by R J Gould
‘We’re here, off you get, Margaret,’ he calls.
Margaret edges out of a carriage door backwards, her largish behind a tight fit. She is pulling a buffet trolley. ‘Tea, coffee, cakes, sandwiches,’ she announces. Fiona, identified by an enormous name badge, steps out from the hotel foyer onto the pebbled drive, unsteady on the uneven surface in her stiletto heels, her mouth wide open in awe. Reginald, also name-badged, comes bounding out and strides past her. He is wearing a canary yellow suit and a black Stetson hat with a wide jewel-studded band.
‘Hello, hello. Welcome,’ he shouts with a strong Texan drawl. He shakes Thomas’ hand vigorously then approaches Margaret, planting a kiss on each cheek.
Lil, dressed in a skimpy gold bikini, poses at a carriage doorway before jumping down to join the group.
‘’Ello, Dad, ’ello, Margaret. You both OK?’
Now Henry appears from the hotel entrance and approaches the gathering. With his black cloak, bow tie, and top hat he resembles a well-heeled Victorian gentleman. His name is on a label running across the brim of his hat.
‘You must be Wayne’s pater, what a delight to meet you. And this lovely lady your wife, no doubt. Charmed, madam. ’
He grips Thomas’s hand and firmly shakes it, then lifts and plants a kiss on Margaret’s hand. She blushes. On seeing Lil, Henry steps back with a start, sensing danger.
Jack appears from behind a tree, doing up the flies on his jeans as he walks towards the group. ‘Just been for a piss,’ he informs the gathering. He is wearing a creased and stained white T-shirt with black lettering: Just Been For A Piss.
‘Brought the train, I see, Thomas,’ he sneers. ‘Maybe you can take us all for a ride later,’ he suggests with deep sarcasm as he gives Thomas a little, though not that little, punch on his shoulder. He then turns and addresses his attention towards Margaret.
‘I’ve heard all about you from Lil, and now at last we’ve met,’ he says with contempt. Neither handshake nor kiss is on his agenda for her.
There is a toot of a horn as a vintage, cream-coloured Rolls Royce slowly winds its way along the tree-lined avenue. The group step to one side of the train and huddle together to watch its arrival, all except Fiona who has edged back towards the hotel entrance. The car stops and a chauffeur steps out then opens the back door. A young woman appears. She is wearing a fur coat and a dazzling tiara, each hand cluttered with ostentatious rings.
‘Suzie, my darling Suzie. You’ve arrived,’ says Reginald, stepping forward to greet her.
Suzie turns to the group. ‘Observant, isn’t he,’ she remarks as an aside with spite. Reginald is oblivious to the comment. He runs over and embraces her passionately. In the watching circle, Jack puts his arm around Lil.
‘Don’t do that, Jack,’ Carol orders.
‘Sorry, Carol.’
Reginald has returned to the others, leaving Suzie to lift a large, brightly wrapped present from the back seat.
‘Wonderful for everyone to meet up for this,’ she declares as she throws the present to the side. It lands with the sound of broken glass or china.
Fiona has returned to the circle of guests. ‘A fur coat. How can she wear a fur coat?’
‘The mink was already dead when I bought it, Fiona,’ snaps Suzie.
’You mean when Reginald bought it.’
There is a chorus of ooohs from the gathering. ‘Bitch, bitch, bitch,’ adds Jack.
‘Don’t do that, Jack,’ Carol orders.
‘Sorry, Carol.’
A gong sounds.
In a regimented line the parents, stepparents, and Lil solemnly march towards the hotel entrance.
From under her coat Fiona pulls out a knife with a jagged blade and lunges towards Suzie’s back. Suzie swings around and brandishes an axe, which she pulls sideways then swings in the direction of Reginald’s neck just as Fiona is about to stab her. Carol is clutching a hammer, and she lifts it high above Jack’s head. Margaret looks on aghast as the other women shriek in unison, ‘let’s do it!’
