Rotting Man Goes to Town: And conversations with John Manning

By Shawn Irvin Manning

Rotting Man Goes to Town deals with an adult relationship; which is in deep trauma from the outset of the story. Its technique is predominately dual narration, going from him to her vantage points. There are two sides to every story. Some of the language is hard-hitting, with angry scenes or mindsets, including some swearing. Political incorrectness exists in parts. The emotions are raw. It is a compelling and authentic read. It begins badly. How will it end?

The initial setting is in America, with flashbacks to Britain, meant to counter the: hurt, sadness and anger, by the use of the device of injecting past comedic episodes. Levity and tragedy are seen in animal antics. Thus, the humorous scenes are meant to bring a balance to the novel overall.

With the exception of the animals’ names, which remain true, all human names have been changed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398446274

Book preview

About the Author

Shawn Irvin Manning is the author of Rotting Man Goes to Town, which was written in La Porte, Indiana; and Tucson, Arizona, in 2009–2010. This work is autobiographical in nature, and though written almost as a journal, stylistically it is a novel. Born in 1952, Shawn graduated from Woodrow Wilson High School in Dallas in 1970. From 1970-76, she was involved in the Jesus Movement, working as a writer for New Wave Publishing Company in Texas. She received her degree in art, in the area of ceramics from the University of Dallas in 1988. Her Master’s degree in visual culture was from what is now Bath Spa University, formerly known as Bath College of Higher Education. She completed her work for a Ph.D. in creative writing at University of Wales Lampeter in 2005–2010. Manning currently lives in Bath, England, with her husband, John. She has five sons and a stepson.

Dedication

To my late son Eric Benjamin Holmes.

And

To Her Royal Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, beloved of her people and dear to my heart.

And

To the British people at home and abroad.

I love you and Old Blighty.

And

To those who have suffered the loss of a dearly loved companion or spouse.

And

Those who support and befriend them during hard times.

May you prosper and be in health, even as your soul prospers.

Copyright Information ©

Shawn Irvin Manning 2023

The right of Shawn Irvin Manning to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398446243 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398446250 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781398446274 (ePub e-book)

ISBN 9781398446267 (Audiobook)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I would like to acknowledge my husband, John Manning, without whose antics during a midlife crisis, this book would not exist. And to my beloved sons; Kit, Eric Benjamin, Christopher Sean, Lee Patrick and Ian; and my stepson, James, thanks for holding me steady when the boat was really rocking. My mother, Patricia Alice LeVision Blomfield, whose wise counsel at a critical juncture was very much appreciated. Friends in La Porte; Shawn, Joe and Georgian Schindler; Margot and Scott Maxey and their kids; Carol Yeater and two Karens; Alex and Diana. Two of my brothers; Tim and Greg. Kevin and Beryl Doyle, beloved friends from Wales. I thank and remember Beryl for her assistance with the Welsh translations.

Part One

To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion,

To give unto them beauty for ashes,

The oil of joy for mourning,

The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;

That they might be called trees of righteousness,

The planting of the Lord,

That He might be glorified.

-Isaiah 61:3

Chapter One

~Him~

Sweet putrefaction. He had been unwell and he was getting older. That was how he smelt, he thought to himself, like old, rotting mangoes. So, there you have it. His sense of smell was very acute. Was it pleasant and good? Was it foul and bad? He was unsure. All he knew was that it seemed a rather odd way to smell. Rancid was what Rupert Jeremiah Sackerson thought of himself. Just an old, rancid fool. He was like a stag past his prime, complete with broken antlers, a ropey hide and sore hooves. He’d been running away from the reality which had become his life, for far too long. Time and age had finally caught up with him. He could go no further with such a guilty conscience, and with no hope of ever returning to his former glorious youth and strength.

That’s it, darling! I’m sorry I ever told you about it, he said crossly to his wife as he stomped out of his mum’s breakfast room. Walking back in, "Good heavens! I can’t say a bloody word about it! I can’t stay. I’m getting the bloody shits again!" So off he trounced—up to the khazi to see a man about a horse. To visit the snake’s house. To say hello to Mr Jimmy Riddle.

His mind was elsewhere. For days he had been working on a series of readings for a course on European Literature he was offering at the university where both he and his wife taught. He’d worried the enrolment would be too small for his offering, and thus be cancelled.

This place was not Oxford—where he might have taught if he’d been willing to accept the pittance they’d offered. At Oxford, tiny tutorial-style classes were perfectly acceptable.

Teaching. It was a lark which took over even in the infrequent off-periods of time when he could have lounged about; perhaps drinking cocktails on some distant beach or other. He and Gladys rarely went away. He was an academic and an administrator. Had been for over forty years. What worried him was that if he took time off from even thinking about his department, it would fall apart. Leaving from a close proximity to his employment meant things beyond his control would happen whilst he was away. Therefore, he refused, time and time again, the urgings of Gladys to come away with her. And now that they had Mum’s care, it was almost impossible.

