Love Is Usually Where You Left It

by Gary Locke

  Following the banning of his Blackie nickname, Dave Black, has since been referred to by one of three nicknames. One, Piss Head Dave, was not because his head had ever, unfortunately, been on the wrong end of some urinating mishap, but because he constantly appeared like he would struggle to pass a breathalyzer test. The other nicknames were The Cider Barrel, which concisely accounted for the size of his chest / belly and his love for alcoholic apple juice; and Sir Stella Artois. Someone had once tried to incorporate a nickname that linked his surname (Black) to something Guinness-related, but it had been far too complicated and clever for anyone to take seriously, and so, most of the time, Piss Head Dave was his default nickname.

  “A redirection for me? Great!” said Clive, knowing that another one to add to his twenty five or so, that already took forever to do (well, at least three or four minutes) could only make things even more difficult for him. Why do people have to move at all? And if they do have to move, do they really need their old postman to search through all the virgin media adverts going to their old address and forward them on to their new address? It was so unfair!

  “It’s not just any redirection,” started Piss… (Sorry, Dave - Piss Head Dave is so crude, even by the standards of these potty-mouthed postmen.)

  “It’s for number 5 Atherton Lane!”

  He was, remarkably, not slurring in the slightest for a man who was giving off such intense whisky fumes that he must be considered a fire hazard.

  Clive knew exactly what Dave was going to say next, because he knew the address, 5 Atherton Lane, very well – it was where an old school friend of his, Stacey Wellington, lived.

  “You know, 5 Atherton Lane, where your, hic, girlfriend Shhtacie lives, well her boyfriend, hic, FFFillip, is moving out..... and she is shtaying there!”

  Thankfully he was hiccupping and slurring now just about enough to justify the way he smelt.

  “I told you they were shplitting up! Now’s your chance. And this is jusht, hic, when you and Gayle are finishing..... it’s like Karma or shomthing..... or is Karma a chype of curry?”

  Clive smiled, while at the same time taking evasive action as Kieran came walking past at great speed. Kieran, or Runaround, as per his particular nickname was very fast-talking and was fairly high-pitched; in fact he was the sort of bloke that should come with subtitles. The reason for Clive’s evasive action though was that his Runaround nickname had been earned by his tendency to travel around the office with the speed of an Olympic power walker. He was also the owner of the sharpest elbows ever known to mankind and many postmen had been on the unfortunate end of accidental collisions during visits to the toilet or brew machine which had regretfully resulted in them needing to take a couple of weeks off work with suspected broken ribs.

  Thankfully, Clive had stood back just in time.

  “Karma” he said to Dave “means what comes around goes around. What you’re thinking of is fate!”

  “There you go then. You can’t argue, hic, with the fate! And she’s well-hot, and clearly fanshies you; you’re always flirting with each other!”

  “Saying “Hi” and having the odd chat now and then is hardly flirting.”

  “She talks to ya? I told you she fanshies you!”

  “Look Dave, just because you’re invited into someone’s house now and again, it doesn’t mean that they fancy you. I mean.....”

  “You’ve been in her house? You dirtchy dog!”

  “No, it’s not like.....”

  “EVERYONES” Dave shouted,

  “FORDY’S BEEN, hic, SHHHAGGING THAT FIT BLONDE BIRD FROM ATHERTON LANE!”

  “WAY HEY WHOA HEY WAY WHOA!!!”

  The whole office erupted with the cheering of a few dozen juvenile postmen / Muppets. Clive hoped that if he didn’t react to the hullabaloo following Dave Black’s announcement regarding his and Stacey Wellington’s fictitious “relationship”, the ridiculous reaction would die down pretty quickly.

  But far from it.

  He was now contemplating asking Stevie Taylor if he could borrow his ear defenders because George, still channelling his Englebert Humperdink signing voice, had sparked an office wide sing-along of “Clive and Stacey, sitting in a tree, Clive and Stacey, sitting in a tree, Clive and Stacey, sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

  Shit, thought Clive. I’m a postman..... get me out of here!

