The Difference Between You and Me

by Celia Hayes

  Finally she decides to take the orchids from me, shaking her head angrily, which I translate into a form of thanks. I’m beginning to get to know her. She walks inside without inviting me in, so I follow her without asking permission and these few behavioural choices summarize the significant changes in our stormy relationship since we decided to lay down our arms.

  “Be careful of the carpet!” she grumbles, when we cross the living room.

  She leaves me among the sofas and returns from the kitchen with a vase full of water, in which she arranges the flowers, she then places them next to the window. Two seconds to put them in their place, at least eight minutes to clean up the residue left on a polished table until you can see your reflection in it.

  “So, are you going to go and get dressed?” I urge.

  “No, I am not! I don’t intend to come with you. Send my greetings to the city committee, I have other things to do.”

  “Like?”

  “I’m finishing crocheting a blanket,” she says defiantly.

  “Mrs Cox,” I snort. “I was forced to participate in order not to disappoint the bank staff who are eager to remind me how happy they are to still have a salary at the end of the month. For the same reason, you are obliged to come with me. Primarily because without you I would have failed miserably, and secondly, because I don’t intend, in any way, to endure the election of the Pumpkin King and Queen alone.”

  “I’m sorry,” she replies, without moving an inch. “I am not changing my mind.”

  “All right,” I surrender. “I tried. Do what you want. Let them think that you’re here feeling sorry for yourself. Just try to imagine how the press will benefit by reporting your absence tomorrow on the front page. I can already see the headlines: Widow Cox Hides From Accusations. Will She Manage to Overcome Shame and Humiliation? For now we can’t tell, as she prefers to avoid public disapproval by hiding among the gardenias in her garden,” I say, starting to leave. She lets me go until I open the door, then asks with veiled scepticism, “Miss Watts, do you really believe that these stupid games will get you what you want?”

  I smile, checking my watch and say, “I’ll give you ten minutes to get changed. If I don’t see you outside at eight, I’ll leave you here. Consider it a non-negotiable offer.”

  Chapter 32

  A Bottle of Chivas

  “Surprise! Come on, open the package”

  “Let it be a naked Cuban dancer. Naked Cuban dancer. Naked Cuban dancer… Ah. a watch”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Erm. Sure. I really needed another watch”

  “I still can’t understand what I’m I doing here,” mutters Mary Angela nervously, getting out of the car.

  “There’s no turning back now, smile and try to enjoy the show,” I urge, following her across the car park.

  The main street is full of colourful stands and pavilions for entertainers. The crowd pushes us forward until we reach the square where a big stage has been built to host the orchestra, a children’s choir and even a presenter with a bow tie.

  Tables have been set up all around to accommodate passers by and guests of honour. On either side of the square, however, the oil produced by stalls selling fried fish, fried meat, fried vegetables and even fried sweets is smoking.

  Plenty of choice, I see!

  In the midst of all this, I immediately see the most promising one – the one that sells alcohol. A tent distributing rivers of beer, as well – perhaps – as something stronger. I think I saw a bottle of Chivas somewhere.

  “Miss Watts.” Mayor Mason appears, enthusiastically opening his arms. He doesn’t immediately notice Mrs Cox holding onto my arm in her snow-white dress with a floral pattern, and when he does, it’s too late to go back or pretend not to have recognized her. In evident difficulty, he tries a smile and hesitates. She stands there petrified, clawing at my forearm with those damn nails of hers.

  “Mr Mason, I don’t know if you know Mrs Cox,” I say to try and break the ice.

  “We know each other very well,” he says, recovering from the initial shock with aplomb.

  “Yes, we do,” she says in turn, not wanting to be outdone.

  They give each other proud looks and the corners of their mouths curl up in unpromising grimaces, then those of the Mayor lift, hesitate a little, but eventually stretch into an encouraging smile, accompanied by his chubby hand which turns into a greeting. “Mary, I’m really happy to see you.”

  Well I wasn’t expecting that!

  I discreetly push Mrs Cox forward with a barely perceptible nudge of the shoulder. She stiffens, then steps forward and responds to the gesture, murmuring with a faint voice, “Stuart, you’ve put on so much weight!”

