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Kiss My Name

Page 24

by Calvin Wade


  “Well done, Will, that was brilliant!” my father said to Will, which made Will beam with delight as he knew his grandfather was not one for compliments.

  Will and Simon were in the changing rooms removing their pads when my Dad announced he was going.

  “I’m off now love, I need to get back down to the allotment. I’m so pleased I saw Will reach his century, tell the lad I’m proud of him. Oh and tell Simon, it may have taken me a while, but I’ve finally got round to paying that money into his account.”

  “What money, Dad?” I enquired.

  “Never you mind, nosey poke! Just tell him that, he’ll know what I mean.”

  Dad came over and gave me a kiss.

  “You take it easy at that allotment, Dad. I don’t want you overdoing it and getting re-admitted to hospital.”

  “I’ve told you love,” Dad said with a big smile, “it wasn’t the digging but the shock of seeing Simon there, that made me pass out!”

  Neither Simon nor Dad had ever really adequately explained what the hell Simon was doing at Dad’s allotment, but given the circumstances, I was just grateful he was there and decided to drop the Miss Marple routine after they concocted some story about Dad needing the glass cleaning on his Summer House!

  Dad departed jovially from the cricket field and headed to his car, whilst I went to find Chloe and her daisy chains. For once in my life, everyone close to me seemed happy and I just wanted that feeling of satisfaction to last forever.

  SIMON – August 2010

  A body like mine isn’t designed for jogging. I had spent thirty years or more sculpting it into a couch potato shape, so trying, in my late thirties, to re-design it into a Mo Farrah shape was always going to be neigh on impossible, but I was giving it a go.

  My first few jogs had all turned into walks at the point my T-shirts had become so saturated with sweat that you could have rinsed them out into a bucket and washed your car with them. I was aware there was a balancing act, I needed to get fit for the sake of my future health, but it would be self-defeating if I jeopardised my health or even brought on a heart attack, by trying to do too much too soon. Will had come on one run with me, but he was a cocky sod at times and liked nothing more than sprinting off to illustrate how slow I was. In those intial stages, I was well aware of how slow I was, I had already been overtaken by two old ladies walking their dogs, several mothers pushing prams and even once by a toddler in a toy police car.

  After about ten runs, I deluded myself into believing that I was transforming my body into that of a finely tuned athlete. One day, having run the one hundred yards up to Papa Luigis Italian restaurant, I noticed a female runner a few yards ahead of me, who didn’t seem to be disappearing into the distance, like all previous runners had. In fact, she was travelling at a similar pace to me. This was a huge boost. I felt I must finally have become a ‘proper’ jogger. I decided to make a huge effort and bridge the gap between us.

  “Hi!” I said panting as I ran alongside her, the exertion of the additional pace taking it out of me somewhat, “are you going far?”

  “No,” replied my seemingly unfit new friend, “just up to Milestone Meadow on Buckshaw.”

  ‘Great’, I thought, ‘even I can manage there and back, perhaps without even walking’.

  “Would you mind if I ran with you for a bit?” I asked, “I’m still fairly new to this jogging lark and we seem to be running at a similar pace.”

  “That’s fine,” replied the lady, I looked her up and down and noticed she was a relatively mature lady , perhaps in her early fifties, this explained her lack of speed, “always nice to have a bit of company towards the end of a run.”

  We ran in silence for a minute and it was during this minute I realised her standard pace was a little faster than mine, but my adrenalin was kicking in and I was doing my utmost to keep alongside her. In an attempt to slow us down a little, I struck up a new conversation.

  “Have you been out long?” I asked, trying, but failing, to maintain a balanced tone to my voice.

  “I started in Southport about...” she looked at her watch, “three and a half hours ago. I’m doing the Chicago Marathon in a few weeks, so I’m building up the miles.”

  “How far have you run?”

  “Door to door, this run is twenty miles, so nineteen and a half under my belt now.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing!”

  “What about you, how far have you run?”

