W.L.T.M.: (A Love Story...Sort Of)

By Jim Cunningham

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Feb 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465391322

Book preview

Chapter 1

She didn’t like the big headstone on Tony’s grave. It wasn’t what either of them would have wanted, though they never talked about it. I mean you don’t plan for death when you’re thirty-seven, you’re still looking forward.

No, she’d fondly imagined herself as an old lady with a slight stoop walking through a meadow by a stream, holding a small bouquet of yellow flowers searching out a simple plot—marked with a small wood cross. No names, no dates, no Tony, no more.

That was on a good day. There were other times she’d see herself clutching a large plastic sweetie jar, bereft, weeping and screaming Why? to the sky where some imagined deity would smile benignly and reassure her everything would work out just fine. Have faith, little one, all will be well.

Then reality would resurface—and reality was this huge black marble stone with gold lettering which read:

Here lies John Millbrook Dawson (11.3.1939-17.2.1975), much loved husband and father. Gone to God.

There was a blank space about a foot or so of plain black below the words. Then, the inscription continued :

Their son, Anthony (God, she thought, how he hated being called that. Tony is fine," he told her that first time they’d met. Only Vivien ever called him Anthony.) Millbrook Dawson 12.9.1972-13.11.2009.

All that slab, all that stone—so few words. She hated it. She hated Vivien for being so, well, Vivien.

This space, her mother-in-law said, after they buried Tony, is for me—when my time comes. She was pointing at the vacant area between her husband and son. Just a few simple words, dear. Nothing fancy—nothing, what is it? Ostentatious. Shirley thought, what difference will a few words make when your bloody megalith’s standing two feet above all the rest of the headstones?

But you didn’t argue with Vivien Dawson. You might try but with Vivien you were wasting your energy.

I want Tony cremated, she remembered saying one day, soon after he died.

Cremated! Nonsense! It’s not bloody civilised, dear. (Bloody was a word Vivien rarely used—a sure sign she was about to boil over.)

But he was my husband! She had protested. He wouldn’t have wanted to be buried—all those fucking worms creeping through his bones.

She registered the look of astonishment on the older women’s face at her daughter-in-law’s choice of adjectives.

He may have been your husband but he was my son. My child, my only child. You can have other husbands. I will only have memories. And there’s no need for profanity.

And that had been that. Game over. Tony was buried as Anthony and had taken his place in the family pecking order.

There’ll be room for you as well, Shirley—when your time comes.

That had really thrown her. She had looked at the small white haired lady (Shirley never thought of Vivien as a woman—always as a lady.) and contemplated lying in the same grave as her for all eternity. She suspected that, if Vivien had her way, Shirley, daughter in law, would be at the bottom of the pile.

Of course, if you’d had children of your own, you’d understand, Vivien said, and left it at that. Understand? Shirley thought. Understand what? Understand that your now deceased husband was infertile?—Or understand that Saint Vivien thought it was all your fault? That somehow you were denying her son his conjugal rights. When in reality, sex was the one area in the marriage that had been nearly perfect. They had done it all over the house, even in the conservatory on a warm evening with the blinds slightly open so that the rest of the street could share in their joy if they cared to. They’d done it to all types of music from the Bolero (her particular favourite) to Great Balls of Fire. Every conceivable position had been explored in their loving—and it was, for the most part, loving—rarely rutting for the sake of it. They’d never used protection since they married. It turned out that they hadn’t needed to. A low sperm count, the doctor had told them. You could try…

And we will, doc. Tony had interrupted him. If at first you don’t succeed and he’d laughed heartily. That was Tony—her Tony. Gone but not etc. etc.

It’s Dawson men, dear, Vivien told her one day. They don’t live long. John’s father was only 42. John himself was barely 36 before the cancer got him. Now, Anthony.

It was a car accident, Shirley reminded herself, not some form of Divine Retribution visited on Dawson males—a chance coalescing of two tons of metal and glass with relative velocity of 120 mph. There was no Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in Tony’s fiery furnace. She’d not had to identify the charred remains, Vivien had done all that—and everything else. She’d dealt with the solicitors, organised the funeral right down to the choice of Nearer my God to Thee at the service. Again she doubted whether it would have been Tony’s selection. He was more Black Sabbath than C of E.

After that, Vivien more or less took over everything. She cooked the meals and cleaned the house. She organised the grieving widow’s life to such an extent that Shirley became almost incapable of independent thoughts and actions.

