by Neal Bircher
Nick had a better idea, which he managed to communicate through a combination of hand signals, body language, and the odd shouted word. Gail nodded and then followed him up the stairs to the relative quiet of the restaurant area. There were no diners now, and no staff. The tables had been cleared, and covered with fresh white cloths. Gail and Nick sat at a table next to each other and both took a large sip of their respective drinks; he’d brought a beer with him and had left his remaining cocktail in the club, whilst she had brought a bottle of Holstein Pils, without a glass.
The verbal conversation that followed was bland, covering music, work, and Italian food, but Nick found more interest in the unspoken communication that accompanied it.
When his left knee made contact with Gail’s right neither he nor she quickly withdrew in embarrassment, and when he held Gail’s gaze for that fraction of a second longer than was necessary, then, unlike their first ever meeting, she reciprocated.
A pause occurred and he looked again into Gail’s attentive eyes; had the two of them been younger and single then they would have kissed at that moment. Indeed, had they not been in the vicinity of so many colleagues then they might well have done so anyway. But they didn’t … not yet.
Nick looked at his watch. It was a quarter past one.
“Well I’m about ready to go home before too long. D’you fancy sharing a taxi?”
“Sounds likevery good idea to me.”
“Now?”
Gail nodded slowly and deliberately, her gaze very much holding for that extra half a second again.
A big rendition ofHi Ho Silver Lininggushed into the room from the stairway below as a booze-fuelled choir enthusiastically swarmed onto the dance floor once more. Gail and Nick would not be missed.
The night outside was chilling after the hot air of the club and restaurant, and the two of them breathed out cloudlike plumes as they hurried in search of a minicab office. They didn’t find one of those, but a large Nissan with a luminous green taxi badge in the windscreen was soon flagged down and a fee agreed that was acceptable to all.
There were few words exchanged on the fast half-hour drive and any temptation for physical contact was resisted by both parties. Half a mile short of Gail’s home they passed fish & chip shop that was still open, and Nick asked the driver to stop. Gail looked perplexed, but went along with the idea. Nick then paid the driver and away went the Nissan.
“Do you fancy a bag of chips or something, Gail?”
She didn’t, of course, and neither did he.
“No thanks, I’m stuffed.”
“Hmmm, don’t know whether I do now really either. Sorry; I shouldn’t have got him to stop.”
“Well, I’m OK – but you’ve got miles to go haven’t you?”
“It’s not that far really; it’ll do me good. Right then: your place!”
“No, you can’t walk me home; it’s miles out of your way.”
“No, sorry, I insist.”
“But you’ll freeze!”
(Nick’s thin cotton jacket was not designed to be worn outside in a British winter.)
“Serves me right for getting the taxi to stop. Come on, let’s get moving.”
Just beyond where they were standing was a large roundabout, covered with grass and scattered with clumps of bushes. The road exiting the far side of the roundabout led into the estate where Gail lived. Nick led the way briskly across the roundabout, and Gail trotted alongside him. They were only half a mile from Gail’s home and she had lived in the area all of her life, but this was the first time in her thirty-seven years that she had ever set foot on the roundabout’s prohibited turf.
Nick felt embarrassed and much more sober than he had done only a matter of minutes before, but was relieved to find Gail to be rather more chatty than normal. It transpired that she was interested in football and – for no obvious reason – a supporter of Newcastle United. Nick also got to know that she had a husband and two teenage children.
“Two kids, eh? Blimey! You planning to have any more?” It was not the sort of question Nick would ever ask, but for some reason he did, and he felt uncomfortable doing so.
“At my age?! It’d probably kill me.”
That also killed the conversation for some seconds before Nick continued, tentatively. “So, have you always lived around here?”
Gail gave a mock sigh. “I’m afraid so … shit-hole isn’t it? What about you – where do you come from?”
Nick was relieved not to have to comment on the shit-hole question. “I’m from Oxford originally. I lived there until I left to go to college when I was eighteen.”
“Mmmm, it’s nice up that way,” Gail replied, politely, but genuinely. “Are your folks still there?”
Nick cleared his throat. “No, my dad was made redundant and he couldn’t get a job – at least not a decent one – and then he got an offer from a mining company in South Africa, so my mum and dad moved out there. They went while I was doing my GCSEs. My mate Rob’s parents put me up for a couple of years.” He hesitated. “Then I went away to college, but only for a year until I was kicked out. I’ve got a younger brother and he went out to South Africa with my parents. He came back here to go to college and uni, but he’s over there again now too.”
Two cars went by, both travelling in the same direction that they were – an Audi A4 and a Ford Fiesta.
“Hope neither of them were your husband!”
“No, he’s on an early shift; he’ll have been in bed for hours. Wehave got a Fiesta, but that wasn’t it. You drive a Porsche don’t you?”
“Yeah… but it’s quite old, nothing very flash.”
She looked towards him.
“Still a Porsche though; I’ve never even been in one.”
Nick looked at the ground, before venturing, “Well if you fancy a spin one lunch time or something then just give me a call.”
