Evelyn is happy in her job at the university - if only it wasn't for one colleague who begrudges her the success and popularity she enjoys. But luckily, Mick is there to lend an ear when she needs to let off steam and to give her support when necessary.
Soundtrack-wise, it's Boss time again. Bruce Springsteen's "You've Got It" sums up pretty well what a good partnership means.
No one ever found it
Ain't no school ever taught it
No one ever made it
Ain't no one ever bought it
Baby you've got it
Baby you've got it
Come on and give it to me
Ain't no one can break it
There ain't no one can steal it
Ain't no one can fake it
You just know it when you feel it
Baby you've got it ...
Yeah, you can't read it in a book
And you can't even dream it
Honey, it ain't got a name
You just know it when you see it
Baby you've got it ...
Well, now listen up
Your reckless love is precious so don't waste it
Can't tell you what they made it of
But I know it when I taste it
Baby you've got it ...
You've got it in your bones and blood
You're real as real ever was
Baby you've got it ...
December 1947
It was a hot day, and my office door was half open. I was racking my brains trying to finish the paper I had been working on all week, still dissatisfied with some paragraphs of the introduction, but with the heat and a splitting headache and a day that had generally gone wrong everywhere possible, I seemed to have run out of inspiration. That I was still furious at Lewis Pearce, by far the most disagreeable faculty member, for some of his rude comments at the staff meeting earlier this afternoon, didn't do much for my creativity either.
I got along well with most everyone at work, students and staff alike. There was of course the usual bickering about responsibilities and hierarchies, and I had occasional run-ins with some colleagues who didn't share my views, but that mainly took place on a professional level and we were on civilised terms nonetheless.
Pearce was the sole exception. I had never done him any wrong, but for some reason he hated me. Being young and a woman probably was reason enough for that old-fashioned arrogant chauvinist to detest me, but what surely galled him the most was my recent modest success in the academic world while his own career had been stagnant for years.
After my very personal (and almost embarrassingly successful) memoir, I had published several acclaimed articles, while his publications had gone largely unnoticed, and my lectures appeared to be rather popular among the students, whereas complaints about his pompous soporific drone could be heard frequently all over the place. The only person who seemed to like him was Ed, the equally grumpy librarian who considered himself Pearce's confidant because both fed each other the occasional titbits of faculty gossip.
That Roy Sanders - no love lost between him and Pearce either - had recently picked me not only as a contributor but as a co-editor for the new textbook he was planning to establish as a standard work certainly hadn't helped.
Roy had joined the faculty the previous summer semester to head the anthropology department, and we had hit it off instantly, both glad to recognize each other as progressive thinkers eager to move away from inspecting foreign peoples like exotic animals, from dissecting the mores and traditions of the "primitive" cultures arrogantly with a presumptuous attitude, towards a more respectful view of their beliefs and customs.
Roy had also quickly discovered Pearce's mindset and decided not to put him on the textbook team. This man would never help reform outdated structures in our field.
That Roy had chosen me over him, who had been around so much longer than myself, had finally tipped the scales against me, and he had started denouncing me behind my back wherever he could and to anyone who would listen. Having learned the hard way that Roy Sanders was a staunch defender of what Pearce called my "newfangled and womanish" views and teaching methods and even thought my line of work worthy of a whole chapter in the new textbook while openly speaking out against Pearce's brand of "old-school" thinking, he'd changed tactics at some point and begun to take his slander to a personal level.
I had forced myself to turn a deaf ear to the spiteful and sexist remarks he kept making to my face about the colour of my hair or the clothes I wore, and I hardly even bothered to listen if somebody told me that he'd gone on about me again, but this afternoon his behaviour had hit an all-time low, not just at the staff meeting but even more so afterwards.
He and Ed had been having another chat outside his office a few doors down the hall from mine. Most students and colleagues had already gone home, and they had probably thought I had also left for the day. Or they hadn't cared if I heard them when Pearce began wondering aloud to Ed how exactly I had managed to snaffle that job on the textbook team, being young and female and all (plus some unquotable drivel about fiery hair and matching personality). Anyway, what could one expect from a woman who had lived among sex-crazed savages for so long and somehow got her husband killed conveniently to fall into the arms of some adventurer. Even worse, the trollop was actually living with that bloke now. Sharing his bed and everything with no apparent desire to get married, or so one heard. What kind of woman would possibly take some stranger with a shady background in?
