Sorts of Loving

 

Chapter One

 

Thirteen years ago, in 1960 at the age of seventeen, Susan Gilchrist left Mary Erskine School in Edinburgh and went up to St Andrews to study History of Music. As a bejantine (a first year female student) she cut a striking figure despite the dowdy, red, undergraduate gown which she almost entirely discarded within the first month. Although there were three other bejantines from MaryErskineSchool, she wanted to ignore them, to make new friends and explore new experiences.

All first year female students were expected to live in a University hall of residence but Sue and two other girls whom she had met during the pre-term initiation week decided to “go it alone” and get a flat. Susan had enjoyed a limited eclectic social life in Edinburgh’s pubs, jazz clubs and “Festival” outlets but, being an only child, was always perhaps too keenly monitored by her caring, loving parents. Here in St Andrews, she wanted to be free; no hall of residence, no gown, no pack drill. Soon, her flowing, blond hair, her Nordic facial features atop her sculpted, tall frame with low-slung jeans became landmarks, not so much at lectures as in the Imperial Hotel jazz club, the Market Street Coffee Shop and the Union bars. Susan Gilchrist would undo the Edinburgh shackles. She became the undisputed iconic bejantine, enhanced by her own pride in being Scottish. She, like 40% of the other students, was in HER ScottishUniversity; the other 60% were “also-rans” from England, many of whom had been turned down by Oxbridge. St Andrews was certainly a northern outpost in some eyes but it was going to be home to Susan for the next three years.  Many of her fellow Scottish students might “cow-tow” to their “mealy-mouthed” English contemporaries but not Sue.

Susan Gilchrist stood tall.

 

The flat, which she shared with Eileen Coyle from Kirkaldy and Liz Morris from Selkirk was in North Street, opposite but twenty or thirty yards east of the Younger Hall. The big, Georgian house, with two storeys, was divided into two flats. Susan and her friends shared the ground floor flat. This had two bedrooms, one with two beds, the other a single. The kitchen and adjacent dining/sitting room overlooked North Street; the bedrooms and bathroom were to the back. The whole place was drably decorated and minimally furnished but, within a week or so of moving in and after visits from their parents, the flat became personalised, even homely.

Sue shared the bigger bedroom with Liz, a small, dark, athletic girl who seemed to spend most of her time playing hockey and drinking with the locals in The Railway  Pub on South Street.

University life was a full-time affair for Susan. She regularly attended the “modern” jazz sessions at the Memorial Hall and the “trad” at the more atmospheric Imperial Hotel. She started Sundays early with Chapel Choir practice, followed by two services then the Film Club after dinner. She scraped her way, almost literally, into the University orchestra on third violin, attended a peppering of lectures and tutorials, had a brief, torrid, confusing sexual experience with her room-mate Liz then became a “serious item” with Bob Gregory, a student of Civil Engineering who studied in Dundee but lived in St.Andrews. They became engaged in the Christmas vac. of their final year, 1963.

 

Bob was something of an enigmatic “smoothie”, some years older than Sue. He was admired from a distance by many of the young ladies in St.Andrews although he made little effort to mix socially. He was a six foot, dark-haired Adonis whose serious outlook on life was trumpeted by his scowling, thick, black eyebrows.

In 1965, they married in Otley, Bob’s home town, where they lived for two years before moving with their twin sons to Wakefield and Bob’s big project.

 

In 1973 Susan and Bob Gregory were still living on Mountbatten Avenue in Wakefield. Their house was one of thirty or so four-bedroomed detached properties on this fairly new estate off the Barnsley Road. Bob Gregory was, by now, a forty-one year old, very successful architect who had designed the whole estate. He was a partner in its builders’ firm, Thomas Bartholomew and Co. who had developed the concept of porous flagstones and surfacing.

 

Susan and Bob had comfortable, busy lives that didn’t seriously involve each other. They met for meals, they had friends round, they slept in twin beds, they talked about the weather and their investment portfolio. Their sons, Charles and Rupert were about to flee the nest, one to attend St Andrews, the other to join the Army. To all intents and purposes they were a normal couple, normal, that is, for Mountbatten Avenue in Wakefield. Ten miles away, across the big divide, in Batley they would not be normal. This big divide, the fifty yards across the M1, was a cultural rift, with the middle class whites to the east and the predominantly Asian working class to the west.

 

The Asians had begun settling in Batley, Dewsbury and Bradford after the Industrial Revolution when local mill owners realised they could import cheap, willing workers from the source of their cotton. Later, when the British Government, perhaps in a wash of guilt, issued ‘D’ passports to subjects of their former colonies, settling in Britain on what for them was a very good wage, became quite easy. Once established in West Yorkshire these extremely functional Asian families expanded by introducing relatives from Gujarat or Punjab to specific streets in Batley and Dewsbury. They were almost entirely working class Muslims, who were generally not welcomed by the local native workers. Nonetheless, run down corner shops were taken over by these immigrants and clusters of terraced houses were converted into tiny mosques where local families would send their sons to learn the Koran verbatim. The girls and mothers did not attend and the Christian-Muslim rift became wider and deeper. The Muslim lifestyle contrasted radically with that of the relatively dysfunctional white families to the east of the M1.

 

Now, in August 1973, Susan Gregory anticipated her loneliness. Her children, previously her raisons d’être, would soon leave home and her husband was already flying high. She could see herself becoming more and more alone, her life void of love.

 

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Chapter Two

 

According to local clubbers, Roly Hepwood could “bend a piano”. Nobody really knew what the expression meant and most of those who thought they did know got it wrong anyway.

A note can be “bent” on a guitar or other stringed instrument by holding a string down on a “fret” then pushing it up or pulling it down towards an edge of the finger board.

The note then slides up or down slightly giving it a stress or accent by altering or “bending” the pitch of the note.

So, clearly, you can’t bend a note on a piano; but you can almost make it sound like you are bending the notes as in George Shearing’s accompaniment of Nat “King” Cole on “Let There be Love”.

Anyway, the cognoscenti at the Bluewater, near Huddersfield, talked of Roly  “bending his piano”.

 

I never really knew what made the Bluewater tick in daylight hours. It was a detached, two-storied stone building in its own grounds about seven or eight miles east of Huddersfield on the road to Cleckheaton and Dewsbury. I feel sure it was a restaurant but, by the time Roly and a dozen or so musicians had turned up at about 11 p.m. for a “knock” after their various regular “gigs”, there were only a few dining punters left. I can only remember these “knocks” happening at weekends. This was ideal for Roly Hepwood who, although only a semi-pro, could more than hold his own with the pros who turned up from Batley Variety Club, Wakefield Theatre Club and the like. But, in March of that year (1973) he had also become a junior partner in The Beeches dental practice on Corporation Street in Batley.

 

Roly was 26 years old, quiet, not very tall, slim and with swarthy good looks like a Russian soccer manager. Nothing musical “phased” him. He could read and play anything but preferred to kick things around and get away from the book. His skill, isolation, solitude, aloofness, call it what you will, made him the more desirable, musically, sexually and socially. A sub-group of the cognoscenti knew he could bend more than pianos.

 

Roly Hepwood and Jennifer Short shared their lives and a fairly up-market terraced house in Morley, a few miles to the south of Leeds and just over the M62 from Batley where Roly’s parents, Jack and Mavis, had lived for the last 52 years. They were both in their late seventies.

 

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Chapter Three

Jack and Mavis Hepwood lived with their son Peter, a part-time lodger, in one of those dark, monotonous terraces on Mount Pleasant, a clumsy misnomer, in Batley. It was a typical two up- two down on Beaumont Street with no front garden and a tiny fifteen by thirty back yard that contained a small tool shed, a still-used outside loo and, quite incongruously, a plumbed-in potato rumbler that Jack had bought thirty years previously from Tommy Harrap “at t’mill”. When he wasn’t at his parents’, Peter would have a sleep-over at his friend’s, round the corner on Highcliffe Road where Peter and Tristan would get pissed and/or high on the readily-available ganje in the area.

Peter was a scruffy, objectionable sod but Tristan was worse. He didn’t work, he didn’t wash very often. He left dirty crockery, pans and uneaten food around. You could hear the mice and other vermin having a bean-feast round the unemptied bin. Sometimes it all managed to disgust even Peter who would then retreat one floor up into the flabby arms of the over-sexed Miss Juniper or bugger off back round the corner to his parents. A perfect arrangement for a selfish, scruffy sloth.

 

There was absolutely no way that Jack and Mavis would move in with their other son Roly and his wife Jennifer at their more roomy house in Morley. Jenny was a lovely, quiet, churchgoing 25 year-old whose clean, smiling, auburn features were a refreshing contrast to the drabness of Batley on a Sunday when she and Mavis often teamed up to prepare Sunday lunch. Mavis, with her seventy three years experience of traditional living knew from Jennifer’s eyes that she was pregnant.

 

Jack and Mavis never really discussed this dilemma, not because of anything particularly moral; quite simply, it had nothing to do with rugby league or John Smith’s bitter. What they did know was that Jenny’s parents had divorced and disappeared leaving Jenny to fend for herself.

 

Jack was seventy-five “next”. Of course he had retired and one or two of his closer friends had died off but Jack still had quite a busy timetable. He would crown bowl every Tuesday afternoon with the same three pals, attend each and every home match round the corner at Batley Rugby Club and spend every evening between six thirty (“after tea”) and eight o’clock (“after Corrie”) supping Smiths at his local. The only exception would be Friday evenings when he and his pals would don shirt and tie then accompany their wives to bingo at the local WMC. The togetherness ended there with the men going for a game of snooker and a pint in the lounge and the “girls” basing themselves in the concert room.

Nothing if not repetitive, but secure and safe. Indeed, in that respect, a bit like the lifestyles of the increasing number of Asian neighbours they all had. There was no animosity, just a general acceptance of each other. They nodded their recognition at one another and went their separate ways but ne’er the twain would meet, socially at least.

Forty years ago Jack was a squat, aggressive, Trades Union man who loved his rugby league. He made little of Roly’s success when, as a twelve year old, he moved from Park Road Primary School to the boys’ Grammar School on Field Hill and thence to Leeds University to gain First Class Honours in Dental Surgery.

And fifty years ago, Mavis was just one of the neighbourhood girls who, everyone accepted, had always been “an item” with Jack who would become her husband.

 

Peter, 22 years old, lived in the house with Jack and Mavis. They didn’t see a great deal of Peter who was quite reclusive, spending hours on his early computer upstairs. He was studying Moral Philosophy with the Open University, working days in the offices at Wakefield Magistrates’ Court and doing two or three nights bar work at the Bluewater. He was as scruffy and unkempt as Roly, his brother was smooth and desirable. He liked studying Moral Philosophy, his untidy, half-grown beard satisfying some sort of image, I suppose, and also because he enjoyed the discussions which he would manage to convert into arguments at the occasional tutorial in Leeds. Many of the public he dealt with at the Courts could also be argumentative as could the odd drunkard at the Bluewater. In fact, life was just a bowl of cherries for the little shit.

 

Roly sometimes gave Peter a lift to and from the Bluewater if he, Peter, would drive to Roly’s house in Morley. But, once in the Club, they would virtually ignore each other.

Peter might be an intellectual but there, any similarity with Roly ended. He was not “a looker”, he hated the thought of involvement in sport although plenty people would give their back teeth to mince his brain in a boxing ring and he couldn’t sing a note of music let alone play (or even bend) one. He loved his brother but there were few spaces for Peter to show it. Roly reciprocated Peter’s feelings but certainly not his style or lack of it.  He felt that Peter’s aggression and scruffiness were really attempts to deflect attention. He had several friends in the Asian community over in Bradford which allowed him some anonymity not to mention cannabis and one or two other things. Jack and Mavis would certainly not approve and, if he wasn’t careful Peter would run the risk of losing his very easy, cheap accommodation at home in Batley. No, it was better to leave things as they were with his two, quite separate existences shared between Batley and Bradford.

 

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Chapter Four

 

Life was good for both Roly and Jennifer. She was 26, the same age as Roly and about the same height. They were fortunate in that they both had day-time jobs, he as a dentist and she as a middle school teacher in Kettlethorpe, in the narrow space between south Wakefield and the M1. They would both set off for work at about eight o’clock. Jenny would get back home to Morley at about five and prepare the evening meal. Roly got home by six and they would sit down to eat by seven. More often than not they then went their separate ways, Roly to play soccer or perhaps do a gig while Jenny would play squash or attend a church meeting.

But today, in late November 1974, she had something to tell him and Roly something to ask her.

“Jenny, pet” (the “pet” was always a warning signal) “would you mind if I did an exchange with a colleague in South America for three months? It would be great for my career. This private hospital in Rio has world-wide fame for its work in maxillo-facial surgery and Thompson in Batley has given his guarded approval. It’s only…..”

“When?” Jenny asked, quite aggressively.

“Eh, well, if you agreed, it would be February, March and April.”

“I’m pregnant.”

“I’d stay in the hos…… what did you say?”

“I’m pregnant. We’re pregnant.”

“Christ! Shit! When?” he asked clumsily.

“Now, Roly. What do you mean ‘when’?”

