Fit For Purpose

by Julian D. Parrott

  Tea done and cup placed in the sink, Tom moved down the cabin to the tiny bathroom — a child-size toilet, a half-size sink, and a small shower stall that required Tom to duck his six-foot-one body into to get his hair wet. He knocked on the thin wooden wall that separated the bathroom from the bed’s cabin, “Hey, don’t go back to sleep,” he said to Jack. He quickly washed his face, saving water had become second nature on the narrowboat. He checked his face in the mirror above the small sink. To shave or not to shave. He rasped his hands over his two-day stubble. He’d go without a shave again. He was still tired of shaving. Twenty years in the army with its over emphasis on personal turnout, freshly shaved faces, spit polished boots, blancoed webbing, and cleaned and oiled rifles had led now to a bit more carefree an attitude to such things.

  “Okay Jack, morning piddle.”

  Tom picked up the terrier off the bed and put her down on the cabin’s rough carpet. Tom slipped on running shoes, threw two bolts and opened the stern doors off the bedroom cabin and immediately felt a rush of cold air. He kept the roof hatch closed and ducked up the three steps on to the narrowboat’s stern, Jack at his side. The boat was rock still. There was a sheen of ice on the canal, frost dusted the mooring ropes, and the towpath was frozen hard. Tom grabbed the short boat pole off its roof housing and tested the ice. Thin. Thin enough for another day’s journeying. Jack had already jumped off the barge onto the towpath where she was leaving a steaming puddle. Tom grabbed gloves and scarf, padlocked the stern door, and took off down the towpath with his dog.

  It was their routine. Although free of the strictures of army life, Tom still liked the cadences of certain routines. He enjoyed the brisk morning jogs, checking what lay immediately ahead on the canal while enjoying the company of the young, inquisitive terrier. Today, however, felt entirely different. He looked down at his watch, it was now seven a.m. He wondered whether she, miles away, was up. He took a huge breath in, the cold air stinging his lungs. There was an incredible stillness across the basin. Tom opened his phone’s music app, decided on Kraftwerk’s ‘Computer Love’ as accompanying music, he liked its ambient, trance-like quality, and he and Jack began to run down the towpath at a decent pace. Tom never really knew how far or how long he’d run. He let the soreness in his right leg be his guide.

  Later, he showered, dressed in warm clothes, and quickly finished a breakfast of tea and toast. He listened to the radio news and weather. Freezing temps and snow predicted for the day ahead. Freezing drizzle for London. Her home. Out on the small rear deck he opened the engine compartment. He checked the engine oil and water levels and eyeballed the compartment for any water ingress that needed to be pumped out. He checked the engine was in neutral and then pushed the start button to fire it up. While the engine warmed up, he went back into the cabin, boiling the kettle for a thermos of coffee, double checking his canal guides, he quickly jotted some notes for his own guide. He then cast-off bow and stern, put the engine in gear and pulled out into the canal moving slowly past a couple of lonely looking moored narrowboats. As a distant church bell tolled eight o’clock, Tom swung the tiller and pushed the Periwinkle through the onion skin of ice, out into the main body of water and set off south-easterly down the Llangollen canal. The Dee valley below to his right was shrouded in whisps of morning mist and a low winter sun made him squint. He smiled to himself and found, much to his surprise, that he was whistling something that sounded like a jig and, totally alien to him, he was checking his phone every few minutes to see if he had any new texts.

  ***

  London, Same Day

  Nia woke to a pitch-black room. She was momentarily confused as to where she was before she fully remembered she was home. She was still struggling a little with jet lag. The red digits on her bedside clock registered eight thirty a.m. She turned on the radio and listened to the BBC news. She slipped on a nightie and a well-worn dressing gown and went downstairs.

