Sex and the Ex-Wife's Sister

I looked on my excellent map and saw that the MoD land was some distance away and no live firing sites anywhere near. I pushed open the remains of a wooden gate and stepped into what must have been a farmyard, and saw the shell of the house and the steel joists still in place that thanks to shape of the building and some adjacent trees were resisting the rust brilliantly. The out-buildings were in even better shape and I could hear the sound of running water. The afternoon fresh air smelt wonderful and the view of the small valley it was in was out of this world.

I stepped into the remains of the farmhouse and looked up. The place was fucking huge and I was instantly intrigued, I walked around using my laser tape measure and sized it up. It must have been bloody amazing in its time and I closed my eyes and imagined it rebuilt and took a load of photographs with my phone. Back in town I Googled the address and it came up on the estate agent website with 'open to offers' and a page that obviously hadn't been updated in a few years, the weed growth around the entrance told me that.

Having some skill with planning officers I called in to see my contact in the local council and asked how I might buy the place and rebuild it.

"Back to its Victorian best," said the bespectacled but very curvy lady planning officer, "unless you want to try to get planning permission for something else like all of the other muppets have attempted and failed at some point in the last ten years. It's agricultural with an option on 'a few' added holiday rooms but please don't waste your money and my time on barn conversion to fourteen holiday cottages because the district has far too many of those already."

"Victorian best it is then," I said and started my research finding some old photographs of the place in the local newspaper offices, then went back with my tape measure and laser that weekend and surveyed the crap out of it.

Back at my flat I switched on my CAD software and drew plans, some of them even overlaying original pictures which two days later I shared with the planner who was delighted and gave the go-ahead based on those drawings. The price was quite reasonable considering and as quantity surveying was what I did for a living, costing up the materials and labour was a piece of piss.

I contacted the estate agent and offered them twenty five thousand under list, saying that I'd be there in two days to sign the paperwork. They tried to knock it up to list, but I demurred saying that it had been sat on their books for at least fifteen years (thanks council planner!) and that I'd leave it there for a few more if they wanted.

The estate agent asked me to hang on, and we settled on fifteen under list, which was at still five less than I thought they'd go for.

Rachel and I had bought our first house off-plan and the area had taken off because of the excellent local schools becoming quite sought after and we'd made quite a significant sum on the original price, added to that the amount that we'd paid off the mortgage with my excellent salary and regular private work and her good salary and occasional bankers' bonuses there was quite a bit spare once we'd sold the place and closed down the mortgage. I still needed a small mortgage though but on my best sums it still turned out to be less than the property cost me to buy in the first place.

Having been involved in the building trade since my fourteenth birthday fixing it up was no problem and I only had to sleep in my tent in the barn or my car for seven weekends until the roof had been rebuilt and re-slated, having found almost all of the slates I needed stacked tidily in one of the locked-up outbuildings, then once the doors and windows were re-fitted and the exterior envelope waterproofed and I could at least sleep indoors and finally lock the front door and leave the majority of my tools there.

The first floor was re-laid and the remaining stone staircase buggered around with to make it fit with what I wanted. Then it was ceilings and a new wooden staircase to give me access to my three new loft rooms and not having to spend anything like what I'd calculated on slates I was there with at least sixteen grand left in the bank and most of the rest of things to do were well within my capabilities and required paintbrush, a shovel and muscle rather than funding.

While I still had my flat my dream was to move there, and I had built myself an office and had paid extra money to have the biggest fibre optic cable laid to it.

I had a huge bedroom with ensuite and another three bedrooms and my parents had come to stay a couple of times to see the place for real and help with some decoration. It was great and had totally taken my mind off my troubles for that two-year period.

Still on Facebook terms with some of Rachel's family I saw that her Mum Fran had lost the battle with leukaemia and had died in their local hospice. I had always had a great relationship with both Joe and Fran and still sent and received birthday and Christmas cards.

OK, I can't pretend that I've ever been happy to go to a funeral but as I sat back in the last row and trying to stay as incognito as possible I did occasionally have to grin when the old chap at the dias next to coffin told yet another of his wonderful stories about his late wife.

