Chasing the Sun with Henry

by Gary Brockwell

  At the airport drop-off point, he suggested cancelling his trip and going straight to the hospital. I discouraged him, thinking on my feet, and told him to try and enjoy himself and take lots of photos; it would cheer Clifford up on his return. Getting out of the van, he agreed with a smile and a nod that this would be a good idea and wandered over to the terminal building, his battered holdall slung over his shoulder.

  Later, I performed at two children’s parties and all the while, through pass the parcel, I Am the Music Man and demonstrating the wobbly wand, I thought about Sally and my decision to conform, and tried to compose the speech I would deliver to Cerys on the beach the next day.

  Last night, as has become the norm, I ate a late supper by myself in the kitchen, Henry in his bed, snoring, under the breakfast bar. I had phoned Sally in the early afternoon and left a voice message, asking her to meet me for dinner in a country pub – nothing fancy, just a chance to do something different together, and to talk. I didn’t get a call back. I sent a couple of text messages as backup in the late afternoon and eventually received a text reply at 8pm, claiming her phone had been playing up and she had only just received my messages. She stated that she was currently with Clifford in the hospital and would be back soon, and that it was obviously too late now for a meal. Her lack of an apology was telling and I found it strangely more upsetting then the lie she had just told.

  Around midnight I felt her slide into the bed next to me. I felt her carefully turn her back away, carefully keep every cell of her skin away from mine, to travel to her dreams without me. The bed might as well have been a thousand miles wide; the distance between us would have remained the same. And in the darkness, a silence of denial from me refused to see the truth revealed in her message.

  In the hushed tomb of night, I heard her phone vibrate four times on the table beside her. I convinced myself that my second message from that afternoon had just got through. It was odd, though, how Sally’s phone was always set to silent vibrate; something she had only been doing these past few months. the hospitalatsn:As sleep circled me, I decided as I lay there to get up early the next morning before Sally and check the phone, to make sure it was my message that had been announced in the hallway. But what would I do if it wasn’t mine? I reasoned that it most probably would be Jennifer, making arrangements to meet up tonight. More importantly, how could I explain why the text had been read? It was obvious Sally wasn’t asleep when it had arrived and must have heard it too.

  Why could I not just confront her; ask where the missing hours of last night had gone, why she was always out, why we do not eat, speak, or even look at each other any more? But quite simply, I was frightened to ask; afraid of the answers I might hear. Like Mary reeling from the consultant’s words, I dreaded hearing a truth I did not want, a change I could not control. To me, it was better to live within the wreckage of a realm, though deeply flawed, one that I knew and was perversely comfortable in; one that I was convinced I could save, bring back onto a steady course.

  In reality, on waking at first light today, I looked over to see if Sally was asleep, but she was in fact already gone. I hadn’t heard her get up; she must have showered in the downstairs bathroom again. I sat up, my mind already racing and alert. I really do not know how I have been sleeping; I always appear to be in the same position as when I closed my eyes six short hours before. Finally, I convinced myself I was disappointed that I now would not be able to confirm that the message received on Sally’s phone was indeed mine.

  Then, as I wandered into the kitchen, Cerys entered my thoughts, as did the conversation I would be having in a short while. I patted Henry good morning in his basket and shuddered as I thought about Phoebe’s fate, as I had every day since overhearing the conversation by my van at the Lombarders ladies night. I noticed the paper on the work surface.

  ‘Seeing Greg – solar panels,’ I read aloud. That’s strange for Sally to leave a note, I thought, and I didn’t understand the unease I felt on reading it.

  I made tea and mulled over the note and my forthcoming speech, sitting at the breakfast bar. Cowardly, I wished Cerys and I had exchanged phone numbers; we had made a conscious decision not to, as the temptation to contact and the explanation on discovery by our partners would be too great. But if we had done this, had allowed illicit communication to flow back and forth in the many hours we spent apart I could now present my words via a text message, the modern way, without punctuation, without a crack in the voice, ultimately avoiding the contact with the recipient’s eyes that completes the message that the words only partly deliver. I dismissed the idea as quickly as I had it – not all aspects of modern life are an improvement on the practices of before. But with the use of technology I could have warned her about her husband’s dark secret and with each day that passed I felt more guilty that I held the knowledge to myself.

