Love and Tea Bags

by C F White

  Losing all track of time, he slumped down on one of the recently painted benches and gazed gloomily out at the beach. A family at the sea edge made several laughing attempts at chucking each other in. Poor kids. They’d get hypothermia going anywhere near the English Channel this time of year. Or any time of year, for that matter.

  He opened the box on his lap, dipped his hand in and grabbed the first thing. Iced ring doughnut. He ate the lot in one fell swoop, mainly so the seagulls wouldn’t get their pesky beaks on it, but also because he was miserable. And it looked as though food might be his only comfort on this fine day. Not even the beeping from the out-of-tune horn on the passing empty beachside mini-train could lift his dreary mood.

  “Morning, Mark!” Charlie waved out of the driver’s cabin.

  “Mshffsksppp.” Crumbs fell from Mark’s lips. Not very eloquent, but who cared? Who would care what he had to say anymore, anyway? He’d had his chance to have someone listen to him and he’d failed, spectacularly. He might as well become a mute.

  “Morning, son.”

  Mark swallowed the doughnut whole and it lodged in his throat to the point he could no longer breathe. There were worse ways to die, he supposed. But the rather harsh slap to his back allowed him to cough up much of the congealed dough and it fell to the floor with a splat. The gulls weren’t too picky and decided to swoop in, gather it up, squawk and fly off.

  “Dad,” Mark spluttered out.

  His elderly father, dressed in a similar long trench coat to his mother’s but his a torrid brown in colour, a flat cap covering his bald scalp, slipped onto the bench beside Mark with a deep and resonating grunt.

  “Mum said you’d locked yourself in the shed.”

  Henry chuckled then raised one impressive eyebrow. So that manoeuvre hadn’t passed down in the gene pool.

  “You pretended to do that?” Mark’s voice elevated in amusement.

  “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then she wouldn’t ask where I am, what I’m doing, could I just do this, that or the other. Or ask for some money for her damn women’s fundraiser.”

  “Right.” Mark wiped his hands down his trousers, spilling crumbs on the ground for the less expeditious birds along the seafront. “She’s in Macy’s, by the way.”

  “Really?” Henry peered up the High Street. “Bugger.”

  “Where were you going?”

  “To see you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Need a reason to see my only son, do I?”

  “No offence, but you rarely come to see me. Especially on a weekday at”—Mark checked his watch—“bugger.” He slapped his arm down with a sigh. “Eleven a.m.”

  He certainly wouldn’t be winning any employee-of-the-month framed photograph plaque in the office at this rate. Not that he ever had, mind.

  “True. True. True.” Henry nodded with every muttering of the word. “I am sorry for that.”

  Mark attempted to arch one eyebrow, Bradley-style. Failed miserably. Both zoomed up and he hadn’t been wanting to emulate the wide-eyed stare. Oh well.

  “I heard something, y’see. From Vera.”

  Mark rubbed his forehead. “If it’s about the Australian, I know he’s very young and no, nothing is going on. Don’t worry, I’m not having a midlife crisis,” he lied. “I am aware of my limitations.”

  “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Aware of your limitations?”

  “They being?”

  “You said it,” his father croaked with a chuckle. “What are they?”

  Mark exhaled, wearily. “That a pure hunk of a male dance-slash-stripper who is young enough to be my grandchild could see any reason to be with me, Mark Johnson, still only just thirty-ish and unlucky in everything. Including the looks department.”

  “Hold up, you got those looks from me.” Henry took off his flat cap, scrubbed the balding scalp beneath and grinned his gummy smile. “The hair is all your mother’s, though.”

  “I hope not all of it. Because that would require her to have an awful lot of laser therapy.”

  “She does.”

  “Too much.”

  “I know.”

