Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  After a few minutes, the conversation petered out. Shaun borrowed the sports section and I tried to focus on the rest of the newspaper. But then an overbearing feeling of claustrophobia seemed to descend upon me. A panic and a need to be somewhere else – anywhere else other than in the poky little kitchen with this Shaun bloke. I stood up suddenly, squashed the rest of my sandwich into a ball and lobbed it into the kitchen bin. Shaun looked up at me, eyebrows raised.

  “Crap butty?”

  “No. I just forgot. I need some tights. I snagged these. Got to get to the shops, quick.”

  Looking back, this was a strange and a convoluted excuse to pluck out of thin air. But Shaun nodded slowly, carried on chewing and reading the newspaper. Perhaps he was used to strange female whims. I didn’t leave the office to purchase a pack of Pretty Polly, however. I sat in my car, feeling oddly confused. And hungry. And having to listen to Manchester Piccadilly Radio because Radio 4 had gone AWOL for some reason. It wasn’t very nice.

  The Kitchen Non-Incident only made sense to me some time later. Nearly three years later. This was the length of time that Shaun and Rachael: Round One took to run. Throughout Shaun and Jess splitting up (with her never being told why) and beyond them getting back together. We still continued with it. The inability to stay away from each other. The veneration of one another’s bodies, followed by post-coital slump and black despair as Shaun had to sneak out, under the cover of darkness. The new resolve every day. (For God’s sake, Rachael, this is doing no one any good!) But then, the agonies of withdrawal.

  We were hardcore addicts.

  And all this had been kindled during a few minutes of sitting in close proximity to each other. Regaled by the hiss of Stinky Dave’s spray can outside as he engaged in flea extermination. And accompanied by greasy squirls of salad cream adorning our Guardian tablecloth.

  Shaun and Rachael were simply a cocktail of phenylethylamine, serotonin and dopamine. Straightforward biological and chemical attraction. And reaction (albeit to an extreme degree). Yes, my English literature A-level teacher might have preferred to read about it in more highfaluting literary frills. But at the end of the day, this stuff was as straightforward as a couple of doggies sniffing each other’s bottoms.

  Over the next few weeks I spent more time with Shaun, thanks to Eric who was a great believer in new recruits ‘shadowing’ other, more experienced team members. We got on well and we shared the same sense of humour. After a couple of days Shaun took it upon himself to change my name. He did this with other members of staff. Stinky Dave, the technical officer, whose surname was Digbeth, became ‘Diggers’ (when we weren’t calling him Stinky Dave behind his back, that is). The lettings assistant, whose surname was Tidmarsh, was ‘Tiddy’. Martyn Pointer was ‘Pointless’ (of course), Jake Bamber was ‘Bamber-boy’. And Shaun derived ‘Stan’ from my surname, Stanley.

  I told Shaun that creating nicknames out of people’s surnames was a sign of an archaic, male-dominated upbringing and an aspiration to be upper-class. I said that no doubt his schooling in well-to-do Ilkley or Harrogate or wherever he lived as a kid had been at a well-posh grammar school. I also pointed out that he never referred to Jason, our handyman as anything other than ‘Jason’. I told Shaun that he should at least be consistent and not feel at all embarrassed about booming “Mycock!” across the office. (Jason’s surname often threw a curveball for many Whalley Range residents when they demanded to know what his last name was.)

  Shaun had responded, “All right, smart-arse. So how did you refer to each other at your Manky comprehensive, then? Or did you just settle for your prisoner numbers?”

  I told him that in deepest, darkest rough-as-a-bear’s-arse Manchester, we preferred to be more lyrical. No silly abbreviations. We opted for alliteration. Meaning that he would have been ‘Shaun the Shithead’.

  A name that suited him down to the ground, I said.

  “And,” I added, “I’ve just realised that you only really christen the men in this office with your nicknames. Why not, say … Linda Beveridge?”

  “’Cause I can only think of the word ‘Beaver’ in relation to the word ‘Beveridge’. And there’s no way I want to associate that word with Linda. I can cope with ‘Annoying as Fuck Linda’. But I can’t be doing with thinking about her and beavers.”

