The Promise

“… the promise that we made each other haunts me to the end… ” Justin Hayward.

For my American cousins:

Terraced houses = Row houses. Estate car = Station wagon.

Settee = Couch. Rawlplug = Wall plug (for screws)

By the way. I LIKE the ending. Live with it!

*

In the UK there are two big differences between the air force and the other military services. The army and navy are stationed in big towns, cities, or deep ports. And when personnel are posted, they go en masse. By the regiment, battalion, shipload, or whatever.

But the air force are stationed somewhere flat, in the middle of nowhere. Many bases are in East Anglia. Boring agricultural land, where there’s nothing much to do. And postings are on an individual basis.

*

I’m Len Yeats, and I married Pam soon after I joined up. We quickly got into wife swapping; today it’s called swinging. Middle of nowhere? Not much else to do? Buddies who you only get to know for a year or two, rather than a lifetime? You get the picture. We took a break from it when Trudi was born, but not for long.

Pam enjoyed the travelling and we had a lot of fun in Cyprus and Singapore, especially the spicy food. But for my final three years’ service, I ended up back in boring East Anglia. Trudi started at a good secondary school, and it had been getting harder to keep our activities from her. So we made a serious promise. No more sex outside marriage. It wasn’t difficult. We’d sown our wild oats, were ready to settle down, and didn’t know a soul there.

Strangely perhaps, our sex life got a boost. We now talked openly about some of the old swapping scenarios. Roleplay, and teasing each other with ‘so-and-so did it like this!’ We love anal, but one time I snagged her with a broken fingernail. Now she insists on applying the lubricant herself. I slather my penis with it, and she fingers it into her anus. Her favourite position is doggy style. but I like it better with her on her back, so I can see all the good stuff moving about. But I’m not complaining.

An RAF corporal gets paid the same all over the country. So, earning more than the local average, we bought a house. Not an ideal location. I’m used to woods, and rolling hills. But women are nest-builders. Me? I’m happier tightening my backpack, and setting off somewhere new. But Pam wanted to settle. I’m an easy going guy, so I applied for a mortgage and we became home owners. After all, she was born round these parts.

It was a new build of houses in a crescent, with a row of allocated garages on the other side of the road; two beds, one bath. We were in the middle of seven terraced houses. The back garden got bigger farther away from the house. And ended at a canal, separated from us by a sturdy fence. The only footpath was on the far side of the canal, so the property was secure at the rear.

“It’s a bit small.” said Pam,

“It’ll do for now. Let’s see how it goes.”

I said easy going, and it’s true. Apart from our promise, I always let things slide. I tend to be a bit OCD, but don’t impose it on others. If things get left lying around I put them away. No point in arguing; people are different. I’ve never understood couples who go to war over toilet seat up, toilet seat down.

Example:

Pam gets up first, and showers. There’s a tiny opening section at the top of the bathroom window. It’s all frosted glass, but she closes it and lowers the blind. When she’s done, she leaves the shower curtain open and dumps her towel over the laundry basket.

I’m the opposite. Window open and blind up. Even if someone could get into our garden (and they’d need a boat), they still can’t see, or climb in. I hang my towel, and hers, over the towel rail. Then close the shower curtain to keep it stretched. Prevents mildew. The biggest difference is Pam doesn’t notice any of this, but I do.

Pam got a job. She’s a qualified accountant, and began doing farm recording. It involved travelling round local farms, keeping their accounts up to date. We had two cars, hers was a near new estate car. I made do with an old Ford Escort, that didn’t always start.

She hadn’t started off with an estate car, just a normal saloon. But soon got to using it as a mobile office. And the farmers were particularly happy to have ‘them financials’ taken off their hands. So we enjoyed a steady supply of free turkeys, chickens, and sides of pork.

*

“We need a bigger house babe.” she announced.

“What? We’ve only been in this one a year!”

“I know. But I’m earning well now, and Trudi’s getting bigger. We need more space.”

“Let’s wait a bit.”

“But we could get a bigger mortgage.”

“Not yet, ok?”

*

“We really could do with a bigger place, Len.”

“What? We’ve only been here two years!”

“But my car’s a mess; I need a home office, and Trudi should have her own bathroom.”

“OK. But let’s wait till I leave the RAF. We might have to move then, anyway.”

