With hands shoved deep into shallow pockets, the envelope which now shared the space close to his chest, continued to niggle at his curiosity. How long could he hold out before opening it?
If anything the wind had strengthened, and the sun had dipped. It was more like an autumn evening; the Curtis dress code had found itself well out of season. He buttoned his shirt and flipped up his collar. He held his jacket tight. He had slipped away from the café knowing full well that that shite Julian was all too aware of the envelope’s content.
On the plus side though, he felt that he had held his nerve well enough during the challenge. For sure, he couldn’t have let him, or indeed any of them see that he was wounded. Wounded? Not likely. He was destroyed. Walking away he noticed that the hood of the Sunbeam was down. Glancing heavenwards he felt a tiny drop of light rain. He smiled, hoping, wishing...
Further homeward, an angry Beatle boot kicked an empty wind-driven can into the air accompanied with a frustrated, ‘Fuck it Philippa! At least you could have told me face-to-face. It’s all a big bloody joke to you and your lot. Fuck it, and fuck all of you too.’ He lurched sideways landing hard on a low derelict wall. While his rear-end absorbed the impact the location offered some little shelter and allowed him to reassess things. With a modicum of composure re-established and his anger dissipated a little, he took a breath as his fingers nervously accessed his jacket pocket....Can’t delay any more.
Slowly he pulled the offending envelope out. He studied it for a moment, then slid it back in. He repeated the process. This time, and with the inside edge of his thumb, the seal was broken. The paper ripping was audible, even above the whistling of the wind; at least it was to his ears. The page within screamed too. It was painfully extracted. Another deep intake of breath preceded the reading of the opening sentence. He read it again, especially that opening word. ‘Dearest...’
He read the letter in full, slowly, line by line. Curtis wasn’t the most assured of readers. He didn’t, or couldn’t fully digest it. It was skilfully written in an artistic purple script. It read like poetry. If it had been intended to let him down gently, it had failed.
‘Well isn’t this a first. I’d never been given a ‘Dear John’ before.’ He declared to the increasingly angry weather, as if to dull its sting.
The feeling he felt at that moment was odd. It was more of a ‘poor me’ surge of emotion rather than a ‘wanting to punch someone in a rage’. He sat there for what seemed like an eternity. He remained oblivious to the elements. It had started to rain heavily – it could have been a blizzard for all he knew, or cared. He didn’t cry, just allowed his mind to analyse what she had really written. He read it again, quicker this time, huddled over to stop the rain from smearing her words. The outcome was the same.
As well as dumping him the letter spelt out in razor-sharp lines how their relationship could never work. As well as serving up the ‘religion’ card – which, with bitter experience he could accept – she went on to state that in the final analysis they had nothing in common. That stung! But the next line was the killer.
‘We were always a class apart.’
In that instant Curtis came to realise that in her mind she reigned superior in brain, poise and position. Her nails were always manicured – his, grease incrusted. He was the shop floor boy, the ‘bit of rough’. Or, maybe, as he read deeper into it – was she merely ‘clearing out the clutter’ prior to going up to Oxford? Nah... too simple. Wasn’t it?
He had really fancied Philippa Furey. She was the shining star above the many other fanciable females which at that time lit-up his town. With the makings of a smile he recalled how Maurice had wangled tickets for the gang into ‘his’ school disco all those many months ago. ‘Aye, thanks mate,’ he thought. History, experience, and me, a lad too naive to realise that he was out of his depth? Good times though; great sex.
He refolded the letter. His first ‘Dear John.’ He sat on for a while. The rain eased, then thankfully stopped; the wind had died down too. A half-moon had broken cloud cover. Curtis’s mind clicked back into gear.
That ‘class’ word. Did she actually realise what she had written? How hurtful some of her comments had been? He delved deep into his thoughts, into something resembling, self-analysis.
They, his Mum and Dad had never been wealthy. Through no fault of his, or especially his mother, the Cardinali’s had become a one parent family. He cursed him for leaving so soon, however, never blamed him for his Eleven Plus fiasco. He had since then, turned his young life around. He had become driven. He craved success. He needed to repay his mother and aunt for their coaching and undiluted devotion. For his dad too, he continually wanted him to enjoy his boy’s successes, wherever he was in death. He sat on, his mind drifting.
