An Ocean Apart

by Robin Pilcher

  Once inside the Immigration hall, he took his place in the queue that snaked through the roped-off barriers to the line of fluorescent-lit booths. People fumbled nervously with passports and immigration forms, affording edgy smiles to one another as if they felt that they were about to be subjected to an intensive interrogation before being allowed into the country. Slowly, the queue shuffled forward until it was David’s turn. He stepped into the booth and handed his papers to the young immigration officer.

  “Are you here on business or pleasure, sir?”

  “Business,” David replied.

  “And how long?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably no longer than a week.”

  The young man nodded his head slowly. “Okay, and might I ask what your business is?”

  “I’m in the whisky industry.”

  The young officer raised his eyebrows, a look of interest registering on his face, then stamped part of the immigration form and slipped it into the passport before handing it back. “Well, just keep it rolling in over here!” he said with a laugh.

  “I will.” He gave the young man a smile and was about to walk out into America when the officer spoke again.

  “Just before you go, I wonder if you had a moment to explain something.”

  For a moment, David stood without replying, a frown of concern on his face as he tried to work out what the question might be.

  “Surely,” he said eventually, returning to the desk. “If I can.”

  The young man noticed his disquiet and smiled reassuringly at him. “There’s nothing wrong. It’s just that I’d like to know what ‘The Hon.’ means in front of your name? I’m new at this job and though I have seen it before, I’ve no idea what it means.”

  “Nothing much, to be quite honest. It stands for ‘The Honourable.’ It’s just a courtesy title.”

  “Ah, and how’d you get it?”

  “Well,” he said, moving closer to the desk, embarrassed that someone might overhear their conversation, “it’s just because my father is, well, a lord.”

  The young man’s eyes opened wide. “Really? Does that mean you’re related to royalty?”

  “No, far from it!” David laughed. “As I said, it’s just a courtesy title.”

  The young man cocked his head to the side. “Well, there you go. You live and learn. Thanks for the lesson, Mr. Corstorphine.” He turned and called in the next person.

  David recovered his suitcase from the carousel, cleared customs and strode out into the Arrivals hall. A sea of expectant people greeted him, some appearing immediately dejected on seeing that his wasn’t the face for which they were looking, whilst others, with name cards held out in front, grinned hopefully at him. He picked out his driver, a small knuckle-headed man in a short-sleeved white shirt, black tie, and impenetrable Rayban sun-glasses, bearing a “Star Limos” sign with his name spelt phonetically underneath.

  David approached him. “Hullo.”

  “You Mr. Costawfin?” the driver asked, chewing open-mouthed on his gum.

  “Yup.”

  “Okay, I’m Dan, sir.” In one swift movement, he grabbed David’s suitcase and shook him firmly by the hand. “Car’s just outside the building. If you don’t mind, we’d better move fast before I get towed.”

  They made their way out into the glaring sunlight, and Dan aimed his remote at a black Lincoln Town Car. He threw the suitcase into the trunk and, having seen David into the back, leaped into the driver’s seat and took off at speed, his tyres squealing on the hot asphalt.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were heading east along the Southern State Parkway, the surrounding countryside changing with every mile that they drove away from New York City. Far from being the endless suburban sprawl that he had envisaged, the parkway was bounded by a screen of tall hardwood trees, which eventually gave way to dense, tangled expanses of spindly pines that stretched off into the distance on either side of the road. These, Dan informed him, were the pine barrens of Long Island, a haven for mosquitos and “a helluva fire risk.”

