by R J Gould
Margaret Briggs
Margaret turned the door sign to ‘closed’ and pulled down the shutters. Yet again she’d been rude to a stranger for no reason. He’d seemed nice enough and had carried on being polite when she deserved a telling off. He’d even left a pound tip when his bill had only come to £2.70. She was getting more bitter by the day, a bored, unhappy, middle-aged frump. A fat lump with a waist that protruded beyond her sagging breasts, a piggy face with beady eyes, square nose, and thin lips. Greying hair that needed a regular perm to give it any life. Clothes like her mother used to wear; floral dresses, cardigans, and sensible shoes. How her mother had drummed into her the necessity for sturdy shoes.
Once, in her teens, she had saved for ages and bought a pair of stilettos.
‘What do you think you’re doing, Margaret? You are not stepping through the door with those. Take them right back to where you bought them.’
‘Dad, please help. It’s not fair.’
‘Do what your mother says, Margaret.’
Well, she’d shown them all right, but how that had backfired.
Her resentment of tourists, any visitor to the island, was based on jealousy – of their wealth and their wide experience of life compared to being trapped on the island.
She’d married Eric when she was eighteen. He knew what she’d done, but had still been willing to take her hand. A dull man, though honest and caring. Quite a bit older than her, but then he would have to be, taking her after all that had happened. Eric owned the hardware store in the town and she helped him out, serving and doing the bookkeeping. Selling nails, ladders, and paint was hardly what she was interested in, but she could escape with her cooking, sewing, and most of all, reading romantic historical novels. He died in 1997, drowned when he was swept over the quayside while fishing. It took them three days to find his body and by then they couldn’t tell whether he had slipped and fallen in or had had a heart attack and collapsed into the sea. His heart had been a problem for quite a time and he was on a list for a pacemaker.
She was upset like she would be for the loss of a friend, or at least an acquaintance, but no more. She had to pretend to cry at the graveside, what with everyone looking at her. First thing she did after the funeral was sell the hardware store and buy the small vacant café at the station. She’d thought for days about a good name. Refresh Yourself came to her like a revelation on waking up one morning. She worked hard in the café, happy to chat a bit to the regulars but very much keeping herself to herself apart from church and any play they put on at the Shanklin Theatre. It was the most attractive building in town by far, built like a Greek temple with white columns and a large outdoor staircase. Often she reckoned that simply being in the building was more enjoyable than the play she was watching.
She liked walking and if the weather was good she would head off alone with a picnic to America Wood, a haven of peace, with sturdy oaks and pathways invaded by low lying shrubs and plants. She had joined the Woodland Trust to support its maintenance.
‘It’s Margaret, isn’t it?’
She was sitting on a bench in a small clearing, eating an apple. She squinted as she looked up at a shape silhouetted in the bright sunlight. He must have mistaken it for puzzlement.
‘I was your tea shop the other day. Thomas.’
‘Good afternoon. Lovely day, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely. I popped into the tourist office and they told me about this treasure. What a beautiful place.’
‘My favourite.’
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Fine.’ She shuffled along the bench, conscious of the inelegantly slow movement of her large torso. ‘Fancy a doughnut?’
What a chat up line – fancy a doughnut. Of course, at that stage she had no intention of it being anything other than an apology for her attitude the day before. But they got talking, mainly him about trains at first, then opening up to explain about the family situation and his decision to get away from London and make a new start.
‘It was such luck finding out that the Shanklin line uses London Underground trains. I wouldn’t have been able to make the jump to driving regular trains, they’re quite different to operate. I was on the Circle Line and I can tell you it gets so dull going round and round London but not seeing anything. I’ve loved my first few days here being outside.’
So then that got her started and she chatted about the café and some memories of Eric. It made her quite sentimental thinking back. She rarely did it, but Thomas was a good listener and she felt comfortable. She couldn’t tell him about the difficulties before Eric – she would never tell anybody.
