Chasing the Sun with Henry

by Gary Brockwell

  ‘I am worried about her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jenny, of course,’ tutted Sally, her hands cleaning the sink. ‘She needs a break,’ she continued.

  ‘Sally, she needs to get a job. She needs to feel like she’s worth something.’

  I was also thinking she needed to lose her attitude and excess weight, but knew to keep this opinion to myself.

  ‘Yes, she does need to feel like she’s worth something, so I am letting her use the downstairs guest room as a studio.’

  I looked up from the paper.

  ‘I am sorry.’ Sally stopped washing the draining board and turned to face me. ‘You know she is keen on photography; she has bought lots of equipment over the years, but hasn’t the room at her place. We’ve got the room for a photo studio and I told her we can help her out.’

  ‘Should we not have discussed this first?’ I asked, trying to control my voice.

  ‘Eddie, she’s a friend; you help friends out.’

  ‘No, Sally, she is your friend,’ I replied. ‘And we should have discussed this. Have you really thought this through? When is she going to be in there? All hours? Every weekend? Are you happy with people marching through here day and night?’

  ‘It’s not people, silly; it’s pets she will be photographing. She loves animals, you know that.’

  ‘And what? These pets drive themselves here, do they?’

  Sally shook her head and closed her eyes in frustration.

  ‘Also, where are these pets, or pet owners, going to park?’

  ‘There is room on the driveway for four vehicles, Eddie,’ she replied.

  ‘Okay, what about Henry?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘There are bound to be dogs in these bloody photo shoots. How is he going to cope with that?’

  ‘He will have to get used to it.’

  Henry lifted his head and wagged his tail from his basket in response to hearing his name.

  ‘That isn’t fair on him!’ I shouted.

  ‘That’s just you, thinking more about that dog than helping someone in need,’ Sally yelled back at me.

  I exhaled deeply, trying to regain my composure.

  ‘So, how much is she paying you for the room?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are charging her for it?’

  ‘She is a friend, Eddie! I can’t charge her,’ shouted Sally, throwing the cleaning cloth into the sink.

  ‘This is our home,’ I replied slowly.

  ‘No, this where we live,’ she retorted, with flint in her voice.

  From her position, she stared out of the window, her hands splayed across the draining board. I continued to sit, my eyes focused on her back, angry with her for not discussing these plans with me, and for her last cutting comment. And angry with myself for not knowing how to make the situation better. She eventually turned and left the room without looking at me.

  ‘I need to clean the bathroom,’ she muttered at the doorway to the hall.

  I continued my silent anger, now solely directed at myself. Leave the bathroom and talk to me! I yelled at her in my head. But I didn’t physically move; instead I just let my inability to communicate with my wife and her with me drift away from me as it had many times before.

  The clip-clip of Henry’s claws on the tiles drew my attention as he wandered over to me, taking up a position at my feet with a deep sigh. I looked down at him and wondered what, if anything, he was actually thinking; whatever it was, it must be easier, I thought, than the emotions that tumbled and turned in my mind. Again my eye was caught by the couple smiling at me from the paper supplement.

  ‘Smug bastards,’ I uttered under my breath, before pushing the pages across the work surface and onto the floor.

  We always have a takeaway on a Saturday night, and always the same dishes. Sally always orders; I always collect. Sally has chicken chow mein and I have Singapore noodles, and we share sweet-and-sour chicken Hong Kong-style between us. This evening was no different, although tonight we ate in silence. My thoughts returned again and again to my encounter on the beach that morning and my argument with Sally that afternoon. Sally’s thoughts remained her own.

  After twenty years of marriage, Sally remains a good-looking woman. Every Saturday afternoon she has her hair blow dried by Marco, owner of the nearest hair salon, and today was no exception. On every fourth Saturday she has a colour run-through. I am not sure what a colour run-through entails, but judging by the car Marco drives it is rewarding for him.