His mother was a cantankerous old woman. She couldn’t be left alone. And if another person looked after her, she would refuse to take her multiple pills, hiding them in the pockets of her dressing gown. Or else she’d shit herself on a daily basis in protest at her one and only son’s departure. It was a constant worry.

Gladys had been sitting next to him munching on her sparsely buttered toast, suggesting a holiday—just the two of them. She had been telling Rupert that she adored the way he smelt when he mentioned about the mangoes, as he sat there drinking his cuppa morning tea. I love mangoes. They smell wonderful. You don’t smell badly, precious.

He hated it when she disagreed with him—no matter the cause. He had left suddenly, feeling his bowels working overtime. The toilet was always too far away.

God help us, darling. It’s terrible, he said when he reentered the room where she sat patiently awaiting his return. He had the runs again despite his meds. Nothing seemed to stop those bloody bowels of his. Every night it was the same damn thing. Up and down. Back and forth. In and out of the bloody loo.

Gladys was now back together with him, saying she’d not leave again, and threatening him with Social Services if he didn’t allow her to stay.

You can’t care for your mother alone. You are still too ill. You and Mum both need me. I love you dearly. I forgive you. It’s all in the past. It doesn’t matter anymore. We are together. That’s all that matters.

Things were calm between them now. No more rows. She hadn’t slapped him, nor gotten cross, nor sworn at him again. Not like she had before. He would never put up with that sort of behaviour again. It had been most disagreeable.

Over breakfast he had confided in her, telling his wife about that mango smell of his. Gladys had disagreed.

You are lovely. I love the way you smell.

His mind wandered back to what he’d thought about and felt in his bed, where he had spent yet another restless night. It had been in his bed, a bed he’d had for years—a bed from childhood; where all had surfaced in the life of the mind. Height and depth. Power and weakness. Life and death. His thoughts skirted the existence of God. Then, nothing of any great importance was crossing his mind at the time.

But there he had lain during weeks of illness; a bout of sickness procuring such insights in the still quietness of what was once a young lad’s bed. With covers pulled up almost to the eyebrows, concealing one’s self from no one, there he had lain. Lain alone with his thoughts.

Quiet as the grave. Still as a church mouse. Mellow. Reflective.

Thoughts bubbled up into the grey matter betwixt his ears. No one to bother him, curtail his mind’s meanderings. Who could stop him? All conversation put aside. Only himself. The proverbial: Me, Myself and I, his sole conversants. All three parts alert. Spirit. Soul. His earthly body. There in bed he had lain.

It was then that the bubbles began to emit like air under water will do. Glub. Glub. Glub. Thought and farts simultaneously emitting.

He thought to himself, Rotting mangoes. I remember them from the parents’ garden in Sydney, at the house on Wahroonga. My childhood was a happy one, you know. Back then, life was so simple, he admitted to nobody but his own mind’s musing.

In his mind, he could envision the scene. A large mango tree in the back garden. Fruit intact, like un-plucked virgins, awaiting a hand to finger them loose. Some too high to reach from where he stood. What was he back then? Four foot tall? Possibly. Maybe only three and a half foot. Who could say for certain?

The tree’s fruit was tantalising. Its smell was both aromatic and unappealing in equal measures. Above his head was sweetness, where the firm fruit hung—still attached to the slender stems. Below him lay the dispersed; the smell a combination of the freshly-fallen good, the beginning-to-be bad and the truly-and-undeniably ugly.

Nothing worse than rotting fruit, he had contemplated as the odour of his own repellent flesh rose to meet his uncertain nostrils during those nights of sickness when he had lain in his childhood bed. There alone in what had once been, and now was again—his bed. He had been there for long, empty, even painful (physically and emotionally) nights—during that dreadful illness. The body and the mind, his soul, his heart, his spirit, all parts of himself, in agony. Agony, at his all too human failings.

The bed’s wood was deep reddish mahogany, made in Australia, where savages once had known free rein. Though now they were nearly all subjugated. Thank the Lord. Those bloody rapacious and feral blacks had killed family members in the long ago past, back in Tasmania.

The Anglos in Tassie had been largely transported criminals, shipped out petty thieves, or worse. Deported from the British Isles. After those black natives had attacked his relatives from that distant past, the crims had slaughtered the abbos on the island of Tasmania, obliterating any trace of the uncivilised bastards. He felt that he hated them. All of them in general. They had no culture. No architecture. No books of any great literary significance. Nothing of value to offer to civilisation. These were feelings embedded from his childhood. His mother felt very strongly against those murdering black bastards. She had taught him to disdain the chocolate Aboriginals with her rote knowledge and recitation of mantras of abhorrence for the dark savages.