*

One more year passed, and I was demobbed. Trudi was doing well at the school, and had just won a place on the girls’ football team. They had matches against other schools midweek. And talk! She could hold her own in any adult topic, and we spent hours debating everything under the sun. Sometimes I felt a little sorry for Pam. Trudi was a real daddy’s girl.

The school situation and Pam’s increasing income, came together as I entered civvie street. It made sense to stay where we were. I didn’t fancy living permanently in such a boring place but, as I said, I’m an easy going kind of guy so I looked for employment locally. Luckily, I landed an office job at Fenside Vegetables. Quite a drop in pay, but not too far to travel.

No sooner had I started working, than Pam brought up the bigger house discussion again. She wanted an office, two bathrooms, and so on. I was familiar with the argument, and had some sympathy with the idea. And she was now making more than me. But I still thought we couldn’t afford to move up the housing ladder yet..

“You’re the accountant, tell me how we afford this.”

“Easy. We re-apply for a joint mortgage, based on our combined income.”

“I don’t think it is that easy. Go to the building society, and enquire. I’m sure you’ll find they’re reluctant to recognise all of your income. I know you’re doing better than me, but you’re self-employed. As far as they are concerned it’s not a salary, not steady.” I said.

“But there has to be a way.”

*

Fenside Vegetables was a massive warehouse. Lorries arrived straight from the fields, unloaded tons of nature’s bounty, and left. The company sorted it all, very labour intensive in those days, then smaller vehicles delivered it to the shops. My ‘office’ was on a mezzanine floor overlooking the sorting lines. Accessible by an internal iron ladder, with nineteen steps.

I saw their problem on the first day I was shown around. Trucks were getting bigger and there was not enough space at the rear of the building. Many had to turn around in the road in front of the warehouse, then slowly reverse through to the rear unloading area. It was time consuming and creating backlogs. I thought I could see a way to alleviate the problem.

I went to Jack Welby, my supervisor, who referred me to the general manager. He sent me to the company’s owner, who said the recent downturn in business was in hand thanks. Turned out that their fight against the competition consisted of changing their name to Fenside Logistics! No point in taking my worries home. I gave up, and began to check out potential jobs with the competitors.

The veg sorting process was an eye-opener. Potatoes, for instance. They come rolling along the conveyor belt and pass four teams. The best spuds are pulled off first, and are allocated to the top two supermarkets. Second best go to the others, veg shops, and open markets.

Third grade but acceptable, go to the big crisp companies. So when you see ‘Made from Selected Potatoes’ you know who selected them! The dregs: undeveloped, rotting, and mouldy, go to the pig farms? No. They’re sent to the nice people who manufacture little jars of baby food!

All the sorting staff were female. A lot were local part-timers, but the bulk were from Eastern Europe. It was difficult to tell their ages or whether they were beautiful. They all wore shapeless jackets and trousers, and had hairnets or headscarves.

Those non-locals were housed in Portacabins. They were stacked two-high and provided reasonable accommodation. The rooms were lockable, and housed two women each. There were toilet and shower blocks, and that whole community was under a huge open Dutch barn. They got one day off per week and a free bus into the town.

It was rumoured that they spent most of their free time in the barn, where they’d set up badminton and volleyball nets. I also heard that a couple of them did not come back on the free bus, but were seen arriving in taxis early next morning. Well, live and let live I say; none of them were rich.

*

Management level got invited to the autumn party thrown by Fenside’s owners, Keith and Penelope Rallison. It took place at their large house, after the harvest was in. We did the usual circulating for an hour. Then Pam got going after my third drink.

“Have a few beers babe, I need you in a good mood.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ve been to our building society about a bigger mortgage. They’ll take half my earnings into consideration. And I asked at the estate agent’s for a ballpark figure on our little place. It’s worth a fair bit more than when we bought it.”

“OK. Before either of us get too drunk to talk seriously. Explain one thing, so I understand. Why is this so important to you?”

She was drunker than I thought, and began welling up.

“My family were poor as church mice. Our council house only had two bedrooms. I had to share a bunk bed with Jeff, my younger brother. It was all right when we were kids, but it got worse after I started my periods. He used to make crude jokes, then deny it to mum and dad.”

“I’m sorry, that must have been awful.”

“It was still happening when I left for college to study accounting. That’s why I chose a place so far from here. Even there, I had to live in a poky little room, with another girl. Marrying you took me away from all that.”

