by BarnaWilde
We continue gazing across the valley from the car. We're parked in a layby, more of a small carpark really, at the edge of the park. The sky is almost clear now, and the pavements are steaming gently. There is a lushness about the green grass and trees that would have been hard to imagine just a couple of hours ago. My striped blazer is a damp shrivelled thing lurking on the back seat.
"Forgot it again," I continue.
"It's stopped raining now Mr F. You won't need it. It's lovely though isn't it, so bright and fresh."
"I thought it was fairly ordinary," I reply. "Sort of blue and red. It's my golf one. I left it in the sink you know."
She leans across and kisses me on the cheek. "You are a silly, Mr F. I was talking about the view."
I touch my cheek with the fingers of my left hand. I can already feel the roughness of today's stubble growing through my skin. I search for the trace of moisture that her lips must have left on my face, but my fingers cannot detect it. She puts her hand on mine and squeezes it gently.
"Julie," I say. But the words dry up in my throat. I watch her in the mirror. She's young, beautiful and fresh as the grass outside. I look at my reflection beside her. Greying temples. Lined face. Receding hair.
"Mr F?" she prompts.
"I.. I.......," I try. But no words come out. "I…I......," I try again. Why can't I say it? I said it to her before. The words came out before. When we were in the office. But she didn't believe me then. She thought I was just teasing her.
I know this is my last chance. My brain wants to tell her I love her, but my mouth won't obey. It does that sometimes. Usually it says things that I didn't intend. This time it's just stopped working.
"I… l....."
Julie squeezes my hand again and smiles encouragingly at me.
"I… l....."
"Come on Mr F. Spit it out," she laughs.
"My mouth," I say. "It's stopped working."
"No it hasn't Mr F. It's working now, see?"
So it is. I try again. "I… l..... I… l...... You see," I say. "It doesn't work." I think I must be having a stroke or something. "Have I gone blue?" I ask.
"No, Mr F. You're a perfectly normal colour. A sort of sallow yellow." She giggles as she says it. "I'm just teasing Mr F. You're lovely and pink. Just like a baby."
"I… l....." I strain to get the words out, but they won't come.
"Is it a game, Mr F?" she asks. "I do like games. Is it like I Spy? Do I have to guess? A word beginning with 'l' is that it?"
"I… l…l..." My tongue welds itself to my upper palate every time I try to say I love you. It sets solid. A useless lump of meat just sitting there like a pit prop. And then, when I give up, it frees itself and laughs at me.
"Something beginning with 'l'," repeats Julie, looking around and about her. "Leaf?" she says.
"No," I reply shaking my head in frustration. "Not leaf."
"Lamp post," she tries.
"Where?" I ask.
"Over there," she says pointing.
"No. Not lamp post."
"Larch?" she says nodding her head towards a tree in the distance.
"No," I say. "Anyway it's a spruce."
I can't believe this. This is probably my last chance. I'm sure Mr Hudson will fire me when we get back. I may not see her again ever after today. I have to tell her how I feel. I have to ask her if she'll wait for me, while I sort out Gail. And here we are playing I Spy. She is getting right into the spirit of it too. Peering around inside and outside the car for inspiration. I try again. "Julie," I say. "I'm trying to tell you something."
"No clues. No clues. Don't tell me Mr F. I want to guess."
"I… l...... I… l......."
"l...l....l....l," she trills. "Lawnmower?"
"No."
"Landrover?"
"No."
"Licence?"
"Licence? Where? I can't see a licence."
"Here, Mr F," she says, pointing to the tax disc. "It's a Road Fund Licence. That's it's proper name."
"No," I say. "It's not licence. Julie, I… l....."
"Is it two words, Mr F? Is it 'I' something 'l'?"
"Three words," I say. "I… l...... I… l......"
"You're cheating Mr F. You're saying it's three words, but you're only giving me two letters. How can I guess that?"
"I… l.... you," I splutter.
