WHAT'S IN A NAME?: 20 People - 20 Stories

By Lawrence Goodstone

This collection of short stories will appeal to readers who are attracted to snapshots of the human condition. While set in Australia, the stories reflect universal themes. They range over a number of genres from crime to science fiction, from human weakness to human strength, and capture pockets of life with uncanny accuracy and sensitivity.&nb

• Language: English
• Publisher: 31556151122
• Release date: Nov 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9780995421936

Book preview

I                                                                                                                                                                                    Bill

Bill and Julie Kingsley had lived opposite Mrs. Green for close to twenty five years. They knew her first name but to them, she was always just Mrs. Green. This was strange because from the day the Kingsleys moved in to number sixteen, Mrs Green had more or less adopted them and made them family. Mrs Green knew more about the Kingsleys than their parents did. Quid pro quo, the Kingsleys had supported Mrs Green through the traumatic aftermath of the loss of her two adult children, who had been killed in a horrific motor vehicle accident on their way home from a sporting fixture in country New South Wales. Mr Green was still alive at that point but the fallout from the loss of his children brought on a stroke some months later. He lingered for half a year after which he died quietly in his sleep one winter’s night. If there was any consolation to be had by Mrs Green, insurance and compensation pay outs allowed her to live a modest existence with minimal financial stress. However, as she entered her eighties, while enjoying reasonably good health for her age, her nest egg was rapidly dwindling and her finances were becoming increasingly stretched.

The Kingsleys, unlike Mrs Green who liked to tell people she was a bit of a heathen, had always been good Catholics. They seldom missed Sunday mass and would have climbed over barbed wire to ensure attendance at Easter and Christmas services at the local parish church. Both Bill and Julie ensured that they made confession at least once a month, even though in truth, they lived such blameless lives that there was little to confess, except for the odd impure thought. The Kingsley children, now in their late twenties, had long since flown the coop and sadly for Bill and Julie, had remained living in London since their trip there seven years earlier. Both had married English partners and both were finding it hard to make ends meet, especially since they had produced babies within months of each other. This seemed to be the only major Kingsley failing, in that money had always been in short supply. Bill had worked as a shopfitter most of his life while Julie had never aspired to rise beyond a variety of unskilled and unrewarding part-time jobs. As they approached retirement age, both feared for the future in terms of being able to sustain themselves finan-cially. Their home was rented and their credit card balances were a constant source of anxiety. Their children could not afford the trip home and nor could the Kingsleys afford to visit England.

Their only consolation was that international telephone calls were now inexpensive and there was always Skype. This however, did little to pacify their yearning to see their children and grandchildren. Nor did it help when they were in the company of their friends who regaled them with stories of their grandchildrens’ peccadilloes and achievements.

As Mrs Green became less mobile, she began to rely more and more on the Kingsleys to help her with shopping and household maintenance. While she still retained a level of ownership in her home and remained fiercely house proud, she began exhibiting frustration at not being able to maintain it to the standard she had been used to. In the absence of any accessible close relatives, she was thankful that she had such wonderful neighbours. The Kingsleys were genuinely good people and they regarded Mrs Green as if she was a fifth parent.

The one leisure outlet which formed the basis of the Kingsley’s spare time and which they could afford was a shared, longstanding passion for hunting down and reselling other peoples’ cast off treasures. They trawled suburban markets and spent the early hours of weekends being first at garage sales. In the early days, once they’d accumulated a few boxfuls of other people’s retired objets d’art, they would hire a table themselves at a local community market and make a little hard earned profit. As they became more adept at this pastime, every few months the extra few dollars it brought in allowed them a night out at an inexpensive restaurant followed by a movie. They enjoyed the challenge of the activity and while it certainly did not generate much of a return, it was something for which they had a mutual enthusiasm. Without them being particularly conscious of it, they slowly built up an accumulated knowledge of the worth of things. It was not the kind of knowledge which could be articulated but it was an intuitive ability to recognise an inherent value in something which someone else had discarded. While they subscribed to the adage that one person’s trash is another person’s treasure, they were yet to unearth anything of significant value. The internet and the proliferation of television lifestyle programs had certainly accelerated their knowledge but there was no commensurate detection of anything which altered the grind of their day to day lives.

A week before Christmas, Bill and Julie were sitting polishing a set of tired looking silver-plate cutlery pieces which they had picked up at a local house clearance the weekend before. His hands black from the tedious process, Bill looked up.

