WELL-TRAVELED ROADS

A lovely romance with an original Russell-based character named Ian Whitecap.

By Atonia Walpole

PART 1- The Beginning

IAN

Ian Whitecap was sixty years old, a retired professor at the local university. He was a tall man, still fit with a little thickening around his waist. He wore his hair rather long and it stood out from his head as a white halo curling across his forehead. He had a prominent nose and bright blue green eyes that always seem to have a twinkle about them. His lips were finely formed and more likely than not settled into a smile.

He now lived in a small New England village in an old historic house, tall and narrow in a row of tall and narrow houses. The back parlor, where he now sat at his desk in front of a casement window overlooking the back garden, had been turned into his study. Bookshelves lined the walls and a comfortable fire burned in the fireplace. The room was furnished in old leather chairs and a thick Turkish rug. It smelled of leather, beeswax and age.

Age…yes age: as Ian sat back in his chair looking at the computer screen in front of him, he was writing a book, loosely based on his life, the way it was and the way he would have liked it to be had he made different choices. Not that he was unhappy with his life, for he had a brilliant career and had married the love of his life. Sadly the love of his life had died ten years ago from breast cancer. He had buried a part of himself with his wife and had not filled the void left by her passing. He spent his days at the university library, walking in the park, and down at the corner tavern where he took his evening meals. His golf clubs lived in the trunk of his car and he usually played on Wednesdays and Fridays. He was inevitably invited out to old friends' homes for meals to fill out a table on a regular basis, for he was a good conversationalist and still quite presentable.

Ian ran his hand through his wild hair and looked up to the end of his garden, seeing smoke swirling up to the gray skies beyond his fence. A small smile played around his mouth. It would be Patricia Wells having a bonfire. Patricia had moved into the house next door some six months ago and they had traded hellos and occasional pleasantries over the garden fence. He thought her a fine woman, tall and willowy with a long gray ponytail down her back and wide-spaced clear gray eyes. He held the pencil in his hand like a cigarette, having given up cigarettes after his wife had been diagnosed with cancer, the urge to smoke had never left him and he still enjoyed a slim cigar now and then. He chewed on the eraser for a minute and decided to have a stroll in his garden, perhaps engage Patricia in conversation?

 

PATRICIA

Patricia Wells was sixty-one years old and a poet. She sold her house in North Carolina after her husband died and moved back to the town where she was born. Always drawn to the old row houses, she had snatched up the house as soon as it came on the market, probably paying too much, but no matter. She had a house and a garden all her own. She was a manic gardener and set to work in the garden before her packing crates were emptied. It was now the middle of October and she was raking up the leaves from the maple trees, and the last of the apples into a pile. She loved the smell of burning leaves, bringing back memories of her childhood and the great piles her grandfather had raked up into ditches and burnt.

There had been a great hue and cry when she sold the house and moved north. Her only child, a daughter, had cried, pleaded and foretold horrible things that could happen to her alone without family around. Patricia had held her ground. It was, after all, her life now, what she had left of it to enjoy, and she intended to do just that. For the first time in her life she was in charge and could make her own decisions. She wasn't entirely alone without family for she had a brother and sister-in-law who still lived in the town, and if her daughter wanted to visit she was welcome to come, bring her husband and her grandson.

She stopped and rested her gloved hands on top of the rake, breathing in the smell of the smoke and listening to the music coming from her house as she had left the door open to hear the Mozart piano concerto, Jeunehomme, drift over her garden as she worked. The music drowned out other noises and so she didn't hear her neighbor come out in his garden and, her thoughts being miles away, did not see him leaning on the fence. If she had seen him she would have been glad for she liked the thought of his male presence in the house next door.

They had first met on the sidewalk in front of their houses, he coming from the grocery with a bag in his arms, and she washing off her steps with a hose. He had invited her in for tea and she had declined, being wet to her knees, and said another time perhaps. Sadly the time had not come for she fell into getting her house in order and her garden in shape. She saw him frequently in his garden and they talked of her planting and the weather. She knew he was a retired professor and had told him of her writings. One day she handed him a slim volume of her poetry over the fence at his request and he had not returned it.

Satisfied her bonfire was under control, she stamped her feet and turned to go in. Her face lit up in a smile when she saw Ian.

