A NEW BEGINNING

 A NEW BEGINNING                                                                                                 

by Richard Banks

It was Sarah’s idea to buy the Old House. She had had enough of London. It was, she said, time to make a new start while we were still young enough. It would be our project, one we could do together. We would be a team again like we were before my job became more important to me than her. That is nonsense of course, and she knows it, but what I can’t deny is that my ascent up the corporate ladder had left us with little time to ourselves.

         It was, I told myself, the price to be paid for a salary that allowed us to reside in a part of London that would have seemed impossible when we were students living together in a scruffy bedsit above a burger bar. But like any upgrade there was a price to be paid. Was there ever a moment, day or night, when I wasn’t hard at work or half expecting the telephone to ring with problems that would have me rushing back to the office. Even the freebie tickets they gave me for big showbiz and sporting events were never free from the obligation to network and chase new business. Then there was the merger and that was when enough became more than enough. Time to leave. So, now my time is my own. I’m on a gap year. Well, if the kids can do it, so can I! Not that I’ll be short of things to do, Sarah will see to that, but this time it’s about us. She deserves that, and so do I.

         The Old House has definitely seen better days. Sarah says that when her grandmother was a girl it was the grandest house in the hundred, a mile out of town and with well tended gardens the size of three or four fields; but that was then, and many years of decline have reduced it to the near ruin it is today. The main advantage in buying a ruin, probably the only one, is that the asking price goes down rather than up. Already low enough to be within our price range I learned that the local council was considering compulsory purchase with a view to replacing the house with a housing estate. There was no time to lose, and when I offered a sum well below the advertised price, the owners - a distant offshoot of the minor nobility that once lived there - realised that a low offer was better than an even lower one they couldn’t say no to.

         On completion we put our furniture in storage and moved into a caravan in the front garden. From there we would sally out and do everything that was needed. At least that was the plan, but when it became obvious that the roof was letting in almost as much rain as it was keeping out we had no choice but to pay a roofer to replace it with a new one. Unsurprisingly our next discovery was wet rot, and another job for local industry. But after that it was us, all us, learning the skills that were needed to do everything else that had to be done.

         Even our slow start had not been time wasted. While the professionals were at work so were we, clearing the long neglected gardens of chest high brambles, nettles and every other weed known to man. We slew all before us, including a half dead birch tree which I felled within a foot of the spot I was aiming at.

         Sarah was nervous seeing me, axe in hand, but she had nothing to be concerned about. As I have told her, the destruction of my desk was a symbolic act of defiance, nothing more. No harm was meant, not even to that vulgar, little Yank who was taking my place. I couldn’t stop him taking my job but he wasn’t having the desk I had sat at for fifteen years. Some of the old guard cheered me. They stood well back when they saw what I was about to do, only the Yank came running over and tried to stop me. Did I mean to hit him when I swung the axe back over my head? Of course not. I was looking at the desk, not him.

         It was all hushed up, of course, for the sake of the firm, and I received the severance pay that had been agreed, but the Yank put it about that I was unfit for future employment, and that ended my career in financial services. But what do I care. Like every man worth his salt I won’t be kept down; I will come again, reinvent myself, find a new niche in life. Until then I will restore this house, make it better than ever, no effort spared, and with new hydraulics throughout the house we were now ready to install the new kitchen that Sarah had seen, and just couldn’t do without. Us, just us. Who would have thought it. Even the builder who came round touting for business could find no fault with what we had done.

         It was on returning from Wickes one afternoon that we came across the new Volvo of my former employer parked at the top of the driveway outside the conservatory. Any thoughts I had that he had come with a job offer were soon put to rest. This was a social visit; he was in the area and thought he would drop by to see if I was, “all right”. Better than him, I was tempted to say, but didn’t. Even he could see how fit I was, how I had shed the corporate flab for a leaner, more active me. Sir, or JT as he likes to be called by senior management, once had a brief fling with my wife. At least that’s what he thinks happened. The truth is somewhat different.