‘Be nice if we could afford to go over and surprise the kids.’

He immediately wished he’d not said what he said as he saw his wife’s eyes moisten. Julie turned her head away from him.

‘I’m scared that we’ll never see them again. Or the grandkids!’

‘Don’t be silly love, of course we’ll see them one day.’

She turned to face him. ‘How’s that going to happen?’

He opened his mouth to give her hope but his words dried on his lips. What was the point of giving her false expectations? The way things were, any family reunion seemed unlikely. This issue always raised itself at Christmas time and it hurt both of them deeply, especially Bill. It made him feel unmanly in not being able to bring his family together. Each week he prayed earnestly for the Holy Mother to grant a small miracle but in his heart he was not optimistic.

He tried to lighten the gloom which had suddenly descended.

‘Cheer up sweetheart, maybe we’ll win Lotto!’

Julie attempted a smile. ‘Fat chance!’

Bill rose from his chair. ‘I’m going to wash my hands and pop over to check on Mrs Green. Back in ten minutes.’

With the key Mrs Green had entrusted to them, Bill let himself in, calling out at the same time. ‘Evening Mrs Green – hope you’re decent.’

‘What if I wasn’t?’ Mrs Green was becoming increasingly frail but her sense of humour held firm.

‘I’d have to cover my eyes,’ Bill replied chuckling.

He found Mrs Green sitting in her usual armchair with the television picture on but no sound.

‘Why don’t you have the sound on?’

‘Can’t be bothered. There’s nothing worth listening to anyway.’

She shifted in her chair to face him, grimacing a little as the uncompromising pains of old age ran through her body.

‘I’m glad you came over Bill. I’ve been racking my brains as to what to give you and Julie for Christmas this year. Now before you start procrastinating, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. I can’t get out to buy anything and I know you and Julie love some of the rubbish that Mr Green accumulated, so why don’t you just pick out something and we’ll surprise Julie with it. What about that miserable looking painting in the hall you’re always looking at?’

‘That’s a lovely thought Mrs Green but I’m not sure we’d be comfortable taking something out of your home.’

‘Don’t be a silly sausage. I’m eighty years old with one foot in the grave. What’s the point of me hanging on to stuff? Truth is, my finances are getting a bit tight and if it wasn’t for the pension, I’d be in the poor house.

After Mr Green passed away, I always daydreamed that when the time came, I’d have enough to end my days in one of those posh retirement homes playing whist with other silly old biddies. The way things are, if I do eventually have to sell this place, I’ve already borrowed money against it so there won’t be much left. I’m afraid I’ll end up in one of those horrible government homes where everyone sits around dribbling.’

Bill shuffled on the balls of his feet. He wished he could say or do something to allay Mrs Green’s fears but he knew that anything he said would sound hollow. After an embarrassing impasse, he checked on whether Mrs Green needed anything and returned home to finish off the silver polishing.

Mrs Green did give Bill and Julie the painting. It wasn’t that big and she wrapped it in pre-loved Christmas paper, attached a card and presented it to them when they looked in on her on their way home from church on Christmas Eve. Bill feigned surprise while Julie confided later that she thought the painting depressing and was glad that Mrs Green wouldn’t be mobile enough to come and see they had not hung it on one of their walls.

What happened over the next few weeks, nobody could have foretold. A few days into the new year, Mrs Green had a fall at home. If it wasn’t for the Kingsleys making a routine call, she may have lain there and nobody would have been any the wiser. As it was, they did find her in a distressed state and called an ambulance. Once her medical issues had been dealt with, she was assessed by an Aged Care Assessment Team and it was determined that she was no longer able to care for herself at home. Although frightened and a little disorientated by what was happening to her, Mrs Green told the hospital social worker that she had no relatives of any consequence and that she wished to instruct her lawyer to sell her home and advise of what, if any monies, were left after the sale. Some six weeks later, while in the convalescent ward of the hospital, she received a letter from her lawyer advising that if she was to sell her home, a preliminary estimate of her funds amounted to $9,350.00. The social worker explained that she would have to accept a place in a government supported aged care home which could be anywhere in Sydney. Mrs Green’s only thought was that wherever it was, it might be too far away for the Kingsleys to visit her. She did not anticipate any other visitors given that she had outlived the small circle of friends with whom she had remained in contact in the years since Mr Green had passed away. During her stay in hospital, the Kingsleys visited Mrs Green at least twice a week.