”I mean when’s it due?” He realised he was sounding selfish. For once, he was making a complete balls of it and Jenny quite enjoyed his discomfort. “Jenny, I’m sorry.”  Deep breath was followed by slow expulsion of air. “Sorry, my dear. Is it……..are we having a boy or a girl?” He was getting back in control.

“I don’t know. The pregnancy was only confirmed yesterday. And, before you say anything else, of course you can do your exchange. I’m not due until some time in August.”

“Yes, but…….” Roly began to see a glimmer of hope.

“Look, Roly. I’ll be playing squash and badminton until June and you’ll be back in April.”

“That’s true, pet.” Roly was getting back on track. “The only trouble is we’ve booked my Mum and Dad for that anniversary surprise in Barbados.”

“Roly, the last thing I want is your mother flapping about the place if there should be a problem. Dr Lynch is very capable and you can be back here by my side in hours.

Let’s go for a drink and celebrate. I’ll have juice, of course.”

 

There was a shortage of “nice” places to drink in the area so they went into Batley where a Bistro had opened on the narrow end of Corporation Street, a couple of hundred yards from the Beeches, where Roly practised. He had received some information at work about holidays in Barbados for his parents so he and Jennifer parked the car outside the surgery. Once inside, Roly locked the door and switched off the alarm.

Jenny had never visited the actual surgery before and was quite impressed to see the array of equipment which, under normal circumstances , would frighten her.

Roly started rummaging for the documents. Clearly, it was going to take time.

“Where’s the loo, darling?”

“There’s a patient one next door” he said, pointing through the wall. “Don’t be too long. I’m dying for a drink.”

Jenny headed out.

By the time she returned Roly was replacing the documents in their big brown envelope. Jenny sat in the patient’s chair.

“Come on, Mr Hepwood, I’m ready”.

“So am I. Let’s go.”

“How do you get this chair to flatten out?”

“Jenny, I want a drink.” He flattened the chair. Jenny, at full stretch, pulled up her skirt and revealed her already unclad crotch.

“And I want a filling” said she.

 

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Chapter Five

 

Until now, Susan Gregory had been largely house-tied. After “the boys” had gone their separate ways each morning, she would wash up the breakfast things, tidy the bedrooms, prepare herself a light lunch then, on a Tuesday and/or a Thursday, attend the coffee morning at the local church. She was still a good-looking “girl” and now had more time to indulge herself in selecting and trying on chic gear from her catalogues. She had not really had time to make friends with the numerous other ladies nearby who had developed their own little cliques and mostly seemed older or younger than her.

At one of the coffee mornings, she sat with and became quite friendly with Jennifer Hepwood who, on a Thursday, at school, would spend her free period before lunch at the coffee morning which was quite near her in Kettlethorpe. After a couple of weeks, Jennifer and Sue quite often had lunch at Mountbatten Avenue.

Their friendship developed until Sue eventually became a regular attendee at Jenny’s church in Morley. After all, both the Gregory boys had left home and Bob, becoming more and more involved in the affairs of Thomas Bartholomew and Co., more often than not had Sunday meetings to attend.

At one of their lunches, Jenny mentioned to Sue that she had seen an advertisement in her “Parish News” calling for volunteers to train as magistrates in the Wakefield district. Sue, who was becoming more and more desperate with the lack of excitement in her life, applied and, by January 1974, she had embarked upon eight months of interviews and training at the Magistrates Courts in Wakefield. In fact her whole life changed. Apart from keeping on top of the housework, she accompanied Bob to several business dinners and appropriate Masonic functions. She had her coffee mornings and occasional lunches with Jenny, Church on Sundays, and countless talks or visits to several local Young Offender Units. Then, many a Friday evening, she would go to the Bluewater with Jenny. She was recapturing those stand-alone days way back in St. Andrews. She even joined the choir with Jenny at Morley Church which involved attending choir practice on a Thursday evening. And it was here that she met young Cathy Sands.

 

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Chapter Six

 

The Bistro in Batley’s Commercial Street had only been open a couple of months.

The building, which had previously been owned by a gentleman’s hatter, still retained some of its old fittings. The large pigeon holes, which had previously housed men’s hats, were now used to display a wide selection of wines; the old oak counter now served as a stylish little bar; the floor was covered with Axminster A1 and the spacious display window housed what Jean, the owner, referred to as his “top table”. It was a brave attempt at bringing haute cuisine  to the diminishing ranks of white and growing Asian working classes. It was destined to fail and Jean was realising it. Next to a very large impressionist painting of Le Mont St Michel he had a small plaque supposedly quoting Marx and saying “Never invest good money in changing a bad world”. It was not that Batley was bad. The idea of converting the inhabitants was commercially bad, not morally bad. Their idea of a meal out was fish and chips wrapped in a free local newspaper. True, a few local youngsters might make good and travel widely but then, almost by definition they would not be around to enjoy the delights of the Bistro. The few who returned would be unwilling to visit this run-down part of Batley with no car park and a growing reputation for private stag parties. Jean, who had worked as a French assistant in a local school had not done his market research with any enthusiasm. A year or so previously his Headmaster had asked him to organise an international social evening for parents to celebrate the formation of the new Kirklees Authority. At the buffet supper he had been amazed at how the local parents had devoured the snails prepared by him and his wifeand had virtually ignored the hot-pot. On this very slim evidence, he decided to open the Bistro right opposite the roaring trade of the local transport café, commonly referred to as “The Greasy Spoon”. Local rumour had it that, instead of spreading butter or margarine on the “butty” bread, the landlord wrapped it round the unshaded light bulb. Anyhow, as hundreds of workmen queued up at the “Greasy Spoon” for their bacon butties, the Bistro was proving to be in the wrong place and it was destined to close soon.

 

Having said that, Roly and Jenny enjoyed a mouth-watering filet mignon in brandy saucewith haricots verts and a twirl of creamy pommes de terre duchesse  all washed down with a half bottle of Château Rieussec followed by wafers and a glass or two of Bollinger just to celebrate “their” pregnancy and discuss a decent break in Barbados for Roly’s parents.

 

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Chapter Seven

 

By the second week of January 1974 Susan Gregory was well into her training as a Wakefield-based magistrate. She had already visited Young Offenders units and one or two category C and D prisons. Wakefield, a category A, high security prison concentrating on serious sex offenders, was not considered appropriate for a trainee magistrate. So she was asked to make her way to Preston Prison, over in Lancashire, where she would join a small group of Lancashire trainees then, after lunch, accompany them on a visit to Kirkham Open Prison.

 

Preston Prison was built in the 18^th century, became a military prison during the Second World War then returned into the public domain in 1948. As with many of these older prisons, Preston Prison is very near the town centre. I suppose that, two or three hundred years ago, it would be handy for the prison to be near the Court. Also, presumably, public executions and floggings would be more accessible for the punters of the day. More recently, according to the Oxford History of the Prison, “it became desirable to mete out punishment away from the public gaze” and build those modern, serviceable, out of town lock-ups where the public would not and could not easily take the side of the prisoner and cause havoc. But, at Preston Prison some cells overlook, from a distance, the outskirts of the town centre and a few prisoners can actually shout to friends on the outside.

Anyway Sue drove past Red Rose Radio on the Inner Ring, parked her car in a pub car park then walked over to the main gate where a small group of half a dozen men and women visitors was waiting.

Throughout her adult life, Sue had been concerned that, on occasions she had felt roused in the company of certain types of females. They were mostly young, dark and athletic. There had been a younger girl at school, Olga Keblinski about whom she had fantasised uncontrollably, Liz Morris in St Andrews who had briefly shared her passion and this girl outside Preston Prison. She would be about 28/9, five foot six or seven with short-cropped auburn hair and smiling, hazel eyes. Sue would soon find out that this was Annette Bracken, another trainee magistrate.

 

The prison grounds are fairly open, with workshops, exercise yard, education block, kitchens, medical wing and chapel separated from the main building by stretches of lawn and walkways. The 750 men are housed on four wings, A, B, C and D in the radial style, each wing radiating from the central, glass-fronted hub, like spokes of a wheel. The convicted prisoners are on two of the wings and the non-convicted, remand prisoners on the other two. While the remand prisoners await their trial, the very helpful, friendly “screws” will see that suspected accomplices are on separate wings so that they are unable to discuss their case together or prepare their defence. During their tour of the prison, the trainee magistrates visited the education wing where such remand prisoners, who had no intention of following an academic course of study, will have enrolled for, say, GCSE French, Maths or something so that they, quite simply, could discuss their case, pass over some cannabis or interpret their coded mail. In those days, the many teachers would work in superb facilities for £22 an hour. But they would be lucky to “get through ” to a quarter of their pupils.

While one or two of the visitors were quite obviously affected by the disdainful looks and snide remarks of some prisoners, Susan had no problem; if they had committed their crime, they were, rightly, enduring their punishment; if they were on remand and innocent, they would soon be out. In any event, they all had the right to appeal.

She ignored the concealed wolf whistles emanating from all the Johnny Cash would-bes in the music room and was not in the least phased by being locked into the education block for security reasons when the fully-expected “rumble” began in the exercise yard outside.

“It’s for your benefit” said a very fat prison officer bearing a kettle to the staffroom. “It happens every time you lot visit.”

 

Sue sat with Annette Bracken, the other trainee magistrate, on the 10 mile minibus trip to Kirkham. Annette was an excellent conversationalist with very good eye contact and Sue enjoyed her company.

Kirkham is an open prison. This means that, while there is a degree of security within the perimeter fence, prisoners can walk or indeed, run out of the front gate if or when they want. The point is, most of the prisoners are “low risk” or from more secure prisons and about to be released. If they “do a runner” they will eventually be recaptured and then be re-housed in a secure unit with an enhanced term. So, basically, life is all but another bowl of cherries at Kirkham.

The prison produces vegetables for Kirkham and other prisons. The prisoners live in military-style dormitories and eat in one of the three ethnic eateries. When they are not working on the vegetable plots or in the offices, they bowl, play tennis, use the gym, attend a lesson or simply relax somewhere. It is all reasonably pleasant; drugs and alcohol can be acquired with some difficulty and risk but it is probably better to befriend someone in the know.

Sue, Annette and the others were given a short welcome by one of the two officers on the gate before they were given the choice of visiting specific sections of the prison. Sue, Annette and the other female trainee, a small, dumpy fifty year old know-all chose to visit the kitchens which were manned by three professional outsiders and half a dozen or so inmates. This team of laughing, whistling, joking pranksters were enjoying themselves preparing cheese tortellini for the vegetarians, chicken dopiaza for anyone who fancied it and cottage pie for the less adventurous. The visitors were told that four of the workers who had lost their various ways on the outside enjoyed the atmosphere, buzz and pressure of the kitchen so much that they were studying, on day release at local colleges with a view to improving their job prospects on the outside. The issue of getting work after release was a major problem for all the prisoners because, after all, who wants to employ an ex-con?

 

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Chapter eight

 

In the build-up to Christmas, as with every year, Roly’s musical commitments meant he played less squash and indoor soccer than he would like. He lead a piano, bass, drum trio which was pretty much in demand for private and masonic functions in the Leeds-Wakefield area. The trio had appeared quite regularly on Yorkshire Television, backing various visiting “stars” and, when necessary, he was able to augment the band’s sound with some of the “pros” from the Bluewater gang.

His work in the Batley surgery continued apace. He was the youngest in a partnership of three and generally drew the short straw when new patients registered. Roly would do the initial inspection and anything beyond routine fillings and cleaning tended to be passed on to 35 year old Mr Pratt or Mr Molyneux, the middle-aged senior partner. Roly’s share in the practice had involved a lot of borrowing. While he would have to pay for the locum and the nurse, his earnings would be down during his three months in South America. He also had to pay for his parents’ holiday in Barbados. But, hopefully, the experience he would gain in maxillo-facial work at the Centro Especializado de Odontologia in Rio would be invaluable in his Batley practice or, more appropriately, when he sold and moved into private or hospital work. He might grab a few games of tennis and find the odd jazz club too!

 

Roly travelled from Morley to ManchesterAirport by taxi on Friday January 24^th, happy in the knowledge that Jenny’s pregnancy was going smoothly. He was certainly looking forward to the change and the new challenge.

He had a two hour wait at Heathrow so, after ringing Jenny then his parents, he made his way to the Diners Club restaurant where he relaxed over free drinks and smørgasbord while he watched the delays pile up on the internal TV’s.

He arrived in Rio at 16.42.  By the time he got through passport control and had collected his case, it was nearly 17.30 when he found himself standing in one of the taxi queues. An airport is an airport but he experienced his usual, inexplicable feeling of surprise as he stood on the edge of this busy, colourful city. The truth is he almost expected it to be a rundown shanty town but here there were skyscrapers as far as you could see and thousand upon thousands of colourful people ambling about their business.

He took a cab to the Centro de Odontologia on Rua Conde de Bonfim, a journey of forty minutes or so through the busy streets of Rio. Once in front of the Reception of the big, white hospital, he got out the cab and delved into his pockets while the driver off-loaded Roly’s luggage. He realised he had forgotten to get any Cruzeiros.

“Sorry. I have no Brazilian money………….cash” he said slowly and deliberately to the small, dark, young man.

“Whatcha got? Dollars?”

Roly was surprised and must have shown it.

