Sam’S Place: The Novel

By Martyn Truby

A romantic novel, exploring the love affair of two young people who believe they are soul mates. Set in England and France during the late 1970s and early 80's their lives prove to be anything but predictable. He longs for a quite country life, but she has her eyes on the bright lights of the city. Can it ever work?

Then theres the problem of a beautiful older woman who has fallen for our hero?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491894156

Martyn Truby

A retired Musician and producer Martyn published his first music book in1967. He always had a dream to live in France. During the early 1980s he wrote the story Sam’s Place as an escape from the reality of his crumbling life. 30 years later he discovered the manuscript in his attic, as he re-read the story he was amazed to find that many of his dreams had come true, sometimes in surprising detail.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I t was Monday morning and it promised to be another steaming hot day. Peter crossed the busy road to the station. He glanced over his shoulder as if to say goodbye to someone or something. It was almost an involuntary action. Little did he realise that this was going to be a decisive day, that he would meet a girl who would change the direction of his life.

He hated his job, he hated London and he hated the train journey that took him there. As he walked into the station, he knew that the process of commuting would once more suck him back into the tedious routine of his daily existence. Life was like a constantly turning wheel, endlessly coming back to the same place. Drained and unfulfilled, the station would spew him out again at the end of the day. Once more he reluctantly submitted to the beckoning finger of the rut that his life had become.

He soon found himself being jostled down the steps and onto the crowded platform to wait for the seven fifty to Blackfriars. He detested the forced confrontation with the other passengers on the train. Many would hide their heads in a newspaper to avoid eye contact with anyone. Others would enjoy critical examination of the passengers that were forced to sit with them. He hated it when these searching eyes turned on him. As the train neared London there would be the ever-increasing density of the buildings. The dark walls of the factories and warehouses were occasionally separated by rows of tiny and dirty terraced houses that backed onto the line. He always felt that the train was desecrating their privacy. How much like terraced tombstones these sad homes were with their little gardens of remembrance. Something was stirring inside him; if he got on the train for London as usual, he knew he would miss the chance to find the freedom he longed for.

The train coming away from London squealed its way into the other side of the platform. Without even thinking about it, Peter pushed his way through the waiting commuters, crossed the platform and boarded it. This train was almost empty and had such a different atmosphere from his usual one. A plump, motherly looking woman sitting on the seat opposite him smiled a welcome. He responded to her with a friendly nod of his head. It wasn’t long before he got into conversation with her. She was a good listener and he tried to explain to her why he was on the train. This wasn’t easy as he had little idea why he was there himself. He felt sure that his explanation didn’t make a lot of sense.

He knew all the names of the stations on this line off by heart. For six years since he’d left art school, he’d heard them being monotonously repeated over the loudspeakers that hung like bats from the station roof. He began to wonder how and where he would spend the rest of the day. The train gave a noisy shudder as if to shake off the dust of the city and then moved slowly out of the station.

Far from the increasing depression that he usually experienced on his journey up to the city, today he became more elated with every mile that took him further away from London. Suburbia eventually gave way to open fields and then rolling hills. In the distance, he could see a golden cornfield glowing in the morning sun; it sprawled lazily against the side of a hill. Something awoke in him; he knew where he wanted to be; all on his own, right in the middle of that golden field.

The train was slowing for Shoreford station when he remembered that he didn’t have a ticket. He’d just have to hope there was nobody around. As he got up, the plump lady wished him well in finding whatever it was he was searching for. He descended from the train onto the platform; much to his relief the station was quite deserted. His rather large new friend followed him off the train too. She headed for the station building. He removed his jacket and hung it over his shoulder. He took the wooden stairway that led down from the platform to the road below and then crossed over the road to a tree-lined track. There was a small green sign pointing up the hill saying ‘Public Footpath to White Hill’. The cornfield that he’d seen from the train, was over to the right of the track just a little further on; all his senses seemed to come alive as he pressed up the steep track towards it. He welcomed the damp freshness of the shadows, the silence and even the taste of the air in his mouth. He found himself breathing deeply to savour how clean the air was. He noticed that there was a pathway crossing the middle of the cornfield and he headed along it. He hadn’t realised how hot the day had become until he left the covering of the trees.

