by Jay Howard
Similar Differences
Jay Howard
Copyright 2014 Jay Howard
All rights reserved.
As The Sun Goes Down
Never Too Late
New Beginnings
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Foreword
Welcome to my second collection of short stories. Why have I called it Similar Differences? Because… well, we’re all similar, and we’re all different. As they say, we are all unique, just like everyone else. Our base personalities are moulded and refined by our circumstances and the people we meet. Of prime importance are the relationships we form with our parents, our life partners, and our children. In this collection you will meet people assessing their lives and those relationships, making decisions that will affect their own lives and everyone they are close to.
Our reactions to similar situations are not predictable, except within certain limitations, which makes real life interesting and provides endless opportunity for writers of fiction to imagine their own outcomes. If there were inflexible rules about how we behaved towards each other, blindly obeyed by everyone, there would be no more war or hunger, no more envy or inequalities, no ‘deadly sins’. Nor would there be any individuality, creativity or demonstrations of human adaptability. It would be a safer life but there would be no music, art or literature, no curiosity or scientific endeavour. That’s not a life I fancy living; crazy, quirky, fascinating, absorbing are all good words in my book.
Jay Howard
May 2014
Contents
For Better, For Worse
Maman
The Inheritance
Popping the Cherry
Moon River
A Nice Cup of Tea
The Scent of Autumn
Tomorrow is Another Life
Decimal Point
For Better, For Worse
Sylvia held her parcel to her chest, really tightly, with both forearms and gloved hands. She wasn’t sure if she was holding the parcel, or holding herself together. Autopilot had carried her into town, following her original plan of changing the bed linen then posting her manuscript. She hadn’t been able to think; the shock was too sudden, too profound. That earring, tucked down into the side fold of the sheet, had tilted her world dangerously, threatening to tip her off into the stygian abyss of the unknown. Going to town was normal, familiar; it would provide the anchor to stop her sliding off the edge.
Not that this particular trip to the post office was entirely normal. It had taken so much work and determination to get to this point. Just an hour ago she had been feeling excited, if apprehensive, believing that Roger wouldn’t dismiss a completed novel as ‘mere scribblings’. It had taken years to write it, a stolen half hour here, an hour there.
Milly, the editor of a women’s magazine she regularly wrote short stories for, had given her the encouragement she needed. “Your writing is so vivid,” she’d said. “Sales always go up when our readers see there’s another story of yours in the issue. You have to find time to finish that novel – I’m hooked already and I’ve only read the outline.”
Without Milly’s support Sylvia doubted she would ever have had the courage to contemplate publishing her work. It was meticulously researched and she had been totally absorbed by her characters’ emerging story, but was Milly right? Would anyone else really want to read a full length novel of hers? Surely the women who picked up a magazine for a little light reading during a coffee break or while having their hair done wouldn’t be interested in taking the time it needed to read a novel… would they?
When she had continued to dither, Milly had used her contacts to set up a meeting with an agent. Before she knew it, Sylvia found herself under contract to complete the manuscript by the end of September.
So here I am, she thought. But at what cost? Have I neglected him? Should I have made more effort to make myself attractive for him? Why else would he turn to another woman for comfort? Her mind refused to use the ‘s’ word.
She followed her normal route through the park; when she reached the gates opposite the post office she gave in to the weakness and nausea she felt, sinking onto the bench there, still tightly gripping her parcel. Her whole body felt strange, sensation missing where it should be, noticeable where it shouldn’t. Her temples and heart were pounding whilst her face and legs felt anaesthetized. Then the inner quivering started.
Distracted... yes, it’s all my fault... What a foolish woman you are, Sylvia Murray! All the things Roger’s said about you are true - foolish, unobservant, ridiculously naive for a woman your age!
She made a determined effort to slow her breathing. Foolish she may be but she would not cry in public. The chilly breeze fluffed her naturally curly hair across her face and she tucked it back behind her ears, her movement jagged, irritated. It should have been trimmed quite a while ago but cash had been in short supply since paying her youngest’s rent arrears.
Again. I had to; Ginny shouldn’t be worried about eviction, not in her final year, with Finals creeping up. It would have been nice to see her in the summer break
Her thoughts continued to whirl as randomly as the autumn leaves around her feet.