  Chapter Twenty Two: Thought Of The Day.

  BEEEEPP! BEEEPPP!! BEEEEPPPPPPP!!! BEEEEEEEPPPPP!!!!

  “Out of the way, you bloody lunatic!”

  Probably one honk of the Royal Mail vans horn would have been enough but Larry decided that four, fairly lengthy blasts was the only way to express his displeasure of someone getting in his way. In fact, Clive felt that no horn use would have been more appropriate seeing as the “bloody lunatic” in question was an elderly man, riding a mobility scooter. A more appropriate action may have been for Larry to actually slow down a bit, instead of sticking to his usual style of driving that felt like he was constantly practicing in case someone ever invited him to drive his Royal Mail van around Brands Hatch. To say he was a reckless driver didn’t nearly cover his driving style. In fact, to say he was “reckless” was like saying Usain Bolt was “a bit fast”.

  Recently there had been several safety “team talk” meetings that stressed to everyone the need to wear a seat belt in vans at all times. This was one of the few things that Clive didn’t need to be reminded about; when he was sitting in his van with Larry driving, if it was at all possible, he would also wear a crash helmet and hold a bible on his knee.

  “It’s bloody sickening, isn’t it?” asked Larry “Have you ever, ever seen anyone using one of those bloody mobility scooters and not thought – you lazy bastard? And why do they insist on using the road and getting in your BLOODY WAY?”

  BEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPP!!!! BEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPP!!!!!

  Another two aggressive blasts of the horn seemed to make Larry feel better, but touché to the man on the mobility scooter who punctuated these last two honks with a perfectly timed two fingered salute.

  “Bloody geriatric lunatic!” Larry muttered under his breath, fairly ironically seeing as he was probably of similar age to the mobility scooter man himself and, in the days before certain labels were deemed inappropriate, would definitely have been a candidate for having his name on the census accompanied by the description “lunatic”, “imbecile”, “idiot” or “feeble minded”.

  Clive shared a delivery van with Larry and had done for the last three years since some bright spark in some Royal Mail warm office somewhere had decided that postmen should actually work in pairs. It was something that, in business bullshit speak, was described as “starbursting” and had been tried a couple of decades earlier only to be found to be an inefficient way of working. Of course, back in the day, it was known as “opal fruiting”. (Sorry to anyone born after 1980, who has no idea what opal fruits were.) But obviously some university graduate looking at data and spreadsheets, and trying to justify a ridiculous salary, had decided that mistakes from the past are always worth revisiting and decided to bring it back.

  Larry was one of the elite, older members of the Royal Mail workforce who was technically known, in postman’s terms, as a lazy bastard. He had worked there for well over forty years (yet spouted life lessons as if he’d travelled the world multiple times) and developed, and skilfully maintained, a somewhat work-shy methodology. He probably could have retired by now but was stubbornly holding on to the belief that, after being there for so many years, the business owned it to him to offer some kind of redundancy pay off. Seeing as, so far, Royal Mail didn’t quite see things the same way meant that Clive was stuck with him.

  Larry, who always insisted on driving (probably mainly so he had access to the vehicles horn), parked the van at their usual first drop point on the corner of Cotton Road and Atherton Lane; thankfully avoiding the need to blast said horn at any further mobility-challenged individuals. They both walked around to the back
of the van as Clive breathed in some fresh air with the same daily sense of relief. Larry often possessed the weird and (not so) wonderful aromas of a man who obviously left his work clothes on as he cooked his evening dinner and then wore them the following day. He most probably slept in them as well. (A stuffy, enclosed van always seems to enhance the rather offensive aromatic blend of chicken stir fry and night time excessive sweating.)

  At the back of the van, Larry opened the door and he and Clive picked out the first bags they had for delivering. As per usual, Clive’s bag was very bulky and should really require the carrier to be wearing a weight lifting belt of some description; whereas Larry’s was around a quarter of the size and weight. (“One of the perks of being here a long time!” Larry would gladly advise if Clive ever complained.)

