She looked into his cornflower blue eyes and set her mouth. ‘I don’t know …’
‘Look,’ he said, pulling her closer. ‘Why don’t you think it over in the next half an hour, if you don’t have anything else in mind? Or, alternatively …’
And this time, she didn’t knock his hand away.
Monday, Monday
*
The remainder of Sunday had gone remarkably well, Chris thought. He wasn’t feeling quite the ticket after his little morning meltdown and so, instead of going out for lunch which had been the tentative plan the day before, Mark had gone out and bought in all the ingredients for what turned out to be a darned fine Sunday lunch. It wasn’t as though Chris hadn’t been stuffed with food over the last weeks and on Sunday his mother went totally nuts, rather than the only slightly unhinged gargantuan weekday meals. But they usually shared them with at least one or two parishioners and this could put a bit of a downer on even the most melt-in-the-mouth Yorkshires on earth. So, if Mark’s gravy was a little lumpy and the cauli a little too al for anyone’s dente, who cared? They talked about anything and everything that had nothing to do with exes, children and drunken women and, somehow, by hook or by crook, they got themselves through to Monday morning.
To prevent unnecessarily prolonged and potentially heartrending goodbyes, Mark went down to the shop early. He had put Chris’s clothes through the washer-drier and Chris gave them a cursory press. Although they were far from designer chic, at least he now looked and more importantly smelled clean. He had a shower, trying hard not to obsess about early signs of an unfortunate infection, and washed his hair. He felt ready for anything and even sat down at the table to write himself a list.
Mark came up the stairs at eleven for his coffee and found him still there, a blank piece of paper in front of him, a pen in his hand. He had written ‘To do’ and the top of the page and underlined it three times. He had drawn sun’s rays around the holes on the left hand side. He had drawn a house, child-style, at the bottom, but no flowers adorned its garden, no smoke plumed jauntily from its chimney. Mark thought you could tell a lot from that house, but didn’t say so.
‘I didn’t think I heard you leave,’ he said, keeping his voice level. ‘Let’s just get your list sorted and then you can be on your way. I hope you don’t mind; I made a few calls for you this morning. You’ve got appointments at the doctor, the job centre or whatever they call it these days and the housing office, all this afternoon. Look … I’ll jot them all down.’ He pulled the paper closer and wrote each appointment, neatly numbered. ‘There. First one’s at the GP at one. The surgery opens after lunch at one, so there’ll not be a queue. I’ll take an early lunch, shall I? We can stroll along together.’
Chris looked down at the paper and pushed it from side to side. ‘I’m not sure if …’
‘I am,’ Mark said. ‘I know you think I’m being a bit of a bastard and I suppose in some ways I am,’ he said. ‘But we go back a long, long way, Chris and I know that mollycoddling you is going to get us nowhere. Who ended up doing your Chemistry homework for years?’
‘You,’ Chris smiled. It was true; he had never done a stroke of work in Chemistry.
‘And what did you get for your GCSE?’
‘F.’
‘So … I rest my case. It’s time to do your own homework, Chris. Come downstairs at twelve, we’ll grab something from Gregg’s and I’ll walk you to the docs. You know it makes sense.’
Knowing it and believing it were two separate things, but Chris nodded. ‘See you at twelve,’ he said. ‘My treat.’ If he couldn’t manage a Gregg’s, it was time to jump in the river.
‘Thank you,’ Mark said solemnly, and clattered down the stairs again, coffeeless as it happened, but at least he had got the worst bit over. If he got Chris to the doctor, it was a start; the rest, he would have to do for himself.
