05

I've noticed that in a number of my tales my characters use the term 'OK' a great deal. It triggered this story. There seems to be quite an intense debate on how to spell OK, so I feel justified in using this one: capitals, without punctuation.

This is a work of fiction. I think this is a weird love story. Warning: like most of my stuff, it is slow! Five parts, all complete. Not much sex.

*****

Prologue

Like all of us, John Colshaw had his share of pet hates, but by far the most hated in his book was that word, if word it can be called: 'OK'.

Ever since university he had disliked the word, or 'two letters masquerading as a word' as he would put it. He disliked the fact it was vague in meaning, a lazy word. He would often argue about it, to the boredom of his listeners, pointing out that it could mean, 'I agree', 'good', 'not good but satisfactory', 'good enough', 'all right', 'yes', 'perfect', 'will do'.

His dislike was such that friends tried never to use the word in his presence, mainly to avoid an argument, a diatribe, or even his frown. He was a good friend until the trouble hit, and they did not mind acquiescing to his whim. Avoiding that 'word' was OK with them.

--

Chapter One

That January evening, saw John Colshaw sitting in the Griffin Inn drinking his pint. It had been three years since he was last in there. It had been decorated, and the bench seats round the edges of the rooms re-upholstered. The place smelt clean, faintly of paint, and mainly of beer. He liked that, the smell of beer that is.

It was just over three years previously that he had asked for a transfer to escape the hell he was in, and had been moved from here to Head Office. Now he was back in the North West, eager for the challenge of being a Managing Director for the first time.

The hell he had been in had originated in that very room of that very pub.

He wondered what had happened to Carol, and whether she had remarried since the divorce. He wondered about his erstwhile friends, from many of whom he had been estranged before he felt forced to move South. He had no friend locally any more whom he could trust - apart from Bill Trenshard and Tom Forstone of course.

Sitting there in the room brought it back. Carol had stormed into the room and thrown her wedding and engagement rings at him, yelling a warning not to come near their house; she was getting a divorce. It still rankled in his memory, mainly because her actions and the reasons for them were still a total mystery to him.

In Britain it is no use fighting a divorce petition. To go that way is expensive enough to bankrupt the average person. So the only way, if one's partner wants a divorce, is to accept it; to grin and bear it, though the smile is not absolutely necessary.

Now, he was in the same seat in the same room of the same pub, John remembered more clearly how upset and puzzled he had been then, and his face creased in a frown. He was still angry and resentful about it. Feeling vaguely depressed, he wondered if he should have chosen a different pub.

"What's the matter, my darling?" the beautiful blonde woman said as she came back from the ladies' and sat down beside him, kissing his cheek.

"Memories," he said dolefully. "Memories."

--

Chapter Two

3 years before.

"Bloody hell!" exclaimed Leo Bulmer, one of John's mates, "What's that about?"

John was already running out of the pub through the pouring rain in pursuit of his wife. He reached the car park in time to see her in her brother's car at the car park exit, as it waited for a gap in the traffic. He arrived at the window.

Banging on it he shouted "What are you on about?" since she would not wind the window down, but her brother in the back seat did so.

"John," he barked. "Fuck off! You heard Carol. Don't come near the fucking house. Your stuff will be on the front fucking lawn in an hour. Get this: you come near Carol again and you'll fucking suffer."

Gary, her brother, was a bricklayer, huge and very muscular. John was in no doubt what he could do to him, the smaller man. John was six foot tall, but much slimmer.

"But Gary," he begged, "I don't understand!"

At this there was a gap in the traffic and the car moved off.

"You know what you fucking did!" Gary shouted. "Bugger off!"

Gary had a very limited use of adjectives (and verbs).

John stood at the side of the road getting soaked, dumbstruck. Both Carol's brothers were big men with a reputation for violence, and no one would want to tangle with them. How could he reach her?

He returned to the pub drenched to the skin, and, shaking his head, sat down with his mates. Bill handed him the rings.

They bombarded him with questions, but all he could say was that he didn't know what he'd done.