At the same time that preparations were being made for Mrs Green’s transition from hospital to an aged care home, Bill Kingsley had felt uneasy. He’d said nothing to Julie but every time he looked at the painting which Mrs Green had given them and which was standing propped against the wall in their lounge room, something told him it was not the rubbish she had thought it was. He could not find a signature on the piece but the style and composition looked vaguely familiar. He pored through website after website on the internet searching for an image which might give him a clue but nothing useful emerged. Julie sensed that Bill was on some kind of mission about something or other but every time she asked him what he was up to, he gently deflected her queries. Eventually, one evening over dinner, Bill made what was tantamount to an announcement.

‘Julie love, I’m going to take that picture which Mrs Green gave us and which you don’t like to the Art Gallery. They have these free sessions where a curator looks at stuff and gives a no obligation appraisal as to who might have painted it and its likely authenticity. I just have a feeling!’

Julie looked at her husband. ‘What kind of feeling?’

‘I don’t know – just a feeling.’

Julie in truth was not that much interested. She shrugged and began collecting the dinner dishes to transport into the kitchen.

The following Wednesday, Bill took a seat in a row of chairs having followed a line of arrows and a sign directing interested parties to a free appraisal by art curators at the New South Wales Art Gallery. Being second in line, Bill was soon ushered forward and invited to sit at a table opposite a young woman who looked like an art student from central casting.

‘Hi, my name’s Jenny McIntosh and I’m a Senior Curator at the Art Gallery.’

Bill was inclined to comment that she looked too young to be a senior anything but he was too well mannered to try it fearing that she might be insulted. He lifted the painting onto the table, carefully peeled away the bubble wrap and held the painting facing the curator.

‘Hello Jenny, I’m Bill Kingsley and I’m a little concerned that I might be wasting your time. I’ve got this picture and I just thought it somehow looked familiar – at least the style does.’

The curator leaned forward and took the painting from Bill turning it to face her. She drew it closer, at the same time sliding open a sizeable magnifying glass. She scanned the painting, spending a disproportionate time on the picture’s base.

Bill immediately picked up on her action.

‘No signature,’ he offered rhetorically.

The young woman looked up. ‘You’re right! No obvious signature, unless of course it’s hidden under the frame. Without in any way committing, you are also right – it does have a familiar look about it. Bill, when you say familiar, what or who did you have in mind?’

Bill shrugged. ‘Jenny I’m a rank amateur and I’m almost certainly way off beam but I just brought the painting here on spec to confirm it’s worth nothing.’

The curator continued exploring the canvas. ‘Do you have any idea of the painting’s provenance – any history of ownership or evidence of its history?’

Bill explained how it came into his possession.

‘Bill we don’t usually go beyond an oral appraisal at these sessions and if any further research is suggested, that would normally be up to you. However, without in any way raising expectations, would you be prepared to leave this with us? I would like to consult with colleagues on this one. It may come to nothing but in the art world, there are the occasional, surprises.’

Bill responded. ‘Of course – nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

The curator reached into her bag, extracted a small, digital camera and snapped off a significant number of shots, some using the flash, some relying on the filtered natural light.

‘Bill, I’ll organise a receipt for you and attach at least one photographic image to it. If you can sign that, I’ll take the picture away and get back to you within the week. Obviously, make sure you leave us your contact details.’

Bill returned home saying little to Julie. Her interest in the picture was so minimal that she even failed to notice her husband had not returned with it from his trip to the Gallery.

Exactly a week later, Bill took a call on his mobile phone at work.

‘Hello Mr Kingsley, this is Jenny McIntosh from the New South Wales Art Gallery. Is this a good time?’

‘Yes it’s fine. A bit noisy but I can talk. And please call me Bill!’

‘Right! Well Bill, I must tell you your picture has created quite a stir here. Rather than discussing this on the phone, are you able to come in and meet with myself and the Gallery’s Director?’

‘Sure, I can manage that. When did you have in mind?’

‘We were hoping tomorrow. Without committing our-selves at this stage, if this is what we think it might be, you may be in for quite a surprise.’

Ms McIntosh then became quite cagey in saying much more but Bill agreed that he would take a morning off work and arrangements were made for a ten o’clock meeting the next day.

