by Gary Locke
She would rest cups of tea on her bump, or Jack as we now know him, almost jubilant that she didn’t need a side table or to put them on the floor in front of her chair. When Jack was born he had a small red birth mark at the top of his right thigh – probably a result of having a hot mug being balanced on his leg every night.
I know it’s a well used phrase when people say pregnant women are “glowing” but, for Gayle, it completely described her. Apart from a two week spell early on when she felt a bit rough and was sick a few times, she had sailed through feeling really well. And she wore the physical changes with real pride; by this point she was genuinely happy to be pregnant. And, as such, she completely glowed.
On the day we moved in we’d been told to be patient and that moving days, and the exchange of keys and everything, could drag on and on. As it turned out for us, everything happened really smoothly and we were in the house before midday. Of course we had nothing to put in the house except ourselves so, like most other people, we weren’t waiting around for the big removal van to turn up and bring in box after box of stuff we’d managed to collect over the years. No, all we actually brought with us, on the day we moved in, was an old plastic patio table, two deck chairs, and a second hand travel bed. And the start of a cool CD collection.
The house wasn’t completely empty though. The previous owner had been an old man, who had lived alone with his dog for many years. He’d moved out and gone into a care home. His son had dealt with the sale and agreed to leave most of the furniture there as part of the deal. There wasn’t that much, but it was good that we had an old sofa and TV cabinet (although no TV), a double bed and an oven to start us off.
I remember that day really clearly.
After opening the windows to try and clear the smell of old man and, probably seldom-washed, dog (they stayed mostly open for about two months) Gayle and I just sat in the front room on our deck chairs. I think we were both a bit wary of sitting on the sofa until we had given it a good wash with a steam cleaner, no one wants to openly risk being a feast for a sofa potentially full of fleas.
But yeah, we just sat there smiling.
We finally had our own piece of the world, that we had paid for. (Or, at least were going to pay for over the next twenty five years of our lives.) We both knew the place wasn’t a palace or a mansion, we probably hadn’t even considered that we may still be there twenty years later, but it didn’t matter; because it was so much more. It was ours. Our place. A place where we would be together, with our baby, as a family.
It would challenge and stretch our limits financially but, again, it was ours. It felt like we had just taken a step onto the first rung of a ladder that stretched high into the sky; up to the place where dreams exist. It seemed like anything and everything was possible.
It wasn’t actually long before there was a knock at the door and we were introduced to Mr Dennis, from over the road, for the first time. He had come round, with a bit of a double-edged message, that said welcome to the street and warned us not to make too much noise. It didn’t take us long to work out what sort of person he was. If every village had as idiot, then Mr Dennis could easily represent many villages; probably even the county. We managed to get rid of him within an hour or so – which probably stands as the record to this day. But when he’d gone we got back to sitting in our front room and smiling.
We promised each other that this house was just the start. I was going to work on my art and somehow make a living out of doing something I loved. Gayle was going to get into the music business once she’d had Jack. She, too, would find a way to make a career out of something she had always dreamed of. And, together, we promised each other that we would never stop dreaming. We would support each other and always encourage one another to always aim for the stars. If we didn’t reach the stars then it didn’t matter, we would always have each other. Always Me and You vs. the World. And if we did fall short when aiming for those stars, we may just make it to the moon instead. And if we made it to the moon, we’d always have cheese!
Chapter Twenty Seven: The Han Solo Moment.
Jeremy was completely intrigued.
He had just asked Gayle if she remembered where and when it was when she realised that it was definitely love between her and Clive and, without any kind of hesitation, she had answered: “Oh yeah, 100%. It was the Han Solo moment. It was, coincidentally, also the moment that inspired that poem you found behind the radiator - Echoes Through Time.”
What was this Han Solo moment that she so obviously clearly remembered? Gayle hadn’t been referring to, perhaps the most famous Han Solo moment – you know the “Han shot first” controversy during his face off with Greedo in the Mos Eisley cantina? No, what Gayle had been referring to was a moment in Return of the Jedi; although when you watch it properly it doesn’t quite go exactly as she remembers it. She explained to Jeremy that it was the scene when Han and Leia were fighting the Empire forces alongside the Ewok’s (you know, those fighting, warrior teddy bears!?!) and Princess Leia was injured by a random laser shot to her arm. After fighting off a couple of Storm Troopers (after Han tells Leia that he loves her – losing all the coolness he earned in The Empire Strikes Back when Leia said to him: “I Love You” and he nonchalantly replied: “I know”!) they are cornered by an AT-ST walker and are surely doomed. And it is in this moment, as per Gayle’s recollection, that Han, with no other thought than to protect Leia, selflessly steps in front of her to shield her from any further shots with his body; and therefore his life. The reality is that Han actually stands up and raises his hands rather than making the “laying down his life” gesture that Gayle remembers. But her mis-remembered version is what she means by the Han Solo moment and it links in with a much clearer memory in her mind.
“Ok then, the Han Solo moment? Tell me more.” Jeremy said, as he leant back in his chair intrigued.
Gayle ran her hand through her hair and smiled gently as she let her mind replay some of the memories, ready for recalling for Jeremy.
It was a Friday in December, we had been let out of school mid-afternoon because it had been snowing; you know it was back in the day when it used to snow in December and not just freakishly in March like it does now.
I’m pretty sure it was one of the last Fridays before the Christmas holidays because we’d been allowed to dress in whatever clothes we wanted to in exchange for a tin of something to go in the raffle for the Christmas fair. I think the “lucky” person who won my “prize” at the raffle would have been treated to a delicious, out of date, tin of mandarin oranges in syrup.
It was back when it really snowed and everyone was really excited about it. Obviously when you get older and you have to commute or work in the snow then you realise that it’s just a real pain in the backside. Just ask Clive; he says trying to deliver mail in the snow, with a big, heavy bag on your back is like auditioning for Bambi on Ice. Anyway, like I say, we were just school kids and so everyone was really excited about the snow – especially as we were being let out of school early to help us with our journeys home.
Of course, no one really wanted to go home – it was snowing like mad and the fields were completely covered. Massive, blank canvas’s, just waiting for excited school kids to come and build snowmen and have huge snowball fights.
I had arranged to meet Clive on the field at the side of the sports hall and we were going to walk home together. I was wearing a pair of my Mums fancy brown leather, knee-high boots and this really nice black silky top that I’d “borrowed” from her wardrobe – what she didn’t know, couldn’t annoy her, right? I would just sneak them back into her wardrobe when I got home, as good as new, and she would never know. I’d got up early that morning and showered and even attempted to straighten my hair and it actually worked pretty well.
I felt like a million dollars.
Not even Mr Jackson sickeningly saying that he “liked my boots”, as he almost licked his lips, could dampen my spirits. All I had to do was wait for Clive
by the sports hall and then we were going to spend the afternoon together. I don’t know why but he must have been running late and I was standing there for ages, getting colder and colder, desperately holding my little umbrella up so that the snow wouldn’t wet my hair and make all my early morning straightening efforts a waste of time.
I watched as countless numbers of kids moved up and down the field, making all kinds of objects in the snow from snowmen and women to mini igloos, some were lying down and making “snow angels” and there was even an attempt by someone to make a large snow penis that, for a split second, I thought may have been Clive’s idea of a joke; but wasn’t.
All of a sudden there was a real increase of the number of people who were near to the sports hall and it soon became obvious why. A massive snowball fight that had been taking place on the tennis courts had spilled out of the gate and was now heading straight towards me. And it seemed like it was every man for himself; because everyone was just throwing snowballs randomly at anyone.
The first one to hit me struck me flush on the left side of my jaw, almost spinning me around and making me drop my umbrella. Before I had chance to clear my head and pick it up some kid had swiped it from the floor and was using it as a make shift shield as he ran through, what now seemed like, some kind of shooting range. Dozens and dozens of large boys, probably from the sixth form, were aiming snowballs at everyone who was anywhere near.
And it looked like they were well prepared - they all appeared to have at least two rucksacks of pre-made snowballs; it was a complete siege. I realised that not only was my hair now completely exposed to the snow and imminently about to return to its’ unruly, curly style, but I was also a prime target for all those boys and their snowballs.
I made a decision and decided to try and run for the relative safety of the middle of the field. What I hadn’t realised was just how difficult it would be to run in my Mums fancy boots. I barely made it ten metres before I had completely lost my footing and was flat on my back on the field. It may have appeared like I was attempting my own snow angel, albeit in the most ill-advised of all places, because I was soon confronted by two of the sixth-form boys who had obviously seen me fall.
For a split second I thought I may have been ok as one of them said aloud “shall we help her up”; but the hysterical laughing that immediately followed confirmed exactly what I was: I was a sitting duck.
I turned onto my side just in time to see them resting their bags onto the ground about five metres away from me and opening them, ready for easy access to their “ammunition”. The first snowball that was thrown hit me on my shoulder and hurt like hell. The second, that came quickly after, hit me on the knee and was twice as bad. I realised that these boys had probably made the snowballs earlier in the day and they were now pretty much made of solid ice. Another one came and struck me on the side of the head, immediately making me feel a little woozy and bringing tears to my eyes.
And they just kept coming and coming.
Each one feeling like I was being struck by a baseball bat. All I could see through my tears were my Mums brown boots, completely soaking wet and ruined and definitely not in a state of being able to sneak-them-back-into-her-wardrobe-as-good-as-new.
I was freezing cold, unable to stand or defend myself, and obviously going to be in big trouble when I got home. The big boys just carried on, throwing snowballs at me from no more than about five metres away, obviously having immense fun. Maybe they couldn’t see that I was hurting and crying; maybe they didn’t care. Who knows what goes through the minds of cruel boys? I wanted to stand up and fight back somehow but I felt tired of having to be so tough all the time. Or tired of pretending. I wasn’t tough. I was just like every other scared teenager. Only I didn’t have a Mum who would reassure me that things would be ok; and hug me whenever I needed it.
