BOTH SIDES OF THE MOON

 

                                                                      Chapter Ten

 

It took three days before Jonathan dare speak to Claire again after their night of love. He had avoided her whenever he could, unable to face her. He had seen little  of her, so it had not been too hard to keep out of her way. School was more difficult, but with a little judgement and perhaps a little luck, he had managed. When they did meet, as it happened, by chance, they were very uncomfortable with each other, and any astute observer might easily have guessed their secret. They couldn’t think of anything to say, and dare not touch each other. All the fun had gone. All the silly little things that made them giggle, or the pretend fighting that made Claire scream in feigned  terror. It had all gone.

    If only they could turn the clock back. If only Claire’s Mum had not gone to the Bingo. If only England had no been playing France that night. If only! It was a sad goodbye when they parted, both of them lost and longing for things to be as they were before. They were paying a high price for one of life’s lessons, and at the moment did not know if they would get anything for their money. The path of young love does not always run smooth.

    With all that had been going on lately Jonathan had not made it to the training sessions that Mr Wilson has invited him to, but he remembered that there was to be another one later in the day after school, and he was considering whether or not to go.

    “Why not?”he had told himself, “there’s nothing else to do, and Claire isn’t around.”

    He had expected to be reminded each time he had seen Mr Wilson, but he never mentioned it. But Jonathan remembered that he had said it had to be his call; he had to decide. It was cool of him not to keep asking, he thought, and another spark in his growing likeness for the teacher was lit.

     Later when he arrived at the track Mr Wilson greeted him with some enthusiasm and introduced him to the other dozen or so students who were there. The first thing he noticed was that some of them were girls. He couldn’t think why he was surprised to find girls at a training session, but it did. It just hadn’t occurred to him. At once he was finding it more interesting, and Claire's absence seemed ever so slightly less important. Then he spotted two boys he knew, one of them being in his year, who he saw regularly in classes.

    He knew his name of course, and it was he who Mr Wilson assigned as his running mate. His job would be to interpret and explain the training schedule, and initially, to be his target.

    He felt a bit silly at his first run, resplendent in his ‘new’, borrowed strip when he was lining up for his first run. inevitably was left at the post when the whistle blew. Jonathan was used to being the main man when it came to running about in the streets and in the park, larking about with his mates. He was the one who would dictate the pace. He was the one who would not be caught if he didn’t want to be, only allowing that privilege when he had stamped his authority, and was ready. Now he found that not only was he not the first, but worse, he was last. He didn’t like that at all, and something in him, pride perhaps, immediately began the strategy, to regain his ‘rightful’ place. The seed that his sports master had sown had taken root, and now the root was beginning to grow.

    Following his initial introduction, Mr Wilson, deliberately chose not to engage with his 'new' man on a one to one level, thereby applying no pressure. He hoped that Jonathan, in this first awakening, would feel some excitement. He was quietly confident that the seed would not only take root, but that it would bear fruit.

    Watching the others, talking to his ‘minder’, and listening to his coach, had an effect on Jonathan which was nothing short of remarkable. That first practice session was the only time he finished last, and by the end of the next he was pushing the leaders, and hooked.

 

Sergeant Branner checked his watch again. “Dam” he said to himself, “How the time flies; six o’clock already.”

    He had expected to be off duty at seven, though the years had taught him not to rely on shift times. He was planning to call on Mrs Marshall on his way home, to see if they could close the book on this case. He rubbed his chin at the thought. “Hardly a case.” he was thinking, but someone had reported seeing a youth climbing the cemetery fence, and had reported it to the Superintendent. He in turn had investigated and had found some damage, so he had reported it to the police, and so the procedure has to followed. More forms to fill in !

    He left the station and went to the rear of the building where his car was parked, and climbed in. Soon he was on his way and in less than fifteen minutes was at the house. He knocked at the door then retreated down one or two steps.

