Push Hands
Michael Graeme
Published: 2008
Tag(s): "love story" "tai chi" love romance marriage
Push Hands
A Novel
By
Michael Graeme
Copyright©Michael Graeme 2008
This is a full length novel, some 300 pages in standard paperback format - presented here complete and free to read for the Feedbooks community.
It is an adult novel and contains sexually explicit material of a kind that might be encountered in the loving, intimate relationships of most ordinary, modern, mature people. If you are under age or you think you might find such material offensive, on moral or religious grounds, then please delete this book from your device.
Chapter 1
Philip Markham stood on the factory receiving bay, waiting for a truck to arrive. It was going up for five and it didn't look like it was coming. He stood back under the awning as a fine drizzle drifted down. The world was soaked and grey and cold. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his back and underarms damp, but not from the rain. He was hot: sweaty-hot, and it felt good to be out in the cool, out of the office and away from the computer and its never-ending pile of e-mails.
He sweated easily these days, felt tired and old though he'd only just turned 45. He was worried there might be something wrong with him, some mysterious ailment gnawing at his insides, but then he'd felt like this for the better part of a decade now and he was still alive - so there couldn't be that much wrong with him, surely?
The factory was crumbly and filthy, a left over from the war years, a higgledy-piggledy pile of decaying red brick and flaking paint. The other buildings that had grown up round about seemed brighter by comparison, but were somehow faceless and dead. They were newer, obviously, and Phil wondered what they did, what they made, if anything - for he was just waking up to the fact that no one in England actually made anything any more. Perhaps these buildings just stored things then or they were call-centres for insurance companies or travel agents.
Beyond these other buildings, rising all around in the murky distance, the town of Middleton sprawled messily, an ugly assortment of merged suburbs, dirty brick and concrete, barbed wire, security cameras and about a hundred thousand assorted lives. He was feeling very small today, feeling the self important weight of all those lives pressing down upon him, squeezing him, squeezing him under or out,.. somewhere.
Then, between the long abandoned chimneys of the old Atlas mill, he caught a glimpse of the moors, flat capped under a ton of greasy, iron grey cloud. A bad day for walking up there, he thought. Indeed it was a bad day for just about anything.
He checked his watch, anxious now - not that the truck wasn't going to come, but more that it would, and he'd have to stay after-hours to deal with it. He had an appointment that evening and didn't want to have to cancel it because it had taken him months to pluck up the courage to go in the first place.
He listened inside his head to see if the irritating sound was still there. He could hear an air conditioning unit whirring away on one of the modern buildings next door, and there was a gentle wind blowing, raising a sigh from the rooftops, and somewhere above all that was the rasping whistle of his tinnitus. There was no escaping it, and apparently no cure either, or so the weary old doctor had told him - that he'd just have to get used to it.
The doctor had also handed him a questionnaire to fill out, apparently in order to see if he was depressed - like one of those stupid magazine pseudo-psychology quiz things. Phil thought all that was rubbish: he wasn't depressed - but the questionnaire disagreed, and quick as a flash the doctor was writing him out a prescription for antidepressants.
"But I'm not depressed."
"Well, apparently, you are, Mr Markham."
"But doesn't everyone feel like something's missing from their lives?"
"Possibly, I can't say, but there's no need for it. Just take these pills and you'll feel like a new person. I've been on them for years."
"But it's my ear I'm struggling with, Doctor."
"Well, the tablets will make you feel less concerned about it."
"What?"
Phil had checked the pills out on the Internet. Sure enough, it sounded like they'd calm his middle aged angst, fill the hole in his soul with a kind of fluffy padding, but they might also make him impotent, something the doctor had obviously forgotten to mention. That was neither here nor there, of course, since Sally no longer required much from him in that department any more, but the pills might also stop him from sleeping - another little thing the doctor had forgotten to mention. He supposed that could have been sorted out by more pills, but of greater concern to him was the drinking. He couldn't take the pills and drink, you see? And if he didn't get his half bottle of wine with whisky chaser to finish off the day, well, he reckoned he'd really have something to be depressed about.
The breeze changed direction and blew the drizzle into his face. He didn't move, but savoured the exquisite coolness of it.
"I am not depressed," he said, then looked around, embarrassed in case anyone had overheard. But the shop-floor had gone home ages ago, and there was only Caroline in the office, her door closed, head bent over her computer. She couldn't hear him, and like all the Carolines before her, she probably couldn't see him either - not even if he'd been standing right in front of her.
Caroline's real name was Sandra and she made his heart ache deliciously. Indeed she was one of the few things in his life right now that reminded him he was actually alive. Thirtyish, blonde, and shapely, she was too young for him of course, even if he'd been stupid enough to begin an affair, which he hoped he wasn't, and always supposing she'd be interested, which he doubted. Indeed, he doubted she even knew his name, even though they'd worked under the same roof for years. That was the trouble with Carolines, he thought: they planted in your head the insane notion they were in love with you, but when it came down to it, they couldn't even remember your name.
Five o'clock.