“Anyhing’s better than cruzeiros. Francs? Sterling? Anything’s better.”

“Sterling” said Roly, still surprised and showing it.

“Thirty-five pounds” said the little fellow, looking around for possible eavesdroppers.

“Bloody Hell” thought Roly. “We’d pay ten or twelve quid for this in Leeds.”

“I can afford twenty pounds” he tried.

“Thirty” said the driver.

“No” said Roly, getting into the game and making to collect his two pieces of luggage. “I’ll call the POLICE” he almost shouted.

“OK, twenty-five.”

Roly paid him the twenty-five, making him wait until he found the fiver.

“Enjoy Rio” said the little vilão as he regained his cab.

 

The receptionist was petite and dark, wearing a pale green tunic. When she turned to look at the clock, you could see that her awfully trendy specs had very weak lenses, if  any.

“Can I help you?” she asked with a North American accent and a customised smile.

“My name is Hepwood, Roly …………”

“Yes Doctor Hepwood, we’re expecting you. Can I ask you to fill this form? I’ll get a porter who will take you to your room.” Just the occasional lapse of tournure or accent suggested she was not a native speaker. In fact, Roly would find that, in this busy metropolis, almost everyone could speak and understand at least basic English.

 

The elderly porter insisted on carrying or propelling Roly’s two items of luggage along the lengthy, almost deserted corridors. By now it was approaching 8.30 p.m. and Roly decided he would spend this evening in whatever room they had given him. He might be able to find his way out, he thought, as the two of them got out the lift on the fourth floor but he might not be able to find his way back. Apart from anything else, he had no local currency.

They finally got to Roly’s room. The porter unlocked the door, switched on the light and turned to Roly.

“OK for you?”

“Perfect, thank you” said Roly, without really looking. He had already fished out a twenty pound note. Pointing it towards the porter with his right hand and using his left hand to clarify his meaning, he said, questioningly,

“For me, one bottle red wine?? Vino tinto??” he added in O-Level Spanish rubbing the red painted door.

“I understand. No problem. Red wine.”

“And a sandwich??”

“Sanduiche. OK. Tuna?”

“OK”.

Roly couldn’t care less if he acquired it from the hospital canteen. He planted the twenty pounds in the porter’s hand and clasped it shut to indicate: “That’s yours, pal.”

 

Twilight was approaching as Roly finished his sandwich and washed it down with his first glass of Argentinian plonk. Realising it would be near midnight in the UK, he rang Jenny from his bedside phone. All was well with the pregnancy. Jenny was in bed thinking of him, according to her.

“Sue and I looked in at the Bluewater but it was pretty dead without you, my dear.”

They chit-chatted for a couple of minutes then said their goodnights.

With most of the wine still left, Roly decided to look around his accommodation.

He drew the curtains open to be amazed at his hilltop view of the twinkling lights of Rio that led his gaze to the distant harbour. It seemed like the town was coming alive with car headlights criss-crossing the darkened landscape.

“Tomorrow, I’ll change some cash, I’ll make contracts with taxi drivers before a journey and I’ll explore the night-life” he thought.

 

The 20’ by 25’ room was mostly painted in pastel colours with a five foot wide, room-high panel of wall paper depicting a very colourful country landscape. This seemed to compensate for the excluded liveliness of the town when the curtains were closed.

A good three-quarter sized bed was tastefully draped; the two bedside tables supported lamps, a telephone, a directory and a simplified map of Rio. There were two very comfortable armchairs separated by a rectangular, all glass or Perspex coffee table nestling in front of the full-length window.

A dark red door lead to a galley kitchenette and a good-sized bathroom with avocado-coloured fittings.

Roly was due to start work in the hospital on Monday 3d February 1975. He was going to have a busy week getting to know Rio.

 

********************

 

Chapter nine

 

By now, Sue and Bob Gregory were like ships in the night. They ate together, even slept together but, after breakfast, they would go their separate ways. They would usually meet for dinner then, more often than not, again follow their own interests. Sue saw more and more of Jenny Hepwood particularly now that Rory was on his short sabbatical and Jenny’s pregnancy was developing apace.

At Morley Church choir practice on the evening of Thursday 6^th February 1975, Sue sat in the soprano section between Jenny and young Cathy Sands. The three of them had had busy days. Sue had sat all day in Wakefield Magistrates’ Court, Jenny’s day at Kettlethorpe School had been boisterous and had finished with a fairly heated staff meeting and Cathy, who was far too nice to be a traffic warden anywhere had had two or three nasty, tiresome confrontations on the Headrow in Leeds. Choir practice was welcomed respite for all three girls.

At about quarter to nine they had a tea break. The usual sort of cliques formed but, as on most Thursdays, Jenny and choirmaster/organist Alan Bosworth stood together in deep conversation. Alan was a very pleasant fifty year old man, not very tall, slightly plump with prematurely greying hair. He was a music teacher at BatleyGrammar School so, Jenny also being a teacher meant that most of the choir accepted their closeness as quite natural. He laughed a lot and had long-distance snippets of conversation with other cliques without ever leaving Jenny.

Cathy and Sue sat together mostly observing others but also chatting.

“Doing anything nice this weekend, Cathy?”

“Well, I’ve got an interview for a job in Harrogate on Saturday morning. I’ve got to catch a bloody train from Leeds at quarter to eight Saturday morning; God knows what time I’ll get back. We’ve got church on Sunday, of course.”

“I don’t believe it” Sue lied. “I’ve been asked to sit in the Harrogate Court for a week and I’m supposed to meet a JP there informally on Saturday morning.” She couldn’t believe herself. “We could go up together.”

“When? How?”

Was she being suspicious?

“I’m going up tomorrow evening in my car. I’ve got a room booked and I’ll get one for you. It’ll be on my expenses. What do you say?”

“Yeh, O.K.” Cathy smiled at Sue. “Thank you.”

 

The following morning, Friday, Sue picked Cathy up outside her parents’ home in Gildersome. Cathy was tall, about 5’9”, with long, auburn hair that blew out in the breeze as she trotted down the path to the gate. She was wearing a blue tunic top, cream hipster jeans and white trainers. She had an overnight bag draped over one shoulder.

Cathy pulled the passenger door open and flung her shoulder bag on to the back seat.

She nestled into the passenger seat and then, with a hand on each knee, smilingly looked at Sue, to her right, as if to say

”OK. Here I am. What now?”

Sue, as if having heard the question, said

“Right. Harrogate here we come. We could stop in Wetherby for lunch, if you like.”

They smiled at each other and set off.

 

********************

 

Chapter Ten

 

On Monday 27^th January 1975, after a fairly busy weekend during which he had explored the bars and eating places around the hospital, Roly got up late, made himself a coffee, then headed out of his room on his way to the refectory, where he would try the lunch.

The elderly porter was standing at the door of the next room talking in what seemed like Spanish or Portuguese to the silent occupant.

“Ah, el Doctor ‘epwood.”  he said to Roly, then gestured towards the still silent, invisible occupant of the room.

“La Médica García……….from Lima. You know ?”

Roly just decided to smile. What the Hell was he talking about?

A very dark, rather petite girl in her thirties modestly emerged into the doorway. She wasn’t amazingly attractive; she would be not much more than 5’ but her ponytail seemed to give her some height.

“Hi. I’m Juliana” she volunteered, extending a hand almost condescendingly.

“Hello. I’m Roly.”

“Roly” she repeated with the hint of a smile.

“I believe you’re ……………”

“I’m from Bogotá actually. I flew from Lima this morning.” There was very little accent. “Will you come in?”

Her accommodation was identical to Roly’s but with a different colour scheme and overlooking more of the hospital gardens than the bay. She had just arrived and her unopened bags were strewn about.

“I know your name, Roly, but what are you doing here?”

“I’m on a three month exchange from England. The guy from here has taken over my junior partnership role in our private practice in Lancashire and I’m here to learn some maxillo-facial stuff. What about you?”

“Well, I work under Liliana Otero at JaverianaUniversity in Bogotá. I’m only here for a few weeks. They’re doing a series of frontal work that I want to see and Liliana’s cousin fixed things for me. Would you like a coffee?”

“A half cup, thank you. I was about to try the refectory for lunch. Would you like to join me?”

 

The refectory was huge and white. It could be anywhere, such was its clean, impersonal functionality. Serving units made up of glass displays and Marie banheiros went the length of the hall; the pale pink of the kitchen staff uniforms was a welcome relief from the stark white of the walls. Mobile phones rang with random urgency.

Juliana and Roly helped themselves to fruit starters and carne de vitela com batatas fritas e legumes.Fairly basic, but free, even including two bottles of water!

Apparently, Juliana’s cousin would expect her to join his family for dinner most evenings so that, presumably, he could monitor her well-being and needs. As much as Roly enjoyed Juliana’s relaxed conversation and pleasant smile, he didn’t want to get too close. Next door for the occasional coffee was about right.

He would make himself known this afternoon at the relevant Department in the hospital then, after a bit of a siesta and a bite to eat, he was off to Copacabana.

 

********************

 

Chapter Eleven

 

That Friday morning, Sue and Cathy made good time up the A1(M) to Wetherby. They stopped at one of the many High Street restaurants for a curry lunch. Sue had decided to wait until then to ring the Majestic Hotel in Harrogate, just in case their plans had to change.

She returned to the table.

“God! I’ve just rung the Majestic to confirm my booking. You and I’ll have to share a twin room. Is that OK?”

Cathy smiled and gently shook her head with a frown.

“Yeah. Of course.”

They talked and laughed on their way across to Harrogate helped, no doubt by the couple of glasses of wine they each had over lunch. Sue learnt that Cathy had  a permanent boyfriend but they had no immediate plans to marry. But Sue sensed that Cathy, at twenty-seven, might well have the occasional difference with her parents whose house Cathy shared.

“Hm. Interesting” thought Sue. “Could that be why she’s moving to Harrogate?”

Harrogate was immersed in its usual middle-class sedateness.

“Being a traffic warden here would be a pleasant change” Sue observed. “You’d have to live here, of course.”

“I know. I don’t know if I could afford that” Cathy replied. She was looking out the window at the lines of Georgian terraces.

The Majestic Hotel on the Ripon Road had a large, impressive Victorian front.

“Coffee?” Sue suggested as they pulled up on the forecourt by the front door. A porter appeared and removed the overnight bags from the back seat.

“If you follow me into Reception, ladies, my colleague will look after the car.”

“Wow!” thought Cathy. “Wow!”

A huge reception area with people lounging about on those dark leather, studded couches and armchairs, staff milling around looking for things to do and another porter who, upon the “PING!” from the reception clerk’s bell, appeared with a trolley to take Sue’s and Cathy’s overnight bags and some heavier cases that were lying aside.

Their bedroom was breathtaking, at least to Cathy. Two matching twin beds, a couple of big dark oak wardrobes with a dressing table between. Huge, lavish drapes on the windows and a cabinet containing the TV and below, a fridge full of fruit juices, water and sodas. Even with the two spacious loungers and other accoutrements there was room to spare. The en suite, with separate shower and bath, was all white. Nothing new for Sue but a whole new world for young Cathy.

“Well, it’s four o’clock now” said Sue. “I fancy a swim then a drink before dinner. What about you?”

“Yeah, that sounds good. I’d better stick with you anyway. To be honest, I’ve never been in a place like this before.”

 

After their swim and in their white dressing gowns from the pool, Cathy and Sue titivated in the bedroom and en suite. By quarter to seven they were making their way downstairs to the opulence of the cocktail bar. They sat at a small table for two enjoying two or three Martinis. Sue was wearing a rather smart off-white suit she had brought with a view to her quickly-arranged Saturday meeting; Cathy still wore the tunic top but had changed her jeans for a knee-length, dark blue skirt with conventional tights and low, sensible shoes again, perhaps in readiness for tomorrow’s interview.

Dinner was good: lobster bisque soup, huile d’olive à la truffe blanche for Sue, filet steak for Cathy, one and a half bottles of housewine then, sin of sins, sticky toffee pudding followed by coffee and brandy.

They left the dining room at about ten to nine then walked along the corridor towards the Reception area. A few yards before the end of the corridor there was a large glass display unit with a couple of mannequins in colourful swimming costumes and bright, broad-brimmed hats. Cathy broke into uncontrollable laughter as she mimicked the poses and looked at her reflection in the cabinet’s glass. Somehow this irritated Sue who, although light-headed enough from the meal-time excesses would rather Cathy didn’t draw attention to herself. What made matters worse was, when they passed the Reception desk, Cathy walloped the desk bell and burst into more hoots of laughter.

“Come on, you. Let’s get you to bed” Sue mockingly reprimanded.

“Ooh! I’ll look forward to that” said Cathy, rocking a little and staring up and smiling into Sue’s face from a few inches off.

Sue took her left hand as if to steady her then, having quickly checked around them, kissed Cathy gently. They walked, silently hand in hand to the bedroom.

Ten minutes later, when Sue emerged from the en suite, Cathy was sitting on one of the beds, cupping her naked breasts. Sue went to her and, supporting her under both her forearms, stood her up and undressed her. Then, still supporting her with one hand, Sue pulled back the blankets and, in total silence, guided her naked perfection on to the bed. Sue covered her with the bedding. Within minutes, Cathy was gently snoring.

