Omnia Vincit AmorChapter 2
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Note: Since John’s daughter is also called Clare, to avoid confusion his daughter’s name is spelt without an ‘i’: e.g. Clare, throughout the remainder of this story.
On Saturday, the last day of July, Claire had letters ready for attachment to emails. She had written individually to each of her children except of course, Thomas. In them she explained gently what had happened, where she had been and why she had come to John’s house again.
She had wondered as she wrote if compassion for his injuries was the driving force that brought her, or the rekindled desire for him she had not felt for thirty plus years. Needless to say, that question did not find its way into any of the letters.
She did explain how ungrateful their Father had been and how she was now looking at divorcing him and seeking an annulment from the Church. She would be staying with John until he was well enough to look after himself. She pointed out that they would be friends as before, nothing more, though inwardly she did not feel much confidence about that assertion.
“Have you sent the emails?” John asked.
“No, I was going to ask you to read them – see if I pitched them aright.”
“Good,” he said with satisfaction. “Have you seen this?”
He handed the local paper to her, open at an inside page. She read.
‘Father and Son in assault court drama.’
‘A father and son who broke into a man’s home and injured him badly went before the Magistrates’ Court this afternoon.
‘Peter Klinsman and his son Thomas Klinsman both from the Netherlands had accused John Pollard of a relationship with Peter Klinsman’s wife. They assaulted him severely after forcing their way into Mr Pollard’s house. He was taken to hospital as a result of his injuries.
‘Both men pleaded guilty to Assault and Grievous Bodily Harm and were about to be sentenced to prison terms, when Mr Pollard, the victim, pleaded for their release in his victim’s statement.
‘He stated that the families of the two men would suffer hardship if they were sent to prison, and that they were under a misapprehension about Mrs Klinsman’s visit to him. Mrs Klinsman and he had been university friends and she had visited Mr Pollard in sympathy for the recent death of his wife.
‘As a result, both men were released. Peter Klinsman was conditionally discharged, and Thomas Klinsman was sentenced to six months in prison, suspended for a year.
‘Neither of the men commented on their lucky escape from prison as they left the court.
‘It is understood that Mrs Klinsman visited Mr Pollard again to care for him when she heard of the attack by her husband and son.’
Claire looked up. “It made the paper then?”
“Yes. If I’d not intervened, it probably wouldn’t have been reported. I thought you might like to scan some copies and attach them as well?”
She smiled at him. “Good thinking, At least they won’t be able to accuse me of lying.”
John read the letters and saw nothing amiss with them, so a scan of the newspaper article was attached along with each letter attachment and sent off. John and Claire braved the showers to take her son John’s letter to the post office to be sent to John’s friend in Germany who thereafter posted it on.
When they returned from the post office, they had coffee sitting on the sofa. She turned to him and looked pleadingly into his eyes, and he knew she needed to be held, to receive comfort and security from him. John said nothing but hugged her to him. There was nothing he could say, nor did he want to say anything.
At length she stirred, finished her coffee and stood up.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll go and do some gardening. It will calm me down. I need to think.”
John nodded and she left to change. He picked up his latest library book and settled to read. It was not long before he realised that he could not concentrate. Things were moving too fast for him.
Now it seemed that Claire was fixed on a course that would end her marriage one way or another. Whether she would get an annulment from the church was doubtful, but civil divorce seemed inevitable.
He felt saddened that after so many years and a family of five, it had to end with all the disruption that would cause. At least all the children were of an age to cope, for they were all adults and should be living independent lives by now, even if one of them was still at home.
What would she do now? Where would she live? It began to dawn on him that he would rather like to have her with him as a companion. It would relieve the loneliness. After all they had managed very successfully before.
Then he mentally slapped himself. Who was he kidding? How long would it be before they were in bed together? Adultery. One of the Top Ten alongside killing, stealing and lying in court. Not a good idea.
He went to the window and watched her. She had found the kneeling board, a trowel, a hand fork and a trug, and was setting about weeding the flower border. He wondered what was going through her mind.
In fact the answer he would never know was – not a lot! It was as if her life with Peter and her children existed in a parallel universe. She was living in the present moment, distinguishing plants from weeds, watching the small brown robin redbreast as it hopped close to her, picking out a worm and flying a short distance away to flail it about prior to eating it. The bird had a simple life. She remembered that while it was pretty, it was in fact one of the most vicious small garden birds. That’s life, you can’t tell by appearances, she thought to herself.
She came in for a salad lunch before returning to the flower border, while John got out the motor mower, cut the grass and trimmed the edges of the lawn. It caused him some pain, but he persevered.
“Let’s go out for a meal tonight,” he suggested to her, and she smiled and nodded. They took their separate showers and dressed up a little. Claire took his arm as they wandered along what John called Café Alley where there was a variety of fare on offer, Indian, Chinese, Persian, Turkish, Italian, even British!
“Claire, you choose which place for us,” John begged her. “You’ve been through a lot, which one?”
“I really fancy a curry,” she said, glancing at him to ascertain if this met with his approval.
“Good idea!” he enthused. “Can’t go wrong with a curry.”
The meal was well cooked and attentively served with humour and no subservience. As they left, Claire was presented with a red carnation, which amused John and touched Claire.
“Very apt after all your work among the flowers today,” he said.
When he offered a nightcap, Claire opted for a whisky.
“Highland, Speyside, Lowland or one from the islands?” he asked.
“I have so much choice?” she asked, eyes sparkling. “I think a Speyside, would be nice.”
“Twelve year old Cragganmore?” he asked.
“Sounds wonderful,” she enthused.
He poured her a generous dram, and presented it with a small jug of water.
“What are you having?” she asked, noting another bottle on the table.
“Old Pultney,” he said. “Highland. Most northern distillery, I think. Wick, near John o’Groats. Lovely smooth dram.”
“I never knew you were a malt whisky expert. You were always a beer man.”
“Still am, but I’ve grown to love malt whisky. Got quite a collection, like your mother. You?”
“As you know, Mum was a single malt whisky buff. I think you two would have got on well in her later years. You saw the collection at the house. You must come up with me again and drink some more of it.”
“Love to.”
“You know, when she was dying she as much as told me to leave Peter and come to you.”
There was a pause.
“She and your father didn’t like me,” he countered with that bald statement.
“It wasn’t that,” she said. “They wanted the best for me, and according to their lights at the time, they thought I could do better. Mum said at the end that they’d been foolish and you were the one I should have stuck with.”
“Water under the bridge,” John said. “We’ve said it before, I think. Between us we have eight (is it?) reasons not to regret the choices we made, and then there are all the good times we’ve had with our spouses.”
They finished their drinks and went to their separate bedrooms.
On Sunday, John was up before Claire was awake.
“Morning Claire,” said John, placing a mug of tea by her bed.
She stirred then awoke fully and smiled. “Morning John. I’m supposed to be looking after you.” She sat up and the duvet slipped from her. John was relieved that she was wearing a nightdress that covered her completely.
“I’m much better. Mass today and then I’m afraid you’re on your own this morning. It’s my week on the Sunday rota for taking Communion to our sick and housebound.”
“John!” she reprimanded him. “You’re not well enough to go traipsing round the area. And it’s just started raining. You’ll put your recovery back weeks!”
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