The night Curtis met Philippa again came to mind. His fumbling for words while walking her home, she holding his hand chatting as if they were friends of old. He, expecting her to realise that it was all a big miss-match. Him reasoning that he didn’t talk posh and had no prospect of going up to university. As well, he didn’t do poetry or that arty-farty stuff; yet, they had clicked. He looked skyward and said aloud, ‘Opposites can and do…did attract.’ Their pairing was testament to Curtis’s belief that guys like him needed to create an image to compete with the rich kids. Okay, they needed to work even harder to attract the classy chicks. However, a lightning bolt of reality then hit the young Cardinali as he glanced back through the letter. Being dumped into life’s ‘loves-lost gutter’ had not been in Curtis’s life plan. He re-read and realised that within Miss Furey’s private pecking order he obviously was a lowly engineering apprentice, albeit a tall, handsome, good looking, physical catch, but indeed... still her ‘bit-of-rough’.
That realisation coalesced with his admission that he was obsessed with getting one over on the ‘blazers’. especially Julian James. However after today it had back-fired on him. Finally with that cold dish of reality consumed, he stood erect and declared to the moon, ‘Tonight Curtis, your world has come crashing down around your big gangly self…so what now? What’s your next crazy plan?’
With that he stepped back into what had become a clear moonlit night, no longer freezing or wet, but still chilly. He turned his collar down but kept what was now a damp jacket, buttoned. He stuffed her envelope into a side pocket. In doing so he also extracted the Philippa surprise envelope from the inside pocket. Then, having broken into a quicker stroll, and using the same thumb that had opened her missive to him, he ripped her surprise open, paper-cutting himself in the process. He partially slipped out the contents. He studied the tickets and then pushed them back in, saying aloud yet again, ‘I hate that bloody band. All for you Philippa, all for bloody you. You’re a selfish cold-hearted cow. Why me, eh? ‘Why me?’
Tempted to rip the tickets up there and then, he didn’t. He picked up the pace and resumed his soulful way home. Further questions flooded his head. For example; why are tiny paper-cuts so bloody painful? However, his over ridding dilemma now centred on how he was going to rid himself of those ‘girly’ concert tickets’. He couldn’t possibly advertise them around the town; expose myself as a loser, a beaten docket – no way!
As he continued to inspect the pitiful, blood-stained envelope, recouping costs had jumped to the top of his ‘financial’ agenda. Okay, as far as the overnight accommodation he’d also booked was concerned that will be a sorrowful telephone call; he’d probably lose the deposit. Most of my week’s wages went on this lot. Yeah, all just to cheer you up P-h-i-l-l-y – my dearest nutty ex-girlfriend and daughter of the psychopathic and cruel Reverend Furey. Um, like father like daughter?
As he neared home a huge smile lit up his face. What will Julian’s mammy say when her darling son returns her Sunbeam Tiger with a soaking wet interior? ‘Oh I do hope that no one told him about the rain. We can only live in hope.’
Chapter 11 : Words of Wisdom
On stepping across the threshold that evening Curtis’s primary task h
ad been to find a heat source. As well, he needed to distance himself to the outer extremity of his mother’s verbal range...but, alas, she had already started!
‘No, no, you wouldn’t listen to me this morning. Look at the state of you. Well, I hope you’ve learnt your lesson... and, that lovely new coat of yours upstairs and hardly ever on you. You’ll be catching your death and end up off work. What’ll you do for money then, eh? How will you run that car of yours, if you ever get it going of course?’
Standing there gormless, with trickles of water like tributaries draining onto the rustic tiled floor he wanted his mother to be quiet, just for a moment. Wanting to tell her about his troubles, instead he thought, Yes Mum, hope you’ve had a lovely day too. A wee hug would have been nice.
