Love's Cold Burn Read online

  Love’s Cold Burn

  By Jessica Harry

  For everybody who has loved

  Ⓒ 2013 Jessica Harry. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author

  Chapter 1

  Honest mirror

  October 4, 1983: Andrew Leopard had a few spots. Not many and not something that would worry most people, but for Andrew it was the one thing that stood between him and romance. It was not the spots but the strength of this belief that was his downfall. He was a very average 18 year old in many ways, five feet and nine inches with green eyes, but he had very little conversation. As an only child he had been expected to sit quietly in the corner while the adults spoke on ‘important matters’. This passive role had extended into his school life and he had grown used to only speaking when spoken to. He lacked self confidence and what he did have was about to be threatened. Andrew Leopard was going to Southside University.

  He took with him the burden of low expectations from his father, Frank Leopard, who had always told Andrew that he would never amount to anything. His father was like many people who endured the Second World War as a child. They had seen ‘real suffering’ and nothing in Andrew’s childhood could be challenged. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are boy. Have you ever seen a dead body? No. And you probably never will.’ Frank’s words were etched in Andrew’s mind. ‘All I ask is gratitude. Nothing else. And all I get is “can I play in the park?” Where’s your appreciation? I worked hard all my life for what I provide for you. I’ve bought a dinghy to take you fishing on the canal and you’d rather go to the park and play with your friends?’

  This repeated theme of ‘no gratitude’ was a stick which Frank Leopard used to beat his son with whenever Andrew ‘stepped out of line’. Andrew tried not to step out of line, but it was never easy as his father was very particular about what should be done and when it should be done. He wanted everything ‘just so’ and often told his son ‘a place for everything and everything in its place’.

  Frank Leopard was a narcissist. He was never able to put Andrew’s needs ahead of his own. He had a highly inflated opinion of himself and often spoke of encounters he had had with others where he had ‘corrected’ them or had to ‘put them in their place’, a contempt for others that helped raise his own profile in his own mind even to the detriment of his own family. Andrew’s mother Maureen had long ago given up trying to share her opinions or needs with him. As the years passed she became subservient to him and acted in the way he expected her to. It made for an easier life. However, this submission compounded Frank’s belief that he always knew best. Andrew had gone the same way as his mother, but he was half aware that under his simple façade, there was a fun-loving, ambitious young man trying to break through.

  Although he had wanted to go and play with his friends in the park, the truth was he had very few friends. This was partly due to the lack of confidence his home life had created and also partly due to his father’s corporate career. They had often moved around the country as Frank had accepted promotions within the company. Andrew often wondered if he had only been born as an accessory. Family men were more likely to succeed in business, his father had told him.

  So when his father was away at conferences, his mother would send Andrew to the park and he would sit on his own while other children played together. One particular summer at the age of 12, Andrew had tried to join in with some boys playing football, but a scruffy boy told him ‘the sides are already even. Why don’t you go and catch fish with your dad?’

  Later that day his father returned from a conference and expressed his anger at Andrew. ‘What’s the matter with you boy? I haven’t slept properly for three nights and have worked tirelessly to put food on the table for you and when I get home I have to look at your grumpy face. You’re going to have to buck your ideas up. What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing wrong.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. You look like a wet weekend in Blackpool. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No you’re not and if you can’t tell your old man, who can you tell?’

  Frank Leopard was the last person Andrew would confide in but his continued pressure made it difficult for Andrew to refuse.

  ‘Okay. There is a bit of a problem.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Andrew really didn’t want to tell him but after pausing briefly, he began to feel that a further pause would be rebuked as wasting his father’s time.

  ‘I haven’t got any friends.’

  Without reflecting on what Andrew had said or asking for more detail, Frank replied ‘don’t worry. You’re in a new school. These things take time.’ With that he handed Maureen his coat, without looking at her, and walked through to the sitting room. Again without looking at Maureen he announced ‘I think I’ll have a small whisky before dinner.’ Maureen hurried off to pour the whisky.

  Andrew went to his room to pack. They were going on holiday to Wales with the caravan the next day. Besides, he didn’t want to go in the sitting room. His father was watching the news on the television and if you made the slightest sound during the news, there was trouble.

  The next day, Maureen and Frank were hurrying all over the place in preparation for the caravan trip. At Frank’s insistence, there was a very specific list of things that had to be taken and they had to be in very specific places and they had to set off at the planned departure time. No room for error. ‘If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly’, he would remind them both and properly to Frank Leopard meant in a military manner. Frank had done National Service so he knew how to ‘do things properly’.

  ‘Have you pumped up the caravan tyres Andrew?

  ‘Sorry. Not yet.’

  ‘Well get on with it and look sharp about it. They won’t pump themselves up will they?’

  That was always a difficult one to answer. If you replied that they would not pump themselves up, you were told off for being cheeky and if you took the question as rhetorical, it was repeated louder with the inference that you were impertinent for not responding.

  Andrew took the first choice but got the tone wrong. ‘No they won’t.’

