Beyond the Pearled Horizons

By Bernard Howell

When respectable, middle-aged English bachelor, Neil Morton, visits the Philippines, he falls in love with a much younger Filipina, Carla, who returns his love. Neil takes early retirement and moves to the Philippines to spend the rest of his life with her. The happiness and fulfilment he finds in his new life in an idyllic setting, contrasts sharply with the emptiness of his previous bachelor existence. Neil begins to rediscover the neglected human side of his character, surprising himself with the results.
The idyll, however, is fairly short-lived. Fate steps in and deals the couple a tragic blow, which tests both Neils and Carlas inner resources to the utmost. Has Neil really been changed by his love for Carla? Will he crawl back into his protective shell, as a result of the tragedy? Or will he stand up and be counted in the battle for the survival of his family?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jun 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483651422

Bernard Howell

Bernard Howell was born in Bolton in 1951. Following a Secondary School education he had a series of uninteresting jobs in his teens and twenties. He became a mature student at the age of thirty and, following graduation, the remainder of his working life was spent in the UK Civil Service. Howell now lives in the Philippines with his wife and family. In addition to being an avid reader, he also enjoys classical music and history. Retirement has given him the opportunity to fulfil his lifetime ambition to write. Beyond the Pearled Horizons is his second novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

1

She was just another bar-girl, to begin with; one of the many who worked in Diamonds, hoping to attract the attention of rich, foreign, unattached male customers. If Selena had not introduced us, I may never even have known that she was called Carla; but I am pretty sure that I would have noticed her sooner or later.

I was determined that I was not going to get involved with any of the girls in Diamonds that September, because of an unfortunate experience I had had with one of them, a girl called Leah, on my first visit to Manila, in the previous January. That had left me feeling that I had made a fool of myself over a much younger woman and that I deserved all the discomfort I subsequently felt. I did not want to make the same mistake twice.

Yes, I would have noticed Carla because, in my opinion, she was the most beautiful of the current batch of bar-girls in Makati’s premier night-spot—as the proprietor liked to describe his establishment. She had not been there in January. If she had been, I would not have become involved with Leah; I would have made a bee-line for Carla. She looked a couple of years older than Leah—that would have made her about twenty-five—and a lot more mature; but because of the Leah fiasco, I had decided to give all bar-girls a wide berth and to act my age.

What did a fifty-six year old bachelor want with twenty-five year old Filipinas, anyway? Sex? Yes, of course; but I had never been the kind of man who just wanted casual sex with comparative strangers; and I was certainly not prepared to pay through the nose for that rather dubious pleasure. Nor did I think that physical beauty, alone, was enough to stimulate real sexual desire. I looked for something other than physical beauty in a woman, even though I would have been hard pressed to define quite what that something else was. If there was physical beauty as well, then fine; that was a bonus—but it was not necessary.

And how would Carla have seen me, before that first meeting—if indeed she had even noticed me? I have always had a fairly realistic view of my own limited powers of attraction. I am not a handsome man—but neither am I particularly ugly. I am just ordinary. I am only of medium height, at five feet seven inches. At that time, my hair had begun thinning a little at the front and there was a little grey at the temples. I had worn spectacles since I was eight years of age which, I was told, gave me the appearance of being rather studious. I knew that this was not the kind of appearance which sets the female pulse racing; but at the same time, I believed that I had many qualities which would appeal to the right woman—if I ever met her. As the years passed however, that was becoming increasingly unlikely.

I had no idea at all, when Selena first introduced us, that Carla was the right woman for me. I did not foresee that one day she would become the love of my life and that I would abandon my career and my home in the UK, so that we could get married and live together in a remote rural village in Mindanao.

I felt that I was simply being realistic when I had asked myself: how could I possibly hope to attract the attention of a beautiful twenty-five year old woman—regardless of where she came from—even if I had wanted to? To put that another way: I thought that Carla was much too young and far too beautiful to be remotely interested in me, other than as another middle-aged customer in the place where she worked.

But at that time, I did not understand the Filipina requirements for a potential spouse, which are quite different from those of western women. In fact, I knew next to nothing about the Philippines, or about Filipinas at all, until I attended my Auntie Hilda’s funeral, which had taken place a few years earlier.

2

Auntie Hilda was my Mother’s slightly younger sister. Before marriage they had been Doris and Hilda Smith and, although they were only one year apart in age, and were obviously clearly devoted to each other, they could not have been more different in personality and temperament.

