Duplicity (28 page)

It was the following morning that the letter arrived for Roselle, devastating all of his family, although Roddy himself seemed to be excited about being sent to New York at a moment’s notice.

‘It’s promotion for me,’ she read aloud, ‘and I have to leave tomorrow or somebody else will get the chance. It’s a step up the ladder, with a raise in salary and the promise of further promotion if I work hard. It’s something I’ve been hoping for, but I never dreamt I’d be as lucky as to get to New York. It breaks my heart that I won’t get time to come home before I leave, but, cross my heart and hope to die, I
will
write regularly to let you know how I’m doing. Love to all.’

Love to all? Dyllis thought forlornly, as her father drove her to work. It was a bit offhand, wasn’t it? But later, sitting at her computer, it dawned on her that Roddy couldn’t really have singled her out as the recipient of his love. Although he knew how she felt about him, he was doing the right thing as far as he was concerned, and it probably was the only thing he could do. He’d had no intention of setting the cat among the pigeons by taking her away with him, and he must have asked for this transfer to America to get away from temptation. It just seemed a bit insensitive.

‘Cheer up, Dilly, it’ll never happen.’

She looked up in surprise to find one of the other typists regarding her in some concern. ‘What’ll never happen?’ she frowned.

‘You sighed just now like you had the worries of the world on your shoulders. If there’s anything I can do to help …’

‘I’m fine, Trace.’ Her conscience reminded her that Tracy Little had grown up with them, had been in the same class at school. ‘Well, Mum had a letter this morning from Roddy. He’s being transferred to New York.’

‘But …’ The girl hesitated, then went on, ‘I forgot you were twins, so I suppose you’ll feel it more.’

‘It was a bit of a shock, but I should be used to him being away from home. He’s been in Liverpool for over a year now.’

‘I suppose he got home now and then from there, though. I can understand why you’re upset about him going so far away. Mind you, I’d be delighted if my pest of a brother was sent as far away as that. At least I’d be able to have a shower without him yelling that he needs a shower as well as me. You know, I sometimes think he’d like to see me in the altogether.’

Dyllis had to laugh at that, too. ‘Oh, Trace, you’re a real tonic, and you’re right. A brother’s just a pain in the neck.’

But it wasn’t her neck that was aching. It was her heart, and she would have to learn how to control her feelings, otherwise her parents would realise the truth. Then the shit would hit the fan with a vengeance. She shook her head at her stupid thoughts. By this time, Roddy would be thousands of miles away from her, and they would have to get used to a life without each other.

Her sigh of resignation was so loud that the man on his way past her stopped. ‘Is something wrong? Miss Lewis, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Mr Richardson. Dyllis, and nothing’s wrong, really; just me being silly about something that’s happened.’ ‘Something in the office?’

‘No, no! Something in my family, and honestly, it’s nothing.’

‘It’s not nothing, I can tell that. Look, I was on my way to have some lunch, and I’d be glad of some company, if you’d care to join me?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t. What would people think?’

‘People always think something. Let them think what they like. Go and get your coat, and I’ll meet you downstairs.’

By the end of the next hour, Dyllis felt much better. Mr Richardson had been good company, not snooty or anything like that. Just ordinary, with a sense of humour that appealed to her, and his eyes - striking blue eyes - crinkled at the corners when he laughed. His light brown hair was brushed back immaculately, but halfway through their meal, a wayward tress flopped down on to his forehead. It made him look younger. He must be in his thirties, she guessed, but he could pass for twenty-five now.

He broke into her assessment of his age. ‘I suppose it’s time we were getting back to the grindstone, Dyllis. You don’t mind if I call you Dyllis?’

‘No, of course not, Mr Richardson.’

He did not tell her his Christian name, but of course he wouldn’t, she told herself. This was a one-off, very enjoyable, lunch together, only because he’d felt sorry for her. That was it. No more. Finis. And so be it!

Despite her reasoning, she did feel a little peeved that he didn’t walk back to the office with her. ‘I have an appointment at two at the Exhibition Centre at the Bridge of Don,’ he said by way of an explanation, as he turned into the car park. ‘Thank you for being such an interesting companion.’

