A Letter to a Lucky Man

by Thomas Jobling

  Following another tip-to-toe stretch he bent down and with one swipe picked up his black t-shirt from the deep pile carpet. He hoisted his pyjama bottoms back on and ghosted towards the family bathroom; the whole house was still; except Grayling the cat.

  Feline fur brushed his ankles, its morning greeting. He skipped deftly over it continuing across the landing to disappear into the spacious family bathroom. Grayling purred and pawed at the door before reverting to its own morning preening routine.

  Curtis’s day therefore, started just like every other weekday morning: he, up, showered and dressed before the house awoke. However, on this occasion he wouldn’t be gone before the family had invaded the bespoke hi-end kitchen and dining area.

  On this day he revelled in the prospect of being able to drop his two boys – Patrick and Richard – at their grammar school gate. A novelty that itself would only last a couple of years as the youngest, Richard, was in his first year at the school and the oldest in his final two, before a possible gap year or direct to university. After the school run Curtis could enjoy his hard earned day of industrial freedom. Ablutions finished, he meandered downstairs, filled the kettle and took a seat at the kitchen bench.

  He stroked Grayling who had skipped up onto his lap. Then almost in a whisper, he said, ‘Ah, you old feline; this for me is a perfect start to my weekend; a rare long weekend for the boss?’ The cat ignored him but he continued the stroking while slotting two slices of granary bread into the toaster. The silence was broken only by the kettle coming to the boil and the crack of the toaster completing its task.

  Outside a heavy frost had transformed their matured garden into a crystallised vista. It all added to the tranquillity. As he sipped and crunched, his daily ‘to do’ list grew longer. Curtis however, had become lost in time.

  Then, it all started! Without realising, his well-practiced getting out of bed manoeuvre had somehow disabled the radio alarm; Jac and therefore the boys had over-slept!

  In an instant kitchen chaos terminated his stillness. But somehow, and with Jac directing operations, the morning tumbled back onto schedule; a schedule of sorts. Doors banged, crockery clattered and Radio One played, ‘All That She Wants’. In the midst of this activity, last minute instructions were issued.

  The boys had been bundled into the cavern-esque Mercedes as opposed to their mother’s minuscule, but feisty, Fiesta XR2. She still liked a fast motor! The family kitchen was again at peace. But, even with their mother’s crisis management skills, time could not be turned back. A phone call to their school was required. Jac lifted the receiver as Curtis waved farewell.

  Foot heavy on the accelerator Curtis too, was trying to defy time. His head was not solely focused on his children’s school timetables either. The ‘bit of business’ of later that morning had risen to the top of his agenda. The jump from his state of morning mellowness to mayhem had upset him; unpicked his rhythm.

  He proceeded to punch at the steering wheel and dashboard buttons. He was switching radio channels and volumes: normally it would be broadcasting the local morning news and traffic. Today, his fingers had located Classic FM. He listened with a curious ear. Then, ignoring the passenger complaints, he upped the volume and hummed along. It seemed to do the trick. The music was later announced very formally as ‘The Lark Ascending’ by Ralph Vaughan Williams, featuring soloist Hugh Bean and the New Philharmonia Orchestra, conducted by Boult. None of the information meant much to Curtis, but the violin strains of the piece had allowed him to relax, to think, to plan, to smile.

  However, he was still a little annoyed at himself for screwing up the morning routine. He alone, by oversight had managed to create chaos out of calm. But it was a chaos which the mother of his children had transferred back to order. Well played big man. You idiot.

  ‘Agh.’

  Richard glanced across, but Curtis was oblivious. His mind was still very much back in that kitchen. I’ll make it up to her. He reached out to activate his car phone, saying. ‘Better call your Mum, boys’. In the process, he wondered again if it was all a sign; was his day of industrial freedom, jinxed?

  As the amplified ring tone filled the car, he, in almost in a whisper, said, ‘Bloody hell love, a wee cheeky kiss would have been nice. I mean, I didn’t do it on purpose, so I didn’t.’

  ‘What was that Dad?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘Oh nothing son. Just you concentrate on hitting those school gates. Sorry for all this rush boys. Sure we’ll have a wee yarn after tea tonight, so we will. Okay then? See how your day pans out, compared with mine, eh?’

