Cheating At Cards Ch. 02

INTRODUCTION FROM CH 01

By that time, I'd gathered enough of my wits to realise what was happening; to jerk my face away from Calvin's whisky-laden breath and begin trying to struggle free....

"C'mon, Patsy!" he whispered, "I know you like it. Geoffrey's told us what you're like in bed... and I've got far more to offer than he has."

.... he stopped in mid-sentence as I spun around holding a very large kitchen knife

"You stupid bitch!" he declared quietly, "You haven't a clue, have you?

"Why don't you ask Marje? She'll tell you. And she should know... because she's tried all three of us... many times!"

I was praying that I wouldn't get stopped on the way home, but I felt surprisingly sober.

CHAPTER 02

Like most teachers, I was perfectly well aware of the nickname my pupils had given me: they called me 'Frosty,' which was only partly due to my real name being Mrs Snow. According to my colleagues it was also because of a particular look I could produce whenever I found it necessary; they said it could turn boiling water to ice in five seconds flat. I try to use it sparingly, but it's been known to bring a boisterous class to obedient silence without having to say a single word -- even one that a fairly senior male teacher was failing to control.

And that was the look I gave my husband when I found him seated at the kitchen table on Saturday morning after the 'incident' at the card game the previous night. He was still clad in the pyjamas and dressing gown I'd hurled onto one of the single beds in the spare bedroom. He was nursing a cup of coffee and looking very sorry for himself - but if he expected any kind of sympathy he was wasting his time.

When I'd returned to our rented, two-bedroom bungalow the night before, I'd still been able to taste Calvin's whisky-laden breath in my mouth; so I'd spent ages brushing my teeth before stripping off and showering to wash away the memory of what had happened. From reading stories, I've never understood why so many people seem to have locks on their bedroom doors, which was why I'd had to jam a chair against the handle to stop anyone getting in. I had considered locking the front door, but that would have been a waste of time since Geoffrey never goes anywhere without his keys; but there was no way I was going to let him sleep in the same bed as me.

I'd heard him arrive home a little over hours after I'd settled down. Allowing 20 or 30 minutes for a taxi to arrive - because they're pretty busy on Friday nights - and a maximum of another 15 for the journey; that left well over an hour during which, I imagined, the three men had held a discussion to work out some kind of damage limitation exercise.

As well as being angry with him, I was also annoyed with myself. Normally, I'm fairly sharp and able to pick up on things quickly, so I wasn't happy that I'd allowed our cosy domesticity to blind me to whatever was going on.

Of course, there was always the possibility that it was nothing at all. I'd spent my first waking hour of the day thinking it over and wondering what the chances were that Calvin had simply mouthed-off in the heat of moment through anger at being denied his intended 'prize.' Against that, though, I had to set the reaction of my husband -- seeing his wife being grabbed and groped and apparently not being the least bit concerned about it -- which tied in with his casual attitude to my previous complaints about Calvin's behaviour. Then there was the conversation with Bob, and his assertion that Calvin had a penchant for married women and, as I now suspected, the ambiguous comment that he'd "know all about it" if Calvin tried anything with his wife.

So, although there was no proof, there was strong evidence that the card nights had been, or had become, an elaborate cover for something of a very different nature. If that was true, then four of them -- the three men, plus Marje -- were involved in it and I needed to find out more.

For the moment, though, I had to concentrate on my dear husband.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

I was pouring myself a cup of coffee, but I paused for a moment and turned to face him. I didn't say anything and I kept my expression as neutral as I possibly could, staring at him and using the silence as a weapon. He couldn't manage to hold my gaze for long -- few people can when I adopt that look -- and he went back to staring into his coffee.

"Is that it?" I snapped, and I'll swear the temperature dropped several degrees at the sound of my voice.

"Look... I know I should have... well," he began again, still not daring to look up, "I mean... I should have stopped Calvin errm... molesting you. It was... well... I thought it was just a bit of horseplay. I thought you were just messing about... and...."

