by Tim Vine
The local town was fairly pretty, yet deathly quiet for most of the year, and the local area hosting quite a number of English couples and families. Stern middle-aged expensively-dressed French ladies with brightly-coloured glasses and short red hair met with elegant men who wandered around with exclusive though gaudy cashmere jumpers draped over their shoulders. These coiffed fellows in their pastel colours and comfortable leather shoes, sporting cravats, were in the main not homosexual, but they managed to somehow carry a slight gay air about them that was particularly European. Perhaps some were, however, occasional or experimental homos, even if their wives had no clue about it; some almost cheating on their lovers with their wives. A fine boulangerie hugged the corner of the square alongside a deserted hotel. There didn’t appear to be a large number of dogs about, but there was – proportionally – an inexplicable amount of dog shit littered about the pavements in the most unobvious places, apparently set up by the animal’s owners as tourist booby traps. This, along with the suddenly-inflated prices in the cafés and bars once the hoards of pond-life tourists flock into the overrun centre in the summer, was what created memories of French summer holidays for so many English holidaymakers.
The farm was just up the track, with several inhumanely-caged hunting dogs ready to burst into an annoying fracas of barking at the slightest hint of a visitor. The poor mutts thrashed about incoherently in their own mess. Tom was clueless that Claude the farmer had been providing his wife with a little more than the occasional box of prime leeks or kindly bag or two of walnuts. His hair was longish, yet very organized, maybe like Action Man were he a hippy. Chunky bracelet matched heavy medallion, always hanging proudly, which was framed by one in a line of Claude’s denim shirts, always open a few inches too low. His face displayed a life of outdoor work, a gentle contentment radiated from his being and Sue found him irresistibly charming. Claude had, in fact, been proudly flying the flag for France and her tradition of secret, or even blatantly-public affairs for married 50-something men. The unlikely scene was set one typically sultry summer’s evening when Tom and Sue had been invited for aperitifs at the farmhouse. Any slight hints of social awkwardness at the outset rapidly melted as the locally-produced drink flowed freely, with Claude’s natural exuberance and hospitality soon putting everyone at ease. Not unexpectedly, the party soon developed into an extended bender of a drinking session with much laughter and frivolity, the very picture of l’entente cordiale complete with a good spattering of franglais. Claude ended up driving Tom and Sue back sometime after midnight, and the events that followed can only be described as fairly bizarre.
On arriving home, Tom clumsily stumbled out of Claude’s rusty but trusty Renault, disappearing through the front door just about able to manage a subdued, ‘Yeah, a bit of careful drink-driving never hurt anyone, I suppose! Merci, bon nuit.’ The car’s motor came to an abrupt halt and Claude and Sue were surprised by the sudden silence of the countryside night. Sue managed to turn her head to violently vomit out of the passenger-seat window, spattering much of the door as well as depositing an impressive multi-coloured pool of alcoholic mess on the courtyard gravel. No sooner had she wiped her mouth with her sleeve and managed to open the door to pull herself up on her feet, than Claude appeared out of the night to launch himself earnestly at her, swiftly thrusting his rude and eager tongue into her stinking mouth. Exact memories blurred for her at this stage, but she remained fairly sure that it was all over in a matter of seconds. This was the version that she convinced herself of, anyway. Somewhere there was a hazy recollection of pushing the farmer away and turning into the shadows of the house, somewhere a muddy memory of the amazing embarrassed whirring sound that only old cars can make. Although the following day she awoke and was at first shocked as it all hit her abruptly through the harrowing fog of her hangover, she soon grew to appreciate the excitement in the dangerous prospect of having an ongoing illicit liaison with the Frenchman. This was exactly what lay ahead in her Destiny – she knew deep down, and it was now down to just the finer details of when and how exactly it would come about . . .
