Chasing the Sun with Henry

by Gary Brockwell

  I let her words sink in. Spoken matter-of-factly and with no hint of irony, almost as if this were already planned, preordained, destined to happen. And with this, the uneasiness I felt on the two flasks being presented to me retuned. This wasn’t normal. Well, to me it wasn’t normal: to be making holiday plans – no, life-changing travel plans, albeit loosely – with a stranger. In fact, sitting in the car was still not lying well with part of me.

  ‘So, what is grapefruit seed extract for?’ I asked, intrigued, trying to go with the situation.

  ‘Drink water from a street vendor in Delhi and you find out!’ came her cryptic reply.

  We kissed again. This part I had gotten used to, had accepted, and through the action, proved the existence of evolution by demonstrating our ability to adapt to situations!

  With a final, gentle, lingering kiss goodbye, accompanied by the pressing together of our foreheads and a promise to meet again there at the same time next week, we reluctantly parted. I collected Henry and walked the few steps over to my van. Once in, we waved, smiled and blew kisses at each other through our door windows, before Cerys reversed her vehicle and I followed. At the end of the car park approach road, Cerys indicated left and I headed right.

  By the time I had run through my gear set, from one up to five, the weather was clearing and I opened my window welcoming the sunlight to to infiltrate the cab.

  It was at this point that I glanced at the clock in the dashboard and momentarily assumed the display was wrong, but with reason reinstated, I quickly concluded that I had in fact been in Cerys’ company for almost two hours. Guilt racked me. I was only sixty minutes later than usual. Yet, I found I was making elaborate excuses in my mind to relay to Sally on my return. A deer hit the van. No good – no sign of damage. Temporary traffic lights on the shore road – but this was also the route to her mother’s house, and what if she had driven along it herself that morning? I could have argued it was emergency roadworks to mend a burst water pipe and the crew were just packing up when I got there, so the scene was total chaos. But I then reconsidered, as no one lives on the shore road for a seven-mile stretch, reducing the need for a water main to fantasy. It then struck me: what if a tourist was hopelessly lost, wanting to be on the other side of the mountains? I could have led via the back roads and tracks, while they followed; that would easily put an hour on my morning. But then Sally knows me. That action would be so out of character that she would know I would not do this.

  Every excuse was rehearsed in my mind with an upbeat tone, an air of ‘que sera sera’ – I don’t know why, but as much as I tried, I couldn’t stop it. Yet again, Sally would know this wasn’t true. If I am late, quite simply, I moan.

  Yet the most plausible explanation for my delayed return was not even considered, only to be rejected: I never thought to simply say, ‘Henry and I spent longer on the beach.’

  As I turned the corner into the road where the house sits, I decided my plan of action: I would do exactly as Sally does on her return from trips out and say nothing.

  I swung the van into the drive, with my mind primed and focused like a crouched Olympian waiting in those final, dragging seconds for the starter pistol. The gun fired and my game plan fell to pieces as I was faced with an empty space where I presumed Sally’s car would be.

  A rushing sensation of fear washed over me, causing me to exhale deeply. What if she had followed me to the beach? What if she was looking for me now? What if she had seen us and was in state of despair? What if she had seen us and had followed Cerys home? And with the last scenario still prodding my brain, it invited logic to come back. She is probably out at the shops, or just out somewhere, I concluded, taking the keys out of the ignition.

  Yet, I still felt a sense of trepidation on entering the house with my cheery hellos met by silence. I searched every room, calling out as I went. I even checked the spare bedroom, and only relaxed when it became abundantly clear that Sally was not at home.

  Later, I sat in the kitchen drinking tea and confessed to myself, as my heart rate returned to normal, that I was rubbish at this, at the act of deceit. Yet I also knew I had been seduced by that most basic of human needs: the feeling of contentment, the joy of happiness. And the afterglow that still enveloped me at this point far outweighed the malfeasance of the situation. I knew that after this second encounter, I couldn’t wait until the following Saturday; I yearned to be back in the Range Rover again, or walking on the beach. This feeling was verging on becoming an addiction.

