Then, just to embarrass me to bits, my father’s at the door. I hadn’t been straight back and he’s furious. I’m not too pleased either, and won’t go with him. I stay another couple of minutes with Deirdre, and then go home.
The next day, my parents and I have a ‘discussion’ - an argument about my freedom. I haggle for staying out till ten, but in the end have to settle for nine. Why were they being so protective - didn’t they trust me to behave? Had they brought me up so badly that I was going to rape my girlfriend, or go rampaging through the streets of Leicester?
It was only years later that I discovered the reason for their attitude. My uncle John had been friendly with a Dutch girl called Yanni when he was sixteen. She was a year older. Yanni became pregnant, and her mother found out that John was the father. The two families got together and decided that the best thing for all concerned (the ‘all’ being the parents) was that John and Yanni should marry. Neither of them wanted to; but they agreed to stay together until the child was grown up. My parents were afraid that the same thing could happen to me.
After two months of being with Deirdre, the bubble bursts. Or rather, it slowly deflates. I never stop loving her, but I think she’s gone off me. And she thinks I like someone else better - a neighbour called Debbie Branston. It isn’t true.
John Lennon urges Deirdre and me to ‘Come Together,’ but I don’t have the words, or the way to explain how I feel to her. There is no training in ‘Love’ or ‘Relationships’ at my school, and my parents don’t know what to say to help. Perhaps they think I’ll grow out of it.
And then the Beatles split up. It’s as if they knew about Deirdre and me and decided to call it a day too. After all, they only wrote songs for us, didn’t they? Paul, John, George, Ringo and Deirdre go off on their own individual projects. Deirdre’s is someone called Nick Berkeley - an independent, darkly handsome type who makes me feel inadequate and angry at the same time. I had hoped to get back with Deirdre, but Paul tells me to ‘Let it Be,’ and so I do.
John Lennon was murdered in 1980 and (I later discovered) Deirdre left the Earth in the same decade. One clear autumn day she sat in her car, ran the engine, and allowed the poisonous fumes to put her quickly and permanently to sleep. I’ll probably never know what had driven her to this – I can only guess. Deirdre and the Beatles were so much a part of my life in the 1960’s that I can never forget about her - or them; they’ll always be a part of my ‘Yesterday’.
And in the end,
The love you take
Is equal to the love
You make.
(The Beatles, Abbey Road, 1969)
* * *
Kättja
It all started with an email out of the blue.
Dear Mr Ivanovich,
I am a great fan of your novels. I love the way you phrase things - there is a passion and intensity on the pages that we rarely find in Scandinavian literature. Have you ever considered having your writings translated into Swedish? You might achieve a larger readership in Sweden if you could do this. As it happens, I am a university student of English living in Sweden, and I would be very pleased to translate one of your books for you. I ask no fee - it is my love of your work that drives me, not financial gain. Please tell me what you think about this idea.
Yours sincerely,
Olga Svensson.
I was flattered, of course, and I told Jane about the email right away. She is my agent as well as my wife, after all. But she wasn’t too impressed.
“Why would she want to do this? We have our own professional translators - we don’t need anyone else. And anyway, demand for your books in Scandinavia isn’t high enough to justify the expense at the moment.”
“As I said, she’s not asking for money - she wants to do it for nothing, for the love of literature. She likes my work and wants to share it with other Swedes.”
“I’m sorry David, but I’m not that soft in the head. A young girl writes to you adoringly and you fall for it. If you let her do it, she’ll present you with a bill for thousands of pounds and claim she’s got a binding contract. All she needs is your word. This is exactly why you need an agent - someone who can see through chancers like her.”
Jane was never one to pussyfoot around when it came to books and publishing. And she was right, that’s why I needed her - it was her trade after all. She had learned to be ruthless, when necessary; it was the only way to get ahead in the cut-throat world of publishing. Not that she was ever cruel or callous with the budding authors who hopefully sent her their unsolicited manuscripts every week. She never sent out pre-printed replies, and always gave some encouragement or helpful tips. But she would never say anything was good or had potential if she believed in her heart of hearts that it hadn’t. No point in giving the poor sods false hope, she would say.
