Hill Manse ... Chapter 9

Chapter 9

“Jack seems like a really great guy. He’s been attentive and kind but then, most men usually start out that way. I’m hoping he’s a keeper, though … and a marathon runner, not a sprinter … but, as yet, I can’t tell. Judging a man’s character takes time but I’ve got plenty of time.”

Fiona had paused near a ballpark fence to watch some local lads play football when Richard saw her, walked over and stood beside her. He’d asked her to have a beer with him across the street. It happened to be a pub the two of them had frequented a lot in former days.

“You think of me as a sprinter, Fi?” He rotated his glass nervously creating wet swirls on the tabletop.

“Yeah, guess I do. You’re a ‘good time Charlie’, but that’s all some girls want … so you’ll seldom lack female company.” Fiona’s insides were tied in knots but she wouldn’t let him see that. She had learned, while she was with him, how not to let her feelings show. What is this hold he has on me? He can be easily replaced … with Jack? ... maybe. “I’d better go … thanks for the beer.”

“Wait … please, luv, don’t go yet.” He reached across the table and caught her hand. “You haven’t had the other half.”

Fiona frowned. “What do you want, Richard?”

He released her and rubbed his broad palm across his face.

“God, I wish I knew, Fi. I miss you … I miss the fun we had, the closeness. We’ve got so much in common. I really like you … I care about you. Fi, you’re pretty and smart … a special girl. I don’t know how things went so wrong.”

“I know how, Richard. You had no respect for me. It’s as simple as that. I have to go now. Be happy.” Lifting her purse strap off the back of the chair she walked quickly through the pub exit and out into the late afternoon sunshine.

“Bloody hell…’respect’ be damned.” Richard was bellowing at no one in particular, as he was alone in his Topo with the windows rolled down, moving at a snail's pace, mooshed in among the sluggish end-of-day traffic to nowhere in particular. “What does she think ‘respect’ means? Is it marriage … fidelity … constant attention … what?”

Pulling off the busy motorway, he worked his way through the side streets and one-way allies and eventually pulled-up in front of his house … his mum’s house, actually, but someday it would be his. A wild swinging bachelor pad, as Playboy mag’s Hugh Heffner would have it. And, that bloody well could happen … if Fiona won’t have me.

“Bloody hell!” he bellowed again and slammed the car door.

“Richard, I’m pleased you decided to come home this evening. You are in luck, dear boy, Daisy was here this afternoon and helped me put together a shepherds pie. You just missed her, I’m afraid. I’ll take it out of the oven in about … hmmm,” she looked at the delicate watch on her wrist, “in about a quarter of an hour. That’ll give you time to freshen up and have that martin thing you’re so fond of.”

“Martini, Mum … it’s called a martini.”

“Oh, dear … something’s upset you again.” Mrs. Hamblin closed her eyes, took a deep breath, released it and laid her needlepoint in the workbasket beside her chair. Sitting at attention, her hands folded in her lap, she waited for her son to speak.

“I suppose she regaled you with all the dazzling wedding plans, the honeymoon trip abroad, and how happy she was to have finally found a ‘prince’ among the frogs one usually finds in London these days. I’m glad I missed her.” His words dripped with sarcasm.

“I am, too. You’re offensive manner is utterly shameful. I’ll be sure our Daisy won’t ever encounter you here. In the future, please call before coming home.” She slowly rose from her chair using the arms to hold her steady, walked out of the drawing room and into her warm, pleasantly fragrant kitchen.

Splashing cold water on his face helped to settle his temper. He walked into the bedroom with a towel looped around his neck, perched on the edge of the bed, rested his forearms on his thighs and hung his head.

Damn … when did I become such a bleedin’ bastard? Get a grip, Dicky old boy. Dicky … Fi used to call me that when we were on our own. That seems a long time ago. She wants a committed chap … marriage … kids. She wants what Daisy is going to have … a future with a man who intends to make her happy … a man who wants a family. Portchier is that kind of man … I know it and so does Daisy ... so does Mum. Poor Mum … move your arse downstairs, Hamblin … make things right.

Pouring a splash of sherry into two cordial glasses, Richard carried them into the kitchen and offered one to his mother.

“Mum … I apologize for my beastly behavior. There’s no excuse for what I said and I hurt you. I’m genuinely sorry. I know Daisy’s a wonderful girl who deserves the best and I know the Virginian is a first-rate chap. He’ll make her happy … he’ll make her a good husband.”