  “I should have seen that one coming – what was I thinking of?” I mutter to myself, but my gloomy predictions turn out to be unfounded and, instead of sparking a spat, that rude comment unleashes a belly laugh from Mr Mason, who embraces her vigorously.

  Okay, now she will kill him!

  No… no… I can’t believe what I’m seeing! She’s… She’s… She’s returning it?

  I think I’m going to faint.

  “I’ve missed you so much, you old shrew. How are you? You look really good.”

  “Why, did you think that I already had one foot in the grave?”

  “I’ve always said it: Mary will bury us all.”

  And more laughter.

  “Let’s go and sit down,” she commands, like a corporal at the front.

  “Would you like something to drink? What can I get you?” And he leads her off to one of the tables, where his wife and other distinguished citizens of Turriff are sitting, including the doctor and the garbage man.

  How grateful! I do all the work and they leave me standing next to the ice-cream stall, without even asking me if I would like to join them.

  I sigh resignedly and am reflecting on the positive side of being abandoned when Miss Hunt and Mr Bailey approach. “Miss Watts, you came in the end,” she says, greeting me with a warm handshake, which I return.

  “Mr Bailey,” I turn to the bank’s former manager, who in turn approaches and embraces me with familiarity. I try to pull back, but there’s little I can do, so I just wait until he’s finished.

  “Let me tell you, you look lovely tonight,” he burbles.

  I succumbed to the dark side; I left my dark blue suit in the wardrobe in favour of a frivolous and totally inappropriate pink dress with a flared skirt, tight at the waist with plenty of cleavage. I left my hair down, but the hairdresser curled it with one of those hot things that you always burn the tips of your ears with, so now I look like I’ve just stepped straight out of a formal nineteenth century portrait. To your right eggs and sausages, to your left Princess Sissi, and soon, right before your eyes, the Pumpkin King and Queen. Such fantastic opportunities here tonight in Turriff, ladies and gentlemen, roll up!

  “Did you come alone?” asks Miss Hunt, who has already proven herself to be congenitally incapable of minding her own business.

  “Actually, no, I’m here with Mrs Cox. She’s over at the Mayor’s table,” I reply, pointing to her.

  “You really managed to drag Mrs Cox here?” she asks. “Miss Watts, that’s absolutely amazing. Mr Bailey,” she continues, addressing her elderly escort, “Did you see Mary? She’s talking to the Mayor. From here, it looks as though they’ve made peace.”

  “I’m stunned! Miss Watts, I sensed immediately that you were exceptionally gifted, but I never imagined that even you could go that far.” He sounds sincere.

  “I didn’t do anything. Mrs Cox came of her own free will. In fact, she was eager to participate,” I lie to avoid immediate beatification.

  “As you wish, but I’m sure your hand is behind it all,” he says, wagging his finger at me. “By the way! Miss Hunt, you’d better go and call the others, so we can give her our little gift. Follow me, follow me…” He takes my hand.

  “Come with us!” says Miss Hunt. “Mr Bailey
, please lead the way. See? They’re all sitting at that table, in front of the stage,” she mutters, pointing to the rest of the group.

  We cross the dance floor one after the other, in single file, to get to our table through the crowd.

  “Miss Watts, welcome.”

  “Miss Watts, what a pleasure to see you.”

  When they invite me to sit down, I breathe a sigh of relief and drop into a chair, allowing them to sit down too. The embarrassment and discomfort gradually gives way to a strange sense of belonging. I feel a little less like me and a little more part of everything around me. I don’t know how to absorb this new and disarming truth, so I just chat to everyone, laughing at their stupid jokes and listening patiently while they regale me with stories about the local characters in front of us.

  The hours go by peacefully. We eat, drink a little bit too much, listen to the music, and eventually, they pull out a large bluish packet with a big pink bow from under the table and hand it to me, openly showing their eagerness to see me unwrap it.

  “You… You shouldn’t have,” I start to stutter.