"Bullshit!" I declared, which made his head snap up because I very rarely swore (other than in moments of passion, of course, when my language often gets completely out of control!), but he still couldn't cope with my glare and he quickly turned away. Then, after a second or two to recover, he said:

"Look, Patsy... I've said I'm sorry. I know Calvin's a bit of a menace sometimes... and I'll sort it out with him... I promise. Listen... why don't we have some breakfast and we can talk...."

"Oh... you want some breakfast do you, Darling?" If he'd been looking at the expression on my face I'm sure he'd known better than to answer 'yes, please' ...but he wasn't, so: "There's stuff in the fridge... make it your fuckin' self!" is probably not what he expected to hear.

He didn't even look up as I swigged down the lukewarm coffee, but I'm pretty sure the slamming of the door must have made him wince a bit - but probably not as much as the much more satisfying sound of the front door slamming as I left the house. Then, of course, he must have heard the angry revving of the engine, followed by a squeal of tyres, as I pulled out of our short drive and hurtled down the road.

It was all for show; and as soon as I turned the corner and was out of sight I slowed down to the legal limit. I'd already decided that I needed to make him think my anger was purely and simply about his failure to protect me from Calvin's attentions. I'd neither said, nor done, anything to let him suspect that I'd taken in what had been said about the relationship between the four of them. Even if Calvin had admitted it to him, I'd so far given no indication that I'd taken that on board. With any luck, he'd believe that I'd been too drunk or too dazed to do so -- and that would be a pretty decent card to play when the time was right.

For the moment, though, I needed someone to talk to; someone I could trust -- and who can a girl trust more than her own mother - particularly so when her mum's more highly qualified on the subject of local gossip than almost anyone else in our small town? It wasn't that she ever passed any of it on -- it was more than her job was worth - but being a part-time receptionist in the local doctor's surgery meant that, although she had to be discreet, she knew a great deal about almost everyone in the area.

I didn't hide anything from her as we chatted over a pot of tea in her small living room (she actually referred to it as her 'parlour' because she thought it sounded better), but told her the whole story.

"I take it you're talking about Marjorie Rushworth?" she asked, frowning and pursing her lips in distaste, "...the one that used to be Marjorie MacDonald?" And when I nodded, she went on:

"Well, Trish ..." (She still insisted on calling me that -- my name is Patricia -- even though everyone else called me 'Patsy'), "...I can't say I'm too impressed with the kind of company you're keeping!"

I was cautious. From past experience I knew that asking anything else would bring about what I thought of as 'the thin-lipped look of disapproval' and a lecture on how she couldn't possibly reveal anything confidential; even to someone she trusted. I also knew she was dying to tell me what she knew, so I just said:

"Well... Bob and Marje are Geoffrey's friends, really. Bob's a plumber and...."

"You don't have to tell me about Bob Rushworth!" she said and, yes, her lips drew into a thin line for a moment before she went on; "They're at the Millington's' house almost every week... and I'm sure you know that won't be to discuss world politics!"

Normally, I don't like gossip and I do my best to ignore it, but the stories about the Millingtons and their lifestyle were more the stuff of local legend than mere gossip. Grant, the head of the household, was reputed to be a complete bull of a man -- in every way -- while his wife, Kirsty, had two convictions for soliciting (I'm not sure if it's used in the same way in America, so I'll just explain that it means 'offering sex for money' and it's a crime in the UK). That had been a few years ago, though, and I was under the impression that they now lived on a mixture of social security benefits and - again according to local gossip -- some dealing in drugs. Both of their girls had been taught by me at school -- one white and one very black - and, although it had never been proved, they were strongly suspected of dealing outside school.

This, of course, threw a whole new light on my husband's card-playing friends, but it wasn't enough yet. "That doesn't mean...." I began, knowing I wouldn't get far because Mum was in full flow now.

"That's because you don't know about Marje," she said firmly and, once again, I waited in the sure and certain knowledge that my silence would provoke more.

"When she was young, Marjorie MacDonald... as she was then," Mum went on, "was known as 'ripcord.' That referred to her knickers; y'know... one quick tug? Anyway, she got pregnant when she'd just left school and her parents sent her away to have a termination. I know that's true 'cause her mother told me. They used to live three doors down from us. They were a decent family, but they felt let down and embarrassed by their daughter. They moved a few years later and I haven't a clue where they ended up.

