“Your hair looks a little less messy.”
“You think? I had it all shampooed at the salon,” he says in Marilyn Monroe voice, puffing it up more.
I cry with laughter and my stomach hurts. Thank God for Warrick.
“I lied,” I admit, breaking the spell.
“What about?” His chin is in his hand.
“I told Betsy and Ruby the trip was off this year. It was off. I didn’t want to go this year. I was dreading… something.”
He nods and waits patiently, beckoning with his eyes.
“Today… today…” I summon my mouth to work, “…twenty years.”
I bite my lip to fight my tears and look down at the table.
He takes my hand and I let him hold it, feeling comforted by his warmth.
“Then you must have booked this last-minute?”
“Yep. It just seemed silly to miss out.”
“How much do I owe you?” He gets his wallet out and demands I tell him, looking down on me with those brooding, unrelenting chocolate-brown eyes.
“Shut it. No.”
“How much, wench? Otherwise I shall start shouting wench all over this ship and we’ll see how you like that.”
“Seventy.”
I see he has a lot of notes in his wallet, two sets in fact, separated by a divider at the back of his purse. A colourful collection tells me he has a load of euros stashed in there for later. How come euros are always crisp, colourful and much more attractive then our currency? He throws some scruffy pound notes before me.
“That ought to pay for at least half your intake of food today.”
I snigger and take the money. We’ll live it up today. Why not?
After a quiet bus ride, we reach the Venice of the North and I breathe the air like it’s life itself. I feel extracted from my woes and my worries back home. As we begin to wind our way through the cobbled, immaculate streets fringed with cartoon houses, I coil my gloved fingers through his and shrug my shoulder.
“Say you love it here.”
“I love it here,” I admit. I needed to come.
“I can tell from the look on your face.”
I am smiling. I feel happy for a moment, or two. We both do.
I like that he’s back in his normal clothes; a grey scraggy old jumper, a pair of worn black jeans, sneakers and his corduroy jacket. He’s wearing a checked scarf wrapped in the European fashion of any which way will do and it looks good on him. He suits Bruges. It suits him. He looks happy, maybe because I admitted why I was such a cow yesterday and why I needed him here with me today.
I have on my new coat and I feel a squillion euros in this thing, coupled with my new jeans. He keeps glancing at the coat and remarking, “Best money I ever spent.”
We acclimatise in silence while we get our bearings and decide food has to be the first purchase of the day. It’s half the point of coming to Bruges.
We sit on a bench in the main square and I have waffles with melted chocolate and cream from a vendor. He has crepes with ham and cheese and I feel happier, so does he by the look of him. It’s a bright day but we will need to keep moving if we are to keep warm.
“I remember when I turned fifteen and felt shocked that I’d lived longer without her than with her. Like a thump to the gut.”
He squints through the glare of the low sun and asks, “Why did she, you know?”
“Dunno. Don’t know if I want to. Granny said it was just the way she was. Kind of, tragic, if you like.”
“What did she do?”
“She was a dancer, well, until me. I got the feeling my father wasn’t the best person for her.”
“You have the look of a dancer too,” he remarks.
“Do I? I have always considered myself a bit of a clot, clopping everywhere.”
“You are a silly woman, you know? For someone with all those brains, you don’t half talk daft sometimes. You could have been in Swan Lake, easily, with the way you look. All bonny features and long limbs.”
I feel embarrassed and brush him off, “And I suppose you’d be my Heathcliff, yeah? With your dark, brooding ways and rough manners?”
“You’re just mixing too many genres now, woman!”
I sigh and throw my trash in the bin that sits by my side. He passes me his empty carton and I throw that in too.
“It still hurts, every day, doesn’t it?”
He ruffles his hair and his eyes squeeze shut on a drawn-out, painful, “Yeah.”
“It hurts that I will never know what parts of me are from her. I’ll never know how alike or unlike her I am. Dad never wanted to talk about the woman who left him in the lurch.”