Good morning, Ian. I didn't know you were out. I hope the music hasn't bothered you?

No, not at all. I was rather enjoying it.

She hesitated for a moment and then asked, "Would you like to come over for tea? I was just going to put the kettle on."

"Why, yes, I would. I'll just come through the gate, then."

 

IAN and PATRICIA

He followed her down through the garden to her back door, where she toed off her boots and went through to the kitchen to the sink to wash her hands. Ian stood in the doorway.

"Please come in. You can make yourself comfortable in the other room if you'd like. I'll see to the tea."

"Yes, thank you." The layout was the same as his house except a wall had come down between the kitchen and back parlor, making it one large room. He wandered around in her room seeing a large oak table pushed against a wall that held her computer and piles of books. Comfortable furniture was arranged around the fireplace that held no fire, though it had been laid. The room was chilly from the back door being open. A drop-leafed table pushed against the back window held a large vase of flowers.

"Shall I start your fire?" he asked hopefully.

"Oh, please. I'd forgotten all about it. I tend to forget most things when I'm in the garden. It's gotten quite cold in here." She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, pulled her long woolen cardigan around her waist and went to turn down her music.

She pulled out a teapot, cups and saucers, and laid a proper tea tray  before bringing it in to her room and placing it on the large ottoman in front of the fireplace.

"Please sit, Ian. Just make yourself at home. I'm not the best hostess, I'm afraid." They settled down in the two chairs on either side of the fire. "Cream and sugar? These are chocolate chip cookies I baked yesterday, not bad," she offered.

"They're very good. I like chocolate chip biscuits. I like this large room, too. I've kept the original layout and made this room into a study. Unlike your room, it's rather dark and gloomy."

"Gloomy, dark doesn't always make a place gloomy."

"No…perhaps it's the occupant."

"I shouldn't think of you as gloomy. You seem a bright happy person to me."

"Ah," he said wagging a finger, "but I'm writing, you see. Always puts me in the dark."

She sat back holding her cup and saucer. "I see, in the dark searching for the right word or phase to come to light?"

"Exactly which is why I am mostly in the dark," he smiled.

"May I ask what you're writing?"

"Oh… a man's journey through life."

"How far has he gotten?"

"Not very far I'm afraid. One does tend to start at the beginning. I was born, that sort of thing."

"Would this be your journey, Ian?" she asked over her teacup.

He looked at her a moment and then into the fire. "I'm not sure, really. I'm not proposing an autobiography. It's more about the choices we make that set our course, I think."

"Hmm, choices? I wonder if we really have them?" Thinking she'd not really had a chance to make choices, going as she had from her father's house to a college dorm and then into marriage.

"Of course we do. We may not always be happy with them but we do make decisions everyday that will affect our lives." He thought he'd made one today when he accepted an offer for tea.

"Have you regrets or are you content with the choices you've made in life?"

"I have no regrets, no…but one wonders if I'd gotten off the bus at Piccadilly one day instead of going straight home, what would have happened that changed my life?"

"Oh, I see, that opens up a whole new avenue. Yes, I can see where you're going…"

"And you do you have regrets?" he asked.

"I'm not sure regret is the word, but I shouldn't have gotten married when I did."

His eyes widened. "Yours was an unhappy union?"

"No, not at all, but in the way of choices, if I hadn't, I would have traveled perhaps, met someone different, had a whole different life, you see." She smiled and met his eyes.

He remained there in her eyes for a moment then blinked, looking down in his cup. "Perhaps you might have traveled to London," he said quietly and drained his cup.

"Say I did and you got off at Piccadilly?" She cocked a dark eyebrow.

"I should have noticed you at once," came his rapid reply.

 

 

                                                               

PART 2 LONDON, 1968

 

Having just sat for his finals at Oxford, Ian had come up to London to see his uncle and spend some time with his mates. He was expected at his Uncle Ronny's house for dinner and was looking forward to seeing him, his surrogate father, after a long absence. He was sitting by a window looking out as the bus waited in traffic when he saw a girl with long dark brown hair and endless legs stoop over to pick up her bag. The short white mini skirt left nothing to the imagination and he jumped up from his seat pushing his way to the door.

He ran across the street arriving breathless for more reasons than the quick sprint. "Can I help you with that?"