  “Right. Well, it just struck me that I’m the only woman in this office who’s undergone a name-change. Should I feel privileged? Should I be turning cartwheels? Does this mean I’m one of the lads?”

  He had replied, “Dunno. Don’t care. Anyway, ‘Stan’ suits you miles better than Rachael. Rachael’s a girly name. Especially with the poncey ‘a’ in the middle of it. Yeah. You’re more of a ‘Stan’, I reckon.”)

  Shaun had this knack of deciding that he knew best. Even when it came down to imposing a new identity on people.

  ROBIN’S WYKE PUB, WADSWORTH MOORS, HAWORTH, WEST YORKSHIRE. DECEMBER 1998.

  The wind whipped my hair back, wrapping it around my face and knocking the breath out of my chest. God, but it was cold. I rapped hard on the black, solid oak door. Its paint was peeling and small dark flecks adhered themselves to my knuckles. I tried to turn the brass knob, but it was more decorative than functional. No doorbell. No opening-time signage. Just the usual brewery notice above the door with the proprietor’s details. I scurried back again, but the gale was so violent at this end of the car park that it almost knocked me off-balance, whirling my long hair across my eyes, into my mouth. I tried to spit the strands back out, but then stumbled into a deep puddle. Water seeped in through one of my shoes. Back at Shaun’s car I flung the door open and collapsed onto the passenger seat, gasping.

  “It’s horrendous out there – and the door is locked! Seems odd. A pub offering bed and breakfast and not being open after four o’clock in the afternoon.”

  The Robin’s Wyke had advertised a reasonable rate and a cosy, Yorkshire welcome with home-made food and a friendly local atmosphere. Shaun picked up the B & B leaflet, and scowled at it.

  “I’ve never understood what ‘home-made’ food means. I mean, what’s the definition of a ‘home’ in this context? ’Cause they’ll call it ‘home cooked’ in a pub, in a restaurant … in a café, for Christ’s sake. None of those are someone’s home! Bloody stupid.”

  “I can’t get a signal up here to call them,” I complained. “Can you?”

  He looked at his phone and shook his head. Nah.

  “It's freezing! Can you put the heating on?”

  “Not unless I keep the engine running. And that’s a waste of petrol, that is …”

  “Yorkshire tightwad!”

  “So, Stan. Nothing for it but to stay here a bit until they open. Keep ourselves warm, eh?” He put the leaflet down and moved over to me. Taking a handful of my now bedraggled hair and pulling it towards him. He kissed me, softly at first, and very soon his hands were inside my coat. I was shivering from the cold and from the trepidation. In no time at all the car windows had completely steamed up. The wind howled across the moors and over the pub car park. It rocked the car viciously every couple of minutes. Shaun’s watch buzzed us out of the stupor of new passion. Five o’clock. He muttered to himself;

  “Look. This is bloody crazy. We’re snogging in a car like a pair of teenagers. I’m going to be thirty next year. I need my little luxuries in life. Like a bed. I’ll go and try.”

  The rain was slashing at the car in horizontal stabs. It was almost pitch black outside now. I had to flick on the interior light to check my face in the mirror. Chin and cheeks were glowing like a cherry. Red raw from Shaun’s stubble. I quickly grabbed my make-up bag and added a dab of concealer. It would have to do.

  A few seconds later and Shaun was back at the car.

  “It's open. I’ll get the bags.” We trooped into the pub’s hallway and were met by the landlord. A chap with a wire-wool comb-over, who peered at us over wonky reading glasses.

  “Were it you two? Sat in your car. In the car par
k for ages?”

  “Yes,” I replied, swiping the water off my coat. “We couldn’t get anyone to answer the front door.”

  “Ah, well. The entrance for the B & B’ers is at the back, yer see …”

  We followed him upstairs. The room was ill-matched, chintzy and there was no sign of an IKEA flatpack ensemble anywhere. I was happy. And it was warm. Then he left us, calling over his shoulder,

  “Food from six. Stop serving it at eight-thirty.”

  Shaun closed the door. Locked it.

  “Talk about embarrassing!” I said, as I dropped my handbag onto the floor. “It never occurred to me to try the back of the pub.”

  Shaun dumped our overnight bags into the corner of the room.

