Love Patterns

  Contents

  Imprint

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter I0

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Imprint

  All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

  © 2018 novum publishing

  ISBN print edition: 978-3-99064-178-1

  ISBN e-book: 978-3-99064-179-8

  Editor: Hugo Chandler, BA

  Cover images: Jorgosphotos, Alfio Scisetti | Dreamstime.com

  Coverdesign, Layout & Type: novum publishing

  www.novum-publishing.co.uk

  Chapter 1

  I lifted my wedding photograph from the shelf and sighed. My vision shifted from my wife Kathleen to my best man Peter Wilson. We had been in the same class at school, then had gone on to university together and had even served in the same Royal Air Force squadron for a while. I examined the dark good looks and the smile that had turned women to putty in his hands. That was one of the many things I’d loved about Kathleen. How she was not only impervious to Peter’s charms but had thoroughly disproved of his treatment of women and was not above telling him so. I smiled, remembering when Peter had a few too many drinks and had become maudlin, telling me that Kathleen was the only woman who he’d ever wanted to get close to.

  Peter had gone to Kenya after the war, bought a large farm with a resident native village and had turned it into a coffee plantation. From his letters I’d got the impression that he’d acquired himself a harem, “marrying” girls as young as fifteen, which was the legal age there; then when they got older, running his tractor over an uncultivated parcel of his land, then giving it to them with a bag of seed and a few goats. According to Peter, they seemed content with the arrangement and before their first harvest they had invariably attracted a husband.

  I remembered East Africa. My father had been a government official in Kenya and I’d spent my childhood there and later when I’d been sent to school in Scotland, I had spent my summer holidays there. I’d loved the country and according to Peter it was my tales of the country that had persuaded him to settle there. I smiled, remembering some pretty native girls. When I was a teenager on holiday I used to go down to the market and ogle them walking about with their bare breasts. I’d had an almost permanent hard on. I remembered a native girl, one of the servants a year older than myself, who I’d had a crush on when I was fourteen. We’d had a brief but torrid relationship. I smiled, remembering how she had shown me what to do and where to touch her. My parents had eventually found out and I’d got a whipping from my father and had been sent home to relatives in Scotland, in disgrace. The girl had been dismissed. I remembered the giggles and the sidelong smiles from the other girl servants before I was sent away.

  I sighed. I hadn’t heard from Peter in years.

  I remembered my excitement at the publication of my first novel. My hopes had died when I arrived home from the school where I taught to find that my manuscript had been returned. I hadn’t even opened the package until late that evening when I found that the publisher was highly complimentary about my novel and suggested that I redraft some pages and resubmit. I’d let out such a whoop that Kathleen had come running to find out what was wrong. After the redrafting I’d been on tenterhooks for the next four weeks until a letter had arrived with an advance that was more than my year’s salary in teaching. I’d then left teaching to concentrate on writing. We’d bought a new car, a Morris Minor, and had a garage built next to the house. I’d started giving Kathleen driving lessons.

  I remembered when I’d first met Kathleen. It was during the war. I’d been a bomber pilot, based near Bath and had been dragged by my friends to a local dance. The band had been mediocre but rhythmic, and as usual, the young women were sitting or standing at one side of the room, chatting, and pretending to be oblivious to the longing and calculating looks of the young men clustered on the other side.

  I’d first noticed her because she started to dance by herself in tune to the music, taking tiny light steps on the same spot and occasionally turning. Her eyes were shining with excitement as if this was her first dance. She was wearing a plain green dress, obviously home-made as so many were, three years into the war. She had a light green scarf around her shoulders that swirled out as she turned, coiling round her bare arms. She had light brown, almost golden hair, cut to shoulder length and a slim girlish figure. She wasn’t particularly pretty but there was something about her, and her smile. It was at once cheeky and warm and innocent.

  I danced with her four times that night and she’d agreed to let me walk her home. We’d talked about the war and what we wanted to do afterwards. She hoped to be a primary school teacher and had been impressed when I told her I was a mathematics teacher before I’d been called up. She was eighteen and I was seven years older. We had continued to see each other, growing closer and closer; falling in love and after two years had got married.

  I smiled, remembering the way she pressed against me when she was aroused. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. We loved the feel of each other’s skin. I felt my eyes go moist. I loved being near her, to watch her as she moved, to see the light and shadows of her face, to hear her voice.

  My mood changed. I remembered our baby girl’s death. After three miscarriages we were wary but as her pregnancy progressed and the doctors took extra care, our hopes rose higher and higher, but despite Kathleen being extra careful, the baby girl was born six weeks prematurely. I remembered the nights sitting by the tiny body. Kathleen had hardly left her side. At first, we’d talk in whispers then we would just watch the tiny mite, our silences stretching like the emptiness of our hopes, each asking God to take our lives if he’d only let our little girl live. She’d given up the struggle after two weeks and we had both been devastated. We’d given her a name by then, Elizabeth, after Kathleen’s mother, and had both been in tears at the funeral, as the tiny white coffin had been lowered into the ground. I don’t know how I got through the next few months, especially when I’d seen men younger than myself holding the hands of little girls with shiny hair and rosebud mouths and little frilly dresses. Kathleen had sworn never to get pregnant again.