“Look, we’re supposed to having fun. Let’s rejoin the party, and talk about this when we’re sober.”

“OK.”

She took herself off to a bathroom.

I spent lot of the rest of the party chatting to Mrs Rallison. Fifteen years older than me but beautifully preserved.

“Is your wife all right? Your conversation looked rather tense, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“I apologise for that, it’s some ongoing baggage. We should never have brought to your party.”

But she was persuasive and dragged the story out of me.

“Try and hang on for a while. Jack Welby will retire in a couple of months. You never know!”

Mrs Rallison actually winked!

“Are you good with your hands?”

“Ladies should not ask questions like that after they’ve just winked!”

She laughed.

“I mean like a handyman!”

“I’m not good with machinery, but I can do most jobs round the house. Maybe you’d like to inspect my tools!”

This time, she punched me on the bicep.

“I mean around the house. If your financial situation improves, there’s an ex farm manager’s house, nearer the town. We might sell it for a reasonable price. It’s what they call a fixer-upper. Give me your phone number.”

Pam spent ages talking to Mr Rallison. It looked rather intimate, but I’m sure she was only oiling the wheels. Or maybe using his contacts to pick up more farm accounts. They danced a few times and when his hands slid too low, she politely grasped them and moved them back up to her hips. Good girl, sticking to the promise. She was very drunk when we left but, hey, we’ve all been there! Next morning, I was grateful that the subject of a larger house didn’t crop up.

*

We got into a weekday system. I don’t like routines for their own sake but, when time is tight, it pays to be efficient. After showering, we would eat breakfast together. Later, Trudi would rush through with her school things and grab anything she could eat with one hand. Then run out to catch the school bus. I asked her once, why she shouted ‘Bye parents!’ as she left. She said it was quicker than ‘Bye mum, bye dad!’ Efficient like me!

A few weeks after the party, I noticed Pam had put a password on her phone. I didn’t ask why, but did wonder. Out of curiosity I tried to access it, but none of the usual combinations, like birthdays, car reg numbers, worked.

*

Strange isn’t it? Things plod along for ages, then everything happens at once. One Friday lunchtime, our office had a little leaving do for my supervisor, Jack Welby. And that night, I went to bed early. I needed to take the Escort round to a friend’s on Saturday, and he wanted an early start. Hopefully he would help prepare it for its next MOT test, and save us some money. Pam stayed up to watch a late film on tv.

Something woke me. I sat up in the dark and tried to recall what it had sounded like; some sort of crash. I listened in case it was repeated. I turned on the bedside lamp and looked around. Something was not right on the far wall, so I got up to investigate. It was only a wedding photo, fallen on the floor. I put it on the chest of drawers to sort out the next day.

I’m useless with cars, but I can hang a picture. I had a vague memory the rawlplug had been too big for the photo’s hook. I decided to pick up some more on my way home tomorrow. Then I noticed there was no sound from the tv. Maybe Pam had fallen asleep on the settee.

I crept downstairs and peeped into the living room. The film was over but the tv was still on. Pam was sitting on the settee, in the blue glow, texting on her phone. I went back to bed, wondering how I could get a look at those messages. It was still before midnight, but I didn’t sleep well.

*

Saturday morning, Pam still managed to get up ahead of me. We stuck to our weekday routine, except she made a bigger breakfast.

“I thought you might need some extra energy, working on the car, babe. How long do you think it will take?”

“Thanks, I’ll probably be there all morning. What are you planning today?”

“I’m going to Mr Sparks’ farm for a couple of hours. He’s lost some receipts and doesn’t know if copies will be legal. I’m sure I’ll find them somewhere. But the real reason is his wife has just finished curing some bacon. If I stay an hour, and listen to her moaning about her bad back, I’m hoping to get some. You know, family provider bringing home the bacon!”

I could have been over sensitive, but it sounded like a dig at our financial situation. Family provider being Pam, now earning more than me. But I let it go.

I was just about to leave when Trudi came bursting into the kitchen. Why do teenage girls seem to run everywhere?

“You’re up early. Wet the bed?”

“You’re standard RAF greeting is losing its charm, dad.”

“Sorry sweetheart, I’ll try again.”

“To what do owe the pleasure of your company this fine morning?”

