by Peter Hall
“I can hardly wait.” Cal said, pulling his buff over his mouth and nose.
“Okay then, let’s take a deep breath and run.”
CHAPTER 17
John & Britney
TIMELINE: 4 years before Yellow Death
“Almost all of our relationships begin and most of them continue as forms of mutual exploitation, a mental or physical barter, to be terminated when one or both parties run out of goods.”
W. H. Auden (1907–1973)
John was with his mother in her Devon cottage, preparing his breakfast porridge. He added small dollops of milk and stirred the bowl until the mixture was the right consistency. It went into the microwave for exactly thirty seconds to bring it to the optimal temperature. After the microwave pinged, John topped his bowl with two spoonfuls of chopped nuts and two spoonfuls of plain yoghurt. Sarah watched him go through the ritual and sighed. Would it kill him to change the routine for once? Even the nuts must be the correct type—almonds, walnuts and brazils, definitely not cashews. Sometimes, Sarah was tempted to rebel by doing something outrageous, such as sneaking cashews into the mix.
They sat in her kitchen, looking through the French doors into the garden. The early morning sun cast long shadows. The borders were a festival of colour. In the middle of the lawn, sparrows, blackbirds, thrushes and other birds fought over the bounty that was laid on the bird table—thatched to match the cottage.
Breakfast together was part of their morning routine since John quit his job with WebExpert to become a freelance web developer. It had been a smart move—he was earning twice the money and could choose his own hours. A bonus was avoiding the tedium of office politics. But, without a job to force John into town on weekdays, he became more reclusive and ‘Aspergersy’, as Sarah would say.
“Have you got much work at the moment?” She said.
“As much as I want.”
“And what exactly does that mean?”
John sighed. Here we go again. The frequent questioning of his life was becoming tiresome. John appreciated all his mother had done for him, but it was time for her to let go and start enjoying her retirement instead of worrying about him.
“It means I can earn a hundred quid an hour, so could survive by working ten hours a week. Of course I work a lot more than that, but I’ll not flog myself to death, to make money I don’t need.” He gulped a spoonful of porridge, hoping that was an end to the discussion.
“How many hours do you put in?”
“Around twenty-five hours a week. Of course, it varies a lot. I’ve got a deadline to meet in a few days, so I’ll be at it all day today.”
“But John, those are part-time hours.”
“Part-time hours, full-time pay. Not bad, eh? Remember, the work is very intense. If I tried to work eight hours straight, my head would explode.”
Sarah frowned and put down her coffee cup. “What if you’re ill, or work dried up? You need some security behind you.”
“Mum, I’m a web developer. As long as I can move my fingers, I can work. My commissions come from global notice boards. Work won’t dry up unless people stop using the internet. Besides, I’ve already got twenty grand sitting in the bank.”
“Oh, I suppose you’re right.”
Sarah returned to her toast and marmalade. The silence was ominous, and John wondered what tack she would try next. He did not have to wait long.
“What on earth do you do out there, stuck alone in your cabin all day. It’s not healthy.”
Okay, it looks like we’re going to have the ‘you’re wasting your life’ discussion. We haven’t done that for a couple of days.
“Mum, I’m not in my chalet all day. I go running, mow the lawns, go to the T.A. And we walk to the village shop together several times a week. As for what I do when I’m in the chalet—apart from paid work, of course—well, I’m developing a highly realistic war game simulator. There’s been nothing like it before. It’ll allow people to re-enact real historical battles with accuracy down to individual soldiers. When it’s complete, I could make a fortune from it.”
Sarah smiled. “That’s brilliant dear. You’re very talented, you know. I’m sorry, I’ll shut up now. I don’t want to spoil your breakfast with my concerns. I just wish you had a few friends, or even a nice girlfriend.”
So do I.
John looked at the list of women displayed on his computer screen. None of them appealed to him.
