Veering off Course (The Navigation Quartet Book 1)

by Chris Cheek

  The road to Leeds was a classic example of pre-war ribbon development, with small villages dribbling into each other along the main road. There was very little traffic at such an early hour, which meant that David had to watch his time. He was keenly aware that leaving stops ahead of schedule was the bus driver’s greatest sin, especially that early in the morning.

  The bus he was driving was very new indeed, having only entered service the previous month. He could not help but smile when he compared the sophistication of the power steering and automatic gearbox with his grandad’s stories of bus driving just after the war: tales of starting handles, crash gearboxes and steering that was as likely to slip you a disc as take you round a corner. It was a different world today, though probably a less happy one; there’d been a bus every two minutes on the Sedgethwaite–Leeds route in those days.

  The journey was largely uneventful; one man’s season ticket had run out and he was made to pay his fare. He accused David of ‘havin’ shares in t’ bloody company’, but it was all fairly good humoured.

  The bus drew into Leeds Bus Station at 0614, dead on time. Passengers off, handbrake on, engine off, note the number of tickets sold, and over to the canteen for another quick cuppa. It was just beginning to get light. Another day had properly begun.

  ***

  The skies stayed clear, so David was able to set to in the garden after a bite of dinner and a doze.

  Every now and again the settled nature of his life worried him; the pattern seemed set for the next forty years. Since there did not seem to be much he could do about it, he usually dismissed the thought – and besides it wasn’t really true. He and Mona were saving to buy their own house and there were the boys to be fed, clothed and brought up. Seeing them through school and safely into adulthood, now that was surely challenge enough for anybody.

  He returned to his weeding and smiled at his younger son, Kevin, busy trying to help. At the age of three, there could be precious few worries in his mind about the future. Mona was in the kitchen, just putting the kettle on. Of medium height, with long straight brown hair, she was quite an attractive girl even if, as she was the first to admit, she was not pretty enough to have guaranteed as good a catch as David for a husband.

  In fact, they had lived in the same road as kids and had been pals since they’d started school at the age of four. Despite that, David’s offer of marriage had taken her by surprise; they had drifted apart around the time Alan left for London. As a result, the proposal had come out of the blue. Mona was flattered, and she certainly wasn’t going to refuse. Even so, had anybody asked she would have been hard put to find a convincing answer as to why she’d married him. It had just felt right, that was all.

  However, she was happy enough now not to bother about such things – and certainly happier than either her mother or her mother-in-law admitted to. There was only one fly in the ointment. They seemed to count their husbands’ lack of sexual interest as a positive bonus; Mona was less sure. She’d have welcomed a bit more interest on David’s part. From what she read and saw on television, regular sex was part and parcel of everyone’s life. Not in their household, though. It had been a good few weeks since… And he did look rather sexy in those old gardening jeans. She dismissed the thought and brewed the tea.

  “Cup of tea, love?”

  “Aye, thanks. It’s nearly time to collect young Tommy from school, isn’t it?” Their elder son was five and had started school just after Christmas.

  “Yes, but you’ve time for a cuppa.”

  ***

  Later, the boys fed and safely in bed, they sat down in front of the television. With David on early turn it would be a short evening; they would be in bed by ten at the latest.

  Mona sat impassively, absorbed by a soap opera, but David was restless.

  “What a load of bloody rubbish.”

  “Well, I like it,” his wife replied. “It’s true to life.”

  “How would you know? You’ve never been to America.”

  “I know, but it seems true. Don’t watch it if you don’t want to. Go down the road for a pint.”

  “No, I’m too tired. Anyway, you know I don’t like that place.”

  Mona sighed. “I don’t know. You’re a funny lad, David Edgeley.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve always been the same. Never bothered with the lads much.”

  “That’s not true. I’m just not that fond of beer. Any road, all they ever talk about is football and sex. It gets bloody boring. I’d much rather read a book – it’s cheaper, too!”

  “Go on, read one then.”

  “I can’t concentrate with this on.”

  “I’ll turn it off.”

  “Don’t be daft, lass. I’ll survive.”

  They lapsed into silence and watched the rest of the programme, but the discussion was resumed as they got ready for bed.

  “I don’t know what’s the matter with you lately,” said Mona.

  David frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You always seem so restless. Aren’t you happy?”

  “Aye, happy enough,” he replied noncommittally.

  “I don’t know, then. But there’s something up with you.”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  They got into bed. Mona’s remarks worried David; he knew he was feeling restless, but he’d not realised it was that obvious. It didn’t mean anything. He grinned at his wife. “Perhaps it’s the spring coming early.”

  “Go on with you,” Mona replied, snuggling up to him and reaching inside his pyjamas.

  David froze. Sensing his reaction, she moved away, giving him a quick peck on the cheek and sighing slightly. “Good night, love,” she said.

  “I’m on early turn.”

  “I know. Forget it. Night-night.”

  Chapter 2

  Alan

  Alan Foreshaw awoke to the klaxon-like sounds of his bedside alarm clock. He hated the noise with a passion, and regularly promised himself either to change the tone or throw the bloody thing out. He hadn’t carried out either resolution because he knew that it was the only thing that would wake him up every day.

  He hit the snooze button, giving him three- or four-minutes’ respite before it went off again. Then he really would have to get up. He had an important client meeting at ten and he had to be there on time.

  He still marvelled at the luck that had landed him the job he was now doing. He was an account manager in a medium-sized advertising agency, having risen through the ranks from junior office boy, the post he had originally secured to get a toehold in London six years earlier.

  In his mid-teens when he was still at school, he’d felt the draw of life in the capital because it seemed much more glamourous than Sedgethwaite, the West Yorkshire town in which he had been brought up. There was another reason too, a more important one: his sexuality. Growing up as a gay man, he had known that life in his home town would be restrictive and difficult. Far better to seek the opportunities offered by a big city and its anonymity.

  He and the advertising business had clicked from day one and his rise through the ranks had been rapid, especially for someone who had left school at the age of sixteen with only the basic five GSCEs. He had studied hard since, of course, and had already done his Institute of Marketing exams. Now he was part way through a marketing degree at the Open University. After that, an MBA course might beckon if he did well enough.

  Meanwhile a combination of good looks, personal charm, project-management skills and an instinctive feel for customer relations had landed him a good salary and a brand-new Blackberry, not to mention a chunky car allowance that meant he could afford a nice BMW. Topping it all off was this extremely stylish flat in a converted Victorian house in Clapham. Not bad for a Yorkshire lad of twenty-five whose career at school had been sketchy, to say the least.

  The klaxon sounded again. This time he killed the noise and got out of bed and into the bathroom. He looked in the mirror as he sh
aved and nodded to himself.

  Not bad, Foreshaw, not bad. Five nine, eleven stone, a trim body, dark blue eyes. Styled blond hair cut fashionably atop a heart-shaped face. A long, straight nose, which a close friend had once labelled ‘heroic’ from some chart he’d found on the web. Alan was amused, remembering how he’d been tempted for days to strut around the office, showing off his heroic nose.

  It all added up to a package that guys seemed to find attractive, to judge by some of the looks he got when he was out on the scene with his friends. It hadn’t got him laid recently – in fact he’d not been in the mood lately, certainly not for a one-night stand. Since his close friends Tris and Ian had got together, Alan had found himself craving the closeness that a committed relationship brought: the small domestic routines, the companionship and, let’s face it, being in love with somebody and having a future together.

  Alan sighed. He finished shaving and stepped into the shower, enjoying the sting of the hot water on his skin. That would wake him up properly, and a quick coffee from that new American coffee shop on the way to the station would set him up for the day.

  ***

  He was on the platform waiting for his train into town when the phone call came through.

  “Is that Mr Foreshaw?”

  “That’s me. Who’s calling?”

  “This is Mrs Rodgerson. Hilda Rodgerson, lives next door to your aunt.”

  “Oh, yes, Mrs Rodgerson, I remember. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s about your aunt, Alan. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but I’m afraid she’s had a bad stroke this morning. They’ve taken her off to the infirmary.”

  “Oh, Hilda, I am sorry. Thanks very much for letting me know. I’ll have to make some arrangements to get up there and see her.”

  “Don’t delay too long, Alan. I don’t think she’ll last long now.”

  “Right. Yes, I understand. And thanks for the warning.”

  He continued to exchange platitudes with his aunt’s neighbour while his brain tried to process the news and what it meant. He looked at his watch; if he hurried, he could just about get home, pack a bag and still be on time for his ten o’clock meeting, especially if he cabbed it directly to the client. Leaving there and going straight to King’s Cross, he could be at the hospital in Sedgethwaite by mid-afternoon.

  ***

  With all the rush of packing, getting to his meeting and catching the train north, Alan had not had time to think more about his aunt. She had been his guardian since the age of nine following the death of his parents in a plane crash in the USA whilst on a business trip.

  He would never forget the day that he had first met her. This strange woman arrived at his school with his grandmother, with whom he had been staying during his parents’ trip. She had seemed familiar and yet not so, reminding him of his mother but without the softer bits. Auntie Mary seemed angular and rather austere, whereas Mum had been soft and more huggable.

  “This is your Auntie Mary, Alan,” his gran had said. “And I’m afraid we’ve got some very sad news for you.”

  Thus it was that Alan had found himself under his aunt’s guardianship in her house in Sedgethwaite, sixty miles from his own home, his school and everything he had known during this short life. He had been totally traumatised.

  But her kindness and love had been strong, even if her nature had indeed been rather austere. Her strong beliefs meant that she could not approve of Alan’s lifestyle; they had become distant after he had acknowledged his sexuality in the year after he left for London. They had stayed in touch, and she had travelled south several times to see him, but her disapproval loosened the bond between them. And now she was going, leaving Alan completely and utterly alone in the world.

  His earlier dark mood returned. He stared gloomily out of the window as the train pulled into Leeds. It was raining. Typical.

  ***

  As soon as he arrived in Sedgethwaite, Alan went straight to the hospital to find out how his aunt was. The news was not good: she was hanging on, still fighting to the last, but the doctor was honest almost to the point of brutality. Auntie Mary was unlikely to live for more than a few days at the outside, and she probably would not regain consciousness.

  Unable to face going to her house for the time being, Alan booked himself into the most upmarket hotel in Sedgethwaite before talking to his boss. After giving him an update, he arranged to take a week’s compassionate leave.

  He ate an uninspired meal in the hotel’s uninspiring restaurant, and swallowed a couple of glasses of uninspiring wine. The bar was largely empty, so he retreated to his room to catch up one some e-mails and watch some mindless TV to numb himself into sleep.

  He was starting to feel drowsy when his phone buzzed with a text; it was his best friend, Tristram, asking where the hell he was and why he hadn’t called. Because Tris’s partner, Ian, worked with Alan, he had picked up on the sudden need for compassionate leave.

  Alan was touched by Tris’s evident concern and quickly dialled his number. “Hi, Tris, sorry not to have been in touch. A bit of a shitty day all round.”

  “So I gather,” his friend replied. “Ian said that you took leave and hared off to Yorkshire. Something about your aunt?”

  “Yes, she had a stroke this morning. Prognosis not good, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Alan, that’s seriously bad news. I know you were fond of the old girl. Are you at her house?”

  “No, I couldn’t face that. I booked into a hotel for a couple of nights, just to get my bearings.”

  “And are you okay? Do you need some company, because I could…’

  “No, Tris, don’t worry. I’m fine, really. It was just a bit of a shock, that’s all. Her neighbour rang me whilst I was waiting for the train this morning. I did my morning meeting and dashed up here on the first train I could get.”

  “And what did the doctor say exactly?”

  “She’s unconscious and not expected to wake up again,” Alan replied, his mood darkening as he realised the import of his words once more. “They reckon she’ll only last a couple of days, if that.”

  “Crikey, Alan, That’s horrid. What are you going to do?”

  “I thought I’d stay up here for a while and see what happens. The firm owes me some time off, and it’s not too hectic at the moment. I’ll have to pluck up the courage to go round to the house as well, especially if this is actually the end for her.”

  “Look, you must tell us if you need anything – help, advice or just company. Just say the word, dear boy.”

  “I will, promise. Love to Ian.”

  “And from him, my dear. He’s sitting right here. Now keep in touch. Let me know how things are going.”

  “Promise.”

  “I know you. You’ll go into your shell and sit there feeling miserable. You mustn’t, all right?”

  “Message received.”

  The conversation ended, and Alan was once again on his own. He was touched by the concern in Tris’s voice. They’d been close friends for nigh on five years and shared a flat for three of them. They’d seen each other through various emotional crises, then Alan had introduced Tris to Ian, a friend from work. Ian and Tris had promptly fallen for each other in a big way and were now happily settled together. Meanwhile Alan and Tris remained very close, talking on the phone or texting most days.

  ***

  Alan had Tris met during his first few months in London. He had been very lonely and rather terrified; as an eighteen-year-old who’d only been to the capital once before, he was completely at sea, living in a hostel. He managed to negotiate his way from the hostel to the office every day, but knew virtually nothing about the city or its life.

  They met in a pub near Alan’s office, to which he’d been taken several times by colleagues from the agency who often went there straight from work for a couple of hours. That night most of his colleagues had already headed off to meet loved ones or go home; Alan was just thinking about doing the sam
e when this guy walked in with a face like thunder, clearly very annoyed. Focused on his anger and the need for a drink, he tripped over a stool and almost fell into Alan’s lap, knocking the remains of his drink flying.

  Tris was horrified. “Oh, I say. Look, I’m terribly sorry. Are you okay? Let me buy you another drink. What was it?”

  “Thanks, but it’s fine. I was just leaving anyway.”

  “No, I insist,” Tris replied anxiously. “It was entirely my fault. I’ve just been stood up and I was so cross I wasn’t paying attention.”

  Alan reluctantly agreed to the drink, captivated by this charming stranger with his brown hair, sharp cheekbones and regular features. His evident pleasure when Alan agreed to accept the drink was infectious, and his bright blue eyes sparkled.

  Within ten minutes, Tris had invited Alan to dinner instead of the boyfriend who’d stood him up. By the end of the evening, they’d become firm friends. Within a month, they were flatmates in a very elegant apartment in Kensington where Tris lived, funded by his parents.

  At the time Alan could not have said why they’d clicked so well: they were from totally different social backgrounds and had sharply contrasting attitudes. They were both gay but somehow that did not come into the equation, since they were always friends rather than lovers.

  Alan had wondered about this many times over the years: why had they become so close? Tris was a public schoolboy with a First from Oxford and plans to study law; what had he seen in a naïve, gauche nineteen-year-old office boy from industrial West Yorkshire?

  Whatever it was that had brought them together had lasted, and their friendship deepened over the years. During that time Tris introduced Alan to a whole new world culturally and socially, broadening his horizons in all sorts of ways. It was the confidence that Tris had instilled in him, alongside his own natural intelligence and ambition, that had given Alan the success he had achieved so far. It was a precious gift.

  ***

  Warmed by Tris’s concern, Alan succeeded in going to sleep but his rest was fitful in an overly-hot room with no opening windows. He awoke feeling unsettled and fidgety; he decided to go into Leeds during the morning for a look around before returning to the hospital for afternoon visiting.