Peter Lingard, born a Briton, sold ice cream on railway stations, worked as a bank clerk, delivered milk, laboured in a large dairy and served in the Royal Marines.  He has also been a barman, an accountant and a farm worker.  He lived in the US for a while and owned a freight forwarding business in New York.  He came to Australia because the sun often shines here and Australians are a positive bunch who speak English.  Peter (plingaus@bigpond.com) is a member of the Phoenix House Writers.  He has 60+ short stories and poems published, as well as having a similar number read on the radio.  Professional actors have performed his poetry and he has aired on several literary chat shows to discuss his work.  He used to read his stories and poems monthly on 3WBC

Time and Distance

Before leaving home, Ralph Taylor had argued with his wife over whether to take a vacation or make home renovations. Carole was bored. She could be happy doing nothing on a beach but doing nothing at home was time wasted. The cleaner who came for two hours every weekday spent the time talking to Carole over endless cups of tea. Keeping an eye on builders and decorators would add to her boredom and prevent lunching with friends or window-shopping. The words she spat at him still resounded. Loser … working stiff … lousy lover … brainless idiot …  arsehole – the usual recriminations. Every argument turned into a bitter litany of disappointments once you got past the opening salvo.

Ralph’s business trips were an escape. However, he was never certain he would find Carole at home on his return. Her absence would improve his life, but it would also highlight the truth of their wasted years. How many people calculated their unhappy years as a percentage of their lifespan? He imagined a set of scales weighing good days and bad days.

There had been good times. He remembered himself, Carole and the kids sitting at the kitchen table. They had enjoyed a wonderful meal and were discussing where to go for their next vacation.

‘Let’s go to Disney World!’ cried the youngest.

‘Dinosaur World,’ said her brother.

Their eldest wanted ‘Adventure World’.’

‘Universal Studios,’ his wife suggested.

He recalled the waves of happiness pulsating through his body and the memory tightened his throat. How ecstatic he’d been when Carole agreed to a second date, then a third and a fourth. Likewise, their first time at the company dance. The Master of Ceremonies announced, ‘Mr and Mrs Ralph Taylor’ and they had descended a curved flight of white marble stairs to the crowded ballroom. She had clutched his arm tightly and said it was her happiest moment. His heart had soared.

But those days were long gone. He often fantasised about leaving her but recalled vows made on his wedding day and found the resolve to carry on.

He thought of Sylvia. She had been the love of his life, but he had pushed her away when the wrong friends and habits made him think someone so kind and dependable was too heavy a burden. He had settled instead for Carole, the beautiful enabler. What a fool he’d been.

For the umpteenth time he wondered what Sylvia might be doing in her world. It’d be nice to see her again, see if that spark still smouldered, see if time had allowed her to forgive him. He would be in Wyndham City in a few days. Wyndham City. Sylvia had moved there after he dumped her.

There were things he must do. His blowout with Carole had consumed too much time prior to his departure and he had let matters go unattended.

Ralph stayed in The Mansion Hotel which was where he would hold his seminars. His company’s local office had put out word of his visit. When he checked in, the receptionist handed him a bundle of mail and messages received. He took them to his room and, after unpacking and showering, sat at the desk to read the correspondence. His heart bounced when he opened a ‘welcome’ card. It was store-bought and the front cover wished him luck. Inside was a simple note: ‘Hi! Do you remember me?’

Could it be from Sylvia? Who else could have sent it? He had recalled their days together more frequently of late. Could the same be true for her? He remembered their joyous times and his belated regret at letting her go. There was no signature or scribbled initials and Ralph could not claim to recognise the handwriting, but he wanted it to be from her. He smelled the card and detected the faintest trace of a perfume he could not identify. He looked in vain for a return address. Who else could have sent the card? It had to be Sylvia. He searched in a directory raised on his mobile but her name wasn’t there. Likely she had married. She might live in another city but had somehow heard of his visit. He realized that thought was illogical. He put his head in his hands and wracked his brains to think of a way of finding a person whose name and address he did not know.

At his table in the dining room, Ralph twirled the wine in his glass and recalled the first time he and Sylvia had held hands and kissed.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the waiter as he attempted to serve Ralph a plate of marmalade pork belly.

As he cut into the meat, Ralph remembered the week when Sylvia’s parents had gone overseas, leaving their daughter alone in the house. Sylvia had laughingly claimed they had broken the world record for the number of times a couple could have sex in a week.

