The Road From Langholm Avenue

by Michael Graeme

  They were taking electronic circuits from another supplier and sealing them in plastic in order to keep the weather out. He showed me the process and then showed me some parts they'd cut up in order to examine them for evidence of unwanted air bubbles.

  "These seem fine, Mr Wilson. No problems at all."

  "It was a processing fault," he explained and then went into details about temperatures and pressures. It made sense and I believed him, but my mind was elsewhere. Stavros was right, I thought. He was a nice bloke, keen to please. We shared a coffee in his office and he pumped me for information about the way things were going at Derby's.

  "It's shutting at the end of this year, " I told him. "But as far as you're concerned, Mr Wilson, it's business as usual. Instead of shipping the amplifiers to Middleton, you'll be shipping them to France."

  "Any chance of you being taken on over there?"

  "There's talk of positions for some of us. But I'm not sure if I'd want to go."

  He must have been in his early sixties and he came across as fatherly and concerned. "Why ever not?" he said. "It seems like a wonderful opportunity - and you know the business. I suppose it's a big step though if you have children. I mean you have their lives to consider as well, and your wife,… ."

  "Not married," I said, though I don't know why, for in spite of everything, I still felt married. I couldn't help it.

  "Then there's nothing stopping you."

  Wasn't there? I wondered, trying and still failing to reason it all through. I still had two months to work and I was carrying on as if at some point someone was going to turn around and announce that we wouldn't be closing after all, that it had all been a joke or a mistake. Was that human nature, I wondered, to hang on and hope for the best?

  He saw me out and we shook hands on the car park. "I hope it all works out for you, anyway, Tom," he said. "Give me a call if there's anything I can do. He was a stranger, yet he seemed so genuinely concerned for me I began to wonder if I had better not be more concerned for myself than I apparently was. When he'd gone, I stood on the car park and looked around at the little industrial units scattered about. At one time I might have been curious to know what went on behind those walls, curious to explore the diversity of their enterprise, but try as I might, the world of work just didn't seem that important any more.

  I glanced at my watch. It was a little after four. By the time I'd driven over to Derby's, I'd have barely quarter of an hour before it was time to drive home again. It would be too late to do anything with the amplifiers today. I could take them in tomorrow morning,.. and Bexley's Bottles was only five minutes away!

  I was drawn as I'd known full well I would be. I had told myself it was right to finish it. It would open the way for me and Carol, perhaps even for the two of us clearing off to France and setting up home together beneath her cosy duvet in some romantic Parisian apartment. But that was not the real reason. Thinking back, there was no reason, at least none beyond the sheer inevitability of it.

  When I walked into Bexley's reception area, I felt my blood sinking down into my feet. The blonde girl looked up. She was bright and friendly.

  "Hello there," she said. "Can I help?"

  "Erm,… ."

  What to say? Name perhaps?

  "My name's Norton. Erm,… I was,… ."

  Her expression changed, cutting off the timid flow of my words. It was as if something had clicked inside her head and, inexplicably, she seemed to take possession of me. "Mr Morton. Yes. We're expecting you."

  "Eh? No,… . Norton."

  "That's right, Mr Morton."

  Then another voice came from one side, soft, speculative, welcoming. "Mr Morton?"

  It was a voice, I’d not heard in a quarter of a century and yet I remembered it instantly. Slowly then, I turned,… .

  Chapter 20

  She was the same. Same face, same hair, same figure. She was even balancing on the sides of her shoes as she had been apt to do as a girl, and the sight of her shot me through with such a force I could not speak.

  "Come through," she said. Her hand was extended, beckoning me to her. I felt the receptionist clipping a name-badge to my lapel: "James Morton, Visitor," it read.

  I looked down at it as if in a dream. It was a mistake. They were expecting someone else. But how to explain?…

  She was smiling at me, beaming pleasantness and it was too much. It was like the blast from a furnace. I could feel the skin on my face blistering and I felt a tightness in my chest, so that I could hardly breathe.

