A Life More Ordinary

Slowly, I began to pull my life back together. Going back to work was tough and everyone was very supportive. Friends were sympathetic, as one might expect and I gradually began to adjust to a ‘new normal’.
 
The one bright spot on the horizon was an impending trip to Australia. When I had met Louise, she had already arranged a four and a half week stay with family in Sydney over Christmas and New Year. After recent events I was reluctant to be at home on my own for so long, so we decided that we could just about afford for me to go with her. The downside was that I had to fly on my own and I’d never flown before. In at the deep end once again. She flew out ahead of me and on December 18th, 1994 I boarded an aeroplane for the first time, full of trepidation and a typically morbid suspicion that the plane might crash. I’ve never really liked flying and I suspect that it’s linked to the trauma I suffered as a child. It’s that same situation of expecting the worst thing to happen.
 
Obviously, I survived the flight, reading James Herbert’s The Ghosts of Sleath in one sitting. When I touched down in Sydney, my relief was as palpable as the warm breeze that hit me as I left the plane. I was on the other side of the world and it felt a little surreal to have left a rainy Heathrow behind to step out into the sunshine. 
 
Louise met me at the airport and I’d never been so relieved to see anyone. We settled in quickly despite my all-too-apparent nerves and social awkwardness. I’ve always found meeting new people relatively daunting and this was no different, save for the fact that I was miles and miles away from familiarity and anything that might ground me. Once the jet lag wore off, we hit the ground running and began to explore our new environment.
 
We’d been in Sydney for a few days when Louise told me that she had something to tell me. Immediately, my defences kicked in and I prepared myself for bad news, my mind reeling at the numerous prospects tumbling through my brain, including the possibility of having to return home to England on my own and pack up my belongings. Those particular concerns were unfounded and seemed like small potatoes once I found out what she wanted to tell me.

She confessed to me that when she was a young gymnast she’d been sexually abused by her coach when they were away at a competition. As she told me the details of what had happened, years of pent-up frustration broke loose and she sobbed for what seemed like hours. I had no idea what to do, a survivor of abuse myself but a story that I hadn’t shared with her at this point (nor would I at any point in our relationship). My instinct was to hold her and listen to what she had to say for as long as it took, but I didn’t know how to touch her, how to hold her. Up until this moment, I think it’s fair to say that ours had been a very physical relationship, yet with this new revelation I realised that I had no idea what to do next. We were starting all over again and everything that had underpinned our relationship had dissipated in an instant. I was reeling and lost, my own feelings insignificant compared to hers, the urge to protect the person who I loved most in the world almost overwhelming. But I could do nothing. In the end, all I could do was wait. Wait until she felt able to talk and in some ways I was flattered that she’d been able to share what had happened with me. Nobody else knew, to the best of my knowledge and I was sworn to secrecy.

The remainder of the holiday was enjoyable. We enjoyed a couple of days at the Ashes Test (more to come on that), a couple of road trips, a trip to Taronga Zoo and a visit to the Sydney Opera House. However, we were both dealing with demons of our own. I was struggling with the loss of Carole, bottling up my emotions, which wasn’t the wisest of strategies and it all spilled over when we went to the cinema to see Forrest Gump. I also recognise, with the benefit of hindsight, that these emotions were also sat on all of the repressed memories and trauma of previous years. To say that I was an emotional wreck would be an understatement.

Physically, I began to hold back, concerned that any actions on my part might trigger memories of what Louise had been through and put her in mind of her coach, something that I knew I wouldn’t be able to cope with. It was ultimately the wrong response because it elevated her trauma to a new level and suddenly, everything was associated with the abuse she’d suffered, even the tenderness that we had previously shared because of my reticence in trying to be physical with her. Compared to the amount of information that is on hand these days, we were stumbling in the dark in learning how to deal with trauma.
 
Gradually, we moved forward again. We returned home and began to pick up the pieces of our lives once more. I left McDonalds (after a difference of opinion with the new franchise owner concerning the printing out and replacement of best before dates on certain food items) and took on the job of deputy manager of a convenience store in Horsham. It meant early starts and sometimes late nights, but the money was better and it was the fresh start that I needed. It took a little while to settle but the staff were good and mostly friendly and I enjoyed the work. In other news, Argyle continued to navigate their ‘annus horriblis’, which culminated in relegation to the fourth tier for the first time in their history as Peter Shilton’s financial issues became public knowledge and a club that had seemed destined for glory just a few months previously almost imploded on and off the pitch. I finally found my way back to cricket, joining Slinfold and playing a handful of games for their Second XI and Sunday teams. It was great to be back playing again, although I did little of note that would have caught the attention of the cricketing gods. A 17 over spell up the hill (which wasn’t really that much of a hill) on a scorching hot day at Pulbourough sticks in the memory, but I recall little else.
 
There was also the small matter of a wedding to plan, although I don’t know if the enormity of the step that we were taking ever really sank in for either of us. We were carried along on a wave of physical attraction at first that eventually peaked and crashed upon the shore and in the shallow waters of familiarity we found what we assumed to be support and understanding in the face of trauma, both past and recent. In some ways, I suspect that masked some of the other issues we were facing, such as the intrusive nature of Louise’s ex-boyfriend and my own insecurities and jealousy, which were to resurface just a matter of weeks before the wedding itself. There was also Louise’s inherently selfish nature which, unusually for me, I had yet to pick up on. It remains one of the few times that my instincts have failed me.
 
