My doctor pronounced me fully fit on Tuesday and I returned to work. Many times during the week I tried phoning Betty to enquire about her shoulder or to ask when she needed her car back, but I got no reply, nor did I hear from either of my two friends. It was as if they intended wasting no more time with the accident-prone Richard Bird.
By the end of the week I was downright miserable. Spotting a romantic television film on Friday evening, I opted to wallow in self-pity and watch it from the comfort of my bed. I was already undressed and about to take a shower when my doorbell rang. Clad only in a bath-towel, I opened the door a fraction, intending to ask whoever it was to go away.
There stood Betty, somewhat taken aback by the sight of my bare abdomen.
"Hi, Richard. May I come in? I have what you might call a dilemma."
I apologized for my outfit, and asked her to make herself comfortable while I found a dressing gown.
"I'm sorry, Richard, this was obviously a bad time to drop in unannounced. I should have phoned first."
I assured her that friends were always welcome, and enquired about her shoulder.
"Much easier, thanks, and before you ask, Angela's fine too. I was dining with friends this evening over in Epsom. Muffet offered to drive me to and fro but I said I could manage on my own. Actually I just wanted to get away for a few hours - you know? Anyway, coming home I happened to be passing - no, dammit, that's a lie. I wanted to be passing, and so I made sure I did."
"And you need counselling? Fine! Here stands your therapist, suitably dressed up for the occasion. How can I help?"
"I'm going to be blunt, Richard. It's my style, and I make better progress when I don't pussy around." She leaned back on the settee in an almost manly attitude. "Simple question - simple answer. Are you likely ever to fall in love with me, enough to want to marry me? And no pretty speeches, please, I'll accept brutally frankness."
I began spluttering. "Well, I - the fact is, Betty, you see I..."
"Oh come on, Richard, before your bath-water freezes over."
"I'm just not used to being put on the spot like this. I'm fumbling around trying to find a gentle way of saying No. I just don't think of you in that way. I'm sorry. You're a smashing friend, make no mistake..."
"But!" she interjected. "The little word that says it all. Okay! We can cut the rest of the flannel. You must think I'm a cold, calculating fish, but - well, at my time of life I can't afford not to be practical. The fact is, Richard, I've had a proposal. Not one I find particularly enthralling, I might add, but it is a proposal."
"You mean a marriage proposal?"
"A re-marriage proposal. I had a letter this morning from Alec, my ex-husband. Our recent visit may have rekindled an old flame, who knows? The red-haired frumpet he shacked up with is already devouring her next victim, and Alec's left feeling all mellow and retrospective. He doesn't turn on the charm too strongly, mind, but the drift of his letter is that he's contrite about the past and hints at picking up where we left off. He must have put pen to paper the minute we flew home, impulsive bugger. But I think he means it."
"And now you're pacing up and down wondering what to do for the best?"
"I need you to talk some sense into me, Richard. Spell out what my options are."
"You mean I have a casting vote? Oh, come on, Betty, this has to be your decision, no-one else's. You have Alec dangling as second prize if you can't win me first, is that it? What do you want from me, Betty?"
"A little kindness would be good."
"You've got that."
"You're not sounding kind. You sound peeved because I'm keeping you from your nice hot bath."
I forced some warmth into my voice. "I'm sorry, Betty, but if this guy wants you to marry him, and you then have to go around asking friends whether it's a good idea, it sounds to me as if you've got serious doubts. And doubts about marriage should point towards a definite No."
"They're only doubts because I know what happened last time."
"And maybe on the second run you'll both make damned sure it doesn't. I don't know, Betty. I've never been married, and I've never met Alec, so there's not much advice I can give you, unless you want me to toss a coin or settle it on the outcome of a game of chess?"
"Please do," she said. "I'm serious. Anything. I want Fate to nudge me in the right direction. Come on, Richard, help a floundering friend."
"Okay. Do you want Bird's Arbitration Service or Bird psychology? They both come at reduced rates after nine o'clock."
"Don't be an ass. Just help me make up my stupid mind. One minute I definitely know what I want. The next minute I think I've seen the light and want the exact opposite. I need to stand back and look at this thing objectively from someone else's viewpoint."
This gave me an idea.
"Then if you'll excuse me for a moment," I said. "First I feel a binding obligation to put on some underpants in the presence of a lady. Once I've dealt with that, I'm going to find a pen and something to write on. You're about to undergo a little test."
I made myself presentable in the bedroom and returned with a marker pen and a sheet of plain paper which I thrust into Betty's hands.
"Tear that neatly into four," I instructed her, "then write the letter Y on two pieces and the letter N on the others. When you've done that, roll each piece into a tight ball and hand them back to me."