  “It’s amazing isn’t it?” began Larry, easily slipping his bag over his shoulder as if it was filled with nothing heavier than candy floss “There’s people out there who pay a fortune every month at the gym, and yet here we are getting paid for doing the same sort of exercising! We really are very lucky!”

  Clive shook his head in disbelief as he struggled to hoist his own bag over his shoulder and around his neck, wondering how many of his back discs he was repositioning in the process.

  “Ok, young man, time for the thought of the day.” said Larry.

  Clive rolled his eyes.

  Larry had taken to giving him “life advice” through a series of “nuggets of wisdom” that he had “earned” over his “long and varied” life. Over forty years in the same, mundane job – you don’t get much more “varied” than that.

  “What was yesterday’s nugget?” he asked before revealing his latest star drop of wisdom; probably through a mixture of wanting to test that Clive actually listens to him and the memory frailties of an aging and variety starved brain.

  “It was the one about the snow!” said Clive, accompanied by a fairly audible sigh.

  “Ah yes,” said Larry smiling “everyone is warned about not eating yellow snow, but that brown snow is just as bad..... yep, never eat yellow OR brown snow. And I did warn you to be extra vigilant about lemon sorbet, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.” Said Clive, disconsolately.

  “Good, you can never be too careful. You know what those funny bastards at the Iceland processing warehouse can be like after a twelve hour nightshift!”

  He took a minute chuckling to himself, obviously pleased with his “humorous” advice, before readying his latest thought.

  “Ok, here’s today’s thought: Never take seriously, a man whose sideburns are different lengths. If he can’t even be bothered to make sure his facial hair has equilibrium, does anything in his whole life have any credibility whatsoever?”

  “Ok..... good one!” said Clive, his eyes glazed over about the same amount that they always were, each day, around this “thought of the day” time.

  “Watch out when you’re crossing the road” said Larry, pointing his finger towards the middle of the road about 20 metres away where there sat a huge pile of horse shit. “Bloody disgusting isn’t it? Do these horse owners not get fined for leaving their shit behind – like dog owners do?”

  Clive looked over at where Larry was pointing, before saying:

  “They’d need one hell of a pooper scooper to pick all that up!”

  He smiled and waited for Larry to laugh, but it never happened. His old partner was already on his way.

  “Be careful out there young man!” Larry said, walking off spritely with his small bag.

  Clive took a deep breath as he turned and contemplated heading down Atherton Lane. It was this part of the working day that was the hardest – knowing just how much walking was in front of you. It’s like starting a big tiling job, or even starting to write a book; if you think too much about how many tiles you have to attach to the walls, or how many words you have to write or, in Clive’s case, how many steps you have to take, before you are finished then it really freaks you out – and makes you feel like never even starting. But, like for everything in life, if you walk in the right direction, metaphorically and literally, then sooner or later you will always reach your destination. The thing is, though, Clive didn’t want to have to give himself that philosophical inspiration every day because he wanted to be doing something else. Ideally something linked with art but, the more time he spent, walking those same steps every day, the more he felt like he wanted to do anything else.

  He’d had the same “pubescent” dreams as most young boys in the past. The first thing he thought he wanted to be was a train driver, until Thomas and Friends took away the Ivor the Engine glamour and made that seem too toddler-ish – there was no shovelling coal, dirty faces or extreme bronchitis in sight. Being an astronaut also seemed cool until Clive watched a documentary on the training they have to go through. Constantly running to reduce muscle wastage, eating “food” out of toothpaste tubes and having to shit standing up before catching your floating turd with a fishing net before it floats off and slaps against the wall. No thank you! He’d also wanted to be a footballer for a while. Not a modern day footballer but back in the day when footballers lived in the real world. You know, before the obscene money; when they weren’t obsessed with cash, world-wide fame, weird hair, beards and tattoos but were happy with hero status and a moustache and a perm.

