One Of Our Jeans Is Missing

by Paul Charles

  She’d a great flat, which she invited me to look around as she put the finishing touches to the food, the smell of which was mouth-watering. She’d stripped pinewood everywhere; doors, window frames and floorboards. The large living room was in two sections, clearly divided by a counter, with her cooking area to one side and her living space to the other. The cooking area was absolutely packed with pots and pans and utensils hanging all around her. There were two large silver pots on the cooker and whatever was inside was providing that delicious smell. Mary had a cookery book opened at some recipe and, try as I did, I couldn’t make out what she was in the middle of preparing. The living section of the room had a light blue three piece suite forming an ‘n’ around the fireplace. She’d a few pictures of flowers scattered around her walls and on the mantelpiece she’d a large framed photograph of her and John Harrison, laughing away for each other and not the camera. Next to the photo was another of John Harrison’s excellent caricatures. This one wasn’t saucy as appeared to be his take on Jean Simpson. He’d made Mary Skeffington look like the woman with long flowing blonde hair who’d been trapped for years in a castle tower waiting to be rescued. In Harrison’s original her long blonde hair formed a rope ladder scaling the length of the tower.

  To one side of the fireplace she’d a television and to the other a bookcase, the latter of which was packed with paperbacks, although I didn’t recognise either the titles or the authors. There was no sign of a record player or records. But on the mantelpiece beside the photograph was a radio, which she’d turned down to a hum when I entered. I re-tuned it to Radio Caroline on 199 and turned up the volume a bit. This brought a knowing smile to her face. She had two pink rugs, one in front of the fireplace and the other between the counter and the back of the sofa.

  I stepped back out into the small hallway of her first floor flat and opened one of the two other doors. The one on the right led into a fair-sized bedroom, which was at the back of the house. It was very girly, with lots of soft colours and a double bed. It was also very tidy. The door on the left led to a small bathroom, which again was very feminine and smelled of the countryside. There was something I was gradually finding out about: the main difference between a boy’s flat and a girl’s flat. A girl’s flat nearly always appeared like a home, a place to stay, to live in. A boy’s flat, on the other hand, always seemed so very temporary to me, mostly somewhere to stop off at until your next move.

  By the time I returned to the living room, Mary Skeffington had opened the bottle of wine and had poured us both a glass. I think since our kiss we’d spoken twice on the phone, once earlier that day when she invited me around for dinner. The first time had been five days ago, when she rang me up at home for a chat. At first our conversation had seemed forced, somewhat laboured, as we both tried to find things to say to keep the conversation going. Then we got talking about a movie, I think it was, and the chat just flowed from then on. I think we ended up talking for about thirty minutes. She said it was the longest conversation she’d had on the phone with anybody except her mother.

  Despite that progression, I got the feeling that she was still struggling with her feelings. You know, getting over John Harrison and wondering was she interested in me only because I was there and John Harrison wasn’t.

  ‘I love your flat,’ I began, as we raised glasses, ‘it’s very cosy.’

  ‘I’m very happy here – it’s my hideaway, my haven,’ she said. I was still getting used to her posh accent. I loved the way she used her words and how I always knew exactly what she meant. On the other hand, my approach was to spout out as many words as possible in something that could be best be described as a degree sharper than a mumble, in the hope that somewhere there in the middle of this almighty mess the listener would pick up the thread of what I was trying to get across. I was never conscious of doing this back home in Ireland, so I think it must’ve been an indirect result of people in London always saying ‘Pardon?’ to me.

  ‘I mean, I’m not house proud or anything like that and no matter how much cleaning we do back at my flat, it never looks much more than a doss house,’ I said, feeling myself push up a subject for conversation.

