His concern for Philippa remained foremost. She had, it seemed to him become terribly negative and continually down-beat, depressed even. Although she still struck an impressive profile, he could see that she was not looking after herself as before: weight loss, complexion issues, dress code and mood swings. But regardless, he stood by her and he took the flak. He also enjoyed the making up.
Overall though, it was what was happening behind that black door which held his attention and fear. Frustrated, because there was nothing that he could do to influence that universe of bigotry and sectarianism to which he had been so brutally exposed. It was a world from which Philippa was desperately waiting to escape from. That route, Curtis had always knew would be via academia. And that worried him.
Almost in the same breath he had realised, as if being struck by a lightning bolt, that he could be the overall loser. Quickly he moved his thoughts onward. He agreed with himself that his girl once again needed seriously cheering up. He had therefore set about creating another of his surprises. Philippa, he had no need to remind himself, loved surprises.
* * *
Curtis remembered the day well. For spring it was not particularly warm. A cutting breeze whistled the length of Maidens Street, the main thoroughfare in the small town. It cancelled the effect of a cloudless afternoon sky. Head down and fuelled with determination he strutted on. At the same time, he was trying to look cool, cool enough to deliver his surprise. Over and over in his head he had practised his lines; he needed to be word perfect.
The cold bit into his very bones, but Curtis had remained focused. Onwards he forged. The homeliness of the Rose Bud café hastened his step. The ‘surprise’ had been carefully folded and concealed within the length of a DL sized envelope. It was blue metallic in colour and had a purple ribbon tied around it. It hid within the inside pocket of his trend-setter jacket. Throughout and between the various day-release classes at the local technical college, that said pocket was continually patted. Still there, still flat, still pristine.
If he’d listened to the worldly advice of his mother, he would have been sensibly-dressed (in her eyes), and warm. But for Curtis the principal driver of his outfit was being in sync with the fashion of the day, especially on a Tuesday, especially on this day.
Oily jeans and overalls had been ditched in favour of chic. Whether it was tramping the corridors of the college, or afterwards down on the street, one’s choice of apparel, he assured himself, was paramount. Being well-groomed was only part of it. For goodness sake, he said to himself; it’s a festival of the fashionistas.
Those Tuesdays, at least for his mother, had become something of an outrageous ritual – a day of the dress-code mysteries. With a customary shake of the head she would smile and wax lyrical. It would be something along the lines of, ‘Umm…very nice, very colourful son. Who are you today Jagger, Ringo or Stewart? Will your tutors get it?’
In response and with head down hoovering up her breakfast offering, he would generally acknowledge with a... ‘Aye, very good Mum – see ya at tea time.’ But regardless of her ribbing, her son was really pleased to see her smile again. It remained tough for her, for him, for all of the family circle, particularly in the run up to Ricky’s anniversaries; wedding, birthday and the empty chair at Christmas, and Easter.
Heading out that morning weather forecasts were very much an afterthought. Forecasting who would be Top-of-the-Pops or who his team would be up against on Saturday was in truth what filled much of his young head back then. Sport generally though, with the exception of boats, was for him all about wasting energy. However, having a team to support gave him entry into daily conversations; banter with the boys, his mates at the factory or at the technical college. And as far as ‘his team’ went, he had picked them because they were his father’s team; Tottenham Hotspur – ‘Spurs.
Day release at the local technical college was the highlight of his working week. Not just because it presented an opportunity to get away from the grime of the factory floor, but because it meant he could get dressed up midweek. Overall, though, especially as he neared the completion of his apprenticeship, all the hard slog and study had begun to pay off. He could finally see a future ahead. But in the short term, the arrival of his girl at the Rose Bud Café, the favourite watering hole of the town’s youth, was the topic which concentrated his mind.
The scraping of the aluminium door had announced his arrival. At the counter he ordered a hot chocolate. The Rose Bud’s hot chocolate was to die for. Served in a tall slim glass mug, its frothy top allowed two spoonfuls of sugar to dissolve gracefully into the already sweet, rich, chocolate drink.