  Father and son sat in idle silence for a rather long and awkward time, gazing out at the beach, lost in their own thoughts. A ridiculous death-wish of a man dressed in a wetsuit kicked off his rubber pool shoes and legged it, albeit inelegantly, along the pebbles and dived head-first into the crashing wave. Mark wondered whether to call on the coast guard to watch the poor fellow in case he died of hypothermia. There was no way he was going into the freezing sea to rescue the idiot who thought that a morning swim in an ice bath had been a good idea. On reflection, Mark had a sudden urge to run in there himself. He wouldn’t, though. Those stones killed his feet. Not to mention his arse. No, he wouldn’t mention how he knew what it felt like to be lying bareback on Marsby beach.

  “Son?”

  “Hmm?” Mark had forgotten his father had even been there.

  “I think a little father-and-son chat is long overdue.”

  The look on the old man’s face made Mark uncomfortable. Surely, this wasn’t the extremely tardy conversation about the birds and the bees? He recalled the last time his father had tried to have that talk back when Mark had been merely a teen. Mark had been traumatized at thinking the poor seagulls aligning the seafront were attacked by the buzzing pests in order to procreate some mythical beast. And also concerned that it would only have happened in August when everyone tried to come out to the beach with a picnic. Thus, he’d learned about sex the hard way. By having to do it.

  Henry patted Mark’s knee and his shoulders dropped. “There’s a few things I think perhaps you ought to know.”

  “Really?”

  “When I was a young lad, it wasn’t as acceptable as it is now.”

  “What wasn’t?”

  Henry slipped his hand from Mark’s knee to entwine his fingers over his lap. “Being homosexual.”

  Mark adopted the correct facial expression that time by widening his eyes.

  “Yes, Mark.” Henry lifted his shoulders and looked directly into his son’s eyes. “I had an affair or two with men before I met your mother.”

  If Mark hadn’t already choked on and spat out the doughnut, he would’ve done it again. His voice was once again caught in his throat and he spluttered, trying to dislodge the damn words that would have been absent of any vowel variety.

  Henry chuckled. “I can tell, by your reaction, that you had never suspected?”

  “Jesus, Dad, no!” Mark blurted. “You are married to Mother. For fifty years!”

  Henry nodded. “Yes. And for a time, I did love her. I still do. She is completely exasperating and has sucked me dry in more ways than one.”

  Mark held up a hand. “Too much.”

  “I know.” Henry inhaled a weary breath. “We were put together by our parents. What with her being from the upper echelons and my parents trying to make a name for themselves here in Marsby. It was all about money. She had it. We didn’t. I married to save our finances.”

  “And lost it all on the horses?”

  Henry coughed into a balled fist. “Exactly. That was my midlife crisis.” He dipped his chin. “I’d’ve much preferred your one.”

  Mark shook his head, his hair raging against the breeze and his mouth for once clamped shut.

  “I have always been in love with a man.” Henry gazed out to the beach. “One I let go many years ago in order to marry your mother.”

  “B-b-but…who?” Mark was surprised he’d gotten that much out. His father had always been so quiet. So reserved and reclusive. The very thought that he had a sordid past, one not far from his own, was, quite frankly, a mind fuck. Excuse my French.

  “His name was Arthur.” Henry gazed at the crashing waves, or now Mark came to think about it, was it at the man in the wetsuit swimming laps to the pier and back? “He had come here to Marsby on a holiday
with his parents, back when Marsby was a pretty decent holiday town and hadn’t succumbed to the current climate. We met, just over there.” He pointed at the decrepit pier that stretched out over the water. “I saved him from falling in. I still to this day don’t know whether Artie had been attempting to off himself. But, whatever, we became friends. I showed him the sights.”

  “Bet that took all of three minutes.”

  Henry chuckled. “Indeed. So for the rest of the two weeks, we spent it necking under that pier.”

  Mark regurgitated his stomach contents rather barbarously. The seagulls would have a feast today. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he couldn’t get out of his head the image of his elderly father under the usual teen hang-out, being all grabby hands with another man.

  “We were discovered,” Henry continued, unawares of Mark’s shudder, or ignoring it. “His parents and my parents. Awful time.” He shook his head, his wrinkled fingers trembling on his lap. “Artie ran away from his holiday home, knocked on my door and begged me to run away with him. I was very tempted.”