"That's better," she says. "'I', 'l', 'u'. 'I', 'l', 'u'."
Somehow I have to sort out the Gail problem. I think that's the trouble. I think I'm feeling inhibited by the knowledge that Gail is still out there. I still feel loyal to her despite what she has done to me.
Listen. I do still love her, you realise. Gail, I mean. Not Julie. Well, yes. Julie too. But that came later.
Look. I know this is difficult for you to understand. I never stopped loving Gail. She stopped loving me, that's all.
Look. I think if I could just solve the Gail issue, I'd be alright. Do you think Julie would wait for me? I mean if I got sent down?
"You've got a visitor, Fletcher. Better tidy yourself up, and be quick about it."
"Visitor? I haven't had a visitor for months. Who is it?"
"Young woman, Fletcher. Very personable young woman. Didn't catch the name. Your daughter is it?"
"Daughter? I don't have a daughter."
I follow the screw up the long corridor to the visitor's room. We have to call them screws. I'm not sure why. They seem quite nice people some of them, but the other guests say I should hate them. Oh, we're called guests by the way. As we pass the other cells some of the men blow kisses at me and whistle. I try to ignore them. They don't seem to like me. I don't know why.
The door of the visitor's room is closed, and the screw has to bang on it for it to be opened. There are tables inside with one chair each side. Some of the tables are occupied. On one side there is a man, each identically dressed in prison clothes. The seats opposite them are filled with a motley collection of people. Most of them women. Wives, mothers, daughters, girlfriends.
I am led to a table on the far side of the room. There is a young woman sat on one side. "Julie!" I say in disbelief.
"Hello, Mr F," she says. She gives me a thin smile across the table and I reach out to touch her.
"Hands off the table," bellows one of the guards.
"Sorry," I say, and drop my hands back in my lap.
"How are you Mr F?" she asks.
"Fine," I say. "Fine. How are you?"
"Fine," she replies.
I study her closely. She is still as beautiful as I remember. I notice she has put on a little weight.
"I thought you'd come sooner," I say. "It's been over a year." I didn't mean it to sound critical.
"I......" the words die on her lips. That sort of thing used to happen to me, too. I smile encouragingly at her.
"It's lovely to see you," I say. "I knew you'd wait for me."
She gets up suddenly, knocking the chair over as she does. The guard starts to move in her direction.
"I shouldn't have come," she says. I notice she's wearing a ring. "I'm sorry Mr F," she says, and I see that tears have begun to form in her eyes. She turns and walks quickly over to the door. Her gait rolls slightly as she walks. I would guess from the bulge under her coat she only has a couple of weeks to go.
"Pregnant," I whisper quietly to myself.
Julie starts at the sound of my voice. We are still in the layby overlooking the park.
"How did you know?" she asks. The game is forgotten for the moment.
"I....just noticed, that's all," I say. "When you ran out. And the ring."
She puts her hand protectively on her stomach. An instinctive reaction. "I didn't think it would show for weeks yet," she says.
She fishes in her bag and produces a small black box. It is passed to me for inspection. Inside there is a small diamond solitaire ring.
"It's lovely," I say. "He's a lucky man."
"I was going to keep it a secret
for another week or two, Mr F. I suppose I'll have to tell everyone now."
I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. It seems an appropriate thing to do. "I hope you'll be very happy," I say.
"Thankyou Mr F," she says. "You are a nice man. Your wife is a lucky person, too." She restarts the engine and we head back towards the office.
"Umbrella," she says suddenly. "The 'u' stands for umbrella doesn't it Mr F?"
"Pardon?" I reply.
"The game," she says. "'i', 'l', 'u'. It's something, something umbrella isn't it? It must be something ladies umbrella, or something lost umbrella. Am I warm Mr F?"
"Yes," I say. "Something, something, umbrella. That's what I was trying to say. Something, something, umbrella."
"I wonder what the 'i' stands for?" she says. "Don't tell me. Don't tell me. I want to guess."