Far below were the scattered houses of Shoreford village. On the opposite side of the wide valley, the wooded hills were disappearing behind a heat haze. He found a grassy spot and threw down his jacket and briefcase. Lying back on the warm grass, he let his mind wander. He desperately wanted to relax but the beauty of this place threw the ugliness of his life into sharp contrast. The peace and tranquility highlighted the noisy rat race that he normally lived in.

It was 1979 and Peter was twenty-seven years old and ready to take hold of his own destiny, but he knew he was never going to achieve this in his present job. Last Friday out of sheer frustration, he’d stepped out of line at work and contacted one of his employer’s clients directly. He didn’t have the authority to do this, but the design brief that he’d been given by his manager was so lacking in inspiration, that he knew he could do better himself.

The project was to create a new corporate image for a large chain of boutiques. He was aware that the group’s clients were mainly young people. The manager’s brief was old hat, so he phoned the client himself and explained his own ideas. She was delighted with his suggestions and asked him to go ahead and produce some visuals. Very carefully, so as not to arouse any suspicion, he roughed out his own plans and then sent them off without even showing the work to his superior. The consequences of his action would no doubt have severe repercussions. He was so fed up with having to just do what he was told all the time and without any artistic input himself, that he was prepared to face up to the wrath of the department manager. There’d been a lot of empire building in the company and the result was that any young talent was seen as a threat and was quickly extinguished. There was little hope of promotion for him. He knew that he had talent, but there was almost no chance of him making any progress in this particular studio.

Finally he put the self-analysis aside and relaxed into the spirit of his surroundings. It wasn’t long before he felt the heat from the sun starting to burn his skin. He decided to explore further up the hill where the woods became dense enough to offer some shade. As he walked back towards the edge of the cornfield, he noticed someone just passing on the track going up the hill. From the brief glimpse he had of her as she passed by and now the sight of her walking gracefully just ahead of him, he filed her under ‘extremely tasty’. It was quite an awkward situation, she was only a few yards ahead of him, he either had to walk very slowly and let her go, or catch her up and say hello. After a few more steps she glanced back and smiled. A few quick paces and Peter was at her side.

‘Are you lost or something?’ she questioned, glancing at his suit and briefcase.

He repeated the same feeble story that he’d told to the lady on the train. She just smiled and seemed to accept it.

‘Where are you off to?’ he asked, nodding at the large basket she was carrying.

‘I’m just going up to Sam’s place,’ she smiled, ‘I’m taking some shopping up to the old chap. He lives further up the hill from here.’

Sarah walked on a few steps and then decided to offer more of an explanation. She told Peter that she’d lived in Shoreford village all her life. Some months ago, when she was out walking in the hills, she noticed a young goat trotting along behind her. She guessed that it belonged to Sam, an old man who lived in a lonely bungalow near the top of White Hill. The goat was determined to follow her and it would have been no problem to lead it back to Sam’s place. However, she was rather afraid of going near the bungalow where he lived, because there had always been lots of scary stories about the reclusive old man. He was surrounded by mystery. Down in the village the gossip was rife and the stories ranged from him being a millionaire to a murderer. Eventually, as there had seemed to be no way of shaking the goat off, she’d decided to pluck up her courage and lead it back to it’s home.

‘And of course, when I did meet Sam I discovered that he’s actually quite harmless.’ She confided to her attentive listener.

CHAPTER TWO

S am sat by the window. In his arthritic fingers he held the silver framed photograph of Sarah, his first wife. The early morning chill had made his hands so painful that he could hardly hold the picture. He’d already seen to his animals, but he knew that he’d only survived for this long because it had been a very mild winter. It was late April the same day thirty-five years ago that Sarah his first wife had died. He gazed lovingly at her face and couldn’t hold back the tears.

