All Passion Spent by Bergotte (red white royal blue .TXT) 📕

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Thursday, October 26: morning

When Rita woke up Michael had already left on his pushbike for college. She finished the coffee he had brought to her and left on her bedside table. She got out of bed, showered and started to dress. Sitting at her dressing table, gazing into the mirror and brushing her hair, she thought through what she intended to do. By the time she had applied cream to her hands and face she was quite resolved to carry out her plan. She put on blue jeans and a tight, red sweater. She looked at herself in the full length mirror on the landing; she had a good figure. Why didn’t Michael ever notice her curves? And if he did, why did he never compliment her on the way she looked? Why did he not seem to notice her as a woman?

She went downstairs and opened the doors to the cupboard, thinking she would have some breakfast but could not face it. She went back upstairs and started to look through her clothes and possessions for packing. Suddenly she had an idea. If she were going to start a new life why not get rid of her clothes? Why not burn them and buy new ones? She looked at the glamorous dresses and other items given to her by her sister. These things she hated. She had never wanted them. She had never been interested in fashion. She had often thought this fixation with the way women looked was stupid.

She went into the back room looking for suitcases, packing cases, and bags. She would take everything and dispose of what she no longer wanted at charity shops in and around the city. She was determined to make a clean break with Michael and what she now regarded as her past life. There was no point in feeling any maudlin sentimentality for any of these material possessions.

By eleven o’clock she was well on the way to being ready, her little V.W. car stuffed with all the things she had accumulated over the few years of her marriage. She phoned her nursing friend, Sally Stoneham, saying that she wanted to take up her offer, made several weeks ago, that if ever she needed a place to stay there was a spare room waiting for her. She only had to ask. Now she was asking. “I’ll bring some of my stuff round this afternoon on my way to work, say 4.30. Things with Michael are very bad,” she said, fighting back the tears.
Within the space of two hours most of the packing was done. She was surprised however, when the bell rang and she saw her friend on the doorstep. “I called round,” said Sally, “because you sounded in such a state on the phone. I came to see you, to see if there is anything I can do.”

“No, nothing,” said Rita. “I’m exhausted, that’s all. I just want to leave all this behind me.”
“It looks like you’re bringing it with you,” commented her friend.
“No, I’m getting rid of most of it. If there is anything you would like, please take it. Would you like some coffee? I’m having some.”
“Yes, please,” said Sally. Anything to break this tense atmosphere, she thought. The two women sat in the kitchen together and drank coffee. Eventually Rita began to relax. She said, “I’m really looking forward to coming to stay with you. You are a good friend to me.” “Good, I’m looking forward to it too.” Sally left a few minutes after looking through Rita’s possessions and taking some items.

Rita began to have second thoughts. Did she really want to go through with this? But her answer was yes. She tried to eat, and then tried to distract herself by reading and watching daytime TV. Eventually she went out to the car with some bags. This is it then, the end, she thought. She looked in all the rooms for one last time. She stood gazing at the double bed in the main bedroom and at a photograph of herself and Michael on holiday two years previously. She began to have more second thoughts. Perhaps she ought to finally confront Michael with her suspicions instead of sneaking off. No, she decided she was going. There was no point in prolonging the agony any more.

She would try to write a letter to Michael to explain her actions. She found some file paper and a good pen in Michael’s study and sat down at his desk to write to him. She had never written anything in her life before, remotely like this and she found it very difficult to put into words what she wanted to say to him. Every phrase, every sentence, proved a tortuous effort. After ten minutes she had only written one short paragraph. Every time she read through what she had written she was shocked at how stilted it all sounded. After five attempts she finally arrived at a version with which she was satisfied, confident that she had corrected all the spelling mistakes and grammatical errors she had made in the other four drafts. She was conscious of how much she hated it when her husband pointed out mistakes in anything she wrote. It was demeaning; like being back in school.

‘Dear Michael By the time you read this I will have left home for good. I except this will come as a shock to you but we both know that things between us have not been very satisfactory in recent months. I never really loved you anyway, to tell you the truth. I know that you and Paul were both attracted to Bella in the first place. I know that I was always second best to her. I’ve always thought of myself as a sort of consolation prize as far as you were concerned, though I blame myself for going through with our wedding. I bitterly regret that now. It seemed a good idea at the time; to have a double wedding with two sets of twins. It was just an idle dream, a romantic illusion. Now it’s over. It’s no good crying over spilt milk, what’s done is done.’

