Ben

by Cody Young

  “Can I buy them for you?” he said. Breaking one of Ruth’s rules.

  “No,” she said, looking up. “Ray Leach wouldn’t like it. Some bloke buying me flowers.”

  Ray Leach. He hated the sound of that man’s name. “That’s a shame.”

  “No it isn’t,” she smiled and she took hold of his arm, a move that rather pleased him. “Look. See. Look down the street. Look at all the flowers, all of them. Not any one bunch or bucket. But all of them, all together. Isn’t that the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

  No, he thought, looking at her face, but he didn’t dare say it. “Yes. It’s very beautiful.”

  He could see what she meant. The sum of the whole was much lovelier than any single bloom or lonely little plant in a green plastic pot.

  “You can’t buy something like this,” she said. “You just have to look at it and love it while it’s here. Come three o’clock it’s all gone. Nothing but broken bits, lying on the ground…”

  He nodded, saddened by the idea that all this beauty would soon be swept away. “We must make the most of it.”

  He walked with her along the street, stopping wherever she wanted to stop. Admiring what she wanted to admire. Smiling at things that made her smile.

  Oh Layla, you are the sweetest flower here. His feelings burgeoned so strong inside him, that he wondered if passers-by could see it. It was a strange, scary feeling. Could people see – as he walked along with this girl. This girl. Could they see how fast he was falling for her? Free-falling out of the sky for her?

  Oh, Layla. He had thought that he would crash down on the pavement and die when she’d told him she wouldn’t see him again. And that was when he knew the truth. That he was a victim of the incurable disease. The malady of the heart. The sweet and terrible suffering they call love. Good grief, he was in love, when he had been convinced he was incapable of feeling it. Not for anyone, not after Becky. He had a new name now, to hold in his heart. Layla, Layla, Layla.

  “Wallflower. Lovely wallflower! Pink roses – look at the colour! Any four for a tenner. You look like you got a tenner, mister,” said a street crier as Ben walked by. “Buy some for the little lady…”

  “She won’t let me,” he said and tried to walk past.

  But the stall-holder turned to Layla instead. “Rich fella like that and he won’t buy you some flowers. Shame on him! Here you are, love, here’s one for free.”

  He took a bloom that had fallen onto the table, a white gardenia, only slightly crushed. She smiled and turned it around and around in her hands. Looking at it, admiring it. “Thank you.”

  Ben helped her tuck it into the loop on her duffel coat, arranging the stem so it wouldn’t fall out. A strange, intimate moment. He caught the look on her face before she turned away. She does feel it, he thought. She does feel something.

  After they had wandered through the flowers for a couple of hours… he asked her, “Shall we look for somewhere that serves pancakes?”

  She glanced away and bit her lip, like she was surprised he’d remembered. “It doesn’t have to be pancakes. I was just remembering, that’s all…”

  Oh, they were having pancakes if it killed him. He’d made a dozen telephone calls last night. Narrowed it down to two places. Sid and Bev’s Grill and a place called the Lotus Flower, which was a rather exotic name for a pancake place, but maybe it turned itself into a bar at night.

  They settled on the Lotus Flower. It was the first one they came to, and looked warm and cosy inside compared with the cold air in Columbia Road.

  They went inside and went up to the counter. The man behind the counter wore a striped apron like a butcher. And yes, this was definitely a place that turned into a bar. Ben’s eyes roved over the bottles of wine and spirits behind the counter.

  The man behind the counter smiled. “Thinking about an Irish coffee, sir?”

  Oh, how tempting. Whisky in his coffee. But he had to be strong. “Ordinary coffee, thanks.”

  She smiled shyly, as he steered her over towards an empty table for two. Ben would have liked to move the salt and pepper and the sauce out of the way so he could hold her hands across the table, but Ruth had expressly advised against it. So they talked and eventually, she relaxed enough to show him an old photo of herself taken here at the flower market ‘about a million years ago’. She looked about eleven or twelve in the photo. She had long blonde hair down to her waist. And she was surrounded by flowers. The girl who would become the woman was there in the photo, smiling at him, and she was very pretty.