"But I do know that Marjorie stayed in London after she'd got rid of the kid and worked the streets. Your dad, God rest his soul, told me that a couple of his mates had gone to watch a football match at West Ham; and they'd picked her up and paid for a good time with her after the match.

"Anyway... somehow or other, she managed to snare Bob Rushworth. He brought her back here and he's kept her in style ever since. He's a good enough plumber... and he works hard... but he's also a disgusting lecher. The number of times he's tried to proposition women in the houses he was working in... well, you just wouldn't believe it!"

"Isn't that just rumour and gossip though, Mum," I asked.

"No... it certainly isn't!" she replied hotly. "When his company were putting the new bathrooms in on this estate, he tried it on with me!" I couldn't help gasping at that. I mean, you don't think about your mother being attractive to other men, do you? So I asked her when this had happened.

"About ten years ago, Trish," she informed me. "I was over fifty then and he was still in his early thirties... but that didn't seem to put him off. He cornered me in the kitchen when I was making a cuppa and his hands were all over me like a bloody rash! I was trying to push him away and I was shouting a bit... when your dad, bless him, came home! He'd forgotten his flask and was popping in to grab it. There was so much commotion going on in the kitchen that we hadn't even heard his double-decker bus stopping outside!

"Anyway... and I must say I'm glad there weren't any passengers on board it... but your dad saw what was happening. Bob tried to say something about it just being a bit of fun or something... but he didn't get far with that because my Albert decked him with a single punch! I hadn't realised just how strong your dad was until then, because he was always such a gentle person, as you know... but he just picked Bob up by what he called 'the scruff of the neck and the ass of his pants,' carried him down the hallway, and threw him bodily into the rosebush in the middle of the garden.

"Well, the thorns on the roses soon had Bob awake and yelling like a baby... but Albert just leaned over him and told him that if he ever so much as looked at me again he'd rip his... well... y'know, his 'thingies' off him. He could be crude like that, at times, your dad... God rest him!

"Stop catching flies!" she suddenly ordered and I snapped my mouth shut obediently as I realised what she meant. But it was hardly surprising that my jaw had dropped like that; not only had I learned a great deal about Bob and Marje, I'd also found out about a side of my father that I'd never seen. He'd always been such a loving, gentle and quietly-spoken man.

"Anyway," she said, "I can't sit here chatting all day. I've got to go and get the chapel ready for the choir practice tonight." I rose from the chair and buttoned my coat and, as I did, she said:

"There's just one thing more I'll tell you, Trish. If that stupid husband of yours is involved with people like that then you need to get tested for any diseases. I can't tell you who I mean, of course, but there are people 'round your way that get it done regularly... and sometimes have to get treatment for them!"

Afterwards, I drove out into the countryside to sort my thoughts out a bit. I'd already realised that Mum had very carefully avoided giving any information that stemmed from her employment and I had to admire her subtlety about that. She'd also made an appointment for me with the nurse -- a friend whose discretion she could rely on -- to take a blood sample on Monday at lunchtime. I was dreading it, even though it was necessary, because I have a thing about needles; but I remember a pupil's mother telling me to wait until I had children; Then, she'd said, "Your arm'll get more pricks than a cut-price tart!" I wonder what made me think of that.

When I arrived at the layby that was one of my favourite spots -- high up in the hills with a view across a wonderfully verdant glen and a distant waterfall, I unwrapped the meat&potato pie I'd bought along the way and opened the little bottle of Dandelion & Burdoch. They were a rare indulgence and I knew I'd probably get heartburn, but I didn't care.

Some things were already clear: if Geoffrey had indulged in any kind of sexual relationship with Marje -- if he'd deceived me -- the marriage was over. There was no question about that and, if it turned out that he'd brought home any kind of sexual disease then, instead of a straightforward and simple divorce -- two years separation was the customary way -- I would set about taking him apart. I don't mean physically, of course -- but there are plenty of other ways.

