by Graham Hamer
“How's that old rogue Tweedle?” he asked, as he drained his coffee.
Ian shook his head. “Don't ask.”
“Bad as that is it?”
“He was okay to start with, but right now he owes us a bundle of money that he hasn't got, and it's making life difficult with the bank.”
“Ian, miboy, if it was just you, I'd lend you the money myself, but with Richard Tweedle involved, I wouldn't like to risk it.”
“Good God, Sean, I didn't come here to ask you for money, I came to discuss the factory extension. There's nothing between Tweedle and me that I can't sort out.”
“Sure, but he's not particularly easy to get along with, is he.”
“No. I wish I knew what made him tick, then perhaps I'd be able to handle him better, but he's as bloody convoluted as a boy scout's book of knots. The only things that seem to interest him are his ice tea and cigarettes.”
“Bejaysus, he's weirder than I thought.”
* * *
William Wormald-Welch sniffed the air; it was heavy with the smell of sex and sweat. He lay with both hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. The perspiration from their physical encounter had stuck his hair together in spiky tufts that stood at oblique angles to his head. The white sheet that covered him had been folded back, and stopped at his navel, leaving his hollow midriff and ribbed chest naked. In the adjoining room, the sound of the shower brought back memories of the evening, two weeks earlier, when he and Nancy had harvested the unexpected opportunity for an extra-curricula rutting session after removing all trace of Ian's carpenter's outrageous behaviour.
He was as content as a forty year old bachelor with a reliable, cash-generating legal practice could be. Of his other passions, the first currently sat in his double garage, awaiting his summons, whilst the second was according him safe shelter from the wind and providing him with exceptional views of the Laxey valley. And, to top it all, he'd just satisfied his sexual needs with the only lady who had ever thought of him as more than just a disproportioned but successful advocate.
Who would have thought that the gangly, persecuted schoolboy nonentity would blossom into a successful establishment figure? Even now, it gave him the greatest satisfaction to overcharge the tormentors of his adolescence in return for being able to lecture them on their shortcomings.
Damn it, why did his schooldays keep jumping back into his head? Why all these memories that couldn't be refused admission? Though long in the past, his seven years incarcerated behind the walls of the island's most notable educational establishment were still vivid. So very, very vivid. The petty playing field thuggery. The boasts. The posturing. The ridicule.
Most of all, the ridicule.
He closed his eyes as the past pushed its way into his thoughts; as clear as if it were yesterday. The school in-crowd, calling each other by their nicknames - Spaz, McGurk, Lurch, Doom, Spike. Their buddy-buddy banter in the changing rooms - and the silence that they accorded him when he emerged from the showers. And worse than the silence was the ridicule. Ridicule and scorn. Not for him a honey-tongued nickname. He had been adorned with callous, coarse, brutal names - hurtful, personal names - The Walking X-ray, The Zombie, The Skull, The Worm and worse - much worse.
His mouth curled into a satisfied smile. Funny how things work out, isn't it. Funny how he owed much of his current success to those mealy-mouthed morons of the past. Funny how the young Wormald-Welch had learned to channel his hatred into a punishing routine of study and swat, soaring to new heights of educational achievement as a consequence. Even his post-school pursuit of success had been driven by a rich fuel-mixture of indignation and anger. Then, when the money and the status began to accumulate, his backdated sense of loathing had expanded to claim his future, because there wasn't enough room in the past, and the present was already fully booked. Now, as one of the most respected legal minds on the island, The Worm had turned and the boot was on the other foot. William Wormald-Welch had arrived. But he had never forgotten.
He opened his eyes, blocked out the past, and snuggled into the pillow as he heard Nancy turn off the shower, knowing that in a few moments she would step back into the room wearing nothing more than a smile. Just the thought of it caused the fold of the sheet to stir.
