Copyrights reserved by the author. If you are in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' and read the details.Double Exposure by The TaleWaggerFriday morning has come and gone, I have made the beds, hoovered the floors and prepared for the weekend. Murky clouds have now replaced the sunshine that had blessed us for the last few days and there is a hint of drizzle in the air. With the housework finished, the time after lunch drags on as I wait to phone the delivery firm. I can’t sit in the garden and I try to occupy myself by watching the television, but programmes come and go as I watch without concentrating. Another programme, another cup of tea and it is finally time to find out if the mystery has been solved. It’s raining harder now and I hate driving in the rain but, as I have to collect Emma from her play group later, I decide not to telephone but to leave a little earlier and visit the delivery firm. The traffic is light, the journey is short, and I am soon at the yard. I park and go into the office. I’m nervous and apprehensive and my hands are starting to perspire as I speak to the woman who I had seen before. "Hello! Did you have any luck finding out who the sender was?" "I'm terribly sorry Mrs Buckton," she replies. "All I could find out was that it arrived via Dover, from one of our subsidiary companies in Europe. The reference number is P/SS/LBD/533631/D and it’s not one of ours, so I couldn‘t check it out. But the LBD part is usually the sender’s details ... do you know anybody with the initials LBD?" I try to think but no one springs to mind and the woman passes me a piece of paper. "Here's the reference number, perhaps it will ring a bell when you have more time to think about it." I thank her and leave. It is raining hard, with large spots of summer rain, and I drive away from the yard feeling very depressed and unsure of what to do. Silly I know because if I never find out anymore about the photo then my life will be no different than before it arrived, but it does annoys me! I feel that getting involved in solving this little problem could be the start to solving the major problems in my life. I have to start somewhere, so why not with this? I glance at my car's clock. Oh dear, it’s time to collect Emma! I stop worrying about the photo, concentrate on my driving and twenty minutes later we arrive home, wet and miserable. What with having to dry us out and get tea ready, I have no time, or opportunity, to think about other things. Christopher will be home soon and he’ll want his tea before doing his homework, or dashing out to see his friends. **** Friday and the weekend has passed slowly, the heavy summer showers preventing us from enjoying any outdoor pleasures, but most depressing of all was not finding out who had sent the box. Friday night, as I lay in bed, I had the idea that it might have been Martina, but during Saturday’s call to her she confirmed that she had sent nothing, adding that she had not sent a Christmas card because she had mislaid my address. Christopher had kept himself busy with his friends but Emma seemed to be forever under my feet. She was disappointed that the visit to the Theme Park had to be cancelled and she just could not be consoled. I was unable to shake off my unease about the purpose behind the photo and between the two they had managed to give me a king-size headache. However, Monday morning is bright and sunny, the rain clouds having stolen away like thieves in the night. With Christopher at school, Emma spending the day at pre-school and the housework completed, I am determined to make the most of my few hours of peace. Needing time to clear the cobwebs out of my head and sort out my thoughts, I make a cup of tea and go outside to enjoy the freshness of the garden after its weekend wash. I place the photo, which had remained in the cupboard all weekend, on the patio table next to my cup, relax in my lounger, sip my tea and absorb the serenity. Gee, I feel good! So much so that, if I concentrate enough, solving the puzzle will be simple. Now, who has sent it and why? I know that it has come from abroad; somebody living in Germany seems the obvious and probably the only answer. The 'somebody' has the initials of ‘LBD’, but who? I can’t for-the-life-of-me think of any man in the regiment with a first name beginning with 'L'. Many had nicknames and I didn’t know their real names but then again, somebody’s wife might have sent it for him, so I concentrate on the ‘D’ as a surname and it is then that I realise that I am beaten. In a close-knit community such as a regiment, the wives of the men know each other by their first names and the officers and their wives by their surnames, or uncomplimentary nicknames! After considering twenty-or-so men that might possibly qualify I give up and consider my other options. Can I forget about it and let it fade into the past? No! Can I live with myself if I don’t try my utmost to solve it? Probably not! No, definitely not! I can be single-minded if I want to be and I need a victory and in this case I must continue with my quest. Was it sent innocently, or maliciously with some hidden relevance of which I am still not aware? I consider this to be a definite ‘Yes!’ I feel strongly about it, as otherwise there would have been a note included, but what effect is it supposed to have, or what is it meant to tell me? For my own peace of mind I need to know everything and this probably won’t be easy. I need help so I must contact Pat. She has always been a rational thinker but there’s no rush as she might still be busy this early in the day, so I have time to soak-up a blissful hour of sunshine before calling her. **** "Hello Pat, it’s Maureen. How was your weekend?" We chat aimlessly for several minutes before I once again ask for her help. "Pat, I'd like your advice about the package I received last week, I’ve no way of telling who sent it, and I'm having a problem finding out. I'm also worried as to whether there's some malicious reason why it was sent." There’s a short pause before Pat tells me that she has finished all she need to do today and that she’ll come round in about an hour to hear all about it. "Thanks Pat," I say with relief. "I really could do with your wisdom. I'll make a salad snack and we can sit and talk about it in the garden. See you later then, 'bye." When Pat arrives I explain in detail about the photo and what has happened. We study the photo closely and go over some of the points again. I can tell she is sceptical about John appearing as she asks if I had taken a double dose of my tablets and I have to admit that I think I did. However, I am still not convinced that that was anything but co-incidence. It seemed so real! We spend a long time discussing the reference number obtained from the delivery firm, and even consult a book of baby names to see if one is familiar. Although we are both convinced that it is a real lead we draw a blank. Pat is about to leave when she suggests that we try to enlist the help of the deliveryman. I mention the coldness in his eyes and how it has a strange effect on me but Pat lightly dismisses it, laughingly suggesting that if I act the 'femme fatale' it might put a twinkle in his eye and warm him to our cause! We have talked for nearly three hours in all, exploring all of our options but it all keeps coming back to the deliveryman and his firm. If we are to progress, his help seems essential and, despite my misgivings, Pat convinces me that I should explain my problem to him. I telephone his office and discover that he is due back about three-thirty so Pat offers to collect Emma for me and look after her until I arrive back. I spend more time than usual putting on my make-up, placing extra emphasis on my eyes, and go through all my summer clothes before finally selecting a frock to wear. It is like going out on my first date again and I feel more than a little unsure of myself. Throughout our marriage I had always dressed to please John, and I find it a strange experience trying to please somebody else, especially somebody I don’t really know. At a quarter past three I leave home and drive to the yard. I feel different and I am slightly uneasy. I have spent so much time and effort getting ready, in order to make a good impression, that when I looked in the mirror, I can’t believe that I’m actually looking at myself! I have used far too much make-up and bright red lipstick ... and this frock! I can’t remember when, or why, I bought it but it must have been for a 50s dance at the Mess, as it is more suited to a teenager on the beach than me. It is as if I am impersonating somebody, a caricature of a person that I am most definitely not and don’t want to be! This is not the real me. I am soliciting help but do I really have to look like a tart? It’s too late now to go back and change. What on earth was I thinking of when I allowed myself to get into this situation? In the yard the delivery vans are returning. I park and go into the office where the woman, who I had spoken to before, acknowledges me as I enter. "Hello Mrs Buckton, Lawrie hasn't got back yet. He shouldn't be long." I sit down and wait. My hands are sticky, my mouth is dry and my makeup feels like I am wearing a mask. Do I look as foolish as I feel? Probably more so! Ten minutes pass before the deliveryman comes into the office. His Story. Today, Monday had been another thankless day on the road and I was hot and sweaty, and dying for a soak. The office was the last barrier to overcome and that never takes long so I opened the door went inside. It was empty except for Doreen and Mrs Buckton. Mrs Buckton! What did she want? "Hello Doreen ... Mrs Buckton, lovely day." Mrs Buckton turned her head and looked me straight in the face. 'Good God!' I thought. 