Time Once More for Marilyn

It was the typical system of British industry at the time; know the right people and you got the top job. Whether you were competent was not a concern. Faced with incompetent bosses the unions found that they could take everyone for a ride, no wonder the UK industrial base collapsed. Of course the irony that I was there because someone pulled strings passed me by; anyway I was in no position to either create success or failure.

Dissatisfied, I looked around and eventually found the right slot for me. I went to work as a Sales Representative for one of the most famous of household textiles producers. My new company insisted that their representatives had a thorough knowledge of weaving and fabric printing technology; to that end they would send the new boy on a course of seeing all the work that went into making a yard of cloth. This induction lasted for six months, interspersed with training on the ground. I found these visits fascinating and learned a lot. My interest was such that I then, of my own volition, enrolled for a evening college course in weaving technology. I had found my niche in life. I was busy, working and attending the college, learning all the time. However I did find time to get married, although I had little choice in the matter. It was a shotgun marriage as the girl in question was pregnant at the time.

Jane, my wife was very attractive girl who at first demonstrated an active libido, hence the pregnancy. As we settled down to life as partners and parents her attitude changed and she came under the thumb of her mother. It didn't matter that I had a good job, that with hard work I would advance. It was never good enough for her, or should I say her mother. Life could be difficult enough without the dreaded mother in law. Our love life became spasmodic and when I was allowed physical pleasure it was of the religious variety only.

My Dad had an offer of a very prestigious job which would involve mum and him moving up North. I had mixed feelings about their going, but as dad said Lancashire was not too far away and they would be back often to see all their relatives. Jane, my daughter Sarah and I would visit from time to time, but there was no rapport between Jane and my parents, although they loved to see their granddaughter.

I worked hard for my employer for six years and having unsuccessfully applied for promotion I took stock and considered my future. Opportunities for advancement were few, and having failed once the likelihood of another chance was minimal. Luckily I was approached by a wholesaler in the same trade offering me a position so with a minimum of thought I transferred my allegiance. Funnily enough my new employer was prepared to pay more than I would have got had I been successful in the promotion! Life went on its usual bumpy way. My new job was going well and I was rewarded with more responsibility and an increase in salary. In my personal life things weren't so good. My wife and I were not getting along. We didn't talk to each other and our love life, to all intents and purposes was zero. The only serious talk we did have was to agree that our marriage was a mistake and we decided to split.

It should have been a simple matter but for some reason her mother wanted to make me the scapegoat, by trying to prove that I had been unfaithful. I found out that she had taken to phoning my customers asking if I had actually made the calls that my report sheet showed. My customer records and copy report sheets were filed at home so easily accessed; I had nothing to hide so did not secrete them away. It was my Sales Manager who brought this to my attention as he had had calls asking why this Mrs. Amerton was making these enquiries. My solicitor fired off a threatening letter to my wife's solicitor who promptly advised my mother in law to stop this harassment.

After that the divorce went through quickly. Jane's family were wealthy and the house was hers, so I had no spousal support to pay, just support for my daughter, Sarah. My mother in law, far from blackening my name had actually weakened their position. Although Sarah lived with her mother, my solicitor had fought long and hard to get me visiting rights. My mother in law was furious when he succeeded and I made certain that I used every visiting slot possible, probably more to upset the old witch than anything else. Her attitude had no effect as Sarah was always happy to see me, our relationship became stronger and in later years the Court changed the conditions so that Sarah could spend two weekends a month resident with me.

I found a good apartment to rent and became a single man again. Strangely I was not too embittered, my wife's attitude; by proxy of her mother's attitude over the years had warned me that this could happen, and forewarned was forearmed. I was free now to get on with my life although the circumstances of being freed were not ideal. As a single man I determined to find pleasure wherever I could. I did and there were quite a few young ladies who were happy to help in sipping sweetly of the pleasures of life. I would not describe myself as a player; my associations were usually quite long averaging four or five months. Of one thing I was certain. My paramours were welcome to stay for a night or a weekend, but the moment they started to use my wardrobe on a more than day to day basis, or their toothbrush took up a more or less permanent residence in my bathroom they were gone.

My world went on in this pleasant slightly irresponsible manner for three years. I worked hard and I took my pleasures as well, learning as I went. The lessons opened my eyes and in addition were very enjoyable as I learned how to please a woman. My adventure with Marilyn had not really taught me this valuable lesson and my wife once married would not consider doing anything that she decided her mother would deem immoral. So I had a diet of infrequent missionary sex with the lights out before it finished completely.

