by David Barry
‘But after we’d started our affair, you seemed to want to be with me for quite some time. Six months after we started going out together, you made the train journey to see me in Scarborough for a long weekend, that time I had my play put on in the studio theatre there. And that first Christmas you spent it with me. But not last Christmas. So when, in between those times, did it go wrong?’
She shook her head with frustration. ‘I don’t know. All I know is I’m not in love with you. It’s just ... I don’t need or want sex. I can live without it. It’s bottom of the list on my priorities.’
He thought about this for some time before he spoke, and watched her pour water on to the coffee.
‘When I was married,’ he said, ‘for about three or four years before we split up, on the odd occasions my wife and I had sex, we used to have to use a lubricant. It was the only way we could manage it. But you always felt like I aroused you.’
Pauline laughed. ‘I always used to put a lubricant on, every time I came round to you, or before you came round here.’
He looked surprised. ‘But why did you always do that in advance?’
‘Because I knew you always wanted sex. And I’m sixty years old. Women of our age tend to dry up. But I don’t want to do that anymore.’
She handed him a coffee. As he took it, she noticed his hands were shaking.
‘But I’ve fallen in love with you,’ he said feebly. ‘And you know that time after the barbecue, when you told me you weren’t in love with me. I made certain I never said I love you again.’
‘I know you did. I realised that.’
‘I didn’t want to force you into a corner. And I stuck to my side of the bargain. When you agreed to sleep with me for the first time, you said you’d only agree if we kept our own space. Perhaps I should have played things differently.’
‘No, I think I always will want my own space.’
He pounced on this. ‘Think! You mean you might not want that with this new chap.’
She sighed. ‘Look there’s nothing going on. I only told you about him because you went on about it, convinced that was the reason for this. But nothing may come of it.’
‘And is this bloke a golfer? Was he at the dinner and dance the other night?’
‘No, Jack comes from Hastings. And I play near there once a year. I’m playing golf down there on Thursday.’
His hand trembled as he raised the mug and blew on his coffee. ‘I’ve got the shakes.’
She smile sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you for the world. I’d still like to be your friend. We can be friends, can’t we?’
He smiled sadly. ‘You got my phone message?’
‘Yes.’
After that, it was small talk, while she showed him the latest water colour she had painted in her art class. As he left, she gave him a smile and a small wave from the porch.
‘When it’s sunny, let’s do that picnic,’ he said. ‘Ring me.’
She nodded and shut the door. As he walked away from her bungalow, he had doubts about their remaining friends. If there entered a new man in her life, he couldn’t see her wanting to spend any time with an ex-lover.
As he walked back to his flat, thoughts about what had been said tormented and tortured him. And there were still things he had wanted to ask but had forgotten.
He would have liked to know why she hadn’t told him this a week ago. Why she had waited until after the do at the golf club. Then the cynical thought struck him Perhaps she wanted someone to partner her for the evening, and not sit at the table next to an empty chair. Perhaps it was a case of out with the old, in with the new. All done and dusted. Neatly. Like a theatre show ending on a Saturday night. He was history.
When he arrived back at his flat, he decided to call Kathy. She was a feisty attractive woman, and he had fallen in love with her. But she was married. They occasionally had dinner together and enjoyed each other’s company; and she always made him laugh with outrageous, sometimes inappropriate, comments.
When she came on the line, he told her how depressed he was about his split with Pauline, without going into too much detail.
Then Kathy said: “You ought to stop going with us shrivelled old menopausal women; we need to find you some young totty.’
He giggled. ‘Forty-seven, Kathy. To me you’re a babe. If only you’d dump that husband of yours. You know I love you.’
She laughed. ‘And I love you, Graham. But you know why, don’t you? It’s because you’re still a teenager.’
Fifty - Three
Dave put two plates of thinly spread cheese on toast on the table, and on hearing Mary sigh, he said, ‘Sorry it’s nothing more exciting, but times is hard.’
Mary smiled at him. ‘This is fine. I’m not that hungry.’
Dave bit into the toast without looking at her. ‘That’s all right then.’
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Like I said: times is hard, and now I seem to have three more mouths to feed.’
Mary shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I’m going to start looking for a part time job soon. Then I can help with some of the bills.’
He looked directly at her. ‘It would be appreciated.’
She hadn’t expected this. Everything had been rosy in the garden up until now. Any thoughts of contributing to her children’s upkeep had been pushed to the back of her mind. Especially as she thought Dave was earning good money doing his summer season - until it collapsed. Now she felt herself being put under pressure again. And, when all was said and done, Dave’s house was paid for. He had no mortgage to worry about.
‘The children break up for the holidays in a few weeks’ time. I’ll have to try to find something I can do working from home.’
Dave pouted. ‘Well, I get on very well with them. I can always be the stay-at-home step-dad.’
Mary thought it was time she changed the subject. ‘There’s something that’s been bothering me,’ she began, frowning deliberately. ‘Well, not bothering me as such ... but....’
‘Go on,’ Dave prompted.
