From Litte Acorns (Short Romance Story)

From Little Acorns.


Heavy and overwarm, Sarah Dawson's police uniform bothered her. The irritating whine of machinery, the jostling of the woodwork buffs and the sharp tang of sawdust, all made her wish she hadn't opted for overtime at this exhibition.
Familiar depression bore down. Lately, she seemed to be having more and more of these feelings, and she wondered. Was the uniform bothering her in other ways, or was it merely the extra responsibility of her recent promotion to Sergeant? Whatever the reason, she was beginning to hate whining, old ladies who had lost pet cats, grumbling motorists who glowered at her if she stopped them and snivelling kids who had been caught stealing. She no longer looked forward to work. All she seemed to live for was the promise of rest days; the chance to spend forty-eight hours or so away from it all.
Rest days! There had been so few of those lately. Her fiancé, fellow Sergeant Tom Field, had been insistent, 'We need every bit of overtime we can manage Sarah. It's all money in the bank.'
Tom made sense, but, at times, he seemed obsessed by money, especially when he reminded her, as he often did, of the comfortable living they would enjoy on joint salaries. Reluctantly almost, Sarah recalled his added, 'Providing we keep out of the baby trap for a time.'
Was he right there? She didn't really think so, but, without protest, she had shelved ideas of a family; allowing Tom to handle the reins of their relationship. The truth stared her in the eyes of course. Whatever Tom might say a rest-day would be nice; a chance, dare she admit it, for a spell away from him?
Recently, she had realised just how much time they did spend together and in the ten months they had known each other, they had shared most of their leisure time, in addition to the fact that they worked alongside each other.
'Cheer up Sar-GENT!'
The man's voice splintered Sarah's thoughts and she groaned. A chauvinist was the last thing she wanted. Yet, something in the voice said it hadn't been meant that way and, somewhat grudgingly, she looked up.
The man was probably in his late twenties, as she was; heavy features, alight with a generous, grin; radiating friendliness, his large, blue eyes sparkling. He stood behind a woodwork lathe, his arms buried to the elbows in shavings; spirals of golden wood; matching his mop of curling, honey coloured hair.
Sarah had noticed him once or twice during her rounds, but he had been engrossed, in the apparently effortless production, of long, writhing streamers, from the wood revolving in front of him. There had been a crowd watching him for most of the afternoon and, little as Sarah knew about woodwork, it was clear he was an artist. She looked at the honest, homely features again and decided. He wasn't being nasty at all.
She allowed herself a hesitant smile, 'Does it show?'
'Just a bit.' He disentangled his arms from the pile of shavings and placed his chisel back in the tool-rack, 'I'm Mike. Mike Painter.' He grinned again, 'Daft name for a turner but there you are.' Self consciously, he wiped his hands on his apron, 'I'd shake hands but they're a bit mucky.' His head jerked towards the back of the stand, 'Fresh cuppa back there Sarge!
There was definitely no chauvinism in his voice now, Just friendliness. She grinned, amused at his chatter, 'Promise you won't talk me to death!'
His shoulders lifted in a small shrug, 'There I go again.' He came across and opened the small gate in the wooden fence around the stand. His happy grin showed again, 'They tell me it's nerves, though I've done nothing to be nervous about.'
'I hope not. I might have to regard the tea as a bribe.' As she squeezed past him, Sarah noticed the pleasant aroma of his after-shave mixed with the fresh tang of the timber he had been turning. She was puzzled for, suddenly, the scent of wood wasn't so bad after all.
'I never thought of that.' He said, 'But it's no bribe. 'Just a ruse to get you off guard.'
'To do what, exactly?' Sarah tried to sound flippant, but, for some reason she felt confused. There was something about this man and, childishly, she half hoped he would make a pass at her. She smothered the thought. It was silly; God she'd only just met him. Anyway she loved Tom. Didn't she?
He laughed, as he plugged in a battered kettle. Obviously recently used, the kettle immediately began to sing, 'Well Sarge,' he said, 'While I entertain you, my friends will be over the way, robbing the turnstiles.' His tone became more serious, 'Do I have to call you Sarge?'
'I'm sorry Mike. Of course not,' She smiled at him, and held out her hand, 'Sarah Dawson.'
His large hand was warm, dry and he seemed to hold on just a while longer than etiquette demanded, 'That's better.' he said, finally loosing her hand.
