The Optician’s Wife: a compelling new psychological thriller

by Betsy Reavley

  Dad’s drinking didn’t help. She hated it when he was drunk. I used to hear her shout at him about it. It never made any difference. It just made things worse. When she left he’d go to the shop and come back with a bag full of beer. Those were the days when I used to take Dawn out to the park until it was dark, until I could be sure he had passed out in his armchair.

  When we got back to the house I would get Dawn to take her shoes off and tiptoe past him up the stairs to bed. I remember how creaky the stairs were in that house. We would walk with our backs to wall to avoid waking him up. After we cleaned our teeth and got into our pyjamas, I would read her a bedtime story and tuck her in with her favourite toy, a bunny called Wilson. It had been a birthday present from Mum.

  The room was so cold. There was a gap between the widow and the sill where cold air would pour through. I took the bed nearer the window and used an extra blanket in the winter to avoid freezing.

  Our bedroom was really only a single but Dad had somehow managed to squeeze in two beds so we could share the room. He took the large double room for himself until we grew into teenagers and then he had no choice but to swap. But he was bitter about it and refused to give us any money to buy paint so that I could brighten the room up. Waste of bloody money, he used to say.

  The most extraordinary thing was that, somehow, Dad managed to hold a job down. He was builder and finding work in and around Cambridge was easy for him. It paid the bills and left enough over to cover the cost of his beer intake, a minimum of six cans a day.

  Looking back, I suppose I almost understood why he chose to get drunk all the time. It must have been lonely for him and difficult bringing up two girls without a wife. But it was hard for us too. Dawn was so young and I was barely a teenager. Still, I never understood why he picked on me so much. Dawn could do no wrong. He never got cross with her or shouted. His eyes would fill with tears every time he gave her a hug. ‘You remind me so much of your Mum,’ he would say. It was strange because I always thought I looked more like Mum. ‘Dawn got her pretty face,’ he said. I suppose that meant I had her chunky figure.

  Growing up it would have been easy to resent Dawn, but I didn’t. It wasn’t her fault he loved her more. It wasn’t her fault Mum died. And it wasn’t her fault I was plain and unpopular. But as she grew into a woman she seemed to forget the kindness and care I’d bestowed upon her. She started to resent me. The irony wasn’t lost on me. ‘Why don’t you do something with your hair,’ she would say. I was not the cool older sister she longed for. Even her friends used to laugh behind my back. As we grew older we grew further apart. She had been the one good thing in my life up until that point. When she stopped making an effort with me I sunk deeper into myself.

  It was around that time when I discovered my love of books. I read like my life depended on it. I lost myself in the stories of faraway worlds and would dream of travelling the earth. I read travel journals and history books, romance and adventure. All the things my life was lacking I found between the pages of all those books. They were my friends. They were safe.

  I never liked reading books about crime or anything like that. Ghoulish if you ask me. I didn’t want to think about all the horrible things in the world and all the nasty people. I wanted my books to take me to far off lands where Princes would battle for fair maidens.

  Without even realising it I had arrived at our front door. I didn’t remember the walk or how I got to our street. I suppose I must have been daydreaming. Probably thinking about one of the stories I’d recently read.

  Our terraced house was situated on Haviland Way, a cul-de-sac in the King’s Hedges area of town. The upper level of the house was a painted in a dirty cream colour and the lower level was exposed modern red brickwork. We had off-street parking in front of the house: a concrete space where Dad could leave his van. It was a dull street and home to dull people.

  Our front door needed some attention. The faded racing green paint was flaking. Dad had been saying he would do it for as long as I could remember. I put my key in the lock and turned, pushing the door open. I hoped Dad wasn’t at home.

  The front door led straight into the living room where he was normally found in his old armchair, holding a beer in one hand and the remote control for the telly in the other. But that day he must have been working late or at the pub. The house was cold and quiet. I knew Dawn was out because the drone of music wasn’t coming from our bedroom. She used to play a Madonna single on repeat. It drove me mad but I never said anything. I didn’t want to spoil her fun or risk an argument.

