An Ocean Apart

by Robin Pilcher

  “I don’t suppose you have Glendurnich?” he asked, almost sarcastically.

  The barman looked over his shoulder at the mirrored display shelf half-way up the bar, then, leaving the beer-tap running, hurried his way up to check his stock, expertly judging his return just as the beer had begun to trickle over the top of the glass. He flicked off the tap. “’Fraid not. Only Glenlivet and Glenmorangie.”

  David grunted derisively at himself. Stupid question. There it was, the proof of the pudding. That’s why he was bloody well meant to be here, to get Glendurnich onto the shelves alongside its competitors.

  “Would you be wantin’ one then, sor?”

  David let out a long sigh. “One of each.”

  As the bartender headed off to pour him the whisky, the young suit next to David vacated his bar-stool. Taking a huge mouthful of beer, he pulled the stool towards him with his foot and sat down, ready to numb his pain with alcohol.

  Two hours later he lurched out of the pub and stood unsteadily in the middle of the sidewalk, his befuddled brain trying to decipher the barman’s garbled instructions on how to get to Penn Station. More by good fortune than by better judgement, he had ended up only three blocks east of his destination, but nevertheless it took him thirty minutes of concentrated staggering before he found the station in his inebriated state.

  The place was bustling with people even though it was only two-fifteen in the afternoon, and David, keeping close to the wall in fear of bumping into someone and losing his balance completely, skirted round the terminal until he saw the ticket office. He walked up to a vacant window and slumped forward, resting his arms on the shelf, his head only inches away from the glass partition. “One way to Patchogue.”

  The clerk pressed a button on his machine and shot out a ticket into the steel recess in front of David. “Eight-fifty.”

  Steadying himself against the window, David pulled his wallet out of his pocket, took out a ten-dollar bill and slid it into the recess. “Could you please tell me when the next train is?” he asked, trying not to slur his speech.

  The ticket salesman looked at his timetable. “Two twenty-seven to Babylon, track seventeen. Change at Jamaica for Patchogue.”

  “Thank you,” David said, this time hearing himself sound as if he had a severe speech impediment.

  By the time he reached track 17, the train was already waiting. He clambered into the first car and sat down opposite a minute wizened albino man who wore a pair of blue-tinted spectacles and whose white hair poked through the plastic mesh of his red-and-blue baseball cap. He seemed to be working simultaneously on two crosswords, obviously photocopied from newspapers onto one piece of paper. David blinked at this near-surrealistic encounter, thinking that his imagination had become distorted with drink. But the little man was definitely there, checking the clues on each of his crosswords in turn and scribbling down the answers without once stopping to ponder the questions.

  The train took off with a jolt and slid away from the platform, picking up speed as it entered into a pitch-black tunnel. David shut his eyes and tried to concentrate on synchronizing the natural swaying of his body with the movement of the train, but it made him feel sick, so he laid his head back against the seat and focused on an AIDS-Helpline poster that was stuck on one of the partition windows. With that, the train shot out of the tunnel and into Queens, the sun suddenly bursting so brightly through the window of the car that he had to put up his hand to shield his eyes. He tried shutting them again, but once again was overcome with nausea. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and placed his hands over his face, finding it a bearable compromise—being able to cut out the glare, yet maintain his equilibrium by squinting through the gaps in his fingers at the chalk-faced dwarf opposite him. He remained in that position until the train conductor’s voice crackled over the intercom.

  “Jamaica. Change for Patchogue.”

  As the train drew into the station, about half the passengers rose from their seats. David grabbed his brief-case and followed, but once out on the platform he realized that he had no idea in which direction he was meant to go. He therefore tagged on to the larger of the groups as they made their way up and over the railway bridge.