    Margaret opened the door, still wearing the tabard which was her ‘uniform’ at the supermarket, and was somewhat surprised to find a police Sergeant standing there. “Hello” she said, "what can I do for you?"

    “Mrs Marshall?” he asked, and waited for her to confirm that she was indeed Mrs Marshall. “My name is Sergeant Branner.” holding his identity badge for her to see as he spoke. “I’ve come to talk to you about the damage to your husbands grave; can you spare me a few minutes?”            Margaret did not want any involvement with the police, and hadn’t expected any contact from them, so she was a bit tongue tied when she answered.  “No I don’t; well I thought it was finished; what else.” there she stopped.

    “It’s just routine Mrs. Marshall; it’s in the system, and we just have to fill in the forms." It was not all that unusual for people to get a bit on edge when unexpectedly confronted by a policeman, and he had long since given up thinking that an anxious display automatically meant a guilty conscience. On the other hand, he also knew that sometimes it did.

    “It shouldn’t take very long Mrs Marshall, do you think I might come in.”

    Margaret opened the door wider, inviting him to enter, and Sergeant Branner climbed the few steps into the house. “Please sit down.” she said, when they reached the front room.

    Turning to her daughter who was, as usual, sitting on the floor in front of the television. “Emma, the gentleman has come to talk to me about your dads grave, would you go upstairs and watch the tele in your bedroom; not too loud mind.”

   “What do you need to know?” she asked after Emma had gone, and they were both seated.

    Sergeant Branner wanted this to be easy, guessing that Mrs Marshall would still be grieving the loss of her husband, and upset at the desecration of his grave.

    “I know that this is a bad time for you,” he started “but do you know of anyone who disliked your husband; someone at work perhaps; or maybe a neighbour he didn’t get on with.

    Margaret was feeling anything but easy. She wanted to protect her son, but didn’t want any trouble with the police. “I don’t know about anything like that.” she said meekly. “Can’t it just rest now?”

    “We thought you would want us to find who had done this to you and why.” he tried again, a little puzzled about her reluctance to cooperate.

    “I was told it was a boy.” she said

    “Well we don’t know yet.” Sergeant Branner replied.

    “What would happen if you find that boy, the one the police lady told me about; what would happen to him?”

    “Very little I expect to be honest.” he answered. “Even if it turned out to be him; a good talking to probably.”

    Margaret took a deep breath, suddenly realizing that she wanted this over and done with.  “There’s some thing I want to tell you.” she said

    She spoke of the shock of Bill’s sudden death, the coolness of their relationship, and of that between father and son. How it had turned Jonathan’s life upside down, and that he had run away after losing control and doing what he did to his fathers grave.  “Then he had to be rescued by one of his teachers” she said, almost drained.

     What will happen to my boy now?” she asked, her eyes wet, and holding her breath.

    “You have been very frank with me Mrs Marshall, and I can guess how difficult that was, and I will make it as easy for you as I can.”

    She was clearly upset now, so he went on without further delay. “I will have to talk to him of course, but as it seems to be all in the family so to speak; I don’t think we will want to take it any further.”

    Margaret breathed again, relieved that it was out now, and that it could be gone and forgotten. Her relief was tempered somewhat when he spoke again.

    “I think perhaps I should have a word with his teacher, if you tell me which school he goes to.”

    “Do they have to know?” she asked, her uncertainties returning “Cant you leave it now, now that you know?”

    “I will be very discreet I promise you, and it should not make any difference to your son.” He smiled at her. “Come on Mrs Marshall, let’s get it over and done with.”

    “He goes to Wixley Comprehensive school.” she said, not knowing if she was winning or losing.

    “Oh’, I was there this morning.” he said “Nice school, and a very nice Headmaster; have you met him?” he asked lifting his head. “What is the name of the teacher who went looking for him?”  he asked, not waiting for an answer to his first question.

    Margaret was all agitated again, feeling that far from being over, the episode was spreading wider. “I hope that he is not going to get into trouble.” she said in a very worried voice. “He’s such a nice man, and he was only trying to help.”