  I liked it when no one was home. My shoulders dropped and I relaxed a bit. I pretended it was my house and I lived alone. No Dawn and definitely no Dad. Passing through the pokey living room and small, dark dining room I made my way into the kitchen. The cupboard doors were laminate chipboard. The cheapest kind that hung on loose hinges. Landlords got away with murder then. They probably still do.

  It occurred to me how unfair the world was. But I wasn’t the type to mope. I made my cup of tea then did the washing up that was left festering in the sink. As I put the dishes on the draining board I wondered if Dawn or Dad ever realised I always did the washing up. It probably didn’t even register with them. They just assumed that there would be clean plates and saucepans. And there were. There were always clean dishes and an empty sink after I came home. I did it without thinking or questioning. It was my duty.

  As I dried the last cup I looked out of the grubby window above the sink. The garden was seriously neglected. We had a small concrete paved patio. The rest of the square garden was laid with overgrown grass. No one ever used the garden. If mum had been alive, it would have been nice. She would have taken care of it. The pots that she once tended were now overgrown with weeds. I remember realising that Dad or someone, probably Aunt Mary, had taken the trouble to bring them from our old house.

  The garden was always mum’s department. She took pride in it when she was alive. I felt so removed from myself looking out at this neglected patch. Mum had never set eyes on this house. She’d be upset if she had. She was a good housekeeper, proud of her little corner of the world.

  Roses were her favourite. She liked the pink ones the best. Pretty in pink, she used to say when they were in bloom. When I grew up, I would have a garden with pink roses in it. I didn’t have the green fingers that she did but I figured I’d be able to nurture a rose bush or two.

  ‘They are tough plants,’ she used to say. ‘They might not look like it by they are. Be like a rose, Debbie.’ She was the only one who called me that. ‘Look nice but remember you have thorns,’ she would say. That was her advice to me. I never really understood what she meant. How could I be like a flower? Did she want me to stay still and remain silent? I did for a long time. I stayed invisible.

  I dried the crockery before putting it back in the cupboard where it belonged. Then I went into the garden. I never did that. None of us did. It would only remind us of Mum and what we were missing. But on that day I was compelled to go.

  It was about half past six. The sun was setting and the sky was littered with dirty lilac-coloured clouds. I stood on the weed-ridden patio. Unwelcome plants had seeded themselves in between the paving stones, fighting for dominance. The place was a characterless mess.

  I’d taken on many of Mum’s roles but it had never occurred to me to look after the garden. She took pride in how things looked. Mum was no great beauty but she always wore a smile. People liked her. She was loved.

  When we lived in Harlow, our front garden was the envy of the street. The bins were always lined up neatly and there was never a blade of grass out of place. I used to wonder where she found the time. Later in life, I realised she probably threw herself into her gardening so she could escape Dad. For a long time, I told myself that he broke after she died but the truth was that he had been like that for as long as I could remember.

  Standing in that miserable garden I made a promise to myself. I didn’t
want to be there any more. I was tired of looking after everyone. I was tired of being me. Aged seventeen I was old enough to fend for myself. I’d save my money and move out. No one would miss me, until I left. Then they would realise. Then they would see how much I did for them. The dishes wouldn’t get washed; their laundry would pile up. Dad would discover his lunch box was empty in the morning. Dawn would wonder why her bed wasn’t made.

  I’d had enough.

  April 21st 1983

  The next day I went to work as usual. It was raining as I walked along the busy main road to work.

  That morning I broke with tradition. I always used to wait until lunchtime before going into the bakers and buying my sandwich, but on that day I decided to go in before I started work. As I was taking the coins out of my purse, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I fumbled my money and my coins fell to the floor as, I turned around. There stood the handsome stranger I’d met by the river.

  ‘Hello.’ He smiled as I began to scrabble about on the floor, collecting my loose change.

