Limestone Cowboy

by Stuart Pawson

  Dave rang me on my mobile at frequent intervals. “They’re big, aren’t they?” he observed.

  “Affirmative. Have you seen anything?”

  “No, only some porn magazines.”

  “I meant down the garden,” I said, squashing my ear with the phone and praying that Mrs Lewis, standing next to me, didn’t have hypersensitive hearing. She was wearing an anorak and trainers, and carrying a stout walking stick, determined to join in the chase should the need arise.

  At four o’clock the phone rang again, but this time it was Heckley nick. “Have you had your mobile off, Charlie?” a smug sounding controller asked.

  “No. Why.”

  “We’ve been trying to contact you all afternoon.”

  “Well it’s switched on, and Dave’s rung me several times without any problems. What did you want?”

  “Ah well, there’s no harm done. Just to report that uniformed branch have arrested a twelve-year-old youth on suspicion of theft of undergarments from washing lines. They took him home and his mother let them into his bedroom, which he kept locked. They found a regular lingerie department in there, apparently, and they’re bringing him in.”

  “You what?” I hissed.

  “You heard. The lads in the panda you had standing by nabbed him. He walked round the corner but when he saw them he turned turtle and started running. Unfortunately for him we had Yorkshire’s four hundred metres champion on the case, so it was no contest. You can bring your boys in, now, Charlie. It’s all under control.”

  Dave’s comment was unrepeatable, Mrs Lewis was delighted and the two in the greenhouse were incensed. They’d had a break from watching CCTV videos and eaten a few tomatoes, but the neighbour didn’t believe in using insecticides and they were covered in mosquito bites.

  As the four of us trudged into the nick a grinning desk sergeant held up two bulging plastic bags, saying: “Want to see some saucy items, chaps? We’ve got something for all tastes here.”

  On the stairs we crossed Gareth Adey, no doubt coming back from regaling Mr Wood with news of his boys’ success. “Hello Charlie,” he gushed. “Had a busy afternoon?”

  We were in the office, drinking tea, when my power of speech returned. “Well they can do all the sodding paperwork,” I declared.

  “Adey’ll never let us forget this,” Dave said.

  “In that case, we’d better get one back at him.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s go home.”

  “It’s Saturday tomorrow.”

  “True.”

  “It’s a great weather forecast – fancy going for a jog with the others?”

  “Good idea. Bring your kit.”

  “Have you rung her yet?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who.”

  “Umm, yes, but she wasn’t in.”

  I had a big fillet of cod for tea, done under the grill with melted cheese on top, accompanied by new potatoes and petits pois. For pudding it was semolina and chopped banana. When you live alone there’s a temptation to neglect yourself, eat junk food, but I try to take care. You are what you eat, as the bluebottle said to the dung beetle.

  I rang Rosie afterwards, to undo the lie I’d told Sparky, and she wasn’t in, just like I’d said. Except, when I put the phone down, I wished she had been in. I had a long soak in the bath and watched a video of Band of Brothers that one of the crew had loaned me. In under three weeks I had to produce two paintings for the show, but I had no ideas what to make them. I spent an hour looking at art books – Paul Klee, Picasso and Kandinsky – wishing I had their flair and originality. Whatever I produced, it would only be a pale imitation.

  It was late when I rang Rosie again, but now I was resolved to speak to her. Sophie’s postcard still lay alongside my phone, and I doodled on it as the ringing tone warbled in my ear, filling-in the loops of her writing with red Biro. I switched to a blue pen as the phone in Rosie’s house played its shrill monotonous music to the empty room, and replaced the receiver with mixed emotions. I was disappointed she wasn’t there but now I knew how my paintings would look. I went into the garage and painted one piece of board bright blue and the other yellow. Reading in bed is an art I’ve never mastered, but it was only poetry. I took the New Oxford Book of English Verse and Philip Smith’s 100 Best-Loved Poems to bed with me.

  Seven of us had a Saturday morning jog: five doing an easy four miles and two hard men galloping round the six-mile route. It was a bright sunny morning filled with the promise of a hot day. I’d gone in early and had an hour at the staff development reports before the others arrived. My intention was to stay on, after a shower, and finish them off, but someone suggested a pint in the Bailiwick and the temptation was too great. Then I saw the menu and smelled the cooking and decided to have lunch there, too. I went home feeling quite replete and mellow.

  The boards I’d painted were four feet by three. I took a watercolour pad and drew squares on it twelve inches by nine, which was one-sixteenth the size of the boards, and wrote pieces of verse, gleaned from the poetry books, across them in loopy, joined up writing, as if they were snatches of a letter. I wrote:

  How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

  I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

  My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

  and:

  Remember me when I am gone away,

  Gone far away into the silent land;

  When you can no more hold me by the hand,

  Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay

  I did it all again, but this time I started writing one word into the first line and continued off the edge of the frame, to make them appear to be random pages of prose rather than pieces of verse. Then I filled in all the loops with different coloured fibre-tipped pens, so they looked like love letters someone had received and carelessly doodled all over, perhaps while speaking on the phone to another lover. I gave one letter some Mickey Mouse ears and made another into a Smiley face. Nobody at the show would recognise the hidden story behind the paintings, but perhaps Lizzie Browning and Chrissie Rossetti would have approved.

