Don't Go Breaking My Heart

DON’T GO BREAKING MY HEART

By

Ron Shillingford

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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Don’t go breaking my heart

Copyright © 2011 by Ron Shillingford

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Dennis signed off the accounts, kissed the
document, jumped up from his desk and did his characteristic
celebration jig around the office.

Another completed audit and edging closer to
his personal savings reaching that magic million mark. He did a
sort of limbo dance, almost over balancing in the process. A woman
walking past his open office door laughed at Dennis Illingworth’s
antics, someone not known for spontaneous displays of joy.

Since childhood he dreamed of a bulging bank
account of a million pounds and after years of toil in his
accountancy business that dream would be realised within a year.
With the interest it was accruing, Dennis knew the seven-figure
mark in his HSBC savings account would soon be his anyway, but
earning it was more appealing than just waiting for it to creep
there.

Already more than comfortable from
investments in stocks and shares, gold, property and antique
watches, the million pounds in the bank would be the ultimate
benchmark of his success. Motivated to prove doubters from school
wrong, one teacher in particular stood out in his memory, Rick
Lane, the chemistry teacher, who repeatedly told Dennis he would
never amount to anything, mainly because science was not an
interest of his. Maths and economics were though.

Lane’s taunts played on his mind almost
daily.
Wish Rick had taught us how to make incendiary devices,
then I could have put one under the seat of his scooter.

Still a bachelor at 43, Dennis’s devotion to
his elderly parents Bob and Lucy, and building up the accountancy
business meant that marriage had been on the back burner for a
while. Twice engaged in his thirties, the domineering Lucy had seen
his fiancées off as “airhead gold diggers looking for a pampered
life off the sweat from your back, son”.

Lucy was a typical Yorkshire matriarch with
connections all over the county.

Political correctness was not a big issue for
her generation, where “you call a spade a spade” she always said
despite the racist connotations. Her era of Yorkshire folk insisted
that all non-white people in Britain were foreigners, irrespective
of where they were born and raised. As parts of Yorkshire have huge
swathes of immigrants and their successive generations, she could
never reconcile herself to calling them fellow Tykes.

Her heart was in the right place in
protecting Dennis, but he allowed her to intrude in his private
life too much. Bob tolerated Lucy’s behaviour simply for a
stress-free existence. For someone barely five feet tall, Lucy
really punched above her weight.

“Mum, let me get on with my own love life.
Please. I’m not 16 anymore.”

“No, but you act like it sometimes. Some of
those floosies were just after your money; it was as obvious as a
darkie’s lips and nose. You couldn’t see it but we could. There was
that Natasha What’s-her-name. What a tart! She just couldn’t wait
to get hitched fast enough. Even tried to organise it behind your
back so that we couldn’t intervene. In a registry office too!
Absolutely no class.

“Then there was the one who claimed she was a
personal trainer who saw clients only at night. Turned out she was
a stripper in Manchester.”

“Okay, they were unsuitable, but there have
been nice ones too. What was wrong with Beverly Carter?”

“Beverly Farter, more like. That girl smelt
something rotten.”

“You made her so nervous mum that she started
sweating buckets, that was all. There was no personal hygiene
problem.”

“Doesn’t matter Dennis. Anyway, she came from
Chapeltown and you know what they’re like down there, don’t
you?”

“It may be a working class area but good
people come from there too. For Christ sakes, she is a
botanist.”

“Maybe that’s why she smelt like a compost
heap. You can take the girl out of the ghetto but you can’t take
the ghetto out of the girl, dear.”

“She was one of the most polite and
well-mannered girls I’ve ever met.”

“Airs and graces, more like. Proper Lady
Muck. Acted like her poo didn’t smell. We saved you from her
clutches. Trust me, I only want the best for you.”

Weary of their interference, Dennis changed
tactics. What Bob and Lucy didn’t know was that for months he had
secretly been seeing a Yorkshire lass of his own choosing. They met
in his office in Leeds when she presented her father’s business
accounts at Illingworth Group UK. Maida’s father, who ran a busy
truck hauling business, lived in Shadwell, one of the most affluent
suburbs of Leeds.

Maida worked as a human resource manager in a
computer firm. At 34 and with a masters degree in psychology she
was already well ahead of her peers career-wise. Super smart, no
kids, great prospects and affluent family, Maida was perfect
marrying material. But Dennis knew his parents well enough though
not to tempt fate.

Maida, after all, was a Muslim.

Irrespective of coming from top Moroccan
stock, as far as Lucy was concerned “they’re all scrounging Pakis”
no matter what part of the globe a brown-skinned person came from.
“We don’t want no suicide bombers in this family,” Lucy would say.
“If she comes round bacon sandwiches for dinner with pork
scratchings as dessert!”

There was a gentleness coupled with a great
sense of humour, which attracted Dennis to Maida, whose name in
Islam meant ‘beautiful’. She certainly was that too, a head turner
everywhere she went. Tall, petite, with jet-black hair cascading
down her back, Maida’s mix of cultures blended well. She prayed
five times a day, observed Ramadan, did not drink or smoke, yet
wore Western clothes and enjoyed karaoke nights out, X Factor and
cups of tea with digestive biscuits.

Dennis lived in fine style by himself in
Headingley, a few minutes drive from the terraced house in Hyde
Park he grew up in; where his parents resolutely stayed, despite
Dennis offering to buy them a new one. Old fashioned to their
roots, Bob and Lucy thought and behaved like a couple from a bygone
era.