“I’m catching the school bus soon. We’re playing an away football match at Bourne.”

“I thought you played mid-week?”

“This is for the cup!”

“Wow!”

“So can you give me a fiver for the driver, please?”

“The education authority is supposed to provide free buses in rural areas.”

“It’s Saturday. Mr Ridgewell is volunteering to drive.”

I gave her a tenner in case they went to McDonalds or something. I got a big hug and a kiss, which made it well worth the money.

I crossed the road to my car, which was parked on a short driveway, in front of the garage. Pam’s went inside. I unlocked and went in. Dan loved fixing up cars, but sometimes it was handy to have extra tools. As I grabbed my tool box, I glanced into the back of Pam’s car. There was the usual clutter on the back seat and in an attempt at tidiness, she’d thrown a blanket across the scattered files. There was something sticking out from under the tartan. It didn’t register at the time, but it looked pink.

When the car was up and running, and more or less guaranteed to pass the test, I called Pam.

“Dan and I are all done here. Do you want me to pick anything up before I come home?”

“Oh, we’re out of tomato sauce, and low on vinegar, babe. Can you gram a bottle of each please?”

“No problem.”

I got home and placed them on the kitchen counter.

“The mighty hunter returns with the spoils!” she said, and kissed me. Making up for the ‘family provider’ dig?

“Trudi will be back soon, and lunch is nearly ready. But you look a bit scruffy. And what is that smell?”

“It’s called Swarfega, and it’s used to remove the worst of the oil and grease. I quite like it!”

Well I don’t. You’ve got ten minutes!”

I went up to shower.

I stopped in my tracks as I entered the bathroom. Towel on the laundry hamper, window shut, shower curtain open. Pam had had a second shower. Not so unusual, I was having another too. Except now I remembered what had been half hidden in the estate car: bacon! She’d been to Sparks’ all right, but not today. There had to be some explanation. She couldn’t possibly be having an affair; we had made a promise.

But my heart sank when I looked carefully at our bottle of anal lubricant. Last time we’d used it I’d returned it to the bathroom cabinet. And the level had been exactly in line with the top of the label. Now it was half an inch lower. Well I did mention I was a bit OCD.

*

Did I say it all happened at once? Trudi seemed uncharacteristically reluctant to talk about her football match. I was about to reassure her it was ok to lose sometimes, when my phone rang.

“Mr Yeats?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Penelope Rallison. Please do not say my name out loud.”

“OK.”

“I would like to meet you. The Farmer’s Rest at seven tonight? Just say ‘OK’ if it is.”

“OK.”

“Who was that?”

“Dan. He thinks I should buy him a beer tonight.”

“Quite right too.”

“I thought we should do that once it’s passed its MOT.”

“That’s not fair babe. He did all that work today, whether it passes or not.”

“True. Ah well, I’ll just have to go to the pub tonight then. What a drag!”

I gave a dramatic sigh.

“Poor dad!” said Trudi.

On my way to The Farmer’s Rest I called Dan, and asked him to confirm he’d been at the pub with me, in case it cropped up.

“I can do better than that mate. I’ll be there at eight. You’re buying!”

Can’t argue with that. I walked in.

The place was packed and noisy, but there was a little oasis of calm around her table. I was a bit shocked to see her drinking a pint of bitter.

“Can I get you another Mrs Rallison?”

“No, no, I’ve already paid for yours. And please call me Penny.”

“Oh, thanks. What’s that?”

“Adnam’s Old Ale.”

“I’ll have the same then.”

“I wondered if you might be interested in doing a little job for me?”

“I might.”

“Jack Welby was my inside man for some months, but now he’s left. Basically, it entails keeping an eye on my husband. Only at work of course.”

It was like a light coming on.

“You think he’s playing away from home, right?”

“Yes. Do you know something?”

“Possibly. Could it have been today?”

“I guess so.”

*

Seems Penny and Keith had a kind of pre-nup. The house was hers anyway, so the agreement was over shares of Fenside Logistics. If either of them had an affair, they would have their share reduced to ten percent. Giving up control in the business, in return for a small income.

He had strayed before; it wasn’t difficult to persuade poor immigrant women to accommodate him. But a year ago, he had been caught and then promised to be faithful, and had signed to that effect. Penny didn’t want to go to the expense of private detectives, until she was sure. All I had to do was make a note of his comings and goings at work, as Jack had been doing before me.

