Diamonds in the Mud and Other Stories (17 page)

For many years now I have been a familiar fixture in my local library, seated at a corner table, surrounded by reference books. During these years my pencil and paper have given way to a laptop computer and I have watched children grow into adults, watched adults grow old. I've had readers approach me, assuming I am an employee. It happened again on a bleak day in July.

‘Excuse,' he said. ‘I am look for the book . . . for my daughter . . . I 'ave two . . . how you say? Becoming young lady. Yes. And viss no mama. You understand? I am think there is book I gettink. Yes?'

How I felt for him and his girls, for I too had been at that difficult age when my mother died, although my dear father had not been so thoughtful. Peggy, my cousin, twelve months my junior, had instructed me. I found several excellent books, suitable for twelve to fourteen year old girls, then I walked with him to the counter where he presented his library card.

Zolton Verona. How well he suited his name. A devastatingly attractive man, his dark hair silvering at the temples and brow, his shirt and suit immaculate – and such a caring man. I felt an instant attraction and during the following week, spent more time watching for him than at my work.

He returned the books the following Saturday afternoon. He took my hand and carried it to his lips. That is the instant I fell in love, for the first time in my forty-nine years of life.

‘There is a little coffee shop around the corner. Would you . . . ?' I asked, unable to meet his eyes.

We sat for two hours, discussing many things. He spoke of his wife, lost to cancer, and of his daughters. ‘I make vow to my vife ven she is die. I say, your daughter vill vant for nothink. I vill be mama and papa.'

How did it happen, and so quickly? How did a plain, middle-aged author wake up one morning beside a god?

‘My papa, he vas a cold and very cruel man. He do this,' he said. I was holding his hand, tracing a long scar across his palm.

‘I vas child prodigy. My papa, he steal music from me – viss the knife. Ven I am no longer play concert circuit I become teacher.'

I kissed his dear scarred hand that all night had played concertos on my soul to the accompaniment of the overture to William Tell, one of our favourites.

We shared so much, a love of classical music, of fine restaurants and long beach rambles. I was finally living the life of one of my fictional heroines. Of course, when Peggy, my cousin, called in to sing the praises of her latest conquest, I spoke to her of my own love.

‘Verona? He sounds familiar,' she said. A computer operator, her positions as temporary as her male friends, Peggy suffered from an overload of experience and information. ‘I've heard that name before, mate.'

‘Of course you have. It's from Shakespeare.'

‘Could be. It had something to do with a school.'

Such a capable man, my Zolton. I watched enthralled as he took tools to my dripping shower and attached a new shower rose. ‘You 'ave very old pipe, my darlink,' he explained. ‘Is rust in him, vitch make trouble viss vasher. I fix for you. Also fix his . . . how you say? Thump-a-thump-a-thump.'

The water pipes were on the west wall, except for the one feeding my bathroom, which ran beneath the floorboards. He assured me that access could be gained to it, and the following Sunday he located an ancient access door, hidden behind my Daphne bush and unsighted by me in all the years I'd lived in that old house. On his hands and knees he crawled into the musty cave where, by torchlight, he laboured. By evening he had replaced the entire length of galvanised water pipe with plastic, making the final connection on the outside wall.

‘You are a genius, darling. What did I ever do to deserve you?' I asked as we ate our evening meal.

‘I love,' he said. ‘Ven I love, my voman she 'ave all vot is best I can give.'

Cousin Peg called me from her place of work the next day and I was effusive with my praise of Zolton.

‘You know how my bathroom pipe has had that banging vibration for years? Well Zolton fixed it yesterday,' I said. ‘He's so clever, Peggy. I am so lucky.'

‘He's a plumber, is he?'

‘No. No, he teaches music.'

‘Where?'

She gasped when I mentioned the name of an elitist boys' school, and for a moment I waited. Peggy was slow to continue, but continue she did. ‘Sorry to do this to you, mate, but you know how I told you I connected Verona with schools? It wasn't Shakespeare. He used to be the handyman and gardener at the school where my second last boss's fifteen year old goes. Zolton Verona tossed him through a plate glass door. I'm not saying he didn't deserve it. He probably did if he's anything like his father –'

‘Rubbish!'

