by Chris Ward
Grace, captain of her university road racing team, had always dreamed of returning home one summer, years after disappearing out into the world, to wow everyone from school who still lived in the area with her cycling prowess, and prove once and for all that she wasn’t the lush they all remembered.
Not all of the time, at any rate.
Over the years her road racing prowess had faded into weekend leisure rides, but you had to go a long way in South Gloucestershire to find any decent hills. Spinning class had proven the antidote to her flat-road bullying, and the thought of taking down the Hill of Suffering had been her motivation.
And then she had met her instructor.
The spinning class was so popular you had to show up thirty minutes early to be sure of getting a bike, and Mike Anderson, he of the back muscles and buns to die for, had proven why. A minor celebrity—after a brief career in a failed nineties’ boy-band he had done the naughties’ rounds of the reality TV shows before starting a career as a fitness instructor—he had matured into a forty-something dreamboat which had all of the women and some of the men drooling over his physique, his smile, and his take-me-home-for-tea eyes.
Grace joined the queue to enter, Mike standing by the door as always, greeting each attendee like an old friend. When her time came, she couldn’t bring herself to speak, only to stare into his dreamy eyes and make a throaty grunt.
‘Grace … how lovely to see you. You look well, but … you’re troubled by something, aren’t you? Hit that bike hard tonight, my love. It’ll clear out whatever negativity has been building up.’
And she was past, without even responding, but with a delightful warmth in her heart as behind her, Mike asked about another customer’s cat.
‘Neutering can be traumatic, can’t it? But Bobby will be fine in a couple of days, you’ll see.’
With Mike’s seeming clairvoyance driving her on, Grace was ready to hit new heights tonight, to exorcise her memory of Gavin once and for all. As Mike straddled his bike at the front of the group, on a machine that rather bizarrely stood on a revolving pedestal in order that over the course of the class all the attendees could get a full view of every angle of their godlike instructor, Grace readied herself to hit higher speeds and greater elevations than ever before. Hill of Suffering indeed. It would look like a children’s slide the next time she went home.
‘Oh, that’s not good.’
Mike, speaking into a microphone in his smooth, milky voice, sounded a little alarmed. Most of the people who had been warming up with a few brisk revolutions came to a stop and watched their instructor, barely daring to breathe.
Mike climbed back off the bike and began to stretch his right leg.
‘Well, excuse me for a moment. It appears I might have tweaked my groin. If you could wait a moment, ladies and guys, I’ll go put a little spray on it and see if we can’t get through the class that way.’
And he was gone, out through the studio doors, leaving the attendees to mutter to each other in hushed, fearful voices. What had happened? Would Mike be able to continue the class? And if he was injured, how long would he be unable to ride?
He returned a few minutes later, visibly limping. He climbed up on to the pedestal and stood shaking his head. His cheeks even appeared damp as though he’d been crying.
‘I’m sorry to inform you all of this, but I’m afraid it’s quite a serious tweak. I won’t be able to ride for at least a month.’
‘Will the class be cancelled?’ someone near the front wailed, as other attendees began to sniff, one or two to cry. ‘I can’t get by without this. I need you, Mike.’
‘And I need you guys too. You’re my flock. But this is just one of those things that happens sometimes. In a month or two I’ll be fine, and I’ll be back on the bike again, and it’ll be like I was never away. However, I can’t leave you without an instructor, so I’ve found someone to cover for me.’ He lifted a hand and indicated the door, just as it swung open.
A woman in a vest and combat trousers stood there, her muscled arms mottled with tattoos. Frizzy black hair was tied back and she wore a sour pout as she looked around the room. A vicious scar had punctured her cheek, leaving behind a red star shape which appeared to have been coloured in with felt tip pen.
The woman stalked through the group to the front, fists clenched as though spoiling for a fight. Mike smiled and waved her to stand next to him.
‘This is Doreen,’ he said. ‘She’ll be taking over as your instructor until my groin is back in tip top shape.’ Then, unclipping the microphone and headset, he handed it across.
‘Over to you,’ came his last soft words, and then he was walking out of the room, giving regretful waves as he passed, comforting a couple of people who were crying, reassuring the same woman as before that her cat would be fine.
The door closed behind him, and the room felt suddenly cold.
‘All right, you scum, on your bikes,’ Doreen snapped, climbing up onto the instructor’s bike. ‘I just got out of prison. You want to know how you survive in prison? You train, and you fight. Are you ready to train and fight, you worms?’
A couple of people shouted ‘Yeah!’, but most people just looked afraid.
‘Faster, scum!’ Doreen shouted. ‘You’re in the prison yard, and some gang boys have got a beef. They’re coming after you. You’re not man enough to take them down, so what are you going to do? Train, train, train!’
The whir of the spinning bikes wasn’t quite loud enough to cover the gasps from the desperate riders.
‘You know how I got this scar? Some punk in the mess hall fleeced me half an egg. You know how much damage a plastic spoon can do? I took a tray in the face for my troubles but he’s walking with a limp for the rest of his life. Faster, worms!’
