Chasing the Sun with Henry

by Gary Brockwell

  ‘Why would he do this? They didn’t get on.’

  ‘Or so Jenny thought,’ corrected Sally.

  ‘But he wouldn’t speak to her.’

  ‘I think he was just quiet. Maybe Jenny took this as being aloof.’

  ‘Jennifer thinking a man is horrible with no tangible evidence? Surely not!’ I exclaimed.

  Sally ignored my churlish dig at her friend. ‘He is a good man, Eddie,’ she stated brightly.

  My mind locked onto the words that had just resounded around me, and I battled the thoughts Sally’s innocent words evoked for me.

  ‘She is coming over tomorrow to start putting her studio together,’ said Sally, leaving the hallway.

  ‘Sorry?’ I answered absent-mindedly.

  Chapter 9

  Are You Ready for Your Close-Up?

  I had a strange phone call today. Well, not strange as such, just random. Three years ago, I joined a networking group for small businesses. Gus got me into it, said it would be useful, in his words, to grow ‘the empire of the Party King’. For a minimal fee the group meet monthly in a coffee shop in a local garden centre and exchange ideas, experiences and client names over freshly ground coffee and home-made cakes.

  This was at a time when I was trying to branch out, market a more adult-orientated show. It was in its embryonic stage and I wanted to make it work. Delicious though the cake and beverages were, it did not take me too long to establish that this forum wasn’t really conducive to expanding my particular type of business. Although Gus argued that I needed to persevere, it was obvious to me that the B&B owners, local accountants and mobile PC repair doctors all seemed to have more to gain than I did. That said, I did agree to be included in a brochure – Be Seen – highlighting my business; that was produced by a local photographer, who coincidentally was also a member of the networking group. But then again, all the members did this; none wanted to be seen as not wanting to promote their respective businesses. A professional photograph of me, playing cards in hand, accompanied by five hundred words, filled my page. I was £40 lighter for the privilege and, knowing a run of five thousand copies were to be placed in strategic and influential sites in the nearby towns and villages, I waited for the constant ringing of my phone to begin. Alas, it was not to be – not one call or enquiry came out of it and shortly afterwards I withdrew from the network forum.

  That was until today. The voice on the phone opened the conversation by stating that they had found me in Be Seen and would I be interested in performing at a ladies’ night? I was a little hesitant and informed him I wasn’t comfortable in front of a crowd of hostile, alcohol-fuelled, catcalling women. He laughed and reassured me that it wasn’t that kind of ladies’ night. Instead, he disclosed he was the treasurer of a charitable organisation, the Lombarders – made up of male members only – and the event was an annual dinner and dance for members accompanied by their wives and girlfriends. I laughed with him on discovering my faux pas, and checked my diary while he was still on the phone. I confirmed I was available and asked for the venue details.

  ‘The golf club,’ he said simply.

  I was only at the golf club once before, a party for Sally’s brother Greg’s thirtieth birthday. With my preconceived opinions of the place deeply instilled, I argued with Sally that I didn’t want to go, but I already knew that my point of view, versus the occasion/birthday boy combo, had no chance of winning her over.

  I reluctantly got ready and remember feeling disgruntled that a dress code was in place, where men had to wear suits and ties. Don’t get me wrong, I have no objection to wearing a suit and tie as befits the occasion – and I like to spend money on quality suit material and silk-woven ties. But I couldn’t see why a birthday celebration would necessitate such a request. This dress code wasn’t Greg exercising his prerogative as the centre of attention. No, this was a rule directly imposed by the golf club itself, on members and non-members alike. I still argue; why should a person with no affiliation with a club or association be subjected to such a draconian stance on what is smart and what is not?

  On arriving at the venue, I was surrounded by middle-aged men, all club members, and all dressed in similar cheap suits, some of which had obtained a dull sheen on account of dry-cleaning visits, and whose ‘off-white’ shirt-collar edges curled comically under themselves, like stale triangular cheese sandwiches. Their look was completed by an array of insipidly coloured polyester ties. I observed in disbelief, as more and more examples of this identical look continued to arrive.

  To this day, I still cannot accept how this can be deemed smart attire, when to appease the rules, I and the handful of other non-member guests had turned out immaculately dressed, in sharp suits, quality ties and polished shoes.

  It was obvious that a guest could have arrived in a well-made and fitted smart plain T-shirt and been turned away because the shirt did not have a collar. In contrast, the cheese-sandwich-collar gang were received with backslapping and smiles.

  This was the start of the evening, a time before any members had ‘mingled’ with us non-members.

  I soon discovered the reason behind the mingling. They wanted to ascertain which golf club we were affiliated with, and in turn, whether an invite for a round would be forthcoming in the future. I personally took this scenario in a light-hearted way, to mean a kind of golfing ‘away day fixture’ for the members; the humour behind this, admittedly weak, was met with blank expressions and appeared totally lost on the two individuals I expressed it to. After this, with the mingle in full swing, when asked, I merely stated I did not belong to a club.