She chuckled. 'Which is better?' she asked, 'Knowing my name or holding my hand!'
He blushed slightly, and then laughed, 'Easy to see why you made Sergeant.' He pushed a chair forward. 'Now, a cup of tea for Sarah Dawson.'
Somewhere, in her mind a small voice whispered, 'Sarah Painter' Again she felt confusion and, a little angrily, she pushed the ridiculous thought away, as she sat down. But, she could still feel the warmth of his friendly grip and, to recover her composure, she concentrated on the tea, 'Black please.' she said, ‘No sugar.'
He pulled a face. 'Well, it takes all sorts.' Unplugging the kettle, he smiled at her then sloshed boiling water into a crock teapot.
Still a little distracted, Sarah began to take in her surroundings. It was a tiny space, rough and ready, made even more so by the exposed timbers and bare hardboard at the rear of the stand. She smiled to herself as she took in the general air of clutter. It was clean enough, but obviously, Mike Painter had little time for tidiness. Perhaps it was the artist in him, she thought trivially. There was also the distinctive smell of French-polish and, in one corner; there was a small table, covered with turned items, candlesticks, small wooden bowls, and egg-cups. She got up and went across for a closer look.
Most of the work was quite decorative and certainly, she couldn't fault it. She turned towards Mike, 'All your own work I take it.'
He smiled, and nodded. 'It’s what I really enjoy making.' He shrugged. 'But to earn a living I have to work in a factory, on a copy-lathe, making hundreds of fancy stair rails for the DIY trade.' His grin surfaced again, 'Nice change to come here and do some real turning.' He inspected the milk in a cardboard carton, and then nodded towards the table, 'I shall have to get the stuff out front. Won't sell 'em here!'
Sarah had noticed the small adhesive price tags. The prices seemed rather low, 'Why don't you charge more?' she asked, 'This is lovely work.'
'Nice of you to say so.' He shrugged again, 'I just knock these out in my shed at home. Most of the proceeds go to the local deaf school.' He smiled, almost apologetically, 'My youngest sister.' he explained. 'She's a deaf-mute you see.' He poured milk into a mug.
'Oh! I'm sorry Mike. That's a shame.'
'Don't worry Sarah!' There was obvious pride in his voice, 'Julie's a cracker! She's eleven. We all love her to bits!' He added, unnecessarily.
She smiled at him, and pointed to the woodware, 'I think it's a nice idea.'
He laughed, 'How about buying something then Sarah?'
That was when she noticed the turned box, almost hidden behind a checkerware bowl. The box had two acorns delicately carved into the lid, to serve as a handle. Sarah picked up the box. It seems to be the only item without a price tag. Taking the lid off, she smiled. There was more to the box than she'd thought. Inside it was exquisitely lined with red velvet. Why no price tag? Was there something special about this box, she wondered?
For a moment, she hesitated. If it was for sale, should she buy it? Perhaps not. Tom would be furious, seeing it as an unnecessary trifle. A little wistfully, she put the box back on the table.
She was about to replace the lid, when Mike came across to her and picked up the box, 'Not for sale.' He said, a little gruffly. Almost snatching the lid off her, he closed the box and put it back against the wall. Then he smiled, sheepishly, 'I'm sorry. That was rude of me.' Again a shrug, 'Anyhow, tea's up.'
'It is rather nice.' She looked at him carefully, 'Pity it isn't for sale.'
His grin was back again and he winked, as he held out a mug of tea, 'Here you are Sarah. Black no Sugar.'
'That change of subject was clear enough! She regretted her words instantly, as his face clouded, and he turned away. Placing her tea on the table, she reached out and touched his arm, 'Mike. I'm sorry. That was stupid of me.'
Mike turned and smiled slightly, 'It's all right Sarah.' He shrugged, 'Anyway, it was some time ago.'
'I feel such an idiot.' She went to grab his arm again, then instead, checked her watch, 'Look, I'm sorry, but I'll have to go.' She tried a smile, knowing it would look sickly, 'I'm off duty soon.' She excused herself the white lie. Suddenly, the little room seemed even smaller and she needed to get out.
'Yes. OK then Sarah.' He grinned, 'Drop by again? We'll be here for another two days.'
Sarah just nodded.
Back among the press of humanity, Sarah realised she had run away again. Understandably, Mike had seemed to want her to leave, but in any case, she'd been unable to stay there and face up to the embarrassment. She frowned slightly, aware of a nagging idea about running away from the truth. The truth about what? Negative feelings for Tom?