  Tea drunk and cup in the sink for washing later, I made my checks – keys, dog leash and phone that had been charging overnight in the kitchen. Disconnecting the phone from the charger, a message alert bleeped at me. I opened the message and was immediately puzzled.

  Eddie, if you need to talk I can be around, the message read, received from an unknown number. I noted it was sent last night at 2.07, way past my bedtime. I stared at the phone. Was this Cerys? No, it couldn’t be, we were meeting in an hour and what did she mean? What were we to talk about? Had she come to the same conclusion as me? Who else would send me a text from a number I didn’t have stored as a contact? The message had to be for me; it addressed me by name. It couldn’t be some random post-argument drunken text delivered to my phone by shaky fingers, viewed through bleary, bloodshot eyes.

  Sorry, who is this? I typed quickly, and sent the message.

  In the van as I turned over the engine, the phone bleeped once more, this time from the glove compartment. I picked up the phone, curious as to who it could be.

  Eddie, it’s Jenny, I was going to give you space, but I am sure you might need the support. I can be there from ten.

  This didn’t make any sense. I felt cold and exhaled deeply. How on earth did Jennifer know that I was heading to the beach to break up with Cerys this morning? How did she know about Cerys? I started to panic. If Jennifer knows, Sally knows, and with that revelation my heart pounded in my chest. The irony of the situation, the trying to make it right before it was too late, wasn’t lost on me. Perhaps she was going to act as an intermediary between Sally and me, but I knew she hated men, so was probably using it as an excuse to poke and prod me, to kidney-punch me on the ropes, to further rubbish my gender for her own needs. I tried to reduce my heart rate and think. Logically, I reasoned, perhaps Sally doesn’t know, only Jennifer – but how? I decided I could spend the next few hours mulling over this conundrum and concluded that I should, at this point, keep her on side. I selected ‘reply’ on my phone, typed, Thanks and sent the simple, polite message.

  For the first time I dreaded the drive to the beach. The excited expectation had gone, replaced by a feeling of dread. Even the disappointment I experienced on so many Saturdays trudging back to the van after walking alone was preferable to this. What could I start with? ‘I cannot see you any more’, or ‘Your husband is involved with a dog-fighting ring and may have given Phoebe to them’? How on earth could I tell her the latter? But she needed to know the truth, I knew this. But with Jennifer knowing, I had to ensure I went through with it, to explain why I couldn’t see Cerys any more, why next Wednesday couldn’t happen.

  Pulling into the car park, my heart sank further. Parked up was a white Range Rover. For the first time, Cerys had arrived before me. I had no time to prepare, no time to go over my words. She waved enthusiastically from her driver’s seat as I pulled in beside her, and I smiled in return. She got out of her car and came over to me, running, laughing, oblivious to what I was going to say. Cerys opened the passenger door of the van.

  ‘Thought I’d
do an away fixture today,’ she said, getting in as Henry dropped to the floor and licked her hands affectionately. ‘Hello, Henry!’

  She leant in to kiss me, and I could do nothing but respond. Her soft lips touching mine made me melt.

  ‘So good to see you!’ she commented when we broke away. ‘Now, Wednesday – the room is ready after 3pm, so I thought we could meet beforehand at the hotel and have a bite to eat, I think the restaurant is okay. That’s if you can make it at that time. Been thinking about it all week, since the ball – you were brilliant, by the way; I’m not just saying that because of us, so many people commented on it. My flight is at ten so I need to leave by eight, and you can stay until twelve if you want to, no rush.’

  Cerys stopped speaking and looked at me.

  ‘I am all over the place, Eddie, aren’t I? Babbling on and on, all these random thoughts in my head. Shall we go?’ she added, opening the passenger door a little, causing Henry to get up and wag his tail.

  I sat still, wanting it to be five minutes into the future.

  Cerys finally noted my silence and spoke again.

  ‘Everything okay, Eddie?’ she asked gently.

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Eddie? What is it? What’s wrong?’ Cerys said, closing the door and ignoring Henry’s deep sigh as the sounds and smells of outside were removed from the cab.

  I turned and looked at her, wishing I had been able to send that text message after all.

  ‘Cerys,’ I began, looking straight into her eyes, ‘I can’t make it on Wednesday.’

  ‘Oh, Eddie!’

  Annoyance tore through her voice, and she stared me out, until I broke eye contact.

  ‘I know, I am sorry,’ I conceded meekly.

