A New England Romance

A

New England

Romance

Margaret Sutherland

Also by Margaret Sutherland

The Fledgling

The Love Contract

Getting Through (stories)

Dark Places, Deep Regions (stories)

The Fringe of Heaven

The City Far From Home (stories)

Is That Love? (stories)

The Sea Between

Leaving Gaza

The Taj Mahal of Trundle

The Last Party

A Quintessential Love Affair

Seven Little Words

Hello, I’m Karen (for children)

The right of Margaret Sutherland to be identified as the author has been asserted in accordance with sections and of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act.

All rights reserved.

This edition Yellow Teapot Books 2013

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 9781311607577

Yellow Teapot Books

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s consent in any form other than this current form and without a similar condition being imposed upon a subsequent purchaser. This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

Cover design: © Ding! Author Services

The heart has its reasons which reason knows not.

Blaise Pascal

FOREWORD

A romance novel, according to today’s parameters, should have a hero and heroine, attraction, internal and external obstacles and a happy ending. A New England Romance meets these criteria. As the past emerges from wraps, a seething mix of emotion is waiting to explode. Yet its storyline is a little different. Its style, rather than fitting categories of sweet or sexy, is astringent, in keeping with the characters.

Let’s face it, there’s little that seems heroic about Martin Ainsworth or Annie Marshall. Martin is a disgraced teacher, trying to put his life into order when he accidentally runs into Annie, once his first love. Now Annie is a married woman, dissatisfied and ambitious for her children. Both are flawed human beings, strangled by the obsessions and addictions that drain their best intentions. When Annie sets eyes on her first lover, so many years later, she wants him back, at any cost. Martin’s impulse, when he sees the snare, is to run as fast as he can. He left Annie once. And this time he is even surer he needs to forget the past and disappear.

Evasive Martin has never faced up to responsibility. Annie shows little compunction in applying the strategies she devises to win Martin back. Even the third side of this triangle, Martin’s landlady Sara Carmody, who seems cool, fashionable and financially secure, has a wary, damaged heart.

If happiness is to be an outcome, it’s not the prize for everyone. A price will be paid, undeservedly, in at least one case. The romance may be unconventional but there’s something inevitable about Annie and Martin’s bond. Along with Blaise Pascal, we can only conclude that the heart has its reasons which reason knows not.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Martin

I stand by the old lemon tree, watching the boys kick a football around. Suddenly the ball takes an unexpected arc and veers towards me. I manage to angle it back to the group and Adam gives a shout of approval. Good one, Dad! My son has certainly come a long way from that sullen boy I met at Armidale railway station last year. At that time I could hardly bear the prospect of putting up with him for the school holidays. Now his praise delights me. I feel a surge of pride and love for him. But then, so much has changed. More than I could ever have thought possible. Particularly given my state of mind a year ago.

My life was at its lowest ebb. I’d taken long service leave and retreated to Armidale. Holiday or escape, does it matter? I came back to this town to reconsider my life. My drinking lapses had wiped reassuring definitions off the blackboard. The police had stopped me at 2 am as I drove along Hunter Street on the wrong side of the road. On weaving my way from the nightclub, it seems I turned right instead of left. Fortunately there was no oncoming traffic at the time. The officer who pursued me breathalysed me and ordered me into the paddy wagon. I was contained overnight in a cell. In due course the magistrate fined me $1200, revoked my license for six months and told me a man in my position should think most seriously about his actions. I agreed. My accustomed detachment was no help at all in this situation. This weak-willed fellow standing before the law was irresponsible, stupid and a danger to society. I had no respect for him.

Suddenly I understood why people sometimes turn their backs on family and career and disappear. Oh, I don’t mean suicide. I just needed to get away and think. I confessed to my headmaster, a decent man who allowed human nature its down side. I outlined the facts and admitted my behaviour had been appalling.

‘It’s a pity, Martin. There were promotions under consideration.’

He didn’t need to spell it out. I looked away, through his window where the cathedral was framed against an autumn sky.

‘You’ve long service leave, haven’t you?’

I nodded. ‘Six months. Wouldn’t that disrupt the curriculum?’ Of course I hoped I was indispensable.

The headmaster didn’t think so. ‘This is a coincidence. You remember Peter Barnett?’

I scanned the page he handed me. It was an application from the English teacher who’d previously held my post. He was back from a three-year stint in America and sought a relieving position.

‘Six months. That should work. Just about see the year out.’

He sat waiting while my gaze was drawn again to the window. That soaring spire filled me with loss that clenched my gut. I swallowed an awful sadness. My voice sounded thick when I answered him.

