0 comments/ 24249 views/ 7 favorites The Tuesday Volunteers By: Starlight “The bloody shit, leaving me like that!” A passing couple looked at me, startled. I realised I had spoken my thought aloud. I was walking my terrier along the river path and for the millionth time was contemplating the ruins of my marriage. It was only the day before that the divorce had become absolute, and Vic was now free to marry his slut. There are things that we know are going to happen, but never the less, we somehow can’t encompass them until they actually arrive. I have wondered from time to time how people condemned to be executed, can go on for days, weeks, even months, without falling apart. Perhaps it is a similar thing. Its only when the moment arrives that the reality hits home. That’s how I was feeling that lovely Spring morning. The reality of being alone, without my husband of eighteen years, finally struck me in all its actuality. It had taken eighteen months to complete the divorce, and all the time he was living with his slut, the twenty-year old that had replaced me in his life. Yet, it had not seemed real, final, until yesterday. When he first said he was going to leave me for her, I begged and pleaded. Amongst my other emotions now, was anger that I should have abased myself. He had made me feel ugly, unloved and unattractive. I was undesirable to him, and so was undesirable to any one else. Nineteen years before he could not keep his hands off me. Then it was he who begged and pleaded. He wanted me like he’d never wanted a woman before, so he said. He was good looking, personable, some years older than I was, and on his way to becoming a successful lawyer. I was young, just eighteen when I met him at a party. I was flattered that this sophisticated man was attracted to me. I fell fiercely in love with him. Despite my infatuation with him, I did not give in to his entreaties at first. He tried everything; expensive restaurants, concerts, theatres and romantic moonlight gazing. It was his endless reassurances that he would love me for ever, and I wouldn’t get pregnant because he knew what he was doing, that finally brought about my surrender. He took my virginity one night in the back of his flashy sports car. “Anyway,” he said, “You can’t get pregnant the first time.” How wrong he was. Within a month, I knew I was pregnant. When I told him he said, “You’d better get rid of it. We don’t want to start off our married life on the wrong foot. We need to wait awhile before we have kids.” He arranged with one of his medical pals to give me an abortion. I can’t complain about the care I received. He was paying, and he could afford the best. Yet looking back, that abortion gives me my most virulent grounds for hating him. We married, and thereafter, for all the seed he pumped into me, I never got pregnant again. How naïve, how stupid I had been! For the first five years of our marriage we…no…I was going to write, “we made love constantly.” Looking back now I can only write a word I never normally use. “He fucked me.” And how he “fucked me.” I lacked experience in sexual matters, and at first, I was horrified at what he expected me to do. Perhaps I should have written, “Demanded.” In fairness, I must admit I came to enjoy the things into which he initiated me: as well as vaginal sex, which I had obviously anticipated anyway, there was oral and anal sex, ejaculating between my breasts and playing rape games. In fact, sexually I gave myself to him totally. If ever a man was capable of giving a girl a thorough sex education, it was Vic. It was some time during the fifth year of our marriage that I noticed a falling off in his sexual drive. As I wrote, he is some years older than I am, twelve, to be exact, and once more, I was naïve. I thought that the decline of his interest was caused by a combination of the time we had been having sex and his age. I actually thought that a man might lose interest sexually speaking, when he was in his mid thirties! How silly can you be? Friends tried to warn me that Vic was playing around with other women, and I roundly refuted them. I knew “he loved me deeply”, and I loved and desired only him. “He wouldn’t think of entering into sexual relationship with another woman!” Ha! I was so sure of my place in Vic’s life, I did not even tax him with the things I was told about his, “Playing around,” as some put it. It was only when he announced he was leaving me for his slut that the truth came out. I suppose to try to make him self feel better, he then boasted of his infidelities. Even gave me the names of some of them. They included women I had thought to be my friends. Painful as this was, it was nothing to the final revelation. Over the years of our marriage, I had gone to many doctors to try to discover why I could not get pregnant. I had begun by assuming that the abortion had done something to render me infertile. Nothing was found to be wrong with me. Vic always refused to have tests saying, “I got you pregnant that first time, so there’s nothing wrong with me.” On the day of his departure, he made the final hateful thrust. He told me that after my abortion, the same medical pal had performed a vasectomy on him. If this wasn’t bad enough, he went on to tell me he intended to see if this could be reversed, so he and his slut could have children. How do you live with someone for eighteen years, and not see the evil, the deception in him or her? In the face of all this, I broke down completely. All that had underpinned my life had deserted me. Above all, my naivete and blindness rose up to haunt me. I spent two months in a psychiatric nursing home. Now, here I was, still spitting out my venom, and doing it aloud in public. So what