  “It’s lovely,” he said. “Who took the picture?”

  “My dad.”

  There was a long hesitation, before Ben found the courage to ask her the next question. “How often do you get to see him? Your father?”

  There was a long silence before she answered. “I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told you he was dead and buried.”

  “Yes. You did. But it isn’t true, is it?”

  Massive pause. Layla bit her lip, and he wondered if he’d made a huge mistake bringing up a subject that might upset her. “God, you’re awful. You’re a mind-reader, that’s what you are.”

  He laughed. “I wish I was. It would make being a doctor a lot easier.”

  “You do alright.”

  “Layla. Your father. Where is he?”

  She shrugged and glanced out of the window into the street. “If I don’t tell you, I suppose you’ll find out.”

  “Not if you don’t want me to. Best behaviour, remember?”

  She smiled. “It’s been nice. This morning.”

  He nodded.

  The food arrived. And it looked great. Two steaming plates of pancakes smothered in maple syrup. They obviously had a production line going full tilt in the kitchen out at the back.

  She explained that her father had been transferred to a prison outside London. “There is a train that goes out there, but it takes forever and I haven’t done it yet. I keep meaning to,” she said, sounding guilty. “I don’t know why I haven’t.”

  Ben did. Because the fare would be at least thirty quid. He took a breath. “Look. This is presumptuous of me…”

  Yes. Perhaps it was. But presumption had already played a large part in their blossoming friendship.

  She looked up, like she was bracing herself for what was coming. “Oh, I don’t know…”

  Ben plunged ahead with his offer. “I could drive you there. To see him. And I’ll meet him if you want me to, or I could sit in the car park if you don’t.”

  She looked like she was struggling to imagine him in either of those two places – the prison visiting area, or the prison car park, sitting in the black Audi, listening to Mozart, maybe, while she chatted to her father about his approaching parole review.

  But she said yes.

  “Thank you,” she said, and touched his hand. “It would be good to see him. And I’d like to ask his advice about the Ray Leach situation. He may not be the best person in the world, but he’s my dad and he knows all about the Rookeries.”

  Mr. Birch

  Mr Birch liked a morning stroll in the flower markets. He liked to admire the girls who went there – you saw a special type of girl at the flower markets – fresh and pretty as unbruised cherry blossom. The girls at the Fizz club were more your bruised variety. Your black-eyed Susan, if you will.

  But here you could spot a different type of girl altogether. Graceful, willowy girls searching among the flowers for something special enough to take home. Fresh-faced girls new to London who missed the country life. He’d seen several young ladies this morning that he wished he had the keys for. Not that he’d take them for a spin himself. He was a businessman and he ran a very unique establishment. For his very best customers, he could offer what few other retailers could – a girl who was genuinely untouched. A lot of people tried to pass off the young tarts who worked for them as virgins even if they’d been standing on street corners for a couple
of years. But he was different. He could truly deliver on his promises. Some people were obsessed with virginity. And where there’s an obsession, there’s money to be made.

  Ah, virginity. Who was that poet who wrote about it all the time? Keats, wasn’t it?

  Unfelt, unheard, unseen,

  I’ve left my little queen,

  Her languid arms in silver slumber lying:

  Ah! Through their nestling touch,

  Who — who could tell how much

  There is for madness — cruel, or complying?

  Of course, these days, the part about the little queen always had people thinking of a boy’s arse. But to him it still summoned up visions of a woman. A valuable, saleable, and altogether feminine piece of tart. He particularly liked the line ‘who could tell how much’ because that’s what he wondered, every time he looked at a woman. How much would she be worth? It was the way he evaluated women, no matter where he met them – in the City, on the tube, flying first class to Paris, his thoughts were always the same.

