James and Jacqueline

Copyright © 2013 by Anton Wills-Eve.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 12/04/2013

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Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1 Jacqueline

Chapter 2 James

Chapter 3 Doubts Dispelled

Chapter 4 James and his Family

Chapter 5 Chris, Sylvia, David, Jennifer and Anne

Chapter 6 James and his Parents

Chapter 7 An Attempt on the Family?

Chapter 8 Locked In

Chapter 9 Doing Jacquie a Favour

Chapter 10 At the Hour of Our Death

Chapter 11 Passion and Penance

Chapter 12 La Sainte Trinité

Epilogue

DEDICATION

TO

All who suffer from irrational fears and phobias

which they cannot control or understand.

and to my beautiful wife.

Grazzie Cara

Prologue

(narrated by author)

(A)

March, 2008.

J ames Lanchbury was by no means a zealously holy boy but had always really enjoyed taking part in church services, especially serving at the altar during Mass.

He lived only a mile from his school and this Thursday was a typical day in his life. After his alarm woke him at six thirty am he had a shower and dressed for school. He was about six foot in height and had dark brown hair which he liked to keep fashionably cut. Many of the girls at his own school and at the convent nearby thought him quite ‘dishy’. James was puzzled, however, by the fact that despite his sixteen years many of the convent girls seemed to treat him with an awed reverence that he could not understand at all.

He cycled down to the Abbey, where any boys who wanted to volunteer to serve Mass on any day were welcome to do so. Most of the religious community who had known or taught James for the past nine years hoped he had a vocation, but he assured everyone that he definitely did not.

That day he was serving Mass in the small chapel dedicated to Saint Rita, patron Saint of hopeless causes, and James’ favourite Saint. His friends thought he was mad when he described to them the great chats he had with her when he had any problems. They wouldn’t believe these talks ever happened and just made fun of James. When Mass was over he walked back to the vestry with Father Clement, the priest who had said Mass and surprised him by saying, Excuse me Father, but as we were at St. Rita’s altar today I asked her to remember all our small congregation. I always do. But I don’t know whether I’m allowed to. It is all right, isn’t it?

You what, James? The monk was not sure he’d heard right. Do you include yourself?

"I never thought of that, Father, yes I suppose I must. And you for that matter. You see we get on very well and she helps me through a lot of difficulties.

Well, James, if that is how you pray to St. Rita there is nothing wrong in it at all. But you must remember one thing. She is not God! Only God is! You can pray to her to intercede for you and treat her as a friend of God, but you mustn’t raise her any higher than that.

James was amazed that such an idea had ever entered Father Clement’s head. Good Lord no, I wouldn’t do that. No we just talk through things that are worrying me, or I ask her to help people I know who are ill or in trouble, that sort of thing.

The monk smiled at James as he continued disrobing and said, You have got enough people at this school totally unable to fathom you already, you know, so just take my advice and we’ll keep this between ourselves. James gave him a broad grin.

(B)

June 2012.

Brentfield Academy for young ladies was one of those old English Schools built around 1910 to cater for the education of the daughters of the aristocracy and the rich who recognised that girls were potentially just as clever as boys. Their mothers would have supported the aims, if not the means, of the suffragette movement, and their fathers would have gone along with their wives both for a quiet life and because, frankly, they were totally apathetic about the whole question of sexual equality. It was quite close to a leading boys’ school which was only two miles away in South West London.

The beautiful lawn which led from the main gate to the entrance of the school was out of bounds to all the pupils except the sixteen prefects in the sixth form who were responsible for discipline throughout the school. On this particular sunny summer’s afternoon three of them were sitting on the grass relaxing after their last A level exams which would decide their futures for them.

Syvia Johnson, a tall very attractive girl with long blonde hair had already been given a conditional place at Oxford provided she managed to get three A grade passes in her exams in French, Spanish and German. Obviously she was hoping to study modern languages. Sprawled next to her was her close friend, Jennifer Tremayne, the complete opposite to her. Jen, as her school friends called her, was only five foot four, had short dark hair and was certainly no beauty. But she and Sylve, as Sylvia was known, had been very good friends for seven years.

The first signs of any friction between them came in their mid teens when they were fifteen. That was the year when Sylve first met Justin, the acknowledged Adonis of the boys’ school, who could have had his pick of the girls at Brentfield. But he set his sights firmly on Sylvia and she on him. Fortunately Jen was not too concerned about Justin as she could never quite trust him, but always tried to be pals with him for Sylvia’s sake.