Joe the host was looking good for his years and I hadn't seen him since our breakfast almost a year before and we had talked briefly about his twin daughters and Martin, and I could see all three of them in the front row of the crematorium's chapel of rest. The women had been separated by their father and temporarily re-joined in their grief at least when he stood up and spoke of better days and actually did turn his wife's funeral into a celebration of her life.

Joe is one of those classic Brits that can turn every discussion into stand-up comedy and was never down, not even when talking about his late wife and while everyone in the room was feeling the loss they all had big smiles and at his instruction thinking of a time and a place that she had impacted their lives.

The exit music was Fran's mobile phone ring tone 'somewhere over the rainbow' played by the Hawaiian Iz on the ukulele and that pretty much did it for everyone. I stepped well back to allow the large family to leave first then took the opportunity to slip out through the front door in my dark suit and black tie when it was opened by one of the undertakers for the next funeral, affecting the clasped hands and caring smile to the people outside and trying to look like I was part of the organisation, as I walked out with my prayerfully lowered head.

I walked the long way across to my car and saw the long queue of people shaking hands with Joe, with Rachel and Cassandra and looking at all the flowers. While I knew I wouldn't be so unpleasant as to go to the wake I did want to grab a few words with Joe and tell him how sorry I was once the rest of the family were on their various ways. I just didn't want to have that raised eyebrow 'well how are you?' discussion with a couple of members of her family, and some of Martin's - funereal short-hand for 'her mother has just died, why are you here to bother Rachel?'

So I walked across to my Land Rover Discovery, climbed in and put on my new prescription sunglasses against the glare and anyone that might know me.

There was Rachel, immaculately dressed as she ever was with Martin stood behind with his far too big salesman smile so inappropriate for such an event as this. I could see Joe stood to one side handshaking and handholding his relatives, that smile of his glued to his face with his shoulder-shaking chuckle evident every now and again.

As the numbers reduced it was evident that Joe was giving directions so once the queue was right down I walked across the now emptied paved courtyard and stood far enough away to be decent while the last of the mourners departed; Joe saw me and walked across to me in the shade of the portico.

"Tom, you old bugger!" he said grabbing and shaking my hand, "I thought that was you sat at the back, thank you so much for coming!"

"Couldn't miss it mate, Fran was always really good to me and... well... she made the best fruitcake ever and I owe her for that at least."

Joe's face crumpled momentarily, and I took his hand again, and putting my spare hand on his shoulder and giving him a 'chin-up' look.

"S'alright mate," said Joe recovering, "I miss her fruitcake too - along with lots of other things of course!" He recovered his equilibrium, "You coming to The Feathers?"

"Sorry Joe," I said, "while I'd love to, I really don't think Rachel will be that impressed."

"Yeah, you could be right," he stopped, "Tom, would you be kind enough to walk across to the garden of rest, only Cassandra is over there and I'm a bit worried about her."

"She's bound to be upset mate," I said.

"Yes, but she isn't and that's what's worrying me."

"No worries Tom, I'll do my best."

"Silly bitch says she won't ride back in the car with Rachel, all I could do to get her to come with us in the first place."

"Martin?" I said.

"Made him ride over with my sister," he replied looking across to the two long black cars, "arrogant twat won't do it a second time I doubt."

"I'll see she gets home Joe; favour to you... and Fran."

"Cheers mate," he said with his wild grin back on his face, "Don't be a stranger now, I owe you a fried breakfast still."

He stormed off back to the last of the people, then to the biggest black car and climbed in, I cut short my wave to his daughter Rachel next to him when I saw how much effort she was putting in to not looking at me at all.

I walked through to the garden of rest and there was Cassandra, wearing her dark blue firefighters' dress uniform with a very smart cap, looking at the flowers for the many funerals going on there that day.

"Hey Cassie," I said in the way that I always had, "How's it hanging?"

She turned and saw me.

