Chasing the Sun with Henry

by Gary Brockwell

  I felt her hand shaking slightly underneath mine, and could see her trying to control her breathing.

  I took my hand away from hers and formed a fist in one fluid movement.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is magic,’ I said loudly, unfurling my hand and revealing an empty palm.

  ‘This is magic gone wrong!’ I corrected, to much laughter.

  I turned to Cerys. ‘Okay, take away your hand – two tricks out of three isn’t bad though, is it?’

  Cerys lifted her hand in a dramatic fashion and again looked surprised to find no coin.

  ‘What have you done with my coin? I am sorry – your coin! Good job it wasn’t £2!’

  I stopped speaking and tilted my head, studying the left side of Cerys’ neck.

  ‘Excuse me, may I?’ I enquired.

  And before she could respond, I reached across with the hand that had been empty, making sure those around the table could see it still was the case, and stroked her neck and earlobe momentarily with my fingers. My imagination witnessed her nipples to stiffen beneath her tight black dress as I ‘retrieved’ the coin from behind her ear a second later and held it up for inspection.

  The table applauded and Cerys smiled at me, her pupils dilated.

  ‘Told you he was good!’ stated Kate.

  I was now really enjoying myself, and after the last tactile illusion, was thankful the light was dim in the dining room and the bottom of my dinner jacket rested on my thighs.

  Cerys had asked me previously to perform a trick for her, but I had declined, anxious it might fall flat in the confines of her Range Rover. And the feeling of being inferior to her successful businessman husband had never been far away, adding to the caution.

  I had decided to stay, partly to be near Cerys and partly because of the buzz I got from performing.

  I reached for my cards in my jacket pocket, and as my finger curled around the box, Mike the treasurer was greeted with cheers as he re-entered the room. He held an empty wine glass in his hand and struck the side of it with a teaspoon to gain attention and silence.

  When all was quiet, he spoke. ‘Gentlemen and lady guests, I present to you, your chairman, Roger Snodd.’

  To the sound of rapturous applause, Roger Snodd stood and surveyed the room. Again, his presence seemed to create a hypnotic effect among the guests, and as before, he milked it for all it was worth.

  ‘Please, please, thank you,’ he uttered above the din in fake surprise.

  The clapping ceased and as the room filled with quietness, from Steve Monroe’s decks some faint music could be picked out. It wasn’t loud enough to detect the tune, but enough to place it as a military march.

  ‘Friends,’ began Roger Snodd. ‘Firstly, thank you all for coming and thank you to our wonderful ladies for their gracious presence here – they all look truly beautiful.’

  He paused to allow the men to respond with ‘hear, hear’s and banging of the tables.

  ‘The meal, I am sure you will agree, was delicious and I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the catering staff for all their efforts.’

  This statement was met with polite applause.

  ‘You know I am a modern man, keen to do away with unnecessary protocol.’

  His members whooped and oooohed at this suggestion, whereas I was reminded of the endless toasts and granting permission for the men to remove their jackets at a point in time decided by him.

  ‘So, so, I have decided,’ he began, waving his hands for order. ‘I have decided to do away with long, drawn-out speeches this year.’

  ‘Noooooooooooooo,’ came the collective response from the male guests, while the women appeared to remain silent.

  ‘After all,’ he continued, ‘of what interest are they to our lady guests? Do they want to listen to line after line of in-house jokes and boys’ humour? Do they want to hear our “colourful” songs? No, this will not do. So, instead I have been thinking about what our ladies really want, and I have concluded that they want to be impressed by us. How can we do this, you may ask? Well, it can be achieved in many different ways. Each takes effort, each should been seen as a sign of us attempting to impress. You could wine her, dine her, telephone her out of the blue and hug her because you can. You could hold her, surprise her, always compliment her and tell her every day how beautiful she is. You could smile at her with love in your eyes, laugh with her, cry with her and cuddle with her and let her fall asleep in your arms. Then again, you could shop with her, shower her with jewellery or buy her flowers. You could hold her hand; write love letters and poetry to her. In summary, gentlemen, go to the end of the earth and back for her.