The bed where he had lain had been shipped to America from Oz, from whence they had smuggled his aged mother into the country of his wife’s birth. Not deliberately. It’s just that Mum had surprisingly out-lived all medical and professional predictions. She was from a family of earlier transported-from-Britain convicts, originally from either county Durham or Kent; perhaps both. He wasn’t quite sure. The Smeddlegolds. That was her family line of distinctions. Mum chatted away to those long-deceased-from-way-back-then folks quite often, most days, in fact. Day dreaming or else talking to herself in that dotty mind of hers.

No, you aren’t invited for Christmas dinner, and that’s final!

(Brief pause for the other party’s impartation to the conversation)

Well, you did not behave yourself the last time you were over. So, no, you can’t come, ever again.

(Another pause—shorter this time)

So that’s what you think, is it? Well, I’ll be.

(Even slighter pause)

My name is Francis Janine Smeddlegold-Sackerson. They call me Franny.

(Tiny pause)

I am the youngest of six children.

(A breath)

Well, you see, first there is Raeline. She is the oldest. Then there is Mac, or is it Zack? He’s my brother, my eldest brother. Sometimes I get confused about his name.

And on and on it went. In her mind (and gathered from these often-overheard conversations), all of Franny’s family members were still alive. Though she was the last one standing, so to speak, you’d never know it. At any moment she was expecting Auntie Janie to walk through the back door. Rupert said, If I ever get a hold of Uncle Mac, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind for not coming over and mowing the grass.

She was 86 years of age, and the mind suffered from dementia, though sometimes keen and alert, then again frail and uncertain of her current whereabouts. But she would chunter on and on for hours at a time. She had lost her grip on the certainty of her reality some years back.

Nothing much could be done to reverse it, but the American geriatric specialist had prescribed Aricept and Namenda to counteract the effects of her disease. It was the best that could be done for Mum. Otherwise, age had been kind to her, and she was able to shower, clothe and feed herself the meals Rupert and Gladys provided.

You’re a good girl! Mum would say fondly to Gladys when she served her mother-in-law various dishes which she knew the old gal would enjoy. Amongst Franny’s favourites were McDonald’s fish sandwiches and Burger King’s Whoppers with cheese. But Rupert generally disapproved of such offerings. So, Gladys only occasionally snuck them in to feed her husband’s mum for special luncheon treats.

Gladys’ thoughts about such things were simple: As long as Mum was clean, let her eat what she liked. Afterall, at 86 one should be allowed to eat whatever one wanted. Within reason of course. At least that was Rupert’s wife’s philosophy, whether her husband agreed with her or not. And what he didn’t know was better left unsaid. Rupert carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

It wasn’t that Gladys wasn’t health-conscious. She had tried numerous times to give Mum healthy meals. Take oatmeal, for instance. That’s a healthy food. Is it not? Mum hated oatmeal. Gladys had found that out the hard way. She had tried once to force Franny Janine to eat such a healthy food, and the old dear had adamantly refused to eat it. One could leave such food set in front of Franny Janine for days, and every time she was asked if she was going to eat it, the answer was always the same, No. I don’t like that, dear. Take it away. So, Gladys had learned to not so directly give her old mummy-in-law, Francis Janine Smeddlegold-Sackerson, another warm and creamy, and so delicious, tempting bowl of oatmeal again.

She’d learned to outsmart her mum-in-law by giving her oatmeal cookies with cranberries or raisins added to them, rather than mushy brown-sugar-topped oatmeal in a glistening and glorious, steaming and inviting morning cereal bowl. Mum wanted two eggs sitting atop a crunchy piece of heavily buttered toast smiling up to greet her every morning. Not bloody oatmeal! Ugh! She’d have no part of that sort of thing. Oatmeal indeed! The very notion was utterly preposterous!

Back in Tassie, as they call Tasmania, all of Mum’s brothers and cousins, Rupert’s uncles and second cousins, had been cricketers. He had their group photograph on the white marble mantle to prove it. Two lines of able-bodied men; one row standing in the rear, one line in the front row. Smeddlegolds, but one. All twelve were wearing hats or caps, a gentleman’s standard attire at the time. White trousers—the cricketer’s lower half, all uncreased. Not a wrinkle in sight. Women had ironed men’s clothing far more carefully and meticulously then, using a nonelectric flat iron implement, heated over a wood-stoked stove, to do so. His wife hated ironing. Clean white leather shoes and duo-toned saddle-oxfords were worn by the gentlemen—all of a youngish age—men in their prime, or just arriving there, in the forefront of the faded black and white photograph, which recorded the event.