But me, the author with a male ego bigger than my longest novel (six hundred and seventy pages), I couldn’t help thinking that Jane was wrong about Olga - and that she had her own personal motives for rejecting the Swede. She was simply jealous, and felt somewhat threatened, I concluded.
Normally, I would leave Jane to reply to any mail concerned with the business side of writing. But this email, I argued, was from a fan - and I always replied to my own fan-mail.
So the next day, I sat at the computer, eyes glued to the screen, and began to write.
Dearest Olga,
I was very flattered by your email received yesterday. I had no idea that my books were read in Scandinavia. Translating into Swedish is a marvellous idea - though I would need to check with my agent and publishers first - just for reasons of copyright, you understand. Anyway, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can on the translating. In the meantime, I’m sending you a signed copy of my latest novel, ‘The Fields of Shame’.
With very best wishes,
David.
Mmm… that sounds all right. Oh, I’ll need her address.
PS: Please send me your postal address for the book whenever you get time.
*
The next day, I checked my email. There was a reply from Olga.
Dear David,
You don’t know how happy it made me to receive your letter… and a signed copy of your book on the way! My friends will be so envious. My address is: Helmarsberg 57, Malmo 20124, Sweden. I’ve also attached a photograph of me - just so you know who you’re writing to.
Warmest Regards,
Olga.
Intrigued, I opened the photograph she’d sent as an attached file. Somehow I felt like a naughty schoolboy - and was glad that Jane was out at work.
Wow - she was gorgeous, really beautiful. I printed out the photograph and email, and then deleted both from my computer. I didn’t want Jane to see a scantily-clad Swedish beauty sitting on my desktop - what would she think? Well, I know exactly what she’d think.
The next day at breakfast, Jane asked me about Olga. Sarcastically, of course.
“Any further news of Miss Stockholm?”
“Oh, just a short email. I said I’d send her a signed copy of a book - you know, like I do with all my big fans. She wrote back to give me her address.”
“Can I see it?”
“What, the email?”
“Yes”
“Oh, I’ve trashed it. That was your advice, remember? ‘Don’t save any emails on the hard-drive - you never know who can gain access to your files from the Internet.’”
“Yes - but you kept an external copy, surely?”
“God Jane - I completely forgot. I know you’ve told me about doing that, but I can never find that bloody memory stick.” Jane sighed, shook her head, and returned to reading her newspaper. Then a thought struck her and she put it down again.
“Then how are you going to send her your book - if you’ve trashed her address?”
“Oh, I copied it down. Remember good old pen and paper - what our grandparents used in the olden days? I’m not a complete idiot, Jane - I have written twenty-seven bo
oks y’know.” I handed her a copy of the address.
“Malmo. Isn’t that the prostitute capital of Western Europe?”
“No Jane, that’s Basingstoke.”
That night in bed, I dreamt of Olga. We made love and it was fantastic. I was in Sweden for a book signing, and there was Olga standing naked with a copy of my new novel. She smiled at me sexily, and I let her jump the queue. The next thing I knew we were together in bed in a swish hotel in Malmo. When I woke up, my arms were wrapped around Jane’s body. She snuggled up to me sleepily.
“Mmm, I don’t know what you were dreaming about David, but you were very sexy last night.”
“Oh, I don’t remember dreaming,” I said, lying through my front teeth. My feelings were beginning to run away with me now, and I realised that the stronger the feelings, the bigger the lies. Was this plain and simple lust, one of the seven deadly sins? Surely not. That’s all right for Nick Owens (a character from one of my novels) - but not for the author. But then, what was I doing wrong? If I fancied a young Swedish woman - so what? I’d really fancied the blond one out of Abba in the 1970’s - it didn’t mean I had any intention of actually going off and having sex with her.
