A Nasty Shock
Melodie Corrigall
Instead of being welcomed with tears of joy and a bottle of champagne when she returned to her husband and mother, Carole got a nasty shock.
When she had left Canada, six months earlier, her mother and husband had reluctantly accepted her decision to do so. She wasn’t surprised. It was always easy to get her own way: to switch from an administrative course to an art workshop, to quit her job to be a stay-at-home wife, to ensure she never had children and, finally, to take wing and leave for England with a lover. This last decision—“It’s important I live the life I choose,” had left her mother and husband open-jawed and, she acknowledged, stranded.
“If you love me, you’ll see I’m stifled here. This is the chance of a lifetime: to live with the man I love at a university,” Carole had said.
Her husband, who had thought she loved him, and mother, who had imaged they had a happy family, had wished her well. But her husband’s monthly stipend had stopped after three months. A note with the last cheque read, “I presume you will have found some work by now.” As if she were looking.
When Carole had insisted her husband and mother not band together against her she only got, “You worry about you,” from her mother, who displayed an unusually callous attitude. But then, Carole thought, her mother favoured her son-in-law.
The adventure had sounded romantic, like her favourite romance novels. But things hadn’t turned out as expected. In no particular order she was plagued with tribulations: not enough money, gossipy women, boring suppers, and having to listen to her lover drone on about economics, a mind-numbing subject.
“I thought you were interested,” Arnold complained.
Never really interested, but willing to listen and nod from time to time when armed with a glass of expensive wine at a posh restaurant. In those early days, Carole’s imagination had soared above his droning to visions of a blissful future. But enough was enough. She had never been expected to show interest in her husband’s work at the commission.
Two days earlier, Carole had woken in the morning—the tea Arnold had left by her bed cold, the toast soggy—and looked out the small dingy window at the rain-clogged quadrangle. A few stragglers clutching their billowing black gowns were pushing across the square: another mind-numbing day. Why even get out of bed?
Arnold’s suggestion that she join the spouses’ social group was appalling. And to make matters worse, he insisted she not go to the pub as he worried it would get people talking and hamper his chance for an extension. “A wife at the pub in the afternoon will not look good.”
“I’m not a wife,” she had said, “Not to you.”
“Fortunately, that is not public knowledge.”
On first arriving at the university, she had passed her time checking out the stores and had twice taken the train to London. But window-shopping with no ready cash was like looking at a menu when you had no cash to order anything. The little money she had when she arrived was quickly spent. Arnold gave her a small housekeeping budget, but even after scrimping on the basics, she had nothing left for what he called frills.
“You said if I paid your fare, you’d have money for your upkeep,” Arnold reminded her.
“But Terrence cut off my allowance until, as he puts it, we get things straightened out and mother only gave me a few hundred when I left, complaining she has only a small pension.”
She had been forced to use Arnold’s credit card to purchase the ticket home. “One way,” she has said sweetly to the agent. “Mother’s ill, not sure when I will get back.”
And mother might be ill to see how badly it had turned out. But it was Arnold’s fault she was going. If he had spent more time taking her to town, to the theatre and out to restaurants, rather than eating with his colleagues in college or sticking his nose into his computer. “I’ll be up in half an hour or so. Read that book I bought you about the history of the university.” No way. It was 315 pages, and with only five pictures. Lying waiting in the lumpy bed, Carole resented being consigned to the room to shiver. From day one, the best thing about Arnold had been the sex, usually after a good dinner and champagne.
She hadn’t told Arnold she was leaving him—he’d probably be cross to discover that he was paying for her trip back to Canada. She had considered having it out and sweet- talking about how she didn’t want to hold him back, but she didn’t have the energy for that. And now, thankfully, it was the last time that she’d be stuck at a table of boring old people—mostly rumpled men—who came with the free meal. The speaker at the head table was droning on about some new project the university was undertaking, so she had time to think about how to plan her departure and her arrival back in Canada.
