Downward

by White, Bethan

  ‘I understand her son isn’t well,’ one said. Her name was Sylvia although for reasons no one could remember, she was always called Poppy. Cruel observers whispered that it was because her eyes were virtually out on stalks, but in fact it was simply that it was the first word she had spoken. No one was left now to remember Poppy as a baby; she was seventy five, bent and weak as to wrists and eyesight, but customers all forgave her little errors in order delivery because of her sweet nature.

  ‘Son!’ Sally said, with a dismissive snort. ‘He’s not exactly a kid, though, is he? She should have more consideration to those of us with real children.’

  The other two looked at each other with meaningful eyes. The third woman, Pauline, put in her oar. ‘Your children are always your children, Sally. No matter what their ages. I would hope that mine would always come home to me and George if ever they needed us.’

  ‘God!’ Sally cast her eyes up. She was the only member of the café staff who actually got a wage packet. Everyone else was a volunteer and she somehow considered that made her exempt from toeing the Christian line and not taking the name of the Lord her God in vain. In fact, she had only said she believed in Him at all in order to get the kids into the church playgroup, keep the little bastards off her hands for an hour or so. ‘Sod that. I can't wait for mine to be out of my hair.’

  Pauline, who was unfortunate enough to live within football distance of Sally’s house, thought that the time they spent in her hair was little enough, judging from the hours they spent playing in the street, but said nothing. Poppy had turned away and was wiping the coffee pot, over and over and over. They liked Sarah. Poppy was madly in love with the vicar, the nearly twenty year age gap notwithstanding. Each was quietly planning an early escape – Sally was hard to bear at any time. Without the filtering effect of Sarah, she was impossible.

  ‘I don’t see the vicar wearing it,’ Sally added. ‘He likes his peace and quiet. A man his age, never had kids, won't want her son cluttering up the place.’

  This was news. Poppy had heard that Sarah’s son was unwell. She hadn’t heard he had moved into the vicarage. She wondered whether that was even allowed – didn’t they have to ask the Church Commissioners or something? She had certainly heard Rev Mike say something along those lines when she had asked him how many Syrian refugees he was planning to take in. She would have to have a word, find out – those poor little babies on those dreadful leaky boats deserved a bed more than Sarah’s son, she was sure about that. ‘Are you sure he’s in the vicarage?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Pauline chimed in. ‘I saw him yesterday afternoon. He went home with Sarah; he was carrying an overnight bag.’

  ‘Oh!’ Poppy was relieved. ‘An overnight bag. He’s probably just come for a night or so.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Sally said, triumphant. ‘I heard his wife’s kicked him out. Apparently, he was having it away with all manner of women. All over town, I heard.’

  ‘Sally!’ Pauline was outraged. ‘How ever did you get hold of that? I’ve met him. A lovely young man. Works at that estate agent in the High Street.’

  ‘My sister works in that GP Practice on Castle Street; you know, the one round the back of Argos.’

  The others nodded.

  ‘Well, she reckons that new manager there has been knocking him off for years. Nothing said as such, you know. Just hints. But there’s no smoke without fire, I reckon.’

  The older women took a step back, looking at Sally from under lowered lashes. Poppy had never married, although she had once come very close to a very intimate encounter with the cheese counter manager back in the day when she had worked at the Co-op. Pauline had had her moments, but generally she would admit to having been monogamously and monotonously married to George since Adam was in the militia. Lovely young man or not, he was clearly no better than he should be. And Sarah had had a day off because of him? It just wasn’t right!

  Poppy spoke for them all. ‘I’ll have a word with the vicar,’ she said, firmly.

  A bell pinged behind them and a cheery voice called out for the usual. The rush was on and that was that; Poppy would speak to the vicar and yet another brick tumbled into the void. The black dog rolled over to have its tummy tickled. It had never had any luck as yet, but it never gave up trying.