  Eventually time had dissolved the hard edges of our grief and we had tried to capture our previous intimacy. But something had happen
ed to her. She was warm in my arms and got aroused but whenever I tried to make love to her, even though I took precautions, she drew back. And the time that I’d tried to force her she’d become hysterical and hadn’t spoken to me for three days and had shrunk away at my touch. I tried to discuss our problem, but it was as if she blamed me, or sex itself for the death of our child. A year after Elizabeth’s death she had eventually agreed that she would try to resume our intimacy if I had a vasectomy.

  They’d put a screen across my stomach, so I couldn’t see what they were doing. I’d felt the tugs and pulls in a dull sort of way and there had been no pain, but with every tug I’d felt part of my manhood being removed. And the theatre sister! – I wouldn’t have minded if she’d been ugly or middle, aged but she’d looked so young and attractive in her uniform. My self-esteem had sunk at the sight of her, as I lay helpless with my knees drawn up, exposing my testicles to the surgeon’s knife. I was told it would take three months for the sperm still swimming about inside me to disappear. Only after they had ascertained I was sterile could I resume ‘normal sexual relations’. I grinned. Mini-skirts had just come into fashion and I’d spent the next three months drooling at young women. I’d loved, to watch the play of muscles behind their knees and the movement of the skirt as their hips swayed.

  We eventually got a letter stating that my sperm count was non-existent. During dinner, Kathleen had kept giving me sidelong lingering looks, then smiling before looking away. I helped her clear the table and dried the dishes, I then read the daily newspaper, trying to hide my eagerness, my desperate need of her.

  She must have noticed, for much earlier than usual, she suggested that we go to bed. We’d aroused each other but when I entered her she’d grimaced and given a stifled cry of pain. My erection had immediately subsided. I sobbed and fell on top of her. When she’d started crying I’d lifted myself off, lain at her side, and stroked her back

  “I’m sorry William,” she’d sobbed.

  I pulled her closer and told her not to worry, that maybe she needed more time.

  We both lay awake for a long time before sleep claimed us. The next day she’d told me she was going to see her doctor.

  I’d been gardening and looked up to see her trying to get in the gate, laden with shopping. I’d helped, opening the gate and had taken the heavier looking brown paper bags. Once inside the house, she’d told me that the doctor had told her that there was nothing physically wrong with her and suggested that she see a psychiatrist. I was shocked. She’d run crying to the bathroom and locked herself in. I’d been frantic when she wouldn’t answer me, remembering my razor by the washbasin. After what felt like hours I heard the bolt slide back. Her head had appeared, then she was in my arms, her wet cheeks against mine.

  “I’m sorry dear,” she’d, said. “I’d better get on with dinner.” She’d left me gaping after her.

  During dinner she’d kept giving me coy looks. After washing and drying the dishes she’d disappeared upstairs. I heard the bath water running in the bathroom. I hadn’t known whether to go upstairs or not. Much later, she’d come into the kitchen wearing the black silk nightdress I’d given her for her birthday. She’d pulled me to my feet and kissed me passionately and rotated her stomach against my erection. Taking my hand, she’d led me to the bedroom. I aroused her until her hips started arching. As I’d sunk into her soft fleshiness she’d cried as if in, agony but my passion was a red haze and I’d pushed into her violently my movements convulsive until in my last spasm I’d sank deep into her and felt blessed release. I collapsed on top of her, suddenly aware of the pain on her face. She pushed me off and started slapping me. I’d covered my face with my hands as she’d punched me, calling me an animal. Shocked, I’d held her wrists, until she’d exhausted herself. She’d turned her back to me and lay sobbing.

  “Kathleen?” I’d touched her back.

  “Don’t touch me,” she’d sobbed.

  I’d eyed her accusing back and started to touch her. She must have sensed my hand for she’d shrunk away. I’d felt wetness on my face and staggered into the bathroom to look at the damage. There were scratches on my face and neck. After tending to my face I’d come back into the bedroom. Kathleen was sitting on the bed with her feet drawn up, her arms wrapped round them and her head bowed on her knees. She’d looked like a frightened child.

  “Kathleen,” I’d murmured softly.

  “I don’t want you to sleep here,” she said.

  “Kathleen, I’m sorry.”

  “Just go away.”

  He’d stumped his way to the lounge, had a drink and sat brooding. Something had been hurt when their daughter had died, something inside her. It had been bad enough for him, but it must have been far worse for her. Feeling the baby growing inside her, her body readying itself for the birth, hormones flooding her body, preparing her for feeding and nursing. Maybe she did need a psychiatrist?

