by Gould, R J
Medium/Long term
1. Take a cookery course
2. Quit my job and pack in accountancy
3. Open an arts café
Now that boldness was on the agenda his pulse raced at the dare of what to write next. The Bridget statement.
He was finding it impossible to stop thinking about her, lustfully last thing at night and slightly less lustfully during the day. Infatuation had set in big time, perhaps it was a serious disorder. Was there such a thing as Manic Obsession? In the past he would be inclined to write something like ‘develop a loving and long-lasting relationship with Bridget.’ But now, light-headed with bravado, he wrote a rather more direct statement.
‘Have sex with Bridget.’
He smiled at this frivolity. Of course he sought much more than that, but at least he couldn’t be faulted in terms of being well on the way to setting a SMART objective. What he had written was Specific, Measurable, Attainable (hopefully), and Relevant. Only Time was missing so he randomly picked his birthday, 20th February.
4. Have sex with Bridget by 20th February
Now in flat out happy-go-lucky mode he added a number five for good measure.
5. Have more sex with Bridget by the end of the first week of March
This sheet of paper must not be discovered by Rachel. He folded it into a tight rectangle and placed it inside his brown coat pocket. He’d take it to work and leave it there, locked in his filing cabinet. Or better still, he’d word process and password protect the document and then shred the hard copy.
~
Jabulani didn’t need reminding that the promise of being taken to tea at the Ladurée Café in Harrods was imminent.
David now had a clear picture of Jabulani’s distressing story. It had emerged bit by bit as their friendship developed. He had lived in Harare, working at senior level as an accountant in Zimbabwe’s Ministry of Agriculture and Rural Development. He was a true patriot, proud of his country’s independence but dismayed as the government’s policies grew more extreme. The massive economic problems of hyperinflation, unemployment and food shortages were resulting in intense poverty. Encouraged by his brother, a doctor, he signed up to a peaceful opposition coalition. Somehow the group members’ details were being passed on to the government’s security forces because intimidation began as soon as anyone joined. He lost his job in the ministry and his wife, Jestina, lost hers as a teacher.
His brother, Farai, was a more active member, much braver too, because he was out on the streets of the city demonstrating. Three times over a couple of months he was taken in by the police, questioned and beaten. One warm summer’s evening Jabulani and his family were invited round to his brother for a meal. As they turned the corner into his street they stopped the car and could do nothing but watch as Farai was led out handcuffed by four members of the Central Intelligence Organisation. Jabulani gazed in helpless silence as his brother was pushed into a sleek black SUV with tinted windows and driven off. There was no option but to return home, it would be far too dangerous to go to the CIO headquarters to enquire why he had been arrested.
Jabulani still had contacts within government departments. This included a friend who worked at the Ministry of State Security, a dissident who risked his life passing on information to foreign journalists. He spent the next day pressing for news from him, finally to be informed that his brother would not be released. He had been murdered on the night of his capture. The contact advised Jabulani to flee and provided details of how to go about it.
Jabulani was devastated but realised for the sake of his family they had to leave. They gathered what possessions they could carry by hand, including some gold jewellery he had had the sense to purchase over the past three years as a hedge against the diving value of the currency. They set off on an arduous and costly journey to England that took almost three months. They arrived as asylum seekers and were amongst the few lucky ones to be granted recognition as refugees. He reckoned his accountancy qualification had helped, together with his knowledge of and passion for all things British which charmed the immigration officials. This passion had been somewhat dampened by his experiences since arrival, with endless forms to fill in and meetings to attend, plus the formidable struggle to get decent accommodation and a suitable job.
“I wouldn’t be proud to invite you to my home, my friend.”
“Where do you live, Jabulani?”
“Queensbury. Do you know it?”
“Vaguely, I’ve driven through once or twice.”
“I think the queen would be embarrassed having her name associated with it if she knew what it was like there.” Jabulani had a broad grin as he said this, his smile was striking and infectious and David laughed.
