady. You could at least go say hello. He can’t help being shy around women. As a teenager when other boys were hanging out with girls where was Brian? He was up in his bedroom assembling Airfix models! Little wonder the girls used to laugh at him and the boys would bully him. He straightens his tie, clears his throat, and then heads her way.

‘Brian. So sad for you.’ Henry Butters accompanied by his wife Hilda ambushes Brian halfway across the hall. The neighbour from number 39 has his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets, flared out. The hair sprouting out his nostrils wafts in the draught. His wife leaning on her cane is nodding. ‘How are you holding up Brian?’ She says.

‘Thank you for coming Mr and Mrs Butters.’ Brian casts an apologetic look over at the catering lady. ‘To be honest I don’t know how I feel. It’s a bit soon I suppose?’

‘It’s just you then? Living on your own in that lovely house?’ Mrs Butters probes. As far as she knows, and folk will talk, Brian’s never even had a girlfriend. There was some gossip, talk that he might be gay.

‘Good thing George made provisions for you, No worries about a mortgage eh?’ Ex-plumber Henry says sounding like a bank manager. ‘If I may say so nice house number 42.’

Moving from behind the table to within earshot, Sue’s radar is on red-alert. Sue is beginning to see the orphan in quite a different light.

‘Must be hard for you Brian, ‘Hilda quizzes, ‘you having no other family and all?’

‘It is hard Mrs Butters.’ Brian says his chin wobbling. ‘You get a real sense of being an only child when both your parents are gone.’ Brian finds the hankie in his pocket.

‘And still no girlfriend on the scene eh Brian?‘ Henry gives the boy a wink. ’You’ll make a catch.’

Brian looks down at his shoes and buffs the left one on the back of his trouser leg. When he looks behind him, he sees the catering lady smile.

‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude but I really must go speak to the catering lady. I will catch you later, and thanks again for coming. Do please have some of this food,’ He says to Hilda Butters who looks like someone likes her food.

‘No, we’re fine,’ Mrs Butters says turning the corners of her mouth down.

Acting like she’s heard none of this, Sue nips back, gets behind the tables. She smiles when he comes over. A nice house, in the best part of town… and he’s a fucking orphan with no family, and no other woman on the scene. Whoo-hoo.

Approaching Mrs Tinsley Brian is fighting his almost pathological fear of the opposite sex. He finds the catering lady scarily attractive. Her smile helps settle his nerves. Mrs Tinsley looks nothing like the fearsome woman he imagined her to be over the phone.

Arm out straight Brian offers her his hand.

‘Hello,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry, I’m Brian, we spoke on the phone… I should have… and you must be Sue?’

Sue watches his eyes scan the plates of food. What do you expect for three hundred quid? Carte blanche … or whatever it’s called?

Brian finds himself quite enraptured by her beauty. His eyes unsettled, explore her curves. They settle on her cleavage. He is mesmerized by the way that her bosom heaves and then falls. He has to force his eyes to look back down at the food. ‘Gosh Mrs Tinsley, you are… I mean to say, th… th… thank you so much. Your food is quite… quite… and at such short notice.’

The image she had of him talking on the phone was spot on: beige and boring. Who nowadays under the age of eighty would wear a cardigan like that under a blue blazer for God’s sake with grey flannel trousers, brown brogues, and that awful tie! Then she supposes a black tie was the norm at this sort of do.

‘I am so glad you approve Brian.’ Sue says taking his hand and smiling wickedly. When her fingernail tickles his palm, his eyes widen.

Angling her head, Sue flutters her false eyelashes at him. As if it hard to get her breath she says, ‘phew is it me Brian, or is it hot in here? Sue pops another button on her blouse.

The man who hired her seems fixated on her cleavage. He doesn’t even blink. Brian Fossett, she imagines would be one of those men who follow her around the supermarket aisles.

Looking away, turning his head all the way, Brian tugs at his collar. It was a Relief to see Mrs Ball, from number 31 is about to leave.

Brian tells the catering lady, ‘will you excuse me a moment Sue? Only I’d better go say a few goodbye’s.’

Hurrying across the hall, Brian blows out his cheeks. The encounter with Mrs Tinsley has got him hot and bothered. He likes her though. Her flirting with him, that’s a little odd at a Wake and all. She makes him feel uncomfortable, but he doesn’t mind–not at all.

The last of the mourners have gone. The hall sounds hollow. He imagines a book on his past life has just closed. The future he doesn’t even want to think about. His life once orderly is in chaos. Where does he go from here? How does he carry on? What’s the point? Brian is dreading going back to the house he once loved, the home where only laughter and love existed. How can he live in a house where the shadows of his parents lurk in every room? Will he always ache to hear his Mum call out when he came in the front door after work, Chicken hotpot tonight Brian. Go put your feet up. He can smell it now, her Chicken hotpot.

