Room 119

by T F Lince

  “Thanks, Kyle, I’ll see you in school.”

  Kyle nodded and gave her a smile.

  “I’ll have a think, Jodie. Like you say, there must be a way, but white gets beaten time after time. They’re under too much pressure from the beginning.”

  Jodie started resetting the board back to where she’d left the game with her dad. She knew the positions off by heart having reset it so often.

  “I know, Kyle, but I can’t give in now.”

  Jodie leant forward and gave him a peck on the cheek.

  “What was that for?” Kyle’s tone was defensive. She’d caught him off guard and he felt himself going red.

  “Just because, Kyle, that’s all. Just because. Thanks.”

  Jodie smiled at him. Kyle had regathered his thoughts and tried to regain some control, giving Jodie a playful punch on the arm.

  “Idiot!” he said. Jodie looked at him; she didn’t need to retaliate.

  “Your help means a lot, Kyle. I can’t do this on my own.”

  “Kyle…” A yell, unmistakable and Doreen shaped, came from downstairs. Although Sarah had just seen her soft side, her default setting was loud, brash and controlling.

  “Kyle…” A second shriek was not good, and Kyle did not want to hear a third.

  “I’d better go, Jodie. Let me know if you have any ideas.” He gave her another sneaky punch as he left, running out of range as he knew he would not get a second free hit without retaliation. Jodie gave him a wave.

  “Bugger off, Kyle. Idiot!”

  Jodie and her mum had just finished off Doreen’s lasagne. It was the first good meal Sarah had eaten for a couple of weeks, and that coupled with her chat with Doreen had made her feel more positive.

  “Right, Jodie, no more down in the dumps. We have to get on with this now. When we wake up in the morning, we are going to be positive. Agreed?” Sarah held her hand out for a high five, and got a mid to lowering five. But it was still classified as a five, so it was a start.

  “OK, Mum. I’m just trying to find a way for Dad to win. I need him to win – you know that, don’t you?”

  “Jodie, I know, but it won’t bring your dad back, honey. He’s not been in touch since yesterday.” Sarah’s lips wobbled momentarily. How she wished now that she hadn’t been so hard on Dean at Jodie’s school; apart from one voicemail message, neither she nor Jodie had heard from him since. Nor did he answer his phone when they called him. “We’re on our own for now.”

  “Yes, Mum, I know. Positive tomorrow, right?” Jodie’s shoulders were slumped, but her mother could see she was trying.

  “Yes, JoJo, tomorrow’s another day. Go on, up you go.”

  Upstairs in the privacy of her room, Jodie looked at the chessboard again. The blacks glared at the whites, knowing the next game was going to be theirs. Jodie picked up the black queen and stared her in the eye.

  “I think you need to back off my dad for a bit and give him a break.”

  She replaced the queen in her home position. She then did this with all the pieces so they could have a break from the war. The white pieces looked like they had been given a stay of execution; it was as if they let out a simultaneous sigh of relief. The white king could give them a good motivational team talk and prepare for tomorrow’s battle. If there was to be a battle tomorrow.

  Jodie crawled into bed just as her mother entered the room. Sarah looked at the reset chessboard and smiled. Her daughter was moving on, and God knows, she needed to.

  “You know it’s for the best, Jodie. We have to keep living our lives, you know.”

  Jodie was under the covers, facing the wall and trying not to cry. She wasn’t giving up on her dad; she was giving everyone a break.

  “It’s just for tonight, Mum. I couldn’t face another night of the black team bullying my dad.”

  Chapter 17 – Old Friends

  Dean did not sleep this time; he wanted to make sure whatever happened was not a dream. After a couple of hours with no funfair activity outside, he popped down to the bar for a couple of drinks.

  The room housing the bar was very grand with oak panelling on the walls intersected with paintings of racehorses, some more modern than others. The newer paintings actually looked like racehorses; the older ones looked like something L S Lowry might have painted. They were really matchstick animals with long bodies as if they had been stretched out of proportion.