She counted on her mother being over the moon once the initial shock wore off. She hadn’t been able to hide her disappointment when Carole told her that she was leaving Terrence. “But he has done everything you wanted. You don’t have to work and you have money to take those art courses.”
“Bottom line, he’s boring. He’s old enough to be my father.”
“As he was when you married him.”
“God, mother, he is only eight years younger than you.”
“So why did you marry him?”
“He reminded me of dad.”
“Your dad never held a job for more than six months or finished a project.”
“But dad does know how to order in a restaurant, get good wine, and plan a holiday.”
“And Terrence does too.”
At this point, Carole lost interest. “You’ll never understand. I’ve met a guy—a professor—who is going to England to work at Oxford. Imagine Oxford: those beautiful old buildings and me a professor’s wife.”
“Not a wife. And, in any event, he’ll be focused on his students and his research.”
“But we’ll be close to Europe and on weekends we’ll go to France and Italy.”
“And money?”
“Oh, he has enough and Terrence can send a monthly allowance. Arnold says I can be his companion. Or maybe even an assistant.”
Her mother had always been a worrywart. When Carole left school she had suggested Carole get some sort of training in order to support herself.
“I’m not like you, Mom. I’m not going to end up divorced and worrying about work and money. I’ll find a reliable man who can support me so I can pursue my dreams.”
“Which are?”
“Something artistic. Maybe painting or photography.”
“But even those require some schooling.”
And then Terrence came on the scene. It was her mother who befriended him at an historic society meeting. “He’s closer to your age than mine. The club is wonderful, we so enjoy it, he is very passionate about history, but his job is as an accountant at the commission and he’s doing very well.”
“You mean financially?” her daughter had asked, dropping the women’s magazine on the floor to focus on this interesting prospect.
“Oh, I’m sure he’s doing okay. He has a house in Dunbar and drives a fancy sports car.”
“House and sports car sounds good, what colour?”
“Red if you mean the car.”
“I’d like to meet him. Invite him over.”
“What can I say? I have a single daughter—who in fact is not single—and wants to have a ride in your car.”
“I am single—or will be in a flash—if I can replace Robert with a better model,” her daughter laughed. “You can plan to go for coffee after your shift volunteering and I could just happen to come by.”
It took some weeks, and some impatient prodding, to set up the accidental meeting but when it happened, Carole was pleased with the result.
“I think he’ll do,” she said. “Wonder why he never married. You don’t think he’s gay, do you?”
“Who knows, but he is very conscientious, always looks well turned out, and when we had a meeting at his house, he laid on quite a spread.”
“And the house?”
“A beautiful old place, stained glass windows. He knows a lot about old houses. He’s a real history buff.”
“Sounds boring,” Carole said. “But I can show an interest.”
“You don’t with me,” her mother had laughed.
“Don’t need to,” her daughter said, giving her a hug. “You love me even if I think old building are stupid.”
Now Carole was ready to go back. It had been six months, a few e-mails, and after the first few postcards, only two phone calls.
“I have some news,” her mother had said. “But best to tell you in person.”
“How so? I won’t be back soon.”
“I might meet you in London.”
“I thought you said you didn’t have enough money to visit.”
“Things change.”
“Don’t tell me dad finally came through with some long-overdue cash.”
“Of course not.”
So she never got the news, but it was probably nothing special.
Carole didn’t have the fob to her mother’s condo, but she had kept the key to Terrence’s house—well, really, her house.
It was Sunday, when she arrived so Terrence would probably be home or she could let herself in and jump out for a surprise, ready for a welcoming hug. As the taxi driver turned in the lane she noticed her mother’s old car parked there. “Damn her,” she mumbled. “I told them not to get together. Probably talking about me.”
The key didn’t work. She rang a number of times and finally the door opened. Terrence peeked out.
“What is mother doing here?” Carole asked angrily.
Her mother in a long silk gown peeked from behind. “Carole, what a surprise. I told you I had news.”
