The Optician's Wife
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Authors: Betsy Reavley
The Optician’s Wife
Betsy Reavley
Copyright © 2016 Betsy Reavley
The right of Betsy Reavley to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2016 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS:
For Freeman, Matilda and Elodie. You are my world.
‘I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my eyes and all is born again’
The Bell Jar
, Sylvia Plath
‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from
where. I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I do not know any
other way of loving but this, in which there is no I
or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is
my hand, so intimate then when I fall asleep your
eyes close.’
100 Love Sonnets
, Pablo Neruda
‘People like to say that the conflict is between
good and evil. The real conflict is between truth
and lies.’
Don Miguel Ruiz
Inspired by true events
I always knew I was different. I’ve known since I was very small, since I could hold a pencil.
I used to think it was a bad thing. That fitting in was the most important thing in the world. Growing up I wanted to be just like the other girls. It wasn’t easy being on the outside looking in. I felt utterly alone. My parents didn’t understand me. I had no real friends.
I used to look in the mirror and wish that I had a physical abnormality that would explain why I was different from the rest. If only I’d been born with a huge mole on my forehead or two noses, then I could have made sense of it. But I didn’t. I looked normal. Painfully normal.
For a long time I lived my life under the radar, not noticed. I was invisible.
Then I met Larry and my life changed. He saw me. He was the first person to ever really see me. He understood I wasn’t like everyone else and he embraced it. Nurtured it.
He taught me how to live. How to feel alive. And I taught him.
That is where it all began.
Now people notice me. Now they remember my name.
PART 1
th
1983
I was sitting on a bench in the park eating a prawn sandwich and flicking crumbs off my jumper. The late April sunshine was warm on my face and the ducks on the river busied themselves with their young.
It was my lunch break and as usual I was eating alone. My colleagues from Woolworths all went to a trendy sandwich bar together. I preferred being outside watching the birds. Cambridge is lovely at that time of year. I often spent my breaks sitting by the river on Jesus Green.
When he sat down at the other end of the bench, his hands tucked into his brown coat pockets, I moved away from him, right to the edge. I didn’t look up and avoided eye contact.
We sat silently for a while. I fed the ducks and swans the crusts left over from my sandwich. A cocky swan lifted itself out of the water and came padding over, wagging its clean white tail feathers in a show of disapproval. The large bird came so close to me it was able to take the bread right out of my hand. The man on the bench next to me chuckled to himself, amused by the swan’s bravado.
‘Break your arm if you’re not careful,’ he piped up. I stayed silent, too shy to respond.
When the bird realised I had no more food to offer it turned and plodded back to the river, the ducks scattering to get out of its way as it returned to join its mate.
‘Most people like the swans best. But I like ducks.’ He spoke again.
‘Me too.’
I felt him turn and look at me.
‘Swans think they’re all that. Kings of the river. Pushy buggers if you ask me.’ He took his hands out of his pockets and placed them on his knees. I tried to sneak a look at him in my peripheral vision.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve seen you around. You’re always feeding the birds.’
‘I like watching them.’ Finally I turned my face to look at him.
He had a nice smile. Broad and open with small dimples in his cheeks. His mid-brown hair was thick and wavy around his square face. He reminded me of George Michael from Wham. His dark chocolate eyes were smiling at me. He was very handsome and I felt myself blush.
‘I’m Larry,’ he said still smiling and extending his hand, ‘It’s nice to meet you.’ I rubbed my hands together quickly to make sure I didn’t have mayonnaise on them before shaking his.
‘Deborah.’ My cheeks felt hot.
‘Do you work nearby?’ His eyes were searching mine and I didn’t know where to look.
‘Not far. In Woolworths on Sidney Street.’ I fumbled with the brown paper bag my sandwich came in, and fold it into the smallest possible square, pushing out the creases with my thumbs.
‘I’m doing my training at the opticians in the centre. Rook’s, do you know it?’
‘I think so.’ I said lying.
‘You have very pretty eyes.’ He said as he got up from the bench and plunged his hands back into his pockets.
I didn’t know what to say so I said nothing and focused my attention on the rowers who were passing by.
‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to embarrass you.’
‘You didn’t.’ I tried to sound relaxed.
‘Well, I need to get back to work now. My boss is a bit of a slave driver. Maybe I’ll see you around, Deborah.’
‘Sure. I need to get going too.’ I checked my wristwatch and got up brushing the final evidence of crumbs from my indigo tights.
‘I hope so,’ he said with a smile before turning around and walking away down the path.
I stood watching as his frame grew smaller and smaller and the distance between us widened.
No one had ever given me a compliment like that before. I hoped our paths would cross again soon.
The next day I went into the bakers to buy my lunch. I bought my usual prawn sandwich on brown bread and treated myself to a bag of crisps.
I returned to the same spot by the river in the hope that I might see Larry. I picked at my food, tossing crumbs to the greedy flock of pigeons that descended round me. The swans were nowhere to be seen and neither was Larry. I felt bitter disappointment when I realised I needed to return to the shop. Ever since our meeting yesterday I had been thinking about the friendly stranger.
As I walked over the footbridge that connected Jesus Green to Sidney Street I dragged my feet. I was in no rush to return to work. My job was boring and I hadn’t made any friends. It paid the bills though and that was something.
I didn’t do well at school. ‘You’re not academic,’ my dad would say. It was his way of calling me thick. But it never really bothered me what he thought. Ever since my mum died six years earlier my relationship with my dad had taken the strain.
‘Go on, go out. Meet up with some friends. Get out from under my feet,’ he would say so that he could sit at home and get drunk without me knowing. But of course I knew. I would stay in my bedroom and listen to him cry over his beer. He used to talk to a photograph of Mum when he was drunk.
‘I miss you, Sue,’ he would sob. I can’t deal with that girl all alone. ‘Why did you have to leave me?’
I knew he meant me whenever he said ‘that girl’. My younger sister, Dawn, was the apple of his eye. She could do no wrong. She was perfect.
As I passed by a shop window I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection. Not usually one to indulge in vanity, I stopped for a moment to look at the girl everyone else saw. My pudgy face stared back at me, my little blue eyes empty of hope. I wondered why that nice stranger even gave me the time of day. I was plain. My light brown hair was so dull it appeared almost grey. Other people had luscious waves. I had frizz. Uncontrollable frizz that makes each individual strand stick out and appear brittle. Still looking at my disappointing reflection I tried to smooth my hair with the palm of my hand. It didn’t work. Nothing would tame it.
Everyone else I knew my age wore make-up. Bright candy pink lipstick and electric blue eyeliner were all the rage then. But those bright garish colours never suited my pallid complexion. And besides, make-up was for girls who wanted to be noticed. Girls who followed fashion and thought that their appearance was the most important thing in the world, spending most of their income on clothes from Topshop.
I went to charity shops for my clothes and wore some old things that belonged to my Mum. My sister, Dawn, didn’t want them. They’re old fashioned, she would say, and they wouldn’t fit her anyway. She was tall and skinny like Dad. I got Mum’s figure. Curvy, she used to say with a giggle. I missed her.