The umpire was, in all fairness, not a Smeddlegold. He was a Wild with the initials a prefix. Certainly, he did not appear to be wild or coarse in the least. He was lily white. A black bowler hat sat jauntily upon his head, with eyes which in stillness gazed out at the cameraman taking his photograph in the distinctive line-up of which he was a part. But even his feet sported white leathers, despite his black suit and bow tie, (though his shirt was white, and from its collar, quite heavily starched). Rupert wondered if that Wild had been related to the famous and clever Oscar of the same surname; though Oscar’s name was spelt Wilde.

The player on the far-right front row on the opposite end of this archaic photograph was ‘B. Smeddlegold’, Mum’s father. He sat quite relaxed, hands dangling in front of his cock. Black socks beneath cuffed trousers peeped out under flexed legs, as Bertie Salford Smeddlegold looked through deeply-set, probably once-blue eyes.

One long bench for six fine fellows, Bertie being the final one from left to right. Rupert reviewed the photo often, so he’d almost memorised it. He had put on his thinking cap as he thought of these fine men, all now having passed from this life to their eternal reward. Thick Tasmanian-Australian accents they all must have possessed when those sombre lips once had spoken. All but the chap called, Dickie, were sombre, with the determined looks of this family of Smeddlegolds. Dickie’s was a cheeky, though eerie grin. He was dead now, after all.

Underneath his plaid flat hat, he showed his once white teeth. None missing. That was good.

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Dickie Smeddlegold was a burly, moustached, friendly-looking chap with a larger stage-presence than others of his relations. He was audacious and gregarious. Probably outspoken and cocky to boot.

George Aloysius, the patriarch, stood watch over Bertie’s head. The stoic granddad, all in black, only a squared-off snow-white beard and moustache in contrast, sheltering underneath a black demi-stove-top hat with its broad, beribboned brim, offering a modicum of shade to his pale, though surprisingly, not-so-elderly face.

During the worst of his illness, Rupert had relaxed in his childhood bed, confident that if these long-gone chaps could survive their lives, and also death, so could he, when it did come.

As come, it must—eventually. That was an appointment which could keep though. He was in no hurry to meet the pale boatman, who was even now, plodding his course along the waterways beneath the earth, waiting to catch men unawares. Rupert knew he had once-too-often pushed his own boat (and body) out much farther from a sensible shoreline than was meet, during his silly seasons when he’d deliberately taken leave of his senses. He’d been warned of such things; but had long ignored the protestations of his wife. Going to the boozer was a part of his long-esteemed culture, as it must have been for the Smeddlegold chaps—all relations of his in the photograph of the cricketers. They must have loved a pint or two, perhaps even trey. So, it must be in his bloodline to booze it up.

But when he came over from his former home in West Wales, from the small university town of Lampeter, Rupert had scoffed lemonade and cookies in a trial by non-alcoholic acidic sweetness for this new post. Cross-continental academe lured him away from the deeply Celtic town with its perfectly spoken Welsh, complete with Wellington-clad sheep farmers tromping the wee town, moving bales of rounded hay, or driving tractors hauling pungent-with-the-smell-of-the-barnyard-and-the-country, slurry about the small country lanes. The local community of lesbians and aging hippies would surely be missed, as well as academic colleagues left far behind.

The hills and dales where the patron saint of the Welsh, Saint David, was said to have once preached, were far behind him now too. But thoughts of the near-past persisted in his quiet, sickly thoughts. And he wondered if, as legend would have it, it was really true that when Saint David had spoken so eloquently, that indeed the valleys did become hills, rising up before astonished crowds of Celts. Or, was this just by way of a simple explanation for the plethora of geographic hills and dales in Wales? Regardless, the local myth persisted. The Druids had been there too, donning gowns, veils and caps for their woodland ceremonies. Wales was a magical place, cherished and claimed by all those who knew and loved it.

Foremost in his thoughts now, was getting well. The gut-wrenching trouble had lingered for five long weeks. He could tell all his bones, as his once vigorous body wasted away before his dim-visioned, blue-green eyes, thick with the long eyelashes his wife loved. It was a worry, his body. Gladys said he looked like a Jew freshly come from Auschwitz. He hated her for saying that. It made him cross even to think of her comment. Though made with a worrying, and even a loving heart, he couldn’t see that then. Hers was a heart which should keep its opinions to itself. Damn her for that.

But he had lain alone in that bed, where he knew his wasting, rotting, old flesh and bodily sickness very well indeed. Fat had dissolved with ketosis, into nothingness, leaving him dreadfully emaciated and fragile. It was his own doing. He knew it to be true. The consequences of his actions had cost him dearly. This was before his illness had brought his wife, Gladys, back to his forlorn, adulterous side. His time of near-death living had saved him through her compassion, when she saw the state he’d fallen into in the weeks they’d been apart.

