There's a wife trying to be faithful, and there is a romance rekindled after many years, which brings its own moral problems. The story is about jealousy and how ordinary people, with all their faults and failings try to cope with it and its aftermath. As usual it's a slow burn and hardly any sex at all till near the end. The tale ends on a Christmas Day, so perhaps this is a good time to post it.
Four quite long parts all finished and posted daily. The title translates as 'Love conquers all things.' (Virgil Eclogues 10). Does it?
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Chapter 01
The radio alarm came on with classical music: Friday 16th April 2010. John Pollard immediately swung his legs out of the bed, donned his slippers, pulled his dressing gown round his naked form and descended the stairs.
He followed his habit of many years, first into the kitchen. He switched on the kettle for a pot of tea, smiling wryly when he saw that he had again carefully laid out two mugs the night before. Once again he had forgotten he was now alone. Elizabeth, his dear wife, had died three months before after twenty eight years married, but time and again he found he was doing everything for two. His solitary state still surprised him daily.
While the kettle boiled he used the downstairs toilet, then made the tea, opened the curtains in the living room, checked the barometer, and went to the front door and took in the milk. He poured the tea and returned upstairs. Outside there was broken cloud and milky sunshine, but no sign of ash on the ground from the erupting Icelandic Volcano, whose name no one wanted to try pronouncing.
In some ways this was the most difficult time of the day; this and his final retirement to bed at its end. For nearly thirty years he had followed this routine, bringing two mugs of tea back to the bedroom and his beloved Elizabeth. He would return to bed and they would entwine themselves in each other's arms, his thigh between her legs feeling her vulva, and she his penis on hers. They would kiss and hold each other as if to say that they would never allow themselves to be parted, but both were powerless before the strength of death to separate them.
Now he brought his tea back to the empty bedroom and sat on the bed to drink it. He could not bear to go back between the cold sheets. He had always thought that he would be the first to go, and was sure that Elizabeth would have managed bereavement much better than he had. He sighed, something he found himself doing often. The morning radio show he now tuned to was cheerful as usual and he smiled at the odd stories and jokes the presenter told between songs.
After his tea he showered, shaved and dressed, and then breakfasted on his usual muesli and a second cup of tea. Now the day stretched before him like each previous day since she left him forever. The days though were not difficult.
After defeating cancer, having suffered through its long and unpleasant treatment, he had been able to retire from his Managing Directorship early with a sizeable golden handshake and pension, while Elizabeth still went out to the work she loved.
Thus he had spent some years alone in the house during the day, so his days now were no different. It was when he would have begun cooking for the two of them, when she would have returned home in the evenings, and during the long tedious weekends, when the loneliness bit deep.
He stood with his beloved tea before the open patio door, and gazed at the garden, the daffodils blooming everywhere, forget-me-nots beginning to add their blue and the apple blossom a gentle pink in the spring sunshine, which was unusually very warm.
It was
her
garden. It still bore the stamp of her love for it, and he wondered how he would ever manage to keep it looking as beautiful as it was now. It begged the question whether he would stay in the house or find somewhere smaller, more manageable - at least as far as the garden was concerned, for it was large. He turned away.
It being Friday, he did the shopping for the following week, constantly reminding himself that he was buying for one, though as usual he bought rather too much. He shopped locally, making his contribution to reducing greenhouse gases by walking there and back carrying his hessian shopping bags, having long since rejected the plastic bags offered by his local supermarket.
By the time he had stowed the produce it was eleven o'clock and he allowed himself the luxury of freshly made coffee, enjoying the fragrance as he ground the roasted fair trade beans which filled the house.
He had poured himself a mugful, with the indulgence of a little sugar, and was stirring the milk into it when the doorbell rang. His immediate thought was that it would be the postman, though John had ordered nothing bulky, but when he opened the front door it was a woman who stood there.
There was something familiar about her face. She was about his age, early fifties, slim, but with a fullness that betokened motherhood. Her light raincoat came below her knees and she wore sensible low heel shoes. Her light brown hair was either curly or permed and her oval face was friendly, pretty, mature and smiling.
"Yes?" he inquired.
"John? Remember me?"
Even without her telling him her name, as soon as she uttered those first three words he knew her from her voice, even though it had been some thirty years since he had last seen her. Her voice was a rich contralto with a hint of a smile about it. She cocked one eyebrow as he remembered she often did. It was Claire.
"Claire! What are you doing here? You're the last person I expected to see! Come in! I've just made coffee."
He stood back and she entered.
"Let me take your coat."
She slipped it off her shoulders and John placed it on a hanger and stowed it in the Hall wardrobe. It was as if they had seen each other only the other day.
She faced him now, held out her arms and embraced him fondly. He felt the shape of her body, and was surprised that he was comparing her now to what he thought he remembered she was before. She was indeed still slim but fuller, more shapely and her breasts felt bigger as they pressed against him.
"John, I'm so sorry to hear about Elizabeth. What a dreadful shock for you!" She had always been demonstrative of her affections and emotions, and she kissed his cheek as she hugged him to her.
They stood locked together for a while. Then John gently disengaged himself and led her by the hand to the kitchen, where he poured her some coffee according to her wishes. They sat at the kitchen table.
"I don't understand," said John. "How on earth...?"
"I'm over here with Peter - you remember I married Peter Klinsman? - and my children to visit my Mother. She's failing fast and she isn't long for this world, I'm afraid. We've been here a week and I wanted to fit in a visit to my sister Ellen and her family. I don't think you ever met her did you?"
He shook his head. "The only time I visited you at your family home, Ellen was somewhere else. So she's married with a family?"
"Yes. So I left Peter with Mother and drove down," she continued. "On the way to Ellen's, I called in on Father Gerard and he told me about Elizabeth. So I changed my plan immediately, got your address from him and detoured to come here. I know it's a stupid question, but how are you?"
John remembered her fluency, light tone and concise delivery. It was what had attracted him to her, back in their university days, that and her slim, rangy body with its small to medium breasts and neat bottom. He hesitated before he answered. More memories were coming of how close they had been, and he knew he could not give his usual banal answer.
"I normally tell people I'm fine; it gets them off the hook, so to speak. They can go away feeling they've done their duty and feel reassured that I'm not likely to do anything silly." He smiled at her, and her grey-blue eyes smiled back. He felt a tug of attraction. A memory.
"You're not though, are you?" Claire interrupted with a grin. "Going to do something silly, I mean?" He could tell she knew he would not of course: her eyes were twinkling.
"Heavens no!" He laughed, for her question was mischievous.