Melodie Corrigall
Instead of being welcomed with tears of joy and a bottle of champagne when she returned to her husband and mother, Carole got a nasty shock.
When she had left Canada, six months earlier, her mother and husband had reluctantly accepted her decision to do so. She wasn’t surprised. It was always easy to get her own way: to switch from an administrative course to an art workshop, to quit her job to be a stay-at-home wife, to ensure she never had children and, finally, to take wing and leave for England with a lover. This last decision—“It’s important I live the life I choose,” had left her mother and husband open-jawed and, she acknowledged, stranded.
“If you love me, you’ll see I’m stifled here. This is the chance of a lifetime: to live with the man I love at a university,” Carole had said.
Her husband, who had thought she loved him, and mother, who had imaged they had a happy family, had wished her well. But her husband’s monthly stipend had stopped after three months. A note with the last cheque read, “I presume you will have found some work by now.” As if she were looking.
When Carole had insisted her husband and mother not band together against her she only got, “You worry about you,” from her mother, who displayed an unusually callous attitude. But then, Carole thought, her mother favoured her son-in-law.
The adventure had sounded romantic, like her favourite romance novels. But things hadn’t turned out as expected. In no particular order she was plagued with tribulations: not enough money, gossipy women, boring suppers, and having to listen to her lover drone on about economics, a mind-numbing subject.
“I thought you were interested,” Arnold complained.
Never really interested, but willing to listen and nod from time to time when armed with a glass of expensive wine at a posh restaurant. In those early days, Carole’s imagination had soared above his droning to visions of a blissful future. But enough was enough. She had never been expected to show interest in her husband’s work at the commission.
Two days earlier, Carole had woken in the morning—the tea Arnold had left by her bed cold, the toast soggy—and looked out the small dingy window at the rain-clogged quadrangle. A few stragglers clutching their billowing black gowns were pushing across the square: another mind-numbing day. Why even get out of bed?
Arnold’s suggestion that she join the spouses’ social group was appalling. And to make matters worse, he insisted she not go to the pub as he worried it would get people talking and hamper his chance for an extension. “A wife at the pub in the afternoon will not look good.”
“I’m not a wife,” she had said, “Not to you.”
“Fortunately, that is not public knowledge.”
On first arriving at the university, she had passed her time checking out the stores and had twice taken the train to London. But window-shopping with no ready cash was like looking at a menu when you had no cash to order anything. The little money she had when she arrived was quickly spent. Arnold gave her a small housekeeping budget, but even after scrimping on the basics, she had nothing left for what he called frills.
“You said if I paid your fare, you’d have money for your upkeep,” Arnold reminded her.
“But Terrence cut off my allowance until, as he puts it, we get things straightened out and mother only gave me a few hundred when I left, complaining she has only a small pension.”
She had been forced to use Arnold’s credit card to purchase the ticket home. “One way,” she has said sweetly to the agent. “Mother’s ill, not sure when I will get back.”
And mother might be ill to see how badly it had turned out. But it was Arnold’s fault she was going. If he had spent more time taking her to town, to the theatre and out to restaurants, rather than eating with his colleagues in college or sticking his nose into his computer. “I’ll be up in half an hour or so. Read that book I bought you about the history of the university.” No way. It was 315 pages, and with only five pictures. Lying waiting in the lumpy bed, Carole resented being consigned to the room to shiver. From day one, the best thing about Arnold had been the sex, usually after a good dinner and champagne.
She hadn’t told Arnold she was leaving him—he’d probably be cross to discover that he was paying for her trip back to Canada. She had considered having it out and sweet- talking about how she didn’t want to hold him back, but she didn’t have the energy for that. And now, thankfully, it was the last time that she’d be stuck at a table of boring old people—mostly rumpled men—who came with the free meal. The speaker at the head table was droning on about some new project the university was undertaking, so she had time to think about how to plan her departure and her arrival back in Canada.