  Meanwhile, the phone continued to ring away. It rang. It rang through to the answer message: ‘Sorry, we can’t come to the phone just now – please leave a short message. We’ll get back to you, soonest.’

  Curtis rang off, saying to his boys, ‘Ah, she must be getting dressed. I’ll call again, a bit later on.’

  Pressing the buttons again, he made another call. As he rang off, they had arrived at the school gates. No goodbyes, just two slammed doors and thumbs-up waves as his sons commenced their dash. He waited until they had disappeared into the grand aged red brick building. He gestured a ‘thank you’ towards the lady who had been tasked with the morning’s gate duty. In the absence of any response from her, and with a heavy feeling that he had just been chastised, as opposed to being congratulated for delivering his cargo safely, he drove away, slowly. Again, thoughts of a day being jinxed were not too far away.

  With the gate lady’s image minimising in his mirror and after a further moment of parental reflection, deeper memories of his own schooling bubbled to the surface: the horrendous finale to his primary school years – that examination and unruly behaviour during those early years in secondary school. But with both Patrick and Richard’s academic path secured all negativity and thoughts of his school calamity were quickly banished. His mood had lifted once again.

  With a vigorous rubbing of his face, and head shaking he launched himself back into what lay ahead for him on this, his day of leisure. Jeez, some leisure. Suddenly, he braked, indicated and pulled over. He slapped the wheel. A raised voice signalled further frustration. ‘Agh NO!’

  It had just dawned on him. Lunch; a ‘business picnic’ that he’d carefully prepared the previous evening had been left, abandoned within their family styled American fridge! The tone of his conversation with the dashboard was elevated to a higher level. ‘Oh bugger-ation!... It’ll be yet another production-line take-away meal for me today then. This flippin’ day is jinxed. Ah – don’t let it be, please.’

  A passing dog walker glanced in at him. Curtis glared back. Thinks I’m talking to myself, don’t blame her. Probably reckons that her dog has more sense. The search for a supermarket, deli shop or suitable garage found its way onto the Cardinali agenda.

  Chapter 27 : Flashbacks

  Curtis found himself ignominiously planted on his backside and gazing up into the eyes of a face he had neither seen, nor spoken to, for many a year. He felt helpless, nay, daft. His foot had ensnared itself within the chassis of a shopping trolley. A jolt of pain signalled that the shin of his other leg had driven itself hard against the tow-bar of a grimy silver 4x4 type SUV. Sitting there mesmerized a distant chapter of Curtis’s past flashed before him.

  He had been a man in a hurry. Head down, bracing the chill of an unseasonal cold snap he was sprinting back towards his Mercedes E-class estate car. Curtis was focused on what he saw as a serious assault on his car, a car barely a month old. Lost in the moment and oblivious to conditions underfoot, he mumbled a frustrated rant into his coat’s high collar which he held tight around his neck. ‘A virtually empty car park and you chose to park beside that hulk of a motor.’

  His only reason for being there in the first place was to grab a snack for later; nothing too exotic as recent bouts of indigestion had registered high on his current health status. He had joined the queue at the least busy supermarket till. In one hand he clutched a triangular sandwich pack plus
chocolate digestives. In his other hand, a coffee from the barista bar. Curtis soon discovered that the disposable cup was uncomfortably hot. He tried to balance it on the edge of the rolling counter, a tricky enough manoeuvre – quickly aborted.

  Worse, the queue had stalled. He found himself trapped, his patience tested. The shopper in front of him, an elderly lady, well dressed and stooped, had emptied her purse of small change. He sighed to himself. Why am I always the one to get caught?

  Then as if his situation couldn’t get any worse, and through the supermarket’s windowed wall, Curtis had become aware of a developing crisis outside in the car park. Simultaneously, his state-of-the-art mobile phone rang. He didn’t answer; he couldn’t!

  The elderly lady alerted by the strange ringing tone coming from the man behind her, paused in her operations. She turned, giving him a quizzical glance. Curtis sort of smiled back. He dropped his shoulders as a wave of self-consciousness washed over him; not many people had mobile phones, and if they didn’t get smaller soon, he doubted he’d lug one around for too long, but it was handy. Glimpsing back at what had become a sizeable queue he had also caught the girl standing just behind him, sniggering. The lady in front had resumed the counting out of her change...