         I first noticed he was attracted to Sarah at the firm’s annual dinner and dance. It was while I was dancing with his wife, Lady Yiewsley – surely a sign that I was under serious consideration to replace my old boss in accounts – that they discovered a mutual interest in the opera. He had a pair of tickets for Figaro at Covent Garden, and as his dear wife was out of town that evening and unable to attend, he wondered whether Sarah would like to fill a seat that otherwise would be unused. Knowing his reputation Sarah played for time. She would, she told him, have to check her diary and promised to get back to him on the mobile number he gave her.

         Having reported all this to me we thought a night at the opera was not an unreasonable price to pay for what would hopefully be another step up the greasy pole. With the promotion still not decided the opera was followed by dinner at the Ritz when Lady Yiewsley was again out of town and I was in Switzerland on company business. I arrived back ahead of schedule the next morning to find Sarah not at home. When she returned an hour later in her fur and evening dress it was only too obvious what had happened. To her credit she made no attempt to deny it. Indeed she could not have been more forthcoming on what she regarded as an experience akin to being smothered by a dead sheep. The good news, however, was that she had taken every opportunity to stress my suitability for said promotion and that Sir had agreed I was the best man for the job. When this was confirmed a week later I wrote an unsigned letter to Lady Yiewsley informing her that her husband had been seen leaving the Savoy with a woman, somewhat younger than himself, at 7am in the morning. With JT brought back to the straight and narrow and on the tightest of leashes his texts and phone calls to Sarah ceased and, to the best of my knowledge, they only saw each other at corporate events where Lady Yiewsley was always at his side.

         So, what is he doing here unchaperoned - not to see me I wager? Does he really think that after all these years he can rekindle their imagined affair? What a pathetic, deluded little bore he is and yet Sarah’s surprise at seeing him has no trace of the deep distain she should be feeling. Indeed she appears perfectly at ease in his company. Has she forgotten all that happened; how when the merger was agreed he abandoned me, cast me aside like I was of no value or use, while he stayed on as Chairman. Betrayal it was, brutal betrayal!

         Sarah casts an anxious glance in my direction. This is dragging me back when I was doing so well. I take a deep breath. Sarah slips a pill into my hand and suggests that I show JT the garden. She knows I’m better outside. More deep breaths. It’s going to be OK I tell myself. Inadvertently I say this out loud. He thinks I’m referring to the garden. He raises an eyebrow at the pyramid of wood and other combustibles towering over what was once the bowling green. Finding nothing, OK or otherwise, to say about it he turns his gaze towards the shed I have constructed from flatpack. He makes an idiot remark about it being my hideaway from the ‘trouble and strife’ who will always have something for us to do. How dare he be so slighting to the woman I love, the woman he would take from me, just like he took my job!

         The door is open and I invite him in for a glass of the double malt I say is inside. There is no malt, nothing inside but my garden tools and the axe.

                                                                          

                                                  *****

         Sarah says that I must steady myself, that it wasn’t my fault. He had no right to be here. What has happened is unfortunate, a setback, but nothing that need do us any harm. No one heard him scream and, more than likely, no one saw him turn into the driveway. It will be our secret and, if we don’t panic, no one will ever know but ourselves.

         She has already moved his car into the garage where it can’t be seen and checked his mobile to make sure there’s nothing on it about us. With luck he will have told no one of his intention to visit. If the police should come we will say that JT paid us a courtesy call and departed within an hour. If they don’t, we do nothing, nothing at all but enjoy our new life. Anyway, what can they do without a body?

         Already we have doused it with petrol and pushed it into the mounting tip of rubbish that will be his funeral pyre. Tomorrow we will set it on fire and reduce everything to dust and ashes. It will be yet another step in our new beginning. In death, as in life, we triumph yet again. 

 

Copyright Richard Banks