by Kirsten Lee
“Ahh, the lady who works miracles! What can I get for you, love?”
“Hi Earl. A beer will do thanks.” I look around his pub while he gets my beer. The no-smoking laws have obviously not reached this part of the world yet and the pub is filled with a blue haze. I know I am going to smell like an ashtray when I leave, but the smoke adds to the pub’s atmosphere and wouldn’t be the same without it. In the corner closest to the door is a jukebox that I am sure can be dated back to Noah and the ark party. If this antiquated piece of machinery isn’t making alarming coughing noises, it successfully fills the air with sad, tired voices singing about lost loves in all kinds of styles. Earl puts my beer on a coaster on the worn wooden counter, still in the bottle – the way I like it. Behind the counter is the required mirror allowing patrons to look at themselves drowning their sorrows and rows of half-empty bottles breaking up that sad view.
“How long have you had this pub?” I have to raise my voice to compete with a very loud pool game close to the door. There are not a lot of people in the pub, just enough to give it a buzz and the couple occupying the booth closest to me adds to the romance of this place. I take another look at them and decide that they should maybe consider getting a room. I turn my attention back to Earl who is shining some glasses.
“It was here when I came to this town thirty seven years ago. I won it in a card game.” He shakes his head remembering a time long gone. “Those were the days. At first I didn’t really enjoy it here, but it grew on me.” We talk business for a while and he tells me about his other three businesses which are where he gets his income from. The pub he keeps for socialising purposes. I laugh at some of the anecdotes he tells me. It is a beer and a half later that I give him the documents he needed for the people who offered their homes for accommodation.
“Hey Earl! I’m sure your girl there can play better pool than this old geyser.” The shout from the pool table brings a smile to Earl’s face and a flurry of protests from the forty-something man on the other side of the table being accused of being an old geyser.
“I’m sure she could whip you all into shape before Sunday.” Earl turns to me. “These guys are rough, but good. They’re here every night and in church every Sunday. They adore their children, are tired of their wives’ nagging and like to think of themselves as real men.”
“We don’t spend money on perfumes for men and fancy suits. No, we save it so our friends can win it at pool.” The ‘geyser’ says to a great amount of laughter. Everyone in the pub is now listening to the exchange. Even the kissing couple has come up for air. It creates a feeling of warmth and welcoming that only one’s local pub can create. I have flashes of watching reruns of “Cheers” a long time ago and smile at the memory.
“How about it, lady? You also want to beat this man at his game?” The geyser’s friend asks me. “It’s an easy win.”
“Go on.” Earl says laughing. “We can talk business later.” He hands me a pool cue that he got from under the counter and eyes the men at the pool table. “Now you look after this lady, you hear. No nonsense.”
A collective “yes, Earl” gives me the impression that as congenial as Earl is, he runs his pub with an intolerance for nonsense.
The next two hours has a blurred quality to it. Three more ‘gentlemen’ joins us at the pool table and I now have four expert instructors and one opponent. A game which I have played before, albeit not very well, has turned into a very confusing educational experience. All my instructors are convinced that they know the best angle, speed and each shot becomes a dispute. After much deliberation they reach a compromise and proceed to instruct me how to shoot, which I of course totally fluff up. This causes a revision of strategy and two hours later I bow out after being begged to play another round. A lady can take only so much educating in one evening.
I sit down at the counter with my cheeks hurting from all the laughing and sigh with contentment. This is not the usual crowd I hang with, but they make for a very entertaining few hours at the pub and I savour the feeling of being accepted into a community – a novel and nice experience. My pool team settle their bill and make their way home while grunting about chores and nagging wives waiting for them.
“Had fun?” Earl takes a bottle from below the counter and pours two small tots. He passes one to me and lifts his in a silent toast. I take a sip of the unknown liquid and it burns all the way down my throat in a very pleasant way, but the moment I take a breath it almost knocks me off the chair.
“Wow.”
“Yes, it is my favourite and I leave it for the last drink of the night.” He takes another sip and asks again, “So, did you have fun?”