When her welcoming oration paused Curtis took the opportunity to reverse into the hall. He could still hear her as he climbed the stairs. ‘Don’t come crying to me.’ Although her tone had mellowed she had upped the volume. ‘Curtis pet, our tea will be ready in twenty minutes, half-an-hour. Champ and sausages okay tonight? You’re late? What kept you anyway? Meet up with someone? Or perhaps that Philippa and her mad family had pulled you back into their lair?
Shaking his head he smiled. Love you Mum, really.
Now docked within the confines of his room the letter and its contents still churned around in his head. Yes, he’d been dumped before. But never by letter. By courier no less! This was so clinical. It was cold, colder even than that day itself. It had really rocked his confidence. Again, he asked himself, ‘Why me?’
Before dropping onto his single bed Curtis had centred a Led Zeppelin LP. With the volume ramped up he sang along while ceremoniously tearing her envelope into four pieces. He rolled them into balls. Then he placed each one, in turn, onto the palm of his right hand. Carefully he sighted the required trajectory to land each of the balls inside the dented Tottenham Hotspurs’ bin – originally his father’s. It sat under the music centre.
He achieved three holes in one! The forth flick however, was high. It landed on the player’s stylus arm and bounced Mr Plant forward two tracks. As for Philippa’s ‘surprise package’, it got filed at the bottom of his pants and socks drawer together with the letter; its disposal could keep for another day.
He dropped back onto the pillow, crossed his arms tight across his chest and reviewed the day’s events. Scenarios and smiles came and went. An unbidden image of Jacqueline Raven flashed into his mind. From somewhere his smile had returned. Curtis had unwittingly pressed a positivity button. Although most, if not all of the unhappy moments of the ‘Philippa experience’ had been examined during his pained retreat from the café, one query floated back to the surface: Was it really a religion thing? Was that just too tall of a hill for her to climb? Or more likely, was it the hand of her maniac father that finally brought the curtain down?
Rolling onto his side he dropped off the bed onto his knees. He shuffled towards his music centre and with a feather-light touch he had lifted the stylus arm. With an equally deft hand the LP was slipped into its sleeve. Momentarily he shared his troubles with the cover’s Robert Plant image, bizarrely dressed as a German flyer from World War One, before he dropped the LP into the bespoke storage box.
With that, he stripped off his shirt, socks and pants. He fired the bundle into the wicker wash basket before bolting towards the bathroom.
Ablutions completed in quick time, and with a towel tightly wound around his waist, he returned to the sanctuary of his compact room. But before he could resume his music session the call came from below. Black jogging bottoms together with a white Spur’s top swiftly donned, Curtis made his way down to the kitchen. En route yet another thought bombed in on him; had the charming Julian, the very same person that she had referred to as a pompous prat, been working behind the scenes? Has he already taken my place? ‘Fuck me, she couldn’t be that cruel?’
‘Sorry love, what’d you say?’
‘Oh – ah, nothing Mum, nothing at all.’
Visually what his mother had placed before her son would have been any lad’s culinary delight. Butter sinking slowly into a green speckled mash of potatoes mixed through with scallions, a pair of plump steaming pork sausages lying in wait for the prongs of an eager fork. But that evening Curtis picked over his food. He could sense his mother was curious, anxious perhaps. Her earlier rather abrupt tone that had greeted him in the hallway was replaced. In her own quiet, warm, understanding way, she finally asked, ‘College or Philippa? Curtis?’
‘Both Mum. Actually, no. Truth told; I’ve been dumped.’
‘Aww, not again. Oh, you pair are something else.’
‘Na, it’s for real this time…official! In bold purple writing too.’
He decided to hold back on any further detail. After apologising for his lack of appetite he offered to wash up. With a mother’s look of surprise she instead suggested that he retire to the front room and watch TV or read a book. Instead, he went back upstairs. He swapped ‘Zeppelin for The Who, his current favourite band. As he applied himself to the text books, in a flash it came to him.
Yes, he had been dumped. But conversely he realised that if it had been the other way round – not that he had any notion of ever dumping her ‒ but if he had, he would be the arch villain. The Rose Bud’s Dick Dastardly of the day! ‘Jeez Curtis, for once you’re the good guy!’ A blast on the ‘air guitar’ signified that all, well nearly all, was indeed good again.