‘If only you were still here my darling, I really need you now.’ he said to the picture.

Sam’s second marriage had been the greatest mistake of his life. Jill, his second wife, was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. He was easy prey to her charms. He soon found out though, that she was also irresistible to his business partner. Between them they took Sam for almost everything he possessed. Broken and disillusioned, he’d decided to quit the struggle to survive in the world of other people. He’d purchased the pretty little bungalow along with three acres of land and for the last twenty seven years he’d been almost self sufficient.

Now his life was starting to fall apart. The struggle to look after the animals was getting too much for him. The land was gradually becoming overgrown and he could no longer rely on it to produce his food. The nearest shop was two miles away if he took the steep footpath down the hill to Shoreford. He’d ventured down there just before winter, but had great difficulty in making it back up the hill. It had taken him nearly three hours and when he finally arrived home the pain in his chest made it hard to breathe and his legs trembled so much they could hardly support him. He’d never risk going to the village again.

The long winter was over and the summer was coming thankfully, but he knew that next winter would be the end for him. Even now he should be out there preparing the ground in his vegetable patch. His aching fingers could hardly hold Sarah’s fading photograph, let alone a spade or a scythe. He’d noticed a hole in the fence close to where the footpath passed his property and he knew that somehow he had to repair it.

Armed with some fencing posts and a coil of wire, he struggled his way down his overgrown path followed by the ever-inquisitive goat. Then he stumbled and fell heavily to the ground, shaking every joint in his old body as the posts scattered around him. How long he lay there he didn’t know because he slipped in and out of consciousness several times. Somehow he didn’t have the strength to lift himself up. Frightened and delirious he saw the dark haired girl coming up the track followed by the goat. In his distress he imagined her to be Sarah his first wife.

‘Sarah please help me’ he pleaded over and over, his voice hardly rising above a whisper.

Sarah was lost in her own thoughts. She was almost upon him before she heard his feeble cries. She forgot her fear and instinctively hurried to help the frail old man to his feet. He clung to her, sobbing her name. She led him up the path to the bungalow, confused by the fact that he seemed to know her when she’d never met him before. Still wondering, she settled him into the clearest chair in the front room. She was horrified by the state of the place. Every surface was covered by dusty heaps of clothes and other clutter and there was a sour, musty smell hanging in the air.

‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ she asked him.

She was trembling slightly and welcomed the opportunity to get away from the frail and sickly looking man. In the kitchen there was an old Aga stove, but it wasn’t alight. She could see no other way of heating some water, so she set about getting the fire going. While she waited for the water to heat, she decided to clean up the heavily stained ceramic sink. Every so often she peered through the crack in the door to make sure that Sam was still all right.

Gradually as his head started to clear, he realised that the lovely young girl who had come to his rescue was not Sarah, his dearly missed wife. Had he made a fool of himself with a perfect stranger? For a moment he felt a surge of his old anger, but almost at once he sensed his precious defenses start to crumble. For the first time in many years he’d reached out to someone. He could still feel the glow of an actual physical contact with another human being and this stirred his emotions too. Without meaning to, he’d found he’d crossed the bridge that he’d feared to cross for so long. He’d needed help and this girl had been there. What else could he have done?

‘Who are you?’ he called out. She was relieved to hear his voice

‘My name’s Sarah’ she replied, ‘I live in Shoreford, and I was out for a walk when your goat started following me. I decided that she must be yours, so I led her back here.’

Sarah’s words gave Sam a lot to think about, so he didn’t reply straight away. When he did, it wasn’t what she was expecting to hear.

‘You won’t find any ordinary tea, I make my own infusions’ he called, ‘you’ll find some in the metal box under the sink’.