Sarah dismissed the idea instantly. She loved Tom. They would be married and they would be happy. This chance incident couldn't affect that. Yet, Sarah was miserable, thinking about it; knowing she hadn't really wanted to run away.
The nagging doubt came back again, but angrily, she pushed it away. It was a childish idea. Did it matter to her, that a virtual stranger was so obviously star-crossed?
***
'Overtime! Again!' Sarah flopped into a chair in the Sergeants' office, 'Oh Tom! For God's sake give it a rest. Please!'
'What d'you mean Sarah?' Tom Field dropped the overtime sheet onto the desk and frowned. ‘Don’t you want the extra money?'
She felt like hitting him, 'I'll send you a telegram if you like!' She gazed at the floor, 'I'd like a rest-day for once.'
His hawkish features creased into a deeper frown, 'Sarah, you're turning down over sixty pounds.'
She looked at him, shaking her head, 'Does money matter so much to you Tom?'
'But Sarah!' he protested, 'Money is important. I'd like a car before we get married and.....'
'WHAT DID YOU SAY?' Sarah knew she was shouting, but dammit, that was a selfish thing he'd said.
'He was actually blushing, 'I… I said we need a car before we get married.'
'No Tom!' Sarah tried to keep her anger down, 'YOU need a car. That's what you said. YOU!'
He was fiddling with his tunic buttons, and Sarah knew she was seeing a fresh side of his character.
She looked at him accusingly, 'Well?'
He laughed, bravado almost, 'I'm sorry pet.' He stepped across to her, 'You're right.' He placed a solicitous arm about her shoulders, and squeezed encouragingly, 'Look! Why don't we both take the day off and go somewhere nice?'
Sarah stood up, tears close at hand. She covered up and, with more venom than she intended, said, 'Dammit Tom! Will you stop patronising me?' She pulled away from his arm, and took a deep breath, 'I am having a day off tomorrow. A day off from work and a day off from YOU.'
He grabbed at her with his thin fingers, 'Sarah!' His grip tightened, 'What do you mean by that?'
Angry now, she pulled her arm away, 'Just what I said. Now, if you don't mind, I'll go and book in the troops.' She turned away and, ignoring his, 'Wait Sarah!', stalked out into the parade-room. It was their first row, hardly the end of the world, but she ought still to be feeling sad. Why then did she feel so elated? More importantly, why was she thinking about Mike Painter?
In the end, Sarah did go to work, but, she had to admit, mainly because Tom had decided to take the day off. Knowing she wouldn't see him for at least twenty-four hours, she felt better equipped to think things over. It soon became clear, that she really had seen a very different side of Tom. She also realised just how much his general concern over money was upsetting her. Why couldn't he be more like...? She pulled herself up then changed her mind. Dammit, she thought. Face it. More like Mike Painter?
As she thought about Mike, she realised she had been walking towards the display stand. She stopped about twenty yards away, tasting sour disappointment. Mike Painter wasn't there. Another man, grey haired and much older, stood behind the lathe, which was still and empty of timber.
Sarah was about to turn away, when the man called to her, 'Miss! Er. Sergeant Dawson?'
'Yes?' She went towards the stand, anticipation filling her mind.
The man bent down and took something from the cabinet beneath the lathe, 'Young Mike said if I saw you, I was to give you this.' He was holding out the little box with the acorns on top. He smiled, 'Nice little thing isn't it?'
Sarah took the box from him, immediately feeling guilty as she thought about Tom, 'Yes it is nice.' She was more confused than ever, 'Will you tell him I said thank you?'
He leaned forwards and winked, 'He'll be back tomorrow love. Why don't you come in and tell him yourself?'
She knew she was blushing, as she put the box in her shoulder bag, 'I thought the exhibition was finishing tonight?'
He grinned at her, 'Yes, but we'll be here. Clearing up the mess.'
She nodded. She would have to come and thank Mike of course, 'Tell him I'll do my best.' She smiled, 'Duty permitting.' It was the obvious excuse, but a good stand-by.
The man almost beamed, 'Oh I'll tell him!' He sounded happy; like an old-maid matchmaker.
Concentrating on paperwork was impossible. She was too much on edge. Her mind fizzed; weighing the idea of seeing Mike Painter against the knowledge she ought to see Tom. Perhaps she should apologise. She stood up pushed her chair back, and dropped her pen into the desk drawer. A cup of tea would be nice, then the paperwork.
