Without A Song

Chapter TwentyThree: The Promise

Hair in place and properly combed I entered a private room in the Mere-du-Alde where I found Terri Golding, Sandy Powell and John Choplin, all of whom had all arrived ahead of me.

"How are you Stephen?" The solicitor greeted me warmly.

Over a light starter of Bates toast and fruit juice we did the easy stuff. Sandy swapped bank cards, chequebooks and identity papers with me. Where the papers had to be countersigned Terri and John added their names with original signatures under my own. Where the bank and the solicitor needed certified copies of my passport and driving licence Sandy whisked them back to the bank and came back with photocopies before the main meal. I must have signed seven copies or more before John countersigned them all with a little inkpad he carried,

"Always got it with me, for emergencies if you like."

That done we ate, washing the superb cuisine down our throats with fruit juice or mineral water during which time John told me that his office had received the divorce papers from Sue that morning,

"Do you mind if I run these over with you now?" He wanted to know if he could tell me what Sue's first set of wage demands were, with Sandy and Terri present.

I'd kept no secrets from Sandy and Terri but I was shocked when I heard what Sue was asking through her solicitor. John explained that very often the first flurry of demands were usually the worst and requests for maintenance were to be taken against the financial situation of each person, and their ability to support the other or not, as the case may be. Sandy, I was to learn later, had been divorced twice and was now very happily ensconced with her third husband, Andrew. She offered support and encouragement. Terri was slightly ahead of me in the divorce game, although John expected her case to take longer.

"John, you have been very fast. You have my total support and my sincere thanks."

John took notes from me to reply to the papers and we made sure that we all had telephone numbers, email addresses and names in case other forms of contact were difficult. With the meal over John left with Sandy, each returning to their own form of employment in time for the first of their afternoon appointments.

Terri stuck around and once again paid the bill. Twenty minutes later we were alone standing together fully clothed, letting her shower wash cool water over us, a repetition of our time on Tumbledown. Back then our uniforms of choice had been deep khaki green shirts and little else. Our camouflaged jackets and trousers discarded out of the way of the water that danced in the half-light through the rusted holes in the corrugated roof above us. Back then we'd taken to our bed in the corner of a stonewalled sheep pen, surviving the freezing night by sleeping naked together inside the doubled layers of two sleeping bags buried in straw beneath a heavy tarpaulin. Today we never left the shower. The shiny glass, gold and chrome-silver was a modern testimony to all things bright and beautiful, especially in the bathroom department.

"I've got to ask what you meant on Tuesday morning. You know, about waiting for me? We've never talked that way."

Terri spoke slowly, her hands placed firmly on my chest. "We've never had to."

She looked me straight in the eyes. Her hands stayed in place, pushing hard against me and rocking on her heels.

"Sometimes a girl likes to make plans. You and me, we are two peas in a pod with shared experiences that only mean anything to a small minority on this earth. Not many others have shared the same style of companionship, work cultures or lifestyle that we've been fortunate to encounter in our lines of work. We are nomads Stephen, always looking for somewhere to settle, always chasing another multicoloured rainbow, never finding time to put down roots before we move on again."