  ‘As I let you digest this, I will remind you of what I said on our arrival here tonight: that our relationships are equal partnerships. So if this is the case, what can our ladies do to impress us, the Lombarders? I have given this an equal amount of deliberation and can conclude with confidence that turning up naked and bringing beer just about covers everything!’

  The men lost their senses at this, and guffawed and sniggered and repeated the last line of Roger Snodd’s proposal over and over to each other. The women, in contrast, either laughed politely, or looked on simply embarrassed at the testosterone surging around them. Kate was in the former camp; Cerys in the latter.

  Above the din, Roger Snodd spoke again. ‘The music is ready, boys – you know what to do. This is one tradition that will not be disregarded on my watch!’

  And with this, he indicated to Steve Monroe to increase the volume of the march. The timing was excellent, as at that very point the familiar refrain of the Dam Busters theme filled the room. Now I understood what Steve had meant regarding the music choice. With the stirring anthem blasting away from the corner of the dining room and the cue from Roger Snodd, three quarters of the Lombarders took flight to the dance area and with outstretched arms proceeded to run around the floor, mimicking, I presumed, Lancaster bombers in flight.

  I watched in disbelief and turned to speak to Cerys, but she beat me to it.

  ‘Just don’t ask!’ she said

  John, Kate’s partner, couldn’t resist the lure of joining in the formation flying and tipped his ‘wing’ in salute to Roger Snodd as he flew past en route to the others.

  I leant in to address Cerys. ‘Is your husband in amongst them?’ I teased.

  ‘If he hears it, he will be!’ she replied with a seemingly heavy heart.

  Being with Cerys was wonderful, but it was all false, sitting there, watching the surreal scene play out in front of me. I had to leave; I had performed only two tricks all evening and with the music now in full swing, I could see the atmosphere only degenerating even further. The possibility of performing any more diminished, and I decided I wouldn’t be looking to find Mike the treasurer for any payment.

  ‘I think it is time I was going,’ I announced to Cerys as I got up.

  ‘Oh, okay. I understand,’ she replied.

  I stood and waved to Kate, and she raised her arm in return and seemed embarrassed by her partner’s continued frantic movements at the far end of the room.

  Once through the double doors, I was on alert in case Greg Dixon was in the bar, but all was in fact quiet; he was either outside, or had been put in a cab and taken home. Instead, just a few drunks stood by the bar, speaking loudly but not listening to what the others said, and not interested in joining the traditional ‘dance’ next door.

  ‘Wait a sec.’ Cerys’ voice rang out behind me, her entrance bringing the Dam Busters theme fully into the bar for a moment. She assessed the situation before continuing to speak in hushed tones. ‘I just wanted to say it was lovely surprise seeing you, though I should have guessed you were here, what with that ruddy big white van in the car park!’

  ‘And I wanted to say how lovely you look. Your hair is beautiful,
’ I spilled out with ease. How could I find the words to compliment this woman and mean them, when I’ve never been able to tell my wife anything of the kind, not even that I loved her?

  Cerys smiled warmly at the praise and then looked into my eyes as if searching for inspiration to speak.

  ‘Cole is away in the Netherlands the week after next; he has asked me to join him midway through. My flight’s booked for the early morning, so I am staying at an airport hotel overnight,’ said Cerys, not pausing for breath.

  I looked at her; then realised she had stopped speaking.

  ‘Okay,’ I replied in a quizzical tone.

  ‘Eddie!’ she hissed.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve a hotel room booked,’ she whispered.

  And suddenly the penny dropped with me.

  ‘Oh, oh, you want me to… right, right,’ I stammered.

  ‘I was hoping for a more positive response, you know!’