Her story didn’t take long, so there was time for me to tell her I had some improvements in mind. She was genuinely interested, and said she was going to recommend me for promotion to supervisor. I thought about that, and asked her to wait for the time being. I accepted the spy job of course. As she left, the crowd parted for her, and some of the male drinkers actually touched their caps, in respect.

Once Dan arrived we really tied one on, though I didn’t mention my chat with Penny, or my suspicions about Pam. We both had too much strong beer, and I don’t remember walking home, but the house was quiet when I got in.

*

Sunday morning I felt terrible. I remember the date; January eighteenth. Pam didn’t appear to be in a good mood either. Trudi came down, unusually subdued again. I enquired how yesterday’s match had gone, as she had not mentioned it.

“It was ok.”

I thought this was a strange description of a football game and looked at Pam. She asked Trudi why she was so quiet.

“Oh, nothing. I’ve got to go now.” She was galvanised into action, grabbed her school bag, and rushed out.

“What was that all about?” asked Pam.

“She’s biking round to Julie’s. They’re going to work on a joint homework project.” I said.

Trudi had told us during the week.

My headache was not improved by a mighty crash as Pam dropped a plate.

“This fucking place is too small!”

I was tempted to ask how the size of our kitchen affected her ability to keep hold of a plate. But I said nothing. The silence drew out and seemed to be making her feel even more stupid.

“I’m going to get the Sunday papers!”

She did not add that a twenty minute walk in the fresh air might take the edge off her temper. But we both knew.

I don’t like taking medication for hangovers so, while she was gone, I drank about a pint of black coffee. It worked. Pam breezed back in, looking more cheerful, and dumped the papers on the settee, along with her handbag. What happened next, I recall in slow motion.

Her phone rang, she fished it out of her bag and said ‘Oh no!” Then she listened for a minute, and turned to me, white as a sheet.

“That was mum. Dad’s had a heart attack. I’ve got to get to the hospital now.”

“Want me to come?”

“Not this time, let’s see how bad it is first. Mum’s frantic. You just be here when Trudi gets home. Do some lunch, or take her out or something.”

She pounded up the stairs and I did something I’m not particularly proud of, but I forgive me. I grabbed her phone, which was open and unlocked, slid it under a cushion, and zipped her bag shut. She rushed back through, grabbed her bag, and went out to her car. A quick ‘Bye!’ and she was gone. No time for a kiss.

I waited five minutes before convincing myself she was not coming back for it, then spent half an hour checking her messages. As I feared, most were between her and Keith Rallison. They began about a week after the harvest party. It took a while to get the context, but a pattern soon emerged. Throughout, my mind replayed that vision of them dancing. His hands creeping down towards her buttocks, her moving them up again.

*

Pam must have been drunker than I thought at that party. Somehow, they must have got talking about sexual fantasies and frustrations. It probably started off as flirting, but got more intimate. I hadn’t seen anything physical, and imagined it had begun in a light-hearted way. They’d ended up swapping phone numbers. Nothing wrong with that I suppose, Penny and I had done the same thing.

The messages took a while to get going, but once they did, they got quite explicit. She was venting her frustration at being stuck in our ‘poky little house’. Keith had a morbid curiosity in anal sex, which his wife was not allowing him. Pam must have let slip that it was high on our agenda. It was seduction, but at first she was keeping him at bay.

Eventually, it got round to him suggesting he wanted to try it so much, he would pay for the privilege. She was suitably shocked — she was not a prostitute! The messages actually stopped for a couple of weeks.

When they started up again, he apologised. Of course she was not a prostitute; they have sex because it’s their job, and don’t necessarily enjoy it. He was only trying to show her how much he wanted her. Two thousand pounds was mentioned.

‘You are very rich.’ she texted.

I know her better than anyone. What she meant was: ‘What a lot of money for my arse!’ But he clearly thought she meant he had pitched his bid too low.

‘For an hour of anal with you, providing you let me go twice, I’d go to three thousand!’ he suggested. ‘Six thousand for two sessions!’

And she agreed! Despite our promise, she was arranging to have anal sex with the man in return for money. He might convince her that is not prostitution, but it didn’t fly with me! OK, six thousand pounds was a lot of money. It would make a huge difference to our finances. But the way Pam would earn it made a huge difference to our marriage as well. We had a deal.

