Florida Key

by Neil Watson

  “Well,” said Chris, moving on. “As we say, he’s always welcome at our home in Plainfield. That’s where we live, just outside Indianapolis in the state of Indiana.”

  “You’re very kind. And Sam may like to visit us in Wivenhoe,” reciprocated Leslie. That’s near London. And of course you’re very welcome too,” was the most he was able to say without slurring too badly, the effect of the wine nicely dancing around inside his head. Sam looked up, her smile even broader than normal, as she turned expectantly to her mother. Kerry in turn looked at her husband, eyebrows raised, asking the same question but without any words.

  “Why, sure!” Mr. Dickinson responded positively to his wife’s notion. “Maybe we can figure something out. Christmas shopping in London Town sounds like it could be a lotta fun.” Sam and Kerry beamed, and Oliver was thrilled.

  It was eleven o’clock and time for Oliver and his father to depart. Wisely having decided beforehand to leave the Mustang at home, after saying their polite goodbyes, they called for the Magic Bus to come, using Oliver’s iPhone. They stood outside in the warm night air at the beachside stop, waiting for the free community transportation to arrive.

  “What a brilliant idea this is!” said Leslie. “We should have one of these in Wivenhoe, son.”

  “Yes, but Dad. . .” a sober Oliver replied. “. . . In Wivenhoe you can walk everywhere anyway.”

  “You gotta point there!” exclaimed Leslie, laughing at his own non-existent joke, a vague reference to his love of the singer Harry Nilsson that no one else would have understood, except perhaps Oliver. Oliver did get it, and chuckled. Eventually, the multi-coloured hippie-style bus came, and with no fixed fare, its driver only accepted donations in payment. The two Wivenhoe passengers shared the journey with a number of drunken Anna Maria women on their way to a party. For them, the night was just beginning, but for Oliver and Leslie their evening was coming to an end.

  Much of Leslie’s last day on the island was spent with a hangover, and for Oliver it was a day of sedate sadness. Unfortunately, Sam and her parents had gone away for the day, so last night he’d had to say goodbye to a girlfriend he wouldn’t see again in quite a while. He thought back to when he’d first met her, and now there could be no doubt that she was in fact his girlfriend. Until the next time they could be together, they’d just have to make do with seeing each other two-dimensionally, using FaceTime and Skype, and although upset at the prospect of being apart for what seemed forever, Oliver knew philosophically that Christmas would come around soon. He hoped beyond hope that Sam and her parents would be making that shopping trip to London.

  Meanwhile, Oliver would use his last day to concentrate on surfing the net for his prevailing Florida Key project. His brain had become like blotting paper, absorbing anything and everything that might be of potential relevance. Each page he read about the prison in Joliet had links to more multiple-page sites containing further information and, before long, his head was spinning. But as he delved deeper and deeper, a thought occurred to him. Could it be remotely possible, he wondered, to learn about any of the inmates housed in the actual cell appertaining to his particular ‘Florida Key’. Their names, their crimes, their sentences, even their fate? Were they out of prison now? On parole? Leading new lives?

  Oliver was fascinated to think that the real lives of real people had been held in a cell during years gone by, locked by the very key he was holding in his hand today. With only the tiny engraved markings on his key to go on, he knew his quest for this kind of information would be difficult to fulfil. But he was on a true mission now—and one day he would write his book chronicling his findings. Off he went again on another tangent.

  As usual, his mind wandered while he flipped between one page and the next. He visualised coming across some deep, dark website containing details of the criminals incarcerated day after day, month after month, year after year. What sort of a life would that be, he speculated? What had their crime been? How old were they when they first entered the jail? And when were they released? If they in fact were released. There were so many questions to be answered. He imagined how awful it must be to lose one’s freedom, something he took for granted. Although intrigued beyond words, Oliver decided that for today at least, his last on Anna Maria Island, those thoughts were too depressing, and he forced himself out of his trance-like state. Deciding that he should continue with his internet research back at home in Wivenhoe, he pulled the cover over his iPad and switched it off.