He had tried online dating agencies. They sounded good in principle, but were not working out well. His limited interests and hobbies generated few matches, and he was finding it impossible to locate a strikingly gorgeous female who was fascinated with military strategy and tactics.
On the occasions when he went on a date, the real-life women failed to live up to their profiles. They turned out to be less attractive, less interesting and wholly incompatible. The feeling was mutual, with none showing the slightest interest in a second date.
The real problem was John—introverted and socially awkward, with nerdy hobbies and a mundane lifestyle. He would struggle to find a partner if he were the last man on earth.
Internet dating seemed a dead end, but what else was there? John rarely ventured further than the village, where most of the residents were retired. Even though he was twenty-eight years old, most folk called him ‘Young John’ or ‘Sarah’s John’.
John closed the lid of his laptop, depressed as usual. The time was three p.m. He had already logged six billable hours of work on a lucrative contract which earned him more money than most people make in a week. However, coding was intense and left him tired. He needed to escape from the computer screen, and it was a lovely day outside—warm sunshine with a light breeze. Perfect for a tour of the lanes and local woods on his mountain bike.
An hour later, John was pedalling hard uphill. He passed a silver Audi parked on the roadside. An elderly couple sat in the back seat. A third person knelt on the grass verge by the nearside front wheel.
John pulled over and saw a young woman struggling with a wheel wrench.
“Hi there, need any help?”
She stood up, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a black oil stain. She was petite with long blonde hair in a pony tail and blue eyes that were perfectly framed with matching eye shadow. This was somebody who took great pride in their appearance.
The woman smiled at him, showing her perfect white teeth. “Oh, thanks. That’d be great. I’ve got a flat. I know how to change a wheel, but the sodding nuts are too tight for this silly wrench they give you.”
“Let me have a go.” John held out his hand for the wrench and peeked into the car.
“Hi there,” John said to the couple in the back.
“Oh, hello there, it’s Sarah’s John, isn’t it? From Willow Cottage?” The man said.
“Yes, that’s right.”
The elderly man poked his head out of the window. “Britney, this is John from the village. He’s the son of Sarah, a good friend of ours. He lives in her garden.”
“What, like a gnome?” Britney said.
John flushed. “No, not quite. My mother has a chalet which I live in—until I get my own place, of course. It’s quite spacious.”
“I’m sure it is. Hello John, I’m Britney, everyone except my parents call me Brit.” She held her hand out, but stopped when she noticed her oil-stained palm.
“Pleased to meet you… Brit.” John said. “Now let’s sort out this tyre.”
John wore padded cycling gloves and had no intention of being shown up as a wimp. The bolts were stiff, but the first three succumbed to brute force. The last one refused to budge.
“What if we try together?” Brit said.
John was dubious. The tyre iron was tiny, with barely enough room for four hands. “Well, we could give it a go.”
Brit knelt down next to him and they lined up their hands before pulling with all their strength. No movement.
“Damn,” Brit said. “Guess I’m
going to have to call out the AA after all. Mum’s going to be late for her hospital appointment.”
“The problem is leverage,” John said, gasping. “Let’s both try holding the wrench at the end. Put your hands over mine.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It’s okay, I’ve got padded gloves.”
Brit came closer to him and did as he suggested. Their proximity made him conscious of his sweaty clothing. Her perfume was a mix of flowers and spices and he wondered what foul stench he must emit.
“After three,” John said. “One… two… three!”
The nut suddenly surrendered, and they both fell backwards. John’s hands burned with pain, but he ignored it. Replacing the tyre after that was child’s play. Brit climbed back into the driver’s seat.
“Drive carefully until you can check the pressure,” John said.
“I will. Listen, I feel terrible rushing off after you’ve been so much help,” Brit said. “But I’m taking Mum to a clinic appointment in Barnstaple and we’re running late now.”
“No, that’s fine. You go on. I was glad to be of service.”
“I’m staying with my parents until tomorrow night. If you’re free tonight, maybe I could buy you a drink in the White Hart to say thanks properly?”