“I don’t think I like him, to be honest.”
I smile.
“No, you’re nothing, not one iota, like him. You’re a good man, Warrick. It’s written all over your face.”
“Gosh, that’s the nicest thing you have ever said to me!” He holds his hand over his heart and winces with mock-emotion.
I slap his knee and curse him.
“How were you like your mother, Rick?”
I need this connection now, if not for me, then for him. He’s bringing out all the protective, maternal qualities I have been burying for so long. I yearn for that chance now. I sense that’s the one way I can finally feel like I have some similarity to her; by becoming a wife or mother, or someone who just means something to someone. He’s making me want this now.
He taps his knee and sits back, closing his eyes as he lets the sun shine down on his face.
“My dad is a tradesman, always has been, always will be. Proper boy of the neighbourhood, he was, until my mother caught his eye and changed him. He loves meeting people, talking, laughing and bridging gaps. He’s a good guy but only because my mum made him that way. Salt of the earth types. I guess I am like her in that I wanted something more for my mind so I went to college and studied social work, got my GNVQ. Then I was derailed by a call to be a policeman. So I veered from the same path as her for a bit. Thought I was on the right route, but maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I always knew I was too deep for the role of DC. I was promoted so quick, with a head like mine.”
“Derailed, you say?”
“Anna, my ex. She was joining the police and I decided to follow her. We knew each other since school.”
His face is open and his expression frank.
“She’s still a policewoman then?”
“Yep. She’s behind a desk now though, a case worker of a different sort, like me.”
Lots of parallels with the women in his life! I have a million questions about Anna but they will keep.
“Regrets control you, don’t they?” I pursue his heart.
“Yep.”
“Wanna know my only regret?”
“Go on then,” he says.
“Bruges is the furthest I have ever travelled.”
I stand and he follows, grabbing my hand. We begin walking in silence, taking it all in. He knows now there is something I harbour in my heart. Yes, travel. One of the few things I know about Mum is that she travelled, being a dancer and all.
***
On the coach back to the ferry, at the end of our day in Bruges together, he’s in the window seat asleep and I am under his arms, dozing while I watch the roads and fields through the glass pane. With my cheek against his chest, I feel happy. I know now it is a matter of when, not if, we will be together.
I peer up and study him while he’s not looking at me and half of me wants to reach up and kiss the living daylights out of him. From my close proximity, I can see every little line and crease of his lips, which are dry after a full day spent battling the elements. It turned very cold later and we had nowhere to go but inside cafés and bars.
I feel like a child again. This falling in love thing has made me like this. Giddy and hyper all the time. Fretting about the tiniest things, such as, what is he thinking? That’s what I need to know all the time now and I constantly force conversation to find out. It’s brought us
closer together, this day we’ve spent, and even more with the admissions about losing our mothers.
(By the way, I’ll admit I am in love. I won’t admit what I am going to do about it.)
“You okay?” he asks, looking down.
“Bit cold,” I tell him.
That’s true. We’ve been out on the streets all day and the inconsiderate coach driver now has the air con on. He pulls me closer and wraps me in his jacket and I burrow into his neck.
“That’s better.”
“We’ve got some wine for when we get back, so that ought to warm you up wench.”
“Uh-huh,” I respond. I say whatever pops into my head. “Do you ever shave?”
He’s so bristly and I enjoy it, secretly, I do. It’s black and wild and rough.
“No, I just trim it. If I was shaven, I’d look about twelve.”
“Yeah?” I giggle.
“Yeah.”
Then he does something out of the ordinary and pulls my ponytail, wrapping it around his fingers and stroking his hands through it. I revel in the calming effect it produces.
“Pull it out. It’s been giving me a headache all day.”
He releases my mass of hair and hands me the band before stroking his fingers through it. His combing continues until I fall asleep and the next thing I know, we’re back at the ferry terminal and my hair’s all straightened out from his teasing.