At the door, he looks back. Sue Tinsley is packing away. He goes over to her.

‘Do you mind Mrs Tinsley, if help you clear away?’

‘Why, that is so sweet of you Brian,’ Sue says, ‘I hurt my back lifting these heavy tables and please… you must call me Sue.’

‘Gosh, and I let you do all that work. I am so sorry…’ Brian says, ‘in that case Sue you go in the kitchen and sit down, leave me to put the tables away.’ Brian squares his shoulders, feels gallant.

Moment by moment, Sue is updating her opinion of Brian Fossett: In different clothes, tidy his hair; in a certain light, he might look quite attractive. Not sexy, God no, but he does own a nice detached house on Acacia Avenue!

Sue reminds herself take this slow. She doesn’t want the poor little bunny to bolt back into his burrow. Taking it slow is hardly an option when her aunt who she hasn’t seen for two weeks now may already be dead.

Men, all men, in Sue’s experience, are basically simple amoebic creatures in that they are genetically programmed to respond to simple stimuli. It would take only a glimpse of a woman’s bosom, or just a glimpse of a woman’s white thigh to get them interested.

Poor Brian Fossett, like a tethered goat is about to be devoured by a very experienced cougar.

Slow down honey, a cautionary voice in her head demands. Can you imagine being married to him, that dopey looking jerk? A voice from her subconscious reminds her. You don’t exactly have any other candidates, and you don’t have much time. She thinks about this, he is only the means to an end, and the minute you get your hands on Olga’s money, he’ll be history.

After collapsing and putting away the tables, Brian goes out to the kitchen.

Sue is sitting on a stainless steel work surface. Her high-heeled shoes are a good eighteen inches off the floor. Her skirt has ridden up.

‘Brian, pet,’ Sue says her bosom heaving and her fingers fluttering, ‘help me down.‘

There is a foolish grin on Brian’s face when takes her hands.

‘Whoops!’ Sue giggles pretending to lose her balance and falling into his arms. ’Wow Brian,’ she says, squeezing his biceps, I do like a man who works out.’

‘Work out! Me?’ No, I don’t go to a gym nor do I do weights like some guys. At work, I build machines on a bench and each one of those weighs 56 kilos so I guess manhandling ten of them a day is as good as going to the gym.’

‘I like that about you Brian. You are strong and yet modest. Gosh, your girlfriend must love you to you to bits?’

‘Girlfriend!’ Brian hadn’t wanted to sound so shocked. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend.’ Brian is starting to feel at ease with this fine looking woman. ‘Never had one. Don’t suppose I ever will, me being so shy.’

Sue moves in close now, sweeps a stray lock of hair from his brow. Her bosom is pressed up against his chest. She lifts her chin and looks up into his eyes. ‘I find you very attractive Brian, and sooo sexy, does that sound shameless? Trouble is I say how I feel, is that so wrong?’

Hot under the collar now Brian starts to unbutton his blazer. ‘I… think I’d better t… take my jacket off.’

There is a wicked glint in Sue’s eyes when sounding like Scarlett O Hara she says, ‘I do de-clayer, a ma-yan undressing before a lady! I swe-yar I can fay-and no place to rest ma ayes.’

‘Gosh! Sorry Sue, I… I did… didn’t mean to…’

‘Stop it Brian, I’m only kidding. If you want you can remove all your clothes!’ Sue laughs heartily.

‘Gosh! What am I like? I can’t believe I just said that! What must you think of me?’

Sue wags a finger at him. ‘I blame you Brian Fossett. I swear my heart is fluttering and it’s your fault you naughty man. Do you have designs on taking this wench to your bed?’

Shocked Brian blusters, ‘God no!’ That sounded bad. ‘ I mean, not at all… it’s not that I wouldn’t? I mean, Sue can we please change the subject?’ Brian hopes Sue hasn’t spotted the bulge in his trousers.

She’s seen it. This is encouraging.

He only came over to help her pack away, now they are talking about sex. He doesn’t mind though. Sue has a nice easy way about her. He likes her. She’s certainly a remedy for the depression he was slowly sliding into.

‘Sorry Brian I never meant to shock you. I really have no idea what came over me talking like that. Do you think it is because the two of us are both lonely, both in need of a little love and some company? Could it be that we are two lonely planets lost in a cold Universe? Two kindred spirits brought together by the mysteries of fate?’

‘I… I… I can see that Sue.’

‘Brian, you and I are like two hearts beating as one.’ Sue takes hold of his right hand and places it on her left breast. She says, ‘can you feel that Brian?’

All his adult life Brian’s wanted to know what it feels like to have a woman’s breast in his hand. Trouble is he now doesn’t know what to do with it. He squeezes it, gently.

‘Oo, Brian,’ Sue cooes.

Encouraged he squeezes it a little harder.

