Almost Eden Page 2

  I woke up from a restless night actually considering that prostitution might be an answer, a short-cut through the un-navigable and vast jungle that was the process of finding a suitable partner – when you’re fifty-eight. But what did I want, what did I really want? I wanted the life I had, but I had to try and move on. Three years. Jesus, I had been in this apartment for three years, lamenting the loss of my wife, and in all that time I had only occasionally found momentary solace by becoming angered towards her.

  I never stayed angered for long, I still loved her, and I cherished the brief visits of the kids. But how long could I hold out here, trudging to work each day, staring at the TV each evening – or losing myself in a book. I wasn’t living, I was existing.

  The following Tuesday, and without having met the new love of my life in the supermarket or on a bus – as the TV adverts suggested a person might, I received a call whilst I was in work and sat at my desk. And it was from Wendy, my ex-wife.

  As my mobile quietly trilled, ascending in volume, I was quite surprised to see that she was calling me. A shiver went through me as I considered that one of the kids might have suffered an accident; it was about the only thing that Wendy might call me for.

  ‘Hello?’ I offered. ‘Wendy?’

  ‘Yes. Listen, letter arrived for you at the house, registered mail – so I signed for it. It’s from a solicitors firm in Devon.’

  ‘Devon? Oh, my Aunt Betty lives down there, but…’

  ‘But what?’ Wendy pressed.

  ‘Does it say which town?’

  ‘Hang on … New Bridge.’

  ‘Then it’s about Aunt Betty, she lives there. She’s got to be … eighty now, so…’

  ‘She must have died. Sorry.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her for … four years or so. We dropped in on her, that last trip down to Cornwall.’

  ‘House on the coast,’ Wendy noted. ‘They might want you to be executor of the estate.’

  ‘Open it and see, would you,’ I suggested, now fiddling with a stapler.

  After thirty seconds came, ‘Following the reading of the will by … so and so … she’s … left you the house.’

  ‘I think … I’m her closest surviving relative, but … well, I only saw her once a year at best.’

  ‘A surprise then, but a nice one; has to be worth quarter a million.’

  I suddenly realised that I had an extra quarter million pounds, and a smile took hold. I forced it away. ‘Could you forward me the letter?’

  ‘I’ll drop it into the front desk there later, I’m passing.’

  ‘Would you … like lunch?’

  ‘Busy shopping today, day off, I’m redecorating. I’ll drop the letter in later. Take care, bye.’

  As I checked my phone, by pressing the red button, Derrick appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Ringing some nice lady?’ he asked as he entered.

  I lifted my head. ‘Huh? Oh, no, my … ex-wife.’

  ‘She after more money?’ he joked.

  ‘No, quite the opposite. My aunt has died, and I’ve inherited the lot.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Derrick enthused. ‘How much was she worth?’

  I made a face. ‘Four bed house, right on the beach in Devon, must be … six or seven acres of land.’

  ‘Six or seven acres? Jesus, if you got planning permission for half a dozen houses that would be worth a bloody fortune.’

  I now realised that I was sitting on a fortune, and not just from selling my late aunt’s old house. With Derrick gone, I smiled contentedly.

  The divorce had not crippled me, not least because Wendy had always earned more than I had during our time together, even allowing for her time off raising the kids. Out of university, she had joined her father’s accountancy firm and had done very well, progressing through the ranks steadily.

  When he died, we had - as a married couple, inherited three hundred thousand pounds, Wendy’s brothers getting the remainder. Our property purchases over the years had done well, our last purchase timed to perfection, the house appreciating from one hundred and sixty thousand pounds to three hundred thousand pounds.

  Planning ahead, we had put money into trust for the kids, Ben and Sophie, a cool thirty thousand pounds each, and at the time that was a great deal of money. Now, that might just cover their student loans, Ben due to get access to his trust fund in a few years, Sophie to benefit from her own this year.

  Prior to the divorce, in fact as part of the divorce proceedings – yet informal, we had both agreed to set aside another fifty thousand for each of the kids in case either of us was not around in the future. And, with decree absolute issued, loudly stamped and solemnly registered, I had walked away with two hundred and eighty thousand pounds and the family car – since she had always hated my trusty estate car.

  After being asked nicely to leave the family home, I had rented an apartment near work - as a stop-gap before I bought a place, or before Wendy saw sense. Three years on, I was still in that apartment, and still considering my options.

  One of those options … was that Wendy would see sense and come back to me, and we would enjoy our old age together. Another option … was that I would get to the gym, get a tan, possibly get a hair implant, develop a more interesting lifestyle and … win back my wife by winding back the clock, and by becoming someone I wasn’t.

  A sudden shiver went through me.

  I rushed downstairs and found a divorce solicitor, but not someone I had used for my own divorce – that I had kept away from the firm in case my particulars became common gossip. Knocking and entering, I was greeted by a warm smile from a beautiful twenty-eight year old girl. And she seemed like a girl to me.

  ‘Hello Roger.’

  ‘Got a moment for me?’

  ‘Of course, come on in.’

  I closed the door and sat. ‘I need you for your brain, not your obvious good looks.’

