Sam's Song

by Hannah Howe

  Chapter Fifteen

  My morning alarm woke me at 7 a.m. I hit snooze, turned over in bed and pulled a pillow over my head. Ten minutes later, the alarm went off again. I groaned, switched the damn thing off then stumbled into the bathroom for a shower. In the shower, I thought about T.P. McGill’s murder, to no great effect, I thought about breakfast and concluded that fruit juice would do and I decided that when I become Mistress of the Universe and Controller of All Things, I shall pass a law stating that the day shall not commence before noon. I ask you, 7 a.m. in late autumn – it’s still dark, so how are we supposed to be awake?

  After sipping my fruit juice and checking my pulse to make sure that I was still alive and not wandering around in a ghost-like dream – believe me, I am not a morning person – I drove to Castle Gwyn recording studios.

  I parked my Mini, climbed out of the car and shut the door. Actually, I slammed it – the door handle was damp from overnight rain and it sort of slipped from my fingers – that’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it. I threw my bag over my shoulder, set foot towards the castle, then halted abruptly and groaned. Dr Storey was walking across the drawbridge towards me. He’s a married man, he’s trouble, don’t get involved. After Dan, my ex, he was the last person I wanted to see, so I tried to get my mind into gear and work out an escape strategy. Could I wander into the trees and admire them like an ardent nature lover? Could I wander into the bushes, casual-like, and pretend that I needed a pee? Could I...my thoughts were becoming more and more ridiculous and before I could work out what to do, Dr Storey was standing in front of me.

  “Great to see you again,” he smiled.

  “Yeah.” I averted my eyes, staring down to the damp ground. “You’ve been to see Derwena?”

  Dr Storey nodded. “She’s going through a crisis. She needed to talk.”

  I looked up and frowned. “How is she?”

  “A little calmer.”

  “Did you give her anything?”

  Dr Storey’s smile broadened. He had a charming, good-natured smile. “Only my words. My words and my listening skills are my medication. I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist – I don’t prescribe drugs.”

  I smiled impishly. “Probably got enough in her system already.”

  “Milton wants Derwena to go cold turkey. I advised against – this is not a good time. Though, in truth, there is rarely a good time to go cold turkey.”

  Dr Storey started to walk towards the trees, following a country path that wound its way towards a river. My initial panic at seeing him had faded and I felt more relaxed in his presence, so I followed him out of courtesy.

  He ducked under a low, soggy, sagging branch, then lifted the branch to ensure that I wouldn’t walk into it, or get wet. “Derwena told me about the shower routine. Where did you learn a stunt like that?”

  “Sobering up my mother. She was an alcoholic. She needed a lot of sobering up.”

  He paused, his handsome features pensive, thoughtful. “That must have been tough on you.”

  “It was tough on a seven year old. By the time I got to ten, it was easier.”

  Dr Storey nodded, a simple gesture that revealed his understanding. “Your mother’s illness must have had a debilitating effect on your upbringing, your schooling, your social life.”

  “I had no social life. Basically, I quit school at twelve to look after my mum. I tried to educate myself through books – I’ve always liked reading. I joined the local library and spent all my spare time there, reading. I spent so much time in the library, the patrons thought I was a member of staff! There is so much to learn, about the past, our planet, the universe. I know a little about most things but not a great deal about much, if that makes sense. I nursed my mother through until she died – her liver gave out – then I went to night school. I studied to become a secretary-typist. No one in my family had worked in an office before; they’d all been manual workers, so I thought I was doing well. Then I met Dan and you know the rest...”

  “What about your father in all of this?”

  I turned and stared at a tall, strong, oak tree. “I’d rather not talk about him.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” I glared at Dr Storey. I was annoyed for some reason and I could feel myself losing it. “No you don’t, you don’t understand.”

  “It’s okay.” Dr Storey held out a hand, as though to touch me on the shoulder, to offer reassurance, but I pulled away. “Don’t get upset,” he pleaded.

  “Easy for you to say,” I mumbled, turning my attention back to the oak tree. We stood in uneasy silence as I reflected. This man was offering his compassion and I was being a bitch. I get like that sometimes, especially when I think about my father. And when I’m in this kind of mood, I’m not a nice person to be around.

