Simon sipped his pint at the bar. Gordon rattled off further random details and names, the pub crowd gasping and cooing each time a pellet from his scattergun pronouncements found a willing mark.
The pub was packed, with standing room only. Recently bereaved siblings, sons, fathers, mothers – people who were never previously customers in The Whippet - lined the walls. Great gangs of women in their sixties huddled around the tables, sipping half-pints of lager and lime whilst pontificating loudly about Geoffs, Bernards, Ians and Dereks.
A large group of youngsters in their very early twenties giggled over their drinks, the boys drinking strong lager, the girls nursing vodka and cokes. They rolled their eyes and whispered, the show of cool disbelief belied by their intense concentration each time a new name, letter or number was thrown into the melting pot of post-life data. Their youthful cynicism seemed fragile amongst the deluge of potentially pertinent information. Could it be Gran? Was Granddad watching? Could Gordon have muddled an ‘S’ with an ‘F’? Is there somebody out there, somebody watching over me?
Simon drained the last inch of his pint. Too polite to distract attention from the entertainment, and too concerned with causing offence, he was trapped until there was a break in the proceedings. Top Gear reruns were looking increasingly tempting. Gordon Underwood was a fraud.
Despite the delight of the audience, Simon was unmoved. He had come to the event with his mind open and found it now firmly closed. A little research during his lunch break had provided the necessary foundations for an educated overview of the evening. Simon always did his homework. Cold reading, the technique of high observation, analysis of body language and an understanding of probability was most definitely at play here.
“I’ve got an ‘R’ here. An ‘R’ for someone in this side of the room. No, more over here …” Gordon pointed specifically at a group of women in their late sixties. Simon smiled into his pint. Cold Reading 101. The most likely letter to be claimed by women in their sixties was the letter ‘R’. Wikipedia was so useful.
“Robert, maybe Rodney?”
“Roger, Brenda! Wasn’t your Dad’s brother called Roger? The one that was in the army?” And Gordon was off. His breathless repartee bolstered by that useful military titbit.
A couple in a corner of the pub, ruthlessly milked by the fraudulent medium earlier, comforted each other, tears drying on their cheeks. Brother and sister, thought Simon. Even to the uninitiated, their body language and desperate searching faces had clearly marked them as grieving from the moment they had entered the pub. Quietly waiting for the act to begin, they whispered together and ordered only soft drinks. Their features were clearly those of siblings, and their tracksuits and myriad tattoos indicated their background.
Gordon did a number on them, reducing the grieving pair to crowd-pleasing tears within minutes. The ‘International Medium’ (Gordon felt entitled to the title, having once performed a reading for a bemused German couple by a poolside in Torremolinos) quickly identified the object of their grief. He held the entire room in captivated silence as he claimed knowledge of, and transmitted messages from, their deceased father. The crowd could barely hold back applause. When he discovered the man had “passed” from cancer, Gordon earnestly urged the young man of the pair to look after the watch his father had given him, suggesting he should fix what was broken on it, and wear it despite its not being fashionable. This incredible moment of illumination met with more gasps and some tears throughout the crowd.
Simon viewed the proceedings with distaste. The watch. How many men pass a watch onto their sons? How many men have an old watch languishing in a drawer – the strap broken, the battery long since leeched? Even if the father himself had not passed it on, it was likely a piece of jewelry such as this would find its way into a grieving son’s hands. Gordon Underwood was no link to the dead. He was a callous showman. A PT Barnum of grief.
“I’ve got an ‘S’ over here. No right here at the bar. No, love, it’s not a Sam and it’s most definitely over here. You, sir? I’m being told ‘S’. It’s definitely you.”
Simon, facing the bar, had his back to the entertainment. He turned slowly. A hundred expectant faces looked at him rapturously. The slick little man nodded encouragement at Simon.