  Apart from returning his bike to the shop, and looking forward to going for their last Skinny’s burger that evening, Oliver had little else to do except laze by the pool and cast his mind back over what a great holiday he’d had. Every aspect had been perfect. The house, the car, the beaches, the food, the restaurants. His Cannondale had undoubtedly been a great success. He’d even grown to like country music.

  But best of all, he’d met a special girl—and he’d also bought a special key.

  And none of this would have been possible had it not been for his dad having chosen Anna Maria Island as their holiday destination.

  That evening, with Leslie’s hangover thankfully gone, he raised his ice-cold beer mug and clinked it with his son’s glass of Coke. For him, he’d managed to get the rest and relaxation that he’d sorely needed. It was rewarding to see his son so happy, at last, and he was pleased with how well the two of them had got on together.

  “These Skinny’s burgers really are the Number 1!” Leslie mumbled, almost incoherently, with his mouth full, grinning at the same time. Oliver guessed what his dad was trying to say, and nodded. While waiting to empty his mouth so that he could reply, he suddenly felt a wave of regret come over him, as he remembered asking to call his dad by his name when in public.

  “They certainly are number one,” Oliver said softly, raising his glass. “Thanks, Dad!”

  ***

  The following morning, after packing cases and leaving the house and its glorious swimming pool for the last time, they headed to Tampa airport, dropping off the fantastic Mustang at the Avis depot. Tickets processed, they waited in the lounge until it was time to board the plane home. Although Oliver felt sad that their holiday had now finally come to an end, he also looked forward to returning home to Wivenhoe, his college and his friends. Settling back in his seat in the huge 747, he pondered over how much bolder, more mature and confident he’d become since meeting Sam.

  He leant forward to touch the in-flight entertainment screen in front, and was delighted to see that they were being treated to exactly the same selection of programmes as during their flight from Heathrow. So, after first playing some Dwight Yoakam and Tim McGraw, he then relaxed back to watch one of the films. Without hesitation, Oliver knew exactly which one to choose.

  PART THREE

  OLIVER IN WIVENHOE,

  ESSEX, UK

  CHAPTER 20

  (SUNDAY, 12TH NOVEMBER – THURSDAY, 14TH DECEMBER, 2017)

  Job Offer

  I t had been a very busy and active 18 months for Oliver since his holiday to Anna Maria Island. He turned eighteen in August 2015, two months after their return, and really knuckled down to study hard for his A levels, which the following May he passed with a ‘B’ in Sociology and an ‘A’ in English. As well as having success with his academic studies, he had also taken driving lessons while at college, self-financed by his part-time job at the busy Co-op supermarket in Wivenhoe’s High Street, and he went on to pass his test at the first attempt in December 2015.

  Once he was legally able to drink alcohol in pubs, he enjoyed doing precisely that—in any of the four lower-Wivenhoe pubs—The Station, The Greyhound, The Rose & Crown, and the Black Buoy. He concluded, after much research, that his favourite establishment was the latter, and he could often be found there with his dad or with his friends most Sunday afternoons, when they served their very excellent roast dinners with all the trimmings. Usually, he could drink two or three pints without feeling much effect, but just occasiona
lly, and especially if he hadn’t eaten much breakfast, the mere sniff of beer could make him light-headed. Oliver wasn’t what you’d call a hardened drinker.

  Although he was still getting on very well with Sam, and having had a great time with her when she and her parents did come over to London for their Christmas shopping treat, they both recognised that continuing a romance long-distance via the internet wasn’t ideal. Besides, Sam, being the attractive girl that she was, was in high demand in her home town near Indianapolis, and she couldn’t keep turning down date requests forever.

  And Oliver, being the good-looking lad that he was, didn’t have any trouble attracting members of what his dad described as his ‘female fan-club’ for dates of his own. Sam and Oliver maturely agreed to cool things between them, for now at least, aware that they would always have a special place in their hearts for each other. They both agreed that, in any case, their affection for one another could be rekindled again at any time in future.

