Obstacles to Young Love

by David Nobbs

  He drives on at last, up Lower Cragley Road, turns right, follows the route of the twenty-eight bus, drives round the new inner ring road, and up the hill and back to his dad’s sandwich and Mrs Lewington’s lurcher.

  I won’t do that again, he tells himself. That way madness lies.

  When he has finished work, he asks his dad if he’s organised for supper.

  ‘Everything tickety-boo, boy. Worry you not.’

  ‘Fine. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Sleep well.’

  ‘Sentiment reciprocated.’

  ‘Bye, Dad.’

  ‘Bye, son.’

  He walks slowly back home, savouring for a moment the warmth of the late afternoon. He looks at the roses, which are beginning to bud nicely. He opens the front door with great reluctance, and finds himself in an empty house. This surprises him, but does not worry him. Anything may have happened.

  He washes his hands, even though he washed them before he left number ninety-six. This evening he finds that he wishes he was a drinker – a moderate one, of course. But to reach for a beer now would be very pleasant, and he no longer has any disapproval of strong drink – in moderation, of course.

  As the minutes pass he does begin to become slightly uneasy. He lolls in the rocking chair and tries to concentrate on the newspaper, but it’s all bad news and he can’t focus on it. He hurls the paper away in irritation.

  There’s a sharp rat-tat-tat on the front door, and suddenly he’s very worried. Suddenly he knows that something is seriously wrong. He realises afterwards, long afterwards, when he can at last begin to think about it with detachment, that he was not at all surprised to see the policeman there.

  The policeman is young, sweaty, nervous, wretched. He is clutching and unclutching his hands.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been a terrible accident, sir. Your wife and the other boy are in shock and they’re being treated at the General. I’m afraid…it was a car, sir, and it didn’t stop. Right outside the park, sir, at…’ He consults his notebook with trembling hands – even in his shock Timothy can see how ashamed the young man is of his trembling hands. ‘…Three forty-four p.m. this afternoon. I’m afraid, sir, your…I’m afraid your boy is dead. He died instantly, sir, there would have been no suffering. I hope in time that will—’

  ‘Yes, but…which boy? Which boy, officer?’

  The officer stares at him and a blush steals across his face. His embarrassment and misery and fury are terrible to behold.

  Timothy is driven to the hospital. Which boy? Which boy? He dare not hope…hope that it isn’t…which one, he can’t say a name, he would never forgive himself if he said a name even to himself…oh, get me there, please, oh, which one, which one, I cannot grieve for either and I cannot escape grieving for both until…oh, which one, which one??

  He is taken into a consulting room which has been made available. Maggie is sitting in a chair, ashen, staring. She has an untouched cup of tea at her side. Liam rushes towards him and hugs him, and bursts into tears, and Timothy…Timothy feels, just for a moment, only for a moment – but a moment is enough to haunt a man for a lifetime – a spasm of disappointment.

  Sam’s promise will never come to fulfilment. He will never show Sam the world.

  Liam will find the world for himself. Sam was the one who would have needed showing.

  He leads Liam over to Maggie. He bends and kisses her. Her eyes stare at him piteously.

  ‘It was my fault,’ she says.

  ‘I thought it was a runaway car.’

  ‘There were two cars. Boy racers. They just touched, touched each other for a moment. One of them lost control, mounted the pavement. Sam was on the outside. I should have been on the outside. It was my fault. It should be me that’s dead.’

  A nurse enters with some papers, which she puts on the consultant’s desk. She looks out of the window, then turns towards them. She may be slightly surprised to see them there, but unexplained things often happen in the hospital.

  She smiles brightly.

  ‘What a lovely evening,’ she says. ‘First of the year. Does us all good to see the sun, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘Only the bare rudiments, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What is the name of that town?’

  She knows its name. It’s Boppard. But she needs to hear the woman speak. She needs to study her accent.

  ‘That is Boppard.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s very pretty.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Boppard is very, how do you say, my English, I have been to England many times, I have seen your Eastbourne and your West Bromwich and your Dorking, but I am rusty. Yes, Boppard is…picturesque, quaint.’