"She was a bit quiet yesterday afternoon, and she was asleep when you came for me this morning. I thought she was miffed that I was out all day today at a weekend, but she said nothing!"

John had been out all day with these mates demolishing a greenhouse and erecting a new one for Bill's parents.

An hour later he arrived at their house in the pouring rain to find bags and boxes, sodden with the rain on the front lawn. Bill Trenchard, his best mate, who had offered his spare bedroom, helped him load the car, and they had everything moved in two trips. His paperwork and his laptop were ruined.

He knocked at the door but got no answer, and his key would not open the door. He knew she was in the house, and begged her, shouting through the letterbox, to talk to him. No reply. In the end he gave up and returned to Bill's car.

He sat in Bill's living room disconsolate. "Married two years and suddenly she turns nasty. I can't think what I ever did to make her that angry. I mean, wanting a divorce? Chucking my stuff out in the pouring rain?"

Those two years had been without doubt the happiest years of his life. Carol was fun, happy, chatty, and great in bed: very loving. Nothing was out of bounds in the bedroom.

The only minor niggle was that in her job as a buyer for a wet known clothing chain she would have to be away from home for one or two nights of some weeks, but their reunions were ecstatic.

What had happened? Had someone poisoned her mind? Had she found someone else on her travels and was using some misdemeanour of his to justify breaking with him?

Over the next days he tried to phone her at work.

"Mrs Colshaw is not accepting calls from you Mr Colshaw. Good day!" Click.

He tried phoning the house; she put the phone down. He emailed; no reply. He wrote a letter; no reply or reaction. Then he got angry and repeatedly phoned the house; she put the answer-phone on.

Then there came what he thought was a breakthrough. She phoned him.

"Carol," he began, "I don't know-"

"Listen," she snapped, "If you persist in ringing me, or trying to talk to me you'll suffer for it. You'll get a letter from my solicitor. If you want to communicate with me, do it through her. Leave me alone, you bastard!"

"But Carol," he begged, "please talk to me. Tell me what I've-"

The phone was dead.

He tried her girlfriends, but they also abused him over the phone or told him to get lost, in those or similar words. Their common refrain was that he knew what he'd done. Then he got a clue: one or two gave the same clue, asking him how he could cheat on such a lovely girl so often, and so soon after they were married. Bill and Tom refused to believe it, but could not get any details either when they asked around. His other friends cut him off.

So he knew he was accused of seeing another woman, but he knew he hadn't. Why would he need to, with such a wonderful wife? He wrote to her protesting his innocence and asking for proof.

That was when he got the visit from Gary and Lee Irwin, her brothers.

He woke up in hospital with a cracked rib, severe bruising to his genitals, and a body full of bruises. He remembered what Lee said before the beating began.

"We fucking told you to keep away from Carol. You didn't fucking listen; you're fucking annoying her." Lee had even fewer adjectives than Gary, but then he was a lot less intelligent, which was saying something.

That was all, then the beating began, one holding him while the other laid into him.

He was kept in hospital for two days while they ensured that the rib was not broken or had pierced his lung. He was not concussed nor had he suffered any brain injury. When he got back to Bill's, the divorce petition citing unreasonable behaviour by virtue of adultery was waiting for him.

When the breakdown of a marriage is due to 'unreasonable behaviour because of adultery', it is not necessary for the petitioner to cite with whom the adultery was committed, so he got no enlightenment there. He had had enough.

The next day he hobbled into work, and explained his situation to the MD, Georgina Valilee, and asked for a transfer. Two days later he was summoned to her office.

"I contacted Head Office and it seems there is a vacancy for someone on your grade actually at Centre," she said with a smile. "What's more they seem to be impressed with your work here. You get moving expenses and the use of the company flat while you find a place of your own. It's looking good!"

"That's the first bit of good news I've had for weeks," John said with a broad smile.

"Move at the end of the week," she said. "Phone them to arrange the move."

Initially after his departure for the Capital, Bill forwarded his mail, and gave him what news there was. Apparently no one knew who had attacked John. Carol's brothers were at a family party, and the whole family testified they had never left it.

