Standing there, concentrating, my mind formed an image of the car parked on the driveway. A dark-coloured saloon car. I dismissed it as not being a car Cerys would drive. This was ridiculous! How on earth could I possibly conclude what car she drove?
I closed my eyes; the darkness of my eyelids transported me into the studio, where I could see Cerys standing out of the camera shot as Phoebe sat looking head-on at the camera.
Tea – come away and make some tea, I told myself.
I moved away from the door and headed into the kitchen. What to do, what to do? Perhaps I should knock on the door and ask Jennifer if she would like a cup of tea. Then I could casually say hello to Cerys. I dismissed the idea as quickly as I thought of it, as I realised that if I did so, Cerys would presume Jennifer and I were an item, a couple, married. No, I would wait in the kitchen until I heard them leaving the studio and then enter the hallway in the same instant; timing was going to be everything. Again, I would make my greeting casual. The fact Cerys would still consider Jennifer and I a couple was blind to me in my “improved” plan.
I checked my reflection in the kettle on the worktop, but it was impossible to tell what I looked like in the convex image. I decided I couldn’t run the risk of heading upstairs to the bathroom to use the mirror, in case they emerged from the studio at the same time. My stampede down the stairs would be perceived as odd at the very least.
At this point my phone rang and all my planning and thoughts of a rendezvous with Cerys were shot to pieces. On the other end of the line, the father of the second birthday child of the day explained they had a dilemma. They understood they had booked my show for 4pm, but had sent out the invitations in error with a party start of 2pm and wondered if I could come right now. They would of course, they stated, compensate me for my trouble. I was surprised, as always, by how people react differently when faced with situations.
I put down the phone, agreeing to be there in twenty minutes, secretly thinking that there was no mix-up with the times; rather, they assumed they could entertain twelve party-fuelled under-six-year-olds for two hours and discovered rapidly that they couldn’t. Still, I couldn’t judge.
I made up my mind. It was simple now. I would knock on the door and tell Jennifer I was leaving and did she have a moment to talk to me as arranged? In the room, I would see Cerys and say hello (again, casually) and mention I hadn’t seen her on the beach for some time. That was as far as my plan had been hatched; from that point onwards, I was going to improvise. I really just wanted to see her.
Rehearsing in my mind, I saw but took no notice of Henry as he moved from his bed to do his doggy stretching. First down on his front paws, his chest resting on the floor, his hindquarters high in the air. On standing up, he walked off; pushing first his left, then his right rear leg individually into straight points behind him.
I left the kitchen, and in moments I was by the door. Should I grin, smile or look uninterested on entering? I really couldn’t decide.
In one fluid motion, I knocked and entered.
‘Jennif…’ I started to say, but my voice trailed off at the sight presented before me.
Sitting facing me on a stool on the fantasy blue satin cloth was a middle-aged man, naked, with a perfectly groomed and cuttoy poodle arranged on his lap. The poodle’s fur was dyed pink.
The man obviously looked embarrassed, the poodle yapped a croaky bark at me as poodles do, and Jennifer yelled at me crossly to leave. But I was fixed to the spot. This isn’t Phoebe, I thought to myself, and you are not Cerys, I added dumbly. And all the while I held the door open and did not hear the clipping of Henry’s claws making their way to the studio to discover the source of the barking and the reason for Jennifer’s raised voice.
The next few minutes were a blur. But suffice to say, Henry did not take kindly to Phoebe the poodle being in his territory and proceeded to bark and snarl in her direction. In reaction, she wriggled from her owner’s lap to defend herself, which exposed the owner’s pubic region to me, dyed the same shocking pink colour as the dog. It was a sight I never imagined I would ever see, and is something I wish I could forget.
The dogs then began to chase around the studio, accompanied by frantic barking, knocking over equipment and causing lamps to spark and die as they crashed to the floor.
As Phoebe became entangled in the cables from the equipment on the table, we all yelled at them to stop, our combined voices seemingly making the situation even more fraught.
The sitter got up, retrieved his clothes and hurriedly put on his trousers (commando-style, I noted, my eyes drawn once again to the explosion of pink below his waist), as I finally caught Henry and dragged him by the collar into the kitchen and shut the door.
On my return, the room looked even worse.
‘Jennifer, I am so sorry,’ I began.
‘Just get out, Eddie!’ she screamed at me, surveying the damage to her studio.
I stood in silence as the client left with a now-calm Phoebe under his arm. She gave a final, defiant yap in my general direction for good measure as she passed me.
‘I know it isn’t a good time, but I have to go out now. Do you still want to talk to me about…?’ I stopped in mid-sentence, reading the look on Jennifer’s face as at best unapproachable, at worst genuinely hostile.
‘Another time, then,’ I added, moving swiftly from the studio.
Chapter 10
When the Wind Blows
If a spiralling weather system allows an easterly wind to form, its touch over the water can stimulate the brine to behave even more excitably than normal, with bigger-than-usual lines of waves relentlessly crashing and pounding against the shore of our beach.
