---

SNAFU Part 19

by Angharad

This is a work of fiction any resemblance to anyone alive or dead is unintentional.

The next day was Tuesday, and John was able to stay. I felt fragile emotionally. Post- traumatic stress disorder was my self-diagnosis, which often has symptoms like flashbacks. I hoped it would ease with time, otherwise, I would need therapy. I didn’t fancy that, I don’t know why. Probably it was simply the admission that I couldn’t cope, which seeing as I did with abuse in school, left me confused. I was much younger then, so would that have made it easier or worse? I didn’t know.

Today, however, I had cause for celebration. I had my man here and yesterday he told me loved me. Wow, he told me twice. Double wow.

I almost wanted to open my bedroom window and shout it to the world, but I did resist this urge. Instead, I went to get some breakfast, although I was really too much in love to honestly think about food.

In my dreamy state, my mother sat me down at the table and placed the packet of Sugar Puffs in front of me. “Here,” she said, “even love birds have to eat.”

I absent-mindedly poured some cereal out of the packet and added some milk. Then I just stirred them around in the bowl, what did I need of food? I had love to nourish me, and it’s fewer calories.

John came in. I jumped up and rushed to him. “Hey, I love the outfit,” he smiled at me. “It’s real suburban sophisticate.”

I pouted back at him, “I hate you.” Leastways that was what my mouth said, but my eyes were offering a much different message, which may have been translated as, ‘Once we get rid of my parents, I am going to insist you ravage me.’

I didn’t get to voice it because my father appeared, “Morning sweetheart, John.” We replied with the normal greeting.

“Daddy, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in work, educating young minds or digging up Browning?”

“Not today love, I’m working from home.”

Oh bugger. Was what went through my mind. Now, what are we going to do, walk about holding hands? Damn, damn and triple damn.

“What are you two going to do? Don’t mind me, I’ll be in the study.”

Which is right under my bedroom. Sure you’ll be in the study checking out the sex life of Robert and Elizabeth B, while I’m upstairs running through the practical with a handsome hunk. I don’t think so. God, I could scream!

“I thought we might be able to hire a boat and take a picnic on the river.” Said my handsome hunk. “What do you think, princess?”

“I think that’s a lovely idea. Shall I go and do some food?”

“Oh no, no all we need is a bottle of wine, a French stick and some cheese.”

“What about glasses and plates and knives and forks. Won’t you need butter for the bread and some pickle or tomatoes?”

He placed his finger on my lips and I shut up, kissing his finger instead. “I have everything I need right here.” He said wrapping his arm around me and kissing me on the lips. If my father had not been a yard away and choking on his toast, something wonderful might have happened. Instead, I finished my cereal and went off to shower.

For once, the day went as we planned it. We acquired the aforementioned wine, bread and cheese hired a boat and spent the rest of the day messing about on the river. It was a lovely day, and I dressed up in a summer frock, which was ankle-length, some sandals and a straw hat. I kept my make-up very simple and summery. I was the classic English rose being escorted by her beau. (Where do I get these stupid ideas? Jeez, this is the twenty-first century, not the eighteenth. Mind you, the thought of John as Mr Darcy almost gave me palpitations)

Until one of my English teachers described Jane Austen as a purveyor of Victorian soft porn, I had no incentive whatsoever to read any of her stuff. After this description, I of course read everything I could find. It was only after reading P & P, Emma, Northanger Abbey and all the others, that we as a class realised we had been had. How else was he going to get us to read them but by sleight of hand?

These days when I reread them and understand the implications of what is happening, for its time, it was actually quite risqué.

Later on, I think I began to associate myself more with Frankenstein’s monster, something which wanted so much to be ordinary and seen as human but could never achieve it. The boys didn’t want me unless they were short of someone to tease or beat up, and the girls never seemed to see me at all unless they wanted help with their homework. I even did someone’s sewing homework.