  Normally she returns home with flowers she has bought from the market. She discards the previous week’s blooms, pours the stale water from the vase and arranges the new spray before adding fresh water. She always places the vase on the kitchen table, steps back and smiles to herself. But not today. Today the wilting blooms remained, the fresh set still cocooned in the plastic sleeve, sat in the sink.

  Sally, without exception, always wears make-up. To go shopping, to go out, to stay in, to tend her bees – her face is always fully hidden beneath a layer of foundation, blusher, mascara and lipstick. I’ve always wished that sometimes she would not feel the need to do this, although I have never said. Instead I just feel weary when on occasion her make-up is deposited on my clothes as she brushes past me.

  I put down my knife and fork, the noise of metal on ceramic amplified by our vow of silence. We had both had our fill. The remaining food glistened and congealed in the three tinfoil containers on the table between us. What had appeared appetising and comforting had now degenerated into a repulsive sight neither of us could bear to look upon any more.

  ‘Sally,’ I began, ‘about earlier – I’ve been thinking. I overreacted; we have the room and you are right, it is good to help Jennifer out.’ The words flowed from me quickly and breathlessly.

  ‘Thank you, Eddie.’ She smiled. ‘You are right; I should have discussed it though.’

  She pushed back the breakfast-bar stool and collected the tinfoil trays from the worktop, before turning towards Henry’s bowl.

  And that I accepted as the final comment on the incident. I could live with me starting the brief exchange of dialogue, me being the only one to apologise, even Sally’s assured righteousness at my submission. What I could not accept was her refusing to retract her cutting remark regarding our relationship – this house being where we lived, not our home. On each occasion she uses this weapon it drives a wedge between us; a wedge that always draws me into myself and reminds me how we came to be the people that we are now. And it makes me seethe silently and my heart ache afresh each time.

  ‘You shouldn’t feed him the leftovers,’ I lamented, mentally dragging myself back into the room. ‘Carbs are not his friend, Sally,’ I continued.

  ‘Oh, he loves it, silly,’ she giggled, as she deposited the remains of our meal into Henry’s bowl.

  I sighed inwardly, knowing it would fall to me to clean up his forthcoming multiple loose movements from the garden.

  ‘What time is Jennifer coming?’ I asked, watching Henry lapping up noodles and salty soy sauce.

  ‘Normal time – eight o’clock. Why?’

  ‘I thought I’d stay out of the way; let you have a proper chat with her about the studio. I am working tomorrow; I need to load up the van. Then I can watch the TV in here.’

  ‘I am worried about you, Eddie; this is the second time today you have been considerate towards Jenny. What happened on that beach?!’ she teased.

  ‘Nothing – just want to do what’s right,’ I stated, as a memory of that perfect smile and fresh face formed once again in my mind.

  Sally turned toward the sink, lifted the flowers out, ran the water and added washing-up liquid, ready to clean the dirty dishes.

  ‘Um, I am not complaining, just commenting. It’s g
ood you realise we should help people. Good you listened.’ Her voice sounded extremely soft and muffled by the jetting water and soapsuds forming.

  She turned off the water and submerged the plates in the bowl.

  ‘By the way, I am seeing Greg in the morning.’

  ‘Oh,’ I replied.

  ‘Yes, he has a business idea.’

  ‘Not another one, Sally. What is it this time – selling sand to the Saudis?’

  ‘No. And don’t be rude; I know you don’t like him, but he is my brother.’

  ‘I wasn’t being rude at all; I just don’t want you taken in by some hare-brained idea.’

  ‘His ideas are good, Eddie. He thought of the bees, didn’t he?’ Her voice sounded strained as she crashed a soaped-up dish onto the draining board.

  To say Greg Dixon and I do not see eye to eye is an understatement. Within minutes of our first meeting all those years ago when I started to date his sister, it was apparent we had little in common. In fact our views differ so greatly that silence is by far the most congenial method of communication the two of us have discovered over the years. These days, our contact is restricted to occasional family gatherings, where thankfully the seating arrangements at the event, or the sheer number of guests, ensures we maintain our respective distance from each other. If eye contact is met, a mere respectful nod of the head is exchanged.

