by Gould, R J
“I turned to face the sea. He was smiling, a rare event over recent times. ‘Look what I’ve found,’ he yelled. He was perched on a high outcrop of rock holding a large crab. ‘Here, catch it.’ And he pretended to throw it across to me but as he did so, he stumbled.
“It looked really funny, him losing his balance and hovering like in a Buster Keaton movie. He swayed backwards and forwards, the crab still in his hand. The expression on his face, the puzzled look of ‘should I be letting go of this crab now?’ Then he tumbled sideways and went crashing down.
“I stopped laughing when I approached and saw him close up. There was a large gash on his forehead and he was out cold. The crab had escaped his grip and was edging away into the pool of water that was rapidly reddening. Loads of tiny crabs were scuttling away. I forgot, what do you call a collection of crabs?”
“A cast, I think.”
“Another ouzo, please,” she called out to the passing waiter. “Do you want one, David?”
“No thanks.”
“We never took our mobiles on the walks, we decided nothing should disturb us. God, it was all my fault. Getting as far away as possible from civilisation had been my suggestion. There I was with an unconscious husband and no way of contacting anyone quickly. It was an hour or more walk then a drive to reach help.”
She described how she lifted him out the pool then made her way back as quickly as the difficult surface would allow.
She knocked back her second ouzo.
“An hour and a half later when a rescue team was with me and I told them the location as accurately as I could, they looked at me with pity. What an idiot I was. The tide, the fucking tide. I should have realised. They found him two days later, his body washed up a couple of miles down the coast in a sandy cove. I’d left him to drown.”
She had been looking down, now she raised her head to meet David’s gaze and there was intense sadness in her eyes.
He took hold of her hands. “There was nothing more you could have done, Bridget.”
“Surely something. I should have dragged him up to higher ground or yanked him step by step all the way back. God knows what injuries that might have caused, maybe to me as well as him, but at least I would have saved him. Or died in the attempt,” she added solemnly.
“Sir. Madam. We are closing soon. Can I make up your bill?” Bridget nodded. David looked past the waiter to the otherwise deserted restaurant.
“Well, that’s the story. My parents felt guilty, it had been their suggestion we went away. Dad came up for the inquest and mum stayed with the kids. I couldn’t have coped without them.”
The waiter had returned. Bridget lifted her credit card out of a lilac and pink striped purse crammed full of cards and receipts. “Remember, I’m paying,” she said as she entered her pin number. The waiter thanked her and walked off.
They stood and Bridget smiled as David helped her on with her jacket.
“I can’t think of anything to say to console you, Bridget. I’m very sorry you had to go through such an awful experience. I realise it’s quite a time ago, but if I can do anything to help.”
“Thanks, David. And I know you’re genuine about that. Hey, how did you get here?”
“I drove.”
“Well you can’t drive back in your alcoholic state. There’s a room at mine if you’d like.”
“I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“No trouble. Come on, let’s go.” She took hold of his hand and they departed.
The Reunion – R J Gould
Chapter 15
Who would have thought holding a hand walking past youngsters noisily hanging around outside bars and late night food stalls around Muswell Hill Broadway could be so wonderful? Even seeing a girl dressed as if she was a midsummer evening fairy staggering before vomiting right in front of them was bliss. And hearing a short stocky boy with a knife in his hand yelling ‘I’m gonna get them cunts’ was a delight. “It’s getting worse and worse on Saturday nights,” Bridget apologised. “I’m struggling like mad to keep my two away from this. Andy’s happy enough to stay in, he’s quite a loner, but I don’t think there’ll be any stopping Kay in a couple of years. She’s one for adventure and dares.”
“Where are they tonight?” David asked, feigning casual chat but with a strong hope they would be staying over at friends.
“At home.”
“Oh.”
“What about your two?”
“Both with friends.”
“Just as well you’re staying with us then, otherwise you’d be a home alone.”
They left the main road and walked down a tidy street of Victorian terraces. He followed Bridget along a small tiled path and entered her house through a flaking navy blue door with a large brass knocker. They stepped into an emerald green narrow corridor with subdued lighting, it was like walking through a canopy of rain forest trees.
The interior style of her home could not be more different to his, which suddenly seemed rather dull and austere. His walls were spot the difference shades of white. Following Jane’s instructions he had bought paint with names like almond white, orchid white, jasmine white, barley white, nutmeg white, vanilla white, blah, blah, blah. Here there were violent explosions of dark rich colours – scarlet, turquoise, orange, violet. Bare polished floorboards were partly covered by oriental rugs; tops of lacquered Chinese cabinets and carved Indian cupboards were heaped with books and magazines. There were sculptures, too, smooth stone abstract shapes, skeletal metal torsos. David assumed they were Roland’s works.
His neat kitchen was fitted from floor to ceiling with units that hid everything except for precisely placed toaster, kettle, microwave and the exhibition piece retro coffee maker. The kitchen where he now stood had irregular shaped dressers and two untidy tables stacked full of cans, crockery, bottles and spice jars. A haphazard row of saucepans ran a considerable length along one of the walls.