Later messages refined the arrangements. But the ones that had been sent on the night I went to bed early, took off in another direction. The company owned a big detached house closer to the town. Very convenient for Trudi’s school. It had once been used by a farm manager, and blah, blah. My buying it for a good price by getting promoted, and extending the mortgage, was one thing. But agreeing to anal sex for it was something else entirely!

Keith thought he might be able to persuade Penny to sell it to us. Six thousand would be more than enough as a deposit. And maybe a few more anal sessions would help fix it up. Pam was reeled in. And now I was too late, their first assignation had been yesterday, the seventeenth.

I lowered her phone and stared out of the window. This was unbelievable! My wife, the one who had made that solemn promise, had let some old rich guy fuck her up the arse! For money! Then got in the shower and washed the evidence away. I sat down heavily, and finished their final thread.

Yes, she thought the sex had been very exciting. He was a real stud, and she was looking forward to doing it again. Saturday mornings were best as Trudi was usually out at a friend’s or playing football. She’d let him know when I was out of the way, and he could come back for round two.

She suggested, as he was the boss, perhaps he could give me some Saturday work to do, to keep ne out of the way? The bitch was conniving with my employer to get rid of me so she could fuck him! I pushed her phone under a cushion and piled the Sunday papers on top of it. Then I went into the garden for some air, and phoned Penny.

*

“How do you feel about your husband getting hurt?”

“Oh no! Is it your wife? I’m so sorry.” she replied.

“Yes it is. As I first suspected, I was already seeing clues the day we met. Ironic isn’t it? They were at it just hours before you asked me to keep an eye on him!”

“My God! And your suspicions are now confirmed?”

“Yes they are. I got a rare opportunity to check Pam’s phone. They’d been planning it for weeks.”

“Did you catch them at it?”

“No. I have evidence of yesterday’s activities, though not enough to go to court with. They’re planning a repeat performance soon. Apparently Saturdays are best.”

“And you want to hurt them?”

“Burn them. Especially her!”

“What’s your situation right now?”

“On my own. Pam’s rushed to the hospital — her father is ill. And Trudi’s gone round to one of her friends.”

“Don’t move. I’m coming round.”

She calmed me down and we came to an agreement. Not as dramatic as some of my revenge ideas, but I did listen to her. If the milder plan worked, at least I would still get to burn her. And him. When we’d sorted out what to do about our unfaithful partners, we discussed how to improve the business. Penny was enthusiastic and set off to meet Mr Stapleford, a nearby farmer.

Trudi came home.

“Where’s mum?”

“She had to go to the hospital. Your granddad’s ill.”

“Oh no. Is it serious?”

“We don’t know yet sweetie so no point in worrying about it. Shall I do some lunch?”

“No, it’s ok. I had a big lunch round Julie’s.”

We looked at each other. I could tell she was worried.

“Dad… ”

My phone rang. Caller ID said it was Pam. At last, news from the hospital.

“I left my mobile behind, have you seen it?”

I was shocked. Her father had had a heart attack, and her mother was supposedly frantic. And all the anal queen was worried about was her fucking phone! No need to panic anyway. It had turned itself off long ago. I’d checked; no chance of getting into it again.

“Well it shouldn’t be too difficult to find, in a poky little place like this!”

“What?”

I could have kicked myself. I was supposed to be playing it cool. Trudi went discreetly to her bedroom.

“I said: how is your father?”

“Oh, he’s over the worst of it. They’ll be letting him home in a few days.”

“Good. Are you coming back now?”

“Soon. I’ll have to drop mum off first, she came here in the ambulance. Then I’ll make her something to eat, and come back.”

“Fine. I’ll see you later then.”

I hung up.

I might have to apologise for the ‘poky little place’ crack when she returned. I’d have to put it down to frustration at not hearing the news of her dad. I liked her dad. I was sure Trudi had something on her mind, well, all three of us did. But I decided to wait till she was ready to talk about it. I had enough on my plate.

*

Pam burst in like Trudi late for the school bus. Perhaps this was where my daughter got it from.

“It’s no good, my mum can’t cope. I’ll have to go and stay with her a few days.”

She packed a bag and came back downstairs.

“Did you find my phone?”

“Sorry, I didn’t even look for it. Where did you have it last?”