Before long the water was boiling in the saucepan on the stove. She hadn’t a clue how to make a palatable drink out of the mixture of dried leaves and roots in the tin. All she could think to do was to throw some of the mixture into the saucepan of boiling water. She left it to brew for a few minutes and then poured some of it into a stained mug she’d found, trying to strain off as much of the vegetation as she could with an old spoon. She assumed that the tea needed milk and after cautiously sniffing the contents of a half empty bottle on the draining board, she cautiously added a little to the mug of steaming ‘herb’ tea. She wondered if the friendly goat had supplied the milk. When Sarah took the drink in to him he reached out for it with shaky hands, blowing gently on the brew to cool it a little before he took his first sip. He showed no signs that the drink wasn’t to his taste and after a few more gulps, he thanked her profusely.

Fear was gripping him. Would this girl tell anyone what had just happened? This was his greatest dread, that the Social Services would discover him and force him to leave his home and go into some dreadful institution crammed full of old dears who’d lost the will to live. In a very disjointed way he began to pour out his heart to her. He’d long since lost the art of conversation and his words didn’t flow easily. He flitted from one subject to another before he finally found himself admitting that he couldn’t cope any longer and yet he feared being forced to leave his reclusive life.

‘Can you help me to be able to stay here in my home a little bit longer?’ he asked.

She could see the fear and anxiety in his eyes, but she couldn’t just agree, she needed time to collect her own thoughts.

‘All I can say, is that I’ll think about it, and in the meantime I won’t say a word to anyone.’

She’d given him a little smile, hoping he’d be reassured. Then she promised that she’d come back and see him again in a couple of days, and left.

As Sarah and Peter trudged up the hill together, she continued to share more about Sam. She told him how for four months, she’d visited three times a week. She’d helped look after the animals and regularly brought him shopping from the village. Somehow she felt comfortable confiding in Peter although they were little more than strangers.

As they neared Sam’s place she stopped and said:

‘I don’t think you’d better come any further with me. I think Sam might be frightened by you’.

Peter looked down at his suit and briefcase.

‘I guess I do look rather like a social worker’ he smiled wryly.

‘Well, perhaps just a bit!’ she laughed outright. ‘But thanks for the chat, it was nice meeting you, bye!’

She looked up into his eyes for a moment; and gave his arm a little squeeze before she turned and left him standing on the track.

Peter stood there with his mouth hanging open, but he was speechless. The last thing he wanted to do was let this beautiful girl walk out of his life. His head was spinning with the exhilaration of just being with her. There was so much he wanted to say and to ask. He watched her walk as far as the gate to Sam’s place where she disappeared from view. He then cautiously followed until he could just see part of the bungalow appear between some trees. It seemed an idyllic place to live and he was fascinated by the story of how the old man had lived such a simple life-style for so many years.

He carefully picked his way back down the stony track until he came to the path that led to the cornfield. He turned and followed his own trail to where he’d relaxed earlier. He sat down and let his imagination take over. He had a life behind him that he hated; now he’d seen a brief glimpse of another world, simple and surrounded by nature. Everything inside him craved to live like Sam, but it seemed too elusive, there was nothing that he could latch on to with any certainty. He was suddenly aware of how hungry he was so he opened his briefcase and unwrapped his sandwiches. As he ate, he kept glancing over to the track in the hope that he might see Sarah again. He didn’t even know her surname, only that she lived in Shoreford.

Peter’s thoughts drifted back to when he’d started his first job, when he’d left home and rented a small flat of his own. This move had been the first step to the freedom that his spirit longed for. Now, out here in the countryside, he really did feel free. The last thing he wanted was to go back to being just another commuter; he simply had to break out of the prison of being somebody’s employee. Today he’d touched the possibility of an alternative to his present way of life. Surely if Sam could live a simple life, so could he.

He was angry with himself as much as anything, for drifting into an existence that he didn’t want and for wasting so many years. He punched the ground as if to make a final decision, it was like the fall of the auctioneers hammer. There was no going back now; he had to do something to drastically change his life. More than anything else he wanted Sarah to be part of his future. He replayed the vision of her walking along in front of him, hips swaying almost dance-like as she walked. Then he re-ran it in slow motion to enjoy it one more time.

It was easy to make decisions sitting here,