  The next step was to transfer the writing on to the painted boards, but at many times the size, and this would be time-consuming. The enamel on the boards was dry but not hard, so I decided it would be better to leave them for another day. I made a mug of tea, found a couple of custard creams and fell asleep with the football on the telly.

  I was awake again, planning the evening menu, when the phone rang.

  “Charlie Priest.”

  “Hello Uncle Charles. It’s me.”

  “Sophie!” One of those exploding birthday cakes went off inside me, with a great bang and a puff of smoke, and six dancing girls in silver lame costumes high-kicked down the hallway. “How are you?” I picked up the phone and slid down the wall to sit on the floor.

  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “Brilliant. Where are you speaking from?”

  “I’m on a train. I’ve tried ringing home but nobody’s in. Could you possibly pick me up at the station, please?”

  “No problem. What time do you arrive?”

  “Ten to seven in Leeds, but I’m not sure about the connection to Heckley.”

  I looked at my watch and did a quick calculation. “Don’t bother hanging about for the connection, I’ll pick you up in Leeds.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  We chatted for a few minutes until I said I’d better be on my way. My instinct was to ring Dave and Shirley to tell them that their beloved daughter was coming home, but it occurred to me that Dave might insist on collecting her himself, depriving me of that pleasure, so I didn’t. It would be all the more of a surprise when I produced her on their doorstep. I had a quick shower and teeth-clean, changed my clothes and set off for the station.

  They’d made some changes there. The tunnel under the lines was gone, replaced by a bridge that linked the pla
tforms. I was early, but by the time I’d worked out which platform she would arrive at the train was due in. I stood near the ticket barrier, watching as the bridge disgorged gaggles of travellers who flashed their tickets to the disinterested clerk, wondering how much Sophie had changed since I last saw her.

  As soon as she appeared at the top of the stairs my legs turned to spaghetti. She was wearing a short skirt, high heels and a blouse with a high collar. Mandarin, I believe it’s called. A bag hung over her shoulder with a leather jacket looped through it, and she turned slightly sideways as she came down the steps, feeling for each one, as if afraid she might topple over. Lovely Sophie hadn’t quite mastered the art of walking in four-inch stilettos. She saw me and waved.

  “You look sensational,” I said, pecking her on the cheek. She was wearing Mitsouko, by Guerlain. The only perfume I recognise and one that brought back memories that I didn’t need. Not then or at any other time.

  “You don’t look bad yourself, Uncle Charles,” she replied.

  I just stared at her, happy as a sandboy, and said: “Huh!”

  “I’ve been reading about you in the papers.”

  “It’s not true. I never touched her.” She wouldn’t let me take her bag as we wandered out of the concourse into the gloom of the evening. In the car I said: “Hungry?”

  “Mmm, a bit.” She drew her bare legs under the seat and tipped her knees in my direction.

  “Nice suntan,” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Cap Ferrat?”

  “That’s right.”

  “With all the old folks. Will a pizza be OK?”

  “Lovely!”

  “Right. I’ll show you that sophistication exists outside the hallowed groves of Oxbridge.”

  It was only a short drive to Park Square, where Terence Conran has one of his restaurants. The furnishings are art deco, the waiters and waitresses look as if they come from central casting and the pizzas are the only ones I’ve ever had that I could honestly say I’d enjoyed. Sophie beamed her approval, and that was good enough for me. We had a glass of wine each and she told me about Cap Ferrat and Cambridge over our quattro staggioni and pepperoni with black olives. Her blouse was made from a heavy silk material, embroidered with dragons and pagodas, and when I admired it she said it was a present from China. The pearls for buttons were in pairs, close together, and the high collar and her piled-up hair emphasised her height. Halfway through the meal, after she’d called me Uncle Charles for the tenth time, I raised a disapproving finger and said: “A ground rule.”

  “What?” she asked, suddenly serious.

  “Well, now that you’re almost qualified as a… whatever it is you’re almost qualified as, I think you ought to start calling me Charlie. I know I’m old, but Uncle Charles really rubs it in. All these people think I’m a sugar daddy out with my girlfriend, and it would really destroy my credibility if they heard you call me Uncle Charles, so could you please indulge in an old man’s whim and call me Charlie? Please?”

  “Oh, OK then,” she said, “Charlie it is,” and kicked me on the shin.

  I winced, and she said: “Was that your leg?”

  I nodded confirmation between the waves of pain.

  “Sorry, I thought it was the table,” Sophie giggled.

  I took a sip of wine, grimacing as I said: “Purely for anaesthetic purposes,” and replaced my glass next to hers. She’d left a smear of lipstick on its rim. I’d never known her wear lipstick before.

  “That was a lovely meal,” she said, as we crossed the road outside an hour later. “Thank you. I’m glad Dad wasn’t in.”

  “So am I. It’s a nice place. Conran has them all over but that’s the only one I’ve ever eaten at.”

