Play Nancy Spain

By Tony Cassidy

It is 1980 and Tom’s marriage and his job as an assistant forester have unfortunately come to an end. After the lure of education prompts him to enroll at Ulster University as a mature student, he begins rebuilding his life. Although Tom knows new beginnings can be scary, he immediately feels at home at Ulster.

While balancing his duties as a single father with his academic obligations as a psychology student, Tom focuses on healing his heart and finding a way to move forward. Because the pain of his divorce continues to haunt him he pledges to think hard before falling in love again. In the meantime, Tom makes friends, goes on daily runs, and spends his evenings at local pubs. When he senses an undeniable connection with another student, he respectfully keeps his distance since she is already taken. But when he is unable to ignore his gut feeling that they are a perfect match, only time will tell if Tom can find a way to be with her, despite the obstacles.

Play Nancy Spain is the tale of a newly-divorced single father as he enrolls in university, builds friendships and trust, and struggles to heal his heart and find new love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665599221

Book preview

1

W alking through the longest bus shelter in the world to my Psychology 102 laboratory class with a cluster of other students, I felt an exhilarating sense of belonging—though these people around me were strangers. The athletic, clean-cut young man beside me introduced himself as Jason, and his companion introduced herself as Kelly. They were both excited and seemed to accept me without question, though I was almost ten years their elder. The longest bus shelter was in fact a covered metal walkway, glazed on one side and open to the elements on the other. The walkway connected the two main university teaching blocks and must have been all of a hundred yards long. It was a balmy September day, and the slight breeze was refreshing. We all came to a halt as the group narrowed to file through the entrance door and then spread out again in the roomy corridor as we headed towards the teaching room. A tall, bearded man of about my own age pushed through the crowd to open the laboratory door, and I bent to lift the pages that fell from the folder under his arm.

Thanks, he muttered, a little out of breath from rushing, and he pushed open the door for us to follow. The room was furnished with laboratory benches and around eight high stools per bench. It was like our science laboratory at school and brought back memories of a mad chemistry teacher who used the leg of a retort stand as an instrument of punishment. I followed Jason and Kelly, and we climbed onto the high stools, placing our folders on the bench. Jason and Kelly were both from Derry and knew each other from school. Two other young men and two young women grabbed the remaining seats, and our bench was fully occupied. The young man next to me leant over to introduce himself but was interrupted by the voice of the lecturer—who, it turned out, was the tall, bearded man. He introduced himself as Gary Jackson and proceeded to outline the module which was Basic Statistics. There was an audible sigh; I guess the prospect of statistics at half past nine on a Friday morning did not appeal to most. Gary’s down-to-earth attitude, enthusiasm, and often innocent jokes made the class bearable, and he was a brilliant teacher. Gary was a social animal, and his classes turned into social events.

It was my first week at Ulster University, having gained entry as a mature student after being separated from my wife and made redundant. The year was 1980. Thanks to Margaret Thatcher, my seven years as an assistant forester had come to an end and—though I cannot really blame Maggie for it—so had my seven years of marriage. The lure of education had been dragging me back for the past few years through Open University courses and through accidental encounters with old school friends. I had dropped out of college and gone to London to join the hippy movement at the end of the sixties. Meeting one old school friend made me aware of the possibility of going to university as a mature student. I was the first in my family, and I guess I had no real idea what to expect. All I knew was when I turned up for enrolment on that first day, I experienced a sense of homecoming, of having found my place.

I still found it hard to believe that the woman I had fallen in love with ten years ago and had ultimately married was now so distant. We had grown so far apart, and our last year together had been painful—constantly arguing and sleeping apart as the ice set in until there was nothing left except the love that we both shared for our daughter. She was six years old, and it broke my heart when I thought about her.

I agonised about breaking up, but I had convinced myself it was best for everyone, and we had agreed that little Kirsty came first. I visited her on Wednesdays and looked after her in her own home while her mother went out with friends; she came to me on Saturday and Sunday, staying overnight in my little flat. I took her swimming on Saturdays and tried to occupy her as well as I could on Sundays. Taking her back on Sunday evenings was gut-wrenching, and Sunday nights were often the most miserable times of my life, as I sat between two worlds—the world of a father and the world of a student. The terrible sadness and guilt on one side and the excitement and joy of freedom on the other.

