Alex Gray - The Riverman

He turned slowly, surveying the place where he’d spent the last thirty years, then walked across and sat down heavily in the captain’s chair behind the leather-topped desk. Photographs of the children stood in silver frames: Janey on the beach in Arromanches, Philip standing solemnly with his first violin after a school concert, their graduation pictures, Janey with the baby, Philip grinning from under a bush hat somewhere in Kenya.

Philip. Duncan’s mouth straightened in a hard line as he thought of his only son. There would be no job in the firm for him after all. Would he mind? Suddenly Duncan realized he had no earthly idea how his son would respond. When had he last talked with him about such matters anyway? Had he ever? Or was it something they’d all taken for granted?

For a moment Duncan Forbes was smitten by a strange hollow sensation.

What he was about to do would affect so many lives, so many careers, yet all he could think about was how much he would miss the daily routine of coming into this room with all its memories.

The woman smiled lazily as she stretched her arms above her head. That extra half-hour in bed made all the difference at this time of year. Duncan had slipped away earlier than usual, but that was all right. She’d learned a long time ago that his absences meant he had more work and that more work gave her the kind of freedom afforded to few women these days. The years of jumping out of bed in response to the alarm clock’s strident ring and all those city-bound trains with their crushed cargo of heaving bodies were long behind her. Thank God. Or maybe that should be thank Duncan , a little voice reminded Liz Forbes. He was the one who’d enabled her to stop working when the children were born, after all. How many years ago? She’d lost count now.

From time to time there had been a flicker of discontent. Janey had once called her a dinosaur, complaining that other girls’ mummies had careers as lawyers and doctors. They managed to raise families and do all the things that Liz did, her daughter had complained, so why didn’t she go out to work? There was a time when Liz had missed the camaraderie of office life with all its gossip and nights out, especially when the babies had been fractious and sleepless nights had seemed endless. Hugging her dressing gown around her exhausted body, she’d watched the smartly dressed girls pass her window each morning on their way to the railway station. Then she’d yearned for the familiar routine of making up her face and choosing which outfit she should wear. But those days had passed. Besides, Liz loved her house, her garden and her daily habits.

Now Liz couldn’t imagine how she’d fit even a part-time job into her busy day. For a start there were the demands of her charity work. She sat on various committees as well as organizing an annual fundraising ball. Once a month, from May until September, she and Duncan opened their garden to the public, again to raise funds. It was the focal point of the community for the Christmas carol service, when they strung thousands of fairy lights from the trees and provided mulled wine and Christmas pies for the locals. That counted for something, surely? People were always telling her how much they loved it.

Most of Liz’s own friends were working women: some through the necessity of making ends meet post-marriage, others because it was simply what they did. She couldn’t imagine Sally not being a primary headmistress, for instance. It was something that defined her oldest friend, just as being at home and tending to her large garden was the image her friends had of Liz Forbes. It was hard work and kept her slim and fit, but there were times like now when she could snuggle under the duvet, watch the grey streak of cloud shift above the brightness on the horizon and listen to the blackbird in the pine trees.

The sound of the doorbell signalled the arrival of the morning’s post and Liz rolled out of her warm cocoon, toes wriggling in anticipation of the sheepskin rug that lay on her side of the bed. A second ring made Liz scurry through the hallway, buttoning her dressing gown. Quick fingers tugged the snarls out of her hair as she glanced at the grandmother clock. Was it that time already?

‘Thanks, John.’ She flashed a smile at the postman as he handed her the day’s mail. As usual there were several A4-sized envelopes that were too large for their antique letterbox. A flick through the bundle revealed that the bulk was for Duncan, with two bills and a letter for Liz plus a postcard from Kenya addressed to them both.

Dear All,

Having a great time here. Saw the most amazing herd of elephant yesterday. Our ranger, Leonard, took us pretty close. Weather still hot but the nights can be surprisingly chilly. Met a group of Aussies who are off to Scotland next month. May meet up with them when

I’m back. Only three more months to go. Can’t believe how the time’s passed! Hope you’re both well.

Love, Philip

Liz smiled. It had been her idea for Philip to take a year out after university. ‘He’ll be in a nine-to-five routine for the rest of his life,’ she’d argued when Duncan had objected. ‘Give the boy some space before he settles down. He’s worked hard enough for his degree, after all.’ And that was true enough. Philip had achieved an upper second after a year when he’d sacrificed his social life on the altar of constant study. Duncan had grudgingly acknowledged this, adding that his studies weren’t over yet. There would be the Chartered Accountancy exams for a couple of years at least, once he’d joined the firm.

She placed the card on the glass shelf above the radiator in the hall, where Duncan would be sure to see it on his return home, then took the rest of the day’s mail into the kitchen. As Liz waited for the kettle to boil she sorted out her husband’s post and put her own into a smaller pile. The two bills were from Marks amp; Spencer and Frasers, she noticed, turning them over. The letter addressed to Mrs D. Forbes was typewritten on a long blue Basildon Bond envelope. She glanced at the reverse, hoping to see a self-addressed label but there was none. It would be something to do with one of the charities, Liz decided, reaching out for the paper knife she kept on top of the bread bin. But it wasn’t.

The two sheets of paper typed in single spacing danced before her eyes. Dear Mrs Forbes, the letter began. That was right. She was Liz Forbes, wife of the highly respected Duncan Forbes, CA, partner of Forbes Macgregor. But the rest of it? No. The rest of the letter was all wrong. It had to be. And the signature? Well, there wasn’t one, just a typed line: from a friend .

Liz slumped against the kitchen chair, hands trembling. Her first instinct was to phone Duncan and tell him of this horrible thing that was happening to her. A poison-pen letter, wasn’t that what they called them? She bit her lip. What if it was true? How would Duncan respond to her calling the office? Liz took up the letter again and read its contents. It was about Duncan, the writer explained. It was from a sense of duty that the letter was being written to Mrs Forbes, he went on . He? Liz thought suddenly. Or she? Somehow it sounded like a man: the wording was formal, educated. There was nothing spiteful in the language, no sneering at Duncan for what he was supposed to have done, the tone almost apologetic, as if the writer had had no alternative but to reveal the horror that was causing Liz’s mouth to dry up.

If there had been even one word of malice she would have torn the letter to shreds and binned it, she knew. But the unheard voice was so reasonable, so matter-of-fact, that Liz continued to read the closely spaced lines until the phrases were indelibly fixed in her brain.