Her face was the strangest mix of emotions and for a moment I figured that she wasn't pleased to see me. I was her twin's ex-husband; her partner had left her because my wife had stopped loving me and here I was on the day of her mother's funeral smiling.

"Hiya Tom," she said and carried on looking at the flowers.

"Joe asked me to come and check that you were OK?"

"I'm OK," she said paying particular attention to a card on one of the floral tributes, "Thanks."

Now Cassandra had always been a very strong person, quite bullish in fact and Rachel had occasionally harboured the thought that she may have had Lesbian tendencies seeing as many of her female friends from the Fire and Rescue Service were. I never had as I always found her to be extremely feminine, and very girly when she was with Rachel, her former best friend. I could still only imagine what the break-up of our relationships had done to that friendship.

"Sure?" I said giving it all the cuddly big brother I could.

"Yeah..." her mouth made the appropriate moves but no speech came out.

I stepped across and pulled her into a hug, just as I would have done before all the shit happened.

She cried and I just hugged her tight, feeling her shoulders heave and her tears on my neck and at my collar, and I just pulled her tighter to me like I used to with her sister when our little tragedies reduced her to tears, although with Cassandra being that bit taller her face was against my cheek.

"Hey sugar," I said to her stroking her hair, "you get it all out of your system." She straightened up and pulled away from me at that, she did smile at me though. "Sorry mate," I said realising that I had probably pushed the boundary on that one, "do you need a lift to The Feathers? I can drop you off but not sure I'll be coming in."

"Me neither, not until your ex-wife has left at least."

"Strange, I had that same thought!" I said with a bright smile, "Let me buy you lunch then, least I can do seeing as my wife stole your husband."

"Partner Thomas, PARTNER," she smiled and took off her cap exposing her almost black hair so neatly tidied away with clips, "anyway," she said with a grin, "How do you know my ex-partner never stole your wife hmm?"

"Perhaps we can discuss that over lunch," I said with a grin.

We went to back into the town and the splendid restaurant not far from the large pub that her mother's wake was happening in. She declared herself hungry as a horse so I ordered two mixed grills that over-filled the huge plates each one arrived on.

She ordered a beer that as soon as the waiter saw her uniform she had for free. I stayed drinking my Coke being the designated driver. Cassie had a second beer that I was more than happy to pay for and I recognised her slightly silly giggly-girl phase and figured that would be enough.

We had some very simple and pleasant banter about our former spouses and how neither of us had spoken with our ex's other than to arrange our separations and sharing out of the remaining property. I had always gotten on really well with Cassandra, perhaps because she was so much like Rachel, but she was rather more 'mannish' - not in a sexual, Lesbian, short back and sides kind of way but with quite a male sense of humour born I guessed out the very male work place and environment she'd inhabited since leaving university and getting accepted into the Fire and Rescue Service, the same as me working for the Ministry of Defence.

After a very pleasant lunch we both looked at our watches and it was time to go. I settled the bill and the same waiter said that it was fifteen percent off for emergency service personnel so we both smiled and thanked him.

She told me her new address and I insisted I drive her home, arguing that I'd promised Joe that I would, and I could never let him down on a day like this.

That journey required a drive past The Feathers and I could see that the wake was still visible through the front windows and into the garden, and our stop at the lights enabling us to see Rachel and Martin both getting into a taxi at the side of the building.

"Want to go and see your Dad?" I said, "I would quite like to buy him a pint actually."

"So long as you give me one as well Tom..." she said, then giggled at the double entendre.

I paused, smiled at her and replied,

"You should be so fucking lucky," I ran a hand across my brow pretending to smooth my hair.

She laughed, but it was quite low, quite suggestive and extremely dirty.

In The Feathers we were warmly greeted by her family and friends and Joe was still holding court, and those around him were still in fits of giggles at his very simple chatter.

"And there's Daddy's girl!" he said seeing Cassie still in uniform but minus the hat.

"Hiya Daddy!" she said with a bit of tone but still kissed his cheek, "You'll be pleased to know that Tom has been the perfect host and the perfect gentleman," she took my arm, raised up on her toes and kissed my cheek, "He treated me to the most splendid lunch and having seen the bitch and the bastard both leaving, thought it a good time to come in!"

