Tandem

by Alex Morgan

  She sighed. “Perhaps I am making too much of it all.”

  Andy peered into her mug. “Are you finished with that tea?”

  Paula smiled. “I certainly am.” She reached over the side of the bed and put it on the floor.

  Penguin rescue

  Sanders was thrilled when Paula suggested a trip to Edinburgh Zoo to visit Nils Olav, the celebrity penguin. Andy took them in the van. On the journey, Sanders regaled them with his entire repertoire of penguin jokes and by the time they reached the outskirts of the city had moved on to elephants.

  “Definitely certain sure you don’t want to come with us, Andy?” he asked as they pulled up outside the zoo.

  “No, really, it’s fine,” Andy said evenly. “I’m going to see my friends and I’ll be back for you at four.”

  When they emerged from the ticket office, Sanders took Paula’s hand and began hauling her up the hill. She had wondered if she would recognise the place from her childhood visits with Pete, but nothing looked familiar.

  “Come on,” he urged. “The penguin parade’s not till two, so we’ll start with the snakes and then the capybaras.”

  “The capywhats?”

  “Capybaras, stupid. They’re brilliant.” He tugged her hand. “Come on, you’ll see.”

  When they got to the capybara enclosure, a man and woman dressed in business suits were standing by the fence. The woman gestured at the small wooden hut inside and said something Paula didn’t catch. The man, who was eating a sandwich, read a plaque attached to the wire mesh.

  “They’re the world’s biggest rodents, native to South America,” he announced.

  Sanders stopped beside him. “I told you I knew where we were going,” he said triumphantly.

  “That’s what you said when you took us back to the reptile house for the third time before I spotted you were reading the map upside down,” Paula pointed out.

  On their final visit, Sanders had spent the best part of ten minutes interrogating a keeper about the habits of the komodo dragon, before she managed to drag him away.

  Paula surveyed the empty pen. “So where are the capywhatsits?”

  “Capybaras.” He pointed to the hut. “In there, I think.”

  Next to them, a woman spoke harshly to her companion. “I don’t care what they are, it’s not on. I’m not having the firm’s name associated with them.”

  “They’re only rodents.” The man took a bite of his sandwich.

  “It’s vibrating. The whole flaming house is moving. When they said they were just big guinea pigs, I thought, you know, something this size.” The woman held her hands, one clutching a briefcase, about a foot apart. “Cuddly, cute. Not giant bloody sex maniacs.”

  The man put his case down on the path. He sighed and leant against the fence. “They’re just bonking. All animals bonk.”

  “They don’t have to do it in broad daylight. Look, look at it moving,” the woman raged. “I can see their bums from here.”

  “Where?” The man freed a fragment of sandwich from between his front teeth with a fingernail. “I can’t see anything.”

  “There, in the doorway. There’s two big hairy arses going up and down. They’re bonking their bloody brains out. This is supposed to be a zoo not a fucking sex show.”

  The man turned to Paula and, glancing at Sanders, mouthed “sorry”.

  Paula smiled and mouthed back, “It’s okay.”

  “They’re called Itchy and Scratchy,” Sanders said, “and they have a very high sex drive. They can’t help it. It’s what capybaras do – eat and sleep and bonk. I read about them on the internet.”

  The woman stared at him.

  “I like them because of their faces,” he added. “They have very long top lips and big teeth and tiny little ears.”

  She turned back to her companion. “Well, I don’t care what the partners voted for, I’m not spending the firm’s money sponsoring one of those …”

  “But you’d get a special plaque,” Sanders interrupted. “Next to that one. They put your name on it and the name of the animal you’ve chosen so everyone knows who’s paying for its dinner and stuff.”

  The woman shook her head. “I’m going to look at the lions. You know where you are with lions.”

  Paula checked her watch. “I think it’s time for lunch.”

  They found the self-service café. Sanders loaded his tray with a plate of fish and chips, and Paula took a baked potato with cheese. They carried their food to a table by the window.