“It’s an ‘S’, sir. Do you know an S who has passed recently? I’m not sure who I have with me, but they are quite persistent. I can’t quite understand what I’m being told. This ‘S’ must have passed very recently. I’m being shown it flickering, coming in and out of focus … it’s quite odd, Sir. You’ll have to help me out, Sir. The ‘S’ seems pink. I get the feeling it’s pink. I know this is going to seem a little odd, Sir, but go with it. I’m seeing a castle as well. A pink one. Do try to think - it’s definitely for you, Sir.”
“It’s not me.”
The crowd groaned. The man wasn’t going to play the game.
“Could it be a Sandra?” an exuberant woman shouted, her cheeks reddened with copious rosé. “Sally?”
“It’s not me.” Simon spoke firmly. He stood, prodding Porridge with his toe.
“Sarah,” the barmaid, unaware of the name of Simon’s daughter, shouted excitedly. “Could that be it?”
“It’s not Sarah.” Simon felt himself color and panic as the lager he had drunk began to rise into his throat. He elbowed fellow drinkers out of the way, a chorus of ‘Oooh’s and ‘What’s with ‘im?’s accompanying his hurried departure.
He stumbled out onto the street, Porridge trotting by his side, delighted at the unscheduled walk. Simon steadied himself a moment, the nausea dissipating as quickly as it had begun.
He reached for his phone and called the hospice, his heart beating wildly in his chest. “I’m phoning to check on Sarah. Is she okay?”
“Yes, she is sleeping peacefully,” he was assured.
“Could you please check?” he insisted.
“Certainly, Dr. Bailey.”
Simon could hear the footsteps as whoever had answered his call strode purposefully to Sarah’s room. The door opened with a click. There was a moment’s silence.
“Yes, she is fast asleep, Dr. Bailey. Your wife too.”
Simon breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you, nurse. Thank you very much for checking for me.”
“You are most welcome.”
* * *
The evening was mild and it was not quite dusk. Simon and Porridge headed away from the pub and the village and walked towards the lights of the town below them.
At length Simon came to the limestone bridge that crossed the murky waters of the industrial river Calder. The flow beneath bubbled ominously, polluted foam formed on the banks. Simon perched on the edge of the wide stone bridge and let his legs dangle over the waterway. Porridge lay beside him, watching.
Chapter 28
There is a bridge in France, in the centre of a small but busy town, which spans the River Dronne. The water of the river is so clear even the least nimble eyed can watch the abundant spotted trout that nibble the weeds beneath. The tributary flows from the mountains of the Massif Central, its crystal clear gurgle meandering for miles before tranquilly passing under this ancient stone crossing.
It was sitting on this bridge, side by side with Simon, that Melissa, tanned, happy and brimful with youth and optimism, had told Simon that she was pregnant.
“I’ve got something to tell you.” Melissa stretched a leg, appreciating the way her recent tan looked against the sparkling water beneath.
“You bought those boots.” Simon grinned. “I know. I saw them in the wardrobe before we left home.”
“No. Well, yes. I did buy them, but I think you're going to forgive me.” Melissa rested her head on her husbands shoulder. “It’s more important than that.”
Simon put his arm around Melissa. “I didn’t mind about the boots anyway, silly. We’re not poor students anymore.” Simon let go of Melissa and stretched luxuriantly. “I’m not sure I want to know what it is, actually. Is it, for in
stance, going to make me any more happy than I am right now?”
“Infinitely.”
“Not possible. Right now, I’m the happiest man alive. I’m in France, I’m with a simply gorgeous woman, and I’m watching the fattest fish I’ve ever seen swim underneath me. I’m satiated.”
“No, you’re not.” Melissa turned to Simon and placed her hand gently on his chin so that she guided his gaze to hers. “What would complete your life?”
Simon glanced down, watching a small trout nudge the banks of the stream. He looked back at his wife. “No – you’re not...? Melissa?”
Melissa smiled. “I think you'd better get used to being called ‘Daddy’.”
“But how? I thought – Oh, my God, Melissa, this is wonderful! It’s happened? How long? How far?” Simon placed his hand on his wife’s stomach. “It’s actually, finally, happened?”
Melissa put her hand over Simon’s. “It’s happened. There’s a little Bailey in me. No medical interference necessary. Are you happy?”