  “Well, he’s the one who should be embarrassed. He must have known we wanted to come in the pub. He should have come and knocked on the window to tell us.”

  I laughed.

  “I don’t think so, somehow. We might have been just a random couple who happened to be using his car park for a bit of friskiness. Then he would have looked like a right old perv. Knocking on car windows.”

  Shaun had escaped into the bathroom “Nice little en suite. A corner bath and a shower. Shame about the wallpaper, but you can’t complain for twenty-eight quid each, can you?”

  I wandered into the bathroom, too.

  “They’ve got a bit of a mould problem,” I noted, looking at the window sill, “but it’s condensation rather than damp. Look – you can tell by way that the —”

  “Oi! Stan! Stop it! We’re not at work now.” He pulled me back through the doorway. “You don’t need to try to impress me with your recently acquired postgraduate knowledge of damp versus condensation.” He kissed me on the mouth, and moved his hands down and onto my backside, making circular, massaging movements. But I broke away.

  “Sorry, but my socks are soaking,” I mumbled. “And I’m frozen to the bone.”

  He looked around the room.

  “Right. Always the sign of a half-decent establishment. The mini kettle.”

  Five minutes later I was lying on the floor with my bare feet propped against the radiator, trying to warm them up a bit. My toes had gradually begun to thaw and the hot cup of tea was doing its job. But my heart was skittering. Nineteen to the dozen. The wind had picked up again, whipped into a whorl down in the Worth Valley, and was now hurtling across the Wadsworth moors. It was pitch black outside, even though it had only just gone 5.30 p.m.

  This was the very same moor that my English literature sixth-form teacher had brought our class to see on a day trip to Haworth. Telling us all about Heathcliff and Cathy: two characters cursed with a wild sexual recklessness that tainted their own lives, as well as those of others. “An obsessive and brutal affair,” she said. Almost demonic in its darkness and despair. “How had Reverend Brontë’s virginal daughter managed to summon up such monstrous creations?” she wondered. (I reckoned that Emily had been having a sneaky pop at Branwell’s opium, when he buggered off down to the Black Bull in Haworth of an evening.)

  “Did you realise Shaun, when you booked this place, that it’s right on the edge of Haworth? Wuthering Heights is one of my favourite books, actually. Have you read it?”

  “Nah. Saw a film version of it, though. Not my kind of thing. Bit dull.”

  Toes walked up the radiator. Down the radiator.

  Shaun had flicked the TV on and had sprawled himself across the double bed. Arguing with Oprah Winfrey (only Shaun could do that). Oprah wouldn’t be drawn into a debate with him, however, so he moved over to the edge of the bed, peering over at me.

  “Art tha going to stay down thee’er all day, lass?”

  I stretched my legs out against the radiator, called back: “Oh, please. Don’t act the Yorkshire bit of rough just because we’ve crossed the border from Manchester. We all know you’re not from the West Riding. You’re from the posh Harrogate side.”

  “Tha’art avoiding the subject, wench. And anyway, I’m from Ilkley. And Ilkley isn’t as well-heeled as you might think. Ilkley’s got its own problems.”

  “Yeah. When they run out of fruit scones at Betty’s Tea Rooms … I bet it’s like a riot at Strangeways!”

  He reached down from the bed and traced his forefinger from the tip of my toe and up to my calf.

  “You’ve got such sexy ankles.” But then he looked away, smiling. The rain was still beating against the window. Shocked, irregular pulses.

  “I can’t believe I just said that to you, Stan. I sound like Victorian Dad. You know. The character in ’Viz .”

  “I know. So is Viz as highbrow as your reading matter gets, Shaun? What a waste of a nice, grammar-school education.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what my mum would say if she saw me with a slapper like you, from east Manchester.”

  “Shut up,” I reached up. He hoisted me up and onto the bed beside him.

  Mouth, neck, earlobes, licking skin. The occasional moan; sweat and saliva. Teeth clashing and too much frenetic action elsewhere to engage in the usual Shaun and Rachael banter. No verbal stuff. Never in bed.

  Only one tiny moment of awkwardness, when we remembered to do the sensible thing. A bit of fumbling about in bags, but then back on the bed. Shaun half-joking, “Christ, I can’t bloody do this; I haven’t used one of these in ages.” But lust, the sense of urgency, cancelled out any iota of shyness. There was never any embarrassment again after that. About anything.

