by Nick Hopton
Lenny drew heavily on his can. The sucking noises gradually came to an end and he scrunched it up. ‘That was good,’ he sighed contentedly. He stood up stiffly and walked, as he always did, to the corner along from his bench, where he carefully dropped the ruined can into the bin. ‘Doing my bit for the environment, you see.’
The Sleeper smiled. ‘Good on you, Lenny.’
‘Not that I’m one of those Greens, mind you, cause I’m not. Bunch of namby pamby lefty farts they are. As much use as a pork pie at a Jewish wedding…’
The Sleeper waited for him to calm down. Eventually, the time seemed opportune to sound out Lenny about what had been bothering him. ‘Lenny?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Of course you can. What else have I lived all these years for? But to be a font of wisdom, a Tiresean oracle for today’s blind youth, a rudder for their foundering bark…’
‘Yeah, that’s great Lenny. I’m really grateful and all that,’ the Sleeper hurried on. Sweet Mary, when Lenny got going, there was no stopping the man. Talk about blarney. ‘You see, I’ve got this problem bugging me…’
‘Go on, I’m all ears.’
The Sleeper couldn’t help glancing idly at the two mauled protrusions on his friend’s head. They looked like they’d been through the wars. One even had a chunk missing; he was a real alley cat, was our man Lenny.
‘Right. Well, do you think it’s right to fall in love with a married woman?’
‘I’m not a priest,’ growled Lenny. ‘If you want confession then just go up the road there. I’m sure the father would be glad to hear your story.’
‘No, just hold on, right? I’ve not done anything. I’m just asking you a question, what if? You see what I mean?’
‘Mmmm. Well, get on with it then.’
‘So I’m asking you. Do you think it’s all right?’
‘To fall in love with a married woman? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I guess it depends what you mean by love.’
‘What?’
‘Well, love can mean many things. Do you mean, is it all right to admire and worship a married woman? If so, then no problem. There’s no law against unrequited love; in fact, society used to be based on it, and it inspired some of the most exquisite literature.’
‘Did it really?’ The Sleeper sat up with hope sparkling in his eyes.
‘Yes. About six hundred years ago.’
‘Oh.’ He sank back dejected.
Lenny pursued his theme. ‘But I suspect what you mean is—is it acceptable to covet her? Or do you really mean,’ Lenny stared sternly at the Sleeper, ‘is it okay to screw her?’
The younger man blushed. ‘I don’t know, Lenny. I mean, it’d be nice… But I’m just worried that I might be falling in love with this wonderful lady who’s married. And I don’t know what to do about it.’
‘Well, in all honesty, I can’t really advise you. I can tell you it’s morally wrong to commit adultery, and I can say that in some countries you would be risking your life to muck about with a married woman. But since the laws of this land offer no guidance, and even the Church doesn’t seem to know its own mind these days, I can’t really tell you whether it’s right or not. I guess what I’m really saying is, don’t do anything in a hurry, and if in the end your dick rules your higher self, then don’t get caught.’
The Sleeper stared at the piece of dirty pavement between his feet. This wasn’t getting him anywhere. He might as well head back to the house and leave Lenny to his drinking. ‘Thanks, Lenny, you’ve been great.’
‘Any time, young man. Come by soon and we’ll have another little chat. Nothing I enjoy more than setting the world to rights. And if I can help out my fellow man in the process, then all the better.’
‘Yeah, thanks. I’ll be seeing you around, then.’
‘Goodbye.’ Lenny seemed to swell with innate dignity. He stretched his arms and puffed out his chest like a robin, then he hunched over his plastic bag again in search of sustenance. The Sleeper turned disconsolately on his heel and walked off down All Saints Road towards home.
~
Brenda was serving behind the bar, as usual. She didn’t mind really. As jobs went it was okay and the crowd at The Feathers were a good bunch on the whole.
She realised she’d been lucky to have got her job back so easily after that poxy PR agency kicked her out. Just because she wouldn’t sleep with her director.
Everyone had laughed when she’d threatened to sue for sexual harassment. ‘You’ve been watching too many films, love… You’d have no chance of proving anything.’ And they’d been right. So, yeah, she was quite lucky that The Feathers had taken her back.
Lunchtime had been quite busy. Apart from Patrick, who always came in for a half of stout just before his lunch, most of the lunchtime drinkers worked in the area. They didn’t really overlap with the evening crowd.
Brenda preferred the latter, and had got to know them much better than the besuited lunchtimers. One or two she had got to know too well, like Jimmy. The memory brought back a painful ache in her lower stomach, like the beginning of the curse. It had probably been for the best that Jimmy had moved away when he did, and the last few times he’d been in with his friend Si, she’d got on much better with him. Water under the bridge…
Brenda liked Si more now. She’d been a bit hard on him in the past. He was always polite to her and took an interest in what she thought about things. He never seemed to mind listening to her blabbing away, which was good because she recognised that some people found her constant chatter irritating. Not Si. In this and so many other things he was very different from Jimmy.