  Sanders peered at the map. “Over there’s the red river hog and that way’s the bush dog.” He speared a chip with his fork. “And the penguins are beyond that.”

  “What’s a red river hog?” Paula asked.

  “They’re really good. They’re kind of bristly with red hair and white tufty bits and they live in groups called sounders and do snout boxing.”

  Paula swallowed a mouthful of potato. “Snout boxing?”

  “They push at each other with their noses.” Sanders made a butting motion with his head. “We should see them next. If they’re awake – they sleep most of the day.”

  “Are there any animals you don’t know about?” she asked.

  “Only the really boring ones.” He stuffed more chips into his mouth. “They’re mostly much more interesting than people.”

  Paula sipped her glass of water. “Nicer too. I’m really sorry about what happened at the gala.”

  Sanders shrugged and dipped a piece of fish in a pool of ketchup. He stared out of the window as he chewed.

  She tried again. “I wish I could have done something to stop it. I wanted to kill those kids.”

  He carried on looking out of the window and didn’t reply.

  “They were worse than animals,” Paula said.

  Sanders took another forkful of fish. His eyes were wet with tears.

  “Let’s go and see those red hogs when we’ve finished,” she said.

  Two of the strange whiskery beasts were crunching apples and chunks of cabbage by the fence of their enclosure. Sanders knelt beside them. “See the long whiskers and the tufts on their ears? If another animal threatens them, they shake their heads so all the extra hair makes them seem really big and it frightens them away.”

  “Maybe we could all do with some extra tufts,” Paula said.

  “Aye, mibby.”

  They arrived at the penguin pools with ten minutes to spare before the parade, so they bought ice-creams from a kiosk and sat eating them on a bench.

  “There he is!” Sanders pointed to a giant metal penguin. “There’s the statue of Sir Nils Olav.”

  A youth with an empty pushchair plonked himself beside them. He gave a loud sniff which turned into a snort, and began playing a game on his mobile phone. After a couple of minutes, a ginger haired girl of about four trotted into view on the tarmac path that ran around the pools. She went up to the statue and gave it a determined poke in the chest. When her finger met solid metal instead of feathers, her face crumpled and she began to howl.

  The youth glanced up. “Whit’s wrang noo?”

  She pointed shakily at the statue and spluttered between wails, “Yon bad burd bit me.”

  “Stupid wee cow,” he exclaimed. “It’s no’ a real penguin.”

  “That’s Sir Nils Olav,” Sanders offered. “He’s a celebrity.”

  Paula shot him a warning glance but he ignored her.

  “He used to be a wing commander in the Norwegian army, but they promoted him to colonel-in-chief.”

  The youth turned to Sanders, squinting in the bright sunshine. “Aye, an’ ah’m Wayne Rooney.”

  “Not everyone’s as interested in that kind of stuff as you are,” Paula said.

  Sanders made a face.

  Grabbing his charge under the arms, the youth heaved her into the grimy pushchair. “Belt up, Britney, or ah’ll tell yer ma y’were cryin’ like a bairn,” he threatened.

  He extracted a dummy from the pocket of his jeans an
d rammed it into her mouth, but as soon as he went back to his game, she spat it onto the path and continued bawling.

  “Yer ma said she’d skelp ye if ye didnae dae as ah telt ye,” he warned without looking up. “So shut the fuck up, wid ye?”

  The crying got louder.

  The youth laid his phone on the bench and retrieved the dummy, wiping it on the sleeve of his hoodie before shoving it back in her mouth.

  Britney spat it out again. This time he left it lying where it landed. “Can ye no’ dae that?” he said crossly. “The burds’ll be oot soon.”

  The wailing stopped. “Can ah get ma birthday present then?” the girl asked.

  “Aye, ye can. Here’s yer ma noo.”

  A teenage girl in denim micro shorts sat down on the arm of the bench beside the youth. She had the same ginger hair as the child. “Call themsel’es a shop,” she complained. “They dinae sell fags.”

  She leant across her partner to Paula. “Got a fag, missus?”

  Paula shook her head. “I don’t smoke.”