Jen, who was hoping to study neuroscience at Cambridge, and in truth was so clever her place was considered a foregone conclusion, did, though, have a few brief months of intrigue in which she was greatly attracted to a boy who she met at a school dance. David Smith was more than two years older than her and a cheerful and very pleasant boy. The pair really did seem very happy together. But, as so often happens, during the summer holiday when Jen had her sixteenth birthday, they almost completely lost touch and hardly ever picked up together after that, not least because David had left school and was now at Oxford himself.

The last member of the trio, flaxen haired Anne McFarland, was an open contestant for Justin’s charms but knew quite well that she did not have a hope with him. She never let this affect her friendship with Sylvia and they were looking forward to seeing a lot of each other after school life as she too was set on an Oxford place to read geology. Jen told her that one of the last things she remembered about her final date with David had been meeting a chap he said was his best friend, and he too was a budding geologist going to Oxford. Jen could not remember his name but thought it might have been James. However, as she was bound for for Cambridge any possibility of seeing David again was definitely not in her thoughts.

So the three friends chatted idly about what life might hold in store for them and Sylvia in particular was praying that Justin would also get into Oxford so she could continue to remain near him. And there we must leave their musings until the exam results decide their futures.

Chapter 1

Jacqueline

(narrated by Jacqueline)

I woke up slowly feeling apprehensive and still half asleep. I struggled to work out what was making me feel so tense. I suddenly remembered and jerked into full wakefulness. It was Friday, the Friday I had to go to Oxford and see my brother Chris in his first term and needing his ‘lucky’ pair of rugby boots. As a bribe he had promised to take me somewhere really special for lunch. To most people this would sound a very pleasant way to spend the day, but not to me.

To understand why I must take the reader back in time. Four years to be exact, to the time when Chris was nearly sixteen and I was fourteen, on an ordinary Sunday afternoon when our parents, encouraged by the spring sunshine, had driven off enthusiastically to raid the local garden centre. The only interest Chris and I had in the garden was sun bathing and the barbecue, so we decided not to go with them. That seemingly unimportant decision still haunts me because on the way home our parents, the car laden with plants, was smashed into by a vehicle driven by someone who had had a rather liquid Sunday lunch. The crash killed all three of them outright. The aftermath of this disaster was dealt with, on a personal level, by our Aunt, and on a legal level by our family’s firm of solicitors.

Our Auntie Brenda, a young widow, who was as fond of us as we were of her, took us to live with her at her home in Salisbury. The lawyers, after the usual lengthy legal wrangling, obtained a large sum in compensation for Chris and me. Although most of this was tied up in a trust until we were twenty-five, we each had a generous allowance, giving us much more money than most people our age. But the shock of losing our parents, and all the changes to our way of life, affected us both differently. Chris, guileless and openly ranting and raving about the unfairness of fate did not try to hide the despair and loss he felt. Auntie Brenda, also mourning her loss, could sympathise with Chris and helped him to come to terms both with his loss and the different life he now had to lead. However, his love of sports, especially rugby and cricket, and being big for his age, he had another outlet for his emotions as he was growing up. On the other hand I, on the face of it, seemed to cope surprisingly well. In fact, by absorbing myself in all the practical changes my emotions froze and I felt nothing. In this way I was able to help my grief stricken brother and we became very close and have remained so ever since.

But it was only a few months later that delayed shock hit me and in a most unplesant way. Although very close, my brother and I were quite different both in looks and temperament. Chris, the breezy extrovert, never concealed his emotions, never agonised over problems and in general adapted to changes large and small with much more ease than I, the insecure introvert, ever could. I found it embarrassing to show my feelings and my lack of confidence made it hard for me to accept change. Thus, a few months after all the upheaval one day out, of the blue, when out shopping, I suddenly felt dizzy and panicky. I couldn’t breathe and the more I gulped in air the worse it got. I started shaking and perspiring. My heart thumping, I gulped in more air and then suddenly collapsed in a heap on the pavement. I wasn’t unconscious. I could breathe again, but felt shattered, shaky and confused.

Passers by shouted she’s fainted, she’s ill, and rushed over to help. By this time I was sitting up, still rather dizzy but feeling mainly partly embarrassed and a complete idiot.

I’m okay, I murmured, I must have fainted. Someone helped me to my feet, Sure you’re alright dear?

I’ll be alright, time of the month, I muttered. It wasn’t but I had to say something and it wasn’t a faint either, I didn’t know what it was but I just wanted everbody to go away. Thank you so much, I’ll be fine, honestly. Just let me sit down for a few minutes. So the helpful bystanders helped me to a cafe and later put me in a taxi home.

