by Gary Locke
“Sometimes what you’ve already got is better than it all.”
After a couple of seconds of silent staring, Gayle added:
“… but I haven’t done anything music related in a long time.”
She realised that her caffeine buzz was kicking in and was making her chat, rather manically, to this stranger, but she didn’t really care. There’s no point fighting the caffeine buzz.
“That’s actually one of the reasons that me and Clive first got together: music. We shared a passion for the same sort of music. He did turn out to be a bit precious though really and didn’t think anything could be “cool” if it was too mainstream. Even now he likes to like different music from everyone else. His latest favourite band is The Struts. Oh, yeah and he says he loves melodic rock. He likes bands from Scandinavia, especially Eclipse and H.e.a.t. You ever even heard of any of them?”
Jeremy was taken aback slightly by Gayle asking a question out of the blue in the middle of what seemed like a pretty lengthy rant.
He slowly shook his head.
“Err, no…”
“Exactly!” said Gayle. “I mean they are good..... well, really good...... but that’s not the point, is it?”
Jeremy again shook his head slowly, having no idea what Gayle’s point was at all as she prepared to continue talking.
“Yeah Clive likes music, but music was my life; my dream..... but, come on, how can anyone not like Take That? Especially back in their prime; in their heyday. I know it’s not quite the same now, what with Gary Barlow judging those crap TV singing shows, hob-nobbing with royalty and fiddling tax; and with Robbie being in then out, then in then out, then in then out, then …. well, you know …… and obviously Jason’s gone for good. Howard’s still there and Mark – who’s still singing like a child who’s learning to talk, which used to be cute back then but now he’s an old man – not so much so …….. ”
Gayle stopped again, this time realising that she was waffling on excessively, even for someone who had two quickly-downed cups of coffee pumping around their veins.
“Sorry” she said and gestured for a bemused looking Jeremy to go into the front room. He began talking again as he walked.
“What a lovely house you have here.” He said, hoping to change the subject as quickly as possible.
“Thank you” said Gayle. As she spoke though she couldn’t help Jeremy’s compliment make her think about Jacks packed boxes again; and that made her realise that, very soon, there would be boxes all around the house with all of their stuff in it. And that this “lovely house” would not be where she lived for very much longer.
As Jeremy sat down Gayle smiled a little, as she tried to work him out. There was something charmingly quaint about him trying to make a positive impression and he did have an, almost, vulnerable likeability about him. Either that or his odd behaviour was because he was a raving lunatic? She did, though, find it quite amazing that he had somehow walked in to her house and immediately spotted a personal “love song” that had been misplaced for quite some time. That seemed quite spooky; but somehow good, in a fate-y kind of way.
Jeremy shuffled in his seat and composed himself before speaking whilst wearing a very serious expression.
“Now then Gayle, before we begin, I need to ask you an important question. Have you been rail-roaded into doing this? Because the process only really works if you’re open-minded and if you really want it to work.”
Gayle thought about the question. She had somewhat allowed Clive to talk her into it, and it had led her to this point: listening to a man who, quite frankly, wouldn’t seem out of place being chased by men in white coats.
“Because I’ll be honest with you,” continued Jeremy. “I obviously met Clive yesterday and I think it’s safe to say he’s got issues. He also comes across as a bit of a loser; he’s certainly not man-of-the-year material. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking that your relationship’s gone as far as it could. So, if that’s how you think also, then it would save us both a lot of time if you say so now.”
Gayle could feel her heckles rising.
Why did this strange man, this clueless man, who likes to pretend he’s other people all the time, feel that he had the right to come into her house and insult her husband? Sure some of the things he said about Clive were true. He did have issues and wasn’t particularly one of life’s winners. He also wasn’t man of the year material, but who else was, when there’s George Clooney to compete with? And, despite all of those things, Clive was her loser and his issues were not just his, but they were theirs.
She sat up straight in her chair and put her coffee cup down in front of her so that she couldn’t be tempted to throw it at Jeremy during the delivery of words she was lining up.
“Let’s get a few things clear.” she began in her most stern voice, which was usually reserved for when sending Jack to bed or letting Clive know that, after a heavy drinking session, he had urinated in the wardrobe again.
“Clive is not a loser. He is a lovely man who works incredibly hard and has made untold sacrifices to be a good husband to me and a great father to Jack. He was my childhood sweetheart and is my best friend. And he is the one who.....”
She stopped ranting as soon as she saw the smile emerging on Jeremy’s face. It had been a test. He had just wanted to see what her reaction would be to hearing someone openly criticising her husband. And she had felt the need to defend him, again, vigorously and absolutely, because she obviously did still feel something for him. Maybe Jeremy wasn’t as completely clueless as he first seemed. Gayle couldn’t stop herself from smiling too as she followed Jeremy’s gaze, that was now fixed on the far wall; he was still smiling and was now looking at the big photograph that was the only picture taken during her and Clive’s wedding day.