Thirty years soon… what symbol is it for a thirtieth anniversary? Will Roger remember? Or the children? I bet Ginny won’t even think it strange that her father was tempted elsewhere. I’ve got old and they don’t care.
Sylvia felt the burden of all those years, the isolation until the children were old enough for her to return to work, the drudgery of the office job, the endless toil at home with no one noticing the things she had done, only the things she hadn’t had time for. And somehow it hadn’t got any easier once the children left home. There always seemed to be something that they wanted but had no funds for. Anna’s voice ran like a recording in her head: ‘I’m not asking for myself, Mum, but I know you don’t want your grandchildren to be the odd ones out at school.’ What do they spend two good salaries on for there to be nothing left for the children? And why does it have to be designer stuff these days?
As for the time she spent helping out still A text that morning was ‘got the wallpaper’ – just those three words. That was for her to do the new nursery. A ‘hello’ or ‘please’ would be nice. I tried to teach them manners; are they polite to other people?
She suddenly realised she’d allowed herself to get sidetracked by the children again. Is that why he did it? Have I focussed too much on the children? Has he felt left out? But he never pays me any attention either…
Sylvia wondered just when he’d stopped desiring her. It was just over a year ago he’d persuaded her they would sleep better if they had separate bedrooms, substantially longer since they’d made love. He’d said she disturbed him with her snoring.
Do I snore? Or is that just an excuse, another convenient lie? Perhaps he feels less guilt if it’s just his bed he’s taking his mistress to, if indeed he feels anything so ‘plebeian’ as guilt.
Brake off, throttle jammed open, her mind raced over all the small ways he showed he hardly noticed her as a woman.
Convenient lie… I suppose I’ve always known he lies to me.
She groaned, wishing her brain had stayed numb. The tidal flood of things previously unacknowledged was overwhelming her defences. She was drowning and there was not a soul to throw a life ring.
Perhaps everything I thought was true was really just what I preferred to believe.
Both husband and children were better educated than she had been. Roger was a history professor, her four children were all rising stars in their various careers – or so they tell me…
Her once close circle of like-minded friends had evaporated over the years, with her living in a di
fferent area after her marriage then staying home looking after her growing family.
He never liked any of my friends – too ‘working class’ – and he let them know it, too.
Most of all she missed Melanie, with her zest for life, her understanding of what made people tick, her dependable good advice and the way she had of seeing the nub of a matter. They’d grown up together on the council estate and Melanie had always looked out for her gauche friend.
I’m sorry, Melanie, I should have made time for you. I’ve missed you and could really do with one of your hugs right now, and you telling me, ‘OK, so you’ve messed up again, but we can sort it.’ You wouldn’t care that I’m older and fatter and can’t afford fashionable clothes. Because I reckon that’s what it is - he’s ashamed of me. Ashamed, and bored, and knows he’s still attractive to women, can no doubt have any one of those bright young things he teaches.
She knew what Melanie would have answered: ‘So you’re not a lanky teenager any more, but ‘fat’? You’re five foot nine so size sixteen is curvy in all the right places, like Marilyn Munroe! Yeah, you’ve gone up a couple of dress sizes since having four kids. Big deal!’
Sylvia thought Roger had aged much better, though. His Oliver Reed eyes still invited every woman he met into bed, and his cycling, taken up again when the children got bikes, kept his muscles honed.
‘I’ll take them cycling,’ he’d say, ‘get them out of your hair while you’re busy.’
He never included me in the fun side of having a family. He was forever taking the children out, for their sports, or flying kites they made together, trips to the cinema and pantomimes. I was always ignored at school plays and sports’ days; the other mothers flocked around him, ‘how marvellous to see a father making time for his children’, ‘I can see where they get their talent and good looks from’…
And homework…
‘Don’t ask your mother,’ he always said, ‘she knows diddly-squat about anything.’
And my goodness did he crow about their academic achievement, claimed all the credit, said it was his genes that accounted for their intelligence.
But he’d stopped talking for hours on end about his work when he realised she’d done a great deal of research about his specialist area and had formed her own opinions about what life was like in seventeenth century England, especially for women. Her novel’s main character was a young woman from a strict Puritan family who fell in love with one of the Cavaliers who requisitioned her family’s manor house. Then the tide of the Civil War changed and the secret lovers were torn apart.