At three or four the following morning, the beds together, Cathy roused to Sue’s moist caresses. She reciprocated and for the next two hours they melted in each other’s arms. Then, lying apart, they slept deeply until seven.

“I’m so very sorry” said Sue when she sensed Cathy was awake.

“Why?” Cathy asked, emerging from the bed and donning that white dressing gown.

She went to the shower. Sue got up, donned the other gown and sat on the bed, waiting.

Cathy came back, drying her hair, her naked body still wet and shining. She bent over Sue and kissed her.

“Was I not good enough?” she asked playfully.

********************

They both attended their meetings later that morning then met at the Granby for lunch before setting off again for Gildersome. Cathy had been told that the traffic warden’s job was probably hers; she would hear in a few days.

Conversation in the car was scant. They had both had a new experience and probably, the least said the better. But, on the way round the Leeds Ring Road, just before turning into Elland Road, Sue pulled up in a small lay-by.

“Cathy, please tell me. If you don’t want to know, I’ll understand. I’m older than you and I ………….”

Cathy stared out of the front windscreen.

“Sue, please shut up.” She turned to Sue. “I think I liked it more than you.”

 

********************

 

Chapter Twelve

 

Roly clubs in Copacabana (Monday 27^th Jan > Saturday 1^st Feb)

Roly’s pre-work week in Rio. Meets Serena Garcia, Peruvian female exchanger in hospital who has room next door.

Taxi to Copacabana….boy? girl?  But goes to Allegro Bistrô Musical, 502 Barata Ribeiro.  Meets Isabel, singer. “Girl from Ipanema” had been written by the local Antônio Carlos Jobim and recorded by Stan Getz in 1964.

Copacabana had been composed but not famous until Barry Manilow’s recording of 1978.

 

Roly didn’t want to make a nuisance of himself so, after one or two introductions and the issuing of his security badge, he went for his siesta and a shower. Apparently the routine with the surgical teams was: when the morning operations were finished, they would do a final scrub up then briefly discuss the morning’s work. Follow-up meetings to discuss any problems that might have arisen would be scheduled for later in the week. Then the two or three teams would disband for a relaxing lunch before the afternoon meetings when new teams were formed and tactics discussed for the following morning’s operations. It was going to be a busy time. And while Roly was at the bottom of a very small pile in Batley, here he would be a complete NOBODY. These people were multi-national stars on a global stage. Roly wasn’t going to bend any pianos here. He was a little fish in a very big pond. He was happier being a big fish in a little pond, like Batley. He preferred a simple life. He preferred it in love too; getting involved or “playing away” as it was often called, normally ended in tears, thought Roly.

But what about Rio de Janeiro, 11,000 miles away from Batley?

 

Roly waited for his cab on the pavement outside Reception. It was just after seven. Twilight was falling. Workers were heading home and the early night shift taking over.

The crumpled Peugeot pulled up, right next to Roly, the swarthy little driver leaning on the open window sill, his right hand on the steering wheel. He looked up disinterestedly at Roly.

“You Epwood.”  It was probably a question.

“Yes”

“Address?” he asked, with American stress.

“Copacabana, please.”

The driver closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows simultaneously which Roly took to mean unenthusiastic acceptance. He climbed into the back of the grubby box and they set off.

At the first set of lights the driver, still leaning on the sill, asked

“You want boys or girls?”

“Music” Roly answered.

“OK. 502”

The radio crackled and a loud voice shouted something indistinguishable.  Roly heard the driver say

“Bistro Musical”

 

The wide boulevards went nowhere fast; the cab stopped at lots of traffic lights and Roly thought of Jenny for the first time in hours. This worried him slightly. In Morley/Batley Roly felt uneasy if he was at home and she was out and about. He would start to worry if she became an hour late not because he suspected her of seeing another bloke; she might have had an accident or the car could have broken down. He never even thought of how she felt when he was out gigging somewhere surrounded  by admiring females. The truth was that, under normal circumstances, in Yorkshire, neither would foul their own doorstep. Roly was talented enough and wise enough to enjoy the simple life. Jenny was the Christian wife of a local dentist.

For the first time in their married life, they were thousands of miles apart.

 

Roly got out of the cab in front of the Bistro Musical. It was about quarter to eight.

The lights were just coming on over the terraço. People were sitting about having drinks and snacks so, as nothing was obviously happening inside, he took a seat and ordered a bowl of frutos do marwith some house wine.

Lots of other people were having an early passeio up and down the Rua Barata Ribeiro.

“If this were Batley or parts of Leeds” thought Roly “one or two of these people would do a double take and maybe ask for my autograph.” After all, apart from the limited audiences at the Bluewater, he had appeared with a band in Thames Television’s “Opportunity Knocks”, featured fairly often on Yorkshire Television’s “Calendar”, and had “depped” several times in the resident backing at Wakefield Theatre Club. He liked the recognition and respect. But he supposed it did have a price, particularly when he considered his dental patients, too. He was on show in Yorkshire much of the time. But here, in Rio, it was different.

 

At about ten to nine he could hear two or three “horns” tuning up. Cue for him to go into the Club.

It was dark and unwelcoming. An average to good trio of piano, bass and drums was tinkering its way, perhaps wishfully, through “Here’s that Rainy Day”. Roly ordered his usual Grouse whisky and a bottle of Pripps Blue. After downing the generous whisky in one, he poured the small bottle of lager into the empty whisky glass and perched himself on a stool at the end of the bar. There were very few people in the place …..two men with a lady and a group of four men with a smart blond girl standing at the other end of the bar. Judging by their laughter and bonhomie, they were probably local musicians.

Sure enough, within a few minutes, the girl walked down to the stage and, as if to a packed auditorium, took the microphone and said “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Nice to see you here. I’m Serena. These boys, John, Roberto and Jochim are this season’s resident trio and I’m your hostess. Let’s have a party!” over which the trio went into a four bar intro to a bossa then swing version of “Love Me or Leave Me”. Serena sang coolly and coquettishly although the place was all but empty.

The music having started, people began to drift in. As Heppy in Wakefield used to say

“Unless you’re Duke Ellington, spenders won’t come in until they know when you’re starting, what sort of music you’re playing and why there’s no bugger in the place. If you get started they’ll know. If the punters still don’t come in, I’ll get another ****ing band.”

 

Roly was wearing his favourite going-out kit …..pale pink, open neck shirt, black trousers and his cream tuxedo. He wasn’t huge but the lighter-coloured top seemed to give him more status.

He had another Grouse and Pripps, continuing to occupy his end of the bar.

At about ten o’clock, the other four musicians plus Serena, took to the stage. Eleven years previously, Stan Getz had recorded the Antônio Jobim number, “Girl from Ipanema”  and the bass, drums, guitar and sax floated into their version of what was an obvious standard around here. Serena sang the unique middle eight backed only by the guitar which, in turn, allowed her to “kick it around” interstingly.

A few numbers later and the band had finished their set.

Canned music took over.

The four musos went to their end of the bar but Serena came straight over to Roly.

“I take it you’re a musician” she said, drawing up a stool.

She had long, true blond hair and hazel green eyes. She would be in her mid-thirties and wore a long, body-clutching, pale red taffeta dress with a string of low-slung pearls. Her shoes were black.  She was perhaps an inch or two taller than Roly.

“What makes you think that?”

“Most visiting musicians sit at this end of the bar when they first come. It’s nearer the door, I suppose, for a quick exit.”

She looked prettier than she did on stage.

“Can I get you a drink?” asked Roly.

“What’s your name …….eh….?”

“Roly.”

Serena smiled at an American couple who had just come in and began a lively chatter with the girl. Her partner, a dark, middle-aged professional bloke who, Roly thought, might be a pilot or a businessman, just looked at Roly, feigned a smile and shrugged his resignation as if to say “Here we go again.”

The girls chatted for five minutes or so.

Roly looked over at the band, wondering which one was Serena’s other half.

Eventually, the American couple left for their table.

“Roly, sorry. I’ll have a Martini, please.” She was looking over at the band. “Just say to Tony, the barman, it’s for me………… Serena.”

“And what about your partner, Serena?” he said with the hint of a nod towards the band.

“Oh, she’s late, as usual.”

The band was getting ready to go back on stage. “You’re not a piano player, are you?”

“I am, yeah. Why?”

“Our piano player, Xavier’s on holiday or sick or something. Would you like to try a number ………..just see if we knit, you know?”

“Why not?”

“OK. Let’s go.”

Roly followed Serena towards the stage.

“What will you do? Just tell the boys what key you’re in.”

“Mm!. Sounds like they might do ‘Desafinado’”

“Fine.”

The band were in their places.

“Posso apresentar a Roly, pianista?” she said to the band. “Desafinado, please.”

Obvious who was in charge here!

The whole scene followed an international format. Roly did a two-bar explosive modulation in F which let the other guys know that he could actually play and that he anticipated they played ‘Desafinado’ in F as opposed to any other key. The sax player looked at Roly and pointed to the floor with one finger, confirming the key would be one flat (i.e. F). He then pointed to the guitarist and showed four fingers meaning, Roly assumed, the guitarist would play a four-bar intro.

It all started. After the intro they melted together, like peaches and cream.

Roly played with the band for the whole of the forty minute set. By the end of it they were all talking and joking as you do in a band. The dance floor was small and rarely used.

By eleven o’clock the Club was about full, with a couple of dozen standing at the bar, drinking and chatting and the rest of the aficionados sitting at tables of two or four.

Roly stood at the musos end of the bar. The gathering of 12 -15 sax, brass, keyboard , guitar, drum players chatted and drank. The “serious” jamming started about midnight. There was another keyboard player but he tended to dep. for the pianist in the trio. Roly was the only piano player in the house who could cope for the rest of the night, until 4a.m., with the Chicos de Serena.

“Hi! I’m Patricia. Have you got transport home, Roly?” It was the female alto sax player from the Chicos.

“No. But I’ll get a cab.”

“Where are you going?”

“Tijuca, Rua Conde Bonfim.”

“The dental hospital?”

Persistent, if nothing else. Another blond. She had a very laid-back attitude and quite prominent breasts for a sax player. Was a lift a good idea?

“Yeh, it’s probably …………….”

“I live two kilometres from there. I’m more than happy to give you a lift.”

Patricia would be about thirty. She was quite tall, maybe the same height as Roly, with very long hair and piercing blue eyes. Her high cheekbones suggested a Scandinavian origin but there was no discernible accent.

Roly “sat in” with the quartet for the rest of the night and, following a 4a.m. “nightcap” left the Club with Patricia.

 

They reached her small white Peugeot without much conversation, each probably concerned about what the departing regular revellers might say or be thinking.

Roly glanced at her neatly-formed bejeaned arse as she opened the driver’s door.

He made his way round to the passenger’s door while she took off her tunic top, threw it into the car then opened Roly’s door from inside. He climbed in. They looked at each other.

“Hi. I’m Patricia” she said, lisping the ‘c’ à l’espagnole. “Patricia Hewitt” she said in perfect English. “We’ll go via my flat for a little something.”

Roly hadn’t realised that, especially in south side Rio and particularly at that time of night, accepting a lift from a girl usually meant accepting “a little something” else.

 

Roly left Patricia’s flat in a cab at something after 11 am. She was still incommunicada in bed. Roly had no idea if she worked during the day but, judging by last night’s performance it was unlikely.

He could cope with the morning-after feeling; he could cope with the lack of food; he could cope with his own bad breath, but not with his guilt. He hadn’t rung Jenny since late last Friday.

He had a shower back at the hospital and a late lunch in the refectory which was open all day.

At three in the afternoon he rang Jenny who was finishing her evening meal before heading out for a game of badminton. The pregnancy was fine but her GP had decided to refer her to Pinderfields to have a routine scan following an incident of bleeding and discomfort two nights earlier.

 

Roly was not unduly concerned and whiled away the rest of that week with leisurely days followed by evenings spent exploring the bars of Ipanema and the Banca do Blues in Rio itself. A couple of evenings at 502 with the “afters” at Patricia’s completed a busy social week.

 

Roly’s work at the hospital was very time-consuming. The two professors who headed the Department took his involvement seriously and expected him to do the same. There was an ongoing programme of inclusion of overseas post-graduate dentists who were expected to keep detailed notes and observations of all operations and provisions made. These notes were scrutinised and graded by their personal consultant at the end of each week with a view to giving the attached “student” a grade for the three months’ stage. So, for the next three months, Roly was tied to hospital work during the week with the occasional weekend sortie to 502 and, it has to be said, not an infrequent stop-over at Patricia’s.

 

********************

 

Chapter Thirteen

 

After the service at Church on January 26^th, Alan Bosworth did his usual round of singers in the rehearsal room at the back of the building where the choir members were doffing their cassocks and surplices.

As usual half a dozen choristers including Jenny, Sue, Cathy and Alan went along to the Old Griffin for a post-service drink or two. Again as usual the two teachers, Jenny and Alan, sat together within the group who were all chatting in twos or threes.

“Jenny, do you fancy a curry some time, just you and me?” asked Alan sotto voce.

She took some time to answer.

“Yes, I do. Your wife, eh………….”

“Just you and me, Jenny.”