    “Not at all.” he said, “No doubt we will thank him.” and seeing how worried she was he carried on. “I think we have got it all now, and I don’t think you have anything more to worry about; soon you will be able to put it right out of your minds. Just tell me the teachers name and then I’ll be off.”

    “It’s Mr Wilson, Rodney I think; He is the English teacher and I think he looks after the sports as well.”

    Margaret was drained, relieved and agitated at the same time, not knowing if being so frank had been a good idea after all. Now she had to put her trust in a man she had never met before. She had bared her soul to him, and it was now out of her hands.

    How was she going to tell Jonathan when he came home?. She hoped and prayed that it would not push him ‘off the tracks’ again.

    Sergeant Branner was at the door now. “Goodby for now Mrs Marshall,” he said, as he negotiated the steps. “thank you for being so helpful, and try not to worry; the worst is over.”

     As he pulled away in his car he was thinking of the coincidence that had once again brought Mr Wilson's name into his thoughts. He was a generous man, and didn’t think, for the moment at least, that it was more than coincidence. But just the same, he had a funny feeling about Mr Wilson.

 

Edward had kept himself busy and had tried to think only of his work. There had been too many twists and turns in his life lately, and he was trying to get himself focused on what was important. Also he was trying to come to terms with the changing feelings within himself, trying to understand what was possible. Important - unimportant - possible - impossible; he was very confused, and worse, he was starting to lose his new found confidence. He had been very pleased with the way he had conducted himself when John left him, and the realization that the world had not come to an end.

    That he was still in there, smiling, with his head high, had been a revelation to him. Then there was Margaret. He shook his head. How odd that she should come into his life on the very day that John left it. He was very confused about it all, and bit by bit he could sense the uncertainty returning. The indecision which he thought to be behind him, was waiting to reposes him like the ghost of Edward Past.

    He knew what he had to do. He had known for some time what he aught to do. What he didn’t know was how. He had seen just a glimpse of a different way of life, a new world where for the first time in his memory, he could be on the inside, and not the constant outsider that had been his experience so far.

    The question was, how? He knew that he had to clear his mind of thoughts of that other world. He was what he was, and in that that he was unlikely to change. But he had liked what what he had seen; that little glimpse had fired his imagination and he found it hard to put it behind him.

    “And anyway,” his thoughts becoming words as he breathed them out, “hadn’t she kissed me; on the lips?”

    The memory of that encounter returned yet again. Could that kiss have been nothing more than a polite gesture from a grateful lady?. Of course it might just be that. It wasn’t much more that a peck he knew; and yet, and yet; it seemed more at the time. It had made his heart stir, and the memory of it lingered. He didn’t think he was kidding himself; he felt sure at the time that she too had meant more than just ‘Thank you’.

    “But now; I guess that’s all it was.” he told himself sadly, reality returning, bringing back the feeling of despair, from which, for a few minutes, he had escaped.

    More mundane matters were pressing, and he had to finish a few  jobs around the flat, before it was time to set off for work, so he tried to put all other thoughts out of his mind. Soon he was locking the door, and as usual he had left it to the last minute. A quick look at his watch. Six fifteen: he had ten minutes so he had better step it out: “Hope the bus isn’t early today.” he said through gritted teeth against a chilly breeze.

    It was dark of course. He was setting off for the day shift, but at this time of year it was dark when he went to work whether he was on the day or night shift. His timing had been honed over the years to something near perfection, and he caught the bus with a few minutes to spare. Often in the morning’s he would have to stand, but this time there were seats available, so he was able to sit and read the newspaper, yesterday’s morning paper which had lain all day and all night where it fell when it was pushed through the letter box.

     For a moment he wondered about the newspaper. “Who brought it?” Some anonymous being, always too late when he was on the day shift, but waiting patiently when he returned.  “Five years.” It was almost a shock to him when the thought occurred. Five years someone had been delivering his morning paper and in all that time, he had never once seen that person.

