by Ivan B
“You sure?”
I almost exploded with frustration.
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”
I paused to regain at least some composure.
“How about you?”
“You’ve rather caught me by surprise, after our weekend together I assumed that you weren’t interested.”
Did I hear the sound of nails being pounded into coffins?
“But it was wonderful, you looked stunning, sang like an angel and just being with you was marvelous. It was one of the best times of my life.”
“But you never said.”
I realised that what she said was true and it hurt. I decided on the truth.
“Sometimes I’m a bit of a Wally and I’m saying it now and wishing I’d said it then, but I’m not good at the romantic bit.”
There was more silence and I wondered about the absence of background noise. Eventually she spoke.
“You really thought I looked good?”
“Supermodels would have been envious.”
I almost heard her smile.
“Well a girl likes to be told.”
I had to know, I just had to know.
“So will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Think about moving on from being just friends?”
“Of course, I thought you’d never ask.”
The relief was palpable and my heart rate began to descend to something akin to normal.
“Wonderful.”
There was a bit of static and she muttered something.
“Pardon?”
“My batteries going flat, thanks for ringing. I’ve missed you to.”
“Can I call…”
But I was greeted with a ring tone.
I went to bed a happy man, but not before I’d found an on-line florist in Ipswich and placed an order for a bunch of red roses to be delivered to the pub first thing the following morning.
Chapter 15
Not Quite as Expected
Thursday morning I finished sorting the mail and used the last mailbag as a rubbish bin for sixteen of the twenty seven piles. I then walked back and called up my bank account on the Internet. It said that I had around £150,000 in the account, that meant if I left Vera her £64,000 to play with I was down to just under ninety thousand; I pondered on the fact that I could already be dead in the water. My depressing thoughts were interrupted by the vicar, who once again entered like a man condemned. When he was seated I took a guess.
“They don’t believe me.”
He looked like a sad bulldog who was about to lose his bone.
“As I said, sometimes the reality of a situation passes them by.”
“So.”
“They say that we’ll manage without your fields and that we’ll start on the floor of the chancel next week.”
That’s all I needed, another load of people trying for a slice of my already meagre cake.
“Tell them to read up on Lay Chancellors. Not only do I have to pay the bill, but I have to agree to the work being carried out unless it is of structural importance to the church rather than cosmetic.”
He looked up.
“I suppose you do.”
“Is it structural?”
“Not strictly.”
“Then I’m not authorising the work. Tell them that if they go ahead I won’t pay. I’ll put it in writing before you leave.”
He licked his lips clearly caught between a rock and a hard place. While he pondered the situation I sat down and wrote out a short letter saying that I was not authorising any work on the chancel to be paid for from my funds and handed it to him.
“Your move.”
He looked even glummer.
“Not my move, their move. For what it’s worth I’ve been advising them that we ought to take the fields and be thankful that you paid up for the previous work.”
I was suddenly hit by an inspiration.
“What sort of organ have you got?”
He regarded me as if I was mad.
“Triple decker by William Hill and Sons.”
Am I right in saying that you’ve recently had it restored?”
He sighed.
“Too true, cost us £35,000; fortunately we got a grant for over half of it.”
“Tell them that if they take the fields and stop mucking about I’ll join the congregation and that as long as I’m a church member I will pay for the upkeep of the organ.”
I already knew what sort of organ it was and my fingers were itching to play it. He looked amazed.
“Are you sure?”
“Definitely, but it’s a limited offer.”
“How limited.”
“Tell them not to wait for too long.”
He left slightly happier and I pondered on the fact that I was promising to spend money I probably wouldn’t have. Still if I had to leave the rectory I’d leave the area and wouldn’t be a member of his church, so I had nothing to lose; did I?
Looking back I have absolutely no idea what I did that afternoon and evening. It’s a blank, but Friday morning brought hard graft. Yolande’s father turned up with a brand spanking new van and we had to transfer all Yolande’s goods and chattels from one van to the other. Then, by careful manoeuvring in my garage and parking Fiatimo practically on top of the lawn-mower, we managed to squeeze it into my garage; I reckon that it had less than an inch clearance under the door lintel. Yolande’s father, obviously deciding to do the job well, then insisted on towing the old van to the local scrapyard. Of course I had to steer the thing and only had a handbrake to get it to stop, by the time we got to the yard I was sweating despite the cold.
We ended up back at my flat drinking coffee as I tried to sit on a radiator and thaw out. As he still made me nervous I tried for a neutral conversation.
“What’s it like to drive?”
“Weird. There’s almost no noise at all.”
“Have you tried it with the diesel running?”
“That’s even weirder. It feels too responsive for a diesel and there is no apparent relationship between the noise the engine is making and the speed your travelling.”