I walk with him across the tarmac toward the boarding station and his arm’s around my shoulder. We’re acting like a couple, I know. Maybe we already are. I’m just terrified I’m no good at sex and won’t be enough for him. I’m slender with small breasts. What if he wants big boobs and a bum to grab hold of? Sex with Laurie messed me up so badly. I’m terrified of Warrick and me having sex and nothing ever being the same again. I need Warrick in my life, so much, and maybe this is all we both need right now – just good friends that hold hands and snuggle.
Oh, who am I kidding? I can hardly take my eyes off his mouth, his hair, his belt buckle…
When I glance at his deep, dark eyes, he smiles with a cocky grin and I puff his hair up like he did earlier, putting on the same voice he did, “Still silky smooth.”
We laugh and dump our shopping bags at the cabin before heading for the cafeteria to have our evening meal. As we walk in, we are hit with a massive queue and the smell of steamed vegetables, chips and meatballs.
My mind wanders back in time to relive the day’s events…
After ‘brunch’, we found the Christmas shop that is open all year round and marvelled at the handmade tree decorations, the robotic Santa Claus dolls and the wooden toys for kids that make modern plastic ones look like rubbish. The place was a grotto of sorts in fact, with hidden levels and small doorways we had to duck beneath to enter underground rooms. I was glad we went there first before loading ourselves with bags because the place was jam-packed with shoppers, yes, even in October. I bought a couple of new things to go on my tree this year while he bought a dwarf, glow-tree for his desk at work! I chastised him for such a purchase, given all that’s on offer in the store. But that’s Warrick all over for you. He likes daft, tacky things, which make him smile.
The belfry looming over us made for a sensible course of action next.
“Ready for a climb?”
“Go on then.”
Knowing he’d never been before, I knew it was something new for him and it was always just something for me to do to escape Betsy for a bit whenever we had come before.
When Warrick and I reached the top, out of breath at having climbed 366 steps (some of which are narrow, slippery and vertigo-inducing), I remembered why else I liked being at the top of that medieval tower ‒ the view. He huddled behind me and held his arms around my waist and I let him. He rested on my shoulder while we looked out of the grating together and remarked, “Amazing view.”
It truly was. The clear skies allowed a view that went for miles, above a picture-perfect Belgian landscape with grey and orange roofs. We breathed the cool, fresh air together and sighed.
“I won’t preach to you about the history, not if you don’t want me to,” I gently teased him.
“I want to learn about this holy blood thing, can we go there? Creepy stuff like that always intrigues me.”
Ever the horror fan.
“Okay.”
So we climbed back down the tower and admired the numerous bells on numerous levels and reached ground again, where we sought out the Basilica of the Holy Blood. We took a seat rather than file past the blood with everyone else. When I told him the place was built in the 1100s he nodded and whispered in my ear, “You can tell.”
It was cold, damp and dark. Green mildew or something hung in certain corners. It had a presence that made you sit down and contemplate. All the people filing past had such respect for the relic and the spirituality.
I whispered to Warrick, “This is my favourite thing about Europe. You can walk into any place of worship and not be badgered or made to feel out of place.”
Yes, I watch far too many travel shows…
We watched a woman swaying as she prayed with her eyes closed and we sniggered, taking that as our cue to leave before we brought the house down with laughter.
We had lunch at a nice brasserie and enjoyed Leffe, which really is much stronger on the continent and perked up Warrick no end! I had steak and chips and he enjoyed spaghetti carbonara, which was a little runny shall we say. I had to mop his chin with a napkin and he got very embarrassed.
Well then, guess what happened next? I went mad in the food shops, procuring fine chocolates, fruity wines and German biscuits. While we walked the streets, we had ice-creams and pretzels and donuts and drank in the quaint tea shops. We walked along the canal and took a boat ride, admiring all the fairytale buildings with their pointed roofs and pastel colours, some having survived since medieval times ‒ earning this place a right to call itself a World Heritage Site.