  The house was quiet, dark, and cold. Nia cranked up the central heating and made herself a cup of coffee before sitting down. She’d been on a location shoot for a month and she now wanted to get back into what approached her regular routine. She was aware of a vague excitement, the amorphous kind a child nurtured on the run up to Christmas. She took out her phone but then put it down, too needy she thought. She dressed quickly; running shirt, sweatshirt, yoga pants and went to her gym. Once there, she ran on the treadmill as a warm-up before a cardio-boxing session. She stayed and chatted to a few of the session’s participants as they downed smoothies in the gym’s social lounge, they were mostly stay-at-home mums. She had little in common with the group and, although she often grew tired of the cyclical chatter around schools, children’s sports team and demanding husbands, they provided a social connection to a lifestyle very different from hers. It was a glimpse into a life that Nia once wanted although would never admit to. They were friendly, Nia was friendly, but she didn’t consider them friends. Not the type of friends you go out for a drink with, share stories, swap secrets, or ask for advice. Nia had few such friends.

  Nia drove from the gym and showered at home. She had renovated her bathroom and had an expansive walk-in shower with multiple shower heads. She stood luxuriating in the hot water allowing the steam to ease the muscle tiredness and tension from her workout and the previous day’s flight. Once out of the shower, she checked her phone and was disappointed that there was no message from Tom but then remembered she’d been quite definitive about her contacting him. She wanted to text him but was still wary. Instead, she called her agent with Tom still very much on her mind.

  Nia was going to meet Jane, her agent, for a mid-afternoon coffee in a chic, bohemian cafe. Nia was early, as she often was, she ordered a flat white and found a table that was conducive to conversation. She watched the door for Jane. Jane was more than an agent; she was probably Nia’s longest and closest friend. A young mum entered with a toddler in a high-tech pushchair with moon-rover wheels. The mum unfastened her coat and Nia noticed the large, heavy baby bump beneath. The mum instinctively put her hand on the bump and smiled, and Nia remembered the same sense, the same feeling of life moving and growing under the touch of your hand. Then Jane entered with a loud hello and extravagant wave.

  Nia and Jane had been together for over two decades. Jane was a posh Home Counties girl, now in late middle age. She always dressed in immaculate tailored suits worn with colourful silk scarves. Hair was always perfect and as blond as a Swede’s. Big, owl-like glasses, usually in a shade that matched her scarf, gave her a wise, thoughtful demeanour. Jane’s voice was like a market barker’s run through sandpaper. She had always been maternal towards Nia. She had never married, had no children, and Nia had always suspected that Jane was a very quiet and private lesbian. Nia also felt that Jane was always slightly disappointed in Nia for not having the A-lister career than once appeared to be in the offing. Still, Nia knew, Jane had stuck with her through some difficult times and had fought for good roles.

  Jane continued to keep Nia busy and had helped her adjust to the vagaries of the acting profession. She had convinced Nia to take character roles, guest starring gigs, advert voice overs, and audio book narrations. There was almost always some job waiting in the wings. Jane greeted Nia like an aunt would a niece. Over coffee, they chatted about the Canadian job, whether there would be an option of a sequel. Jane noted rumours of potential roles and work options and suggested some scripts to read and auditions to go on. Nia half listened and made notes on her phone. She wanted to work and work constantly for she was aware of how cruel the industry could be for actresses of a certain age. She also wanted to work because she had little else to fill her days.

  Nia had waited long enough in the conversation to ask Jane for a favour, hoping it wouldn’t appear as Nia’s top priority. Nia asked whether Jane could use her contacts to find one of those ex-army types who advised TV and film productions on the proper way to do military things, to provide some background on Tom Price. Tom was, she thou
ght, a guy in his mid-forties, fit decent looking, witty and smart, straight, she had noticed the way he looked at her, yet single. There was a reticence when he talked about the army. She could tell he’d been hurt, physically, the limp, and probably emotionally. She was concerned that he had baggage and, God knows, she had enough baggage for any relationship. Jane was surprised.

  “Anything you want to let me in on?” Jane asked.

  “Just some guy I met,” Nia replied over her coffee cup. “Just wanna make sure he’s not some kind of bullshitter.”

  Jane slowly nodded, not fully believing Nia.