  “But you didn’t go?”

  Henry hung his head. “No. Of course, I was too chicken to say that to his face and I said I would meet him at the train station. Artie had bought tickets to London.” Behind the lenses of his glasses, Henry’s brown eyes glistened. “I still don’t know if he went alone or went back home. I never heard from him again. And soon after that, I was introduced to your mother and, well, it is very hard to say no to her.”

  Mark nodded. He knew that. But still, this was a revelation he would never have expected.

  “But why didn’t you go? It’s been so long, Dad, and you’ve never tried to find him?”

  “You have to remember, Mark, this was the early sixties. It was still illegal back then. I was afraid. And, if I am honest, I believed Artie to be too perfect for me. He really was beautiful. A free spirit ready to take on the world. I just wasn’t like that. I couldn’t see it lasting beyond the train journey. I’d forever worry, forever fear, forever hold him back.”

  Mark paused, staring at his father with renewed fascination.

  He then suddenly understood why his father had chosen this moment to confide in him. Although times had changed, what his father had uttered was exactly how Mark had been feeling about Bradley. Mark was too old, too set in his ways, too fearful. And Bradley, probably on a blasted airplane to Australia in the next few hours, would be held back if Mark even had bothered to explain any of that. Bradley would get bored with Mark. Most people did. George had.

  Henry held Mark’s hand between his and tugged it to his lap. “I was so proud of you when you made that speech at your school. I was even more proud when you went to London. Yes, it ended badly. But you did it. Something I never could have done. And I was so proud.”

  “But you never said…”

  “No, I have learned to keep those memories firmly under wraps. All those feelings are too painful to bring to the surface again. I was upset when you returned. I know it wasn’t your fault and what happened between you and George was…unfortunate. I guess that’s how I imagined it would have ended between me and Artie. So I thought best to just enjoy having you home.” Henry gazed into Mark’s eyes with an odd look of…hope? “Can you understand?”

  Mark slipped his hand free from his father’s and rubbed his eye, the wind blowing into his eye socket making it water. Blasted sea breeze. He sniffed.

  “Don’t make my mistake, Mark.” Henry stood from the bench with a hefty grunt and cracking bones. “Try to remember that boy who stood up in front of his whole school and told them who he really was with dignity and bravery. Recapture that man who ran away to London with the man he loved. Forget the fear, the rejection, and live. Because, Mark, there is only one life to live. And it should be yours.”

  Henry patted his shoulder then gazed over at the pier with a deep hum. He nodded, adjusted his cap and hobbled away from the seafront.

  “Oh, and Mark?”

  Lost in thought, Mark peered up.

  “That house of yours ought to have quite a bit of equity in it by now. If money is an issue, you can always sell up.”

  “But, Mum—”

  “Let me handle your mother.” Henry tutted. “I’m used to disappointing her.”

  Had any of that even really happened? His father? A closet queen all these years? Having lost out on true love due to fear? Mark leapt up from his seat, the doughnuts falling from his lap to the ground by his feet. The seagulls instantly swooped in and pecked at the lot. Mark, not caring less, gathered what he could into the box and hurtled away from the seafront.

  He rushed through the doors into his office and threw the crumpled box at Yvonne.

  “I’m loving this, Yvonne.” Mark waved a hand over her attire. “Is that a new blouse? It’s simply divine. Brings out the red in your eyes.”

  Yvonne opened her mouth. She said nothing. Then peered down at the crusty, crinkled chiffon top she had probably worn a thousand times to the office and that blended in with the unadorned surroundings.

  “And I have walls in my house just like it.” Mark smiled, sweetly, fluttering his eyelashes and bounding over to his desk. He was about to sit on the revolving chair when he thought better of it and kicked the thing away. It slid across the room and bumped against the back of Robert’s chair. Robert scowled up at him. Mark shrugged and leaned over the desk to tap his keyboard.

  “Mark!” Mr Steinberg stormed out of the meeting room and rammed his hands on his stout hips.

  “Hmm?”