  Chris Rowan had never been unemployed before and it was all new to him, the hours of time left unfilled, the bank account which looked impossibly small suddenly with no hope of replenishment. Dave Stanley, having not heard back from Chris to discuss his generous offer, had paid up the three months in lieu, he had added the tax rebate and had also – although he didn’t have to – had topped it up with a couple of commissions; ironically, in the circumstances, that for the successful letting of the white elephant of Number Forty Three. But even so, he had less than two grand to his name – a huge amount had been swallowed up by the overdraft and so the bottom line was very small. He immediately transferred half of it to Megan’s account; who knew when he could give her more? And that was it; almost before winking, he was down to a balance of three figures and that couldn’t be good.

  He had left his laptop back at the house and wasn’t going back for it. Similarly, his clothes – some nice stuff too – that was staying there unless Megan had put it on eBay or taken it to the charity shop. His mother would keep his shirts circulating. He was already in his suit. And his couple of pairs of jeans would do for round the house.

  He was hunched now over the vicarage computer. It was as old as the hills and you could almost hear the gears turning as he went online. Mike opened it up for him every morning, ostentatiously making him turn away as he entered the password. He asked him, extremely politely, to avoid downloading any large files. Their broadband package was very basic, he said, and so anything using a lot of data – he pronounced it ‘dar-tar’ and you could almost see the speech marks appear above his head – would be costly to the parish. This was usually accompanied by a smile and a ruffle of Chris’ hair. The subliminal message was, you stay off the naughty websites, my boy. I know what you’ll be doing as soon as my back is turned. You’ll be surfing all the porn sites you can shake a stick at.

  After the first couple of mornings he had feigned an urgent bathroom need to avoid the whole encounter. He then closeted himself away, registering on every site he could find to get a new job. Anything. Anywhere. As long as it was soon. It didn’t take him long to discover that he was all but unemployable. His transferable skills were few. People management? Hmmm … not really. IT? Only just. Qualifications? Apart from an abortive stab at a drama degree when he was eighteen, he hadn’t been in a classroom for fourteen years. Dave Stanley was very hot on courses and went on as many as he could find. If he forgot the content on the drive home, it didn’t count. They usually came with a certificate churned out on the day and he could paper his office wall with them – in fact, he often had. Chris was kicking himself now as he saw all of the acronyms he had laughed into touch being listed on all the recruitment websites, all with an inviting little box next to them, just aching to be filled with a nice, fat tick. CIPD. AAT. CIM. CAM. ADBLD. He wanted to add another; WTF. He could hear Dave Stanley’s voice as clearly as if he was sitting in the little poky room with him; ‘You’ll be sorry, Chris. No one was ever hurt by getting a qualification.’

  ‘Dave,’ he said to the empty study, ‘you’re right. I give you this one.’

  The door popped open and his mother’s head appeared. ‘Sorry, darling. Did you call?’

  There was no way on God’s green earth – sorry, Mike – that she could have heard him speak. She must have been outside the door, listening. A glowing ember of annoyance began to glow inside him, making his chest feel full and hot. ‘No, Mum. I didn’t call.’ He could hear that his voice was full of stress and needless to say, she was on it like a Ninja.

  She crossed the room and kissed the top of his head. ‘Are you okay, darling?’ she asked, queen of the stupid question as always.

  ‘Well, no, Mum
. I’m homeless, jobless, skint and my partner has chucked me out. So, no, I’m not all right. But I’m all right apart from that.’ He screwed his head round to look into her face. ‘Don’t worry about me. This is just a blip. I’ll soon be on my feet again, you see. Look – I’ve enrolled with all these agencies. Someone will be back to me soon, I’m sure.’

  She leaned her cheek on his head and squeezed his shoulders. ‘You’re tense.’

  Not a question this time, but nearly as stupid. He rolled his shoulders to show he was fine and eventually, when he simply sat with his hands over the keys without speaking, she left, with a final pat on his arm.

  When she had closed the door behind her, he let his head loll back and let out his breath in one long sigh. She was his mother. He loved her; of course he did. But she could annoy for England. And now, he had completely lost the thread of what he was doing. Bugger it. He’d have a little wander on Facebook. See what was going on. He and Megan had never been Facebook friends – they had laughed at couples they knew who actually sat in the evening, tagging each other on Facebook whilst sitting in the same room. But now, he wished they were. He couldn’t help putting her name in search and there it was. ‘If you want to see what Megan Harris shares with friends, send a friends request now’.

