Dear Aunt Marcia by Annie Harris
A letter to the newspaper’s agony aunt had surprising results . . .
GARY’S fingers flew across his keyboard. In front of a record-breaking crowd of 250, Flexton Town reached the final of the 1971 Longborough and District Cup for the first time in their history.
Hero of the hour was veteran custodian Dick Preston, who saved a penalty in the 89th minute. He was carried shoulderhigh from the ground and –
Gary sighed, straightened his back, stiff from too long spent crouching over the ancient Olivetti typewriter, and went off into his favourite daydream . . .
All those black and white Hollywood movies: the hustle, frantic bustle, worldweary reporters with green shades over their eyes, cigarettes drooping from the corners of their mouths, then a young rookie news hound by name of Gary Brown, in trilby and raincoat, dashing in.
“Hold the front page, guys! I’ve got the New York scoop of the century!”
“What’s all this, then?” A stubby finger jabbed at the open notebook by Gary’s side, bringing him back to the present. “All this stuff here about Flex’s outside right waltzing round the defence like a pirouetting ballet dancer. Too flowery, lad.”
“Yes, Uncle Bob,” Gary said dolefully.
“I’ve told you before – you’re not Barbara Cartland. It’s a football match, so cut out all that stuff. Just give them the basics.” Robert Brown, proprietor and Editor-in- chief of the “Flexton Gazette”, looked down at his nephew. “Is that clear?” “Yes, Uncle Bob.” “Cheer up, lad.” He slapped Gary’s shoulder with a beefy hand. “We’ll make a reporter of you yet. When you’ve rewritten this piece, bring it through to Cyril to set up, then I’ve got another job for you.
“Marcia’s husband’s just rung in. She’s been rushed to hospital with acute appendicitis, so she can’t do her Agony Aunt column this week.”
Gary knew what was coming.
“I can’t do that.” “You can.”
“What about Tina?” Gary heard himself whine. “She’d be good at it.”
“She’s doing What Your Stars Foretell, then she’s off down the livestock market to cover the fat lamb sales this morning.
“We’ve got to make room for all the exam results – they boost circulation no end. So we can only fit in two problems for Marcia.”
“That’s a relief,” Gary muttered, but his uncle seemed oblivious to the sarcastic tone.
“I’ve picked two easy ones for you. The first’s from a lady whose old cat has died. She’s very upset and people are telling her to get another one, but she feels that would be disloyal to – er, Olivia. Funny name for a cat in my opinion. Anyway, what does Aunt Marcia advise?” “Well, I’m not –” “Simple, ”his uncle interrupted. “Just write a kind reply, saying that Olivia will always hold a special place in her heart, but a new cat will bring its own love.
“Oh, and you can put in a plug for that new cats’ home your aunt Jean helps at. They’d be delighted to give her one of their sad little strays, I’m sure.
“Come to think of it, you can go out there next week to write a little piece on them,” he continued. “Our readers love those human interest stories.”
“Or even cat interest ones.” As always, Gary’s attempt at humour was wasted as his uncle swept on.
“Now, there’s this one from a young lady.” He dropped the sheet of pink paper on the desk and looked at his watch. “Seems a nice girl. See what you can do for her.”
Gary went through his football report, cutting out all the best bits. He was particularly sad about losing that line about Flex’s star centre-forward slicing through the opposition like a hot knife through butter, but he knew it would never see the light of day.
He took it through to the typesetter then picked up the pink note paper. Dear Aunt Marcia, it
began. For years I had a crush on a boy in my year at the high school but he never noticed me. He’s really good-looking and was always surrounded by girls who were much prettier than me.
When we left school I thought I’d get over it, but if we’re both in the pub or that new coffee bar he never notices me, and I haven’t got over my feelings.
I know you’ll tell me there are plenty more fish in the sea, and somewhere there’s my Mr Right, but I know already I’ve found him. What shall I do?
A.J.
Gary laid down the paper. Poor girl. He knew how it could be. He’d been captain of the school’s soccer team and had had quite a following among the fifth and sixth form girls.
He ran through a quick list: Jessica, Liz, Sharon. Alison – A? No, her surname was Nicholls.
He couldn’t remember an A.J. at all. Really good-looking? Well, that cut him out, for starters. Maybe she meant Luke Adamson. He’d been a right one for the girls.
Marcia would be better handling this one – woman to woman Should he come clean and admit who he was?
If it was Luke she’d need all the help he could give her.
He scrolled a fresh sheet of paper into the Olivetti, then paused.
Marcia would be better handling this one – woman to woman. After all, having your appendix out didn’t
mean you couldn’t hold a pen.
Dear A.J., he typed. I was sorry to hear of your heartache, but do not despair. You know the saying, “Faint heart never won fair lady”? Well, it also never won a young man’s heart, however good-looking he might be.
You say you aren’t pretty. Well, who thinks so? Anyone else but you? You definitely aren’t the best judge . . .
