Say You Never Met Me

by Martin Yallop

  “You got a problem wiv us bein’ in ‘ere mate?” The question from the ferret-faced boy carried both aggression and resentment.

  “What? Oh, no. No problem. I’m just tired. I’ve had a long journey. Anyway, I don’t own the train company so it’s nothing to do with me.”

  “Yeah? Where you bin, then? Where you come from?” The tone suggested disappointment at the loss of an opportunity for further belligerence.

  “Greece. I’ve come from Greece.”

  “Funny way to travel from Greece, on a train. Bin on your ‘olidays, ‘ave you?

  “Well, no. Not really. I live there, sort of. And I came most of the way by plane.”

  “Live there, do you? What’d you do then? Rob a bank or somefink? What’s it like there, then? ‘ot, is it?”

  “Yes. Quite hot and it’s… well, different from here, anyway.” How did you describe somewhere like Greece to someone from north Kent? “Anyway…” George fixed his attention on the book, lying open on his lap. There were several seconds silence.

  “Like the shoes, mate. Get ‘em in Greece, did yeh?”

  What have I done to deserve this? thought George. Welcome to paradise! He had left the rented house without watering the plants or arranging for the semi-resident cats to be fed. At the last minute he could not face either chore. He had suddenly experienced a deep sadness and needed to leave quickly, and he had paused only long enough to grab, almost at random, a book to read on the journey. It was Robinson Crusoe.

  As a consequence of his hurried departure, he had arrived too early for the ferry and had to wait almost an hour. The ferry gave him too much time for the plane – the next one would have allowed too little – so he had to wait at the crowded airport, irritated by the usual herds of tourists cluttering up the cafeteria in the check-in area. As usual, French holidaymakers showed none of the savoir faire or sophistication expected of them. The journey across Paris had made him miss the train he wanted to catch so he had arrived late at Lille and missed the connection to Boulogne. The station was as unwelcoming as all railway stations and he had got very little sleep on a hard seat while waiting for the first train the next morning. And that had not been particularly early, either. There were no taxis at Boulogne station and all in all he had had a rotten journey. At least the French immigration officer had barely glanced at a British passport held by a traveller from another EU country and George’s only scare had been when a customs officer at Dover had called him over to ask where he was travelling from and to. Apparently a male travelling light and alone fitted a profile that needed checking. His stumbling explanation of his bizarre itinerary has caused a raised eyebrow but he had been allowed to pass after a brief search of his baggage revealed nothing incriminating or even unusual.

  Victoria station in late afternoon in August was unprepossessing; it was hot, smelled of fast food and littered with unswept wrappings and rubbish. It was crowded, too. He wanted a shower, some private space and a cold beer, in any order. A suited man pushing through the crowd of newly-alighted passengers and rushing for a connection or meeting jostled him as he passed. On the adjoining platform another train pulled in and added its human contents to the homeward-bound commuters who had escaped early from their offices. A young mother with a double buggy caught George’s leg with a corner of her chariot as she bent over its glum and grubby-faced occupants, and she apologised almost inaudibly before wheeling away in her onward dash. Day-trippers pushed or pulled trolleys and cases laden with duty free booze and strained business travellers checked their watches or tried to cover their unoccupied ears with hands that also clutched bags and cases as they struggled to hear what was being said to them over the mobile phones pressed against the other sides of their heads. A group of seven or eight, middle-aged women blocked half the platform as they progressed sedately towards their night-out-in-town dinners and theatres and pairs of denim-clad youngsters glided through the crowd with the effortless, constant mobility of the young, oblivious to everything around them. George felt very conspicuous. He was sure that people were looking at him or at his shoes – the time-killing purchase at… where had it been? Lille. He did his best to shuffle with the crowd, head down, towards the barrier without drawing attention to himself.

  “Hello, George!”

  “Deborah! What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Meeting you. Obviously.” The last word was spoken from further away than the first two as she was forced backwards by the onrush of arriving travellers headed by the group of rural matrons on their girls’ night out. “Come on, George. I’ll buy you a drink and tell you all my news.”