I had sat and listened to his rant in an incredulous rage, frozen, but when he started to go on about Mick, I threw my pen onto the desktop furiously, spattering ink all over my paperwork. That little toad didn't know anything about Mick other than bits of gossip. While I didn't actually endeavour to keep our relationship secret, I didn't let on much about it at work either. Except for Roy Sanders and his wife Laura, who had become good friends with both of us, and the rest of the textbook team, no one from university had ever met Mick so far. And none of those who had were remotely close to Pearce and his buddy, so I kept wondering where all those rumours stemmed from.
"Wonder what that fellow does for a living", Ed said.
"Better wonder if he's working at all", Pearce retorted. "Bet he's living off her. Well, I guess she can afford it. I'm sure her husband left her a little nest egg."
I had to muster all my strength not to storm right outside to throttle him. Pearce might not be aware of Mick's condition, but even so he had no business suspecting him of being an idle sluggard living at my expense. Mick had never been a lazy character, and even when he had not yet been able to work again in the conventional sense of a bread-winning job, he had laboured more than ever, working harder than this little prick had ever worked in his whole miserable life, constantly striving and struggling as he tried to regain a life as normal as he possibly could despite his disability.
Reaching a point where he felt strong and hopeful enough to set up a gruelling exercise schedule to perfect walking with his prosthetic leg and to go looking for a new occupation in spite of his handicap was an achievement I found no less admirable than that of any academic prize winner, and finally, all his efforts had been rewarded. He had been lucky with the job at Donnie Snow's little boating shop, which was exactly the kind of place where he'd feel at home, and by now, he was walking so well that he could do mostly without the cane.
But all this tremendous progress was, of course, nothing Pearce would ever be ready to acknowledge. All that mattered to his small mind was conventions and appearances and formalities.
With clenched fists, muttering expletives under my breath, I waited until I heard Ed walking off and Pearce shuffling back into his office.
I wanted to barge into his cluttered, musty little room, fling the door open forcefully, slam it shut behind me with a loud bang and shout at him to keep his freaking nose out of my personal life, but the rational part of me knew that it would be no use. Making such a scene would only serve to confirm his notion that women were way too emotional, hysterical even, for high academic positions.
Instead, I decided to call it a day now. I wouldn't be able to write anything sensible after all the crap I had taken from that unpleasant creature. My head felt like it was about to burst any minute, and it was way past four anyway. I sorted the soiled papers on my desk, threw away the spoiled, ink-spattered top pages from my notepad and locked my office door behind me with a sigh.
Luckily I didn't meet anyone on my way out. I was in no mood for small talk.
Briskly walking to the car park cleared my mind a little. That, and some very unladylike curses and profanities in the car on my way home.
I had no issues with professional criticism as long as it was objective and justified and straightforward, but those unnecessary insults aimed at me as a person, and mostly behind my back, drove me mad, especially now that Pearce had dragged Mick into it. How dare he judge him like that without knowing a single thing about him other than a rumour that we were living together without an official stamp.
I had reached the narrow road leading up to the house by the sea, and my mood improved significantly.
The gnarled old tree in the garden, the friendly appearance of the small building and the bit of blue sea in the distance was a sight that always served to calm me.
Our new home, Mick's and mine, since last summer. Not large, but cosy and comfortable.
We had been living in my flat in the city for about a year, and both of us were more and more dissatisfied with it. The noise from the street, the somewhat cramped space and the dreadfully nosy Mrs. Hoover downstairs whose curious eyes hardly ever missed anything were getting on our nerves, and it was difficult for Mick to negotiate the worn and slippery wooden stairs. There had been a few near accidents, and I was worried he'd fall and seriously hurt himself one day.
And I knew he didn't really feel at home there. He never actually complained about the place, but whenever the weather forced him to stay indoors for a longer period, his mood worsened by the day.
He seemed to sense some remainder of Phillip's presence, and he wasn't entirely wrong about it.
While I had put away the more obvious souvenirs of our marriage, the interior still bore Phillip's unmistakable signature. It had been him who had chosen the furniture, the carpets, the pictures on the walls. I had only been granted the privilege of furnishing my study to suit my own taste, apart from the tall bookcase he'd already owned and the antique side table in the windowed nook.