  We always have a good lunch. Today was no exception. Today we feasted on ham from locally reared pigs, apparently happy pigs – well, happy until they were placed between the slices of fresh, crusty bakery bread that Gus and I chewed on. Tomatoes and salad onions from his garden completed the sandwiches. Apples and bananas from the greengrocer followed for dessert. Personally, I would have been equally pleased with a pork pie, a Scotch egg and a packet of crisps. But I know this consumption, gorgeous though it would be, would be counterproductive considering the exercise we had participated in for the past two and a half hours.

  We sat within the Whispering Rocks, side by side, the sun on our backs, the Blue Lough far below us, shimmering with silver and white lights. The silence of the setting was only broken from time to time by Gus munching on an apple.

  ‘I’ve met someone, Gus,’ I blurted out.

  ‘Oh,’ came the reply as he took another bite from the apple in his hand.

  ‘“Oh” – is that all you have to say?’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘I don’t know; I thought you would have an opinion, give me some advice.’

  ‘You are a grown man, Eddie. You can make your own decisions. You don’t need my approval.’

  I felt embarrassed; ashamed above all else that Gus would react like this. But really, what did I expect – why did I even tell him? Did I expect him to slap me on the back, tell me well done, wanting to know all the details about her? Or to chastise me for the choice I had voluntarily made? No, I realised I had told him in an attempt to offload some of the guilt I felt that was tightly intertwined with the pleasure of visualising Cerys. The need to unload this guilt left me blind to his reaction.

  ‘It’s all just happened so quickly, I can’t think of anything else,’ I finally said.

  He didn’t answer, but still looked straight ahead, chewing on the fruit.

  ‘I was once at a reception at the French Ambassador’s residence in Kensington Palace Gardens,’ he began, still not looking at me. ‘He – the ambassador – was retiring after many years in service and his wife hosted a series of farewell lunches. This was the final one; I was seated on the top table, three seats down from her. The conversation was light, congenial, with the ambassador’s wife retelling stories, in a delicious French accent, of the many wonderful people she had encountered over the years her husband had been in residence. Each story concluded with polite laughter and smiles along the entire length of the table.

  ‘The person next to her, a retired lieutenant general who had worked with the FFI in the lead-up to the liberation of Paris in 1944, had a booming baritone voice and asked her, while tucking into the fish course, what she was most looking forward to now that her husband was retiring from his long and distinguished career.

  ‘The ambassador’s wife, in a reflective mood, paused for some time before she addressed the hushed line of diners, who had all turned to face her. She nodded an acknowledgement toward them, smiled and started to speak. “The thing I am most looking forward to now my husband is retiring is… a penis.”

  ‘The sound of coughing and choking and the sight of a multitude of hands reaching for wine glasses filled the room, before a silence descended, as each half-eaten piece of fish on each plate was thoroughly inspected by each diner with their knives and forks.

  After a couple of minutes the retired lieut
enant general leant in close to the ambassador’s wife and said deeply, yet softly, “I think Madame will find the pronunciation is ‘happiness’ with a ‘hah’.”’

  We both burst into fits of laughter.

  ‘Gus, what were you doing at the French Ambassador’s reception? Did they serve chocolates on a tray?’ I asked, trying to regain my composure.

  Gus ignored my comment, and as is his way, did not elaborate further on the story. Instead he turned to face me, with a serious look on his face.

  ‘Does she make you happy? I am presuming they are a she…?’

  ‘Yes! And yes, it’s early days though. She makes me feel alive!’ I replied cheerfully, keeping the actual number of meetings to myself.

  ‘Well, that is important, really important,’ he said, looking intently at me. ‘We all deserve to be happy, Eddie.’

  ‘Thanks, Gus. I wanted to tell someone, and thank you for not being judgemental.’

