Primrose Path , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - Susan Giles

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140 pages

English

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Middle-aged and with a string of unsuccessful relationships behind her, Eloise James is emotionally handicapped by the loss of her unfulfilled teenage love, Paul. But when a suicide attempt flings her back in time to the day he was killed, the two lovers meet again. Can she prevent fate or is she destined to lose him? Eloise James was still in school when she met the love of her life, her teacher, Paul Bridgestock. With an age gap of twelve years between them, the couple faced separation. But against the odds, Paul successfully allayed the concerns of the school authorities, and the friendship was allowed to continue. Love flourished and Paul was eventually accepted by Eloise's parents as a prospective son-in-law. However, following the sudden death of his wife and facing the prospect of a lonely future, Eloise's father forbade her from further contact with Paul. Paul was killed in a car crash soon after, thus ending all prospect of a future reconciliation. There would now be no wedding, no children... Eloise's life seemed over. Now it's the future and no-one can match up, even her latest love Geoffrey. When a suicide attempt takes her back in time to the day Paul was killed, the two lovers meet again. But is she destined to save him from the crash... Or must she learn to let go? Susan weaves an intricate thread of history throughout the tale, creating a story that is both heart warming and heart rending, a tale of love and time travel reminiscent of Audrey Niffenegger's TheTime Traveller's Wife.