  The bar itself was a lighter wood with a brass footrest. This would not be required today as there was no queue, and footrests were for queues. A young barman was cleaning glasses one by one with a cloth, inspecting each one before placing it back in the row and automatically picking up the next one like he was on a glass cleaning production line. However, the barman, in his early twenties, tall and slim with blond hair and a blond moustache that looked as if it was apologising for being on his top lip, looked quite happy in his work. It seemed a shame to interrupt such a well-oiled machine on the glass upkeep, but needs must.

  “What beers have you got, please, David?” Dean had already clocked the barman’s name badge, and politeness never hurts.

  “Oh, you’ll wish you’d never asked, sir.”

  Dean already wished he hadn’t asked the minute David uttered those words. The next five minutes consisted of David reciting a well-rehearsed speech not only listing the beers and lagers, but telling Dean where they were brewed, what percentage alcohol they contained, and the colour and taste they offered.

  ”…and this one is brewed in Skipton, Yorkshire by the Crafty Dog brewery. It’s their flagship beer called Pippin, and it’s a light…”

  Dean stopped David in full flow.

  “That one will do, David. You had me at Yorkshire.”

  “Good choice, sir.”

  David pulled out a Crafty Dog Pippin branded glass and poured the beer with a great deal of love and care. David really liked his beer, Dean could tell. When he wasn’t talking about or pouring beer, Dean suspected he was drinking it. Maybe he was the head of the Suffolk branch of CAMRA, the Campaign for Real Ale.

  “I think you’ll enjoy that. Is it on Room 119, sir?” David rang the price into an old-fashioned till and got Dean to sign a slip of paper.

  “Yes, Room 119.” Dean didn’t bother asking how David knew his room number. There were only another three or four people in the bar, and the rest of them all had a drink, so maybe his was the only room number that hadn’t yet been served. “Thanks, David.”

  Dean went and sat near a pool table, which looked as old as the hotel with beer stains all over the cloth. The pictures on the wall in this area were not of horses, but of dogs drinking, smoking and playing pool. Dean thought the artist must have been on something stronger than Crafty Dog’s Pippin when he’d painted them.

  “Do you play?” said the man sitting to the right of Dean. A young woman next to him was sharing a drink with him.

  “A little,” Dean replied, although he played more than a little. Dean was a natural at most things, but at bar games he was very good, especially pool. All the misspent hours in his youth, playing pool for money in the pubs in Whitby, had paid off. He had what the locals where he grew up called ‘form.’

  His potential opponent, in his early twenties, enthusiastically sprang up out of his chair and checked his trousers for a 10p piece. Dean looked at his young, fresh face.

  “Do I know you?” he enquired.

  “I don’t think so. Suffolk born and bred. Are you from around these parts?”

  “No, I’ve only been here once before. Last week, in fact,” Dean confirmed.

  “Well, that will be a no then, sir, you don’t know me.” The young man slid the 10p into one of four slots and the balls came flying out ready to be assembled.

  Dean took a swig of his drink and chose his cue from the six in the rack. It was not a difficult choice as only three had tips, and one of them was tiny.

  “Do you want to break?” Dean thought he would offer.

  “Yep, I’ll break,
thanks,” the man replied as he finished racking up the balls in the customary order forming their starting positions. He grabbed the only other serviceable cue and approached the table. After chalking the tip, he smashed the balls apart.

  He potted a stripe off the break, and his girlfriend sat up and clapped ferociously. Dean thought it was a bit early for cheerleading; it was only one ball. He smiled at her, but she was too busy admiring her boyfriend as if he was a knight in shining armour.

  After potting another couple of balls, both of which were greeted with cheers from the adoring fan, the young man missed, allowing Dean in. The spots were not in a great position, but Dean had a pot on. It was a difficult pot, but it was at least an opportunity. Dean managed to sink it and move a few other balls in the process. He was then able to manoeuver around the table, plotting a path from ball to ball before slotting home the black.

  He looked at the man to see if he would like another game.

  “One–nil to me,” the man claimed. Dean gaped at him, and then looked at his girlfriend who was already on cheerleading duties.

  “Did we win? Did we win?”

  “So I’m guessing you have a local rule. And I guess I have just broken it.” Dean laughed as he leant on his cue.

  “That’s right, you have. You must nominate the pocket you put the black in, everyone knows that.”

  It was obvious which pocket Dean had intended to pot the black ball into; it had been hovering over the lip of the right-hand corner pocket, but it was not worth the argument.

  “Rules are rules,” he said, accepting his punishment. “One–nil to you.” There was more clapping from the girlfriend, which Dean didn’t acknowledge as it was getting a bit annoying. “Before we start, are there any other rules I should know about? Two shots for a foul, I guess, and white ball behind the line. Only one shot on the black…”

  “No, just remember to nominate your pocket on the black. Schoolboy error.”

  Dean nodded.

  “Right you are. Mugs away, then.”

  Dean put an old style 10p piece in the slot. The man had left the coin on the side of the table as if to reserve the next game, which seemed excessive as no one else looked like they wanted to play, but Dean had no coins on him and was grateful for it. To his surprise, the out-of-date coin worked in the middle slot, and the noise unique to pool tables rang out as the balls made their way through the labyrinth of wooden tunnels.

  Dean racked up and broke the balls open, potting two stripes before clearing up, being sure to nominate the black into the far corner.

  This time, there was no clapping and no steward’s enquiry. The man simply said, “One–one, well played. Should we have a decider?”

  Dean looked at the empty glasses on the table.

  “You paid for the game, so let me buy you both a drink first. What would you and your good lady like?”

  “I’ll have a Pippin.” Dean was quite pleased the man didn’t reply, “What do they have?” If David had to go through his beer speech again, they might miss last orders. “And Betty will have a gin and tonic, thanks.”

  While the man reset the table, Dean headed to the bar where David was now on the bottom shelf of his glass cleaning marathon. After ordering the drinks and signing the chit, Dean picked up the gin and tonic. David offered to bring the beers over as they needed to settle and would require a top-up, and he wasn’t going to let a sub-standard pint go into general circulation on his watch. Dean let him have his way and headed back to the pool table.

  After the break when nothing went down, Dean mopped up without his opponent getting another look in. He named the pocket for the black, apologising as he did so.

  “Sorry, think you just caught me on a good day.”

  Dean offered his hand for a handshake; the young man smiled and gave his congratulations.

  “Care to join us?” he asked. Dean nodded and moved a stool from where he had been sitting before the pool games.

  “So, what brings you two love birds here, then?”

  “It’s our first weekend away. Sort of a honeymoon, I guess. We got married last week. This is my lovely wife, Betty.”

  The young man took her hand in his and squeezed it tightly. He had not said, “This is my wife,” many times yet. It all still seemed new and special.

  “Well, congratulations to you both.” Dean held his glass slightly higher to salute the newlyweds. “So pleased to meet you, Betty. I don’t think I got your name, sir?”

  “It’s Albert. Albert and Elizabeth Greening.”

  Dean knew he’d seen the young man before, but not as a twenty-something. More as a sixty-something. He looked into their eyes before quizzing them.

  “Have you ever been to Beachy Head, guys?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Why, is it nice?”

  Dean was not surprised with their answer. They hadn’t been there yet, but they would in about forty years or so.

  “One day you will, and you’ll be doing someone a great favour by being there.” Dean smiled warmly at them both as if he had a secret he wasn’t going to tell.

  “If you say so. And what’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Albert was still holding Betty’s hand tightly and she was gazing at him. They were so in love, and Dean knew that they would be for a very long time.

  “It’s Dean. Dean Harrison. Pleased to meet you both.”