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And perhaps the illness had even salvaged his marriage to a woman he had once loved. He knew, in his heart of hearts, of late he had shown her very little by way of respect, and sometimes he even, however momentarily, wanted to kick himself for that. Those acts of his had been chocker-block with unkindness, even cruelty. That they were treacherous, was an opinion which he did not share with Gladys when she had scolded him for what he had done. His pride would not allow such an admission of self-loathing and disdain. If he would only admit to himself that he had been wrong, things might just change. But for the moment that was not going to happen.

He had been very wrong, and occasionally, he knew the truth of it. He had treated Gladys abysmally. Perhaps somehow, he could make it up to her. Eventually. Manuel of Fawlty Towers loved to tease Basil Fawlty, feigning a non-comprehension of the English language he was learning; when as an immigrant from Barcelona, Spain, the recently arrived waiter satirically cajoled and teased his employer. Rupert could hear himself mentally emulating that comic tum of a phrase from the classic British show which he and Gladys loved. Saying the word in his mind, he chuckled softly. Eventually.

********************

Rupert,

Don’t know what I’ve done to deserve your latest punch in the face. You really do have a screw loose. I love you dearly—but cannot see how we will ever resolve things if you keep going off the deep end. Time after time you set me up for a fall and then are amazed when I react. Most people would consider a movie and drinks a date. You foolishly fell for her flattery. You treat me and our marriage with disdain. I pray God wakes you up before it is too late. Do you want to look like an idiot? If not, why act like one? I am so upset. I feel like leaving for good. You have really let me down badly. Very badly.

-Gladys-

******************

Rupert,

If your intention is to make a laughingstock out of yourself as your goal, you are off to a great start. You planned your outing with Bonnie Ashes. You lied, placated me (your wife) with breakfast, told me you had work to do at the university on a Saturday and then went on an obviously planned date with your former student, taking your Cyalis with you. I found it in your briefcase, along with your diary which had her initials, address and phone number when you came home drunk at 1:30 AM. You have played the fool.

I have endured more than is decent from you; lying, drunkenness, and now cheating. This is the end of the road for me. I can go no further with you treating me thus. Your wrong actions will affect others as well. Do you think Ms Ashes will not brag to all and sundry from the university about her great conquest? She (as will others) will consider it a date—whether you do or not.

It sickens me. I thought you and I were rebuilding our lives, our relationship, after last year. Sally put us through the wringer. Yes, there were fights. But when we got back together, all of that anger went away. Now you want to hold it against me? When you came back to me, I thought you had put it behind you. From my heart I loved you and took you back in good faith. You are throwing away a wonderful life.

Gladys

******************

Dear Rupert,

Basically, as I see it, if you realise you’ve gone down the wrong road, any sensible person would stop, turn around and go the right way. You are at such a crossroad right now. What you have done with Bonnie (BA) is wrong. All the rationale in the world cannot make it right. Best to cut your losses and desist in wrong thinking, bad and hateful attitudes and finally—sinful actions. Turn around. Come back to God. For once in your life be true to your marriage vows. Be a man. Own up to falsity and regrettable behaviour. My concern for you is that you will keep drinking. Your drinking and driving could destroy you. You could be stopped and arrested. Lose your job—our houses, your mum’s welfare, etc.

You are playing with fire. You will never find a better friend than I have been to you. But if you truly don’t want me, be honest. Before you cheat behind my back—best to think long and hard about the consequences. Darkness is very dark. The rug from Mum’s house looks great in our dining room here at the house. Little Carolina helped me to get it with her truck. If you’d like to talk, you only have to ask. Take care and know that I love you, Rupert Sackerson.

Love,

Gladys Sackerson

Yea, a sword shall pierce thy own soul also, that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.

Luke 2:35

The Lord God hath given me the tongue of the learned, that I should know how to speak a word in season to him that is weary: he waketh mine ear to hear as the learned.

Isaiah 50:4

Chapter Two

~Her~

Gladys had sensed for some time that things were amiss in her marital relations with Rupert. He often kept himself shut away in his office at home, unwilling to converse; his thoughts and feelings his sole concern. But what were his feelings these days? She had worried and wondered about him for months. Bottles of what he called nedis redis, his preferred companions when he was up there—lost in his quiet and lonely thoughts. Thoughts he kept to himself.

Often, Gladys pondered what was her lot in life with some trepidation. Not a tangible fear per se. But a deep numbing realisation that something was missing in her marriage. This often engulfed her with despair. Busying herself helped. There were of course, her teaching duties at the college. But that was like studying the back of her hands—something easily accessible and within the grasp of anyone with either her ability or her academic training. Naturally, that expertise was an unstudied part of her finesse and diligence. Committees, the local poetry society, gardening (weather permitting), tidying two houses (his mother’s and their own)—all these kept Gladys occupied. She knew what to do with her creative talents as well—quilting and painting—not to mention reading vast quantities of books of various genres. Films were a passion, if not for the visual fascination they contained; but also, the thoughts and ideas embodied in their content.

