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Double Exposure

by

The TaleWagger

The PROLOGUE

Between the trees in the little lane, the icy November wind was gathering the powdery snow and swirling it around like a collection of giant spinning-tops. Winter was quickly taking control of the picturesque German countryside as the thick mantel of virgin snow silently flowed. It moved, slowly but surely, down from the mountains to smother the green foothills and valleys.

A snug, isolated chalet at the very end of a lane reassuringly puffed smoke from its chimney. Sheltered among the tall pines, its stout, wooden shutters, survivors of many a battle with the forces of Nature, kept out most of the mid-afternoon light. In the lounge, orange fingers of flame from the log fire scratched endlessly in a futile attempt to escape up the chimney to do battle with the elements. Dancing shadows, created by their glow, formed constantly changing patterns on the pine walls as peace and contentment filled the over-warm air. Perspiring on a bearskin rug, in front of the fire, the two reddened lovers were as one, their hands slowly wandering, caressing each other's naked body. Exhausted and half-asleep they slowly recovered until, with a deep sigh of regret, the woman forced herself to glance at the clock.

"I hate to say it Darling," she sighed, "but you really must leave now. It's gone three-thirty and I must have shower before Rodger comes home from school ... and I still have the evening meal to prepare ... you know how hungry he always is."

They showered, dressed and then, with a loving kiss and cuddle, he was away to his car while she remained at the partly-opened doorway just long enough to savour the last moments before he was out of sight. He looked so awesomely handsome in his sergeant's uniform, tall, dark and well-proportioned. A military uniform had always aroused her if it held a tall and virile man in it! They had always enjoyed, to the full, the many times when they had been together, locked in an intimate embrace. He stopped and looked back at her then, with one last quick wave and a blown kiss, he was gone. She shivered a little, perhaps caused as much by the action of his leaving as by the bitter wind then stepped back and closed the door.

The route back to the Barracks and his guard duty wound dangerously through the wooded foothills but, at this time of the day and year, the narrow road was usually deserted. With a confidence born of familiarity he drove hard and fast, allowing the car to slide almost to the brink of disaster before correcting it. He had travelled this path so many times before that fear was replaced with bravado but, as he approached a sharp bend, his overconfidence caused him to brake hard. A violent explosion erupted in the engine compartment and smoke and flames filled the car. Without brakes, or vision, he desperately fought to steer the car round where he thought the bend might be and failed! His Fate was now out of his hands as the car careered on. The journey was soon to end as the car plunged off the road, down the hill and, engulfed in flames, smashed into a tree.

The car was still smouldering when the emergency services arrived at the scene to find very little left of the car, or of Sergeant John Buckton.

****************

One Wednesday 19 months later.

His Story.

I slowed the van as it turned into the quiet suburban street and rattled along searching for the address of my next delivery.

"Twenty-three Sharpstone Drive."

The words flowed unconsciously from my lips; it is a bad habit that I have acquired, due to living on my own this past year or so.

"God! How I hate the last call of the day! Back to the jolly old depot, I don’t think, then another dreary evening at home."

Home? I haven't had a home for far too long. At least not a proper home: a place with love in it. Nowadays, all I ever seem to have is a roof over my head, just somewhere to kip after work.

"Soon this will all change for the better," I assured myself.

I looked at the endless row of identical semis that lined the 1930s road and then ticked off the numbers that passed before my eyes.

"Nine, Eleven, The Hollies. The Hollies? What happened to thirteen? Superstitious twits!"

I carried on at the same slow pace. I was in no hurry and had grown accustomed to killing time as I waited for my life to improve.

"Seventeen. What was that number? Twenty-three. Nineteen, twenty-one. Oh well, in less than an hour I'll be sinking back into oblivion! Here we are then, number twenty-three. Suburban Paradise for some poor sod with a nagging wife and screaming kids!"

I pulled into the kerb, parked behind a scruffy grey car, and strolled to the back of the van. The cardboard box sat alone on a wheel arch and differed very little from the many, though normally larger, boxes that I had delivered before. It looked frail and vulnerable, almost lost in the cavernous interior of the van but fortunately it was well taped-up and only scuffed and stained. I tucked it under my arm and walked up the path to the front door. Subconsciously I admired the neat front garden. 'Who knows?' I wondered. 'Perhaps soon, if all goes well, I might have my own house again and a nice garden.'

I knocked hard twice and then took a pace back. A few moments later a woman peered around the partly-opened door. She had a pleasant-enough face with a reserved sort of smile and I spoke my well-rehearsed script as I passed her the box.

"Good afternoon, Ma'am. Delivery for Buckton, sign here please."

I then offered my pen and receipt pad but she was staring at the box's label and her face changed, the smile froze for a second and then she looked as if she had seen a ghost. The fingers of her hands turned white as she gripped the box tightly, threatening to squash it. Her face became ashen and her eyes were blurred with tears but she finally relaxed her grip and opened the door fully.

"I wasn't expecting anything," she mumbled. "Are you sure it's for me?"

She offered the box back but I glanced at my pad to confirm the obvious.

"Sergeant Buckton, 23 Sharpstone Drive", I assured her.

She just stood there.

"Your husband?" I volunteered in order to break the silence.

She breathed in deeply and then closed her eyes for what seemed to be minutes.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

At last a few words trickled past her lips.

"Please wait a moment," she requested, then grabbed the box back and rushed indoors.