"The strap on my bag has broken, I'm afraid. I'm just trying to stuff everything back in." She hadn't even looked up to see the handsome young man who'd gone down on his knees, reaching for the rolling lipstick case on the sidewalk.

Her first glimpse of him was the top of his head, dark wavy chestnut brown hair falling from a center part over his face. He handed her the lipstick and looked up with the most intense blue green eyes and a slight flush on his face.

"Thank you, but you didn't have to do that," she'd smiled and watched his grin widen.

"Is that all of it, then?" He looked around on the walkway.

"Yes, that's it. I should buy you a beer for coming to my rescue," she said, and then bit her tongue. She didn't know the young man.

"You should…yes, you should buy me a pint," he'd laughed and pointed out a pub on the corner.

Ian made his practiced way to the bar and ordered two pints, handing the money over heads in front of him. Pat had found a little round table away from the bar and sat down.

"Here ya go. Now then," he said lighting up a cigarette and offering her one, "what's a pretty girl from America doing here?"

"Well, I was born there and live there." She gave him a crooked smile. He certainly didn't waste any time.

"Pity, you should live here. On holiday, are ya?"

"Yes, actually it's a stop off. I'm going to do the continent."

"You aren't doing England, then? How long are you here?"


"Only a few days. I'm with some friends. We're going to France."

"Frogs." He flicked his ashes.

"Pardon?"

"The French, we call 'em Frogs."

"Why is that?"

"Don't know, just always have. You sure you couldn't just hang around here for a while?"

"I'm quite sure. Do you live near here?"

"No, not really. Going to visit my uncle. I've just come up from Oxford."

"Oh, you live in Oxford?"

"Not really." He took a good drink from his glass.

"Okay, where do you live?"

"Funny you should ask me that. I really don't know." He had the most engaging smile.

"You're very odd. What's your name, anyway?"


"Not odd, I'm just betweens right now. Name's Ian Whitecap. What's your name?"


"Patricia Morse, my friends call me Pat."

"Can I call you Pat?"

She smiled, "You can call me Pat."

He picked up the empty glasses wagging a finger, "Don't go anywhere okay?"

"I'll be right here. "She watched him work his way to the bar, calling out to the bartender. He was tall, well built, wearing jeans and a sport coat over a blue jersey. His hair lay in waves over his collar. Too bad she was going to France in three days.

"Right, so when are you leaving?" he asked as he plopped the glasses on the table.

"Day after tomorrow. We're going to Provence."

"Who's WE?"

"My friends, Ricky and Marsha, Jane and Dink."

"Makes you a 5th wheel, doesn't it, unless Ricky or who…Dink is with you."

"I guess I am a 5th wheel, but it doesn't matter. We're all good friends."

"My uncle has a place in Provence, makes wine, you know."

"Is that right? What a coincidence."

"Yeah, ain't it though?" He took a sip of his beer and narrowed his eyes. "I'm going to have dinner with him tonight…wanna come along?"

"Well, we have tickets to the theater. I don't know." She bit her lip.

He shrugged, "I thought I might come with you."

"To the theater?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"No, to Provence." He gave her a slight smile and blinked his eyes.

 

Part 3: Choices Made

IAN AND PATRICIA

"So what choice would you have made, the theater or dinner with my uncle?"

Patricia sat back in her chair thoroughly enjoying their little story. "That would certainly be a life changing moment for me." She ran her hand over the arm of her chair. "I would have had to clear it with my friends, you know," she said, delaying.

"And if they said yes?"

"Then I would have said come with us. We'd hired a van to drive around, plenty of room."

"But I would have wanted to take you to my uncle's place, not ride around with your friends." He sat back, lacing his fingers on his lap.

"Would you have told me that before we left London?"

"Hmm, probably not. I would have relied on my, er, powers of persuasion," he smiled.

"What if I'd said no and gone to the theater as I'd planned?"

"I would have gone to my uncle's for dinner, listened to a long and profoundly boring account of the thickness of grape skins and how it affects the sweetness of the grape."

"Is that what you did?"

"Yes. I didn't get off the bus, remember."

"Then what did you do?"

"Met my mates and got totally trashed, slept on the floor beside a sofa in somebody's flat."

"And I didn't go to London. I went instead to North Carolina and got married."

"Did your friends really go to London?" he asked, tilting his head.