“I’m sure she would. I bet it’s not cheap either.”
“It takes most of my salary to pay the rent. Jestina’s income has to cover pretty well everything else.”
“She’s a teacher, isn’t she?”
“Yes, but she can’t teach here, her Zimbabwean qualification doesn’t count and she’d have to retrain. So she works as a learning mentor for refugees like us.” He paused. “David, I was going to ask you, though I don’t wish to take a liberty. Would it be possible for my wife to join us on Saturday?”
“Of course she can, that would be lovely.”
“And do you think my children could come, too?”
“Sure. Bring them as well.”
This reply was greeted with another beaming smile. “David Willoughby, you’re a very good man, a very good man indeed.”
They made plans to meet outside Harrods at 3.00 pm that Saturday.
~
It was the last day of October and autumn had set in with a grey chilling mist hanging over the city. Knightsbridge was bursting with affluent shoppers carrying designer label bags. The aged and infirm were in grave danger as the insensitive shoppers pushed past in their race to the next shop. There was a steady flow of customers in and out of Harrods.
Having agreed to include the children, David had scrapped the idea of going to the rather sedate Ladurée Café. The plan now was to take them to what he considered to be a more suitable choice, The Chocolate Bar.
Jabulani appeared at the exit to the underground station, wife by his side and four young children behind them. The children had on matching red fleeces with motifs on the right breast. The men shook hands before Jabulani introduced his family.
“My wife, Jestina.” A handshake.
“My eldest, Chenzira.” A boy, about ten years old, extended his hand and David shook it.
The process was repeated as Maiba, Rufaro and Sekayi were introduced – in all, two boys and two girls. Now that he was standing close to them David could examine the fleeces with their badges edged in blue and gold canons below bold white lettering.
He must have looked aghast because Jabulani spoke with concern. “What is it, my friend?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
“But yes, something is bothering you.”
“The fleeces, they’re Arsenal.”
“Yes, our team. The magic ones, they play the most beautiful football in the world.”
“I support Spurs.”
“Then may the Lord forgive you.”
David looked away from the badges to the faces, first the youngsters then up towards the adults. All were smiling broadly. “Very funny,” he retorted. “Well, I hope you lose today!”
He led them into Harrods and towards the Chocolate Bar.
The children devoured chocolate drinks and chocolate cakes while the adults had coffee and tastes of what the children had chosen. Conversation was light, centred on the huge differences in lifestyle between London and Harare. There was much laughter, occasionally broken by sadness as Jabulani and Jestina recalled what they had left behind in their beloved country. Being in the company of this optimistic, closely knit family was uplifting. It was only after they had said their goodbyes that David was overcome by a wave of despondency with the
realisation that his own family had disintegrated.
The Reunion – R J Gould
Chapter 12
Thursday 5 November. Bridget, Kay and Andy were due to arrive around 5.30 for the veggie snack, to be followed by the firework display. David had bought the fireworks the previous weekend and planned to take some of the afternoon off to pop into Waitrose to get the food. He’d decided it was only fair for all of them to refrain from meat and had searched on line for hours to find appetising ready-mades, or at the very least easy to prepare dishes.
To simplify the shopping expedition he’d made a list. French bread. Couscous. Marinated tofu. Hummus. Various cheeses (make sure vegetarian). Pitta bread. Olives. Dolmades. Dried apricots. Mixed nuts. Tortilla crisps. Salsa dip. Fruit. Ice cream. Yoghurt.
A little after 3.00, as he was putting on his coat to leave the office, Dorothy approached.
“David, a teacher from Sam’s school has telephoned. There’s been an accident, nothing to get worried about, but Sam is in A&E having his leg looked at.”
David’s first thought was of the effect this might have on Bridget’s visit, but concern for Sam wasn’t far behind.
“OK Dorothy. I’d better get going.”
