The Promise

British English spelling and grammar.

Published years ago and reworked. Excuse typos.

You'll hear authors say cute things like 'the story wrote itself'. I knew exactly what this story was until the last couple of paragraphs. Then it surprised me!

***

The promise

In the UK there are two big differences between the air force and the other military services.

First, the army and navy are stationed in big towns, or deep ports, so by definition they have access to nightlife. But the air force are stationed in flat, remote locations like East Anglia, where there's not much to do.

Second, when personnel are posted, they go en masse. By the regiment, battalion, fleet, or whatever; they make friends for life. But air force postings are on an individual basis.

I'm Len Yeats, and I married Pam soon after I joined up. We quickly got into wife swapping; today it's called swinging. Living in the middle of nowhere? Not much to do? Buddies who you only get to know for a year or two? You get the picture. We had a lot of fun, and took a break when Trudi was born, but only for a few months.

Pam loved the lifestyle. She kind of believed anal sex didn't really count. She loved it, but thought it was the least romantic. And unromantic was the key to swapping. We loved each other, and sex is not the same as love.

She enjoyed the travelling too, and we had our best times in Cyprus and Singapore; sun, sea, sex, and spicy food. But for my final three years', I ended up back in Lincolnshire. Trudi started at a good secondary school, and it was getting more difficult to keep our activities from her. So we made a promise. No more sex outside marriage. And, though no special words were spoken, this promise was more binding than our original marriage vows. We'd sown our wild oats, and were ready to settle down.

Strangely, our sex life got a boost. I also love anal, but one time I snagged Pam's anus with a broken fingernail. Now she prefers to apply her own lubricant. I slather my penis with lube while she fingers herself. Her favourite position is doggy style, but I prefer it with her on her back.

RAF corporals get paid the same all over the country. So, earning more than most locals in Lincolnshire, we bought a house. Not ideal for me; I'm used to woods and rolling hills - happier tightening my backpack, and setting off somewhere new. But women are nest-builders and I'm an easy going sort of guy. We became home owners. Pam was delighted; she was born in this part of the world.

It was a new build of terraced houses in a small crescent, with a row of allocated garages on the other side of the road; two beds, one bath. We're the middle one of seven. The back garden gets bigger farther away from the house. It ends at a canal, separated by a fence. The only footpath is on the far side, so the property is secure at the rear.

"It's a bit small." said Pam,

"It's all we can afford for now. Let's see how it goes."

I said easy going, and it's true. I tend to be a bit OCD, but don't impose that on others. My job requires a high degree of tidiness. But if things get left lying around at home, I put them away. No point in arguing; people are different. I've never understood couples who go to war over toilet seat up, toilet seat down.

Example:

Pam usually gets up first and showers. There's a small opening section at the top of the bathroom window. It's all frosted glass anyway, but she closes it and lowers the blind. When she's done, she leaves the shower curtain open and dumps her towel over the laundry basket.

I'm the opposite; window open and blind up. Even if someone could get into our garden (and they'd need a boat), they still can't see in. I hang my towel and hers of course, over the rail. Then close the shower curtain to keep it stretched, preventing mildew. But the biggest difference is she doesn't notice any of this. I do.

Pam got a job. She's an accountant, and began farm recording. It involves travelling round local farms, keeping their accounts up to date. Something farmers aren't very good at. We had two cars; hers was a near new estate car. I made do with an old Ford Escort which didn't always start. She hadn't started off with an estate car, just a normal saloon. But she soon started using it as a mobile office, so we got a loan and bought her the bigger one. The farmers were happy to have 'them financials' taken off their hands. So happy, we enjoy a steady supply of free turkeys, chickens, and legs of pork. And a lot of free veg.

"We need a bigger house babe." she announced.

"What? We've only been here a year."

"I know. But I'm earning now, and Trudi's getting bigger. We need more space."

"Let's wait a bit."

"But we could get a bigger mortgage."

"Not yet, ok?"

"We could do with a bigger place, Len."

"What? We've only been here two years."

"But my car's a mess; I need a home office, and Trudi should have her own bathroom."

"OK. But let's wait till I leave the RAF. We might have to move then, anyway."

Another year passed, and I was demobbed. Trudi was doing well at school, and had won a place on the girls' football team. They had matches midweek. And talk! She could hold her own on any adult topic, and we spent hours debating everything under the sun. Sometimes I felt sorry for Pam. Trudi was a real daddy's girl.