It was hard to see why they were such good friends. They were very different, after all, and didn’t seem to have that much in common. She thought they’d been at school together, but was that enough to sustain a friendship ten years later? With blokes it probably was. They had very different friendships from most girls, who tended to hang around in small posses with ever-shifting permutations of best friends within the group; you never knew who was slagging you off behind your back. But guys were different.
Si and Jimmy seemed more openly affectionate than most male pairs she watched in the pub. There seemed to be none of that hearty back-slapping and false bravado. But just as much beer swilling, no doubt about that. When she’d first got to know them, she’d wondered if they were gay. Since her fling with Jimmy, she’d decided that he at least was very straight. But there was something attractive and supportive in their relationship. It raised her spirits to see them together.
As she wiped glasses and replaced them carefully upside down on the shelf, Brenda wondered whether Si had a girlfriend. Funny that, she’d never thought to ask. Si occasionally met girls at The Feathers, but none of them had appeared more than a few times. He seemed the romantic type, though. A bit shy and serious perhaps, but charming and what her mum would have described as One of Life’s Gentlemen. Brenda smiled at the thought. No doubt her mother would like her to end up with someone like Si. Some hope. She sighed and rubbed a puddle of spilt beer with a small Guinness towel.
She’d have to ask Si about his love life next time he was in. As a joke, mind, without letting on that she might be personally interested. He would certainly be a good catch for any girl. He had a good job; some sort of journalist, she thought. And no doubt he earned a good salary. If he had his own flat around here, then he must have quite a bit of cash. Yeah, she decided, she’d have to find out a bit more about Si’s situation. But more in the spirit of adventure than out of any real expectation of success.
~
Michael was often away on business; the Sleeper didn’t know where, but he knew his landlord sometimes went abroad. When Michael was away the Sleeper used to stay in to keep Greta company. She couldn’t really come to the pub because of the kids, who called him ‘Baa’ because they couldn’t pronounce his name properly. But once th
e kids were in bed, Greta and he would go downstairs and watch TV. It was mostly crap, but he loved sitting there with her, just the two of them.
The Sleeper never really thought that anything would happen. After all, Greta was married, ten years older and the sister of his best pal in London. He never expected anything and certainly the first move didn’t come from him. His ma had taught him that it was wrong to get off with a married woman. Also, he wasn’t the most experienced man in the world in the women area. So he missed the warning signs. He would have been quite happy just to make the most of the shared evenings, and enjoy Greta’s company all to himself.
But she had more in mind than that. About the third time that Michael went away for a couple of nights, the Sleeper came home with some shopping for Greta. He’d been up the shop with Jo buying a Standard and having a chat. Jo was an Arsenal supporter and the Sleeper had been giving him a ribbing about how crap they were doing and how Man United were starting to storm back up the league. Even at that stage with Newcastle way out in front he’d been convinced United would win the Premiership. At least the Premiership, maybe even the Double. The Sleeper had always supported Man United, mainly because his family had always done so. But also, back home nobody really thought of them as an English football club. They had always had so many Irish playing for them, even now, with Irwin and Keane and so on.
So, when he got back from the shop, he had a great big grin on his face and was about to tell Greta about what Jo had said when he realised that something was wrong. She was in the kitchen, cooking with her back to him. Nothing unusual about that, but when she turned round and wiped her hands on the apron he could tell she’d been crying.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing? So why are you crying?’
‘I’m not crying. All I need is a hug.’ Greta held out her arms, and although he’d never held her before, it seemed innocent enough to wrap her in his arms. He’d never realised quite how small she was. She buried her face in his jumper and he was surprised that he could see over the top of her head. The kitchen clock showed six forty five.
‘That’s better… Thanks.’ She gave him a squeeze and turned back to the cooker.
‘What are we eating?’
‘Steak and potatoes and carrots.’
‘Wow. What’s the occasion?’ Although Greta could cook, she normally limited herself to pasta because of lack of time.
‘No occasion. Could you lay the table, like a good boy?’
‘Sure.’
‘Do you ever miss home?’
‘Yeah, of course. I miss my family a bit. But I think I’ll probably go back to see them in the spring. I wrote my ma as much the other day.’
‘That’s good. Good that you get on with your ma. Mine doesn’t speak to me since I married Michael.’
‘That’s terrible. Why?’
‘’Cause he’s English and, worse, he’s not a Catholic.’
‘Oh.’ Although the Sleeper had been brought up on the same precepts as Greta, and had never questioned them before, it suddenly struck him as a bit odd that people should hate other people just because they believed different things and lived in other countries.
He carried on setting two places for dinner, trying to remember if the spoons went clockwise round the table. He never could remember that, and at home he’d always got a clip round his ear when he got it wrong. That happened almost every time it was his turn to lay the table on Sunday. He bit his lip and tried to remember. Clockwise, surely it was. He laid clockwise.
Dinner was quiet. Greta didn’t say a thing and only answered his talk with smiles and nods. She asked how the steak was and he told her it was ‘brilliant’. That was about it. He felt pretty uncomfortable by the time they cleared up and went to the sitting room to watch TV.
‘Are you sure nothing’s wrong?’
‘No, why?’
‘Well I was just wondering. Maybe I’ve done something wrong. What is it?’
