by Gould, R J
Her intense bitterness had taken root from the time of his father’s death, only later did he appreciate that the circumstances of it were the cause. Living alone in the same house she never made an attempt to socialise beyond the family, with few friends or interests to keep her occupied. Bearing in mind the betrayal by her own husband, how would she react to Jane’s infidelity? He would need to choose his words carefully.
David drove onto the M6. Even at this horrendous motorway merging point it was devoid of congestion.
He’d decided long ago that he didn’t much like his mother. After all these years there was still a pang of guilt about his escape to university because he could have carried on living at home and commuted to Birmingham or Warwick or even Aston. But how much of the guilt was justified and how much was fostered by his mother’s words? There was always that hint of admonishment in her tone when he visited, implying insufficient interest in her well-being. And the truth was the more she behaved like that, the more he backed away.
He reached Junction 4 at Lichfield to be confronted by the flashing lights of an overhead sign alerting drivers to reduce speed to 50 mph. This was superfluous because ahead there was a complete standstill. He braked sharply. He was less than ten miles from his destination and it was anybody’s guess how long it would take.
It was Jane who had first made him aware of his mother’s deviousness and she refused to tolerate such behaviour.
“Are you sure it’s not too much bother visiting me? Have you got the time?” his mother would ask Jane during a telephone call.
“You’re right, we are busy this weekend. That’s very understanding, Glenda, we appreciate it. Perhaps some time next month,” came Jane’s reply, smiling broadly and giving David a thumbs up sign. Jane did have a nice smile and he would miss it.
The traffic was moving again and David edged past a stationary lorry on the middle lane with its warning lights flashing. While studying Maths at university there had been a lecture on how traffic congestion occurred even when there hadn’t been an accident. It was something to do with declining rates of acceleration, he recalled. Partial differentiation was needed for the calculation. He cast his mind back to the manic lecturer with wild ginger hair and thick black plastic spectacle frames. He wrote formulae at great speed on a blackboard covering the full width of the auditorium. He had a high pitched squeaky voice that students imitated at the pub. David tried to remember the maths but it was way beyond him now.
Once past the lorry the congestion ceased and soon he was turning off the motorway and embarking on the last short stretch of journey. A flutter of nervousness rose in his stomach as he pulled into the street with its two lines of solid Edwardian houses. He stepped out of the car and picked up the bunch of dusty pink roses he’d bought at the garage when filling up.
He rang the bell and heard the shuffling movement towards the front door before it was opened. “Hello mother, some flowers,” he said with an encouraging smile as he held them out in front of him.
She frowned as she took hold of them. “Flowers, what am I going to do with them? You needn’t have bothered.”
Here we go again, David thought. He contemplated snatching them back but instead maintained his attempt at warmth. “They’re to cheer you up. Let’s get a vase.”
“No need to cheer me up, I’m not miserable,” she snapped grumpily. Together they walked into the kitchen and then descended into a time warp from his school days.
“Tea dear?”
“Yes please, mum.”
“Well you go into the lounge and I’ll bring it in.”
The two armchairs of thirty years ago were gone, replaced by near clones, high wing-backed sage green dralon monstrosities with little squares of matching fabric over the backs and arms. He peered round the room. The sideboard was crammed with pictures of him and Charlotte as children and as adults with their families. Unframed and leaning against an empty cut glass vase was a copy of the photo from his summer holiday in Brittany, the one still pinned to his fridge. Jane, Rachel and Sam with him – all smiles. His mother entered carrying a tray with matching Royal Albert china teapot, milk jug, two cups and saucers and a plate of biscuits. She noticed him looking at the photograph.
“Lovely photo that.”
“Mother, I have to tell you something.”
“If it’s about Jane leaving you David, I already know.”
“How do you know?”
“Jane telephoned to tell me. The poor dear, she’s finding it all rather difficult to cope with.”
“She’s finding it difficult! What about me? Don’t forget it was her who…”
“I know what you’re going to say, David, but it takes two to tango. She’s a lovely girl, I can understand how she feels.”
“You what!”
“No doubt she has her reasons. Let’s face it, you aren’t the easiest person to live with.”
David was flabbergasted, speechless. He snatched a digestive biscuit and shovelled half of it in, but his mouth was so dry he was unable to swallow the fragments.
He stood. “Wug a munnet.”
“What?”
“Wait a minute!” he managed to enunciate, crumbs showering out in front of him.
In the bathroom he spat out the remains into the sink, cupped his hand to collect some water, and washed down the residue. With both hands he gathered more water and threw it against his face. He looked in the mirror, his face was red, red from choking and red with rage. He took four deep breaths before returning to the lounge where his mother was calmly pouring tea. She looked up and smiled.
“Perhaps Jane leaving will give you the opportunity to make something of your life,” she suggested. “You can start afresh.”