The school situation, and Pam's increasing income, came together as I returned to civvie street. It made sense to stay put. I didn't fancy living permanently in such a boring area but, as I said, I'm easy going. I looked for local employment and, luckily, landed an office job at Fenside Vegetables. Bit of a drop in pay, but not too far to travel for the old Escort.

No sooner had I started working, than Pam brought up the bigger house discussion again. I did have sympathy with the idea. She was now making more money than me, but I still thought it was too soon to move up the housing ladder.

"You're the accountant; tell me how we afford this."

"We re-apply for a joint mortgage, based on combined income." she replied.

"I don't think it's that easy. Go to the building society, and enquire. But I think you'll find they're reluctant to recognise all of your income. I know you're doing better than me, but you're self-employed. As far as they're concerned, that's not a regular salary. They'll take it into consideration, but won't offer us a loan based on the whole amount."

Fenside Vegetables was basically a massive warehouse. Lorries arrived straight from the fields, and unloaded tons of nature's bounty. We sorted it; very labour intensive in those days, then smaller vehicles delivered the vegetables to local shops and supermarket distribution centres. My office was on a mezzanine floor overlooking the sorting lines.

I spotted their problem on my third day. Trucks were getting bigger and there was not enough space for them to turn at the rear of the building. Most had to turn in the road, and slowly reverse through to the rear bays. This was time consuming and often created queues. I thought I could see a way to alleviate the problem. So I went to Jack Welby, my supervisor, who referred me to the general manager. In turn, he sent me to the company's owner, who said their recent downturn in business was in hand thanks. Turned out their fight against the competition consisted of changing their name to Fenside Logistics! I gave up.

The sorting process was a real eye-opener. For instance, potatoes: they come rolling along the conveyor belt and pass four teams. The best spuds are pulled off first, and are allocated to the top two supermarkets. So when you see 'Made from Selected Potatoes' you know who selected them! Second best go to the other big stores, local veg shops, and open markets. Third grade, but acceptable, go to the big crisp companies. The dregs, from undeveloped to mouldy, go to the pig farms? No. They're sent to those nice people who manufacture jars of baby food!

All the sorting staff is female. Some are local part-timers, including a smattering of air force wives, but the bulk is Eastern Europeans. It's difficult to tell their ages, as they all wear shapeless jackets and trousers; and gloves and headscarves. They're housed in Portacabins, stacked two-high with a walkway, and located in Dutch barn. Rooms are lockable, and house two women each. There are toilets, shower blocks, and laundry facilities. They get an early finish before their one day off per week, and spend most of their free time in the barn, where they've set up volleyball nets. And there's a free bus into town and back. I heard that some do not always come back on the bus, but arrive in taxis next morning. Live and let live I say; it's not as if any of them are rich.

We management staff got invited to the autumn party thrown by Fenside's owners; Keith and Penelope Rallison. It took place at their large house, after the harvest was in. Pam and I did the usual circulating for an hour. Then she started.

"Have a few beers babe; I need you in a good mood."

"Why is that?"

"I spoke to our building society about a bigger mortgage. They'll take two thirds of my earnings into consideration. And I asked at the estate agent's for a ballpark figure on our little place. It's worth a fair bit more than when we bought."

I ushered her to one side.

"OK; just tell me one thing. I'm not saying we can't move upmarket, but why is this so important to you?"

She was drunker than I thought, and began welling up.

"My family come from round here, and were as poor as church mice. Our council house only had two bedrooms. I had to share a bunk bed with Jeff, my younger brother. It wasn't so bad when we were little kids, but it got worse after my breasts arrived, and my periods started He used to make crude jokes, and then deny it to mum and dad. And they always believed him."

"I'm sorry, that must have been awful."

"It was still happening when I left for college to study accounting. That's why I chose a place far away from home. But even down in Exeter, I had to live in a poky little room, with another girl, who played her music too loud. I know we're not rich, but marrying you took me away from all that squalor! And all the places we lived, married quarters and private rentals, were bigger than my family's house."

"God, I'm so sorry, I never realised! Look, we're supposed to having fun. Let's get back to the party, and we'll talk about this again when we're sober."

"OK."

She took herself off to a bathroom.