We finished our coffee and I showed him out, as we passed the van I stopped dead and he grinned like a man with nine pints inside him. The cause of our behaviour was the sign on side of the van; instead of proclaiming ‘D & Y Cranstone Electrical and Burglar Alarm specialists’ like the old van, it displayed ‘Yolande Cranstone Electrician and Alarm specialist, part of the Cranstone Electrical Partnership.’ He managed to take part of the grin off of his face.
“Having my van re-signed tomorrow, thought it was about time.”
“Have you told her?”
He shrugged.
“Don’t know how. Wifey is right, I couldn’t do without her and I’ve played the top-dog too long.”
I let him leave and went upstairs to lie down; I was knackered.
Later my mobile phone trilled in my ear later, much later in fact. I sleepily checked the clock as I reached for the phone, it was nearly 9pm. When I answered the phone I was greeted to the joys of some drunken woman singing down the phone at me to the sound of much hilarity in the background. It took me a few seconds to realise that it was Yolande, even then I had to do a reality check, after all I knew that Yolande never drank; I’d been with her in a hotel for three days remember.
“Yolande, is that you?” I said in an inspired piece of linguistic articulation.
I got an incomprehensible slurred reply and I realised that not only was she drunk, she was in trouble. The hilarity in the background held all the warning signs, she was not getting drunk with friends, she was being made drunk for people to laugh at. I tell you, it was snowing hard, the roads were more than just plain icy and it was that sort of darkness where the headlights don’t penetrate, but I made it to the Dolphin and Ferret in record time. I ran into the pub to find a small group of young men all chanting at her to take the stage and sing a sexy song. She was resisting, but obviously quite
drunk and lolling about all over the place. I was charged up with adrenaline and stormed my way into the centre of the group and scooped up Yolande. A nasty thin face youth with a hair cut so short it looked like a paint-pad barred my path to the door and told me to leave her alone; well he actually slurred the statement, but I knew what he meant. I can’t remember my reply, but he went to take a swing at me; fortunately he was so drunk he staggered backwards and fell over a table behind to much drunken swearing. I half carried Yolande to the bar and snarled at the barman.
“Which room is she in?”
He gave me a suave smile that was quite out of character with the pub.
“Sorry sir we don’t allow guests in bedrooms.”
“But you do allow punters to spike the drinks of young ladies.”
He shrugged as if it didn’t matter.
“They were only having fun.”
“Do you think it is fun for her? And when would you have intervened? Or would you have let them take her outside and finish her off?”
He had the grace to turn a slight shade of pink. There was the sound of breaking glass behind me as Yolande’s group and the smashed table group got ready for a fracas. He went to move for the phone and I grabbed his shirt.
“Her door keys first.”
There was more noise behind and lots of drunken swearing, his eyes watched the scene behind me, frankly I didn’t care. After a few seconds he said.
“Room six, no keys the code is 6563.”
Somehow I got Yolande up the stairs and into her room; I made sure I locked the door as the noise from below was beginning to approach bedlam. Yolande suddenly sprang into life and flung her arms around me slurring sexily.
“My knight has come to rescue me, the roses are wonderful, missed you.”
She puckered her lips and aimed for my mouth, she tasted of orange juice. I realised with a start that if I wanted she would sleep with me; her body language said it all. Now I’d waited all my life for a woman to throw herself at me and make love with wanton abandonment, but not with Yolande and not with her in that state. Though I must admit that I held onto her and enjoyed her inebriated embrace and intermittent slushy kisses. As we embraced the curtains became back-lit with blue flashing lights and the noise in the bar below moved towards a crescendo and then petered out. After a little while I realised that she was running out of energy and I laid her on her bed taking care to roll her onto her side. I collected an old wash-basin from the hallway table and waited for her to be sick. I was always sick, so I expected her to be sick. I was not disappointed and almost without warning she made a burping noise and vomited, the result was nothing but orange juice and vodka; the bastards had even fed her spiked drinks on an empty stomach. Somehow I managed to get her to drink a couple of glasses of water and she flopped back on the bed. I decided to watch her till morning.
I woke up at the passing of a diesel lorry at five in the morning. I checked Yolande and then left the hotel to move my land Rover into the pub car-park. Even though there was plenty of room in the car-park I managed to run into a giant flower pot containing a hideous bush, but I didn’t care; as far as I was concerned this place could burn down, once we had left it of course. Back in the room Yolande hadn’t stirred and I settled down into the armchair again.
It was a groan from Yolande that roused me later. She was in the en-suite bathroom on her knees in front of the WC bowl. I could have told her that she might feel mighty sick, but she wouldn’t be sick. She rolled over and sat with her back to the wall and I must say that she looked absolutely dreadful. Her skin was the colour of parchment, her eyes half closed and her face had that haggard look that only a really top quality hangover can induce. I went and sat next to her; she leaned against me and I put my arm around her shoulders; she smelt awful, a mixture of bile and stale sweat mingled with potting compost. No words were necessary, I knew how she felt and she didn’t have the energy to speak. When you have a first class hangover you don’t live you exist; every movement is an effort and every effort induces pain. When I thought she could take it I whispered, “Have you got any Aspirin?”