  "No need to be nervous," she was saying. "We're quite harmless."

  Then I was with her,… with Her. The door swung shut behind us and we were walking down a narrow corridor, shoulder to shoulder, quite close and smiling still. I was thinking I would have to explain, but not there, not in the corridor - she was moving too briskly. I'd tell her when she stopped. A mistake! It would all come out and we'd laugh and I'd say: "Can I take you for a meal after work, perhaps?"

  Then her eyes would slide away. There'd be a slow shake of the head, an embarrassed silence,…

  "It's all right," I'd tell her. "It was lovely to have seen you again."

  Then I'd walk out, gather up the pieces of my life and examine what was left to carry on with. I’d call Carol and make love to her until dawn! But for now, I remained silent, stunned by the hot needles piercing me from every angle. And as of old it seemed she did not know me, nor had she any idea of the effect she was having.

  "I'm Rachel, by the way," she said.

  "Rachel,… yes,… "

  "It's just in here."

  She opened a door and walked into a cool office. I followed and was mesmerised by the sight of her unfastening her jacket. She swung it round gracefully like it was a cape before dropping it over the back of a chair. Then she took a seat behind a dark, shiny topped desk and looked up at me, fixing me with her eyes - ebony, the same dark wells I remembered, and she smiled again.

  "Please sit down, Mr. Morton."

  I sat opposite, frantically searching for the right words. At first I saw and felt only her, but then, following those eyes into the room I realised we were not alone. We were sitting, not at desk but at long table around which were seated three men,… . shirt sleeved and somewhat weary-looking.

  There was a young man at the head of the table and for some reason I noticed his shirt was the best in the room. It had a certain stylish flair and he wore his fine mop of mousy hair in a long pony tail. He was the gaffer, I thought. I looked at Rachel for a way out of this but her eyes, like everyone else's, were now fixed on him.

  "Mr. Morton," he said.

  "Erm,… "

  "I'll be honest, Mr Morton. It's been a long day. We must have had twenty people through this room and not found anyone suitable, so I'll cut out the preamble if I may and just ask you directly what you know about Solid-Form?"

  Now, it so happened that I knew a lot about Solid-Form. It was a computer aided design system and had been part of my workaday life for as long as I could remember. Without thinking I just said: "What version?"

  That stumped him and he turned to another young man who had a prominent and pimply nose. "Version?" he said, obviously eager to please his boss. "Well, the latest, I suppose. We only take delivery next week. Version three, isn't it?"

  "Three's still on Beta, as far as I know," I said, revelling in the vernacular. "I work with two point nine. I'm sure that's the commercial standard."

  "Okay," said the pony tail. "Regardless of version, how much experience do you have?"

  "About seven years."

  But Pimply Nose wasn't having that. He was piqued I'd been able to catch him out and now he was looking for revenge. "I thought it had only been on the market for two," he said.

  Slowly, through the fog of this surreal and egotistic banter, reality caught up with me: I'd blundered into an interview, and astonishingly I seemed to have all the right answers.

  "It used to be called Compu-net," I explained. "Then
Solid-Form took them over and changed the name, that's all."

  Pony Tail was riffling through his papers. "Sorry,… I don't seem to have your details here. Can you tell us what it is you do?"

  And so it went on, deeper and deeper. I don't know why I stayed beyond the rare pleasure of Rachel's proximity. I simply felt the moment take me, and I allowed myself to go with it. But Pimply Nose didn't think my experience of marine engines was of much significance. "I mean you do know what we make here?" he asked, apparently trying to lay another trap for me.

  "Well,… bottles. Plastic mouldings, isn't it? High production rates, I imagine."

  Pony Tail held up a little medicine bottle and gestured to the computer workstation beside me. "Can you model one of these for us?"

  "Sure." I became aware then of the computer workstation at my elbow. I nudged the mouse and the black screen burst into colour, presenting me with a familiar menu layout. It was easy. They were beginners in the world of computer modelling and they were after an experienced techno-geek like me to light the way.

