Scratch

by Gillan, Danny

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ I tried not to let the stab in the heart show. ‘What about Andrea?’

  ‘She does think we’re kidding ourselves. She likes Ingo, but she understands I’ve not been happy. She just doesn’t believe I’m going to stay here for long, with or without him.’

  ‘Or me?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Paula said. ‘She thinks you’re a conveniently familiar rebound.’

  That I could just about understand, but that wasn’t what was worrying me. ‘Why doesn’t she think you’ll stay here?’

  ‘She remembers how much I wanted to go to Germany, even before I met Ingo.’

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘God, of course, you don’t know any of this, sorry. When I moved to London I ended up working with this lovely old lady, Corinna, in the German Languages department at the Uni. She used to tell me all these stories about the village she grew up in, and I got hooked.’

  ‘Was she a Nazi?’

  ‘No, she was Jewish actually. She had to be smuggled to England when she was a teenager, didn’t go back till she was thirty. But she loved her country so much, even after losing most of her family during the war; it was infectious. She invited me back with her for the summer eight years ago and it blew me away. It’s so beautiful, Jim, especially out in the countryside.’

  ‘Cool,’ I said, not knowing what else was appropriate.

  ‘After that summer I decided I wanted to move there, and then I met Ingo and it all kind of fell into place. The school was his idea but it seemed so perfect. I already loved the language and now I loved the place too, combining both was so obvious.’

  ‘And Andrea thinks you’ll go back?’

  ‘Yeah, she does,’ Paula said, with what I felt was unnecessary wistfulness.

  ‘But you don’t?’

  ‘No, Jim, I don’t. I love the place, but I need to be here with my family now. I’ve done my time there.’

  ‘With your family, right.’

  ‘And you, ya feckin’ idiot.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I relaxed as I saw the warmth in Paula’s smile. ‘Wee touch of the paranoia there, for a minute.’

  ‘No, it’s my fault. I won’t pretend I didn’t love Germany; still do. That doesn’t mean I’m going to change my mind about anything. I love you, Jim; I wouldn’t ever lie about that. Andrea knows me well, but maybe not as well as she thinks.’ Paula reached over and held my hand again. ‘I don’t do rebounds, or at least if I do I don’t tell them I love them. Promise.’

  ‘I believe you.’ And I did.

  We gazed at each other in silence for a couple of seconds before Paula spoke again. ‘This is the point where normal people would have a wee snog, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes it is,’ I agreed. ‘And Jesus, do I wish we were normal.’

  Paula had clearly decided to appropriate the puppy-dog look now I was finished with it, and it sneaked onto her face again.

  ‘Maybe we could pretend we are, just for tonight.’ She held my eyes even harder than she held my hand. My legs went all funny.

  ‘I … can’t,’ I said, for no fucking reason I could fathom at all. ‘I want to, I really want to, believe me. But I can’t until you’re single. It wouldn’t be … real enough.’ These words definitely came out of my mouth, I heard them, but their existence mystified the hell out of me.

  Paula looked briefly disappointed (a bit more briefly than my ego would have preferred). ‘Am I detecting signs you may actually have matured in your old age, Jim Cooper?’

  ‘Possibly, but don’t tell Terry, he’s already worried about me.’

  Paula leaned forward and kissed the tip of my nose lightly. ‘Is that allowed?’

  I nodded. ‘This is going to be hard, isn’t it?’

  ‘Looks that way,’ Paula agreed.

  ‘Why the fuck did you have to go and get married?’

  ‘Because you were a feckin’ wanker twelve years ago.’

  ‘Ah, okay. So this is all my fault, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thanks for clearing that up. Should we have another drink?’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘Depends whether you reckon can keep your hands off me or not.’

  Chapter 20

  Holding hands.

  And talking. Talking on the phone, talking in person, lots of talking.

  Talking is good, clearly. It’s the cornerstone of any relationship. If you don’t talk you’re in trouble; that’s just the basic truth of it.