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Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	01 novembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781848769786
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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The Primrose Path
Susan Giles
Copyright 2010 Susan Giles
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador 5 Weir Road Kibworth Beauchamp Leicester LE8 0LQ, UK Tel: ( 44) 116 279 2299 Fax: ( 44) 116 279 2277 Email: books@troubador.co.uk Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
ISBN 978 1848764 965
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Typeset in 11pt Bembo by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For mother
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter One
The teacher decided to play for time, to withhold her response to the headmaster s allegation for a moment or two longer. She stole a glance around her classroom, the classroom that had been her domain for the past 15 years. The desks were now unattended, uncluttered, cleared of the accoutrements of learning - pens, pencils, exercise books; all had been put away. Shelves were tidy, cupboards closed; even the wastepaper baskets had been emptied. Now all that remained, once she had dealt with Geoffrey Harding, was to place the chairs on the desks ready for the cleaners to come in. An hour ago the room had been alive with boisterous ten-year-olds, joyful that school was over, thrilled that the summer holiday had finally come round. She wouldn t see them again for six weeks.
Her gaze came to rest on her desk and the pile of greetings cards neatly stacked there. Her class had brought them in for her. They always did that, every end of term and on her birthday. Later she would take the cards home, where they would be displayed for a few days - before being discarded, put out with the newspapers for recycling. So many things were recycled nowadays: paper, glass, aluminium teachers. Eloise James had a feeling her turn was coming soon. Maybe not in her professional capacity, but time was running out in another department nonetheless. Not that she could do anything about it. It had happened before, and no doubt it would happen again. That was the nature of recycling.
She turned back to face Geoffrey Harding. No, I m not not really.
Yes you are, he said forcefully, ignoring her qualification. Admit it. You re chained to the past. He stood tall, erect, his hands plunged taut in his jacket pockets, gazing down at her with mocking eyes challenging eyes. It was his headmaster s posture, confident, assured, and sometimes - like now - boyishly arrogant. But Eloise had grown accustomed to it. She knew it was mostly show - a male display tactic - his preamble to mounting an argument. You re emotionally tethered, he went on, like a puppy dog - a little puppy dog at the beck and call of a ghost.
For a moment, she thought of making a yapping noise, or a whining one. But he was too serious, too intense for that - and she had no intention of pouring fuel on his fire. He could do that very well himself. I don t believe in ghosts, she said.
You don t have to, Eloise. It s enough that they believe in you. He peered down at her. When you re engaged in one of your episodes , you switch off from the real world. You don t want to go anywhere, do anything. You lose interest in everything, apart from your past.
She faced him, held his steady stare, which, she noted with amusement, as well as being accusing also contained more than a modicum of impatience. He wasn t used to facing contradictions from his staff in the classroom, even from her. So I lose interest in my job, in the kids, is that what you are implying?
His eyes became scornful. You know very well that I am not referring to that - so don t try to avoid the issue.
I m not, she said evenly. But, anyhow, you re exaggerating my detachment . Her emphasis was an ironic one, as was her choice of word, but Geoffrey appeared to miss her point, and his stare remained unchanged. She shrugged. But I think you will find that most women of my age come with a past.
Of course, he said, moving closer. I am not denying that. But where theirs is an historical fact, dead and buried, your past is in the here and now, very much alive and kicking kicking too damned hard.
Eloise shrugged dismissively. She didn t want this quarrel to develop into a full-blown row. Not another one. What was the point? He always thought he was right; and he was to a degree. I think you are exaggerating, she repeated coolly, edging closer to her desk.
Geoffrey heaved a sigh and folded his arms across his chest. In all my days I have never known anybody quite so evasive as you, Eloise, he said, shaking his head wearily. I wish you could be more honest with yourself - then perhaps you could beat this thing. Eloise remained silent, trying to find a legitimate way to avoid his piercing stare. She knew that he felt hard done by, that he felt she was being disingenuous in her claims. But his frustration seemed so disproportionate to the scale of the disagreement And she had tried. And you think that I exaggerate, he continued. But I do not. You re contrary Inconsistent. Your left hand doesn t know what your right hand is doing. He paused. You could play a solo game of paper-scissors-stone without fear of cheating.
Eloise stood her ground. You say that my performance here is unaffected. And I run a home I shop I cook. I do everything expected of a working housewife. She fell silent, thinking. But of course, these were not Geoffrey s areas of complaint. His grievance was a more personal one. And if I have failed to please in another discipline, she went on spiritedly, then I am sure that my past has absolutely no bearing on it whatsoever.
Her words appeared to make up his mind for him. All right, then, I say yea, you say nay. He paused, eying her speculatively. Let s see if the yeas have it. And with that, giving her no time to react, he caught hold of her upper arms, pulled her forward and placed his mouth fixedly on hers, instantly moving his head in pursuit of her attempt to avoid the kiss.
He was a big man, powerfully built, a former rugby blue for his college - and he kept himself fit. Yet even though she was petite, less than half his weight, and a good head shorter, she nonetheless managed to break partially free. You ve had a drink, she said, trying to free her arms from his grasp. She tasted her lips. You ve been drinking whisky.
Just one, he said. It s my tradition. Every end of term, when I see the last pair of heels skip out the gate, I always have a drink - you know that. It s got nothing to do with this. He tightened his grip on her arms. But enough talk, I intend to prove my point; I intend to have my way.
I don t want to, Geoffrey, she said, trying anew to free her arms, and breathless from the exertion. Not here. With an effort, she succeeded in getting her hands between their bodies, onto his chest, and attempted to push him away. Somebody might come in. It was better that he thought it place rather than person. And of course it was: she loved him - but she was damned if she were going to allow him to bend her over her desk, like an animal.
He didn t answer and shuffled her backwards into a corner of the classroom, by the door that let onto the corridor, there to hold her into the right angle formed by the two walls. No one s going to do that, he said. The kids certainly won t return, everybody has gone home, and the cleaners always start in the first-year building. We ve got plenty of time to ourselves, plenty of time for a little extra curricular activity, a spot of end-of-term fun. He looked down at her, subduing her struggles with professional ease. One of his hobbies was jujitsu, and he was a black belt in it. And if you re really worried, look, I ll make us nice and secure. He extended a hand, and, maintaining her imprisonment with his other arm, put the catch on the door. There you are, he said. Nobody will disturb us now. Then, leaning his bulk against her chest, he reached down and started to ruckle up her skirt.
For God s sake, Geoffrey, she said as calmly as she could manage. Remember where you are, and control yourself. She tried to kick his leg, but he avoided the blow and lifted her off the floor, guffawing as he did so. He seemed to think it a joke. Well, it wasn t. She kicked out again, but now she had no leverage, and her kick spent itself ineffectively, flailing in mid-air like a lopsided pendulum. Put me down, she said. But even to her, her words sounded comical, appeared merely to emphasise her physical vulnerability. If you don t, I ll scream.
He set her back onto the floor. Don t be infantile, Eloise, he said, reaching for her skirt once more. You may work with infants but that s no reason to act like one.
I am not, she said, managing to catch his stare. You are the one doing that. She glared at him. And I want you to stop. Now. Then she trod with all her available weight on his foot.
But her manoeuvre had no obvious effect, and he pinioned her arms against her sides, holding her as if she were no more than a rag doll. I m going to do it, Eloise. H