Bill decided then and there not to say anything to Julie. What would be point of getting her excited? For the rest of the day, Bill’s mind was racing. What if the painting turned out to worth something? He began fantasising as to how he would break the news to Julie that they would be able to take a trip to London. All kinds of wild ideas began racing through his mind. He could barely concentrate on the work he was supposed to be doing. As knock-off time approached, he turned to counselling himself to slow down and keep things in proportion, though this proved almost impossible and he wondered how he was going to cope with not telling Julie so as not to dash any false hopes.

On the drive home, something drew him to diverting from his normal route and he found himself parked outside his church. Not thinking too clearly but being drawn by an odd feeling of compulsion, he entered the empty church and sat down on a wooden pew near the altar. He looked up at the benign face of the Holy Mother. She was holding the Baby Jesus. Was he imagining things a little or did she ever so slightly resemble Mrs Green? Now he was being patently silly. As he tried to focus his thoughts while staring at his former neighbour who was adorned in long white robes and lovingly cradling her new born son, a thought pierced his mind. If the painting had any value, any benefit should really accrue to Mrs Green even though technically, she had gifted it to him and Julie. Perhaps this small miracle – if it was to come to fruition – would allow her to bypass a miserable low-end nursing home and provide her with the opportunity of seeing her days out in a comfortable, five star facility where she could play whist to her heart’s content with other like souls. Bill sat there for what seemed like an age. His increasing disquiet was eventually interrupted by the appearance of the parish priest.

‘Hello Bill! To what do we owe the pleasure of a mid-week visit?’

‘Hello Father! Just needed a bit of quiet to sort something out.’

In his lilting Irish accent, the priest spoke gently. ‘Is it something I can help you with? If it’s a matter for the confessional, I’d be happy to hear it now.’

Bill stood. He was tempted to take up the priest’s offer. Perhaps the priest would advise him in such a way that the decision would be made for him. What if the curator announced a positive outcome? If Bill did what his conscience was telling him to do, this meant that he and Julie would be left back where they started? He opened his mouth to speak but his words were not those which his brain had initially assembled.

‘Thank you Father. I think the Holy Mother up there has just told me what I should do.’

He shook hands with his priest and walked to his car. He sat for a moment before turning on the ignition. As he pulled away from the kerb, he began preparing what he would say to Julie. He imagined her reaction and how they would together deal with the decision, which he hoped she would agree with.

As Bill walked into the kitchen, Julie looked agitated. ‘You’re late. Where on earth have you been? You usually call me if you’re going to be late. I was worried.’

‘Sorry love, I popped into church after work. Something was bothering me. Just needed a bit of guidance.’

‘If something’s bothering you, why didn’t you tell me? We don’t usually have secrets.’

‘Julie, it’s about that painting Mrs Green gave us.’

‘You’ve been feeling guilty that we haven’t put it up on a wall?’

‘It’s a bit more complicated than that and I didn’t want to upset you.’

Julie looked nonplussed. ‘Bill, the only thing that would upset me about that painting would be having to look at it.’

‘Julie sweet, sit down and I’ll explain.’

As Bill began the prepared words he had thought through in the car, the phone rang interrupting him. Julie motioned for him to delay for a moment. She picked up the receiver.

‘Hello, Julie speaking.’ After a short pause, her eyes lit up.

‘Hello darling, yes it’s a really clear line. How’s the baby?’

II                                                                                                                                                            Celia

Grandpa Brookman lived in a well-appointed granny flat at the rear of his son John’s house. He moved there after his wife’s death. He loved all his grandchildren but he formed a special bond with John’s middle child, Celia. There was a time when John and his wife, Beth, felt just a little uneasy at the exclusivity of the relationship but Grandpa Brookman was awake to their concerns and told them outright that they had nothing to worry about. On some summer nights, Celia would grab her comforter, a battered old cot blanket and pad down to Grandpa Brookman’s granny flat in her bare feet in the dark, where her parents would find her the next morning curled up in a ball at the foot of his large, king-sized bed. Once established, this pattern, which seemed to do no harm, continued until Celia was seven years old. At that point, Grandpa Brookman died suddenly in his sleep one night from a massive stroke. Celia was asleep at the foot of the bed when this happened and in the morning shook her father awake telling him that Grandpa would not wake up. After his death, Celia retreated into herself a little and became a noticeably quieter child.

Do people consciously enter into behaviours which bring about a shock result out of genuine naivety, or are they drawn to self-destructive possibilities by some kind of counter-productive, emotional gravity? While Freudian explanations for human behaviour have long since become unfashionable, there continues to be a compelling logic rooted in the notion that experiences in infancy and early childhood, can resurface in mutated or symbolic form later in life. Like dogs which have been maltreated as puppies and then unexpectedly turn unwittingly on their canine carers in maturity, humans are very capable of mining early experiences to drive their responses decades later.