After Jane had gone to work, I looked at Olga’s picture again. She really was stunning. Perhaps I should go to Sweden to meet her - to discuss the translations? I tentatively put the idea to Jane at dinner that evening.
“What - go to Sweden - you must be mad!” she exclaimed.
“Well, I can’t just talk to her on the internet - we need to meet face-to-face. This could be a big break for me in Scandinavia.”
“Then if it’s about business, I should go - you know that. At least we should go together.”
I couldn’t deny that Jane was right, so I let her book two seats on a flight to Malmo for the following Saturday.
*
We met Olga in the lobby of our hotel. I was expecting Jane to be cool and aloof, but she was incredibly warm and attentive as soon as she met the Swede. They talked about the books and the possibilities of translating them - which one would be best to start with, and whether the cover picture should be changed. After Olga had gone, Jane turned to me with a beaming smile.
“David - I was so wrong about Olga. She’s such a delight. She’s got a depth to her I hadn’t anticipated, and I think she genuinely does love your work and would like to do the translations for nothing. We can’t let her do that, of course. I mean, we must pay her something, even if it’s just her expenses. It’s better from a copyright point-of-view if we give her a fee.
“Very wise of you Jane - as always. So she’s not the Swedish prostitute you imagined her to be?”
“Oh far from it, David. I’m sorry I said that - but you know me, always cautious.” She paused for a moment. “Look David, if you don’t mind, there’s someone I’d like to see whilst we’re in Malmo - a publisher from London who’s got an office here. He might be useful for the translations of your books.”
“Great idea - shall I come with you?”
“Thanks, but there’s no need. Why don’t you just relax in the hotel - they’ve got a fantastic pool here - and you can always think about your new book.”
“All right - I’ll do just that. See you later then - have a nice evening.”
Seeing Olga in the flesh, had turned me on so much I couldn’t concentrate on what was said at the meeting. All I could think about was my erotic dream; and whenever Olga turned to smile at me, the passion was unbearable. I knew it was wrong, but I just had to see her one more time before we left Malmo. So an hour after Jane had gone to see her publisher friend, I sneaked out of the hotel and called a taxi.
Arriving at her address, I almost ran up the three flights of stairs to Olga’s apartment and then rang the bell - still panting from the exertion. When no-one answered, I thought she must be out, and turned slowly to walk downstairs. Then the door opened, and there she was - in a black silk dressing gown.
“Olga - I’m sorry, but I must see you...” I paused as my eyes caught sight of something through the open bedroom door – naked legs on the edge of the bed. Female legs.
“What is it David - what’s so urgent?”
“Oh, sorry... it’s not urgent - I mean, I’ve made a mistake - I’m sorry...”
Feeling highly embarrassed and very stupid, I practically ran out of the building and hailed a taxi back to the hotel.
*
On the plane back to England, Jane and I were both very quiet. I couldn’t get over my immaturity in this situation, and mentally flogged myself for acting so impulsively. I’d wanted to believe that Olga would just open up her arms and embrace me - that she fancied me as much as I yearned for her. But in the end, I had to admit to myself that this had been no more than good old, unabashed lust - or kättja - as the Swedes call it. And I could have ruined everything between Jane and me if she’d found out - despite her usual understanding about these things.
Jane eventually broke the silence.
“Did you have a good rest, David? I didn’t want to wake you when I came in last night - I’m sorry it was so late. Benny insisted we went for a drink with the girls from his office after we’d talked. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not - I’m glad you went. How did it go?”
“Oh, great. Benny’s really positive about the idea - he thinks the translations will do very well in Sweden - we’ll just have to sign the contract he’ll put together next week.”
“Fine - I’ll just leave it to you then Jane. It’s purely a business matter now.”
“Wasn’t it always?” she said with a sly grin.
* * *
The Tunnel
Fear lurks in dark places. Go into a long, dark tunnel, and you’ll know what I mean.