I began to recall more detail of this episode in my history. This would have been when I was about twelve, so it was during the period of abuse by my so-called school friends. I’m hazy about the time but I can certainly recall what happened.
I was desperate for friends, even though primarily a loner, I enjoyed the company of my contemporaries when they weren’t being nasty or exploiting me. Sadly, I didn’t always pick up on the latter until after the event. This was much the case with the sewing homework. There was a girl in our class whose name was Penny Bell. She was of course nicknamed ‘Ding-dong’ and she received all sorts of jokes about ringing and clappers, especially from the boys. I didn’t call her much other than by her name, mostly because she didn’t talk much to me anyway. If I was risking it, I might call her Penny-lope, but generally, we didn’t interact much unless she wanted something.

She was something of a flirt, and thus not the most diligent scholar. Quite how she found out I could sew a bit, I never did discover, but she did. Her dilemma was that she had a date with one of the boys in the year above us which was going to coincide with needing to do her needlework homework. The girls had been set coursework of making a gym kit bag during this particular term. Not a particularly onerous task, except, it all, had to be sewn by hand, including an embroidered name, which was to be done in cross-stitch.

To cut a long story short, she was well behind in this task and as this was mainly due to her messing about instead of knuckling down to her homework, none of the other girls was interested in helping her. I think this may also have been due to an element of jealousy. They were envious that she had managed to catch the eye of Phil Reynolds, the captain of the under fourteen’s football team. He was regarded as a major target by most of the girls in his year and younger.

Doubtless, it was Penny’s proclivity to wear tight blouses and short skirts, which caught his eye. But in all fairness, she was quite a pretty girl and I suppose he wasn’t too bad a looker as well, being tall and muscular with curly dark hair.

The day it happened, I was sat reading in the schoolyard, as was my habit. It might even have been a Jane Austen, which was occupying me. Now I think of it, I think it was because she made some comment about it at the time. Although I don’t recall quite what she said, something along the lines of, “You don’t see many boys reading Jane Austen.”

“It’s a bit more interesting than ‘Biggles Flies Undone’, “ I joked.

“Oh very funny,” and she pretended to laugh at my ancient joke. “Wanda,” she continued using the nickname I had acquired at this time, “I need a great favour.”

“Oh yeah, like what?” I was expecting to be asked to help her with her English homework or something similar.

“I hear you’re quite good at sewing.”

I blushed in response while mumbling something like, ”Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter. What does is that I have to show some progress with my sewing coursework tomorrow, and I have to go out tonight.”

“Why should I help you?” I replied thinking I had enough of my own work to do.

“Well it’s like this Wanda, most of the boys know what a big girl’s blouse you are, but they don’t know you also do sewing.” She paused for the effect of this to sink in. Then, “So if you want to keep it that way…..”

“That’s blackmail,” I mumbled back.

“Shall we say it’s a possible consequence of your refusal to help a damsel in distress? So it could be seen as one of a lack of chivalry on your part and retaliation on mine.”

I thought about how this was being twisted by her to demonstrate my apparent meanness rather than her irresponsibility. But decided a discourse in logic was not going to get me anywhere but humiliated. When in a hole, stop digging!

“I can sew a bit, but nothing too clever, what have you got to do?”

“I heard that you do dressmaking for teddy bears.”

“I do no such thing, I only helped my gran.”

“My sources are reliable,” she added to my embarrassment, which showed again in a reddening of my face. “Goodness Wanda, you blush like a girl!” Which of course caused further dilation of my superficial capillaries and my ears felt as if they would combust spontaneously at any moment.

“Anyway,” she continued, as I nearly melted from the hot flush she had caused, “I need you to transform this.” She dumped a piece of cloth in my lap. “Into this.” She dropped the instructions on top of the cloth.

I quickly read them. “You want me to make this into a draw-string bag?”

“That’s what it says Wanda.”

“By hand, by tomorrow?” I groaned.

“Yeah, I’ll collect it at morning break.”

“But I have three subjects homework to do myself.”

“Shouldn’t be such a slacker, Wanda. Just get my bag made or everyone will hear about your teddy bear.” With that she strode off, ignoring my protests.

I hurriedly shoved the stuff into my bag before anyone saw it. I suppose I should have complained to someone, but it didn’t seem the cleverest thing to do. Instead, I went to my gran and she helped me measure, pin and sew it. We even inserted a draw-string in matching blue thread.