  The owner of the SUV he could see was concentrating on the transfer of her shopping from a piled high trolley into the back of her vehicle. She appeared oblivious to what was developing around her. Children, the spotlight of his concern were it seemed to him, running amok... around his car!

  Still the loose change poured out of the bottomless purse. Curtis had decisions to make. Should he stay within the queue, or abandon his lunch for the sake of his pride and joy? Such was his distraction that he hadn’t initially registered the cashier’s scripted welcome.

  ‘Sorry to have kept you, sir. Are you doing anything nice today? Would you like some assistance packing? Would you like a bag?’ He stuttered a reply while trading glances between the cashier, the girl behind him, and the action outside.

  ‘Oh, err, no... Got the day off. I’m sorry, how much? I…I’m…ah, just a bit concerned,’ he paused and pointed, ‘about my car out there…sorry.’ Accepting his twenty pound note she seamlessly delivered his change while offering a further scripted ‘end of transaction’ reply. But her customer had already moved on.

  Curtis left the supermarket hardly allowing the store’s automatic doors to perform their function. All he could visualise were his doors dented, or his gleaming dark blue metallic paintwork scratched, all courtesy of a gyrating trolley and a couple of unruly brats.

  Just as he was about to unleash a gulder towards the oblivious parent, his feet left him. Leather soled brogues and an early morning frost were not natural bed-fellows! He went down with a thump. His momentum though had carried him, at some speed, towards the SUV.

  Stumped and shocked, his mouth hung ajar. The lady, bewildered, stared down in silent disbelief. The children poking their heads around from between the vehicles broke the silence. In innocence, the little boy through a missing front tooth asked Curtis why he was sitting there; his sister giggled.

  Curtis, his earlier bluntness diluted, forced a pained smile. He didn’t answer. He just shook his head and struggled to his feet. At the same time the lady found herself offering a tentative but nevertheless, helping hand. But Curtis, who by then had more or less recovered the situation, declined her hand. He commenced a ‘smoothing down’ of his attire while surveying the remains of his lunch. The biscuits had remained clutched. His sandwich and the coffee were not so lucky.

  Now face-to-face with the lady, and sharing her puzzled expression, it was Curtis who spoke first. ‘Philip…pa!?’

  Her reply was equally hesitant.

  ‘C…Curtis? Oh good grief!’

  He stuttered a further few words, ‘Phil…ip…pa? Philippa Furey, well I…’

  In that early morning chill two people who had neither spoken to, nor seen each other for thirty something years, maybe more, took up opposing positions. The ensuing conversation was... polite, enquiring, if not somewhat strained. It was however, abruptly terminated – due in part to the resurgent antics of the impatient children.

  ‘I’m, I’m terribly sorry Curtis. I’ve got to get these pair somewhere. Twins…grand kids. A nightmare at times. Anyway, it was lovely to see you…after all these years.’

  During the hasty shepherding of the children she found a further moment to face Curtis. With a wry smile she stretched herself further upright. A tilt of her head was accompanied by the brushing of her greying hair back from across a high forehead. Curtis held his breath. He waited in wonder. An announcement, a proclamation? He felt sure something like that was about to be delivered.

  The Philippa of old, he was well aware, had always been a creature to have the last word. He hadn’t long to wait. Through drooped eyelids and looking straight at him, she finally said, ‘Ah, Curtis. Oh, you were always the one for the spectacular.’

  The superior tone in her voice irked him even more than the quivering closed eyelids. Then, with her palm resting on his forearm she leaned in closer before continuing, ‘Oh I do hope those jeans don’t need too many stitches and, oh my gosh...your lovely coat.’ Reaching to wipe away a coffee stain she touched the brand logo. It was, he felt, as if to check its authenticity. Curtis just stared into space thinking, ‘Once a snob, always a snob.’

  With that, she climbed into her SUV and made a show of checking that the children were buckled up. Labouring, its engine finally fired. In the process, a trance-like Curtis found himself engulfed in a cloud of diesel exhaust. She clunked it into gear. It juddered off. Then, as if to add insult to injury she ventured a ‘royal’ wave.