My Mother was quiet, reserved and sensible; the kind of woman who always wore a cardigan, all year round. Her sister was vivacious, extrovert and reckless and I never recall having once seen her in a cardigan. My mother married Fred Morton, an outgoing, gregarious motor mechanic, and Auntie Hilda married Ralph Carter, a quiet, private man who was something in Insurance. So I grew up with a strong belief in the attraction of opposites, as seen in the lives of the people who were closest to me.

I was an only child and, for reasons which I never subsequently queried with my parents, they decided to call me Neil. I have often wondered whether the lack of siblings in my life was the cause of my own fairly solitary nature, or whether I had simply inherited my Mother’s cautious reserve.

We lived in a small house in a small town in the North-West of England. Uncle Ralph and Auntie Hilda lived a few streets away in a slightly larger house. They had three children: my cousins Theresa, Simon and Patrick. Theresa is two years older than me; Simon is four months younger than me and Patrick, a late addition to the family, is six years younger than Simon and I. Like many people in that part of the world we belonged to the Roman Catholic community and, although I was never particularly interested in religion, my membership of the Catholic Church stood me in good stead when I moved to the Philippines, to marry Carla.

As children, in the late nineteen-fifties and early nineteen-sixties, Simon and I were inseparable. We were in the same class at junior school and spent all our free time together. We were more like brothers than cousins. I was always welcome at their house and Uncle Ralph and Auntie Hilda treated me as one of their own. Whenever I first entered their house, Auntie Hilda would always give me a big kiss and say:

Hello Neil, love. How’s your Mum today?

Uncle Ralph was much less demonstrative but he would give me a friendly smile and usually said:

How do Neil?

I enjoyed being at the Carter house; it was always so much livelier than the Morton house. Although my friendship with Simon was the reason I was there, I was always treated in a friendly fashion by Cousin Theresa, who invariably seemed pleased to see me and I took a kind of big-brotherly interest in young Patrick. As much as I loved my parents, I often found myself wishing that my Mother was a little more like my Auntie Hilda—but only a little more. And, even in my earliest memories, it was occasionally a relief to escape the Carter house and seek the quiet and calm of the Morton house.

Although Simon and I remained close in our personal lives, our educational paths diverged when I passed my eleven-plus exam and Simon failed his. Simon’s failure came as a surprise to everyone, especially to me. I knew Simon to be at least as intelligent as myself and, if I am painfully honest, he was probably more so. The difference between us was that I seemed to have a natural facility for passing exams, arising from my studious approach to learning what it was necessary to learn, whereas Simon’s approach was completely undisciplined and almost random. He would only learn what he found personally interesting and ignore everything else. Simon was very knowledge about many things that did not appear on any school curricula, whereas I decided that, interesting as such topics may be, there was no room in my brain for them until I had finished with school curricula, higher education and professional training.

So, I spent the next six years at the nearest Catholic Grammar School and Simon spent five years at the local Catholic Secondary Modern School. I obtained three good ‘A’ level passes and read History and Literature at Warwick University. Simon learned from his mistake and buckled down to some hard study at school. He left school with five ‘O’ Level passes, which nobody at that school had achieved before and it is unlikely that Simon’s record has been equalled there, since then. It was suggested to him that he should apply for a sixth year at a Grammar School in order to take ‘A’ levels but Simon declined. I believe that he did so in order to show his contempt for the education system.

When I left university with an upper second, I had no real idea of what I wanted to do with my life. Simon, by then, was well advanced along his chosen career in banking and he had recently embarked upon his first marriage. We kept in touch occasionally but we had our own lives to lead. There was little chance that I should marry soon, partly because I had not yet started on my career but also because, although I was no longer as painfully shy of girls as I had been during my teenage years, I still retained the lack of confidence of someone who considered himself to be physically unattractive. I had lost my virginity at university with a very sweet girl called Susan to whom I had considered proposing at one stage; but that relationship came to an end at Susan’s instigation and left me feeling uncertain and a little bewildered where women were concerned. Simon had always been popular with girls. He was taller than me, much better-looking and had an easy charm about him. I was of modest stature, bookish and bespectacled. I had decided, at a relatively young age that, as much as I would have liked to have been a ladies’ man, nature had not really designed me with that purpose in mind.

I finally opted for a career in the Civil Service. My father, to his great distress, had found himself made redundant on more than one occasion and, as a result, I had developed a desire for job security, which was more or less guaranteed in the Civil Service of those days. It was not considered to be the most glamorous of careers, it is true, but I found the final salary pension scheme more than adequate compensation for a lifetime spent in what I believed would be mundane bureaucracy. I also felt more inclined to devote my energies to public service, rather than to help make huge profits for somebody else.