to do? I had sworn there would never be another man in my life. For the period of my illness, this was no problem. Then I had desired nothing but release from the storms that raged inside me. Now, other desires began to make themselves felt. Even right up to the time Vic told me he was leaving me, we had continued to “fuck”. I am a woman who normally needs a lot of emotional gratification, and Vic had given it me in the sense of regular sex, even if at a diminished level. Now here I was, with my aching need for satisfaction, and there was no one I could trust with my body. Certainly, there had been several men who sought to “console” me. They usually suggested that “We could have a very meaningful relationship.” Most of them were husbands of my girl friends, and all of them were sent packing. I considered the possibility of a lesbian relationship, but decided that it was not for me. So there I was, night after night, trying to satisfy myself with a dildo and vibrator, and weeping with every orgasm because it was not the real thing. What messes we humans can get ourselves into! Walking my little dog along the river path, he seemed to be the only thing left I could safely love. I looked into the future, and saw myself year after year, walking alone with my dog along that path. Vic, of course, being Mr.Money Bags, had graciously provided for his cast-off. At first, my pride tempted me to refuse his grandiose offer, but practicalities intervened. Marrying young, I had never established a career. I had no particular skills to offer, so getting anything other than the most menial work was about all I could expect. I frankly admit I could not face that situation. “Something must be done,” I blurted out aloud. I looked around hastily, but no one was in sight, I’m thankful to say. I sat on the park bench that is just where the river bends, and watched the rosellas swoop from tree to tree, then heard their angry squawking. Oh God, even they, for all their colourful beauty, can’t live in peace,” I complained. A young couple walked by hand in hand. I watched them sourly. “Just wait till he clears off and leaves you,” I thought. The thought was a little dampened when two minutes later an elderly couple came by also hand in hand. I thought about the words of one of the counselors I had attended. “My dear,” she said patronizingly, “You must realise that lifelong fidelity is totally out of date. The modern person needs to be venturesome in their partnerships.” I later found out she had been married four times. People went past, some jogging, some walking with grim determination, others strolling contemplatively. “Something must be done,” I said again, but this time in my head. “I must do something with my life, but what?” A young man approached leading a terrier. He stopped by the seat looking at Darcy (my terrier). “Look, Annie,” he said to his dog, “another Yorkshire Terrier.” I don’t think either Darcy or Annie were particularly interested in their mutual breed, but they did seem to take an interest in their gender difference. There was much sniffing and cavorting. The young man sat down beside me and began that conversation beloved of dog owners: “How long have you had him/her? What do you feed him/her on? Does he/she bark much?” And so on. After a few minutes of this conversation the young man rose and said, “Got to go now. It’s my morning at the Royal Children’s Hospital.” “Someone you know sick,” I asked, with no real concern. “Luckily, no,” he laughed, “I go there every Tuesday morning to visit the children and cheer them up.” It was Tuesday. “Due there at ten and I’ve got to get changed. Goodbye.” I watched him stride away, with Annie giving rueful backward glances at Darcy, and Darcy straining on the lead to pursue her. The young man was tall and dark haired, and moved with a graceful sort of ease. “Bet he hasn’t got a care in the world,” I thought. It seems to be the case that when we are locked into our own problems, we can’t imagine that others might also be troubled. I rose and made my way home to my lonely house. Wondering what I was going to do for the rest of the day – or the rest of the week for that matter. I decided on the garden, and spent the rest of the day and some of the week potting and unpotting plants. I actually love gardening, but I seemed to have no real zest for it then, just as I had none for anything else. As I tinkered around over the following days, thoughts of the young man kept flitting through my mind. I wondered what he did at the Children’s Hospital. I had no real memory of what he looked like, except he was tall, dark and moved so gracefully. Everyday when I took Darcy for his walk, I kept an eye open for the young man. I was not particularly disappointed when he did not show up along the river path. My reason for wanting to meet with him again was simply to satisfy my curiosity about his hospital work. My curiosity had to wait a full week. It was Tuesday again, and once more, I was sitting on the bench by the river bend. The young man hove into view. Darcy and Annie spotted each other and there was much leaping and canine socialising. The young man sat next to me again and began once more on doggy subjects. I interrupted his discourse about annual injections for doggy ailments. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what do you do at the Children’s Hospital?” He laughed, showing even white teeth. “I’m a clown,” he said. “A clown,” I echoed. “What does a clown do in a hospital?” “Make sick children feel it bit better by getting them to laugh,” he replied. My curiosity was really aroused now. “How did you get into it?” “Ah, well. I went with one of my colleagues to visit his sick daughter. I had a bit of a chat with her, then found myself talking to the child in the next bed, then the next. In an hour I talked to every child in the ward.” “We were about to leave when a lady with a trolley of drinks came into the ward. I noticed she was wearing a badge with “Volunteer” on it. I had a bit of a chat with her, and learned that there were lots of volunteers working in the hospital.” “You see, many of the kids come in from the country, so their parents can’t visit them every day. Some of the volunteers go and sit with the children, talk to them, read stories and play games. The lady I was talking with asked me if I was interested. I said I was, but my working hours made it a bit difficult. She said the hours were very flexible, so, to cut a long story short, I volunteered.” If I had thought about such matters at all, I would have pictured the volunteers as retired people. It was fascinating that a young man should be among their number. “How do you fit it in with your work,” I asked. “Oh, well, I work as an under manager in a hotel. We have to have people on duty twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, so we operate in shifts. Tuesday is one of my days off, so Tuesday is my hospital day.” “Did you volunteer as a clown.” I asked. He laughed again. “No, I was a volunteer visitor, but one day they were holding a birthday party for one of the children. I talked with the other volunteers, and it was agreed I should dress up as a clown. It was a terrific success. You see, I can do a few tricks with cards and string, and take eggs from behind their ears, stuff like that. They loved it and I’ve been their clown ever since.” “I must go now, I’m due to do my clowning again. Nice to talk with you, er…I’m Bryce Williams. Hope to see you again.” He moved off and I called after him, “I’m Nancy Nightingale.” He turned and smiled. “Not a nurse, are you?” I shook my head. He went on his way taking with him a heartbroken Annie and leaving behind a disgruntled Darcy. He also left behind a thoughtful Nancy. He turned up again the following Tuesday, and I plied him with further questions about his volunteering and clowning. He was a good looking young man, and one might have expected him to be out raging and chasing the girls, or they chasing him, rather than amusing hospitalised children. In a way, I could see why he would be good with children. He had a warm, friendly personality and smiled and laughed easily, but not in the stupid, empty way some people have. If I was interested in his activities, he was also taking an interest in me. “Nancy, are you thinking of volunteering?” he asked. I didn’t know how to answer this question. I had become so embittered with the human race in general that the thought of doing something for someone else did not exactly appeal. Of course, the bitterness was more about me than the human race, but that did not occur to me at the time. Then the thought came to me of the children I had not been able to have, and Vic’s betrayal had denied me. Perhaps I could…? I decided to prevaricate. “I’d like to think about it, Bryce,” I said. “Good,” he smiled. “If you like you could come with me to the hospital one day and see how you feel about it.” “Yes, I’ll think about it.” “Bye, Nancy. See you next Tuesday?” “Probably.” He was off with his graceful stride. During the following days I cursed Bryce and his volunteering. “Why did he have to pester me with his suggestions. I was all right as I was, I didn’t need to be bothering with other people’s kids.” So ran my thoughts on one side. On the other side, I knew of my loveless loneliness. Unattractive and desired only by randy husbands, who wanted “a bit on the side,” my deep self longed to love. I loved Darcy, but loving a dog is not quite the same as loving…who or what? Perhaps sick children would be safe to love. Tuesday came and I had almost made up my mind not to go to the seat by the river bend. Darcy and I would walk in the other direction. I even started to walk along the path away from the seat, but after a few minutes, I turned, drawn as if by a magnet to that bloody bench. Bryce was already there. I saw him at some distance, his little Annie off the lead playing with a ball. Annie was the first to spot us, and hurtled towards us. I released Darcy from his lead and they rushed round each other in joyous welcome. Bryce looked up and seeing me raised his hand in greeting. As I drew near to him he said, “Thought you might not be turning up today.” “Started out a bit later than usual,” I lied. We chatted about the weather for a while, watching Annie and Darcy argue over the ball. Then came what I knew must come. “Thought any more about working at the hospital, Nancy?” “Yes, I’ve thought about it.” A pause. “And?” “Could I come and have a look with you?” “Wonderful. You’d be a real asset Nancy. I mean, most of the volunteers are fairly old, and they are fine for the grandparent image, but when they see you, wow.” “What do you mean, ‘wow’?” “Sorry. I wasn’t being rude of suggestive or anything. I mean, when they see a pretty lady like you…” “Don’t be silly, Bryce.” There was an awkward pause, poor Bryce not understanding how he might have offended me, which he hadn’t, and me trying not to think of myself as a “pretty lady.” “No offence, Nancy?” “Of course not, Bryce.” “You’d really like to come with me?” “I said so.” I was not at all sure why I had said so. “I have to go soon, can I come and pick you up. I’ve got a parking permit and its damned hard to park around the hospital without one.” I had not expected to be going to visit the hospital so soon, but as usual, having nothing else of any importance to do, I agreed he should pick me up. I gave him my address, and Bryce loped off, and I