Gary’s class ended, and Jason suggested we go for a coffee. Kelly tagged along, and we met several other members of our class in the refectory. There were thirty-one students in our year on our psychology degree, and it soon felt like a community. Most seemed to gravitate to the refectory after class, and I soon got to know them. We were joined at our table by Tracey and her friend Paul. Tracey was a very athletic young woman with an exuberant personality. She was from Belfast, a big fan of Phil Collins and Elton John, and had decided it was her mission to educate me about both. Although sometimes a bit overpowering, she was good company and could always be relied upon to join a social event.

Paul was a relatively quiet and serious young man who seemed to know Tracey from before university and was generally to be found somewhere in her vicinity. The other person joining us that first day for coffee was Sukhvinder, a second-generation Indian lady from London. She introduced herself as Suki, and I discovered she was also a mature student, at the age of twenty-six, and had worked as a personal assistant to a financier in London. I had worked for a short period in the late 1960s as a messenger boy for a stockbroker in the city, and we had a good old reminisce about various streets we had both trod.

Jason and Kelly were staying up for the weekend, and as they also lived in Portstewart, we arranged to meet in the Anchor Bar that evening. The place was buzzing when I arrived at half past seven, and as I made my way through the smoky haze to the bar, I saw lots of familiar faces from enrolment day. As I waited to be served, my elbow was squeezed. I turned to see the smiling face of Ashley from Southsea, who I had spent a lot of time with in the queues for enrolment on my first day.

Hi, Tommy, she greeted, different sort of queue today.

Much prefer this one, Ashley. I grinned. Can I get you a drink?

OK, a Guinness and blackcurrant.

Is that a drink? I had never heard of it.

Yeah, it’s Guinness with a blackcurrant top.

A new one on me. I’ve heard of Black Velvet.

What’s that? asked Ashley.

It’s Guinness and champagne.

OK, I’ll have that. She said. Then, in response to my slightly shocked expression, quickly added, Only joking. She nudged me with her shoulder.

We took our drinks and wandered over to a couple of people Ashley knew. She introduced me to Laura, who was doing environmental science, and Brian, a chemistry PhD, who was Laura’s boyfriend. Just then, Jason and Kelly arrived. Jason signed across the crowd to ask if I wanted a drink, and I responded with my pint held high.

After a few moments, they joined us, and after some introductions, Jason, who seemed to know the place, suggested we find a snug with some seats. On the way, we picked up a guy called Clayton, who Jason knew. It turned out that Clayton was a guitar player and a member of a band in Coalisland. He was a regular and had an old guitar stored behind the bar, which was duly produced, and a session ensued in the snug.

I had been in a pub band myself, and although my guitar playing fell a lot short of Clay’s, as his friends called him, I knew a lot of songs and was able to engage with gusto in the general enjoyment. It brought back memories of a night in London when I was seventeen, where a Yorkshire friend of the time and I entertained the Small Faces and their friends in St John’s Wood. We had gate crashed the party. In our hippy gear, with long hair and bare feet, we were a novelty at the suited and formal-dress party. I ended the night singing Norwegian Wood with a girl called Brit—a girl who taught me how to kiss.

We parted in the early hours, and I staggered home to my lonely flat where I discovered I had one egg and two slices of bread, which I combined to make a glorious midnight feast.

The next morning I was awake at six, and due to the several pints of water I had consumed, I felt much better than I should have after consuming so much Guinness and the few Jameson whiskeys I had added when my Guinness consumption was exhausted. I got up and, after another glass of water, set out for a morning run. I had taken up running over the summer before starting university, as I had been putting on weight over several years. I found running also helped me cope with the decisions I had to make. It helped build my confidence and helped me think clearly.

Running along the road from Portstewart to Portrush, I wondered if it was possible to run along the beach. On one side, the area was populated by caravan parks and, on the other, the wide Atlantic. At one point, there was an inlet where, legend had it, a hermit lived in a little house and only appeared once a year to visit a lonely grave where his lover was buried. The romance of it struck me as I ran along, and it brought little tremors of regret for the lost loves in my life. My first love, Celia, in London all those years away and poor Diana, who could never really replace her.

2

W hen my wife and I separated, I left everything—my car, our home, and my daughter. I only missed my daughter. I had a quick shower and bowl of porridge before setting out to pick up Kirsty in the old VW Golf I had bought for four hundred and fifty pounds, which was my current mode of transport. It always felt uncomfortable going in to wait for Kirsty. In some ways I felt I was invading my ex-wife’s space, as it was no longer shared with me, and even more so because she blamed education for our break-up.

Perhaps she was right, as the deterioration in our relationship was concurrent to my gradual return to education. I did my best to encourage Diana to take up a course of study, but she was determined that she could never change, and one of her so-called friends kept poisoning her against such a venture. This woman seemed to blame all the ills of the world on education, though I was gradually realising her not- -so-hidden agenda was that she could not bear to see Diana doing better than she had done.