"Thanks Baby," he said giving her a hug. He turned to me, "and thank you Tom!" he took my hand and gave it a shake, "knew I could rely on you."

Joe's sister Gwen, Rachel and Cassie's Aunt, was there and soon handing us both drinks and two plates of sandwiches which neither of us could do any kind of justice to, but we made a bit of an effort.

What was just going to be a ten minute chat was soon more monologues about Fran and her daughters and I eventually dragged myself away after having to turn down the seventh or eighth offer of booze.

"Thanks Tom," said a now very tipsy Cassandra, "Thank you for looking after me, I don't know anyone else that could have made it as easy as you did," she closed her eyes and kissed me again, "I'll be seeing you Tom," and made the last kiss land not on my cheek but on my lips and for marginally too long.

I walked back to my car thinking about my gorgeous former sister-in-law, shaking my head against any thoughts other than 'big brother', but I could not stop my errant sub-conscious taking me back to that Egyptian pool-side and the perfect tanned body almost completely on display to me.

I didn't see anyone from Rachel's family for almost three months; until I found myself at a Friday night leaving party for a colleague in the local Wetherspoons. It was just coming to the end of June and our student Estates Officer had finished his placement year with us and would be heading back to his University to finish his degree.

Of our whole group we were a mix of civilian and military with some serving army and air force officers and senior non-com's and some retired, some civilian professionals like me and while we only took up a very small area of the bar there was another group not to far away who felt that only they should be allowed to have a good time to the extent that we were. A very pissed lad in a tight T-shirt barged into our soon-to-leave student and shoved him, he was the youngest and by far the smallest and skinniest of our group after all.

In the manner of that kind of Friday night event he was soon shoulder to shoulder with the rest of our group, all of us having downed some booze while the shover shouted across to his mates, all similarly attired and showing of their chest, shoulder and arm muscles.

"Oh look," said Tony my team leader, a six foot plus University of London graduate with a PhD in explosive dynamics, his day job being dealing with any amount of old and unexploded ordnance the team might come across on an almost daily basis. A one-time Harlequins first fifteen player that during the day wore three pips of a British Army Captain and his Royal Engineers cap badge in the maroon beret of the airborne forces, "It's the Village People... go on, which one of you is the telephone repair man!"

The other crew backing up the shover looked a bit askance, conscious that their tanned, waxed and flexed muscles and vert short gelled hair weren't having the effect they hoped for.

Also the young spotty shoved lad was now totally backed up with lots and lots of very well built if slightly older lads, some of them with real tans from real hotspots, that seemed quite ready for whatever shenanigans might develop; not only quite ready but quite enthusiastic.

"That one," said Jon the Team Sergeant Major and in charge of the non-commissioned lads in our service and no slouch himself and when in his immaculate uniform wore his Royal Logistics Corps badge in a green commando beret, "that one with the fake tan! Look you can see the line on his thrusting bicep there."

It was a bit of a stalemate and the Boss arrived just as the pissed shover pointed at his shovee and made a throat cutting gesture,

"Oh you didn't just threaten my boy there did you?" said Colonel Peter in an old Etonian accent with so much aristocracy you could have cut glass with it, positively dripping disappointment; he was a Grenadier Guards Colonel and area commandant seeing out his army career in charge of huge sections of military turf, thousands of buildings, tens of thousands of miles of pipes and cabling and this clutch of grunts and civvies to keep it all in reasonable order.

"He... just better watch himself yah?" said the shover.

"Why?" said an RE bricklayer/plasterer I knew as Dave, putting down his glass and cracking his knuckles.

As the senior civilian in the room I stepped forward,

"Gentlemen, might I suggest that we all calm the fuck down, and the Village People can go back to their beer and the British Army's finest can go back to theirs..."

"Ooooh fucking squaddies!" said the man to the left of the shover.

I recognised the general uppishness and swagger and short or cropped hair of our antagonists and even I lost the peacekeeper role for a moment.