  Holding hands is also good. It brings you closer; it provides a physical connection to mirror the emotional one you’ve established with all the fucking talking.

  It wasn’t too bad, I suppose. Paula Fraser was telling me she was in love with me several times a week, and I got to say it back to her, out loud and everything.

  With Sammy in the loop we could at least spend time together in The Basement without having to worry too much about anyone seeing us. We could get away with holding hands over the table occasionally instead of under it.

  We became reacquainted with one another’s likes and dislikes; Paula reminded me how much she hated Star Wars, and I reminded her that I, too, thought it was pretty juvenile (I think I got away with it). I rediscovered her love of all things Johnny Depp shaped, and she was forced to acknowledge once again my deep emotional attachment to The Clash.

  We settled into a sort of routine after that first week. Due to the combination of me working at least three nights out of seven, her being popular and having lots of friends, and the limitations inherent in hiding what was going on from our respective parents and pretty much everyone else we knew, we ended up only seeing each other twice a week or so. We spoke on the phone most days, though, or at the very least texted goodnight (with lots of ‘x’s).

  Even after more than a month, there would always be a short period of nervous small talk at the beginning of our conversations before we relaxed. To me, this (aside from the almost complete lack of physical contact, of course) was the biggest reminder our situation wasn’t ‘normal’. It was as though it took a couple of minutes for our brains to adjust and remember we were a couple, sort of.

  Anticipation can be wonderful, but it can also be the most frustrating, agonizing thing on the planet.

  But grandad Isaak was stubbornly refusing to get any better, or fatally worse (I’d have been happy with either), and Paula couldn’t bring herself to have ‘the conversation’ with Ingo until something changed.

  I wasn’t completely clear on her reasoning, but it seemed to be that, if old Isaak got better, then Ingo would be happy enough to deal with his marriage ending without it sending him over the edge. Conversely, if Isaak bit the big one Ingo would be so distraught that a failed marriage would make little difference to his state of mind. I’m fairly certain there were a couple of flaws in this rationale but didn’t feel it was my place to say.

  One blessing during this period was that Paula’s dad made no more requests for my company, and so I didn’t have to deal with trying to lie to him. It did occur to me that this could well have been a deliberate kindness on Simon’s part, but I was happy that for now at least my contact with him was limited to the odd email or text about one or more of the many facets of Bruce Lee’s genius. I could cope with that.

  ‘What’ve you got?’ My mum asked, eying the HMV bag in my hand as I wandered into the dining room, returning from a lazy afternoon off in town.

  ‘A DVD, nothing special,’ I said.

  ‘Anything I’d like?’

  ‘Nah, it’s martial arts. Not your thing.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were into kung fu movies.’

  ‘Someone recommended it.’

  ‘You should watch it with your dad; he used to love Bruce Lee.’

  ‘Really?’ First I’d heard.

  ‘Oh God, yes. The first time I saw your father cry was the day Bruce Lee died.’

  This was getting weird. ‘You’re kidding.’

  Mum looked at me and s
hook her head sadly, as she often seemed to do.

  ‘You two don’t know each other very well at all, do you? You’re as bad as each other, honestly. Is having a conversation such a horrible prospect?’

  This appeared to be rhetorical, thankfully, and her attention returned to the newspaper spread on the table.

  ‘Okay.’

  I went upstairs to my room and took the special edition of The Big Boss out of its poly bag. The cover art showed Bruce Lee in mid-air, ready to take someone’s head off with a flying high kick.

  I was reading the synopsis on the back when my mobile rang.

  ‘Afternoon, you,’ Paula said.

  ‘Hiya. How’s you?’

  ‘Fine, yeah. What you up to?’

  ‘Not much, putting off thinking about starting work at five. You?’

  ‘Putting off thinking about dinner with my sister at eight.’

  The nervous small talk didn’t last as long on the phone as it did in person, for some reason. ‘Make sure you say nice things about me,’ I said, dropping the DVD on the bed and flopping onto my back beside it. ‘She still needs converting to the cause.’

  ‘I’m working on her, don’t worry. When will you get finished tonight?’