They courted. She liked the word courting. And so did he. It was right and proper, he said, not like some of the goings-on these days. That made her heart stop. She blushed as she nodded in agreement, knowing that it couldn’t be real courting, that she was just playing along.
He bought a little silver Rover, one of the last cars made before they went bust, he told her. Luckily he knew a bit about cars because he was frequently having to do something under the bonnet. They’d meet up on a Saturday and drive to one of the Isle of Wight tourist sites. During her childhood she’d been to most of them, but saw them in a new, more pleasant light all these years on. She began to think that being with Thomas was the sole cause of this pleasant new light. Every Saturday evening they’d go back to her bungalow for a meal. He could cook a bit himself, he’d said, but the way he ate so heartily with her, he was clearly in need of some good home cooking.
‘Margaret, will you marry me,’ he asked one Saturday evening, almost a year after they’d first met.
‘No,’ she replied.
‘No?’ There was a stunned pause. ‘But I thought you liked me. More than that.’
‘I do, but marriage isn’t for me.’ She felt a lump in her throat as she said it. Of course she wanted to marry him, but how could she after what had happened? She’d married Eric but that was somehow different – a sympathetic companion, but this wouldn’t be the same.
‘I can’t tell you how disappointed I am, Margaret. I was so sure you would say yes, I’ve even bought a ring.’ He put his hand into his jacket pocket.
‘I don’t want to see it, Thomas. Please.’
It was only then that she realised he was kneeling. He stood up. ‘I’d better go then.’ He walked into the hall and opened the front door. He turned. ‘Do you ever want to see me again?’
‘Yes, so much, Thomas. Yes, please.’ And with that she started crying, sobbing loudly. He rushed over and put his arm around her shoulder.
‘What is it Margaret?’
‘I hope so much that it won’t stop us seeing each other.’ Thomas took out a handkerchief and handed it to her. ‘Dear, what an exhibition I’m making of myself,’ she continued as she dabbed her eyes.
‘Here you are,’ she said, holding up the handkerchief.
‘No, it’s all right, you keep it.’
‘Thomas, I’d like to be alone if you don’t mind. Please leave.’
‘Are you sure I can’t help?’
‘I’m going to make a cup of tea then have an early night, but please, please can we meet next Saturday?’
‘Yes, of course, Margaret. Of course.’
Thomas Briggs
Thomas kept the ring, and he and Margaret continued to meet on Saturdays. Sometimes they would meet during the week for theatre, and increasingly after work for a meal and watching television together. Sundays she was a regular churchgoer, which wasn’t something Thomas wanted to do, but in the afternoons he came round and they played Scrabble.
It was many months later before he asked her again and this time she said yes. Lil and Wayne came down for the wedding as well as a couple of his London mates, and some of his new friends from the trains joined them at the ceremony and reception. Margaret had fewer guests than him, just two regulars from the café who were also churchgoers. It was a rather subdued affair, like Margaret wanted to get it over with as quickly as po
ssible. They had a meal out early that evening then Wayne and Lil headed back to London on the last connecting train, despite the offer to stay on to the next day.
‘I just hope I can make you happy, Thomas,’ Margaret said on their first night in bed together.
‘You already make me happy, Margaret. I love you.’ And with that they had very gentle sex and both were relieved and satisfied after that.
A year or so on, they had had gentle sex the night before, and Thomas was content on his birthday morning. He carefully placed his cup onto its saucer and rested them on the bedside cabinet. Then he measured and broke the cupcake exactly in half and they shared it.
‘Well, it might be my birthday, Margaret, but it’s your day really. We’re going to get you something really special to wear for Wayne’s engagement.’
Normally, the journey from Shanklin to Portsmouth took fifty minutes, a twenty-five minute train journey to Ryde, and then the short Seacat hydrofoil across the Solent. Thomas knew there was a problem when he saw Trevor sitting on the platform bench by a passengerless train.