Of course Celia would not have viewed things in these terms. She seldom delved too deeply into why she felt what she felt and did what she did. She only knew that it was never her intention to place herself in vulnerable relationships. Or so she thought.

Celia was a twenty-nine year old human resources executive. Nobody had ever described her as beautiful, or even attractive, yet she somehow invariably attracted male attention. Whether it was pheromones, her individualistic dress sense or just the way she carried herself, there was something about Celia that was interesting to men. She would have been the last one to recognise it and consequently found herself frequently but pleasantly surprised how, in social situations, she was more likely to find herself in male company than in female company. This did not go unnoticed by her circle of female friends and acquaintances, many of whom considered they were more worthy of such attention.

To describe her background as unexceptional might be doing Celia an injustice. But truth is, she had sailed through childhood and adolescence with no significant peaks and troughs, no traumas to speak of and no life-changing milestone events – except perhaps for the death of Grandpa Brookman. This maybe explains why a certain level of equanimity became an integral part of her personality. She was viewed by most who knew her as level headed. When this was offered as a compliment, she accepted it gracefully but privately she sometimes wondered whether it also suggested a lack of spontaneity. But nobody is flawless and Celia may well have had an undiagnosed Achilles Heel which neither she, nor those who cared about her, fully understood.

Celia was the middle child of the Brookman’s progeny. Her older brother, Julian, was a middle-ranking banking executive, married with two delightful offspring, who Celia was genuinely fond of. Julian’s wife, Izzy, she was not so fond of. Although only two years apart, Celia and Julian had never been particularly close or shared common friends. While they got along tolerably well, her relationship with Izzy meant that she and Julian only ever saw each other at family gatherings which gave them opportunity for muted affection.

Celia’s younger sibling was her sister, Margaret. Margaret was four years Celia’s junior and had what the family had always called learning difficulties. Celia was sufficiently savvy early on to know that Margaret was intellectually disabled – albeit mildly – but everyone played along with the parents’ description which they found more socially acceptable. The practical upshot of Margaret’s condition was that she lived at home, could not hold down any form of employment which had been found for her and being particularly vulnerable, her parents had cause to rescue her on a number of occasions from various forms of self-destructive behaviour. However, this was not common knowledge and Celia’s parents chose not to share this burden to any significant degree with their other children.

This is the backdrop leading to the plans for Celia’s parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary party at their home in Terry Hills, a true-blue Sydney suburb, sporting neatly maintained, architecturally uninspiring, middle-class homes with manicured lawns and two-car garages.

The Brookmans were nice people. John Brookman, a newly retired public sector middle manager, was now enjoying the fruits of his forty years contribution to superannuation. Beth, his wife, worked two days a week as a clerical assistant at the local state primary school and one day voluntarily delivering meals to the elderly. Their world was defined and comfortable. They did not react well to change and relished routine. Margaret’s behaviour was one of the few things which challenged their slow, unruffled journey towards a genteel dotage. This, and a generally unaddressed concern at Celia’s choice of male friends.

This latter concern first surfaced with any recognisable significance when Celia was still in high school. In the course of preparations for her high-school formal, Celia found a rare moment to speak to her mother alone.

‘Mum you haven’t asked me who I’m taking to the formal!’

She thought it a better strategy to force the onus for asking on her mother.

‘Well, I just assumed it would be one of the boys from your year. The ones I’ve met all seemed quite nice and your father and I trust your judgement. Why, don’t tell me you’re taking a bikie or a Goth?’

‘No – but I am taking someone you don’t know.’

Her mother looked at her quizzically. ‘And - is that a problem?’

Celia was uncomfortable. For her it was a done deal but she was not sure just how much angst her decision would cause at home. She had anticipated some objection but it was hard to calculate how much.

‘I’m taking Tony Costas. You don’t know him. He’s an assistant manager at Coles where you shop.’

‘What, you mean the Coles supermarket where you work part-time?’

Celia nodded.

Now her mother became more interested. Her eyes narrowed just a little and her voice took on an imperceptible edge.

‘Right! An assistant manager!’ She said this with just a faint hint of sarcasm which went right over Celia’s head. Beth was not one for outright confrontation. In fact she and her husband never argued. If there was conflict, it came in subtle hues.