Betty looked dubious, but she did as I asked. When she'd finished I took the four papers and appeared to shuffle them in my cupped hands before setting them out in a row on the coffee table.
"Take one," I said, standing back, "but don't unwrap it till I tell you. Just hold it in your hands with your eyes closed and think about it for one whole minute. Think about it very hard and very carefully."
I silently took my camcorder out of a drawer, and inserted a blank cassette. When Betty eventually opened her eyes she looked quite offended as if I'd gone seriously over the top.
"Relax," I said, lining up the camera. "Never mind about this. Just listen carefully. If it's a Y, you'll be honour bound to accept this man. The letter N means you have to refuse. Is that understood?"
Instead of a nod, Betty gave a severe frown. "Richard, this is stupid, you're making me feel all hot and nervous."
"Good," I said, recording her reactions in close-up. "Why nervous, Betty?"
"Because I'm always self-conscious about being photographed, and I certainly don't want to appear on television. My hair's a mess."
"Don't worry. In five minutes I'll erase this, and no-one will ever see it. Now, Betty, concentrate. The moment of truth approaches. Your fate lies on that table. I repeat - if it's Y for Yes, you have to accept Alec, come hell or high tide. If it's N for no, you stick with your good English pals and forget all about America. Choose wisely, and then unwrap it. As soon as you know the result, look straight at the camera and tell me what's decided."
Betty studied the four paper-balls for a moment, then made her choice. She unfolded one slowly, and forced an uneasy smile.
"It's a No," she said solemnly.
"Fine!" I enthused. "Happy now? There's a weight off your mind. Let's celebrate. Champagne, sherry or gin?"
"To be honest, I'm not sure."
"About the drink or the decision?"
"Can I pick a second one?"
"You want the best of three?"
She unfolded a second paper.
"Now I've got the other No. I guess that clinches it."
"I guess so, Betty. I hope that's the choice you wanted, because now you are stuck with it. We did agree."
As I anticipated, Betty leaned forward and opened up the other two papers.
"Oh, Richard, you've been messing about," she scowled. "They all say No."
"That's right," I said proudly. "You didn't want to go making the same mistake twice."
But Betty wasn't in the mood for frivolity.
"It's not funny, Richard. I came here for help, not a childish game. And do switch off that stupid camera."
"Okay! That's fine, Betty. End of experiment." I rewound the tape, connected it to my VCR and turned on the television. "Now let's see what we can learn from today's lesson."
As I replayed the scene, Betty kept saying she couldn't see why I needed to cheat.
"Just watch the TV," I said as I froze the picture on a particular frame. "There! Look at your face - what do you see, Betty? A vision of delight? How did you feel at that precise moment? Disappointed? Annoyed? Felt you picked the wrong answer? Why did you ask for another go?"
Betty's astute brain soon tumbled to my trickery, and a broad smile illuminated her face. "You crafty bugger! Yes. I did feel badly let down."
"You secretly hoped for a Yes?"
She nodded.
"Then forget the bits of paper, Betty, they're just window-dressing. The real answer comes from within. What matters is how you felt after you'd picked the wrong answer."
She looked squarely at me. "Deep down I wanted a Yes. I can see that now. Thank you," she smiled. "Though of course, I could live to regret it."
"You may live to regret either choice, Betty, so why not play it down the middle? Go and stay with your man for three months on probation. If it's not going to work, you'll both know by then. But I hope for your sake it does, provided of course it's what you want. Here," I tossed her the screwed-up balls of paper. "Souvenirs!"
"Satisfy my curiosity," she asked. "Why do they all say No, and not Yes?"
"Betty, if you'd really wanted No for an answer, you wouldn't have needed my opinion. The do-nothing option is easier when you're uncertain. But the pangs of disappointment are far stronger than feelings of elation. Believe me, I know - I've been suffering pangs all blasted week."
"Oh, you poor chump. Angela, you mean? Despite everything you know about her?"
"In a way that only adds to her charm. It throws in a challenge. Did you know, Betty, in the olden days brewers used to hurl a dead rat into the beer to give it zest. Well, Angela's got a rat in her beer, giving her extra zest. I want even more to take that girl under my wing and help her all I can. So, now it's your turn to gve advice, good blunt Betty. Am I living in cloud-cuckoo land?"
She grabbed my arm. "I love these Bird metaphors. I say, go for it, Richard. And while you're at it, plonk a dead rat in your own beer too."
"Meaning?"
"We picked up an intriguing thread of gossip from your mother."
"Ah, how I regret that trip! And what other beans did Mother spill?"
"It was while you were in the dining-room setting the table. She talked about you and your railways, and playing with yourself up in the loft - which raised a dirty laugh from Angela. Your mother said it wasn't the only kind of model you had up there, hinting at something more erotic. We were agog to hear more, but then you waltzed into earshot and the story came to a tantalising end."