  Exactly fifty minutes after leaving Kennedy, Dan took an exit next to an enormous swivelling sign that said: LEESPORT OUTLET CENTER. At the top of the ramp he turned right and headed south along a wide stretch of road before clattering across a railway line and past a sign that welcomed visitors to Leesport. David gazed out the window at the houses, some with white picket fences enclosing gardens with neat, orderly beds of brightly coloured flowers while water sprinklers played on the lush green, mower-striped lawns. Beech-trees and native pines stood tall and leafy, wrapping their branches protectively around each house, granting it seclusion from its nearest neighbour. No two were the same, some gleaming white clapboard, others with brown cedar shingles, still others a mixture of the two. Wide-pitched roofs hung like stern eyebrows over shuttered windows while others, four-pitched and prim in their perfection, looked like wimpled nuns. Every hundred yards, bright yellow fire hydrants stood like sentries on the clipped, nurtured strip of grass that ran between the black asphalt sidewalk and the roadway, strategically placed to keep guard over the tinder-dry houses.

  At the bottom of the road, Dan just made it through the traffic light and swung the car to the left. He glanced back at David. “Okay—so this is Leesport Village now, sir.”

  The thoroughfare was spotlessly clean, bordered by wide, white-lined parking spaces and fronted by a line of small shops, all in regulation-white clapboard, with paned display windows and flower-urns brimming with pansies, marigolds and petunias at their doors. The sidewalk was busy with pedestrians, old couples walking arm-in-arm, young mothers carrying babies on their hips, all dressed in summer clothes and all moving at an easy, unhurried pace. As Dan accelerated along the street, David looked out and caught some of the names on the small multi-coloured signs that hung above the shops: The Leesport Deli, Danby Real Estate, Helping Hands, Leesport Liquors, Jo-Ann’s Fitness Center and, at the end of the street, the local sports shop, Lar Sport.

  Two hundred yards farther on, Dan turned the Lincoln left up a narrow leafy street, past a green-and-white sign which read NORTH HARLENS, and pulled to a stop beside a letter box with “52” written on it in black lettering. The two-storied house stood back from the street, up a short concrete driveway bordered by wide strips of coarse zoysia grass, its frontage dominated by a high wooden sundeck, on which a table and chairs were neatly arranged. A couple of faded oars had been nailed to the wall like crossed swords. To the left of the deck, David could just make out, through a screen of shrubs, the shimmering blue of a swimming pool. There was nothing to set the house apart from any others that he had seen so far in Leesport, save for the network of scaffolding that jutted out from its farthest side and the heavy tarpaulin, flapping gently in the breeze, that covered a third of its roof.

  Dan turned off the engine and pressed the switch for the trunk. “Here we are. The Eggars’ house.”

  They both got out of the car, and as Dan took the suitcase from the trunk, a voice boomed out from the direction of the house.

  “David, you old bugger!”

  A tall, slim, blond-haired man came bounding down the drive towards him, his arms outstretched, and without seeming to slacken off his pace, he met David with a thump of chests and threw his arms around him, then gave him a bone-shaking slap on the back. “It’s great to see you, my friend!”

  “And you, Richard.”

  Richard stood back and eyed him up and down. “Christ, you haven’t changed much.” He stepped forward and roughly tousled David’s hair. “Just a few grey hairs sneaking in there!”

  He skirted round David and relieved the driver of his load. “So, you managed to track down the mad Scotsman, did you, Dan?”

  “Yeah, no problem, Mr. Eggar.” Dan turned towards David. “Have an enjoyable stay, sir, and if you want to get back to Kennedy at any time, just get Mr. Eggar to call the office.”

  David smiled and slipped him a twenty. “I will. Thanks, Dan.”

  They bot
h stood in silence, watching as the car pulled away from the house, then David let out a long, relieved breath and looked up and down the street. “Well, you seem to have found a nice place to live. It’s all so…” he paused, trying to think of an adequate word to describe what he had seen so far of Leesport, “… pristine!”

  “Virginal, my boy,” Richard replied in a mock Cockney accent as he walked back up the drive with David’s bags in hand, “that’s how I describe it—vibrant and virginal! Now come on, let’s go crack open a few bottles of beer.”

  Richard led the way up a flight of steps onto the deck and crossed over to a wire-meshed screen door. He pushed it open with his shoulder and David followed him into a large, airy kitchen, its centre dominated by a long scrubbed pine table across which were spread Richard’s work-papers. The whole room was aflame with dancing splinters of light that reflected off the open French doors as they gently swung in the breeze.