  ‘Why would I be?’ he said quietly.

  ‘I don’t know. Just thought—’

  ‘Like I said,’ he interrupted, ‘we all deserve to be happy. That includes Sally,’ he added, his voice even lower.

  The choice of name for this place was finally revealed as the rocks whispered the words ‘that includes Sally’ back to me, over and over. The handiwork of that giant, driven by rage, all those years ago, triggered my conscience to act as an antidote to my fledgling addiction.

  Our troop back was as uncommunicative as the journey to the Whispering Rocks had been. Although this time, my thoughts refused to summon Cerys. Instead, twenty years of marriage filled the space, each image pausing just long enough to evoke recognition, before being replaced by another like a flickering slide show.

  With each click I saw our first argument, post wedding, a petty misunderstanding and the frantic physical reconciliation that followed. I recalled cream teas in Devon, whisky-tasting in Skye and blistered toes on Hadrian’s Wall. Candlelit carols at midnight Mass, where the only way I could endure it was the promise of devils on horseback and a fine Rioja at her parents’ house after 1am. I smiled at the way she still dreads summer storms, their unpredictable power causing her to recoil and squeeze my arm tightly with every thunderclap, followed by her counting the time between the next flash of lightning and rumble and informing me where the storm is in relation to our world.

  My smile retreated with the image of that Friday afternoon, which brought the worst storm of all. The police car surprisingly parked outside on my return. The policewoman sat on the sofa, cradling Sally’s limp form to her chest. The turmoil which forced its way into our lives on that vile night led Sally blindly into darkness and my own lonely journey to denial. Finally, with a frown on my brow, I came up to date and reflected on the lost years that have followed and the emptiness they have brought.

  Within sight of the car park, my phone burst into life in my backpack. Its tone lifted the house lights, confirming the slide show was over.

  Normally, I would leave it; investigate only when back at the van, with walking boots and fleece off, driving shoes on. But not today – instinctively, I reached around my back and swung the bag off my arm, before retrieving my mobile. Looking at the screen, the text revealed I had a voice message.

  The opening silence spoke volumes. Eventually, Mary’s voice came through, frail and distant.

  ‘Eddie, it’s me,’ the message began. ‘Clifford’s been taken into the Royal, it’s his breathing.’ She paused for a short while, before adding, ‘Okay? Bye, Eddie.’

  She evidently assumed she had replaced her phone correctly on its cradle, as I am sure the three minutes of tormented sobbing that followed were not intended for my ears.

  I plodded on in silence, my phone held tightly to my ear. The sound of her distress amplified with every step, and only ceased at my phone’s insistence that the message had ended, cancelling the connection.

  ‘Message left today at 11.42,’ my phone concluded.

  I cursed the mountains, my beautiful mountains, for entrapping Mary in her misery alone for the past five hours. For all I knew, her tears had continued to flow for all that time.

  ‘What is it, Eddie?’ asked Gus, trying to gauge my mood.

  ‘It’s Clifford, I think he is dying.’

  ‘Let’s go straight to the hospital,’ he replied. He didn’t say any more, he didn’t try to make it better; he just spoke matter-of-factly.

  I merely nodded.

  At the van, I hurriedly tried to change out of my boots, but the laces became twisted and entwined, as my coordination fell to pieces. As I fumbled with the knots, I found the sound of Mary’s cries had transformed into tears in the corners of my eyes.

  Chapter 12

  Formation Flying

  The golf club hadn’t changed. Well, to be precise, the car park hadn’t changed; the same elitist parking hierarchy existed as I remembered from my previous visit to celebrate Greg Dixon’s thirtieth birthday.

  The four spaces nearest the clubhouse were exactly as before. Each bay had two metal rods near the kerb supporting horizontal chains, from which swung weathered white wooden signs. From nearest the entrance extending out to the left, the signs read Captain, Vice-Captain, Secretary and Lady Captain.