Impatience was an unwelcome Cardinali trait. Fiddling with flight-styled sunglasses, table-tapping and continually wiping and glancing out through the misted window was a give-away. Jeez, how long does it take to make a...
Jacqueline Raven, the waitress and the owner’s daughter had just then appeared from behind the high counter. She sauntered easily towards Curtis. With a smile which lit up her face she placed the prize beverage, complete with a long spoon and yellow napkin on the bare wood patterned Formica table top.
Jacqueline was a lovely girl, tall with long auburn hair tied up into a bun. Strong sweeping eyebrows emphasised her green eyes. She was quiet, shy, but always seemed to be smiling. Outwardly, her conversational range appeared no wider than the four laminated pages of the café menu. There was something about her though; her voice, her tone when she said his name…something?
As she returned to her counter, and making sure her father was not around, Curtis managed to conduct a pretty full survey. Jacqueline was indeed very fanciable, but alas for this young man, she was too young. He also wondered why she was not in school. But as he continued to lose himself in impure thoughts, she had turned and glanced back. ‘Caught in the act’ his eyes pitched back towards the beverage; she smiled. He blushed. For sure, she had noticed the rising colour in his face.
A shard of guilt had simultaneously speared his inner consciousness. He leaped back to the sole reason for visiting the Rose Bud. He patted his coat pocket again. Now sitting somewhat uneasily he returned to fiddling with his sun glasses. He plucked them out of his high collared open necked shirt. Slipped them back on, and took them off again while wiping away a single bead of sweat from his temple. Carefully, he placed the glasses back onto the table; their legs straddled the cooling beverage
He glanced back at what was now an empty counter. He also scanned the meagre gathering within the café. But his attention returned to an equally sparse street scene. Curtis was looking out for his girlfriend. Time dragged. Come on Philly, where are you?
A couple of his mates, Simon and Luke joined him. Immediately the banter commenced. Mostly, it was directed at his choice of the day’s dress code. Compared to their plainness and or sport-themed gear, the Curtis style had always been considered somewhat outlandish. Today was no different and had settled close to a Small Faces theme.
Then without warning, the place started to fill up. ‘Schools out,’ the lads agreed. Curtis slipped his jacket off and onto the back of the chair without standing up – a party trick. He reckoned it was a cool enough move, until it slipped off and fell onto the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Jacqueline who was, he feared, giggling behind her hands. Curtis returned a smile and nodded an acknowledgement as the coat was retrieved. The pocket was tapped again; still there, still safe.
On those Tuesdays Philippa would often break away from her circle to sit with him. Mostly they used their time together to agree arrangements for the weekend. Sometimes, but generally only during school holidays they would actually meet up several times midweek. On this day however, there was still no sight or sign of her. A couple of her friends plus twin sister had rolled in; one of them smiled over at Curtis, the others just walked on by.
The Rose Bud Café had, for whatever reason, earned itself the badge of the favoured meeting place. It catered as far as he was interested, fo
r the inrush of final-year-pupils – girls. It wasn’t that the café’s decor was sumptuous or at the cutting edge of design. It was plain, distinctly lacking in flair; it was functional in the extreme.
Competing with a number of gilt framed, insipid water colour landscapes displayed around the lemon walls there were several hand-written, sticky-taped notices which fought for space. Their text discouraged lengthy single-purchase-seat-hogging. They were blatant, but mostly ineffective.
The afternoon drew on, it was nearing five o’clock. Still, there was no sign of her. Another of his mates, Maurice a ‘rebel’ grammar pupil, had also joined their table. They all knew what Curtis was up to. Of course they could not resist winding him up a little. Between them, they had prized out the detail. Then, as a single voice, they declared, ‘You’re a real dick, Curtis.’
At that moment he realised that his master plan had had a major flaw. Really, he should have pre-arranged to meet her; confirm a location, and more especially, a time. Of course the cocky Curtis had just supposed that she would glide into the Rose Bud as she usually did on a Tuesday. In his defence, weak as it was, he had wanted it to be a surprise.