During those years, Simon and I drifted further apart. I was working for the Inland Revenue in the London area and he was based in Manchester, not far from where we had both been born and brought up. We sent each other Christmas and birthday cards but that was the extent of our communications. Oddly enough, it was his sister Theresa who took it into her head to keep in touch with me; she had always regarded me as a third brother. She would telephone me once every few weeks and tell me what was happening to every member of the Carter family and presumably relayed to them what little news of me and my doings that she could glean from our conversations. She had married while I was still an undergraduate and she now had two lovely children of her own.

Both of my parents had died when I was in my thirties. My father went first, with a heart attack, followed a few years later by my mother, who had had an aneurism which had not been discovered until it was too late to do anything about. Because I was living in the London area, Theresa was always on the scene before me and she took most of the administrative burden from my shoulders, allowing me to grieve for the people who had given me life and provided the love and security I needed throughout my young life. Perhaps it was because of my orphaned state that Theresa was determined to keep in touch and to provide me with the only family that I could call my own. Uncle Ralph and Auntie Hilda showed no sign of dying young but it was their daughter who remained my sole regular contact with the world of my childhood.

3

I would have been in my early fifties when Auntie Hilda died and, as I had always felt a great affection for her, I willingly travelled north for the funeral. The first person I met there was Uncle Ralph from whom the spark of life appeared already to have gone.

Hello Uncle Ralph I said I was very sorry to hear about Auntie Hilda’s passing.

How do Neil? he said to me but the old warmth was missing from his smile. Aye it’s a sad business, but she were nearly eighty you know. She’d ‘ad a good innings; always loved life, right up to th’end. She went out like a light. There were no suffering; we must be grateful for that.

Yes of course we must. I said and squeezed his arm in sympathy as I moved on to extend my condolences to the rest of the family.

Hello Neil, love said Theresa as she gave me a big hug. You’re looking well. I keep expecting to hear some news about the future Mrs Morton, every time we speak, but so far… her voice trailed off.

There’s nothing to tell I said with a rueful smile, but you shall be the first to hear if I ever decide to make any changes in my life.

Theresa had not changed much since we had last met; a few more wrinkles perhaps and the beginnings of an appearance which may well become matronly in the next few years. I had always liked her and got on well with her and I even approved of her blunt Northern way of saying exactly what she thought, which did tend to grate on more sensitive souls. Her two children were now in their twenties and gave every appearance of having been very well brought up young people. Julie, the eldest, was twenty-five, very pretty and inseparable from her long-term boyfriend, Robert. Her brother David was two years her junior and had only recently formed what appeared to be a serious attachment with an Irish nurse he had met at university.

The Requiem Mass was held in the same church that I had attended with my Mother and Father every Sunday morning throughout my childhood and early teenage years. It seemed far shabbier in appearance than I remembered and everything appeared to be badly in need of repair and a new coat of paint. Not many people attended Mass any more, as they had done when I was young. I stopped going to church when I left home to attend university. Religion had never been important to me and since the age of eighteen I have regarded myself as an atheist.

Following the service at the crematorium, we all congregated at the house I was used to thinking of as the Carter House, although Uncle Ralph was now the sole occupant. I was again talking to Theresa when Simon suddenly appeared at my elbow.

Hi Neil he said, I haven’t seen you for many years. What happened to your hair?

Hello Simon I replied No we only seem to meet at funerals don’t we? My hair is just losing the battle with my excessive testosterone, that’s all. It is the only way some of us can advertise our virility, you know. My hairline had been receding for a few years by then—just the normal male pattern baldness associated with advancing years—but no-one else had drawn attention to it for a while.

Simon had not changed much either. He was tall and retained a slim figure. He had always been handsome and now that his full head of hair had turned grey he also looked rather distinguished.

Where’s Pauline? I asked, I have yet to meet your latest wife, you know.

Too late, I’m afraid he said. "The decree absolute came through about six weeks ago."

Well I would say that I’m sorry to hear that I said but you have to admit it is becoming a bit of a habit.

Theresa interjected:

When he and Pauline first split up, he said that that was it—that he was finally finished with women. And guess what; he has number four lined up already.

Really? I asked. Is she here today?

No replied Simon we couldn’t get her a visa in time for the funeral, so I decided to come alone.

I must have looked askance at this as Theresa explained.