Grace, unsure how a plastic spoon could cause a limp but not willing to ask, gritted her teeth and pedaled. She felt like she’d climbed the Hill of Suffering a dozen times over. She glanced at the clock. Five minutes left. A handful of people had already run out of the room in tears, and those who remained looked ready to break.
‘What do you get if you cross a crowbar with a broken axe handle?’ Doreen asked, pedaling at a manic speed with seemingly no trouble. ‘A whole world of hurt. Are you feeling the pain yet, you useless rats? No pain, all the shame. If you’re not broken you can’t be fixed, and from the look of you soft-bellied turkeys there’s a lot of fixing that needs to be done. Train, train, train!’
And then it was over. Doreen jumped off her bike and stalked among the remaining riders, arms glistening with sweat.
‘Did you do your best?’ she asked, looking around as though searching for guilty faces. ‘If you didn’t, if you slacked off for one second, now’s your chance to confess.’
Most people looked too exhausted to speak, but a couple slunk out from the back and stood in front of Doreen with their heads lowered. Grace didn’t know their names but she recognised their type: they were the hardcore who went to all the classes they could, and no amount of training was ever enough.
‘I confess,’ said the man.
‘I confess too,’ said the women.
‘You worthless scum,’ Doreen said, shaking her head. ‘Get down and give me fifty. Now!’
The two got on the floor and started doing press-ups. At about twenty-five, Doreen put one foot on the backs of each and had them lift her. As she rose up and down like some nightmarish jack-in-the-box, arms folded and a scowl on her face, she looked around the rest of the group.
‘These two are brave,’ she said, even as the woman began to cry. ‘They have guts, spirit, heart. The rest of you are weak, spineless worms. I know you didn’t try hard enough, but you were too scared to confess. Fear is your greatest enemy. Fear loses fights. Fear breaks you. Do not be afraid. Over the next few classes I will beat the fear out of you. Class dismissed.’
As the two confessors finished their press-ups and collapsed in a heap, the others hurried to get out of the room before Doreen
singled them out for any further punishment. Grace grabbed her bag and ran for the changing rooms. By the time she got there, a couple of girls were being sick, others were crying. Grace patted the arm of one, who was fumbling with a pack of cigarettes.
‘Jenny, you mustn’t smoke in here.’
Jenny’s arm shook. ‘Do you want one?’
Grace gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Tempting as it is, I’ll pass.’
‘Anyone got any booze?’ someone asked.
‘I do,’ someone else answered, voice unsteady. ‘Someone go and ask if they’ve got any paper cups on reception.’
With a regretful smile around the changing room which had once been filled with laughter and casual chat at the end of every class, Grace shouldered her bag and headed out, not even wanting to stay long enough to shower. If Doreen was their new instructor, it was time to look for a different gym, or perhaps give up spinning entirely.
As she headed outside, the cool evening air shocking her still-sweaty body, her phone buzzed in her pocket.
How was spinning class?
Grace smiled. It sucked. Magic Mike has hurt his groin. His replacement is this ex-con nutjob. I think I’m going to quit. I don’t think I could survive another class.
One more reason to come down and stay for the summer. This morning I got a text from Ben. The school kid we hired last summer? He’s going surfing in South Africa this year so I need someone to work his hours at the café.
Grace stared at her phone for a long time. How would it be, going back? She hadn’t lived in Blue Sands for a decade, and time had fuzzed out all the stuff she didn’t like—the terrible weather, the idiot tourists, the greater idiot locals who’d gone nowhere in their lives—leaving only the good stuff.
The evenings on the beach. The barbeques. The rollers offshore, and the shirtless guys sitting on the promenade. The sunsets, the clink of pint glasses, the call of seabirds and the salty aroma of the sea.
She had been a teenager when she left. Now she was a grown woman with a job and a flat. Responsibilities.
She couldn’t go back, but the temptation was there, she had to admit.
I’ll think about it.
4
Breaking point
‘You don’t snore, love,’ Lisa Clelland said, absently stirring her coffee with an easy smile on her face. ‘Well, not that much. Your father and I would just shut the door if you were trumpeting too loud.’
‘Trumpeting?’
‘Oh, I’m only having a joke. It’s because you sleep on your back. If you sleep on your side you won’t snore.’
‘Is that medically proven?’
‘That’s how I fixed your father. Whenever he started to roar I just pushed a couple of pillows against his back and rolled him over. It’s a genetic thing. All depends on the shape of your little dangly bit.’
‘My what?’
‘Your uvula. That thing in the back of your throat.’
‘Is that what it’s called? I literally never wondered.’
‘That’s it. Can’t do anything about it, unless you have it cut out, and no one wants to do that, do they? Exercise and healthy living help. You don’t drink or smoke anymore, do you?’
‘I’ve never smoked and I don’t have any friends to drink with.’
‘Well, that’s a blessing, perhaps.’ Lisa stood up. ‘You don’t have any friends? What have you been doing these last few years?’
‘Mostly working to pay my extortionate mortgage.’
‘Well, if you will insist on living in the city. Life’s much cheaper out in the countryside. More relaxing, too.’
