by C F White
He growled, groaned and sneezed. In one go. Which would have been a sight to witness. Luckily no one else was here. Are they?
“Mark? What the—”
Mark squinted through painful eyes. He sniffed up the streaming snot running down his philtrum, ran a hand under his nose and wiped back his hair. He couldn’t see. I’m blind! This whole mission had become a disaster!
“Jesus, Mark, are you okay?”
Okay? Hmmm, possibly not. Certainly in no state to be welcoming guests into his home. Or grotty loft, as it were. There was one silver lining. His eyes were so sore and bloodshot that whomever had broken into his house and scaled the mounds of rubbish littering his landing and staircase would thankfully not think the tears were all due to having been caught in this precarious situation.
A hand lowered onto his shoulder and Mark blinked.
“Mark?” Concern grew from the voice.
Faint blurry outlines of a person came into focus. He tried to uncross his legs from where he’d been sitting like a child on the floor for several hours. It hurt. He grunted, slapping his legs into life and shook his head.
“Bugger.”
“What the hell are you doing up here?”
He blinked again. His mind was detailing a faint outline of an Australian Adonis. Mark, eyes still closed, delighted in that memory. Such beauty. Whenever people regained their sight, it should be Bradley they first saw. He represented all that was wondrous in the world. He was like a summer’s day, which was basically what his usual attire of board shorts and bright T-shirt were depicting anyway. And his Havaianas. With perfect rounded feet that Mark imagined would look delightful surrounded by warm golden sand between each toe.
“Just a bit of spring cleaning,” Mark managed to grit out. His voice sounded like his grandmama’s, hoarse from having smoked herself through life and near to death.
“Huh. Often do this sorta thing middle of the night?”
The voice didn’t have a hint of an accent. Well, it obviously did, just not one that was like sweet music to his ears, and was harsher in its delivery, as if it was cross at him. Not Bradley, then. He sighed.
“Well, no,” Mark replied. “I can’t say I often do this thing at all.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Mark opened his eyes. Macy smiled back at him. She, too, was a pleasing welcoming sight. Just perhaps not the one his mind had been hoping for. She fluffed up her floral skirt and sat crossed-legged in front of him. Her frizzy hair was left to hope and chance and fluffed up over her round face. She scrunched her nose and sneezed.
“How long have you been up here?”
“Rather a while, I presume,” Mark replied. “What is the time?”
“Nine o’clock.”
Mark gasped, which made him breath in yet another lungful of putrid stale air. So he coughed.
“I was worried when you didn’t come in for your usual cuppa.” Macy fished out a tissue from her cardigan sleeve and handed it over. “Thought you may have been avoiding Brad.”
“Ah.” Taking the tissue with a grateful nod, he then blew, rather fiercely, into it. “Not intentionally.”
“Right.” Macy squinted at all the mess. “Well, he’s packing, so…”
Mark’s eyes stung through having to achieve the task of making out what her expression was meant to depict. And her words. And her presence in his home.
“And you are telling me, because?” Mark twirled his hand in the air.
“I don’t think I really need to say it, Mark.”
That sounded a lot like his mother. And back then, Mark had thought she really should. How was he to know his mother was always so disappointed in him? So Mark waited for Macy to come to the realisation that he wasn’t a telepath. It appeared Macy didn’t care, as she began wading through the items in the cardboard box between them. She pulled out a framed picture and wiped away the dust and grit that scraped the glass. Mark’s teeth hurt.
“This him?” She turned the photo around to show Mark. She needn’t have bothered. He knew who it was without having to be reminded.
“Yes.”
Macy inspected the image. Smiling back at her would be a much younger Mark, his hair still unruly and wafting around in the breeze of the meadow that he’d been in for an impromptu picnic one summer’s afternoon. His arm was draped around a greying George Carroway and Mark was mid-way to kissing the man’s cheek. A miracle really that such an image could have been captured with a clunky digital camera back then. That look in George’s eyes were forever to be seen by all those who gazed at the past. Look at what I have.