Chapter Eighteen: Nice Day For…
Gayle’s mind slowly made its way back to the very moment that the picture her and Jeremy were looking at had been taken. She remembered it very clearly. She and Clive had just been married at the town hall registry office and the assistant registrar, a nice man probably in his fifties named Terry, had taken pity on them. He had obviously realised that they had no one there to take any pictures, and so had kindly offered to take a photograph of them outside the rather grand looking town hall. They’d had no friends or family at the ceremony because the only person in the world who had offered them any support, Clive’s step-mum Sue, had sadly passed away quite recently. Gayle’s parents had, surprisingly, given their written consent to the marriage. But this wasn’t done to support the two of them in any way but rather, seemingly, was a final gesture of them “washing their hands of Gayle”. As such, the main registrar had successfully found two random “witnesses” (it seems that there are always people, with nothing better to do, who are hanging around registry offices in the hope of being called upon to be a wedding witness – perhaps feeling like they are doing their own bit for true love?) and the whole wedding had been completed fairly quickly and without much pomp and circumstance. Gayle had thought that Clive would maybe have wanted to postpone the wedding following Sue’s death but he had insisted on it going ahead, even conveying afterwards that he had felt sure that she had been with them in some kind of spiritual way.
They had decided to go ahead with a speedy marriage because they both wanted it to happen well before their baby was born. Gayle had always been concerned that, on the day, she looked like she’d spent too much money on lunches at Greggs or had said yes too many times when being asked: “do you want super size?” at McDonalds, as the only white / wedding-ish dress (she really wanted to wear white – it just felt traditional and important) that she could find and afford was an outfit from a local charity shop that was, at least, two sizes too small for her.
As she looked at the photo now though, Gayle actually realised that she looked really nice. She looked a little pregnant rather than fat. She wasn’t huge and totally showing, but that was ok because she was pregnant. She felt a little
sad to think that this was one of the very few photos that she had of herself actually being pregnant. It was obviously back in the day that photos were not taken hundreds of times a day to document events and when it was memories and feelings that were relied upon to keep a record of life. She would perhaps have liked a few more photos though to be a visual reference of the time that she had life growing inside her. When she had Jack, her little boy that was now all grown up, developing into a baby - inside her tummy. It was just, back then, there were enough opinions and criticisms aimed towards her and Clive that had made her feel more than a little uncomfortable and embarrassed when, in reality, it was one of her happiest times.
Clive looked nice on the day in a dark blue suit, also purchased from a charity shop and, thankfully, from this front on-angle the slight iron burn to the back of his right trouser leg couldn’t be seen. Gayle smiled as more memories of the wedding came back to her. The day before a lot of rain and fairly wild weather had been predicted but the day itself turned out to be very calm with quite a lot of sunshine. Not like those weather people to get it wrong, is it? Gayle and Clive had taken it as a good sign though. Although neither of them were particularly religious or spiritual the fact that their wedding day, that had been predicted to be a wild washout, turned out to be actually very nice seemed like a good start for them.
Gayle also remembered the other “small” thing that happened as they stood there outside the town hall that felt like the icing on the cake for them. Perhaps because of the need to practise, or maybe a test after some kind of repair, the church bells of St. James’s church unexpectedly chimed out for a couple of minutes. And it somehow made the whole event feel more real; more authentic. Like their wedding had really happened and it had been endorsed by a higher power.
It turns out Clive had a slightly different outlook to what had happened. At the time he had initially thought it was the sound of a nearby ice cream van and had been excited that they may be able to celebrate their marriage with a Mr Whippy ’99. Gayle sniggered to herself. That was the type of thing that he would always say to make her laugh. He would take a serious situation and turn it into something wonderfully whimsical and silly. She could never be sure if he was being serious about things or trying to be humorous, but that made it all the more funny. At least in the past anyway.
Gayle continued to smile as she gazed upon the most obvious feature of the photograph. It wasn’t how young she and Clive looked, even though they did, it was how very happy they looked. She let that feeling of happiness radiate through her body as she, once again, subconsciously said thank you to Terry, the kind assistant registrar who was generous enough to take a photo from his own camera, have it developed, and send it through to them later.
Of course, in those days before digital cameras there was more than just an element of “in the lap of the gods” about photographs, but that somehow also made photographs more real. They weren’t taken and then re-taken because someone wasn’t looking or had red-eye or didn’t like the way they looked. They were taken once, and they captured the real moment before life moved on. Fortunately for Gayle and Clive it had been a good photograph and, as such, was put up on the wall in the front room in pride of place – something to be proud of, and for the entire world to see.
Gayle stopped smiling as she realised that even though it had always been there she hadn’t looked at it properly for such a long time. It’s funny how you stop looking at the important things after a while, because you’ve lazily started taking them for granted.
Chapter Nineteen: Street Heroes.
“Tell me when will you be mine? Tell me Quando, Quando, Quando?”
Clive stopped doodling on the notepad in front of him and covered his ears because, yep, George was singing again. It happened everyday; it wasn’t a matter of if, but just a matter of when. Clive didn’t cover his ears because George was a terrible singer; no, his rendition of the Engelbert Humperdinck version of Quando, Quando, Quando was actually quite tuneful, but rather in anticipation of the torrent of abuse that would always follow when George began to sing.