Again, a pause. Someone, laughing loudly, asked “Do you know him, Alan?”

“I don’t think so. No”, Alan smiled, feigning interest.

“When?” asked Jenny quietly and deliberately not looking at Alan.

“Tomorrow evening? I could pick you up.”

Jenny looked at Alan, smiling in order to distract any curiosity amongst the others.

“What time? I’ve got a hospital appointment tomorrow afternoon.”

“Would you like me to come with you?”

“No, thank you, Alan. It’s just a regular check-up. But thank you. That’s kind.”

 

The Hepwoods’ terraced house on Wakefield Road attracted little attention. Anyway, Jenny being a regular squash player, would quite often be picked up from home by a fellow player. This apart, Alan and his wife Sarah occasionally visited the Hepwoods sharing, as they did, their teaching and fairly eclectic interests in music.

 

The Aakash in Cleckheaton seemed a good choice to Alan. It was big enough for them to disappear yet they could enjoy the privacy Alan wanted. He seemed to be known by one of the waiters and chose quite a secluded corner table for two. They had a couple of drinks and ordered their meal.

“Jenny, the choir’s thinking of having a weekend away at the Conwy Music Festival in July. I wondered if you’d like to come……….with me.”

“With you?”

“Jenny, I…………most people in the choir know ………… we can have separate rooms, Jenny, we don’t have to ……….”

“I’m expecting in July, Alan.”

“Yes” was all he said.

“Gosh!. What a strange thing!” Jenny thought.

Thankfully, their meal arrived. They ate in near silence.

 

Alan and Jenny met almost ever Monday evening at the Aakash, every Thursday evening at choir practice and, of course, every Sunday at Church usually followed by drinks at the Griffin. School work at Kettlethorp became more and more demanding but Jenny continued to meet Sue on occasions for lunch at Mountbatten Avenue round in Wakefield. On two or three other occasions Alan invited Jenny out for drinks and once, towards the beginning of March, in the Queensway Arms near Ossett, he became quite emotional

“Jenny, you mean a lot to me.” He took her hands. “I sense your pregnancy is not going too well and I’m worried for you.” His eyes moistened. “You know I’m here if you need me.”

 

Alan’s and Jenny’s relationship rolled on in Platonic mode. Alan took Jenny to her various doctor and hospital appointments without him showing anything other than concern and care. At a hospital consultation in Pinderfields in early April, the paediatrician told Jenny that, somewhere in Jenny’s records, she had come across reference to a child in her family who had suffered from Patau’s Syndrome. The paediatrician spent a lot of time explaining the implications to Jenny and they both agreed upon an amniocentesis to be performed on Wednesday April 16^th.

 

Jenny and Alan continued to meet at choir practice, at church and for curries but the number of lunch time and unexpected evening calls increased. Roly rang home less often than Jenny would have liked but she supposed, quite rightly, that Roly would be busy with Hospital work. Nevertheless and in the light of her amniocentesis on the 16^th, she decided to surprise and make contact with him at the 502 on Sunday 13^th April. It meant that, in order to synchronize the two life-styles she, on her own, had to ring Rio at 4 a.m. That way she would be catching him at around 1 am when, she knew, he would be there.

But, by the time the operator on International Directory Enquiries had established that the 502 was in fact the Allegro Bistrôt Musical, 502 Rua Barata Ribeiro, Copacabana it must have been about 4.30 am.

“Bom dia. Bistrôt Musical”

“Roly, pianista, please” she said slowly and very distinctly.

“Roly play piano now. You want you speak Patricia?”

There was a pause. Patricia might be the manager.

“Patricia who?”  She made it a definite question.

“Patricia. Patricia” He was getting impatient. “Saxo. Mrs Roly”

 

Jenny hung up. She sat for a long time, thinking. She thought of all the possible answers. What did saxo mean? Perhaps it meant “Are you?” or “There’s no”. Did he say sexo? Was he calling me Mrs Roly? But he wouldn’t know I was his wife. Christ, what’s going on?

Jenny was no linguist; nor was she a sloth.

“Do I know anyone who is Brazilian or Spanish or Portuguese or whatever they are?”

It was five o’clock on Sunday morning. She couldn’t ring anyone. But he should be back in his room by now.

She rang the Hospital ………….a recorded message. After all, she supposed, it was not a 24/7 type of hospital.

She didn’t go back to bed. How could she? She certainly wouldn’t sleep. She would see Alan and Sue later at Church. She thought she would rather talk to Sue first perhaps at the Griffin, after the service. But, by twenty past nine she couldn’t wait. Sue was good at languages, having plodded through a couple of ‘Teach Yourself’ books in French and Spanish.

She was still in wake-up mode.

“Christ, what’s up, Jenny?”

“Nothing, really. At least I don’t think so.”

“Is the baby OK?”

“Yeh, yeh. I have a medical coming up soon………..I have had a few problems as you know. No, it’s not that. Is Bob up and about?”

“He’s on one of his smart-arse week-ends somewhere. Why?”

“I couldn’t pop over and see you before Church could I?”

“Yes” There was a pause. Cathy had spent the night with Sue. She would have to tell Jenny some time. “Yes, that’s fine” she said. “When?”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes” Jenny said and hung up.

 

(Sunday 13^th April)

True to her word, Jenny knocked at the door of the Gregory house on Mountbatten Avenue at about ten minutes to ten. Cathy was sitting in a dressing gown at the dining room table. She was pensively downing a breakfast drink and, other than a smile to Jenny, said nothing.

Sue led Jenny into the kitchen.

“What’s up?” she asked.

Jenny frowned and pointed to the dining room with her thumb.

Sue shook her head. “Later” she whispered.

They both sat at the little table. “Go on”, Sue prompted and Jenny recounted the story of that morning’s telephone call to the club in Rio.

“Hmm. ‘Saxo’ in French means ‘saxophone’ or even ‘sax player’. I’m pretty sure it’ll mean the same in most Romance languages.”

“I’ll find out” said Jenny, getting slowly more despondent.

“Hang on. Why don’t we spend today working out a plan and we’ll ring that Club tonight. We could always try the Hospital this afternoon. You never know.”

 

As they all got ready for Church, Sue explained quietly to Jenny that Cath was a “girlfriend” who had a “sleep-over” with Sue when Bob was away on his many trips. Without saying that they were in a sexual relationship, Sue explained that she didn’t want Jenny to talk about it; in return she would, of course, say nothing about Rio. In her turn, Jenny asked the two others that they didn’t say anything about Roly to the choir and particularly to Alan Bosworth who, she admitted was being extremely supportive with her medical problems.

“And other things?” wondered Sue.

 

After Church, the three decided they would go about their own business and return to Mountbatten Avenue for about 9 p.m. when Sue and Cath would have prepared some supper, Jenny would have tried the Hospital and, assuming that was not successful, they would then plan their call to 502.

In the event, Jenny tried the Hospital three times that afternoon unsuccessfully and, as a result of her sleepless night on Saturday, fell asleep on the sofa until about seven.

She brightened up with a shower and returned to Mountbatten Avenue where Sue and Cath seemed to be enjoying the effects of a few wines.

Jenny herself was more relaxed and the atmosphere amongst them took on a very clear girls-v-Roly air.

In the light of Jenny’s experience during her previous attempt, they decided that Jenny would again make the call. They would ring at about 11 p.m. British time when the band in Rio might be getting ready to start the evening. If the woman Patricia came to the phone, Jenny would pass it to Cath who would cry “My papa Roly, papa Roly”  in the youngest tones she could muster.

Of course, they assumed, Roly might not even be there, let alone that woman Patricia.

 

The three girls enjoyed their wine and at an appropriate pause Sue announced quietly and calmly:

“Jenny, we…….eh, Cathy and I…….. thought you should know we have become an item. We’re having a relationship. We enjoy each other’s company, socially …… and sexually.”

During the quiet that followed, Jenny looked at Sue whose blond, Nordic, high-boned features looked tired as she smiled caringly at Cath.

“Do you worry about it?”

“No, we don’t. I suppose the news will not be greatly welcomed amongst my magisterial colleagues.” She poured herself another wine and topped up the others. “Fuck ‘em. We’re happy, aren’t we, Cath?”

“You bet.” Cath smiled, her raised dark eyebrows framed by her long black hair, awaiting the brief kiss.

 

It was eleven o’clock. Jenny had brought the 502 phone number which she rang with the other two in close attendance.

The same bloke seemed to answer.

“Bom dia. Bistrôt Musical”  Jenny put the phone on loudspeaker.

“Pianista Roly, please. Roly , pian..”

“Wait”

Jenny knew he would be there that evening. Whether he could come to the phone was another matter. No mention of Patricia, though. …………………………….

“Hello”. It was a hesitating, inquisitive Roly.

“Hi. It’s me, Jenny”.  Pause. “You’ve not rung for a while.”

“No, sorry, love. By the time I finish work, shower, eat something and get here, it’s time to start. Sorry” he repeated. A slight pause, then “How’s the baby?”

“Fine. Fine.”  Sue and Cathy were trying to get Jenny to ask about Patricia. But was it appropriate now? “Who’s Patricia?” she asked.

“She….you mean the one who plays sax here?”

“Whatever.”

“She…..plays the sax here.”

“The doorman or whatever called her ‘Mrs Roly’. He must have got it wrong, eh?”

“Jenny,  she…….”

“Listen, Roly, I’m on someone else’s phone. I’ll ring you tomorrow…….if I get a minute.”

She hung up.

 

Jenny and Alan met for their usual curry on Monday 14^th April. Alan looked older and tired. School had been difficult but classroom discipline, particularly in Music and subjects like PE, Technology, and Food, could be difficult to control. They needed strong personalities.

“I never imagined you’d have problems in class, Alan” Jenny ventured.

“It’s not in the classroom. it’s more the staffroom”.

“Why, what’s ….?”

“Oh, some bugger’s seen you and me around and it’s pretty well known that Sarah and I are having problems. Anyway, to Hell with ‘em!”

“That’s the spirit, Mr Bosworth. More wine ………..my dear?”

 

Jenny decided that, after Alan had dropped her off, she would ring the 502 again. She was determined to find out about this Patricia.  Roly would know that she, Jenny, would ring the Club again but he also knew that she didn’t speak Portuguese or even Spanish. He probably had it all worked out.

Alan actually came into the house with Jenny for a night cap. It was after midnight by the time she got through to the 502. A woman answered the phone.

“Alô. De onde fala?”

“Patricia, please. Patricia saxo”

“Hi. I’m Patricia. I play the sax. Can I help you?”

Christ! An American. Jenny had not expected this woman, Patricia, to answer the phone let alone that she would speak English.

“Can I help you?” Patricia repeated. Jenny wanted to hang up but resisted.

“I’m his wife ……………Roly’s wife. Are you ……….?” She didn’t know what to say.

The phone went dead. It sounded very much as if Patricia had hung up but Jenny kept listening, hoping she would speak.

Nothing.

Alan came up behind her. He put his arm round her shoulder. Jenny turned to face him, her face awash with tears.

Jenny was inconsolable. It was clear that Roly was having an affair with this woman Patricia. She, Jenny, was pregnant and about to go into hospital to have the pregnancy checked out. Her whole life was suddenly in turmoil; Alan had to stay with her. They sat together on the sofa, Jenny’s head on his chest, Alan holding her close.

3 a.m. Alan had dosed off. Jenny’s tears had dried and her sobbing abated. She looked around the room. It was small; the whole house was small. But everything she saw brought back memories  ……….. when and where they had bought that picture; how they had struggled to find the cash for the carpet; how Roly’s Aunt Mary had given them that sideboard when she had moved into a rest home. Jenny’s tears welled again; Alan was still holding her but sleeping soundly.

The phone rang, startling them both.

“God! What’s the time?”

Alan struggled to focus. “No idea……. God, it’s after three!” he said through a yawn. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

Jenny picked up the phone. Was it Roly?

“Hello” she said, uninvitingly.

No reply.

“Hello” she repeated. “Who’s that?”

“Is that Roly’s wife?” The female voice sounded vaguely familiar.

“Why?”

“I’m Patricia. I spoke to you earlier. Please, are you Roly’s wife? Please tell me your name.”

“My friends call me Jenny…………and yes, I’m Roly’s wife, or ………………..”

“Jenny, thank you for speaking with me. I am so, so annoyed and embarrassed.”

“Why?”

Alan signalled to Jenny that he was going. He grimaced and shook his head. He didn’t want to be part of this. Jenny did a “Stop!” sign and pointed to a seat.

“I’m actually at home now” said Patricia. “I’ve walked out of 502. I told him what a bastard he was……to me and to you…….especially to you, his wife. He told me ….anyway, I told him to fuck off.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Oh I can’t remember, Jenny…….Yes I can. He told me he was single.”

“Thank you…..Patricia”. She wanted to say “Tell him ‘goodbye’ from me too” but thought better and hung up. In tears again, she fell back into Alan’s arms.