Celia and her mother stood looking at each other, both unsure who should make the next move. She was beginning to wish she had not raised the matter. After an uneasy silence, Beth recognised the impasse.

‘And is that an issue? I mean it’s a school formal. I assume you don’t intend marrying this Tony?’

This was intended as a slightly barbed joke, mostly to ease the tension that was developing between mother and daughter.

‘Mum don’t be silly. Of course I don’t intend marrying him. But I have been seeing him for about four months.’

Now Beth’s antennae were out. ‘Well that’s strange that we haven’t seen or met him. You’ve always been very relaxed about bringing boys here.’

There was a pause as Beth continued to look at Celia with greater intensity but Celia’s eyes lowered to break what she felt, was becoming an interrogation. Both were expending energy in remaining calm. Neither was used to open conflict and this atmosphere between them was a fairly new experience. Here were two linked females who both recog-nised that they were in uncharted territory.

Beth folded her arms in front of her. Celia did not recognise it but this body language was preparation for escalating the conversation to another level.

Celia continued to avert her mother’s gaze. ‘I wouldn’t actually describe him as a boy.’

‘Celia, may I ask how old this Tony Costas is?’

Both knew they had reached the tipping point.

Celia now looked up and reconnected with her mother’s eyes. With a hint of truculence Beth had seldom, if ever, heard in her daughter’s voice before, Celia responded.

‘Why do you ask?’

Beth did not like the direction of this conversation at all but both of them were on a course which was difficult to avert.

Beth said, ‘Is there some reason why my asking is a problem?’

As Celia held her mother’s gaze, her eyes filled just a little. Although enough for her mother to notice.

Then she looked down. As she did so, one tear slowly built up and released itself to slide gently down the crease between her nose and her cheek, welling on her top lip before dropping to the kitchen floor.

In spite of this tell-tale evidence of her increasing distress, Celia calmly answered her mother’s question. Her eyes were filmy but she stood her ground. ‘Mum, Tony’s thirty-one.’

Beth’s eyes widened but she said nothing. At this juncture, Celia had decided not to beat about the bush in the full knowledge that what she would say would raise eye-brows.

‘He’s married but has been separated for two years. He has a little girl called Amy who’s nearly three years old. He’s asked me if he could meet my parents to explain things but I told him it was too early.’

Beth now exhaled, having held her breath while Celia was speaking. ‘May I ask what there is to explain and while we’re at it, too early for what?’

It was at this moment, when the next level of confrontation appeared inevitable, that John, Celia’s father, entered the kitchen. His gentle bonhomie was met with an electrifying silence.

‘Have I missed something?’ he asked looking from one to the other, his mouth slightly open and his face now showing signs of being startled. ‘Is everything all right?’

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. All three looked from one to the other. After what seemed like a long, frozen moment in time, Celia turned and left the kitchen.

*

Tony did accompany Celia to her formal and it would be an understatement to say that it caused a stir amongst her friends. Tony Costas was a good looking man. Celia, although vaguely aware of the interest she and Tony were attracting, floated through the evening simply revelling in the attention her partner was giving her.

The relationship lasted two more months. It ended messily in a tangle of Tony’s avowed love for Celia, contra-dicted by reconciliation attempts with his wife, something which Celia was initially unaware of. Tony never did meet the Brookmans. Nor did Celia choose to confide in her parents how the experience had affected her. As for the Brookmans, they remained stoic throughout. They were concerned for their daughter but avoided the topic for fear of pushing her away. Both hated the idea that Celia had been used.

Throughout her university days and well into her professional career, Celia stopped bringing any male friends home to meet her parents. She moved out of the Brookman household soon after she obtained her first position in a well respected employment recruitment company but when it came to family gatherings, she always came alone. On those rare occasions when one of her parents even obliquely enquired whether she had a boyfriend, she was vague and evasive. This worried Beth and John but they were at a loss as to what to do. They even attempted to enlist help from Celia’s brother, Julian, but like them, he was not even sure what he was being asked to do. Consequently, he did nothing. He did say to them on one occasion,

‘Look folks. Celia is my sister and I care for her welfare but by all accounts she has a good job, she has her own flat which I’ve seen and is very nice. She doesn’t appear to do drugs and she’s certainly not an excessive drinker. If I were you I’d relax. So we don’t know who she hangs out with but I bet they’re not axe murderers or weirdos. She’ll let us know what she’s up to in her own good time.’

Beth and John knew that what their son was saying made sense but it did