  I had a feeling that I was going to get to know this girl better but I felt that it was important at this stage to make an effort to converse with her. Because I was so physically and mentally attracted to Mary Skeffington, the temptation was to think that this in itself was enough, that talk would eventually follow naturally. Do you know what I mean? On the other hand with Jean Simpson, who I didn’t need to make such a connection with, I never once thought about what I was going to say next, in spite of the fact that we had, on a couple of occasions, spent over five hours together. But, as I say, with Mary I knew I also needed to make that other vital connection. Two people can meet, be attracted to each other, and bonk each other’s brains out, but what then? There still needs to be more. In another way, I suppose I was also trying to make Mary feel comfortable with me.

  ‘I like my home to be orderly,’ she announced, as she stopped stirring the contents of one of the pots. She leaned one hand on the counter and took a sip of her wine with the other, ‘And I like that when the rest of the world is going crazy – just like with all that stuff with John and Jean – I know that I can come back here and close off all of that madness on the outside, leave it all behind me and retreat to the peace and tranquillity of my flat to recharge.’

  ‘Talking about John,’ I started, knowing that I was taking a stab in the dark here but thinking that if we were to discuss John Harrison that night, we might as well get it out of the way. At the same time I knew it could explode in my face, ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Great,’ she said proudly, rolling her head from side to side, ruffling her fringe, ‘I’m finding myself not thinking about him much at all.’

  ‘Good,’ I replied, encouraged.

  ‘In fact,’ she said cutting into the end of my ‘good’, ‘I find myself spending more and more time thinking about you, David.’

  What could I say? I think I’ve told you that I’m not great at taking compliments. But hang on here for a minute; was it a compliment? Could she have spent a lot of time thinking about me only to decide that I was a rebound? Perhaps inviting me round was her polite way of letting me down easy?

  ‘And?’ she said.

  ‘Sorry?’ I said, shaking my head vigorously, trying to dump my last thought.

  ‘You’re meant to say, “And, what have you been thinking about me?” I mean, at least that’s what a girl would say.’

  ‘Aye, but then again, don’t the solicitors always say “Never ask a question unless you want to know the answer.” Or perhaps “You shouldn’t ask the question unless you already know the answer” might be more accurate.’

  She seemed slightly taken aback at that.

  ‘Well, David, that could either mean that you know what I’m going to say and you want to avoid it or–’

  ‘It could be good news or it could be bad news,’ I said, realising where she was going and that I had nearly put my foot in it.

  ‘But then my good news may not necessarily be good news to you, so you wish to avoid it. Goodness, this is getting into a wee bit of a muddle. Oh, I see what you mean. Look, I’m not very good at these coded conversations. What I meant to say was that I spent a lot of my time thinking pleasant thoughts about you, and wondering about you, and that surprised me because I thought that no matter how much I wanted to forget John, I would be thinking about him for some time to come. And I’m surprised that I haven’t been. That’s what I was trying to say. Goodness, that deserves a drink,’ she said, and she took a large swig from her wine glass, replaced it on the counter and started stirring the pot again.

  I smiled.

  ‘Yeah,’ I started, apologising by hiking my shoulders, ‘I was worried that it might have been bad news, as in you letting me down gently with all this,’ I said, gesturing around the kitchen.

  ‘Well, that’s nice; I me
an, it’s nice that you didn’t want to be let down. Full stop!’

  I think I knew where we were. I think we had reached the point when as Mary found herself thinking about me and not John, then she must genuinely like me. Don’t you think?

  ‘Good. Great to get that out of the way,’ I said.

  I liked this girl. I liked her a lot. That surprised me. I felt there was something special about her and if I didn’t make the connection I’d regret it, mainly because there’d be a whole queue of people wanting to ask her out.

  Do you think it’s possible for that to happen? You know, miss out on somebody just because of the timing? What if I’d left Mary alone to get over John? Would she have met someone else, taken up with him instead? And then I’d come back into the picture only to find that I’m too late and she’s gone off to live happily ever after with this new chap? Do you think that’s possible? If I’m destined to live happily ever after with Mary, is it really going to happen just because it’s written in the stars? In which case, I could just laze around and let her have her fling with John Harrison, or whomever else comes along, safe in the knowledge that eventually I’m going to get it together with her.