John sighed. Perhaps he was well rid of them. Her family never liked him and the whole lot of them were liars and hated the police. He had always thought Carol was different. He shrugged: how wrong could you be?

The divorce went through. He tried to get an detailed answers to his questions, but beyond 'you cheated with a tart, there's clear evidence', there was no further elucidation. So in the end, John gave up trying.

The house Carole and he had owned was newly bought, heavily mortgaged and there was no equity in it. Carol earned slightly more than he did at the time, and so there was nothing for him to pay, since they had no children. They had no savings either.

So ended the happiest time of his life, and yes, he was bitter, very bitter about it.

He did return to the North to visit his parents regularly, but they lived out in one of the satellite towns well to the south of the Manchester, so he was able to keep clear of his old stomping ground near the company's premises.

He enjoyed his visits to his parents. His older brother Philip worked in Dubai, and his younger sister Grace had emigrated to New Zealand, so he was the only child of the marriage with whom they had regular physical contact.

His mother and father had always left him to live his own life, and so when they asked about the divorce and he said he had no idea why Carol had accused him of unfaithfulness and had divorced him, they supported him and asked no further questions, for which he was grateful. His mother hugged him and smiled, and that meant a lot.

—-

The day after he had settled in the company flat the phone rang at seven thirty in the morning.

"John Colshaw."

"Good morning, John Colshaw, this is Paula Grantham."

It was the CEO's personal secretary. He had met her on a number of occasions when he attended meetings at Headquarters. She seemed unremittingly cheerful, a happy woman doing a job she loved. She was middle aged and was renowned to know more about the huge organisation that was FHD than anyone.

"Good morning Mrs Grantham," he respnded politely.

"Paula, please John," she said with a laugh in her voice. "We'll be seeing a lot of each other now you're working here. Now I hear from my sources that there is a certain expression that you dislike. I will attempt to avoid it,

OK?

" and she laughed.

"Touché," John said; she laughed louder.

"I trust you have settled into the company flat," she said more seriously. "Sir Maurice will see you tomorrow morning at ten. I trust you can attend?"

"Yes," said John. "Have you any idea why? I wasn't expecting to meet the CEO. I thought it would be Steven Mattinson, or Simon Phelps."

"You must have heard that our esteemed leader keeps his plans to himself. You'll discover all tomorrow. Patience, dear heart! See you tomorrow,

all right?

" Another laugh, and realising her mockery, he had to laugh as well.

Next morning he presented himself at the twelfth floor of Hubbard House in the City ten minutes early.

"Morning John," Paula greeted him. "Coffee?"

"Thanks," he replied, surprised at this treatment of a ex-Department Head from within one of the company divisions.

"Take a seat," she said, gesturing to the easy chairs, before busying herself making the drink for him.

They chatted, he asking how long she had been the boss's secretary, and she asking him about his work in the 'frozen north' as she put it.

At ten o'clock precisely, Paula's intercom buzzed.

"Go through," she said. "Take your coffee," she added as she saw him putting his cup and saucer down. "Sir Maurice will have his own."

This was one surprise after another, and John was now intrigued about his future. He tapped on the door and entered the functional almost spartan office of the top man.

"Come in, come in, John," invited Sir Maurice Callaghan with a broad smile, as he came round his large antique desk and held out a hand. John shook the proffered limb.

Sir Maurice Callaghan was of medium height, slightly overweight with a florid face and striking white hair, which he had sported since his mid-twenties after a serious car accident. His eyes were dark and gave the appearance of astuteness, and indeed he was astute, very. He also had a reputation for ruthlessness: for him the company came first. Even his wife accepted that fact and the wealth and social status it brought. That said, the couple were still very much in love.

"Good morning, Sir," seemed to be the obvious thing for John to say to this imposing figure.

"It's quite a while since we met, John. I think we chatted at one of the annual conferences. I was interested in one of your improvements in property alarm sensors. Kept you talking too long if I remember, then my wife and her cronies wouldn't let you go. Three years ago?"