  ‘You speak it very well.’

  ‘You are too kind.’ The German woman smiles. She has a very attractive smile. ‘This is your first time in Germany?’

  ‘Yes. I’m auditioning for a part in a new…what we in England call a sitcom.’

  ‘I do not know this sitcom.’

  ‘It’s short for situation comedy. It’s a series of half-hour television programmes recorded in front of an audience.’

  ‘Nächste station, Boppard,’ is announced over the public address as the large, crowded river boat noses in. It’s ridiculous, but Naomi looks at the crowds politely and patiently queuing to get on and has an absurd hope that she might see their travel agent friend from the Amazon. There’s not a chance, of course.

  A quick burst of reverse from the engines, and the landfall is perfect. The captain must have done this several thousand times. Naomi wonders if he gets bored or if he pretends it’s the QE2.

  ‘You are an actress?’

  ‘For my sins.’

  Naomi wishes she hadn’t made this singularly stupid reply. Especially when the woman takes her up on it.

  ‘For your sins? I don’t understand.’

  ‘It means nothing. It’s a silly phrase we English sometimes use, trying to be a bit self-deprecating…er…making it sound no big deal, trying to be modest.’

  ‘Are you a star? Would I have heard of you?’

  ‘Not a chance. My name is Naomi Walls.’

  ‘You are right. Not a chance.’

  They share a little laugh.

  ‘And this sitcom, what is it about?’

  Oh, Lord.

  ‘It’s…er…it’s…it’s…I mean I’ve only been told the…er…the bare rudiments…’

  They share another little laugh. It’s quite pleasant to share these little laughs in the sunshine with someone you will never see again. If only she hadn’t committed herself to talking about the sitcom.

  ‘…So all I know, from what they’ve told me, is that it’s about a British shoemaker who falls in love with a German lady and moves to Germany where he makes…’ She hesitates. It suddenly seems so unlikely.

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Shoes. Well, friends as well, I hope. I haven’t had the scripts yet.’

  They lean over the rail, watching the people filing onto the ship, none of them flaxen-haired travel agents.

  ‘And what is its name?’

  Here we go.

  ‘Cobblers in Koblenz.’

  ‘I do not understand this Cobblers in Koblenz.’

  ‘A person who makes shoes in Britain is known as a cobbler.’

  ‘Ah. Now I understand. You say you are, what is the word – auditioning? – for a part. Do you know what part? Will you be German or English?’

  ‘I think maybe I’ll be German.’

  ‘Ah. So you come to Germany to speak with Germans and listen to their accents. Which is why you speak to me, I think. I am your guinea fowl.’

  ‘Guinea pig. It sounds awful when you put it that way.’

  ‘Not at all. I am most gratified to be of assistance.’

  New arrivals push in onto the rail to wave goodbye to friends on the shore as the boat begins to move off. The woman edges closer to Naomi. Their bodies are
now touching. Naomi realises that this is no accident.

  She hasn’t really given the woman much of a look. She looks now. She isn’t exactly attractive, but she’s very well turned out. No, that’s horses. Though there is something vaguely horsey about her. Handsome! That’s it. She’s a handsome woman. A handsome, well-dressed, German woman in her early forties, pressing her solid thigh against hers.

  ‘You are travelling alone?’

  ‘No. I’ve brought my mother.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘That’s her, sitting on the open deck, just beyond the Greek Orthodox priest.’

  ‘With the curly hair?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She looks a nice person.’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘I…I live in Bingen It’s a small town down the river. I suppose it wouldn’t be possible…for you…this evening…to…I don’t know if this is the correct phrase…give her the slip?’

  ‘Of course it’s the correct phrase. You speak English beautifully.’

  ‘Thank you. I hope you don’t mind this…suggestion. I have recently ended a long relationship. I am lonely. I don’t know your…I search for the words…’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘…Sexual proclivities. Do you think you can…’

  ‘…Give my mother the slip? No. That curly hair is a wig. She is having chemotherapy. I can’t risk hurting her.’

