Forever Autumn

I hung my coat over the back of a chair then went straight to the bar to return with a tray bearing four glasses of chilled champagne that I had pre-ordered. I put one in front of each of us and sat.

It was Carole's reaction that tore something out of me. Her previously happy expression froze and the look she gave me seemed to be one of intense dislike if not pure hatred. "You stupid bitch!" she snarled, "What the fuck did you do that for?" She picked up the champagne flute and hurled the contents into the potted plant.

I felt as if I'd been slapped in the face and I could feel tears welling. A glance at Josie and Liv told me they were shocked, although perhaps not as badly as I was. "I don't know what I've done wrong," I said, "I was just trying to do something nice for Liv. I'd better go."

"Have a nice birthday, Liv, goodnight," I said as I stood. Turning to Josie I wished her goodnight. I didn't even look at Carole.

I gathered up my coat and without bothering to put it on headed for the door. As I did so I heard Josie say: "You haven't told her, have you?" and Liv following this with: "You'd better get after her and explain, Carole, if you don't want to lose her."

Don't waste your breath, honey, I thought, she's already lost me. I stormed down the street, pulling on my coat. Behind me I heard Carole calling: "Sarah! Please wait, Sarah! I'm sorry!"

I didn't stop. I heard running steps behind and Carole grabbed at me as she caught up. Without looking at her I pulled my arm away and kept going. She caught at my elbow and again I snatched away from her grasp. "Don't touch me!" Perhaps I was behaving badly now. I was hurt and angry and acting petulantly.

I must have looked a bit fierce because Carole backed off a little, hands held up in conciliation. "Please Sarah! I'm so, so sorry! Please let me explain!"

"What?"

"Sarah, I should have told you before but I was afraid I'd scare you off. Sarah, I can't drink. I'm a recovering alcoholic. That's why I acted so badly back there." In the light from a streetlamp I could see tears on her cheeks.

At the moment, I was in no mood to be pacified. "You could have trusted me with this before!" I snapped, "Instead you just let me make a fool of myself..." My own tears were flowing now. "I was only trying to give Liv a lovely evening and that's ruined now. Surely one small glass of champagne wouldn't have hurt you?"

Carole shook her head. "It's not like that, Sarah, not for an alcoholic. One drink is too many, a thousand is never enough."

"Whatever. You'd better go back to the girls, Carole. It's cold and you haven't got a coat on." Again petulance came to the fore. I'm not normally like that but I was this time. I could have acted differently but emotion overrode sympathy. "I think we'd better not see each other again, not for a while anyway."

"Sarah, please... Sarah, I love you." Seeing that I appeared adamant, Carole added: "At least let me phone or text you sometimes..."

That was when I should have told her I loved her too. I should have taken her in my arms and held her and forgiven her. Instead I shrugged and turned to walk off. "Whatever..." Later that evening, after getting home and having a cry, I was ashamed of myself—I'm still ashamed of myself. If I could turn the clock back I would, maybe things would have turned out differently then. But I couldn't turn time back and we all have to live with the consequences of our actions.

* * * * *

It was one evening several weeks after Liv's birthday. My flat was one of a kind abundant in this part of the city, situated in an old late-Victorian terraced house with a steep flight of steps leading up to a deep porch. As I approached I saw that the porch light had gone again, something it did frequently, leaving the front door in darkness. The wiring was probably faulty but despite his frequent promises the landlord never seemed to get round to having it fixed. It would probably need someone to be hurt before he'd get his finger out. I had taken to carrying a small torch for these occasions and fumbled in my handbag to find it.

Just as my fingers found the torch, a voice suddenly snapping from the darkness of the porch made me jump. A woman's voice and not very friendly sounding. "Sarah Rackham? Are you Sarah Rackham?"

The speaker emerged onto the top step where the dim street lighting showed her a little more clearly. "Yes, I can see now—you are Sarah Rackham. I want a word with you."

I thought I knew the voice now and the shadowed face. It was Carole's mother. The narrow beam from my torch picked out the Yale lock and I inserted my key. "Mrs Vernon isn't it? It's been a while. You'd better come inside," I invited.