Twelve o’clock came all too soon. Daytime television only can go so far towards filling a person’s mind and Chris was amazed again how banal the programming was. Mostly, it seemed to involve people not buying a house, or so it seemed to him. Either that, or they did buy a house and immediately regretted it. His inner estate agent rose up in despair – no wonder people almost spat on his kind in the street; they were held up as at best grasping, at worst grasping and also rather dim. He looked at his list. Job centre. He toyed with lying about his previous work experience, but felt on balance that would be counterproductive. He started to worry about what he was going to say. He knew that he wouldn’t be telling anyone the complete truth and even as the thought went through his head, he knew that he was being stupid. Lying to the GP would only prolong the agony and certainly wouldn’t get him better any time soon. Lying to the job centre he had a feeling probably came with an interview under caution or similar scary outcome. Lying to the housing office; all by himself in Mark’s uber-tidy sitting room, watching day-time TV with the sound off, he laughed. How often had he had to deal with the housing office, from the other side of the fence? Should he ask for one of the names he knew, or would a stranger be better? He knew the answer straight away – a stranger, every time!
His attention was taken by a strange noise just the other side of the door onto the stairs. He wasn’t sure whether the street door was left open for people such as the postman, so he went over and opened it. A black dog sat there, one paw up for a handshake. Somehow, it didn’t look like the kind of dog that would be taught tricks – it had a hard gleam in its red-rimmed eye and there was the tip of a tooth overhanging its lip. Chris reached out to pat its head, to calm it as its hackles were rising and a growl was growing in its throat. He jumped as an ambulance went past outside, sirens blaring, blue light throwing eerie shadows on the ceiling and when he looked back, the dog had gone. Chris squeezed his eyes shut then opened them again. There was a plausible explanation. There was always a plausible explanation. He just couldn’t quite put his finger on what it might be, not right now. In the distance, the church clock began to strike. Chris took a deep breath, shrugged into his coat and put his backpack over his shoulder. The next step on his path to … where? Not Oz, that was for sure. But, for good measure, he would make sure he took no notice of the man behind the curtain. Or his dog.
Opening his wallet in Gregg’s to pay for a couple of baguettes, Chris felt a bit guilty. He could easily have taken Mark out for a pub lunch on the money his mother had slipped in there. But he knew that having the majority of a hundred quid still there tomorrow might be very important. His balance on his current account was frighteningly low and there were no savings any more. He pulled out his phone just to check with online banking; he tried not to do it too often, it was all too easy to get obsessed. The phone said there was no service, which was ridiculous. He always had all five bars here. He turned around, arm in the air.
‘Not a selfie, surely,’ Mark said as he fell into step.
‘No. I’m just checking for signal. How’s yours?’
Mark brought out his Blackberry and thumbed a key. ‘Fine. Who’re you with?’
‘I don’t remember, actually,’ Chris said. ‘This is a … oh, bugger.’
‘What?’
‘This is a company phone.’
‘But it’s been months. Surely, they would have cancelled it before today.’
‘What’s the date?’
‘Umm … God, first of October.’ He pinched Chris’s coat sleeve and punched him lightly on the arm. ‘Pinch, punch.’
‘Well, how time flies. Here …’ Chris handed his iPhone to Mark. ‘Can you use one of these? I daresay there’s someone in a shop along here somewhere who can unlock it for you.’
‘But what’s today’s date got to do with it?’
‘Contract. I remember we all got new phones last year on the first of October. Dave had wangled some amazing deal on the tariff by paying up front for all the phones for a year. He said it had cost him a packet, but saved him almost as much. The deal was, as I remember it, that there would be an
automatic upgrade to the latest phones one a year. And so, today, he is going round the office handing out whatever is fancy and all singing, all dancing as if they were sweeties. And my phone is so much plastic.’
Mark looked stricken. His phone was his lifeline and without it for checking emails and all the rest, he would have been lost. But, now he came to think of it, Chris’s hadn’t so much as chirped since they had been together and he wondered if he would miss it that much. But, still … ‘Look, Chris, why don’t you keep it. Get one of those SIM-only deals. They’re all over the place and really cheap.’
Chris shrugged and handed Mark his baguette. ‘I can't really be arsed, Mark, to be honest. I mean, who phones me? Who wants to keep in touch?’
‘Your mum. Claire. Me. Megan …’
Chris’s laugh was bitter. ‘Oh, yes. Megan. That would be the Megan smooching with Mr Perfect last night, would it? I remember that, all right, even if some of the other stuff is a bit of a blur. Let’s compromise. I’ll keep the phone and when and if I get myself a SIM, I’ll let you have the number. Deal?’