  When I’d returned to the bedroom. Kathleen was in the same position. I looked at her for a while. She never moved, I couldn’t even hear her breathing. I’d felt under my pillow for my pyjamas, then crept out again. Later I’d heard the bath taps running. Getting rid of all evidence of me, I’d thought dismally.

  The next morning she’d smiled at my wounded face.

  “Sorry Bill,” she’d said, and that was it.

  I’d dried the dishes. They’d read the Sunday papers and carried on a normal conversation. After lunch she’d tended to the flowers in the garden while I’d mowed the lawn. I’d had no idea how to react to her, frightened that some remark of mine about the night before might push her over the edge.

  After dinner as they’d washed and dried the dishes, she’d suddenly said.

  “I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to have an affair.”

  I’d been so shocked that I’d dropped the plate I’d been drying. She’d giggled and kissed me on the cheek. I’d spent the rest of the evening in a daze.

  That night I’d found that my pillows and my alarm clock had been moved to the spare room. We’d carried on much as we always had, except it took a month before I’d even started noticing mini skirted young women again.

  One evening, when Kathleen was visiting friends, I’d gone out for a beer. I’d sat at a corner table going over the rough plot of my new novel, testing ideas. I was a visual thinker and liked to picture the characters, and watch their expressions. I wondered how much Kenya had changed. Was my friend Peter still on his farm? I remembered his tales of the native black girls and smiled. I’d sat with my empty glass for a while then when my erection had subsided, went to the bar to for a refill. pondering how much longer I could go on like this? Lying in my lonely bed, longing for her touch, I missed the sound of her breathing and the warmth of her body. Even being near her leached any passion out of me.

  I’d thought about Kathleen’s words. I could do it! I could visit Kenya, pick up a black girl and live with her for a week or two. I could also do some research for my book. I contacted an acquaintance who had dealings with modern Kenya. His advice was to rent a cottage since many expatriates saved their holidays and took them in a block to visit relatives in Britain, and were quite happy to have someone trustworthy to look after their house for a nominal rent. He’d suggested that I look in the “East African Standard” and said he’d send me the latest copy.

  Alone in my single bed, I’d wondered how I might tell Kathleen. I couldn’t very well just say “I’m going off to Kenya for two weeks dear.” Maybe I could say I wanted to do some research for my next book? But what if she wanted to come? I’d fallen asleep still pondering.

  A package with the newspaper arrived. When I’d scanned the ‘Property to Let’ pages I’d found five properties that might be suitable. For some reason a bungalow on the outskirts of Nairobi had attracted my attention from the start.

  “Attractive bungalow. Two bedrooms, lounge, dining room, kitchen, bathroom and garage, with small annex for resident houseboy. Phone. Fully furnished. Linen etc. Just ov
er one mile from centre of Nairobi. Available for rent July.”

  I’d looked over the others but was irresistibly drawn back to that advert. Giving in, I’d written a letter right away, registering an interest and giving my publisher and bank manager as referees. Kathleen had looked over my shoulder and asked what I was reading.

  “A Kenyan newspaper,” I replied. “I was half thinking of going to Kenya in the summer holidays to do some research for my new book. Would you like to come?”

  She’d given me an intent look, then looked away.

  “I was thinking of going down to Mum for a while.”

  ‘God! She knows,’ I thought.

  “How long are you thinking of going for?” she’d asked.

  “Two weeks maybe three, sure you won’t come?”

  “Yes, you go by yourself, have fun. I’m off to bed.”

  I’d lain thinking in my lonely bed that night. How could she know? Maybe it’s just my guilty feelings?

  No! She knows. Well anyway, I’m going. I remembered the young black girl who’d seduced me. It had been my first time. I couldn’t even remember her name. For some reason that disturbed me.

  A week later a letter had arrived from an agent offering me the use of the bungalow in Nairobi for three weeks. I was also offered the use of a Land Rover and asked if I wanted to retain the services of the houseboy. I’d accepted both and sent off a cheque. I’d bought a Swahili primer to try to regain the fluency I’d had as a boy. In a state of rising excitement, I bought light clothes, cotton underwear and socks, sandals and a pair of stout brown brogues, and a book about modern Kenya, and arranged with my bank to have funds available to me at their Nairobi branch. I’d contacted my publishers to inform them about my trip and learned that my first book was still topping the best seller list and my new book was selling well and had been given a very good reception by the critics.

  I’d booked my flight to Kenya then taken Kathleen out for dinner We’d walked home hand in hand, had a coffee, watched some television, then went to our separate bedrooms.

  The next day she’d helped me pack my case. I remembered that venereal disease was rife in Kenya, so in the afternoon I’d visited a shop at the other end of town. The sign above the door said euphemistically “SURGICAL APPLIANCES”. I’d bought three dozen condoms which by my calculations should be enough. I’d carefully distributed them among my pockets, so they wouldn’t be too noticeable, then I sneaked back to the house and had hidden them at the bottom of my case. Feeling like a schoolboy, I’d strolled down to the lounge where Kathleen was watching television and casually taken a seat beside her.