  ‘Get on with it boy and less of your cheek.’

  Andrew pumped the tyres up and put the pump back in its place in the garage. ‘A place for everything and everything in its place.’

  After 150 miles, Frank started to struggle with the steering. After 200 miles he pulled into a service station and went to inspect the caravan with the hope that redistributing the load would improve his steering. Everything was as it should be and Frank’s annoyance was growing. He had been planning this trip for months and steering problems were not on the agenda.

  Like most narcissists, he was now looking for somebody to blame and the chance came when he spotted that one of the caravan tyres looked a bit flat. ‘Andrew. What pressure did you put in the tyres?’ he demanded.

  ‘The same as usual.’

  ‘Well that doesn’t look like 33 pounds per square inch does it?’

  Another one of those questions you don’t know whether to answer. Before Andrew could make his choice, Frank continued. ‘Get the pump boy and we’ll put some more air in it.’

  This presented Andrew with a further dilemma. The pump was in the garage. ‘A place for everything and everything in it’s place.’ His father had not told Andrew to pack the pump. It had not been on his list, but pointing this out would trigger further anger.

  ‘Sorry. The pump is at home in the garage.’

  Frank now had the chance to place the blame firmly on his son’s shoulders but he
needed more than that. He wanted his pound of flesh and he genuinely believed Andrew was at fault and his snapped response was so cutting that it was to emotionally scar his son for years.

  ‘You didn’t pack the pump. You stupid boy. What were you thinking? No wonder you haven’t got any friends. You’ll never amount to anything.’

  Andrew knew he was in a no-win situation and said nothing while making a mental note that under no circumstances would he ever confide in his father again knowing that it would merely provide him with ammunition the next time he lashed out.

  And now for the first time he was going to live away from home. He arrived at Southside University at the same time as everyone else, or so he thought. There were hatchbacks and estate cars everywhere, with the odd van. Boys and girls walked in all directions; arms full of sleeping bags, clothes, audio tapes and cassette players. Frank was in a hurry to get home. He had a conference to prepare for.

  ‘I told you not to use this old grey rucksack boy. People will think I can’t afford to provide for you.’ With that, he threw the bag in the direction of a large white van which had just pulled up. Before Andrew could pick it up, the door flew open and a tall bald student climbed out and stood on the rucksack. He looked as if his natural expression was an angry snarl and Andrew apologised as he stooped for his bag and quickly retreated hoping that his path would never cross with the fierce bald student.

  Frank drove away as soon as the car was emptied onto the footpath and left his son with a firm handshake and the words ‘make me proud boy’. Andrew thought to himself that his father would be most upset with him if he were denied the chance of boasting to work colleagues about Andrew’s academic achievements. Andrew believed his father had even chosen which subjects Andrew would study based on how the words would flow from his tongue in conversation with his work-mates.

  He got the key to his room and spent an age finding it but was determined not to ask for help. He was independent now. When he got there, he piled everything on the bed and sat in the soft chair with the door locked. He was in room two on floor three of Dickens Court, block F.

  The room was naked and lifeless. The walls were spotted with Blu-tac stains and drawing pin holes. The only things on the wall apart from a light switch and a very honest mirror were a set of house rules and a list of instructions that were to be followed in the event of a fire. The floor was carpet-less and cold. Every sound he made lingered. Andrew Leopard felt as empty as the room.

  After collecting his thoughts for some time in the chair, he set about the task of organising his room, which he did with clinical efficiency. Socks and underwear were stacked neatly into a newspaper-lined drawer. In the drawer above was a collection of very sensible, slightly conservative shirts and trousers his mother had lovingly selected for him at British Home Stores. He pondered briefly before carefully positioning these items in the drawer and thought for a moment about his mother. Maureen had always been there with a comforting smile to share his troubles and pick him up after his father had emotionally knocked him down. A quick glance around his empty room came as a solemn reminder that he could no longer wallow in the protective sympathies of his mother, at least not for the next ten weeks of term anyway.

  On the other hand, he had been looking forward to time away from the regime of his father, but was later to discover that even the rigid constraints imposed upon him by Frank were in some respects a form of security blanket shielding him from the real world.

  His line of thought was broken by raucous laughter coming from the kitchen, which he would be sharing with seven other boys. These were the people that he hoped would become his new family; the real friends he had always craved. Now would be a good time to meet them. He was nervous. It was important to make a good impression. Andrew checked his face in the mirror. There were a few spots and the odd red lump, but he’d been using the cream and tablets. He could do no more. Time to be brave.

  He locked his door and walked down the bare corridor, white painted concrete block walls, his footsteps echoing on the hard floor. He waited for a moment outside the kitchen door. His mouth was dry. He would be spending his first year at college with these students he was about to meet. He was full of hope but feared he may not fit in.