“Oh yes! They are very nice men. They’re very … um… male.” Earl bursts out laughing and puts his glass on the counter.
“You mean they’re opinionated, stubborn know-it-alls?”
“Yes,” I laugh. “But they’re good guys.”
“So where is your guy?” Earl’s question destroyed my laughter with the power of a nuclear bomb.
“There’s no guy.” The words falling from my mouth have a fatalistic and hopeless sound to it that does not sit well with me.
“Now why would a pretty little thing like you not have a man?” It must be a combination of the beer, atmosphere and Earl’s sincerity that makes me want to open up and that raises the sirens. I play with the little glass and wait for the moment of openness to pass.
“Ah-hah.” Earl draws out the sounds in an irritatingly knowing way. “Forget about that. I’m just a nosy old man. Maybe you could tell me why, on this beautiful earth God created, you drive that rattling heap of steel?”
I gratefully jump at the change of topic. “Um... I am no longer driving it. A few things happened and Al now has it.”
“Aha. So, that is the “project” Al was talking about.”
“I suppose so.”
We discuss the few things that happened to Bomb which Earl finds most entertaining. He listens patiently to my explanations why I want to keep my car and not buy a new one, nodding his head.
“I have an old 1939 Austin 8 that I bought when I graduated from college.”
“You still have it?”
“Yup.”
“In running condition?”
“In perfect running and overall condition. I only take it out for a drive every Sunday afternoon. The rest of the week it sits in my garage, patiently waiting for the next Sunday.”
“I would love to see her.” Earl smiles at me. “Earl, I’m serious! I love old cars.”
“With pleasure. Why don’t you come around one Sunday afternoon and we’ll take her for a drive.”
“For real?” He smiles again and nods which makes me beam with happiness. Or maybe I’m beaming from the strong drink he gave me. It would also explain my passionate enthusiasm about old cars when I’m usually mildly enthusiastic.
Thankfully he doesn’t return to discussing my love life and we talk about his family while I help him clean up and lock up for the night. I gladly accept his offer to drive me home since he’s only got that one little drink in his system and I suspect that I’m no longer able to walk in a straight line.
It is past midnight when Earl drops me off in front of the house and I make my way to the cottage and a dog which, after a few beers I have no problem admitting, I’m very fond of. I left Blossom in the cottage before I went to the pub, knowing that if outside, he’ll sit by the front door howling to be let in. I also drew the curtains, else Blossom would sit with his wet snout against the sliding door the whole night watching for my return.
I’m about to put my key in the lock when I hear something unusual. I stop breathing for a moment and listen. There it is again. The unmistakable sound of Blossom whimpering. Oh my god. What happened? It takes two shaking attempts before I successfully insert the key to the lock and slide the door open.
Oh. My. God.
Chapter 10
I can’t knock, so I kick the door again and groan under the
weight in my arms. Where is that insufferable man?
“Hello!” What was supposed to be an attention drawing yell comes out as a screech. I hear thundering footsteps and heave a sigh of relieve. The kitchen door of the main house swings open and a very unhappy Mr Wall Street glares at me. It feels like my arms are being pulled out of their sockets and my legs are trembling, but Mr Wall Street doesn’t make a move to help me. His glare turns into a look of astonishment and it echoes in his voice when he starts speaking.
“Why, why are you carrying that dog?”
“He almost drowned!” I feel my chin trembling and tears are forming behind my eyes. “I got home…pub…Earl…water everywhere…Blossom…couch…whimper…scared of water…he...he almost drowned!” My nonsensical blubbering brought a look of tender confusion to Mr Wall Street’s eyes. I bury my face in Blossom’s wet fur, sniff very unsexily and breathe in at least three hairs.
“Maybe you should put him down, Alex.” The tenderness in his voice is mixed with speckles of laughter and I can only imagine what I must look like. I took my shoes off when I went into the cottage, my pantyhose ripped on the way to the main house and my jeans are wet to the knees. My make-up is sure to have run with this silly crying and… I am still holding a seventy two kilogram dog in my now-numb arms.