hastened home. There were unaccountable little thrills of excitement running through me. I fed Darcy, rapidly changed my clothes, put on a bit of makeup, and waited on tenterhooks for Bryce to arrive. He rang the doorbell and I hurried to answer it. Bryce stood there in a clown’s makeup and costume. I burst out laughing and he smiled. “First time I’ve heard you laugh, Nancy.” He had a somewhat aging Toyota and Annie was sitting in the back. “Do you leave her in the car all the time your in the hospital, I asked?” “Good Lord, no. She comes in with me.” “But I thought animals weren’t allowed.” He laughed his infectious laugh. “You are behind the times, Nancy. They found that people, especially children, recover far quicker when they can see and touch animals. Besides, Annie has a few tricks of her own.” It was about a ten minutes drive to the hospital – a huge building, almost forbidding in its overbearing size. In the reception area Bryce had a few words with an official looking woman, and I was handed a badge with the legend, “Visitor” imprinted on it. We got into the lift and Bryce pressed the button for the seventh floor. “Got the leukemia ward today.” We got out of the lift and turned towards a ward marked 7B. As we entered, I saw that some of the children were sitting around on soft chairs, but most were lying in bed. A cry went up, “Mr.Clown, Mr.Clown.” Voices begged for him to do a trick for them, and Bryce went into his funny routine, mending pieces of string that had been cut, pulling eggs out from all over the place. He got them to pick cards and stick them in the pack, and after shuffling them, he turned the card up first go. Annie did little dances on her hind legs and jumped through a hoop. All the time he had a gentle patter that made them laugh. At first, I followed Bryce as he moved round the ward. I noticed that most of the children had bald heads and were very white, most in the beds had tubes attached to them. After a while I broke away from following Bryce and began to move round the beds, talking to the children, asking them those silly adult questions like, “What’s your name? How old are you.” I came to one bed were the child looked terribly ill. To my question about her name she said, “Petra.” She was six years old. I sat beside her, asking her were she came from and how long she had been in hospital. To my questions she answered in whispers, so I had to lean forward to hear her. Her wasted hand reached up to touch my face, and she said, “You are a very pretty lady. Do you think I’ll be pretty like you when I grow up.” The Tuesday Volunteers A cold knife seemed to run through me. I could give no answer. My eyes filled with tears, and I rose without responding to the child. I struggled out of the ward with blurred vision. Reaching the corridor I leaned my head against the wall and broke into sobs that seemed to be torn from the very depths of my being. Even at the worst time, after Vic left me, I had not cried like this. I felt an arm round my shoulder, and Bryce was saying, “Come with me.” He led me to a side room and sat me in an armchair. I wept on, but began to speak through my sobs. “Bryce I couldn’t, I couldn’t. Its…its too terrible…those little children… those poor little children…I couldn’t…couldn’t even answer her…I couldn’t be a volunteer.” “Nancy, we all feel like you at first. If you have love in your heart, how could you not weep for them, but for most of them, there is at least hope. I heard what little Petra said to you, and the terrible thing is, she is one of those who have the least hope. But suppose you had said to her, ‘You are very pretty now, Petra’. Can you imagine what that would have done for a little girl? A ‘pretty lady’, telling her she’s pretty?” “Don’t Bryce, please, it hurts too much. I don’t have ‘love in my heart’. I only have bitterness and hate. And I’m not a ‘pretty lady’.” “I think you believe that, Nancy, but I also think you are deceiving to yourself. Your very response shows the love that is in you, and as for not being pretty, I think you feel ugly inside, so can’t see the beauty outside, but others can. I don’t know what has hurt you so much, but I do know that with these sick children, you could find healing.” “Take me home, Bryce, please.” His arm still round me, Bryce escorted me, a sopping wet ruin, to his car. We said nothing during the drive, yet I could feel the warmth and comfort of Bryce’s presence. I wanted to escape that too. I wanted to flee back to my castle of cynicism, to feel safe from the pains of the world. Bryce stopped the car outside my house. “Will you be all right?” he asked. “Is there anything I can do for you.” “Nothing,” I answered, more tartly than I had intended. “Shall I see you next Tuesday?” “I think I might be very busy,” I snapped. “Oh well, some other time, perhaps.” I turned away without another word. Entering the house, I suddenly burst into tears again. It was not only the children this time, it was also the way that I had dismissed Bryce, the gentle, loving, clowning Bryce. I wept until there were no tears left in me. Poor Darcy tried in his doggy way to comfort me, and I ended up on the sofa, exhausted, hugging his warm little body to me. I slept, but had dreams of white faced little children and a clown that turned into the figure of the grim reaper. I was woken by the sound of the telephone ringing. I looked at the clock, and it was eight p.m. I went to the telephone and picked up the receiver. “Nancy Nightingale.” “Bryce Williams here, Nancy. Hope you don’t mind but I was concerned for you, so I looked up your number and…” “Its all right Bryce.” Dear God, I had treated the man like dirt, and he was ringing me out of ‘concern’! What did one have