  Turning his attention to his life in Wivenhoe, once he’d passed his driving test, Oliver naturally wanted a car. His own Cannondale bike—similar to the one he’d rented in Florida—was all very good for himself to get around on, but totally impractical for escorting girlfriends to the cinema or for romantic meals at his favourite noodle bar in the nearby town of Colchester. Meagre wages from his part-time job at the Co-op didn’t exactly enable him to save for anything more than an old heap that would soon end up at the scrapyard. His father wasn’t rolling in money either, and Oliver was well aware that the Florida holiday had cost thousands, so he couldn’t realistically expect parental financial help.

  What he really wanted after leaving college, and like many young people of his age, was to get out into the wide world and find a proper full-time job, earning a reasonable, regular salary. He had been torn between taking any job on offer in any field, or holding out to follow his dream to become a journalist or writer. He soon got a reality check when he discovered there were precious few openings in that preferred profession, especially with his lack of experience weighing heavily against him. However, he was nothing if not a trier.

  Rejections, or even no replies at all, to the many letters Oliver submitted, enclosing essays and stories, began to take their toll. The torrent of enthusiasm that Oliver once had, by now had been reduced to a trickle.

  All but giving up on achieving his goal, he reluctantly accepted the offer of working more hours at the supermarket. At least he would now have some more cash in his pocket, and maybe he might save enough to put a deposit on a half-decent car. But he certainly wasn’t feeling fulfilled—this wasn’t the career move he’d been hoping for. All that studying for nothing, he thought. For him, stacking shelves with biscuits and cakes wasn’t an option for long.

  Even his ‘Florida Key’ research had fallen by the wayside. He had been hoping to discover the name or names of who had been incarcerated in the cell that his key fitted, and at one point he thought he was getting some positive results from his extensive research. But unfortunately, despite him rigorously ploughing through website after website, it turned out to be yet another dead-end. He was no closer to finding any name than when he’d started. With other things in his life now taking priority, at least for the time being, he reluctantly put the key away in a drawer and, very nearly, forgot all about it.

  ***

  There was always a very convivial atmosphere in the Black Buoy, and Oliver soon recognised the familiar faces of the regulars who also enjoyed a pint or two there. Being the affable character that he clearly was, it didn’t take him long to get to know several of the regulars on first-name terms, and they weren’t necessarily of a similar age to him either. He got on with most people, and most people got on with him.

  Two such local characters, Audrey and Bob Needham, well known around the town, enjoyed chatting to any of the pub’s patrons, always showing a natural interest in what they were up to. Oliver was no exception, and Audrey and Bob had first met Oliver when he was in the Black Buoy celebrating his 18th birthday.

  From that time on, they looked forward to hearing his weekly update on how his life was panning out, but having been so impressed with Oliver’s initial enthusiasm for writing, they were dismayed to hear that his chosen career apparently wasn’t moving in the direction that he had hoped. He clearly had shown so much potential, and to them it seemed a waste that he was still working at a supermarket.

  One evening at home, after Eastenders had finished on TV, Audrey and Bob talked about this and that, and eventually their conversation came around to Oliver—the young man they had grown rather fond of. Now comfortably off and in retirement themselves, they were nonetheless still very active in the wider community, and they had their fingers productively in many pies. Bob concentrated now on his activity as a town-crier, but was nonetheless still marginally connected with a number of business associates from his old working days, and he had always made a point of parting company with everyone he’d worked with on good terms. “Treat people decently, and they’re likely to do likewise in return,” was his philosophy. “You never know when you might like to ask a favour,” he’d say, wisely.