  ‘Ah, you old charmer. I’m getting on now, twenty-nine soon.’

  ‘When your next birthday is fifty-nine, then you can worry,’ I pointed out. ‘Anyway, I … was divorced three years ago – not through this firm – and now, now I’ve just inherited my aunt’s house after her death, and I was wondering … where that left any claims on the money.’

  ‘Decree absolute is just that – absolute. Unless -’ She held up a finger. ‘- unless you knew that you would inherit the property, that it had been expressly signed over, and that you hid that declaration from the divorce court. But, even if you knew you would inherit the property, wills can be changed, your aunt could marry - or foster a child, and she could set a record and live to be a hundred and ten.

  ‘So, unless your aunt had signed the property over to you – and you allowed her to remain there – I don’t see that you acted dishonestly before the court, Roger. It’s the settling of the estate at the time, and at the time you may … have inherited the house at a later date.’

  We chatted for five minutes, and I felt reassured, although I doubted that Wendy would have made a claim even if she had been entitled to do so, it was just a nagging doubt I had.

  Back in my office, I wondered why I had even checked about the divorce entitlements; if Wendy had asked for money I would have happily given her money. No, it was something else, something nagging at me about my aunt, and about that house on the coast.

  That evening, I again sat and stared at the old clock as it ticked away the seconds of my life, but now I was not depressed, bored, or even lonely, now I had a few extra options. But what could I do with the extra money, do to get my life back? I was not about to age backwards, develop a six-pack at the gym, sprout hair, and become a different man – a man that Wendy had not become bored of. And, at the end of the day, that’s why we had divorced, why she had divorced me.

  There had been no infidelity, no money worries, no incompatibility, there had just been the passing of the years. Each day we lay our heads on the pillows, and each morning our chemical bodies woke to be a little older, and a l
ittle different to the day before.

  And, over the decades, we changed – as all people change. I had not wanted to change, it was not consciously planned, but the nervous and inexperienced twenty-year-old was left behind - thankfully, the caring father no longer needed with the kids gone, the intellectual partner to chat to of an evening suddenly surplus to requirements – and insufficient obviously.

  We had grown up, matured, and we had grown apart. We had followed the user-manual for people like us, done a good job, raised a family, and followed the careful lines laid down by society – and set down for us by our parents. As a team, we had done a good job at raising a family and keeping a family home, and I had to wonder if the lack of parental teamwork had been a factor, and what retirement together might have looked like.

  For Wendy, that retirement image, that picture postcard of the two of us as we might have been when old and grey, had scared her, and she had made a bold choice - and had decided to try and find happiness again. Some days I did not condemn her for that, I just wanted to be the man making her happy. Now, that man was a rich property developer with a yacht, and not the sort that I thought she might go for. Maybe I should sell my aunt’s house and buy a damned yacht, get myself a blue blazer and a silver Range Rover - and find a young lady.

  ‘Maybe I damn well should,’ I found myself telling the clock.

  I lifted my gaze to the picture, and a chill ran through me, making me puzzle it. The watercolour offered up the same scene, a scene I had glanced at a million times, three kids by the water’s edge, the house in the distance, my parents stood watching their charges, a seagull caught mid-flight and bending with the wind.

  Since the watercolour was an accurate depiction, and well painted, I had to consider that Grandma had painted it one day when sober. She … had found a new life, so why the hell couldn’t I move on. Why was my only relationship that of one with a dated clock.

  I lifted the letter, from the solicitors in New Bridge, and read it a second time, an open invitation extended to drop in any time. I guessed that the day to day working life for a solicitor in rural New Bridge was … not very hectic.

  Getting into bed later, I considered again what I might do to re-shape myself. But I soon realised that Wendy had no interest in a flat stomach, a tan, or any other of the superficial features that a prospective male partner might display during his ritualistic courtship dance. She was not after a Peacock.

  No, those things were more about me, about how I now saw myself. My divorce had focused my mind on my age, and on my physical appearance, as if I was a spotty seventeen year old worrying over what jeans to wear to the school dance – and did my hair look OK. Those things, the initial appearance of someone across a crowded disco, were firmly in the realm of teenagers.

  I was beyond that, at least I hoped I was, and my best feature was my personality – an attractive conversational partner for an older woman, a mature and intelligent woman.

  ‘Attractive conversational partner?’ I muttered, horrified at my own thoughts. Was that all I now offered a woman? I shook my head and considered again squeezing into tight jeans as a seventeen year old with acne.

  No, I had more to offer than that, I had money, experience, and I was … seasoned. I was … stable, a stable partner for someone, a steady pair of hands, a firm hand at the tiller in a storm.

  ‘Jesus,’ I muttered, horrified with how I now perceived myself. ‘Maybe I should call that woman, and help her with her rent, before I lose it completely.’

  A childhood revisited

  With Derrick trying to tempt me towards an Over Fifty’s Singles Night at yet another city hotel, I used the excuse of my aunt’s passing to get out of it. I booked a day off work, this coming Friday, the Human Resources lady informing me that they owed me a great many days – and that I should take more time off – and I reset my alarm clock Thursday night.