  “A couple of hundred metres!”

  My jogging companion turned her head to provide a pitying look.

  “Are you OK?” she asked sympathetically.

  It was at this stage my jogging career ended.

  “Nope,” I said breaking into a walk, “I’ve got a stitch, you go on without me! Good luck in the Marathon!”

  I stopped even walking and doubled over, I hated getting a stitch.

  “Thanks,” said the lady, shouting back as she increased her pace, “I hope you’re OK. Keep at it! I promise you it gets easier!”

  I took no notice. Up to that point, it hadn’t become easier and I had no intention of continuing to jog. Being overtaken by a ‘GIRNF’ (‘Grandmother I’d Rather Not F...’) who was nineteen miles into her run was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I have never subsequently jogged another yard. I did, however, stick to my other health commitments. I also turned my attention to the list of things I had made a mental note of, whilst Arthur was in his hospital bed and I slowly started getting them done too, one by one.

  SIMON –September 2010

  “Bloody hell! No-one told me it was going to hurt this much!”

  I think I have a low pain threshold. Nicky says I am very dramatic about minor pain like pins and needles or man flu, but she attempted to soften the blow by pointing out that those who dramatise minor events tend to be good in a crisis .I think she was alluding to the incident when I helped her Dad after his collapse. That wasn’t my pain though. This was. As the pain of the needle puncturing my skin intensified as I sat in the tattooists chair, I had a horrible feeling that I was going to pass out.

  “Getting a tattoo is like childbirth,” the artist with the needle explained, “afterwards everyone forgets the ordeal. They just want to show off the results of their endeavour.”

  The guy, Ted, who was my tattoo artist, was pretty much what I would have pictured if someone had asked me beforehand to close my eyes and picture the type of want who works in a tattoo parlour. He was in his forties, balding, with a long ginger beard and muscular arms, which, not surprisingly given his profession, had tattoos on. His right arm had Latin writing running along it with the words, ‘Tantum Confortamini Supresse’ on. I asked Ted, probably like thousands before me, what that meant and he told me it translated as, ‘Only the strong survive’. This didn’t fill me with confidence prior to receiving a tattoo off him. Still, it had a bit more power to it than what I imagined it translated as, which was, ‘Tantric sex is superb in a comfortable mini’.

  The pain was at its most intense in the early stages of the needles attack on my flesh. Whether my deep breaths helped me through it or whether the pain just subsided as my body adjusted to it, I’m not sure. The whole process was much quicker than I expected, as it was a relatively small tattoo on my wrist. It must only have taken around ten minutes at the very most. I was delighted with it though. It was just what I wanted. I proudly returned home to show off my new lifelong companion to my old lifelong companion!

  NICKY – September 2010

  Simon and I have been together a long time and it has become easy for me to tell when he is angry with me or hiding something. Rather than acting naturally, he takes on a really strange persona which makes him look he is taking on an acting role. I think he does it deliberately so I ask him what the matter is.

  It was late morning and I was washing dishes in the kitchen. We had a dishwasher but it had broken three years earlier and we could never afford to get it fixed. Simon came back in from a mysterious ea
rly morning trip out and I immediately noticed he was wearing his ‘I’m hiding something’ persona.

  “What?” I asked.

  “What do you mean, ‘what’?” Simon replied forging his puzzled expression.

  “What have you done?”

  “How do you always know, straight away, that something is going on?”

  Simon smiled as he asked. This was a relief, as I was concerned that it was something to do with our long running financial problems, which apparently my Dad had done something to relieve. Exactly what he had done had remained private between Simon and my Dad. Although this annoyed me, I had allowed these occasional secrets between my Dad and Simon to continue as I felt it may help bond them together a little.

  “Women’s intuition,” I explained, “Now what is it?”

  “Promise you won’t go mad?”

  “Simon, I’m never mad with you, my love.”

  I avoided promising, I didn’t know what he had done yet!