Still preoccupied, she stepped into the corridor and bowled into Fred Ramsey, the stout Administration Sergeant.
His thick bundle of paperwork went everywhere, as he caught her arm, preventing her from slipping on the polished granite floor, 'Steady on lass,' His eyes sparkled as he grinned, ‘You’ve got thirty-odd years to go yet.'
'I'm sorry Fred.' She grinned, straightening her skirt, 'And take another look at my record. It's nearer twenty.'
'Not if you make Inspector lass!' He smiled as he bent awkwardly to pick up the papers.
'Stay in this job until I'm sixty?' Sarah grinned as she stooped to help him.
The fat Sergeant chuckled, 'We'll see!' He shuffled forms, 'Glad I er...bumped into you though Sarah.' He smiled, 'Most of this is for Tom. Can you see he gets it?
Sarah wasn't really listening. She was looking at the MasterCard letter addressed to the station, for Tom. MasterCard? Tom? Then she looked at Fred, 'Oh! Sorry Fred. Yes, I'll see to it.' She was still frowning as she went back into the office, all thoughts of tea forgotten. She would see Tom this evening after all.

***

'TOM! Five Thousand pounds!' Sarah was fuming, and she stabbed her finger at the statement, lying on Tom's dining table, 'As far as we're concerned, it's the National Debt!'
Tom was a little drunk. He had started pulling the cork almost as soon as Sarah had flung the letter at him, He grinned, sloppily, 'Come on Sarah, ' he said, 'it’s only a couple of months pay.'
'A month's pay is a month's work Tom.' She pounded her thighs with her fists, 'Dammit! Whatever possessed you to run up a bill, like that?
He shrugged, sloshing more rum into his glass, 'Soon pay that off Sarah.' He swayed a little, 'After we're married it'll be no problem.'
She stood up and stepped back. So that was how he felt. It was like a douche of cold water and for a moment she just stared at him. Then she found her voice, 'My God!' She shook her head, 'Of all the damned cheek! You go on and on about how much overtime we need, how much we should save and all the while you're spending everything we've got!' If she had been holding anything she would have thrown it at him, 'And to top it all, you expect me to help pay off your stupid debt.' She peered at him, questioningly, 'It is just ONE debt? Or are there a few more expensive surprises for me?'
He virtually fell into a chair and gazed morosely at the wall, 'There's an overdraft in my account of two grand.' He looked at her, 'And I owe my Aunt four hundred.'
Sarah gazed at the ceiling in amazement, 'My God! It is the National Debt!' She looked at him, seeing a pathetic figure she had never imagined existed. That she still loved him she was sure. She couldn't douse her feeling as simply and as quickly as that. But Sarah was certain she couldn't marry him. Let's face it, she thought, Life would be one long interview with the bank manager. For the right reasons, that wouldn't be so terrible, but she was damned if she was going to suffer that kind of stress, just so he could have his selfish way, 'Tom,' Her voice was quiet now, 'I'm sorry. I'll have to go.' She took off her engagement ring and placed it on top of the access bill, 'I'll see you at work I suppose.'
'Sarah? Please?' He was reaching for her, but she turned away.
'It's over Tom.' she bit her lip, trying not to cry, and walked to the door.
At work, the next day was a minefield and only one thing had gone right. She hadn't had to face Tom. Not surprisingly, considering the amount he'd drunk last night, he had stayed away sick. With her mind still numb, she hung her tunic in her locker, and, for a moment, rested her forehead against the cool metal door. Then she sighed, shrugged into her anorack and walked towards her car.
After reaching home, she remembered the trinket box Mike Painter had given her. It was still in her shoulder-bag and carefully, she took it out to set it on the shelf above the fire. Then she had a thought and took off the lid. There was a small piece of paper inside and frowning, she unfolded it. The inscription was simple:

'I'm sorry! Mike.'

There was also a 'phone number.
Carefully, she put the paper into the box and set the lid back. She looked at the little carved acorns and smiled. Was there an oak tree waiting for her?
Well, either way, she wasn't ready yet. Soon though, she'd ring that number. Who could say if anything would ever come of it? But they could both give it a try. One thing was for certain. In future, any man coming into her life, would have to give due regard to her hopes and dreams as well as his own. Somehow though, she knew, she wouldn't have that problem with Mike Painter.