  It did not stop there – their continued probing and my responses unleashed a misconstrued elitism in them that was further stirred by my admission that I had no knowledge of or interest in the forthcoming Ryder Cup.

  The final confirmation of my inadequacies was underlined by my admitting to a member that I had never played the game, or even held a club. On this bombshell, communication ceased, culminating with a gaze into the distance and a ‘Please excuse me, I need to go to the bar’, after which he moved off without a second glance at me. I suppose he was at least polite in his scathing loathing.

  Polite or not, with their rejection, the members forged a stance of superiority, believing that their hobby is central to life; that it is an activity that takes them to another plane, to a standing where everyone should aspire to be. In their eyes, how could anyone not subscribe to this point of view?

  I once was told, ‘Dismissing someone on account of your misplaced opinion is the scourge of humanity.’ After enduring that night, I finally understood what that really meant.

  Still, it wasn’t all bad. I did manage to avoid the birthday boy for the majority of the evening, and his sneering, slurred comments and revolting attitude were only directed at me as last orders were called.

  In total contrast, his credit card was set behind the bar and we became extremely well acquainted over the course of the night.

  Actually, perhaps on reflection with this action, I didn’t understand the meaning of misplaced opinions after all?

  Still, it was a long time ago and work was work.

  I was sure the calibre of guests at the Lombarders’ function would not fit the mould I had observed at the venue before. They would be a good bunch of people, charitable people who performed good works throughout the community. If anyone was entitled to let their hair down and enjoy themselves, it was them. I was sure it would be a gratifying evening to be part of, and thought about the types of tricks I could perform as I said goodbye to the treasurer.

  I headed for the kitchen to make a cup of tea, when a key inserted into the front-door lock caught my attention. I already knew who it was. And within moments, as I turned to face the door, the considerable build of Jennifer materialised on the threshold.

  ‘Eddie,’ she said, without making eye contact with
me.

  ‘Jennifer,’ I replied, deadpan.

  ‘Hello, Henry,’ she gushed. Henry wagged his tail lamely in response.

  ‘I am making tea, would you like one?’

  ‘No, I am running late, I need to get set up,’ she replied, lifting a large, chrome-ribbed suitcase into the hallway from behind her.

  ‘I’ll make a pot, in case you change your mind,’ I said, heading into the kitchen.

  She didn’t answer, but I sensed her moving down the hallway behind me. Judging by her grunting and panting, I presumed the weight of the suitcase was etched firmly on her face as effort on her journey to the spare bedroom.

  Jennifer had set up the studio soon after the police had dropped the charges for her involvement with the dog-fighting ring. I was intrigued to ask her if she knew what had happened to Mr Wallace – was he charged, was he in prison? I hadn’t heard anything on the local news about the case and wondered if he too had been released without charge.

  But it was a subject I could not broach with Jennifer – my relationship with her over the years has remained one of polite small talk at best, silent scowls at worst.

  Every time I see Jennifer, I make a mental note to ask Sally if she has any idea of the situation – they are, after all, best friends. But as Sally and I have not exactly been communicating of late, my question always evaporates into nothing as I struggle to connect with my wife and share my own thoughts and worries, irrespective of outside influence.

  I have to say, she has kitted out the room extremely well. I knew she was a keen photographer, but had not appreciated to what level she aspired.

  The windows are professionally blacked out with fitted curtains. Within the room she has a selection of flash lighting kits, tripod-mounted and able to accommodate umbrellas or soft boxes, depending on what is required for a particular shot. Two boom arms and stands sit high above, for white, blue, silver and gold reflectors to diffuse unwanted shadows.

  She has a number of interchangeable backgrounds, which flip over a portable frame. A fantasy blue-satin cloth, which I think she regrets using on account of the dirt, hair and marks left behind by larger dogs. It takes her a considerable time to clean the material each time. As an alternative, she has two ‘realistic’ views – ‘Restful Meadow’ and ‘Spring Woods’ – for clients that choose to have their pet in a non-staged, more natural settling. Jennifer has commented that this is the most popular screen-scape for her mid-sized dog portraits – although how a restful meadow could ever be considered a natural vista for the multitude of bull terriers I have witnessed pulling their owners toward the studio door is beyond me.

  Jennifer also has a selection of pliable PVC choices, in sapphire blue, glen green, dove grey and poppy, that not only form a backdrop and floor covering, but also dress a still-life table. This table is used for smaller pets – toy dogs, cats, rodents, reptiles, and her least favourites, the arachnids, in all their hairy, slow-motion, wiggly-leg forms. I have to concede admiration for Jennifer in the way she has not let her fear (I have heard her, on occasions, wail hysterically when sighting a spider scurry across the living-room floor in front of her and Sally, during those cool nights of autumn when they seek out the warmth of a house in preference to the oncoming bite of winter) compromise her service to her clients. I know she has already photographed Harry, a Chilean rose tarantula, a number of times – close up, from above, from the side and head-on, after his owner has triggered the ‘threat stance’ in him by prodding him with the end of a pencil.