A week passed, and another. He had given the café a wide berth. Curtis’s form was also on the up. He had been spending more time with his three mates. Even putting up with their continual sports punditry was a pleasure. Bluffing, he hadn’t much of a notion of who, or what, they had been talking about. Worse, they seemed to be totally knowledgeable on the goings on at White Hart Lane and the fact that Spurs’ main rivals, Arsenal, were playing out of their skins. He might have notionally supported Spurs because they’d been his dad’s team, but he wasn’t that interested in football if he was honest. His mates were somewhat dismissive of his excuses. However a mornings visit to the local library, a study of back issues and back pages of various sporting papers, and he had brought himself up to speed. Smiling as he met up with them a few days later, he confirmed to himself; a bluffer indeed, that’s me.
When it was his turn to drive he was able to swap his elderly MG Midget for his mother’s Ford Cortina – it was white and like his two-seater, also ran like a knackered sewing machine, but it fitted him and his mates in. The four of them were, it seemed, on the move each and every weekend. They visited town after town, dance hall after dance hall and of course, pub after pub.
As a ‘free agent’ – on the rebound – girls had returned to the top of his agenda. Thoughts of Philippa, who had literally disappeared off the face of the earth, occasionally flashed into Curtis’s mind. New love interests came and went. It was fun; he needed fun. Overall, and after all the bad stuff, he convinced himself that it was good to be a free agent again.
‘Aye right Curtis, who are you trying fool, son?’
Chapter 12 : Closure
End of term signalled that Curtis Cardinali had not only completed his apprenticeship but closed the book on what had been a gruelling college schedule of day release classes on a Tuesday plus three nights a week at technical college. On top of that it had been an eight-to-five grind at the factory.
He was finally able to sign himself off as a qualified engineer. He had also accomplished a top-of-the-class result. But although elated, foremost on his list of priorities would be the opening of his next pay packet! Unfortunately, he was soon to discover having a guilt-edged certificate and holding down a steady job did not automatically run hand-in-hand.
All of Curtis’s work mates, the now ‘ex-apprentices’ had been reassigned to full-time roles across various departments of the huge manufacturing complex. Some of the assignments looked more salubrious that others. Nevertheless bulging pay packets quickly converted the negative moaning
of dead-end working, into positives. For Curtis it was being able to finally afford to replace the MG Midget with a newer TR3. It was white with wire wheels, but more importantly it roared with a trade-mark gurgling exhaust. It was his private boy’s toy, well mostly.
Therefore it came as something of a bombshell when not long after he had qualified it was announced that the entire site – employing some three hundred and fifty people – would commence a run-down to closure!
For the bewildered engineers it seemed like five years of dedicated study had been wasted. Curtis, no different from his work-mates, had decisions, big decisions to wrestle with. Did he accept redundancy, go looking elsewhere for employment while reluctantly accepting the signing-on schedule at the dole office, or did he accept the company offer to transfer to another division of the multi-national conglomerate? And then, as if adding another layer to his pile of negativity, there was the fate of his forever favourite car...
At first glance the company transfer offer appeared to be a life-saver. But in an instant a penny had dropped. Provisos reared up within the paperwork. Such an offer would require relocation...across the water, in Britain. Nothing it seemed was straightforward.
Other than July’s obligatory holiday to the windswept delights of Portrush, Curtis, nor any of his mates, had ventured outside the comforts and routine of their back yard. To simply up-sticks they all quickly concurred, would be a massive challenge – a high risk career step
Curtis’s mother’s, and indeed his Aunt Margaret’s view on the shock announcement had surprisingly, taken a different tack. It was probably driven by bitter experience; the fall outs from previous redundancies and indeed the saga surrounding the late Ricky Cardinali.
As their thoughts converged they had agreed that the company’s offer presented a huge opportunity for a single lad. Any lad, single or otherwise could expand his level of experience in his chosen trade and it was a once in lifetime chance to explore the outside world.
A Letter to a Lucky Man Page 9