‘Yes. I heard Peter was back.’

‘He evidently wants a job. Might even have brought back some fresh ideas.’ He’d chastised enough schoolboys to know the right place for the lecture. ‘Martin, I know you’re a dedicated teacher. You get good results and the boys like you. But you’re wise to step back and take a good look at things. Pull your life into shape. I’ll approve the leave. Shall we get on with the paperwork?’

He didn’t say he’d be glad to see the back of me, but the school had an image to uphold and parents read court reports. So that was that.

Also in trouble, a small boy lurked outside the door. I almost knocked him down. ‘S-sorry, sir,’ he stuttered.

‘My fault,’ I assured him. ‘Headmaster’s ready to see you.’

His timid smile faded and I touched his shoulder with the sympathy of conspirators. The stairs bore the wear and tear of a million shoes. Institutional smells of ripe fruit, wax polish and damp paper wafted in the corridor. A bell shrilled, followed by the scrape of chairs and the press of eager feet. I no longer had a place in this life I took for granted and frequently complained about. The Renaissance man self-image – teacher, composer, philosopher – lay in the dust. I had classes after recess. For now I had to get away. Ignoring the throng of boys I went quickly to the exit.

It was settled by Friday. Peter was keen to start immediately. I could meet him the following week and, after suitable briefing, be free. Colleagues on leave frequently set off to visit the Greek Isles or Europe. No hope of that! Apart from the justifiable fine I had to pay, my perennial financial problems ruled out travel. I decided on Armidale, where I’d gained my degree and met Annie. That love affair ended when I moved to Sydney. Annie stayed put. I heard she’d married almost at once and soon had a baby. We didn’t keep in touch. Sometimes I’d think of her, living her domestic life in that high altitude while I rummaged in the morass of Sydney bars and dives. Maudlin on whisky and lack of sleep, I’d think Annie, you had a lucky escape. In those days I fancied I was the ‘80s answer to Bob Dylan. And I did have my moments when I gathered my audience in my hands. But most of the next years were lost in moving, marrying, and staring at two strangers, my wife and my wailing baby son. It was presumed I would change light bulbs and push a lawnmower. Fights, recriminations, tears. Divorce. I was shattered – by my own failure to honour vows, as much as by the loss of Carol and Adam.

Of course there have been women since; interesting liaisons, but I’ve ensured nothing’s turned too serious. I set aside artistic dreams and settled for life as a teacher in a provincial city. No more trouble. No more binges. I’ve inherited my father’s weakness for drink. He was that perennial fraud; a man who kept up appearances while spending his worst nature on wife and family. Compared to his temper and abuse, my lapses qualified as mere peccadilloes until the reality of a cell and a magistrate put paid to that delusion.

It was time to move on. My plans fell into place. I gave Peter a run-down on the curriculum. It happened that he was looking for accommodation and agreed to sub-let my unit, fully furnished even down to my cat, Seiko. Essentials I packed into a couple of suitcases. I booked a train ticket. The day before I was due to travel north, I took a last stroll through Newcastle town. Armidale was an inland city; I would miss these glimpses of ocean visible beyond the high-fenced railway lines. I stopped in at Pepperinas for a decent coffee and quick book browse. The thought of calling in to the school crossed my mind, but approaching the gates I changed my mind. Farewells had been said. I didn't belong there now. Instead I crossed the road to the cathedral and took a back pew, grateful for the respite. I’m not a believer but I do respect tradition. I sat a while, distracted by a fluttering above my head. My course was as astray as the sparrow vainly circling the vault of an illusory heaven.

I’d neglected one thing. Back at the unit I phoned my ex-wife, Carol, who lived in Sydney with her partner, Liz, and our son. Omitting the business with the police, I let her know my plans.

‘You haven’t forgotten you’re having Adam for the holidays? I’ll be away.’ Her businesslike tone of voice made it plain she didn’t want a twelve-year-old in tow. I said I didn’t know where I’d be staying. We’d have to work something out.

‘Make sure you do.’ She wasn’t happy.

‘How’s Adam?’ I felt guilty even asking the question. Did I want an honest answer? My son and I were poles apart. He was a boy who’d been in trouble from day one, when I first set eyes on him, bruised and battered, deep indentations on his head where the forceps had dragged him from his mother. If Adam never visited me I didn’t believe I’d mind. Our access visits were time-dragging affairs and we parted with a sense of jovial relief.

‘I should tell you,’ Carol was saying, ‘he’s been in with a bad set of kids. There was trouble recently. Shoplifting. The police were called, it was really awful.’

