When I was
growing up my mother’s favourite explanation for any of the thousands of
questions I asked was: well, you either believe
or you don’t. This modus operandi she applied to just about everything –
from the moon landing to God, the hereafter, the conservative party and global
warming; embracing with fervour doorstep-zealots and a Sabbath that dithered between
Friday, Saturday and Sunday, depending on who rattled the letter box last. I
suppose it was this laissez-faire attitude that made me what I am today; happy
to leave the roll of the dice to life itself – slightly naïve in this hard-bitten
world perhaps, and undoubtedly responsible for the disturbing events that
surrounded my recent employment in Wells.
I
thought about it as I directed my car towards the city of Salisbury; all my worldly-goods in a collection
of suitcases and bags stashed in the back. The rain of the past few nights had
given way to a glorious morning, the sky washed clear; and with the ancient spire
of the cathedral beckoning, it was with a sense of eager anticipation that I trundled
through the countryside.
The
city of Wells
is tiny, a Mecca
for film crews, and I had been fortunate to obtain work there, particularly
since we were experiencing the worst recession for decades. So lucky – you
might say – that I should have clung to my post despite its pitfalls. I can
only excuse my fallibility by declaring – you
never encountered Frederick.
It
was the Estate Agency in the market square that offered me the job. Tucked away
in the city walls, over the centuries the building had become a gaggle of eccentrically-shaped
rooms and precipitous staircases, their treads narrow and dipped in the centre.
I was their latest graduate recruit; twenty-one and yes, I am pretty – no tattoos;
instead I brush my hair until it sparkles and regularly visit the gym. My new
employers said how delighted they were I was joining them and looked forward with
eager anticipation to a long and fruitful relationship. With the artlessness of
youth, I gave this speech little thought, believing it my due as a nubile
female.
I
occupied a bow-fronted office overlooking the market square, with its views of the
town hall, an ancient black and white hostelry, and the thronging crowds that
linger round the market stalls. As their latest recruit, I also held the fort
while the rest of the staff went to lunch, a little before one. That was when Frederick first made his
appearance. He wandered in, a pot of golden polyanthus clutched in one hand,
while I twittered: ‘Can I call you Freddy.’
After
a monotonous diet of over-large and unfit clients dripping with money, his
entire being filled my soul with delight. Simply to gaze upon him took my
breath away – his elegance, sense of dress, his charm – but appearances can be deceptive
and, regretfully, the gloriousness of Frederick,
like the flowers, turned out to be short-lived. He hovered for about twenty minutes
or so, while I flirted outrageously, returning the following day. By the end of
the first week, flattered by his attention, I was buying new clothes and
perfume, eagerly awaiting his daily visit; imagining myself head over heels in
love.
‘Oh,
Frederick, not
more flowers,’ I’d gush, my office full of the bright offerings; their glowing
petals expressing admiration, respect and devotion, far more eloquently than
words alone.
And
so in this state of blissful ignorance a month passed; and with a change in
weather, from the early blossoming of spring back to snow-driven winter, the
first misgivings began to make their presence felt. By now any honest
red-blooded male would have asked me out on a date but Frederick seemed content to spend our time
together chatting across the office desk. I began to study him more closely, becoming
uncomfortably aware that any invitation, even to the nearby coffee bar, was
beyond his capability. Revelation followed upon revelation: to my dismay I
discovered Frederick
didn’t work upstairs in accounts or anywhere else in the building – I had been
duped. With that my perception changed and I began to see through the
elaborately created charade with which Frederick
surrounded himself; his sense of style and good looks simply a mirage. And yet,
he remained gorgeously funny and charming, but once those seeds of doubt are
sown in your brain, your voice takes on an unpleasant edge and your smile
becomes dissembling.
Naturally
Frederick
noticed the change in me. Possibly dispirited is not quite the correct choice
of word – but he definitely wilted, as did the flowers, drooping their heads disheartened.
Filled
with remorse I felt driven into saying: ‘What do you want of me? You made it
quite clear that life must be grabbed, shaken and lived to the full; and I’m
grateful, okay. But it’s not my fault if you can’t be part of this. You had
your chance; now it’s my turn.’ I regretted being sharp but the only thing I
desired was his absence; never to be bothered again.
Yet
still he persisted, hanging about in the open doorway a faded apology for a
man. I know employment law provides us with fall-back rules that cover almost every
situation; but not being harassed by Frederick
– I checked.
My boss said when I gave in my notice: ‘What is it
with you girls – we offer you a high salary, good working conditions, and you
never stay.’
‘There
were others?’
He
snorted. ‘Enough.’
He
gazed at me blankly, obviously at a loss to understand the fly-by-night nature
of the young and pretty female.
‘How
about a bloke?’
‘You’re
damn right. You can rely on men.’
I
bristled with indignation at his outrageous sexism but common sense prevailed
and I reigned in my retort. It wasn’t Frederick’s
fault; he couldn’t help being an emotional cripple who derived his kicks
stalking young women. Besides, it was possible the boss wasn’t particularly
bothered about Frederick
popping in and out; considering him on the same level as an eccentric relative,
whose oddities of speech and dress you never notice – like wallpaper.
I
have to confess, I did feel awfully guilty about being so unkind. Frederick’s a darling
really and so forgiving. On my last day, he reappeared in my office clutching a
bunch of daffodils as a leaving present. I guess like the rest of us he’s
searching for love.
So that’s why I am moving to Salisbury. It means a drop in salary; the
Estate Agency in Wells paying top dollar – but hey – who cares about money; I’m
off to fulfil my destiny. I know Salisbury
is a medieval city, as is Wells but, as Mother is fond of saying, “lightning never strikes twice in the same
place.” Besides, the office I’m joining is in a brand-new complex. Only
just completed, the apartments above the shops are being sold through a Housing
Association and I’ve been lucky enough to grab one of the studios. Not large
but my own – with modern bricks and mortar and no history except the one I am
going to create during my lifetime.
*
Oh, didn’t
I say; Frederick’s
a ghost.
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