The elderly lady piped up. “Oh, yes, that’s a good idea. I’m sure you two would get on well.”
What? This is too good to be true. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to me. “Er, yes, sure, I’d love to. What time?”
“About eightish?” she said, shutting the car door and starting the engine.
In order to avoid clashing with the evening meal, John was obliged to tell his mother about his date with Britney. Sarah was rapturously delighted and asked whether John would take flowers or chocolates. Taking a gift for Brit never occurred to John, and the idea sent him into a quandary. Was this a proper date? Surely it was only a courtesy thank you drink? Or was it? He fancied Brit, but what were her true intentions when she invited him? Was she being polite? If so, she might want to end the meeting quickly. But what if she did fancy him and genuinely wanted to meet up? Surely not? That was crazy thinking. He had been hot and sweaty that afternoon. Perhaps that didn’t matter to her? It might even turn her on? What gift should he take, anyway? Chocolates were the obvious choice, but what if she was dieting, or was dairy intolerant, or allergic to nuts? If she was vegan, chocolates might offend her. So it had to be flowers. But what if she had hay fever? And where could he buy a bouquet at short notice?
Why does everything have to be so bloody complicated?
After much deliberation, he decided it was best not to take anything. Yet, as he stood outside ‘The White Hart’ at five minutes before eight, steeling himself to enter, he felt empty-handed and regretted his decision. Too late now.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside. The ‘White Hart’ was a traditional pub with a low roof made even lower by massive oak beams. A variety of horse related equipment and ancient muskets adorned the walls and a musty-beery aroma hung in the air. Except for the giant wall-mounted television, it was like stepping into the 16th century.
Brit sat at the bar, chatting and laughing with the bartender and two customers. Other than Brit’s group, the pub was empty. John clenched his jaw. She was here to meet him, not the village idiots. How could he make the others disappear? He paused by the entrance, unsure what to do.
Fortunately, Brit noticed John and gave him a brief smile before turning to her other suitors. “Sorry guys, my date’s here now. I’ve gotta go. It’s been lovely catching up with you. Good luck with the competition on Saturday, Jim.” She hopped off her barstool and wobbled for a second on her heels before walking over to John. She looked stunning. Her blonde hair was loose with jazzy jewellery things weaved into it. She wore a sparkly red mini-dress that clung to her as if she had sprayed it on. John wanted to eat her up.
She said her date was here! I’m her date! I should have brought flowers, or chocolates, or something.
Supremely confident, she embraced him. “So glad you came. I hate being stood up.”
“I–I, surely nobody would stand you up? You look fantastic, by the way.”
“Why, thank you. Believe me, it’s happened. Some men are real dicks.”
“I should have brought you some flowers, I—”
“Don’t be silly. Where would you have got flowers? Besides, this is my treat to thank you for this afternoon. Come on, let’s get a drink and sit where the bar creepers can’t overhear us. I’m buying.”
Brit ordered a rum and coke. John picked a local ale called the Dartmoor Destiny. The bartender poured the deep amber liquid with pride, ensuring it had a thick frothy head. Cal sipped and nodded appreciatively—the hoppy citrus flavour was smooth and moreish.
Brit and John sat in a secluded corner. John was mindful of his mother’s advice, shortly before he left home:
“Now John, remember the six rules of a pleasant conversation which Dr Kendall taught you?” Sarah had said.
“Yes, Mum, of course.”
“And rule number one is?”
“Brevity is best. Don’t get carried away and give Britney one of my world famous tedious lectures on a subject nobody is interested in. ”
“Good. Particularly resist talking about your plans to develop a war game simulator. That’s a definite turnoff. And rule number two?”
“A question for a question.”
“Which means?”
“When I’ve answered a question, remember to ask something personal back.”
“Great. Something personal. Don’t ask her views on the Vietnam war or nuclear weapons.”
“Of course not. I’m not stupid.”