  After chatting together about Oliver, the Needhams agreed that they wanted to help pull their young protégé out of the doldrums, and after considering a number of options open to them, they eventually hatched a plan. Being fearful of how Oliver might react to some ‘old busy-bodies’ interfering, they decided to indirectly open a door, and then it would be up to Oliver whether he’d go through it or not. All they needed was to learn the name of one of the publications from whom Oliver had received one of those ‘thanks, we’ll keep you on file’ replies. “You buy him a pint next Sunday,” suggested Audrey, “and while you’re at the bar, I’ll have a word in his ear and see what I can find out.”

  Sunday came, and as usual Oliver walked up the narrow, steep stairs from the pub’s car park and into the rear entrance of the Black Buoy. There was the same welcoming hubbub, as people were chatting, drinking and eating. “Ah, there you are,” said Bob, as approachable as ever, when Oliver entered. “Let me get you a pint—what are you having?” While Bob was waiting to be served at the counter, Audrey invited Oliver over to her corner by the window.

  “So how’s it been going? Any progress to tell of?” she enquired, trying to sound as natural as she could. Oliver gave her a brief synopsis of his latest news on the job-hunt front, which consisted of very little—except that he’d had one more negative reply from a regional magazine.

  “So, who was it this time? What did they say?” Audrey asked.

  “Well, this one was the East Anglian Chronicle, and they just said the normal ‘We’ll get in touch if anything comes up in the future’. No doubt that’ll be the last I hear from them—it’s just the usual nonsense to get someone like me off their backs,” answered a dejected Oliver, shrugging his shoulders while supping his pint that Bob had by now returned with.

  Audrey pretended to be more nonchalant than she actually was. She had managed to casually prise the information she wanted from Oliver, making a mental note which magazine he had referred to as she took another sip of her white wine. “Well, you never know,” she suggested warmly. “Don’t ever give up hope.”

  The next day, after breakfast, Bob got straight to work. “Right, I’ll make a few phone calls. Let’s see if we can set some wheels in motion to help our man.” Publishing was one of the pies in which he still had a few fingers, and it was one of those industries where, at the top of the management tree, everybody knew everyone else. And Bob was one such man.

  The following Sunday, the couple were sitting once again in their usual corner in the pub when Oliver came bouncing in. When he spotted them, straight away he went over, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “You’ll never guess what!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been offered a job!” Clearly over the moon, he could hardly get the words out of his mouth quickly enough, as he tried to tell them what had happened.

  “Woah, hold on
there, Oliver. First let’s get you a pint in,” said Bob, winking discretely at his wife. “And then you can tell us all about it.”

  “No, it’s my round this time,” Oliver said, as he went off to the bar. Audrey and Bob raised their glasses to each other. When he returned with two pints of bitter and a glass of Chardonnay, he proceeded to explain about the job he would be starting as a researcher and columnist on the East Anglian Chronicle’s travel section. At his interview with Edward Wright, the editor, he had been asked what countries he’d been to, and Oliver talked about his trip to Florida. After giving it some careful consideration, or so it seemed to Oliver, his new boss offered him a job there and then.

  Edward had already made up his mind about the section he would start Oliver off with. So, for his first assignment, the new columnist was tasked with writing a piece about his experience on Anna Maria Island. Although he had been prompted of course by his old friend, the idea of pumping some new blood into the publication’s rather tired and staid looking ‘Holiday and Travel’ pages had actually been on his mind for some time. Being always so busy, he’d just never got round to doing anything about it—until now, thanks to Bob’s gentle prod.

  Three weeks would go by before Audrey and Bob next saw Oliver, when the young man came in the pub to triumphantly show off the piece he’d written, waving the glossy colour magazine in the air, already open at the appropriate page. ‘PARADISE ISLAND—words and pictures by OLIVER MARKLAND’, read the heading, with two whole pages enthusing about ‘the perfect holiday destination’. “Mr. Wright said he was very pleased with it; ‘it’s not bad for a first effort’ were his exact words,” Oliver elaborated. “And this is only Part One! He wants me to do a continuation in next month’s issue. I’d told him about my ‘Florida Key’ idea, and he’s suggested I include something about it as well, and to carry the next issue’s section over to three pages.”