She winced anew at his patronising tone when her novel was first mentioned in public. They’d had a few neighbours round for a meal – well, a few in his book, not mine; he doesn’t have to do the shopping and cooking and clean up after ten people - and she’d finally risen to the bait after Phyllis had been goading her too long, with her feigned concern about Sylvia’s ‘drab little life’ and ‘lack of interests’; she’d told them she was writing in earnest.
Of course, it’s to be ‘Phyllida’ now, as it has more ‘class’. Phyllida! Doesn’t sound classier to me, more like a cream cheese. When did he last say my name, except in anger? It’s always ‘her’ or ‘she’…
‘So now you know our guilty secret,’ he’d said. ‘Her fluffy little romance was absorbing enough for her to forget to chill our wine.’
Phyllis had patted his arm and leaned in to him, wafting more clouds of that ghastly perfume around while she filled Roger’s glass. ‘Never mind, Roger, we prefer red, don’t we.’ She filled her own glass with red wine too, then pushed the warm bottle of white towards Sylvia.
But it’s not just a fluffy romance, whatever he says. My characters and their story are fictional, but it’s true to life and they behave in accordance with the mores of the time; all the details are historically accurate. He’d know that if he would only read it.
There’d been laughter down the phone from her agent when she admitted why she sounded a bit down. ‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘don’t ever expect support from the people you know. Family and friends are always last in the queue to take any interest in what you’ve been writing. It doesn’t look like ‘serious work’ so it can’t be, right?’
For the past three months she’d been staying in the office when everyone else had left for the day. It was the only way to guarantee a few hours of uninterrupted peace to concentrate on the final editing. She had a deadline to meet now she was under contract.
‘Oh, so it’s ‘I’m all right, Jack’, is it?’ he’d said in a mocking falsetto. ‘It’s ‘I’ve had a lovely meal in the canteen, thank you. I’m sure you can survive on a few scraps from the fridge.’’
‘You’re the one who claims you’re easy to cook for: ‘fresh, simple food, nothing fancy’.’ She knew all too well it was far from simple; she’d had thirty years of trying to come up with something to tempt his palate when he thought gravy was the only acceptable sauce, and certainly wouldn’t contemplate anything with spices.
Her book suddenly felt like a curse. She’d been so busy with her writing she hadn’t noticed the growing weight of pages had pushed open the lid of the box and let all the evils out into her world. She threw the parcel down. It skidded to the far end of the bench and teetered on the edge. It looked so innocent, but had seemingly cost her her marriage.
OK, so my marriage isn’t perfect, but it’s worth something, isn’t it? I’ve been happy enough haven’t I?
That earring... Whose is it? A friend? One of his students?
She frequently hosted gatherings at home, but they were Roger’s friends really, and his colleagues and favoured students.
‘You don’t get out often so, just for you, I’ll bring the social life to you,’ he’d said.
At first she’d looked forward to them, but inevitably got the all of the work and none of the fun. Roger introduced her as ‘the wife’ and no one listens to someone not worth a name.
She tried to think back over the women she had met. Which one of them would wear an earring like that? Which one had he shown particular attention to? No one in particular came to mind, but there had been dozens over the years.
No, wait…
There was another candidate for the role of mistress: Phyllis. She’d never liked the Merry Widow. There was something about her that just screamed ‘wily’ and ‘manipulative’.
Well she obviously saw Roger’s belly as a lever to get in.
At first he’d left the kitchen in chaos but within a week – and why did I never query the sudden turnaround? - it was spotless each night when she arrived home. Which would be about the time she’d noticed that faint, background odour that wasn’t her pot pourri or plug-in air fresheners.
No, that was Phyllis’ perfume… I recognise it now.
Perfume was well outside her budget and Roger never bought her personal gifts, being more your ‘new toaster’ kind of man when it came to birthdays, if he remembered at all, but she’d not forget that smell. Phyllis had forcibly sprayed her with it: ‘You’ll love it,’ she’d insisted.
Oh, Roger, all these years and this is what it’s come to?
She heard Melanie’s voice again. ‘Come to, or always been? He was never good enough for you.’
But he’s so clever, Melanie, so good looking I was stunned when he chose me to join him in that lovely old house in the best part of town. He could have had anyone but he chose me.
‘Sorry, Sylve, but he knew a sucker when he saw one. I tried to tell you but you wouldn’t listen. That fancy house wasn’t down to any effort of his; it was his parents’. What he wanted was a replacement for his mother, a new slave. And that’s what you’ve been for way too long. Listen up, girl! It’s time you started living. It’s not right that he gets the ‘for better’ and you get the ‘for worse’.
