A GIFT FOR A PRINCESS.

On a glorious April morning, Elizabeth stands in a field of Bluebonnets in Austin, Texas. She accompanies her daughter’s family, and watches as her daughter and son-in-law attempt to arrange their three children into photographic poses. The bluebonnets are spectacular and stretch in a carpet of waving vibrant blue under a clear cloudless sky. Elizabeth can see other groups going through the same antics. Her family seem to be having the most trouble.  Their problem is that the toddler wants to toddle and pull the blue blossoms while his sisters want to dance and swirl in their pretty dresses Not one of the three can be induced to stay still with a smiling face long enough for a photograph. The girls giggle and squirm, their voices are loud and happy. They proclaim to the world that they are princesses.

Elizabeth lets her mind wander. She goes back in time and space to her youth in Durham City in the UK. To the time when she and her younger sister were the same age as her two dancing granddaughters. She remembers that they also, thought of themselves as princesses. They lived in a large imposing house named “Hillcrest.” It stood on the top of one of the hills surrounding the City. Hillcrest was their palace and its extensive garden their palace grounds cascading down the hillside into the valley below.

She recalls the time of the birth of their brother when their mother sent her and her sister on a special errand to buy eggs at the general store in May Street located at the bottom of their garden. She immerses herself in their willingness as they descend the zig/zagging garden terraces of Azaleas, herb gardens, a lawn and, towards the bottom, a beech tree woodland. It is the end of April, and the ground under the trees is covered in bluebells. The damp woodsy smell of the ground rises wrapped in the distinctive scent of bluebells. Streams of sunlight dapple the ground serving to enhance the impact of the bluebell carpet. Elizabeth’s eyes are now closed, and she is there as her youthful self, enchanted in a magical glen.

At the bottom of the bluebell woodland is a gate. The girls open the gate and emerge into another world. The world of May street is one of poverty and hard surfaces, the only green, an occasional weed, thrust through a crack in the sidewalk. Rows of identical red brick attached houses stand, each with a front door opening direct into the narrow sidewalk. The two-up two-down homes have tiny rear yards in which their out-houses are located. The aromatic air of the woodland behind the gate is replaced by the combined smell of smoke from the chimneys and the stench of human waste. Elizabeth’s memory does not take her to the store or the egg purchase, she only recalls their return to the gate.

Although Elizabeth’s youthful self was sure that they had fully closed the gate it now stands ajar. They hastily pass through and make sure that it is securely fastened. They are happy to leave the hard-unyielding poverty of May Street to reconnect with the enchanted bluebell woods. They are astonished to hear the cry of a baby and momentarily wonder whether their mother and their new-born sibling are about to appear. Elizabeth remembers the sickly whimper of their new-born. She instinctively knows that the cry that they now hear is not the same baby. She recalls her mother murmuring regretful words, Down’s syndrome, major heart defect, death. Young as she is she wonders whether the errand to get eggs from the May street general store was an excuse to occupy her and her sister while their parents tended to their dying baby.

The lusty cries of a healthy baby demand attention. Elizabeth and her sister morph from princess to pharaoh’s daughter. They look up the slope and see the bluebell ground as the River Nile. It cascades down the slope in waves of billowing blue. They see a baby basket placed close to their path. They scan all directions to see if there is someone accompanying the baby. There is no-one, no sound, only the wind rustling the treetops. They shout,

“Anyone there?”

There is no response. Elizabeth hands the eggs to her sister and picks up the baby and its basket They hurry up the path, run up the terraces and burst into their palatial home.

Some-one tugs at Elizabeth’s arm; it is her daughter. She reluctantly leaves her reminiscing and returns to the present.

“Mom, time to go. Were you day-dreaming?”

“Yes, dear, the bluebonnets reminded me of the bluebells at Hillcrest.”

“Oh, that’s our favorite story; were you remembering how you and Aunty found Uncle Moses?”

This is a re-print of a story that I published 10/31/13 under the title “My Husband” It recently went through some new editing and so I decided to republish it. I apologize to any of my readers who remember reading it in 2013.

In nature it is delightfully calm after a storm, and so it was with us. Spousal abuse is always bad, but even while I suffered from my injuries, I savored those violence-free times of calm and tried to eke them out and make them last as long as possible. The period after The Event was especially sweet, that is because, this time, I effected a personal transformation and knew, from the onset, that it was to be the last time that I was hurt.