She managed to gasp a reply concerning her handbag. Somehow I managed to get her to swallow three Aspirin and drink a full glass of water; we then resumed our back to the wall leaning against me position. I was just beginning to get cramp when she started crying. There were no sobs or sounds, she just wept with tears rolling down her cheeks from her screwed up eyes. I forget how long she wept, but I would have sat there holding her forever.
Finally the Aspirin started to do its job and the pain in her head must have shifted from abysmal to tolerable because she tried to stand up; someone should have warned her about rotating rooms for she almost fell against the wall. By stages I coaxed her into a form of life, yet I felt for her suffering. Eventually she managed to sit in the armchair with her head up and her eyes open, but she still wouldn’t let me open the curtains. I asked her in a whisper how she was feeling to receive a reply of “Bloody awful,” through clenched teeth.
I made her drink another glass of water, put her back to bed and went downstairs for breakfast. The bar was a total mess and an older man was standing in the middle while the hapless barman tried to put a leg back on a table. Anger overwhelmed me and I went up to him.
“How much did they pay you?”
I’d been asleep in a chair all night and must have looked dreadful, he looked at me with fear in his eyes.
“Dunno what you mean.”
I went half a step closer.
“How much did those snots pay you to spike her drinks?”
He mumbled something and I snarled.
“What?”
“£20.”
I turned to the older chap.
“You the boss?”
“Landlord.”
I poked the barman.
“This toad spiked the drinks of a young woman until she was totally stoned. He could see that she was being intimidated by a group of young man, but he still spiked her drinks. I’m going to report that and seek to have your licence revoked.”
The Landlord shrugged.
“It happens, it’s no big deal.”
I almost totally lost my temper and if it wasn’t for fear of waking Yolande I am sure I would have yelled the house down. Instead I said calmly.
“Suppose it was your daughter.”
The Landlord considered the thought and turned to the barman.
“Get your coat, you’re out of here,” he said in a no nonsense manner.
As he left I turned to the Landlord.
“She’s sleeping it off. I’ll take her home as soon as I can and I don’t expect her to pay for the room. And my cars in your car park next to the MG.”
I walked out and down the road to a transport café for breakfast wondering why I was so angry.
Two hours, one breakfast and most of a Saturday broadsheet later Yolande woke up and swivelled to sit on the side of her bed. Her skin had returned to almost it’s normal colour and she no longer looked on the verge of death. I said gently, “How are you now?”
“What was I last time you asked?”
“Bloody awful”
“Then make it plain awful.”
She disappeared into the bathroom and I heard the sound of a shower. She came back with wet hair and a sallow complexion. “Still feel sick?” I enquired.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” she replied, so I didn’t.
Eventually we made our way into the car-park and headed for the Rover. As I had told the Landlord I was parked next to an MG; on the other side of the MG was a well-tended Ford XR3, well tended that is except for the beer cask sitting in the middle of a smashed windscreen. Yolande eyed it suspiciously.
“Did you do that?”
“No, why would I?”
“It’s Nigel’s car, he’s the chap who bought me the drinks last night.”
“Then I wish I had.”
I wondered how she was going to cope with the journ
ey home, bouncy diesel driven leaf-sprung four wheel-drive automobiles are not the best remedy for hangovers, but Yolande stoically sat it out and apart from her increasingly fragile complexion you would not have known how she was suffering. As I turned into her road she sharply told me to stop. Once we had come to a halt and the Rover had stopped rocking she turned to me.
“Last night, I don’t remember much.”
“There’s nothing to remember.”
“I remember being in the bar and you entering like a wild bull, but little else.”
“As I said there’s nothing to remember.”
She sat still looking like a lost Cinderella.
“Did I make a fool of myself?”
“I rather feel that you were made a fool of, it doesn’t matter.”
She bit her bottom lip, always a bad sign.
“I mean did I make a fool of myself with you; with you in the bedroom.”
“No.”
I obviously hadn’t convinced her as she sat nibbling her bottom lip, so I tried again.
“You did give me a hug, but that is all.”
She nibbled some more, eventually she said in a quiet tone that was barely audible above the rumble of the diesel engine.
“And you slept in the armchair all night?”
I touched her hand and then held it.
“All night, I promise that I didn’t take advantage of you.” Although I was rather miffed that she thought I might.
She patted my hand.
“I wasn’t worried about you, I was worried about me; I tend to lose it when I’m drunk.”
“You were exemplary.”
She picked up her roses and went to slip out of the cab and I held her hand, leant over and kissed her cheek. I must have a funny effect on women for she started crying again and just mouthed ‘thank you’ before she got out and closed the door; quietly.
I watched her walk up her front garden path and studied the swing of her buttocks. I resolved that I might lose the rectory, become a penniless tramp and have to part with Fiatimo, but I would not willingly lose Yolande.