by Celia Hayes
I try to pull my hand away from his, but of course, he doesn’t let me. He holds it tight until we get to the centre of the floor, under the watchful gaze of the many eyes of my acquaintances, and leaves it only for the moment it takes to make me turn on myself into his protective arms, ready to welcome me. He caresses me, placing a hand on my back and moving with me, following the notes of an old song. At first I resist, then I smell his scent and get dizzy, and I end up resting my face on his shoulder.
It’s pointless. I might as well let myself go. My defences have been crushed, the castle has been taken. Commander, the army is on the run. What shall we do?
Unconditional surrender, Lieutenant. Lay down all weapons and hope for the mercy of the enemy.
“What are you thinking about?” he whispers in my ear.
“Who? Me? Nothing!” I respond, caught out.
The notes accompany us sweetly, overpowering the faraway buzz of the drunken crowd and the cries of the street vendors. Around us, old married couples and old friends dance silently. For a moment I have the feeling I’m being teleported to a parallel reality, where I’m a normal person with a normal life, a boyfriend who loves me and friends to have fun with.
I walk away, shaken.
“Trudy…”
“No.”
“What’s the matter? Are you okay?” he asks, with the expression of someone who already knows the answer to that question.
“Yes, No. I don’t know,” I admit dejectedly.
“Trudy…”
“Maybe I should go. It’s late.”
“It’s not late!”
Are we talking about the time again?
“My car’s in the car park,” I mumble, embarrassed, while the Mayor’s voice above us from the stage, asks the orchestra to stop.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins theatrically. “Now is the moment we’ve all been waiting for… the election of the King and Queen of Pumpkins!”
A burst of applause.
“I’m going. I’m sorry. Good evening,” I take this opportunity to leave quietly. But Ethan decides otherwise and, let me tell you, once he gets something into his head…
“Let’s not make a scene!” I whisper in a panic, when he grabs my waist.
“Then keep still and come here!”
And to stop me from leaving, he wraps his arms around me from behind and forces me to follow the rest of the proclamation with my heart in my throat and both wrists squeezed between his fingers.
“I want to go!”
“Shh!” he says. “I can’t hear.”
The Mayor is still on stage. A badly dressed assistant with a broad smile brings him a sealed envelope, which he opens, quietly reading the names of the contestants. There’s a lot of agitation down there, among the candidates for the title. How can it be possible that this nonsense can have this effect? Maybe they’re afraid of being chosen. Perhaps their excitement is really concealed panic.
“I’m very, very proud to announce that the King and Queen of Pumpkins, chosen with an almost unanimous vote…” – and here he gives a smile to the jurors, five old mummies all decked out with ribbons and bows at the side of the stage – “… are Mr Ethan Owen and Miss Trudy Watts.”
God, why have you forsaken me?
The crowd goes wild with applause and raucous cheers, and from the stage they point a spot light straight at us, making it impossible for us not to be noticed in the crowd. I feel all eyes on me, and spring out of his embrace to find myself looking around with wild eyes, as white as a sheet and incapable of emitting anything but the faintest of sighs.
And Ethan? What do you think? He’s laughing like crazy. Virtually bent over, with tears in his eyes, thanking everyone and blabbering nonsense. When he manages to catch his breath, he takes my hand and pulls me up onto the stage, murmuring things to me, like, “Okay, try not to throw up,” and “Calm down – five minutes and it will be all over.”
The bastard! He knows I’m about to lose it.
The worst of my nightmares has come true, illuminated by spotlights, I’m surrounded by a bunch of bovine assistants who crown my head with the most horrible, ridiculous, stupid crown of vegetables I’ve ever seen. My head is too small, so it can’t even stay up and keeps falling down over my forehead, forcing me to hold it up with one hand. Ethan is perfectly at ease. He thanks everyone, laughs, gives slaps on the back and lets them crown him.