‘Thank you, Mr Richardson. I usually just have a sandwich.’

‘We must do it again sometime.’

Her steps were light as she ran up the stairs instead of waiting for the lift, and the change in her expression made Tracy say, ‘Well, what happened to you that brought the stars to your eyes?’

‘Don’t be silly. I’ve got rid of my blues, that’s all.’

Her thoughts centred on the manager for the rest of the afternoon. She had always liked him, ever since he took over about six months ago, but he was on a different plane from her. She had never dreamt that she would have lunch with him one day, and chat to him as though he were an old friend. His manner had made her think he was interested in everything she said, and that was heartening. She didn’t place too much belief in his last few words, though. He was just being polite.

Helen Milne was bored. She had never been one for sitting about doing nothing, and though she liked to read, she didn’t like to spend all of her days reading. If only she had some kind of hobby to pass the time. Frank was in his element looking after her, of course, and she shouldn’t complain, but that wasn’t how things should be. She had always looked after him, and seeing him with an apron round his paunch cheerfully whistling while he did the ironing, or peeled the spuds, or washed the dishes - well it was rubbing the salt into the wound, so to speak. He sometimes bought her a jigsaw puzzle, but the stroke had left her paralysed down her right side, and it was so awkward using her left hand that she often dropped the pieces. Still, practice makes perfect, as the saying went, so maybe she’d get better if she kept at it.

She was lucky she had Frank for a husband; not many wives were so blessed. She could hear him upstairs now. He had made their bed and vacuumed the floor by this time, so what could he still be doing, moving things about like that? Hearing his feet on the stairs, she couldn’t help the edge in her voice. ‘What have you being doing up there all this time? You don’t need to be so fussy. Nobody’s ever going to see it.’

He came round within her vision carrying a large box, which he laid down on the table, the first thing he had bought to help her cope with her disability. Its casters made it easy for her to move, and the top could be tilted to whatever position she wanted. He had got the high chair for her next; more comfortable for her to sit on all day than the sagging old armchair she had claimed before. Watching as he opened the box, she snapped, ‘Why did you trail that box of old snaps down? It must be covered in dust.’

‘I gave it a good brush out of the bedroom window,’ Frank said quietly, having learned to keep his temper with her. ‘I thought maybe you’d like to have a look through it, and throw out all the duplicates and mistakes.’

‘Ah, well.’ It was quite a good idea really, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. He had taken so many photos over the years, some of them inspired, some passable, but some double takes, or headless groups, or out of focus. Yes, they were the ones she’d need to weed out.

As her husband had known, this project took her over a month of closely inspecting each photograph, remembering where and when it had been taken, and discussing with him the forgotten names of many of the people in them.

She was nearing the end of her task when further inspiration struck him, and the very next day he came home from his shopping trip with, in addition to the usual groceries and toiletries, a large bag that she saw contained some bulky items, their corners poking through the plastic. ‘What have you been buying now?’ she queried, annoyed at him for apparently wasting money on things that weren’t necessities.

Tapping his index finger, knuckles swollen by rheumatism, against his nose, Frank delved inside the bag and took something out with the flourish of a magician producing a rabbit out of a hat. ‘What … ?’ she began, but he shook his balding head and eventually had six of the identical looking volumes spread over her table.

Intrigued in spite of herself, Helen lifted the nearest one and turned it over. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed in delight. ‘A photograph album. Why didn’t I think of that?’

He was pleased by her reaction. Everything he did, he did for her, and as a rule she gave no indication when she was pleased, although she was quick to let him know when she wasn’t. ‘I was wondering what to get for you to pass the time, and it just dawned on me you often used to speak about putting the snaps in albums.’

‘And I never got round to it,’ she nodded. ‘But will I manage to … ?’

‘I’ll give you a hand,’ he offered, having already considered the problem.