‘What’s up, Trev?’
‘Seacats are off, Thomas, it’s too stormy. Morning, Margaret.’
‘What do you reckon is the best option?’
‘Fishbourne ferry’s going, but Bob can’t get drivers to run the shuttle bus there and back at such short notice.’
‘Suppose we could always get Jim’s taxi to take us.’
‘Problem there, too. No petrol. Jim’s trying to persuade Raymond to open the garage so that he can get some, but Raymond says he had a heavy drinking night being Doris’ birthday and he’s not getting up for no one. There’ll be a bus eventually but probably an hour’s wait the way things are going.’ Just as he finished speaking the bus turned the corner and entered the station car park with Bob at the wheel.
‘Well I never, Bob’s driving it himself. Not bad going for someone his age,’ exclaimed Trev.
By now sleet was lashing down, swirling in the blustery wind.
‘What a day,’ Bob said as he stepped out the driver’s compartment. ‘Morning, Margaret.’
‘Absolutely awful,’ Thomas agreed.
‘Worst we’ve had this year,’ added Margaret.
‘Well, it is only the second week in January so not a lot of competition,’ Trev said. It was always hard to tell whether Trev was being sarcastic or just prone to stating the obvious. His deadpan face never gave anything away.
‘No, I meant this winter, Trev,’ said Margaret.
‘It seems to be turning to snow, don’t you think,’ asked Bob.
‘Maybe, not always that easy to tell,’ Thomas judged, holding out an arm beyond the umbrella to assess the consistency of the moisture.
‘Excuse me, is this bus actually going to depart?’ asked a man that none of the locals recognised.
‘Yes, just hold on, sir,’ said Bob with contempt.
‘I need to get back to Portsmouth as soon as possible. I can’t see why the hydrofoils have been cancelled, it hardly seems rough out there.’
‘We put a high price on customer safety, sir’ said Trev condescendingly.
‘The next Fishbourne ferry is due to go in half an hour, are we going to get there on time?’ the stranger persisted.
‘I am well aware of the timetable, sir. I live here,’ said Bob with disdain. ‘I was going to have a cuppa to warm me up, but I sense your urgency, so we’ll go now.’
Thomas, Margaret, and the man got on the bus and off it went on the short journey to Fishbourne. Well, it should have been short, but there was what looked like a minor accident on the A3054 just past Binstead, with a car stretched right across the road and gently nestling against a tree. Bob switched off and got out the bus to talk with Simon, the local policeman. He came back and told his passengers that there was going to be about a half hour wait until the towing vehicle arrived. The restless stranger strode up and down the bus, every so often wiping the condensation off a window to search for the recovery truck. Finally, almost an hour after receiving Bob’s news, he stormed off the bus and approached the policeman.
‘Could you tell me exactly when this car is going to be removed? I was told it would be half an hour but it’s already double that. How can you keep a major road like this blocked for so long?’
‘The roads are icy today, sir. There have been quite a few skids like this and we’ve only got the one vehicle,’ replied Simon.
‘So it could be hours.’
‘I suppose it could.’ As Simon said this the recovery truck came into view, approaching along the grass verge with its hazard lights flashing. ‘Or maybe not hours.’
Twenty minutes later their bus reached Fishbourne Harbour, where there were an unusually large number of people gathered for that time of the year.
‘Must be because the Seacats are off,’ suggested Margaret. ‘Or maybe the January sales.’
‘Still looks a lot to me,’ added Thomas as they disembarked.
They didn’t have to reach the ticket office to find out what was going on, they could overhear the disgruntled potential travellers walking back to their cars. The 12.15 ferry had broken down in the middle of the Solent and was bobbing up and down awaiting a rescue tug. Margaret could see passengers being sick over the side of the boat.
‘What happens now?’ they heard the man who had been on their bus scream at the person in the ticket office.