Thoughts about how to respond raced through his mind. ‘Do you realise that raising the children has been left to me?’ ‘Actually mother, I do have an action plan – I’m seeing a wonderful woman on Wednesday.’ ‘You’re a fine one to talk, you’ve had years and years to make a fresh start since the death of your two-timing husband and you’ve done bugger all.’
He said none of these things and the conversation turned to small talk about Rachel and Sam; Charlotte and her family; Mr and Mrs Andrews, her next door neighbours to the left; and Mr and Mrs Gupta, the new neighbours to her right.
Forty-two minutes on, when there was a lull in the conversation, he stood and announced his departure.
“That’s a short visit. Still, I expect you’ve got more important things to do than sit and chat with your old mother.”
He was close to saying ‘yes’ but instead reverted to one of his old faithful excuses. “I’ve got to get back in time to collect Sam.”
On the slow traffic-congested drive home he tried to lighten his mood by thinking about the forthcoming date with Bridget. Well hardly a date. For all he knew she’d be as polite as last time, they’d talk pleasantly, then that would be it. He remained downhearted despite listening to Coldplay, Kaiser Chiefs and Decemberists on the long, long journey home.
The Reunion – R J Gould
Chapter 10
Wednesday came at last – the first day of his new life. APSTO1 (action plan short-term objective number one) had been achieved and APSTO4 was about to be accomplished. David arrived early and sat near the entrance inside The Greyhound at a scuffed table with initials crudely carved into the dark wooden surface. The pub was a popular after work venue and was filled with young men talking loudly, laughing and swigging from bottles of lager. Music videos were blasting out from two giant wall mounted TV screens – conversation would not be easy.
He struggled to fight off the negativity brought on by another awful day at work. Mary wasn’t giving him enough time to implement the expenditure reducing strategies established during their recent meetings. She continued to blame him for insufficient control of his subordinates despite having issued a policy directive urging managers to delegate more responsibility to junior team members. As soon as he’d settled down with a
mug of coffee and a ginger nut biscuit, she had stormed in demanding the matter be resolved immediately.
“What matter?” he’d asked.
“You don’t even know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“The Head of Finance has published a league table and our department is bottom in terms of deviance from budget.”
She was free all evening and expected him to be available to assist her in developing a cost cutting strategy. However long it took. There was no way he was going to cancel Bridget. On informing Mary he had a family commitment he couldn’t miss, he was subjected to a tirade of abuse centred on his inability to set priorities.
While waiting for Bridget, David practiced his greeting smile. He stopped when he noticed a group at the bar pointing at him and laughing. He transformed his smile into an expression of deep thought with a frown and a look up towards the ceiling. He then rested his elbow on the table and placed his clenched fist on his forehead in a Socratic pose. He let out a long, audible sigh.
“David, are you all right?”
Bugger, it was Bridget standing by his side staring down at him with a look of concern.
“Hello, Bridget. I’m fine, just a hard day at work,” he said as he reversed the facial contortions back towards the awkward welcoming smile. “What would you like to drink?”
“I’ll have a...”
“No, not here!” he blurted out.
“Oh.”
“It’s too loud. Not that I have a problem with loudness, but if we want to talk it won’t be any good.”
“OK, somewhere else is fine. Any ideas where?” Bridget consented.
David reddened with embarrassment. He had planned to mark the start of their meeting with easy going charm and had failed. “There’s a Costa next door, unless you’re desperate for alcohol.”
“I’m not desperate, coffee’s fine.”
They swapped venue. David got the drinks, and things moved ahead nicely when they started talking about the trauma of raising teenagers. David outlined his concern about how things were changing for his two now Jane had left and Bridget admitted that having to set off to work before hers departed for school was something she worried about. She worked in a gallery selling mid-priced contemporary art. When David questioned her about what constituted mid-price, her reply of between £20,000 and £50,000 for a painting made him gasp.
She smiled her beautiful smile. “And all I get is a measly annual salary not much more than the cheapest painting I sell. Actually a bonus too, so I shouldn’t grumble.”
She outlined why she’d ended up working at the gallery. After school she’d gone on to college and obtained a History of Art degree. That’s where she met her husband Roland, a sculptor who even as a student was acquiring a considerable reputation. His work was taken on by a dealer in Old Bond Street who was looking for new talent and by chance also for an additional member of his sales team. Ahead of developing a long term career plan she decided to take the job. So her first employment included selling her husband’s works. A proper career never materialised, although she still had no idea what ‘proper’ constituted. She stayed on, even after Roland died.
“Died! I assumed you’d separated, I am sorry, how awful. How long ago?” David asked.
“A little over five years.”
“What happened?”
“An accident, but I’d rather not talk about it. Perhaps another time.”
“Of course, I understand,” David said with a degree of sincerity, but with some concern that she might still be in a sorrowful state following the death of her loved one. Maybe in permanent mourning like Queen Victoria after Prince Albert died. It would have been better for his chances if they had separated.
He was keen to pursue the questioning, appreciating the need for great delicacy and sensitivity. “And what’s happened since then?”
“In what way?”