For a while, after my divorce I had a dalliance with an older lady, she was forty eight to my thirty two. To the world she was an elegant, refined lady, well spoken, well dressed and well mannered. However once she was naked and in bed she turned into an animal. She taught me much, usually in the coarsest language, telling me exactly what she wanted in her upper class tones. Her appetites transcended what most people would think normal. Some of her desires even shocked me at times; activities that most people would call disgusting. These delightful interludes with her was certainly interesting and informative. I would liked to have thought that I was the only one enjoying her charms but I suspected that I was not alone

The company I worked for appointed a chap called Gerry Porter as our new Managing Director about that time. Gerry was a breath of fresh air in an industry that was to a certain extent hidebound. He had a revolutionary idea that customers actually mattered. We sold our products mainly through High Street soft furnishers and interior decorators. When complaints arose about faulty fabric there was a game played with the soft furnisher placing the blame on us, whilst we placed the blame on the soft furnisher. The industry at large played this game with the idea that the customer would eventually get fed up and go away. My new M. D. wanted to change that This was when my initiative of attending those college classes paid off. He called me in to discuss his plans. When your boss, the big boss calls you in, your immediate thought is that you have done something wrong. I was no different. I started examining my work over the last few weeks. Was my call rate acceptable? Was my order rate good? Then my thoughts went over anything else that could lead to my being on the carpet.

I got a surprise. He wanted to make me our Technical Representative. It would be my job to examine every complaint factually and make suggestions as to how the complaint could be resolved should our fabric be found at fault. I would no longer have a sales territory. In addition he wanted me to visit all our suppliers and thoroughly assess their quality control methods. We bought fabrics from all over the world. We had suppliers in the States, South Africa, India, and Australia and of course most of the countries in Europe. He was giving me the opportunity to become a world traveller at the company's expense. "You Dal, have more technical knowledge than anyone else in this company. I am pleased that you don't have commercial skills as well, else you would probably be sitting in my chair."

I grinned at him. "I could learn them."

Gerry returned the grin. "I would sack you before you became that competent." He went on. "I want you to be completely honest with the customer. If it's a fault say so, and immediately put in place measures to correct the fault. If you say we have to replace the fabric and pay for re-making, then we will do so. If you say the complaint is spurious then we will write, enclosing a copy of your report. I believe that by handling things this way we will earn a lot of respect in the trade, and our high street customers will push our products, knowing that we will back them up."

He was right. As the news got around the trade our business share did increase as retailers were interested in doing business with a supplier who stood by their responsibilities. We didn't have that many complaints, but the few that were placed I investigated thoroughly. When the customer received a visit from a representative of the supplying company, armed with a camera, Thread Count Glass (a small optical instrument allowing you to examine and count threads in the weave) notebooks and tape measure, they were happy that someone was taking them seriously. Funnily this charade worked both ways as a rejection of the complaint was accepted more easily because it had been investigated thoroughly. I also become quite conversant with making up charges and was able to spot the retailer who tried slipping exorbitant charges past us in order to alleviate his factor of the costs.

As I would be office based now, I gave notice to my landlord and moved to be close to the Head Office which was on the South Coast. I was grateful for the increase in salary as renting in this location was much more expensive.

I had travelled quite a lot for three years in this new job, I was baked in the heat of Australia, India and South Africa, and found my way around Europe. My travels gave me the opportunity of seducing and being seduced by girls of different shades and traditions a sort of United Nations orgy and yes I did join one of those; in South Africa of all places. I also found that Chinese girls are not built differently; as some would have you believe, had quite healthy appetites and giggled a lot during the encounters.

It was amazing that two people who had little of each other's language could nonetheless indicate by gestures and actions the desire to go to bed together. The cries of orgasm sound the same whatever the language. I loved Australia and the States. Their cultures were such a shock after the United Kingdom. They were so open and happy. Then there were the girls, so gorgeous and as willing as I to indulge in bedroom games. I was enjoying my life, yet despite all this as the years went by, travelling and tasting the sweet flavours of the sensual life, I started to yearn for the one woman, that special woman with whom I could connect on all levels and walk with side by side for the rest of my life.

In all this time I made certain that I would be back in the UK in order to see my daughter on my weekends. It was a delight to see Sarah on this regular basis and watch her grow up. She had been five years old when her mother and I divorced, as she changed from a little girl to the cusp of her teen years she developed a character of her own, not just a reflection of her family. She was a younger version of her mother which was good as Jane was a lovely looking woman, however Sarah exhibited one trait that pleased me immensely; she didn't like her grandmother, calling her 'the old scroat'. She was always interested in my travels and listened spellbound as I told her of the places I had been, and hearing about the people I met. I obviously didn't mention the sexual liaisons I had, although she did ask occasionally some quite pointed questions. As if I was going to discuss my sex life with my eleven year old daughter? No, not at all.

The travelling stopped when the company took onto the Board a new Marketing Director, Martin Clarke. He decided that he would visit our suppliers ensuring that the quality of product we bought was up to scratch. I realised quite quickly that while he knew about marketing strategies he didn't understand the first thing about textile technology. That understanding came after a brief conversation with him when I mentioned the problem of tight selvedge's. He looked blank. Great, I thought, does he really know what to look for? It was obvious that he wished to enjoy the jollies of the travel, whether or not he was qualified to do so.

The M.D. was also dubious but had been overruled by the Board. Instead he told me in confidence that my position would undoubtedly become more important as our suppliers came to understand that they could get all sorts of rubbish past the Marketing Director. So he gave me carte blanche to examine any delivery of fabric from wherever and the right to reject any that I deemed not to standard. I now had my own department and a laboratory equipped to scientifically test the fabric weave, checking its tensile strength and the fastness of colour in the dyes. I envisaged battles royal with Clarke. I still went out to investigate complaints though.