“I hope he’s OK,” she added as he strode out the department’s entrance. He looked behind to wave an acknowledgement unaware Mary was about to pass him. She kept her balance as they collided, but the coffee she was carrying tipped over her tailored brown jacket.
“Look where you’re going for god’s sake.”
“Sorry Mary. At least it’s brown.”
“At least what’s brown?”
“Your jacket, when it’s dry you’ll hardly be able to see a mark.”
She looked furious.
David continued. “I was joking. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning of course, it was completely my fault.”
“Yes, it was.”
“I’ve already said it was.” Her look of disdain remained ferocious, but David was learning how to cope with her tirades and gave her a defiant look.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “I have some cases I need to go through with you.”
“Sorry, can’t now Mary. My son’s in A&E.”
David didn’t wait to see or hear a reaction.
He drove to the hospital deep in thought, plotting how the evening’s rendezvous would be able to go ahead whatever Sam’s condition. When he arrived at the casualty department, Sam was in the waiting room wearing his shiny navy blue track suit and one trainer, the other foot bare. A teacher wearing similar sports gear was by his side. Both were reading tattered Top Gear magazines.
Sam looked up and smiled as he approached. “Hi, dad.”
The teacher stood. “Hello, Mr Willoughby, thank you for getting here so quickly. We were playing football and Sam went over heavily when he was tackled. His leg swelled up quite a bit. We put an ice pack on but thought it best to have it checked out.”
“Sorry, dad,” Sam added.
“OK Sam, it’s not your fault. Does it hurt a lot?”
“Not really, but my leg’s got bigger.” He pulled up his trouser leg. “Look.”
“What did the doctor say?”
The teacher took over. “We’ve been here for over an hour. A nurse had a preliminary look, but we’re still waiting for a doctor. Apparently there’s been a coach crash and they’re busy dealing with that.”
“Well now I’m here there’s no need for you to stay, Mr…”
“Barnes, Noel Barnes.”
“You might as well head off, Noel. Thanks for bringing him.”
“Yes. Thank you, sir,” Sam added.
“I will go if that’s all right with you. Good luck, Sam, hope to see you back in school tomorrow.”
The wait was a long one, almost another hour before the X-ray then a further thirty minutes before being seen by the enthusiastic, moon-faced doctor who looked far too young to be a medic. Fortunately there was no break, just a bad sprain, resulting in another wait until a nurse applied a bandage. David’s concern grew as it got nearer and nearer to Bridget’s arrival time. They got home well after 5.00 pm and it was clear he wouldn’t have time to get food before she arrived.
There was a ring of the doorbell on the dot of 5.30, by which time Sam was sitting on the sofa in the lounge with his left leg propped up, watching TV. Rachel was in her bedroom listening to Jay-Z and doing homework. David had searched kitchen cupboards in the futile hope that Jane, and ardent carnivore, had a hidden supply of vegetarian delights. A tin of baked beans and a packet of frozen chips was all he would be able to offer.
The guests stood in the hall while David called up to Rachel. At the third attempt she came downstairs to be introduced, disappointing David with an ice cold greeting. They trooped into the lounge to meet Sam who was cheerful enough in explaining what had happened. Neighbours was on and David suggested the children remain viewing while he and Bridget went to the kitchen to sort things out. Once alone with her, he explained the dilemma.
“Not a problem,” Bridget said. “You stay here with the kids and I’ll go and get the food.”
“But I’m meant to be the host.”
“Well you didn’t count on Sam’s accident. It’s no big deal, we passed Waitrose round the corner. I’ll nip out.”
“If you’re sure you don’t mind. I’ll get some money.”
“No need. You got the fireworks so it’s only fair I get the food.” She turned and headed out the room before he could protest.
He called after her as she stood by the front door. “I’ve made a list, it’s in my coat pocket by you there. The brown one.”
Bridget took the sheet of paper from his coat and dropped it into her handbag. “Got it. Tell Andy and Kay I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
David went into the lounge where stony faces and silence prevailed except for the piercing shrieks of the animals featured on Michaela’s Zoo Babies. “Bridget’s popped out to get some food,” he informed them.
