by Gould, R J
They sat at the table. Jane took a deep breath then began. “I’m here to talk about one thing, but before I begin I must comment on Rachel’s appalling behaviour. She’s still refusing to speak to me. I think you’re at least in part responsible, David.”
“Me? I don’t quite see how.”
“You could talk to her, she listens to you.”
“Jane, she’s your daughter as well as mine. It’s you she’s angry with so it’s up to you to sort it out. I’m not getting involved.”
Jane frowned, she wasn’t used to resistance from her soon to be ex-husband. “Well that isn’t why I’ve come over. Jim and I are planning a holiday and we’d like to tie going away with getting married. We need to push ahead sorting out finances and then the divorce.”
“Fine by me. I want to get moving too,” he said, based on what he’d decided when lying in bed at Bridget’s house. That was over two weeks ago. They had spoken several times since, but had yet to meet up again.
“Good,” Jane said with a degree of suspicion. “I’ve made a list of what I think are our assets and my solicitor suggests we have a fifty-fifty split.”
She handed him word processed sheets and David glanced at what was written. There were appropriate sub-headings. Some of the items on the list indicated an input from Jim or her solicitor because Jane had never shown enough interest in financial matters to identify things like Cash ISAs, fixed and variable rate savings accounts, government and corporate bonds, shares and premium bonds. Jane’s contribution clearly kicked in with possessions in the home. These were catalogued in intricate detail with estimates of values added in a second column.
At the bottom of the sheet the house was dealt with. ‘To be retained by David until children reach school leaving age and then either sold and the price less any remaining mortgage split or David hands over a sum equivalent to 50% of the value of the house as agreed by two independent estate agents.’
David looked up. Jane spoke before he could comment. “Jim thinks everything is covered but says you must add anything else we own. It’s your responsibility to be honest about this.”
“I’m not quite sure what Jim has to do with it.”
“He’s my partner – we share things.”
David paused to contain rising anger and succeeded in remaining detached. “There are a couple of things that come to mind. Who pays the mortgage while I’m living here with the children? And do you intend to contribute towards the children’s upbringing?”
“Not for Rachel the way she’s behaving.”
“Let’s assume that’s a short term issue.”
“I’ll need to speak to my solicitor about it. And Jim, too.”
“Yes you do that. Actually this list isn’t very far removed from the one I’ve been putting together with my solicitor. I’m surprised you haven’t received it yet because I authorised him to send it a few days ago.”
“You have a solicitor?”
“Yes.”
“I thought we could do this amicably, David.”
“But you have a solicitor so I need one too. It’s only fair.”The expression on Jane’s face didn’t suggest fairness was high on her list of considerations. “I’m sure you’ll get the letter soon, I want this sorted as much as you do. Look, I must get going before the roller dries out. I hope to get started on the bedroom today, too. Put the mug in the dishwasher on your way out please.”
“The bedroom? Why, we only did it last year?”
“I think it needs a warmer colour than Apple White. I’ve chosen Redcurrant Glory.”
“Red!”
“It’s more purple than red.”
With a shake of the head and a sigh Jane left.
David hadn’t decided on the bedroom colour and had no intention of starting to decorate it that day. It just seemed like good fun to wind Jane up. However, he painted with less enthusiasm now, the conversation with Jane had depressed him. Although he’d tackled the financial separation with gusto, the thought of the next step, divorce, filled him with trepidation.
Having applied the second coat he was left with a room that was dark and perhaps overwhelming. Why had he done it? To be like Bridget? To make him more attractive based on wall colour?
His confidence waned. The telephone conversations with Bridget over the past two weeks had been friendly enough, but she’d declined his suggestions for meeting, claiming children and work prevented any socialising.
Later that afternoon, while checking his emails, he clicked into a lastminute.com message that advertised secret theatre seat deals. He took the risk and booked two tickets for the following Thursday. Chicago came up. Next he called Bridget and asked if she’d like to come along to the show. She agreed.
“It’s not high culture,” he apologised.
“I’m OK with low culture,” she replied.
“But what about no culture?”
The Reunion – R J Gould
Chapter 17
“Thanks for that, David. It was fun. And I love these old theatres.” They made their way towards the exit from the third row in the stalls, their lastminute.com super seat at the Garrick Theatre.
“I enjoyed it, too. I needed a bit of escapism; it’s cheered me up no end. Fancy a drink before we head back?”
“Not tonight, I don’t like getting home late when the kids are alone. I’ve got a busy day at work tomorrow, too. I’m setting up an exhibition for a new artist at the gallery.”
Bridget had an impressive knowledge of the geography of Central London. With authoritative strides she led David through tiny lanes and alleyways as they made their way to the underground. Kitts Yard gave David the impression that they were in a time warp. It was a long passageway devoid of cars, each side housing two-storey brick warehouses that had seen better days. Old fashioned street lights provided a hazy yellowish glow. Remarkable such a place existed just a stone’s throw away from the affluence and bustle of the West End.
They walked in silence, comfortable with each other’s company and content to soak up the atmosphere.
“You two. Stop!” growled a voice. They turned to see a shape in the shadows, leaning against a dustbin that was overflowing and surrounded by loose rubbish piled high. His hoodie dispelled the Victorian ambiance.
Without the need for consultation, Bridget and David took the sensible decision to continue walking with a quickened step, but the tall, stocky man stepped out in front of them.
He stood close to David, blocking his path. “You ‘eard me, I said stop,” he yelled, presenting David with an unpleasant combination of stale beer and body odour. “I want your stuff.”
David was affronted that their peaceful walk had been disturbed. Commendably, he had absolutely no fear of danger. “What stuff?” he jibed.
“What d’you mean ‘what stuff’? All your stuff – yer money, yer phone, yer cards,” the assailant screamed into David’s face. He turned to Bridget with a slightly softer tone as if in deference to her femininity. “And yours.”
“I’ve got a watch, would you like that, too? It’s good quality. Sekonda,” David teased as he lifted up his wrist to exhibit a silver coloured timepiece with a black leather strap. He glanced at Bridget who was looking at him with incredulity.
“Don’t mess with me. Hand yer valuables over. Now!” His voice had somehow increased in volume from the previous scream.
“There’s no need to shout.” David was enjoying this fearless flippancy.
“What?” he shrieked as he grabbed David by the lapels.
“I said there’s no need to shout.”
David’s attitude was not welcomed by Bridget. “Let him have what he wants and let’s go,” she suggested.
“I’m only advising him not to shout, Bridget.” David turned to face the man, their noses touching. “It’s not good for your health.”
The attacker was somewhat taken aback by his victim’s concern and their noses disengaged. David continued. “If you act like this it’ll give you h
igh blood pressure. Do you get heart palpitations?”
“Do I what?”
“Does your heart thump when you’re robbing people? You know you could have a stroke if you’re not careful. And that’s not to mention the potential damage to your vocal chords, too...”
The last thing David heard before he hit the floor was ‘don’t you take the piss with me.’ He was vaguely aware of his jacket being opened and things taken out, then being rolled onto his stomach and his wallet lifted from the back pocket of his trousers. As he regained a sense of the now, he saw Bridget surrender her handbag to the man. They both looked down at David.
“Scumbag,” the man spat, before giving David a light-hearted farewell kick to the ribs and heading off.
Bridget was left kneeling down by his side. David was all set to tell her what a cheek it was being called a scumbag by a man who was one hell of a scumbag himself. He wanted to make light of the whole incident, to jump up and head off to the underground in the hope the thief hadn’t taken their tickets. It was a disappointment to discover he was unable to sit, let alone jump up, and he couldn’t speak.
Two observations flashed through his mind ahead of passing out.
This was the second time in their relatively short time together that Bridget had seen him punched and floored.
And this punch was substantially more forceful than the one Ben Carpenter had dispensed at the reunion.
~
David regained consciousness as the ambulance was pulling up at the hospital. He was lying on a bed and the left side of his face was excruciatingly painful, a dull thud running from his temple through his ear and down to his chin. He lifted his hand to his face and traced a bandage wrapped up and around his head. It was fastened with a bow. Realisation that he must look ridiculous brought back the memory of what had happened. He lifted his head to see if Bridget was still with him.
“Best to keep your head still, sir.” He glanced sideways to the blur of a powder blue uniform. “We’re all set to get you out.”
“Gigget?” he enquired, now concerned for her well-being. His flippancy had put her in danger, too.
“Yes, I’m here David. Everything’s OK.”
“Garldy, I gug look rigigulus.”
“No, you look fine.”
David was impressed with Bridget’s language skills. However he wasn’t sure whether he was glad she was with him or not. It wasn’t going to do much for his I-am-a-cool-man-who-you-want-to-have-a-relationship-with image.
By now the door was open and he was being stretchered off the vehicle. He looked up to a modern, attractive high rise with lots of glass and very little concrete visible.
“Gare ar gee?”
“Pardon sir?” the paramedic asked.
“University College Hospital, David.” Bridget’s interpretation skills again impressed him, but aware that he sounded absurd, he decided not to test them further.
The A&E reception was immaculately designed and maintained. The staff were impeccably dressed, polite and efficient. What a pity about the patients. Being late evening in Central London, the place was heaving with patients who were either drunk or drugged or both. Judging by appearances, they had over done it to the extent of inflicting self-harm or subjecting others to their uncontrolled aggression. Two policemen were on guard, twice having to intervene to break up fights in the short period before David was seen.
A nurse assessed the severity of the damage and commissioned an X-ray.
“Good news,” she said when she returned a short while later. She held the X-ray aloft. “The doctor says it’s a dislocation, not a fracture.”
“Guy is gat getter?”
“Exactly,” answered the uncomprehending nurse. “The doctor will be in to see you soon.”
The next half hour was not pleasant. He was given two injections to numb the pain and then had to sit up while a doctor juggled with his face, using his thumbs to push David’s cheeks this way and that. He was told that this was to get his face back to the right shape. Then on went another bandage with the bow on top.