His feeble attempts at countering their jibes had been laughed under the table. His head was in a spin. The general decibel level had risen as tables swarmed. A wave of what must have been enochlophobia washed over him. Engulfed in a cold sweat his legs jellied. He felt trapped. In that instant it seemed everyone within the café was whispering, looking, pointing, ‘He’s been stood up’.
Within that moment he had become aware that he was indeed being studied, not by the café clientele, but by a semi-circle of six frowned eyebrows. Then, after what seemed like an eternity the mates burst into spontaneous laughter. Simon, sensing the increasing uncomfortable nature of Curtis’s situation, quickly changed his behaviour. Leaning across the table, he asked his friend quietly, ‘You okay Curtis? Man, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ But before he could answer he hit him with what could only described as, a sucker punch, ‘Wise up mate, you really are a prize dick. To be honest Curtis, you should be bailing out, not getting into an even deeper relationship with that one.’
Taken aback, Curtis just stared at him – at them. He could feel his lips and jaw tightening. He frowned as his inner self tried to work out what was going on. What’s he saying, what’s happening here... I... I don’t understand. Anger had risen within him. Still, he didn’t answer. He tried to decipher whether it was just another of their wind-ups... or whether Simon was going to get punched!
An atmosphere hung over their table. They all looked at each other. He pushed back his chair. It scraped across the hard tiles. Then desperate for fresh air, he made his exit. He needed to think. More so, he suddenly felt the need to pee. Then, horror of horrors, he was overwhelmed by a rising nausea. He dashed through to the rear of the building.
Standing there staring at the grubby tiled wall of the café’s exterior urinal, it couldn’t decently be called a toilet suite, his head had begun to clear, the nausea too. There followed a splash of water and a hand wipe under the armpit of his shirt (there were never any hand towels in here). With that he departed the Rose Bud’s less than salubrious ‘al fresco’ facilities to re-join the growing mêlée inside.
He quickly realised that in his absence his mates had deliberated and delivered their opinions on his situation. Now they had moved on to more pressing matters – that of observing the emerging female talent within. Commenting on it, and analysing ‘opportunities for romance’ they had already agreed that the now packed café obviously offered much scope for a trio of hormonally driven males. Curtis at that moment felt excluded, thus his re-entry had gone more or less unnoticed. He found himself out of step with the banter. It was as if his sudden egress hadn’t happened.
For him though it was a very different matter. His anxieties remained and to say that they, especially Simon, had pissed him off would have been the understatement of the day. Following that toilet excursion and although he was still burning up inside he had decided to let it all ride. He was not going to rise to any further wind-ups.
Continual glancing through the window however had once more been his undoing. Luke, whose patience had been broken, turned towards Curtis and said, ‘Ah for pity’s sake mate, give it a rest. She’s not coming. Okay? Ring her when you get home or, write her a letter, or... agh, what’s the point?’
This was followed by a collective nodding of wise heads. With that issue sorted (in their opinion) the table reverted to a typically male agenda, sport, girls, music, girls, cars, girls and, any other business. For Curtis who was clearly outnumbered, and in a ‘if you can’t beat them, join them’ default he pretended to be back on their wavelength.
Tuesdays at the Rose Bud always generated battles; battles of male minds. There was ‘them’ the apprentices, and ‘them’ the grammar boys; both tribes chasing the same goal – girls, girls in uniform. A kaleidoscope of blazers, blouses and ties inhabited the tables and chairs of the L-shaped room. Collectively, and regardless of the school colours, the lads observed that collars had been loosened and skirts hitched up higher than would be tolerated during the school time-table.
Then, of course, there was old Archie, the owner – a cantankerous burly man with amply tattooed forearms. His demeanour of ownership was clear enough. When he wasn’t serving, he kept a close eye on activities. He would strut about his territory; it was his livelihood.
He cleared away empty cups and glasses with resolve. He wiped tables with ‘that’ cloth. His ‘throw-away line’ delivered in a thick Scottish accent (which was often mimicked by his youthful clientele) was, ‘Have you youngsters no homework to do?’ In the same breath he would be encouraging his clientele to purchase, ‘Any more drinks, chips, cakes here? Anyone?’