‘What? Verona tossing him through the door or the kid deserving it?'

‘Zolton is a good, kind and gentle man, and I have to go, Peggy. I'm expecting a call from my editor.' I hung up. We were cousins; other than blood, we had little in common.

In the following weeks Zolton helped me choose a new car, a small red Honda. ‘Nice bright colour for your new life, darlink,' he said. Since Father's death, I'd been driving a twenty year old Merc; the Honda was a joy to drive. I did little writing but life was wonderful. We painted my kitchen, ate at restaurants, spent weekends in the country, and when I expressed concern that I was taking him away from his daughters, he told me of his old mother, who lived with him and his daughters.

‘She is 'appy viss grandchildren. Poor Mama. She is need operating now but the vaiting vill be three year. Ve 'ave no . . . what you say? Private?'

‘Private medical insurance.'

‘Yes. Ve 'ave none of this.' He looked at me with troubled eyes. ‘It vill be much, thousands for doctor, for hospital.'

‘An operation on the hand shouldn't mean a long stay in hospital, darling. One night perhaps.'

‘Is more bigger, but not for you to have vorry, darlink. I vill get loan, ven I finish pay my daughter's teeth. She 'ave the cross teeth.'

What was money to me? I'd inherited all my father possessed, a grand old house in Brighton, his savings, share portfolio, mother's jewellery. I also had a healthy income of my own. I wrote a cheque that night and pressed him to take it, delighted that I could save Mama months of pain. One day soon she'd be my own mama; he'd asked me to marry him, and I'd accepted, though we had agreed to delay the announcement until after the first anniversary of his wife's death.

For the past ten years Peggy and I had met for lunch on the third Wednesday of each month. I was tempted to cancel the meeting, but she is my only remaining family. We managed two courses that Wednesday without once mentioning our love lives, but when our coffees arrived, she looked me in the eye and said: ‘I've got to say it, mate. That sleaze will bleed you dry.' She was now temping at a bank – at my bank, where her enquiring mind had led her to glance at my account details. I'd recently cashed in a forty thousand term deposit.

‘How dare you, Peggy! Is there no privacy?'

‘Computers don't understand the concept, mate. I just hit the keys –'

‘I gave him a small loan, which he'll repay when he can.'

‘Don't hold your breath.'

I left my coffee on the table and picked up my handbag to leave. She followed me to the register.

‘I've been asking around, had a talk to my old boss. He told me the sleaze took one of the female teachers for twenty thousand. And you know Margo, who does my hair? Well he was on with her sister-in-law for three months, until she lent him her car. She had to hire a couple of her neighbour's kids to pinch it back.'

I didn't wait for my change. No doubt she collected it.

In October, Zolton wept in my arms, too distraught to make love. It was the anniversary of his wife's death and he could not afford even a modest tombstone to mark her resting place.

‘Her grave is a vound in the earth where the veeds grow tall, my darlink. My children cry to me, Papa, did you not care for our mama?'

I offered to go with him to choose the stone, but he wished to do it alone. As I counted out sufficient notes to cover the bill, I asked about Mama's operation. ‘Did it go well, dear?'

‘Operation?'

‘Mama's hand.'

‘Ah yes. She is now move two finger – a little. They vill do other hand very soon. I hope very soon. Such pain, she suffer. Some night I do not sleep for hear her cry viss agony.'

The following Sunday, Peggy had the nerve to knock on my door.

‘I am working, Peggy. My novel is overdue, and if you're going to start on Zolton again, then you're not welcome here,' I warned.

‘One coffee, mate. I've got something to show you.' Her current position was in the office of a large department store chain. Once seated, coffee before her, she pushed a computer printout beneath my nose: ‘Hilda May Verona. Next of kin – Zolton Verona.'

‘She's married to the sleaze, mate.'

‘He's a widower.' I pushed the page aside. ‘You're jealous because I've found love, Peggy. I would never have believed my own cousin could stoop so low. Please leave.'

‘What did I tell you in high school? Never confuse love with a good roll in the hay –'

‘Out!'

