The large open-plan office was quiet, the work had eased off and the three of them could talk about things that really mattered.
“Well, why was she in tears this morning?”, Jean asked, “Did you find out anything?”
Wendy began her story in her usual demonstrative way as Jean and Robert listened conspiratorially to the unfolding tale. Then the phone rang.
“Hello, Robert Cromby here”, he said.
From the other end of the line came a small female voice he gradually began to recognise; he’d not heard it for years.
“Oh! It’s you Trish”, he said with astonishment.
Wendy and Jean looked at each other with some surprise and then moved away from the desk so as not to be too near Robert and his ex-wife as they talked together. Though they didn't move too far away, they did expect too get most of the details from him one way or another at a later time.
“I haven’t heard from you for at least twelve years”, Robert was saying as they moved away.
“It’s Michael, it’s Michael, it’s Michael”, she was now sobbing down the phone in great distress.
“But who is Michael? asked Robert, “I’ve no idea who you’re talking about”.
“You must come at once and help, he’s on serious danger”, she continued without listening to him, “if someone doesn’t come and help us soon I don’t know what I’ll do.  We’re having such a terrible, frightening time here, it’s important that we get assistance immediately. That’s why I got them to give me your number.”
“Got who to give you my number? “Anyway, where are you, where’s ‘here’ exactly? I’ve no idea of your address or where you’re calling from or where Michael lives, you’ve not been in touch for so long. Why on earth do you think I can help now?” You always think of your own position first and safeguard that before anything and everything else. Michael needs help and I’ve turned to you; you’re the first person I’ve turned to. Are you going to come; are you prepared to act decisively for once?”

“Look Trish I’m sympathetic to your needs but you still haven’t told me anything; you’ve not answered any of my questions, not one. I still don’t know where you’re calling from. Who the hell is Michael anyway?”
Robert was now all but yelling down the phone, becoming increasingly aware that he was becoming the object of interest, not only to Wendy and Jean but to the rest of the office as well.
“Listen”, he said trying to lower his voice, “why don’t you call someone who’s qualified to help Michael, someone professionally qualified in medicine or psychology or whatever’s appropriate. Wouldn’t that be best? It could be someone who lives nearer to you...”.  He breathed deeply and tried to remain calm. “The last time you called you lived at least 200 miles away, surely calling someone closer would be s more sensible solution”.
“You must come!”, she shouted hysterically. “Michael won’t rest until he’s seen you; he won’t make a full recovery without you coming to him. His back leg is seerely lacerated.”
“Trish, did you say ‘back leg’? Who or what is this Michael?  For God’s sake what is this all about? You call me out of the blue after so many years and it’s only a bloody...”
“I’ve got to go now. Jim’s car is pulling into the drive and I really oughtn’t to be caught preaking to you on the phone”.
There was a loud crash as she slammed down the receiver. Robert was suddenly awake.  Slowly, painfully, he became aware of the familiar surroundings. The early summer dawn had begun to illuminate the room despite the heavy curtains.  He could just make out the shadow of his work suit hanging on the back of the wardrobe door reassuringly waiting for him. As he regained full consciousness he guessed that it must be around four thirty; it always was.
He stretched over the side of the bed to check the digital alarm.  He kept it on the floor to diminish the bright green glare that otherwise seemed to light up the room. Yes, he was right; it was four thirty five, but before he could turn over and slide peacefully back into slumber, his mind began to re-work the dream he’s just had.