‘I live in Downend. It’s about as far out of the city as it’s possible to be without actually being out of the city. I’m a stone’s throw from the ring road.’
Lisa chuckled. ‘Still inside the city walls, then. Just make sure you get as much fresh air as you can. Anyway, I’d better get back to work, love. Have a good afternoon.’
As Grace watched her mother walk out of the café and head downhill towards the bank where Lisa worked, she took a deep breath and looked at her watch. Her shift started in twenty minutes. It was Friday. Friday afternoons were the worst.
With a regretful glance through the window at the boutique shops that lined Park Street down towards the Waterfront, she picked up her bag and headed out.
Three years she had worked in Jones’s, the big, open plan café-bar at the top of Park Street, overpriced to meet its overpaid and under-mannered clientele. Wealth did funny things to people, making them obnoxious and entitled, condescending to those who scurried at their proverbial feet, providing the services which greased their jet-setting lifestyle. And booze on top of wealth could make people unbearable.
By personal choice, Grace only worked daytime shifts, but Friday afternoon was when many of the customers enjoyed a lunchtime tipple.
It was packed as usual when she arrived. Feeling more reluctant than she had in months, she was already in a bad mood before she began her shift, but within a few minutes of whistles, snapped fingers, and phone-number requests, she was like a volcano with a top about to blow. As she carried a tray of complicated coffee-based drinks out through the kitchen doors, she caught the eye of her manager, Don.
Be good, his eyes said.
She was halfway across the floor when someone tugged on her skirt. A group of suits sat around a table, menus in hand.
‘Hey lassie,’ said the nearest man, an older, balding guy. ‘Sex cossies, please. Straight.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Lassie, sex cossies, please, when you have a minute.’
Grace felt her cheeks burning. The man’s face looked innocent enough, but those of his companions wore pained expressions, as though his attempt at a joke had been perceived as a bad idea but no one dared to say.
‘Lassie?’
A switch flipped. ‘I’m not a dog, and I’m not some costume-wearing prostitute,’ she snapped.
And before she could stop herself, the tray turned in her hand. Four large coffees cascaded down over the man, lumps of marshmallow and chocolate rolling down his suit like the debris of a landslide.
From behind her came a sharp cry. ‘Grace Clelland! In the office … now.’
I got suspended for a month without pay.
Ouch.
Turned out the guy had just had vocal cord surgery and they were celebrating his return to work.
Double ouch. What are you going to do?
Not sure.
Hang on a minute.
The phone buzzed with an incoming call. Grace clicked receive and a moment later Joan’s jovial face filled the screen.
‘Hello lovely, my fingers are getting tired. Tell Auntie Joany about everything.’
‘Did you dye your hair?’
Joan’s chubby fingers flicked orange strands against her phone’s camera. ‘Do you like it? Sand orange. But let’s not talk about me. Things don’t sound good.’
‘My life is coming to an end. I’ve got enough savings for a couple of months, but that’s about it.’
‘What are you drinking?’
Grace held up the glass. ‘Australian Merlot. Two for one in Tesco.’
‘Planning for the future, that’s a good sign. You’re not giving up just yet.’
‘Not until the day after tomorrow at least.’
‘Come on, you know you have a get-out clause. Without Ben I really need someone in the café, and if you won’t help then I’ll have to hire some other school kid. Usually I get a bunch coming in at this time of year asking around but these days they’re all YouTubers and Instagrammers. No one wants to spend a summer serving ice-cream unless I pay them double minimum wage. Come on, Graceful, you know you want to.’
‘Half of me does, but you know how it is. I’m supposed to be making something of my life. I can’t go back to sitting on the beach every night and drinking in the Low Anchor. Those were good days, but those were teenage days. I’m twenty-eight now. It’s different for you becau
se you actually own the café. It’s your business. For me it would just be a summer job.’
Joan gave a slow nod. ‘Technically it’s Mum’s café, but we’ll let that slide.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘What I think you mean is that there’ll be more talent in the jobseekers queue in Downend than in the ice-cream queue at Blue Sands Cove?’
‘Hardly likely. But I’m not into picking up a sixteen-year-old kid.’
‘Grab a granny nights were always fun. Remember how we laughed when Tim Pascoe tried to pull your mum?’
‘Oh my, he had no idea.’
‘Good days, Graceful. And times have changed. We don’t get the kids here anymore, not now it’s so cheap to go out to Spain or France or wherever. It’s all families, old people, and couples. Quite sedate really. And it still rains all the bloody time, so me and you can sit around and read the books on the rack, drink coffee and talk about the old days.’
‘Sounds nice.’
‘I miss you, Graceful. You’re my best friend. I tried filling that void with a few of the locals, but no one fits. No one’s nearly as fun as you. I was that desperate I even went to the cinema with Becky Rendle once, and you can imagine how that went.’
‘She talked the whole way through it?’
‘Talked? She shouted. You’ll never guess who she’s married to now. Anyway, come on, Graceful. I miss you.’
‘I miss you too.’
‘Come on.’