Paul shuffled around the back room of his musty antique shop in Acton, west London, unenthusiastically reorganizing a box of 1970s pornography and moving a creepy stash of Nazi memorabilia from under the stuffed owl to his counter top where he was planning to have a rifle through it that afternoon. These were the kinds of specialist items that were kept discreetly a little more out of sight, with the front room displaying a far more conservative range of traditional antiques, oddities and rarities. He was a mad James Bond fan, so had an area dedicated to his personal collection, despite the items not being up for sale. Regrettably, he himself lacked any of the charisma and personal style of Bond, but owned however some rare and quite valuable collectable items from the 007 franchise. The once-elegant building had seen better days, and the intended re-decoration that he occasionally planned always got postponed or forgotten about. Discoloured wallpaper peeled and hung sadly from the corners of the front room, and ominous-looking yet delicate black mould spores occupied an ever-increasing area around the chilled window frames. Chet Baker’s impossibly melancholic tones drifted casually out of some ageing speakers, as an eclectic mix of people of all ages, races and upbringings drifted past on the pavement, barely even glancing at the lovingly-collected range of artefacts on display in the window. Paul had a keen eye for pieces of all types, with years of experience behind him and many contacts in the game. His clients came from far and wide to see him, all the more so as he had point-blank refused to modernize by photographing and displaying his artefacts on the web as the vast majority of his competitors were doing. It was his old-school style and doggedness that actually endeared him to many of his buyers, especially the older ones. Despite the constant drizzle of rain outside, the day had presented him with a fairly decent sale by late morning, and his mood was relatively upbeat for a change. Overbearing and ugly plastic glasses perched dubiously on the bridge of his bulbous nose, their frame too thick for his face, their nondescript colour too dark for his complexion. Rubbery oversized earlobes swung slightly as he spun on his heels to see who was at the door, and the ugly wiry hairs protruded aggressively out of his nostrils, interfering disrespectfully with the airspace that they invaded, occasionally brushing the blackheads which dotted the flaring side flaps of his nose. Then out of the blue Tony breezed in confidently, flashing an expensive smile at Paul, and an outstretched hand. Just behind him blew in a waft of booze and fags. ‘Hello, old friend, long time no see,’ the unexpected visitor chirped melodiously.
It had, indeed, been quite some time since the two men had seen each other, a good ten years. The event had been a mutual friend’s funeral, and his untimely death had been a bit of a shock to both men as they were the same age as the deceased. Somewhat oddly, it was also the day that Paul met his third and current wife. She too had been attending to pay her respects, being a work colleague of the dead man. The bittersweet irony of the fact that they had met and come together due to the sad demise of a friend in common had not gone unnoticed, with the couple often thanking him with a toast aimed skywards in his memory. ‘Here’s to you, Bernard you ol’ bastard!’ they would chirp, laughing, before gulping down another impolitely-full beaker of just-drinkable red wine.
Paul involuntarily stepped back briefly in his surprise, recognizing Tony at once. Then a bone-crushing handshake followed, Tony the Crusher.
‘Well, well – look who it is! Wonders never cease to amaze me. Come on in, Tony, you don’t look a day over, well . . . forty, shall we say?’
The familiar and cliché-rich banter kicked off as the two men realised that neither one had changed enormously in the ten years since they’d last seen each other. Paul couldn’t help but notice Tony’s blatantly obvious blond hair-dye effort, and mentally remarked that it made him look fairly ridiculous – the man in his mid to late sixties clearly clutching at straws in some feeble effort to retain some essence of his
youth (all the more so when combined with the shiny face and impossibly white gnashers). Before too long – but not before he had managed to sell Tony a beautiful old map of India for his study wall – the shop would be shut for the afternoon. Paul’s premises looked drab and forlorn as the CLOSED sign swung gently against the murky glass in the door, the filthy and ugly metal shutters sliding down to keep vandals and would-be burglars at bay. It was the start of the afternoon and too early to start drinking really, but this out-of-the-blue surprise called for a pint or two.
‘Beverage? Boozer, perhaps?’ Paul proposed with a smile.
‘Does a bear shit in the woods? C’mon!’
Most people were out at work at this hour, which left the pavement generally quiet but for the odd granny, dosser or mum with pram. ‘Ah, the most honest weather in the world,’ remarked Tony as they set off down the street in the drizzle, stepping around a pile of black household rubbish bags piled carelessly at the base of a tree.