“It’s okay, baby. I’m just going to put you down. We’re very far from the water now.” I awkwardly lower myself and unsurprisingly lose my balance. Blossom and I land on the steps by the kitchen door in a tangle of legs, arms, expelled bottom air and lots of fur. Both of us scramble up and sit on the floor looking woefully at Mr Wall Street who looks like he’s hyperventilating in his attempt to not laugh.
“Please come inside and tell me exactly what happened. You too, dog.” I take his offered hand and pull myself up, Blossom remains on the steps in a dejected heap. No amount of coaxing gets him to move and I walk back to him and am about to pick him up again when I hear a groan behind me.
“Let me.” Mr Wall Street effortlessly picks Blossom up only after threatening the poor dog with all kinds of dismembering if he even thought of biting the hand that’s carrying him or if a puff of air were to leave his body.
I follow the unlikely duo through the kitchen into an awe-inspiring living room. The last ten minutes are forgotten as I gape at the surroundings. Everything whispers class and money and I like everything – from the tiled floors, the loose rugs, and the lived-in, comfortable, yet obviously expensive couches to the colourful lamps. I like everything, because none of it is pretentious. Obviously expensive and tasteful, but not pretentious.
We reach the sitting area where one large couch, one smaller couch and three loose standing arm chairs fill the space to create a homey atmosphere. Adam gently lowers a trembling Blossom onto a rug and turns to me.
“Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?” He walks over to a cabinet and waits for my order.
“Water please.” The beers and whiskey I had at the pub still gives everything a bit of a hazy glow and I need my wits now. I sit down on the smaller couch, close to Blossom and bury my hands in his wet fur. As it is, I smell like Earl’s pub and with the added wet-dog smell, I’m sure that I’m a challenge for a sensitive nose. I need to have a shower. I murmur all sorts of nonsense to Blossom while Mr Wall Street plays barman. He places the glass on a very antique looking table next to me, of course on a coaster, and sits himself down in a wing back chair.
“What happened?” His economy with words makes me decide to follow his lead.
“The cottage flooded. I got…”
“What?!” He leans forward and pins me with his eyes and waits for me to respond to his outburst. So I do. Slowly.
“The cottage flooded.” I think he got it this time. “When I got home there was water everywhere and Blossom was on the couch. You see, he’s petrified of water and refuses to even put his feet in it. That’s why I had to carry him out.” My arm muscles are still burning. “I hope he’s not going to hate me forever. I just put him inside because I know how he gets when he has to stay outside at night. I just never expected the cottage to flood.”
I can feel my chin trembling again and my voice has an audible quiver in it. “I just don’t want Blossom to hate me.” I say in a very small voice. I blame the alcohol for this emotional display.
“I’m sure he won’t…um…hate you. I tell you what. You sit here and sort things out with the dog and I’m going to have a look at the cottage.”
So here I am, on the floor next to an overgrown, totally neurotic dog. Pathetic. I know that’s how Mr Wall Street must think of me, and most likely the rest of the world too. But the rest of the world didn’t see this big dog huddled in the corner of the beautiful coffee coloured couch, whimpering and shaking. Nor are they looking into his sad eyes right now. Somewhere in my rational mind I know that the alcohol in my system is making me overemotional and overreact. Thus I don’t blame myself for Blossom’s traumatic experience, since I didn’t expect the cottage-villa to turn into the Titanic. Yet I feel bizarrely guilty. And cold.
I leave Blossom alone for a few moments with a mission to hunt down a bathroom in this colossal place. It’s a three story house that looks like it could be used for one of the infamous Gatsby parties. Surely there must be a guest bathroom on the ground floor. I look back into the living room to make sure Blossom is okay. He’s still sitting on the rug with periodic shivers convulsing his body, but is also beginning to look around him.
I walk deeper into the large entry hall looking at the Gone With The Wind staircase leading to the top floors. I imagine Rhett Butler coming down the stairs and snort at this when I think of the many similarities Mr Wall Street and Rhett share.
I open a door and look into an old fashioned library. How beautiful. A new wave of gooseflesh reminds me why I’m snooping and after another door – a formal sitting room – I find the guest bathroom. Genius that I am, I locate spare towels in a cupboard under the basin and make my way to the living room towels in my arms.