I duly delivered the said bag to its undeserving owner the next morning. She was delighted and even kissed me on the cheek to prove it. “That’s brilliant, Wanda. See, I told you, you could do it. Next time you’ll believe me.”

“I hope there won’t be a next time.”

“We’ll see about that,” she said with a wink.

Unfortunately, the consequences of giving in to blackmail are that the demands get greater.

“Wanda you doing much this evening? No, I didn’t think so. My bag needs some embroidery. Any good at cross-stitch.”

Later it was, “Wand, I need a bit of help with my sewing…” This time it was making a pinafore, then it was a dress. But it went from bad to worse, because others in her sewing class decided they had better things to do than their coursework. I think I helped four of them to get a pass!

At the time, the blackmail worked a treat. I paid for my weakness and it culminated with the rumour getting out anyway. So I had literally laboured in vain. As with most of these things it was a nine-day wonder. However, I suffered a thousand deaths during that time. The only redemption was my ability to sew improved dramatically, although it was unimportant at the time, it has since proved useful. It is also a living reminder of the fun I had with my gran, and is her lasting gift to me.

So now I can laugh at my tribulations and see the benefits it eventually accrued. Then, it was simply awful.

Back to the future, wasn’t that the name of a film? Okay, back to the present. Here am I sitting in a boat, on a river with a picnic hamper, some French bread and a bottle of plonk. I feel like lady muck, as John toils away with the oars. The sun is shining, and apart from finding somewhere discreet to have our picnic, we have no pressures.

As we move slowly along the river, I think of the Waterhouse painting I have on my wall at Barbury, The Lady of Shalott. I consider her boat trip as one of impending doom, whereas mine is one of unbridled pleasure. The only noises are the sound of the oars in the water, which have a rhythmic and relaxing effect upon me. I drag my fingers through the water, it feels cold but not unpleasantly so.

“The mirror cracked from side to side, the curse has come upon me, cried the Lady of Shalott.” I sat there absolutely dumbfounded as John recited these lines from Tennyson’s poem, the inspiration for the painting.

“How on earth did you know what I was thinking?” I asked of my companion.

“I made a guess.”

“It was some guess.”

“I know you are fond of the painting. It flashed into my mind and given your other magic tricks, I assumed it must have come from you. So I quoted the only lines I can remember.”

“Wow!” I said, “that is scary.”

“What is?”

“You being able to read my thoughts.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Well, I shall have to be careful what I think.”

“It might come in handy and save on phone bills. I can just see you down the supermarket with our six kids, wanting me to collect you, and you sending me a message to do so.”

“A text would probably be a surer way of doing it.”

“Only until we perfect our system.”

Blushing, I said, “I can’t have children,” my eyes gazing into the water, and in danger of filling with the self-same stuff.

“You never know these days,” he said, “they can do so many things.”

“Not for me they can’t.”

“Okay,” he said, “let’s not talk about this now. It’s such a lovely day, shall we just enjoy it?”

I stifled a sniff and nodded, but continued my gaze into the water. Perhaps I was closer to the painting and its sombre mood than I had thought. Was this leading up to my doom? When I told him why I couldn’t have children because I was a boy! Would he be off like a rocket? I wouldn’t know until I told him, and I didn’t feel strong enough today to cope with it. Instead, I allowed it to hang over me like a great, black cloud, ready and waiting to block any sunshine which appeared in my life.

I despised being different from other people because I wasn’t save in my route to womanhood. Even my infertility wasn’t unique. A significant number of biological females can’t conceive even with the latest technology. But when put together, my anomaly made me feel, once more, like Frankenstein’s monster, something ungodly and unnatural, a simulacrum not the real thing. A mere sham.

“Hey, “he called to me, “cheer up. Your whole face lights up when you smile. Shine some of that light on me if you please.”

I smiled back at him, but my eyes were blurred with tears, and once more I felt the scalding water trickle down my cheeks. “Oh pumpkin,” he called softly to me, “don’t cry, least not when I can’t hold you.”

Of course, any woman will tell you, that was the wrong thing to say. It had the opposite effect, and the trickle became a torrent.