Near to the large bow window, the shower room door opened and she padded onto the ivory-coloured bedroom carpet, her hair wrapped in a clean, white towel. He looked across the room at her. “You've just spoilt my daydream,” he said, with a skeletal smile.
“Oh well that's nice, William. Thank you very much.”
“Well I was just imagining you walking through the door with nothing on, and here you are wearing a towel round your head. Very disappointing Nancy.”
She pulled the towel from her hair and dropped it to the floor. Taking a nominal run, she bounced onto the bed and grabbed him where the rising sheet betrayed his thoughts. “Your a horny old man, sir, and should be ashamed of yourself,” she said, squeezing gently.
“Not so much of the 'old' if you don't mind. Horny, yes. Who wouldn't be with a naked Nancy Gidman grabbing his manhood? As for ashamed - most certainly not.”
“Not even with a client's wife?”
He said nothing. The subject was taboo, though he suspected that it would soon have to be addressed.
Nancy let go of the sheet, climbed off the bed, and sauntered to the large bow window. “I never get tired of this view,” she said, staring across the valley.
William examined her rear. “Nor do I; but I'm not sure I appreciate the neighbours seeing it.” It crossed his mind that, if he'd been asked to describe an over-ripe peach, he would have described Nancy's rump - a little softer than it once had been, a little too much flesh, a slightly tired look about the skin, but tempting and tasty nonetheless.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “If you had any neighbours, I might be worried, but since you don't I could stand here all day without being seen.”
“I do have a neighbour. And he's a dirty old man.”
“You're talking about yourself again.”
“No I'm not, Nancy. I really do have a neighbour.”
She took an involuntary step backwards into the room and turned to face him, her breasts, a little less alert than in her youth, swaying as she turned. “You're joking aren't you?”
“No, honestly. You peep to the left and you can just see the cottage in the trees.”
She picked the towel off the floor and held it in front of her. Though it shielded her from her breasts to her thighs, William was pleased to note that the view of her bottom was unchanged as she looked again through the window from the high vantage point.
“All I can see past your hedge is an old wooden shack, some bushes and too many weeds,” she said.
“Exactly.”
“But you said there was a cottage.”
“Well maybe the word 'cottage' was a slight exaggeration.”
“Slight exaggeration?” She took a few steps back into the room, to be certain that she was out of view. “You mean someone lives in that dump?”
“Certainly,” he said, putting his hands back behind his head and sinking deeper into the pillow.
“I don't believe it”
“It's true, honestly.”
“But it's nothing more than an old hut. There aren't even any curtains.” She dropped the towel and reached for her panties from the nearby chair. “Who owns it?”.
“Someone whose name you might know well. A certain Mr Tweedle.”
Nancy froze, her underwear at her calves. “What? The Tweedle? Richard Tweedle?”
“No, no. Don't get your knickers in a twist. Calm down and get your legs sorted out and I'll tell you who he is.”
She reached down again and slid up her panties. With hands on hips, she asked, “So who's this Mr Tweedle?”
“He's Richard and Frank's father. His name's Jack Tweedle. He's made a fortune buying and selling property.”
“He's wealthy and he liv
es in that place?”
“Wealthy is an understatement. Old Jack Tweedle has a reputation for dealing in cash. Those who know him reckon that he not only took money under the table, he took the whole damned table.”
Nancy stepped to one side to where her clothes lay folded over the back of the chair. Reaching down for her blouse, she slid it over her shoulders and began to button the front. “So Richard and Frank's father is loaded while they're struggling to pay Ian what they owe him.”
“It seems that way, my dear. Reliable sources - that is, people who are in a position to know the facts - claim that old Jack is loaded. They also think that he doesn't have too long to live and that Richard is counting the money already.”
She reached for her skirt. “What makes them so sure he's going to inherit a chunk?”
“There's nobody else except Richard and Frank to leave it to,” he said, pushing back the sheet and sitting on the edge of the bed. He shook his head as she zipped her skirt. “You forgot the stockings, Nancy. You always put your stockings on before your skirt.”