Still, she hadn’t appeared. Curtis sighed, stretched his long legs out under the table and quietly accepted the enviable. His surprise could wait for another day – another hot chocolate was ordered...
Chapter 10 : Dear John...
As Curtis’s table was in the process of disbanding, Luke drew their attention to a gleaming new Sunbeam Tiger sports car, it’s top down and chrome glistening. The driver was none other than Julian James. He with newly styled hair and the makings of a handle-bar moustache, had, they all agreed, made a right hash of parking it directly outside the cafe. Again it was Luke, who was also mustering an attempt at a hairy top lip, who said it best, ‘What a complete dick. A sign of a sad-o when you’ve got to use your mammy’s motor to impress the girls.’ The table nodded in unison.
Julian was one of the last of the grammar school boys to arrive at the café that Tuesday. Instead of joining his growing gang of ‘blazers’ he carved a defiant route towards Curtis and his mates. They had continued to occupy their prime corner table; replenished hot chocolates sipped dry.
Curtis gestured him to sit. He remained standing. Then with precise timing and great aplomb he slowly slipped a near square envelope from his side pocket. It was a pale colour, mauve perhaps, Curtis thought. It stood out from the dark green of Julian’s perfectly pressed blazer.
Standing tall and wide Julian said, loud enough for the whole café to hear, ‘Oh Curtis, sorry about this mate but Philippa, Philly, asked me to give you,’ he paused and smirked, ‘this little lover’s communiqué.’
Curtis knew the loudness of the proclamation had been intentional. It was Julian’s style. Rather than quietly reaching the envelope to a now heavily intrigued Curtis, instead he mimicked the action of an under arm bowler, but in slow motion. Finally he flicked it across the table. It glided before ricocheting off a three-quarter-empty plastic sauce bottle, which in turn, tumbled. Some heads turned. Old Archie glanced over his spectacles – he missed nothing.
Through tightened eyelids Curtis held Julian’s gaze, but with a supreme air of triumphalism James blanked him by turning away. He had also cut through the proprietor’s stare in the process. Julian James, the assassination of his own love
rival completed, blatantly swaggered across the floor to join his sniggering cabal.
Curtis, in response, had morphed into something of a table recluse. He sensed all eyes were upon him. Brain racing, he focussed on the square of paper. Not one of his companions spoke. His name was hand-written in a flamboyant script. The envelope lay limp, framed on a dark table-top. It demanded attention. Thinking on his feet, he finally broke the spell by saying aloud, perhaps too loud, ‘Oh, I wish she would stop writing me these poems.’ Did he get away with it? His reservoir of one-liners now drained he was too choked to worry. Without looking up or especially across towards the table of Julian and the other snobby smart-arses, Curtis quickly stuffed the envelope, unopened, into his inside pocket. It was the same pocket which held his surprise envelope for her.
Then, and as casually as his state of unease allowed, he knocked back what remained of a not so hot drink. He slipped on the sunglasses again. Then he thought, wise-up who do you think you are, Elvis?’ He took them off again. On reflection, Curtis realised that his mates had acted like real mates in his moment of need. They could have easily used the occasion to articulate a serenade of wise cracks as he made for the door. Such a scenario could have undoubtedly raised a chuckle from the entire floor; snide applause at least. But worse Curtis could have been publicly knocked off his ‘self-made’ perch. As it was, he was hanging by a fingernail. Instead they got up as he rose and accompanied him out. A brief goodbye wave from the owner’s daughter, Jacqueline, offered him some succour. He nodded, smiled, and was gone.
Outside he quickly realised that the world was even more hostile than within the café. With more goodbyes he and his mates parted ways. Simon offered him a lift home. Curtis declined. Alone now his immediate and overriding thought was that he should have listened to the wise mother that morning. ‘Ah Ma, I’m bloody freezing.’
A Letter to a Lucky Man Page 8