to do to turn this man away from you? “Are you okay, Nancy?” “I think so, Bryce.” “You don’t sound too sure.” “No, I’m all right, Bryce. Its just…just…I have a few things I have to sort out. Don’t you worry about me.” “Well, if there’s anything I can do…can I give you my telephone number? I’m at work right now so I’ll give you this number and my home number…just in case you want to talk.” I took the numbers and said, “Well, good night, Bryce.” I wanted to say, “Good night, you beautiful man,” but of course, men weren’t beautiful in my book.” “Good night, Nancy.” He rang off. The experts – counselors, psychiatrists and all sorts of therapists, had probed me. None had succeeded in bringing me face to face with myself like the gentle Bryce, and that child Petra. I had known him no time at all and apart from today; it had been fleeting conversations on a bench. Yet such was the power of the man – was “power” the right word? – I felt I had known him forever. What was that power if power it was? I knew the answer, but was not prepared to face it. If I did face it, then my little castle of cynicism would come crashing down. I would be defenceless. I would have to admit that there could be love, love like Bryce’s. Not the love of the men who tried to get inside my knickers. Not love like that of Vic who had betrayed me. Bryce had the pure love of compassion for his fellow humans that led him to open himself to others in their need. It was too much for me to be able to admit. It was like the love that long ago had led to an execution on a hill outside a Middle Eastern city. I didn’t want his compassion, I wanted my revenge, revenge for all the pain…Petra…don’t think of her… I wasn’t too busy on Tuesday. I met Bryce on our bench. “I want to be a volunteer, Bryce.” “I knew you would.” “How did you know?” “I felt the goodness in you. They will give you training before you start as a volunteer. You’ll need to know what to do and not to do.” “That’s all right. When can I start?” “As soon as you’ve been interviewed by the volunteer supervisor.” “Can I come in with you today.” “Of course. I’ll call for you as soon as I’ve got into my clown outfit.” I was interviewed by a beautiful woman in her sixties. Why had I always thought that people in their sixties could not be beautiful? She welcomed me, and after some probing questions, my training course was outlined for me. The following weeks were among the busiest of my formally easygoing life. I saw little of Bryce except for the short times on Tuesdays. But then, when had I ever seen more of him apart from the one occasion? When we did have our brief Tuesday meetings Bryce would ask me how the training was going. At first I had approached the course with trepidation, but quickly found myself becoming involved with it. I told Bryce what, after all, he already knew, that the course, apart from talks on hospital regulations, consisted of two main elements: First, the ability to listen properly and, second, the way to respond properly. It was in learning about these things that I was often brought face to face with myself. Like many people I had reacted, rather than responded to what people said. This can lead to confrontation and a failure to connect with the other person. Once let loose on the wards, I at first tended to be stilted in my responses, as I tried to apply what I had been taught as a technique. I almost despaired when my efforts struck no chord with the children, but given a little time I absorbed what I had learned so it became part of me, and my responses where much more me, and not a technique. Working with the children began. I made a point of visiting the leukemia ward and went to Petra’s bed. Another child occupied it. I asked the nurse what had happened to her, but I knew the answer in my heart. “I’m afraid we couldn’t save her,” she replied. Bryce had predicted that working with the children would bring about a healing process in me. In time, he was proved right. The hate and bitterness began to diminish, to be replaced by – what can I call it? “Love?” With the diminishing of my former negativity about people and world, came a more positive view of myself. As the children responded to me, I came to consider that I might be a likeable, if not a loveable, person after all. Into the midst of this agreeable change taking place in me, came something that was as surprising as it was pleasing. At one of our Tuesday park bench meetings, Bryce said, “Nancy, the State Theatre is putting on a revival of ‘A Little Night Music.’ They’ve sent a couple of complementary tickets to the hotel, and the manager has given them to me. Would you come with me to see it?” I was wary but I hasten to add, that Bryce had never, by word or deed, done anything to bring about this response. It was the case that, although I now trusted myself with children, men were still highly suspect. They had, I believed, only one ultimate goal, and that was to get me into bed, or like my first encounter with sex, into the back of a car. Then more rationally, I wondered why Bryce would want to be taking a woman some nine or ten years older than he was to a musical? He could surely have got himself a younger, and probably more sexually amenable, date? Shamefully I must admit that I reverted to some of my old cynicism and replied to a perfectly innocent offer of a pleasant night out, more sharply than was warranted. “Why are you asking me?” The manner and form of my response would have turned most men off on the spot, but not the lovely Bryce. “I just thought you’d enjoy it, and I would like your company.” So ingenuous was his reply that I melted. That he liked my company was clear from the way he made a point of meeting me, however briefly, every