  Instead of next focussing on his real dreams of art-based employment, Clive began facing up to the mundane, physical challenge that lay ahead. It had to start how it always started: with the first step. And then the second one, and then the third one.....

  After nine or ten steps he was back into his rhythm.

  He reached his first call, the greasy spoon, ironically named “Fresh Cafe”, and they had a letter addressed to “The Chef”. Do you qualify as a “chef” when you pretty much just fry eggs and bacon all day? Clive walked in and saw that there was no one in there and so just placed the letter on the counter. It wasn’t unusual to be empty in there and Clive knew that the “chef” would probably be standing at the back door, as usual, smoking a fag. “Fresh”? There’s irony for you. They either got through a lot of hand gel in that cafe or had bought their hygiene certificate from some Del-Boy Trotter type character.

  Clive next went past another food outlet, the fairly newly opened and rather small shop that represented another branch of the slowly expanding, local Klucky Fried Chicken empire which, ironically, had replaced the independent “Good Health” shop that had obviously failed. (Good to see that, in these troubling austerity times, the nation has decided to say “fuck it” to dietary welfare.) Again Clive had no mail for this shop as well but couldn’t help but focus on the big sign in the “fake-KFC” window which read: “We only use Grade A chicken”.

  Clive chuckled as he mulled over the thought – I never even knew Chickens took exams! That was a good one. He would have to remember that one to tell Gayle later. Or maybe not. She probably wouldn’t find it funny.

  He and Gayle used to love to make each other laugh, all the time. They would laugh and joke about everything and anything but, in reality, that seemed like a long time ago. And the really sad thing was, Clive wasn’t sure why that had ever changed.

  Chapter Twenty Three: The Loan Shark.

  Gayle cast her mind back and let it focus on an event that she never liked to think about. She had just light-heartedly told Jeremy about the time that she and Clive had celebrated their wedding anniversary one year at a fancy tapas bar on the high street called Picasso. It had seemed so exotic and grown up and neither of them had ever had tapas before. Between the fact that Clive had managed to drop potato bravas sauce down his brand new white short sleeve shirt (the only time he ever wore it – only multiple “hot” washes with Vanish got that stain out, shrinking the shirt so much a garden gnome would struggle to get into it) and the fact that Gayle had admitted being confused about why a Spanish restaurant had been named after a Disney character (yep, she’d mixed up Picasso for Pinocchio) the whole ev
ening had been one non-stop laugh fest.

  Which was pretty much how most evenings, and most of their lives, were back then – they always seemed to be laughing. She had also just fondly recalled how, at one of the baby group meetings she and Clive attended not long after Jack was born, she realised they were a real family; and how she thought that they would all be together forever. But now she was just about to answer Jeremy’s latest question that seemed a whole lot more serious:

  GAYLE

  Tell me about your relationship low point.

  I remember it like it was yesterday; I know I’ll remember it until the day I die. I’ve never been so scared in my life. It was a Wednesday morning, Clive was at work, Jack was still really young. He was usually always very calm in the mornings; attentive, inquisitive; almost right from the start. But this morning was different. He was agitated; very unsettled. I thought that maybe he was feeling unwell but his temperature was normal, he had fed well, the way that he always did, there was just something that he wasn’t happy about. I’ve always wondered whether he knew what was about to happen.

  It was about half-ten. There was a knock at the door. Not a particularly loud knock, but not a quiet one either, just a normal knock. I was quite relieved to hear it because it meant I had something different to do than pace up and down the front room gently bouncing a baby that would just not settle.

  I knew it was possible that it was just Mr Dennis, from over the road, who may have been coming round to ask whether I knew who had stolen his milk that morning. (I think I was always number one suspect seeing as I had a baby. He didn’t seem to realise that he’d annoyed so many people it could have been anyone from within a radius of about twenty miles.) But I didn’t mind, even if it was him with his milk-theft interrogation, because I just wanted a break from trying to settle Jack.