He also bought a handy laptop computer for her the following week so that she could add captions. Even if her fingers couldn’t quite cope at times with fixing on the circular ‘glue spots’ to the corners of the snaps, she found that she could type reasonably well with two fingers. Not only did this project keep her occupied for several further weeks, it also raised her spirits, and Frank thanked God over and over again for the inspiration that had come to him. His old Helen had returned - in spirit if not physically.

Having taught herself a new skill, his wife spent much of her time now diligently picking out the letters of things she wanted to write but couldn’t. Correspondence that had been lying unanswered for months was given her undivided attention, then, after having caught up with each and every postcard or letter he could find for her, Frank became intrigued by her suddenly taking to hiding what she was doing each time he went near her. No matter how much he hinted, how often he tried to catch her unawares, she would close the lid of her machine just enough so that he could see nothing.

When she took to sitting staring into space again, his heart sank. Surely she hadn’t lost interest in this hobby as well, this hobby that had kept her busy for so long? He had heard of people whose brain stopped working if they didn’t use it and he couldn’t bear the thought of her turning into a vegetable. He kept on and on at her, pestering her, actually bullying her to make her snap out of her lethargy, until he noticed that occasionally, after a spell of vegetating as he called it, there was a renewed spurt of activity on the laptop.

He stopped trying to see what she was doing, so it came as a surprise when she handed him several sheets of paper. ‘Read that,’ she instructed.

Taking his reading glasses from the mantelshelf, he sat down at the dining table and spread the papers out in front of him. ‘Don’t say anything till you’re finished,’ she added.

His eyes had sprung open at the sight of the neatly set out poems, one on each page, and his astonishment grew as he read them. There were ten in all, not expertly typed, by any means, the odd letter missed here and there where her finger had not pressed the key quite hard enough, but each one was perfectly centred. More to the point, when he started reading, he discovered that they were fairly good - not Byron or Wordsworth, of course, but outshining many he had read in magazines.

Having gone through them once, he started at the first again, unaware that Helen was watching him apprehensively, waiting for his verdict. At last, removing his spectacles and laying them on the table, he regarded her with pride. ‘They’re absolutely great. They really are,

Helen, I’m not just saying it. You should send them in somewhere.’

‘Nobody would want to print any of my drivel.’

‘They’re not drivel, Helen - honestly they’re not - none of them. My goodness, I didn’t know you had ability to describe your emotions like that.’

Her left hand made a small motion of appreciation. ‘I just wrote what I was actually feeling at the time. Thank you for not saying I’m off my head writing poetry.’

‘I don’t think you’re off your head. I think you’ve found a talent that’s been hidden all your life. You could make a fortune with it.’

‘It’s you that’s off your head.’ But she couldn’t hide the pleasure he had given her.

He managed to persuade her to correct the mistakes in one of the poems and print it again. Then, ignoring her protests that it was a waste of time, he posted it to one of the women’s magazines he saw at the newsagent. To his surprise as much as hers, an unfamiliar voice on the telephone almost two weeks later, asked to talk to Mrs Helen Milne. Frank watched her face as she listened to the caller, who went on at some length before his wife said, breathlessly, nodding her head, ‘Yes, all right. That will be very nice.’ Replacing the handset, she turned to him. ‘They’re going to print it.’

‘I knew it!’ he cried jubilantly. ‘What did I tell you?’

‘That’s not all, though. They’re going to send a photographer to take a picture of me at my laptop. He’s coming tomorrow at ten.’ Giving a quick glance round the room, she added, ‘You’d better clear all these papers and stuff before he comes.’

‘Yes, Captain.’ He stood to attention and saluted. ‘Whatever you say, Captain.’

‘Och, you,’ she giggled. ‘I can hardly believe it, you know.’

‘I can. I always knew you were special, lass, and I always will.’

Wiping the tear that had edged out, she sniffed, ‘I just hope they don’t lose all their readers after they print it. Who’s going to be interested in something an old wife like me has to say, I ask you?’

‘You’re asking for another compliment, that’s what.’ He had to tease her, otherwise he would have been in tears, too.

The photograph turned out very well, even Helen herself was pleased, and it looked even better when it appeared in the magazine a few months later. The poem itself had a marvellous reception from the readers, and Helen was asked to send some more.