One – just one – lousy strike of lightning, God? That’s all it would take, right here at the centre of the stage. But my prayers are never heard, ever!
“Miss Watts, let me put the cockade on,” says the Mayor, approaching with a thoughtful air and a blue bow in his hands.
“Isn’t… isn’t the crown enough?”
“Absolutely not!”
What a shame…
I let him put it on, then, powerless, watch my king make a speech full of stupid jokes. As soon as he finishes, I sigh and walk toward the stairs, determined to put an immediate end to this farce, when suddenly, they pull me back and put me right next to the microphone, telling me that now it’s my turn.
“What? Who? What do you want from me?”
“Miss Watts, you have to say something too. You’re the queen!” says the Mayor, visibly embarrassed.
“Ah… Of course. Obviously.”
Will this horrible event never end?
I clear my throat and all around me, in the crowds, in the stands, a deathly silence falls. I haven’t the faintest idea what to say. Or rather, I do, but I doubt anyone would want to hear it. I pretend to test the microphone to play for time, then say a squeaky “Hello.”
“Well… I… I really didn’t expect this, because, if I’d only imagined…”
No, that’s no good. Let’s try another approach.
“Since I arrived, I have to admit that I’ve always thought some local customs…”
That’s no good either. Shit! They’re all staring at me in astonishment. God, I hate speaking in public!
“Thank you very much for this unexpected pleasure, I am absolutely stunned. I never thought it would come to this.” Reflecting, I add, “Obviously in a positive sense. Unfortunately, I’m not as eloquent as my sovereign,” I say, pointing to Ethan, “but I can assure you that I really appreciate your gesture.” And finally I see some smiles appear in the crowd. I look at them all, having a complete view of the square from this vantage point, and I recognize every face. There’s the man who greets me every time he sees me leave the house. There’s the old man who helps me open the post box in front of the bank when it gets stuck because of the rain. There’s the lady who sells flowers and who forces me to accept a daisy every time I walk in front of her kiosk. And then, there’s the staff at the bank, the Mayor, Mrs Cox, Richard Marshall, the two journalists, Mr Smith with his wife Claire. They told me that she’s pregnant, and now she’s starting to show…
“I really hated this place. I hated it with all my heart. I hated the quietness, the almost permanent lack of phone signal, the lack of car horns and smog. God, what I would have paid for a snort of smog! And then all this enormous, horrible countryside! And that stupid cockerel that every morning at five o’clock…” I think all these things, then I take a deep breath and say, “When I accepted the position here in Turriff, I couldn’t wait to leave. And yet today, when I’m on the verge of going home, I don’t want to say goodbye. I hate this crown and I think the cockade’s horrible,” I confess, “but I think they’ll also be the most beautiful memory of my stay here with you. Unfortunately…” I raise my voice to speak over a spontaneous round of applause. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t a great speech, but I sincerely hope my thanks are enough.”
“Let me hug you!” the Mayor intrudes, moved, squeezing me in his chubby arms. “Miss Watts, I have never had the pleasure of having you with us at one of the committee meetings, but please know that it’s been a pleasure to meet you. You are the most beautiful Pumpkin Queen we’ve had in recent years.”
“Mayor Mason, I was just thinking about that yesterday. I have a couple of free hours on Wednesday, so if there is still a place for me at the next meeting… They told me that you will be discussing a theatre for the kindergarten. I’d like to be there – I think the bank would be happy to help.”
“And you’re asking me?” he exults enthusiastically. “You can’t imagine how happy I am. And I think Mrs Cox will be there as well! And what about the town hall renovations? Did I show you the incredible work those boys did with the plasterwork?”
I let him talk and nod, amused, as I try to keep up with him. Behind him, Ethan smiles and follows us off the stage without having the courage to intrude.
I don’t try to escape again. I stay until late in the evening with the rest of them. Ethan sits with us and never leaves my side for a moment, his hand squeezing mine gently. His gaze is always ready to welcome mine whenever I look at him.