She went straight to the settee and rummaged around till she found it. I noticed the look of relief when she discovered it had locked again. I made her sit down and gave her a cup of tea.

“You need to calm down. You’re in no fit state to drive like this.”

“You’re right.”

“I need to say something before you go.”

Was that a worried look?

“Since we came back from Singapore and made our promise, we haven’t spent any nights apart. This will be the first time.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it. Is it a problem? We don’t have enough room for mum to came here. And her house is much closer to the hospital for visiting dad.”

“No, it’s not a problem, you must go. Trudi and I will be fine. It’s just that… ”

“Just what?”

“I don’t want you to forget our promise.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’ll be with my mother twentyfour seven. I couldn’t entertain lovers at her place, even if I wanted to.”

“I know. I’m just being silly.”

“What brought this on?”

“I don’t know. Maybe your dissatisfaction with our house. I am trying to improve our lot. Suddenly I’m thinking about that agreement, and feeling in need of confirmation.”

“We agreed to no more sex outside the marriage. I haven’t done that, and have no intention of doing so. OK?”

“OK.”

Actually, what I was really doing was giving her a chance to step back from the brink. So, she already stepped over the brink but, angry as that made me, I wasn’t about to throw away all those good years without trying.

Trudi came down and we all hugged. Pam left, and I grabbed a beer from the fridge. Trudi made a phone call and came and sat with me. Was this the moment she would choose to unburden herself? Apparently not.

“Dad. I’ve spoken to Julie’s mum. Can I go and stay with them? She said it would be all right.”

“You’ll be all right here with me, won’t you?”

“Of course. It’s just that you’ll be busy, and won’t be here when I get home. And Julie and I want our school project to be perfect. This will be a chance for us to spend some quality time on it. And you’ll be visiting granddad too. I hate hospitals. Look, forget I mentioned it. I’ll stay here. You might need looking after, more than me!”

“No, no. It’s a good idea. Tell Julie’s mum I’ll come and see you every evening, before I go to the hospital.”

It worked out well. Josie, Julie’s mother, insisted I join them for an evening meal, before driving into town. And Alan, her husband. Dragged me up the pub for a couple of nights. I’d never socialised much with either of them. They were nice folks. That week just flew by.

*

Both my womenfolk came home on Friday. Pam’s father was now back home. By then, I’d told them Keith Rallison had given me an extra task; measuring the rear access area, with a view to submitting for planning permission. He wanted to expand into the land beyond, to make more room for the trucks to turn round. It would take me most of Saturday. Pam had acted as if it was a surprise.

It was a ridiculous idea. He would need to contact Stapleford the owner, before drawing up plans to encroach on his land. But he offered double pay and I acted grateful. Pam wanted to make love on Friday night, but I managed to put her off. Bellyache. Been missing her cooking.

*

After our usual morning routine, Pam made another big breakfast Saturday. I was getting déjà vu. This felt like a repeat of one week ago. Trudi came through in a whirlwind of panic, and asked for another five pounds. This was getting spooky, another cup match apparently. I asked her who she was playing as she rushed out the door.

“Bourne!”

Now that was really odd.

“Pam? I have to go and do that overtime. Could you pop round to the corner shop and get the papers please?”

“Sure.”

“I ordered a DIY magazine and the guy said it would arrive today.”

“OK.”

I drove to The Farmer’s Rest, and parked in their carpark. Then walked back. When I got to our road, I cut behind the garages. From the back of ours, I could see the front door. Pam came out and briskly headed off for the shop. I retrieved Mrs Rallison’s camera from my car, slipped into the house, and went upstairs.

The promise about to be broken again: the anal lubricant was now on the bedside table. My perfect hiding place was waiting for me, in the bath, behind the shower curtain. It was already closed of course. There was no Plan B if she came into the bathroom and found me, so it was just as well she didn’t.

It occurred to me that if Pam had got her wish, I’d have been doing this from an en suite bathroom, which would have been easier. As it was I’d have to walk into our bedroom once they had got going. But the photo evidence was more for Penny then me.

“Len!”

I smiled. She was just checking. Then I heard her on the phone. I couldn’t make out much of the conversation, but got the last words: ‘Ten minutes.’ I thought she might come upstairs, but no. Soon she was opening the front door. Two sets of footsteps coming up. Bedroom door closing: damn!