She lives in the Philippines—she’s a Filipino.

"She’s a Filipina" Simon corrected her patiently, as though he had done this repeatedly already.

Whatever said Theresa who was obviously not enamoured of her next prospective sister-in-law.

What’s her name and how did you meet her—if you don’t mind me asking? I asked.

Her name is Jo; short for Jo-Ann; it is pronounced the same as the English Joanne but is spelled J-O—hyphen-A-N-N. She used to work, as a cashier, in a bar where I spend a lot of time, when I’m in Manila replied Simon. I flew back from there yesterday.

Were you there on business? I asked Theresa has told me that you have been doing a lot of travelling in the Far East as part of your job.

Not this time, no. My first visit to Manila was on business, but I liked it so much that I decided that whenever I had a spare weekend in Asia, I would pop over there for some well-earned relaxation.

What’s so special about Manila? I asked I should point out that I’ve never been to the Philippines and, to be honest, they don’t figure at all on my wish-list of places to visit before I die.

It’s hard to explain really said Simon, thoughtfully. It’s not the most beautiful or exciting city in the world. Parts of Manila are decidedly shabby and there is a great deal of poverty around. But there is a good atmosphere for foreign visitors—particularly for foreign men. Filipino people are a lot friendlier, in general, than Europeans tend to be and most Filipinas want to marry foreign husbands. They are desperately poor, and foreigners, who may be relatively poor in their own countries, are very rich by comparison in the Philippines. Even you would be able to find yourself a wife there, Neil!

Neil would be able to find himself a wife in England if he put his mind to it said Theresa coming to what she believed to be my defence. It seems a terrible waste to me but he doesn’t seem to want a wife.

I did not think that Simon was attacking me with his last remark. On the contrary, I thought it was said in the same bantering tone which had characterized many of our teenage conversations. This, I believed was evidence that despite the long years since we had been teenagers, nothing had really changed between us. I sensed the old warmth still existed but of course it had to be hidden under this kind of bantering approach.

It’s not that I don’t want a wife I explained to Theresa, it’s just that I have never met an unattached woman who fitted the bill. I have met many women who did not fit the bill and I have had some painful experiences extricating myself from relationships which I did not really want to be in. So nowadays I tend to steer clear of involvements of which I am not sure. Perhaps I added, Simon has had my share of wives.

He’s certainly had more than his fair share said Theresa and though this was said in a tone of disapproval, I was fully aware that Theresa loved her brother very much and maybe even admired the constant fascination he seemed able to exert over the female sex, whether he meant to or not.

You haven’t heard the worst yet, Neil she turned to Simon tell Neil how old your new intended is.

Simon smiled a little ruefully Jo is twenty-three years old.

And you’re the same age as me; fifty-one. I said. I suppose other people have already suggested to you that Jo is just after your money.

Of course they have he said. That’s the only thing people in this country can think about when you mention much younger Oriental girls; but it’s not quite as simple as that. I don’t really have time to explain at the moment, I really must go and have a word with Auntie Edna—nobody else seems to be bothering with her, and she is my godmother. How long are you staying up north Neil?

Just last night and tonight I replied, there will be many companies filing their returns by the end of this month, and I like to clear the decks, as much as possible, before they start coming in.

What an exciting life you lead Simon bantered. Where are you staying? Perhaps we could meet up for a drink tonight.

I’m staying at the Pack Horse—well I can afford to these days; why don’t we meet in the bar there and go out somewhere for dinner and a few bevvies?

Sounds good to me said Simon, I’ll be there at seven-thirty, if that’s OK.

Of course, see you tonight at seven-thirty.

He went off to do his duty by Auntie Edna and I turned to Theresa,

I take it you are against Simon’s oriental romance.

Of course I am she said. I think it is ridiculous; and this Jo, or whatever she’s called, is not his first Filipino girlfriend.

"Filipina" I suggested, with a smile.

Whatever she said again. The last one was called Emerald and he brought her over to England about two years ago. None of us liked her. She was like a little girl and she was only interested in getting him to buy her clothes and presents. I suppose it flatters his ego to be seen with a pretty young girl on his arm and he is not the sort of man who can live without the constant adoration of at least one woman. In some ways, I wish he was more like you; less interested in women.

Oh, I’ve never been uninterested in women I said but they don’t seem to be very interested in me.

Now you’re just talking nonsense said Theresa. I can see that you’re not every woman’s cup of tea, and you don’t make it easy for anyone to get to know you, but you’re averagely good-looking and, more importantly, you’re a very nice person. You are a thoroughly decent man, Neil Morton, and there are very few of those around. To the right sort of woman, you would make a wonderful husband and, judging by my children’s affection for you, you would probably make a good father as well.