The Event had temporarily sobered him. Perhaps the shear impact of the violence and cleanup affected him; with the result that he spent more time than usual at home. He still jogged in the morning, and I loved to lie on the bed and watch him get up. He slept in the nude so that I could admire his beautiful body. When he arose and donned his jogging paraphernalia, I’d watch the ripple of every well-tuned muscle. During this period, after The Event, he would reach over and gently stroke my glossy hair before he left. While he was gone, I’d arise and prepare myself for the day so that when he came back, I could greet him at the door and give him a taste of my feigned love. For, yes, after The Event it was feigned, although sometimes I, with my newfound resolve, still got temporarily sucked into his charm. I made a rule for myself that, even though it disgusted me, I should greet him when he returned from his run. I would let myself rub against his wet skin to seal the illusion of my undying adoration.

We always ate breakfast together, he a bowl of cereal and milk, and I, milk. After he left for work I’d go for a walk, often a very long walk. Sometimes I’d be gone all day, involved in other activates, but I made sure that I was home, groomed and waiting at the door, when he returned in the evening. At first, after The Event, he would arrive home early so that we could sit together on the sofa and watch television. His taste didn’t match mine but I pretended to watch with him. Sometimes I even sat on his knee although I could tell that he didn’t like this much.

Soon, as I had suspected, he began to slip into his old habits. It began by his returning in the evening with alcohol on his breath. I suppose that he was dropping in on a bar to have a couple of drinks on the way home. On these occasions I continued to meet him at the door. I silently braved his off-time kicks, in my desire to maintain the illusion of my uncompromised love. It got even harder when he began to bring girls back with him. Before The Event he had never brought them to the house although I knew, knew only too well, that he was unfaithful to me. Now, I suppose, he thought that he could do anything, even flaunt these women before me. I pretended I didn’t care and greeted them with the same appearance of affection as I did him.

The moment after The Event, I knew what I had to do, although I hadn’t any idea how I would accomplish it. Over the weeks of the calm I had time to work out a strategy. It all hinged on his indulging in another drinking spree for only then would he be vulnerable enough for me to entice him into his basement. The trick was going to be how I could avoid getting hurt again during the encounter. The basement was quite small, more undercroft than a true basement with only one, very small, ventilation louver. During the calm I spent some time digging in the garden to make sure that the ventilation louver was completely covered in dirt. Initially he kept this lower level locked but he took to storing his alcohol down there and as time went on he became careless so that when he was out I could go down and inspect it.

It was as I expected, and smelt musty with a distinct odor of rotting which was not well disguised by the two by six rectangle of newly dug earth in the middle of the otherwise well packed earthen floor. It was that spot which had concluded the activities associated with The Event. He had a few bottles of water stored down there. I made sure that they were all broken and spilt. I even destroyed the whiskey bottle from which he had imbibed immediately after The Event. Sometimes I would sit on that two by six slightly mounded rectangle of dirt to gain strength and resolve from it. It took me several weeks to modify the support to the rustic wooden access stairs, but by the time he was bringing the women back to the house, they were so rickety that I knew that they would soon collapse. I half hoped that he would take one of his women down when he went for another bottle, thinking that their combined weight might cause a collapse.

I was patient, very patient and one day in late October I knew that my moment arrived. He came home much later than usual and was as inebriated as he was on the day of The Event. In the end I  didn’t have to do anything; he did it all himself. As he lumbered down the rickety stairs I heard them groan and collapse. He yelled as he fell and was then silent. I had him. I backed up against the basement door and heard it give a loud click. For several days I heard him moaning and complaining but the sound was muffled on the outside by my carefully placed dirt and on the inside it didn’t matter. After a week I was convinced that he was dead and that I needed to let someone know.

I slipped outside and sat upon the front doorstep and started to wail. The mailman noticed me but at first he did nothing. At the end of the second week the mail and newspapers had accumulated and even he began to look concerned. When the police arrived I rubbed up against them wailing miserably.

“Here Kitty Kitty, what’s the matter? Where are your master and mistress?”

I answered by arching against their shins and followed them into the house. I waited by the basement door but it was the last one that they opened. The smell that emerged was strong and even I had to draw back. A ladder was brought and they examined his body which lay on top of my grave. I didn’t stay to watch them dig up the mounded dirt of my makeshift resting place. I didn’t want to watch the exhumation of my murdered human body. I was now free. I quietly glided away to live the rest of my lives in peace.