  “Listen, I hope you don’t mind roughing it a bit, old boy,” Richard said. “You’ve slightly caught us at a bad time. We’re in the throes of doing a major conversion job to the side of the house, so I’m afraid the roof is off the two guest-rooms.” He opened the door and David followed him into the carpetless hall, their feet making imprints in the building dust that lay thick on the floor. Richard started up the stairs. “Just bloody typical of Angie, though. She starts something like this and then buggers off!” He walked along the narrow passage and pushed open a door with the suitcase. “So I hope you don’t mind sleeping in here. It’s my office. Not very salubrious, I’m afraid.”

  The room itself was only about eight-foot square, but was reduced in size still further by the wide shelf that extended round two walls, stacked neatly with filing trays and books. At one end, amidst a cat’s-cradle of different-coloured wires, sat Richard’s laptop computer, laser printer, fax machine and telephone. A single bed had been jammed in behind the door, the bottom half of which extended under the shelf. There was no wardrobe, but the jangle of clashing metal when the door was initially opened indicated that there must be a number of wire coat-hangers hanging behind it. Any daylight that might have entered through the two small windows was closed off by impenetrable roller blinds, which only added to the cell-like qualities of the room. Everything in the room was coloured light-brown with dust.

  Richard put the cases down and looked around, his hands on his hips. “Hope it’s all right.”

  “Yeah, fine,” David said, trying to sound buoyant at the prospect of sleeping in what resembled an executive broom cupboard, “really fine. All I need is somewhere to lay my head.”

  “Good, well, the bathroom is right next door when you want it.” He turned to leave. “Look, I’ve got a couple of calls to make, so get yourself organized and then come down and we’ll have that drink.”

  He left the room and David stood for a minute surveying his filthy quarters. Jesus, maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea and he’d be better off in a hotel somewhere. He felt an involuntary shiver run through his body and, putting his brief-case on the shelf, he began rubbing hard at his legs to try to relieve the aching that had suddenly developed. Putting his hand to his forehead, he wiped away a bead of sweat. Oh, no, don’t say he’d gone and picked up a bug from that child in the plane! That was all he needed! He slumped back onto the sagging bed and stared up at the ceiling, a sudden sense of depression and uneasiness coming over him, and for the first time since leaving Scotland he felt the familiar dull ache of loneliness return to his body. Yet this time it was worse, the reality of his situation beginning to take a numbing grip on his ill-sorted and fevered mind—that now, in these characterless and unfamiliar surroundings, he was truly alone—an ocean apart from the children, and an ocean apart from Rachel.

  Chapter TWELVE

  By dinner-time that evening, there was little doubt in David’s mind that he had caught some fast-acting and virulent bug from the child in the plane. His whole body ached and his head thumped as he sat with Richard at the kichen table, eating rubbery, undercooked pasta and drinking too much wine, hoping that as soon as possible he would be able to excuse himself and go to bed. However, Richard hardly drew breath as he recounted endless stories and anecdotes of their time in the army together, and David, feeling duty-bound to play the polite guest, sat listening with a fixed smile on his sweating face.

  At the end of the meal Richard stacked the plates in the dishwasher, then, without offering David an alternative, opened up a kitchen cupboard and took out two glasses and a bottle of whisky. Having poured two powerful measures into each glass, he sat down again and, after a moment’s hesitation, broached the subject of Rachel, and David, not feeling in the mood to go into any great detail, proceeded to give him only the broadest outline on what had happened. However, as he talked, he noticed Richard’s interest in the subject quickly wane, and almost imperceptibly the topic of conversation was guided away from Rachel and on to Angie. Soon David found himself in the role of sympathetic listener, as Richard, drinking two whiskies to his one, slurred on in an endless monologue about the problems they had encountered in their seven-year marriage—how she couldn’t have children and how she made up for it by spending money as if it grew on trees, and now the final straw being this latest conversion, which she had started without his prior knowledge.