By two o’clock I’m exhausted – I massage my forehead and only then does he ask me, “Do you want to go home?”
I nod and let him walk me through the moonlight and right up to the stairs of my apartment, without feeling the need to say anything.
“Trudy,” he mumbles when I leave him to slowly climb the last few steps that lead upstairs.
“Yes?” I say, in almost a whisper, stopping next to the railing.
“Do you want to come to mine?”
“Ethan, we’ve talked about it, you know. In a month…”
“Do you have to go to?”
“No… Not necessarily. I mean… If the branch stays open, I imagine they’re going to need a manager, but I don’t think…”
“Then let’s talk about it in a month, okay?”
“And in the meantime, what do we do?”
“We try.”
He doesn’t move closer. He waits patiently for an answer, but by now I know him and a simple glance is enough for me to understand what a superhuman effort this restraint is for him.
“Ethan…”
“Say ‘yes’”
He takes me in his arms.
“Just say ‘yes’,” he repeats in a whisper, his lips against mine.
Chapter 34
Have A Good Trip
“Did you say ‘I love you’?’”
“Er, no Ethan, I said ‘I’ll call you’.”
“A toast for our Mary!”
“Slàinte mhath!”
“Slàinte mhath!”
“Happiness!” And a chorus of happy voices rises, so loud they fill Ethan’s pub.
It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, a bit early to be downing all this beer, but the occasion actually does call for it. Mary’s case against her three children ended beautifully. There was no need to even show up in court. Yesterday, her family’s lawyers advised Mrs Cox that they had decided to drop all charges and there was also a brief meeting between the parties, which – although a bit cold – was a step, at least, towards a slow, difficult, but probable reconciliation.
As soon as we found out, needless to say, we decided to meet to celebrate. Lately, every excuse seems valid to sit around a table drinking, drinking, drinking and stuffing our faces with rubbish. This time, Ethan has put the pub at our disposal, the Mayor’s wife has prepared loads of yummy things to eat, I’ve brought a few bottles of wine and the staff at the bank have brought desserts.
I’m not going to hide it: I’ve been excited since this morning, but this whole week has been the most intense, happy and confused one of my entire life. It all started last Monday, when I spoke to Rupert, who asked me if I could stay in Turriff a couple of months longer. They needed a bit of time to find a suitable replacement and I, dreading the thought of going back to London, took the news with immense relief. They didn’t need to press me – I accepted immediately, because I feel at home here now. I’m not exactly ecstatic at the idea of staying here to rot amongst the sheep and cauliflowers, but as nobody has mentioned my promotion lately, I have no reason to hurry back. The first person I told was Mr Bailey. He was in the bank when they called from London, and he made such a fuss at the news that everyone swarmed in, staff and customers alike. My narrow little room was full of people jumping for joy. I honestly hadn’t expected such a reaction, and I tried to explain that during working hours we must not in any way disturb the normal conduct of… Yeah, right! Nobody listened to me. Including me!. I told myself to piss off and started bouncing around like everyone else, postponing any guilt until after lunch. I was so excited that I couldn’t keep still. I wanted to tell Ethan, but I didn’t know how to. We’ve never addressed the issue of our ‘relationship’. In fact, we don’t even really know what to call our emotional situation. I think the most accurate thing would be to say that we date regularly and try not to argue too often. For a mere matter of convenience, he once suggested that we occupy a single floor of the house. His. I categorically refused and since then, we’ve just been waiting for the moment of truth – the day of my departure – to knock it all on the head.
What can you say?
The closer the fateful date came, the more the arguments increased, Ethan’s moodiness reached epic levels, I slept less and we spent increasing amounts of time on activities like throwing plates at each other, chasing each other between flats and sessions of making up sex.
So try and imagine the tension. I didn’t know how to take it, or whether communicating the decision of postponing my departure would only make the situation worse in the end.