Allen drives his Advanced Plumbing Services van up to an attractive suburban house. He is relaxed and happy; this is his last house call of the day; and it is Friday, his Bowling League night. He is greeted by the Mrs. Fry, the home owner, a sour-faced middle-aged woman. She scowls at him with the words,“You guys took your time.” She goes on to complain that she has guests and the sink in their bathroom is clogged. “Now, I ask you,’ she continues, “how could a sink which is hardly ever used get clogged?” She concludes “My guest bathroom, how embarrassing, how could you, plumbers, create such a stupid design with a sink that clogs itself?”

It annoys Allen that she should be blaming him for her problems, after all this is the first time that he has ever been to this house. He mumbles, “There could be a number of reasons. Let me see. Then, I’ll be able to tell you what’s wrong.”

She escorts hm through her home, past expensive furnishings. Allen spots an elegant gun display case. He thinks how interesting this would be to his bowling partner Tommy. They reach the guest bathroom and Allen looks under the vanity. He immediately has an answer to her question. He explains that the air conditioning overflow drains to this sink. He tells her that it is a common problem. Over time the slow drip pan overflow blocks the drain with small scales of dirt and drip pan residue.

“Hmm, crazy design!” she comments, “I suppose, you’d better fix it.”

It seems to Allen that this grumpy Mrs. Fry is blaming him for the blockage, but he ignores the implication and gets to work. Generally home owners help empty cabinets to create a workspace but this woman stands and watches with a look of distain. Allen is annoyed by her lack of assistance, but he still takes care as he places extra toilet rolls, hair dryer, soap and towels on top of the granite vanity. Soon he is on his back, with his head thrust into the cabinet. He turns his wrench slowly as he tries to coax a particularly tight P trap into coming loose. He has a bowl ready to catch the black junk which he expects to gush out when the pipes come apart. This job is so routine that he lets his mind drift. He thinks about home, and his two children who always give him a hug when he arrives home. He thinks pleasurably about his bowling night with the boys. He wonders if he will tell Tommy about this job, but thinks not. He feels content, he tells himself that “Life is good”.

The P trap comes loose and suddenly Allen’s routine task becomes more complex. Along with the offending black gunk something heavy falls into his waiting catch-all. It hits the bowl with a clink. Allen pokes the object with his wrench. He expects a child’s small toy or a toothpaste cap but, instead he sees a woman’s ring. It catches the light and shines as it nestles in the dark slime. He glances toward the door. He is alone, the watching home owner has stepped away for a moment. Allen scoops up the ring. He stands and rinses it in the second vanity sink.

Allen knows little about women’s jewelry but the ring looks like a bigger, nicer, version of the diamond and gold engagement ring that he gave his wife years ago when he proposed. He suspects that it is valuable. He doesn’t know what to do. His conscience tells him to give it to the homeowner; such an action would confirm the position of trust expected of all APS employees who make house calls. On the other hand, he tells himself, Mrs. Fry is wealthy, and treats him like the scum in her clogged drain. He thinks that no-one would know and she doesn’t merit a surprise gift. He stands reminding himself that he has been honest his whole life so he ought to do the right thing.  On the other hand, he knows that his bowling buddy, Thomas, would be able to find a fence and sell it. He smiles as he thinks about what he could do with a little extra cash. While he is hesitating Mrs. Fry returns and stands, arms akimbo, in the bathroom door. Her critical stance puts Allen on the defensive.

“Well?” she demands “Why are you dawdling? Have you forgotten where you are?”  Allen Looks at her angry face and slips the ring into his pocket.

“I was right. It is the P-trap” he tells her, “I’ll have it all cleaned up and reassembled in a jiffy.”

Normally Allen is helpful and, after his cleanup, helps put anything disturbed back in their place. Today, his disgust at Mrs. Fry is magnified by his own guilt and he leaves the vanity strewn with the lower cabinet’s contents. He remains perturbed while he drives home and thinks about what he should do about the ring. He decides that he will mention it to Tommy. He suspects that Tommy lives slightly outside the law because every week he surreptitiously presses Allen to become a look-out and to tell him about his house calls and in particular which houses have valuable contents.

“Did a strange job today.” He tells Tommy while they watch a gutter ball swirl toward the pins.

It is Tommy’s turn, “What do you mean?” he asks as he lifts his ball from the carousel and prepares to throw. Later, when they are sitting side by side Allen elaborates, “A ring fell out of a P-trap that I was unclogging. Never happened before.”