  ‘I understand. Oh, well.’

  ‘I have a daughter. Emily. She’s seven. She’s staying with her father for a long weekend. He has many faults, but he truly loves her. There. That’s my family situation, complete, and it’s not a situation comedy. Sorry.’

  Naomi doesn’t really know why she has said sorry. For explaining her situation? For forcing a reaction by telling this woman that her life is not a comedy? For not being able to give her mother the slip? She senses that if only for the sake of social propriety something more needs to be said, but she has no idea what. Luckily the German lady has.

  ‘You are so lovely, Naomi Walls, in the early summer sun. This is so stupid, but when one is lonely one clutches at straws. You will understand if you are ever unfortunate enough to be lonely. I’m going to give you my card.’

  She hands Naomi the card. Naomi puts it in her bag. She doesn’t want to know this woman’s name until later, in private.

  ‘No, but seriously, if ever you find yourself anywhere near Bingen – maybe you will be on location nearby with your Cobblers in Koblenz – please phone. Please.’

  ‘Of course I will. No, I will. But now I must go to her.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Naomi wanders back to her mother, sits between her and the Greek Orthodox priest.

  ‘All right, Mum?’

  ‘In heaven, darling. This scenery, it’s so wonderful. It isn’t real.’

  There are lines of barges going up and downstream. On each bank there are busy roads and railways. The Rhine buzzes with the trappings of modern life. But the villages through which it passes, and the castles which look down on it, are medieval gems, and the endless rows of vines on the steep hills give the promise of equally endless pleasure. Soon they will have river trout for lunch, and maybe a glass of Riesling with it.

  Naomi realises that her mother is crying.

  ‘Mum!’

  Penny blows her nose, angrily.

  ‘Sorry. All right now.’

  ‘Want to tell me?’

  ‘It’s just…this is so lovely. This is so kind of you. If only…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If only…your father is a fine man, Naomi, a very kind man, a good man, you wouldn’t find a better or a more considerate husband. I just wish that he’d taken me to more places. I’m going to die without knowing just how beautiful the world is.’

  Naomi sighs.

  ‘All that sailing got in the way,’ she says.

  ‘I’m not criticising, Naomi. Your father needs his sailing. He’s…a slightly fragile bloom. He couldn’t get by without his annual month of space.’

  ‘He still could have taken you to places.’

  ‘It’s the way he was brought up. He’s never quite got out of the shadow of his modest upbringing. He thinks he isn’t quite good enough for nice hotels, quite sophisticated enough for posh restaurants. He’s so proud of you, Naomi. Become a star, will you, for his sake?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘That woman you were talking to. She…wanted something, didn’t she?’

  ‘Er…yes…she was wondering if we would be recording our series in Germany, if I get the part, and if…she could have tickets for the studio audience.’

  ‘Naomi! Coningsfield isn’t that far behind the times. She was one of those, wasn’t she? I could tell.’

  ‘She was a nice woman, Mum.’

  ‘I didn’t say she wasn’t. You’re kind. I loved the way you let her down so gently.’

  ‘You see everything, don’t you, Mum?’

  Her mother sighs, and smiles wryly.

  ‘Too much most of the time. But no, not everything.’

  They slide up the mighty river, which is a trout stream compared to the Amazon, and Naomi is thinking, No, my mother doesn’t see everything. She has no idea that, if I had been on my own, I would have seriously considered going to Bingen this evening.

  Would she have gone?

  She’ll never know.

  Tommo says he’ll do everything, pick them all up, drive there, drive back, drop them all off. He’s insistent.

  He picks Timothy up first. Maggie answers the door. Tommo just doesn’t know what to say to her about the tragedy, so says nothing.

  ‘Few biscuits for you,’ he says, handing her a large tin of their most upmarket selection.

  Liam hurries along the passageway to see who it is, hesitates when he realises it’s someone he doesn’t know.