  Dr Storey shuffled his feet, kicking up the leaves. He pursed his lips. He sighed, and turned towards the castle.

  “Dr Storey...”

  He paused and glanced over his shoulder. His shoulders were hunched, his hands deep in his raincoat pockets. “Alan. My friends call me Alan. And I would like to regard you as a friend.”

  “Alan...” I hesitated, then I took a step towards him. “I’m sorry, I lose it sometimes; you didn’t deserve that.”

  His shoulders relaxed and his features softened. He gave me a laconic smile and shrugged. “Apology accepted.”

  We continued along the track, pausing by the river. The river was in full spate, restless after the overnight rain.

  Dr Storey gazed at the river, his thoughts apparently lost in the turbulent water. “You’ve told me many personal details about your life, and I’m grateful. I’d like to tell you a little about mine.”

  I was still feeling edgy. I felt fragile, emotional. I replied tersely, “If you must.”

  “I saw you looking at the picture on my desk, of my wife.”

  “I don’t want to know. No offence, but I don’t want to go there.”

  You see, Sam, it’s like this: I no longer love my wife, but I have to stay with her because of the kids/the cat/the goldfish. I was thinking that maybe we could have an affair. Although, affairs can become fractious and stale, so what about a one night stand? I would still respect you in the morning and we could still be friends...

  “She’s dead. She died seven years ago.”

  Oh, God. Ground open up, swallow me now. Did he know what I was thinking? Could he sense what I was thinking? He was a psychologist, after all, trained to read people’s minds and emotions. I felt my face flush and two spots of red burn deep into my cheeks. I had never been so embarrassed. I felt like jumping into the river and allowing the cold water to sweep me away.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologised, tripping over my words. “I talk without thinking sometimes. My mouth just rambles on. I didn’t mean any offence.”

  “It’s okay,” Alan replied easily, “you weren’t to know. The little girl in the picture is our daughter, Alis, she’s sixteen now.”

  I took a step towards him, my embarrassment melting into sympathy. “So you’ve brought her up, on your own?”

  “With the help of family and friends.”

  “That must be tough.”

  He gazed at me, then at the river. A fallen branch went sweeping past, only to stall against the muddy riverbank. “We’ve had some difficult moments, but our love for each other pulled us through. For the past seven years, my main focus has been on Alis, tending to her practical and emotional needs. But she’s sixteen now going on sixty and she needs more space for herself. And, to be honest, I have needs too. I think the time is right to create a life for myself.” He stared at me as he made that statement, his eyes studying my face, like a painter searching for the finest detail. “Look, I guess you’re not short of offers, but I’d like to invite you to dinner.”

  Yikes, he still likes me despite my menstrual moods.

  I grinned. I g
uess I was flattered. “You reckon I could do with a square meal?”

  He laughed. “Let’s just say I reckon a few square meals wouldn’t do you any harm.”

  And after dinner? Inwardly, I frowned. What’s the social protocol? Does he jump on me, or do I jump on him? Do we hold hands? Do we kiss? Do we use tongues? I was so out of touch...

  “If we arrange dinner for tomorrow evening, Alis has her still-life drawing class and I have to pick her up at ten.”

  Saved by an apple, a banana and an orange. “That sounds fine.”

  Alan gave me a broad, happy smile. “Until tomorrow at eight o’clock then, at Donadoni’s on the waterfront. You can fill me in on your investigations.”

  I nodded. I looked at my watch. It was time to get back to the castle and crack on with them.

  We walked back to the castle in easy silence, occasionally pausing to admire and comment on the beauty of our surroundings. As we walked the little devil in my head gnawed away at me, love hurts, Sam, he’s a man, he’ll hurt you, don’t get involved. But my little angel asserted herself, he’s not like Dan, he’s a kind, considerate man; anyway, this isn’t love, it’s just two friends having dinner. Maybe I was deluding myself. Maybe I was desperate to free myself from the deep-seated fear instilled in me by my mother and Dan. Whatever the reason, subconscious or otherwise, I resolved to look forward to our dinner. After all, I’d given Alan enough reasons to push me into the river, and he hadn’t. Surely, that had to count for something.