  I glanced at Rachel while I worked. She was looking studiously at her notes - doodling. Bored stiff, I thought. It was an expression I had seen countless times before, in class, and the memory of it haunted me. How could she look like that, I wondered? What right had she? How could she be the same after all this time?

  It took me five minutes to create a computer model of the bottle. It wasn't to scale or anything but all the main features of it were there. It shaded up beautifully and when I set it spinning it's movement was smooth. "That's something like it anyway,… " I said. "This is one hell of a machine, by the way. I'm used to something a bit slower."

  There was an older chap sitting beside me. He wore a tweed jacket with a fine assortment of pens in his top pocket - the chief engineer. He was looking over my shoulder. "Brilliant," he said.

  Pimply Nose couldn't see from his seat but didn't seem interested in moving to have a look. "So how old are you then, Mr Morton?" he asked.

  There was an almost audible collective intake of breath. Unfortunately, as I was discovering, ageism is a fact of life, but it wasn't very smart of him to broadcast it.

  "I'm forty two," I said.

  There was no response. I'd had a good run, but now I guessed things were about to fall apart. Pony tail looked at me with the eyes of someone who might enjoy watching people jump to his command and I realised my father was right. I had years on him. I'd think about myself, I'd turn around and tell him to fuck off, and he knew it. He blinked and looked down at his notes, trying to gather his thoughts. Then, as if he'd willed it, the door opened and the blonde receptionist came in. With a little sideways look at me, she went up to him and whispered something in his ear. He was cool. He just nodded and said thank-you. Then he looked at me again, this time with a certain smugness. "I'm sorry but what was your name again?"

  "Norton," I said, emphasising the N. "Tom N-orton."

  "It's just that a Mr Morton's phoned to say he can't make the interview."

  "Well, like I said, I'm Tom N-orton. I,… erm… called in to see if there was any work going. I'm due to be made redundant at the end of the year. I must admit, I was a little surprised to find myself in an interview so soon."

  The pony tail smiled, a crocodile sort of smile. Pimply Nose looked smug and the engineer laughed. Rachel blushed and looked at me, her eyes widening. Then Pony Tail looked at her, his eyes fastened on the side of her head, his lips pursed in frustration. "Ms Standish," he said. "What ever's going on?"

  It's strange, how events can suddenly trigger memories of other events, memories we're not aware of having kept. There had been a time at school when another man had looked at her like that. He was without doubt the most ferocious maths teacher I have ever encountered, one who greeted any lack of understanding with complete intolerance and brutal sarcasm.

  I recall Rachel had been sitting a few rows back from me and the teacher, a big, hairy chap with mutton chop whiskers, had hurled a question at her. She hadn't known the answer and I'd felt her silence then, as I felt it now. I'd tried to will the words into her mind so she might escape his wrath,… but it hadn't worked.

  "Miss Standish," the teacher had said, his mouth curling in feigned contempt. "You are a foolish and irresponsible young woman." I'd focused my eyes upon him then, as I focused them upon Pony Tail now, and I burned a hole clean through his head. I felt the same way, exactly,.. the same smouldering rage, and all on behalf of someone who did not know me. It was astonishing, and frightening to know I could still feel that way about anything.

  "This is my fault," I said. "I'm sorry,… "

  "Hell of a coincidence," said the engineer. "But anyway, I don't see the problem." He turned back to the computer screen and tapped at it with one of his pens. "How quickly could you create a mould tool from that, then?"

  "Oh about ten minutes," I said. "You could have it e-mailed to your toolmaker anywhere in the world within an hour and be cutting metal in the morning."

  "Get away!"

  But the other's weren't listening any more. Pony Tail was clicking his pen on and off. "There is a certain protocol we must follow," he explained, "If you'd like to submit a CV, I'm sure we'd be happy to,… "

  "Bollocks," said the engineer, who then immediately apologised to Rachel. "Look, this is the first bloke we've had in here today who can do more than switch this computer on - the only one who's had any idea what it is we make!"