  “Lucky you,” Britney’s mum replied sarcastically.

  Sanders tugged at the sleeve of Paula’s T-shirt. “Come on, we need to stand up or we won’t see.”

  They joined the crowd that was gathering along the edges of the path. On the other side of the fence, the penguins were massing. A keeper unlocked the gate and held it open as half-a-dozen of the biggest birds, the ones jostling for pole position, spilled out onto the tarmac. They flapped and looked around as if surprised to find themselves on the outside, even though the parade was a daily occurrence. A couple of dozen more wandered out and, led by another keeper, they set off at a sedate waddle along the path.

  “I can’t believe they let us get this close to the birds,” Paula said.

  “It’s brilliant, isn’t it?” Sanders said. “Which one do you think is Sir Nils Olav?”

  “I don’t know. They all look the same to me.”

  “They probably think that about us.” He bit the bottom off his cone and sucked out the ice-cream. “Y’know, that we all look the same. I bet he’s the one in front.”

  “I’d be surprised if they give us any thought at all,” she said. “Tell me again, which are the king penguins?”

  “They’re the tall ones – only emperor penguins are bigger, but they don’t have any here.” He pointed to a huddle of smaller birds with white stripes across the tops of their heads that made them look as if they were wearing headphones. “Those are gentoos, and the cross looking ones at the back with the funny eyebrows are crested rockhoppers.”

  “Yon’s the one! Yon big one!” Britney had escaped from the pushchair and was jumping up and down in the middle of the path, pointing at the lead penguin, which was bearing down on her with surprising speed.

  Her mum appeared at Paula’s shoulder. “Frankie,” she yelled through the crowd. “C’mon an dae somethin’.”

  Paula gave an involuntary cry as the youth elbowed past her, catching her ankle with one of the pushchair’s wheels. He pulled a crocheted blanket from the tray under the chair and bent down, but instead of scooping Britney up and out of harm’s way, he threw it over the leading penguin and made a lunge for the bird. The keepers were too quick for him though, and before he could pick it up, two of them grabbed him by the arms. A third lifted the blanket from the startled bird and ushered it and its companions back towards the gate of the enclosure.

  Britney started to howl again.

  “Y’fuckin’ eejit,” her mother yelled at the would-be kidnapper, as the keepers led him away. “When ah said we’d get her a penguin, ah meant wan o’ they stuffed yins in the shop, no’ a real yin.”

  She shoved Britney into the tiny pushchair, snapped the harness shut and raced after them.

  “I don’t know what the world’s coming to,” a plump grey-haired woman standing beside Paula declared. “Edinburgh used to be such a refined place.”

  A middle-aged American man on her other side observed, “I had no idea a penguin parade could be so exciting.”

  Paula turned to Sanders. He was watching open-mouthed, eyes like saucers.

  “That was Nils Olav,” he whispered. “That ned tried to steal Nils Olav. I hope he goes to prison for ever and ever.” His lip was quivering.

  “Sadly, I think it’s unlikely,” Paula said. She put her arm around his shoulders. “The keepers were never going to let anything bad happen to Nils Olav. They were looking out for him all the time.”

  Sanders sniffed.

  “When you’ve got people who care for you, no matter how bad things might seem for a while, they always turn out all right in the end.” Paula felt her eyes welling up. “Don’t you think that’s true?”

  “I s’pose,” he conceded.

  She blew her nose. “Now why don’t we go back to the café? I need a coffee to steady my nerves.”

  “Can I get some chocolate cake?” he asked in a small voice.

  “I’m sure that could be arranged.”

  “Okay, then we can find the elephants. They’re not as good as penguins, but they’re all right, and your nerves’ll be safe, ‘cos they’re too big to steal. You know, I’ve got more elephant jokes I didn’t tell you yet.”

  “Oh good,” Paula said weakly. “Coffee and cake it is, then elephants with jokes.”

  Minnie

  Andy put the carrier bags down on the kitchen table. He took two bottles of rosé out of one and stood them in the fridge.