 

Schools were still on Easter holiday when Alan picked Jenny up in Morley to take her to Pinderfields in Wakefield for the amniocentesis. It was Wednesday the 16^th April. Alan, not being an impulsive person, was still living with his wife Sarah. Yet he and Jenny went for their usual curry supper on Monday after which, Jenny stayed with Sue and Cath at Mountbatten Avenue while Bob was on another jaunt. This social, musical chairs was exhausting Jenny who, nevertheless, found Sue’s and Cath’s honesty about their relationship refreshing, almost fun. Alan was being an absolute rock, a tower of strength for Jenny but she wished he would express his feelings more openly. He had that teacher quality, that aloofness bordering on fear that Jenny had come to dislike. In musical terms, he was technically very good and played all the right notes. But, if you’re going to be really successful in music and life, Jenny felt, you must take risks, be cavalier, devil-may-care on occasions. You will certainly “splash” the odd note in music and probably make a few enemies in life. She wouldn’t advocate or condone selfishness but she did wish Alan would be more outspoken to her. Just talking would help. It would help Jenny with her own feelings. She had no idea how she was going to handle this Roly affair.

 

The amniocentesis, scans and hanging about at Pinderfields took all of that day. Alan was with Jenny most of the time but excused himself to go for sandwiches for the two of them and a couple of pints for himself at about noon.

As they left the Hospital that evening Jenny was told to expect a call about the result within 48 hours.

 

At choir practice the following evening and especially at the Old Griffin afterwards, Sue and Cathy particularly and, to some degree, even Alan and Jenny were “coming out” more. There was, perhaps the occasional look askance which Sue and Cath seemed to actually enjoy. Alan was definitely less sure but he and Jenny spent the late evening after the pub together at the Hepwood house in Morley. Jenny was gently relieved that Alan was making no serious sexual advances. They would kiss warmly rather than passionately when they left each other’s company but this suited them. They both knew that most of their immediate friends appreciated something was “going on” but fortunately, they seemed prepared to respect Alan and Jenny’s privacy.

 

On Friday morning, Jenny being on the last day of her school holiday, received a phone call at home from Dr. Snell who had overseen the amniocentesis and other tests. She wanted to see Jenny as soon as possible. Once again Alan managed to drop whatever he was doing and accompanied her to Dr. Snell’s rooms.

 

Snell was younger than Alan had expected. Seated behind her desk, Alan could not make out how tall she was. But she was a good-looking auburn girl in her thirties. She wore the almost compulsory black-rimmed spectacles with weak or possibly no lenses. A man, older, slim, dark-haired and with a short, bushy moustache stood erectly by her side. Alan wondered which of the two was the senior.

“Who is this?” Snell asked, looking at Alan with a hint of a smile.

“Mr Bosworth. Alan Bosworth, my partner. I want him to be with me.”

Apparently ignoring this, Snell scanned her notes. Stalin, to her left, remained immobile.

“Earlier this month” Snell said, “we reported to you a historical, familial incidence of Patau’s Syndrome. Hence our amniocentesis on Wednesday”.  Pause. “Our analysis of the chorionic villus sample caused us “ nod, nod for emphasis “some concern.”

 

********************

 

Chapter Fourteen

 

Jack and Mavis were ambling through their retirement years within the confines of the ever-reducing Batley. Jack and his three bowling chums still played on a Tuesday. They all had children except Stan who, for some reason or reasons, lived with his housekeeper on Dewsbury Road. The other three occasionally mentioned their children but the bowls, the rugby and the “social” were more important.

John Schofield’s daughter was a nurse, his son a teacher, Rob Stone’s two sons worked “in banks or summit” in Leeds and Alfie Gledhill’s daughter was a divorced hairdresser somewhere in Wakefield. There were grandchildren around but Alfie and John left them to “the girls”. They were proud of their children but generally felt they were old enough to look after themselves. Roly was highly respected in Batley but Jack and Mavis had false teeth.

As far as he could remember, the last time Jack met Rob’s lads was about twenty-three years ago when one of them, Neil, was setting himself up as a “financial adviser”. To help him, Jack had enrolled in one of his financial plans. He had had no idea what the lad was talking about except that it cost him, Jack, £1:50 a week to help him get started. It was a lot of money in 1952 but by now, 1975, he had forgotten he was still paying it.

 

In his letters or phone calls to his parents, Roly had mentioned their Golden Wedding Anniversary present in June and had asked them not to make any plans for that month without asking him. A couple of days previously when Jenny had come over on her own for Sunday lunch, Jack had commented on the cold weather and Mavis had made her usual remark about “retiring to Barbados”.  Jenny had then said something like “Why don’t you have a holiday there?” and it had set Jack thinking.

“I’m wondering” he said to Rob Stone as they changed ends “if our Roly’s got us a holiday in Spain or summit for us fiftieth.” The truth was that neither he nor Mavis knew where Barbados was.

“Well that’d be grand” said Rob.

“Yeah. But to be perfectly honest, we don’t have a lot of cash lying about, you know, for spends and that.”

Two ends later Rob asked Jack “Have you still got that savings plan our Neil did for you when he started up?”

“Oh Christ. I’ve no idea. I can’t remember stopping it, though.”

“I’ll check with our Neil.”

 

The following afternoon, Wednesday 29^th January 1975, Jack was in the back yard, whitewashing the outside loo when the telephone rang in the house. By the time he got down the ladder and into the house, the phone had stopped ringing. Then, the usual Sod’s Law, it started ringing again as Jack was approaching his ladder in the yard.

“Shite! It’s olus ‘tsame as a’ need some peace.”

He lifted the phone.

“Hi! It’s Rob ‘ere. I’ve got some bad news for you. Our Neil, I think they call it ‘sold on’ …………any road he sold on your plan to one o’t big boys a few months after you took it out wi’ him. He needed ‘brass.”

“Oh, bloody great! Any road I’ll get on wi’ whitewashin’” Jack said, having not really thought about his investment since yesterday.

“No, listen. He sold it on but the plan’s still working. In fact, I’ve been given the whisper that you, Mr Smartarse Hepwood are worth 1.6 million quid less a few expenses if ye cash it in.”

It took a minute or two for the impact of this news to hit base. When it did, Jack felt sickly rather than deliriously happy. He could not conceive a million pounds; he had no idea what .6 of anything meant.

“Does it mean we can afford an ‘oliday?” he asked Rob.

“Yeah. In fact, if ye play yer cards right, I’ll let thee buy me a pint or five at t’club.”

It took the best part of a month for Jack and Mavis to comprehend the size of their new-found wealth. That month included two meetings with the Manager at the Yorkshire Bank in Batley during one of which he explained to Jack and Mavis that, if they put the money into a Yorkshire Bank Gold Reserve Account they would earn an annual interest of 5.4%, that is, something like £86,000.

“Eighty-six thousand quid? Every year? For how long for Christ’s sake?”

“For ever; as long as you don’t touch the 1.6 million” said the nice little bank manager.

“I’ve never ever needed ten thousand quid a year, forget eighty-six thousand or a million or whatever you said.”

“Mr Hepwood, can I suggest you allow us, the Yorkshire bank, to manage your account for a very small fee. You just spend whatever you need, preferably no more than eighty-six thousand a year, and we’ll do the rest. Actually if you could keep it to no more than seventy-five thousand we can increase the capital, you know, as a reserve against inflation or emergencies. How does that sound?”

At the end of March, by which time Roly was thinking more of getting home, he had asked Jenny to tell his parents that he had booked them an anniversary holiday in Barbados flying from Manchester on June 10^th (1975). Neither Roly nor Jenny knew that Jack and Mavis had a new-found source of wealth and Roly was unaware that Jenny had been told by Pinderfields that they wanted to perform an amniocentesis on Jenny. The pregnancy was not going comfortably and Dr Snell had unearthed somewhere a history of Patau’s Syndrome in the medical records of the Short family.

Roly launched into his last month at the Centro Especializado de Odontologia where he was now getting hands-on experience in some parts of the maxillo facial operations not to mention some games of squash in the Hospital sports hall and yet more hands on at 502 and Patricia’s nearby flat. The Roly Hepwood show had come to Rio. But its demise would begin in a couple of weeks.

 

********************

 

Chapter Fifteen

 

Dr Snell explained as slowly and as gently as possible that her immediate concerns were for the unborn child. It would almost certainly be born with a serious handicap or handicaps some of which usually, in her experience, would be systemic, involving vital organs.

Snell allowed a long, deliberate silence.

“Should we terminate?” Jenny asked.

Pause.

“That’s for you and anybody else to decide.” She looked at Jenny for some considerable time. “I have to say that, if it were me and my partner who is also a gynaecologist, we would definitely terminate. Would you like time to …………….”

“No. I want to go ahead.”

“Go ahead?”

Another silence. Jenny began to sob.

“Jenny … darling…..” Alan tried “shouldn’t you……………?”

“No!” she shouted and burst into tears.

Snell got up to leave the room.

“I’ll come back shortly” she said just loud enough to be heard above Jenny’s howls.

Alan held her long enough to slowly calm her.

Unprompted and between her reducing sobs she managed to say

“I want an abortion as soon as possible. A termination of two things.”

 

Jenny spent most of that Sunday getting her overnight bag ready for the stay at  Pinderfields the following day, April 21^st. She did not want to speak to Roly; she did not even answer what she knew were his many calls from Rio. Instead, after church and several glasses of red wine at the Old Griffin that Sunday, she almost enjoyed leaving a message on his room’s ansafone to the effect that she was having a rermination tomorrow and not to bother coming back because it would be done anyway.

“I hope he thinks it was due to his affair with that Patricia” she said to Alan as he settled on the settee downstairs for the night..

“I’ll leave it for a week or so before I tell him I’m moving out” she thought as she went upstairs.

 

The whole episode at Pinderfields was unpleasant and messy although Jenny saw and felt little. According to her notes the termination was due to medical concerns rather than an unwanted pregnancy and so Jenny evidenced sympathetic care and attitude from the medics. Alan, who now had school commitments was on hand first thing in the morning and after the event to add his usual unqualified support.

 

********************

Chapter Sixteen

 

Sue and Cath went on with their affair openly and very happily. Bob, having returned home unexpectedly one Saturday morning had his suspicions confirmed about the two. In an unexpected sort of way, he was relieved that Sue was not involved with another bloke and actually enjoyed talking with Sue about the two girls’ sexual exploits. Sue had helped Cath find a little flat in Harrogate and the ménage à trois rolled along quite nicely. When Bob was around at Mountbatten Avenue, Cath tended to stay at Harrogate although, on the few occasions when the three socialised, they all had a thoroughly relaxing time. If the truth be told Bob hoped there might be an occasion when ménagebecame lit.

 

Roly Hepwood, however, was not quite so relaxed. He was having unqualified difficulty getting in touch with Jenny who, it was now clear to Roly, was studiously avoiding his calls. He was beside himself with frustration. Why was she having the abortion in the first place and, in the event, how had it gone? Who was helping her through it?  She had said she didn’t want Roly’s parents to be involved in any pregnancy matters; Jenny’s parents were divorced; Roly’s brother, Peter, was uselessly wrapped up in himself. It was not appropriate to involve anyone else.

Roly had a final paper to submit to the Professor at the Centro de Odontologia by Friday 29^th April otherwise he had no chance of gaining the prestigious add-on to his degree. Things were beginning to go wrong in the gold panelled life of Doctor Hepwood.

He decided to keep clear of the 502 but telephoned Serena to see if Jenny had rung. Nothing. Juliana had vacated the room next to his at the Hospital so, for Roly’s last week in Rio, he observed operations, studied, ventured out twice to the local café, sat his “viva” and was on the ‘plane back to England on Friday 2^nd May.1975, a worried man.

 

When he arrived home late that evening he found a scribbled note saying:

Roly,

Changed mobile. I’ll ring you Monday. Don’t try to get in touch before,

                                                                                Jenny

No kisses; no “Jen” as she would normally do in a note.

“Bloody Hell! I turn my back for five minutes and ……….”  He stopped himself as he briefly thought of Patricia.

 

On Saturday, he went to the Surgery in Batley to see how things had gone and to catch any mail relating to his parents’ anniversary holiday next month in Barbados.

On Sunday he distracted himself with a game of squash in Wakefield during which he was beaten by a player he normally trounced.

During his post-match shower, he experienced a not-unpleasant tingling in the triceps of both arms which did not particularly trouble him. He was more concerned about Jenny. Where the Hell was she?

On Monday morning he was back in harness at the Surgery in Batley. He didn’t have a full diary and used any spare time to work on details for his parents’ holiday.

Jenny rang the Surgery at about quarter past five. There was no warmth in her voice, no news sought. Just a date to meet him at the Bistro later where, to a degree, it had all begun.

 

********************

 

Chapter Seventeen

 

MAY 2^nd 1975

 

Roly arrived at the Bistro at just after 7p.m. well in time for his 7.30 date with Jenny. He had a couple of large whiskies with Jean, le patron, who did not like Fridays, his busiest day of the week. It was on a Friday, Roly remembered, a year last January, when Jean had cunningly arranged to meet a pair of Irish blokes who had shown an interest in purchasing the Bistro. Perhaps he overdid the sales patter and the story that he wanted to return to France. Perhaps the Irish guys had found a much cheaper, quieter premises in which to do whatever they were planning. Perhaps they found a better restaurant for sale.

What is unquestionable is that, a month later, some two miles away on the M62, a coach load of British troops and their families was blown up by what was believed to be an IRA bomb.