  “Where have you been? The meeting has started! I need you in there taking notes. And where are the pastries?”

  “Oh.” Mark waved a hand toward the windows. “The gulls were particularly on form today. But I’m sure one or two survived the journey. Yvonne, be a dear, and plate them up, would you?”

  Yvonne, having been admiring her own blouse with a small smile curving her lips, glanced up with narrowed eyes. Mr Steinberg stomped closer to Mark and peered over his shoulder to the computer screen.

  “What are you playing at, Mark?” His squeaky voice grated on Mark like the underoiled gears on his old mountain bike. “I need you in that meeting. This is the contract of the century!”

  “Ah.” Mark wiped his hair away from covering his brow. “I am terribly sorry to do this to you, right now, Mr Steinberg, but it seems I have a contract of my own to fulfil and so, therefore, won’t be able to continue with any of your mundane tasks.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, sorry, I should make that clearer, shouldn’t I?” Mark stood, shoulders straightening. “I quit, Mr Steinberg. Pretty much, right now. I just have to…” Mark waved at his computer screen.

  “Clear up your porn stash?” Robert peered around Mark’s battered old chair.

  Mark stuck his tongue out. Wow, this getting in touch with your youth side is rather invigorating.

  “You cannot quit, Mark.” Mr Steinberg scrubbed a hand over his balding scalp. “You have to give notice. Two months, as per your employment contract.”

  “Hmm.” Mark rubbed his chin. “See, the thing is, sir. I think I may have work-related stress. It’s the lack of decent tea in these offices. I have a high dependency, you see, and I’m afraid that just hasn’t been fulfilled here in the workplace. It’s a disease. I’ll get my doctor to write you a note. Once I just…”

  Mark swivelled back to the computer that had whirred into life, frantically tapped on the mouse and typed into an internet search box.

  “Mark Johnson, this is preposterous!” Mr Steinberg edged closer to Mark’s computer screen and was probably aiming for a looming presence, but it was hard to achieve when he stood a fair few inches shorter than Mark. He came across more as a lingering and irritating fly. “Why are you looking up flights to Australia?”

  “Right.” Mark scribbled on a sticky note, then bit his lip. “Mind if I take this?” He held up the yellow square, shrugged and shoved it in his pocket.
“Seasonal Affective Disorder.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m SAD, sir. I need to chase the sun.”

  “It’s winter in Australia,” Robert squawked from behind him.

  Mark took delight in sticking his middle finger up that time. “Well, I have been told I do everything in reverse.”

  Mr Steinberg wrapped his small and stumpy fingers around Mark’s biceps. Mark peered down at them and marvelled at how he’d never been touched by his boss before and even though his hands were tiny, they still managed to curl around his slender arm.

  “Are you okay, Mark?” Mr Steinberg asked, concern oozing out of his reddened cheeks. “Is this the start of a…” He hesitated, then leaned in to whisper in to Mark’s ear. “Early midlife breakdown, perhaps?”

  Mark laughed. Guffawed, in fact. So hard that the abdominal muscles he was sure he hadn’t felt in years rose to the surface. His eyes watered and he had to grip the desk to compose himself.

  “Yes!” Mark finally blurted. “Yes, I am. And isn’t it simply marvellous! Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to go see a man about a possum.”

  Mark left the dumbfounded expressions to themselves and pelted out of the office. He had no idea how he was going to make it to Gatwick airport, what with Bradley having had a head start of a few hours, but he had to try. Heck, with this breakdown he was having he’d think about jumping on a motorbike and tearing up the tarmac in true Brit rom-com style. His leather jacket would come into its own then.

  Perhaps not, though. Especially after the pedal bike incident. Taxi, it was. No. Modern it up. An Uber!

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mad Dash

  Mark was rather thankful that, once upon a time, he’d downloaded the Uber app to his phone but on the company account. Not only because Mark hadn’t ever used an Uber before, but also because the cost of one from his home to Gatwick airport had been the price of a small country. With no money to exchange hands, Mark legged it from the car drop-off point toward the sliding entrance doors to the check-in gates.