  Paula stirred a pan of tomato sauce. “Perfect timing,” she said. “I’m just about ready to serve.”

  Andy stood behind her and massaged her shoulders. “Smells good.”

  “Feels good.”

  He let go. “That’s enough of that then.”

  “Meanie.”

  “There’s a present here for you.”

  She turned round. “You got me a present?”

  “Afraid not, unless you count the wine.” He handed her the other carrier bag. “It was on the doorstep.”

  Inside the bag was a tattered Oor Wullie annual. A note taped to the front said in familiar purple felt pen, Thanx for the zoo. There’s somethin interestin inside.

  “It’s from Sanders.” Paula said. “He was telling me about Oor Wullie a while ago. He’s this little boy who’s always getting into scrapes. He said he’d got a load of annuals.”

  “My grandparents gave me a couple when I was a kid. They were a hoot. He raced around in a go-cart made from a wooden crate and was always breaking windows with his catapult and getting into trouble with PC Murdoch.”

  “Sanders said he thought I’d like him. I think he kind of identifies with him.”

  “That makes sense. Glass of wine?”

  “Yes, please. I’ll drain the pasta.” She was tipping the water into the sink when it came to her. Bill Thompson’s tattoo in her dream: the work boots, the bucket – it was Oor Wullie. Goose pimples rose on her arms as she spooned pasta and sauce onto their plates. The image was so vivid that she thought about it as they ate.

  “So what do you think?” Andy was looking at her intently.

  She took a gulp of wine. “About what?”

  “Your last meal on earth. What would you rather have: French, Italian or Indian?”

  She regarded him blankly. “I don’t know, it depends …”

  He smiled. “It doesn’t matter. You were in a world of your own.”

  “I know. Sorry.” She dropped her fork into the remains of her pasta. “I’m not very hungry.”

  They took the annual and the rest of their wine down the garden to the beach steps. The tide was high, forcing the evening strollers to pick their way along a narrow band of sand. The rocks where Sanders had hidden the night she threw away her phone were completely covered.

  Paula rested her head on Andy’s shoulder. “Pete would have liked it here. He was terrible at unwinding – always dashing about, stressing about his lesson plans, his class’s exam results, our training – really driven, but I think
he could have relaxed here.”

  They sat in silence for a while, sipping wine. Andy flicked through the annual and Paula gazed out to sea.

  Eventually she said, “Whatever he did, he needed to be the best. Coming second just didn’t cut it. He got that from Dad. Right from our first race, he was determined to win. I enjoyed being there, being part of it, being with him, but the winning never really mattered to me – I’m more like Mum in that. I loved seeing Pete happy though, his enthusiasm, the glow it gave him. That made all the effort worth it.”

  Andy closed the annual and began to stroke her hair as she spoke. There were tears in her eyes.

  “You should have seen his bedroom when he was a teenager – dirty dishes, smelly socks, chocolate wrappers – a complete tip, but there was never a speck of dust on the shelf where he kept our trophies. He wouldn’t let anyone else touch them, not even me. He kept a special blue cloth in his underwear drawer and he used to polish them every Saturday morning when we got back from training. He was the same when he got his own flat – stacks of homework assignments, newspapers, magazines, mess everywhere. The only housework he ever seemed to do was polishing his trophies.”

  “Did you never think of taking the cycling further? Going for the national team or something?” Andy asked.

  “It was never really an option.”

  Paula looked out across the sea, the flat water a slatey grey in the fading light. When they were still in their teens, they had discussed taking their racing to the next stage, but there were hardly any national events for tandems, let alone mixed ones. Most high level racing was on solo bikes. She had tried time and again to persuade Pete to go it alone. Everyone said he had the potential to make the England squad. Ollie did his best to convince him to try, said they would go for it together, but it was no use. Pete refused to even attempt it unless Paula went for a place in the women’s team. He must have known she would never do it; that all she wanted was to cycle with him. Yet he insisted: they would do it together or not at all. That was why Pete never rode for his country. It was her fault.