I turned on the lights in my sitting-room and took a good look at my visitor—she'd be in her early- to mid-fifties now, I guessed. She hadn't changed all that much, she was still handsome enough, although her lips seemed to be thinner and meaner than when she was younger and her expression more bitter. Her eyes were cold and she looked at me as if I were some specimen presented for dissection. "Would you like a tea or coffee?" I offered.

She stared around the sitting-room and her lips tightened even more when her eyes lit on the several framed prints of nude women on the walls. They were all tasteful but her expression said that they were the most indecent pieces of art she had ever seen. "No. What I have to say won't take long."

"So what can I do for you?"

"I'm here to tell you to stay away from Carole," she said.

When I was younger I might have been intimidated by her manner, I might have been even now but her tone pissed me off and gave me a bit of backbone. "I haven't seen Carole for a few weeks now," I told her, "but what right have you to tell me to stay away from her? We're both adults and can see whoever we wish."

Ignoring what I had said, she jabbed an angry finger at me. "I know what your game is, Sarah Rackham. You're a pervert and you are bent on corrupting Carole to your deviant ways."

I thought: Corruption! If anyone had corrupted anyone, it was Carole corrupting me those two wonderful teenage nights. And I didn't consider it corruption but a confirmation of what I had long suspected about myself. Aloud I said: "I don't think you heard me. I just told you that I haven't seen Carole for some time."

The woman seemed not to hear me—most likely she had no intention of listening to me. Instead she hissed: "After all I did for you and now you appear to be hell-bent on destroying my family."

I struggled to hold my temper. "After all you did for me? You did nothing for me except allow me to keep Carole company once when you and Mr Vernon had a weekend away. Even then you didn't make me feel very welcome."

That threatening finger was jabbed at me again. "I'm going now. You obviously have no intention of listening to me, Sarah Rackham. I've tried to be reasonable with you but now I'm going to settle your hash once and for all. Homosexuals like you are sick and disgusting and deserve all that you get!"

I had no intention of listening to her? She was being reasonable? I wondered for a moment if Mrs Vernon really believed the self-deluding nonsense she was spouting then decided she must do. She was probably rational enough, just one of these people incapable of seeing or accepting any viewpoint other than their own.

* * * * *

I didn't have to wait long to find out how Mrs Vernon was going to settle my hash. Several mornings after our little encounter I was called in to see Robert Partridge, my employer.

"I'm afraid I've had a letter of complaint about you, Sarah," he started.

"Let me guess," I told him, "It's from a Mrs Vernon."

"What makes you think that?"

"My work here doesn't often bring me into direct contact with your clients," I said, "so they're unlikely to have any reason to complain about me. And for personal reasons Mrs Vernon has a down on me, so... QED, I guess."

"You're right," Robert said, passing me a letter. It was handwritten, headed Private & Personal and dated the previous day.

Dear Mr Partridge,

I wish to enter a formal complaint against one of your employees, Sarah Rackham. Ms Rackham is a perverted and predatory lesbian and she has been stalking my eldest daughter, Carole, for some weeks in an attempt to corrupt her.

I do not know what action you propose to take against Ms Rackham but I feel that she is not a suitable person to work for a legal practice such as yours. Unless dismissed, she will be sure to damage your professional and personal reputation.

I await your reply with interest.. I will, of course, be consulting my own solicitor about this matter should I consider your reply to be unsatisfactory.

Yours sincerely,

Freda Vernon

Freda! You know, in all these years I had never thought about her having a first name. I had almost believed that her parents had named her 'Mrs' at birth and christened her that way. "Well, at least she had the guts to sign her name rather than remain anonymous," I said.

"Is any of this true, Sarah?"

"She obviously prefers to think it is, even if it's not." I pointed to the line about an unsatisfactory reply. "Looks as if she's trying to drag you down as well as me. Let's just say there are some distortions in her letter."

"How old is this daughter Carole?"

I laughed. "A couple of months older than me, I think. Thirty-two, anyway."

Robert Partridge snorted. "Reading between the lines of this letter, I thought perhaps Carole was barely the age of consent."