  “Er… ok, I suppose… I know the two pubs near here, one is full of tourists and the other will be full of… tourists and theatre-goers so; unless you want a ten minute walk, I’d rather have a coffee and a glass of water. But why are you here? How did you get here?”

  “Not here. Let’s just get out of this crowd.”

  George led the way out of the narrow side entrance of the station, across the busy road and into a tiny Italian, coffee shop.

  “You seem to know your way around,” said Deborah, sliding on to a little chair behind the single, round, metallic, table on the pavement beside the coffee shop door.

  “Yes, well I worked in London for quite a few years as you know. Wouldn’t you rather sit inside? There’s a bit of a bar and some stools.” George was still looking anxiously around him.

  “Too hot and stuffed…. ‘stuffed’ is right? No? Stuffy then. Your London summers are not nice, are they? This is fine. Cappuccino, please.”

  He emerged five minutes with the cappuccino, his own tiny espresso and a glass of cola balanced on a miniature, blue, plastic tray. He found himself looking forward to it as a change from the endless, muddy, Greek coffees of recent months – it was ‘Turkish’ coffee everywhere outside the Hellenic world. He was feeling even more unsettled at having been recognised by the Italian proprietor of the coffee shop. He had used it at infrequent intervals over several years, usually to buy ground coffee or beans to take home. In the past it had been pleasant to be remembered and greeted as a regular customer but it had unsettled him today.

  “Look, Deborah. What are you doing here? I’ve come to see Susanna and I don’t want any more complications. I’ve already got a lot of problems.”

  “Suddenly I’m a problem?”

  “I didn’t mean that, but why are you here?” He felt warmed that Deborah had come to meet him – he needed company – but he was anxious about being seen in public, especially with Deborah, before he had a chance to explain everything to Susanna.

  “Well, Andreas fired me. He said it was because I took the day off on Monday to go to Corfu with you but you know why really. His wife looked pleased. I expect he will find someone else. So, there is nowhere else to work on the island and I thought I am well finished with this place but where to go now? I don’t want to go home and I have friend of my father in Croydon which is very near to London and George is travelling to London so I took a plane and here I am. Simple. I got here yesterday. I have moved into my father’s friend’s house and officially I am on a visit for three months but I will find a job. How was your journey? Long, I expect.” She slurped rather unglamorously at her cappuccino leaving a transient white moustache before she wiped it delicately away with a serviette plucked from the holder on the little table.

  “Not too brilliant, as it happens. I bought some new shoes.”

  Deborah erupted in laughter. “George, you don’t know how English and how sweet you can be sometimes. I like you. Where are you going to live? Are you going to… is it Swindon?”

  “Yes, Swindon. No, not tonight, anyway. I ought to ring first. And to be honest, I’m knackered.” George noticed the young man who had jostled him on the platform looking in a shop window two doors away. “It’s nice to see you Deborah and we must get together sometime but I really need to get a shower and some sleep.”

  Of cour
se. Your hotel is near Gloucester Road, I think?”

  “Yes. That’s right. You remembered.” George didn’t know if he was pleased or not. “Should I … er… have a telephone number to contact you… just in case there is something about the four girls or something?” Deborah handed him a half sheet of paper with a smile.

  “I thought you would never ask me.”

  She left to catch a train back to Croydon. George sat at the little, metal table lost in thought. He felt exposed and unsettled by how easily Deborah had found him. He decided he had better cover his tracks. The coffee shop manager gave him change and pushed the pay telephone across the bar. George rang the hotel, cancelled his reservation and thanked the cheerful Italian as he left, towing his trolley-bag behind him. He crossed the road and went straight to the public telephones in Victoria Station. He dialled the hotel and, using what he hoped was a different voice and tone, asked if they had a room for that night. He booked in as Mr. George Hawthorne. With relief at having thrown anyone who might try to find him off the scent, fatigue crept over him. He turned away from the tube station and joined the mercifully short queue at the cab rank. The taxi disgorged him outside a small hotel in a street of small hotels. The paint was peeling and flaking in the same way as the paint on the neighbouring buildings was peeling and flaking but it was reasonably cheap and, more important anonymous. The receptionist, summoned by George’s clanging tap on the old fashioned bell, appeared from behind a curtain that had once been dark red but was now mostly just dark. George guessed he was an Indian or Sri Lankan and had been asleep somewhere in a back room.

  “Welcome to the Hotel California,” said the receptionist without a hint of, irony, welcome or anything much else in his voice. George paid cash for one night, noting that he would need to find a bank the next morning and change some Euros or draw more Sterling if he was to pay cash for accommodation and travel. He could not now use a credit card with his real name.

  Room 407 was not the best hotel room he had ever stayed in but George decided it was okay. The little television on the little chest of drawers worked okay. Provided he did not open the drawers, he could get between the foot of the bed and the chest okay and there was enough room for one in the en suite shower room and toilet. The view from the window was of other windows overlooking the other windows overlooking the central well of the hotel. He drew the curtains. They did not quite meet in the middle. He steeled himself to ring Susanna, determined to make a better job of it than the last time they had spoken.

  “Hello, Darling. It’s me.”

  “George! Where are you? I got your messages but I couldn’t work out when you would arrive. Are you here?”

  “Yes, I’m here if you mean here in England. I’m in London. I’ve just arrived. But most important, are you okay? You must have had a dreadful time of it. And what about Valerie? How’s she? Is she out of hospital yet and how’s she taking it?”

  “I’m fine. It’s been really hectic with the press and everything but it’s all right now. Mum’s much better. She’s coming home tomorrow. When are you coming? Are you coming tonight?”

  “Not tonight, sweetheart. I must get some sleep. I had a very round-about journey – not as bad as you, of course but I had to fly to Paris. It’s a long story. It’s a long journey too, come to that. Look, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. There’s things I haven’t told you. Nothing bad, of course, but I’ve got loads of news and I’m dying to see you and hear all about what’s been going on there. I’ll leave straight after breakfast and be with you before lunch, if that’s okay. I’ll get a car from somewhere. Look, if your mother’s coming home tomorrow, it would be better if I check in to a hotel, don’t you think? There must be something near you. I’ll be in the way if she’s not feeling one hundred per cent and… well, I know we’re not teenagers but I’d feel a bit awkward sleeping in your room when she’s only just got out of hospital and had a nasty op. I’m sorry but I’m not sure I should stay there. Is that okay?”

  “That’s very sweet, George. I’m sure it’ll be all right but let’s decide tomorrow. Come straight here, won’t you?”

  “Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then. Love you loads. Bye.”

  “Bye, Darling. See you soon. Don’t be late.”

  Chapter 16

  Susanna thought back to George’s last call. By chance – good fortune, perhaps - she had forgotten to turn off the answering machine, bought to replace the damaged downstairs telephone, so it had cut in before she could pick up the handset. She had not been alone at the time. When the doorbell had rung, her first thought had been that it was probably the press again even though there was nothing to be seen of them when she got back from the hospital. Indeed, the only signs that it had not all been a bad dream were a concentration of cigarette butts on the pavement outside the house and few crushed places in the privet where cameramen had leaned against it. Probably the last person she had expected to see when she opened the door had been Victor. She had bitten back the brusque response to another media intrusion.

  “Oh! Victor! It’s you! How, er… are you?”

  “Hello, Susanna. I bought you these.” He thrust forward a bunch of nondescript flowers that looked as if had come from a petrol station.

  “Oh! Thank you. You’d better… Come in, come in. Go into the sitting room… on your right. I’ll put these straight into water. Sit down. Can I get you a coffee? It’s only instant, I’m afraid.”

  Victor smiled nervously, clearly feeling awkward. With a flash of insight, Susanna realised that he must have had to dig deep to find the courage to call and she felt sorry for him. She smiled back at him, more warmly.