She glanced down at her bare legs as if they didn't belong to her. “You're right, William. Whatever am I thinking of?”
“Us, I hope.”
“Seldom anything else nowadays” Nancy said, looking away and fiddling with a button on her blouse.
“Getting tough is it?”
“I'm not sure I can keep it up much longer. I just wish you and I could be together to lead our own lives.”
So there it was. It was out in the open at last. If he was honest, William had known it was coming since the day five years ago when he'd invited Nancy into his home and his bedroom with the promise of a view that only they would share. After sharing the view, she had been content to share his bed and had shared it ever since.
He'd never had any illusions about Nancy's fascination with him. He knew it wasn't his unshapely form that infatuated her. At the beginning, it had probably been sexual boredom that had led her so willingly into his bed. But now she liked his mind and had fallen in love with his social standing, and his influence, and probably his money. But it was a good feeling to have someone who actually liked him, even if there were occasions when he felt that their love-making was impersonal – something that happened between her and his physical equipment, leaving him feeling drained and alone, like a spectator after a raunchy sex show.
“I guess it's time we faced the reality of our situation,” he said.
“What is the reality, William?”
“The reality is that, so far as leaving Ian is concerned, it must be a matter for you to decide. Only you can know whether you want to continue it or not. But if you choose to leave him there's one thing that's very important and that's the manner of your separation.”
“What do you mean?”
“Until you are officially separated, we can't let people know that we are together. The Law Society takes a dim view of members who are caught in liaisons with their clients; a very dim view. Those who have been caught with their trousers down or their skirts up have almost always had their licenses revoked and that's something that neither of us can afford.”
“I know, William. I was already thinking of that. You and I have been patient for a long time, I think we can afford to be patient a little while longer, don't you?”
“How do you plan to tell him, Nancy? What will you say are the reasons? I don't think he has any notion of you leaving, it'll come as a hell of a shock.”
“Well, if, as we both suspect, the business gets worse over the next few months, and the house is mortgaged to the bank, then I'll use those as reasons to leave.” She reached for her stockings. “I know it's only a small part of the truth, but it's something that Ian could accept as being beyond his control, something that wasn't his fault. Or anybody else's.”
* * *
Ian shuffled the papers into a neat pile and slid them back into the buff folder. “So we're looking at a start date around mid April then?”
“Sure, I should think so,” Sean said, standing up from his chair. “Let's be ready to go as soon as our wonderful public servants find the right rubber stamp.”
Ian glanced at his watch. It was almost four o'clock and, through the window, the lights of the airport terminal cut through the late afternoon gloom. He'd spent almost six hours with his ex-boss, discussing the project costings and the fine details of payments. Sean had bought him lunch in the works canteen, where the discussion had continued. And finally they had agreed a firm price and shaken hands. Though they had both taken copious notes, there'd be no need for a written contract, for Sean was always precise in his promise-keeping. That was at three o'clock. For the past hour, they'd talked almost exclusively about Sean Legg's passion for diving and his hope that one day soon he could ease away from the business and spend more time underwater.
Striding through the reception area towards the wide glass entrance doors, Ian thanked Cathy, the young receptionist who had attended to their caffeine requirements throughout the day. He wondered whether Nancy had been right the other day when, after a minor altercation, she had accused him of being in a mid-life crisis. Maybe if Sean had offered him his old job back he would have been glad to consider it. But Sean hadn't offered, and Ian hadn't asked.
As the lights of Ronaldsway airport faded behind him, he reached down to the car stereo, pushed a Vivaldi cassette into place and settled into his seat for the ten-mile return trip to Douglas. Despite the long discussion, he felt rested and cheerful, like a cat with the exclusive rights to the fire.
He allowed the car to cruise, following the turns in the road of its own volition. Ahead lay a sizeable contract for nine months work and perhaps the first real opportunity to make Snaefell Homes more independent of the Tweedles. He savoured the feeling of freedom, as the violins in the Allegro of 'La primavera' burst from the four speakers.