I stood uncomfortably on the doorstep, slowly moving my weight from one leg to another as I puzzled over this woman's peculiar behaviour. I was unsure whether to offer my help; indeed I was not even sure if I could be of help to her. I waited ... and waited, then wondered about my next move. Although I was in no rush, I could find better things to do than stand on some stranger's doorstep. I felt uneasy and unsure of what to do, other than hope that she would soon return, but still she kept me waiting! It seemed that several minutes had passed before I decided to ring the bell. She re-emerged and her eyes were now red and puffy, wet stains ran down her lightly-powdered cheeks and she was obviously still very emotional. With a faltering voice she tried to apologise.

"Sorry to keep you waiting for so long but this came as a complete surprise ... a bolt from the blue ... or perhaps from the black ... or at least from the past. A past that I thought was over and buried."

She burst into uncontrollable weeping and I led her back into her house. The lounge door was open and I guided her to the sofa. I sat beside her but kept my distance, not wanting to distress her more. She wiped her eyes with a tissue and continued:

"I was learning to live without ... "

She breathed in deeply.

"Without my husband ... Sergeant Buckton."

Tears ran down her cheeks again but she drew in another deep breath and continued: "He died in a car accident nearly two years ago. It was on the very day that I returning to Germany from a trip to see my mother back here. The Army thought I was still in England and I returned to an empty house. I didn't find out until later the following day."

She hung her head and clasped her hands together on her lap. She apologised, saying she had been curious to see what was in the box. Naturally concerned, as anyone would be, I asked if she had a friend nearby who could comfort her She replied that she had and added that she would now be all right. She again apologised for delaying me.

"No problem, Ma'am," I said. "This is my last delivery of the day and I'm in no real hurry. I hope this hasn't distressed you too much."

As the words left my lips I realised what a stupid thing it was to say, but she wasn’t really listening. She looked at the ground and mumbled, more as an assurance to herself than in reply to me.

"I'll get over it, but it will take a while again. I'll survive. I have to!"

We sat silently for a moment and then she suddenly exclaimed:

"Oh dear, Pat! I was on the 'phone to her in the kitchen when you arrived. I must go. Thank you. Goodbye!"

She wiped her cheeks again as she saw me out, slamming the door in her haste. I strolled down the path, climbed into my empty van and drove away. I was unaware that the Hand of Fate had grabbed a hold of my life again and its fingers were starting to tighten their grip for, as I weaved a way slowly through the side roads, the woman at number twenty-three still occupied my thoughts.

"What a berk!" I suddenly shouted out, banging the steering wheel hard with the side of my clenched fist.

"Fancy saying: ‘Hope it hasn't distressed you too much!’ The poor cow was almost overcome with grief ... or worry. I wonder what was in the box though, she sure was upset!"

I questioned myself about the incident. Why would somebody send a box of something addressed to a man who had been dead for a couple of years? They must have known that, as they knew where his widow had moved. Why the rush, why send it by special delivery!

Why had she ...

"Blast!" I thumped the steering wheel again, as I shouted in annoyance. "I've forgotten to get her to sign the bloody receipt book. And she's still got my pen ... Janine's pen!"

I was furious with myself for worrying about some stupid woman, a nobody to me, at the expense of not getting a receipt and, more importantly, the loss of my favourite pen, a treasured Christmas present. I drove into the depot yard, screeched to a halt at the fuel pumps and called out to the foreman.

"Fill her up for me Tom. Be a mate, I've got an urgent phone call to make!"

I dashed into the Goods Outward office and walked up to the despatch clerk.

"Hello Doreen, have you got the local phone book handy? Forgot to get a receipt on my very last call. Must be getting senile!"

Doreen looked up and laughingly exclaimed:

"You've never made a mistake like that before, Lawrie. Perhaps you're human after all!"

I'd guessed that she'd always fancied me but I hadn't realised that she thought I was perfect! She passed the book over and I thumbed through the pages.

"Here it is! Buckton M.V. Twenty-three Sharpstone Drive. Eight-six-three, six-five-four."

I dialled the number hoping that I could find an easy way out of my problem. Tomorrow and Friday would be long, busy days as I would be fully occupied with out-of-town deliveries, and I always work overtime on Saturday mornings. The phone rang several times.

"Come on! Come on, pick up the ’phone. Please be in!"

Doreen looked towards me with a puzzled frown. Then, at long last, Mrs Buckton answered.

"Sorry to trouble you Ma’am," I said. "I made a delivery to you a short while ago and I forgot to get you to sign for it ... I left my receipt book and pen with you."

There was no immediate comment, so I continued:

"The rest of this week I'm out of town. Do you think that you could possibly sign the book and pop it into our office. I'd be ever so grateful ... before the weekend if possible."

I listened with relief as she said that she would, and I gave her the office address. I breathed a sigh of relief, thanked her and rang off.

Back in the yard my van was parked at the end of the loading bay with a full tank. I hurried to the foreman's office and clocked out, eager to go home and relax in a hot bath, the one real luxury that I always allow myself. With time on my hands, no TV set to watch and little else to occupy myself, I soak in my little world of make-believe. Unfortunately, the big problem with having a bed-sit is that the bathroom is shared with the other rooms on the floor. However, when I am on local deliveries, I always finish early and get back before the other tenants.

I parked my old car outside the front entrance of the large Victorian house where I live and dashed inside. By the time that I had reached my room on the third floor I was more than ready for my soak so I grabbed my gear and emigrated to the bath with its hot soapy lagoon. I wallowed in the gently-breaking bath-salt surf and fantasised. I slid into the warm, welcoming embrace of unreality and blissfully drifted into new dimensions of time and place.

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