That had been a good day. A walk in the meadow, a picnic by the river and a meander through a village they had discovered during one of their drives in George’s convertible, the car he had bought to recapture his youth. Or to capture other youths with, possibly more accurately.
“Why keep this one?” Macy asked, tucking it back into the box.
“I think I look pretty good in that picture.” Mark paused. “Happy. Maybe.”
“You could be happy again, y’know? Once you’ve got rid of all this crap, confronted your parents and all your deep-seated fears.” Macy blinked. “And had a haircut.”
“I had one recently.”
“Really?” Macy squinted.
“Are you one to talk about hair?”
“I like my hair like this.”
“You look like Spuggy from Byker Grove.”
Macy narrowed her eyes and ran a hand through her frizz. “Which nobody below the age of thirty-nine will know.”
“True, but I’m not sure she was particularly of fashion back then either.”
“Of fashion or in fashion?”
“Neither.”
“Fair enough.” Macy shrugged and delved a hand deeper into the open box. “If everyone looked the same, the world would be boring.”
Tugging out a scrapbook, she swiped the dust from it and laid it in her lap. The book was mouldy around the edges. Although it had been buried deep within one of the boxes, it had still festered among stale rain water, creating little circles of green and black all over the front cover that used to be a beautiful shade of purple. Not his old bathroom blueberry purple but more a soft lilac. When Macy opened the front cover, Mark closed his eyes.
“What’s this?” She flattened out the bent pages and ran a palm along the stuck-in photos and glossy magazine cut-outs.
“It was our bucket list, I guess. Places to visit. That sort of thing.”
“Wow.” Macy flicked the pages. “Lots of far-flung places in here. Ever go to them?”
Mark shook his head. “We barely made it out of London. It was all a pipe dream.”
Macy stopped on one page and Mark twisted to see which one. Sydney harbour bridge, the Opera House, Bondi Beach, all cut out of travel magazines and stuck in with red circles around the main places of interest.
“Australia, huh?”
“Everyone says they want to go to Australia. Then they find out it’s a billion light years away and costs an arm and a leg.”
Macy slapped the book shut. “If only you knew someone who, say, lived there?”
Mark grabbed the book, threw it into the cardboard box and gave Macy a stern eyeful, which he was well aware wouldn’t have come out the way he hoped, what with his eyes looking as if he’d been on a weekend drug binge and cried for days in the aftermath. Not that he had any clue how one would appear after doing those things. He’d, for sure, be dead if he had.
Macy stood, albeit slouched as her short frame was still too tall for the low-beamed slanted roof.
“Like I say.” Twisting, she lowered one foot on the top ladder rung. “He’s packing.”
“Again, I would ask you to clarify what you mean by your statement.”
Macy’s fuzzy red hair disappeared down the rabbit hole.
“Just letting you know,” she called back. “And shouldn’t you be at work, no?”
“Bugger.”
* * * *
Bundling through the front reception desk into his office, Mark offered up the best smile he could. Yvonne gave him her first eyeball and grimace of the day. This time, she had good reason. Mark was over an hour late. And he still looked like death warmed up. At least that might gouge some sympathy out of the ice queen.
Nope, no it didn’t. Yvonne followed Mark’s every move with her unrelenting gaze as he scurried through the office to his desk. Mark shot another smile over his shoulder, followed by a brief shrug and flumped down into his seat. Huh, the thing didn’t budge. It didn’t collapse on him like it usually did. Strange. Mark twisted around in it. Not even a squeak from the old nails and metal. So, obviously, he must try harder. He bounced up and down, but the seat maintained the extra weight and impact in true job-well-done fashion.
“Has this been fixed?” Mark called over to Yvonne.
She shrugged, then answered an incoming phone call.
Mark wasted no more time thinking about how his chair had miraculously managed to repair itself and wondered if it had been the stars in some magical realignment. Things were going his way, or rather not raining down on him with imposing difficulty. He was now able to begin work without all the usual kerfuffle and his early morning call to the Man With A Van That Can had confirmed he was available today to clear up the rubbish mound in his house and take it to the dump for him. Result.