  It was only Wednesday so The Basement wouldn’t be too busy. ‘One at the latest, hopefully.’

  ‘Fancy a late night rendezvous in The Grind? Andrea’s going clubbing but I can’t be arsed.’

  ‘By which you mean you want to see me so badly you’re willing to abandon your sister.’

  ‘If you want. Is Sammy on tonight?’

  ‘No it’s Kate. Don’t worry though, she’ll be fine if you want to come in and wait for me to finish.’

  ‘Aye, only because she knows I’m Sammy’s mate. That girl really doesn’t like me.’

  ‘That’s because you’re far better looking than she is. You can’t blame her for feeling insecure around you.’

  ‘Ah, if only you were a better liar, Jim, I might well fall in love with you.’

  ‘In that case I’ll take a course on effective fibbing as soon as the Open University adds it to the curriculum.’

  ‘Maybe not, I like knowing when you’re talking shite. I never need to worry about you sneaking about kissing other girls.’

  ‘Hey, I can’t even kiss you and you keep saying you love me. What chance would I have with anyone else?’

  Oops, I hadn’t meant to raise that issue. It had been edging ever closer to being a contentious bastard of a bone over the past five weeks.

  ‘Okay, I’ll see you tonight at some point. Bye,’ Paula didn’t sound angry at all.

  ‘Eh, bye,’ I said, but she had already hung up.

  I knew she wouldn’t hold a grudge. Our situation led to both of us becoming a bit irritable and frustrated every now and then, and if Paula showed this more than I did it was only because she was dealing with a hell of a lot more than me.

  My main complaint was simple impatience. I wanted our relationship to get going properly, but I could generally placate myself with the knowledge that it would happen eventually.

  Paula was dealing with the same thing; she was also facing ending a five year marriage, relocating to another country for the fourth time in her life and coming to terms with a business going arse-up and taking all of her money, her credit rating and several years of her life with it. I was, therefore, more than willing to forgive her the odd wee strop here and there.

  I heard my dad come through the front door as I got ready for work. Cap and bus fares sorted, I was about to leave when I had a thought. I turned and lifted the Big Boss DVD from the bed and went.

  ‘That’s me away.’

  Mum was still at the table with the paper and my dad was standing in the kitchen doorway, polishing a shoe.

  ‘Okay, see you tomorrow,’ my mum said.

  ‘Hrgmm,’ Dad sort of said.

  ‘Oh, Dad, I got you a present.’ I put the DVD on the table and made my exit before he had time to say anything.

  I was working with Natalie that night. Kate was on duty too but I had long since stopped classing whatever she did as work. She was pretending to be engrossed in some stock sheets when I went into the office to dump my jacket, and all I got was a brief ‘hiya’ before she returned to her studies.

  ‘All right, Uncle Jim?’ Natalie said when I returned to the bar. ‘All set for an exciting night of cleaning glass shelves?’

  ‘Can’t wait.’

  The mid-week evening crowd had yet to build to anything much in The Basement, so generally these nights were spent cleaning and sorting the bar out for the following day and doing as little else as possible.

  ‘Daisy wants us to dust the whole gantry, too.’ Natalie made sure she said this quietly enough so that Kate wouldn’t hear from the office.

  ‘Oh joy.’

  ‘I’ll do the bottom shelf but I can’t reach the high ones so they’re all yours.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Although I had a lot of time for Mark and Lucy, Natalie had quickly become my favourite to work with. She was one of life’s plain speakers, who called a spade a fucking shovel. She worked her arse off when she had to, but happily conspired in mischief when she didn’t.

  With Terry spending most of his free time disproving my ‘gay’ theory with the full cooperation of Ronni, I didn’t see too much of him these days, and had begun to think of Natalie as a kind of surrogate best mate, albeit a pint-sized one I only ever saw at work. If anything, Natalie had the filthier mouth (and mind) of the two.

  ‘I reckon Daisy needs a decent shag of a night,’ Natalie said from underneath the pint glass shelf. ‘At least then she’d understand what it’s like to work up a sweat.’