“Well, that’s debatable. But, if you can keep to just those two rules, I’m sure you’ll get on fine. You’re quite presentable, you know. If I were thirty years younger…”
“Oh God, Mum. That’s gross.”
So, John avoided speaking of his war game simulator, or the finer points of website coding, or the reasons for the collapse of the Roman Empire. He made sure to ask Brit about her interests and hobbies. That took some time since they included running; swimming; surfing; tennis; football; horse-riding; painting and photography. Furthermore, she was learning to play the guitar and volunteered for the local Young Enterprise Scheme. Her life was a maelstrom of activities, and John felt pedestrian in comparison.
“To be honest, it’s too much, and I should cut some stuff out. I get totally knackered, which is one reason I come here every fortnight. It’s great to see Mum and Dad, but it’s also my chill-out time. Sometimes I spend most of the weekend asleep, which is embarrassing.”
John supped his beer. “How did you get involved in so many things?”
“I’m too accommodating, I just can’t say ‘no’.”
John cleared his throat. “Lucky me.”
Brit smiled at him and sipped her drink.
John’s face flushed. “It, um, is very peaceful around here.”
“Yeah. I’d die of boredom if I lived here all the time, but it’s what I need every couple of weeks.” She paused. “Sorry, I just realised what I said. You do live here all the time.”
“That’s okay. You’re right. This place is pretty dull. The highlight of the month is the pub quiz. Fortunately, Barnstaple’s only thirty minutes drive away and I train with the T.A. a couple of weekends a month, which can be intense.”
“Oh, yes. Tell me about that. You say you’re in the infantry? That sounds exciting.”
As the evening wore on, more punters entered the pub. Almost without exception, new customers would greet Britney like she was an old friend. Brit was far more familiar with the villagers than John, and she seemed popular. A young farmer named Jack came over and stood by their table. Jack had a mass of curly ginger hair and his shirt sleeves were rolled back to reveal substantial tattooed biceps. John sat quietly as Brit and Jack nattered to each other and it became obv
ious that Jack had his eyes on Brit. He stayed with them for ten minutes, drinking his pint and flirting with Brit. John thought he might as well be invisible and began rubbing his thumb and finger under the table as his temper rose. Eventually, Jack’s friends summoned him to a game of darts.
“So, alone at last. What have you got against Jack?” Brit asked.
“What makes you ask that?”
“That would be your silence, and the fact your face looks like a pig in a bacon factory.”
“Oh. Is it that obvious? It’s not that I dislike Jack. In fact, I barely know him. It’s just that—”
“John, you’re not jealous, are you?”
John blushed again.
Brit took his hand and leaned forward. “Don’t worry. He’s not my type. You are.”
Wow! Unbelievable! Say something back—quick.
“Me too… I mean, I-I—”
“I know what you mean, John. Relax, will you? I don’t bite. Well… not in public, anyway.”
They talked until closing time. John discovered Brit was single, claiming to be too busy for all that romantic crap. They walked back to her parent’s house under a beautifully clear, starry night and stood together next to her parents’ front door. John remained immobile whilst his mind fumbled for what to do now. This was unexplored territory. Brit bent forwards and gently kissed him on the lips. “That’s all you're getting for now. My parents are still awake upstairs and I don’t want them opening their window to see me being groped. You’d give my dad a heart attack—I’m still his little girl.”
“I wasn’t going to—”
“Sssh! Listen, I’ll be back here in two weeks. Maybe we could meet up again? If the weather’s good, you could take me to the beach. How about some surfing?”
Take her to the beach. Where she’ll be wearing a bikini. Hell, yes!
John saw Brit regularly. Every two weeks, to be precise. On their second date, they visited Woolacombe beach on the North Devon coast. To John’s dismay, the sun was not warm enough to encourage Brit into a bikini. Nonetheless, their picnic on a blanket developed into steamy petting, brought to an untimely end by a wet golden retriever looking for a missing ball.
