When Love Knocks Twice (A Contemporary Love Story) Read online

  When Love Knocks Twice

  G I Tulloch

  Copyright 2015

  The right of G I Tulloch to be identified as the author of this work is asserted.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead is coincidental.

  All rights reserved.(XV) No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means without the prior consent of the author.

  Wednesday, June 15th

  Gail came out into the garden at seven o'clock in the morning, dressed in shorts and an old tee-shirt, to do some tidying before it got too hot. Emily, her daughter, was always critical of her old tee-shirts but had to concede that her mother still had the legs to carry a pair of shorts in style.

  She tucked stray strands of her long dark hair behind an ear with a gloved hand, while wielding the secateurs at some hawthorn hedge that was getting out of control. Observing the growing pile of dead wood behind her, she contemplated having a bonfire that evening. It would be too hot, but there was something about the smell of wood smoke that lifted the spirits. Why was that?

  She loved her house and the garden, and she loved the memories they held, but despite that she was also aware that she needed a change of scenery. She hadn't had a holiday for the last two years. Were there some friends she could prevail upon to give her a bed? Holidays were always a problem as she hated going away on her own, and there were times when taking the grandchildren was just too much for her.

  She stopped for a moment to ease the slight ache in her back, taking off the gloves to let her hands cool down. She took a gulp of tea from her first mug of the day at the garden table, still in the shade of the house at that early hour.

  After an hour and a half, with the hawthorn hedge looking a little more under control, she went in to the house for some breakfast. Some reheated croissants and coffee later, she noticed that the washing machine had finished, so set to, hanging the washing out on the line. She couldn't bring herself to use the tumble drier when sunshine was free.

  It was only when she had finished, wash basket under her arm, did she stop and look around her. Is this it, she thought, not for the first time. Is this what my life consists of now? Day to day maintenance of life. In truth, she knew it wasn't, because there were other interests she was involved in that gave her diversion. But for a moment she longed for some excitement, a break from the everyday.

  She looked at her watch. Time to get on, some things wouldn't wait.

  Tom stopped for a moment and gazed across the road at the house that had been his home thirty five years ago, the sandstone façade glowing slightly in the summer sun. He was please to note that the garage was still standing, the garage he had helped his father build all those years ago. The garden was tidy, the boundary wall newly rendered, the top-stones still showing the rusted stumps of the iron railings that had been removed during the Second World War, presumably to become part of some warship. His father's prized roses had gone, replaced by some perennial bush that he couldn't recognise.

  He suddenly realised that he had been standing staring for some time, and belatedly became aware that it might look odd, or even suspicious. He strolled on towards the newer end of the road where the houses had been build in the nineteen sixties, providing endless amusement for small boys intrigued by the mysteries of building sites. He recalled his mates during the firework season, wrapping Bangers in clods of mud, lighting the fuse and hurling them into the air, trying to get the timing right so that the mid air explosion resulted in a rain of soggy earth pattering to the ground.

  He walked up through the field, noting that today's youngsters obviously still played impromptu football matches there. He could see the holes where stout sticks had been culled from the adjacent woodland to make goalposts, and it was into this woodland that he ventured now, recalling the magic of the place for him as a boy. The trees to be climbed, the tree that was turned into a flying bomber plane as he and his mates played out imaginary games.

  In autumn when the leaves dropped from the trees, carpeting the packed earth, they would clear tracks, create racing circuits and race each other on their bikes. When they wanted to, there was always plenty of firewood for the fires they lit, roasting potatoes in the ashes, more often than not leaving them in too long, until they were as much charcoal as the ash itself.

  He noticed a clearing deeper in the woods that hadn't been there in his day. Then, it had been a ruined farmhouse, overgrown and roofless, a magnet for small boys and a nightmare for worried mothers. Rumours and stories circulated of an old man who lived there, and who would chase small boys. Nothing was ever said of what he would do if he caught one. Tom smiled. The man had never existed but it was an effective way of keeping small boys away from the dangers of falling stonework.

  And now it was gone, a victim of modern health and safety no doubt. He was pleased to note however, that the woodland was still as wild as it ever had been. Thankfully no one had decided to tidy it up, manicure it, and tie a ribbon around it. Standing there he could still visualise them playing in the dirt.

  He wondered for a moment where they all were now. Were some like him dispersed to the far ends of the country whilst others had married and settled down locally? He wished for a moment that in some telepathic way he could reach out into the ether and see them now, unrecognisable from the small boys he remembered. And the girls. There had always been some girls in the gang of junior school kids, in the minority generally, but joining in some of the less rowdy activities they got up to.