I didn’t understand what had happened to me but put it down to the strain of the last few months. Things would improve I thought, but no they just went from bad to worse. The horrible breathless, panic attacks came on without warening; at school in class, in a room full of people, walking along the street, in fact anywhere where there were people. My school work started to fall off and I started to worry about going out anywhere. Finally, I told my aunt about it. I don’t suppose I explained it very well as I didn’t understand it myself and felt a fool for behaving in such a peculiar way.

Auntie Brenda did not understand either but put it down to ‘nerves’ due to the strain of the upheaval in my life and made an appointment with our doctor. He had no hesitation in diagnosing ‘panic attacks’, probably a type of phobia brought on by recent events. He referred me to a psychiatrist. When I found out that it would take months to get an appointment I tried to persuade my aunt to use some of the compensation money to pay for a private and fast consultation. But she couldn’t see the need for this. As far as she was concerned |I was not desperately ill. It was just ‘nervous problems’ and they were best dealt with by not worrying about them and leading a quiet life. She believed things would then get back to normal.

In desperation I confided in Chris and tried to describe what I was going through. He had heard about agoraphobia, the fear of crowded public places, but didn’t understand it. Nevertheless he but could see I was very distressed and he tackled Auntie Brenda himself. This led to their first real row. But Chris was determined and in the end Auntie Brenda, as my legal guardian, agreed to me seeing a psychiatrist privately. Our doctor recommended one at a nearby hospital, a specialist in irrational fears. The appointment was made quickly and I went to see him with high hopes of a cure for my awful illness. I returned home even more depressed and feeling desperate.

Dr.Paxton had at first taken a very high handed, condescending attitude, a ‘there, there, little girl, don’t worry’ approach. I wanted a proper explanation of what was wrong with me and what could be done about it. Dr. Paxton skirted round my questions until I, by now absolutely at my wits’ end, rather rudely asked him to stop treating me like a child and tell me what was wrong. So he did. It all came as rather a shock, but at least I knew the worst. I firmly refused his suggestion to admit me to hospital for further investigation but opted for the alernative of continuing consultations with him.

Back home I simply told my aunt that I would have to continue seeing Dr.Paxton but I gave Chris a much more detailed account of the consultation. Apparently I was suffering from a phobia which affected me as an irrational fear of being with a lot of other people or even just feeling insecure when other people were around. The symptoms of this fear were panic attacks which caused me to feel breathless, made me try to gulp in more air and this disrupted my breathing and led to hyperventilation which was when I momentarily passed out. Only I could tell when I was starting an attack. But all I could do to stop it getting worse was to get out of the situation which was causing it. To stop hyperventilating I had been told how to try to control my breathing. Dr.Paxton did admit that this advice worked in theory but seldom in pratice and could be hard to follow. One thing that usually helped people was having someone with them who understood what was wrong, even if they couldn’t do anything about it, as this gave a feeling of security. As regards a cure, this would depend on what caused the irrational fears. Some people were susceptible to them from birth but for others it took a major incident, like losing their parents, to trigger them off and sometimes they could be cured and sometimes not. Other people were less susceptible and had better hopes of a cure, but this might need hospital treatment. However, I knew I had never liked crowds of people and had sometimes been a little frightened of them. In other words, I came in the group who had always been likely to experience such attacks. So I decided to leave the hospital teatment alone and see how I got on by following Dr.Paxton’s advice and continuing the consultations. He had also prescribed some medication to help me relax and I was pinning a lot of faith in this.

The first time I took one of his tranquilising pills I couldn’t believe how fantastic I felt. Full of self confidence I went shopping, bought some new clothes, mixed happily with the other shoppers and went home walking on air. However, after about a week these effects started to wear off and all that the pills did was help me relax a little. Even with the help of the pills life started to become a nightmare for me.

At first the panic attacks remained quite frequent, often followed by hyperventilation and then what everybody called ‘Jacquie’s fainting fits’. School was the worst because it was impossible to avoid doing some things and my work suffered. As time went on I learned how to anticipate some of the situations which might cause the attacks and also how to avoid them. But I couldn’t avoid everything, and life became a terrible strain. However, when I was sixteen I managed, with a lot of help from my pills and from Chris to sit my GCSE exams and just do well enough to carry on studying to A level. But my social life was virtually non existant.

It was while studying for my A levels, and so having a little more free time, that I met Hugh, the nineteen year old son of one of my aunt’s friends. He was taking a year off before starting university and also had a lot of free time. He knew I had not been very well, that was what Auntie Brenda told everyone, and was very kind and good fun to be with. We did not actually go out together but spent a lot of time at each other’s houses chatting, playing computer games and listening to music. And one day, it was his birthday, we celebrated with a few drinks. I gave him a friendly birthday kiss which became more passionate than I intended and we ended up making love. After this I became very fond of Hugh and finally plucked up courage to tell him what was wrong with me. He really brought me down to earth.