Sometimes, if conditions are favourable the east wind also brings with it a mist that hugs close to the shore.,.
Making the turn off the main road behind the dunes, the temperature reading in the van plummeted a full twelve degrees. The brilliant summer sky, which had earlier forced Henry to pant in the cab and me to open the window, had at this point retreated behind us. It was replaced by an energy-sapping, bone-boring dampness in the shape of a sea fret, which made the dunes, as we sat looking out, appear and disappear in an ebbing and flowing mist. On occasion, the wind can remember its manners, and returns and to disburse the fog ,and in doing so, invites the warmth and summer to return. But today, in my opinion, the wind was not prepared to show any signs of benevolence and I concluded our walk would be swift and merely a mechanism for Henry to exercise and empty his bowls.
Such was the density of the fog, I imagined, that if the waves had retreated to their furthest point away, the water’s edge would be hard to detect, lost inside a soft fade, with the sound of fuming surf, muffled to my ears, the only tangible indicator as to where land and sea merged. And the mountains would be totally obscured, their majestic slopes, woods and waterfalls all secrets, veiled and hidden.
If anyone had found this place for the very first time today, had walked between the dunes and arrived at the seafront, the scene, or lack of it, I felt would determine they sadly were not destined to ever return. The beauty of the place would never be revealed to them, the retelling of how the mountains appear suddenly in view would not be divulged excitedly when they eventually returned to their home. The hundreds of wading birds pecking and stabbing the wet sands and changing direction in unison would not be marvelled at. Nor would they feel the freshness of the air penetrating deep into their alveoli, encouraging their entire body to grasp the possibilities of life with vigour; a feeling that would leave them awakened with an immeasurable sense of well-being.
Henry yawned, stood up on his seat and shook himself from tail to head, his large ears flaring comically around his face. I opened the driver’s door and immediately the deathly dank air flooded in. I checked the dashboard to ensure the headlights were switched off, knowing that keeping them on with no e
ngine running in these conditions would culminate in single clicks from the ignition as I turned the key on our return, and an unplanned extended stay on the beach. Only Clifford and a set of jump leads would release us from our entrapment.
‘This proves I love you,’ I told Henry as he jumped down after me through the open driver’s side door.
He ignored me and headed toward a patch of marram grass, studying and sniffing the tough blades intently, though for what purpose, I will never fathom.
I took my fleece from the cab and zipped it up all the way to just under my chin, but the cold already had a hold. It had already claimed me.
‘It’s supposed to be summer,’ I muttered incredulously, heading through the dunes.
The walk was miserable. Not only because the swirling fog crept into my eyes, under my fleece and even through the tongues on my boots, but more so because of the previous evening I had shared with Sally, the consequence of which still played on my mind this morning.
Sally had come home late again, which has become a regular occurrence over the past three months. I obviously have no issue with her coming back late, none whatsoever. It is the atmosphere she carries back with her to the house that I find unacceptable. With each return, the situation appears more fraught. Her silence on entering is broken each time by the set of keys she drops noisily on the hallway table. Such is her seeming disinterest in my presence that I have now got to the stage where I do not even bother to get up to greet her. And when I do engage conversation, it is acknowledged, if at all, with snapped words of one syllable, usually yes or no. Yet within an hour or two of being in the house, the old Sally, my Sally, returns. The Sally who is kind, talkative and constantly on the go, who cleans the mantelpiece, the windows, washes up or washes the floor, the Sally who speaks excitedly and with passion about her bees and gardening.
Yet when she arrives back each time after a business meeting with Trafford, she doesn’t want to discuss her bees, nor indulge what has been agreed regarding marketing, or the projected increased production of honey. Nor can I mention the costings involved; I am sure a big supermarket chain tries to squeeze every last bit of profit from the producer for their own advantage. I want to ease some of the pressure off her, but I take her silence stance, although a new characteristic of Sally’s, to be a coping mechanism in the face of the pressure she presumably feels.
That was until last night, when, after thirty minutes of silence, I mentioned that while she had been away, I had done some research regarding commercial hives. I had seen how much they cost, whether they would be viable for her, and I had the details saved on the computer.
She cut me down in mid-sentence, saying, ‘For fuck’s sake, Eddie, give it a rest!’ with distinct irritation in her voice.
In all the years I have known her, Sally has never sworn at me before, and I was truly lost for words.
She walked out of the room without saying anything else. My instinct was to stay in the room, to pretend all was normal, that my wife was still with me. Yet, I found myself rising from my chair and heading out into the hall to find her – as though I was somebody else. I found her in the kitchen, staring out of the window into her garden beyond.
I spoke before I realised any words would come.
‘What’s going on, Sally?’ I shouted with a passion erupting from deep inside me that I did not remember ever directing me before.
She didn’t answer, but remained still, her back to me, her thoughts and visage trained on the window.
‘I asked you, what is going on?’ I repeated with equal passion.
‘Nothing,’ came the obvious mumbled response.
‘Nothing? Nothing?!’ I shouted.. I moved around to face her. ‘You ignore me, here and then use that language at me?’