  Coffee meeting done, Nia did some grocery shopping before going home. Jane called her as she was putting a few groceries away. The military advisor Jane had reached out to did indeed know of Major Tom Price. A decent bloke was the astute summation. Something of a hero, actually, an earned gallantry award, a Military Cross. A guy who was loved and respected by those who served with him until a helicopter accident ended his career and nearly his life. Rumours of a breakdown.

  Nia put the phone back in her pocket. Overall, she thought, an okay report and very much what she had expected. Nia was an astute reader of people. Jet-lagged, she went upstairs and laid on her bed. She took her phone out of her pocket as it was uncomfortable. With the phone in hand, she decided to Google what an MC was. She was surprised by what it took to earn the award and had difficulty seeing Tom as a guy who had received such a medal. Her phone went on the bedside table. Nia felt guilty that she had somehow betrayed this chap she’d just met, when was that, yesterday? She felt sad about the sense he had experienced some kind of breakdown, which cycled back into guilt for snooping. But she told herself, that he was sure to Google her, and she’d be exposed, quite literally, and what would he make of what he found? Fuck it, she told herself, there’s something here that needs to play out. She leant over to her bedside table and picked up her phone again.

  ***

  Tom’s phone beeped with an incoming text. He felt a wave of electric excitement wash over him. He was as desperate with anticipation as a teenager. ‘Nia’ his phone read. He opened the text.

  “Hi, it’s Nia.”

  YES! He said to himself. “Hi Nia.” He typed.

  She was glad to see him respond so quickly.

  “You get back to your barge ok? ”

  Tom saw the joke. “Yes, the narrowboat was waiting patiently.”

  “I enjoyed our chat yesterday,” Nia continued, then took a breath and typed.

  “I was just wondering; did you Google me?”

  Damn, straightforward, he thought.

  “Yes,” he responded.

  He’s honest, she thought.

  Tom was a little alarmed. Nothing and then… his screen showed ‘Nia is typing’.

  “And Major Price… do you still want to see me again?” Please, please, please, the voice in her head repeated somewhat to her own surprise.

  Major Price, Tom thought, she had done some background research herself. He typed, “And, I very much want to see you again.” And then added, “Soon.” She was relieved.

  “How about Saturday? I’m in a one-off play for charity. You could pop to the theatre and we could have dinner after,” Nia texted.

  “I’d like that,” he replied.

  She sent him the details about the play, the theatre, and possible dinner options. The sign offs were formal. Concern melted away but then Nia wondered whether she should have added an X. Tom smiled as he put his phone back in his pocket.

  Almost as soon as he had stopped texting Tom was shockingly aware of two issues. He didn’t have a way to get back to London easily and he didn’t have date night type clothes. He called Rachel. She was delighted that Tom was acting alive for the first time in a long while. She immediately agreed to help him out on both fronts. She’d loan him the Land Rover and accompany him to a tailor she knew in Shrewsbury to buy a suit.

  Chapter Six

  London, November 26th

  Tom drove to Watford Junction Tube station and parked the borrowed Land Rover; he had decided to take the underground to the theatre district. Tom purchased his return ticket from an automated kiosk. He moved to the platform and entered a carriage and took a seat strategically allowing him to observe the entire car. It was almost empty. He settled into the seat near the window as the Tube train pulled out of the station with its customary tug, pull, clanking motions and sounds. The first part of the long trek through the city was above ground and, although dark, Tom watched the city lights emerge, and flicker and flash past his window. He had always liked London. It was always London he visualised when listening to military briefs on defending Britain, its people, and its way of life. He searched his phone for suitable music and decided on a cliché, the Clash’s ubiquitous ‘London Calling’, then, something completely different with The Cars’ ‘Heartbeat City’. He changed trains at Harrow and Wealdstone and entered the Tube proper, at the Bakerloo line and journeyed through to Embankment.