I laughed again. "No, she's practically a senior citizen," I told my boss, " Look, I'll tell you the truth. Yes, I'm a lesbian—last time I looked that wasn't a crime except maybe to people like Mrs Vernon. Yes, I know Carole Vernon who is also gay but we're not in a confirmed relationship... yet... A large part of the problem is that Mrs Vernon refuses to accept Carole's sexuality. Yes, I've got strong feelings for Carole and I think she has for me but we've got some personal matters to resolve so we won't be getting together immediately. As for me stalking and corrupting Carole, I haven't even seen her for a few weeks although we have talked on the phone, couple of times a week maybe. Most of those calls were from Carole to me and I'm sure the phone records will prove that. Hardly the classic pattern of a stalker and victim." I finished by asking Robert: "What are you going to do?"

"It depended on your explanation but I'll do what I now consider to be a correct course of action," he replied, "I'm going to write to Mrs Vernon refuting her allegations, pointing out that they are false, that the threatening tone of her letter is not only unarguably libellous but possibly homophobic too and that she is leaving herself open to legal action with a claim for punitive damages unless she cares to withdraw her remarks with an apology. On the basis of this letter, if she's honest with her solicitors and they are worth their salt they'll give her much the same advice."

"Thanks, Robert," I said. I doubted his reply would make Freda Vernon any more kindly disposed towards me but it might keep her off my back.

A few days later brought a letter of grudging apology from Mrs Vernon, retracting her accusations and regretting '...any misunderstanding possibly caused by my inadvertent choice of words...' I reckon her solicitor drafted that reply for her. 'Any misunderstanding possibly caused...' my backside. That 'apology' was worthy of any politician. Still, Robert Partridge and I thought it was likely to be the best we'd get and we agreed to let the matter go.

* * * * *

I'd told Robert the truth about occasional contact with Carole. We hadn't entirely cut off, exchanging texts and speaking to each other on the phone from time to time. Not wanting to cause any trouble, I never mentioned Mrs Vernon's visit and attempt to have me fired. I knew that I was in love with Carole and I believed her to be in love with me but after what had happened... well, I wasn't really sure how to handle it. I knew nothing about addiction in general and alcoholism in particular—Carole had assured me that she was in recovery and constantly begged forgiveness for her outburst. Our phone conversations often ended with one or both of us in tears.

Then one evening she called me with an odd request. "Sarah, will you come to

an open AA meeting with me on Friday evening?"

"What's an open AA meeting?" I asked.

"It's one where people other than alcoholics are allowed to sit in—they only hold two or three a year but they're popular with GPs, psychologists and similar. They probably learn more from AA meetings than they'll ever learn in a medical school lecture room. "Come with me, Sarah," Carole implored, "It'll give you an idea of what it's like. Please, Sarah, say you'll come with me—it means a lot to me. It's at eight o'clock if that's okay for you."

After some thought I agreed to go as it seemed important to her that I did so. I had some essential work to finish up as soon as possible so I decided to stay on at the office that evening, have a sandwich there, and Carole arranged to pick me up at about seven-thirty so we could go directly to the venue. A few minutes before the agreed time I was waiting outside of our office building. When she arrived we just looked at each other for a moment and then threw ourselves into a mad embrace, weeping and kissing, oblivious to the crowds of people having to skirt around us on the pavement. "I love you, Carole," I sobbed.

"I love you too, Sarah."

It was just starting to rain and fat drops splashed down on us, snapping us back into the real world. It threatened to be a real downpour. "That's all right," Carole told me, "I've got a large umbrella in the car."

The meeting was held in a Salvation Army hall and there were probably about forty or fifty people present. I had no inkling of the proportions of alcoholics there to non-alcoholics. For all I knew, I might be the only non- present. I did notice that several people appeared to be less than sober. "I thought AA was for recovered alcoholics," I said, gesturing, "They look a bit worse for wear."

"Couldn't help hearing you, Miss," said a man next to me, "AA is for anyone who thinks they have a booze problem, whether they're sober or still drinking. How do you think we lucky ones manage to get sober?"

Embarrassed, I apologised. Carole gripped my hand. "All we ask at open meetings," she said, "is that visitors listen and then respect our anonymity. What's said here stays here."