She counted on her mother being over the moon once the initial shock wore off. She hadn’t been able to hide her disappointment when Carole told her that she was leaving Terrence. “But he has done everything you wanted. You don’t have to work and you have money to take those art courses.”
“Bottom line, he’s boring. He’s old enough to be my father.”
“As he was when you married him.”
“God, mother, he is only eight years younger than you.”
“So why did you marry him?”
“He reminded me of dad.”
“Your dad never held a job for more than six months or finished a project.”
“But dad does know how to order in a restaurant, get good wine, and plan a holiday.”
“And Terrence does too.”
At this point, Carole lost interest. “You’ll never understand. I’ve met a guy—a professor—who is going to England to work at Oxford. Imagine Oxford: those beautiful old buildings and me a professor’s wife.”
“Not a wife. And, in any event, he’ll be focused on his students and his research.”
“But we’ll be close to Europe and on weekends we’ll go to France and Italy.”
“And money?”
“Oh, he has enough and Terrence can send a monthly allowance. Arnold says I can be his companion. Or maybe even an assistant.”
Her mother had always been a worrywart. When Carole left school she had suggested Carole get some sort of training in order to support herself.
“I’m not like you, Mom. I’m not going to end up divorced and worrying about work and money. I’ll find a reliable man who can support me so I can pursue my dreams.”
“Which are?”
“Something artistic. Maybe painting or photography.”
“But even those require some schooling.”
And then Terrence came on the scene. It was her mother who befriended him at an historic society meeting. “He’s closer to your age than mine. The club is wonderful, we so enjoy it, he is very passionate about history, but his job is as an accountant at the commission and he’s doing very well.”
“You mean financially?” her daughter had asked, dropping the women’s magazine on the floor to focus on this interesting prospect.
“Oh, I’m sure he’s doing okay. He has a house in Dunbar and drives a fancy sports car.”
“House and sports car sounds good, what colour?”
“Red if you mean the car.”
“I’d like to meet him. Invite him over.”
“What can I say? I have a single daughter—who in fact is not single—and wants to have a ride in your car.”
“I am single—or will be in a flash—if I can replace Robert with a better model,” her daughter laughed. “You can plan to go for coffee after your shift volunteering and I could just happen to come by.”
It took some weeks, and some impatient prodding, to set up the accidental meeting but when it happened, Carole was pleased with the result.
“I think he’ll do,” she said. “Wonder why he never married. You don’t think he’s gay, do you?”
“Who knows, but he is very conscientious, always looks well turned out, and when we had a meeting at his house, he laid on quite a spread.”
“And the house?”
“A beautiful old place, stained glass windows. He knows a lot about old houses. He’s a real history buff.”
“Sounds boring,” Carole said. “But I can show an interest.”
“You don’t with me,” her mother had laughed.
“Don’t need to,” her daughter said, giving her a hug. “You love me even if I think old building are stupid.”
Now Carole was ready to go back. It had been six months, a few e-mails, and after the first few postcards, only two phone calls.
“I have some news,” her mother had said. “But best to tell you in person.”
“How so? I won’t be back soon.”
“I might meet you in London.”
“I thought you said you didn’t have enough money to visit.”
“Things change.”
“Don’t tell me dad finally came through with some long-overdue cash.”
“Of course not.”
So she never got the news, but it was probably nothing special.
Carole didn’t have the fob to her mother’s condo, but she had kept the key to Terrence’s house—well, really, her house.
It was Sunday, when she arrived so Terrence would probably be home or she could let herself in and jump out for a surprise, ready for a welcoming hug. As the taxi driver turned in the lane she noticed her mother’s old car parked there. “Damn her,” she mumbled. “I told them not to get together. Probably talking about me.”
The key didn’t work. She rang a number of times and finally the door opened. Terrence peeked out.
“What is mother doing here?” Carole asked angrily.
Her mother in a long silk gown peeked from behind. “Carole, what a surprise. I told you I had news.”