“Sorry it’s a bit messy,” Bridget apologised, noticing David’s inspection. She poured hot water into the cafetiere. “Leave the kids alone for one evening and this is what you get.”
No two children, not even teenagers, would be able to create this anarchy in one evening. But he accepted Bridget’s ironic explanation, warmly drawn by this contrast to his own clinical existence. Bridget pushed away some recipe books to make room for their mugs.
Andy and Kay came in. Andy was carrying an empty crisp packet and a bottle of Red Bull. He put them in the dustbin. Kay put her unfinished coke in the fridge before turning to Bridget and David.
“Hi mum, hello fire man. Have you had a good time?”
David smiled. “Hello, Kay. Yes we have, thank you.”
“You should be in bed Kay,” Bridget ordered.
“Yeah, I know. I’m going.” She turned to David. “I was hoping to see you again, I’ve got a request.”
“And what’s that?”
“Could you burn down my school?”
“Don’t forget to say please,” Andy added.
“Tell me where it is and I’ll give it a go.”
“Enough requesting for one night,” Bridget intervened. “Bed now, please.”
“OK, night mum.” Kay kissed her mother then turned to leave.
“Manners, Kay. Say goodnight to David.”
“Goodnight to David.” She kissed him on the cheek.
“You’ll see him at breakfast,” Bridget continued, “he’s staying over.”
Andy stayed put, hovering awkwardly. “What have you been up to tonight?” Bridget asked.
“Bit of TV, some computing. Nothing much. I’m going to read for a while, night mum.” Bridget got a reluctant kiss. “Night, David.” He didn’t.
They sat drinking coffee and chatting for a while, touching upon David’s frustration at work. He was about to talk about his café idea when she stood.
“I’m shattered. Bed time.”
She led him upstairs to the spare room. He’d never seen a black ceiling bef
ore and there were tiny specks of silver, too. Bridget noticed his inspection. “It was Roland’s idea. Apparently the dots are the patterns of the star constellations but I’ve never been able to see the resemblance. There are some planets, too,” she added, pointing out a slightly bigger splodge inside a circle that was meant to be Saturn. “Let me get you some stuff.”
He continued to gaze at the ceiling, looking for other planets. He was still searching when Bridget returned with a toothbrush, towel and an oversized tee shirt which she held up. “I don’t stock pyjamas, do you want this?”
“No, I’ll be OK thanks.” The embarrassing morning after the reunion came to mind. “Actually maybe I will.”
“We’re lazy on Sundays, breakfast is around 10. But of course you’re welcome to come down whenever.” There was a dramatic pause. “Best to wear trousers as well as this when you do though.” She was grinning broadly as she handed it over. “The bathroom’s second on the left – there’s a trousers dress code there too, I’m afraid.”
“OK. I get the hint.”
“I’ve enjoyed this evening David. Thanks.”
“Well I need to thank you, for the meal.”
“A pleasure.” She approached, put her arms round his neck and kissed him. A gentle kiss, lip to lip. It was she who pulled away, he would have remained locked in that embrace for approaching eternity. “Good night, David.”
“Good night, Bridget. Bridget?”
“Yes?”
“About my list. I don’t think I explained myself well earlier. The things I wrote down aren’t in themselves daft, it’s more the way I expressed them that is.”
“Well at least they’re to the point, there’s no room for misinterpretation.”
“I suppose you’re right,” David said, again missing the tease until he looked up to the sardonic smile.
“See you in the morning, David.”
It was impossible to sleep with Bridget close by; the same difficulty as the night after the reunion. He strained to hear any sound from her bedroom and caught the click of her light switch as he lay in semi darkness, a nearby street lamp casting subdued shadows across the room.
Logical thought was impossible when there was such an intense longing to be in someone else’s bed a short distance away. The problems at work dealing with Mary surfaced and then his attention drifted to failed marriage and the struggle for an amicable divorce. He must have dozed for a short while, waking with a start from a dream of the four of them, Jim and Jane, Bridget and David, on holiday together and having a huge row by the hotel swimming pool.
He pressed the button to activate his phone light. It was 1.29 am. Back to Bridget – work and Jane issues were insignificant in comparison. Surely the kiss was an indication that she was interested in a relationship. But she had drunk rather a lot, perhaps hers wasn’t much different to the random snogs between the youngsters they had observed on Muswell Hill Broadway. No, Bridget wasn’t a teenage reveller, she was a mature, cultured woman. It must have meant something. But, another but, how much was she still mourning the tragic loss of her husband? How much unwarranted guilt remained for her part in the accident?
1.59 am. He would stare at his phone until the new hour arrived then put it down. 2.00 am. If her children hadn’t been home perhaps he would be in bed with her this very minute. To stifle his arousal he thought about last month’s painful visit to the dentist. Somehow the dentist’s drill had located a nerve not reached by the injections even though his mouth, chin, tongue and left ear had remained numb for hours after the root treatment. The focus on pain did the trick.