The Pig & Whistle was all but deserted when they strolled in and sat near the open fire to enjoy a livener. A cold local gardener appeared to be fixed to the bar, throwing a pint of strong lager down his neck between mundane jobs, his nose that of a seasoned alcoholic dripping constantly like a tap in need of a new washer. At a manly safe distance away was perched a portly Asian guy with sides of head shaved, his fluorescent T-shirt proclaiming that he was ‘Single and Disease-Free’. He was nursing a tomato juice. An third anonymous person was alone at a table for six, reading A Pilgrim in Paradise by A. P. Nest, never looking up. Tony supped gingerly at the first pint of beer, and immediately pulled a face like a puppy licking a stinging nettle. By the second slurp, however, his taste buds had come around to appreciating the guest ale.
‘I was on the way to the office in Henley-on-Thames, walking through the park yesterday. It’s all very pleasant, all a bit twee, you see . . . even the old people smell nice! There are the posh parents shouting things like ‘Alfie, take that stick out of Jasper’s eyeball now . . . I’ll count to three!’ or ‘Phoebe, extract your index finger from your brother’s bottom this instant!’ No gangs or chavs, well, not too many anyway. So I get there, the office, and have this key that must have been kicking around in my desk for maybe seven years, and I’ve only just stumped up the courage to chuck it out. Seven long years. Throwing old keys away has got to be one of the hardest things to do, don’t you find Paul? Well I do. I’ve no idea what the bloody thing was for and it’s unlikely I’ll ever bloody remember. It’s still making me feel a bit . . . you know, uncomfortable, though – it could have been for something important.’ Tony could chat, but at least he wasn’t short on wit.
‘Sounds sort of Biblical, you know, the whole seven years lark. But still, don’t worry yourself mate, it was probably just the Key to Life!’ Paul consoled his old friend. Tony then tried to persuade Paul that the Welsh word for carrot is moron, but Paul wasn’t having it. It dawned on him later that he hadn’t had such a laugh in far too long. Halfway through the third pint though Tony turned uncharacteristically serious, having a moan about Norman and Polly, getting some concerns off his chest and vaguely touching on the terms that he had laid out to them back at the restaurant. Paul listened, looking suitably reflective.
‘Enough about my difficult children anyway,’ Tony carried on, suddenly aware that he was probably boring Paul.
‘Well, you know I managed to give up smoking a few years back?’ Paul was talking quietly all of a sudden, forcing to Tony listen in. ‘It was weird, I had my ear pierced, something I’ve always half-meant to do since I was young, and the guy that did it, he touched something . . . I can’t quite explain, but he touched something that changed me. Ever since he pierced my ear, I never touched a cigarette again. I’ve never wanted to. Very strange. The dreams about a giant cigarette hot air balloon were a bit out there, too.’
Tony paused in reflection, before asking, ‘Yep, but I bet you keep fit now and feel better for it?’
‘Well, how can you keep fit if you were never fit in the first place? I don’t get it when I see some fat unhealthy person saying that they’re off to keep fit, it should be called get fit! And no, I feel exactly as I did when I was chuffing away, except that I can smell things better now. But that goes for bad stinks as well as the pleasant stuff, so it’s not always a good thing. It’s like when I was in Africa recently, you know, a little holiday – it turned out to be more interesting than fun, though. The smells were incredible, markets, spices, you know . . . good stuff. And the hotel was so beautiful and luxurious it just made you wanna do something illegal! I just got a bit freaked when I heard that there was a ban on the polio eradication programme by extreme Islamists in nearby Nigeria, which led to outbreaks in about twenty neighbouring countries. I never had the sugar cube inoculation when I was a kid, or since, so I came back a bit early. Then as I had a bit of free time still, I went up to the Yorkshire Moors, but it turned out to be a long weekend of fog – I did a bloody 1,000-piece puzzle of a cat in front of a bookshelf, damn nightmare! It was supposed to be all walking and reading but ended up being all drinking, sleeping and puzzling!’
Tony frowned, then they laughed, easily relaxed in each other’s company after such a long time. Tony explained how he’d gone to a mid-afternoon film recently, and that, as he was all alone in the cinema, he didn’t turn off his phone.
‘Yeah, it felt good. I was a rebel with my phone on in the cinema, ringer on full volume, no problem. In fact, I was a bit annoyed that nobody called!’