“Yes … I, too, think he will be a good husband … a splendid husband, in fact.” Charlotte Hamblin happily accepted his peace offering and apology.

“Tea is on the table, Son ... sit down.”

“Now … this is good. The lamb is cooked perfectly; the veg didn’t turn to mush and the potatoes … mmmm … nice and creamy. You did a smashing job, Mum.”

“Daisy is a very good teacher.” Mrs. Hamblin offered him a second helping. “By the way, dear … I won’t be home tomorrow evening. I’m having tea with a colleague of yours and his wife … Basil and Cathy Ashcroft. They are going to the pictures and I’ve offered to sit with their baby. His name is Errol and he is adorable.”

“Basil and Cathy … how do you know them?” He piled several more heaps of the sheps pie upon his plate … ladling a river of brown sauce over the top.

“Through Daisy, of course. She occasionally stays with the baby when the Ashcroft’s go out, which they can’t manage very often, but she’s unable to do it tomorrow night, so I offered.” Mrs. Hamblin smiled, remembering the delights of the day. “Cathy and the baby came with Daisy this afternoon. I’m really looking forward to it. I may never have grandchildren of my own so this is the next best thing. I can cuddle and rock little Errol to my hearts content. You may think this is silly, but I can still smell the freshly powdered scent of him.” Rising, she moved over to the counter and brought the still hot teapot to the table and refilled their cups.

Richard helped his mother put away the food and pile the dirty dishes into the sink for Dora to take care of in the morning before heading out to his club to play cards.

In fact, once he got there, he didn’t feel like playing cards. He wanted to think. Finding an empty corner in the dimly lit bar, he sipped on a whiskey and soda and tried to sort out his mind, but found he was sulking, instead.

Mum heaped another layer of dung on me tonight. She wants grandchildren to rock and smell. As if I don’t feel guilt-ridden enough for failing to meet Fi’s expectations, now I’m a failure as a son. Next thing I know, my fans will start complaining about my column failing to report the games and the players to their liking.

“Hallo, Rodney,” he called to the barman, “another of the same over here.”

....

“Portchier ... hold up there old chap.” Richard hailed Jackson from his Topo as he pulled into the parking spot next to the Virginian’s MG at the Times office. “Hasn’t been an opportunity to congratulate you on your up and coming nuptials. This weekend, right? Mum and I’ll be there to wish you both all the best! A great girl is Daisy. You’re a fortunate sod.”

“I completely agree.” Moving around the back of his car to shake Richard’s outstretched hand, Jackson smiled broadly. “I’ve not met another woman who suited me so well as she does. That sounds pretty one-sided, but she told me that I suited her to a ‘T’, also.”

“Can’t ask for much more than that, I suppose. Have you had your second cup of coffee yet?” Richard double-stepped to keep up with Jackson’s long strides. “I’d like to, uh, you know, hear about your plans ... after you’ve finished the Gregor project.”

“How about the pastry shop two doors down?”

“Fine ... but it’s my pence.” Richard declared.

Two steaming beakers of coffee and a plate of sugary biscuits were brought to their table near the front window.

“When Daisy told me you and she were getting married, I confess I was skeptical, to say the least. You’d barely met each other, don’t you know ... awfully strange, that.” Richard was nervously stirring milk and sugar into his coffee. “I’d dated her myself a few times and we were still just getting acquainted.”

“To tell you the truth, Hamblin, I was taken by Daisy the first day I’d met her. She sat in the chair you’re sitting in right now and knocked me for a loop. Her lovely face, friendly, open personality along with her compassion, curiosity and obvious intelligence just bowled me over. If she’d asked me to retype all the statistical data packed into those reams of information the Gregor’s had collected, I’d have done it just to be near her. Fortunately, what I was asked to do was very interesting and important.” Dipping his confection into his coffee he continued. “I know Daisy told you a lot about herself. She considers you a good friend. We included a summary of Pat Chaynes’ mental problems as an anonymous testament in one of the first chapters of the Veterans manuscript. She really struggled when she told me about her second fiancé, David something or other, since he didn’t have mental fatigue, but moral fatigue. She didn’t want to date anyone ... hadn’t for a couple of years. As far as she was concerned, men were untrustworthy slime. But, she did enjoy your company and absolutely loved your mother.” He smiled over at Richard. “Thought I’d let you ‘test the waters’ before I asked her out.”

“But, you didn’t ask her out ... you asked her to marry you! That’s crazy, old boy.” Shaking his head he said, “I’d like to understand your thinking there.”