That was the thing about Clives’ Royal Mail office, one day blended into another. Everything repeated itself in a kind of perpetual déjà vu. George would begin to sing, either “Quando, Quando, Quando” or “Love is in my Hair” (to the tune of “Love is in the Air” – ironic genius as he was completely bald) and the majority of the rest of the office would shout some kind of disapproving insult while all the while Pete would stand at his delivery frame in the corner muttering “dig a hole, fill it in..... dig a hole, fill it in..... dig a hole, fill it in.....” as some kind of quiet commentary on the monotonous nature of life as a postman. If Bill Murray thought he had it bad in the film Groundhog Day, he should try doing a couple of days at Royal Mail.
Clive had been a postman now for so many years that he was used to the complete madness that was always going on around him. When he had started, though, the “culture” and general hap-hazard craziness and bizarre mix of characters had been something of a shock to him. So much so that, on his first day, he wondered whether Royal Mail was going above and beyond the required government quota of giving opportunities to, shall we say, intellectually challenged individuals.
For a start, there is so much obscene name calling and bad language randomly shouted out that a tourettes expert would have a field day. It’s hard to explain, but imagine if there was ever a Muppets movie made about postmen, maybe Kermit and the Royal Mail Muppets?, and this would probably be a true reflection of Royal Mail reality.
Clive had arrived in full time employment straight out of high school and yet felt like he had been sent back to infant school, due to the rowdy, crowd-like heckling and immature comments that got shouted out with regular frequency. Over time though you get used to your environment, or perhaps become “institutionalised”, and Clive often finds himself shouting out the same nonsense at the same time as everyone else. He is also able to sing along, word for word, to, not only every current pop song that is played to death in heavy rotation, but also to every radio advertisement that is played daily. This is something you can only hope to achieve once your mind has been completely turned to mush.
“Love is in my Hair.....” began George, probably to instigate the latest round of angry, echoing shouting throughout the office - because he loved to start things off.
George had worked there for much longer than Clive which fitted in with how things seemed to work in the life of a postman. There were two categories –
1. The people who lasted no more than two days. (Some people had even been known to leave the same day as they started – often escaping through the tiny window in the gents toilets.) These people had usually had (any other) jobs in the past and so realised how crazy this particular environment was – and wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.
2. The people who were in it for life. Some because they enjoyed the school playground-esque banter. (Where else could you get daily debates about what were the best cartoons or pop songs of the 1980’s?) Some because they actually enjoyed the early start / early finish, outside lifestyle that it offered. Some because they didn’t feel they could do anything better. Some because they couldn’t be arsed looking for anything better. All because they were fucking crazy!
“Tell me when will you be mine?” George started up again “Tell me Quando, Quando, Quando?”
“Shut it you little, bald, big-nosed twat!” came the first response, before the real insults began. George just smiled and carried on singing as normal, not bothered in the slightest that his nickname, that had probably been with him for decades, revolved around him being small, having no hair, a bigger-than-average nose, with any random and crude swear word attached for good measure.
With his hands over his ears, Clive looked across at Stevie Taylor and wondered whether he, too, should wear a pair of bright blue ear defenders to drown out the noise that bounced off all four walls – because they didn’t make Stev
ie look crazy in the slightest! Clive remembered the day, about three years earlier, that Stevie had stormed out of the office, complaining about the “same shit everyday” on the radio, and returned a few minutes later wearing something that you would only usually see worn by someone guiding planes around on the ground at the airport. Since then he had been pretty much incommunicado which probably suited him and the rest of the office. (Incommunicado - a great word that, despite Marillion’s best efforts in 1987 hasn’t really ever become “mainstream”.) As Clive watched him, Stevie stepped away from his work frame and pleaded with himself,
“Come on brain, come on. What’s the matter with you today? COME ONNNNN BBRRRAAAAIIIIINNN!”
It was not an unusual thing to see him do; he was definitely the sort of crazy, crazy guy that was best given a wide birth. For good measure, he also had a level of bad breath that even a dog would be embarrassed of.
He wasn’t the only one around here that fitted that crazy description though, that was for sure. Clive began to look around the office, to give himself a little tour of the eccentric characters that surrounded him; his work colleagues that were part of the eyes and ears of the villages, towns and cities of this country. The primary squad of dedicated observers that become aware of petty crime, injustice, discrimination and prejudice and are the first to take action. They are the first line of defence. The street heroes.
What a worrying thought.
The office could only be described, at best, as “dingy”. It was cold in the winter and hot in the summer; never in between at a temperature that may be considered normal. And certainly nowhere near a level that would pass modern health and safety laws. And it was also always dark. The only natural light came from a couple of small, heavily barred, windows that were high up on the back wall. There were two rows of very dim fluorescent strip lights but half of them flickered regularly which, each time, would make Clive wonder whether someone, in a secret room nearby, was being executed by electric chair. It was hard to imagine hell being much different.