Gail turned and looked Nick in the eyes. “I might just take you up on that.”
“No problem; could be fun,” came the quick reply.
Then followed a lull in conversation (but not in thought), and the two of them walked on, past rows of darkened houses and side turnings devoid of moving vehicles or any signs of life. At one of those turnings their arms brushed and Nick found himself holding Gail’s hand. The walk continued quietly for the few minutes that it took to reach the street that Gail lived in, when she gave his hand an extended squeeze before letting go.
“This is where I get off.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. You can see my house from here. Thanks ever so much for walking me home …”
Nick nodded towards the street sign in Gail’s road. “So you live in Carmarthen Road. I think I’ve been to Carmarthen … is that the one with a castle … or is that Caernarfon?”
“I’m not sure; I’ve never been to Wales.”
Nick touched Gail’s arm and then leaned towards her. “Goodnight then.”
The ensuing goodnight kiss lasted fifteen seconds.
“Are you sure you’re going to be alright, Nick? It’s a long walk.”
“It’ll do me good. Take care. Drop me a note tomorrow.”
“I will. Goodnight!” And she scurried off.
Nick watched Gail Timson trot the hundred yards or so to her front gate. She opened it and then turned and waved before disappearing into a presumably warm and comfortable home. Nick turned to begin a less warm and comfortable trek home.
And quite a trek it was: three quarters-of-an-hour’s worth. His feet ached from a combination of tiredness and unsuitable shoes, and the low temperature seemed to slip another few degrees once he was alone. All the same, he chose not to check out the offices of a minicab firm that was located behind the Haystack – one of the pubs on his route, and he actually quite enjoyed the solitude and the opportunity to mull over the events of the evening. When he got home he was feeling good, and decided to treat himself to a beer from the fridge, and to flop onto the sofa to watch a bit
of TV.
Funeral Day
Another face made another offer of food of some description, but Gail waved it away, just as she had all the others all day. She barely took in who most of the faces belonged to, and this one – her own mother’s – was no exception.
“But you haven’t eaten a thing all day dear, you’ll make yourself ill.”
Awaking from her trance, Gail focussed for a moment on her mother’s concerned expression before glazing over once more and gently shaking her head.
“How about a glass of sherry or something?”
Gail’s head signalled the same dismissive gesture as she mouthed an inaudible “No” and turned her body closer into the sofa, closing her eyes as she did so.
Her mother went to speak again, but then thought better of it, and moved uncomfortably away.
In Gail’s world she was alone, but the rest of them were still milling around her with their snippets of conversation, muted forced chuckles, and clanking of crockery. She wanted them to go away;she wanted to go away; she wanted … anything but to be where she was.
Her mind went back over the day. She was glad that she’d managed to keep her composure. She played back the vicar’s words and they froze her to the spine once more. “Barry was a good man; a good family man. He will be greatly missed by those members of his family that he leaves behind: his beloved wife, Gail;” (She kept her gaze fixed and wouldn’t have moved a muscle, even if she could.) “his children, Catherine and Steven; his young grandson, Ben, of whom he was so proud; and his brother, Alan.” That was so long ago now, or maybe it wasn’t so long. Normal dimensions didn’t seem to apply. “… and we ask forgiveness too for the person who committed this terrible deed …” (Still straight ahead; mustn’t even blink.) “…Let us pray.” The service lasted a dreadful eternity. Then came the walk back down the aisle – so many pairs of eyes all looking, searching, questioning … piercing. They could never know.
The burial was a blur, and she could not recall hearing any sound at all. It was raining, but only gently. A song was in her head, that one by the Jam about the death of a loved one. She didn’t know what it was called, but she too truly did wish that the grave would swallow her alive. Somebody threw a Chelsea scarf onto the coffin. “How naff,” she thought; almost as naff as the football references in the vicar’s eulogy. But then maybe it was appropriate: football had after all always come before everything else in Barry’s life. Hands touched her. She shook some of them. “I’m sorry… he was a good man.” “…Looks like we’ve just beaten the rain.” “Yes, yes, got your map in the post, thank you.” “… not since … well it must have been … was it your wedding? Now, that’s some time ago….”
Rain streamed across the car windows on the journey back. Gail gazed out aimlessly as a grey world passed by, her heart feeling only slightly less dread than it had done on the way there. She found herself worrying if there would be enough food to go around, or whether she’d got the right drinks in, and … and then she found herself not being able to care less.
She pushed open the front door to enter a cold house, and then made straight for the comfort of her end of the sofa. For the rest of time they all drifted around being sorry, and sympathetic, and caring, thankful that the rain had held off. If only … if only …
“Go on, Gail, have one of these. There’s only a couple left. I’ll have to eat ’em all myself otherwise.”
The verbal intrusion joined forces with a beer-fumed assault on Gail’s sense of smell to pull her reluctantly back into the present. She would have liked to tell Barry’s brother Alan where to stick his vol-au-vents, but she made do with one more dismissive wave, before rising from her flimsy sanctuary to bolt for the exit.
Catherine was standing talking to someone.
“Mum, are you sure you’re OK? You haven’t eaten anything all day.”