How was your day, dear? Heavy? I bet it was. Sit down. I’ve made one of your favourites for tea. Afterwards I’ve got a nice bottle of Spanish Red. There’s some good stuff on the box, greeted her most evenings when she came in.

Shirley had never liked Vivien from that first day when she’d looked her son’s prospective partner up and down with an expression that screamed Not good enough for my Anthony.

It had begun badly and deteriorated to such an extent that Shirley had confided to Michelle, her friend at work, that she actively detested her mother in law.

Michelle had nodded. Mothers and sons, she’d replied simply. Dave’s mother is the same.

But, then, Michelle had her own family to shelter in, parents still around, three kids and a live husband. She, Shirley Dawson was alone in the world—apart from Vivien.

And, despite herself, when she’d needed her most, Vivien had come through for her. When she’d been flaky, Vivien had been her rock. When Shirley had cried—which had been often—Vivien had been there with a continuous supply of tissues and soothing words.

Gradually, almost imperceptibly, Shirley’s aversion to the older lady began to evaporate. While she would never love Vivien, she conceded that she was entitled to more than the loathing that Shirley had previously felt.

Then, almost exactly a year after her son’s death, on the 8th of December, 2010, Vivien Dawson, nee Corrigan, breathed her last. God called her while she stood in the queue at the butcher’s waiting to purchase two pounds of Cumberland sausage.

A massive heart attack, Mrs. Arbuthnot told Shirley later. You should know, Pat, Shirley thought. You’ve seen off three husbands. It was her time, I supposed. In fact, she said only last week that she wished she could join John and Anthony. She smiled. Maybe it was her wish come true.

So it came to pass, in the fullness of time that the words Vivien Dawson (12.7.1939-8.12.10) wife of the above and mother of beloved Anthony. Gone to God.

Shirley had stood in front of that headstone five weeks after Vivien’s funeral and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she still disliked the monstrous black edifice.

She’d order the mason to add the words Together Forever under Tony’s entry. Sorry Vivien, she said inwardly. There’s no way you’re getting me in there.

Chapter 2

Jeff stared at the sheet of paper lying on Ms. Jansen’s desk. His eyes bulged slightly and he could feel his heartbeat quicken. Stress! He fumbled in his right hand jacket pocket, located the squash ball he kept for occasions like this, and squeezed. One, two, three, four. Stress leave my door he said inwardly.

Are you feeling all right, Mr. Summers? The solicitor’s plummy voice sounded worried. Jeff shot her a quick look. She was smiling benignly indicating that the concern was professional, rather than emotional.

She wants the dog, Jeff gasped in a hoarse whisper.

Pardon? Ms. Jansen whispered back.

Jeff’s valve blew then. Steam seemed to issue from his ears. The dog! She wants the fucking dog.

The solicitor jumped slightly like a startled bunny, then quickly reverted to type. Please, Mr. Summers. Calm. Please.

The door opened slightly and a pretty blonde head peeped around it.

Everything all right, Sue?

Sue Jansen’s composure had returned quickly. Jeff pumped the squash ball repeatedly. He floated gently down from High Doh. When he reached somewhere around Middle C, he spoke.

Sorry, I was out of order.

The solicitor smiled. This time the man detected a little warmth.

Anger management? she enquired sweetly.

Jeff took the black rubber sphere from his pocket and held it in front of his face. Stress buster, he said. "It usually works very well.

She nodded. I know. I had one. Helped me through my bad spell.

You’re divorced? Jeff made it sound like a terminal illness.

She held up her right hand, revealing a thin gold band on her fourth finger. Uncivil partnership. This time the smile was genuine.

OK, Jeff said, but, come on, the dog. She doesn’t even like the mutt. Christ! She’s got half the house which was valued during the boom. She’s got the car. She’s even got the bloody 3 piece suite.

She claims she paid for that, Sue Jansen interrupted.

It’s in her name. She made the first payment. I had to stump up the rest. Jeff exhaled softly. So, let’s get this straight, he said quietly. She gets all that and I get a £70 grand mortgage, a bus to work and a tea-chest to sit on.

The solicitor nodded. That’s about the size of it.

Then what am I paying you for?

Advice, she said simply.

And what is your advice?

Settle.

Settle! But she left me, for Christ’s sake.

She shook her head. Not relevant, Jeff, I’m afraid. As things stand, she’s entitled to 50%.

Can I contest it?

Of course we can. We can fight—but we’d lose.

He felt like Yul Brynner in the Magnificent Seven. We lost—we always lose.

How much would it cost? To contest it, I mean.