Wayne yells out in a panic. ‘Stop, you’re spoiling our engagement. Stop it!’
Clarissa was shaking him. ‘Wake up, wake up.’
‘Blimey, Clarissa, what a dream. Everyone was about to kill everyone. Your lot and my lot.’
‘You can’t stop worrying about the party when you’re awake and now you’re even dreaming about it,’ she teased.
After they’d left Clarissa’s office earlier that day they’d sat down in a coffee bar and quickly resolved the things that had created the ill feeling. Wayne acknowledged that he was too quick to jump to conclusions when he’d read the text message, and Clarissa admitted that the reason she was so irritated when Wayne mentioned his concerns about the engagement party was because she was also worried, and him going on about it ignited her fears.
It was 3.33 a.m. and they were lying together in the king-sized bed.
‘Come here, Wayne. Give me your hand. Now put it here. Mmm, it’s my turn to dream.’
It was Wayne’s turn to tease. ‘Hold on just a minute, Clarissa. There is just one more really important thing about the party that we need to discuss.’
‘Wayne, do you want sex or not?’
Sunday 23rd January
Carol Collingwood
Carol sat in the passenger seat next to Jack in silence, occasionally using the back of her hand to wipe condensation from the window, catching sight of miserable drivers in their near stationary cars on the inside lane of the North Circular Road. Jack was driving and Lil was sitting in the back.
She had been in seventh heaven after Wednesday’s lecture. James Cunliffe had looked so distinguished up on the stage behind the podium. Lecture Theatre 2 it was called, a large, semi-circular auditorium and it was pretty well full. He’d talked for over an hour and the time had just flown by. She’d followed some of what he said, mesmerised just by the sound of his voice. She had enjoyed looking at others in the audience. People seemed ordinary, just like her. At the end he asked for questions and although she wanted to discover more about what was happening in America around the time that The Handmaid’s Tale was written, she didn’t have the courage to ask. There were plenty of other people wanting to express their opinions, anyway.
‘I think that’s enough for one night,’ the man who had introduced James said when there was a lull in hands being raised. ‘I’m sure you will join me in thanking Professor Cunliffe for giving a fascinating insight into one of the great novels of the late twentieth century.’ There was an enthusiastic round of applause. He raised his hand and the hall quietened. ‘You are welcome to join us, and the us includes Professor Cunliffe, for a drink in the downstairs lobby.’
Carol decided to stay and made her way down the grand staircase to an attractive, glass-fronted area where waitresses were walking amongst the guests with trays of white and red wine and orange juice. She took a white wine and stood alone. Enough is enough, she thought, as she finished her drink. She put her coat on and made her way towards the exit. There was a tap on her shoulder.
‘Carol, delighted to see you.’
‘Hello, James. Or should I call you Professor Cunliffe?’
‘God help me, no. James, please.’
‘Well, James, thank you so much. Half the time I had no idea what you were talking about, but the other half was fascinating,’ she said, grinning broadly.
‘Well, if you take the course I mentioned the other day you’d soon know everything I was talking about. In fact, you might be up on the stage yourself.’
‘You’d better book me in for next week then,’ she mocked.
‘You make sure you register, I’m serious now.’
‘I believe I might.’
Carol was happier than she’d been for a long time. She had to wait ages for the bus home and it was freezing cold, but she didn’t mind. It gave her time to think. Before that evening she had no idea that there was so much to say about a single novel, all the hidden meanings – metaphors, Profes
sor Cunliffe had called them. And then there was something called literary theory which she found difficult to understand, but he said it was important so she’d have to come to grips with it if she did the course. On the bus she smiled at a group of shouting teenagers, the girls dressed for a hot summer evening and the boys swigging from cans of lager in between their rude jibes. She thought about some of the books she’d read recently, Catcher in the Rye, East of Eden, and the other ones about American youth. The characters in the stories weren’t much different from this lot. Now she was desperate to reread them to search for their hidden meanings. Just like a puzzle, she decided.