  He let go a hollow chuckle and looked at the door but this time there was no maternal concern. Either she had stepped down her surveillance or he had found the right level of sound that didn’t carry through the wood. It’s a bit late now to make a friend request, he thought. Too little and far too late. He scrolled down his own page. A few events. A few birthdays. He was tagged in Mark’s stag photos of a year ago and his breath caught in his throat to see the image of himself. Most people would say he hadn’t changed, but he could hardly believe the difference in his eyes. The eyes from a year ago looked out with such calm assurance. They said, to anyone who cared to look, ‘Here I am, a man with a family, a better job than most of these jokers around me, a great future.’ He picked up his phone and took a selfie, something he and Megan had always mocked. He uploaded it and paused over the comment box. What he saw made tears come into his eyes. He typed, ‘Help me. I’m lost and frightened. Is there anybody out there?’ Then, he pressed delete. Because there was nobody out there. No one to help him. And lost and frightened didn’t really begin to cover it – not in a million years.

  Forever Autumn

  *

  When Chris’s phone rang he glanced at the number and almost declined the call. It was one of the office numbers, not Dave’s or he wouldn’t have hesitated; he was a little surprised to find how fast the small details of his working life were slipping away. Time was … and he was only talking a couple of weeks … time was, he would know everyone’s number off the top of his head. He didn’t want to speak to Cassie, that much he was sure of. But he thought that her number ended with a seven; this was a nine. He pressed ‘answer’.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Chris? Hi, it’s Gavin? Gavin, from the office?’

  Oh, yes. Gavin. The moronic interrogative king. ‘Hi, Gavin. How’s tricks?’

  ‘Oh, you know? All to buggery. Jacintha’s left – threw her toys out of the pram good and proper. Dave doesn’t come out of his office and his missus has taken over Jacintha’s desk. She’s bloody good, actually.’ Gavin lowered his voice and it became a bit hollow-sounding; he was clearly shielding the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘She gets on at me? She says I do that thing? That Australian, Californian thing? Anyway, I have to try not to do it, when she’s around.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘It’s hard not to do it once you’re in the habit, but she doesn’t take prisoners.’

  Chris laughed. He knew Tamsin; one of the scariest women he had ever met, but also one of the nicest. She must be, to put up with Dave and his little wanderings, he thought. ‘She’s okay,’ he said. ‘Ask her if you can babysit one night – tell her you love kids. She’ll be eating out of your hand in no time.’

  ‘Really? Thanks, Chris. Anyway, I rang to say that it’s my stag do this Friday. Wondered if you wanted to come.’

  Stag do? How old was this kid? He looked about twelve. ‘Umm … Gavin, that could be tricky. I mean, is Dave …?’

  Gavin chortled and then his voice lowered again. ‘Dave’s grounded. For life, as we understand it.’

  ‘It won't do him any harm,’ Chris said. ‘You know, Gavin, I’d love to come. Where are you starting off from?’

  ‘We’re not pub crawling. We’ve got the top room at the Greyhound. Do you know it? It’s out on the Oxford Road?’

  ‘That’s a way out – are we car-pooling?’ Chris hadn’t gone out much since he had left his company car outside the office, keys in the ignition. He knew he could borrow his mother’s but it wasn’t quite the same – especially when it came to giving lifts to potential vomiters!

  ‘Sorry, should have said. We’ve got two stretch limos to take us both ways – it’s not every day you get married, after all.’ There was an aghast silence. ‘Er … sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, Gavin,’ Chris said flatly. ‘These things happen. So … where do I pick up my carriage?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Chris sighed. ‘The limo. Where are we picking it up?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Carriage, yes. We’ll get you. Where are you these days?’

  ‘I’m at the Vicarage, St Blasius; it’s on …’

  ‘I know it. My mum goes there sometimes. Well, you know. Easter. Christmas. Harvest Festival. All the biggies. She doesn’t like getting too involved – they’re not a very friendly lot, but the vicar does a good service for the biggies.’

  ‘Yes.’ Chris knew. He had been dragged along on the previous Sunday and the congregation had not exactly welcomed him with open arms.

  ‘We’ll pick you up about eight, Friday. Okay?’