Tuesday. Had I thought that through, I would have acknowledged that I liked his company, or why else did I make sure I was there at the park bench to meet him? Regretting my snappy reply I said, “I’d love to come with you, Bryce.” He looked rather happy. I made an arrangement to pick him up in my car. This would give the double advantage of travelling in something bit more up market than his battered Toyota, and make any attempt to grope me more difficult if I was behind the wheel. Unworthy motives, perhaps, but that is how it was with me at that time. On the night of our outing, I can safely say it was an outstanding and thoroughly enjoyable performance. One little incident occurred that modesty should forbid my repeating, but self-esteem prevails. It was during the interval, and Bryce spotted a colleague and his wife. We went over to them and introductions were carried out. I started talking to the wife, while Bryce chatted with his colleague. Out of the corner of my ear, as it were, I heard the colleague say, "Where did you meet that beauty, you lucky bugger?” Bryce had his back to me, so I did not hear his response. The drive home had me slightly edgy, wondering what would happen when we got to Bryce’s place. Arriving there, I stopped the car, leaving the engine running. Bryce simply said, “Thank you for coming with me. I’ve enjoyed being with you very much. Goodnight, Nancy. See you on Tuesday, unless we run across each other on the wards.” He got out of the car and I drove off. Arriving home, I felt a contradictory mixture of relief and pique. Relief because he hadn’t even tried to so much as kiss me on the cheek, and pique for the same reason. My female ego was abashed. Having been invited out by Bryce, I now felt the need to reciprocate in some way. I was not at that time, or even now for that matter, inclined to the view that men should do all the inviting or all the paying. But what to do? I finally decided on the good old standby of an invitation to dinner. Not, of course, at my house. That would be far too dangerous. The meal would be at a restaurant. The following Tuesday, after ascertaining if and when Bryce got an evening off, I made my invitation. Bryce accepted very happily, but only on the grounds that he was allowed to buy the wine. Again, I was to pick him up. I chose my location carefully, opting for a non-soft lights and sweet music restaurant. “No point in courting trouble,” I thought. Detail of the meal is hardly relevant to my story and the journey and arrival home produced the same result as before. Not even a peck on my cheek. I decided to confront myself with what I thought to be the reality. “He’s just being friendly towards an older woman. He’s that sort of chap. He likes to do nice things for people.” I accepted this conclusion and thought I’d better rejoice in having such an agreeable friend. I had not expected any further evenings out with Bryce so I was surprised that on the next Tuesday there was an invitation to a concert. From then on, there was always something, theatres, films, concerts, restaurants and we even got around to walks in the country. It all seemed a bit bewildering to me because Bryce never made the slightest sexual advance. He had only put his arm round me once, and that was when I was distressed on my first visit to the hospital. Apart from that, he did not even attempt to hold my hand. It was all very Platonic and puzzling. I held off from questioning our relationship because I was enjoying it immensely and wished to do nothing that might bring it to an end. Eventually, however, I reached the point where I had to say something. I chose one night after we had been to a concert, and I had just stopped outside Bryce’s place, which I hasten to add, I had never been inside or he in mine. Bryce was about to get out of the car when I stopped him. “Bryce, I have to ask you something.” “Hmm?” “Bryce, I love going out with you, but I don’t understand, why me?” “’Why you’ what, Nancy?” “Don’t be difficult Bryce. Why are you going out with me so often? Don’t you have any girl friends?” “Yes, you.” “Don’t be silly Bryce. You know what I mean, girls your own age.” “Not now.” “Why?” “Because, as I’ve just told you, I have a ‘girl friend’.” “This is ridiculous, Bryce. A nice looking young chap like you taking out a woman old enough to be your mother.” He laughed heartily at this. “Old enough to be my mother! That’s a bit of an exaggeration, isn’t it? You would have had to be a very enterprising little girl of…” “Ten,” I snapped. “Nine,” he contradicted. “All right, nine if you want to be pedantic. So why an older women?” “If you heard that chap at work – the one we met with his wife the first night we went out together – he’s got all the other chaps green with envy with his descriptions of you.” “That’s not really an answer, Bryce. I mean, we’ve been out together a couple of dozen times, but it’s not like the dates I remember. You’ve not even…” A sudden thought struck me. “You’re not gay, are you. I mean, you’re not playing it safe with an older women just for appearances?” It was a thoroughly rude and uncalled for question, but being Bryce, he took it in his stride and laughed. “No, Nancy, I’m not gay and if you want to know, I’m not bisexual either. I’m just a very ordinary heterosexual male.” “Far from ordinary,” I thought, but did not say so. “I know what you wanted to say, Nancy,” he went on. “You wanted to say that I’ve never tried to get my hand up your skirt.” “Bryce!” I was shocked. The way he had put it was so uncharacteristic of him. “Sorry, Nancy. I just had to put it crudely, because it was what you really meant, wasn’t it?” “I suppose so,” I mumbled. “I’ll tell you why, Nancy…” “You don’t