At last it seemed father and son could share a common failing, but I wasn’t going into my misdeeds. ‘Why didn’t you ring me?’

Her silence implied What would be the point? ‘Oh, we sorted it out. Adam didn’t seem particularly upset. Made a big joke of things. Of course that’s just his defence mechanism. I think he was shattered really. He’s pubing, too. Really, he needs a father, Martin.’

Then why pick a woman as a partner? I bit my tongue. Probably life with me had put her off men for good. Instead, I promised I would call her from Armidale as soon as I had a place. Duty done, I hung up.

Seiko was perched on the guitar case. I’d decided to take the guitar with me. Maybe I’d have time to play again. I scratched her favourite spot above the tail but she wouldn’t purr. ‘You’ll be alright. Peter will take care of you.’ I showed her the shelf stockpiled with her favourite cans of food and set down her meal but she sulked near the dish, her profile disdainful. I let her sleep on my bed that last night. She was the only creature in the entire town who seemed to care that next day I would be humming northwards on the Xplorer.

I’d made no advance bookings. Itineraries are for the elderly. At dusk I stepped onto Armidale platform, which with its potted trees and painted seats seemed smarter than I remembered. I asked the cab driver to recommend a city pub.

He was surprised. ‘There’s plenty of good motels. You’d do better at the Estelle Kramer or Cameron Lodge.’

‘Why’s that?’ I had a fancy for a night or two in one of the old hotels where I used to drink.

‘They’ve modernised the pubs. Ripped out the bedrooms and put in discos and nightclubs. Plenty of noise.’

‘Isn’t there one left?’ How much had this town changed?

‘Tatts. University runs it now. Student accommodation, pretty rundown.’

‘Tattersalls will suit fine.’ I remembered it well, with its Art-Deco façade and old-time atmosphere.

The driver gave a shrug. ‘Right you are then.’

We headed in to town while streetlights began to glimmer. I looked out at period houses and return verandas with cast iron lace. In the failing light, old-world gardens, parks and several church spires imitated a 19th century movie set.

‘I was here in the ’80s. Has the place changed much?’

‘In some ways. That recent storm did a fair bit of damage.’ He paused at traffic lights and indicated smart house frontages. ‘Hail like golf balls. Thousands of insurance claims. Smartened up the place no end.’

‘We had a similar effect in Newcastle, after the earthquake.’

‘Newcastle? You won’t be expecting big city life.’

‘I’m not expecting anything.’

‘Good way to go. Won’t be disappointed.’

He let me out at the Mall and I wandered along to Tattersalls. The ornate entrance with its faded carpet released a familiar smell. Palate-tickling aromas and a friendly racket echoed from the bistro. This would do me for a night or two.

I checked in and dropped off my bags. Downstairs, I ordered a grill, sitting alone like the Invisible Man. Students at other tables argued, laughed and opined. I wondered whether I would ever again feel that sense of magical self-confidence. I lingered a while, reading the wall notes on the old pub’s history. As I took the stairs to bed I wondered about the successions of footfalls wearing the carpet thin, and the many hands dulling the banister varnish. Somehow the thought made me feel less alone.

In the morning I looked down on the orange-bricked shopping mall with its locked shops, slatted seats and young tree plantings. Opposite my window I could make out signs for Dymocks and Armidale Art Supplies. They whetted my appetite and I stood lazily imagining my brand-new life, devoid of timetables. There was a help-yourself cereal and toast spread in the upstairs dining room, which had a faded ’50s look to its vinyl chairs and Formica tables. I had no complaints. A night’s accommodation with continental breakfast was only $27.50. My bedroom with its worn red-leaf patterned carpet and wooden bed had kept me warm and dry and I was in the mood to explore. After breakfast I selected one of my jauntier caps and went down into the Mall. I soon saw the changes were superficial. Arched entrances still gave an imposing air to the Post Office, planted foursquare on its corner block. The pillared Courthouse loomed; no suggestion of pre-millennium reprieve in its stony façade. New book and music shops had opened. I browsed for an hour, then diverted to sit at a country-style table by the vine-covered window of Café Midalé. A waitress brought short black coffee and Greek shortbread. Already a few buskers were performing in the Mall. Through the window I could make out a ruddy-faced Irish caricature of a fellow who tapped his toes as he fiddled. I sat enjoying the sense of novelty. Not a soul in this city knew me.

Outside, I tossed a coin in the busker’s violin case. An electric tram was about to set off on the tourist circuit. I hopped aboard for a few hours, then wandered in to a movie theatre. So much for leisure. Already, as 5 o’clock struck, I was worrying about