She'd already told me what to expect, that a meeting usually has a main speaker and when they've finished the floor is open for others to comment or share their stories. The main speaker on this occasion was an elderly man, probably in his mid-seventies. "Good evening, everybody," he started, "My name is Monty and I'm an alcoholic." I found out later that Monty was known locally as 'The Wise Old Man of AA'.

There was a chorus of: "Hello, Monty." from the audience. Carole told me that this was the usual practice.

Monty looked around and continued. "I'm an alcoholic and I've been sober in AA for thirty-five years. I understand that tonight is an open meeting so my first remarks are addressed to those guests among you whose partners are still drinking. First of all, and you may have recognised this from bitter experience, your partner is manipulative and will work on you. The drinking is not your fault, no matter how much your partner tries to persuade you it is. It is not your responsibility although your partner will probably try to lay it on you. Accept this, you are not to blame. There are three points you should be aware of if your partner is still drinking and you must accept the truth of these because they are being told to you by a recovered alcoholic, somebody who has been there and done that.

"One: never believe an alcoholic, because they will always lie to you.

Two: never accept an alcoholic's promises, because they will always break them.

Three: never trust an alcoholic because they will always let you down."

Monty talked for about fifteen minutes. He had been a functioning alcoholic, a fairly successful broker and senior partner in his own business, although towards the end he had been carried for several years by his partners and some of his staff. For him the crunch had come when his partners told him they were buying him out and that they were giving him no choice in the matter. The partnership would retain his name but that would be his sole connection to the business. He concluded his talk by saying that each alcoholic had to hit their own rock bottom before seeking recovery: for some that meant the first time they realised their drinking was getting out of hand; others had literally to be in the gutter. "We are all different and we're all the same."

Monty looked around his audience. "There are just three eventual and for certain conclusions open to the alcoholic," he concluded, "They are madness or death or recovery leading to sobriety. Some get to whichever one quickly, some take a long time. Thirty-five years ago I chose recovery. Will you?"

I heard some frightening stories that evening, of the terrible things that booze did to people and of the terrible things many of them did while in booze. And yet they all laughed at some of the most shocking tales. The thing was, they weren't laughing at each other, they were laughing with each other and the laughter was sympathetic as well as genuine. They recognised themselves. With each other they were like one big dysfunctional family struggling towards normality. Some made it along the way, others of their 'family' died before finding sobriety.

Some people had been instant alcoholics from their first ever drink, others took many years to reach that point. One elderly woman told about being tee-total until in her early fifties she had been persuaded to have a small glass of sherry at a wedding. Within three months she was a raving alcoholic under restraint in a psychiatric unit. With the help of several rehab stays and then AA she had eventually made it out of the morass she had blundered into—she was one of the fortunate ones. There were those who had been happy social drinkers for years, never taking more than a couple of beers, who for some unknown reason just suddenly fell off the edge. In some cases it seemed as if it might be genetic, parents or grandparents having been alcoholics. I clung to Carole's hand as if that would cure her of this dreadful affliction.

Despite all the laughter, something else came across very clearly, the self-loathing of many drinking alcoholics. A number of speakers told of their thoughts of suicide in their drinking days. Several admitted they'd got almost to the point of doing it but chickened out and opened another bottle instead.

The meeting finished with something I had never heard before, what they called the Serenity Prayer: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."

A number of people lingered on for coffee and to tidy up the hall. Monty came over to us. "Hello, Carole. How are you doing?"

"Pretty well, thanks Monty. I've got a decent job again and it looks like life is getting better." She pulled me forward. "Monty, this is Sarah, my girlfriend." We talked for a few minutes then Carole wandered off to greet one or two other people, leaving me with Monty.

"You're not an alcoholic?" Monty asked.

"No, thank God."

"Then this is your first open meeting?" I nodded and he went on: "I guess it must have opened your eyes a bit, you'll have heard some pretty horrendous stories this evening. I don't want to put a damper on things, Sarah, but Carole's in the very early stages of recovery. It's only about nine or ten months for her. She's what we call 'dry' rather than 'sober '. That means while she may not be drinking she's still likely to have the mindset of a drinking alcoholic." He handed me a card. "Those are my numbers, home and mobile. If ever you need to talk, call me."