have to,” I cut in, afraid of what I might hear. “I know I don’t have to, but I’m going to. I admit I’ve done my share of fumbling with girls, and having sex with them. It was all that rough and tumble stuff by people who didn’t really mean much to each other. The situation with you, as far as I am concerned is that if, and I repeat, if, anything physical…sexual should ever happen between us, it has to be just right.” I was shaken partly because of his openness, and partly because what he had said indicated a very strong attachment to me. I hesitated to let myself think the words, “In love with me.” That would have been too frightening for me. Unable to cope with what he had said, and struggling for a response, I said, weakly, “I must go home, Bryce.” It was I who had opened this matter by questioning him about our relationship, and now I couldn’t face his answer. Bryce came to my rescue. “Of course. I’d better get in and see to Annie. Been on her own quite a bit today. Goodnight, Nancy.” He got out of the car, walked to his front door, went in and closed the door. I felt suddenly bereft, as if the closing of that door had also closed the door on one of the finest friendships I had ever had. I almost ran to the door to knock and call out to him, “Don’t leave me Bryce.” Sanity prevailed, however. I drove home to Darcy, trying to hold back my tears. I went to our bench the following Tuesday. Bryce was not there. I waited as long as I could, but still he did not come. Like Bryce, Tuesday was one of my days at the hospital. Occasionally I had met up with Bryce when we happened to be working on the same ward. This Tuesday I made a point of looking for him, but he didn’t seem to be around. I asked some of the other volunteers, but they hadn’t seen him either. The general comment was, “Most unlike Bryce, he never misses his Tuesday visits.” I was getting seriously anxious. Had my response to his, what amounted to, a declaration of love, upset him to the point that he was not only rejecting me, but the children as well? It seemed utterly uncharacteristic, but what else was I to think? Perhaps he was ill? Should I telephone him? If I did, would he think I was chasing him? I took the risk and rang his home number. There was no answer. Was he away somewhere? He had said nothing about going away. Was he refusing to answer the telephone precisely because he thought it might be me and he didn’t want to talk to me? All my old uncertainties came back to me. Had he seen through me at last? Had he decided, just as I had suggested, that I was too old to be with him? Perhaps he too had come to see how unlovely I am? I went through a week of torment, first telling myself it was best this way, then swinging in the opposite direction and weeping for a lost friendship (A lost love?). The following Tuesday depressed, I went to our bench by the river. It was a sort of goodbye visit…goodbye to one of the best things that had ever happened to me. “Hello, Nancy,” A cheerful voice – his voice. I looked up, and there he was, his usual smiling self. “Bryce, where the hell have you been? I’ve been ringing and ringing you.” “Missed me?” he grinned. “Of course I damned well missed you, you bastard. I’ve been going out of my mind worrying about you.” He became serious. “Didn’t she tell you?” “Didn’t who tell me?” “The volunteer supervisor at the hospital. I told her to let you know.” “No she didn’t, and ‘let me know’ what?” “I should have rung you. That’s what comes of relying on other people.” “For God’s sake, Bryce, will you tell me what it is I’m supposed to have been told!” “Ah, yes, sorry. I’ve been at work…” “All day and all night?” “Almost, yes.” My insecurities came out like sunrise on a wet day. “He’s got himself some female he’s been screwing. Working! I’ve heard that one before,” I thought. “The manager got very sick, and I had to take over. We had two other staff members off with the same problem as the manager, and on top of all that, we were packed out with a huge influx of tourists. I’ve actually been sleeping at work. Had to get a neighbour to take Annie in for a few days.” “A very plausible story,” I thought cynically. “Look, I’m feeling pretty washed out, but I must go to see the children today. Could we have a nice quiet dinner together tonight? Nothing too late, I want an early night, but it would be nice to have a quiet couple of hours with you.” “Are you sure you want them with me?” (What awful things I said to that poor man). “Nancy, who else would I want them with?” “I thought you might prefer…you know…someone…” “Nancy, is there something wrong? Have I said or done something…?” My own thoughts and behaviour suddenly sickened me, and here as characteristically, was Bryce trying to take blame himself. The tears started. “No, no, it’s me, darling. Why don’t you just drop me…find someone else…I’m no good for you.” The Tuesday Volunteers Right there in public, I was weeping and sobbing aloud. His arm came round me. “What is it, Nancy? Tell me.” “I say such hurtful things to you Bryce and you’re always so loving to me. Why do I hurt you so?” “Because you’ve been so badly hurt your self, Nancy. I understand that, and I just hope that one day all the hurts will go away, but that won’t happen if I walk away every time you’re in pain. Besides, I still have the hope that one day you’ll come to love and trust me.” That did it. Down crashed the damned floodgates and I really cut loose. I was sobbing, howling and gushing tears like the river right in front of us. I was dimly aware of an old gentleman stopping to ask, “Is there anything I can do to help?” Was I the only nasty person in the world? I didn’t hear what Bryce replied to the man, but the man said, “I hope she feels