  I do remember that first time I was introduced to Greg. Sally arranged it on our fourth date. We met up in a bar. I was with Sally; Greg with his girlfriend at the time – Judith, I think she was called. I was introduced to Judith – no, Ruth, it was; that was her name – who stood up and gave me a hug and a smile.

  Sally turned to her brother. ‘Greg, this is Eddie,’ she said. I extended my hand to him warmly. He remained seated and slowly put his arm out toward me. I shook his hand firmly and was rewarded with a limp grasp and no eye contact for my efforts.

  On sitting down and sipping our first drinks, I wondered what the attraction was between Ruth and Greg. She was talkative, giggly and full of life. Greg, in comparison, sat and said nothing – the difference between them was staggering. In the eyes of others, first impressions really do establish a person’s character.

  After the first round of drinks, the girls headed off to the toilets, as girls do, leaving Greg and me together. We sat at opposite sides of the table and on the girls’ departure his body language seemingly bristled with annoyance as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest and looked outward towards the bar.

  ‘Did you hear the football results this afternoon? I missed them,’ I enquired, sipping my drink, trying to fill the silence between us.

  ‘Can’t stand the game. Golf is my passion,’ Greg revealed. ‘Do you play yourself?’ he continued.

  ‘No, I don’t. I’ve never really got it to be honest. When watching, it is just hours and hours of televised sky, isn’t it? What did Winston Churchill say about it? “Golf is a good walk ruined”!’ I joked feebly.

  ‘It was Mark Twain, not Churchill, and both were fools,’ came the taut reply.

  I felt helpless at this point to try to establish some common ground and we returned to the silence struck at the girls’ departure and remained in this state until their return, at which point the girls again led the conversation for the remainder of the evening.

  Later, as we travelled home, Sally asked me what I thought of Greg. I lied and said I thought he was a great guy. This pleased her; she said it was important to her that we got on.

  And so the nature of my future relationship with Greg Dixon was set. Over the years I have gotten to know Greg I have learned that he resents immigrants taking ‘our’ jobs. Even when those jobs are cleaning dank underground toilets on a twelve-hour shift with no daylight, clearing the streets of litter in biting January winds and driving rain, or patrolling desolate building sites in the early hours of the morning, armed only with a torch and a mobile phone. His intolerance extends to immigrants who have the audacity to open shops selling ‘their’ goods. He believes this takes away the opportunity to open a shop from ‘our’ people. The fact the shop owners contribute locally by providing jobs and paying taxes is somehow lost on him. He thinks it is a disgrace that people are allowed to practise their faith openly when it is different to ‘his’ religion, even though he has never voluntarily set foot in a place of worship without being part of a baptism, wedding or funeral congregation.

  He applauds the openly elitist, sexist and hidden racist attitudes of his golf club; that enclave he escapes to each weekend to fuel and justify his views and opinions. The place where the car that you drive, albeit loaned to you by your employers for tax purposes or obtained via a hire purchase; that you will never really own, is important. And the ability to drive home in these vehicles after a heavy evening of drinking and backslapping is thoroughly respected. In fact, the more that is drunk, the more boastful the claims are made that the ability to control a vehicle is not affected by alcohol consumption at all.

  Greg has no time for benefit scroungers, work-shy layabouts or those who claim to be unable to work or function within society due to depression or anxiety. In his opinion, this is all in the mind and the people should just get on with things. After all, as he says, we all have problems thrown at us. He maintains that people who cannot deal with what life deals them are, in his eyes, weak.

  Of all his differing opinions to mine, this is the one attitude of Greg’s I find the most difficult to accept. We both witnessed, hopelessly, along with others, his sister’s dark journey through depression over many months a few short years ago. We witnessed her isolation, her days on end curled under the covers of her bed in a darkened room, her not bathing, not eating, her hours of crying and anguish until she eventually journeyed back to being the person she was. And with her return, Greg forgot the professional care, help, support and medication that had been administered day by day on her road back to recovery. He merely said that she was back because she had pulled herself together.