  “Two sugars?”

  “Please. Well, three if that’s all right.”

  Returning with the coffee, Susanna found Victor still standing awkwardly just inside the door, exactly as she had left him.

  “Sit down next to me, Victor. How did you find out where I live? I didn’t tell you did I?”

  “Er, no, but you told me your name and that you were staying at your mother’s house. I looked in the telephone book.”

  “And found me. Well done!” She felt she needed to encourage him, as if he were a child. “How did you find the right ‘Parson’?”

  “Actually there are lots. This is the seventh house I’ve called on. Quite lucky, really.”

  “Oh, Victor! You’ve knocked on the door of six complete strangers to find me?”

  “Well, there was no reply from two houses. I just wanted to say thank you for being so nice to Cleo, and thank you from her, too. She talked about you all the way home and wanted to know if we would see you next Sunday. And, to be honest, I’m not sorry to have her tell her mother that she and Daddy met a nice lady in the park. Is that awful?”

  “Oh, Victor! No, it’s not awful. It’s very normal. And rather sweet.” At that moment the telephone rang but before she could get up to answer it, the recording cut in, followed by George’s voice.

  “Er… It’s me again, George. Just to confirm that I’ll be arriving in a few days. When I can sort out travel and things. Bye. Oh, this is a message for Susanna. Bye.” A few seconds silence hung between them before Victor spoke.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know… I knew there might be someone but… I’ll go.”

  Susanna was engulfed by a wave of pity. Why did this nice guy always seem to get hurt? “Don’t be silly, Victor. That’s only George, my ex-boss. He’s coming to see Mum and me because of her operation. That’s all.” She felt like a Judas. Would a cock crow? It didn’t matter. Poor Victor. She couldn’t hurt him like everyone else did. He lost some of the crestfallen look and seemed to be steeling himself for some new ordeal.

  “Well, I’d better go, anyway. Er… I was just wondering… well… Cleo asked as well… if you would be in the park again on Sunday. You’ll probably be too busy if you’ve got a visitor so it’s okay if you can’t come… we’ll understand. It’s just that Cleo…�
��

  “I won’t be too busy, Victor. I’ll be there.”

  It was instantly obvious that Valerie has fallen out with the woman in the next bed. The cause of the rift was not clear and quite possibly neither could recall exactly what sparked it but they were very loudly not speaking to each other, having gone from firm friends to deadly enemies in less than twenty-four hours. When Susanna arrived to take her home, her mother was sitting fully dressed and silently fuming in the chair beside the bed.

  “Mum? Is something wrong?”

  “There won’t be once I can get away from here. You’re right. I should have gone private. You find yourself plonked next to the very worst sort of people in here.”

  “Shush, Mum,” Susanna whispered. “People will hear you.” She glanced around as if expecting to find a small, attentive crowd behind her but the only person within hearing was the woman in the next bed, tight-lipped and reading a magazine with icy concentration.

  “People out of the top drawer of life don’t make disparaging comments…” Valerie was pleased with her rediscovery of the word and repeated it with relish, “…disparaging remarks about other people’s visitors. Not that she’s in any position to make comparisons. The only visitor she’s had has been her husband. Once. Nobody else has been near her.”

  Susanna squirmed with embarrassment. “Mum! You mustn’t talk like that. She can hear.”

  “Don’t worry. She’s deaf!”

  Susanna looked more closely at the woman hoping that she would glance up so she could try to silently communicate an apology but the head stayed down and the lips stayed compressed. Susanna noticed that the woman was still reading the same page of the magazine she had been studying when Susanna had arrived.

  “Come on, Mum. Let’s get you home. Is this your case? Everything packed?” Susanna slid open the drawers of the bedside cabinet and checked the cupboard underneath before taking her mother’s arm and leading her away from the bed. Ten feet away, Valerie stopped short, spun round and dashed back to grab the large bunch of exotic flowers in her arm, carrying them, dripping on the polished floor, towards the exit of the ward.