‘Obviously Laura’s death has had a great affect on me and I’ve felt emotionally drained over the last few days. But you haven’t helped me. You’ve been no help to a grieving wife. You’ve been no husband to me in recent months. You spend more time with Paul and Bella than you do with me. When you’re not with them you’re in your study reading, marking or preparing lessons. It’s not been all bad, I know that. In the early days of our marriage it was quite enjoyable; I had quite a good time.’

Well, I’ve made up my mind to go. I’m going to be staying with a friend who lives near the RUH. I’ve known her for some time and I’ve told her all about you, Sally Stoneham. I except you remember her. She works on the same ward as me, with the children. I’ve cleared out all the stuff I want to take with me. The rest of it I am leaving. You can do what you want with it. Please don’t try to contact me. I’ll see you when I’m ready too, probably on Saturday afternoon at my mother’s. I think Paul wants us all to meet together then. He phoned me yesterday. He wanted to know whether I thought you and Bella were having an affair. I could only say yes to that. I was always faithful to you. That’s all I want to say at the moment. Rita’

She put the letter in an envelope and then wondered why she had done so… because she had always put letters in envelopes, she supposed. She sealed it, wrote Michael’s name on the front and took it downstairs. She wondered where she could put it so that Michael would be sure to see it. She decided it would be best if she stood it up on the mantelpiece above the fireplace in the front room. She locked up, left the house immediately and drove over to Weston village, in the V.W.

As arranged, Sally Stoneham was there to meet her when she arrived. They unloaded the car, carrying everything inside and upstairs where Rita was provided with a bedroom and enough storage space for her books and clothes. Her friend was pleased to have her to stay, as she had said. Rita breathed a sigh of relief when all was safely in her new home, but she couldn’t help her feelings of regret that she was leaving married life behind her. “I think I’ll have a lie down on the bed,” she told Sally, “I’m feeling exhausted and we’ve got to go to work later on.” “Okay,” said Sally.

Rita came downstairs a little later on and helped Sally get something to eat. “You’re definitely going to leave Michael are you?” “Yes, I can’t see the point of staying with him any longer.” “Surely, the point is that he is your husband.” “Yes, but he is being unfaithful to me.” “How do you know? Isn’t he treating Isabella as a friend not a lover?” “I don’t think so. I think he would rather be with her than me.” “What about your sister, what does she say?” “I think she would rather be with Michael than Paul.” “Has she actually said so.” “No, not in so many words, but I know she’s not getting on very well with Paul.” “How do you know? Has she discussed her marriage with you?” “No… Paul has told me…” “Don’t you think you ought to talk to Isabella?” “No… I hate her,” shouted Rita, “and as far as I am concerned it’s all over between Michael and me.”

“Perhaps you are feeling like you do because of your mother’s death.” “I don’t think so,” snapped Rita. Sally was taken aback at the viciousness with which she said these words, but she kept calm by keeping busy. “My mother never did have much time for me, certainly not since she set up the business with Bella. I wanted to train to be a doctor, not be a nurse all my working life. But, both my parents thought I was being too ambitious. Any animosity towards my mother stems from that.”

“You know,” said Sally, “that at your wedding I was a bridesmaid. In the weeks before you got married, when they were designing your wedding dresses and our bridesmaid outfits, your mother used praise you up to the skies. She has always thought a great deal of you. She admired you for the work you do, for caring for other people.” “Did she? She had a funny way of showing it. She was so critical.” “Just being polite I should think.”


At lunchtime on Thursday, Bill Bentley, Tommy Matheson’s stepfather was enjoying a pint of best bitter in the company of his impressionable young friend, Harvey. Bill was made in the mould of the barrack room lawyer. He could hold forth on any subject under the sun but his chosen subject on this occasion was the government of the day. The barmaid enjoyed baiting him and flirting with him. He did not seem to notice; he always rose to the bait. But buxom Betty had tired of hearing her loudest customer talking politics, so she had changed the subject. She asked him how his stepson was getting on. “’E ’int no son of mine,”