Inevitably when I called for Kirsty, I had to endure the barbed comments from Diana, and if her friend happened to be there, the comments were even less subtle. This was one such morning, and I was glad to escape. We had a lovely morning at the pool, and we went to the Leisure Centre café for lunch. After lunch we went to a local paper shop, where I had pre-ordered a weekly copy of Story Tellers. It was a weekly magazine which came with a cassette on which some celebrity or other read stories from Hans Andersen or Grimms’ fairy tales. Kirsty loved it, and at bedtime she would get me to read the story to her and then would listen to it again on the cassette player.

We went to a local café for afternoon coffee and cake, and I was pleasantly surprised to be served by Laura, who I had met the previous evening. She was working in the café at weekends, and she and Kirsty hit it off immediately. Laura had a way with children, and it transpired that she had two younger sisters, one about Kirsty’s age, and she missed them very much. She came from Manchester, which meant she only went home between terms. I had promised to take Kirsty to Barry’s Amusements in Portrush the next day, Sunday, and Laura asked if she could come. I do not think she meant it seriously initially, but when Kirsty said yes, I said why not.

Next day was bright and sunny, one of those late September days that bring memories of summer before the autumn sets in. Laura was waiting outside when we arrived, smiling and looking quite beautiful in the sunshine. She had short blonde hair and big brown eyes and the friendliest smile you could imagine.

It was the last Sunday of the summer season, and already some of the rides were being dismantled. Kirsty was too small to go on the roller coaster, so we made the best of the other rides; hobby horses, being her favourites, were most frequently assaulted. Laura and Kirsty chatted away; Laura had a way of being very attentive to her little companion. It filled my heart with joy to see Kirsty so happy, though the sadness of having to part with her again was also lurking.

Laura lived in Coleraine, so she was happy to come along with us when it was time for Kirsty to go. Diana’s friend was at the door when we arrived, and as I hugged Kirsty and promised to see her on Wednesday, I could hear the scathing remarks. They were meant for Diana but, Brenda being a loudmouth, probably most of the street heard.

It didn’t take him long. Useless bastard—riding some young student.

I just ignored her and got back in the car, making a mental note to say something to Diana next time I saw her about the language being used in front of a child.

Sorry about that, I said to Laura. She’s a friend of my ex—and I guess she hates me.

Seems like a nasty person, replied Laura. She’s got a foul mouth. Laura squeezed my arm.

Like Old Mother Hubbard’s, my cupboard at home was bare, and as it was teatime, I suggested going to a local café. Laura hesitated briefly and then shrugged. Why not.

She was so easy to talk to, and I just felt comfortable in her company, as if we had known each other forever. I had an old eight-track player in the car, and she chose Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska, saying, I just love this.

Me too, I said. It was my favourite at the time. We talked about music, and she nodded enthusiastically to everything I mentioned. I was pleasantly surprised because I had such a range of musical taste— eclectic people said when they were being kind; weird when they were being more honest.

The restaurant was called the Railway Halt, and part of its charm was an old railway carriage that had been fitted out with booths to be used as a dining area. The place was quiet, so we had no difficulty securing a table for two. Everything had happened so quickly, and the day had been so charming, that it was only when we had settled down, side by side, that the situation dawned on me. I was about to have dinner with a beautiful young woman who was someone else’s girlfriend. Somehow, it seemed the most natural thing in the world, and Laura’s easy conversation made it so very relaxed.

So, how come you and Diana split up? asked Laura. I guess I didn’t want Laura to think badly of me, so I felt compelled to tell her the whole story: how we had met when I was just seventeen. I had returned from London because my father had died and left my mother with eight children, the other seven all younger than me. I had left my first true love in London. I had intended to return and had dreams of going to San Francisco. I was faced with the care of my mother and my young siblings—who my father had made me promise to look after when he was gone—or with going back to London. I didn’t feel I had a choice, so I stayed to look after my family.

I met Diana, who was married but separated from her husband, and who had also returned from England. My love in London was ten years older than me—a beautiful, dark-haired woman—and here I met Diana, a beautiful, dark-haired woman also ten years older than me. (The similarity had only recently dawned on me.) When Diana pretty much seduced me, I was in a very despondent state. I did love Diana, though, and we battled against local prejudice to get her a divorce and eventually be allowed to marry.

It took seven years, and the seeds of difference had already begun to sprout by that stage. The first few years