  It was the right decision, the Patchogue train pulling in just as he came down the staircase. Doors opened and a few passengers disembarked before the Penn crowd began to push their way in. David found a seat to himself in the corner, and for a moment wondered why others had chosen to squeeze themselves together so far from where he was sitting. His question was answered almost as soon as the train pulled out of the station by the sound of a flushing toilet from the door opposite him, followed by the sour, overpowering smell of urine. He put his hand across his mouth and nose to stop himself from gagging and turned to see the whole partition of the lavatory swing back and forth on its loose brackets as someone inside wrestled with the door handle. It eventually flew open and a gaunt middle-aged man appeared, dressed in a pair of coveralls and clutching a plastic bag in one hand and a can of beer in the other. He crossed over and sat down opposite David.

  “Fuckin’ lock’s busted,” he said, gesticulating with the side of his head towards the lavatory and taking an almost dainty sip of beer from his can.

  David silently nodded and looked around, hoping that if he didn’t make eye contact with his travelling companion he would be spared further revelations about his visit to the lavatory.

  In comparison to this train, David realized that he hadn’t quite appreciated just how clean the previous one had been. The imitation leather seats had at one time been two-toned, but now their fading colours were indistinguishable under years of grease-stains, and the windows were so smeared with engrained dirt that it was difficult to see out. He looked down at the floor and noticed a suspect trickle of liquid, originating at the rest-room door, which wound its way down the central passageway, its meandering course governed by the constant side-to-side swing of the train.

  His travelling companion tilted back his head to catch the last drops of beer in the can and placed it neatly on the floor at his feet. Then, putting his hand in his plastic bag, he took out a second can, flicked open the ring-pull, and took another dainty sip. David thought about moving, but then simply shut his eyes and leaned his head against the hard metallic edge of the aluminium windowsill. He felt the feeling of nausea spread over him once more, this time made more acute by the smell coming from the lavatory. Why the hell should he move? This was exactly where he was meant to be, stuck in the corner of this filthy, seedy train with his chain-drinking companion, two losers together, the perfect theatrical scene for his own complete self-degradation.

  He clenched his teeth and screwed up his eyes in an attempt to stop himself from sliding over the edge of the emotional abyss, but this time there was nothing to hold him, every saving foothold of pride and self-esteem at which he had grasped so many times in the past having been chipped away by the events of the day. He felt the first of the tears force their way through his tightly closed eyes and run in parallel lines down the side of each cheek before falling, their sly, discreditable work finished, onto the lapel of his suit jacket.

  It was some time before he noticed that the beer-drinker had quietly moved away from him to the opposite end of the car.

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  Having only gone through the motions of working that morning, owing to his unabating hangover, Richard decided that he could be of no further use to Dammell’s Bank that day and slipped discreetly out of the office at two-thirty. He knew that it would take his last ounce of fortitude to suffer the tedious train journey back out to Long Island. Two hours later, he pushed open the unlocked door of the kitchen—an indication that David was home—and, chucking his brief-case onto the table, went over to the sink to fill up the kettle. As he plugged it in, a slight movement on the sofa in the corner of the room made him turn around abruptly.

  “David? Jesus, what a fright you gave me!” He walked over to the s
ofa. “What the hell…?”

  He knew something was wrong immediately. David lay, his back turned towards him, making no move to acknowledge his arrival. He clutched a cushion tightly in his arms and his legs were drawn up into his stomach. Richard leaned across him and looked down on his ashen-white face. His eyes, swollen from crying, focused blankly into the fabric of the sofa.

  “David,” he said quietly, “what’s up, old boy? Christ, you look all in.”

  David swung his legs round and sat up and rubbed hard at his eyes with his fingers. “Sorry, Richard. I’m so sorry.”

  “For what?”

  David shook his head. “I don’t know. Just being here. I shouldn’t be.”

  Richard sat down next to him. “Christ, of course you should be here. What do you mean?” He bit hard on his lip, not understanding quite what had happened. “What is it, David? Is it … Rachel?”

  David fixed his gaze out the window and slowly nodded.

  Richard put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Christ, David, I really am so sorry.” He glanced around the room as if trying to search out an answer to David’s problem. “Would you like a whisky or something?”