* * *
The old man's back bent and groaned in sympathy with the bare branches of the nearby yew as he knelt to touch the clean, cold shingle that covered the grave. No flowers, no prayer, just a savage, icy wind scouring the headstone. Since her death, so many years ago, there had been no sunshine; his life had been all darkness. He wiped at his rheumy eyes and looked around to make sure that he was alone. His youth had been an adventure; his manhood a triumph; his old age a regret. Regret for what could have been.
Like a praying mantis, he gripped the worn handle of his stick, pushed himself to his feet, and peered through the evening dusk to read the inscription. Alice Alston. Nothing else. No dates, no litany, no eulogy. Just Alice Alston.
Soon he too would be dead, and for sure no one would ever mourn for him as he had for Alice. If only he could have told her how he felt while she was still alive. But that was something a married man couldn't do. Particularly a married man with a lot of money and a snooping, avaricious wife.
He cast a brief glance sideways at the adjacent grave where his wife had been planted. A determined thistle was keeping her company. Verity Tweedle. Loving wife and adoring mother. It was bruisingly inaccurate. Wife and mother: yes. Loving and adoring: never. Not ever.
His marriage had endured, along with the unhappiness it had brought. The woman who had borne him two children had promised to outlive him, but had failed. She simply hadn't woken up one morning. By then it had been too late to make amends to Alice. She had passed away one month before, owning little more than the clothes she had died in. He, Jack, had paid for the headstone. It was the least he could do. He mourned and missed her more than he would have thought possible. No adored wife could have bequeathed him such a desolation of regret.
Though physically sound for a man of his age, death was already stroking his cheek in a cold caress. He could brush it away for a while longer yet, but his heart was long ago broken and death would soon have its way. Right now though, all his life seemed like unfinished business. It would soon be time to see a solicitor to make the final arrangements and set the record straight. He owed it to Alice.
Maybe in the summer when other matters had progressed a bit further, as he was sure they would.
* * *
The bittersweet taste of tobacco smoke should have given him an inkling, but it was a clue that Ian failed to notice before entering the living room and coming face to face with Richard Tweedle. Not only was the man sitting in his favourite chair, he was filling the ashtray quicker than Stitcher's digger could fill a pothole on the site.
As Tweedle opened his mouth to speak, Ian looked first to his son, who sat on the settee in the middle of the room with his eyes cast to the floor, and then to where Nancy sat at the open window, her eyes red, her face upset.
“What the hell is this?” he snapped. “Richard, put that bloody cigarette out, can't you see it's bothering my wife?”
Tweedle looked at him in amazement, the cigarette frozen between the fingers of his spread hand, just an inch from his gaping mouth. He spluttered and crushed it into the ashtray on the arm of the chair, sending ash and sparks onto the carpet. “Ian I can't believe — I mean — what's the problem, old boy? You've never — well, you've never — er — never had a problem with me smoking before. I mean, hell, you smoke yourself from time to time. I mean, just what's the prob—”
Nancy's hushed voice interrupted his confusion, although she would later observe that it was the only time she'd ever seen Richard Tweedle lost for words. “It's not his cigarettes, Ian, although they don't do much to help. It's Dave, he's fallen off the roof and is in hospital.”
Ian froze. His face turned ashen. “You what?”
Nancy stood from where she had perched her bottom on the window ledge, and crossed the room towards him. “It's Dave,” she said. “He fell while they were fixing the roof trusses, and they took him to hospital, unconscious.”
Ian reached for the arm of the nearby chair and slumped into the seat. His legs were like a marionette; all wood and no muscle. “Dave? You mean Dave Kelly?”
She nodded. “It seems that a gust of wind caught one of the trusses that he was holding, and he fell. He landed on his back. The blokes called for an ambulance and that's where he is now - in the hospital.”