To the Devil's Tune

by Barnard, Jo

  Even back then as a youngster, I loved to feel girly, and I guess I’ve never really changed. I’m still the same now – long hair, with a penchant for floaty skirts and beaded jewellery. Mum, on the other hand, was the queen of jeans, t-shirts and trainers. In fact, I don’t think she possessed anything else.

  Mum’s appearance didn’t seem to bother her too much. Not that she ever looked untidy at all; just rather plain and practical. Plain and practical Sandra. And whereas I loved to be surrounded by objects of beauty, such things didn’t seem important to Mum.

  We ate our ice creams and skipped along the familiar pavement. “What time will Daddy be home?” I asked Mum. “We’ve started working on a wildlife project at school. Do you think I might see him tonight?”

  “Daddy’s come home early today, Judith,” Mum replied. “We want to have a chat with you girls when we get back.”

  Dad was a long-distance lorry driver. He never came home early. How very strange, I thought. And stranger still that Mum never spoke another word all the way home.

  * * *

  He was waiting at the front door when we arrived back from school, a half-smile on his face. It wasn’t his usual relaxed, open face. Dad looked different. Something in his eyes had changed. He knelt down and hugged us both; me first, and then Deb. “Come and sit down, girls,” said Dad. “Your mother and I want to talk to you.” He sat in the middle of our brown velour sofa, which had become somewhat saggy and threadbare over the years, and patted his hands down, gesturing for his beloveds to sit either side of him. We did so immediately, and Dad put his arms around us, pulling us close.

  Mum took the armchair. Her face looked strained.

  “Girls, there’s no easy way of saying this…” she began. “Your father and I don’t love each other any more. I’ve met a new partner and she’s a woman. Her name is Francine, and Judith and I are going to go and live with her. She has a lovely big house in the country, and has a daughter called Suzette. Daddy is going to stay with Gran in Scotland until he finds a new house up there. Deborah, love, because you’re starting senior school soon, you can choose whether you want to live down here with Judith and me, or go and live with Daddy in Scotland. You don’t have to decide now. Just have a think about it.”

  And that was the day that my so-called ‘normal’ life (whatever that means) fell apart.

  Being separated from Deb was alien and incredibly painful. She chose to begin a new life in Scotland with Dad and they had moved 500 miles away. Maybe she felt sorry for Dad, or maybe she couldn’t bear the thought of living with a lesbian mother. I never really understood what led her to take that leap, but what I did know was that I missed them both terribly.

  As soon as the school term was over, Mum and I moved in with Francine and her daughter, Suzette. Despite the strangeness of this new set up, I quickly grew fond of Francine. She was exceedingly beautiful and kind. In fact, her former career as a model was the reason behind her wealth and the amazing house I was now living in. Though only ten minutes down the road, it was worlds apart from our old house which had been in desperate need of attention for several years.

  Francine and I had lots in common. We were both arty and spiritually minded, both open to new experiences, and both loved to be surrounded by beautiful feminine things. Our love of floaty skirts, embroidered silks and colourful jewellery united us further. In fact, over the years, many people assumed that we were mother and daughter. Looking back, our similarities were uncanny; long hair, big eyes. Maybe that was what attracted Mum to Francine in the first place, an instant familiarity. Who knows; I never really asked.

  They’d met through the charity that Mum had worked for. Francine was a regular donator, helping to fund the Macmillan shop. She had lost her mum to cancer several years before, and had recently undergone a lumpectomy herself. So being able to help this charity was of great personal importance.

  The bond between her and Mum was incredibly intense, and now being older, I guess I can understand why they had to be together. But, my goodness, did I miss my dad…

  In the years that followed, Dad had never wanted anyone else. Instead, he continued to hold a torch for Mum and saved every penny he had, in the hope that one day his precious family would once again be reunited. For the rest of my childhood, Dad became almost a fantasy figure of mine. I rarely got to see him, and deep down I think we probably both chased the same dream of being together again one day.