Things could finally move on.
Mark started up the computer, made sure to check Caps Lock wasn’t on, and went through the motions of listening to the cracking dial-up whilst tapping his fingers impatiently on the desk. He yawned. Loudly. A quick peek to Yvonne and the second eyeful came his way. Mark would have been concerned if it hadn’t. He mouthed ‘sorry’, following it up by picking his mug of mouldy tea left from Friday and waggling it. Yvonne rolled her eyes. Some things wouldn’t ever change, and that was fine with Mark.
He busied himself making his first morning cuppa in the adjacent kitchen. He made sure to make Yvonne one and was rather pleased at the outcome. Extreme fatigue suited his tea-making abilities. It was like an ingrained thing. He needed tea, therefore his body took over and produced the most excellent versions. Slurping his drink, he sauntered back into the office and plonked Yvonne’s down on her desk. He hovered for a bit, awaiting perhaps a spark of gratitude, even a hint that she was impressed. That tea deserved to be in a museum. No, an art gallery.
Yvonne grunted, which was the best Mark was going to get. He took another sip and meandered back to his desk. He sat, gulping more lifeblood, and the chair instantly collapsed to its last rung. Of course it did. Mark wasn’t even surprised that half his tea sloshed down his chest and soaked through the thin material of his shirt to scald his skin. He didn’t even bother wiping it, mainly because he was focused on his computer screen. His emails had opened, with the top one a nice note from his boss he had actually sent on Friday. Late Friday.
Mark,
I have a ten-thirty accounts meeting on Monday. I need some pastries and such other to offer to the clients. I believe you know a good tea shop on the High Street could provide? Could you make sure you get some. On the office account.
Regards,
Mr Steinberg.
“Bugger.”
Yvonne tutted. Mark smiled.
“You, er, available to head up to Macy’s Tea Shoppe for me, Yvonne?” Mark queried, voice elevating hopefully. “Just, I, you know, have quite a lot on and the boss needs some cakes and whatnot…”
Fourth eyeful.
Mark muttered several curse words under his breath. Where was the work experience kid when he could really have used him? Weren’t tasks like this designed for teen bods learning the work place? Mark was an executive assistant, for Christ’s sake, not a personal bleeding shopper. He had far more important and strenuous tasks to be getting on with.
In a defiant act of protest, Mark clicked down to the next email.
Mark,
Have you managed to process that pivot table I need to use for the meeting?
Regards,
Mr Steinberg.
Mark clicked out of the email, plonked his cup down on the desk and immediately gathered up his belongings.
Pastries, here we come.
* * * *
The tinkling bell signified his arrival to Macy’s Tea Shoppe and Mark stepped in, stopped and the door hit his shoulder as it attempted to close.
“Mark.” Bradley stood in front him in all his glory.
Well, not so much. His glory was, sadly, well and truly covered up by his bright pink board shorts. But Mark licked his lips, nonetheless.
“Hello.” Mark tried for more words, but nothing surfaced. What could he possibly say anyway? So long and thanks for all the sex?
Bradley adjusted his string bag on his shoulder and peered over to flash Macy one of his dashing smiles.
“Thanks, Macy.”
“Take care, Brad.” Macy roamed her gaze to Mark before turning her green eyes back on the Aussie. “You’re welcome here any time.”
Bradley nodded and when his gaze finally met with Mark’s, Mark was grounded. Bradley paused. Waiting perhaps. Maybe even expecting Mark to not be quite so British and just say what was on his damn mind.
“You off then?” Mark finally stuttered out.
Bradley confirmed the statement with one nod. And Mark returned that and tripled it, as if his head was hanging on loosely by one thread.
“Well.” Mark straightened himself out and racked his brain for something quite profound to say. “Safe trip. Tatty bye.”
Mark hung his head.
What an absolute arsehole.