At this point Bridget was called in for the discussion about next steps. A prescription was issued to provide anti-inflammatories and muscle relaxants. He was then presented with an eating and drinking regime of liquids and blended soft foods for the next two weeks. Even yawning and sneezing were covered. The doctor, a stout bearded fellow with a Scottish accent, simulated a yawn to demonstrate how David would need to support his jaw with his hands to prevent over stretching. And there was Bridget witnessing all this demeaning dialogue. Are they going to cover pooing and farting next, David wondered?
But that was it. The doctor stood. “Well I’m finished. I’d better tackle some of the lovelies waiting out there.”
“Gank oo. Go I neeg to cun gack?”
“Pardon?”
“He’s asking if he needs to come back.”
“No, we’ll write to his GP and a visit there will suffice.”
By now David had become aware of a further embarrassment – he was drooling. Saliva was gushing out his mouth and down his chin, to be soaked up by the bottom of the bandage.
Standing by the door to the cubicle, the doctor turned to look at David. “You’re a lucky man,” he said. “With a good woman like this to look after you, you’ll be fine.”
The good woman took him home in a taxi and spent time explaining to Rachel and Sam what care would be needed. She then ordered a second taxi to take her home.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, David. Look after yourself.”
“Gank oo, Gigget. Solly agout togite.”
The Reunion – R J Gould
Chapter 18
The next day Rachel took time off school to care for David. By the time he woke she had googled ‘diet for dislocated jaw’ and David entered a kitchen that resembled a food factory. She had been to the supermarket. Orange juice, soda water, yoghurt, bouillon cubes and a large container of straws were lined up on one of the counters. The liquidiser stood on another work surface. Fortunately this was not one of the items Jane had decided to commandeer because it was to prove very useful over the following week or so. Next to it were potatoes, vegetables, cottage cheese, apple puree, two pots of organic baby food, bananas and a large cube of tofu.
“Wow, ganks Gachel.”
“That’s OK, dad. I’ll be an expert before long.” She lifted up the tofu. “I wouldn’t dream of touching this muck normally, but I read that you need lots of protein and this is good because it’s soft. We can invite Bridget and her children round to share it, it’s bound to be one of their favourites.”
“Very gunny.”
“Seriously though, everything needs to be blended. I thought for breakfast you could have tea and a fruit smoothie, then maybe vegetable soup for lunch and mashed spaghetti for dinner.”
She made the tea and smoothie and handed him two straws.
After breakfast David sat in the lounge feeling sorry for himself. The burnt umber ambience didn’t go well with a thumping headache and a sore jaw; the painkillers might be helping but not enough.
Mid-morning there was a knock on the front door.
Rachel came into the lounge followed by a policeman and woman. The hospital had informed the Mill Hill constabulary about the attack and the two officers had been sent to interview David ahead of writing a report and opening a crime investigation. The recording process was slow since unlike Bridget, these two were unable to understand what he was saying. He had to write down answers to their questions and the policewoman then copied them onto an electronic notepad. David was of the opinion that it didn’t matter what was written as the chance of anyone being caught was nil. He was given a crime number which at least would be useful in making an insurance claim.
Over the next few days the large pack of straws was used up in the consumption of mushy concoctions. Gradually Rachel thickened the consistency of the meals and within a week he was able to eat using a teaspoon. During that time he had visits from Br
idget (twice), Jane with Jim (once) and Jabulani (once).
He was ready to go back to work the following Monday, ten days after the attack. Rachel provided precise instructions about what he was allowed to consume. She had been a tremendous help even though he had to put up with a large dose of teasing.
He’d forgotten this Monday was the date for his annual staff review. He found an email reminder prefixed by a High Importance exclamation mark. At 9.55 am he made his way down the corridor to Mary’s office. Today she was French Sophisticate with a navy and beige hooped jumper, chocolate brown pencil skirt and hair in a ponytail.
Her office said quite a bit about Mary. At an exact forty-five degree angle on the corner of the large desk was a framed photo of herself in ski gear. No children, boyfriend or husband in sight. Her plant of choice was cactus, a line of five were evenly placed across her windowsill. A good plant for her, he reckoned – sharp, aggressive, arid. Art work on her walls comprised of two certificates, her first class degree diploma and a Price Waterhouse Coopers Employee of the Month award. Books and files were stacked immaculately on shelves. As he sat down, David had the urge to disturb the tidy column of A4 sheets in front of him.
She droned on about the purpose of the staff review, how it gave both parties the opportunity to step back from everyday activity to reflect on the past year’s achievements and to consider objectives for the following year. Yes Mary, David thought, I do know all this. I have conducted staff appraisals for over twenty years.
“Nice cacti,” he remarked when she’d stopped.
“Oh, thank you. But let’s get started. I forgot to mention something, David. This is very much a two-way process and you’re welcome to provide feedback about my performance. And everything said is just between us.”
In assessing his effectiveness at work including his level of enthusiasm and motivation, Mary revealed her two main concerns. She was unsure whether he was managing his team well and she feared family issues were impacting on performance. Although furious that his family was up for discussion, this being totally out of order, David declined to raise an objection.