  Deb came to stay during each school holiday, and it was heavenly to have her around. I know the feeling was mutual too, as we were virtually inseparable.

  But life was very different when Deb wasn’t there. Francine was lovely, and couldn’t have been more welcoming, but her daughter Suzette was a completely different kettle of fish. Her dislike for me was instantly apparent, and for a long time I tried everything I could think of to please her.

  Suzette was four years my senior, and as soon as she turned fourteen, our mums began to use her as a babysitter for me, enabling them to go out and have more quality time together. Suzette was always very keen to ‘look after’ me. In fact, she would offer her services quite frequently. Not only did it mean that she could earn some extra pocket money to spend on her penchant for heavy metal music, but it also gave her the perfect opportunity to carry out her fantasies, and abuse the annoying little kid that had invaded her home and bonded so nicely with her mother.

  Just thinking about those times now makes me shudder…

  * * *

  Having just about managed the walk home from the tea shop, I opened the door to my flat and was instantly reminded of the mess I needed to attend to. Not having a dishwasher wasn’t a problem when you washed up as you went along, but I’d let it build up, so now I’d just have to sort it out. Knowing I wouldn’t relax until it was neat and tidy again, I lit an incense stick, popped the kettle on and filled the sink with bubbly water.

  The actual act of washing up was never as bad as the thought of doing it was. I guess you can say that about most things really. Swishing your hands around in warm fragrant soapy bubbles was hardly a chore when you thought about it. I decided to embrace the moment, filling my cup on the side with boiling water. It wasn’t my favourite mug, but was the only clean one, so it would suffice. My peppermint brew would be just the right temperature by the time I’d finished rinsing.

  As I swirled the soapy sponge around the plate, I began to drift away again into past memories, thinking about Matt, rerunning the relationship through in my mind; trying to make sense of it all…

  * * *

  After our initial encounter, we were rarely apart. Either he was at my place, or I was at his. Rarely did I see the girls. I just wasn’t bothered. Our frivolous girly nights out just couldn’t compare to a night in with Matt. Besides, we were like magnets; two souls desperate to be united as one. Being apart just didn’t feel right.

  The intensity of our relationship continued, and we quickly moved in together, grabbing the opportunity to spend every moment possible in each other’s company. I loved nothing more than cooking him wonderful, exotic meals; experimenting with new flavours and textures. To me, the process of cooking was all part of sharing my love with him. And my love-infused food always seemed to satisfy; heightening our senses and keeping life interesting. Even when we ate our meals we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, somehow afraid to lose contact.

  He would gently feed me, caressing me softly, teasing me with his sensual touch. And there was only ever one thing on the dessert menu. Making love with him was so deliciously sweet and satisfying. His touch, his smell, the way he felt against my skin. Why would I offer anything else?

  Our love life was never dull. Our mutual creativity made sure of that, and I was willing to try anything to please him. Pleasing him in turn pleased me. And I realised that for the first time in years, I no longer craved my dad’s love. I felt so complete with this man who seemed to give me everything I needed.

  Not long after we’d moved in, Matt
returned from work one evening with a concerned look on his face.

  “Jude, can we sit down for a moment. There’s something I need to say.” With that, he took my hand, and led me towards our Moroccan-style day bed, sitting me down amongst the brightly coloured cushions. “Don’t say anything, darling. Just listen will you?”

  “Yes, of course,” I replied, wondering what on earth was coming next.

  With that, he picked up his acoustic guitar and sat down, his body angled towards me. He handed me a scroll of parchment paper, tied up with a hessian string, and as I untied it, he began to sing the words that lay inside. It was his own version of the Beatles song, ‘Hey Jude’, which he’d written especially for me.

  Matt‘s heartfelt serenade proclaimed that I was all he needed; that I’d taken his sad soul and made it better, and how becoming his wife would make him happy forever.

  This declaration of eternal love so soon in our relationship took me completely by surprise; but it felt so right, and his words and sweetness filled my heart and touched the very core of my soul.

