Dear Beneficiary Page 4

  Ha, I thought. My current financial freedom, Mr Bank Manager, is entirely that, and earned after forty years of guilt-ridden spending, even on an extravagant piece of meat for Saturday night dinner. So what I do now, financial or otherwise, is my call. So there.

  I told him I didn’t want to listen to his concerns and that I knew what I was doing. I could tell he thought he’d have to eat his words if he carried on and wisely allowed me to leave.

  What I did agree by way of compromise was to open a new account and transfer some savings over to cover my bills. I suppose he had a point as all my money had been taken from my current account, so there wouldn’t be anything left for my direct debits. I should have told Darius to leave me with something.

  I insisted the existing account be kept open for the receipt of funds, as there was no way of knowing when they would be sent over, or by whom.

  On the way out, Mr Gamble tried to tell me to be careful with my money and suggested investing in one or more of the different types of schemes the bank could offer. Well, I wasn’t falling for that old flannel and told him so.

  ‘I’m very happy with the way I handle my money, thank you. However, as I shall be receiving rather a large sum in the near future I may well discuss other options when the time is right. Good day, Mr Gamble, and please do not concern yourself about me,’ I told him.

  He shuffled back to his desk as I left the bank through the front doors and walked straight into a police officer keen to find the owner of a Vauxhall Corsa that he said had completely blocked the bus lane and created a traffic jam of not insignificant proportions.

  ‘I had an important appointment,’ I explained in my defence, but he didn’t appear to be listening. ‘There was nowhere else to park. I was meeting the manager.’

  The police officer was still distracted. He was dealing with some verbal abuse from a bus driver and all the other drivers behind him.

  ‘They’ve all been stuck here while you mince around at the bank not caring what happens once you have dumped your car wherever you feel like it,’ he said.

  There was more hooting and the officer had to raise his voice to be heard. Meanwhile my tights were playing havoc with my thigh injury, which seemed to return when I least expected it to. I twisted them round again by pulling them up through the waistband of my skirt and ended up hopping around trying to get them back into place.

  ‘I don’t care if you were meeting the Queen of England, madam. You’ve parked illegally and without any concern for other road users.’

  He looked at me while I continued to address the issues with my hosiery, clearly designed for people with corkscrew legs.

  ‘Could you please listen to me while I’m speaking to you,’ the furry-faced policeman said. Shaving wasn’t an activity he had to give much thought to. ‘Stop dancing around and get your car moved.’

  I couldn’t stand it any longer so removed my sensible court shoes and hauled the offending tights down my legs and over my feet, throwing them to the side of the road in disgust.

  The policeman’s face was a picture. His cheeks went rosy pink and his mouth was moving up and down like a goldfish in a dirty bowl. I tried not to laugh as he started the usual cautionary procedures for an arrest.

  ‘I’m very sorry, I’m menopausal,’ I said to him, although the information went over his head. Normally that statement stopped men in their tracks, but he seemed quite determined to make me pay for my crime.

  ‘You will need to report to the police station within seven days, bringing your driving licence and insurance details,’ he said, placing a piece of paper firmly in my hand. I could read the words ‘offence’ and ‘charges’ on it, so stuffed it in my bag to read later. The thought of appearing at the local magistrates’ court filled me with a horror beyond having to contemplate a conviction, criminal or otherwise.

  ‘I’d get yourself a solicitor if I were you,’ he added, as he stomped off to deal with the queue of bus passengers and a driver refusing to budge.

  There were quite a lot of people shouting when I got back into my Corsa and they seemed to be looking at me. This road rage business is getting out of hand.

  I looked into my driver’s mirror and saw my lipstick had faded and my hair had started to fall out of its bun, so I went about putting my appearance right. The hooting got louder so I stood my ground. If my lipstick needed doing, they would just have to wait.

  Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

  After sorting my hair I drove off into the High Street and noticed the policeman was running towards me with his phone stuck to his ear. He waved his arms about as I continued down the road but I ignored him. I’d had enough for one day and he seemed to be in a particularly bad mood.

  Once I got home I parked the car in the drive before letting myself into the house. The light was beginning to get hazy as the nights were getting longer and colder. It would be marvellous to disappear somewhere hot for a couple of months. Which of course I’d be able to do once the money came through.

  I looked out my car documents and was pleased to note my driving licence was clean and my insurance papers were where I remembered filing them. I made a mental note to take them to the station on my way to the bakery in the morning.

  The computer was still on from when I’d sent the earlier email to Darius, and I went to check on it before running a bath. It’d been a long and stressful day and, apart from the fact I felt like relaxing in hot water, I still smelled of diesel and was keen to wash it off. The familiar quickening in the pit of my stomach recurred as I saw I’d received another new email.

  Dearest Beneficiary,

  The Federal Government of Nigeria through provisions in Section 419 of the Criminal Code came up with punitive measures to deter and punish offenders. This is to officially announce that some Syndicates were apprehended in Lagos, Nigeria a few days ago and after several interrogations and tortures of people of your contact your details were among those mentioned.