  David shook his head. “No, I’ve already had a skinful.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Listen, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll just get out of your way and go to bed. I’m not feeling too good.”

  Richard jumped up. “Yeah, of course. Do you want me to get a doctor or anything like that?”

  David shook his head. “No, I just need to sleep.” He walked to the door and turned round. “I’m sorry, Richard.”

  “Look, you really don’t have to apologize, my friend. Just go to bed and sleep as long as you want. I’ll be leaving pretty early tomorrow morning, but … er … listen, I’ll tell you what. Angie’s sister, Carrie, lives here in Leesport. She’s always popping in, so I’ll get her to organize something for you to eat, okay?”

  David shook his head. “You don’t need to bother—really.”

  “It’s no bother, old fellow. Carrie won’t mind at all. You just get to bed—and sleep.” He paused for a moment. “Listen, Angie’s got some pretty lethal sleeping pills. Do you want one?”

  “No. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.” Richard walked over and patted him on the back. “But try to clear your mind, David.”

  David smiled and let out a shuddering sigh. “I doubt I’ll ever be able to do that again, Richard.”

  “Yeah,” Richard said quietly, “I know.”

  He waited until he heard David’s door close before letting out a long, relieved breath. He walked over to the kettle and made himself a cup of coffee, then leaned his back against the sideboard as he tried to work out what he should do.

  Carrie. He should call her first. No, maybe not. He went across to the table and opened his brief-case and took out his telephone book. He flicked through it to the correct page, then, picking up the telephone, he dialled the number and stood scratching at his cheek while waiting for an answer.

  * * *

  With a hot-water bottle tucked under her arm, Effie had made it to the half-way stage on the staircase when she heard the sound of the car scrunching to a halt on the gravel outside the house. She stopped, a puzzled expression on her face, then turned and descended the staircase and went over to the door of the drawing-room, knocked and entered. Alicia Inchelvie glanced up from her book at her, then swung round to look at the clock on the mantelpiece.

  “Effie? Have you not gone home yet? It’s half past nine!”

  “Not quite. I was just going to put a hot-water bottle in your bed before I went—but—well, I was wondering if you were expecting someone. It’s just that I’m sure that I heard a car stop at the front door.”

  “No,” Alicia replied, putting her book down on the side-table and heaving herself up from the chair. “I can’t think who would be coming at this time. Let’s go and have a look.”

  As she walked across the drawing-room, the sound of the front door opening made the three dogs jump up from their place by the fire. Barking furiously, they skidded their way past her and out into the hall, their claws scraping on the polished wooden floor as they developed wheel-spin in their eagerness to find out who had entered their house. Alicia glanced inquiringly at Effie, then together they followed the dogs out into the hallway.

  Surrounded by bouncing and panting animals, George Inchelvie slowly took off the scarf from around his neck and hung it on one of the coat-hooks.

  “Good boys. That’s enough now.” He looked up as his wife and the little housekeeper came out of the drawing-room.

  “George!” Alicia exclaimed, a concerned expression on her face. “What on earth are you doing home? I thought that you were spending another night in Glasgow.”

  George took off his coat and laid it on the pew. “I was meant to be.” He steadied himself on his stick before starting to walk across the hall towards them. “Duncan Caple telephoned me at the hotel at about five-thirty. He said that he’d been on the point of leaving the office for his European trip when he’d had a call from this new distributor fellow in New York. Anyway, I had a fairly intensive conversation with him for about half an hour, after which I decided that I didn’t particularly feel like staying away for another night—so I just drove home.”

  Alicia watched him closely as he spoke. If the economy of his slurred words was not enough to register his exhaustion, the colourless features of his face, its shadowed lines accentuated by the dim lighting in the hall, gave her the strongest indication that her husband had just about used up every reserve of energy.

  “What’s happened, George?”