Hugh didn’t say much, he didn’t have to. He told me how sorry he was, wondered how I managed at all etc. etc. but in fact seemed rather disbelieving, leaving me feeling like some kind of lunatic. I never saw him again and I began to wonder whether I would ever make any close friends.

The whole episode came up in my next consultation with Dr.Paxton. He told me that getting emotionally involved with ‘normal’ people could make life very difficult, but he had a solution. I run a group therapy clinic and a few afternoons chatting with other people who have problems would help you a lot, particularly as you wouldn’t have to explain your illness. Everyone there would have an illness of some sort.

I was horrified at this suggestion. So I could only mix with people who were ill, could I? I stormed home with no intention of going near his group therapy sessions. But life got no easier so eventually I gave in and gve them a try. They were worse than useless. The other patients there were either depressed and silent, so high they chattered away non stop almost talking to themselves or, like me, were so tired with the strain of coping with everyday life that they could not make the effort to socialise. One of these sessions was enough for me and about six months later Chris went up to Oxford. This left me fighting my wretched phobia alone as I started my last year at school. But I was not going to give up and this was the situation on the day I was due to see Chris.

I had not seen him for a few weeks and had missed him terribly. Phone calls and texts had kept us in touch but it wasn’t the same. So it was with mixed feelings that I got up that Friday morning. I planned the journey carefully, first deciding how many pills to take. This was important as Dr.Paxton kept a close eye on how much medication I was taking. At first, when situations got bad, I ate the pills like Smarties, resulting in a severe lecture from him about the dangers of over-medication and becoming dependant on too high a dosage. I also wondered whether to have a quick drink as well. I discovered, when the number of pills was closely monitored, that alcohol really could help. I hated having to have even the smallest drink to get through the really bad times, scared of becoming alcoholic I suppose, so I kept drinking down to a minimum. Still, seeing Chris was a special occasion!

Standing at the porter’s lodge I gazed at the lovely old college buildings and tried to relax. It had not been the easiest journey, even using taxis for ridiculously short distances to avoid the crowds of students, shoppers and tourists thronging the streets. Lovely as it all was I couldn’t imagine myself coping with university and idly wondered what I would do when I left school.

Then I spotted Chris strolling towards me. Oh, no! He was walking with and chatting to a friend. My heart sank, I so wanted Chris all to myself and I certainly did not want to have to cope with strangers. A smiling Chris came up, gave me a hug and turning to his friend said, Tuesday afternoon should be fine James. Meet you at the courts?

Right,sure, James replied looking at me inquisitively.

Oh, sorry! exclaimed Chris, James this is my sister Jacquie. Jacquie this is James Lanchbury, demon at squash and tennis and… .

James grinned and interrupted don’t bore her stiff, Chris. Have a good lunch the pair of you, and strolled on his way.

I was so relieved to see him go that I greeted Chris as though he were a long lost relation. Cool it, it must be all of twenty four hours since I spoke to you! I laughed and with Chris by my side chatting away about university life, getting to the restaurant he had chosen for lunch was a breeze. We talked and laughed so much over the meal that I almost forgot that such things as phobias and panic attacks existed. It was only as we were leaving the restaurant that Chris asked if I would be alright getting home. Happy and relaxed after a few glasses of wine I assured him I could manage perfectly and brushed aside his offer of coming to the station with me. He reluctantly agreed, on condition I texted him as soon as I got home. In a mood of, I’ll conquer this phobia if it kills me, I decided to walk to the station.

All went well until, just in front of me, a crowd of students poured out of a pub. For about half a minute I was surrounded by noisy, laughing people; then the panic started. I managed to get to a shop doorway and stood there, shaking and breathless. The crowd thinned and my panic started to subside as I stared intently into the shop window. I was so lost in my own little world that I jumped a mile when a voice beside me said, Jacquie? Are you alright, you don’t look too well?

I turned and stared into a pair of attractive grey-green eyes. I must have looked very blank because he continued, we met earlier, James Lanchbury? A friend of your brother’s.

Oh, yes. I managed to focus on the rather handsome, dark haired young man. Yes, yes, I remember, I muttered. I’m okay thanks, just felt a bit dizzy.

Gently he took my arm and said, You look as though a sit down and a drink woudn’t go amiss. There’s a quiet little pub just round the corner.

I didn’t say a word but let him guide me to ‘the quiet little pub round the corner.’ He sat me down at a secluded table, went over to the bar and came back with two large whiskeys and a carafe of water. Hope you like whiskey, I prescribe it for all dizzy spells. He smiled enchantingly and at last I managed to speak.

"James I’m so