As the grass grew that summer he came to terms with her complex moods and gained her trust, something her husband had never done. They never actually became lovers, but Sandra never seemed to mind his dog-like devotion, and for Charles, it was better than nothing.
Of course, all this sex and gardening had filled Charlie's head so much, he was oblivious to the rest of the world. It was almost like waking from a dream the day he went back into the village pub. He had even moved into the rooms above the old stables, which cut him off from the rest of the world. Suddenly he found how out of touch he had become.
"Oh, it's the sex slave. Come to give it a rest Charlie?" The landlord of the Steel Helmet pub, greeted him with a laugh as he walked through the door. At least he still reached for his tankard and automatically put it beneath the bitter pump.
"The beer any more drinkable?" Charles sat at the bar and looked around him. The same faces sat in the same places, but the mood was different.
"She keeping you working up there?" Bob Tailor, the local mechanic, roared with laughter at his joke, and the rest joined in.
"I've been doing the garden," replied Charles, "if that's what you're on about?"
"That's not the only thing you've been doing, so we've heard." Bob Tailor continued with his crude line of questioning.
Charles knew the mood in the pub was growing cold. It had never really been warm, but now the men at the bar were there simply to make fun of him, and there was little he could do. So Charles decided to stick it out.
"What's she like then Charlie'?" asked Bob with a smile to the others. "Good in bed? Or just manage it on the lawn?"
The pub erupted in a hail of cruel laughter. Charles ignored them all.
"Look," said Charles, "I just get on with my life, ok?" His stare never left the tankard of beer, as he knew to look them in the eye, would bring down more derision.
"Sounds like you are getting on with Mr Draper's for him," laughed Bob. "After all, you're getting on his wife." The man wheeled round to more brutish laughter from the others, all enjoying the spectacle.
"We'll have none of that sort of coarse language Bob Tailor, thank you." The Landlord knew the atmosphere was getting out of hand and wanted things to calm down a little.
"He can't go around shagging the richest woman in the village and get away with it. We all know!" Bob carried on with his pursuit of the fun, looking to his allies for support.
"Whatever he does, he's more decent than you. So I'll thank you to keep your crude opinions to yourself. We'll have less of that sort of talk in the pub." The Landlord had spoken, and no matter what they all thought of the young man, he was not to become fair game for them.
Bob, on the other hand, did not see it that way.
"Who are you to tell me what I can or can't say?" He was clearly riled at this challenge.
"I've known this lad all his life, and his parents. They've lived in this village as far back as it goes. They have ancestors buried in that churchyard. So have some respect." The Landlord winked at Charles.
"I've got relatives buried there too," insisted Bob.
"His go back to the civil war. Maybe even further," the Landlord challenged.
Up till now, Charles had let things flow over his head, but even he could see something had to be done.
"You can say what you like about me, but at least I try to make an honest living." Charles now looked Bob square in the face and watched his mood boil.
"What's that supposed to mean," suddenly Bob slammed his glass down on the bar.
"That's a fair point, Bob. What about that business with the jewellers a few years back. That might not go down so well if the truth got out?" Now the Landlord joined in the fun of seeing the tables turned on Bob Tailor.
"Rumours! You can't throw mud at me!" Bob was clearly on the defensive now, and glanced around the room in quick shifty gestures, as the crowd turned on him. All wanted an explanation.
"You were mixed up with that jewel robbery. A smash and grab. Someone wrapped newspaper around a brick, trying to look innocent, as they walked through the town." The Landlord was enjoying every minute of the story, as he thought back. "Seems to me those CCTV cameras can spot anyone, and a man with a brick in his hand would look pretty suspicious. So he wrapped it in a newspaper, then at the last minute; threw at the jeweller's window."
"Wasn't me!" insisted Bob.
"£10,00 in rings went missing, didn't they?" put in Charles taking a swig of beer.
"That's right, and the police soon had a strong lead." The Landlord leaned over the bar to watch Bob squirming.