  Then, he saw a girl with a face like a virgin lily. A face he was sure he knew from somewhere. Yes. She was from the Rook’s nest, no doubt about it – he’d seen her trailing around with her two little brothers – though he’d thought she was still just a nipper. Ah, but time flies and rosebuds open. She was sitting in a café, with a young man who looked like a stockbroker. The cheeky piece – thinking she could get the likes of him. He knew who she was. The daughter of that drug-addicted tart who used to do shifts at the Fizz. Long time ago. Tara Gilbert, the mother was called. He chuckled. By rights, Tara’s daughter was his property. Because Tara had been. Still was in a roundabout way. Like everyone else who lived at the Rookeries. They just had to do what they were told or answer to him.

  What was this little darling’s name? He knew it, he was sure he did.

  Layla. The same as the song. And the book – Layla and the Madman. Everyone knew about Eric Clapton, but not many people knew about the book. A Persian love story. Very moving.

  He’d have to make some enquiries. Even if she’d given her lotus flower to the stockbroker, it was still worth making some enquiries.

  * * *

  When they said goodbye on the corner by the boarded up pub, Ben almost risked trying to kiss her. But she was skittish and shy, and he didn’t want to push his luck.

  “Until Tuesday, then.” He extended his hand like she was another doctor in a hospital corridor. She looked at his hand like she wasn’t sure what she was meant to do with it. But then she put her hand in his, and he held on tight and gazed into her eyes. “Thank you, Layla.”

  “It was good this time,” she said.

  “It’ll always be good. From now on. I promise.”

  “Oh, Ben. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

  “I do. I’m an adult. And so are you. Almost.”

  That made her glance away. She didn’t seem to like thinking about the gap in their ages.

  “You really don’t mind driving me all the way out to the prison?”

  “On the contrary. It would be my privilege and my pleasure.”

  She almost laughed. “The way you talk.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Private school has a lot to answer for.”

  “No. It’s nice.”

  “You’re nice,” he said. He was still holding her hand. It would be so easy just to kiss her. She was all peachy and warm and he very much wanted to kiss her. But Ruth said not to. Ruth said hold back and don’t rush her.

  A worried look flashed over her face. “I’m not sure about you coming into the prison. If you do, it might open your eyes a bit.”

  He gazed down at her. “My eyes are already open.”

  Then she surprised him, she reached up and stroked the side of his face. “You’re alright when you’re off the turps, aren’t you?”

  “The best,” he said modestly. “It’s official then? We’re seeing each other?”

  “You don’t want a girl like me, Ben.”

  He smiled. “I do. You know I do.”

  She flushed with pleasure. So he took a risk, he touched the side of her face too – mirroring the same sweet gesture that she had made a few seconds ago. “You and me, Layla? You and me?”

  “Maybe.”

  * * *

  He was on top of the world the following day. He beamed at his patients like he was in love with them all. Nothing was too much trouble. He greeted athlete’s foot with enthusiasm and broken fingers as if they were a joy to treat. Skin lesions brought sunny reassuring smiles, and ingrown toenails were no problem at all. Today, even pulmonary disorders were part of Ben’s jaunt through the sunshine.

  “Settling in alright now, Dr Stein?” said Fiona.

  “Oh, please, Fiona. Call me Ben.”

  “Well, I would. But it sets a bad example to the patients. Better to retain that barrier between them and the doctors, don’t you think?”

  There was something slightly meaningful in the way she said that, and it made Ben turn and look her in the eye. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I think it’s good to be more human with them. Puts them at their ease.”

  Fiona looked at him. Over the top of her specs. “You haven’t been in general practice very long, have you?”

  “No. I was a hospital doctor.”

  “Most doctors want to be hospital doctors. And your CV was very impressive – I saw it when the applications came in. What on earth made you choose to come here?”

  Ben gave her a radiant smile. “I answered that one at the interview, Fiona.”