  ‘I am sorry, of course, it’s… Wow! I need…’

  ‘I only found out today,’ she stated, ignoring my tongue-tied reply. ‘I was going to tell you next Saturday morning, but was conscious that the short notice might be difficult for you. But again, fate has intervened and made this possible!’

  ‘Right, right,’ I added.

  ‘If you want to, that is,’ Cerys replied, misunderstanding my attitude.

  Someone wanted to be with me, someone that was beautiful; somebody full of life was attracted to me enough to wish to spend the night with me, to wake up with me. Yes, it was flattering, but equally now that the moment I had wanted to happen could become a reality, I was flabbergasted that it actually might.

  ‘I’ll have to sort some things out,’ I stated obviously.

  ‘Well, if you want it to happen, yes, you will.’

  ‘I’d really love to kiss you,’ I replied quietly, trying to rise above Cerys’ dismissiveness.

  ‘Not a good idea here, Mr Dungiven,’ she said, wrinkling her nose.

  The drunks in the bar had finally listened to one story and gave out a collective explosion of laughter, which ebbed, then reappeared even stronger than before.

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘See you next week, I’ll have times and all that then,’ Cerys said.

  ‘Okay, see you next week.’

  And with that, she turned and headed back toward the double doors and I strode toward the exit. My head felt further from my feet than ever before; my mind was occupied counting off the subsequent sleeps before the week after next; I was like an expectant child waiting for the sound of sleigh bells and reindeer hooves to arrive at the darkest point of winter. I didn’t consider what I would offer to Sally as an excuse.

  Such was the effect of Cerys’s proposal that I hadn’t noticed, until she opened the double doors and allowed the sound to flood in, that the stirring anthem had been replaced by an easy listening number. A 1930s-style singer was asking questions in successive lines – if I had ever seen a dream talking, walking or dancing. I presumed, judging by the Lombarders’ raucous responses as Steve Monroe turned down the volume on each line, that he, this hopeless romantic crooner, rather smugly, had.

  In the car park the music and the Lombarders could still be heard, but the sounds drifted in and out into the night, masking the madness held within the club.

  I reached the van and stopped. Something was wrong.

  Voices, two voices, projected from the far side of the van. Two voices shielded by the bulk of my vehicle. Two voices apparently hiding away from the party. Two voices in a darkened car park are always suspicious. With my initial thoughts of the van being stolen banished by the content of their conversation, instinct screamed at me to keep out of view.

  I couldn’t see them, but thankfully neither could they see me. I wasn’t sure how the dialogue would have panned out if I had let my presence be known.

  ‘Like I said, next one is in a couple of weeks,’ said one voice. ‘I’ll give you details of the location a few hours before, can’t be too careful.’

  ‘I am tempted, you know I am, but I can’t really get out of the trip, business is business,’ replied the other.

  ‘We are talking serious cash here, Cole, big players, big money.’

  ‘How big?’

  ‘Tens of thousands changing hands on the night. Some of these guys only partake a couple of times a year. This one is like our annual festival!’

  ‘I know, you said that before. Let me work something out.’

  ‘So you are in?’

  ‘I will let you know!’

  ‘Plenty more are interested. Is it the entrance fee?’

  ‘No, it’s not the entrance fee. I’ve said I am away for that week.’

  ‘Can’t really wait for an answer, I need to know now.’

  ‘Oh, c’mon. I just need to make some calls on Monday morning.’

  ‘There aren’t many that turn down an invitation and get asked again. There are limited places, a waiting list, I can’t really make exceptions.’

  ‘Okay, okay, I am in, I’ll fly back early if need be.’

  ‘I knew you would see sense!’

  They both laughed.

  ‘I’ll need the £3K entrance fee by the middle of the week.’

  ‘Sure, take a cheque?’

  They both laughed again.

  Their voices were getting louder; indicating they were heading to the back of the van, back to the party and into my vision. I moved in parallel to their progress, until I was at the front of van and still out of sight.