It was one day in April that we received a complaint from a retailer in Torquay. I spoke to the Proprietor of the business, an Adrian Moore. He told me that the job was for a customer who had a large property and for whom he hoped to do a lot more work. This was a usual tactic to put pressure on me to accept the complaint. He was wasting his time as he should have known by now that we would be scrupulously honest in examining the problem. I got the customer's name, address and telephone number, promising to phone immediately. I did exactly that and arranged with the lady a time for the Tuesday the following week.

I travelled down on the Monday and stayed overnight at a Travel Inn. I had over the years collected a library of town and city street maps, but I didn't have one for Torquay, so first thing I went out to buy one. I discovered that the address was not actually in Torquay but well out of the town and appeared to be quite isolated, so I assumed that had to be a fairly upmarket property. The street map did not show the actual area, but combined with my normal road atlas I found the lane. A problem started to loom as I followed the lane winding around between high banks. There were not too many properties, but those that were there were isolated and all set well back from the lane. Apart from the entrance to a drive which vanished quite quickly between banks of foliage none could be seen from the road. The difficulty was that few had name boards.

It was getting close to my appointment time and I had a horror of arriving late, so I drove up to one of the properties to ask if they could direct me. The woman who answered the door appeared to be the cleaner, but as she was local she was able to direct me. I had asked for Hatcham's Glebe. She replied in a broad Devon accent. "Oh it's Missus Wilman you want. It's not far me luvver. Keep going up the lane and you'll find it. Look for the bent Oak; it be there to the right."

I thought the Bent Oak could be a pub, but when I got to the tree it was obvious. It was an oak, but bent over the lane almost forming a tunnel; I assumed it was like this because of the prevailing winds. I turned up the drive to the right which was about six hundred yards long and parked outside a most impressive cottage conversion, although the result could no longer be described as a cottage. I rang the doorbell. I waited some time and was just considering if I should ring again, when the door was opened by a woman. "Good Morning, I am..."

"Hello Dalzeil." The shock I felt showed on my face and the woman smiled. Then a distant memory of a girl with dirty blonde hair, just a little puppy fat and a rather nice smile washed like a breaking wave into my consciousness. I knew her!

"Good grief. Marilyn!"

CHAPTER THREE

Marilyn stood back to let me in. I walked a little like a zombie who had just been zapped by the alien's Death Ray. She giggled. "Well I have never had that reaction before. That's a first for me." The smile left her face to be replaced with a flinty expression. "Why didn't you write to me? I sent you letter after letter and you never bothered to reply after a while."

What could I say? We were young. Absence makes the heart grow fonder is the old saying, but when you are young out of sight, out of mind rules your emotion. It is interesting how these aphorisms contradict. I said the only thing I could. "I...I'm sorry."

"I should think so." Then her face softened and the smile returned. "It's nice to see you again, Dal." I was actually pleased to see her again. The puppy fat had long gone and the slim figure she presented now was very attractive. Her hair could no longer be called mousy it had become that expensive, lovely shade that they call honey blonde. The smile was still the same, and just as welcoming as before.

"Despite the shock, and now I have got over my mini heart-attack, it's good to see you again, Marilyn." Something puzzled me though. "Did you know it was me that was coming?"

She nodded. "Yes, well sort of. When you phoned you told me your name. Now there aren't too many men in this country called Dalzeil Gorton, so I half expected that it was you who would turn up. I was watching from upstairs, and when you got out of the car I was certain. I must say it gave me a funny feeling and butterflies in my stomach to see you after all these years."

"Not half as much as me when you said hello Dalzeil. You could have said something on the phone."

She grinned. "I wasn't sure at the time. Anyway you were so business-like and there was no way you would associate Mrs. Wilman with the Marilyn you knew all those years ago. Because I wasn't certain I said nothing rather than make a fool of myself." I nodded. It would have been a confused conversation over the phone. "Would you like a coffee?" She asked.

I certainly would. "Strong one please, Marilyn a little milk and one sugar. I need to get my heart beating again." I followed her through the lobby to a breakfast room that looked out over the fields towards Dartmoor.

"Grab a seat, the coffee's made, I'll bring it through." I took a seat on one side of the table. It looked as if it was hewn out of one huge log about five hundred years ago, and those years of polishing had given it a patina that could never be reproduced with modern methods. Marilyn came back with a cafetiere of freshly brewed coffee, cups, saucers, milk, sugar and a plate of shortbread biscuits. She poured the coffee and passed the cup over to me, then sat down on the side of the table adjacent to me. She raised her cup and looked at me over the rim. "I can't really believe that we have met again. How many years is it? It must be getting on for twenty."

"Nineteen." I answered. "It was nineteen fifty-seven."

"Fancy, you remembered that but you didn't remember to write to me. You broke my heart." She was smiling.

"I don't think so, you look too good to have a broken heart." I quipped and then changed the subject. "Does your dad still have the hotel?"

"Oh no. He sold it when he retired years ago. Got a good price for it too and he bought this place."