When it got to mid-afternoon, it was getting cold and we were ready to give up and go home, but when you’re waiting for a coach, that isn’t possible. Our pick-up time was 4.30p.m. We’d been there since nine.
So we went to another brasserie, one that stood on the corner of the square beneath the belfry, and we sat on a couch, held hands and stared at the world outside. The waiters gave us winks and nods and most must have thought us a new couple. In fact, I guess we are in a way.
Best thing of all, I hardly thought about work, Laurie or Mum all day long, not while Warrick’s arm was around me.
Now we’re finishing up dinner in the cafeteria ‒ food which doesn’t compare to the delicacies we’ve enjoyed today ‒ he stands and I follow him.
“I have a bit of money left and I want to treat you. I want no arguments.”
He drapes his arm around my shoulder and kisses my temple.
“Let me,” he says softly, so I nod and we head to the duty free while the ship sets sail back home.
He buys me perfume and a gift box of expensive face creams that I’d never have treated myself to. There’s a shop that sells candles and homemade bathing products so we go to town and get everything back to the cabin, which is now overflowing with goodies. How will we get it all in his Mini tomorrow?
“Santa spewed up in our grotto,” I say.
We laugh and crack open the strawberry wine in the cabin.
Two hours later, I am on my bunk and he’s on his. He keeps reaching his plastic cup down and I keep filling it with berry-flavoured water. Half a cup of wine was enough. I knew it would be. He won’t know the difference. I couldn’t face the karaoke at the bar or the tribute act, nor the drunk truckers who stink of cabbage. So we are in our plastic box and quite frankly, it doesn’t smell much better in here either!
The ship is rocking like a bastard tonight. It must be rough on the old seas and it’s making me feel sick.
We’re rambling and snorting like pigs when he suddenly goes quiet. I get out of bed to look in on him and see h
e’s passed out, fully clothed. So I kiss his cheek, turn off the light and crawl into bed myself.
***
In the middle of the night, the captain broadcasts a message over the ship’s radio or something. I hear his crackly voice somewhere in the distance, “Ladies and gentleman, I apologise for any disruption to sleep. We are currently navigating our way around an unprecedented storm. This may delay our arrival home a little. You are all perfectly safe but if any of you are suffering unusual bouts of seasickness, please come up to the medical room.”
My head hurts and I sit up to realise the sensation of swinging in a hammock is actually real. The boat is rocking so badly I decide this is why we rock babies to sleep, because being asleep is better than feeling like this. The boat is creaking with every movement and our cabin seems so pathetic, as though it might collapse with one more push. I don’t like this and I feel really unsafe.
“Warrick, come join me in my bunk.”
“What?” he says groggily.
“Did you hear the announcement?”
“No.”
He rolls himself down and falls on the cramped floor inelegantly.
“Bugger,” he grumbles.
He fumbles for the light and switches it on and I see how hard it is for him to stand up straight.
“Please get in,” I say, and he does, but it’s a narrow space so I have to lie on top of him. I am shaking.
“There’s a storm we’re navigating round.”
“I am sure there’s nothing to worry about,” he says, but I detect a fear in his own voice. He rubs his head and whines, “I feel like turd. I shouldn’t have drank all that yucky stuff.”
“I feel a bit rough too, and not helped by this.”
“Come on girl, just rest here, go back to sleep.”
He strokes my hair and I am calmed but the rocking only intensifies and I look into his eyes.
“I don’t like this, Warrick.”
“What do you want me to do? Go and speak to the captain?”
I throw myself back in his arms and he kisses my head.
We ride the waves so to speak but I feel too sick and I have to get up and vomit. The room is spinning and my whole body aches while I take comfort from the cool toilet seat against my face. I feel my body being rocked still and my cheek actually tumbles back and forth across the plastic.
Angel Avenue Page 14