  Coughing, Curtis, through gritted teeth, raised his hand in a polite farewell while murmuring, ‘Filters? Now there’s an old banger that could do with a service. Aye, and you too, Philly.’ A bolt of pain seared through him. He reached out. He grabbed the top of his now open driver’s door to steady himself. Careful not to stain the pale leather upholstery he gingerly eased his torso into and onto the softness of the driving seat.

  With the belt clicked he engaged the ignition. It was a bit of a fiddle; he had yet to master the location of all of the car’s ‘bells and whistle’ type buttons and switches. As he moved away from his ill-chosen parking spot his line-of-sight coincided with the Furey exit route…she turned right, he went left.

  Almost immediately though, he pulled over. Heart thumping, his body was throbbing. His shin stung from the tow-bar crash. The impact on the tarmac had now translated into a burning sensation: coccyx, elbow, shoulder, knuckles. To cap it off, he felt nauseous. He sat on for a few minutes more. The deep breathing helped.

  A further inspection of his bruised body and torn apparel followed. Jeez, look at the state of me. Shaking his head he agonised. He eased himself out of his jacket, with accompanying winces of pain. Compared to the rip in the sleeve of the brand new white navy and red offshore sailing coat, his jeans, he reckoned, had got off lightly.

  Overall though, it was his pride which hurt most; her little snide remark about his spectacular entrance for example. And that bloody voice. He thought to himself that some people just never change. Finally, and with a hint of a smile and a glance at the mirror, he said aloud., ‘Jeez, this’ll be some tale to tell the Missus.’

  His smile was short-lived because frustration, temper, but mostly embarrassment got the better of his good nature. ‘AGH,’ he grunted. Then he launched the torn coat off the passenger seat into the back of the car before knocking the lever into the ‘drive’ position. Tyres squealed adding a sound-track to a further outpouring of expletives. But his rant was interrupted with a deflated ask of himself, ‘Oh bugg-er-ation!’ This day is jinxed. I can feel it in my bones.

  This was not normal Cardinali behaviour. That Philippa moment had usurped him. It had regurgitated long forgotten memories, mostly bad ones. He allowed himself to be drawn back in time. It had seemed like an out-of-body experien
ce in which Curtis and the Merc were on automatic pilot. A blaring horn and flashing lights however, brought him quickly back to reality. He opened the windows and filled the car with fresh air. Taking deep breaths, he switched on the radio and ramped up the volume. A classical track that he vaguely recognised as something to do with the Four Seasons played brightly.

  Without further incident, and after what had seemed like a lifetime’s drive, he reached his destination – the little privately owned Quarry Haven Marina. Normally on arrival he would enjoy a rush of nautical induced adrenalin as the rows of neatly tethered craft came into view – especially when he spied his own boat. In mischief and in company, he would have often referred to it as his ‘mistress’. He enjoyed witnessing the frowning of his audiences’ eyebrows...

  On this occasion as he drove down the stoned entrance lane to the marina’s equally unfinished car park, flashbacks of the morning’s catalogue of events continued to race by him. The breakfast mêlée, the supermarket stumble, Philippa, the near miss, and mostly the last minute chopping and changing of arrangements to suit the folk with whom he was about to do a ‘bit of business’. It had the combined effect of launching Curtis into something of a spin.

  Finally, after more yoga-type breathing while unleashing his honed managerial skills, he had neatly re-boxed the events of the morning into their respective positions of importance. Curtis Cardinali had finally found himself re-focused.

  Chapter 28 : A Mistress and a Plastic Bag

  The marina with its orderly rows of tethered craft and shimmering seascape beyond its imposing basalt breakwaters never ceased to take his breath away. Stepping out from the wrap-around comfort offered by the Mercedes interior the cold salt infused air not only stole his breath but glazed his eyes.

  A shiver suggested that his ‘war-torn’ coat still had a useful life. Pulling it from the back seat he put it on over his injured elbow. He moved around to the front of the car and surveyed the scene further. Arms folded, still gorging on the panorama he stepped back and sat down on the car bonnet. Immediately, he bounced back up. Studs; studs in jeans! He turned and glided his hand across the paintwork. He smiled. While no scratches were detected he knew it had been a close call. It had also signalled to him how tender his neither region had become.