“Happy?” Simon shook his head. “Melissa, there’s no man on this earth who is happier than I am right now.” Simon swung his legs back over the bridge wall so that he was facing the road. “I got through med school, and frankly there were times I didn’t think I would. I’ve got a beautiful, funny, clever wife, I have an outrageously badly behaved puppy whom I love despite the fact he chewed my stethoscope to bits, and now I’m going to have a little baby girl.”
“Girl! It might be a boy.”
Simon grinned. “It might. But I think it’s a little girl.”
“What if it’s a boy?” Melissa leaned against Simon. “What if we have a little Simon?”
Simon pulled Melissa closer to him, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. “Clearly a miniature Simon can only be a good thing. But I think it’s a little girl.”
“Why do you want a girl so much, Sime? I’d love a girl too, but I don’t care if it’s a boy. You’ve always wanted a girl. Why? Aren’t men supposed to want a boy to play football with and teach pint drinking to?”
Simon chuckled. “If it’s a boy and he likes football, we’ll have to put him up for adoption.”
Melissa whacked him playfully. “He might be gay.”
“It’s a she. It’s a little girl.” Simon pressed his hand ever so gently against Melissa’s stomach. “She’s a she.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Why so keen on a girl?”
Simon paused for a moment. “I’d be pleased with a boy. All I care about is that they’re healthy, but, I dunno, I’ve always wanted a little girl, a little girl to teach to ride a bike. A pink bike with tassels on the handlebars. A little girl to protect - which reminds me – you do realize that if it’s a girl she’s not allowed out with boys until she’s at least thirty, don’t you?”
Melissa snorted. “Poor thing. I almost hope it’s a boy. Though, I’d like a little girl, too. Better clothes. And we can go shopping when she’s older.”
“Melissa, you’d still be shopping if you gave birth to a ferret.”
“You have a point.” Melissa grinned. “We’d better get a baby name book, then.” She held onto Simon as she clambered back over the bridge wall to face the road. “Or are we already decided?”
“We decided ages ago, didn’t we? You do realize this means you can’t drink anymore? Well, the occasional glass of wine is fine. You’ll be on driving duty for nine months. Excellent. We’ll have to decorate the back bedroom. Do you think your mum will let us have that little antique rocking horse? You’d better stop going to the gym – though swimming is good, yes, keep swimming. How long have you known? Oh, shit, Melissa, this is amazing. We’re going to be parents. I’m going to be a daddy. I’m a daddy. Wow.”
Melissa laughed. “Slow down. I’m only a little bit pregnant. A few weeks. I’ve been feeling a bit sick. I got a test when I was in that pharmacy yesterday. I had a hell of a time explaining what I wanted. She would insist on trying to give me a pessary for thrush. I only did the test this morning, and I was waiting for the perfect moment. Do you know, it really is very difficult piddling on that little stick? I wasn’t sure I’d managed it. Anyway - didn’t you hear me? What about names …? Stop it Simon, I’m not an invalid!”
Simon half lifted Melissa off the wall. “Let’s go get a big supper for my soon to be very big girl and my littler girl. We know the names, don’t we? I thought we were decided. It’s not like we haven’t talked about it enough times.”
Melissa and Simon hooked arms and leaned against each other. They began to walk leisurely back towards the town square and the bistros that circled it.
“Ben for a boy, Sarah for a girl.” Melissa slipped a hand into Simon’s back trouser pocket. “Does this mean I can’t have mussels? I thought we’d go to that one on the corner with the shellfish …”
Simon stopped and turned his wife towards him, dropping a lingering kiss on her forehead. “We’ll pretend you’re not pregnant tonight. Champagne and mussels, to celebrate the conception of Sarah. Or Ben. Or Ben …” Simon added hurriedly as Melissa began to interrupt. “But I’m telling you it’s a girl. My two girls – Melissa and Sarah.”
* * *
Simon stared into the freezing, quickly flowing water of the Calder. The low evening sun caught an oil slick on the polluted water, the iridescence beautiful yet sordid.