Gary frowned into space. What did his sister Fiona do when that slimy rat Trevor dumped her?
. . . but to give you confidence, get a new hairstyle and a nice new outfit, then grab the bull by the horns and ask him out. Good luck, my dear.
Aunt Marcia.
Gary carefully steered his elderly Ford Anglia along the rutted farm track, then pulled up by the gate leading to the farmyard. He tucked his notepad and pen into his pocket and got out.
After the night’s heavy rain the yard was deep in mud and he groaned inwardly, looking down at his brand-new jeans from Flexton Market. They were a bit tight. Mum told him he’d sat in the bath in them for far too long.
It seemed a ridiculous idea, doing a piece on this new cats’ home. You did have to hand it to Uncle Bob, though. He certainly knew what the readers wanted, and while many small local papers were going under, the “Gazette” sales were very healthy.
He picked his way through the mud to the farmhouse door. “Hello. Anyone home?” There was no reply but he could hear faint sounds coming from a ramshackle barn, so he squelched across then halted in the doorway.
There were half a dozen large cages lining one wall, and in front of one at the far end he could make out a kneeling figure in the gloom.
He cleared his throat loudly and the figure looked round then carefully got to its feet. He saw that it was a slender young woman.
As she came towards him he saw that she was holding a tabby cat.
“Can I help you?” She had a pleasant voice, but in the dark her face was barely visible.
“Gary Brown, from the ‘Gazette’. Miss Jameson?”
She took a step back, clutching the tabby to her.
“No, I’m just a volunteer. Ianthe’s had to go into town for some medicine for one of our cats. I think she was expecting Mr Brown later.”
“Uncle Bob? He’s at an enquiry for that new pig unit over at Nether Flexton, so he’s sent me.
“I’m the ‘Gazette’ dog’s-body,” he added bitterly, then saw her smile, and the most enchanting dimple popped out.
“What’s the joke?” “Oh, I was just thinking, Dog’s-body visits cats’ home.”
“Ah, I see what you mean.”
He laughed then peered down at her.
“Don’t I know you?” “Well, perhaps,” she said, then went on hesitantly. “We were at school together.”
“Don’t tell me . . . Sandra Jenkins.”
She nodded. “That’s it.”
He was frowning in puzzlement.
“Your hair. You had a pony tail, I think – not this shaggy sort of style that was on our fashion page last week.”
“I just thought I’d have a change.”
“Yes, well, I think it looks great and really suits you.”
“Thank you.” She drew a deep breath, not quite looking at him. “Have you seen the ads for that new disco? Celebs, it’s called. It’s opening on Friday, and –”
She broke off as a mud-encrusted Land-rover roared into the yard, back-firing and belching smoke from the exhaust.
As they stood watching, a stout, elderly woman in an ancient wax jacket and jodhpurs climbed out and came across to them.
“Hello, young man. Where did you spring from? Need a cat?”
“Er – no, thank you. I’m Gary Brown, reporter – er, chief news reporter from the ‘Gazette’.” He caught Sandra’s barely suppressed giggle.
“Excellent.” She slapped him on the back so that he stumbled back, almost colliding with the younger woman. “I’ve got the stuff from the vet, and a load of cat food in the back. Have you shown our young reporter around the place, Alexandra?”
“Not yet. I was about to when –”
“Well, you can make a start while I unpack and make a pot of tea. You drink tea, Gary Brown?”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” But all the while, his mind was racing.
Alexandra. Sandra. Could it be A.J.?
It was coming back to him now. Sandra Jenkins. She’d been a quiet, almost mouse-like girl. A bit plump, spectacles, teeth brace – the sort that a sixteen-year-old just didn’t notice.
“If you’d like to come round the cages with me.” She was speaking, and he pulled himself together.
“What happened to your specs, Sandra?” he demanded, almost accusingly.
She smiled faintly, a pair of beautiful blue eyes crinkling with amusement, and showing that dimple again. Why had he never noticed that dimple? “Contact lenses, Gary.” “Ah.” He thought of something else and asked tentatively, “And your hair?”
“Oh, I did that a couple of days ago.”
She ducked her head, but he was almost positive a rosy-pink blush was colouring her smooth cheeks. She turned away and pointed to the first cage.
“This is Bella. She was found in a ditch – road accident, we think, poor lamb.” She opened the door and gently stroked the cat, cooing at her. “She’s quite old, but we think we’ve got a lady to take her.”
Gary fished out his notepad, but all the time his mind was racing. It was her, no question. A.J.
Should he come clean and admit who he was?
Of course, he might be wrong. It still could be that predatory Luke Adamson.
There was only one way to find out.
“Er, Sandra.”
“Yes, Gary?” “About that disco on Friday night . . .”
And it was only at their silver wedding party, on the eve of his departure for France to cover the 1998 World Cup in his role of Chief Football Correspondent for his London daily, that Gary finally confessed that, on one particular week in 1971, Aunt Marcia had been otherwise engaged. n