I spent much of that party chatting to Mrs Rallison; fifteen years older than me but beautifully preserved.

"Is your wife all right? Your conversation looked rather tense if you don't mind me saying so."

"I apologise for that, it's just some ongoing baggage. We shouldn't have brought it to your party."

But she was persuasive and dragged the story out of me.

"Try and hang on for a while. Jack Welby is retiring very soon. You never know!"

"You think your husband might promote me?"

"Careful Len, you're on thin ice here. I would be the one to promote you!"

Mrs Rallison actually winked!

"Sorry, I didn't realise."

"You're forgiven. Are you good with your hands?"

"Ladies should not ask gentlemen questions like that after they've just winked!"

She laughed.

"I mean like a handyman!"

"I'm not good with machinery, but I can do most jobs round the house."

"Yes, I mean around the house. We own an ex farm manager's house, a bit nearer town than where you live at present. We might sell it for a fair price. It's what they call a fixer-upper. Give me your phone number."

And Pam spent a long time talking to Mr Rallison. She was probably oiling the wheels, or fishing for contacts to pick up more farm accounts. They danced a few times and when his hands slid down past her hips, she moved them back up to her waist. Good girl, stick to the promise. She was drunk when we left but, hey, we've all been there! Next morning, I was grateful the subject of a larger house didn't crop up.

A week after that party, I noticed she'd put a password on her mobile phone. I didn't ask why, but did wonder. Out of curiosity I tried to get access, but none of the usual combinations, birthdays and car reg numbers, worked. We got into a routine. I don't like routines for their own sake but it pays to be efficient. After showering, we would eat breakfast together. Later, Trudi would rush through with her school things and grab anything she could eat with one hand. Then run out to catch the school bus. So much for the days she would talk the hind leg off a donkey.

Strange isn't it? Things plod along for a short while; then everything happens at once. Friday lunchtime our office had a little leaving do for my supervisor, Jack Welby. He'd elected to retire early. No replacement had been announced, but I was quietly hopeful. Pam might be getting her bigger house soon.

That night, after a few beers, I went to bed early. I needed to take my Escort to a friend's place early on Saturday. He would help prepare it for its next MOT test, and save us some money. Pam stayed up to watch tv. Something woke me. I sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. Something was wrong on the far wall, so I got up to investigate. A picture had fallen on the floor. I put it on the chest of drawers to sort out in the morning. I'm useless with cars, but I can hang a picture. I had a vague memory that the rawlplug had been too big for the hook. I could pick up some more on my way home tomorrow.

Then I noticed there was no sound downstairs. Pam was still not in bed and I thought maybe she'd fallen asleep on the settee. That would give her backache, so I crept down and peeped into the living room. The tv was still on, showing static. Pam was sitting in the glow, texting on her phone. I went back to bed, wondering how I could get a look at those messages. I didn't sleep well.

Saturday morning, Pam got up before me. We stuck to our routine, except she made me a bigger breakfast than usual.

"I thought you might need extra energy, working on the car, babe. How long do you think it will take?"

"I'll be there all morning. What are your plans today?"

"I'm going out to Mr Sparks' farm for a couple of hours. He's lost some receipts and doesn't know if copies will be legal. I'm sure I'll find them somewhere amongst his things. But the real reason for working on a Saturday is his wife has just cured some bacon. If I stay an hour, and listen to her moaning about her bad feet, we might get some."

"Have fun!"

"Could you do me a favour?"

"Sure."

"Pick up a bottle of vinegar on the way back; we're out. In fact, could you call me before you set off? We've run out of something else too, but I forget what. It'll come to me."

"Will you be here?"

"Oh yes. I'll be back long before you."

I was just about to leave when Trudi came bursting into the kitchen. Why do teenage girls run everywhere?

"You're up early. Wet the bed?" I said.

"You're standard RAF greeting is losing its charm, dad."

"Sorry sweetheart, I'll try again."

"To what do owe the pleasure of your company this fine morning?"

"I'm catching the school bus soon. We're playing an away football match at Bourne."

"I thought you played mid-week?"

"This is for the cup!"

"Wow!"

That explained everything.

"So can you give me a fiver for the driver, please?"

"You want a 'fiver for the driver'. The education authority is supposed to provide free buses in rural areas."

"It's Saturday. Mr Ridgewell is volunteering."