Jean was a bloke with very mixed feelings.

 

When Jenny did arrive she looked stressed.

“I’ve got to sit. Let’s sit up there”.

She headed up to the quiet, empty, private section and Roly followed. She sat at the table in front of the large cartoon of a fellow with his head up his arse and the inscription below: c’est quoi ton problème?

As Roly sat down, he pointed to the cartoon but Jenny did not respond. Roly sensed this was possibly not the right time for humour.

 

He ordered a bottle of house wine from Jean and started again.

“Jenny……. darling, why did we have a termination?”

“Roly, I don’t want to talk about it”.  She was beginning to fill up again.

“Jenny, for Christ’s sake, please tell me.  This is…… was our baby.  Please tell me what’s happened.”

Four or five new customers came in laughing loudly.

This was too much for Jenny.  She stood up as if to go.  She turned back, leaning on the table where Roly was sitting.  Her face was inches from him.

“I don’t want you back in the house…… yet” she whispered loudly. “We have a lot to sort out.”

Then, even closer to Roly’s face,

“You see, I needed support too”.

She turned and made for the door.

“Jenny……..!” Roly shouted.

“I’ll ring you” she blurted, as she burst through the door and stood outside, clearly upset. She lingered for a moment and then disappeared.

Roly decided to stay as more new customers arrived.  He didn’t want a scene.

He needed time to think.

 

********************

 

Chapter Eighteen

 

By now Cath was well settled in Harrogate.  She still made regular visits to Sue’s house in Wakefield and the two of them thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company.  However, Sue was conscious of her role as a magistrate in Yorkshire and was never totally at ease with Cath unless they were out of the County.

 

The relationship was in no way entirely sexual but in order to be totally relaxed Sue was happier when they were well away from home.  So it was wonderful when the two of them managed a weekend together from May 16th to 19^th that year.  Sue had thought it would be nice to take Cath to Scotland particularly Edinburgh and St Andrews.  They decided to “play it by ear” as Roly Hepwood would say when it came to accommodation and meals.

They set off from Wakefield at just after five o’clock.  It was still bright and almost balmy.  By seven o’clock they had decided to stop for the night at Moffat, planning to take the road at the Devils Beef Tub on the early banks of the River Tweed, the following morning.

 

They had a very pleasant evening walking around this Victorian spa town followed by dinner in the hotel.  After a full Scottish breakfast the next morning they climbed out of the town and made their way to Edinburgh. They booked into the Caledonian hotel then spent the morning exploring PrincesStreetGardens and the Royal mile.  Sue took great pleasure in showing Cath the former site of the MaryErskineSchool, which she had attended, in George Street then walking down the steep hill to Stockbridge where they enjoyed a pizza lunch in San Marco’s on Raeburn Place.  Catherine could see that Sue was feeling the strain of all this reminiscing.  She was trying to hide her face as she rummaged in her hand back to pay the bill.  Cath half stood up and, leaning over to Sue, kissed her fully on the lips.

“You won’t let me pay for any of this” Cath said. “I feel so bloody useless.”

She sat down again.

“You are such a kind, beautiful person to me” Sue replied, without raising her eyes.  Then, looking at Cath full face,

“not to mention a beautiful girl…… I mean, so very, very beautiful.”

“Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?” said Cath smiling coquettishly.

********************

Roly had got himself an en suite room somewhere in Morley and, as Jenny had restarted working at school in Kettlethorpe, he was able to collect items from the house and leave Jenny notes as and when possible or necessary.

He was worried about him and Jenny but also about his medical condition.

He had had lots of tests during an overnight stay at Pinderfields and the horrible, self-satisfied, pompous consultant had allowed himself the minimum amount of time to inform Roly that his tests had been positive and, yes, he did have MS.  He, the consultant, was going on holiday for a couple of weeks and would be in touch with Roly when he returned.  Roly felt a huge trapdoor had opened beneath him.  After the fortnight was over, that same consultant told Roly that he was suffering from relapse-remit MS and that, in a worst case scenario, he “might need the help of a wheelchair in fifteen or twenty years time”.  Apparently, according to the consultant, this relapse-remit MS could have been lying dormant for the last 10 or 15 years and had only emerged now because of “some life-changing trauma. Be a man” he concluded, somewhat incongruously.

Roly decided to get on with life.  He had a lot to do and the most imminent things were getting his life together again with Jenny and his parents’ anniversary trip to Barbados on June 9.

“Is it hot in Barbados?  Will I need my sunglasses?  Should I take my raincoat?  What’s it like in an aeroplane?  Can we not sail there?”

 

He decided he would take his parents to the airport.  They had never flown before and Roly knew the whole experience would be horrendous for them.

Christ, it had been hard work: the shopping, the tickets, the questions, the passports alone had taken a month. But at least Jenny actually asked if she could accompany them to the airport. Roly was delighted. At last they’d have some time and space to talk.

 

More questions, more doubts, delays and more delays.

“How far is it to Barbados?”

“About four thousand miles. I don’t really know”

“Four thousand bleeding miles! How long’s that gonna take?”

“About eight hours, Dad. That nice man, Alistair, will be with you all the way.  He’ll answer all your questions.  He’s paid to do all that.  It’ll be longer on the way back.  But he’ll tell you all about it.”

 

Finally, they took off.

 

Roly decided to take a scenic route back so that he and Jenny would have time to speak.

They both were very relaxed and seemed to want to be friendly.

Roly was driving but turned and looked at Jenny.  She looked at him.  They both smiled.  Were things back to normal?

“The other evening at the Bistro, you said you needed support as well.  I understand that and accept it was my fault.  I’m so sorry.  Can you tell me where you found that support?  I’ll understand if you don’t want to.”

He noticed that Jenny was looking to her left at what seemed a very appealing restaurant.  She quickly looked at Roly and, with raised eyebrows and a questioning smile, seemed to suggest this might be a good place to stop for lunch.  That was Jenny’s style.

Roly felt comfortable.  Without a word he turned around and drove back to the watering hole.  He parked in a space to the rear of the building.  As was their norm, Jenny remained seated until Roly came round and opened the door for her. As she raised herself out of the car, he felt the urge to kiss her. But his muso “feel” told him the timing was wrong…………….too quick.

The restaurant was not busy and Roly, taking the lead as usual, chose a table.  They ordered drinks and a light lunch.

“Sorry, you were saying…….?” Roly asked.

Feminine guile clicked in.

“I forget.  What were we talking about?”

“Who supported you?”

“Alan Bosworth at the church.  He was very supportive.  I was in a bad way.”

“Do you mind if I speak with him, Jenny?  I’d like to thank him.  I didn’t realise how much we need other people…..  people we know and love.  I fucked it up” he said in what was a rare blasphemous outburst.

The tears welled in Jenny’s eyes.  She leant forward and put her hand on his.

 

********************

 

Chapter Nineteen

 

Roly and Jenny drove back to Yorkshire in light, comfortable mood but Roly realised he would have to come clean about the MS diagnosis.  It seemed pretty clear that he and Jenny would get back together in their shared home.

But what about their shared life?

“Jenny, before we get home I must give you what, to me, is bad news.  I’ll fully understand if you don’t want us to start again.  I have been diagnosed with MS and, while it may take years to develop or may not develop at all, I could possibly end up in a wheelchair.  The future’s not a hundred percent rosy and, after my dreadful behaviour, I’ve got to give you the chance to turn me away.”

“Roly, I don’t want to talk about it.  We’re back together, so let’s get on with it.  I would like you to meet Alan……. we could maybe have a meal together.  Then I want to get on with our lives” she repeated.

 

Within a few days, Roly was fully operational in his Batley surgery.  He was again bending pianos at the Bluewater two or three nights a week.  Jenny continued with her choir and with her work at KettlethorpeSchool.

Soon Roly’s parents would be coming back after their holiday.

 

********************

 

For their overnight stay in St Andrews, Sue chose the Rufflets Hotel just outside the town.  After checking in Sue gave Cath a conducted tour of the very small university which included the chapel, the quadrangle of St Salvatore’s, the students union and the other fairly limited watering holes used by the undergraduates.

For lunch they drove back to the Rufflets, ordered a seafood lunch for later then sat outside enjoying the spring sunshine in the sculpted garden.

“You haven’t spoken recently about Andy” said Sue. “Are you two still an item?”

“We are.  In fact we’re planning to get married.  Does that bother you?  You’re married.”

“That’s true.  No it doesn’t bother me as long as it doesn’t you.  But marriage is a loving, caring, lifelong relationship.  Our relationship is based purely, or rather entirely, on sexual lust”.

“Yes, it’s cool.  I care for you, but I just love the action.  Know what I mean?”

 

They were called to the oak panelled dining room.

They had a couple of dry martinis and ordered a bottle of Pouilly Fuissé for the main meal.

Making their way through the fruits de mer was so relaxing for the two girls.

After an hour or so they washed their hands, finished the wine and ordered two brandies with their coffees.

Sue stretched and yawned.

“I don’t know about you, my dear, but I fancy a sauna.  What about you?”

“I’ve never had one of these” said Cath, blinking slowly and forcefully, as if to clear the haze.

“Follow me Miss Sands”.

 

The sauna was empty so Sue asked for another bottle of Pouilly Fuissé, langues de chats and two glasses to be sent down to the sauna.

The girls undressed, put on their dressing gowns and went in. Sue turned the temperature up, threw her gown off and, completely naked, lay out on one of the benches.  Cath did the same.

Sue was older than Cath with a fuller figure.  She caressed her own breasts, almost rubbing and manipulating the perspiration into them. Cath, whose figure was young and firm started doing the same.  Sue became gently aroused.  She stood up and, using her travel bag, secured the door shut.  She straightened and beckoned Cath to join her.  The two embraced and kissed, their tongues exploring each other’s mouth.  Sue searched and caressed Cath’s firmness.

Finally they climaxed in each other’s arms. Standing absolutely still as if to savour their juices they slowly wound down, regaining their breath.

A warm shower together in the main room allowed them time to recuperate.  Once back in their room, they slept together for two hours.

********************

10^th JUNE 1975

Jack and certainly Mavis were, to say the least, nervous as the ‘plane taxied along to the end of the runway.

“Is this as fast as it goes?” Mavis asked, loudly enough for the couple in front to hear. The bloke half turned round and made the shape of a smile. Mavis only looked at him. Her clothing ensemble was a hodge-podge of red beret, green cardigan over a white blouse and black shoes. She looked as if she was heading for a jumble sale in down-town Dewsbury. But her jet black hair was well-coiffed.

The ‘plane stopped, turned around then, after a few seconds, revved its engines to a scream.

They were forced into their seats as it raced to the end of the runway and took off.  The climb upwards was quick and before long the houses and other buildings below were tiny.  As the plane levelled off above the clouds at something like 30,000 feet, people on board began to relax, stand-up, look for things in the luggage racks and make way for the cabin crew who seemed to be dishing something out.

“What the hell are they doing now?  Christ I don’t believe it.  We are 100 miles in the air and they’re giving us summit to eat.”

 

After a couple of hours, Jack and Mavis had grown accustomed to this flying business.  It was just this bit about eating all the time that perplexed and irritated Jack.

 

“We are now approaching SeawellAirport on Barbados. The weather is fine with a temperature of 25°.

My crew and I hope you have enjoyed your flight with Eastern Airlines. We hope to enjoy your company again soon.

Would you now please fasten your seat belts, extinguish any cigarettes and prepare for landing”.

 

Jack and Mavis soon realised that the best option was simply to follow everybody else.  The Courier, Alistair, was waiting for them in the arrivals lounge and before long they were in a blue bus, driving through the outskirts, of “the town” towards their hotel, the Savannah Beach Hotel.  They settled into their room once the baggage had come from the airport.  Then they were able to change into something more relaxing and stroll around this former colonial building before enjoying a buffet supper on the balcony of their room.

The following morning after breakfast they decided to explore the island a little.  The Savannah beach is to the south of the island and Jack and Mavis that morning started what was to become the basic routine of their holiday.  The streets were quite dusty and untidy.  Cafes were opening up and street vendors were taking up their positions.  They went down to the lower promenade and walked round the bay which took them up to St Lawrence Gap where again traders were setting up for the day.  This stretch of just over a kilometre was where most of the nightly action took place.  But Roly had done his research which had shown him that most of the holidaymakers in Barbados tended to be more mature than on some of the other Caribbean islands.

As the days went by, Jack and Mavis got into the habit of visiting the Dover mini Mart or Scotties where they would buy provisions to make a picnic lunch on the beach or for a visit to the Kensington Oval at the north end of the island.  In fact the whole holiday was made up of days strolling about or relaxing under the palms by the pool at the SavannahBeach.

Three or four days at the cricket while Mavis did the shops and the two had a wonderfully different, restful break.

 

********************

 

Chapter Twenty

 

Peter Hepwood was a perfect example of complete selfishness. He lived with his parents most of the time in Batley’s Mount Pleasant where he paid a joke of a rent and enjoyed wonderful wholesome meals in a clean, tidy environment.  He did nothing to help in the house, had his even scruffier friend Tristan around, borrowed money which his parents never got back and played his punk music upstairs at an uncomfortably high level.  It wouldn’t have been so bad if it were music that mom and dad could dance to or sing along with.  Neighbours passing the house would tend to go to the other side of the street.