It had been so vivid, so urgent. What was it about Trish that could still, even in his sub-conscious, disturb him after so many years? What spell had she got over him that she could transmit this distressing cry for help across the ghostly remains of all his subsequent lovers and affairs?
He tried again to get some sleep, pulling up the duvet and burying his head in the pillows. He made efforts to clear his mind but then the current office crisis began to seep into his thoughts and take control. Real sleep had now become impossible; he knew he’d been defeated, there was now no hope of rest.
The thought of work took on a more sinister, but not unusual, turn as he started to make comparisons between Trishs’s career and his own; it was a comparison she always won. After their separation and subsequent divorce, her career had moved on apace. She had become the senior manager that she’d always dreamed of becoming.  She was hardly likely to turn to him for advice on that subject now.
There had been, he recalled, that one strange phone conversation that had come out of the blue.  She had called him just after he’d got home from work and talked about nothing in particular, until she suddenly said “Seamus has just pulled into the driveway so I’ll have to go. Bye”. It had ended as abruptly as that, just like in the dream. Robert had always suspected that Seamus had always hated homosexuals and that’s why he had forbidden contact. It had been a reaction Robert had not encountered directly very often. He was pretty sure, however, that such prejudice existed and was evident in subtle unseen ways.  With the recent establishment of ‘gay marriage’ things had improved a lot but when it came to choosing people for jobs or promotion etc the prejudice still came into play. There was a pink ceiling as much as there was a glass ceiling.
Then, he met a man who was obviously ‘out’, he got to know him and rather forced him into bed; it had been like coming home. The male/female relationship ran parallel for a while but soon it was only male partners who were of interest.

  It was certainly true that his interest in men had always been there, he’d even talked to Trish about it when they’d first met.
Though Robert felt that he’d been reasonably successful in moving across the great divide, after all he’d brought most of his friends and his family across with him on the journey, the gulf between the two worlds was still there. Though some heterosexuals could reach out and bridge the gap, in his experience it was mainly women who did so. Many of the men who thought themselves enlightened and sympathetic were more tolerant than understanding. One friend, who had seemed at ease with homosexual men was appalled at the idea that any of his children might turn out to be gay.
Why was it so impossible for people to accept that others are different? Is heterosexuality a weak and endangered institution, needing moralist and many religions to fight against experimentation and diversity. Robert felt that he had really made a choice. He could have continued down the straight path, got married again, even had children. Yes he would have remained with a longing to test other waters, but they could have been sublimated. But surely that’s the position with many, many heterosexual men? How many regret not making the choice, or cheat on their wives in one way or another? It’s only the fear of being different, of liberating the self that prevents the creation of a happier human environment.
Robert tried again to relax and clear his mind. He could still get another good hour of sleep if  he could loosen his muscles and control his breathing. He concentrated on the muscles in his back, to think about them individually and use his main to relax them. He closed his eyes more in hope than expectation.
What really disturbed Robert was the way in which Trish kept reappearing in his life one way or another. Was she his sub-conscious, challenging his decision to take the primrose path of homosexuality? How cold that be; he felt very content with the decision. He felt liberated. 

So, if he was really content with and happy with all the choices he’d made why was he haunted by Trish? Why did she continue to invade his sub-conscious? She’d occupied his dreams on a regular basis for as long as he could remember; she’d been a more frequent nocturnal visitor than his present lover had ever been. Why did she keep coming back? After all, they were now both over fifty and he was certain that there was no phantom reciprocity here; he certainly wouldn’t be figuring in her dreams.
Finally concluding that sleep would now be impossible Robert decided to get up. He walked slowly to the lavatory and whilst partaking of a rather slow and desultory pee – that owed more to his prostate than to youth, decided to go downstairs and make a cup of tea.
While waiting for the kettle to boil he stared out into the garden. The sight of the snapdragons in full bloom reminded him of his grandmother’s garden and the games they played pretending they were rabbits, opening their mouths and feeding the flowers. He recalled that Trish had a theory that strong grandmothers turned boys into homosexuals. Perhaps it was true, though her other theory about men being homosexuals because they had small cocks that they were ashamed to show to women can certainly be dismissed. So obviously she wasn’t always right after all.
He made some tea and was about to sit down when he noticed the light flashing on the telephone answering machine. He thought he had checked it when he came in last night. He picked up the receiver and listened to the message.
“Hello Robert”, he recognised the voice, “this is Trish, I need to talk to you urgently, my number is....”
After he heard it through twice and noted down the number he checked the time of the message.
“Message timed at 4.30 am” it said.
He picked up the receiver and dialled the number.


© Richard Biddsicombe