I counted one minute to allow them to get naked, then stepped into the hallway. With my ear to the door, I heard Pam say ‘No.’ Wondering what she was doing, I opened it quietly and raised the camera. My timing was perfect. She was sitting on the end of the bed, with Keith’s hard dick dangling in front of her face. Neither of them saw me.

“How about your cunt this time then?”

“No. A deal’s a deal.”

Well here was an interesting development. Their ‘deal’ must be strictly anal. Pam was not going to allow him oral or vaginal sex. A tiny part of me approved of that. But a larger part thought ‘Fine, but you’re not honouring our deal, are you?’

“Come on. Let’s just get this over and done with. Be quick, I’ve got things to do.” she said.

I think if a woman said that to me, it would out me right off. Again, part of me admired her, except that’s precisely the attitude you’d expect from a prostitute. And she was doing this for money.

Pam got on her hands and knees on the bed and reached for the bottle of lubricant. The camera was nice and quiet. She half turned towards him and poured some into his outstretched palm, and took a handful herself. He stroked it over his unremarkable length, and she fingered some into her arse. I grinned. How I wished I had a movie camera with sound. Any moment now! He just had time to thrust his dick into her before they started screaming. I stepped all the way into the room and took shots as fast as I could.

Keith whipped his dick out of her arsehole and stared at it, still screaming. It was bigger and harder now, and extremely red. He rushed towards the door, presumably to get to the bathroom, and ran straight into my fist. He sat down on the floor, looking confused. He was still holding his dick with both hands and fell heavily. His eyes were streaming tears, and his nose started to bleed. He tried to get up, but I pushed him back down with my foot.

Pam had stopped crying, and was writhing around on the bed. She reminded me of a scene from The Exorcist. She hadn’t yet seen me and appeared to be trying to get her hands up her arse. Only when she stood, did she notice me. Her mouth opened and I shoved her back onto the bed.

And there the three of us stayed. Neither of them tried to move again, except for the wriggling around. Then he looked up and said “Please!” I replied “No!” and he pissed himself all over our bedroom carpet. Five minutes later Pam groaned, and did something even worse on the bed.

“That’s all folks! Time for you to go. Get your clothes on and call for an ambulance. To give you the best possible treatment, the medics will need details of what you… er… took. Tell them Wu’s Extra Spicy Singapore Sauce. And be grateful the lube bottle didn’t get the whole lot!”

They really were in a serious state. They got dressed and called 999. The ambulance men were already smiling before they took the unhappy pair away. As she went out the door, I handed Pam an envelope.

“I took this from his jacket; six thousand pounds. You’ve earned it. Don’t come back.”

*

We were sitting in the solicitor’s office, me, Pam, and Mr Garside. She’d only stayed in hospital overnight and told me she had fully recovered. I didn’t ask if she’d tried anal sex with anyone, to make sure everything still worked, but very much doubted she had. Since being discharged, she’d collected her things and moved in with her parents.

Keith Rallison had disappeared over the horizon. Penny Rallison was taking a more active role in the day-to-day running of the company. Following my suggestion she had bought a chunk of land off Stapleford. Not at the back, at the unused side. It ran alongside our warehouse. In return for giving him better access to his field, it opened up the other end of our rear access. With some rearrangement of pallet storage, trucks could now dive straight through.

Jack Welby’s position had been filled by a young Czech woman off the packing line. She’d been with us three years and deserved it. Me? I’m Manager of Production and Planning. The general manager retires next year. Oh, and Trudi and I live in a big four-bed detached farmhouse. It still needs a lot of work doing, but we’re getting there.

Mr Garside spoke.

“First of all, this is an informal get-together, to prepare you both for divorce proceedings. I’d like Mrs Yeats to please confirm she does not want representing.”

“I do not. But I would like to go first, since Len has not spoken to me since… the event.”

“I thought it was best said in font of Mr Garside.”

“I appreciate that. In your position I’d have done the same thing. But I would like to say my piece, before we take this further.”

“The floor is yours.”

“First I want to apologise for my appalling behaviour. Saying sorry is inadequate, but I have to do it. I’m sorry.”

“OK.”

“I will not use a solicitor as I intend to produce no defence. I was completely in the wrong and accept any settlement you suggest. There are many things I want from a divorce, but I don’t deserve any of them.”

I was taken aback. Pam was falling on her sword.