"Yes, sir," John agreed, surprised at Callaghan's memory. It was at the party that closed the conference, John remembered. He hadn't expected the invitation by the leader of their international company to his table, after all he had only been a departmental head of one of the smaller divisions, but his improvement had made the company a lot of money and Georgina Valilee had made sure he received recognition for it.

"Take a seat," said Sir Maurice, gesturing to the chair at the desk, while he returned to his place on the other side. John sat down and waited. He felt like a small boy summoned to the Headmaster's office.

The CEO had a thick file in front of him, and John could see there was some sort of document on the desktop computer.

Sir Maurice opened the file, glanced at the monitor screen, and smiled at John.

"So, John," he began. "You've had some trouble in your personal life, involving some physical violence to your person, and you asked for a transfer away from the North of England Division." It was not a question, so John simply nodded.

"Georgina Valilee told me the whole thing, so we don't need to dwell on it, as it must be painful for you since I believe you can't get to the bottom of why this all befell you. Well, it's an ill wind for you, but turns out to be blowing the company some good..."

He paused as if marshalling his thoughts.

"Now, your request rang some bells here, and Mr Phelps was prompted to examine your file to find an alternative post suitable for you to best benefit the Company. He was so surprised by what he found that he brought the matter to me.

"I too am surprised that you are still where you are: you should have been transferred here long ago. As you know, copies of your appraisal meetings come to us, and also the MD's regular log reports in which you figure quite frequently and prominently.

"Your abilities are wasted as a Departmental Head, even in research and development. You motivate your team, you are diplomatic, you give credit to those who deserve it, often when you could take the credit yourself, and from your discussions with Georgina you have a keen perception of divisional weaknesses and quite a flair for assessing remedies."

John was somewhat embarrassed to find that discussions he thought were informal chatting between Georgina Valilee and himself had been relayed to Headquarters: he had been forthright about head office, so he felt surprised at the praise being lavished upon him. But Sir Maurice was moving on.

"Your problem is that all your experience so far is within the rather narrow confines of the Electronics and computing business in the Northern Division, lucrative though that is. You need wider experience if you are to rise in the company, and I can assure you that the company has an keen interest in you making such progress. So your rather fortuitous move here means we can rectify that rather narrow experience and give you an insight into our more diverse interests.

"I take it you would want to progress beyond being a mere Head of Department?"

"Well, yes, Sir, of course."

"Are you prepared to travel where ever we send you?"

John was trying to keep up, and the question rather threw him.

"Er, travel? Yes, I can travel. Anywhere." He thought wistfully that he no longer had a wife to tie him down, though he dearly wished he still had.

"Good. Now normally I'd leave the details to Simon Phelps, but your file has tweaked my interest, so I've decided to organise things personally. I am going to give you a wide experience of our many concerns so you can see where you could fit into the wider picture. All our managing directors have worked in more than one place. At the same time you can do a little work for me.

"So, over the coming year you will spend three months in each the divisions in the British Isles, including Ireland, but obviously excluding the one you've just come from, each followed by a fortnight here during which you will make a report.

"Paula will have all the details for you as you leave. Ostensibly you will be attached to the MD in each division as a training exercise, to learn about the very differing concerns we have and what markets we are interested in. Some are national, and some international.

"In the second year, you will tour the three European Divisions on the same basis, and in the third year I'll decide which of our divisions worldwide you should visit.

"John, did you pick up a word in there which interested you?"

John thought fast. He had been trying to keep up with the programme he was being offered, but he thought he knew.

"Ostensibly," he said hopefully, and waited. Sir Maurice Callaghan beamed.

"Exactly. What I'm really interested in is what is going on under the surface in those divisions, the morale, ethos, developmental directions, with emphasis on management style, any problems with administration, relationships, general efficiency - a more forensic examination.

"All reports I have about you show this sort of perception is a particular talent of yours. Anything you can pick up to improve our overall performance you will put into a private second report for my eyes only. You understand what I'm saying?"

"That's some task," John said. "A real challenge, but fascinating. Yes, I understand. It has to be kept a close secret, or I'll only find out what they want me to know."