‘Well …’
‘Deal?’ Chris held the phone by his finger and thumb over a bin.
‘Deal.’ Mark unwrapped his baguette and took a bite. ‘Here, I think this is yours. It’s got hummus in it.’
‘Sorry. I forgot you didn’t like it. You don’t know what you’re missing.’
Mark ran a tongue around his teeth, trying to clear them of the gritty feeling. ‘I think I do.’ He peered suspiciously into the other sandwich. Cheese. Tomato. Not even any mayonnaise. When it came to his lunch, Mark was a bit of a stickler. Apart from anything else, he was hardly going to get more custom if he blasted them with garlic all afternoon.
They walked along in silence for a while, their lunches taking all their attention. They still ate at the same speed, walked at the same speed, just like they had as children. Some things never change.
They had finished eating before they reached the surgery and they had some time to spare. Mark pulled Chris over to a concrete bench which encircled a bed of flowers, reduced now to a few rather sorry-looking pansies. ‘Look, Chris. I’ve been thinking … I was a bit harsh, kicking you out. You can stay if you want.’
Chris nudged him companionably in the ribs. ‘Don’t be daft. I can't stay with you forever and I don’t want to jinx it. We’ve been friends for too long to get to hate each other. Guests and fish stink after three days and I stank long before that. So, let me go, Mark.’ He sounded unutterably sad but there was no response possible. ‘I know you love me, mate. It’s not something that we say to people often enough. But you have to let me go. I can't get on with the rest of my life if I just hang around being a taker.’
‘No!’ Mark almost shouted, and a woman pushing a shopper past their knees flinched and scurried away. ‘You’re not a taker, Chris. Don’t say that about yourself.’
‘Well, it strikes me that I don’t give much to anyone, except heartache and pain.’
‘Foreigner,’ Mark said, in a kneejerk reaction.
‘What?’ Oh, yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean to quote. Damn. I’m going to have that bloody song in my head all day, now.’
‘Me too. Thanks for that.’
‘But, seriously, it’s time for a new beginning. But I promise I’ll let you know when I’m back on my feet.’
‘Make sure you do.’ Mark looked at his watch. ‘Ten to. I suppose …’
‘Yep. No time like the present.’ They stood up and hugged each other, not awkwardly but with real emotion behind it. Neither of them wanted to let go and Chris felt a surge of love, just as he had when he had parted from his mother. Just what was still missing from his parting from Megan. And he had never even said goodbye to Kyle. They were holes in his heart that he would never be able to seal.
Finally, Mark broke away and patted Chris on the shoulder. Not until he was lost in the shopping crowd did he put his hand up and wipe away his tears.
The doctor’s receptionist looked up and tilted her chin, nostrils flaring. Chris took against her on sight; so, all the stories about her kind were true. He hadn’t been to the doctor’s in ages although it sometimes seemed Megan practically lived there, what with her own ailments and Kyle’s. The woman spoke, but it was as though each word cost money. ‘Name?’
‘Rowan.’
‘Last name?’
‘Yes.’
The woman sighed. ‘I thought Rowan was your forename.’ She tapped impatiently at her screen. ‘I’ll begin again. Forename?’
‘Chris. Er … Christopher. Christopher Matthew.’
‘Sorry, Mr Matthew, we don’t seem …’
‘No. My middle name is Matthew. My surname is Rowan. Christopher Matthew Rowan.’
She clenched her lips together; in no universe known or yet to be discovered would it count as a smile. ‘Thank you. Yes, I have you. Could you confirm your date of birth, please?’
At least that was simple; a number, a month, another number. What could go wrong?
‘Thank you. And your address?’
Not so simple. ‘I … well, I don’t actually have one at the moment.’
‘No fixed abode?’ she said, as though each word was a vile obscenity.
‘Well, I’m not sure …’
She whipped her glasses off and tapped them on the counter. ‘I have to put something,’ she said and swivelled the screen around to face him. ‘See. Here. It is a required field.’