  Fiona smiled back, rather too knowingly. “If you remember, I wasn’t there.”

  “I would have remembered if you had been, Fiona. How could I forget a lovely face like yours?"

  “Don’t flatter me, doctor. It doesn’t work on me.”

  “No of course not, you’re much too intelligent. Why did I come here? For the sheer joy of treating the general public,” he said, grandiosely. He picked up his next patient file. “Ah. Mrs Bradshaw. With the boils. Ask the nurse to bring me something to lance them with, will you?”

  “Ugh,” said Fiona. “Mrs Bradshaw’s boils. Anyone would be thinking you’d be desperate for your day off.”

  “Oh, I am. I’m counting the hours,” he said.

  “Going somewhere nice?”

  “Yes,” he said, excitedly. “Chelmsford Prison.”

  Then he sailed away on a cloud of irrepressible happiness while crabby old Fiona paged the nurse.

  Fiona shook her head after he’d gone. She murmured under her breath. “And who do you know at Chelmsford Prison, I wonder?”

  She tapped a name into her computer. Gilbert. And waded through quite a few entries until she came to one that had been closed six years ago. Hmmm….

  Prison

  Ben was excited about the visit to the prison. And a little nervous.

  Layla had agreed that he could come in and meet her father. He had promised he would behave himself and refrain from asking unpopular questions like ‘how long have you got left to serve?’

  They parked the car and joined the long queue of people waiting to go inside the prison. “It’s a bit like getting into an exclusive nightclub,” he remarked, and she frowned at him.

  It was a grim place. Angled stone walls and barbed wire. Sets of doors that only opened one at a time, just like at the zoo. Together they went through the security checks. It amused Ben that they wanted to check to see if he was carrying a gun. Or if Layla was carrying it for him. They went into a big hall with lots of rectangular tables set out, and she explained how it worked. On one side of each table, there was a red chair. On the other side of each table, there were two blue chairs. Red for prisoners. Blue for visitors. Just in case anybody got confused.

  “What happens if I sit in the red one?” he asked. “Do I get a uniform with arrows on?”

  “Ben. Don’t be stupid.”

  That sobered him up. He didn’t want to lose sight of his objective. Win
her heart. And her soul. And her body…

  They found an empty table. Ben sat down in a blue chair next to Layla. And she explained that when everyone was seated, the prisoners would arrive.

  “This is quite civilized,” he said. “Not what I was expecting at all.”

  She shifted uneasily in her seat. She seemed to be dreading the moment when her father came face to face with him. “It's a prison, that's all. What were you expecting?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Glass screens. Telephones. Armed guards.”

  “That would be high security. This one’s only medium.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I understand. Presumably your father didn’t murder anybody, then?”

  “Aggravated robbery with violence,” she said. “Transferred here for good behaviour.”

  “Ah,” said Ben. Well what did one say? He couldn’t imagine how it would feel if his own father lived in a place like this. He pictured Morrie Stein – respectable businessman, much-loved husband and father – banged up for some crime with a horrible name. Oh, poor Layla. No wonder she felt so awful. He smiled encouragingly at her, to show her that he cared.

  “Look at you,” she said in a softly reproachful tone. “Sitting there in your expensive coat. My dad's going to freak when he sees you.”

  Ben shrugged apologetically. Yes, the black coat and the alpaca scarf probably spoke volumes about the kind of man he was. He was warm and well-off and sure of himself, in a room full of tired-looking women with bleach-blonde hair and skinny boys with lots of piercings.

  “Don't worry, Layla. It'll be okay.” He reached across and squeezed her hand. “I hope he’ll be pleased to see you.”

  “Yeah. I hope so.” That was when she looked up and caught her breath.

  Ben looked up too, and saw the man. He came weaving through the tables to reach them. A small, tired man with a lined face, and a body type they always call wiry. He had bright blue eyes – really vivid – and they were fixed on Layla.