  I woke just before the alarm sounded out at 5am and made a quick cup of tea, oddly excited for a change, despite the sheets of grey rain hitting the kitchen window. I felt like I had when going on holiday as a kid. I felt like … I was taking a three-day trip down to Devon, and the idea of a change of scenery appealed to me greatly.

  With my faithful old estate car loaded, I set off through the dull grey rain, fifteen minutes to reach the start of the M4 motorway, the traffic already heavy. I was soon passing Heathrow Airport, nearing Reading after twenty minutes of heavy traffic. Beyond Reading the traffic eased, and I made good time to Swindon, stopping for breakfast at a motorway service station.

  As a treat to myself I enjoyed a Full English Breakfast, an extortionate seven pounds fifty – three pounds eighty for a cup of tea, and I sat watching Sky News on a large screen fixed to the wall. Spain was now witnessing mass riots, their government now admitting – like Greece – that they had made emergency plans to print a parallel currency to the Euro. The Germans were not happy, at least not the German Government, since the German people themselves wanted rid of Greece. They didn’t so much want rid of Spain, since they all had holiday homes there.

  Latvia was about to melt down, Ireland was asking for more money, and Portugal was on life support. And, sat there watching Europe fall apart, I asked myself – ‘How long does it take? They’ve had fifty years to get the European Union right, so how long … does it take?’

  Europe was about to suffer a divorce after fifty years, and I knew what it was going through, that slow and reluctant grasp of the inevitable.

  Setting off again, I continued west along the M4, soon crawling along in road works past Swindon. Hell, I’d been using this road for almost forty years, and I had never known a time when there had not been road works past Swindon. Bristol loomed a long forty minutes later, and I turned due south, joining a busy M5 motorway.

  As I drove, I considered my trusty old estate car, and why Wendy hated it. Well, she never actually said she hated it, just constantly hinted at a replacement. She had never liked the car, but it was just a car. Maybe it reminded her of those things about me she hated, although she never said she hated me – or anything I did.

  Before setting off on any journey of length, or most any journey, I would check the car; fuel, tyre pressure, water, oil. In the back I kept spare fuel – which she thought was dangerous, a blanket in a plastic bag, a first aid kit of course, a toolkit of course, a bottle of water or two, some sweets to suck on as we drove, and a few tins of meat that we might eat if ever stuck in a remote spot – the subject of much ribbing. It all seemed eminently practical to me, and necessary, but my diligent preparation had been a source of annoyance for her.

  Then, one year, she had taken the car alone to a friend’s wedding – I had not been invited and couldn’t stand the woman about to marry. Wendy duly ran out of fuel in the middle of nowhere, and had utilised the emergency fuel – the fuel she had labelled as dangerous. Driving on, she happened across an accident, and had issued the blanket from the back, opening my first aid kit like a Good Samaritan and dispensing the contents.

  By time she had returned she had eaten the sweets, and had drunk the water, a right mess left behind, and as I patiently listened to tales of running out of fuel and dispensing first aid, I smiled contentedly – but only on the inside. I could have said “I told you so”, but I had resisted. I cleaned the car, replaced the missing items, re-packed the first aid kit and topped up the fuel can, not saying a word. I had been right all along.

  But was that it, was that what our marriage had come down to, who was right and who was wrong? Had I stooped to the point where I just wanted to have the last word? You … divorced me, and for the wrong reasons! I … was right, you … were wrong. Was that it, was it all about who was right and who was wrong, scoring points off each other, having to get the last word in?

  A long hour later I reached Devon, fewer roadside towns visible amongst the lush green countryside, and the weather turned to that prescribed for all holidays taken in Britain in the summertime; it rained, followed by a short i
nterlude of brilliant sunshine – making me reach for my sunglasses – followed by more rain.

  As kids on holiday, here in Devon, we would sit in the family car as it rained, misting the windows with our breath and drawing pictures with our fingers, then – when the rain had eased off – we would rush out of the car and run screaming down the beach.

  It would rain again within the hour, and we would be back in the car - damp and covered in sand – the windows now misted all the more, or we would huddle in a beachfront café and eat beans on toast, sometimes sheltering in an amusement arcade.

  To holiday in Britain, you had to make the most of the breaks in the weather, and as kids we had been great at changing tack; one minute swimming, next minute playing cards under cover whilst still damp, our feet caked with sand. Our temporary bed and breakfast abodes suffered from sand and damp towels, or damp towels covered in sand.

  But the memories I now juggled were of only one sibling, a brother who had died from cancer aged fifty, the rest of the memories were of the cousins – our extended family. We had nearly always holidayed together, and being of similar ages we always played well together. Two of those cousins had been killed in a car accident nine years ago, the remaining cousin having emigrated to Australia. Well, some said he emigrated, others say he fled - the taxman after him.

  Thinking through my family tree as I drove across Devon, I realised why I had inherited this house, at least I thought I realised why – there was no one else left alive save David Bannister, somewhere in Australia. If alive, he had an equal claim, since he and I were both nephews to Aunt Betty Hobson – a lady who had never married. But the will had named me, and was not simply directed towards the next in line in legal terms.