‘It’s you, Eddie, the way you are!’ she hissed into my face.
‘What does that mean, “the way I am”?’
She went to move, and as she did, I grabbed hold of her wrists.
‘Don’t walk away!’
You’re hurting me!’ she yelled, with genuine pain in her voice.
I looked down and saw my hands locked around her wrists far more tightly than I had realised, and released my grip instantly.
Sally rubbed her reddening wrists together and stared at me, smarting.
‘What’s happened to us?’ I asked, calmness trying and failing to return to my voice. ‘I was just trying to support you, to help,’ I added.
After twenty years of marriage, within minutes of each other she had sworn at me and I had physically hurt her for the first time.
Sally continued to soothe her wrists and stared at me, like a wounded animal.
‘Sally, what is going on?’ I repeated again, calmly this time. ‘You come back,don’t speak for hours and then you are fine. I am not sure what has happened to us.’
‘Huh – “fine”. “Fine”; what does that mean? That I clean and cook and fall into the same old routine? Is that what you mean, Eddie?’
‘No, I mean…’ I trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
‘So that is what you mean!’
‘I am trying to support you,’ I responded. ‘You never speak about the meetings, how the negotiations are going. You just come back silent and I have to wait for you to be you again. And the amount of time that takes is become longer and longer each time.’
‘What is there to say? They are business meetings, they will be finalised when they are finalised.’
‘Okay, but negotiations have been going on for a considerable time, months in fact.’
‘Meaning?’ Sally snapped.
‘Meaning nothing, just… are you getting close to an agreement? I hate seeing you stressed.’
‘I am not “stressed”,’ she replied. ‘And you know nothing about it. If you want to support me, just stick to your balloon modelling,’ added Sally with venom.
With her words, I was crushed and Sally returned her gaze to the window.
‘That was unkind, Sally. I only want to help you with the burden,’ I finally stated, trying to keep my voice from cracking.
She didn’t reply.
‘Why is it taking so long? We cannot survive like this. What happens when they are pressing you to produce more and more honey? Then the pressure will be on.’ I spoke my thoughts loudly and in quick succession. ‘But I forgot, I am just a balloon modeller who knows nothing,’ I spat. ‘But I’ll tell you something…’ I paused until Sally had resumed eye contact with me. ‘This balloon modeller would do anything for you. Anything.’
Sally touched the side of my face with her hand. ‘Oh, Eddie,’ she said gently.
I reached up and cupped my hand over hers.
We stayed like this for some time until the expression on Sally’s face changed.
‘Eddie, I need to tell you something,’ she said, pulling her hand free.
I looked at her anxiously, driven by the change in her expression and the words she had just uttered.
She composed herself and looked out of the window for inspiration or a choice of words. Either way, I stood with the instinct that my heart was about to be broken consuming me.
‘I haven’t always been at meetings.’
‘Sorry?’
Sally sighed. ‘Over the past few weeks, I haven’t always been at a meeting about the business,’ she confessed.
I stood in silence; letting the words sink into me, absorb me.
‘So where were you, Sally?’ I asked flatly, looking at my feet.
Sally did not answer, and I felt my heart starting to race.
‘I said, where were you, Sally?’ I repeated, my voice rising and each syllable emphasised.
‘I didn’t want to tell you, but you have put me into a corner. I’ve been seeing someone.’ She paused. ‘Ignatius McKenzie
,’ she added.
‘What do you mean, “seeing someone”?’ I didn’t give her a chance to respond, and continued, ‘I knew it; I am not stupid, Sally.He’s the supermarket buyer, isn’t he?’’
‘What?, No that is Trafford Jones.’she said with irritation now back in her voice. ‘Why do you never listen to me?’
‘How long and why, Sally? Why?’ I asked, without listening to her reply.
Sally started to cry and attempted to move out of the kitchen.
‘That’s right, you get found out, so you turn on the waterworks and try to leave the room. No way are you going! No way!’ I shouted, blocking her path. ‘We are staying here until you give me every detail and answers to every question. I knew it, knew it!’
She did not reply.
We stood in silence. Sally looking up at the ceiling, me at the floor.
‘I ask again, how long has been going on? I’ve been worried about you taking on all this pressure, when all along you have been carrying on. You’ve made a right mug out of me.’
Sally breathed deeply and regained her composure.
‘Eddie, you have got it all wrong.’
‘I’ve got it all wrong?!’ I shouted. ‘You just told me you have been seeing someone else. How have I got that wrong?’
‘Ignatius McKenzie is a medium. Mary gave me his name.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘She gave me his name, said he could help me make sense of things. He’s been helping me to come to terms with things. Showing me a different angle.’
I remembered now – Ignatius McKenzie; that was the person Mary was going to see when she and Clifford had words in their kitchen a few months back.
‘But hang on, Sally, he does shows, big theatre venues. How can that help you, with all those people there?’
‘He does private sittings at his house too,’ she replied with tears flowing from her eyes.
‘And that’s where you have been going?’ I asked softly.
She nodded without making eye contact.
Chasing the Sun with Henry Page 11
