Sometimes I just hate myself. I can be so selfish. I mean, I could have stopped and offered to help Lester. I was pretty sure he'd recognised me as I drove past. When I'd checked by the rear-vision mirror, the look on his face could have stopped a clock. But it was raining. I'd had a busy day and by the time I turned back to stop and ask if I could help, he was putting the tools back in the car boot. It seemed he'd managed to change the wheel despite my doubts.
It would have been different if it had been his wife. I'd have stopped for Petrina. Any man would. Then I forgot about Lester and concentrated my thoughts on her. Yeah! Petrina! She has lovely dark skin. I expect that's from her gypsy background, and she has the kind of eyes that communicate little messages. Wonderful messages that have the ability to set me all a-quiver. When that happens, I allow my imagination off its leash. Then she becomes Pet, and I secretly change my name to Denky. It places us in all kinds of naughty but nice close encounters of a sensuous nature. Great, except that they fade rather quickly as we approach countdown. Thus, it deals with complications rather neatly but plays havoc with my testosterone production. Just as well Lester wasn't privy to what went on inside my head. I wasn't sure about Pet though: I'm keeping my options open for her...
I heard about the accident as I ate the warmed up remains of the bachelor meal I'd cooked for myself the day before. Poor sod, that Lester. How old was he? Early 40s? Too young anyway. Then the news of what caused the accident came out: maybe he'd still have been alive if I'd stopped to help earlier? You know, I really was miserable for the next few days. Felt as guilty as hell, but Lester was the kind of guy who knew everything and was obnoxious with it. Consequently, any attempt to explain anything to him was brushed aside, off-handedly, and was the main reason we didn't get on. A pity, as I could have told him that wheel nuts needed a double-check to ensure they were really tight. A four-wheeled car is most unsafe on three.
Still, it was nice that the sun was shining for his funeral. He'd have liked that. Petrina - Pet - handled it very well I thought. No worries about costs. Apparently he'd been well-insured, and things returned to normal after a few weeks. On the outside, that is. With Lester out of the way, Pet had taken up residency in my thoughts on a more permanent basis. Yes. Nice, and getting nicer.
Things are a bit hazy about how the imagined became the real. The thing was, though my job as a postman kept me reasonably fit, and Pet was keen on swimming. So we arranged to go together once a week to the local tepid pool. I did the crawl but she liked the breast-stroke. It was also a nice way to see more of each other. A few weeks later she asked if I'd help take some things round to her house, and while I was helping her unpack, I broke a porcelain jug. One of those old English ones in the form of a court jester. Instead of being angry or upset, she fell into peals of laughter. Brought out a bottle of the doings and two glasses, then explained how and why she'd bought the jug.
"Not many people knew that Lester and I didn't altogether get on. Nothing major, you know. Just silly little things he'd do that annoyed me. To cope, I bought that jug at a fair. Whenever I felt ready to burst, I'd pretend the jug was Lester the jester and give it what-ho! I told it all the things I wanted to tell Lester! I expect that was the gypsy in me. It did get things off my chest, and we managed well enough afterwards."
She paused while she refilled our glasses.
"Now Denky," she said, her dark eyes all glistening and suggestive as she placed her hand affectionately on my knee. "How about you and me...?"
By that time, nature was on the loose. One thing led to another and we were married six months' later.
Now, two things will insist on popping into my mind that concern me a little. Well, a lot really. How did Pet come to know that my secret bedroom name was Denky? And what is the significance of the new piece of porcelain on the sideboard? I mean, is it quite by accident that it's in the form of Postman Pat?
Dennis Crompton © 1998