‘Just one more thing. I went to see Hilda, told her I was from the census bureau. She's been married to him for twenty years and she's got five sons.'

‘Zolton has two daughters and his wife died a year ago.'

‘Not quite.' Peggy was out that door and I was attempting to close it. ‘Almost though. She'd moved in with her mother, and Zolton came around and attacked her with a knife. One of their sons hit him over the head with a cricket bat and he fell on the knife – almost cut his thumb off. They ended up driving him to the hospital. Check it for a three inch diagonal scar across the palm.' I slammed the door. ‘Right hand,' she yelled.

I stood staring at that door but seeing my love's scarred right palm. I'd kissed it, mourned for the music his cruel father had stolen from him. I couldn't move. My mind was a turmoil of denial, battling logic. She'd seen his photograph, but had never met him. How could she know of his poor scarred hand? It could not be true. I would not allow it to be true.

Then it came to me. Of course. She and her hairdresser had concocted that fiction between them. But how could her hairdresser know of that scar unless the tale of her sister-in-law's involvement with Zolton was true?

The telephone rang. It was Peggy – on her mobile.

‘Forgot to ask you – what's happened to your new car, mate? I didn't see it. Incidentally, Margo's sister-in-law got hers back –'

I hung up.

Six months of Zolton's love had cost me more than my shrinking bank balance. My new novel had lost the plot. Each time I sat at it, I added a new element. The female detective, a lesbian in the early pages, was now in love with a concert pianist – a male. I had written myself into a corner and could not find my way out, and my publisher was on the telephone weekly, asking when I'd have a final draft.

Two weeks later I was forced to sell a few thousand BHP shares, but how could I in all conscience make poor Mama wait three years for her operation when I had the money to ease her pain now? Perhaps it could wait until after the wedding. Perhaps I should be more assertive, demand to meet his family, tell him I wanted a Christmas wedding.

With no car, I walked each morning to the library determined to somehow sort out my detective's love life. It was a long walk and my laptop computer heavy, still, Zolton's need was greater than mine. An independent man, he was now working six nights a week, playing piano at various clubs.

‘Vorkink for our future, my darlink,' he explained. ‘I vill not take you for vife until I 'ave somethink to offer.'

‘You are exhausting yourself, darling. This old house is too large for me. Move Mama and your daughters in here, then you can at least come home to me at night. Let me take care of you.'

‘This I vant so very much, but later, ven I show I am vorthy of your love.'

I missed Peggy, saw Zolton only on Tuesday evenings and he was rarely up to lovemaking. Loneliness is not a kind companion and a fiction writer's imagination is apt to play cruel tricks. The following Tuesday, after a late dinner, I opened Mother's jewellery box, slid her engagement ring – a large ruby, with three diamonds on each shoulder – onto my finger. I slipped on Mother's wedding ring to sit comfortably beside it.

‘Forget your pride, my love. Marry me now. Let your family be my family, your concerns be my concerns.'

He took the rings from my finger, held the ruby to the light, kissed me, then sadly shook his head, closed and locked the jewellery box and handed me the key.

‘I vill buy new vedding ring for new life, darlink. This I must do, to prove my love is true.'

Christmas was almost upon us and still no date set. When he hadn't arrived by seven that final Tuesday, I was concerned. He had driven up to a country school that morning where he hoped to gain a teaching position. If successful, he'd promised we'd wed, sell my home, and begin a new life in a new town with Mama and his girls. As the hour grew later, I began to fear for him. I saw him lying injured on the road, saw my little red car crushed. By nine I was frantic and as I reached for the phone to call the police, it rang. I picked it up, fearing the worst.

It was Peggy. ‘Don't hang up. I'm on my mobile and my battery is flat but if you want to catch a rat, red-handed, he's at Ricardo's in –'

‘Playing the piano? On a Tuesday?'

‘No. Dining out with an old blonde –'

‘You're mistaken. He's in the country.'

‘Well your car isn't. I was driving by with Mick and I recognised your car's numberplate. The sleaze is sitting opposite a blonde dame and they're drinking champagne. Whoops. He's kissing her hand – no, her ring. Now she's kissing him. Get down here quick! You've got to see –' The line went dead.