“So, what did you do?”

“Kept it. That’s the weird part.”

“How come?”

“You see the house was affluent, full of antiques and gun cabinet collections and things. Even then I’d have told the owner, Mrs. Fry, except she was so snooty and condescending, I just couldn’t.” Allen says this in the hope that Tommy understands and to exonerate his action. It almost makes him feel justified.

Tommy is already ahead of Allen, “Yes, yes, I’ll fence your ring, no problem. What are friends for anyway?” He pats Allen’s knee and goes on, ‘But the house, you say that it is full of guns – now that is interesting. You can do me a return favor and give me the address. After all she is an affluent undeserving bitch isn’t, she?” Allen, flushed because he just threw a strike, tells himself that it is OK to share this one address and gives Tommy what he wants.

That night Allen hardly sleeps. He keeps going over the events of the day. His inner voice tells him that, unpleasant as Mrs. Fry was, it was as wrong of him to give Tommy the address, as it was to have kept the ring. He decides that he can’t have Tommy fence the ring and he can’t throw it away any more than he can return it to Mrs. Fry. He tosses and turns and finally gets up and hides the ring in an old prescription bottle in his bathroom medicine cabinet. He feels better with it hidden and hopes that in time he will know what to do with it.  Only a few weeks later this decision is taken away when one of the guns missing from Mrs. Fry’s house turns out to be a gang related murder weapon. The police call on Allen with a search warrant. They look everywhere including the medicine cabinet. They find the ring. It doesn’t take long for Mrs. Fry to identify it as her daughter’s lost engagement ring.

By tradition most of the tartans which you see today are registered as being specific to one particular “clan” or family. The best known red tartan is that of the Stewart tartan while the equally common darker blue/ green one is known as the Black Watch tartan. Black Watch is generally associated with the Royal Regiment of Scotland and may be worn by ‘anyone’ however, it is often associated with the Campbells. I won’t bore you with a prolonged history of Scottish tartans as this has no relevance to the story, which I share.

My story relates to the love between Angus Campbell and the beautiful Bonnie Stewart. Angus did everything right and before he proposed to Bonnie, he visited father Stewart in his Georgian town house, in an exclusive residential section of the early 1800’s portion of Edinburgh’s “new town,” to seek parental assent. When Father Stewart appeared reluctant, Angus quoted the Robert Burn’s poem “A Red, Red Rose”

O my Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.

After the first verse father Stewart raised his hand, “I know the poem laddie; it concludes:”

And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.

The shared poem brought the two men closer even as father Stewart reminded himself that Robert Burns was an accomplished romantic and  renowned womanizer.. He scrutinized Angus, attempting to see into his soul, and then, gave begrudging approval contingent on a long engagement during which time he intended to monitor Angus’s behavior. Everything went well until the night before the wedding bans were to be announced in the Kirk. That is when Angus received an email requesting his immediate presence at the Stewart residence.  He drove over, parked in the street, and bounded up the steps to the regal Stewart front door. He rang the bell.

The door was opened by Caitlin, Bonnie’s younger sister. Caitlin wore an astonishingly short skirt and sheer top with plunging V-neck. She invited Angus in and served him a tumbler of scotch. She told him that the family were all out, and that she had sent the e-mail. She told him that, from the first time that she met him, she had felt a compelling physical attraction for him.  She suggested that there would be no harm in their ‘spending’ time together on this last day of Angus’s freedom.

“I don’t want to sabotage Bonnie’s marriage so this will be a one-night stand and no-one will ever know” she said, “It will be our little secret.” Angus’ eyes glowed at her suggestion for she was very seductive. She concluded her invitation. “I’m going upstairs now to get into something more comfortable. You finish your scotch. My room is the first door on the left at the top of the stairs.”

Angus finished his drink, set the glass on the coffee table and glanced up the stairs. Then he turned and went out the front door to vault the steps to his car. Imagine his surprise to be greeted at his car by father Stewart.

“Congratulations my boy” he said as he gave Angus an unexpected bear hug of an embrace, “you passed our test. You are, indeed, a man of principle and worthy of our Bonnie’s hand.”

Angus accepted the embrace and then, pleading fatigue, got into his car and drove off. When he turned out of view, he reached over and patted the car’s glove compartment. That is because there is a moral to this story. It is a moral which Robert Burns with his 12 or more children might have heeded. “Always keep a spare packet of condoms in your car!”