'She looks like nothing that I have ever seen before, or want to see again!' They acknowledged my welcome and then Doreen took over. "Lawrie, Mrs Buckton has been waiting to speak to you. She is trying to discover who sent the delivery you made last week, but it came via Dover and all I could find was the reference number which doesn't mean anything to me." I was desperate to get into my bath and travel away from sweaty reality so I replied: "I'm sorry Mrs Buckton, if Doreen can't help you, I don't see how I can." She could not hide her disappointment and the tears started to gush from her eyes forming streaks down her cheeks and she looked even more ghastly, like a circus clown! She wiped her eyes with a hand and I would have offered her a clean hanky but I did not have one. Doreen came to the rescue with her ever-present box of tissues to wipe away the tears and smears and then led Mrs Buckton out to the washroom. After a few minutes they returned and Mrs Buckton looked a different woman. With most of her make-up gone she was quite pleasant, homely rather than beautiful and a little older than my choice of women but not bad. She even tried a little smile. "I'm sorry about that," she said, "but I’m desperate to solve this mystery." She looked me straight in the face and it reminded of Janine when she wanted something. All women seem to have that special look; perhaps it is in their genes! Anyhow, I could not resist it and asked: "What was the reference number?" She handed me a piece of paper. "I'll get you both a cup of tea or a cold drink," said Doreen. "Which would you prefer?" Mrs Buckton asked for tea, while I jokingly asked for a cold lager. I studied the paper. It had P/SS/LBD/533631/D written on it. "I'm sorry," I said, " but it means nothing to me either." I could not for the life of me think of what it might mean and looked at Mrs Buckton. "I'm alright really," she muttered, "just disappointed. I don't know why I should have been, but I felt that you would be the one that would come up with the answer. Silly really, a woman's intuition can't always be right." We sat for a while with our drinks, mine turned out to be orange squash but at least it had ice cubes in it. I was anxious to rid myself of eight hours-worth of sweaty clothes and, when I finished my drink, I bade farewell to the ladies and left. The drive home passed quickly as all I could think of was Mrs Buckton. It had happened that first time that we met and now it was happening again! I was determined to get her out of my mind, and where better than in the bath. I parked my car, ran to door and, as I took the keys from my pocket, a piece of paper fell to the ground. It had the reference number on it! I’m blowed if I can remember putting in my pocket, but I suppose I must have done but I’m just not sure. I put it back in my coat and went to my room. In record time I was soaking in Paradise, far away on a sandy shore ... then up strolled Mrs Buckton! Well not her exactly but I, for no obvious reason other than because of her, remembered Wendy, the computer programmer at Head Office. With codes and numbers and things like that Wendy is a wizard, or is it wizardess? We had met at the bar during the firm's Christmas party last year and immediately hit it off. We tried to keep in touch but the distance apart beat us. We were still friendly and I often had a word and a little flirt with her when I did the Head Office run so, perhaps she could help. Begrudgingly I left my lagoon, dried myself, and dashed to phone before she finished work. I told Wendy what had happened and the reference number and once again she amazed me with her knowledge. I couldn't wait to tell Mrs Buckton the good news so I decided to call at her house straight after I had exercised and eaten. When I arrived she ushered me to the kitchen. I told her all that I had found out and she seemed extremely grateful. We said our 'Goodbyes' and I left. She seemed happy and I was pleased for her. However, that night I had a terrible time trying to sleep. All I could think of was Mrs Buckton and the unsolved part of the reference number, which I had said that I would try to discover. Mine. The trip to see the deliveryman has been an embarrassing failure, as I have achieved nothing and humiliated myself at the same time with my emotional outburst. When I looked straight at him, I thought his face had softened and his eyes had a warmer glow, however it soon became obvious that he couldn’t wait to get away from me. At teatime Christopher, Emma and I sit chatting away about everything and nothing as I am determined to hide my feelings from them. I clear the crockery away and then aimlessly potter about in the garden doing jobs that don't really need to be done. In vain, I try to shut out the tide of depression that is constantly threatening to drown me. I want so very, very much to know the story behind the arrival of John and Barry’s photo but obviously it is not to be and I am doomed to the life of an anti-depressant junkie.
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