‘I just wondered about the time your father died. You were doing quite well on television back then. How come I don’t remember reading about your father in the papers?’
Dave gave her a wry smile. ‘It made the papers, but not many column inches. Dad had a heart attack on the seventh of December, 1980. By the time the press got on to it, a young nutter called Mark Chapman stole the headlines.’
‘That name rings a bell.’
‘He shot John Lennon. Yeah, Chapman did us Whitby’s a favour. It’s an ill wind as they say.’
Mary was silent for a while, and idea forming in her mind. ‘Dave,’ she said, ‘if you want to get back in the limelight again - and they say there’s no such thing as bad publicity...’
Dave looked wary. ‘I couldn’t do that.’
‘But why not?’
‘I just couldn’t.’
‘Oh well, it was just a thought,’ said Mary, sounding miffed.
***
As Ted made himself a late breakfast, Marjorie sniped at him. She still hadn’t recovered from the shock of his recent behaviour.
‘It’s me who’s got to clean this house from top to bottom.’
Ted ignored her, and concentrated on the kitchen wall clock as he timed his boiled egg.
‘So the sooner you get out from under my feet,’ Marjorie went on, ‘the sooner I can start cleaning the kitchen.’
Ted felt like asking her why she couldn’t start on one of the other rooms first. Instead, he muttered, ‘I’ll be out of your way in just a minute.
She tutted noisily. ‘Look at the time.’
Her voice grated on Ted. His jaw tightened. ‘I can’t help that. I want my breakfast.’
/> With growing anger he stared at the boiling water and imagined himself hurling it at her, and her anguished cries as she clawed at her burning face, like a scene from a horror film.
‘Oh!’ Marjorie exclaimed in a voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Ted’s on the late shift, so we’ve all got to suffer and run round after him.’
‘No one’s running round after me. I’m getting my own breakfast.’
‘Too bloody right, you are!’
Ted sighed heavily. ‘I suppose your in such a bad mood because of the uniform. Well, you don’t have to worry, because today I’ve put it in the sports bag as usual.’
He stared at her defiantly. The reason for changing at work as he had done in the past was because he intended visiting Donald before starting the late shift.
His eyes were drawn back to the clock. Six minutes had gone by. ‘Damn!’ he yelled vehemently. ‘While you were yapping on, I forgot to time my egg.’
Marjorie was dumbfounded. He had never spoken to her like this before. Except for that time when she discovered he’d been seeing that man. He’d sworn blind he hadn’t seen him since, but you could never tell with Ted. He was such a dark horse.
‘Have you been seeing that man again?’
‘What man?’
Ted had his back to her. She couldn’t see the sly smile on his face.
‘Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten. His friend - that fat queer bloke who came round here.’
‘Oh him!’ Ted said, dismissively. He brought his breakfast over to the table and sat opposite Marjorie. ‘That bloke was a trouble maker.’
‘But you haven’t answered my question. Have you been seeing his friend?’
‘Of course not.’ Ted guillotined the top of his egg and stared at the yoke. ‘I can’t eat this.’
He got up from the table and threw it in the bin.
‘What are you doing?’ Marjorie demanded.
‘What’s it look like?’
‘Waste of good food. I don’t know what’s come over you. You’re behaving like a child.’
Ted dropped the plate into the washing-up bowl and headed for the door.
‘Where d’you think you’re off to?’
‘To work.’
‘I thought you were on the late shift.’
‘Staff sickness,’ he lied. ‘Chance of some overtime.’
He slammed the front door harder than usual, then walked briskly across the common towards Warwick Park and Donald.
Fifty - Four
Vanessa sat at the kitchen table, eating toast and jam while reading about Coldplay in a magazine. Her mother bounded excitedly through the door, making her jump. A dollop of jam dripped onto Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow’s picture.
‘Ta-ra!’ fan-fared Jackie, showing off her dress. ‘What do you think?’
Vanessa nodded. ‘You’re still going through with it then.’
‘The first week in September. Before you’re back at college. And Nicky’s on annual leave - so neither of you will have an excuse for not attending.’
‘So we pop along to the Registry Office, have a few drinks after....’
‘A meal,’ Jackie corrected. ‘Nigel’s taking us all to the Hotel du Vin.’
Vanessa made a point of looking unimpressed. ‘Oh, great. I can just imagine what that’s going to be like.’
Jackie let out a low moan. ‘Oh, why is it that nothing we do is right? It’s not as if either of you are young children. And I know it’s traditional for children to hate their stepfathers, but just what is it you’ve got against Nigel?’
‘I don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all.’
Jackie frowned. ‘I can’t see why....’ she began, but the sentence died in mid-air.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Vanessa. ‘But I’ve got to say this. I don’t trust him.’
Jackie sighed deeply, and blinked away her tears. ‘But he’s never given me - or you, for that matter - any reason not to trust him. I think you’re being most unfair.’
‘What about this seminar he’s supposed to be at? Almost a week gone by, and he hasn’t phoned once.’