    In similar vein he thought for a moment about his fellow passengers. All these people on the bus; all strangers; all unconnected; all living out their lives with no knowledge of the others, and, it seemed, with little interest.  'Such is a ‘civilized’ society!' the thought lingered for a moment.

    He was in an uncomfortable area, brought about no doubt by his own state of mind, and he tried to shake off such thoughts by concentrating on his newspaper, though with its depressing newspaper equivalent of ‘carte du jour’ he found little to comfort him there.

    He managed the rest of the journey from his neighbourhood, on the very outskirts of Wixley, to the hospital on the other side of town, without any more periods of strain, and the journey, a little quicker than most mornings, meant that he arrived with a little more time to spare than usual.

    As usual he was busy following hospital routine, checking notes and information left by his departing colleague, assessing priorities, and the hundred and one things that required his attention, and soon it was well into the morning. It was nevertheless, like the bus earlier,  a little quieter than usual, so though he was surprised when a nurse came to tell him that he had a visitor, he was able to break off without it casing a problem. He asked the nurse if she would tell him that he would be there in a minute or so.

    ‘He?’ The nurse repeated. Edward noticed the implied question, and the questioning look on her face. “You did you say it was a man?” he asked the nurse.

    “No Edward,” she answered, knowing something about him, but not wanting to make anything of it, “It’s a lady.” Then she gave him a big smile.

    When he finally got to his visitor, he found her sitting on a chair in a waiting area, just outside of the ward.  He had been mentally going through a list of all the ladies he knew who might visit him at the hospital. It was a short list to start with, and was quickly whittled down to just one or two.

    “Could it be Margaret?” he asked himself. “Why would she come to see me? “Is there something wrong with Jonathan again?” More questions!.

    It was almost a relief when he opened the ward door and went into the waiting area corridor, and there she was.

    “Hello Margaret.” he said warmly, but not too fondly, still uncertain of his place in her affections. “What a nice surprise, but why? Is it Jonathan; is there something wrong?”

    “Hello Edward; how are you.” She stepped forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “It is nice to see you again; and no, there’s nothing wrong, this time. I just wanted to see you; is it alright?”

    Edward sat down on the chair next to her and they talked for a while about Jonathan and Emma, and other things. He quite forgot that he was on duty, but he saw no one looking for him so it seemed that all was well on the ward. The minutes ticked by as they chatted, both of them happy in the company of the other, and Edward, for the moment at least, was restored to his new confident self.

    Suddenly realizing that nearly half an hour had gone by since he left the ward, he said he would have to go.

    “But I haven’t told you why I came to see you.” Margaret said, concerned.

    They had been so content, just chatting, that both had forgotten the time, and more telling was that they had forgotten that there should be a reason for them being together.

    “Can you wait a few minutes longer while I check that everything is Ok ,and then I will get back to you?” Edward asked before he skipped back to the ward. He was pleased to see that all the patients were being attended to, and that his colleagues were managing without him. The nurse who had brought him the news that a lady was waiting for him, came to him and whispered in his ear.

    “Have you got something to tell me Edward?” she asked, with what can only be described as a mischievous grin on her face. She had worked on this shift for a few years, and had got to know, and like, Edward. A couple of times during the last half hour she had gone out of the ward, and had seen him talking, and looking so happy with this lady. She knew of Edwards lifestyle, and she knew that John had left, but of course she did not know why. She was therefore surprised to see him in what looked like a ‘very close situation’ with a woman.

    “You’re the quiet one then, aren’t you; who’s your friend?” She asked when he returned for a quick check of the ward. There were only a small number of the staff on his shift who knew him well enough to be so direct, and Edward felt safe with her.

    “I can’t tell you just know,” he paused, “I may never be able to tell you,” he paused again, “but wish me well.”

    “What ever you wish for.” she said, giving his arm a little squeeze, and she too gave him a peck on the cheek.