I wasn't too eager to stay there either. Too many memories of my marriage, not all of them good, and too many memories of the lonely days and nights when I'd had nothing but my typewriter and a half-finished manuscript for company.
We were dreaming of finding something quiet, maybe closer to the sea, but we hadn't even begun to look for a new home when we had a couple of friends, Bob and Jenny Valentine, over for dinner and they mentioned casually that they were going to leave for the U.S. soon because Bob had got an exciting job offer, and did we happen to know anyone interested in moving into their home for the time they'd be spending abroad?
I could hardly believe my ears. They lived in a magnificent little house right on the coast with a small garden at the back, perched atop the rocks. A veritable gem, and perfect for Mick as it was a one-storey structure, so no troublesome stairs to deal with. It would make a wonderful temporary home while we searched for something permanent. Mick and I exchanged a glance and both said, "Well, us!" as if on cue.
So we gladly left my downtown apartment for the Valentines' place as soon as they had got on their flight to California. We felt at home there the very moment we moved in. Bob and Jenny had put most of their stuff into storage, leaving just some basic furniture behind so that we had room for some chosen pieces we'd brought along. There was a large fireplace in the living room, and tall French doors led into the garden at the back of the house from the master bedroom and the living room, giving both pieces a light and airy feeling. And the sea was so close at hand. We could actually see the ocean from our bedroom, and there was a narrow path winding down to the shore from the back of the garden.
The weathered wooden bench at the edge of the cliff top, shadowed by the large old tree, had become a favourite spot for both of us, and this was where I knew Mick would be after I had found the house empty when I entered.
The French doors in the living room were half open. I stopped in the doorway to take off those uncomfortable high-heeled shoes that had been pinching my toes all day long, tossed them on the floor and crossed the garden barefoot, still in my formal white blouse and navy skirt trimmed with white, over to the bench where Mick was sitting, unaware of my arrival.
He was leaning forward, looking out over the sea, eyes slightly narrowed against the sun, lost in thought. The sight of him made my heart beat faster.
Sometimes it was still almost shocking to me just how beautiful he was with his classical profile, the strong nose and high cheekbones, a solemnly pensive look on his expressive face, the warm golden glow of his tanned skin set off so nicely against the lightweight pale green cotton shirt he wore with loose-fitting khaki trousers.
I approached him quietly from behind and softly tickled the back of his neck, just below the pointed hairline. He looked around and up at me in surprise, flashing a smile, reached up to take my hand and kissed it in a loving, tender greeting. I bent to kiss him back and winced as the throbbing behind my forehead became worse.
"You're looking a little tired. Bad day?"
"You can say that again", I growled and went to sit next to him. "The day from hell."
"That twit Pearce again?"
"Who else?"
"Want to talk about it?"
"Later. Now I just want to sit here with you and do absolutely nothing. My head is killing me." I rubbed my forehead and closed my eyes, leaning into his shoulder.
His arm encircled me, his hand came to rest on my hip, and he brushed my temple very lightly with his lips. A tingling sensation of warmth encompassed me that had nothing to do with the summery temperatures, and I sighed with a mixture of weariness and pleasure, resting my head against the crook between his neck and chin and one hand on his chest, feeling the taut muscles underneath his shirt.
His familiar presence had a soothing effect on my stressed mind, and as he held me close, I let go of all the anger and trouble of the day for the moment.
How wonderful to have someone to come home to, and to see him so relaxed and happy.
This little paradise by the sea had been the best thing that could have happened, especially to him. No longer being confined to an upstairs apartment, living in a place with a small garden of our own, and so close to the ocean, had done more to lift his spirits than any doctor or therapist or psychologist ever could.
After a while of just letting the world go by drowsily, I sat up and gave Mick a brief account of my awful day.
"I wonder what he thinks he'll gain by slandering me behind my back. My job on the textbook committee? Getting me fired?"
"Roy would never fire you, and Pearce knows that. He's just an asshole with a giant chip on his shoulder who can't accept that other, younger, female people are better and brighter than he is even if, in this case, that is crystal clear to anyone who's got eyes to see."
"I guess you're right. Everyone knows he's a jerk. I shouldn't even be thinking about it."
"Right, you shouldn't", he said, gave my hand an encouraging squeeze and added as an afterthought, "Feel like a swim?"
"Oh, yes. Absolutely."