When Dennis was invited round for what Lucy
called “tea and chat” he knew what to expect. He would turn up
early evening and soon after a single, young woman would arrive “by
coincidence” for tea and chat too. Lucy trawled the shopping malls
around Yorkshire for a suitable wife for Dennis, carrying photos of
him to show prospective partners. The fact that she made a point of
mentioning he was a successful chartered accountant always got a
positive response. Single daughters and even granddaughters of
their friends were vetted for suitability too.

His parents knew that he was saving up to
reach a million pounds and very proud of that fact, but they never
let anyone know.

Bob was a steeplejack throughout his working
life. All three Illingworth children had done well; Sonia was a
store manager and Brian a joiner. Both happily married with kids.
Bob was thankful that his work ethic passed on to his kids. Lucy
wanted Dennis to settle down “to a nice Yorkshire lass who’ll give
you clever, beautiful children”.

Too timid to object to his mum’s clumsy
attempts at matchmaking, Dennis, the youngest sibling, just went
along with the occasional tea and chat sessions to appease Lucy.
Bob did not have a say in these matters. He was content to read the
Yorkshire Post and watch TV. Bob’s favourite viewing were travel
programmes to exotic, tropical places. Fed up of Yorkshire’s cold
and rain he craved at least two weeks a year somewhere hot and
sunny.

Their only trip abroad was to Spain, and a
disaster as Lucy found fault at every opportunity. Paranoid of
eating “that oily Spanish muck”, she lost so much weight in the six
days she managed to stay before catching an early flight home that
the family dubbed it the ‘Lucy Diet’ – go to Malaga to lose 10
pounds rapidly.

Foreign holidays, like German cars, Japanese
TVs and Australian beer, were banned in their household. As far as
she was concerned Yorkshire was the centre of the universe, and
some parts of England - like London, for instance - were only
acceptable for short visits. But only occasionally. The rest of the
earth’s surface was akin to the place opposite to heaven.

“There’s nowt wrong with Scarborough for a
good break, love,” she insisted. “You won’t get any of that spicy
dog meat that they serve in Spain.”

Dennis continued to see Maida, learning about
her Muslim culture with genuine interest.

“I’m glad you don’t see us all as potential
terrorists, Dennis. We abhor terrorism by our own people just as
much as Westerners, possibly more so, because it gives us such a
bad image.”

“Yep, I agree, but just trying tell that to
me mam. She’s old school in every sense. Calls sikhs wrap
heads.”

“It’s a pity she’s so prejudiced because I
would really like to take our relationship further, even though it
would also be hard for my family to accept me dating a Christian
with a view to marrying him.”

Dennis loved the relationship he had with
Maida, but because of the cultural differences he was torn. For
appearance sakes he was also seeing Patsy Clayton, a family friend
who he had always been attracted to but circumstances worked
against them. Neither girlfriend knew of the other’s existence.

Patsy lived with her nine-year-old daughter
in Castleford in an extended bungalow left by her first husband.
Her life had a tragic edge having been twice widowed. Her first
husband, who was much older, died of a heart attack. The second was
murdered by a knifeman in an attempted robbery in Naples, witnesses
said. He was never caught. Patsy was sleeping in her hotel room at
the time and was so distraught she attempted suicide soon after by
overdosing on dozens of prescribed pills washed down with gin.
Thankfully, her sister, who had a key to the house, popped round
just in time to raise the alarm.

The local community really supported Patsy
during her bereavement and they rallied round again after the
suicide attempt. She became a local celebrity after all that
trauma.

Linking up with Dennis helped her cope with
the depression. He visited her in hospital. She soon bounced back.
Vivacious and fun, Dennis enjoyed Patsy’s company immensely in a
different way to the dynamics he had with Maida. A financial
adviser, Patsy liked to get away from being a hard working mum
through salsa dancing and horse riding on the Yorkshire Moors. A
fluent Spanish speaker, she had travelled around Central and South
America extensively.

Lucy took to Patsy from the off, and the fact
that she was a young widowed mother trying to get over two
tragedies and a suicide attempt made her more acceptable.

“Patsy will never break your heart, Dennis,
she knows what the pain of losing a partner feels like.”

“I like her but she’s not really my type,
mam. She’s great to be with but she tries too hard. There’s an
insecurity about her that puts me off. It’s not money she’s after,
just affection and a sense of self-worth.”

“Well, she’s certainly not after your money,
dear. Both her husbands left plenty of that for her and that lovely
little girl, plus she makes a great living in the financial
world.”

Patsy met Lucy’s exacting standards, but
Dennis’s heart was really with Maida. However she still had to be
kept on the down low for the time being. Maida couldn’t be open
either. All the secrecy was excruciating for both.

As time went on, Dennis warmed more to Patsy
who proved to be a devoted girlfriend and caring mother to her
daughter Tina.

Dennis gradually got into salsa dancing with
Patsy. They even managed to win a novices competition. Horse riding
was of no interest but at least he made the time to attend
equestrian events with Patsy and Tina.

Things were going so well as he juggled the
two relationships. Dennis became really adept at hiding each woman
from the other. Or so he thought.

“Dennis, it’s all over,” sobbed Maida. “You
thought I didn’t know but I’ve been aware of Patsy almost since
you’ve been seeing her. Leeds may be a city but it’s a relatively
small place to hide good gossip. You’re a very, very eligible
bachelor and she’s a glamorous young widow, so news about you two
was bound to get out. People have remarked on what a lovely couple
you make even without knowing we were an item. Our cultural
differences mean it would probably not work anyway.”