  ‘Hi.’ The floor was cold and hard on my knees. From the corner of my eye I realised a queue had formed behind me. An impatient-looking man was scowling at me.

  ‘Sorry.’ I stood up, deciding to sacrifice the remaining coins.

  ‘I’ll get that for you.’ Larry reached into his inside pocket and removed his wallet. He handed the woman behind the till a note and waited for his change.

  I was dumbstruck. No one had ever done anything like that for me before. The woman in the apron put my sandwich into a brown paper bag and handed it over, never breaking eye contact with Larry. I remained unnoticed.

  ‘Thank you.’ I felt myself blushing as I moved to one side and let the next customer pay for his loaf of bread.

  ‘Fancy bumping into you,’ Larry cocked his head to one side. He really did look like George Michael, without the earring, back then. ‘You on your way to work?’

  ‘Yes.’ I checked my wristwatch feeling self-conscious.

  ‘I’ll walk with you.’

  ‘How do you know we are going the same way?’ It was out of character for me to be so direct in those days.

  ‘I don’t, but I’m prepared to take a risk.’ He grinned, flashing a row of white teeth. He held the door for me.

  Once out on the street, I wrapped my sandwich tightly and put it into my navy canvas rucksack, the straps of which I slipped over my shoulders.

  ‘I’m going this way,’ I said signalling left.

  ‘Then so am I.’ His confidence unnerved me but I was pleased to see him again.

  We walked in silence for a while. He splashed through the puddles in his laced-up shoes while I avoided them.

  ‘Horrid weather.’

  ‘I don’t mind the rain,’ I said.

  ‘Like a duck?’

  ‘Yes. Like a duck.’

  As we got closer to the shop my heart began to sink. I didn’t want our time together to end.

  ‘Is this you?’ he asked as I came to a stop.

  ‘Yep.’ I found it hard to look him in the eye.

  ‘Well,’ he shifted on his heels, ‘I suppose this is goodbye.’

  ‘Yes I guess it is.’ There was a lump in my throat.

  ‘OK.’ He looked down the road in the direction he wanted to go. ‘See you soon.’

  ‘Bye.’ I turned and headed for the door. I wanted to watch him walk away but didn’t have the guts.

  Then, just as I pulled the door open, I heard him call. ‘Do you have plans for lunch?’

  I swung around in time to see Silvia approaching.

  ‘Not really,’ I mumbled avoiding looking at Silvia who was paying careful attention to the conversation.

  ‘How about I meet you here and we have lunch together? What time do you break?’

  Silvia stopped walking and stared at Larry. He didn’t appear to notice her.

  ‘Twelve-thirty.’ I hated having her there.

  ‘OK. Twelve-thirty it is. I’ll meet you right here. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I echoed.

  ‘See you then,’ he called, turning away.

  ‘Who was that?’ Silvia demanded, still standing a few feet away.

  ‘Just a friend,’ I couldn’t meet her eye.

  ‘A friend?!’ she spat. ‘You don’t have any.’ Silvia flicked her blonde hair over her shoulder and pushed past me. But nothing she said could kill the joy I felt inside.

  The morning seemed to drag on. I watched the slow minutes circle the clock before it got to twelve twenty-five. Springing out of my chair, I went into the ladies to inspect myself in the mirror.

  My reflection was as unimpressive as always. What are you doing? I asked the bland face staring back at me. Who are you kidding?

  Things like this didn’t happen to me. Handsome men didn’t want to spend time in my company. They didn’t notice me. They noticed girls like Silvia and Dawn. I wondered if it was all a joke set up by one of my colleagues. It wouldn’t have surprised me.

  Poor little Deborah standing outside waiting for someone who isn’t coming. I imagined them all standing by the window watching and laughing at me and suddenly I felt scared. But I decided it was worth the gamble. I would go outside and wait. Only for three minutes. If he was late, so be it.

  When I stepped out into the cold, he was there, waiting for me. I couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Twelve-thirty exactly.’ He smiled and took a step towards me.