better soon,” and went on his way. I was scrunched up against Bryce as if I was trying to hide in him, and he was whispering to me and stroking my hair. I felt two dogs licking my hands. I felt terrible. “I’ll walk home with you,” he said. My defences were down. I wanted him to take me home, and what happened, would happen. So for the second time in our acquaintanceship, Bryce escorted a sopping wet me. Arriving at my house, still heaving gulping sobs, I broke another of my self-imposed regulations. “Come in and have a cup of coffee.” “I’d prefer tea.” “I’ve got some,” then, with a flash of incongruous humour, given my sobs, “I didn’t think you’d notice the difference between tea and coffee being in my desirable company.” “You only add to the flavour, Nancy,” he laughed. Once inside I set about tea making thinking, “My God, what have you let yourself in for, Nancy? Damsel in distress; handsome rescuer giving solace; he’s just got to have a try.” Do you know, he didn’t! No passionate appeals, no kissing or embracing, no breast fondling or thigh stroking. “What’s the matter with this guy, he’s not human?” In my head, I’d even worked out how I was going to counter his moves. The main event, was when he said: “I don’t suppose you’ll feel up to going out tonight now?” That was too much. “Are you trying to wriggle out of your offer of dinner, now? Had a good look at me and decided I’m too ugly to be seen with? Well, you’re not getting out of it. You’ll take me to dinner or there’ll be hell to pay, darling.” “That’s the second time you’ve called me darling. Could there be something in it?” “I’m confusing you with the dog.” “Ah. What time will you pick me up?” “Damn you, Bryce. You ask a girl out to dinner and then expect her to collect you…” “But we always…” “You can take me to dinner in your clapped out jalopy, and be here at seven sharp.” We both laughed – me through my still reverberating sobby gulps. “I shall be here at five minutes to the hour to escort your ladyship. Unless there’s anything special you want me to do, I’d better go. I’ll be late for the hospital.” It hit me, “My God, I’m going to be late too. Let’s go together, we can use my car.” “I’ve got to get into my clown’s outfit.” “We can stop at your place.” And so together, we went to make our hospital rounds. There was something warm and uniting about that. That evening we had a pleasant but uneventful dinner together. My emotional storm of the morning had subsided during my work with the children, but down in the depths it was saying, “I’m still here, and you’re going to have to deal with me some time.” According to my command, Bryce had picked me up in his car, so for once it was he dropping me off at my house. I toyed with the idea of inviting him in for coffee, or a nightcap or some such cliché. Having decided to do just that, he responded, “Not tonight, Nancy, if you don’t mind, I’ve had heavy week and could do with an early night.” I said I understood, but was now seriously wondering if he was some neuter from outer space. He countered this with a peck on the cheek. “Well, that’s something,” I thought. I watched his rear lights dwindle as he drove away, and felt emptiness in my heart. “I wish he had stayed and we…” I cut the thought off. Bryce now became the centre of all my thoughts. However much I tried to push them away, they always returned with increased force. The first and central issue I had to face was why I could not accept that goodness could exist in a person. I had once, long ago, idealistically thought that it could exist, but my experience had warped that view completely out of shape. Through the care and help Bryce had given me, and my work with the children, I had partially come to a more positive view of the world. Yet, I seemed to constantly be reverting to my old cynical self. I could be having the most wonderful time with Bryce, but then say something hard and cutting. Not once had he ever struck back at me. “Good God, the man must really love me, even if he doesn’t seem to want my body.” Why couldn’t I love like that…why couldn’t I at least love Bryce like…Did I…? Could I…? I had no further contact with Bryce until our Tuesday meeting. I had battered my brain and my emotions constantly, and now felt strangely uncomfortable in his presence. I don’t mean that I had decided I did not like Bryce after all, it was just that I didn’t know how to conduct myself naturally with him. We chatted on for some time about neutral things like his work, the hospital, and our dogs. I felt a strain between us, but knew that it was on my side, not his. Finally, the results of my weeklong cogitation and turmoil had to come out. He was about to leave for the hospital, and I was also due there, and in this last moment I spoke up: “Bryce?” “Hmm?” “Will you marry me?” An insolent youth who was passing and heard my proposal called out, “Go on mate, say ‘yes’, or I’ll have her instead.” Bryce seemed stunned. Perhaps I had misread him after all. He didn’t care fopr me in that way? Finally, he found his voice: “Yes, when?” “Soon, very soon. I love you, Mr.Clown.” “I adore you, pretty lady.” “Bryce?” “Yes?” “You haven’t had a vasectomy, have you.” “No, of course not, why ever did you ask that?” “Oh, just something I learned from an old acquaintance.” Our wedding was a remarkable affair. The church was packed inside and others filled the street outside, and most of them were children we had known in the hospital and their parents, come to see Mr.Clown and Pretty Lady get married. Incidentally, he isn’t a neuter, and he hadn’t had a vasectomy, because I think it must have been on our wedding night when I got pregnant for the first time. We’ve managed it twice more since then. I love Mr.Clown!