  You see, this is one of the weak points of my theory of being a romantic. It could turn out any number of ways – she could end up with me, she could end up with him while I’m preoccupied staring into my navel. But in all of this the big question has to be: Would she be as happy with him as I thought she was going to be with me? Conversely, would I be as happy with someone else as I thought I was going to be with her?

  ‘Okay, David Buchanan,’ she said, as she ladled out some of her cream sauce onto two chicken breasts she’d been cooking in the oven. When I saw her set several spoonfuls of plain rice on the side of the plate, I felt like running to the phone box at the end of the road and ringing my mother to tell her I was about to eat a healthy meal for the first time since I’d moved to London.

  ‘What’s the catch?’

  ‘I’d say… chicken?’

  She either caught something in her throat or she laughed in disbelief at what I’d just said and some food went down the wrong way, but either way she started a fit of coughing. Dr Buchanan sprang quickly to the rescue with a glass of water and a couple of gentle pats on the back. This seemed to be having little to no effect, so I chanced my arm and gave her a bit of a whack with my hand in the middle of her back. This did the trick and whatever it was that had been causing the discomfort moved on.

  ‘Goodness, Mr Buchanan,’ she said, fluttering her eyelashes, ‘you just saved my life for the second time! I guess that means I’m yours forever.’

  ‘It used to be great on the television when that happened,’ I started, trying to downplay how important her last statement had been to me. ‘When the Lone Ranger saved some damsel in distress, he would ride off into the distance, promising to come back for his betrothed when he’d done whatever bravado-filled stunt he had to do. I watched it for ten years and, don’t you know, he never, ever came back once, and I’m sure he promised at least three other ladies the same thing.’

  ‘You’re not getting off the hook that easy, though. You’re not the Lone Ranger – you may have just saved my life but I’ve a few questions to ask you before we go any further,’ she said regaining her composure. My first question is – and it’s one I keep coming back to – what’s the catch… with you? You seem so… perfect. You seem to be a nice guy, you’ve got good manners, you don’t mind looking after people and you don’t ask for anything in return. There must be a catch?’

  ‘What, just because there was one, a catch, with John Harrison, there has to be one with me?’

  ‘In a word, yes,’ she said and then thought about it for a few seconds. ‘Yes,’ she continued more confidently this time, ‘I thought he was the one. He led me to believe that he was the one. Don’t forget that what John and I had was not a whirlwind romance; I’ve known him half my life. And it was he that pushed the romantic issue in the early days; I was just as happy, at that stage, to continue as friends, but he kept on and on about if it was right it was right, and just because we were already good friends we shouldn’t rule it out. What can I tell you except that the man spoke with a forked tongue? So here you come along. Again, we make some kind of connection and we get on well. You behave like the perfect gentleman with me. You have things you’re passionate about, like music, films and books. You might even be the ideal boyfriend. But the last thing I’ve been wanting is to get involved with another boy. However, something deep inside of me told me to follow my heart again. I know it’s soon and I know I was hurt last time and I know I should be cautious and I’ve spent lots of time thinking about it, but this voice in my head just keeps telling me to follow my heart. Could that be because I’m not a good judge of character? As I say, I was totally convinced John Harrison was my man for life and look how that ended!’

  ‘What can I tell you? I’m certainly no saint but that doesn’t mean I’m going to turn out to be another John Harrison. Yes, Mary, I’d agree 100 per cent that it’s early for you to be seeing someone again. But at the same time, if there is something there, something between us that seems natural, then maybe it’s wrong to ignore it just because of the timing. Hey, nothing is guaranteed in the world – who knows what will happen between us. Worst case scenario, we’re both going to make, at the very least, a good friend out of our relationship, and on top of which I’m going to enjoy some great food.’

  ‘I like it that you don’t push me – you’re there, I feel you’re there, but you’re not putting any pressure on me. And so I wonder: is that you just being very clever because you know that that is what will work with me?’