  I stopped dusting bottles for a second. ‘With her looks I doubt that’s a problem.’

  ‘That’s not what I hear. According to Abe she scares guys away by immediately trying their surname out on herself. Kate McDonald? Nah, Kate Torrance? Sorry, doesn’t scan. Abe says she’s been single longer than you have.’

  ‘What’s that meant to mean?’

  ‘He says you haven’t had a bird for over a year. Is that true?’

  ‘What? No.’ Putting Paula to one side, this was absolutely true, but I had never told Abe. How did chefs always know so bloody much?

  ‘What if you don’t include whatever weirdness is going on with you and that Paula lassie?’

  ‘What weirdness?’

  ‘Oh come on, we’re not daft. She comes in to meet you twice a week and you hide in the corner giggling at each other. Are you telling me you’re just mates?’

  ‘Yeah. Very old, very good, mates.’

  ‘Who hold hands when they think no one’s looking?’

  ‘Shit, you’ve seen that?’

  ‘We all have, matey-boy. What we can’t figure out is why you always see her out to her taxi then come back in for another beer on your own. What’s the deal?’

  Paula and I had decided sharing cabs home was too dangerous, both in a ‘my dad might see us’ and a ‘we’ll end up pawing’ way. Sammy knew the truth and Mark had a fair idea what was going on, but I was confident they wouldn’t gossip, and I had made sure I didn’t spill anything to Natalie or Lucy, and especially not to Abe.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ I said.

  ‘Abe thinks you’re born-again Christians with a vow of chastity.’

  ‘Abe doesn’t know everything,’ I said.

  ‘Well, duh! You drink far too much for it to be that. So what is it?’

  I thought about trying to come up with some bullshit, but decided I liked Natalie too much to bother. ‘Can you keep a secret?’

  ‘Who from?’ Natalie extricated herself from the glass shelves and was now listening eagerly.

  ‘Well, everyone. That’s what a secret means.’

  ‘In that case, no.’

  ‘Usually people lie and say yes.’

  ‘Well I must be unusual then. If there are specific individuals you don’t want me
to tell I might be able to help you, depending on who they are.’

  ‘Okay. Lucy.’

  ‘No, sorry. I can’t promise that.’

  ‘Eh, Abe?’

  She thought for a minute. ‘I don’t do too many day shifts so I could avoid telling him anything for a few weeks, probably.’

  ‘What about Kate?’

  Natalie burst out laughing. ‘I wouldn’t tell her if her arse was on fire.’

  ‘Okay. Do you know any members of my family or Paula’s?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any of Paula’s friends?’

  ‘Only Sammy.’

  ‘He already knows.’

  ‘Cool. What about your friends, you didn’t ask if I know any of them.’

  ‘I’ve only got one and he knows.’

  So I explained.

  It took most of the night, partly due to customer interruptions but mainly because Natalie kept laughing.

  ‘… hoping he dies soon so we can get on with things.’ It was after eleven before I got to the end.

  ‘Oh Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim. She seems like a lovely lassie, but are you sure she’s worth it?’ Natalie had brought her cackling under control.

  ‘Honestly? Not a single doubt.’

  ‘You sound pretty certain.’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s not always pretty, but I am certain.’

  Natalie gave me a truly wonderful smile. ‘If I was single, about eighty years older and into baldy twats, I might fall for the likes of you, assuming I was also drunk and feeling charitable. And desperate.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll find a compliment in there somewhere when I’ve got the time to look, so thanks.’ Natalie was almost as good as Terry at insulting you into feeling good about yourself.

  Although neither of us were facing that way, we both suddenly became aware of the office door opening; it was a kind of radar all the staff had developed.

  ‘How are we doing?’ Kate asked. ‘Did we get the gantry cleaned?’

  Natalie rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, we did manage that.’

  ‘And have we stocked up the bar, Jim?’

  ‘Yes Kate, we have done that, yes.’ I managed not to snigger by remembering I was in my thirties.