The hurried response was only just audible. “I’m going to bed … I’ll be alright.”
“But it’s only nine o’clock …”
Gail carried on. An increased volume of other babblings drifted after her. She locked the bedroom door and leaned back on it, marginally relieved. Catherine would know better than to come after her and would hopefully stop anyone else from doing so too.
Gail stayed there motionless for several minutes. There were no other sounds apart from those of her own breathing and pounding heartbeat. She flopped onto the big double bed still wearing her flowing black mourning dress. She looked lovely in it, someone had said so earlier. Several people had said so earlier. She sank into the darkness and pulled her knees to her chest. The pain inside was not imagined, it was a real and physical, and it hurt more and more. The tears that she had held back now came in floods. She squeezed her arms tightly around her knees, and curled up into a quivering ball. Being alone and alone was no better after all than being alone and cornered. Had she had the strength she would have screamed, but instead she cried until her eyes burned and her throat was sore.
She felt cold and so alone. She wantedhim to be here. She yearned for his body next to her, his arms around her, and his voice reassuring her. More than ever, Gail needed Nick to be with her.
Never Again
The morning after Jemma Reynolds’ leaving do was not a pleasant one for Nick. Waking up with yet another serious hangover to nurse, he managed to crawl out of bed, but only minutes before the time that he should have been at work. Three empty lager cans, and a beer glass half-filled with the remainder of the final can’s contents, all spread around his living room coffee table reminded him that he’d thought it a good idea to round off the evening with a quick drink in front of the telly when he’d got in. He didn’t think that it had been such a good idea now.
He liked to walk the couple of miles from his house into work if he could, and usually tried to get up in time to be able to do so. It was a nice relaxing way to get into the day, and enabled him to ease gently into work mode, often preparing his day in his head as he did so. Many an e-mail or part of a presentation had been composed between eight thirty and nine o’clock on the streets and alleyways of Norling in this way, probably some of his better ones too. He liked to vary the route as well to keep the journey from being too routine, and on the rare occasions that he got up early enough to allow it, he would take a longer detour taking in the low-key piece of parkland that was Norling Common. Some of his favourite walks were when the weather was inclement, as that livened things up a bit. Rain, fog, and particularly snow, would always put a bit more of a spring in his step and add that little extra motivation to get out of the house in the morning. All the same, the sunny summer days were pleasant too, especially early on, before the air had had time to become uncomfortably warm. He always felt a touch of envy then for those people – the postman whistling his way along his round; the builder sitting on a rooftop watching the world go by or drinking tea with a jocular group of workmates; the man cutting the grass in the park with a sit-on lawn mower – whose work enabled them to in some small way enjoy the outside world even in this drab sprawl of London suburbia. If only riding a quad bike with blades on paid as well as attending lots of dull meetings, and sitting in front of an even duller computer. It frustrated Nick how his I.T. career was treading water, and he knew that he only had himself to blame: It was he who had made the choice to get into it, and he who didn’t have any good ideas for getting out of it. He knew that he would have to come up with something … one day.
He was much too late waking up to walk in and get to work on time, but then he didn’t really feel up to driving either, and, as he was pretty sure that his first meeting of the day wasn’t until late in the morning, he went for the walking option to give his head a bit of a chance to clear.
And so, a quick shower and a bowl of cereal later, Nick went blinking into the dull sunlight. The walk in gave his brain the opportunity to remind him of some of the events of the night before. He was aware of the general shape of the occasion, but as he trudged along the streets more and
more bits of detail kept dropping into place. There were his conversations with Jemma; they were OK. There was the dance floor, andThe Birdie Song even – thank goodness he’d stayed out of that one. And then – shit! – there was Gail Timson. He’d spent half the night talking to her, hadn’t he … again. No problem with that as such, just as long as he hadn’t talked too much crap as he’d rambled on fuelled by booze. And then his mind moved on chronologically … the cold air hitting him as he left the restaurant … vague recollections of a taxi … and then “SHIT!” He stumbled upon one of those cringing thoughts that induces the blurting out loud of an expletive, and in doing so produces another potentially embarrassing moment, thus triggering a life-long vicious circle. There was though no such a domino effect this time as there was no-one else around to listen, but the first incident was a bad one: He’d made a fool of himself by trying to cop off with a sensible married mother … again. The persuading of Gail Timson to exit the taxi half a mile early; the puzzled look on her face; the lingering kiss at the end of her street; it all came back all too clearly, although most of the conversation around and between those moments was buried forever deep in the alcohol swamp of his brain.
Why, he asked himself, did he do it? And why did he never seem to learn?
He cursed himself for being an idiot, he cursed the booze for aiding and abetting him (as well as for giving him the morning’s ill-effects), and he cursed the fact that he had to go to work to earn a living. “Bollocks!” (Fortunately still nobody else around.)
Gail’s memory of the evening might of course have been even hazier than his. But that was a slim hope, because not only had she almost certainly been less drunk than him, but also because other people – and especially women – generally seemed to be annoyingly better than him at remembering the detail of such occasions.