Before I could defend myself, Betty held up a warning hand. "No, I don't require lurid details, thank you. But if Angie thought you had a skeleton in your cupboard..."
"Hardly a skeleton."
"A rat then? A small defect in your otherwise immaculate personality. Richard, so far you've acted so damned nice it's a wonder your veins don't contain pure honey. To use Muffet's own words, she said you were far too good to be true. So let her know you're human. Show a few kinks and imperfections like the rest of us. Talking of kinks, how's your car?"
"Fine. I'm told it'll be ready on Monday. Thanks for lending me yours, Betty. You really are a good pal."
"Oh, I know, I know! I'm about to make another sacrifice too. You're obviously bursting to see Muffet again, so why don't I drive home in my old heap and leave her car behind. Tomorrow I'll grovel to the little lady, and send her over to collect it."
With a grin of conspiracy we exchanged keys.
"And let her see you in that sexy bath-towel, Richard. It's a wild sight."
On Saturday the phone rang at midday.
"Richard! I trust you're not about to going shopping? Muffet insists she'll be needing her car all next week."
"Is she there with you?"
Betty chuckled. "Silly boy. Can't you tell?"
"Yes," I said on reflection. "You never call her that to her face. Why Muffet?"
"Curds and whey? Frightened by a big spider? How would describe a spider, Richard?"
"Big hairy thing, creepy, all arms and legs - yes, I'm getting the picture, God rest his soul. Where is Miss Muffet now?"
"She's in the back garden helping three hulking men take down my tree. Don't worry - they're far too much like apes to interest her. You're much more suitable, believe me. But see to that rat. Oh, and Muffet has some news - but I'll let her deliver it when she comes. One of the men has agreed to drive her into Leatherhead when he goes for lunch."
I kept a constant lookout, and my heart leapt as I saw Angela getting out of a strange car. She glanced lovingly at her own BMW in the corner, then looked up to my balcony and waved.
Standing at my door she looked even more stunning. How could a girl be involved in chopping down a tree, and an hour later look so demure? I asked her in, hoping she wasn't in a rush to get away. Several loose strands of hair seemed to beckon as she shook her head and smiled.
"Have you eaten?" I asked, taking her coat to the spare room. "If not, you're welcome to stay for lunch. How's the tree?"
"All gone," she said. "The view's much better too. A lot more light comes into my room now, and Betty's had a whole new window put in. One of those modern double-glazed ones."
I nodded politely. "And how's the carpet?"
"Good as new."
"Still got my phone number on your bedside table?"
She blushed. "Busby, you mean. Hope you didn't mind me doing that. It seemed appropriate."
I told her if she ever thought of throwing that piece of paper away, I'd welcome it as a souvenir.
"Like those other screwed-up bits of paper you gave Betty? I think maybe I'll hang onto it a while longer."
"What news on the American connection?" I called as I filled the kettle.
"Betty's husband's coming next week to talk things over" she said, joining me in the kitchen. "That's why I need my car. Her house is so small I really must move into a hotel somewhere, or I'll be horribly in the way. They're going to need time to themselves."
"My offer remains open," I reminded her. "Bed and breakfast - full board at no extra charge. Never feel unwanted, Angie, not in this place."
"I no longer feel wanted over there. Though I do like that cottage."
"So do I. I liked your other house better."
Angela shook her head. "I never want to visit Ovendell Road again. I want to put those horrid times behind me for good. And I don't mean those pesky little vandals either."
"Little?" I queried.
"Ah!" she said, her eyes gleaming, "there was another break-in down the road, and this time the culprits were caught red-handed. They were trashing another home while the owners were away. It turned into a fight and they ended up spraying one another with paint. A neighbour heard the shouting and called the police. The same paint as they used in my house."
I said I hoped they got what was coming to them, but Angela shook her head.
"I doubt it. The eldest was only twelve and the youngest was seven."
"Wherever did they learn those disgusting words?" I asked.
"Depends on the home environment. I learned many things I shouldn't before I was twelve. I thought my home life was normal till I compared notes with other girls." She gave a little shudder and smiled bravely. "Anyway, do you want to hear my good news? There's some value left in the estate after all. Daddy did some risky deals just before he died which looked as dumb as hell at first, but the executors have settled more favourably than they thought. I'm certainly not a millionaire, but there's something in the region of four-hundred-thousand which should give me a comfortable annuity. Perhaps Daddy's got some influence up there after all. Also, guess what - I've found a job," she continued before I could get a word in. "I'm going to be a courier. I speak fluent French and my Spanish and German are passable. They say if I do a crash course in Portuguese they'll give me the job. It'll mean lots of travelling, of course, but I know I'll enjoy that."