Phil sighed. No truck. He'd have to get on to the suppliers in the morning to see where his parts had gone. But for now he was committed to his course, and turned away from the receiving bay like a man facing execution. He walked slowly past the office window and waved.
"Night Sandra," he called. Maybe he hadn't called loudly enough because she didn't hear him and remained bent over her computer. He saw images of sand and sea reflected in her big, round spectacles and guessed she was browsing the holiday web sites. Maybe that's what he needed - a holiday. But there were certain things you couldn't escape, like the tinnitus, things you just ended up taking with you, wherever you went.
Chapter 2
Doctor Lin operated out of an old terraced house in a run-down back-street of Middleton. There was a hairdressers on one side and a dodgy looking car accessory shop on the other. The Tai Chi symbol in the window looked rather out of place, a whispered and worthless platitude amid the overwhelming decay of decades of neglect. Phil ran his eye over the list of ailments that might apparently be cured: Sport's injuries he understood, but whatever were Man/Woman problems?
He was dismayed to discover that Dr Lin was, in fact, a woman - white coated and clean looking - a Chinese lady with medium length black hair, dark eyes and perfect white teeth. Her complexion was clear and youthful, but he couldn't guess her age; she might have been thirty, or fifty. He caught his breath and hoped Caroline wasn't playing tricks on him here: he desperately needed Dr Lin not to be another bloody Caroline.
He took a deep breath and explained about the tinnitus. She listened to him patiently, nodding now and then, although he began to suspect she was only getting every other word. Doctor Lin understood "tinnitus", but looking at the somewhat overheated and sweaty man before her
, she knew a ringing ear was the least of his problems. He seemed keen to blow it all out, to talk and talk, his mind a rats nest of confused thoughts and though a lot of it was indeed unintelligible to her beginner's English, she knew it was good for him to talk, so she listened with her head tilted, sympathetically to one side.
When he'd finished, she asked him simple questions about his family history - who had died of what? Diabetes? Heart problems? Arthritis? Grim stuff really and Phil was struggling to catch some of her words because her accent was difficult to follow. She asked him to stick out his tongue and then checked the pulse on both wrists, noticing the way he flinched as she moved in to touch him.
"Sorry," he said. "I'm a little jumpy."
"Bowels all right?"
"Erm,… yes."
"Sexual relation?"
"Erm,.. normal," he replied, with a slight inflection that inadvertently implied vagueness. Normal for what? A middle aged man who'd been married to the same woman for twenty years? Perhaps no sexual relations at all was normal at that stage of life. "Yes, quite normal,.. I suppose." Is that what Man/Woman problems were, he wondered? Well, so far he knew the only cure was to have sex with someone else once in a while - but that was just too complicated and dangerous - and any other less radical cure struck him as being hopelessly optimistic.
"Appetite all right?"
"Yes."
The sweat was beginning to drip down from his hairline now. He was conscious of it, and embarrassed.
"Warm outside?" enquired Dr. Lin.
"No,… quite cool really. So, erm,… what do you think? Can you help?"
She thought for a while. The man was outwardly calm, but that was his Englishness, his stiff upper lip, she supposed, while inside he was positively incandescent. There was a year's work here, but she surmised he wouldn't have the patience for it. Everyone wanted a quick fix. Some Aspirins, antibiotics, antidepressants, then on with job. "Help? Yes. You have too much heat, Mr Markham. Must cool you down. Qi also is very weak."
"Qi?"
"Energy, Mr Markham. Feel tired all the time?"
"Well,… yes."
"Break out sweating for no reason?"
"Often, yes."
"Feel dizzy sometimes? In a crowd maybe?"
"Yes,… yes,… "
"Ear ringing because kidney energy low."
"My kidneys? Is that serious?"
"Serious if you don't cool down. Nourish Qi."
Dr Lin smiled. "We take some herbs to begin. But ringing ear is stubborn problem. It will take time. First thing is balance, Mr Markham. Then ear will stop ringing,… maybe."
"Only maybe?"
"Late nights, Mr Markham?"
"Erm,… " yes, he was thinking - every night, late, holding back tomorrow. Wine, whiskey, hangover, then up in the small hours relieving the pressure in his bladder. He hoped she wouldn't ask him about the drinking. "Some late nights, yes. I really should do better, I know."
"Alcohol?"
Damn! "A little,… "
She smiled again. "Hmnn. Take these herbs. Same time next week?"
"Okay."
"Twenty five pounds please."
"Eh? Oh,… of course."
Phil drove home through the rain, a dull ache between his eyes which he supposed was a symptom of the tensions of the day, and also the lingering remains of last night's cheap wine.
"I will do better," he said, forcing himself past the off-licence. It didn't matter, he'd plenty of whisky at home - maybe two or three glasses tonight. At least he wouldn't appear like so much of an alcoholic to the man behind the counter - he could at least say to himself now that he wasn't in there every night. But the man in the off-licence doesn't care - I mean why should he? I'm paying his bloody wages.
That's how Phil felt about Dr Lin, too. He wasn't used to dipping into his wallet after a visit to the doctor. And all he'd got for his money was a couple of boxes of herbs with unintelligible names and a lot of guff about Qi and Kidney Energy.