  But Pony Tail wasn't impressed. "We have an obligation to the bona-fide applicants," he said.

  "There's nowt to writing out an application form," said the engineer. "We can do that now. I'll get one from reception."

  I stood up. "No, look. I've made a mistake. I'll be on my way, if it's all the same."

  "Rubbish, sit down, lad. Have a cup of tea or summat. We can soon sort this out."

  But Pony Tail preferred the former option. "Ms Standish,… . if you'd escort Mr. N-orton off the premises, please."

  Rachel stood and made for the door. I felt wretched,… not so much for my own embarrassment, which was growing by the second, but more because I felt through my actions I had lowered her reputation in their unworthy eyes. Before I left, with one click of the mouse, I trashed the computer model of the bottle. It was childish, but there was no way they were having it.

  "I'm sorry to have wasted your time, gentlemen."

  She was waiting in the corridor. She looked hot and flustered. "I'm so sorry," she said. "You must think I'm an idiot."

  "No,… Rachel! God no,… . It was my fault entirely. I should have stopped you sooner,… I just thought,… . Well, I don't know. It was stupid of me."

  She paused in reception and pulled some papers from behind the desk.

  "If you'd like to fill one in and drop it off,… "

  It was an application form. "Actually, I don't think I'll bother," I said.

  "But you must! It’s why you came."

  "It is? I mean,… I've caused you enough trouble."

  She pressed the form on me, so I took it and folded it carefully, a slow precision fold which bought me time, time I used to look at her once more, perhaps I thought for the last time. Then her brow twitched and she seemed to remember something from a former life, a life beyond Bexley's Bottles and the fen-lands of Cambridgeshire.

  "Do I know you?" she asked.

  At once I felt the floor become unsteady, as if the carpet had been laid on water. "We were in the same year at school," I replied. Then I held out my hand to her. "I'll be on my way, Rachel. It's been,… lovely,… seeing you again after all this time. You really haven't changed at all. You're exactly as I remember you."

  My hand was shaking, my heart pounding so much I was sure she could hear it. Slowly then, she reached out and sealed her fingers around mine,… pressing gently and regarding me closely while she searched her memory. For the first time, I felt her flesh. It was cool and firm. And her touch changed me.

  "Tom? Tom Norton? Yes I do remember no
w. Of course. It's such a long time ago. How are you?"

  "Oh,… fine."

  I was elated. She remembered me! Remembered my name. Or was she simply being polite? I was weakening, her every word innocently chipping away at my remaining strength. I wasn't sure how much more I could take, without sitting down. "And you?" I asked, weakly.

  She paused. "Okay," she said.

  I fancied I could feel myself growing faint. "Perhaps,… . we could catch up some time," I suggested - so easily done I could not believe I'd said it. Then I watched her, scrutinised her every move, every beat of her lids, every twitch of her mouth. And sure enough, the eyes slid slowly away. There was a little sideways movement of her head, not quite a shake, but it was enough to disembowel me. The blow was none the less painful for having seen it coming, nor indeed for having anticipated it for the best part of twenty five years.

  It was a strangely charged moment,… devastating and yet I realised it was a triumph as well, a glimmer of sunshine warming the fringes of the dark clouds. I'd be okay, I thought. I'd get over this and I would be whole again - except now she was smiling.

  "Actually, that would be lovely," she said. Then she handed me a card with her name on it, and her mobile number:

  Ms Rachel Standish, Production Supervisor, Bexley's Bottles,…

  "Call me," she said.

  Chapter 21

  I did not go directly home, but drove around aimlessly for a while, eventually heading out across the Plain of Lancashire, dusk falling as blankets of mist formed above the unfenced vastness of its meadows. I'd always thought the plain a dreary place, even under the most idyllic Summer's sky, but for extra measure Autumn had brought mud and mist to the roads which criss-crossed its forlorn bareness. And its roads are narrow, a disjointed mesh of byways, forming a myriad junctions at which I seemed to pick my way with no more care than at the tossing of a coin.