We were then joined by Patrick and his wife. I asked my youngest cousin what he thought of his big brother’s new romance.

If she’s owt like t’last one he brought to meet us, I’m not impressed at all. Patrick continued but you know our Simon; ‘e believes ‘e’s God’s gift to women and ‘e keeps ‘is brains in ‘is dick!

Patrick was happily married to Shirley, who was quite a few years older than him. They had no children; Shirley was around fifty when they married. They were a down-to-earth couple who had many interests in common. I had never met a married couple who were so compatible as Patrick and Shirley, nor whom, despite some surface bickering, were more devoted to each other. Patrick could not understand his brother’s inability to stay married but then he (Patrick) had found the right woman for himself at his first attempt.

I did not stay for much longer. After a more general discussion about other members of the extended family, I made my excuses and drove back to the Pack Horse to rest before meeting Simon as arranged.

Chapter 2

1

The bar of the Pack Horse hotel had not changed a great deal since those far off days when Simon and I would call in for a pint as we did our round of most of the pubs in the town. We had always considered it a little too quiet and refined for our boisterous tastes in those days but it was precisely the sort of place I would have preferred to frequent in my maturity. There was something very reassuring about the old-fashioned highly-polished wooden bar, the thick pile carpet and the comfortable armchairs, together with the subdued atmosphere, the bland piped music and the polite bar staff who seemed anxious to please.

I arrived first and ordered myself a pint of bitter. I was about to make my way to one of the vacant tables when Simon arrived.

Hi Si I said, What are you having; pint of bitter?

A pint of lager please Neil—Foster’s if they have it.

Lager? I asked. How long have you been drinking that stuff?

A few years now said Simon it’s all you can get abroad, you know. They don’t have traditional real ale in Korea and Malaysia; but you can always get some kind of lager, and most of it’s not bad.

I remember when we were young I said, only girls drank lager. ‘Half a lager and lime’ they would say, when asked. I’ve never really found a lager that I liked, myself, so I stick to bitter—not that I drink much beer these days anyway.

We sat at a table with two chairs, in a quiet corner of the room.

I don’t suppose I would drink much beer if I lived down south either said Simon. I assume you’re still in the same place?

Yes, I’ve been in the same flat for nineteen years now I said. I lived in a small village in Hertfordshire, just within the area bounded by the M25. I had to cross the motorway every morning to get to the railway station in nearby Potters Bar, so that I could commute into London.

I don’t know the area very well but I never had much of an opinion of any beer that comes from anywhere further south than Burton-on-Trent. If I am in London, I drink Foster’s, which tastes the same as it does in Manchester.

I very rarely go in pubs these days I said, but I usually keep a few cans of Bass in the fridge; that’s my favourite. Unlike lager though, you should always take it out of the fridge about an hour before you intend to drink it; to get the best flavour.

You’re not one of these real ale enthusiasts are you? asked Simon in mock horror.

No I laughed, I just know what I like. There seems to be this tendency for all drinks to be served as cold as possible and I don’t always agree with it. If I ever order a whisky in a pub, I have to tell them ‘no ice’—it just kills the taste as far as I’m concerned. All that is required for whisky is a little water served at room temperature. A good English ale should be cooled but not chilled.

Quite the expert now, I see said Simon, and are you a wine connoisseur as well?

No I replied. I like the occasional glass of wine but on the whole I prefer beer and whisky.

My favourite drink is wine said Simon, red wine, mostly. I am very fond of a certain Australian Pinot Noir at the moment.

And can you get that in the Philippines?

Of course you can—at least you can in Manila said Simon. The Philippines is a third world country, yes, but it’s not like living in the jungle.

As I said, I know practically nothing about the Philippines. Why do you like it so much there?

Where do I start? Simon paused thoughtfully for a moment before continuing. Everybody speaks English, or rather, everyone understands English. The quality of the spoken English is variable to say the least, but English is actually one of the two official languages of the country.

What’s the other, Spanish?

No said Simon. As far as I know, nobody speaks Spanish in the modern Philippines. I’m not sure when the Spanish left the Philippines but it is a long time ago.

It was 1898 I said. The USA took over the country when they were at war with Spain. The war was mainly about Cuba but the Americans acquired the Philippines almost by accident. One of my unfashionable enthusiasms is History. I remember reading about the Spanish-American war and its outcome and I have a fairly retentive memory. I continued: Apart from that, all that I know about the Philippines is the Japanese invaded in 1942; the Bataan Death March and General MacArthur’s promise to return.