  Gail pottered around the kitchen, finishing up last night's dishes, those that didn't go in the dishwasher that is. Not that there were that many dishes for just one. She finished wiping down the surfaces, trying to recall all the things that she needed to remember. She had never been in the habit of writing lists despite her husband's best efforts, but still her mind got into a spin trying to keep everything in her brain. She had to go down to the church, it was her turn on the rota to arrange the flowers for Sunday. She needed to get some shopping to top up fresh vegetables. She needed to tidy the place, because the kids were coming round this afternoon, and the grand-kids.

  Kids, she thought, Emily was twenty six now, living in her own flat, completely independent, and loving it. Jeremy was almost thirty, married with two lovely little ones. They were hardly kids any more, but they would always be hers, and she was content that they would always need her, to a greater or lesser degree as circumstances demanded. Yes, she was content. Her only regret was that her husband Gordon wasn’t there to be content with her.

  Four years it had been since the cancer had finally claimed him. They had fought hard, there had been remission and there had been treatments, but finally his body had given up. There had been hard goodbyes as he had slipped deeper into a coma under the increasing effects of the morphine, and then he had finally succumbed and the tears could start.

  She wiped away a tear now, tucked behind the ear some of her long dark hair that had strayed, and rinsed out the cloth before turning and catching sight of herself in the mirror. Must remember to brush my hair before I go out, she thought, and change the blouse, it's got a gravy stain down it.

  Tom was brought back to the present by some kids on bikes, cycling down the road that bounded the wood, shouting and calling to each other. Some things never change, he thought. He turned and headed through the wood, his way lit by the dappled sunlight filtering through the tree canopy. In less time than he remembered it taking as a child
, he came to the end of the woodland by the edge of the field that led down to the small lake.

  The island in the middle of the lake looked unchanged, still occupied by nesting swans by the look of it. He remembered exceptionally cold winters when the lake froze hard, the ice thick enough to walk on safely, when ice-skates came out of the depths of the cupboard and were dusted off, only to find that they didn't fit any more. In summer, small boys would fish and never catch anything. He was never very sure whether it was due to the soggy bread they would use as bait, or whether there weren't actually any fish to be caught anyway. It hadn't been his activity of choice. He didn't have the patience for it.

  The lakeside had been tidied up, he noticed, a neat asphalt path running around its circumference. Fallen trees that had met their doom in the great storm of nineteen sixty eight, and had lain for years growing skirts of weeds and wild flowers around their fallen trunks, they had all gone, no doubt sawn up and used for some council landscaping somewhere.

  It was at that point he began to wonder whether his journey had been a good idea, this return to his roots.

  Gail stood at the foot of her bed, putting on a fresh red blouse. She liked that blouse, red suited her she thought, for the umpteenth time, glad that her hair was still dark enough to contrast against it. She pulled the bed covers up over the king sized bed, patting down the side of the bed that had been Gordon's side. The bed was far too big for her. It was like sleeping on a vast platform, but she would not be able to part with it, too many memories were wrapped up in it.

  Contemplating the past brought her to the present with a jolt that for some reason caused her to contemplate the future. At the age of sixty one there definitely was a future, she decided, but was it just a continuation of her present? And here she had to confess that her life had become somewhat mundane. The children and the grandchildren were the mainstay of her life, playing a little tennis, and doing the church flowers, her only other diversions.

  Did she want to become a glorified babysitter as she grew old, or did she still want to accomplish something more? She had to admit that life had become very same-y of late, very routine, and, yes, very boring.

  The thought appalled her. Boring? Yes, boring, but she was far to young to be bored, wasn't she, and she certainly didn't want to be that for the rest of her life? What was it she used to tell the children when they claimed that they were bored? If you're bored then it's only because you haven't found something interesting to do, so go and find it. Perhaps she needed to follow her own advice.

  She ran the hair brush through her hair, taking her time. She had plenty of that, she thought.

  Tom had turned sixty the previous June, two months after the death of his wife, an horrendous, traumatic time, the unexpected heart attack, the knock at the door, the world falling apart in an instant. He had stood impassively watching all his assumptions of life drift away, having to embrace loneliness after thirty years of happy marriage.

  It had been the children, both grown, both married, who had chivvied him to get out there and get active again. Have a holiday they said, take a road trip suggested one. And so here he was, back in the place of his youth, trying to recognise the old place, unprepared for the scale of change that had inevitably taken place. And, truth be told, he wasn't sure why he was there or what he expected. The drive north had been longer than he remembered but he had enjoyed it nevertheless, as he had always enjoyed driving, especially the long drives to strange places.

  Except this wasn't a strange place, or was it? He was confused, he admitted, by the familiar things looking different from his memories. Had it actually changed or was his memory defective? Or had he just grown up, evolving a different set of eyes to see things through? What was it they called it? He racked his brain. A paradigm, that was it. His paradigm had changed from that of a youth to that of the grey-haired brigade.