  “OK. Let me reveal the background to this. When I was in hospital, after the incident at the allotment with your Dad, it made me think a bit more about what I was doing with my life. As you know, I wanted to get fitter but it also made me think about other things I wanted to do in my life and in my head I made up a bit of a ‘bucket list’, if you like. Today I have done the first thing on that mental list.

  I am not the most patient of people when it comes to surprises, I don’t like a long preamble. I just want to cut to the chase and discover what the surprise is.

  “Just tell me what it is you’ve done, Simon?”

  “What if I were to tell you I’ve had a tattoo?”

  I took a moment to think this through. I thought this was a wind up.

  “I wouldn’t believe you!”

  “Why not?”

  “There are people who suit tattoos and there are others that don’t. You’re not a tattoo person.”

  “How do you know if I haven’t got one?”

  “I just do.”

  “Because I’m fat?”

  “You’re not fat! You’re just a bit overweight and becoming less so.”

  “Why then?”

  “You’re too old now, for starters.”

  “Everyone who has a tattoo when they’re young will still have it at my age, unless they have it removed.”

  “True. Have you really had a tattoo?”

  “Yes.”

  Simon started to undo the shirt button on his right sleeve.

  “Get lost! This is far too adventurous for you!”

  “Well, that dear, is where you are wrong!”

  Simon pulled up the sleeve so it was above his right wrist and there, in an old fashioned font, with elaborate curls, was my name, ‘Nicky’. My initial reaction was that it looked good, but it looked odd on Simon.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I like it, you soppy sod, but...”

  “But what?”

  “Is it not a bit of a ‘cool’ thing for you to do?”

  I made my fingers into rabbits ears as I said this, which probably made me look pretty uncool too.

  “I didn’t have it done to be cool, Nicky. I’ve never been cool. I don’t intend to start trying now.”

  “Why did you have it done?”

  “At your Dad’s allotment, when he collapsed, I was walking away from him and something, I don’t know what, made me turn. I swear I turned around the split second he dropped like a stone. I thought that was it for him, game over. Luckily it wasn’t, but it made me think about my last few seconds of life and how much I would want you to be there for me. What I’ve learnt from Colin though, is that death does not make deals with people and doesn’t always hand out prior notice. Now I know it probably sounds stupid to you, but somehow, just by having your name inked into my skin, if anything happens to me and you aren’t there, at least I can do this...”

  Simon kissed my name on his wrist.

  “Kiss my name.”

  “Yes. I know a bit of a black ink on my wrist is not a replacement for you, but at least it’s a permanent reminder of my love for you. What do you reckon?”

  “I’m still in shock, Simon! It’s just so out of character. If I’m being totally honest, half of me can’t help feeling it’s a bit tacky, but then the other half thinks it’s sweet and romantic.”

  Simon focused on the negative half.

  “Tacky?”

  “Just a bit! Not quite as bad as having a letter from my name at the top of each finger, but still a little tacky!”

  “So you aren’t going to get one saying ‘Simon’ on your wrist then? So we have a matching pair!”

  “No, I don’t need to, Simon. Your name is already tattooed in here and here,” I said tapping my heart and then my head.

  That statement probably sounded tacky too and if the kids were around, there would no doubt have been some fake puking action, but it was how I felt. Fifteen years earlier, I had started dating Simon, not because I loved him, but because I trusted him. Over the years, our relationship evolved and I continued to trust him implicitly, but also grew to love him too. Passionately love him. He had been a fantastic father to my two children. Will had started calling Simon ‘Dad’ from when he was three years old and Chloe was the apple of her Daddy’s eye.

  I think one of the reasons our relationship had been so good, was that Simon knew the secret to keeping my love burning. He knew that it wasn’t important to me how he looked, but it was important to me how he made me feel about myself. Simon always made me feel like I was the most wonderful woman ever created. The tattoo seemed a bit of a daft thing to do, but once again, he did it because his love for me knew no bounds, so a little bit of me rejoiced in that fact. I reconsidered my previous response.