  “It’s just a little thing, and it’s our great pleasure” says Catherine, coming to sit next to me.

  I return her affectionate look with a hint of feeling, then untie the ribbon and lift the white cover. I never would have thought it, but I’m actually curious to know what’s inside.

  “Ah… I should have known.” I burst out laughing, pulling out a gold plated pocket watch. God, it’s heavy! And it’s stuck at eight o’clock, despite the fact that it’s already past eleven.

  “We couldn’t make it stop so we had to block the hands,” says Percy, chuckling.

  “Even the clocks don’t play by the rules here in Turriff!” I murmur, stroking the polished glass of the dial with a finger. I turn that curious, bulky object over in my hands and on the back I read the dedication:

  TO MISS WATTS, WITH THE HOPE THAT, WHEREVER YOU ARE, YOU WILL

  NEVER FORGET US OR TURRIFF. AND TURRIFF WILL CERTAINLY NEVER

  FORGET YOU!

  “Are you crying?” asks Catherine.

  “Me? No, absolutely not!” I hasten to reassure her, rubbing my eye. “It’s just this stupid hay fever. All those damned flowers…”

  Mr Bailey passes me a handkerchief with a benevolent expression. “Of course, hay fever. Nasty disease.”

  He doesn’t seem convinced, but I leave it at that.

  “Do you remember Richard Marshall’s face that day at the bank?” whispers Percy, a complicit expression on his face, leaning across the table. “Hellfire! I was certain he was about to have a heart attack.”

  And he laughs, remembering the time when I decided, in a moment of madness, to kick the director of RBS out of Wilbourgh’s.

  “Haha, yes! What an expression!” says Kora, in turn.

  “Wait a minute, I don’t know this story,” protests Mr Bailey.

  “Oh nothing, they’re talking nonsense,” I say.

  “Miss Watts came back to the bank and found Mr Marshall with his nose in her documents,” Percy says. “And she went, ‘This bank isn’t up for sale!’”

  “Did you say that?” Mr Bailey asks, still incredulous.

  “Something like that,” I admit, looking away.

  “And what did he do?” he asks, wanting to know more, so Percy continues the story.

  “He didn’t know what to do. He stood there with his cheeks bright red. He really wasn’t expecting it.”

  “No… Not at all. And then?” Kora continues.

  “Then she said ‘I’d rather not find myself having to reprimand one of my staff for letting you view confidential material. Which, if I may remind you, at least up until this morning was illegal’”

  “She didn’t say that!”

  “Oh well, something like that,” says Percy.

  “You were great, Miss Watts,” mutters Catherine, stroking my hand. Mr Bailey was crying with laughter. “Poor Richard! Now I understand why every time I mention your name he gets so worked up.”

  “Well, let’s look on the bright side – I won’t have to find you hiding in the bathroom any more,” I say to Catherine, who looks at me in astonishment. “Don’t be like that. I know, it’s your business, but I knew about your problems and I’m really happy that I was able to help in my small way. How’s your mother?”

  “My… My mother?” she asks, looking confused.

  Mr Bailey coughs. I furrow my eyebrows, puzzled, then I ask, “Weren’t… Weren’t you crying about your mother that day in the bathroom? I… I thought I she wasn’t well.”

  “My mother? Oh no? Absolutely not. My mother’s fine!” she says with a laugh. “It was just that stupid Tom’s fault!”

  “Who’s Tom?”

  “My boyfriend,” she confesses with her cheeks burning. “We had a fight. He forgot our anniversary as usual – but he convinced me to forgive him.”

  “Oh really? We want the details,” shouts Percy, slamming his hand on the table.

  “Not even under torture,” she responds with an impenetrable expression. “Miss Watts, where did you get that idea?”

  I turn an eloquent glance in the direction of the bank’s ex-manager. And he, more cheekily than ever, asks me in turn “Yes, how on earth did you?”

  “I must have misunderstood.”

  I go back to my beer, but it’s just a momentary surrender. I’ll find a way to get my own back on him. My stomach has been killing me for months because of that…

  “When are you leaving?” they ask, while I put everything back in the box: tissue paper, ribbon, wrapping paper and pocket watch.