  Then he got down on one knee, taking my hands in his. “Jude, my darling, you’re everything I could wish for and more. My life would be meaningless if you weren’t in it. Will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me?” With that, he removed a small box from his pocket and opened it in front of me to reveal a beautiful ring. Its three shades of gold were delicately entwined to encapsulate a heart-shaped, sparkly diamond.

  This was the stuff of fairytales, I thought, and with tear-filled eyes, I took his face in my hands and kissed him tenderly. “Nothing would make me happier,” I whispered, placing the ring on my finger and wrapping myself around him.

  No further words were needed as we melted together in a symbolic union of joyous bliss.

  Over the next few days, I set about painting him a picture of two turtle doves with their beaks tenderly touching, entitling it ‘Mated for Life’, and presenting it to him in a heart-shaped wooden frame. And that’s what I truly believed; that we’d be together forever.

  Within just a few months we were married. We opted for a ceremony which only he and I attended. Neither of us wanted or needed anyone else to be involved in our celebrations. It was just about the two of us; completely, entirely and absolutely.

  We honeymooned in an amazing, character-filled, old and remote cottage in the Cotswolds, with only a few sheep for neighbours. And apart from visiting the nearest supermarket to stock up on food and wine, we hardly left each other’s arms for the entire week. Who needed tropical climates when we had created our own heavenly paradise? Log fires, lavish rugs, a springy bed with crisp cotton sheets, and a bath plenty big enough for two, proved to be our perfect recipe for amusement, indulgence and sheer delight.

  * * *

  I put away the last of the saucepans, stacking it at precisely the right angle to fit in the tiny cupboard. I wiped down the worktop and picked up my peppermint tea, grabbing a pack of chocolate biscuits which would have to suffice for dinner. I hadn’t the energy to even think about cooking anything. Leaving the bag in for maximum infusion, I took a few welcome sips, plonking myself down on the sofa with a sigh of relief. It felt good to take the weight off my ankle again, and I raised it up on the arm of the settee, adjusting it into a comfortable position, before switching on the TV.

  With five minutes to spare before Annie started, I reached into the little pocket in my dress for my phone, thinking I’d just text Saffie quickly to see how Sol was feeling, and to let her know that everything was fine at the shop. As I lifted the phone, out flew the piece of paper with the lady’s name and number neatly written on it. ‘Annie’.

  Annie. Now that was funny; a real coincidence, I thought. But something inside me somehow knew that if I could learn about positivity from little orphan Annie, then maybe I could learn something of even greater magnitude from the kind old lady in the tea room; whoever she was.

  I popped Annie’s details carefully into my jacket pocket. Maybe I would call her, just not tonight.

  Chapter Three

  I awoke with a jump, soon realising that I’d fallen asleep in front of the TV. It was two in the morning and my neck was stiff and painful. I peeled myself from the uncomfortable position on the sofa and stood up, quickly recalling that I’d been dreaming about Matt yet again. It was as if I could only make sense of it all by rerunning our relationship from start to finish over and over again until it finally sank in. So where was I? Yes, that’s right; we had just got married…

  * * *

  A year later, Matt’s job took him to India, and so without hesitation, I resigned from my job in a local department store, and accompanied him on a journey of adventure to that mind-blowing country.

  It was an early afternoon in March when we touched down in Amritsar, Punjab, and we were met by a driver who was to take us to where Matt would be based.

  “Mr and Mrs Richards? Welcome to India. My name is Arjan, and I will be taking you to your new home in Patiala. Allow me to take your cases. How was your flight?”

  Matt looked relieved to relinquish responsibility of the trolley with the dodgy front wheel. “Thanks, Arjan. The flight was great.”

  Arjan held the car door open for me. “Your first time in India, Mrs Richards?”

  “Yes! It’s all very exciting, although I must admit, I’m rather nervous. My husband starts work tomorrow and I don’t know anyone here, or anything about Punjab.”