She looked genuinely sorry. More than you could afford, Jeff. Your wife has been granted Legal Aid.

But she’s shacked up with Slimy Mike. He’s worth a mint! he protested.

Not according to her solicitor. She is currently residing at her parents’ home.

Lies! She’s at Mike’s. I rang her there the other night.

That’s another thing. They’re claiming harassment. If you try to contact her again, they’ll be taking out an injunction.

Jeff reached for the square ball. Too late. He exploded Harassment! I’d like to harass the bastard—with a fucking claw hammer!

This time, Sue Jansen did not even blink.

Then you’d need our Mr. Spark. He handles criminal cases.

He’d got the bus back from his meeting with Ms. Jansen of Morgan, Morgan and Stanley. He managed a smile as he recalled his favourite legal firm Haddaway, Haddaway, Haddaway and Shite. He inwardly congratulated himself on his coolness under pressure as he gazed out of the bus window at the shoppers in the High Street. Grim, single-minded, bustling, burdened by plastic carriers. Ants! He thought. I’m no more than part of an insect colony. Then suddenly a bright spark caught his eye—a girl, a young girl maybe eighteen or so with legs up to her chin. Then in a moment she had disappeared in the crowd and the bus rattled on. He missed the car, he mused, and reached for the ball in his pocket.

As he opened his front door, his wrist ached with the constant squeezing.

Come on, Bob, he called softly. Time for your walk.

The silence in the house engulfed him and he could feel an eerie stillness all round.

Margaret, he muttered tetchily. She’d taken the dog. His solicitor had warned him against changing the locks. Removal of access is a breach of your wife’s rights. As a result, he had lost a toaster, the kettle, two pictures and a mirror from the front room, bed linen, crockery and five teaspoons. Now, she had the dog. Poor Bob. He doubted whether Slimy Mike would put the miles in with him because Margaret sure as shit wouldn’t

He heated up a coffee in the microwave. She hadn’t taken that—presumably Slimy Mike already had a microwave—before ambling into the dining room.

He’d lied to the solicitor about the tea-chest of course. She’d left behind a set of sturdy dining chairs which were marginally less comfortable than a plywood case.

He sat at the dining table looking out of the window at the back garden, feeling generally sorry for himself. He didn’t really give a toss about the bloody suite, he knew. It had always been a contentious issue for them since the day it had arrived in the house.

We need a new suite, she’d said.

Why?

I’m sick of this old thing. It’s not stylish enough—too old fashioned.

It’s comfortable, he’d protested. I like it.

She ignored his protest. I’ve seen one at Conways. It’s being delivered on Friday.

Who’s paying? he asked her. Money was tight. Their daughter, Anna, was in her second year at University.

I’m working, his wife replied. I can pay my share.

As it turned out, three days a week behind a screen at the local petrol station was not enough to finance a genuine leather three piece suite (including a recliner and a footstool),

He still remembered the morning, a Saturday. He was sorting out his kit for his weekly tennis with the boys when the doorbell rang. He opened it to find a small, balding man in shades, leafing through some papers in the black leather briefcase in his hand.

Mr. Summers? the little bloke said. Mr. Jeffrey Summers?

Jeff nodded tersely. The guy continued—My name is Simon Arundel. I’m from Service Loans. He pointed to the plastic card which hung round his neck, over his plain blue tie.

Very nice, Jeff replied. We don’t need any. He shut the door firmly.

Within four seconds, the bell chimed again. Jeff once more opened the door.

You don’t understand, Mr. Summers. I’m not trying to sell you anything. You owe us… Here Simon consulted one of the sheets in his briefcase, Eight hundred and forty pounds.

What! Jeff shouted.

It may be better if I come in and discuss the matter privately, Mr. Summers. It’s rather public out here.

Jeff sighed and ushered the small man into the house and closed the door. He showed the man into the living room and motioned for him to sit in one of the leather armchairs.

Coffee? he asked. He knew how Simon Arundel felt. He had long ago ceased to vent his feelings on the minimum wage sod at the sharp end,

Thank you, Simon said, Two sugars please.

I’ve only got sweeteners, Jeff told him, apologetically. Will that do?

Fine.

When he returned with two cups of coffee, Jeff noticed that the man had removed his sunglasses revealing an ugly looking greenish-yellow area around his right eye.

Ouch, Jeff observed. Looks nasty.

Occupational hazard. Arundel replied. Goes with the territory, as they say.

Jeff nodded I get it. Now, what about this money?

Simon looked and sounded sympathetic.

"I suspect we’re sitting