    He dashed back to where Margaret was still waiting, his heart beating, and was surprised to notice that her face seemed to light up when she saw him. Could it be that she felt just a little of what he was feeling?. Dare he hope?

    Despite being pleased to see him again Margaret was concerned that she was interfering with his work, and said that she would leave, and perhaps call in some other time to talk to him.

    “But you still haven’t told me why you came to see me,” he said, than, after a moment, “but I am glad you did; it’s been so nice talking to you.”

    “What time do you finish today?” Margaret asked.

    “Seven thirty, but sometimes it drifts on a bit.” he answered.

    “And I finish at half past four.” she said, “but then the kids are  coming home from school, and then I’ll be seeing to a meal, and then I have to see my insurance man about Bill’s affairs.”

    “How about if I come for you at your home in the morning, and then I can take you to work, and we can talk on the way.”

    It was agreed and they arranged to meet a little way from the house so that the children would not know.

    They were both a little excited, like teenagers making a date. Margaret was sitting with her hands crossed on her lap, and Edward leaned forward slightly and took hold of then, gently lifting them to his lips.

    Just a brief kiss, and then, not yet letting go he said, “I will look forward to it.”

    He stood, still holding her hands, but just for a moment she remained in her chair, as though lost in thought. Now she stood up and lifting her heels slightly, gently kissed him. Not a passionate kiss; it was too short for that. Not a friendly kiss; it was too long for that. It was a loving kiss.

    When Edward got back to the ward he found that the easy pace he had seen earlier, had changed to the more normal controlled confusion, and quickly he was caught up in the clamor, and the demands typical in any accident and emergency ward. It went on like this for most of the remainder of the day. Eventually it was time for the new team to arrive, and shortly before the  change-over Edward’s friend the nurse, now a ‘confidant’, came to say goodbye, again wearing that cheeky grin.

    “Well,” she asked “Have you anything to tell me yet?”

    “Not yet,” he said “But maybe.”

    “I do hope so,” she said, now wearing the smile of a friend. “does she know about; you know; you?”

    “Not yet,” he answered, looking a little worried. “I don’t know if I can tell her; she will probably reject me.”

    “Edward,” though she was speaking softly, in her new role as   advisor, she was earnest,  “you will have no future unless you do.”

    “But how do I do it?”

“I don’t know,” she said “I suppose; I suppose it comes down to having the courage to believe in yourself.”

 

Margaret looked at the clock when she got home, pleased that she was back before Emma arrived. She had gone home with a friend straight from school, and had been promised a lift home about nine thirty. She felt very strange. A mixture of girlish excitement, and concern that she was getting into something that might go wrong. It was very soon after Bill’s death, but she wasn’t worried about that. In a real sense in had been ten years since she had lost Bill, and if she were to start something with Edward; she flushed a little when the word ‘affair’ came into her mind; she wouldn’t care what neighbours might say. She knew that she had been faithful to Bill, much more than he deserved, and that was all that mattered.

   But what, she could not help thinking, about the children?. Their lives had been turned around so much lately that it seemed unfair to bring a new man into their lives.

    On the other hand she had lived a lonely and a loveless life all that time and now, unexpectedly, she had found a man she liked, a man who she could love. She was all too aware of the passing years, into her forties now, and she didn’t expect that she would be lucky to find love again. She knew was that she felt so at ease when she was with him. Dare she let this chance go?

    All these years she might have been dead for all the notice anyone took of her. To her husband she was no more than a housekeeper, and even her children made no emotional demands on her. As long as they were fed and clothed they were happy, but until Bill’s death they had not shown any love for her. It was true that recent events had shaken them, and they had turned to her for comfort.

   They needed to feel secure, and she was glad to be there for them, but what she wanted was love from them. She had felt that there was no one for her to turn to. She needed to feel secure as well, and now she had found someone who seemed to want her.