  He hesitated before replying, and Effie, realizing that her presence was no longer required, backed away towards the staircase. “Right, well, I’ll just away and put the hot-water bottle in your bed, Lady Inchelvie.” She bustled off, then stopped and turned back. “Would you be wanting a wee something to eat, my lord? There’s a bit of the stew left over in the fridge, which I could heat up, or maybe a cheese sandwich?”

  George shook his head. “That’s kind, Effie, but no, I’m quite all right.” A glimmer of a wry smile crossed his tired face. “I think I’ll probably just make do with a whisky.”

  Alicia moved towards him and took his arm. “Come on, let’s go and sit in the drawing-room.” In silence they walked together across the hallway and into the drawing-room, where George sat down heavily in one of the chairs, grimacing in pain as he did so. “Bloody back is bad at the minute,” he said, his voice croaking. “Too much driving.”

  “Too much of everything, Geordie,” Alicia said, looking down at him and shaking her head. “Now, I’ll get you a whisky and you tell me what’s happened.”

  She went over to the corner cabinet and took out a glass and a half-full bottle of Glendurnich.

  “Has David telephoned?” George asked.

  “No,” Alicia replied, pouring out a double measure and replacing the cork in the bottle. “Were you expecting him to?”

  For a moment, George looked at his wife as he gathered his thoughts. “I’m afraid that David’s meeting in New York didn’t go too well.”

  Alicia handed him the whisky, then sat down on the edge of her chair, resting her elbows on her knees and eyeing her husband intently. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. David apparently walked out half-way through, much to the surprise of everyone present. At any rate, that’s what Duncan told me.” He took a drink from his glass. “Anyway, that’s only half the problem.”

  Alicia did not speak, but waited for her husband to continue. He chewed pensively at the side of his mouth before resuming. “Duncan feels that David’s mysterious behaviour at the meeting is proof enough that he needs a complete break from his job. He says that he cannot operate Glendurnich without a marketing director, and he wants to appoint a new one as soon as possible.”

  Alicia sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. This was it. The worst had happened. She had never
thought that it would come to this. “What did you say to him?”

  “What could I say?” George retorted almost defensively. “I mean, even though the company belongs to the family, I can’t exercise my own nepotistic muscle if David is not up to fulfilling his role. I know it’s not his fault, but I have to understand Duncan’s position as well.” He drained his glass and took in a deep breath to compose himself. “Anyway, that’s what I was negotiating with him on the telephone. What has been agreed is that Duncan will appoint a new marketing director, but I have managed to limit it to a one-year contract for the time being, and hopefully by then David will have managed to get himself together. If, at the end of one year, there is no change to the situation, then the contract will be extended at Duncan’s discretion.”

  There was complete silence in the room, except for the rhythmic thumping of one of the dogs scratching at its neck with its back paw, and the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.

  “What is happening with our lives, Geordie?” Alicia said eventually in a quiet voice. “Everything seems to have gone haywire. I mean, we have never had so many worries as we do now, and here you are, having to work harder than ever before.” She paused and sat back in her chair and began brushing her hair over the top of one ear with her fingers. “I was so hoping that this trip might be the turning point for David.” She looked across at her husband. “I really could not bear it if we found ourselves back to stage one with him, because I can’t see how either of us will cope.”

  George nodded slowly, as if in submission to what his wife was saying. “I know. It’s not good, and I just wonder where on earth he is at the minu——”

  The telephone trilled noisily on his desk, and Alicia pushed herself to her feet and walked across the room to answer it.

  “Hullo, Inchelvie … yes … yes, of course, Richard, how are you?… Why, what’s happened?… Oh, no … oh dear, this was something I always dreaded taking place … Flu as well!… Oh, my word!… Oh, Richard, I’m so sorry … Yes … yes … but can you cope with all that?… I see, but does Carrie have time to do that?… Right … well, that is most kind, Richard.… Yes, I think you’re right. The sooner he gets back here, the better … on the Monday-evening flight?… Yes, that would be fine. I’ll arrange for someone to meet him at Glasgow on Tuesday morning … of course, and many thanks for letting me know, Richard … bye.”