  ‘I don’t believe in being late. My Mum always said that being punctual was good mannered.’

  ‘Very sensible woman,’ he said cheerily ‘So where shall we go?’ he asked, looking up at the grey sky.

  ‘The river?’ The cold never really bothered me.

  ‘The river it is.’ He sunk his hands into his pockets and I realised he didn’t have a bag with him. Where was his lunch?

  ‘Back to the bench where we met?’ His question sounded intimate and I liked it.

  ‘Sure.’ I let him lead the way.

  ‘So Deborah, how long have you worked at that place?’

  He remembered my name.

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘I can’t complain. It’s OK.’

  ‘Well I love my job. I get to spend my time looking into people’s eyes. Literally.’ He laughed.

  I imagined beautiful women queuing up to get their eyesight checked by him and it made me feel invisible again.

  ‘You can tell a lot about a person from their eyes.’

  ‘Windows to the soul?’

  ‘Exactly.’ He nodded. ‘Happiness. Fear. It’s all in the eyes.’

  We crossed over the footbridge and followed the path along the river until we reached our bench. He signed for me to sit down first and so I did.

  ‘Pick a side.’

  ‘A side?’

  ‘Everyone has a side they prefer.’ He was serious.

  ‘OK.’ I said sitting down on the left side of the bench.

  ‘Well, what do you know?’ he chuckled to himself, ‘I always choose the right. That’s neat, isn’t it?’

  The bench was damp and I felt the wetness soaking through my uniform. He didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘No grumpy swans in sight.’ He looked down the river past the houseboats.

  ‘No ducks either.’

  ‘They’ll come.’ He was confident.

  I opened my rucksack and removed my sandwich, which was slightly squashed.

  ‘Don’t you have any lunch?’ I asked, biting down into the crusty bread. Mayonnaise spilled out of the sides and on to my fingers.

  ‘No. I forgot to bring any.’ He was still looking at the river.

  ‘We could share mine.’ I suggested brushing crumbs off my coat before tearing the sandwich in two.

  ‘Thanks.’ I handed him his half and he look a large bite. ‘Nice,’ he said, his mouth full.

  We sat and ate in silence for a while,
enjoying the food and each other’s company until we felt the first raindrops. I looked up at the clouds and cursed the weather for ruining our moment.

  ‘April showers.’ Larry pulled his brown coat collar up around his square jaw. ‘Shall we go to a café?’

  ‘I’m not sure I have time. I can’t be late back for work. My boss will be angry.’ I wished I could have been braver.

  ‘All right then.’ He didn’t even try to convince me to stay and the disappointment I felt was bitter.

  I got up from the bench. The rain was coming down more heavily then. ‘I’ll see you around.’

  ‘Why don’t we meet for lunch tomorrow?’ He stood up, raindrops running down his nose. ‘I owe you half a sandwich. My treat.’

  ‘OK.’ I found it hard to contain my happiness.

  ‘Great. I’ll meet you outside Woolworths tomorrow. Twelve-thirty again?’

  ‘Sure.’ He was looking at me with such intensity I felt uncomfortable. He had a searching gaze and when he looked at me everything else seemed to melt away.

  ‘Great. It’s a date then. See you tomorrow.’ Without any warning he leant over and planted a small kiss on my cheek. I felt my face flush with colour as I turned around and quickly walked away. I had never been kissed before, let alone been on a date.

  July 11th 1983

  Things with Larry carried on like that for some time. Every weekday we would meet for lunch and, if it wasn’t raining, return to our bench. As the spring retreated and made way for summer I felt myself growing in confidence. Larry seemed genuinely interested in learning all about me. He wanted to know everything there was to know. For the first time in my life I felt special.

  I told him all about my family and my mum’s death. He listened intently and never interrupted. He was curious to know about my childhood and what Harlow was like. He grew to know my likes and dislikes and paid attention to it all. Larry had a wonderful memory. He never forgot even the small details.