She was bursting to tell someone about the lecture and all that went with it. There was only Jack, since Lil was out. Surely, at the very least, he’d be pleased she was happy, even if it was following something that didn’t interest him in the slightest. But he was still out when she got home, probably up the pub. Carol considered joining him there, almost certainly The Spread Eagle, but suddenly felt exhausted so decided to make a cup of tea instead and get ready for bed. She heard him come in at about 11.30 p.m., later than usual, and she pretended to be asleep. Normally he made such a racket, but that night she heard him sigh as he got undressed, sigh some more as he lay in bed, then finally drop off and start his snoring.
On the Thursday morning Jack was still asleep when she left for work. At least she would be able to tell Mr Singh all about the lecture, which she did while she was sorting out monthly newspaper accounts. His interest and encouragement, particularly when she told him that she was considering taking a university course, were in sharp contrast to anything Jack had ever said or done. When she got home early evening she took the lead in starting up the conversation, feigning enthusiasm in asking him how his day had been, hoping it would get him talking about her day and the evening before. Through his disinterested short statements she discovered that once again he’d had no work, had no strategy to get work, and had sat at home all day dividing his time between watching television and using the computer to bet on horses. Since he clearly didn’t have the inclination to question her about her day or the previous evening, she broached the subject.
‘I had a great time last night, Jack.’
‘Good.’
‘The lecture.’
‘I know where you went.’
‘Very interesting, it was.’
‘Good. Time for Hollyoaks, want to watch it?’ he asked as he pushed the remote.
‘No, I’ll get tea ready.’
‘Why not, I’m peckish.’
‘I might do an English course, Jack,’ she said when they were eating the beef stew.
‘We’ve had this conversation before, Carol. I can’t see no point, but you do what you want.’
If she felt a little more secure she would have told him that they hadn’t had a conversation about it – unless his idea of it was one bigoted sentence. In fact, the absence of interesting conversation was a major reason why a course seemed so attractive. It was an opportunity to meet like-minded people. But she didn’t say it and bottled up her disappointment with his attitude.
That evening Jack stayed at home, even though it was a Thursday. Odd, because Thursday was always a pub night. Dead beat, he said he was. After eating he plonked himself down on the sofa in front of the television with a few cans of beer, using the remote to jump from channel to channel. Carol went up early and read in bed. She was dozing when he came up. Once again she was aware of rather a lot of sighing before the snoring. And no touching her, which was a relief.
Friday was Carol’s day off but she got up the same time as usual. She liked the early mornings when Jack was still in bed and she could potter about without him getting in the way. The post arrived, a thud as envelopes wrapped in a red elastic band dropped on the floorboards by the front door. Along with the usual bills and junk mail were two letters addressed to her. Carol couldn’t remember the last time she had received a handwritten envelope, let alone two. One had elegant sloping writing in thick, black ink, and the other looked like it had been written by a child, with its chunky, poorly spaced words. She opened the neat one first.
Dear Carol (if I may),
Thank you for your kind words at the end of my lecture.
I hope you don’t mind me writing, but having signed the list requesting more information about our degree pathways for mature students, I am assuming that you are happy to receive the relevant correspondence.
I have enclosed a brochure outlining the Access Scheme. The beauty of it is that you can take a course out of interest or decide to take on the assessments, which would allow you to enrol for a degree later on if you so wished. There is no pressure – either is permissible. We run Access twice a year and currently there are places available for the February start. Just in case you want to get going that quickly, I’ve put in an application form and details about the English Literature programme. If you need time to think about it, there is also a September start. I’ll be teaching in February, but probably not on the September course.
I’m sure that there is funding available to assist you. I’m not involved with that side of things, but the brochure gives details about who to contact to find out.
Perhaps I will see you at the University of Westminster.
With best wishes
He signed it James, and underneath, she noted with pride, it stated ‘Professor James Cunliffe’ on one line and ‘Head of the Faculty of English’ on a second.