"Yes, they did and I wanted to go, but Richard, my fiancé couldn't go…or wouldn't go. He was very keen on marriage at the time."

"And you weren't?"

"I was young and in love, he wanted to marry me, my father thought it a good idea."

"You didn't tell me about him in our story."

"No…I didn't even think about him, to tell you the truth. I'd left him behind, it seems." Patricia frowned, wondering about that. "Why wouldn't I have told you about my fiancé?"

Ian smiled, "Perhaps you weren't as in love as you thought you were?"

Patricia's brow was still furrowed. "Oh well, it's only a story anyway, isn't it?" she smiled, but it bothered her that she would have left Richard for Ian.

"I should go. It's getting late in the afternoon. I've enjoyed my visit…perhaps we could pick up the story again?"

"I'd like that, Ian, I really would." She rose and walked with him to the back door. "My fire seems to have died away. Still I should put the hose to it, just to be safe."

"Right then, I'll see you again." Ian walked back through the gate to his own garden and into his house.

Ian was starving, having missed a midday snack. He slipped on his jacket and decided to go down to the tavern for an early dinner.  He walked with his head down, thinking about Patricia and how they might have met many years ago. Waiting for the stop light to turn so he could cross the street, he thought if they had met he wouldn't be here now in New England and wondered what he would have done instead of teaching. He thought he knew but would shelve it until they continued their story…oh, he hoped they would continue, for he enjoyed her company. He smiled thinking about Provence. He would have gone.

Patricia, satisfied she had drowned the last of the embers, pulled the hose back and coiled it up next to her garden shed. Ian played around in her mind. Oh, she would have liked to have known him as a young man. He was still handsome today...something about his eyes, she smiled to herself. Then she thought of her husband Richard. She had loved him. Through all the ups and downs she had stood by him, had his child. She had, of course she had loved him. He had been the first real romance of her life, but if she had gone to London with her friends…she would never have known him as she did. It was a love that grew over time. Maybe that's why she didn't mention him in her story. She brushed her hands and walked back to her kitchen to find something for dinner.

Waiting for her indoor electric grill to finish her chicken breast, her mind wandered back to the story. If she had gone to Provence with Ian, what then? Her friends would be heading on to Germany and she would have to go with them. Surely Ian would not have followed. She wouldn't have stayed behind with him at his uncle's place, would she? She took the chicken out and sliced it, laying it across her bed of salad greens. Now that definitely would have been a life-changing choice. She may never have come home.

Ian had finished his meal and moved over to the bar, finding a buddy on the barstool.

"Hello, Ian, how's it going? Ready for golf tomorrow?"

"Fred. Yes, ready as I'll ever be."

"How's the book comin' along?"

Ian wished he'd never told anybody he was writing. "I have a few pages done; it's coming slowly. Fred, have you ever had a moment in your life where you had a choice and made one that you've lived with, but if you'd made another your life would have been totally different?"

"Oh, I'm sure I have…well, yeah, come to think of it if I hadn't taken Jean home the night my parents were out of town…yeah, it would have been different." He sat rubbing his chin.

"How so, Fred?"

"I wouldn't have married her…she got pregnant. Oh, you know, heh, I love her and all that. We've been together for nearly 40 years now, kids and grandkids. Yeah, we've had a good go of it."

"If you hadn't taken her home, what would you have done?" asked Ian, taking a sip of his pint.

"I would have taken that scholarship and gone on to Virginia Tech. As it turned out I had to find a job real quick and had to learn my trade from the ground up."

"But you've become quite successful with your own heating and air company. What would you have done with your scholarship?"

"You know I wanted to design airplanes…yeah, I spent most of my childhood making models and drawing designs…yeah, airplanes." He looked thoughtfully across the bar at the bottles lined on the shelf. "How about you, Ian, did you make a choice?"

"I did, Fred. Not that I regret it but, yes, I did make a choice."

"How's that, Ian?"

"I didn't get off the bus." He smiled, set his glass down and waved goodbye. "See you at 9:00."

Ian hadn't got off the bus and after dinner with his uncle. His mates had come by in a car and they went out for a pub crawl to celebrate having passed their finals. Somewhere along the way he had met Mary and gone home with her, only to pass out on her sofa. Not a very good way to meet your future wife.

ON TO PART 4                                                                                                                                                               

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