I was going crazy, so I left work early and went home. I found him in the garage fighting with his bike, completely covered in grease. Black and livid. He didn’t even speak, he just growled.
I approached timidly and tried to take it slowly, but eventually I blurted out, “Ethan, about my departure…”
Now, maybe I’m not that great at communication techniques, but how can a sentence like that trigger off World War III? Because that is precisely what happened. We started arguing as usual, I have no idea what about. He didn’t give me time to reply, so I threatened to scratch his bike and he finally shut up, instantly turning white.
I was almost frightened.
After a start like that, you will imagine that I couldn’t be bothered to confess my latest decision, but by then the damage was done, so I spat everything out and found myself locked in his room for the next two days. Doing what? What do you reckon you do in a bedroom with Ethan for two days? He even unplugged the phone. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to all this testosterone wafting through the air.
So I would say that it’d been an… intense week. Since emerging from the bedroom, we haven’t had a fight, we haven’t argued, we haven’t even thrown a plate at one another. We’ve even been for a few days out. He had the absurd idea of dragging me through the woods to photograph animals that we could look up quietly at home on Wikipedia. I did nothing but grumble about the insects, the mud and the horrible effects of his leisure activities on my wardrobe; according to Ethan that’s because I’m not sufficiently flexible. Thank God, however, he allowed me to take my iPad, so I read a load of sexy stories, while pretending to be working strenuously.
Anyway, as I was saying… we haven’t addressed the ‘relationship’ issue yet. The only near miss we had was when he told me he had inadvertently swallowed my contact lenses. No. I’m not kidding. I’d lost the container and didn’t know where to put them so I put them in a plastic cup full of water, which I carefully tucked away on a shelf in the bathroom, behind the detergents. He was thirsty, and… Well, you can imagine the rest.
Fortunately, nothing happened to him, because if he had felt sick, the scene I would have made would have been even worse. And I can assure you it was no picnic!
Anyway, as I was saying, no more arguments. No discussion. Nothing at all! I’ve discovered that he’s quieter and introverted than he appears, but I don’t mind that – plus he’s so cheerful these days… Asking him to think about our future for a moment could irretrievably ruin the lovely relaxed atmosphere we�
��ve created.
“Another slice?”
“No, thanks!” I move the Black Forest gateau away. “I might burst.”
Mr Bailey nods and raises his plate, asking who wants to take my place. Ethan decides to do his duty to Pumpkin Queen and country, and comes to sit next to me, while on the other side of the table Catherine tells us about her latest fight with Tom. They don’t mess about, especially her. She might look like a harmless little angel, but a few nights ago that poor Tom came home half an hour late and she nearly whacked him one with her handbag.
“I’m with Tom,” begins Percy, “you lot are awful. Really awful.” I imagine he’s addressing women kind in general. “Is it possible that once you’ve got together with someone you have to stop doing everything? No more football, no more poker with friends, no nights down the pub… Even those sentenced to death get to have half an hour a day free.”
“Are you kidding?” shouts Kora.
“No, please, don’t start now,” I moan, when I hear my phone ringing.
“Is it necessary to keep that thing on all the time?” Ethan grumbles, trying to snatch it from my hand.
“Get off! It’s work, you know I can’t turn it off.”
“For God’s sake!”
“I’ll only be a moment,” I promise, and I walk away from the table, dodging the arm he raises to stop me before I’m out of his reach.
With all that noise, I can’t hear a word. I put a finger in one ear and I walk out onto the street where I finally hear a voice I don’t recognize.
“Hello, excuse me, who am I speaking to?” I ask, raising my voice.
“Miss Watts, good afternoon. This is Gregory Brooks. I’m calling from the Wilbourgh headquarters. Am I disturbing you?”
“No, not at all. Please go on,” I say, while I wipe icing sugar from the corners of my mouth.
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for at least three days. I’ve already sent you two emails and don’t know how many times I’ve tried to call.”