  Arjan nodded and smiled at me kindly. “Please don’t worry. We have everything covered.”

  Feeling slightly relieved, we relaxed into the comfortable seats and settled down for the journey.

  Matt looked impressed. “Roads are good over here, Arjan. Not what I expected at all.”

  “Very good here in Punjab, sir. Patiala is excellent. You will have no problems getting around. Many places in India are not so good. We are very lucky.”

  “And it’s not as hot as I imagined either,” I added, closing my window and rubbing my bare arms. “I just assumed India would be roasting hot.”

  Arjan smiled at me in his rear-view mirror. “Our winter gets cold, Mrs Richards. But summer is on its way. Just you wait. It will get very hot indeed from next month.”

  I couldn’t help wondering how he managed to tie his turban so neatly. A real art, I thought.

  Matt placed his warm hand on my knee, sliding his little finger up between my thighs to give me a little tickle; ensuring his advances were out of Arjan’s eye line. “We’ll soon get you warmed up, my love, don’t you worry.”

  The drive seemed to take forever, and all I could think about was being with my husband behind closed doors. We both had plenty of time to imagine the pleasure. For the rest of the journey, we teased each other subtly with looks, expressions and secret touch. It didn’t matter where we were, so long as we were together.

  As we arrived in Patiala, we were greeted by an array of colours, wonderful smells, and general liveliness. Arjan turned into a side street and pulled up at the kerb. “So, here we are. This is your apartment. Mr Richards, your colleague, Prakash Singh and his wife, Meeta will take you for dinner this evening at seven-thirty. Mrs Richards, Meeta will tell you all about Patiala and things to do while your husband is at work. You must not worry. She is very nice lady, like you.”

  He lifted our cases out of the boot. “Mr Richards, I hope you enjoy working here. Welcome to Patiala.”

  “Thanks, Arjan.” Matt handed him a few notes, not really knowing their worth. Arjan nodded humbly and gestured with a wave.

  The apartment looked like a holiday home; a basic cream building with black and gold gates on the front.

  “This looks nice. Better than I expected.”

  “So long as the bed’s comfy, we’ll be fine,” Matt grinned. “Shall we go and see?”

  * * *

  The doorbell rang, dead on seven-thirty. Not sure where we were going, I had opted for a simple shift-dress, jazzing it up with a statement necklace and a shaw
l.

  “Hello, Matt. It’s good to put a face to your voice at last. This is my wife Meeta.”

  Matt shook both of their hands warmly. “So good to see you, Prakash, and lovely to meet you, Meeta. This is my wife Jude.”

  Prakash seemed like an amiable chap, and Meeta had the warmest smile, making me feel very safe. Just what we needed, I thought.

  “Meeta, I love your outfit, it’s beautiful. I feel a bit casual. I hope this will be ok?”

  “You look very beautiful, Jude, and what you wear is perfect. Welcome to Patiala.”

  We enjoyed a really pleasant couple of hours with our hosts. While the men talked mainly shop, Meeta seemed genuinely excited to show me around her city, and discover as much as she could about the UK.

  Prakash arrived promptly again the following morning to collect Matt for work. He brought Meeta along with him, so I had no time to be lonely. A girly shopping day was on the cards, and I felt excited to seek out things that would make our simple apartment look really homely.

  We made our way to a nearby bazaar, full of colourful silks and exotic spices. I couldn’t help but feel totally alive there; my senses heightened by vibrant sounds and smells, not to mention the buzzing madness. Every stall looked like a shimmering rainbow of delight, be it offering food, fabric, shoes, beads or watches.

  “This is Salwar Kameez,” explained Meeta, pointing to an outfit like the one she had worn last night. “The Salwar is the trousers, and the Kameez is the tunic. Very typical Punjabi clothing for women. You want to try one? The blue is very nice for you.”

  “Why not,” I replied, taking her suggested outfit behind the fabric curtain. The loose trousers felt really comfy, and the top fitted nicely, nipping me in at the waist. “Well? What do you think?”