To say he was scruffy would be a kindness.  He had unkempt ginger hair, was trying miserably to grow a beard and, people said, even smelt unclean. To put it simply, he ticked none of the boxes for the folk of Rugby League Batley.  He was 28 years old, smaller than Roly and certainly less sociable than him.  He was the sort of character that people tended to describe as very clever, which was a nod-nod, wink-wink way of implying that he didn’t fit in. He was a nasty little kettle of fish too, planning at one time to blackmail Sue Gregory whom he knew from his work at the Courts and his part-time job at the Bluewater. Back in the Sixties/Seventies magistrates were certainly expected to maintain a low, disciplined profile while Sue and certainly Cath were sworn to openness. Peter saw some rich pickings there.

 

His contorted features could just be seen over the bar where he welcomed customers with an unsmiling

“Yeh. What do you want?”

He would disappear under the bar to find a glass. then suddenly re-appear to pull a pint or stand on a little step to reach the optics.

He was the most unattractive grunge who ever worked a bar. Everybody but everybody knew he worked there because he was Roly Hepwood’s brother.

 

********************

 

Chapter Twenty-one

 

Jenny felt good about Alan Bosworth coming for supper on Friday June 20^th.

He had been so helpful during those difficult times.  She had never met Alan’s wife but, although Jenny and Alan had been very close they had never cheated on their partners.

Roly felt comfortable too because he could sense that, other things apart, Alan was not physically Jenny’s type.  He was definitely not a sporty type, was quite rotund and must have been approaching 50.

By the end of the evening, everyone seemed clear that a good job had been done and they would part good friends.  Of course Jenny would continue with the choir at church.

 

********************

 

That weekend, on Saturday evening, Roly started his set with the tune “I’ll String Along with You” preceded by the announcement on the microphone

“I’ve been a naughty boy in life and Jenny over there” he pointed to her “ who has been so forgiving of me, has asked me to put music to her thoughts. Thank you, Jenny. I don’t deserve you.”

Jenny had no idea what he was talking about at first.  Then she realised.

Some people wondered but most of the regulars knew.  In fact that Saturday and Sunday evenings were really good.  During the days, Roly and Jenny were preparing for the homecoming of Roly’s parents from their holiday in Barbados. They had arranged for a day off on Tuesday which meant another day together.

In fact that day, the atmosphere was buzzing.

 

They planned to have coffee and a sandwich before setting off for Manchester at about midnight.

As normal, Roly was listening to the news on the radio.  Six pips then the usual announcement:

“It’s Tuesday the 24^th June. The ten o’clock news is read by Anna Ford”.

“An Eastern Air Lines Boeing 727 on a flight from New Orleans to New York crashed during its approach to JFKAirport at 4 minutes past 4 this afternoon, reportedly killing113 of the 116 passengers. It’s not yet known how many of these were British. Apparently, the plane was struck by a bolt of lightening.”

 

Roly and Jenny sat in stunned silence.

Neither of them said anything.  Was it coincidence?  Wrong?  Nothing to do with them?

 

********************

 

Chapter Twenty Two

 

By 11 o’clock that evening and after tens of telephone calls, they had established that Jack and Mavis should have been on that flight.  Roly and Jenny decided to stay at home by the telephone.  Of course they were unable at this stage to ascertain exactly who were amongst the few survivors.  Jenny had fallen asleep on the sofa by about two o’clock despite Roly banging the unresponding or busy telephone several times in the cradle. That was the infuriating thing. It was either engaged or, if it rang, no bugger answered.

Totally frustrated, with his eyes closed and clenched fist over his mouth he sobbed quietly. He didn’t know what to do or which way to turn.  He needed Jenny. He briefly panicked and looked around.  She was there, as always.  She hadn’t known for several years whether her parents were dead or alive.  But she hadn’t behaved selfishly and thought only of herself.

“God. what a complete arse I’ve been!

Mum! Dad! Where are you?”

He then realised that there might be nobody in the airline offices and the telephone was sounding engaged because of all the people ringing.

“I’ll get that lazy bastard Peter to go over to Manchester.  He’s bloody useless on the telephone.  I’m better staying here.  He can go over and check out the news at the airport then give me a ring.  That’s if he’s not pissed drunk or high on something or other.  He could even take his boyfriend with him.  I’d rather be here by the telephone.”

 

********************

 

For almost a month now Sue and Cath had got back into routines in the courts and patrolling the streets of Harrogate respectively. The two girls spent the weekends together, sometimes just the two of them and, on the odd occasion with Bob if he wasn’t on one of his posers’ weekends.

On Sunday, June 22 the two girls had been to church as usual and had spent the afternoon together relaxing.  Sue had noticed during the day that Cath was not her usual bubbly self.  Was it that she, Cath, was back to work the next day or perhaps that she, Sue, had said or done something to upset her?

As they relaxed over coffee Sue said

“You seem a bit depressed, darling.  Have I said or done something to upset you?”

“No way.” It was some time before Cath raised her head and looked at Sue.

“We’ve talked together often enough and you know that Andy and I are planning to get married soon.  We’re going to do it next month.”

“Yes.  Well, we’ve always known that was on the cards.  We can still see each other, surely?”

Cath was looking down again.

“Yes” she said, a little unsurely. “But I don’t want to live a lie. That would be unfair on both of us.  Eventually, if it’s right, I’ll tell Andy everything.  Do you understand?”

“I do. We’ve not lived a lie though, Cath. We’ve never lied to anyone who’s asked about our relationship and I completely understand your point of view.

I’ll disappear over the horizon ………….now or before the wedding?” She wanted an answer one way or the other.

“Sue, don’t be so bloody dramatic. Andy’ll meet you and our friends, he’ll have to know what they know and, quite simply, neither of us is ashamed so that’s that. I mean, maybe Andy’s got things he’d like to tell me about. I hope we’ll not have any secrets.

 

********************

 

Chapter Twenty Three

 

That night of the 24^th June was busy for Jenny and particularly Roly. He was continually trying Eastern Airlines, the American Embassy, his brother Peter en route to Manchester with a useless mobile phone, the police, the BBC and anyone who might be able to help at that time of night.  He even wondered if he could think of anybody in South America who, given the different time zones, might be able to get in touch with New York.  He was really getting beyond his tether and would have to wait for the British authorities in London to get out of bed.  He then had to contact Jenny’s school and his dental practice.  By seven o’clock that morning he had at last started to make some progress.

By lunchtime on the 25th it was confirmed that Mavis had died immediately and Jack had died on the way to the hospital in New York.

At 1:30, Jenny and Roly tried to eat something but without much success.  They slept for a couple of hours in the lounge chairs and between five and six they were able to make calm contact with friends and relatives.

Surprise of surprises, Peter had got off his grungy, selfish arse and made a lot of progress with the authorities in Manchester.  He had actually taken personal identification with him and managed to arrange for the remains of Jack and Mavis to be suitably transported to Yorkshire.

 

The next days were difficult, especially for Roly. He had to work at the practice, had to arrange an executor for the will and, along with Jenny, he spent most evenings at the house in Batley on the grim task of sorting out his parents’ belongings, meeting friends of Mavis and Jack and arranging their funeral.

 

“Roly, guess what. brother Peter’s coming down the road, looking……….”

“ Yeh. We’ll have to see him, dear. Sorry, but we’ve got a lot of stuff to sort out. The dirty little shit’s done O.K. actually.”

“You two need some space. He’s looking quite smart for him. I’ll go and put the kettle on…….you can open the whisky. Your Dad had some in the sideboard, I think.”

Peter still lived in that house but he and Roly hadn’t really met much since

Peter’s return from Manchester.

“Hi. How’s it going? Been a nice day, I suppose.”

God Almighty! What am I hearing?

“Eh, yes. What have you been up to?”

“Well, I’ve had a haircut and I think I might …………..”

“Oh hello, Peter”. It was Jenny, back from the kitchen. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, boys. Rob Stone’s come the back way into the kitchen, Roly. He’d like a word if that’s possible. Sorry Peter”.

Roly got up and went through, leaving Jenny with the new, fresh-faced, sweet-smelling Peter Hepwood.

 

As Roly came into the kitchen, Rob stood up. They shook hands then embraced whereupon Roly wept uncontrollably. This surprised both of them……Rob, because men didn’t do that in Batley and Roly because he seemed to be becoming emotional more and more often.

They sat a moment, diplomatically, until Roly had regained his composure.

“Roly, I don’t need to tell ye how ………..devastated we all was when we heard the news, like. A’m not right good wi’ words………”

“Rob, thank you. Let’s have a drink for God’s sake”.

He found the whisky and poured a couple of glasses.

“Roly, I don’t know if you know this.  You may want to tell me to mind my own business.  Just tell me to shut up if I’m speaking out o’ turn.”

“Please go on, Rob”.

“Well, a lot of years ago when our Neil were setting up in business as a financial adviser or summit, your dad and mum helped him by taking out a small plan with him.  Just before they went on holiday our Neil checked its value and we were looking at summit like 1.6 million quid. Anyway your mum and dad had absolutely no idea what it all meant and, in the end, your dad agreed to a plan set up by the Yorkshire Bank.  The whole thing yields him summit like £80,000 a year in interest without even touching the capital.”

“What?”

“You’re going to have to get yourself sorted out, Roly.  But I’m going to leave you now.  By the way, as far as I know, our Neil introduced your dad to the manager of the Yorkshire Bank down the road here.”

Rob got up to go.

“If I can be any help to you, Roly, just give me a shout.”

Once Rob had left via the back door, Roly sat and thought.

Again he began to sob.

 

Jenny came in.

“Where’s Rob?  Are you all right?”

Jenny was also beginning to worry a little about Roly’s emotional lapses.

 

********************

 

The weeks passed.  Roly and Jenny continued with their social and professional lives as did everyone else around them.

Roly made good progress in his dental practice but as the weeks became months and the months became years, Roly’s medical condition worsened noticeably.

On the keyboards, he found his right hand was becoming less dextrous and on the squash court he was mis-hitting and losing games, which he didn’t like.

The fact was he could manage less and less, physically. But at least he gradually learnt to rejoice in what he could do rather than regret what he couldn’t.

Of course he and Jenny were very rich so they could afford to buy the best medical aids and equipment. Over a few years he acquired a virtual garage of four different electric wheelchairs. The best, at £8000 the most expensive, was an absolute feat of engineering. It could be driven forwards or backwards at four different speeds; it could be tilted to such an angle that, at its extreme, Roly could lie for long periods with his feet several inches higher than his head, thus improving his circulation; it had a rise and fall feature so that Roly could sit at a bar and look normal or talk to people at eye level anywhere else; it had lights and indicators and a travelling range of thirty miles on one charge of the two batteries on board. The back of the seat could be electrically adjusted, as could each leg rest. Add to this the hidden differentials, hydraulics and gravitational calculations and you’ve got a mean machine.

 

Eventually, he accepted that he just could not practice dental surgery safely.  He had been for ever devising ways to get around the surgery and manipulate the equipment. By that time, it was the fine motor skills that had become his problem.

He was making his way around the surgery with the help of a stick or walking frame.

Finally he made the wise decision to sell his share in the Batley dental practice.

 

Peter, his brother, had become a real source of strength. He came round on Sunday mornings and, while Jenny was at church, he would help Roly with the “prep” for lunch.

By 1985 the “worst scenario” had evolved and Roly was wheelchair-bound.

He felt most depressed when he was tired and the popular expression “tired and emotional” took on a piquant resonance for Roly and Jenny.

By this time even his driving was becoming erratic and they both agreed that it would be more sensible to have a dedicated vehicle that he could drive into with the wheelchair. There were several specialist garages in and around Leeds and eventually they chose a converted Nissan with boot space large and tall enough to house Roly in his chair and with a suitable rear-entry ramp.

At first, Roly was actually reluctant to attend any live music venues but gradually he realised this was being over sensitive and he and Jenny ventured along to the Bluewater on several occasions.  Members of the public were generally very welcoming and Roly showed his gratitude.

Of course they had plenty of money.  They paid Peter a generous allowance and Jenny was able to take a couple of terms off work while one or two alterations were made to the house.

Roly gradually emerged from his mire of self-pity and wrote an article on disability for ‘The Dentist’ magazine which was very well received.

In fact, over the next months and years, Roly wrote several articles for various publications.

Both he and Jenny realised they had to face up to reality. They employed a couple of carers who would work in shifts, help him in and out of bed and generally be around the house to help while Jenny continued teaching.

They accepted that several peripheral things would be different too: they were limited in their choice of holiday and it was clear that Jenny needed breaks for respite.  They were limited in their choice of restaurants and other venues where Roly needed a flat, wide entrance and tables of the right height.

Jenny’s love and care was unwavering.

 

While Roly’s condition had deteriorated and maybe even stabilised, Jenny and he went from strength to strength. Cath and Sue continued to socialise generally but Andy soon got a job on the rigs and before long they were a family of five living in the outskirts of Arbroath.

Peter Hepwood had stopped loving himself a long time ago and Sue Gregory re-established normal relations with her husband and boys both of whom had married and presented her with a total of five grandchildren.

Some sorts of loving seem to last.

 

********************

The end