Chapter 3
He was home a little later than usual and sensed the resentment of his absence in the fact that the door was locked, the key left on the inside, so he couldn't get his own key in and had to knock like a stranger, then wait with the rain dripping down his neck. Alas, he thought, this was normal. Sally came slowly, opened the door with a sigh and, without looking at him, turned back into the hall as if she'd been called away from something far more important. His tea was in the oven, a scalding hot plate containing a shrivelled mess of cabbage, potatoes and cottage pie. He hid his disappointment, knowing he should be grateful that Sally had bothered to make his tea at all.
She'd known he was going to be late. He'd arranged it all, told her he wouldn't be home for tea, better not to make any Sal, I'll fix something up later. But Sally didn't like him making a mess in the kitchen of an evening - even though he always cleaned it up afterwards - it was just a thing she had about the lingering of unwashed pots. He'd been through all this before, and though neither he nor Sally were particularly argumentative, she was easily wound up by such things as lingering pots, and it made him feel knotted up inside when she got upset. So he took his revoltingly overdone tea and ate it alone while Sally sat comatose in front of the T.V. and watched Soaps.
The children were quick to realise he was home and began hovering around while he ate, which he hated because it always gave him indigestion. He might have been grateful for their company, but their presence was rarely a delight any more and more likely just a prelude to nagging for something. They seemed subdued tonight though and he sensed they'd already had a telling off over something.
Elspeth, at eight years, had begun her apprenticeship in the life-skills of emotional manipulation and was sniffling as if upset, while waving her grubby homework sheet. Phil would be expected to do it for her - the blasted question of the week, he supposed.
"What is the highest capital city in the world?" or "Who were the Aztecs?". He'd learned a lot of useless information from Elspeth's homeworks, while it seemed all Elspeth had learned was how to get others to do stuff for her.
With Marty, at 12, it was usually mathematics. Phil would sort him out later. Marty had begun to nag less, and now hid himself away more, much to Phil's disappointment. He didn't want to have a distant relationship with his son, but it seemed Marty felt otherwise. It was easy to see why - Elspeth was just that much better at monopolising his attention.
Sally called through to remind him, during the adverts, that he'd still not changed the light-bulb in the hall. It was true - it had needed changing for days now, but the lights were quite low down and Sally could easily reach them without standing on a stool or anything. It was only a matter of unscrewing one bulb and screwing in another. But they'd been through this as well: Sally did enough. She worked full time and it was sufficient that she sorted out the washing and most of the cooking as well. Phil would have done these things, but he worked longer hours, so it was true that Sally had the brunt of it, being home first, sorting out the kids and everything, during the week. He promised to change the light-bulb, then felt a sudden stabbing pain in his guts, a burning indigestion settling in already.
As he washed up, he heard the T.V. blaring out the theme tune from the next soap in the evening's dire line-up. Sally was still comatose in front of it. There was yet another soap to come after that and, after that, some appalling reality T.V. show. For an intelligent woman, he thought, she didn't half watch some crap.
He smiled as he changed the light-bulb, remembering when he'd bought a copy of Tomb Buster to play on Marty's Gamestation: he liked computer games, liked computers, liked the Internet, but Sally had caught him manipulating Tomb Buster's handsomely endowed heroine Sara Short through a fiendishly difficult tomb, and had feigned disgust at his apparent childishness. "What you're doing's rubbish," she'd said. "Aren't you getting a bit old for stuff like that?"
Phil was surprised - he supposed it was a bit childish, but it was also entertaining, relaxing - okay i
t was a time waster, but by the same token so was a game of chess, to say nothing of sitting in front of the television all night watching soaps that were about as representative of real life as an episode of the Teletubbies. He didn't see the difference and wished he'd said so at the time, except you don't do you? And Sally was his wife - you didn't pick fights with your wife - and you sort of trusted that she didn't want to pick fights with you. Okay, there was a lot of needling, but she was just tired all the time. She needed him to understand where she was coming from, but he didn't, and he supposed he was doing a bad job of pretending that he did.
He came into the lounge wearing another painted smile, and asked if she wanted a coffee. She nodded in response. He looked at her slumped there, bound up in the nonsense that was being enacted on the T.V.. It seemed to him the soaps always involved a lot of shouting and childish behaviour, a lot of nastiness, a lot of infidelity. His life wasn't like that. Perhaps Sally would have preferred it if it was. She'd recently turned forty, and though she wasn't quite the slender stick of a thing he'd married, he still found her attractive and lived for her smile, lived for her touch - though that didn't happen very often these days. The smiles were few and if they touched at all it was him touching her, and that didn't feel anywhere near as good as her touching him.
What is the diameter of the earth?
Phil knew what he was supposed to do. He was supposed to encourage Elspeth to look it up. "Now, I wonder where we might be able to find out about that?" he asked her.
Elspeth sighed and gave him a disappointed look. "On the Internet," she said, not one to be caught out so easily. "Try Wikipedia."
"Well,… yes,… but,… I really think,… Have you looked in the encyclopaedia? Or perhaps an astronomy book? We have a good one in the book case."
Push Hands Page 1