Bob approached Thomas and Margaret. ‘It’s not looking good. There isn’t a spare ferry or a spare crew, and anyway, they won’t let another boat out until that one’s cleared out the way. It’ll be hours. I’d go and get some lunch if I was you.’
Margaret and Thomas sat in a pleasantly warm fish and chips restaurant enjoying their plaice rather than getting worked up about all the delays. When they got back to the harbour it was 2.30. The crowd had diminished to a small group but the ferry was still out there, now being circled by two tugs. Bob and his bus and the stranger had gone.
Thomas approached the ticket office. ‘Has everyone given up and gone home?’ he asked.
‘No, they’ve headed off to Ryde. The weather’s calmed down a bit and the Seacats are back on.’
So Margaret and Thomas sat in the near-deserted waiting room until Bob returned. They were the only passengers on the bus for the journey back to Ryde. By the time they got there it was sleeting or snowing again, depending on the exact definition of each term. Whether it was sleet or snow, it was extremely bleak with poor visibility.
‘Margaret, I know you’ve been looking forward to this, but I’m not sure we should go. We could end up stranded in Portsmouth.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that. I don’t fancy it either. Let’s just go home and relax. It’s not as if I haven’t got plenty of clothes to choose from, is it?’
So they took the ex-Northern Line London Underground train from Ryde to Shanklin, and as soon as they got through the door, Thomas put on the kettle.
Wayne Briggs
Wayne was back on the sofa. The whole thing was Clarissa’s fault yet he was the one being punished with another uncomfortable night’s sleep to look forward to. Or maybe many nights. Perhaps every night from now on, because as far as he was concerned their relationship already was under threat.
When he was taking the few steps into the lounge having read Si’s text his mind had raced as he struggled to find a feasible explanation for it other than the obvious one of an affair between his fiancée and her line manager. Second time round, because she’d told Wayne about a first one with him.
‘Maybe you should read this,’ he’d said as he threw the phone across the room. It landed by her feet.
‘Wayne, are you mad, you’ll break it.’ She read the message and looked up at him. ‘That man’s an absolute wanker. He’s in big trouble on Monday.’
Wayne began his interrogation. ‘The underwear on the bed, is that from him?’
Clarissa’s answer was monosyllabic. ‘Yes.’
‘Don’t you thi
nk I deserve an explanation? How come he’s buying you sexy underwear?’
‘I don’t know, he just did it.’
‘And you accepted it?’
‘A gift-wrapped present was delivered to my office. I read his card, opened the box, and thought, why not keep it if he wants to waste his money? It’s a lovely set, it’s Mimi Holliday stuff. I was going to wear it for you, Wayne, surely you don’t think for him.’ Clarissa reddened with anger. ‘Do you really think I’d be unfaithful, Wayne? Can’t you trust me?’
‘You usually give me a minute-by-minute run down on what’s happened at work. Why didn’t you tell me about this then?’
‘Because we’ve hardly been talking the last few days, have we?’
‘What did his card say?’
‘I don’t remember exactly.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I threw it away.’
‘Destroying evidence?’
‘Don’t be so bloody silly.’
‘Well, what did he write?’
‘I don’t know, something like “for the body I long for.” Utter bollocks, you can see why I tore it up.’
Wayne persevered with the questioning. ‘You said I was the only one who called you Riss. Simon, or should I say Si, seems to be using it too.’
‘I don’t know why, he hasn’t called me that before. Maybe he heard you using it.’
‘Me, the sandwich delivery boy.’
‘Yes, the fucking sandwich delivery boy if that’s how you think I see you.’
Wayne went into the bedroom, dressed quickly and left without a word. Clarissa remained silent too.
Clarissa Montague
There had been an affair with Si and at first Clarissa had been very fond of him. He headed the marketing team for the magazine and had supported her progression to promotion as assistant director. It was an industry where socialising was an important part of the job and it was natural to go out after work for a drink with your team.