Many a time and often, she remembered her time in England and Wales with great fondness, nostalgia and longing. Now at home in her former estate—that of America, after two decades, near as damnit, in dear Old Blighty, she felt as though the push me-pull me of her children’s long ago read stories assaulted her with a grasping for that which she could no longer have. Dear Old Blighty was beyond her reach now—except in the confines of her greatly cherished memories.

In streams of consciousness, Gladys’ mind wandered to times when feelings were dear, people loved had been close, and beauty in the natural pleasantness of those Celtic Isles had enchanted her. Pushing cloudy thoughts of present unhappiness aside, she imbibed in a mind set on visions of: tall stately trees, still, un-rippled, inland waterways with painted canal boats cheerfully adorned with folk art motifs, and small barges tethered to the River Avon’s shorelines, country pubs on long walks beckoning, quiet days spent in Bath’s Parade Gardens near the river’s weir engrossed within the confines of copious novels read in the brief summer’s sun shining down during all-too-short school hols, when city parks were filled with flowers and tourists; both in abundance.

Like the two-headed god, Janus, she looked forward stoically; but only because the past in her life still interested, even intrigued and comforted her. English cream teas with soft, chewy scones smothered in clotted cream from Somerset, or even further afield in Devon, and that were topped with fresh home-made strawberry jam canned locally by friendly-faced farmer’s wives; these were her staple diet in those lovely times of walks and bicycle rides with her four young children when she had lived in Bath, the jewel of the West Country.

Children’s school days filled with her lads’ hard studying of a plethora of stimulating and interesting topics, and always sports on Saturday half days were the stuff of which her life had been made. The children’s lives were so intertwined with her own life, that it was impossible to know where theirs began and hers ended. Rugby, cricket and field hockey, depending on the term and the year’s season, ordered her Saturdays.

Afterwards, there had always been a civilised British tea party in a century-or-more old wood-panelled school refectory—where parents shared their lads’ or lasses’ triumphs or defeats out on the vast playing fields, over a cuppa, with tuna or cucumber sandwiches and fancy biscuits on the side. Bath with its hills and fine, Georgian architecture was a vast improvement over the glass and steel post-modem monstrosities of places like Dallas, Texas where she had once inhabited. Worlds far apart they were. The city of Bath was the stuff of fairy tales; which she had imagined even before her first glimpse of it upon her arrival in the late 1980s. How she had stood those Texas twangs with the phoney smiles of those shapely gals, was beyond her kin now. The comparison with Blighty was only too painful—even embarrassing, to her revamped consciousness.

She had known many an American tart before times spent in coy Jane Austen’s neighbourhood of Bathwick. Sydney Gardens had been a mere two blocks from a ground floor flat in Bath where goldfish and tadpoles swam in a quiet, cobbled backyard pond. Her flat back then, being the bottom two floors of a multi-levelled Georgian building, was pockmarked with gouged chunks of Bath stone ripped out by Nazi bombs dropped on the prized city by vengeful, criminal minds angry about the Allied bombing of Dresden, and bent on the shattering and destruction of King George’s beautiful places, historic places. Nothing was sacred to those murderers—not even pristine cities like Bath. Bombers had found their mark there—still obvious even decades later.

And Gladys had often wondered how the former residents of her then-home must have felt when the Germans dropped their payloads there. Was a heightened and dreadful fright the nightly lot of those flat dwellers then? Did their beds get rocked about? Their worlds shattered? Her life there had not been so. She had adored every second and minute, hour, week, month and year spent in Bath. Seven and a half years of her life had been lived there in that wonderful city.

When a petulant mind brought her back to the present reality of what had become (through no fault of her own, as far as she was aware) a spot of bother and sadness in her current existence, she resisted. It was so true: Life could tum on a dime. She could see that now.

Divorce had not seemed inevitable only a few short weeks ago. It was not that her now sad heart had rejoiced or wanted such a thing. She had hated and abhorred the eventuality of it.

Indeed, Rupert was much more than her dream mate. He was all the world to her—everything that mattered, bar the children, and she supposed her friends and her students.

Her attachment to Rupert was immoveable—or so she thought until she found that receipt for sweets and popcorn at the movie theatre for two in his trousers’ pocket, when he vowed he was working that self-same Saturday in the college office. Leasing and lies. Falsehood coupled with drunkenness. It nearly destroyed her. The fragility had already set in with his obviously planned rows, and the forced departures on his part for all of those endlessly long days, even weeks on end over the past year. He’d surface as though guilt could be wiped off his face with a linen serviette. Butter wouldn’t melt.