  ‘I’m not that clever! I enjoy your company. We met by accident. No matter what you were going through, no matter what was happening, you have to admit that there was something that happened between us. We got on great from the start. Now I didn’t think that this was it and I needed to chase you. I just… liked you. I liked you a lot and I wanted to get to know you better.’

  ‘And how much better do you want to get to know me, David?’ she asked coyly.

  ‘Is that the modern-day version of “Are your intentions honourable?”’ I asked, enjoying both the conversation and the food.

  I spared a thought about when I was younger and growing up in Ireland, setting off on my first romantic adventures. I’d been taught then that when you find yourself interested in a girl, a particular girl, you start by talking to her for a few minutes. Then you wait a day, then you talk to her for another few minutes. Then you get your mate to tell her mate that you like the girl. Then three or four days later, you talk to her again for a couple of minutes and you either ask her would she like to go out with you, or, if you don’t have the bottle to do that, you get your mate to ask her mate would she like to go out with you. If she says yes, you’re now officially going out with her. It seemed funny to me that you rarely went ‘out’ anywhere with each other. But that was the key word, and it would become common knowledge: ‘David Buchanan is seeing Margaret Hutchinson!’ Then you’d write each other wee notes and only then might you actually step out. Stepping out, in my case, usually meant going to Agnew’s Café for a cup of coffee or a coke and a KitKat. You’d both pay for your own on early dates or, if you were a real scallywag, you’d get the girl to pay for the both of you. You’d sit in the corner while a few wee girls would stand around the jukebox and glance over at you every now and again, and start sniggering. Most disconcerting I can tell you, especially when you are trying to come across as the master of cool with the young lady in question.

  After your date in Agnew’s, you’d then walk your date to the end of her street, being very careful to bypass your own street. This would go on for a few weeks, and then you’d maybe take her out for a walk in the countryside and you’d go up a lane, away from prying eyes, and have your first wee kiss.

  And things would develop from there – or not! Mostly, though, it was harmless fun
. Although I seem to remember on one occasion that it wasn’t much fun: it was quite cold-sweat scary, in fact. You see, I’d been following the ‘User’s Guide to Dating’ with a certain ginger-haired girl. After about three months we were behind the bike shed of the Castlemartin Technical College, established in 1812. We’d shared a few explorative kisses and all of that stuff, each time venturing a little further than the previous date’s exploration. Then all of a sudden, on the evening in question, this wee girl, as bold as brass, says that she’d like to go further, she’d like to do more.

  She’d like to go the whole way!

  Now you may think that those words are the words that every young boy wants to hear. Not so. I panicked. I claimed I needed to be home early. I left her standing there.

  I never asked her out again. I liked her and all of that, but I just wasn’t ready for it. Apart from anything else, she had three big bruisers for brothers. I knew I could run fast but not that fast.

  Oh and by the way, I should tell you that Margaret Hutchinson was the most beautiful girl in my class – no, make that in my entire school, maybe even in the whole of Castlemartin. And I never picked up enough courage to ask her out. (The other point worth noting, and probably equally important in the grand scheme of things, is that Agnew’s made the best ice cream in the world!)

  Anyway, what I mean to say is that, in general it was all good, clean, carefree fun, and the procedure to get nowhere took forever.

  All this contrasted enormously with the Mary Skeffington situation, where we were basically talking our way into each other’s arms.

  Now, even though I still wasn’t worldly wise, I knew that my charged encounters with Jean Simpson were nothing more or less than that. Number one, she was promised to another. Number two, even if she wasn’t promised to another, you couldn’t base a permanent relationship on a sexual charge. I mean, how many hours a day can you spend lusting after someone? Not that I wasn’t lusting after Mary Skeffington, too, of course. But that was a different kind of lust. That lust, the lust with Mary Skeffington, was more magnetic, part of a package, and potentially that package was love.