    She heard the car stop outside, and in a moment Emma was in the house, and her quiet time was over. In minutes the house was filled with noise as her lively ten year old was telling about her day, and about her friend, and her parents, and her house, and her dog.

    “Why can’t we have a dog mum?” she had said “I’ll take it for walks, and you won’t have to do anything.”

    “Oh no you don’t” she answered firmly “That’s the last thing we want; don’t you think there’s enough going on at the moment?”   

    “A dog, she want’s, whatever next?” her head going back as she looked up to the heavens.

    “But mum.”

    “No...no dog.”

     Margaret quickly changed the subject to one more palatable, “Did you have anything to eat at you friends, or would you like me to make you some supper? There’s some crisps in the pantry.”

    Emma settled for a packet of crisps, switched on the television, and sat down on the floor in front of it.

    “Thank the Lord,” said Margaret to herself, “she’ll be quiet now; a dog she wants !!”, but this time only her eyes were lifted.

 

Rodney was lying disconsolate on his bed. It was too early to turn in for the night, and he couldn’t concentrate on anything. He tried to read, picking up a couple of books but lost interest very quickly, and there was nothing on the television to capture his attention. He had been like a lost sheep since the week-end, unable to think of anything but his bust up with Wendy.

    He thought she might have phoned by now, but there had been no call, and each time he had tried to reach her at her flat, he was greeted by her brisk and efficient invitation to leave a message on the answer phone, which eventually he did, asking her to call back. It was just a case of waiting, and he didn’t want to leave the flat in case she might call while he was out. Over and over he had relived the argument that had caused so much hurt. He heard again all the things he had said, wondering how he might have said them differently. If he had only said this instead of saying that, or that instead of the other. He tried to remember if the idea for matching engagement rings had been mentioned before. He didn't think so! So why did she bring it up that day?. He was sure that if he had known before, and had got used to the idea he would have gone along with it.

    The Phone rang and he was up like a shot.

    “Hello,” he said “Is that you Wendy?”

    “Hello,” a mans voice said “Is that Mr Wilson?”

    Rodney was stopped in his tracks. He didn’t want to talk to anyone else, but he could hear the voice on the phone.

    “Hello...is that Mr Wilson?”

    “Yes, this is Mr Wilson.”

    “Hello Sir,” said the voice, “This is Sergeant Branner from Wixley police station.”

    “Yes; what can I do for you?” rather curt, Rodney did not want to speak to anyone, let alone a policeman

    “I need to speak to you Mr Wilson, and I wondered if you would prefer me to call at the school or come to your home.”

    “What on earth do you want to speak to me about?” he asked.

    “It’s to do with the boy Jonathan Marshall, a pupil of yours I think.”

    “What’s he been doing now?” asked Rodney a little carelessly, his mind on other things. “He hasn’t gone off again has he?"

    “Mr Wilson; I’m sorry sir, I do need to talk to you, but I cannot conduct this inquiry on the phone, if you do not want me to call on you, will you come down to the station?”

    Rodney was somewhat taken aback by the firmness in Sergeant Branner’s voice, but didn’t want to make waves. “I’m sorry Inspector, was I being obtuse?”

    “It’s Sergeant sir, would you like me to see you at school or your home?”

    “I’ll be free in my office between nine thirty and ten in the morning; will that do Sergeant?”

    “Thank you sir; see you in the morning.”

    Rodney put the phone down, angry that it had been in use for ten minutes. “What if she has been trying to ring?” he was thinking, hardly remembering what Sergeant Branner’s call was all about. He was however thinking of Branner and wondering where he had come across that name before, and gradually he remembered.

    “Branner? Yes, that’s him, he came to do a talk; road safety I think.”

    He tried to remember what he was like, but his mental picture was vague. All he could remember was thinking that he was something of a queer old stick. It crossed his mind that he was a bit like one of the TV detectives, but he was too agitated to think long about that, and somehow managed to drift off into an uneasy sleep. When he awoke there was only silence, and the clock said ten past two.

     There had been no other phone calls.