“Have you found a replacement?”
She smiled. “You make it sound like I’m on the lookout for a new plumber or electrician. But I suppose I know what you’re getting at. Well I’ve had the odd fling, some of them very odd, but nothing serious.”
“Good.”
“What’s good?”
David shuddered; his complete cock up at the beginning of the meeting was in danger of being revived. He’d thought ‘good’ in relation to his chances, but with no intention of stating it. “I mean it’s good of you to tell me a little bit about yourself because last time we met it was all about me.”
The conversation improved as they discussed art, music, films and books. Both were avid cinema goers and they shared many non-mainstream favourites.
David was thinking about how he could reach the next step, another meeting, when Bridget glanced at her watch then stood. “I didn’t realise the time. I’m going to have to leave, I promised the kids I wouldn’t be late.”
He had to think fast. A film, a concert, a visit to an art gallery? He was struck by inspiration. “Bridget, Thursday week is Guy Fawkes Day and we’re going to have a few fireworks at home. Would you and your children like to join us?”
“We usually go to the big event in the park,” she replied.
“I’ve been trying to get my lot to do that for years, but they won’t have it. They insist on a small display at home. We get snacky food in like sausages. Why not join us for that, too.”
“We’re all vegetarians.”
“Then we’ll eat snacky veggie things, my kids won’t mind.”
Bridget looked down at him and nodded. “OK, I’d love to. What time would you like us there?”
David gave details of start time and address then Bridget departed without the kiss he had hoped for.
The next morning at breakfast he announced the Guy Fawkes plan to Rachel and Sam.
“But dad, we like the big event in the park,” Sam complained.
“I know, but this once we’ll do it at home. Bridget’s children prefer a quieter firework display.”
“How can you have a quiet firework display? What’s the matter with them?” Rachel mocked.
“Scared of big rockets and all the people,” Sam added.
“No need to be like that. Be friendly, that’s all I ask.”
At the dinner table the jokes continued.
“I’ve got a great idea dad, we can get sparklers for those kids,” Rachel started.
Sam joined in. “Yeah, but we’ll need to provide extra thick gloves so they can hold them safely.”
David cleared away the half eaten plates of ravioli. Rachel had opened up every parcel in search of tomato and Sam had cut the edges off each envelope in the same way he removed the crusts from slices of bread. Once he’d done that there wasn’t much left to eat. David was running out of ideas for meals and decided a cookery course could be the first point if he was ever going to bother with a medium/long term action plan.
Rachel reappeared and helped him stack the dishwasher. “How was grandma when you said mum had left us?”
“She already knew, mum had told her.”
“But what did she think?”
“Well, I was disappointed. She implied it had to be as much my fault as hers.”
“Ridiculous.” Rachel ran hot water over the cloth, squeezed it, then began to wipe the table. “Are you going to divorce mum?”
“Yes, that’s what she wants and I can’t see the point of fighting it. She and Jim are going to get married.”
Rachel now had her back to him as she wiped the work surfaces. “Do you like this Bridget? Are you going out with her?”
“I am fond of her, but we’ve only just met.”
Rachel was on her hands and knees sweeping the floor with the brush and pan. David had never seen such a display of cleaning from his daughter. “You’ll let me know if things develop, won’t you? And who is Jabulani?”
“Rachel, have you been reading my stuff?”
“You read my action plan so why shouldn’t I read yours?” She stood up. “An
yway, if you don’t want things read don’t leave them lying around.”
She smiled, planted a kiss on his cheek. “I can’t wait to read your long term plan.”
The Reunion – R J Gould
Chapter 11
David found the piece of paper with his short term objectives on the small table in the hall next to the telephone. He must have left it there when he’d called Bridget so Rachel could hardly be accused of high level spying for spotting and reading it. However he was irritated Rachel had done so, compounded by the fact that despite the worldly advice he had provided, his list was no more analytical than her original one that he’d insisted she revise. Well aware of the banality of what he had so far written, he nevertheless decided to push ahead with the setting of longer term objectives. Writing the list would be meaningless, but at the very least an act of defiance against the expectation of rational behaviour that comes with adulthood. The exercise would also provide a time-killer ahead of News at Ten.
He sat at the kitchen table and immediately put down the first point, having already decided to take a cookery course. He stared at the sheet of paper with the single objective.
What next?
He made himself a cup of tea. He took the rubbish out.
Was that all?
He emptied the washing machine. He hung out the clothes on the drier.
How creative could he be?
He took sausages out the freezer and put them in the fridge as the first step in preparing tomorrow’s dinner.
Carrying out these mundane tasks brought about the realisation that he had to confront the growing frustration at work now that he was line managed by Mary. He had a tolerable job with a good pension, but in his mid-forties a pension couldn’t be the main reason for staying on.
So how bold could he be because one thing had been on his mind for ages and he would love to put it down?
A café.
He did so. And the mere writing acted as a catalyst, moving him towards thinking about the steps needed to bring success.