  Did he want to go back? Perhaps, but then again perhaps not, and in any case he was where he was and as yet no one had come up with a way of turning back time. But would he, if they had? As he gazed out over the lake, shading his eyes against the sun, he decided the jury was out.

  He had some great memories of his childhood, but also tucked away were the troubles of pubescent youth that he hadn't been immune to. He shuddered slightly at some memory, but then quickly acknowledged that nothing in his life he regretted. It had been largely a happy and satisfying one with a good marriage and a great family life, and whilst it brought warm memories to him it also reminded him of what he had been robbed of the previous April, and a shadow passed across his mind.

  He pushed the thought away, a conscious effort that was becoming easier, not that he was trying to forget his wife or his marriage, but consciously parking his grief, acknowledging that his life was his to lead, as his kids were constantly reminding him.

  His reverie was disturbed by a young mother pushing a pram whilst trying to guide a young toddler on a bike with stabilisers. The young boy hadn't quite got the hang of steering and the bike appeared to have a mind of its own, much to the frustration of the mother. Tom smiled at the family life starting out, and deliberately moved off around the lake in the opposite direction.

  Before long he reached the bank of earth that projected out into the lake. It had always been there. Perhaps in the days gone by, when this had been part of an old estate, there might have been a boating jetty, or perhaps it was just the result of a landslip from the hillside behind it.

  He watched a family of swans for a few moments, cygnets starting to venture away from their parents, who kept a close eye on them and Tom at the same time. Great-great-grandchildren of the swans he used to watch as a boy perhaps, thought Tom as he continued his circumnavigation.

  Another five minutes brought him to a junction of paths he remembered well. Here he used to join the main path as he walked to secondary school twice each day, first thing in the morning and then again after lunch, striding between the rhododendron bushes, checking his watch lest he miss Registration, with the inevitable punishments that would ensue. Involuntarily he checked his watch, despite having no reason to. It was eleven o'clock give or take.

  Gail stood in the hallway, stopped and carried out her routine checks. Car keys, house keys, purse, vouchers for the supermarket, all present. She turned to the mirror and checked, yes the hair was brushed, the blouse was clean. Presentable, she thought, and it pleased her that she could still look good in jeans. Gordon always liked her in jeans. She opened the door, stepped out into the sunshine and closed the door behind her, double-locking without thinking, and pocketing the key.

  As she flipped the car remote she looked up at the blue sky. Good morning day, she thought, what have you for me today. You're cracked, she told herself. It's just as well no one can read your thoughts or you would be certified.

  Without particularly intending to, Tom followed the path he had trodden to school, as it moved away from the lake and up to the end of the road that led to the school gate. Except that the school gate wasn't there any more. Neither was the school for that matter, demolished two years previously to make way for a new housing estate. It didn't come as a shock, as he had come across the demolition plan on a internet search several years ago, but somehow the reality was different. He could almost hear the babble of children's voices as small groups had meandered towards the school gate, exchanging opinions on everything from the latest pop music chart, to the newest teen fashion, or swapping the latest in collectable cards.

  But not any more. Neat rows of semi detached houses, cars in the drives, satellite dishes pointing in unison, like soldiers on parade, rifles all parallel, pointing to the sky. It saddened him, but as he stood there he recognised the inevitable march of progress, for good or bad, and once again the wisdom of his trip weighed somewhat on his mind. Don't be an idiot he told himself, you're here, so like it or lump it, but don't resent it.

  Having parked the school in the past, it left him with a decision. Where to go next? A man of logic, he
decided to carry on the mile or so to the place where his junior school had stood, or may well still stand, he thought. Who knows? And it was in a slightly more positive frame of mind that he set off, each road bringing back some memory or other from the recesses of his mind.

  The sun was high now, and the shade from the avenue of trees along the roadside was very welcome. Subconsciously he would slow to a saunter under the shade, speeding up when the sun beat uncomfortably on his head. In this manner it took him a bare ten minutes to come within sight of the town centre crossroads where his junior school had stood, when he spotted the old parish church where he had gone as boy and youth. If it's open, he thought, I'll go in. If nothing else it will be cool.

  He altered his steps to approach the doors, finding that the large door handles turned easily in his hand, and he stepped into the church. He had forgotten how light the interior was, in sunshine, the brightness glowing through the myriad stained glass windows all around. The church had missed all the bombing of the Second World War that had destroyed so many church windows, to be replaced by plain glass in the post-war austerity.

  He strolled slowly down the main aisle, surveying the large space, remembering the choir processing down the aisle at the start of a service, followed by the cross and the minister, the congregation standing until the minister himself sat down. So much ceremony, he remembered. What had it meant to him as a boy?

  Nothing. Any significance had been lost on him. But he wouldn't knock it, he had found faith here, and the faith had stood him in good stead through dark times.

  He stopped short of the altar space, three rows from the front and shuffled sideways into a pew to sit and contemplate, or meditate, or pray.