He picked up his phone again. 2.21 am. What next with Bridget, another meal? He would insist on paying this time. Or maybe something cultural like theatre or an art exhibition. Careful planning was needed to ensure no kids were present wherever they ended up sleeping, though the assumption that she would want to be alone with him at one of their houses was a big one. That took him back into the loop. Was there any evidence that she was interested in a relationship?
He was more comfortable in this house than in his own. He needed colour on his walls. Which room would he do first? Probably the bedroom though maybe the lounge.
2.58 am. This is silly, drop it until the morning. Stop thinking. But wait a minute, there could be a pathway based on the action plan. Assume all points listed were steps to the ultimate goal of having sex with Bridget. Three short term objectives were accomplished – telling his mother about the separation, tea at Harrods with Jabulani, and the first meeting with Bridget. That left one incomplete action – finalising the divorce from Jane. Getting that done would have a positive impact on the Bridget situation. Why wait for Jane to take the lead? What was constituted as fair in dividing their assets? Does fairness come into it bearing in mind she walked out? She was out to get what she could, fair or not, as indicated by the bill for the clothes lost in the shed fire. He began to construct two lists, one of assets for him, one for her.
It was a bit like counting sheep. Finally he slept.
The Reunion – R J Gould
Chapter 16
Rachel was standing by the lounge door. “Where’s the telly, dad?” “Morning, Rachel. It’s under the dust sheet, I don’t want to get any paint on it.” David was in the hall on his way to the lounge, carrying a large pot of emulsion, a tray and a roller. Rachel allowed him to pass then followed him. The furniture had been stacked and covered in the centre of the room. Plastic sheeting protected the floor and a ladder rested where the television once stood. David opened the lid and poured paint into the tray. He placed it on the ladder platform then climbed up two rungs, roller in hand and paint brush upturned in the back pocket of jeans that had seen better days and were dotted with an assortment of off-white splodges. He dipped the roller into the tray and ran an untidy line across the wall close to the ceiling.
“Are you mad?” Rachel exclaimed. “It’s orange.”
“Burnt umber actually.”
“Well it’s orange as far as I’m concerned.”
“Read the label on the tin. It’s burnt umber.”
“Sam,” Rachel called out. “Quick, come here.” They heard a scamper downstairs then Sam entered. “What colour is this?”
Sam frowned, confused by the simplicity of the question. He looked over to David, anxious not to give an incorrect answer. “Orange,” he declared meekly.
“Not according to dad. He reckons it’s burnt something or other. Which of course is hardly the point. Our living room is being turned into, I don’t know, a headache inducing hippy hideout. Dad, will you stop painting and listen?”
David paused, roller at the ready. It was surprisingly quick to do, but would need a second coat. The big decision was whether to do one wall in this colour or all four. He looked down at his two children. “I’m listening.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I feel like a change.”
“But why not one of the colours we usually have?”
“Rachel, I didn’t realise how conservative you are. I want to be bold, to try something completely different. Why not make some tea?” He applied another line of burnt umber. The previously applied paint was already drying – it was darker.
“No I fuc, no I won’t. I’m going to have to watch telly on the computer.” She left the room and marched upstairs.
“I’ll make tea, dad.”
“Thanks, Sam. Maybe some toast, too.”
David continued painting, humming favourite songs as he worked. He’d do all four walls to recapture the spirit of Bridget’s house with its dominant dark colours and moody, shadowy spaces. He’d barely started the second one when Sam came in with tea and toast.
“I’m not sure about this colour, dad.”
“Nor am I to be truthful, but never mind.”
He set the roller down on the near empty tray and sat on the floor with his son to eat and drink. “I suppose we’ll get used to it,” the diplomatic youngster suggested.
Da
vid finished his tea and sprang up. “Thanks, Sam. I’d better get going before the roller dries out.” He added paint to the tray, shifted the ladder round and resumed painting. He was all set to start the fourth wall when there was a ring at the doorbell.
Rachel called out. “I’ll go, it’ll be Daisy for me.”
It was Jane. David heard her announce that she’d forgotten her key. There was no response from Rachel; he heard his daughter head back upstairs.
Jane was standing by the lounge door. “What are you doing, have you gone quite mad?”
“Hello Jane. No I haven’t gone mad, but thanks for your concern.”
“It’s ghastly, you’re ruining our lounge.”
“It’s not ‘ours’. You don’t live here, remember?”
“But I do own part of it. If we need to sell who’s going to buy a house with an orange lounge?”
“Someone I know would,” David said, the hint not picked up. “Anyway it’s not orange, it’s burnt umber.”
“Well it looks orange to me.” She watched him spread colour on the previously Almond White wall. “We need to talk, David.”
“I’m rather busy.”
“It’s important.”
David didn’t want the roller to dry out or the remaining paint in the tray to harden. But he had yet to escape the habit of doing what Jane wanted when she wanted. He got off the ladder and wiped his hands across his jeans, creating two uneven burnt umber stripes.
“Ridiculous,” Jane fumed as she led him into the kitchen and switched on the cappuccino machine. “Coffee?”
“No thanks, I’ve just had tea.” Once again he resolved to move things around as he watched her glide from cupboard to cupboard collecting the necessaries. He would reduce the clinical neatness in the kitchen too.