I gave her a tenner in case they went to McDonalds or something. I got a big hug and a kiss, which made it well worth the money.

"What time will you be back?" asked Pam.

"After lunch, now I've got the extra fiver!"

I crossed the road to my car, which was parked on the short driveway in front of our garage. Pam's car went inside. I unlocked and went in. I wasn't much use at fixing up cars, but sometimes it was handy to have extra tools. As I grabbed my tool box, I glanced into the back of the estate. There was the usual office clutter and in an attempt at tidiness, she'd thrown a tartan blanket across the scattered files. Something was sticking out from under the tartan. It didn't really register at the time, except it looked pink.

Later, when the Escort was up and running; and more or less guaranteed to pass its test, I called Pam.

"Dan and I are done here. Do you want me to pick anything up before I come home?"

"Yes, I remembered! We're out of tomato sauce too, babe. Can you grab a bottle when you get the vinegar?"

"No problem."

I got home and placed the purchases on the kitchen counter.

"The mighty hunter returns with the spoils!" she said.

"Lunch is nearly ready. But you probably need to wash your hands. And what is that awful sweet smell?"

"It's called Swarfega; it's used to remove the worst of the oil and grease from my hands. I quite like it!"

"Well I don't. You've got ten minutes!"

As I went into the bathroom I stopped in my tracks. There was a towel on laundry hamper; the window was shut, and the shower curtain open. Pam had showered when she got up. I'd gone second, and tidied up. Trudi wouldn't shower before a football match, so, Pam had had another. And now I remembered what had been half hidden in her car: bacon! She'd been to Sparks' farm all right, but not this morning.

Surely she couldn't be having an affair; we'd made a promise. Yet, thinking about it, she had asked Trudi what time she'd be back from football = and had manipulated me into calling her before I left Dan's. On high alert now, I looked around for more clues and checked our bottle of anal lubricant. Last time we'd used it, the level had been exactly in line with the top of the label. I tend to notice these things. Now it was lower.

Did I say it all happened at once? That same afternoon, Trudi was reluctant to talk about her football match. I was about to reassure her it was ok to lose sometimes, when my phone rang.

"Mr Yeats?"

"Speaking."

"This is Penelope Rallison. Do not say my name out loud."

"OK."

"I would like to meet you. Is the Farmer's Rest at seven tonight suitable? Just say 'OK' if it is."

"OK."

"Who was that?"

"Dan. He thinks I should buy him a beer tonight."

"Quite right too."

"I thought we should wait to celebrate until after it's passed its MOT."

"That's not fair babe. He did all that work, whether it passes or not."

"True. Ah well, I'll just have to drag myself down to the pub tonight. What a pain!"

I cleared the table and put the mustard away. There, at the back of the shelf was an unused bottle of tomato sauce. Not the one I'd bought. This one was lying on its side as if hiding. On my way to the pub, I called Dan, and asked if he would confirm he'd been at the pub with me, if it cropped up.

"I can do better than that mate. I'll be there at eight. You're buying!"

Even this early, it was busy, but there was an oasis of calm around Penelope's table. I was a bit shocked to see her drinking a pint of bitter.

"Can I get you another Mrs Rallison?"

"Please call me Penny. No more for me yet. But what do you usually drink?"

"I like local brews. Adnam's Old Ale."

"That's what I'm drinking. I've already paid for yours."

I got my pint and returned to her table.

"I wondered if you might do a little job for me."

"I might."

"Jack Welby was my inside man at the office, but now he's left as you know. Basically, the task would entail you keeping an eye on my husband - only at work of course."

It was like a light coming on.

"You think he's playing away from home?"

"Yes. Do you know something?"

"Possibly; could it have been today?"

She considered it.

"I suppose it could, yes."

I told her my suspicions.

It turned out Penny and Keith had a kind of pre-nup. The house was hers anyway, so the agreement was over shares of Fenside Logistics. If either of them were caught in an affair, their share would be reduced to ten percent, in return for a small income. The ensuing divorce would give control of the business to the innocent party. Keith had strayed before; it wasn't difficult to persuade poor immigrant women to accommodate him. But a year ago, he'd been caught, then promised to remain faithful - hence the pre-nup. Penny said the signs were he was straying again, but she didn't want to go to the expense of private detectives. All I had to do was make a note of his comings and goings at work.