Free Brothers in Blood by David Stuart Davies Page B

form close relationships. He could get so close but then some inner force, prompted by insecurity, laziness or, more usually, a complete lack of curiosity about other people held him back. He only felt anything approaching happiness when he was with Laurence and Alex, particularly Laurence. Then the protective shell fell away. He could be himself – or as much as he was ever able to be. It was a truth he accepted: Laurence had spoiled him for others.
    Of course he cared for Sandra – in his own reserved fashion. She was a sweet, intelligent woman and, perhaps more importantly, made very few demands on him. She didn’t try to mould him to her tastes and outlook as he’d seen so many wives of his acquaintance do. Sandra accepted him – loved him – for what he was. Well, he assumed that she loved him. She behaved as though she did and he didn’t question the matter further. It was, he supposed, a marriage of convenience. They rarely argued. If she didn’t agree with him, she just left him alone. He knew that in this respect he was lucky; he also knew that if something happened to her – if she disappeared from his life – he would survive. Quite easily. He would continue in his own stoical way.
    With this observation floating around his brain, he drifted into sleep. The gin and the sun, combined with the natural fatigue following a week teaching bore him away into a dreamless slumber.
    He was awakened some twenty minutes later by a cool hand on his brow and a warm kiss on his lips. He opened his eyes to find Sandra smiling down at him. ‘Getting pissed before the evening meal is a bit desperate, darling, even for you,’ she said brightly.
    ‘I am not pissed,’ he responded with mock grumpiness, shaking off the rags of sleep. He pulled himself up in the lounger and reached for his glass on the lawn. It lay on its side, having fallen over when it had slipped from his grasp as he had dropped off to sleep. He studied the empty glass as though it were some prize exhibit in the empty glass museum. ‘I’m just tired. If a couple of gins make me pissed, there’s no hope.’
    He grinned and Sandra kissed him again.
    ‘Would you like another?’ she asked.
    He nodded. ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’
    ‘I think I’ll join you.’
    ‘Good girl.’
    She returned minutes later with a tray containing two fresh glasses and a bowl of peanuts.
    ‘Had a good day, darling?’ he asked sarcastically.
    ‘So, so,’ she said, plonking herself down in the other lounger. ‘Frantic morning but, y’know, appointments dry up on a Friday afternoon.’
    ‘People are too busy preparing for the weekend to be ill, eh?’
    Sandra gave a tired grin. ‘Something like that.’
    ‘Have we treated anything really nasty today? Any bubonic plague around?’
    ‘You know, people around here are not that adventurous. The odd case of impotence and slipped disc was the best on offer. Apart from that it’s summer sniffles, hay fever and piles.’
    ‘Piles of what.’
    She grinned. ‘Exactly. And what about you? Did you have a good day?’
    ‘Yes. It was a Tuesday in 1973. I remember it well.’
    ‘Hey, that was before you met me.’
    ‘Oops.’
    Exhausting the empty banter, they lapsed into a comfortable silence. Sandra was content. That’s all she wanted out of marriage: a relaxed and undemanding partnership. That’s all she wanted out of life: smooth sailing – drifting casually on the mill pond – and not being tossed and blown on the unpredictable ocean. Despite choosing medicine as a career and being one of the best students in her year at medical school, she had no desire to specialise or face the cut and thrust of hospital life. She just wanted to be a common or garden GP. Like her father. Steady and unremarkable. Like Russell. They were well matched.
    Sometimes he felt that she had chosen him because he was apparently unambitious and posed no challenge. She knew that he wasn’t going to drag her from her own comfort zone. It also