Yet Gladys, in an odd naivety, truly thought him off working on another academic project in one of his linguistic capers through some Latin text or Milton or Shakespeare, Byron or Spenser. The Faerie Queen requires diligent, undisturbed study, as you well know.

Exponentializing such texts might take him forever. Great thinkers require quite a bit of time off on their own, to get on with their work. As you can well imagine. Adultery? Unthinkable. It had never even vaguely crossed her mind for a tiny moment.

Life was bliss. That some shitty little slut was delving into her husband’s boxers and playing with his privates was beyond Gladys’ kin. And that he was groping another woman’s genitals as he intruded into her slimy knickers, was too obscene to even contemplate or consider, much less truly fathom. Discovered in the covert trouser pocket, so smugly popped there by a husband apparently too witless to think of throwing away the evidence of his betrayal, the reality and truth of Rupert’s treachery had slapped her in the face—hitting her hard, whilst knocking some sense into her once beguiled mind. Notorious Bastards. That was the name of the film in question. How fitting a title. The pattern of his behaviour should have been so obvious. How could she have missed it? After all, normal day to day life had been turned on its head for well over a year. She must be daft too, and totally self-possessed, not to have noticed or wondered more diligently about his roving.

Feigning care for his aged, demented mother had beguiled Gladys into believing the best of him when he had disappeared all of those numerous times last year. Rupert was her husband after all. She was no trollop. He seemed such a decent bloke. A real catch. A jolly good fellow. Not a cad. Never a liar, a deceiver. It couldn’t possibly be the case. Or could it be?

Perhaps on one of her tomorrows, Gladys mused, she might wake up to a different state of play. This was a nasty, ugly, vile game; hideous in its totality. She wanted no part of it. But it had been thrust upon her, and she was part of it. She could like it or she could lump it. It mattered not one jot.

Such an ugly word: adultery. So, unflattering of one’s mate, one’s own life, and soul, to think of infidelity. The act or acts of infidelity were so painful to think of, that Gladys felt a stabbing pain in the depths of her very soul as these realisations became reality. Her dear Rupert.

How could he have done such things to someone else? Things which were meant to be done under their bed covers, and with her? Did the vows of marriage mean nothing to the man? Was his memory so lacking in a remembrance of the solemn vows they had made to one another? She failed to truly believe it of him. Her own dear heart. Her Rupert. Tenderness bore in upon her—into the life of her soul. That was what she truly felt for him; such tenderness and endearment. Her beloved husband was dearer, more cherished than her own life. If, as she had imagined after learning of his infidelity, he had stabbed her with the large and sharp kitchen knife, she’d seen lying on Mum’s counter, she knew she’d have turned and forgiven him in that instant. What an odd thought to have at such a time. Did she really love him that much?

Perhaps she did. She’d nearly forgotten about the ravishing she had suffered as a teenager. That had happened decades before. Though buried deep in her subconscious mind, now, this affair of Rupert’s brought it all back to her. The sliminess of it. Trust broken. Hope shattered. Life would never be the same. Never again. Trouble was, she’d rather have gone through that dreadful teenage ordeal all over again, then to think of Rupert with his pants down doing the deed with that slutty bitch; whose name she now knew: Bonnie bloody Ashes. To Gladys, that thought of her dear Rupert and that whore together was worse than anything. It tormented her days and made sleepless her nights.

How could he belittle himself in such a manner? Did he think so little of himself as to stoop so low? Was his body nothing more to him than the trashy mess with his former student entailed? Did he not realise that the grass wasn’t greener on the other side of the fence? Didn’t he know that it was greener where it was watered? To ponder the reality of what she now understood to be her beloved husband’s betrayal, his treachery, was like falling and falling, and perpetually falling into a never-ending well of deep and fathomless sadness. Her stomach was in perpetual motion day and night from feelings that she was falling ever downward and could not stop the reaction to her realisation that Rupert had really, and truly, done this dreadful, incomprehensible thing.

Did their lives together mean so little to him? How could he sweep away all that they had together, and do it in so callous a manner? Hadn’t he just given her that lovely card for their recent wedding anniversary? Saying that she was the best part of his life? Telling her that she was the one he loved? Calling her ‘darling’? Signing it as: Your one and only, Rupert?

Certainly he was Gladys’ ’one and only". But the question was open for speculation as to whether she was his one and only. Cheating. What a ghastly realisation that he, of all people, had committed this heinous crime of treachery and betrayal. Not Rupert. Surely not. It could not possibly be true of him. Not him, of all people. This act was so calculating, and done with such a seemingly cold heart, in such meanness of spirit, that Gladys could scarcely even believe it.

******************

Dear Rupert,

I am fighting deep depression right now. Perhaps it will help if I write to you.

I forgive and love you.