John, who after told me he felt helpless, spotted a possible landing place, rowed like fury for it, and then tied up. I hardly noticed, I was so rapt in my shame and gloom. The first thing I knew of it was he’d managed to move down the boat and put his arm around me, whereupon I made his shirt all wet again with my tears.

When I did eventually come out of my sadness and apologised to him he was wonderful, as always. “I’m sorry to be so mawkish.” I sniffed at him.

“It’s okay,” he said, squeezing me in one of his bearlike hugs. “I understand.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I suppose I don’t,” he said self effacingly, “perhaps you’ll help me to one day.”

I nodded, unable to commit to destroying this wonderful relationship, which I felt sure would happen when I told him of my deception, which I felt words would do. I hated myself for this deceit, this weakness which blighted me, but I couldn’t bring myself to break the spell which held me, like a curse. If my happiness with John could be seen as a mirror, then how prophetic Tennyson had been. My secret would surely cause it to crack from side to side, and destroy me. It seemed like it was my destiny, not the sort Sheila Brice had spoken of. I was special alright, I was cursed. Cursed to have happiness only to watch it turn to dust before my very eyes.

John was very attentive to me, as he usually was. I apologised for my lack of self-control. “I’m sorry John, whenever we are having such fun I go and spoil it all. I seem to spend much of my life in tears. I’m so stupid.”

“Hey there,” he hissed at me, “crying isn’t stupid, neither are you. You are very sensitive and things get to you. Your dad also told me that you were abused by your schoolmates and that neither he nor your mum knew anything of it.”

I don’t know if I should have been cross with dad for breaching my confidence. Or was it a confidence? I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure I wanted John to know about all that. It was past and I hoped mostly over. Besides, Mum and Dad didn’t know the half of it, if they had…… oh boy!

“You seem to have had a rough time of late,” John presumed, “the mess up in Iraq, the gunmen at the nightclub, hauntings and goodness knows what else. No wonder your nerves are frayed. Then I say something stupid about children and it’s obviously the last straw. It is I who should apologise. I do unreservedly.”

I kissed him and went to contradict him, but he shut off what I was trying to say with the most delicious of kisses. “Come on, let's have a picnic.”

In a few minutes, he’d unloaded the boat, thrown down a rug and helped me out. While I dealt with the food, he pulled the bottle out of the little net he’d trailed behind the boat. Our bottle of Chablis may not have been chilled, but it was at least cold.
The hamper had all we needed in the way of glasses, crocks and cutlery. We had French stick and brie with our wine and some fruit as a dessert. After the trauma of the journey, the conversation was intermittent and light. We spoke with our bodies, laying together kissing and touching each other.

Other boats went up and down, varying from full-size cabin cruisers to single sculls. Behind us, people walked along the footpath, sometimes with dogs or children, sometimes alone or in couples. The odd jogger puffed and panted their way past, looking very hot in the afternoon sun.

Once more I had allowed happiness to enter my life, being intimate with this man whom I loved so much. Being intimate in a manner that was acceptable to be seen in public. That he didn’t press me for sex, was in my mind, much to his credit. He was in the old fashioned sense, a real gentleman and I loved him for it. What he saw in me, I couldn’t understand. At the same time, I didn’t feel up to asking him. Was I just an introspective, damaged adolescent? I didn’t know.

The effects of the wine were to make me sleepy, and I lay on my side with John’s arm under my head. I don’t know how long I slept, but I must have caused his arm to go numb because when I did eventually move, he got pins and needles in it. We both laughed at his antics, as he jumped up moving his arm about, slapping it with the other. Finally, he sat back down and we kissed and cuddled for another while.
I don’t think I have ever felt so happy, even knowing that doom and gloom are just a hair’s breadth away, my secret I knew would destroy all this, but for a few minutes, I blocked it out and just enjoyed being in the moment, which was truly joyful.

At one point John lay on his back, and I lay on top of him, kissing him and looking into his eyes, which are so beautiful. I kissed him and played with his ears and his neck, even tracing his nipples through his shirt. At that point I could feel a response a bit lower down.

“Ooh, what’s that?” I mocked as I felt the stirring in his loins.