  “Actually, do you know what gorgeous man?” I said grabbing hold of Simon and giving him an almighty hug.

  “Surprise me!”

  “I think I might! What I want you to do, is go upstairs and check Will isn’t going out with his mates anywhere in the next couple of hours. If he isn’t, ask him if he can keep an eye on Chloe.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you to take me back to this tattoo parlour you’ve been to this morning and ask the bloke if he’ll tattoo the word ‘Simon’ on my wrist, to pair up with the Nicky on yours?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Absolutely. I can then see on the outside, the name I just said was tattooed on my heart and brain. You are my world, Simon Strong and having your name on my wrist would remind me every second of every day, how lucky I am.”

  Part Seven

  Past, Present & Future

  SIMON – December 2010

  When I am bored and tired, I get fidgety. I can’t get comfortable, my legs twitch and I get hot and bothered. I took my coat off. No sooner had I taken it off, I wanted to put it back on. I realised Chorley Little Theatre in December was not the place for such brave theatrics.

  “Nicky, it’s freezing in here!”

  Nicky gave me a look, the look she reserved solely for me. The one that said I was stupid.

  “Simon, it was freezing at home, even with the heating on. There’s six inches of snow outside!”

  “I know. We should have heeded that warning about only making emergency journeys.”

  “It is an emergency! We’d already paid for the tickets! Anyway, I’m enjoying myself, so will you give it a rest with your moaning and just listen.”

  We were at the Theatre for a special psychic evening with the world renowned Doris Meadows. All week, I had been poking fun at Nicky, saying things like, ‘you’d have thought she’d have foreseen this snow!’ On the news, they were saying that it was the worst December on record, but Nicky was insistent that we would battle the elements and make it into town.

  “If Doris Meadows can make it here from London when she’s 82, we can make it two miles up the road!”

  Doris Meadows hadn’t been in London, she’d been at Preston Guild Hall the previo
us night and I am sure she would not have driven to Chorley from Preston herself. Still it wasn’t worth arguing about. I knew as long as the evening was not postponed, we would be there. Nicky had always had what I considered to be an interest in the spirit world. It probably developed after she lost her Mum. I’m not saying Nicky is gullible, I’m just saying she has a willingness to believe in things that are just not plausible. If a room was unexpectedly cold or a door slammed when you least expected it, according to Nicky strange forces were at work.

  Doris Meadows was, in Nicky’s opinion, the Queen of Mediums. She has helped thousands of people connect family members and friends who had crossed over to the other side. Nicky said we were there because she found the whole thing fascinating, but I knew that wasn’t the real reason. I knew that one day Nicky hoped that if she kept going to these psychic evenings, her mother may speak to her. I don’t know what she was hoping her mother would say, I just knew she wanted to make that connection.

  Doris had been on stage about an hour and I was ready to go home. That was when I started to get twitchy. Doris herself looked like she’d be quite happy to be wheeled back to her nursing home for a cocoa, as the spritely energy that she had displayed earlier in the evening, now seemed to be wearing off. She was a silver haired, East End of London lady with false teeth, tired eyes and a faltering walk and as far as I could see, based her act on statistical probabilities.

  “Is there anyone in the audience tonight called Mary?” she had asked. In a room full of several hundred people, mainly women, mainly over fifty, the likelihood was that there would be a few Marys. Unsurprisingly, several hands were raised.

  “Now ladies, the voice I am hearing is mentioning someone called Jack, if any of you know someone called Jack, please keep your hand raised.”

  Through a series of questions, Mary after Mary was eliminated, until the final Mary was invited down on to the stage. Doris would then act as a go between as messages would go back and forth from this world to the one beyond the grave. It struck me that they were very generic messages about family photographs, holidays in Devon and the fact that he or she loved his or her children all the same. If I’d have pretended to be a psychic, I reckon I could have done just as good a job,

 

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