“What are we eating?” Sam asked.
“Hummus, couscous, pitta bread.”
Rachel reddened. “I hate stuff like that. Why can’t we have proper food?”
“What do you mean by proper food?” the until now silent Andy asked.
“Stuff that tastes good and has lots of protein.”
“And you’re the judge of that are you?”
“Yes, I know what’s good and what isn’t.”
“Well, I don’t think you do. Go on, define good.”
If looks could kill, Andy was close to death as Rachel growled “meat of course, sausages, bacon, ham, chicken satay, anything except bloody veggie stuff.”
Andy held his ground. “Well isn’t that a healthy diet. Before you know it you’ll be as fat as the pigs you eat. And riddled with cancer, too.”
Rachel stood up. “Fuck you, veggie boy,” she muttered as she exited.
A concerned David hoped Bridget would get back quickly. It was Kay who took on the role of peace maker, breaking the icy silence by chatting to Sam about his leg. She was a pretty girl, resembling her mother with high cheekbones, blue eyes and light brown hair. It would be hard to identify Andy as from the same family. He was tall and thin with a narrow face, piercing eyes and longish jet black hair that was wild and uncontrollably curly. Soon the three youngsters were chatting civilly and the crisis seemed over, at least until Rachel reappeared.
The door bell rang and Bridget was back balancing cardboard boxes of pizzas in one hand and three plastic bags in the other.
“Here, let me help,” David offered. He took hold of the pizzas and they went into the kitchen, followed by Kay and Andy with Sam limping after them.
Rachel joined the group as the boxes were being opened. “I thought I smelt pizzas. What happened to the Greek stuff?”
“I reckoned you’d all prefer pizzas,” Bridget said brightly. “There’s a roasted veg and a margarita for us, which you can share of course, and I’ve got a ham and a pepperoni
for you lot. And there are crisps and cokes in the bags.” She had gained an instant giant brownie point and before long the youngsters were tucking in.
“Can we watch The Simpsons before the fireworks?” Rachel asked as they munched the last slices of pizza.
“Yeah, I’d like to,” Andy added, the antagonism between the two children hopefully in remission.
“Is that OK with you, Bridget?” David asked. “We could do a quick clear up then get started in about half an hour.”
The four youngsters headed back to the lounge, leaving the adults to dispose of empty cartons, load the dishwasher, and drink a glass of wine.
“That was a big hit,” David said. “An inspiration to ignore my list.”
“I’m not sure I took the right piece of paper,” Bridget replied with an expression of absolute serenity. She opened her bag and handed David his now unfolded action plan, not altering her demeanour as David blushed more than he ever imagined would be possible.
Escape was the only thought on his mind. “I need to check the fireworks,” he mumbled. Bridget was left standing alone in the kitchen as David fled out the back door and into the garden. Once inside the shed where they were stored he had little desire to ever step out again. But there was no choice because the audience was assembling outside.
“Can I light the first one, dad,” Sam asked. He had a plastic bag over his slippered foot.
“OK, as long as you’re careful. What do you want?”
“A rocket of course.”
David went back in the shed to get one and brought it out together with an empty wine bottle and the box of extra long matches.
Kay stood next to Sam as he placed the rocket inside the bottle then lit the match and held it against the twist of paper until it caught. “Quick. Run!” he called out to Kay as he hobbled towards the others. In her rush to escape, Kay’s foot clipped the bottle which fell to the ground. The resting position couldn’t have been more accurate if she’d tried. The rocket took off at a shallow angle and with a piercing whistle and sparkles of red and green light, shot straight through the open shed door before bouncing around in a vain attempt to escape the confines of the building. There was a brief pause before the rat-tat-tat of bangers. Then the whole shed was illuminated by a shower of pastel pink sparks as a fountain ignited.