I remember squinting my eyes as another “icy” snowball hit me on the forehead and, even through the thinnest of watery slits, I could just about make out somebody running towards me.
I opened my eyes a little more, half expecting it was someone coming to drop a massive pile of heavy snow on top of me, and there he was: Clive. I have no idea how he had seen me lying on the field, covered in snow and being pelted by these boys; it almost felt like maybe he’d been drawn to me by my pain and helplessness.
I knew straight away that he wasn’t going to be a traditional knight in shining armour who would be able to fight and scare these boys away, because he looked so much smaller than them. But that didn’t matter, because it was obvious instantly that he was actually so much more than that.
He quickly came to my side and lay down next to me – completely in between me and the bigger boys, and the feeling of those hard snow balls smacking against me stopped straight away. Clive just held me and looked into my eyes.
“It’s ok, now.” He said softly.
And it was. Everything was ok.
And I looked back at him, through the tears that were stuck in my eyes, and I heard the bigger boys laughing once again, no doubt amused by Clive’s act of chivalry and, I suppose, love.
And the throwing of snowballs started again, maybe even more now than were being thrown before. But I didn’t feel a thing because Clive was now my shield. And I saw every wince of pain on his face as each new one struck him on the back, but he didn’t say anything or even make a sound; he just took each blow silently. And, as he did, he looked at me, and smiled.
And nothing else mattered.
All thoughts of my Mum’s ruined boots, and me being in big trouble when I got home, disappeared because all there was, was me and Clive, lying on the snow, looking into each other’s eyes.
And that was it: the Han Solo moment.
And it was also the moment that I knew that I was completely in love with Clive. Because to be completely in love with someone, I realised that they also need to be completely in love with you; and I knew Clive was.
Years later, when I heard the Aerosmith song, Full Circle, I knew exactly what Steven Tyler meant when he sang “Love Is Love Reflected”.
I knew in my heart that Clive would have, without a doubt, died for me in that moment. And I would have gladly done the same for him.
Chapter Twenty Eight: From One Angel To Another.
Jeremy continued writing away on his note pad with his original pen; there had been no use, so far, for the other six pens that still sat neatly lined up on the table in front of him. Gayle came to the conclusion that Jeremy must be one of those “better safe than sorry” types of people – at least when it came to pen contingency anyway.
Maybe it was fair enough: there’s nothing worse than having to search for a pen when you desperately needed one. It’s nearly as hard as, when you are out somewhere for the day, trying to find a toilet because you desperately need a shit – no chance.
“So, the Apollo Picture House, that was the first time you went to the cinema together then?” he asked, after carefully re-lining pen seven neatly alongside the other six.
“Yep, on a Saturday night.” Said Gayle before bursting into song.
“Saturday Night at the movies.....”
She regretted singing straight away and put it down to the fact that she was either trying to clear her mind of the sort of toilet-based, desperately-need-a-shit kind of thinking and reference that Clive would normally speak of; or the fact that she had spent too much time with Jeremy and was now teetering of the edge of becoming someone that could be referred to as: barking mad. Whichever way, she decided spontaneous, crazy singing should be avoided as she focussed on the answering Jeremy’s question – in the hope that the quicker she answered his questions, the quicker he would leave the house.
“It was The Mask with Jim Carrey. The cinema was really small, maybe a little family run thing, but very cool. I’m not sure exactly what the deal was with them but they seemed to get films much later than the big cinemas – sometimes years later. But it meant the Apollo seemed really unique; somehow exclusive
.”
Gayle smiled as she recalled her and Clive’s visits to the Apollo.
“There seemed to be tiny, narrow corridors everywhere that had loads of black and white pictures of film legends from throughout the ages. The seats were pretty old fashioned but really comfortable. They were red velvet chairs. And there were red velvet curtains everywhere, where ushers used to stand with their torches; and from where the people wearing ice cream trays used to pop out from in the interval. Me and Clive always used to share a tub of “real Devon clotted ice cream”. I don’t’ know if this is a little sad but I even remember the seats we sat in for that first time: 14F and 14G!”
Jeremy smiled as he, once more, carefully picked up the same pen and made a note of what Gayle had just said.
“I love Jim Carrey” Gayle added as Jeremy wrote “Well, I love all his classics anyway. Ace Ventura, Liar Liar, The Truman Show, even The Cable Guy – I know it got slated a bit, because it is pretty dark, but it’s so cool.”
Gayle stopped as she realised she had embarked on a bit of a rant again, before having to add something that she’d missed.
“But his best film has to be Dumb and Dumber. In fact, we haven’t watched it for a while, but it’s mine and Clive’s favourite film.”
She paused as Jeremy stayed silent, instead just gently writing some more words onto his notepad.
“I suppose not everyone likes Jim Carrey, do they?” Gayle asked, hoping to see whether Jeremy actually liked him or not. It was another one of her tests in life that served as an indication as to whether she actually respected a person or not.
Jeremy looked up smiling slowly.
“He’s a bit like Marmite, isn’t he?” he said, through a smile that grew with each word.
“What?” asked Gayle “You either love him or hate him?”