  On a table to the left of the photographic set-up, connected by an infinite amount of cabling, sits an array of electronic boxes with periodically flashing lights and a large printing machine. The purpose of all these devices, I am not going to pretend to have the first clue about. All I do understand is that the gadgetry is hooked up to a laptop, also on the table, that receives the images captured by the digital cameras she uses.

  I also have to concede that the transition from spare bedroom into photographic studio was seamless. It was a good excuse to clear the room of clutter, and Jennifer did take on all the work herself.

  She had business cards printed up and distributed through veterinary surgeries, pet shops and the supermarket notice board. After an initial flurry of enquires due to promotional gimmicks of half-price large prints and five portraits for the price of four, and partly due to public curiosity, the sittings have steadied. She works four days a week, ten to five on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday – with Thursday a late and popular night.

  I still am not comfortable with the key situation, though – this is my house, and as is the norm, Sally did not consult me regarding the cutting of an extra key. That said, other than Thursday evenings, I am rarely here when Jennifer is; besides, how else would she get in without one – she is not going to squeeze through the letterbox! The one drawback, though: she doesn’t go home on a Saturday; instead, after her last client, she camps in the living room with Sally. She doesn’t appear to leave any earlier, so in fact has longer for cake consumption and bemoaning my gender in general.

  ‘Actually, surprised to see you here, Eddie,’ Jennifer stated from the kitchen doorway.

  ‘On my way later – no inflatables today to set up, just two parties.’

  ‘I’ll catch up with you before you go.’

  ‘I can see you this evening,’ I said.

  ‘No, I will not be here then,’ she stated, shaking her head.

  ‘Oh? That’s not like you.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning nothing,’ I replied, realising my comment may have caused offence to her; it doesn’t take much.

  ‘I need to talk to you about something,’ she said cryptically.

  When on earth have Jennifer and I ever had a ‘talk about something’ – anything, actually? I thought to myself.

  I muttered, ‘Sure’ as the kettle clicked its announcement that the water had boiled for the tea.

  Drinking my tea in the kitchen, I heard the doorbell ring and resisted the urge to enter the hallway and open the door of my house to the visitor. Instead, I heard Jennifer open her studio door and head through the hallway. Judging by her cheery hello and admiring gushing noises on opening the door, I presumed the sitter this time was not Harry.

  I drained my tea and headed outside to the van to check the addresses of the bookings, and if I needed to drop by the wholesaler’s to pick up a new ‘wobbly’ wand or if it would last a few more weeks – and all the time, I pondered what it was Jennifer wanted to discuss with me and tried to not let the fact I couldn’t open my own front door today without her being there bother me.

  As suspected, the wand had seen better days. I got into the driver’s seat; I knew I had enough time to get to the wholesaler’s before the first party. Besides, I thought, I should also pick up some modelling balloons – can never have enough modelling balloons.

  It hadn’t helped that last week the wand was taken and used as a club by a birthday boy to beat a younger girl – his sister’s friend – repeatedly about the head. His attack was accompanied by high-pitched yet menacing ‘hi-yah!’s and ‘take that!’s with every wobbly blow. I remember his mother tried to explain this unprovoked attack by claiming he was just excited about the party and it wasn’t his normal behaviour. After a few minutes of ignoring her calling his name in a sympathetic tone, he was evidently bored and ceased the barrage, dropped the wand and ran to the other side of the community hall (where the party was being held) to wrestle with his male friends.

  It was only at this point that the young girl started to cry, and cry hysterically. Still, enticed to cease the tears by the offer of a slice of birthday cake, she reverted to being as obnoxious as him, picking up the discarded wand and hitting another innocent victim across the shoulders. This transformation occurred after only a few licks of the blue buttercream icing that generously entombed
the cake that was now clasped in her hand.

  En route to the wholesaler’s, I took a call from the parent organising the first party. They had to cancel. It was two hours before the event. They stated their daughter had a vomiting bug and had been sick all night and that morning. They apologised, but did not offer to pay a fee, a token, as means of compensation to me. Instead there was a deathly silence as neither side spoke. Eventually, they commented again that their daughter was genuinely ill. I told them I was sorry about it and hung up.

  Driving back, new wand and balloons purchased, I mulled over the fact that I didn’t insist on a cancellation fee. I told myself that for the next booking I took I would inform the parents that there was a cancellation policy. But I knew that I wouldn’t.

  I pulled into my road and was dismayed to see a car parked in my space on the drive. Still annoyed with myself for not insisting on a cancellation fee, this breach of my personal space channelled my anger further. I parked up on the road outside, slammed the van door hard on exiting and walked all of ten paces to the boundary of the property. Heading through the front door, I marched toward Jennifer’s studio, my anger evaporating with every step, until I decided at the studio door that a firm-but-fair stance was required and that I would ask the person to move their vehicle so I could park.

  As my hand hovered as a fist, centimetres from the door, I froze, stopped in my tracks by one word uttered from within.

  ‘Phoebe! Phoebe!’ encouraged Jennifer shrilly.

  I continued to listen, my head pressed gently against the wood, trying to coax and channel the now-muffled tones into recognisable words for my ear to process, but it proved impossible to decipher what was being said.