  Until midnight David sat and listened, his face burning with fever and his eyes heavy with lack of sleep and jet lag. Then, unable to restrain himself any further, he let out an enormous yawn and pushed himself to his feet, an action which brought about an abrupt halt to Richard’s outpourings. Mumbling abject apologies to David for burdening him with his problems and for keeping him from his bed, he too rose unsteadily to his feet and together they weaved their way upstairs.

  With a sense of relief David shut his bedroom door and sat down heavily on the narrow bed, leaning his elbows on his knees and rubbing at his smarting eyes. He flicked his wrist over to look at the time. Half midnight. That meant he had been on the go for almost twenty-four hours. He let out a sigh of exhaustion and, heaving himself to his feet, made his way to the bathroom.

  He gave his teeth a revitalizing brush and splashed cupped handfuls of cold water onto his face in an attempt to relieve the stinging in his eyes and the thickness clutching at his head, caused both by the flu and the overconsumption of wine and whisky. Then, returning to his bedroom, he undressed and jumped into bed, pulling the covers up around his chin to stop the uncontrollable shivering. He tried shutting his eyes, but his head seemed to be taking off in different directions, whirling in circles from Richard’s endless chatter, and at the same time sinking in and out of the pillow with too much booze. He needed something to settle his mind, even just for a moment. He turned and scanned the small room for a magazine or a book to read, but there was only a shelf-full of company business plans propped up by a large legal encyclopaedia. He thought that he might have kept a newspaper from the plane journey, so he clambered out of bed and sprang open the catches of his brief-case. No luck. Only the Glendurnich distributor report. Better than nothing, he thought to himself. He took it out, closed the brief-case and got back into bed.

  The next morning he was awakened abruptly by a clatter of coat-hangers as the door swung hard against his bed, and he looked up to see Richard’s bleary-eyed and colourless face hovering above him.

  “Richard? Whatsamatter?” he asked, bewildered.

  Richard rubbed at his hair with his fingers. “Look, David, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we’ve slept in. We’ll have to get a move on. I’m going to telephone Star Limos right now for a car, ’cos I don’t think I’m in a fit state to drive.”

  He hurried out of the room, and for a moment David lay in his bed while the throbbing in his head and the aching in his limbs began to register in his brain. He looked at his watch. It was half past eight. “Oh, shit!”

  He threw off the bedclothes and jumped to his feet, the sudden movement exacerbating the overpowering feeling of nausea. He stood fo
r a minute concentrating hard to bring it under control, goose-pimples pricking the surface of his shivering body.

  “Oh, for crying out bloody loud! Why now?” He grabbed his sponge-bag and made his way through to the bathroom. There was no time for a shower, only a quick wash and a shave, before he was back in his room to riffle through his suitcase for clean underpants, shirt and socks.

  “Dan’ll be here in three minutes,” Richard’s voice sounded up the stairs.

  A host of butterflies suddenly invaded David’s stomach, and his fingers started to shake as he fumbled with his tie. Christ, he thought to himself, this is all I need. Bloody late for the meeting and a dose of flu to go with it.

  He pulled on his trousers and, pushing his feet into shoes while still on the move, he grabbed his jacket and brief-case and ran downstairs.

  Richard was already in the kitchen, flying around the room picking up bits of paper off different surfaces and stuffing them into his brief-case. “Sorry about this, David. Listen, grab a cup of coffee. It’s in the percolator. I’m afraid it’s left over from last night, but at least it’ll be strong.” A car horn sounded outside the house. “Christ, no time! That’ll be Dan now! Come on!”

  He ushered David out onto the deck and locked the door, then hurried down the steps, his guest hard on his heels. Dan was waiting for them on the street, holding open the back door of the Lincoln. They both bundled themselves in, and as the car powered off down the street, Richard slumped back against the head-rest. “Bloody hell, I feel rough! How’re you doing?”