I was still finding it all hard to believe because I hadn't, even for a moment, sensed that there had been anything wrong with our relationship. Without being boastful, I thought I'd done a pretty good job as far as being a housewife was concerned: despite having a full-time occupation I'd always been content to do the cooking and cleaning and, if he sometimes gave a hand with it I never failed to show my appreciation. That was the way I was brought up.

Our activity in the bedroom may have slowed down a little since the heady days at the beginning of our lives together, but it was still pretty lively. I may have been 'Frosty' at school -- but I certainly wasn't at home! I had never refused sex without a very good reason for doing so; not because I just wanted to please my husband, but because I loved it. I loved the feeling of closeness; loved having his hands explore every part of my body and loved to arouse him with my touches. I was more than happy to give him blow jobs when he wanted them, perfectly willing to try any position that either of us fancied and freely express the pleasure that he gave me.

I'd even indulged some of his fantasies; buying clothes that he wanted to see me wearing and acting out the parts he suggested, then purchasing sex toys that either he or I could use to pleasure me. I'd even gone along with a little bit of mild bondage (without giving any hint about how much I disliked it) and, when he'd found an Internet site with stories of 'adventurous' wives, I'd helped him act out the ones he enjoyed -- but only behind closed and locked doors!

Now, of course, I realised that the penny ought to have dropped when he started on that -- and even more so when, a few months earlier; he'd asked if I'd ever considered doing anything like that for real. At first I'd just laughed it off but, when he kept bringing it up again, I'd eventually given him 'the frost look' -- big style -- and he'd known better than to ever mention it again. Was that what he really wanted, I wondered? If so, he was asking the wrong person. No matter how much I enjoyed sex, it was something I enjoyed with my partner -- and it was too personal, too important, and too precious to be shared with others.

Now, though, it seemed that he felt differently -- that there was a side of him that I didn't know -- and that was what hurt the most. I knew about temptation; knew how easy it could be to fall prey to it because, over the past few years there had been several males (and a couple of females!) who'd made it clear that they fancied me - and there'd been times when I'd felt my body responding -- but I'd always told my husband about them. I had never kept anything secret and it meant I had nothing to feel guilty about. That was how I'd dealt with any feelings of temptation.

For the first time, I felt a couple of tears trickle down my cheeks. I'm not a tearful person -- and I dislike women who can turn that tap on to get their own way -- but I was completely alone on the hillside so I didn't have anyone to hide from and I let them flow for a little while. Eventually, after blowing my nose on a tissue and repairing my make-up, I pulled myself together took a deep breath and slipped back into trying to deal with my situation.

My first step would be to obtain proof of what, if anything (I still clung to a faint hope!), Geoffrey had been up to on his card nights. If he'd been cheating on me and deceiving me then there was no hope for any future together -- that much was certain. At the same time, I didn't see any reason why the others should get away with it.

For more than two hours I just sat there, occasionally switching the engine on to warm the car, while I tried to devise a plan that would bring retribution not only to Geoffrey, but to Marje and Bob and -- most of all -- to Calvin. I thought of all kinds of things -- many of them based on 'revenge' stories I'd read on the Internet -- my head filled with all the stupid tales of hiring private investigators, using electronic equipment to monitor what people were up to, protecting 401ks (I've absolutely no idea what they are!) and all the other things I'd read about. But they were for a fantasy world and this was real life.

It was starting to rain and I could see a few flecks of snow amongst the droplets. It wouldn't be a good idea to be driving that narrow road if it worsened, so I started the car and began to head homewards - still having no idea what to do.

I tried to concentrate on the realities. To begin with, we didn't have any joint bank accounts -- we'd never seen the need for any. The rent for the bungalow came out of my money, the utilities from Geoffrey's, and everything else was similarly split between us. If our marriage ended, there wouldn't be any financial problems to sort out. We didn't have any children so that, as things stood at that time, a divorce by consent would take two years of separation or, if either party objected, five years. The grounds for divorce would be 'irreconcilable differences' since anything else -- such as adultery or abuse - was normally only mentioned when there were issues involving the division of assets or financial maintenance. If that was to be my course, then it was clearer than the road I was driving along. As the enormity of my thoughts came home to me, I almost began to cry again -- but I took a really deep breath, resolved to be strong and, a few minutes later, turned into our drive.