  After proper investigations and research at Western Union Money Transfer and Money Gram office Nigeria, this proves that you have sent money to our country without safeguard.

  In this regard a meeting was held between the Board of Directors of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) and as a consequence of our investigations it was agreed that we have deposit your fund at Western Union Money Transfer agent location EMS Post Office, Lagos, Nigeria. We have submitted your details to them so that your fund can be transferred to you on arrival.

  Contact William White

  Email:williams90@superposta.com

  Assistant Investigation Officer,

  The Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC), 15A Awolowo Road, Ikoyi, Lagos, Nigeria

  I read the email a few more times, not really understanding it. But one thing did stick in my mind … Darius had been tortured for trying to get the money he was owed. My insides contracted and my heart rippled with concern. My lovely man mustn’t be in any danger. It was one thing to know he was far away in another land, happy and healthy. To know he was suffering, alone, was my own personal torture.

  I would have to do something. But what, I wasn’t sure.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It had been some time since the last occasion Darius turned up at my house, as expected, a little over two months after we’d met. We’d seen each other regularly in that time and had developed a routine of him visiting me at home at the weekends and one or two evenings in the week.

  It was early on a Sunday morning and he was clutching a large bunch of lilies. I hadn’t the heart to tell him I was allergic to them, and explained my sneezing fits as the start of a cold.

  He’d been quiet and, for the first time since we’d got together, hadn’t made any physical move towards me other than a soft kiss to my right cheek. I might have been disturbed by this had I not been busying myself with the act of stifling my reaction to the flowers.

  ‘Cynthia. I have to go home to my country,’ he’d said quietly.
He had stared intently at the floor, avoiding looking at me.

  ‘What do you mean, go home?’ I’d enquired. ‘Why and for how long?’

  Darius stood up and held me at the waist, towering over my five foot two frame. I swear I could see a tear in the corner of his left eye.

  ‘I had a call last night and my family is in trouble. They need me – I must go and help them.’

  He said he couldn’t tell me the exact details because he didn’t know very much more. He’d had a call from his father, who asked him to go home. Darius’s mother had been ill for some time but she’d taken a turn for the worse and his father was having difficulty getting the authorities to provide the right treatment.

  ‘My father is an old man, Cynthia, and is frightened. I’m the only son he has and he relies on me to get the treatment my mother needs. It’s difficult in Nigeria as we don’t have anything like your NHS. It may be it will just take a few words in the right place to get everything sorted out.’

  Darius’s company had booked the flight from Heathrow. He’d already packed and was ready for the car that would pick him up first thing in the morning. I begged to know why he couldn’t deal with everything from England. We have phones, emails and texts – even bloody letters!

  ‘Surely your company can help out back in Nigeria? Do you really need to go?’ I asked, throwing my arms around his chest and clutching onto him as a drowning man might a bit of driftwood.

  He explained that Nigerians work better face-to-face and that his father always felt vulnerable when he was away. His mother suffered from a degenerative illness and it wasn’t just about her care. Sometimes his father just needed to know there was someone else around to help.

  ‘My sisters are married and have moved away. They have their own families to look after. In my father’s eyes I need to help and of course I will.’

  Darius was being kind and considerate so I tried to stop my selfish pleadings, acknowledging that his family needed him, possibly more than I did.

  He kissed me gently and said he’d really miss me, that being in England had been a far better experience because of my kindness and hospitality. I’d hoped he’d say because of his love for me, which he couldn’t live without, but he didn’t. He did look sad enough for me to believe he wasn’t running away, that he did have feelings for me and he’d no choice but to go home. He handed me his business card and told me he’d be there for me if I ever needed him. I needed him then, so that wasn’t true.

  I tried to tell myself I wasn’t too distressed by the end of our relationship. It had only lasted a couple of months, nine weeks in fact. Hardly a lifetime. In some ways I’d been glad it was over as I had started to fall in love with him and that would never do. Although Darius had been a delightful distraction it was difficult explaining the time I spent with him. My family often questioned why I wasn’t available for Sunday lunches, mid-week babysitting duties and the occasional Saturday shopping spree. Whereas previously I’d been amenable to spending time with family, weekends had become precious. I wasn’t prepared to trade my trysts with Darius for the banality of Lakeside consumerism under any circumstances.

  I knew I was denying feelings that had grown quickly and unexpectedly for a man I could never have dreamed I would want to be with. I’ve heard you can’t choose who you love, and I’m certain he wouldn’t have come out top in an identity parade of potential partners. Not dressed, anyway.

  When I closed the door behind him tears welled up and the strength in my legs gave way. Grief took over, more so than after hearing of Colin’s passing. A quick but brutal heart attack had taken him without warning. He’d always passed his medicals with flying colours and, being a moderate man with no excessive hobbies or habits, was expected to live a long and healthy life. Colin didn’t get stressed, either, so couldn’t be seen as a typical ‘heart attack waiting to happen’. Other than occasional palpitations brought on by the council tax demand or the refuse collectors leaving potato peelings on the drive, he was easy-going and pragmatic. It certainly wasn’t the way I expected him to go.