  ‘Looking forward to it.’ And Chris, as he put the phone down, found that he actually was.

  The thing with summer nights and going out, Chris thought, was that you feel such a fool all dolled up to go out with the lads when the sun is still hot and high. It feels like going to a Birthday Tea when you’re six. His mother had ransacked the charity bags in the church hall and had come up trumps; a pair of chinos, a linen shirt and a leather jacket. He could have gone back to the house – he couldn’t call it ‘home’, not even in the privacy of his own head – to get more clothes, but he couldn’t bear it. If she had cleared out the wardrobes, it would be unbearable. If everything was still there, waiting for him, it would be worse. So he hung the jacket out in the garden to rid it of its smell of charity shop despair and his mother laundered the shirt and chinos. She twirled him round as he came down the stairs and smiled approval. Yes, six years old and going out with friends – nothing changes. All it needed was for the stretch limos to be driven by Gavin’s mum and dad and the picture would be perfect. And more than a little scary.

  ‘You look lovely, darling,’ his mother twittered. She patted his stomach. ‘Better for those few extra pounds as well, I think.’

  He looked down at her, smiling up at him. He could stove in her head, sometimes. He could hug her till she couldn’t breathe on others. So he compromised with a peck on the cheek and before he had to ruin the moment with words, there was a toot on a rather classy sounding horn outside; his limo was here. He opened the door and was down the drive like a rat up a pipe. Saved by the toot.

  The evening could have been worse. It could have been better, but it could certainly have been much worse. After the first few moments of frozen silence when he climbed into the limo, the conversation was fine. James’s takeoff of Jacintha’s exit made them all laugh until it hurt; there was something about the toss of his head to fling non-existent hair out of his eyes that made the whole thing perfect. James had embraced his baldness and shaved and polished his head to resemble something that Tim Wonacott would coo over on any antiques show you cared to name; it gave an added dimension to his parody that kept them going, on and off, until the drink made
all outside help unnecessary.

  Gavin reached leglessness first. It wasn’t to be wondered at, James muttered into Chris’s ear. Gavin had got his brainless little bit of tottie up the spout almost on their first date and instead of doing a runner like any sensible man would do, he was walking her up the aisle. James, twice divorced and loving it, couldn’t see it lasting beyond the kid’s first tooth, but you can't tell the youngsters, can you? Did Chris know Tamsin Stanley?

  Chris nodded.

  James nudged him in the ribs. ‘Go way back, do you? You and Tamsin? She looks as though she was up for it, back in the day. I suppose …’

  Chris put down his drink. ‘No, Jim. You suppose wrong. Tamsin is too old for me, too married for me, too not Megan for me. I don’t shag just anything with a pulse. In fact, these days, I have to burst your bubble and say I don’t shag anything at all. I’m living in a vicarage with my mum, so go figure.’ Somehow saying it all out loud made Chris need another drink and keep ’em coming. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he had noticed James looked a little crestfallen. ‘It’s just that my new reputation is very far from the truth.’

  James clapped him on the shoulder and wandered away. As Chris got drunker that evening – and he did get very drunk indeed – the looks seemed to get more searching, more hostile and more annoying. The last thing he remembered before he was poured into a taxi, the stretch limo driver having refused him entry on the grounds of incipient sick, was that he tried to punch the groom-to-be. And after that, apart perhaps from an incident with the vicarage hanging baskets which was a bit of a blur, all was blackness. The dog didn’t mind; he knew that he was harder to spot in the dark.

  Sarah Green wasn’t a strong woman, even her best friends would say that. She had kowtowed by and large to her first husband, even to the extent of colluding with him in ignoring the illness which killed him and so it wasn’t really a surprise to anyone when she became the vicarage doormat. But, like many women, she discovered her inner tigress when one of her children was hurt and needed her. Claire was pretty much self-sufficient; Sarah had ticked that box years ago. Even when she was little she would put her own plasters on her grazed knees. Chris had always been much needier – even a close encounter with a wasp or bee would have him hiding behind the sofa; they didn’t need to have actually stung him to make the yelling start. Actual bloodshed was enough to prostrate him for the day. Mike had never seen her in full mother mode, so it came as a bit of a shock when he tried to tackle her about the night before.