  ‘Hello, young sir,’ says Tommo, somewhat too brightly. Everyone speaks somewhat too brightly these days to Liam, who flinches. He is no longer so outgoing, or so cheeky. He’s much easier to handle. ‘Do you like biscuits, young man?’ asks Tommo. ‘I bet you do. All children like biscuits. Mine love them.’

  Tommo blushes slightly. He has three children and feels that he has been tactless.

  ‘Get your mummy to give you some biscuits,’ continues Tommo. ‘They’re the best. They’re the bestest biscuits ever.’

  I do wish you’d shut up, thinks Liam.

  ‘Timothy,’ calls out Maggie. ‘He’s here.’

  Timothy arrives, a little breathless, pulling a jacket on over his pullover.

  ‘Sorry. Running a bit late. Bit of a snag with a muntjac,’ he says.

  ‘Where do you think we’re going, Tim? The Arctic?’ asks Tommo.

  ‘Aren’t we going up on the moors?’

  ‘In my car. Which has heating. Into pubs. Which have fires. We aren’t ramblers.’

  Timothy is being taken on a pub crawl by his friends. It was Dave Kent’s idea. ‘We need to get him out of himself. Get him away from that woman.’ There’s a certain type of woman of whom Dave disapproves. They’re called wives. He dislikes all wives, but Timothy’s most of all, closely followed by his own.

  Tommo cracks his fingers, a noise which Timothy loathes, it sets his teeth on edge. Maggie cannot believe how many little things irritate her husband these days. She would have thought that they would be of no consequence compared to the dark tragedy that has split their lives asunder. But grief is never logical.

  Tommo sets off up the hill as if it’s the final qualifying lap for the Coningsfield Grand Prix.

  ‘Now then,’ he says. What he means is, ‘We’re off on a pub crawl. Your first ever. But not your last. You’ve thought of pubs as wicked, haven’t you? Dens of iniquity. They’re the best of places. Warm, friendly sanctuaries where you can meet your fellow men from all walks of life, enjoy a spot of good cheer, maybe a pub game or two, and some excellent ale drawn by mine host, who is a card.’ But Timothy knows all this, so there i
s no need to say it. And Timothy is dreading it all, so it’s best not to say it. ‘Now then,’ does very nicely. So nicely that Timothy thinks it worth repeating.

  ‘Now then,’ he says. What he means is, ‘I should be grateful to you for taking me out. I thought it would be good to get out of the house, but how can I possibly get out of the house, you well-meaning idiots? I carry the house with me wherever I go. My heart is split in two and your attempts to mend it are pathetic. How will I survive an evening of good cheer? How can you do this to me?’ It would be silly to say all that. Offensive too. Ungrateful. ‘Now then,’ is so much better.

  ‘This feller meets this bird in this pub,’ says Tommo.

  Timothy’s heart sinks still further. He doesn’t like jokes. His life’s history is divided into two sections, Before and After. Before the accident. After the accident. He liked humour Before, but not jokes. He likes them even less After.

  ‘Motherly type, not in the first flush, but still a looker. And she looks a goer.’

  Timothy’s heart sinks further still. He doesn’t like smut.

  ‘“Do you fancy coming home with me,” she says, “and having a bit of a threesome? Mother and daughter.”’

  Timothy’s heart continues to sink. You would have thought it could sink no further, but it seems to have an infinite capacity for sinking. Threesomes are part of a world that he couldn’t have coped with even Before.

  ‘Well, he’s over the moon. What an offer. So of course he goes.’

  Pity. I’d be spared the joke if he didn’t.

  ‘They go into the house. She takes her coat off. He takes his coat off. She calls up the stairs, “We’ve got company. Put your teeth in, Mum.”’

  Timothy laughs, hoping that Tommo will be too insensitive to realise that there is no humour in his laugh. He laughs to be polite, to show that he recognises that the joke is over. And there is an element of genuine relief in his reaction. The punchline wasn’t as revolting as he had feared.