“If you don’t know, then I suspect you must have a lousy anatomy tutor.”

“It’s a French stick isn’t it?” I mocked. “You held out on me, we could have fed the ducks after all.” I pouted at him. “Telling me we’d eaten all the bread indeed.”

He laughed and both of us began to giggle. I held on to him, wanting this moment to last forever. I could smell his body, a mingling of shampoo and deodorant and his body smell. It’s difficult to describe the latter, a musky sort of scent, very different to my own, but very pleasant, exciting even. I simply lay there, on top of this wonderful man, my arms holding me tightly to him as I drank in the scent of his body and floated.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“Lovely thoughts,” I responded rather sleepily.

“What sort are they?”

“How happy I am at this moment, and how I’d like it to last forever. What are you thinking?”

“That we have to get this boat back in half an hour and I’m going to have to row like hell.”

“You're such a romantic.” I gently chided.

“Yeah, I know, all my women say that,” he joked and I playfully hit him.

The shadows were beginning to lengthen as we returned the boat to its owner. Despite my negative thoughts and doubts, I’d had a delightful afternoon. I was so in love, even if it was doomed.

The next day John had to return to his office, and I expected once more to be alone for weeks. This time, he said it wouldn’t be the case and that he hoped to be back for some weekends when he wasn’t on duty.

When he left, I felt bereft, as if my heart and soul had been removed. Then I recalled the afternoon on the river and felt an inner glow rekindle itself. I still felt sad but knew I could cope for a while without him.

That night when I went to bed, I found a small lump under my pillow, it was his soiled shirt. I held it to my face and breathed in his scent, it was beautiful. I slept with his shirt held tightly next to me. His photo watching over me while I slept, I felt so safe and protected.

Friday arrived, and with it the dreaded bridge game and its consequential babysit. Normally, they would play at the Johns’ house, but tonight it was going to be ours, and I would then visit the Johns to babysit.

Mum and Dad were at work all day, so I spent much of the time dusting and polishing and charging about the place with the Dyson, probably creating as much dust as I was removing. This was all done by my own initiative, thinking I was helping.

Then I made some fresh bread and a few small cakes, a portion of which I would take with me later for the children. It was a very productive day from my point of view, and my mother was suitably impressed when she came home and smelled the baking aromas which still lingered about the place.

“Gosh, that smells good. What have you been up to Jamie?” She kissed me on the cheek.

“Just some fresh bread and a few cakes for the kids.”

“Do you mind if we eat the bread tonight?”

“Of course not, I made it for you to have during your bridge game, I got some pate and cheese too.”

“Gosh!” said my mum, ”thank you so much.” Hugging me she added, ”You are such a good daughter.”

“Sometimes,” I smirked.

“Well, today anyway.” She challenged.

“Yeah, okay.” I smiled back.

“Right, I’ll just drink this tea,” she said as I handed her a cup, “then I’ll have to put the cleaner round.”

“I did it th’ smorning.”

“You angel,” she beamed at me. “I don’t suppose you dusted and polished too.”

“Yes, of course, I did.”

“Thank you.”

“’S'okay.” I chirped back.

I had made a casserole which I did in the bottom of the oven while the cakes were cooking. It had been on most of the day, and the jacket potatoes were now nicely crisping on their skins. Just a few veg and dinner was ready. I sent my mum off to get herself ready for the evening while I finished the cooking. Minutes, before it was ready, in walked my father with a face like thunder.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hello,” he almost snarled at me.

“Who’s upset you?” I asked innocently.

“Some bastard has stolen the car, with most of my Browning notes in the back. That’s who!” he snapped back.

“Oh, Daddy, I am sorry.” I hugged him and he responded, kissing me on the cheek.

“I only stopped at the supermarket to get a couple of bottles of wine, it was gone when I came out.”

“Was it locked?”

“Yes, but these days does it make much difference, these bloody swine can open anything in seconds. Why did they have to pick mine?”

“I’ll make you a nice cuppa.” I offered.

“Sod that!” he exclaimed, “I’m going to have something a bit stronger,” with that, he walked over to the drinks cabinet.