‘I suppose you could leave it as it is,’ he said. His heart clenched at the sight of his old address, his happy address, there in white on grey. He looked at the line below. It said ‘Linked’ and alongside it were the names of Megan and Kyle.
The glasses were back on. ‘I certainly can not, Mr Rowan. Not now that I know it to be false. The records must be accurate.’ She peered at him over her screen, now facing her again. ‘We do get audited, Mr Rowan. How would you feel if an inaccuracy in your record got us into trouble?’
Clearly, the answer ‘I couldn’t give a toss’ was not what she was expecting. He smiled and said, ‘Is a care of acceptable?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then put, “care of Mrs S Green, St Blasius’ Vicarage.’
‘Oh, the vicar’s wife. Is she a relative?’
‘My mother.’
The receptionist’s face froze. So, this was the son, was it? She had heard all about him from her sister. No better than he should be, by all accounts. She looked at the clock. Shame, but she didn’t have time to bring the doctor up to speed on it all. Never mind; he was probably just here to get drugs. She had heard he was a hopeless addict, as well as mad on sex. It went together. She didn’t even think of rock and roll. ‘I see that a … friend … made your appointment.’
‘That’s right.’ He didn’t see why he should give this frosty cow any more information than necessary. She had clearly already made her decisions about him, so why disabuse her.
She looked him up and down and her nostrils flared again. ‘Wait over there and the doctor will call you through.’ She looked as though she would have preferred him to wait out in the road, in the traffic if possible, but it was against the rules.
Chris decided to stay polite. ‘Thank you.’ He wandered off into the corner and looked around for a dog-eared magazine three years out of date. Surely, that was another thing – along with a miserable receptionist – that told you that you were waiting at the doctor’s. But there was nothing. Not even a coffee table. There were posters on the wall, but all so depressing he decided to look elsewhere. And when he did, he almost jumped out of his skin. Sitting across diagonally from him was an old lady, bent almost double, with the most enormous shopping bag he had ever seen on her lap. She and the bag were a uniform shade of grey and that was why he hadn’t noticed her. But her eyes were bright and she was smiling, so he smiled back.
‘That’s better, duck,’ she said. ‘Cheer up, it might never happen. Worse things happen at sea.’
‘Sorry,’ Chri
s heard himself say. ‘I’m not really feeling quite the ticket today.’
The old woman laughed phlegmily and coughed as though she would break in two. ‘Ooh,’ she said. ‘My chest is something awful. I have the flu jab and the pneumonia jab and any jab they have going, but you can't do nothing about old age, can you?’ She knocked on her chest as though it were a door she could open and make everything well inside. ‘It’s the fags, that’s what’s done it. Forty a day since I was twelve.’
‘You were on forty cigarettes a day when you were twelve?’ Chris couldn’t help but ask. She was old, but surely, not that old. She’d be telling him she worked as a chimney boy next.
‘In my day,’ she said, ‘you didn’t stay at school till you was eighteen, oh, dearie me, no. Twelve, that’s when I left school. Had to help in the fields.’
Not up a chimney, then.
‘Travelling people, we was. Hopping.’
Chris was puzzled. She looked in pretty ropey shape, but she clearly had two legs.
‘Hopping down in Kent.’ She peered at him. ‘Picking hops. For beer.’
‘Oh, I see. Sorry, I was a bit confused for a moment, there.’
Suddenly, the old woman lost her twinkly charm. ‘Trouble with you youngsters, with your fancy ways and your phones and your computers.’ Her voice rose to a wail. ‘I haven’t got a computer,’ she cried. ‘I don’t understand computers. I don’t understand phones. I like a bit of fish.’ Her voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘The Queen Mother used to like a bit of fish. I haven’t got a computer.’ And there she was, back with the wail. Chris pressed himself back against the wall, eyes wide. The old bat was clearly as doolally as all get out.
The receptionist stormed round from behind her counter. ‘Mr Rowan!’ she said. ‘You’re upsetting Mrs Murchison.’ She bent down and patted the woman’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Murchison,’ she soothed. ‘The nurse will be with you in a moment.’
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