Chapter Seventeen
Revelations
The bell as the door closed wasn’t the delightful tinkle that Mark had come to appreciate. Instead, it sounded more like a gunshot to his brain. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking. His voice had also seemed to have vacated along with the Aussie Adonis and so he only managed to point at the dismal pastry display and mime for Macy to bag them. He couldn’t be too sure he’d win any games of charades with that effort but, regardless, Macy caught on and slapped various cakes and bits into a box.
She, too, had evidently lost her voice. Or, apparently, any coherent mutterings and should perhaps consider getting her eyes tested as any gaze failed to land Mark’s way. Mark coughed, probably a rather obtrusive thing to do so whilst he took the open box from Macy’s outstretched hand.
“Many thanks.” He wasn’t signing off an email, but he might as well have been with all the reply he had received. Or, well, hadn’t.
That same bell tinkled out as if it was the local Marsby ringers at a Saturday wedding and Mark whipped around with renewed hope. It was quickly dashed when his mother stepped into the cafe. Wonderful!
Firm grimace, nose in the air as though she’d trodden in something particularly repulsive, Mrs Johnson swiped her hands down her white trench coat. It wasn’t raining, for once, and was actually rather mild outside, minus the accustomed southerly sea wind. But she did like to add an air of mystery to her attire.
“Mark.” She glided around the tables, hands outstretched and air-kissed Mark more times that was socially comfortable. Mark even had to do the hop, skip and jump dance routine through his mother’s clutches. She didn’t have any grip on him physically. Just emotionally.
“Mother.” Mark brought the box of cakes around to his front as a firm barrier to any more mother-son canoodling in public.
“I have just seen that delightful young Australian of yours outside getting into a taxi.”
“He’s not mine. He belongs to no man.” Mark shook his head, his hair bouncing around on top. “He’s a free spirit.”
“So I hear.” Vera peered over Mark’s shoulder. “Macy, lovely to have you back.”
“Thank you, Mrs Johnson.” Macy scrubbed down the surface, avoiding looking the woman in the eye. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here before.”
“Yes, well, I t
end to bake my own cakes.”
Mark was pretty sure he’d never seen his mother in an apron or anywhere near a mixing bowl.
“But Mark raves on about this place so much, I thought I’d make an exception and pick up a few pastries for the gathering I’m having back at home later.” Vera tugged Mark’s chin, digging her pointy nails into his jawline. “You look tired, Mark.”
“Yes. Busy working, Mother.”
“Haven’t they hired someone else to run all your boss’s errands, yet?” She nodded to the box.
“No. Still my job. Anyway, best be getting back.”
Mark scooted around his mother and added another rendition of for whom the bell tolls by opening the door to make his swift exit.
“Mark, dear?”
Bugger.
“Yes, Mother?”
“Couldn’t be a love and pop by after work, could you? Your father’s in one of his moods.”
“What’s wrong?” Mark furrowed his brow. His father had many moods and Mark wouldn’t want to assume he knew them all by just the words ‘one of’.
Vera waved a flippant hand. “Oh, he’s in a sulk. Locked himself in the shed.”
“Right. Okay. Will do.”
“I told him about your Australian man and he went a bit, well, quiet. Hence, I invited the ladies over from the Conservative women’s group and he sulked off to the shed and hasn’t come out.”
Mark nodded, then gave Macy a slight roll of the eyes, hoping for some of her usual solidarity. She returned a more narrowed definition of hers and slapped the tea towel on the counter. Mark decided to take a more leisurely walk back to the office.
Strolling along the seafront didn’t give him the lift that it once had. Not even the sea breeze against his cheeks, or the crashing of waves against wooden pillars of the peer or the sight of beefy men in wetsuits wincing at the pain of walking on the pebbles barefoot could snap him from his sulk. The coastal walkway only reminded him of having cycled along there with Bradley, or having teetered side-by-side with him when a little tipsy, and even the cabin shed selling the two-pound flip-flops served as a reminder of Bradley’s perfect feet.