  I wondered what the penalty was for parking in these spaces without permission. I reasoned that this had to be one of the worst violations in the etiquette of golf – a total lack of respect for rules and tradition – and therefore, an infringement of such severity would warrant a punishment the average golfer would find intolerable. Perhaps a ban on wearing multicoloured knitwear, or being shunned in the clubhouse bar would haunt the guilty and allow them time to reflect upon what had occurred.

  The four spaces aside, the remainder of the car park, I reasoned, was a free-for-all for all and sundry. I was only performing close magic for the evening, so therefore did not require the van to transport my props or equipment. But I drove it just the same; reasoning that if the evening went well, people would see the van with its red-and-yellow insignia and maybe enquire about future bookings.

  I did not, however, consider the tight space and limited manoeuvring capabilities within the car park and took an age to position the van in a prominent spot, as near to the entrance as I could.

  Once inside, I was again reminded of the protocol I had read before here – No spikes or course footwear to be worn beyond this mark read a notice on the wall several metres away from the male changing rooms. And further along the corridor toward the bar, another sign announced, Members are reminded, guests must be signed in, appear appropriately dressed and be accompanied at all times on these premises.

  Very welcoming! I thought to myself as I strolled past the sign and entered the bar area.

  The bar itself covered the majority of the far wall. Towards the back, a vast array of bottles of strong liquor were bracketed high up on a mirrored wall and secured to optics. Multiple bottles of the same varieties of gin, vodka, brandy and whisky sat lined up, waiting, expecting, ready to release their liquids on contact from a teasing glass rim, in return for a rush of upwardly mobile bubbles seeking the top of each bottle upon the glass’ withdrawal. In front, a solid oak counter formed the bar itself, and fixed to this were a lesser number of beer pumps. The overall view of the bar presented a strong indication of the drinking preferences of the regular clientele.

  I noticed among the optics, hung up on the mirror, yet another sign reminding members that the bar no longer accepted cash transactions; instead each member’s security card would need to be loaded with cash to pay for beverages. I gave a second look to the date at the bottom of the sign and correctly calculated, twice, that seven years had passed since its placement. Either business was extremely slow or the sign was hiding a crack in the mirror.

  To the left of the bar, a pair of double doors attempted to hold back t
he muffled sounds of the function room being prepared for the evening’s event. The top halves held sandblasted glass that spelt the name of the club in swirling fake Celtic characters, and through this the laying of tables with cutlery, crockery, glassware and balloons could be seen, complementing the trapped noise.

  I pushed through the doors, my presence not even raising a lift of a head from the busy catering staff. The round tables in the room each had twelve chairs positioned around them, and on closer inspection of the completed tables, each crisp white tablecloth was adorned with sparkles and confetti and each place setting also held a beautiful wrapped present for the named guest.

  In all of this activity I sought the treasurer to whom I had spoken first on that infamous day when Phoebe the poodle came to Jennifer’s studio. We had conversed on a few occasions since, but never met. And there, standing near the kitchen doors, I spied two men talking. One looked very much in control, speaking fluently, emphasising his points with relaxed hand gestures in front of him and a controlled finger sweeping over his shoulder to the centre of the room. I presumed he was the banqueting manager. The other man looked stressed, very stressed, and with ninety minutes to go before the evening commenced I presumed him to be Mike Saunders the treasurer.

  I wandered over to introduce myself.

  ‘Mike?’ I enquired.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied hurriedly as the other man continued to assure him all would be fine.

  ‘Eddie, Eddie Dungiven,’ I explained, holding out my arm for a handshake.

  ‘Eddie Dungiven?’

  ‘The magician for this evening,’ I encouraged, smiling.

  ‘Oh yes, yes, of course! Please forgive me, a little stressed!’ he replied, gripping my outstretched hand tightly.

  ‘So, if you think of anything else, Mr Saunders, please let me know,’ added the banqueting manager before turning to head into the centre of the room to inspect and approve a newly completed table.