  I’d missed the practical things and the constant daily companionship, but never felt his loss as I did the departure of this delicious and highly unsuitable young man. He’d injected something far more than his enormous manhood into my very being. Darius had got to my heart and I felt bereft.

  I’d looked at the business card he left me and was tempted to call the number, but knew I wouldn’t be able to work all those noughts and crosses you have to put in when calling abroad. Thoughts of when we’d been together flooded back. If I’d known it was going to be the last time I’d be touching him, feeling him, I would have focused more, rather than lapsing into the occasional thought about whether I should get a new duvet cover.

  Knowing wallowing would be fruitless, I’d decided on a practical approach to dealing with the end of the affair. Every rising emotion would be stamped on. Every memory I would erase – either with a few stiff drinks or diversionary tactics. I would definitely take bridge more seriously and join the Ladies Lunch and Pleasant Outings committee at the golf club.

  None of these things had worked particularly well. My heart was in pieces and my ability to conduct myself on a daily basis was almost impossible. Just going to the local shops for a paper involved huge amounts of energy I could barely muster. I watched other people getting on with their lives. They all seemed to be in happy couples, blissfully unaware that the woman walking towards them wanted to throw down her bags and scream at the world for being so unfair. Often I’d go home and just cry, soothing myself with flashbacks to the blissful, passionate coupling that had filled my soul with every single thing that had ever been missing. Is this what I’d been missing out on all my life? Only to taste it and lose it within a few short weeks?

  I would read poetry, hoping for solace in knowing that I wasn’t the only one to feel this exquisitely exhausting and overwhelming pain. Alfred Lord Tennyson had no idea of what a woman could feel when he wrote ‘Better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.’

  There were times I wished I’d never met Darius at all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I’m not sure how I got to be sixty without really noticing. I’m not particularly worried about it, just taken by surprise. People tell me I don’t look my age. I put that down to keeping a slim, neat figure and moisturising every day, although I have good genes – inherited from my mother’s side of the family. She looked a bit like Vivien Leigh, and some say I do too. I certainly don’t look as old as Mrs Goodwin over the road, who hasn’t retained any youthful looks. I think she was born old, welcoming a future full of uni-slippers and Steradent. I’m rather pleased to retain a youthful appearance which happily includes pert breasts, which considering the four children I’ve had are something of a testament to the benefits of swimming.

  Marriage to Colin had its positive points. I have a comfortable home, and since his death I’ve learned a few things about DIY and rarely cried. Except the time I set fire to myself after trying to change a socket in the kitchen. It taught me the value of calling a professional when electricity and water are involved in the same place at the same time.

  I had routines. Colin liked them and they gave my life structure. Mr Hartworth, as he was known within the diplomatic service, was particularly good at routines.

  Too good, I’d say. Compared to Darius, who likes the element of surprise, I might even go so far as to say that Colin was so predictable his mental health could be called into question.

  I still have a fair amount of the good wine he laid down for special occasions but have demolished many of the other systems we had in place when domestic life ran very smoothly. It was just habit. Years of corporate socialising with Colin’s ‘very important’ colleagues demanded it. I didn’t question it at the time but I often wonder why I put up with so many boring bastards, each with very elevated ideas of their worth in society. I suppose I was just doing the right thing – in their opinion rather
than mine, but I hadn’t thought I was entitled to one.

  I didn’t need much entertaining. Even my TV still sits in the same small and unobtrusive corner, resting beneath an old G Plan cabinet of indeterminate years, bought by Colin without any discussion with me. It’s covered with numerous gilt-framed pictures of my children: Jonathan, or Jonjo as I like to call him (much to his wife’s disgust); Patrick, who I call Paddy in deference to my Irish ancestry; Roberta, or Bobbie; and Titch. Well, Kathryn is her real name but she was always very small and the youngest, so the name stuck. I also have nine grandchildren of varying ages with such a variety of names I wonder who thought of them all. It is hard work remembering which one is which. After the first, Tom, they seem to meld into variations on a theme. I get their names wrong sometimes. Still, it causes much amusement at family gatherings – which I stopped going to soon after the funeral.

  Don’t get me wrong, I adore my family and they seem to like me up to a point, but I do find large parties, with lots of people, tense and irritating. My children think I’m ancient and my grandchildren think I’m deaf. One way or another they patronise me, usually in very loud voices, and I seem to be able to say things to my children that upset them, while everything I say to the youngsters seems to be funny and I’m not sure why.

  I didn’t want to waste whatever time I have left to me, so I would often leave get-togethers early and then I’d have to wait some days before calling Bobbie in the hope that any resulting angst had gone. I did feel guilty about my waning interest in maternal responsibilities but I’d done my time looking after that lot and it was time to live a little.

  Once I’d extricated myself from most maternal duties I enjoyed taking on new activities even if they may not have been what was expected of a widow of a certain age.