“Probably the same as yours. You know, the night of the dance at the Continental Ballroom where you’d met up with your ex-girlfriend, Fiona. What did you say to her after you’d apologized?”

“What has that to do with your thinking about marrying Daisy?”

“I’m a thirty-four year old traditional man with my emotional and physical prowess poised to perform and I yearn for Daisy ... only Daisy. I want to make love to her, but I also want to protect her, make her happy, father her children ... our children, and make a home for us. I know we’ll add value to each other’s lives. Isn’t that how you feel about Fiona? Daisy said it was obvious you were crazy about her.”

“I am crazy about her. But, I’m also a selfish bastard.” Richard stood, placed some money on the table, turned and left. A puzzled Jackson stared after him.

....

Daisy and Jackson had no family present at their wedding, just the few friends and working acquaintances they’d made while in London. Therefore, instead of the ballroom, the large downstairs drawing room that led out to the garden was where the ceremony took place.

Alistair Gregor met Daisy at the foot of the winding staircase and escorted her to a provisional alter set up in front of the hearth, flanked by floor to ceiling windows that afforded a gorgeous view of the riotously blooming rose garden. A Church of England minister officiated, Duff stood as Best Man and Cara was Matron of Honor.

A late afternoon swath of sunlight lay across the laps of the guests as the bride was guided toward her groom. Jackson’s breath hitched in his chest when his eyes fixed upon Daisy. She floated effortlessly. She embraced elegance ... a tall slim white silky length of gorgeous femininity.

Thank you, God ... thank you!

Daisy was far from feeling as calm as she looked. And, it wasn’t fear that filled her ... she was engulfed by an exultant rush of joy. There stood Jackson’s confident presence. The way he looked at her took her breath away. He was a magnificent man and he loved her.

Oh, dear Lord ... thank you so much!

A weeklong honeymoon in Paris ... the Gregor’s had insisted. After spending their wedding night in the Palace Hotel’s bridal suite, the Portchier’s were whisked off to Heathrow to board a flight to Paris.

“It will probably be hot and humid”, remarked Duff, “it is June, after all. But, my dear, Paris is Paris. They’ll have a wonderful time.” He moved Cara deeper into the privacy of the garden. “It will be a bit cooler in September ... when we begin our wedding trip.”

“Three weeks abroad. I’ve never been away from Donal that long before,” fretted Cara. “But, he’ll be in school for most of each day, except weekends. He’s a big boy ... I know he’ll be fine.”

Duff let her talk it though then folded her against him and kissed her. “I love you, Cara McNally and ... I love that boy of ours, too. Let’s take him to a matinee on Saturday ... A Hopalong Cassidy flick is playing, I think.”

“You take him, lover. I have wedding stuff to take care of. If I don’t, Rosemary will start plaguing me again with her lofty opinions.” She smiled and took his arm as they strolled back to the house.

Charlotte Hamblin wiped away more tears. She wept each time she pictured Daisy moving slowly, seeming to float, her hand on the arm of Alistair Gregor, toward Jackson Portchier ... who she thought was a fine man ... an attractive man. But, Daisy was so, so lovely ... a vision of happiness. She’d ask Richard to bring his fancy and very expensive camera to the wedding. He’d done so and persuasively posed the bride and groom and the whole wedding party. She could hardly wait for the prints. She’d make sure Daisy got a set framed as a wedding gift.

At the ceremony and the buffet meal following, Richard was all charm and good will toward the happy couple as well as gentlemanly, thoughtful and seemingly cheerful to his mother. She was pleased but also dubious. His merry manner did not ring true ... not to one who knew him so well.

Something the Virginian said the other day had stuck in Richard’s mind. He said ... they, meaning he and Daisy, would add value to each other’s lives. He didn’t see marriage as the man being hobbled in any way that was important. The chap was pretty naïve. He’d find out soon enough that marriage was a trap ... like that new song just out: The Tender Trap. Not that he thought his marriage to Gwen was a trap. She’d been his girl all through childhood ... pretty and sweet, and he’d loved her. But she was dead. How would he feel about her now ... if she’d lived? They’d be married over twelve years, now ... probably have some kids ... a nice house somewhere ... planning vacations ... going to ball games together ... having Sunday meals at his mother’s. Or, would they be at each other’s throats? ... each unable to tolerate the other’s presence? ... hating the life they’d built together?