  As we stepped on to the pavement I swapped sides and placed my hand in the small of her back as I crossed behind her. She took my left arm in hers and hugged it, resting her head on my shoulder, like Suze Rotolo on the cover of Freewheelin’. I felt like a teenager, didn’t want the evening to end.

  In the car Sophie retrieved her phone, pressed a button and held it to her ear.

  “No reply,” she said after a few seconds. As we approached Heckley she tried again, with the same results.

  “Do you have a key?” I asked, and she said she hadn’t.

  After another try she said: “We could always go to your house for a coffee.”

  Why didn’t I think of that? “Sounds a good idea,” I agreed, switching lanes to head away from her home.

  I filled the kettle, plugged it in, switched it on. Milk from the fridge, sugar from the cupboard, biscuits in the tin. Cups, saucers, plates. Was that it? No. Spoons. We needed spoons. Spoons from the cutlery drawer. I placed them all on the table, where I normally breakfasted, and turned to rest against the work surface as the kettle hissed and grumbled into life. Sophie was leaning on the doorframe, watching. She came over and stood before me, her head bowed. I’d a feeling that she was about to say something portentous. I reached forward, taking hold of her elbows and said: “What’s the problem, Sophie?”

  “There’s no problem,” she replied, looking up into my face. She’d slipped the shoes off and was back to her normal height, which was still tall. “Except…”

  “Except? Except what?”

  “Except, I’ve lied to you. Don’t be mad at me, Uncle Charles.”

  “Charlie.”

  “Sorry.”

  “When did you lie?”

  “Just now, in the car. And earlier. I didn’t try to ring Dad, because I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here with you, just for tonight.”

  I ran my fingertips up her arms and held her by the shoulders. “Why, Sophie? Why are you doing this to me?” My voice sounded like it was coming from a well at the far end of a tunnel.

  “Because… I don’t know. I wanted someone to talk to. Someone I loved, and I love you.” She slipped her arms around my neck and I pulled her close. I leaned my forehead against hers, squashing her nose with mine, until we both turned our faces a fraction to bring our lips into that perfect, bewitching angle with each other’s.

  Chapter Six

  I brushed my lips across Sophie’s, then lifted my face and kissed her on the forehead. I pecked her on the cheek and on her neck, and reached behind my head to find her hands and unlink her fingers.

  “This isn’t what I want, Sophie,” I told her, shaking my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  She looked up into my face, bewildered and hurt. “Why not? Don’t you love me?”

  “Of course I love you. I love you more than life, but I don’t want to start something we – I – couldn’t stop.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I.” The kettle came to the boil and I broke away, turning my back, grateful for the interruption, not wanting to face her. I spooned instant coffee into mugs, poured on the water, added milk and stirred them for longer than necessary. “Let’s sit where it’s more comfortable,” I said, leading the way into the front room.

  We sat on the settee, Sophie at one end, me at the other. Her head was bowed and I was aware that I’d probably just paid her the biggest humiliation in the repertoire. She was embarrassed and confused. This was not the way it was meant to happen. I shuffled sideways until I was next to her and placed my arm across her shoulders. She snuggled closer, her head on my shoulder.

  “I’m tremendously flattered, Sophie,” I told her, my voice a hoarse whisper. “I know it’s the greatest compliment you could pay me and that it wasn’t something you’d decided lightly, and I’ll never forget it. But it would spoil everything, don’t you see? Apart from us, I’d be betraying your parents. OK, I could possibly cope with that. Then there’s the fact that I’m your godfather, and that’s supposed to give me responsibilities, but I could live with that, too. But it would spoil things between us – you and me – and I’d find that unbearable. You’d turn against me, sometime in the future, when you were in a different frame of min
d and whatever it was that brought you here was forgotten. And for what? One night in bed together? We mean more than that to each other, don’t we?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about, nothing at all, but maybe you should tell me what’s behind it all, why you want to snog with old Uncle Charlie when there’s all these handsome young bloods at Cambridge falling over themselves to go out with you.”

  “Huh!” was all she said.

  We sat like that for a while, then sipped our coffee. “Tell me about Cap Ferrat,” I said, replacing my mug on the low table.

  “It was fun,” she replied, smiling.

  “Thanks for the card. What’s the boyfriend called?”

  She bit her lip and glanced at me. “Promise not to laugh.”

  “Scout’s honour.”

  “He’s called Digby.”

  “Digby? That’s a fine name.”

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  “No I’m not, but it might raise a few eyebrows the first time your dad takes him down to the Mechanics’ Institute for a Sunday lunchtime pint.”

  “I won’t let him go to the ’stute for a lunchtime pint.”

  “You’ll have to, it’s a tradition. So is this one serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have to know a bit more about him before I give my approval. It’s one of a godfather’s duties, did you know?”

  “Is it? What do you want to know?”

  “Is he a good bloke? Does he deserve you?”

  Sophie giggled for the first time that evening. “He doesn’t have any tattoos or body piercing, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And does he deserve you?”

  “I think so. He’s asked me to marry him.”

  “Really! And what did you say?”

  “I said that I’d think about it and tell him on Monday.”

  “And what have you decided?”

  “I’ll tell him that I’d be proud to be his wife, if he’ll still have me.”