When he opened the door to his room, the flashing red message-light on the house phone greeted him. He was immediately excited, thinking Sylvia could be responsible for the scarlet pulsations. He delayed picking up the receiver, knowing that once he did fact might triumph over hope. When the pointlessness of hoping a message already delivered was from a specific person dawned, he picked up the phone, pressed the button and listened.

‘Hello Ralph. Do you know who this is?’  Happiness flooded through him like a surging tsunami, almost choking him. He’d been right. She sounded wonderful. ‘Do you remember me? It’s nice to know we’re close again.’  He felt light-headed. ‘I’m sorry I missed you. I know you must be busy and I don’t want to take up your precious time. I’ll call again tomorrow night.’

‘No! Don’t hang up,’ rushed from his mouth. Then, remembering it was a recording, he felt foolish.

Sylvia continued, as if aware of his plea. ‘If we don’t speak then, well, good luck. I think of you often. Maybe tomorrow? Bye.’  He wanted to tell her he thought of her all the time.

He held the phone to his ear even after it told him there were no more messages. Why hadn’t she given her number or address? He brought her young face to his mind and tried to imagine how she might look now. It doesn’t matter, he thought. What I want is a loving person, not a trophy. And she had loved him. Sylvia had been the sweetest, gentlest, most loving person he had ever known. He redialled the message and learned it had been received at seven minutes after nine.

While he watched the late-night news from his king-sized bed, his mobile rang. He quickly stretched across the wide space and snatched it off the bedside table. ‘Hello,’ rushed out louder than intended.

‘My, my, isn’t that a guilty sounding voice!’ his wife said accusingly. ‘What were you doing? Playing with yourself?’

The sound of Carole brought reality back. ‘I love you, too, Carole. What can I do for you?’

‘It occurred to me you might think because you escaped to earn more chickenfeed our discussion about holidays was over. It isn’t. If you don’t want to go on holiday, I’ll go without you and you can stay and take care of your precious house repairs. I want the sun and sand of a foreign shore.’

‘We don’t have the room for that in our budget. I …’

‘Stuff your budget! If you had a decent job, it wouldn’t matter. I’m going, with or without you. If you want to spend your time off watching workmen while I’m in Bermuda, that’s up to you. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly, Carole. Absolutely crystal.’  He knew hanging up on her would aggravate the situation, but he no longer cared. He turned his mobile off, then picked up the house phone and instructed the night clerk not to forward calls to his room. He knew Sylvia would never call someone after nine-thirty unless it was an emergency. He could live without Carole’s vitriol. He remembered Sylvia as the epitome of class and style. Is she still the same person? Someone once said, ‘you can never go back.’  Whoever that was could be wrong. It was a generality. The person had not known Sylvia.

His wake-up call came at seven, as requested. When it continued to ring, Ralph picked it up. An apologetic hotel employee told him Mrs Taylor was on the line, demanding to be put through. Would Mr Taylor take the call?

‘Sure. Thank you. Put her through.’

‘Don’t you ever hang up on me again,’ Carole screamed, and he knew she’d been gnawing on it all night.

‘Hello, Carole. What can I do for you this morning?’

‘Hang up on me again and I’ll cut you nuts off. And when I call you I expect to speak to you, not have some flunky tell me you have requested bloody privacy.’ She emphasised her derision with a nasal sneer. ‘If you weren’t such a lousy lay, I’d think you had a woman with you.’

‘It’s not a bad idea.’

He imagined the distant phone slammed down, but all he heard was a click.

The hateful feelings Carole had ignited in him withered away during breakfast. When he thought of speaking with Sylvia that night, he felt young and sprightly, and it showed in his presentation and resultant meetings.

During dinner, thoughts about sticking to his marriage vows returned to haunt him. The Catholic Church had recently underlined its stance on divorce. Screw it. Celibates could have no idea of what being married to a Carole entailed. Nevertheless, he had made a vow.

He returned to his room and turned off his mobile, not wanting interruptions from Carole. He then took a shower, combed his hair and dabbed on cologne. He laughed at himself. Anyone would think Sylvia was coming to his room. She’s probably married with children. Even if she isn’t, she was never the kind of person to start a relationship with a married man. There I go again, he thought. I’m married. I made vows. Carole is my wife. He checked the time and saw it was four minutes to nine. Should he sit on the bed or pull a chair to the table on which the phone sat. He paced to the bathroom and reminded himself of his vows. When he turned about and headed for the phone, he thought of Sylvia and the possibility of happiness. He retraced his steps to the bathroom and realised he was also heading for the toilet. When he strode toward the phone, hope soared. When he turned away his conscience reminded him of his vows. As he turned once more to the telephone, it rang.