  As the train moved speedily through the bowels of the city, Tom listened to The Jam’s ‘That’s Entertainment’ delaying listening to their ‘Tube Station at Midnight’ like leaving a sundae’s cherry for last. He then played it twice and then let the Jam’s greatest hits play out. Tom caught sight of his reflection in the window. Freshly shaved, shirt and tie, new suit. New everything, he thought, including attitude. He was nervous and excited, like a teen out on his first big date. He had packed a small overnight bag but had left it in the Land Rover. Idiot, he thought. He had no idea how the night would unfold. He certainly had hopes but he was also half expecting it to be an embarrassing drama where they shook hands, talked to each other too formally, and closed the night early without any warmth, leaving him to shlep back across the city and a dilemma of either heading home or finding a hotel for a lonely night. God, he hoped not. The very thought filled him with a gut-churning dread. He tried to lose the anxious feeling in his music. He pulled out his phone again and took comfort in the re-reading of Nia’s texts.

  After forty minutes the carriage shook slightly as the train braked and emerged from its tunnel into dazzlingly bright station lights. Embankment. It was Tom’s stop. He stood, buttoned his grey wool suit and his overcoat then moved to the carriage’s door, minded the gap, and stepped on to the platform and resolutely on to whatever the evening would hold.

  Tom arrived at the theatre in good time. He found his ticket at the ‘will call’ booth, just as Nia had directed. He left his winter coat with coat check and found his way into the theatre bar. It was bright, lots of red and brass, Victorian decor, and a jovial atmosphere. Chic and stylish people were drinking, talking, and laughing. He made his way up to the bar, ordered a G&T, and was a bit flummoxed when the bartender listed umpteen gins that were available, most of which Tom had never heard of. He chose Gordon’s. He took his glass to the side of the bar, almost with his back to the wall and observed the crowd before him. The light, almost playful, atmosphere helped him to relax. He was looking forward to the play and couldn’t wait to see Nia again. Before he had finished his drink, a bell signalled that it was time for the bar’s patrons to find their seats. Tom felt part of the crush of people as they almost, as one, moved into the theatre. He found his seat, front and centre, and felt waves of anticipation break over him like surf.

  In the theatre’s cramped dressing rooms, Nia looked at her reflection under the harsh light of the make-up mirror. The make-up artist had certainly lived up to his description, a true artist, she thought. Her reflection radiated youth and vigour. Nia was looking forward to the play, Blithe Spirit, and her role of Ruth. It was a play she’d been in many times, playing many characters, and she always liked it. Nia wanted to enjoy it. She had some jitters and she was wanting Tom to be in the audience more than she dared to hope. Nia knew where he’d be sitting in the theatre and she wanted to be sure to catch his eye. She took a deep breath to clear her mind and to focus on the role. The stage manager gave the cast their five-minute
alert.

  Nia felt the applause as she stepped on stage, relaxed, and she launched into her first lines. A little later she watched from the wings. She cast her eye on to the audience; there he was, front and centre, smiling. She wanted to confirm her remembrance of what he looked like. The short dark hair, greying artfully at the temples, the longish face, and square jaw, the kind mouth, sad eyes that still smiled. Nia took another deep glance at Tom and then moved across the stage to interact with another character. She was able to compartmentalise her professional and personal lives and she focused on the play, only fully catching Tom’s eye when she bowed to the audience’s applause at the end of the play. She winked cheekily at him.

  ***

  Tom waited for Nia in the bar. The crowd that remained in the bar long after the play’s end cheered when the actors came in. Tom had taken up his position at the end of the bar again, his back to the far wall. Observing. He saw the cast shaking hands, smiling, and laughing with friends and patrons in the bar. He watched the faces of the crowd around the actors and then he saw her. Then he saw only her. To Tom, she looked simply transcendent. She wore brown boots, jeans, and a baggy white shirt that looked like it was cut for a man, under a bright red wool wrap. Her hair was curlier and maybe a bit redder than it had been the last time he had physically seen her. She was smiling as she talked to people in the bar, but he noticed how the smile grew and her eyes blazed as she caught sight of him. He could tell that she quickly made an excuse to absent herself from her compatriots and made her way over to him. He carefully placed his drink on the bar and stepped towards her.