‘Oo… ooo… oooo.’ Sue groans. Sounding breathless, the catering lady now takes hold of his buttocks and pulls him close.

‘Ooo, did you leave the coat hanger in your trousers Brian or are you just happy to make my acquaintance?’ Sue says saucily pressing her groin up against his erection.

‘Brian I wouldn’t lie to you.’ Sue says sounding serious now, ‘I am not a deceitful person you know? I must confess. I am a little inexperienced when it comes to sex.’

Brian nods, settles his hands on her hips.

Sue says, ‘to tell you the truth Brian, around men, I am usually shy somewhat reserved as you can imagine?’

This was stretching it.

‘But with you Brian… I … I feel feminine, weak, and yet at the same time I feel quite safe.’

Brian’s head is nodding foolishly.

‘One day,’ Sue says as if mortified by envy, ‘some lucky girl is going to snap you up and marry you,’ Sue allows her voice to trail off, ‘and then bear you children.’ Her eyes now wistful go out of focus

Brian screws up his face. ‘Nah. I doubt that. Women don’t exactly find me attractive. I can’t imagine what you see in me?’

‘How can I convince you Brian?’ Sue says breathily and dragging a long red fingernail down his bare arm, ‘that I find you very attractive and, very–very sexy?‘

They stand that way, her searching his eyes, and Brian trying to keep his erection under control for some time. Brian doesn’t want to break the spell. He clears his throat and takes his hands off the catering lady’s hips. He looks about him as if checking what else needs to be done. He blusters, ‘don’t you think we’d better crack on before Mrs Doughty locks us in.’

‘Ooh, that might be fun Brian.’ Sue quips giggling like a schoolgirl.

They both laugh. Brian is starting to relax.

Brian helps Sue clean up the hall and the kitchen and then helps load her car. They are standing in the car park. Only Sue’s car is there. She says. ‘Don’t you have a car? I can give you a lift home?’

No point in denying it. ‘I don’t drive Sue.’ He admits.

‘That’s okay. Get in. I’ll drive you home. I’d like that. It’ll give us a chance to chat. I love chatting with you.’

He buckles up. Sue turns the ignition key. The engine coughs. It takes two more turns to get the engine ticking over. Brian pulls three hundred and twenty pounds out of his pocket.

‘Let me pay you Sue. And there is a little extra for you.’

Horrified, Sue looks round at him, ‘Brian! Put that money out of sight. Can you imagine what people round here would think, you handing over money to a girl in a deserted car park?’

Brian rolls his eyes, he thinks, you can be so dumb sometimes.

Sue is thinking. The next bit is critical. She had better get it right. Sue says as if it just occurred to her, ‘would it be okay If I call round your house this evening to pick it up, then maybe we can… I don’t know, chat a while, over a cup of tea?’

Looking out the passenger window Brian is grinning. He was hoping she’d want to see him again. Never in a million years would he have suggested it.

‘That would be nice Sue.’

After dropping the nerd off outside his house, Sue pulls over at the end of the tree-lined road. She gives a low whistle. ‘Can you imagine living in a house in this road? Very nice!’

It was arranged that Sue would call round his house at seven. She arrives five minutes early. For the occasion Sue is wearing her business suit: a tight-fitting red dress with a side slit, a matching low cut top, and stockings, and a suspender belt.

Sue looks up at the house and then both ways down the street. The gate when she pushes it back squeals loud enough to alert the neighbour opposite. Tonight her long black hair is worn in a cascade over her slender shoulders.

Under the porch over the front door, she remembers to adjust breasts inside her bra. To add a little cleavage she pops another button. With one long painted fingernail, she presses the doorbell. The chimes sound pleasing.

Across the road, curtains in an upstairs window twitch.

Looking out the window every ten minutes he’d seen her open his gate and walk up the path. God she looks gorgeous. His heart is pounding and already there is a stirring in his pants.

When he opens the door to her Sue pushes him back inside his hallway. After slamming the door shut with her foot she plants a kiss on his lips, holds it there.

When she releases him Brian blusters, ‘c… c… come through to the lounge. It’s through here. Erm, can I get you a cup of tea?’

Brian points to an armchair opposite a TV with a set top V aerial. Sue looks about her before choosing to sit on the edge of a floral sofa.

‘Tea is it?’ Brian enquires tugging at the knot in his tie. ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘I’d rather a wine, if you have one?’

‘W… wine!’ He frowns and then remembers the unopened bottle in the fridge. ‘Oh sure, white okay?’

While Brian is busy out in the kitchen Sue mentally catalogues the antiques dotted around room. Nice house, she is thinking, but all this crap urgh! It’ll all have to go. Should fetch a few bob.

Carful not to spill any of the wine in tall glasses Brian places the Formica tea tray on the G-plan coffee table. Sue smiles up at him.

He was about to sit in an armchair when Sue pats