*
I don’t like tunnels - particularly if I can’t see through to the other end. But Samantha, well, she’ll go where angels fear to tread - and back again. Forever the explorer, always pushing things to the limit. On reflection, I should never have gone with her that day; but she was so, ‘Oh, you scaredy-cat - call yourself a man? You’re more like a mouse.’ I know she’s always wanted a child, but there was no need to treat me like a baby.
Now I don’t usually give in to such taunting. But I was feeling a little bit insecure that day, and I didn’t want to be alone on the outside of that old railway tunnel whilst she confidently explored it. And I didn’t want to be thought of as a ‘mouse’.
It all started with blackberry picking. Sam loves making wine, and we both like drinking it, so we’d often drive into the country to pick up some free ingredients. The berries in railway cuttings are always pretty easy to find, and sheltered from the traffic they’re usually tasty and make good jam, as well as wine.
So there we were, one Sunday afternoon, dressed in our old jeans, tee-shirts and boots, with plenty of poly bags and elastic bands. Then we came across the tunnel - an old, derelict, dark tunnel - and my heart sank.
“We can walk around it...” I said, vainly trying to put off the inevitable.
“You know, you’re just pathetic sometimes Mike, a real girl’s blouse.” She was already heading towards the dark, forbidding opening, and I knew it was useless to try to stop her now.
“I’ll get the torch from the car...” I started. But Sam wasn’t interested - she was already inside the tunnel, purposefully marching along the lines of the old railway track. I sighed deeply, and followed her like an obedient dog, knowing that the tunnel was the quickest route back to the car; but also knowing I wasn’t going to like this one bit. I suppose I should have run to catch her up, but I didn’t; I wanted to make some sort of a protest. Then her voice came back out of the darkness, echoing along the walls.
“It’s fine once you’re in - your eyes get used to it. Come on Mike!”
So after pondering momentarily at the mouth of the tunnel, I stepped inside - just like a young child dipping his toe in the deep end. Oh well, here goes, I thou
ght, carefully watching my step, following the sound of her confident stride.
God, it was a long tunnel; but Sam was right - your eyes did get accustomed to the dark after a few minutes, and I could see how the tunnel curved away to the left. No wonder we couldn’t see to the end. All I had to do now was get to the far reaches of the bend, and I’d see the light. Then I’d be okay.
But after just a few minutes, I couldn’t hear her footsteps any more - only mine. I stopped walking, and listened. Silence. I called out, “Samantha - are you all right? Where are you?” The echo of my voice resonated for a few moments, then nothing, not a sound. I started walking again, quicker this time, calling out. “Come on Sam, it’s not funny - tell me you’re okay.” I started to run, concern replacing my fears. What if she’s hurt? What if there was someone there - a mugger or a pervert? I called out again. But only the echo of my voice returned to me.
And then I could literally see light at the end of the tunnel. It was almost blinding at first, my eyes having got used to the darkness. I turned to look back, the tunnel end acting as a spotlight on the walls, but no Sam. Then a thought: perhaps she’d reached the end of the tunnel and gone back to the car? I ran out into the light and up the steep embankment, my mind racing - hoping I was right.
But at the top of the embankment, I found only an empty locked vehicle. I retrieved my torch from the boot, and turned back to the cutting. She must still be there - there was no other explanation. I stumbled down the embankment, nearly falling on the incline, and ran back towards the tunnel. No such fear of darkness now - I was driven on by a bigger fear: losing Sam.
Then, in the gloom, I saw a figure was walking slowly towards me, some fifty metres from the end of the tunnel. I shouted out in relief, “Sam - thank god!” But there was no response - only the slow walk of this figure towards the light. Slow and measured, like the walk of an arthritic. My heart sank as the figure got closer: it wasn’t Sam - it was an old woman. I waited for her to reach me - I needed to question her: she must have seen something. As soon as she was close enough, I called out.