Paul studied his old friend, thinking that age had not been too unkind to him. Tony, on the other hand, was amazed to observe how rough-looking Paul had become since their last meeting. He particularly noticed the unnatural-looking and aggressively-sprouting ginger hairs like tiny wires that matted the back of Paul’s hand and spindly fingers, whose neglected nails harboured ten different ecosystems of grime and matter. As if on cue, these very nails suddenly tapped out a majestic rhythm on the table, as though concluding a certain topic of conversation.
Tony lurched slightly as he stood up from the table. ‘I’ve just got to go for a slash. D’you know, I seem to spend the bulk of my waking life these days either looking for somewhere to take a piss or seeking out some liquid to drink! Look, there’s too much air in your glass, I’ll get another one on my way back.’
He found himself leaning his bulky frame over the urinal to steady himself. ‘Shit, it stinks like the inside of a tramp’s handbag in here!’ he muttered, glancing up at some informative biro-scrawled graffiti on the wall: Julia Cast is a slag. Underneath someone had replied with a different pen: I know, she sucked me off and swallowed. Tony chortled as he carefully zipped up.
The moment he was back at the table the chat carried on. ‘I thought I’d come and see you and ask you over to the golf club for a bit of a knock around, you know. You were always pretty mean with the irons back in the day, I remember. Maybe around the end of the month we’ll get down there . . . jump on the train so we can have a bevvy afterwards, what d’you think?’ And so it was agreed, and the two men managed another couple of pints together before setting out into the night to stumble their separate ways.
Will bounded down the steep steps out of the mansion block near Fulham Broadway and almost fell out of the doorway. A sudden brightness in the morning light hit him and the spiteful breath of the icy wind burnt his cheek. He almost collided with a flustered and rather stout sweaty runner who he was only 85% sure was female, but his breezy ‘Sorry!’ was only met with a disapproving scowl. Feeling glad to be alive this particular day, he had woken in the right frame of mind (all sunshine, lollipops and rainbows!), which certainly was not always the case. His compact cat had been lying neatly on top of him, intently staring at him. ‘Well I dunno about you, Pat, but I slept like a baby last night. Although, having said that, I’ve never quite got that expression as babies quite often wake up at 3 a.m. and cause havoc . . . but you slept wel
l, I hope?’ The cat didn’t reply. Pat’s full name was Pat the Transexual Cat because when Will first had her, he was convinced that it was a male. After a perfunctory examination by the vet, however, Will was informed that Patrick needed to become Patricia. At least it was no problem with the name, so Pat remained Pat.
Through the haze of his waking moments, Will’s first decision of the day was to have a staring match with Pat, with the loser being the first to look away. He shifted around in the bed, finding an area of refreshingly cool pillow to prop himself up somewhat, preparing for the ultimate battle. An entire two minutes passed before Pat slowly closed her eyes and settled down to sleep. ‘Yes!’ Will exclaimed, glad to be in a winning mood today as he forced himself up to jump out of bed, sending Pat dashing out of the bedroom door. The golden standard of sleep – eight hours – had been relished. A wide Victorian tap spluttered into life in the bathroom as Will waited 20 seconds for the hot H2O to flow. He scrubbed his teeth and rinsed with hot water, an old habit; he believed they cleaned better hot. A breakfast of scrambled eggs and lemonade was almost bouncing in his belly as he ran down the steps to the Underground platform. He chuckled as he passed a Winkworth Estate Agent’s SOLD sign outside a grotty flat that some clever soul had scrawled ‘Thank Christ you’re leaving!’ onto, and in a different pen was agreed with, with a simple ‘Yeh!’ An old track from Kid Creole and the Coconuts blasted from a window somewhere above, and Will dug it. Unusual for music to be played at a decent volume at this hour, he thought. Will was generally a very relaxed guy, in fact he was so chilled out that his demeanour sometimes annoyed people. He had been described as a ‘humid day’ by an ex-girlfriend, but never did really grasp what she was getting at. Suddenly his pocket beeped twice. He pulled out a battered mobile phone and stabbed at a button or two. A text from his best mate Mark:
