All Hallows' Eve

by Scott Andrews

  6

  The first time Henry Tomlinson met Julia Marigold was what the annals of history shall record as a spectacular failure. The chances that they were ever to meet had been unlikely for a number of reasons. They were from different places, with different beliefs and different hobbies. The only similarity between them was that they both attended the same university, albeit different faculties. Henry studied Microbiology and Julia studied Oriental Studies. They had different friends and socialised in different places. The reason, the spark, the chance which destroyed the rules of probability was one which has existed in many shapes or forms for centuries. The perversion of man.

  University was a breeze for Henry Tomlinson. Having grown up as an inmate at a prestigious boarding school, it was mere continuation. He didn’t suffer from homesickness; he didn’t need time to adapt and most of all he was exceptionally fast at seeking out like-minded companions. In a matter of days he befriended Michael Riley, a non-Irish Irish-named but not Irish-sounding classmate. They hit it off instantly and quickly became study partners, drinking buddies and mischief makers in general. It was during one of their particularly long lubricious afternoon drinking sessions when Michael had an idea. It had dawned on him that a career in science would be well-rewarded, intellectually stimulating but not carnally rewarding. It seemed that the girls in their lectures were not the kind who would cut classes and go to the pub on a Tuesday afternoon; therefore it was clear that what they needed was a strategy.

  Michael’s premise was as follows. On campus there were a large number of extracurricular activities. Why not sign up for each and every one of them to check out the girls in every group, and then only return to the activities containing the most attractive ladies? At seven fifteen in the evening, when they had been drinking for around six hours, it seemed that not only was it a good idea, but it was an absolutely genius plan.

  The next day, Henry found himself sitting alone in a mycology lecture. The hangover which penetrated every pore of Henry Tomlinson’s soul served as a throbbing reminder that he had almost certainly forgotten something which seemed quite important at some point during the prior evening. As Henry racked his brains trying to recall just what it was, he closed his eyes and tried to picture the previous eve in his mind’s eye. Unfortunately the only memory which returned to him was the smell of kebab meat. When Henry opened his eyes he realised that it wasn’t a memory, he had what appeared to be chilli sauce on his shoe. There is something wonderful about the early days of a new relationship with any form of acquaintance. It’s incredible how quickly norms form. Henry sat back in his chair and found himself wondering how sick Michael was. It was never a question of worrying what happened to him, it was more what tall story he would come up with when he finally did show his face. The auditorium doors swung open and Michael sped through them and up the stairs, muttering apologies his face red from embarrassment whilst carrying a grin which would have made the mad hatter proud.

  “I did it, I did it, I did it.” exclaimed Michael proudly. “Operation Pussycat is go.” Henry looked at him with an eyebrow raised in what he’d considered in those days to be his inquisitive look. “Last night?” Michael looked at him, somewhat disappointed that Henry wasn’t sharing in his excitement.

  “Last night?” asked Henry shrugging his shoulders in confusion. Michael merely stared more, then turned away shaking his head, somewhat disappointed in his friend.

  “Operation Pussycat. Woman hunting. We agreed we would start by signing up to any activities which we see.” explained Michael, every syllable carrying a hint of irritation.

  “And?” urged Henry, feeling a shuddering sensation of impending doom.

  “You are going to love me for this. How do you feel about spending an hour drawing pictures of naked ladies?” asked Michael excitedly.

  “Life drawing. Can you even draw?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Chicks love arting.” exclaimed Michael confidently.

  The best laid plans of mice and men frequently go awry. Especially when the men are young, inexperienced, naïve and have the I.Q of field mice. When Michael and Henry finally located the Art department they were five minutes late and out of breath from hurrying along the narrow corridors. Michael opened the door to the studio and immediately turned to high five Henry. The first thing which struck Henry was that there was clearly something wrong with Michael’s arm. The second was that he was afraid that Michael wanted to kiss him. The third thought, which made his heart beat with a vigour that he had never felt before was the fact that there was not a single male face seated in the room. The tranquillity of the moment was burst by the appearance of a diminutive rotund lady with straggly red hair, glasses which seemed to magnify her eyes to unlikely proportions and a plunging neckline which could have hid a lost Amazonian tribe.

  “Hello boys, glad you could join us.” purred the woman.

  “Hi, I’m Michael, he’s Henry.” said Michael as he offered his hand. “Where should we sit?” The woman shook his hand and beamed at him.

  “Follow me.” The woman led the men through the array of women sat behind easels, eventually stopping at two stools at the very front of the room.

  “Where are our easels?” asked Henry. The woman laughed at him and punched him on the arm affectionately. Henry took an involuntary step back and looked at Michael.

  “No seriously?” added Michael. The woman stopped in front of him and turned, her face suddenly tense and purple.

  “You did read the note?”

  “Yes of course. It said men wanted for life drawing class.” As the words exited Michael’s mouth the ramifications of the words suddenly dawned on him.

  “Michael.” growled Henry through gritted teeth.

  Somewhere in England, in a small village somewhat off the beaten track sits a small hamlet, painted in the style of the Tudor villas of old. Inside the hamlet hangs a painting of no great value. The painting depicts two young men stark naked sitting on stools. One of the men is holding his already balding head in his hands and squeezing it as if it is a coconut. The other man is looking up, his expression a mask of sheer terror.

  Better men would have abandoned such a friendship on the grounds of personal abuse. There are three things no man wants to see naked. His mother, his father and his best friend. However Henry Tomlinson was a forgiving sort in his youth. Being away from home and surrounded by strangers was quite natural for Henry. What wasn’t natural was the fact that he had found a friend and that was a commodity which he could ill afford to give up. The most incredible thing was not the fact that he forgave Michael, but that he agreed to continue with Michael’s devious plan.

  Over the next few weeks Henry and Michael joined a poetry club, a theatre group, a book club, a pottery class, a photography group, a rowing team, a stamp collectors association, a bowls club, a darts team, a neighbourhood watch association, the student union, a gardening group, the help the aged foundation, a Tudor re-enactment committee, a cookery class, a Spanish class, a writers circle and an art history appreciation society. During this period some differences emerged between the two friends. The most notable being that for Michael any activity which involved women which were still breathing had what he deemed as ‘potential’. It was not that Henry was particularly picky; it was more down to the fact that as a result of his over-active mind he had the attention span of a two year old cocker spaniel. One night, as they staggered home from yet another of their numerous liver-pickling sessions, they found a new notice in their dormitory for a church choir. At first Henry was adamant that he was no longer going to participate in Michael’s idiotic plan, however after one nightcap turned into two, three, four and five he eventually relented and agreed to meet him at the church at 5pm the next day.

  There are fewer places a man with a hangover wants to be than in a church. The similarities between hangovers and the vengefulness of God are unmistakable. It�
��s indisputable that if there is a God, he clearly created hangovers as a penance for a sinner. When Henry Tomlinson entered the church on that faithful day he was hung-over, shaking and quite unsteady on his feet. The church itself was quite ordinary. High stone walls, brightly coloured windows and that inevitable chill which can be found in every single church on the planet. As he walked towards the throng of people milling around the sanctuary, he couldn’t help but feel incredibly self conscious. Whether it was caused by the sound of his shoes slapping against the cold stone floor, or the fact that he couldn’t see Michael anywhere he didn’t know. It may even have been the naked vulnerability people feel as they walk inside an empty church. Row upon row of squeaky wooden benches ran alongside him. A shard of light crept through one of the windows and floated in the centre of the room illuminating the accumulative dust inside the church. Henry took a moment to glance at the light and considered briefly how the oldest particle could feasibly be older than him before approaching the herd of nervy choral singers.

  “Hi, glad you could join us.” Before he had a chance to react, he felt a sheath of papers being pushed into his hands. “Baritone, are you?” The stranger’s sudden manifestation ruffled Henry. By appearance alone the man looked to be somewhere in his mid fifties. His hair was worn in a grey lion’s mane. Thick black glasses sat on his nose, seemingly too large for his face as he was constantly pushing them back up his nose. “Okay, people, places, places.” Suddenly the beehive was busy, the choir started to arrange themselves on a rickety set of choral risers. Henry aimlessly placed himself on the end of the back row and was surprised to find that the group of people rearranged themselves around him. He dismissed the thought as mere paranoia with a shrug and took a moment to examine the rest of the choir. There were fifteen people in total, three women, twelve men; somewhat alarmingly every member of the group wore glasses. Henry stood there as meek as a lamb, in the back row of the choir, in a church which he had never been in, about four feet from an enormous nearly life-sized model of Jesus upon the crucifix which appeared to be staring at him. There was no denying it. In Henry’s amorous pursuit of pleasures of the carnal nature he had ended up in a church. As far as Henry was concerned it was the death knell for Michael’s cunning plan. In his mind’s eye he could see his mother turning in her grave. “Okay ladies and gentleman, let’s stretch those vocal chords. Do-ray-mi…” began the Lion King enthusiastically. Henry’s attention was drawn by the sound of footsteps, certain that it was Michael, he looked up expectantly. The vision before him caused his heart to sing hallelujah. It was a woman. Not only a woman, but a woman who in Henry’s opinion looked to be designed specifically with the pleasures of the flesh in mind. The breeze inside the church caused her strawberry blonde hair to billow behind her, in truth she looked like a model in a shampoo advert. She was tall, and slim, her fingers were long and slender. Her movements were jerky, irregular almost and quite probably unnatural. Her long legs were cloaked in tight denim, beneath the flared ankles were the reasons the noise was so loud. She was wearing high heels. Henry Tomlinson took a deep breath and tried to return his tongue to the inside of his mouth. It was exactly then he realised that the whole choir had dropped into silence. The newcomer snatched up a sheath of papers and made her way into the choir; much to Henry’s delight she took a place directly in front of him. She glanced around for just a second and looked him in the eye without offering the faintest hint of a smile. Henry took another deep breath and his nasal passage was awash with the smell of peaches. He couldn’t tell if it was her perfume or her shampoo, either way it was somewhat of a delight to Henry to have her scent mask his stench of yesterday’s ale. “Ok people, page one, Jerusalem. A-one, a-two, a-one, two, three, four.” The conductor started bouncing up and down whilst waving his baton indiscriminately.

  “And did those feet in ancient time, walk upon England’s mountain green...” Henry was stunned into silence. The newcomer’s voice was crystal clear and note perfect. An angel amongst mumblers. He stood mouth open, gazing at the back of her head.

  “Stop, stop, stop. You!” The Lion King conductor pointed his baton directly at Henry. “Did you come here to sing or did you come here to gawk?”

  “I, I, err, yes.” affirmed Henry as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His hair was already thinning despite his youth. He looked like a thatched cottage which had been left to ruin.

  “So sing man, sing! A-one, a-two, a-one, two, three, four.”

  That was the day which changed the rest of Henry Tomlinson’s life. Although he didn’t know it at the time. Week after week he returned to the choir, to stand behind the intimidating beauty and sing. Week after week he admonished himself for failing to find the courage to even speak to her. Instead he would stand behind her and try to drink in her beauty, content just to be close to her. In fact he didn’t speak to anyone in the choral group. He lied to Michael and told him it was a male church choir. As the weeks became months it started to become harder and harder for him to hide the fact that he had met someone, especially when fate conspired to make it even harder.

  It was on one of their long lazy Tuesday afternoons in their adopted local ‘The Piston Broke’. As was their tradition they were propped against the cheap oak bar on cheaper tall stools drinking even cheaper ale. The frayed carpet under their feet looked at least fifty years old. The walls were bare, only a lavender coloured paint half-heartedly tried to protect their dignity. In most civilised cultures ‘The Piston Broke’ would be referred to as a dive, however nobody ever said that students are civilised.

  “I don’t know where they bloody hide themselves.” moaned Michael as he raised his finger to his lips. “Maybe there are no women in Oxford.”

  “I think they hide themselves when they see you coming.” quipped Henry, unaware that Michael had continued. Henry rocked slightly on his bar stool.

  “Hah!” Michael leant forward and slapped Henry on the back. “Do you know why women wear make up?”

  “No.” Henry stuck out his bottom lip and shook his head.

  “Because they are ugly!” proclaimed Michael. Henry sat still, like he was examining Michael for lice. “That was a joke.”

  “That is where you are mistaken my friend.” Henry voice was warm, enriched by ale. “For a joke to be a joke it is required to be funny.”

  “See, the problem with you, the problem, the fact is…” Michael tripped over his words. Henry instantly followed his gaze and saw the source of his tongue-tied stumbling. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was the strawberry blonde from the choir. And she was walking towards him. Michael merely looked at him, mouth agape. Henry swallowed deeply.

  “Hi.” said the woman as she stopped beside Henry. Her eyes were hazel. She had two wrinkle lines on her nose when she smiled.

  “H-hi.” replied Henry, his voice stunned into monotone. He was transfixed by her. “Michael.”

  “Julia.” She smiled as she offered her hand to him. Her nails were rounded. Henry took her hand in his and marvelled at its softness.

  “No.” mumbled Henry, his body completely frozen, still squeezing her hand.

  “No?” asked Julia softly, the corners of her mouth turned up in a gentle smile in an act of deference to the confusion which shone in her eyes.

  “No. Michael. Henry. My friend. Michael. Michael?” blustered Henry, his face red and sweaty. She pulled her hand away from him and turned to wave to Michael.

  “Hi.” She gave a mock curtsy. Michael merely salivated in response. “Hello, anyone home?”

  “I have to go, nice to meet you.” Without warning Michael stood up and walked away, turning every second step to look at Julia with a lopsided grin plastered across the front of his face.

  “Well that was discreet. What does a woman have to do to get a drink around here?” asked Julia with a nervous simper.

  ### End of S
ample ###