She had to tell someone, and yet again there weren’t a lot of options. In fact, there was just one – Lil was out again. She was so excited she contemplated rushing up to wake Jack to tell him. She hesitated – he’d probably just mumble something negative in his semi-conscious state. She’d leave the letter open on the kitchen table and see how he responded at breakfast.
As she put it down she noticed the second letter. In her excitement she had forgotten all about it. She examined the address. The name ‘Cheryl’ had been crossed out and ‘Carol’ written above it. She opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of lined paper, torn out of an exercise book judging by the uneven left-hand side. There was a short paragraph set out in the middle of the page. As with the writing in the address, the words weren’t joined up.
Carol
I have to tell you that Jack, your husband, is a cheating bastard. There are no other words to say than them except that he doesn’t deserve a woman like you and I know what I would do if he was mine which he isn’t. And he never will be.
Yours truly
A friend.
At first, she thought it was another work-related letter. She’d received one after Jack’s court case informing her of the folly of living with a cowboy plumber. It was quite nasty. “Now that I know where he lives he should feel nervous every time he steps out the house”, it stated. She hadn’t shown it to Jack – he was going through such a difficult time then.
A second enclosure peeped out of the top of the envelope. She lifted out a photograph, which certainly did suggest that Jack was a cheating bastard as the letter had stated. During her last visit to the dentist, sitting waiting for a check-up, she’d read in a magazine that you could manipulate a photo to attach one person’s face to another person’s body. She inspected her photo of Jack, but no, that wasn’t the case with this one. It was his head and his body all right, and quite a recent photo because he still had the bruise on his arm from when he dropped the monkey wrench on it.
Her first reaction was to laugh. His face was ridiculous; his tongue stretched out to the side, his eyes looking like they were about to pop out of their sockets. And as for holding his thing and pointing it towards a camera, what was he doing? Perhaps he was at a brothel – they might do things like that there. So was she in danger of picking up a sexual disease? The laughter abruptly ended as she considered how she would confront him. She’d get straight to the point, ask him who took the photo, and look out for his likely rubbish excuse. Then probably she’d kick him out.
But there was Wayne’s do the next day to think about. That couldn’t be spoilt. And what about Lil? She’d want to know what was going on. It was a mess, a bloody great mess.
Jack Collingwood
Carol placed the photo on the kitchen table above the letter from Professor Cunliffe. She put on her hat, coat, scarf, gloves, and boots and left the house. She needed time to think, but in the meantime if he came downstairs and saw the photo, well, that was probably all well and good.
Within an hour Jack was in the kitchen, expecting Carol to have his breakfast ready, and within seconds after that he had the photo in his hands.
A fuming Jack, out for revenge, slammed the front door shut and headed off towards Shirley’s flat. He had grabbed his coat on his way out but was still in his slippers. Too enraged to return home to get shoes, he stormed forward, his feet soon soaked in the driving sleet that was turning yesterday’s pristine snow into mush.
Foremost in his mind as he walked was the quality of the photo. What on earth had made him stick out his tongue and stretch it towards his ear? Even in a photo like that, he wanted to look respectable.
Shirley must be intent on wrecking his marriage, he reasoned. Of course he was sure it wouldn’t work. Naturally, Carol was upset but she’d get over it. He felt like punching Shirley in the gob for playing a trick like that. He’d never touched a woman, well, except Nicola and she deserved it for the way she taunted him. And anyway, that wasn’t a punch, not even a hit really. Just a hard push with her ending up on the floor by the side of the bed and he’d been quick to pick her up. No, he wouldn’t hit Shirley, but he’d certainly give her a mouthful.
‘You got your slippers on, mate,’ a lady struggling with a bright orange umbrella remarked as they stood together waiting for the pedestrian crossing light to change to green on Arlington Road.
‘I know, I’m not stupid, you know,’ he said, giving her a derisory look. The illuminated man at the side of the traffic light changed to green and he stepped into a large puddle at the kerbside. ‘Shit!’