  He is head of sales in a faceless software firm and has been for the last ten years – before this, he tried for five years to rise to this pinnacle that would result in his own office, secretary and embossed business cards. I can only imagine the tricks and dealings he performed to secure this position that in his eyes exudes responsibility and respectability. He networks at client golfing days, point-to-point races and cricket matches.

  Outside of this corporate world, he has had business ideas. Two of which have seen Sally part with money from her inheritance from her father’s will. In both cases I pleaded with her not to invest, but she did not take heed. The first was frankly ridiculous: teaching people to plough fields, sow, cut hedgerows, and harvest. Greg argued he had seen something similar when away in Hungary on business, and that city people at home would love to spend the weekend in the country doing similar activities. He could not understand that city people just wanted to relax in the countryside and that smelling of slurry or being cold and wet while attaching gear to a tractor just wasn’t that appealing. Nevertheless, he leased the machinery, rented the land and hired the labour; a man called Marius from southern Poland. His employment, Greg argued, was not hypocritical considering his beliefs. He selected Marius on the grounds of him being an extremely gifted ploughman and willing to work for a rate considerably lower than that demanded by his British counterparts. However, the entire operation was discontinued within two months after receiving no bookings at all, and Sally lost her money.

  His second venture was more in keeping with what city people would want when in the country. He leased six cars, four classic and two performance models, which clients could use for the weekends. It started well, with the Ferrari Enzo and the E-Type Jaguar proving to be the most popular to roar around the country lanes in. That was until the Enzo was involved in a collision with a drystone wall hidden behind a hedge and written off. The driver, o
ne of Greg’s software clients, fared better than the car and received only cuts, bruises and a damaged ego. But in preparing the insurance claim, it became apparent that due to the young age of the driver, the conditions of the lease did not cover this type of write-off.

  While Greg was contesting the hidden breach of his agreement with the leasing company, the Jaguar was hired on a Saturday afternoon by a Mr Johnson, who never returned as agreed on the Sunday evening. When the credit card used to make the deposit was found to have been stolen, Greg passed the address of the client, copied from his driving licence, to the police. In the two days it took the constabulary to trace Mr Johnson, he aged forty-three years, shrank and became wheelchair-bound. No longer the strapping, able-bodied twenty-six-year-old man who had ducked into the E-Type and set the wheels spinning away from Greg in a plume of grit and dust. Suffice to say, clients using stolen identities was also in breach of Greg’s leasing agreement. Again, Sally lost her money.

  However, I have to concede, albeit begrudgingly, that he was correct about keeping bees. Although, it must be pointed out that on this occasion it was Sally alone who funded the venture. I presume Greg’s burnt fingers were still stinging too much from his previous misadventures into the world of entrepreneurs for him to release his own capital. Greg’s contribution to the enterprise was the use of his land to keep the hives and an outhouse to prepare the harvested honey. In return, he takes (what with Sally being his sister), only a fifteen per cent cut of any profits raised from honey sales.

  Sally bought into the idea of keeping bees wholeheartedly from the start. She sought out an experienced beekeeper from the area and watched and learned from him over time the basic skills and principles of beekeeping. As with all competent apiarists, he was pleased to pass on his knowledge to a willing pupil. When he agreed she was ready, she purchased her first hive in eager anticipation of the arrival of a swarming colony. Her patience was tried for months until, on a sunny afternoon in late July, a swarm was removed from a garden by the apiarist who had tutored Sally. He expertly relocated the bees into her new hive. Since then, she has grown to own twelve colonies and has not experienced a single swarm away from her hives; such is the skill with which she manages her bees. Her honey sales have also increased in popularity, from the humble beginnings of a handwritten sign outside our front door, to monthly farmers’ markets, to local shops buying weekly. Her reputation and the quality of the product have lately come to the attention of a national supermarket chain, who are enquiring about stocking her honey in a number of their stores, although their pricing demands leave Greg’s fifteen per cent cut seeming almost modest and on the verge of benevolence.