CHAPTER 28
When I get home, Gail is in the kitchen. I have a shoe box under one arm, and some flowers for Gail. Julie found me the shoebox to put my odds and ends in. There weren't many. Just the plastic name plate from my desk and a couple of postcards and a stone I'd picked up from somewhere. Why does everyone always have a stone or a pebble in their desk? Oh, and my poinsettia of course. Well it isn't much of a poinsettia at the moment after being knocked off the desk. Just a stump really, but Julie said to take it. She got it back out of the dustbin for me. She said it might resprout.
Mr Hudson was very good really. Didn't shout or anything. I tried to explain, but it only seemed to make things worse. He said it would be better for both of us and a few things like that. Even told me I could have the rest of the week off as holiday. He can be surprisingly generous sometimes.
I take the flowers through to Gail.
"You're early," she says. "Are those for me? Put them on the side will you, I'll do them in a minute."
I'm wondering how to tell her about the job. Perhaps there is some way I can make it sound positive. A career move, maybe. I hover in the doorway trying to think of the right words.
"There's a package for you in the front room," she says suddenly. "A man dropped it in earlier. Said he was in the area looking at houses."
I go through to the lounge and find a parcel on the coffee table. It's wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. My name is on the outside. My jacket is on the inside. The one I lost at the zoo. There is a note attached. It says 'found in the amphibious room'. There is also a copy of the zoo magazine with 'complimentary copy' stamped on the cover.
I settle back to read it. There is a fascinating article about hippos, and a picture of two hippos wallowing in the mud with just their heads showing above the surface. "I keep thinking it's Tuesday," I mutter to myself as I look at the picture.
"Pardon?" says Gail. She has walked into the room while I am reading. She's carrying a vase of flowers. My flowers. The one's I gave her a few minutes ago. She bends down and gives me a kiss on the end of my nose. "Thankyou for the flowers, Tom," she says.
I'm mildly stunned. "What did you say?" I ask.
"I said 'thankyou for the flowers'," she replies.
"No. Before that."
"Nothing, I think. Oh, I asked you what you said when I walked in. I didn't catch it. You were looking at your magazine."
I look back at the photo of the hippos. "Oh, nothing," I say. "I was just muttering to myself."
Listen. Perhaps you think this is all a bit banal. Perhaps you were expecting me to go home and run amok with a machine gun, or a machete. Perhaps you think this is a murder story. Perhaps you're reading the wrong book.
Listen. Nobody gets murdered in this story. I just die a little that's all.
Listen. Life can't always be exciting. Sometimes it is banal.
"Bob Downe," I say to Gail.
"Why?" she asks.
"That's his name," I continue. "The man who brought my jacket back."
"Oh," she says. "I thought...."
"Everyone does," I interrupt.
"Julie's pregnant," I say. “Julie from the office.”
"She's not married is she?"
"No. She couldn't wait."
We sit in silence for a while. I keep thinking about Geoffrey for some reason. I hope he and Carole can sort something out. I wonder what he'll do with the clothes?
"Do you think it would be easy to get rubber solution off your skin?" I ask Gail.
"I think it comes off if you rub your fingers together," she says. "Why do you ask? Have you had a puncture?"
"No, just a hypothetical question. What if you had it on somewhere else that you couldn't rub together?"
"I expect it would come off in time," she replies.
"Good," I say. "Good."
There are adverts in the back of the zoo magazine. Adverts for all sorts of things. Mostly Panda mugs and things like that. On the inside back page is an advert for keepers. No experience necessary it says. No qualifications required, just a calm temperament and a willingness to work hard with animals. I draw a circle round the phone number with my pen.
At bedtime Gail goes up before me. That doesn't happen often. She's normally a late bird. Usually I'm in bed and almost asleep before she comes up. Tonight, however, she retires early. I can hear her moving about between the bedroom and the bathroom. I put my poinsettia on a saucer on the kitchen window sill. It looks a bit pathetic, but I don't have the heart to throw it out.
I lock up the doors and turn out the lights before going up. There's no sign of the cat. It's probably lying on a bed somewhere, keeping it's head down. I carry up two glasses of water for Gail and me.
The bedroom light is turned down low. Gail is lying on the bed. I can scarcely believe my eyes. She is wearing an ivory coloured, silk teddy. It's cut high at the sides, and the top section is a fine filigree of lace. Even in the low light I can see the dark area of her nipples through the lace. She smiles at me when I walk in.
"Hurry up," she says. "It's getting cold."
When I am undressed she is under the duvet waiting. She cuddles up close and throws her arm across my chest. We lie in silence for several minutes.
"I'm sorry, Tom," she says. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I hope one day you'll be able to forgive me."
I can feel the warmth of her against me, through the silk, and the pressure of her breasts against my side. I put my left hand on her hip and feel the material under the tips of my fingers. I feel her breathing. She snuggles her head into my neck and kisses me gently.
I'm nonplussed. I hadn't expected this. I stroke her body gently through the silk. I don't know what to say.
"I love you, Tom," she says. "I got confused for a while. I let you down. I want to start again if you still want that."
She kisses my neck again. I wonder if I should tell her about the job. Perhaps she'd feel differently if she knew I was unemployed. I lie almost still apart from the small stroking movements that I'm making with my left hand.
"I'm thinking of applying for a new job," I say. "Something with animals, perhaps."
"If that's what you want, Tom, that's fine."
"Big animals preferably. Elephants or hippos if there's a choice."
"In a zoo?" she asks.
"Probably," I say. "Did I tell you I met a man called Bob Downe the other day? It was him that gave me the idea. It's a great life, Tom, he said. Very rewarding. Working outdoors. Meeting the public. Winning the affection and respect of the animals. Lot's to learn of course. They don't just employ anybody to do that kind of job."
"I'm sure you'd be very good, Tom." She is stroking my hair with her right hand. This hasn't happened for months.
"And the perks, of course. Free entry anytime. You'd be able to get in free too I expect. And a uniform. I've always wanted a job with a uniform."
Her hand has moved down from my head and she is stroking my nipples gently.
"And manure," I say. "Tons of it. We'll be able to put it all over the garden. Tiger dung is especially good for roses I believe."
She continues to nuzzle
my neck, and I feel her push her hips against mine.
"I wonder if you have to take your own bags?" I ask.
"What for, Tom?" she mumbles as she chews my ear.
"The manure, of course," I reply.
The End
If you enjoyed reading about Tom Fletcher in 'I Keep Thinking It's Tuesday', then you might also enjoy the following Tom Fletcher story by Barnaby Wilde.
A Question of Alignment
Something is going wrong with the Lottery. There hasn’t been a jackpot winner for eight weeks. Something is also going wrong with the weather. It just won’t stop raining.
Balding, middle aged Tom Fletcher is an unlikely man to save the universe. In fact he is an unlikely man to do anything requiring action, but when the family cat talks to him and then walks through the sitting room wall even he is intrigued.
The cats have discovered that someone from a parallel universe is trying to alter the laws of probability by exchanging Lottery balls. Unfortunately, although all cats are born with the ability to travel between parallel worlds by the simple method of walking through perfectly aligned east/west walls, they are not born with hands suitable for opening doors or carrying Lottery balls.
Tom’s cat, Smokey, (or Boudicca as she has nicknamed herself) has oversold Tom’s abilities to her peers but despite his poor juggling skills they adopt him as their leader and set out on a quest for the mysterious ‘Smith’.
Soon, Tom is littering the adjacent universes with stuff that just shouldn’t be there, creating more problems than he is solving; like how to hold up his trousers when his belt is two dimensions away or how to explain to his wife the presence of a white lace thong in his spectacles case.
Barnaby Wilde. July 2005