“Don’t do it!” A group of young men walked by laughing. “Don’t jump!” They guffawed, patting each other on the back as they continued past, congratulating themselves on their wit.
Jumping was neither an appealing nor practical option. The bridge was low, the water shallow and Simon had no intention of getting wet. No, jumping off this bridge would be merely embarrassing. The wall served only as a place to sit and think.
Jumping off the Harpenden Viaduct, now there was an unequivocally fatal leap. The Victorian stone supports plunged seventy-eight feet to the valley below. The disused railway was now grassed over, visited only by the occasional dog walker. Porridge and Simon had crossed it a number of times. Once, with Sarah, they had taken a picnic.
Would one just step off, wondered Simon, or attempt more of a dive? How long would it take, he wondered? How many seconds of flailing in the air before the final crunch? Too long. Plenty of time to think. Plenty of time to change his mind. The sensation of falling was not one Simon wished as his last.
Porridge nudged him with his nose.
“You bored, Podge?” Simon glanced down at his dog and swung his legs back over the wall, his feet once again on terra firma. “I suppose we’d better make a move.”
Simon and Porridge turned to walk back towards the village. Simon stopped. “Change of plan – come on boy.”
Turning, Simon clipped Porridge’s lead on and walked up the hill, in the opposite direction of home, towards St Matthews.
He needed a quiet place to think.
Chapter 29
Simon sat in a pew at the back of the empty church. Porridge settled himself in the aisle with a sigh. Simon took out his mobile and laid it on the oaken pew beside him. Being contactable was a high priority now.
Simon pitied Melissa, even felt a little love for her, but knew that he would never be able to once again embrace her as his wife. Perhaps it had been this way for a long time, Simon thought sadly. More recently he had loved Melissa only as Sarah’s mother, not as his wife.
He wondered if he and Melissa would have had more in common if they had been less affluent. Their comfortable situation had allowed them both to have separate hobbies and independence from each other. They had drifted apart, love often only declared in material tokens, gestures they had thought meaningful at the time, but perhaps were not. The one thing they had in common was Sarah. And soon Sarah would be gone.
Melissa had apologized - she had even asked him to come home - but they both knew there was no point. No Sarah, no Team Bailey.
He had frozen her out, Melissa said. Pushed her away at the very moment she needed him close.
She was probably right, Simon realized. All the time he spent avoiding the issue, promising himself that everything would be alright, he had been harboring a secret rage of his own. His wife had engendered a latent hatred in him that he had not known how to express, confused and terrified by his feelings as he had been. It was if he blamed Melissa, a sentiment he knew to be ridiculous. He couldn't help it. It was as if he had subconsciously thought her not mother enough. That if she had not been the bitch that whelped Sarah, then Sarah might not have been faulty.
It was cruel and it was medically unfounded, but that was how it was.
He hoped that Melissa would manage to make something of her life, recover from what was so clearly destroying her, as it was destroying him. But he knew that he would not be a part of that future, not when every sight of her made him feel faintly disgusted.
Even his parents felt less important now. “Life must go on, lad,” his father had said on the telephone the day before. Life must go on. Simon had only just managed to quell his fury. The distaste he felt for his wife, he found, had also tarnished his relationship with his parents. Their worry for him, their hand-wringing parental concern, was smothering and unwanted. Simon had barely the emotional energy to get through his day, let alone the ability to articulate his despair to his parents. It was wearing having to worry about their worry. It was deeply selfish, he knew, but he could not help it.
Life must go on. Must It? thought Simon. There seemed so little left.
“I know that Labrador …” A familiar voice sounded from behind him. “That you, Simon? Or has somebody stolen Porridge?”
“Duncan – I’m sorry, were you wanting to lock up? I was just, having a think. You know. It was quiet.”
“Of course. I’m delighted you’re here. I had been meaning to speak to you, as it happens.” Duncan, the genial vicar slid into the pew beside Simon. “You don’t mind do you? I can leave you alone if you’d prefer.”
Simon's Choice Page 19