  And no afterwards. No afterglow. Every time one of us thought that maybe we should rest at this point, the other would begin the slow dance of exploration again.

  In nearly three years of encounters after that very first time on the edge of the moors – the time of priming - we only ever managed to catch some twenty or thirty minutes’ sleep whenever we shared a bed.

  (“Sounds like a sex-binge to me,” said Kate, when I once confessed how it always was with Shaun and when I asked her whether she thought that this was normal. “Sorry, Rach, but that does sound a bit weird. Houston – I think we have a problem.”)

  Two hours after that first time together, we took a five minute break. I curled against his chest feeling the texture of his skin, its soft oils against my cheek. He stroked my ear and trailed his finger over my eyebrow. We could talk again now. Shaun spoke first. A dark mutter.

  “I’ve honestly never experienced anything like that before.”

  The seriousness in his voice made me look up at him. His brow was furrowed. The wind was still lashing jealously against the window, over the bruised moors.

  “Me neither. But at least I’m not frowning,” I nipped the top of his arm, gently. “You’re always frowning, you are.”

  “Oh, no. I’m not complaining, like.” He moved suddenly. Rearranged himself so that I now lay under the crook of his arm. “I’m just thinking. About what I’ve been missing out on all of these years.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Because things with Jess have been pretty crap recently. Not just how we get on. But sex, I mean. There’s just no comparison with … with this. But – oh, shit. What am I on about this for? Come here.” He pulled my mouth to his again. And we carried on.

  An hour later, a knock at the door interrupted us. We were at the other end of the bed now, me pinning Shaun down.

  The landlord’s wheedling voice. “Just a re-mihn-der! We stop serving t’food at eight-thirty and we’re only ten minutes off that now.”

  “All right, sorry! We’re just coming!” Shaun yelled.

  I laughed into a pillowcase, giving him a smothered, “Fnar fnar … you and your Viz …”

  The pub quietened as we entered. The landlord eyeballed us over his cock-eyed specs. We were the only guests booked there for a freezing cold and wild autumnal night in November 2001. I hoped that the Robin’s Wyke pub was as ancient as it claimed to be and that the walls were as sturdy as they looked, after all the bedroom shenanigans. We ordered our food and then found the jukebox, sniggering over th
e dated music choices. I plumped for the heavy metal. Shaun went for Crowded House.

  “Thought you were a biker, Shaun? But your music taste is so bland. Bet you like Joy Division too, don’t you? Elevator music for middle-class university graduates.”

  “Yeah, well, I do like my bikes, but at least I follow my politics with my music. I mean, I don’t recall Guns n’ Roses ever doing any favours for women’s rights…”

  I couldn’t stop drinking him in, that first evening. His face, his body, his slow but fluid mannerisms. The taste and buzz of him still lingering in my mouth and on my skin even before the hum of the wine that we had ordered began to kick in. I reached over and kissed the bump on his nose. At first, the broken nose had made me wonder if Shaun had been headbutted by one of the Jed Crowley types in Longsight, but it turned out that it had been the result of a rather aggressive grammar-school rugby match. I should have known. Not many of the locals on our estates possessed the height necessary to nut Shaun one.

  The tap room was dark, the walls leaching with centuries of tobacco smoke. I wasn’t a smoker in those days. That came after. So I sniffed the glass of wine in order to take away the scent of ciggies and ale. We were sharing the pub with about ten others. All locals, nursing their pints and enjoying a game of darts as they sheltered from the battering gale outside. The food arrived and it took Shaun just a couple of minutes to devour it (“I’m bloody ravenous. After all that …”) And then he leaned over to me across the little table as I battled with a rubbery lasagne.

  “Hurry up. I want to get you back upstairs. Finish where we left off before the Perv of Robin’s Wyke interrupted us. Here. Let me help.”

  He leaned forward, guiding my forkful away from my mouth and to his, so that I was feeding him. He took the food off the end of the fork with his teeth and swallowed it slowly. His eyes fixed on mine. The edge of his tongue flicking first from his top lip and then to the bottom. I breathed in, filling my lungs with … whatever this invisible intoxication was.