  “At the end of the month,” I say, feeling a strange lump in my throat. The atmosphere, so far cheerful, darkens, a grey veil settles over our faces and we all go quiet. We look a bit disconsolate, and pretend to listen to the music. It’s up to Mr Mason to distract us, reminding us that the cabaret show is about to start. He passes by our table, points to the artists on stage and returns to his seat, where Mrs Cox and his wife await him, criticizing everyone’s clothes in a whisper with conspiratorial expressions. I daren’t imagine what horrible things they are saying at the sight of all those tight outfits and prominent bellies, but I intend to have a detailed summary as soon as possible.

  “Can I get you some more beer?” offers Percy kindly, noticing my empty glass.

  “No thanks. I’ll get one myself,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. “I could do with stretching my legs.”

  Actually, I feel a powerful desire to get away and be on my own for a bit. I push the chair away from the table, go over to the bar and queue up with my glass in hand, waiting my turn without paying attention to the chatter around me, the children screaming around my legs and the repulsive stench of fried food that pervades every particle of oxygen.

  Until a hand suddenly squeezes mine, gradually pulling the glass from my fingers.

  “Give it here, I’ll do it.”

  I look up and I find myself looking at Ethan, whose materializing next to me out of nowhere leaves me speechless. He is wearing a white shirt and jeans, his hair is slightly dishevelled, he has a little beard and smells of cuddles on the couch and crumbs in bed. Have you ever smelt a scent like that? I hadn’t, but I can’t think how else to describe it.

  “Thank you…”

  My answer seems to unsettle him. He hesitates for a moment, then moves away and soon returns with two overflowing glasses of cold beer.

  “Here,” he murmurs, handing me one.

  We stand looking at each other with arms folded by the bar, then someone bumps into me and I nearly shower him with my pint.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, no problem. Why don’t we sit down?” he asks, sounding unconvinced. I just nod, and for the second time in a few minutes, I see him stiffen and stare at me, dazed.

  “Come with me.”

  And he takes my hand. And can I tell you something? I think I’ve spent more than a month waiting to hear him
say that.

  Chapter 33

  The Pumpkin King

  “Wow, Trudy; you’re the pumpkin queen!”

  “My kingdom for a whiskey…”

  The first free place we find is next to a big fenced-off tree where there’s a bench hidden among the bushes and even the music sounds muffled. Ethan sits in a corner. I sit down at a safe distance.

  “Are you having fun?”

  “Hmm…? Yes, pretty much,” I reply without looking at him.

  “You didn’t expect to, did you?”

  “No,” I admit, with a laugh. “Not at all,” I rub my forehead. Instinctively, I look for his eyes, and he’s right there, next to me, drinking his beer quietly. And he smiles at me. It’s a smile I hate. Just a vague smile, but yet…

  “Did you come on your own?” I say to change the subject, and realize I have to wait with some anxiety for an answer. I haven’t seen either Allie or Cookie recently, but it’s possible that after what I did that night, he just decided to move his nightly appointments elsewhere.

  “Yes,” he says, and I feel magically relieved.

  “How come?”

  No answer. He stares at me intensely and continues to drink his beer. There you go – next time learn to mind your own business!

  “You know, they gave me a watch. The staff at the bank, I mean” I say. “A huge pocket watch that’s stuck at eight in the morning. It’s really terrible. I’ve never seen such a big one! They had a dedication engraved on the back and—”

  “Do you want to dance?” he asks, leaving me to understand that he’s not particularly interested in the rest of my story. Initially, I fall silent, but then I sigh in resignation and nod.

  There goes all hope of keeping my distance…

  Ethan leaves the empty glass on the bench, gets up and holds his hand out.

  “Shall we?” he proposes.

  “Let’s go” I nod and follow him through the crowd.

  The orchestra starts up – having abandoned the wild rhythms of the group dances, which thank God I only watched from afar, saving myself an hour of embarrassment, they have now moved onto ballroom music, alternating every once in a while with a waltz for the ‘oldies’ who are still looking for thrills.