I feel a little bit guilty for using these fluffy, monogrammed towels to dry a smelly wet dog, but I know from dear experience that dry cleaners are the gods’ gift to people like me. And that’s how Mr Wall Street finds us. I’m on the floor next to a much drier Blossom, with a mini mountain of wet towels on the floor.
His eyes fall on the towels and he closes them in a moment of decision. He evidently decides to ignore my impertinence and with a sigh sits back down in the wingback chair.
“I thought you were exaggerating, but it’s really bad. It seems like it has something to do with the water supply. I can see water bubbling up through the lawn, so I phoned the water company and they’re aware of the problem. They’ll only be here in the morning though. Said there was nothing they could do tonight.” The hardness in his voice gives me an idea of the chilly verbal assault the person on the other side of the phone received. There’s a moment of silence that threatens to turn awkward.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, thank you. I found some towels and am a bit drier now.”
“And him?” He looks at Blossom who’s lying with his head on my lap.
“I don’t think he hates me.” Mr Wall Street smiles at me joking at my own expense. “He’s just the most neurotic animal I’ve ever come across. And the sweetest. He’s such a big lug and I feel so protective of him.” I play with the velvet ear flopped over Blossom’s face.
“You can have the guest room.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You can’t sleep in the cottage tonight and I think it’s going to take a few days to dry out. I’ll help you bring your things over and you can settle in the guest room.”
“And Blossom?”
“The dog too.”
Okay, who’s this man? What happened to the animal-hostile, intolerant egomaniac? Could this be a case of mistaken identity? You know, like in those historic novels where the hero seems to be a total butt, and then turns out to be a gentle soul. My h
istoric novel hero gets out of his chair and with a disgusted look at the towels and a snort totally destroys my hope of discovering his gentle soul.
An hour and a half later I’m lying on a cloud. Man, this bed is comfortable, even more so than the very comfortable one in the cottage. I roll to the other side of the bed just to confirm that it is comfortable there too. It is. Blossom gives a tiny whimper in his sleep, followed by some disjointed leg movement and the predictable burst of air. I get up to open the window a bit – even though Blossom doesn’t produce smellies, I still have a psychological need for fresh air. I pull away the curtain and see a door leading to a Romeo-and-Juliet balcony and can’t help but open the door and step out onto the tiled floor of the balcony. The fresh cool air gently runs its fingers over my exposed skin and I fold my arms around myself.
What a night. Mr Wall Street did not appreciate my scepticism at his hospitality and almost withdrew his offer. And there was a moment when I almost didn’t accept. Gawd, that man is insufferable. There were so many really good retorts willing and ready to jump off my tongue and it was only with a Herculean effort and the thought that I don’t even have Bomb to sleep in that I ordered them to stand down. Erin and my mother would’ve been proud.
I lean against the balcony railing and look at the view in front of me. This room is at the back of the house and has a view of the swimming pool which is softly lit at night. I can only see the outline of the cottage with the rest of the property swallowed up by the darkness and shadows. During the stand off between Mr Wall Street and me regarding his hospitality, I gave a little laugh that had him ask me, very defensively, why I was laughing. I then asked him why we’re always at each other’s throats (that question has come up a few times) and he responded in a very curious way. Denial, he said it was. Denial of what I don’t know and I know that if I think about it, I will find an answer and I am convinced that this is one question I would rather go unanswered for now.
Somewhere a dog starts barking and I think of Blossom. He’d been subdued the whole time we’ve been in Mr Wall Street’s house. When we came back from the cottage to gather some things for me to stay over, he was still in the same spot on the rug with the same pathetic woebegone look in his eyes. While we were in the cottage, Adam tried to sweep some water out, but only succeeded in creating mini waves that kept returning. I think there might be some substantial damage to that beautiful cottage which is truly a pity. I quickly packed some cosmetics, clothes and pyjamas. It is one thing sleeping in the nick when I’m alone, but when I’m in someone’s – especially Mr Wall Street’s – house, pyjamas are called for.