‘He’s probably busy. A lot on his mind. And sometimes it’s difficult to get to a phone.’
Vanessa mimed a telephone. ‘Oh hello-o! We don’t have mobiles.’
Jackie felt the tears about to burst. ‘He did send me a big bunch of flowers.’
Vanessa wanted to end the conversation, and said, ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten about the flowers. I’m sorry, I was wrong about him. Completely wrong.’
Jackie glared at her daughter then stormed out of the room.
‘Now what have I said?’ Vanessa called after her.
***
Graham had been drunk for over a week now. Everyone in his local pub knew about the split, and they had been sympathetic to begin with, but now the sympathy was becoming a chore. And when the e-mail came from his American agent, saying they were going out of business, it was the last straw. To have to start all over again seemed a Herculean task and didn’t bear thinking about. So he opened another bottle of wine and thought about ending it all. He spent all day thinking about it, going over all the different methods he might employ.
He even imagined his funeral, wondering if suicide precluded a good attendance. Or did one have to die a more respectable death from natural causes? He pictured his first wife and his ex-wife attending, and actually chatting about him familiarly. He wondered if Pauline would attend, then decided she might not. She might think he had killed himself deliberately to get back at her. The dreaded guilt trip. It would probably make her angry. And if she had an important golf match on the day of the funeral, bitterly he suspected that golf might win out.
After he had opened the second bottle of wine, he had sunk to an all time low, and thought about asphyxiation from car exhaust fumes. A painless way to drift away. By the time the second bottle had hit home, he had worked out that he would need a hose pipe and gaffer tape and decided to drive to Homebase. He knew he wasn’t fit to drive. But so what? If he was done for drinking and driving, did it matter?
All the same, he drove carefully down to Homebase. It was all very well to kill oneself, but he didn’t want another death on his conscience. As he went down Major York’s Road, the heavens opened up, and rain cascaded down his windscreen.
Rivers of tears, he thought bitterly, as he switched his wipers and headlights on.
Homebase was empty. He staggered around drunkenly; everything seemed a blur. God knows how he I managed to drive down here. Eventually, he managed to find an assistant, and asked, ‘I need some gaffer tape and a hosepipe. Urgently.’
The spotty-faced youth regarded him with a look that was both quizzical and fractious. ‘That aisle over there for the garden hose,’ he mumbled. ‘And over there for gaffer tape.’
As the youth shuffled off, Graham watched him go, and called after him, ‘Your simian features do you a disservice. You’re actually very efficient.’
When he got back to the car park with his purchases, he discovered his headlights were still on, and remembered the bleeping warning signal had packed up for some reason.
Oh well, he thought. Not much point in getting it repaired now. I’m free. Free of the burden of living.
Then he drove home extremely carefully, and only clipped two wing mirrors from cars parked at the bottom end of Major York’s Road.
Two bottles later, he was out of it. He came to, as he suspected he would, in the early hours of the morning. He went out to the flats’ car park at the rear of the building. There was a half moon and just enough light to see what he was doing, although he was staggering, swaying and bumping into things, and everything he did took an enormous amount of time and effort. But eventually he managed to tape the hose to the exhaust pipe and threaded it t
hrough the window by the driver’s seat. Then he went indoors and got the fifth bottle of wine, uncorked it, and returned to the car. He sat in the driving seat and covered the gap in the window with masses of tape. Then he took an enormous swig of wine, almost a quarter of a bottle in one gulp. After all, what did it matter? It could hardly be bad for his health. Not as bad as carbon monoxide.
Bye-byes time, he told himself, and turned the key in the ignition. Click! He turned it again. Click! Nothing. The car wouldn’t start. He had left the headlights on and the battery was flat.
Fifty - Five
Her lips drawn tight, Maggie slammed the cordless phone down onto the breakfast bar table.
‘Who was that?’ asked Craig. ‘Sounded a bit heavy.’
Maggie shrugged. ‘Oh, just a friend.’ Seeing her brother smiling, she added, ‘Yeah, well, I suppose Mike was more than just a friend.’
Craig nodded slowly. ‘How long have you known him?’
‘A long time. It’s Gary’s hairdresser. And no I wasn’t having an affair with him while Gary was alive.’
Craig gave his sister an innocent smile. ‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘But you were thinking it. Would you like another beer?’
Craig shook his head. ‘I ought to get back.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Maggie, ‘that’s enough skiving off for one night.’
‘Well, I am the boss now. I can do what I like.’
Maggie threw her brother a warning look. ‘For crying out loud, Craig! Don’t do a Gary on us - otherwise you’ll be out of business.’
Craig laughed. ‘It was a joke. Awright?’
***
Tony Rice sat at the bar and stared at Mike. ‘If you want my advice, smack the bitch. Keep her in line.’
Mike swivelled slowly on his bar stool and glared at Rice. ‘Sorry?’
Rice grinned. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation on the mobile. She was giving you a hard time.’
‘Oh yeah? What’s that to you, pal?’