With the church and reception both booked, suits were hired and invitations sent, speeches were written and fussed over. Our attention turned to the obligatory stag and hen parties, neither of which filled me with much enthusiasm. I’ve always found parties of any sort challenging, too many people in one place make me feel uncomfortable and makes it difficult for me to get a read on situations. I certainly wasn’t a drinker by this point and I think my stag night was just a quiet night at home with a very small gathering of friends. Louise, from memory, had booked some sort of gathering at a spa and was very committed to going out in style. I was expecting trouble and maybe my own reservations enabled that trouble to manifest itself.
 
I’d describe Louise’s best friend, Bev, as marmite. I’m not sure that she ever particularly warmed to me, but we managed to get along when we had to. To be fair, I think that she probably saw my insecurities as a bigger issue than Louise did and perhaps that was insightful on her part. I have a vague memory that she was someone who had also been through numerous challenges in her life and perhaps there was an element of recognition there on both of our parts. Either way, it was…complicated.

The problems from the hen night arose when the photographs were doing the rounds and there were shots of a couple of guys in towels that gave one or two of us cause for concern – as did the lack of an explanation. Louise was reticent in providing any details and I had a nagging concern about the whole situation. While eventually we worked through the difficulties, I’m not convinced that my concerns ever really left me after that. Neither am I convinced that I ever knew the truth.
 
As we neared the ‘big day’ various members of my family travelled to stay with us. A couple of days away from the main event, in early August, Louise and I were waiting at Horsham train station for my sister, Rachael to arrive, when the announcement came that the train was delayed by about an hour. With little else to do but wait, we decided to take a walk around Horsham Park once the sun had set, but after about fifteen minutes of walking and canoodling, how can I put it…the urge took us, as it can when you’re young and in love, to quote the Flying Pickets song. Faced with limited options, we furtively ducked into the empty children’s play park, which back then was a huge area filled with swings, slides, roundabouts, climbing frames and slap bang in the middle of it, a few large, concrete tunnels that had been fixed to the ground for kids to crawl through, up and over. We picked one at random, that had been set at an angle of about 45 degrees and snuck inside. I’ll forego the details (let’s face it, there are some images that you don’t need me to paint) but my calves and hamstrings were feeling the aftereffects a good couple of days later. Fortunately, we remained undetected during our al fresco shenanigans and made it back to the station to pick Rachael up with a few minutes to spare.
 
So, the night before the wedding, we had a house full of family and friends. Louise went to stay with her parents and I woke early the following morning. We had an area at the front of our mobile home that I would regularly use for bowling practice (back when I was a fast bowler with a physique to match) and around 6 o’clock in the morning I was chucking down a few overs and sending stumps flying. Breakfast followed with the arrival of more guests and we eventually proceeded into Horsham, congregating at St Mary’s Church on the Causeway. It’s a beautiful church and as I stepped inside, dressed in my finery, the cool air in stark contrast to the sunshine outside, it finally sank in that I was about to get married. I suddenly had everything that I ever wanted. I had security and I was about to marry the woman who I loved and who I believed loved me. And despite, how things ended up, I think that she probably did in her own way, but that’s obviously another story and one I shall come to in time.
 
What I didn’t know and would only find out later, was that Louise’s ex-boyfriend had contacted her that morning and had asked her not to marry me and to go back to him. I often wondered how that conversation went and how close she came to not turning up on the day. It would have been totally befitting of my life up until that moment if I’d been left standing at the altar. However, whether for better or worse, she did turn up and we did indeed go through with the wedding. As we left the church, we were greeted by several of her gymnasts holding arches that we walked under and posed for the obligatory photographs before moving on to the church gardens for more pictures and congratulations. The sun was shining high in the sky and there was a feeling of genuine happiness to which I was unaccustomed. Everything seemed good with the world.

The reception was held at Cottesmore Golf Club and upon our arrival we formed the prearranged receiving line, an absolute nightmare for anyone with social anxiety. Greeting people should always be a very simple process to my mind, made more complex now by a variety of handshakes and trying to work out if people are one kiss on the cheek people or two kisses, one on each cheek. And how do we know who is the kisser and who is the kissee? Not to mention the absolute terror if both parties believe themselves to be the kisser and inadvertently go in at the same time and God forbid, kiss on the lips. These days, I’m happy with a hug but if there is any kissing expected I tend to go for a full-on, cheek first lunge to make sure I’m not the one doing the kissing, which obviously can result in essentially just rubbing cheeks with someone, but I’ll take that over the alternative, even if I do get the odd, strange look. I’d be much more comfortable with a hug or a handshake or perhaps we should encourage people to announce how they’d like to be greeted? I’m not going to lie, I find the whole process very confusing even though I consider myself to be quite a tactile person. The joys of being undiagnosed.
 
Food was eaten and speeches were made. During my effort I spoke about Carole and raised a glass to toast her, which drew a few tears from all and sundry. I would say that I got off quite lightly where the best man’s speech was concerned, but there wasn’t really a tremendous amount of dirt to unearth concerning my twenty-one-year-old self. Save for a little light-hearted criticism of my cricketing abilities it was all a little tame and was probably made more difficult following my own emotional outpourings.

A barn dance followed by a disco rounded off the day and around midnight we sloped off to our room, a little drunk and almost but not quite exhausted. As we began to consider heading to bed, a peculiar thing happened. The tap over the bath turned itself on. After the initial surprise, a cold shiver ran down my spine as I turned the tap off. I turned to Louise and said:
 
‘I think that was Carole. I think that she was just letting us know that she’d been here today.’
 
I maintain that belief and a similar thing happened after my father passed away (again, more to come on that). I’m not religious, but I do believe that death is not the end. That poignant moment could well have given the entire day a very different feel, but once the shock subsided it actually felt more like a nod of approval and the beginning of a new chapter. For the first time in my life, I think I experienced hope.

Copyright Alec Hepburn, 2026.