  So Dean had already met them both before when he encountered them on Beachy Head, but it was so long ago that it hadn’t happened yet. He would shake Albert’s hand again, technically for the first time, in forty years or so. He then stood up to kiss Betty on both cheeks.

  “Well, I know you are going to have an amazing life together.” Dean said this with great authority. He took a moment to visualise them on top of Beachy Head when he’d been at his lowest ebb. He hardly knew them, but he owed them a lot; he would not be here if it hadn’t been for them.

  “Another drink, Albert, Betty?” Dean did not wait for an answer. It was the least he could do. He got up and headed for the bar mid-way through the offer.

  After Dean arrived back at the table armed with another round of drinks on a tray, Albert said, “Thank you, Dean. So, are you married, then? What have we got to look forward to? Any advice?”

  Dean thought about Sarah and Jodie and how much he loved and missed them.

  “Yes, I’m married to Sarah, and we have a teenage daughter, Jodie. If you want advice, I would say always appreciate what you have and never stop loving each other, not even for a second. When you think only about yourself, you allow gaps and cracks to appear that break up everything holding you all together.”

  Dean was welling up inside and his voice was struggling to maintain a steady tone. His emotions were getting the better of him.

  “Just live each day like it’s the first day you met. Otherwise you’ll never know where it all went wrong. Before you know it, you’ll be playing catch up and trying to find a way to put things right.”

  Dean felt like he was getting more out of this advice than Albert and Betty.

  “We’ll always be in love, won’t we, Betty?” They looked into each other’s eyes and kissed.

  Ding-ding.

  “Last orders at the bar,” David proudly announced to a more or less empty room.

  “One for the road, Albert?” Dean could do with another.

  “No, Dean. We have loved your company, but it’s getting quite late and we have a big day tomorrow. We are going to tell our parents we’ve just got married.”

  “Oh, good luck with that. I’m sure it will be fine.”

  Dean thought he’d leave too. He now knew what this visit was all about – not funfairs, but self-reflection.

  “I think I’ll hit the sack too after this one. Next time, maybe. Look after each other, you two.” Dean knew they would. “See you around,” he added. He meant to say, “See you in forty years or so,” but he didn’t want to mess with their heads too much.

 
“Bye, Dean, it was so nice to meet you,” Betty said. She smiled and gave him a wave as she and Albert were leaving the bar, hand in hand. Dean smiled and waved back at them. His thoughts more than ever were about Sarah and Jodie and how he was going to get them back. They were so important to him, but he could not see a clear path to reset the world.

  He had another gulp of his beer, then he remembered Beachy Head. How did they know that I would be there?

  “Albert! Betty!” he shouted. “Can you do me a favour?”

  Albert and Betty turned and headed back to him.

  “Wait there, I need a pen.” Dean asked David for a pen before returning to the table. He took a beer mat and ripped off one side, leaving a white area to write on.

  “If you are still together in forty years or so, can you be somewhere for me? I have a feeling there will be someone there who will need your help.”

  Dean wrote on the beer mat:

  Albert & Betty

  Beachy Head

  11 May 2017 – 8pm

  I might need you there.

  Dean Harrison, Room 119 x

  Albert looked a bit confused as he read the message out loud to Betty. “Beachy Head, the 11th of May, 2017, 8pm. OK, Dean Harrison, if we are still alive, that’s a deal.” He laughed and gave the beer mat to Betty, who placed it carefully into her handbag.

  “See you in forty-three years,” she said, giving Dean a kiss before heading out of the bar.

  Chapter 18 – The Sound of the Sea

  On his way past Reception, Dean could hear the faint sounds of singing. He vaguely recognised the song, a sea shanty, ‘Liverpool Lou’, which took him back to his childhood. His dad used to sing it with his mates in the pub after fishing.

  What now? he thought. As if the last couple of hours hadn’t been weird enough, ‘Liverpool Lou’ in the heart of Suffolk? He was miles from the sea.

  He walked over to Mrs McCauley. “What’s going on downstairs?” he asked.