Many place names are Spanish Simon continued his thread when my interruption had ceased, like Puerto Galera and Nueva Ecija and there are many Spanish words which have been absorbed into Tagalog—that is the first language of most people who live on Luzon; the main Island where Manila is situated.

So is Tagalog the other official language? I asked.

Not exactly said Simon. I don’t really understand it—Jo could explain it better than I can—but it seems there is an official language called Filipino which nobody actually speaks; it is based very much on Tagalog but is not entirely Tagalog. All official documents are in English, but not always in good English!

Umm, confusing.

Jo speaks Tagalog and English but, because she is from Mindanao, her first language is Visayan, which is also called Cebuano. Again, I’m not an expert, but I don’t think there are many similarities between Tagalog and Visayan.

We decided it was time to eat and moved on to a nearby Indian restaurant. Simon had always been very keen on Indian food and I like it occasionally, although Italian would always be my first choice. After we had ordered—and this time I had to drink lager as the restaurant did not serve bitter—I said to Simon:

Tell me about Jo.

She’s twenty-three years old, she’s beautiful and intelligent—she has a degree in business accounting; I’m sure you would like her.

I expect that I probably would I replied, but why does she wish to become romantically entangled with a man who is nearly twice her age? Don’t you think that the people who say she is only interested in your money may have a point?

Like I said yesterday; it’s not that simple said Simon. He thought for a moment before continuing. If Jo marries me—and I hope she will—her financial position will be improved dramatically. There is no doubt about that and I accept it completely. But you, and other people, are suggesting that that is her only motivation. I don’t really know why this should be the case but the age difference doesn’t seem to matter very much to Filipinas, or, if anything, it is seen in a positive light.

In what way? I asked.

"Perhaps it is true that most of them get involved with older foreign men purely for reasons of money; but is that any different from how any potential bride, in any country, assesses the material wealth of any prospective bridegroom? I know a lot of these girls and I know their foreign partners. Jo has many friends who have foreign partners and I know a few guys who have Filipina girlfriends. I have to admit that very few of them seem to get married but that is usually because of complications back home, where divorces have not yet been finalised. I do know that there is a genuine affection—perhaps it is love, who can tell—between the partners, in all the couples we know.

"Then, you must also consider the alternatives. Jo could marry a Filipino of around her own age but—and I know this is a generalization—in my experience, most Filipino men are a waste of space. They are lazy, they have no job and they prefer to spend their time getting drunk, preferably at someone else’s expense. They do not make good husbands. Jo could perhaps marry a much younger foreigner but Filipinas are very wary of foreigners under fifty, because they tend to be playboys, or butterflies as they call them, flitting from girl to girl, with no intention of settling for one.

"Jo was very wary of me to begin with. She worked in a girlie bar, but she was a cashier, she was not one of the girls who entertain the customers. She was very friendly with the other girls though and she often heard them talking about the treatment they received from foreigners. The general opinion amongst the girls was that most foreign men are shits. They come to the Philippines to buy very cheap sex, with an endless supply of very beautiful eighteen year old Filipinas. The girls do not like such men and they get them to spend as much money as they can on ladies’ drinks—on which they earn commission—and avoid any further involvement with them. Occasionally they will meet a foreign man who is a nice man, who treats them well and who is obviously interested in something more permanent than a quick shag. The girl will respond in kind and treat the man nicely and not try to squeeze every last peso out of him.

When I met Jo, I had to prove to her that I was the latter kind of man, not the former. I literally had to court her. She knew that I had had a previous Filipina girlfriend because she had seen me in Diamonds—that’s the name of the bar—with Emerald. Have you heard about Emerald?

Theresa mentioned her briefly, but did not go into any detail I said.

Emerald was a big mistake. Even though I treated her nicely, all she wanted from me was money. It took me a long time to see it; but because of my experiences with Emerald, I know that Jo is just the opposite and I believe that she genuinely loves me and I know that I love her.

And will Jo be able to cope with the British climate? I asked.

Oh, we’re not planning to live in the UK said Simon, we will be living in the Philippines.

I was very surprised by this last statement. I had just assumed that they would be living in the UK. The surprise must have showed on my face because Simon continued:

"Jo’s very close to her Mother, even though she lives in Mindanao and Jo has been in Manila for a few years. She would not like them to be further apart