  Andrew slowly opened the door not expecting anybody to notice him walking in, but they had been equally anxious to check out every new face that joined them. All heads turned and the buzz of energy switched to pause. Andrew scanned the faces and stopped when he got eye contact with a charismatic young man with a lively face, who had been entertaining the other boys with stories and jokes. Brian Hill, as he later discovered, was sat in one of the four soft chairs which surrounded a white plastic coated chipboard coffee table in a corner of the large square room. The room measured around 20 feet by 20 feet and the corner with the coffee table had been covered in a hard wearing brown cord carpet. The two walls which met in the opposite corner were lined with kitchen units, cupboards, two sinks, two small cookers and one large fridge. Between the units and the carpet was a long white plastic coated chipboard kitchen table with metal tubular legs surrounded by eight plastic moulded chairs.

  A third wall was almost filled with windows which overlooked a tree-filled paved courtyard, which was overlooked by every kitchen of every floor of Dickens Court. The final wall was covered with a large noticeboard and that in turn was covered by further instructions on what to do in the event of fire, house rules and posters from just about every society and club imaginable inviting new students to sign up for the coming year. There was the camera club, the hockey club, the society against animal testing, another against apartheid in South Africa and a prayer group. The rugby club poster partly obscured the football club, probably not by accident, while the young Conservatives had been blocked by the poster from the young Liberals.

  Andrew was still looking at Brian, waiting for him to speak. Andrew rarely spoke first.

  Instead of greeting the newcomer with a smile or a shake of the hand, Brian asked, ‘Why did the architect have his house made backwards?’

  Brian and three other students all looked at Andrew waiting for his answer. Andrew knew they would judge him on his response, but he didn’t have one. He didn’t know Brian. He couldn’t tell if it was a joke or a serious question or if he had been mistaken for somebody else.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he stammered nervously, quietly. He didn’t know. It was an honest answer. He felt instantly deflated. He could only make a first impression once.

  It was a joke and Brian’s smile widened as he completed the punch-line, ‘So he could watch television.’ There was hearty laughter from the three students, mostly in response to Brian’s own laughter. He was enjoying the attention. But Andrew wasn’t. He didn’t understand the joke. He blushed.

  It was difficult to remain composed while the joke triggered such a reaction from the others. He thought quickly. Should he pretend to get the joke and join the laughter. Too late. Brian had noticed his blank expression and followed with a visual explanation. He held out his arms as if grasping a pair of imaginary hips and made a few pelvic thrusts.

  ‘Housemaid, as opposed to house made,’ Brian said. ‘As in au pair girl … backwards.’ There was more laughter from the other three boys.

  ‘Oh,’ whispered Andrew sheepishly, now fully understanding, although to his limited knowledge it was only cows and dogs that ‘did it’ backwards. He could see that Southside University was going to be an education. He looked down at his feet with his hands in his pockets. As Brian’s attention returned to the others, Andrew took the opportunity to slip out of the room.

  On his way back to room two, he passed number five and noticed the door was ajar. Following his setback in the kitchen, he was keen to regain the lost ground and considered going in and introducing himself. He debated with himself for some time before tapping weakly on the door.

  It was pulled open assertively. A tall student with short black hair and a warm friendly smile thrust out his hand. �
��Pleased to meet you. I’m Tom Hill.’

  Andrew’s spirits were lifted immediately. He introduced himself and was offered a seat. This was his first friendly encounter. He beamed inwardly but maintained his outward calm, as well as he could. ‘I’m in room two.’

  ‘Good. We’re almost neighbours. Have you been in the kitchen yet? You’ll need to grab what’s left of the good cupboards before everyone else jumps in.’

  ‘Actually I’ve just come from the kitchen. Did you hear all the laughing?’

  ‘I heard something.’

  ‘Well, I think they were laughing at me a bit. A really loud boy told a joke and I didn’t get it. He made fun of me. You’ll have to watch out for that one.’

  ‘Ah yes. What did he look like?’ Tom asked, but he knew it was probably his brother. Tom could see Andrew was timid and he knew Brian would play on such weakness for his own amusement; not maliciously, but with limited concern for Andrew’s feelings.

  ‘He looked a bit like you in some ways, but not so tall and his hair was all over the place … it was.’

  Tom noticed the quiet, almost silent addition of ‘it was’ at the end of the sentence after a brief pause, as if to confirm what Andrew had said. Tom had been distracted and not replied instantly. He thought Andrew must have thrown in the ‘it was’ to fill the silence, sort of like a comfort echo.

  ‘Was he wearing a black denim jacket?’

  ‘That’s right. Have you met him?’

  ‘Well actually …’ Tom changed his mind. It could wait.

  The window was open. A gust of wind filled the curtain and it swelled across Tom’s desk pushing over a jar of pens. The contents spilled. One pen fell on the floor and rolled near Andrew’s feet. He picked it up. It was one of those novelty pens featuring a girl in a swimsuit who undresses when you turn the pen upside down. Andrew was embarrassed. He turned the pen the right way up and the girl’s swimsuit slid back up her body. Tom put the pens straight and closed the window. It had started to rain. ‘She’s got a nice body hasn’t she?’