Greta laughed. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. Quite the opposite.’ She looked at him with her piercing eyes and without quite knowing why, he blushed. He tried to turn the TV on, but the remote control wouldn’t work. ‘Stop playing with the TV,’ Greta ordered.
‘Sorry?’
‘I said stop.’
The Sleeper put down the control obediently.
‘You know that nice hug you gave me before? Why don’t you come and give me another one… To cheer me up.’
‘Oh… Okay.’ He moved next to Greta on the sofa and turned awkwardly towards her. He felt her head come to rest on his shoulder. Then his heart began to beat uncontrollably as he felt Greta’s moist kisses on the back of his neck. He was terrified that she would stop when she heard his heart beating. And then it was dreadful because he could feel movement beginning to poke the inside of his fly. He thought he’d die if she noticed. Thank goodness they weren’t embracing standing up, like before. She would have been sure to feel it pushing against her.
Greta raised her head from his neck and brushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘Hey, Baa,’ she said, using the kids’ nickname for the first time. It seemed to mark a change.
‘Yeah?’ he answered, trying to sound normal, but failing dismally. She must have noticed because she giggled.
‘Stop looking so serious.’
‘Yes…. Right.’ He tried to look happier, but all he could think about was his erection and whether she’d notice and think he was trying to molest her.
‘Baa? What do you think I’m doing?’
‘Uh… I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’ A small smile played at the corners of her mouth and he noticed she was wearing some sort of faint lipstick. He couldn’t take his eyes off her glossy lips. They were slightly parted and seemed very close.
‘Well, I suppose, having a cuddle… Yeah?’
‘I suppose so.’
Her lips seemed to be increasing in size and he wondered what it would be like to lean across the few inches separating their faces and kiss her slowly, like in the films. Immediately, he regretted the thought because he felt a nudge from below and realised that Greta would have to be blind not to notice.
‘What else?’
‘What else?’
‘Uh huh… What else am I doing?’
‘Uh… I don’t know.’ He felt his face burning up. It was like being stuck in a nightmare, except it was really pleasant at the same time.
‘Well, silly. I’m trying to seduce you. Didn’t you know?’
‘Oh…’ But he didn’t say any more because he found out what it was like to kiss those lips, and it was a thousand times better than he’d imagined it would be. And then he stopped worrying about his erection because it became obvious that Greta had noticed, and there was nothing he could do about that.
~
Si had put the page to bed early and was reasonably satisfied with his labours. A story about a rising film star borrowing a dinner jacket to attend the premier of his new film; another about an eccentric raising money for charity by cycling around the borders of Kuwait.
Then there had been the scoop of the day. A long piece speculating about an ex-Cabinet Minister’s motivation for joining forces with a new arts foundation promoting a little known sculptor. Si had been able to reveal that the sculptor happened to be the Prime Minister’s godson, who had failed to graduate from art school the summer before. Because of the political sensitivity, Si had checked that one with Dougy before he started writing it up.
To Si’s relief, Dougy had been delighted. In recent weeks it had become obvious that much of the Establishment was preparing for an Opposition victory in next year’s elections. Sir Lesley, ever the political optimist, had instructed his editor to ensure The Courier ingratiated itself with the future government. Si’s story was pitched just right.
‘Good stuff, Si, but play down the PM angle. If it’s got more than a grain of truth in it, then let’s stitch up that brown-nosing bugger.�
� He was referring to the ex-Cabinet Minister. ‘No doubt he’s after his peerage. Let’s hope we can blow the whistle on it, eh?’
So that’s how Si had written it up, suggesting that the PM was an innocent party and that his godson was not to blame for accepting the foundation’s support, but that either the ex-Minister and the foundation were bad art critics—in which case they shouldn’t be responsible for such large endowments to artists—or that something more devious lay behind the grant…
Si waved goodnight to the remaining Diary staff. Bill was still around. He seemed to be getting keener recently and there was no longer any doubt about his ability. The lad was improving by the week. Although logic told Si he had nothing to fear from his assistant, he couldn’t help feeling less than pleased to see Bill still beavering away on the phone. Bill raised a hand in farewell as Si went off towards the lifts.
He soon forgot his work. Sitting in the back of the taxi on his way to Mary’s flat, he was as excited about the Manchester United match he planned to watch on TV as about spending an evening with his girlfriend. Better be careful not to show it, he told himself; she wouldn’t be impressed.
Things hadn’t been too good with Mary recently. He partly ascribed this to some lingering guilt he felt about his encounter with Lou—he shivered when he thought what might so easily have happened. It was stupid to feel guilty, he told himself; he hadn’t really done anything wrong. But he couldn’t totally exorcise the darker feelings that he’d faced that night.
But the deficiencies in their relationship went beyond anything the Lou incident had uncovered. Si noticed that the gaps between his meetings with Mary were lengthening and they spent much of their time bickering. It was increasingly apparent that something needed to change; only Si didn’t feel like a crisis at the moment. He resolved to wait until there was no alternative to taking a decision, one way or the other.
However, Mary was not as contemplative and indecisive as Si. He’d hardly got through the door when she set into him.