No ... he wouldn’t have let that happen. He’d loved Gwennie. He wouldn’t have had time to become the selfish sod he was today. He hoped he wouldn’t have, anyway.

Fiona isn’t like Gwen. Well, maybe in one way ... she was a virgin when we first met. I sweet-talked her out of that after a couple of months. Medium height, both of them ... Fi has quite large breasts ... Gwen only had a handful. Fi has lots of long lush auburn hair. Gwen had medium brown hair rolled and pinned high in the front, the back hanging loose to her shoulders ... a popular style the girls wore in the forties. Fi loves all kinds of sports ... I don’t remember whether Gwen did or not. But, Gwennie needed me ... trusted me. I don’t think Fiona does ... not anymore. Gwen was more timid than Fi. In fact, Fi isn’t the quiet girl she once was. She’s become more ... what? ... confident? ... pushy? ... unwomanly? That’s a laugh. Fiona is more ‘woman’ than most, I’ll wager.

His mind was whirling. He’d never get to sleep at this rate. Richard sat up, looked at the clock ... half past twelve, then pounded on the pillows and turned them over to the cooler side, threw off his bedclothes and stared up at the ceiling. Damn ... got to get some sleep ... a long day of rugger in Manchester to cover tomorrow. If I was still with Fi, she might have been able to take the day off and come with me. Bloody hell!

Fiona was on her way back to Court of King’s bench after a quick lunch with Jack when she spotted Richard sitting on a concrete bench near the main entrance. There was nothing for it ... she had to pass him to get inside. She could pretend not to see him but that seemed a bit thin. Wouldn’t have done anyway, he was watching for her. He stood up and hooked her arm into the crook of his elbow.

“What are you doing here, Richard. Let go of my arm ... I’ve got to get back to court.”

“I checked ... you’ve got some time yet”, he said lightly. “There’s something I need to tell you ... it’s important.”

“It may be important to you, but I doubt I’d think so. Leave me alone, Richard. I’m going out with someone else now ... don’t ruin it for me. Stop coming ‘round me, please.” She pulled her arm free and stepped quickly through the door. Tears were forming on her lower lashes as she dashed toward the ladies loo.

Got only five minutes to pee, blow my nose, wipe the mascara from under my eyes and put on a fresh coat of lipstick. The silly sod ... what’s he up to, anyway? Trying to ruin my chances with Jack, probably. Right now he’s not even sure he wants me back. Even if he was sure, it wouldn’t last. I’ve told him I’m not interested ... why doesn’t he just leave me alone? Taking a square of tissue from her purse, she blotted her lips again, sniffed, fluffed her hair, opened the door to the still empty courtroom and sat down at her transcriber. Gah! My stomach’s in knots. I can’t be sick. Take a deep breath ... just breathe. Jack’s a good man ... I could love him if given the chance ... if Richard would just stay away and give me the chance.

Leaning against one of the four Tuscan columns that fronted the Court of King’s building, Richard stared after her. She wasn’t about to give him a break. For weeks, now, she’d been on his mind so much that his writing was suffering. He’d even tried to see things from her point of view. He’d planned to tell her he’d marry her. He’d promise her he’d be faithful and to respect her, too. How could he say what he wanted to say if she wouldn’t give him the time of day? How was he going to win her back?

A letter! I write for a living and do it a damn site better than most chappies can manage. I’ll write her a love letter.

He very soon found that writing a love letter was a lot harder than writing a play-by-play description of a sports match. The stiff manner of his approach sickened him. Why would anyone believe such drivel? Fi, sure as hell, wouldn’t. He’d started over at least a dozen times, but the end result wasn’t credible or charming or even romantic. Where was tenderness, affection, appreciation, or warmth? He thought back to when he’d first met her. She was pretty, bright and enthusiastic, an innocent twenty-two year old finishing up her last year at that steno school. He’d been eleven years older than Fi ... she was a kid and he was a ‘man of the world’. A man who usually got what he wanted from a ‘bird’ ... birds ... that’s what ‘Goodtime Charlie’s’ called the girls. For Fiona, a good time was watching sports, following the stats of the players, going to the games and to Saturday night dances with him. They had good times together and Fi loved him, wanted to be with him, wanted a future with him. She hadn’t said as much, but he could tell things were getting too serious. He backed off and left her to flail in the wind.

Why should she take a chance on him again? Why would she believe he wasn’t going to be a selfish bastard anymore? Her thinking might be that just because she was the perfect woman for him, it didn’t follow that he was the perfect man for her. How could he convince her he was?