Her bubbly girlish excitement brought back the Angela I first knew, carefree and uninhibited. But the idea of her travelling to faraway places didn't at all match up to the future I had in mind for her.
"The Mediterranean coast," she added as I prepared sardines on toast. "France and Spain - also bits of Portugal and those islands one hears about. I've got to dig out my school atlas tonight to see where they all are."
"You can do that now if you wish."
After lending her my atlas, I offered Angela the rare chance to sit and watch some of my videos on French and Spanish railways.
"Perhaps later, Richard - after the washing up."
"I have a dishwasher," I reminded her. "But if you enjoy doing it by hand, we'll tackle the task the old way for once in true domestic harmony."
Her smile was coy, tantalising almost beyond endurance as we stood together in the kitchen. But I was careful to avoid any unwelcome advances that might distress her. When we'd finished I offered her more coffee.
"Actually," she said, "I'd love a glass of white wine."
"Sweet, dry, or a haphazard do-it-yourself Partridge blend?"
"Not too dry, if there's a choice. Something mellow and fruity."
"Like me, eh?"
Again that smile! Things were really looking up, it seemed. We took our wine into the living room and sat on upright chairs by the window overlooking the bustling Saturday afternoon traffic.
"Tell me," she asked, "I understand why you left home, but what made you pick Leatherhead? And what sort of job do you actually do?"
When I told her I worked in advertising, she guffawed.
"You? I thought advertising men were all extroverts and go-getters. You're just the opposite. What were you like at school, after you got over your passion for baby Gillian? Somehow I don't see you as having lots of boisterous friends. You'd be the quiet one who stands in a corner hoping he won't get bullied."
"That's me," I admitted, and I launched into a potted version of my life history, while trying also to promote my more endearing qualities. Angela listened attentively, occasionally interrupting with similar experiences of her own. It became clear that apart from our different social backgrounds, we were much of the same mind and both shared a common desire not to hurt anyone.
As the afternoon wore on and it grew darker outside, Angela's face became ever more alluring. During a short lull I stood up, wondering whether to offer her more wine or raise the subject of an evening meal, and I found myself gazing intently down into her appealing face. I decided it was time to take the plunge.
"Angie," I asked, fearful as to how she might react, "would you mind if I kissed you?"
She stood up at once and thrust an obliging cheek towards me. I had expected something a little more personal, and stupidly I said so.
"I meant more like this," I said, placing my hands on her chin and turning her mouth towards mine. With a squeal she backed off at once, as though Miss Muffet had just seen a huge spider.
"Don't!" she gasped. "You're behaving like Father!"
I was filled with instant remorse. "I'm sorry, my love, but is a kiss so terrible?"
"Yes, because he was horrid to me, because I felt abused and degraded by his beastly ways. That's why I can't bear the thought of touching any other man. All I see is Daddy's greedy eyes lusting for me. I hate him for what he used to do and I hate all men for being just like him."
She collapsed sobbing onto a chair and I knelt beside her, torn between wanting to be kind, while avoiding any gesture that might distort my caresses into the maulings of sexually depraved animal.
"Angela, my love, not all men are like that. We should all despise a father who treats his daughter that way, especially someone as lovely as you. You deserve a much better life, and I want to help you find it. Why don't we sit somewhere comfortable and talk it through?"
"No," she edged away. "I don't want to."
"Maybe not, my love, but I really think you should."
With reluctance Angela allowed me to guide her trembling body gently towards the settee.
"Angie, sweetheart, I'm not a psychiatrist - just a simple human being, but please understand I'd never do anything to hurt you."
She nodded and looked up at me. "Sorry, I just can't help it."
"I know. My trouble is I'm still in the dark about what disturbs you. You really ought to tell me some of the things your father did. And I need details, Angie, because that's the only way Betty or I can help you face these bad memories. You don't have to say anything too upsetting, but I'm sure whatever you share with me will feel easier, once it's in the open. Remember, you're in charge now, Angie, not your father. You're the one who's in control. I'm simply offering you a window to climb through. You said he used to do things you found sickening and distressing. There's no pressure to talk about anything you'd rather not, but I just thought it mightn't be so bad if we looked at it together, maybe even learned to laugh at some of it."
She mumbled something about being afraid of hating me.
"If that's likely," I said, "we'll stop at once before any harm's done. All I can say is that if it would help to tell me what happened, it might ease the nightmare. The alternative is for you to go to a psychiatrist, and I'd be quite jealous if you did that."
"Why?"
"Because you'd be trusting her with memories you weren't willing to share with me. I'd feel very left out."
"You think I might get a female psychiatrist?"
"Of course, if you asked."
She thought for a minute. "What time do you want me to go home this evening?"
I told her she could stay for as long as she liked - if necessary until Monday morning.
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