On her wedding day Melanie had pleaded with her to stop and think. Her final words before following her up the aisle were, ‘Do you love him?’
‘O
f course,’ she’d replied immediately, but even to her own ears, even then, her words had a hollow ring to them.
No, I didn’t love him. I was mesmerised by him; I idolised him, couldn’t believe my luck that someone so handsome, so charming, had noticed me, had chosen me.
Colour drained from her face as she contemplated the implications of that admission to herself.
All these years don’t ask a question if you don’t want to know the answer never admitting I knew he was straying because I’d have had to do something about it. So is it his fault or mine?
Her phone rang and she answered immediately, just as they’d drummed into her she must, whatever she was doing.
“Mum, hi. I thought you might like to come over tonight and see the twins.”
“Tonight, Simon? But they’re only three, they’ll be in bed.”
“But you can still look in on them. You haven’t seen them since last Sunday.”
She always cooked Sunday roast for everyone, and then it was just assumed she would wash up while they played games and drank wine.
“No, not tonight, Simon, I have some thinking to do.”
“Thinking?” Sylvia straightened her spine against the derision in his voice. “Umm, well, you could do that here.”
“And could I talk over with you what I’m thinking about?”
“We’ll, er, not be here. Another time, perhaps?”
“So you want a babysitter then? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Mum, Marianne gets cranky if she doesn’t get some ‘me time’ with the girls on Saturday.”
“And where will you be? Why won’t you be looking after your children?”
“Mum, are you feeling OK? You don’t sound your usual self at all.”
“Don’t change the subject,” she snapped. “Where will you be?”
“With my mates down the pub. It’s Saturday.” There was a pause. “So,” he said brightly, “about eight OK?”
“No.” She switched the phone right off.
Oh my goodness, I said ‘no’!
She pulled her parcel back towards her, patted it and found she was tingling all over, excited at the possibilities ahead of her if she remembered that two-letter word.
It seems the cost of a manuscript is being forced to accept that you’re in a loveless marriage; that not only is one’s husband a selfish jerk but he’s trained his children to follow their father’s lead. But I can say NO! Enough!
But exactly how much do I want to say ‘no’ to? ‘Enough’ of what, to be precise?
Sylvia leaned back against the bench, recalling what had led her to sit there in the first place.
The earring.
Awareness of her surroundings faded as her thoughts turned inward, deeper and deeper, logically dissecting what had been, what was, and what could be. It felt strange to look into all the dark corners of her mind. The spotlight of honesty with herself found the rusty locks to mental boxes in which lurked truths she’d assiduously sidestepped for too many years. Each one was forced open and the contents assessed.
She was forced back to the present by a small dog sniffing and licking her ankle.
“Heel, Bess!”
She looked up and saw an elderly gentleman approaching slowly, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The dog half-ran, half-bounced to him and wagged its fluffy tail, watching for the thrown treat.
“Sorry about Bess; she has a thing about ankles,” he said as they got to her bench. “Are you OK, Miss?” he asked, panting slightly as he sat beside her.
She nodded slowly. “Yes, thank you, I’m fine.”
“That’s good,” he said. “It takes me nearly an hour to get round the park and I don’t think you’ve moved a muscle in all that time. I was worried you’d had a funny turn or something.”
Sylvia smiled widely. “No, not a funny turn, but I do think I’m about to start having more fun. There was one thing left in Pandora’s box: hope.”
He cocked his head, then smiled too, his eyes twinkling. “Never lose hope,” he said. “Sometimes it’s all we have to keep us going.”
Realisation suddenly dawned about what else he’d said. “An hour?” She pulled her coat sleeve back to check her watch. “Sorry,” she said, “I’m going to have to dash before the Post Office shuts.”
He waved as she ran out of the park and crossed the road with a new spring in her step.
When it was her turn the cashier noted the weight and asked, “Is there anything of value in the parcel?”
“Pardon? Sorry, I was miles away.”
“What’s in the parcel? What did it cost you?” the cashier clarified patiently.
“The cost? Oh, just my marriage,” she replied.
“Pardon?” The cashier waited, pen poised over the registered delivery slip.
Sylvia smiled. “No value at all,” she said, calmly accepting her change.