I ask for your forgiveness of my temper. I saw you driving our relationship off a cliff and panicked. I was shocked and then angry. I acted badly trying to force you out of your stubbornness, trying to force you to see the damage you were doing—both with Sally and with your alcoholism. I feel you have brought out the worst in me. I reacted wrongly and again, for that I am sorry. I know I have hurt you when what I wanted was to make you see how wrong you were in keeping Sally’s flame burning to boost your ego and in turn hurting me for over a decade. I am still hurt about it.

Now you have taken up with someone else. Her name is Bonnie Ashes. So why call her ‘BA’ in your diary? Seems overly familiar and also a disguise for who she is. She is the proverbial flattering woman of the book of Proverbs, telling you how much you ‘helped’ her, only to ensnare you. She is an evil, lying, seducing woman. When I confronted her, she lied to my face; denying she had been out with you, Rupert. Why? If it is all so innocent, then why did you both lie to me about it? You were drunk and abusive when you came home at 1:30 AM. Where had you been for hours after the 2 of you went to the cinema? At her house I suspect. You will end up throwing away all of the good between us if you carry on. What are your intentions for us? Is there an ’us’?

Gladys

******************

Dear Bonnie,

I am sorry about the death of your friend who drowned.

Please do not contact my husband again. Once you left the university and finished his class, he need not have anything further to do with you. I mean no offense, but you contacting him has caused us confusion and harm.

Perhaps find a good grief counsellor. I feel you going to a film and drinking together was entirely improper. So, I ask you please not to contact him again.

Sincerely,

Mrs Sackerson

He Feedeth on ashes: a deceived heart hath turned him aside, that he cannot deliver his soul, nor say, Is there not a lie in my right hand?…Behold, all ye that kindle a fire, that compass yourselves about with sparks: walk in the light of your fire, and in the sparks that ye have kindled. This shall ye have of mine hand; ye shall lie down in sorrow.

Isaiah 44:20; 50: 11

For a harlot is a deep ditch, and a loose woman is a narrow pit.

Proverbs 2 3: 2 7

It is reported commonly that there is fornication among you…he that hath done this deed might be taken away from among you…deliver such an one unto Satan for the destruction of the flesh…

I Corinthians 5: la, 2, 5

Chapter Three

~Him~

Coming to terms with a reconciliation of sorts was her idea, nothing to do with him. Being back with Gladys meant that he’d have to face what he had done to her, what he’d felt for another woman all last year. What he had certainly done. Done with someone else. That’s why he had pushed his wife away so vehemently after she had snooped in his trousers, looking for a rope to hang him with. It was all Gladys’ fault. She had forced him to face a dilemma that was after all, her own doing, or rather; his undoing.

The discovery meant he was a bad man, perhaps even evil. He knew his wife must find him despicable and loathe his very existence. He was a terrible person. Of that much he was certain. How could it be true that she still—after all of his wicked deeds, disrespect and disdainful actions—how could his wife truly love him still? It seemed a total and complete impossibility. He had been a dreadful, unfaithful husband, at least for the past year or so. He could see that now. A malingering illness, complete with copious vomiting and continual water works emitting the other end, had forced Rupert to face his own mortality. He was a shadow of his former self.

His wife had a framed sign in the little ‘chapel’, as she called their back entryway. The old cross-stitch read: Life is Fragile Handle with Prayer. He was fragile. Over thirty pounds, or the equivalent of two British stone in weight had fallen off him in the weeks after Gladys found that bloody receipt to that fucking cinema. How could he have been so stupid? What a bloody fool he had played up to be. It was plain and simple: Rupert Jeremiah Sackerson was a foolish man. He had played the piper and now he must pay. And pay ever so dearly. Foolhardy behaviour made him a laughing stock in his own home.

He could read his wife’s face. He could see what she really saw in him. It was all there; dreadful treachery. His meanness of spirit. His selfishness of mind. He had brought himself to his own wit’s end. Yet, to cover himself with a fig leaf of self-justification, Rupert persisted in blaming his wife for his troubles. She, like Adam’s Eve, had forced him to face his own weak nature. Gladys was the cause of his downfall, of that much he was certain.

Vacillation persisted in the concealed corners of the man’s mind. Even to himself he would not, could not, admit what he had done. It would not do to realise, however momentarily, that the choice fruit he had picked, consumed and fucked mightily, had been anything but a distinct delicacy to which, he, his mother’s only son and sole heir, (thus a greatly entitled person) had as his due. To question that, was a great fault on the part of his wife. Who the bloody hell did she think she was any who?

And those bloody letters she had written to him night after night and day after day! Couldn’t she even give him a moment’s peace? The guilt was stifling. The shame was overwhelming. He wanted no part of them. It was Gladys’ fault he was feeling these things.

His actions had nothing whatsoever to do with his disagreeable feelings. All he ever wanted was happiness. Didn’t he have a right