  ‘My boy has come on a treat; he’s ready. That Lab you got me really worked him out! Complete carnage when he got going!’

  I couldn’t be sure if it was shock at what I had just heard or because they had neared the clubhouse, but their voices grew faint as I leant against the grille of the van, alone in the car park.

  Chapter 13

  First Dates and Goodbyes

  I’ve always been of the opinion that routine is what shapes us. It’s what we crave. We all need structure and order in our lives.

  Daily we wake to an alarm, a shrill blast which forcibly drags us from our dreams, from our havens. Then, blinking at the numbers presented to us in sleepy disbelief, we search with a blind hand to sever the din that has tricked our minds and bodies into a kick-start and instead breathe, just breathe.

  We head to the bathroom; grab at the switch, anticipating the painful light to come with tightly shut eyes, and on opening, the feeling of adjustment is always uncomfortable.

  At this point, our own individual routines take hold. I personally urinate, brush my teeth, shave and shower, always in that order, never deviating. Even the act of shaving has a routine. I always wet shave, always start with an upward stroke above my lips on the left side and move to my cheek, then jawline, followed by chin, right side jaw, cheek; then full circle back above my lips.

  But today I threw chaos into the mix and chose a different route around my stubble. I cannot explain why I did it; it certainly wasn’t planned, wasn’t the routine; I think I changed, plain and simply, because I realised I could.

  As my shaving foam-covered reflection steamed up in the mirror, I raised my hand to apply, as always, the first upward stroke above my top lip, but paused, altering my direction and swept downwards instead. I moved to the right side above my lips, then right cheek, left cheek, chin and jawline right to left. The result was the same, but the experience felt fresh; I had to concentrate. It was, dare I say it, after so many shaves over so many years, almost enjoyable again; it was up there with the first novelty shaves of youth when the action removes the soft down of innocence.

  It illustrated to me that change was good and should be welcomed and embraced, but sometimes it is not easy to accept. Change is always there for us t
o discover; we just are unable to find it hidden in our routines.

  Shave concluded, I climbed into the shower and with the revelation in my mind I contemplated changing the order I soaped and washed my body. It really seemed like the first day of the rest of my life, but with the water jets running I reverted to my tried-and-tested method. Too much change, I concluded, can be unsettling, as I let the warm water run over my shoulders for a few minutes, before soaping my right armpit as I had done countless times before!

  Drying off (again in my usual order), t’, I heard the front door close and knew Sally had risen and gotten ready in the bathroom downstairs and left without even a ‘good morning’ uttered. I resigned myself in an instant to the fact that the currents we battled against, without us realising, had carried us to different parts of the shore.

  And tied tightly around this thought, strangling it in fact, hung the anticipation and subsequent fallout of a night spent with Cerys. Imagery of osculation and subsequent guilt flew around my mind – undressing her, cupping her breasts, taking her nipples into my mouth, running my fingers down her back, up the inside of her thighs, hearing her moan contentedly beneath me. But I concluded it was easier to feel this guilty than to communicate with my wife, or to save an exhausted relationship that was surfacing for the last time.

  Gus and I had planned to visit Clifford today instead of walking. Gus normally only visits at the weekend, but is away from tomorrow for a week. He is heading to Italy to see Il Palio or something; I guessed this is an opera, but didn’t want to ask, to admit my ignorance, as he spoke about it with a casual confidence. He mentioned it also had to be the year of the owl, which left me completely confused.

  But at least Gus visits. I have made excuse after excuse to Mary and Clifford to explain Sally’s constant absence. I recall she has only visited once with me, and I believe Mary said she visited on her own one afternoon, not long after Clifford was admitted, but that is it. But they continue to ask how she is and are interested in the contract she is working toward with the supermarket, and comment that they appreciate how busy she is. Clifford always makes a point of calling her a good girl. Sometimes, it seems, the less you do, the more you are appreciated.