  She puffed out her cheeks and exhaled deeply.

  ‘I am just disappointed, I’ve thought about it all week. It’s not every day I do this, you know, I don’t make a habit of this sort of thing,’ she stated. ‘May I ask why?’ she added.

  ‘Why?’ I unnecessarily repeated; my planned speech destroyed before even the first word was formed.

  ‘Yes, why you can’t meet me on Wednesday.’

  ‘I just can’t make it, that’s all,’ I lied, hoping it would be enough.

  But it obviously wasn’t.

  ‘That’s not an answer, Eddie, and you know it. I gave you all this time to make arrangements – when I saw your van parked at the golf club last week, I knew this could work, I was so excited. I really wanted to tell you, to find you there and then, but knew I had to wait for the right moment to broach the subject. It was really difficult for me to ask you, but I want to be with you, fully, totally,’ Cerys said, her frustration spilling out.

  She then asked the question I dreaded.

  ‘You do want to be with me, Eddie, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do!’ I replied enthusiastically.

  ‘Phew, for a moment there my brain thought we were breaking up!’ laughed Cerys.

  I didn’t laugh, I didn’t reply; I just stared straight ahead through the windscreen toward the dunes.

  Cerys stopped laughing. I felt her eyes staring at me.

  I faced her and saw the look I had wanted to avoid. The look of crushing bewilderment, the look of someone wishing they had not revealed their thoughts so openly moments before, the look of someone not wanting to hear another word, hoping the tears forming in their eyes will somehow block out the sound.

  ‘I am sorry; I just can’t do this any more,’ I stated, plain and direct.

  Cerys said nothing, but just turned and looked out the windscreen toward the dunes as I had done.

  ‘It was seeing Clifford and Mary at the hospital. It just made me feel—’

  ‘Stop! Stop!’ shouted Cerys. ‘I don’t want to hear excuses or reasons; you made a choice, not me, don’t try to justify it!’

  I obeyed and remained silent, the words I wanted to say left hanging and I knew I could not tell her about Phoebe now.

  I am ashamed to admit that at that point, I wanted to run, turn and flee. But this was my van, my space; I couldn’t leave. Instead, I continued to sit, wishing she would go.

  ‘So this is it then?’ Cerys finally offered into the silence.

  I nodded, not sure what to do next, my eyes still studying the profile of her face.

  Eventually, she took hold of my hands and looked at me, tears running down her cheeks. She smiled at me, her warm, honest smile, and I returned it with my own.

  ‘Eddie, this could have been so good, it was right. Clifford and Mary are different people; you can’t live your life as another.’

  I didn’t answer, I didn’t know if she expected or wanted me to. As Cerys said, I had made my choice.

  She withdrew her hands from mine and momentarily kissed my forehead tenderly. She then patted Henry’s head and told him to be good.

  ‘Look after yourself, Eddie. I hope you find what you are looking for,’ she said, opening the passenger door once more, but this time leaving.

  Cerys ran to her car while I sat motionless in the van. I heard her engine start, heard the vehicle reverse and wheel-spin quickly away, heard the silence return once more, but I didn’t look. I didn’t dare.

  When I eventually moved, I don’t remember the walk on the beach. I don’t remember details of the drive home. I do remember the feeling of utter despair, the urge to yell at the top of my voice until my throat was hoarse and sore, and the unrelenting feeling of dread and anxiety if I closed my eyes or had them open, if I walked or sat still.

  Back at the house, as expected, Jennifer’s car sat on the driveway. Before heading inside, I looked at my eyes in the sun visor mirror, trying to convince myself they did not look puffy, bloodshot or sad. I would wait and see what she had to say, see what she knew before offering the information that it was actually over.

  I entered, my key turning in the lock prompting Jennifer to emerge from her studio down the hall.

  Henry raced toward Jennifer, excited to see her there, his gallop rewarded with affectionate words and stroking.

  ‘How are you doing, Eddie?’ Jennifer asked me from the studio doorway.

  ‘Fine,’ I lied.

  ‘That’s good. You look shaken, I am sorry about that.’

  ‘I am okay,’ I replied, not wanting to say too much at this time.

  ‘Shall I make tea? Looks like you could do with one,’ Jennifer offered.

  I nodded my agreement.

  We entered the kitchen. Jennifer lifted the kettle to check the water level inside, and I lifted Henry’s bowl and filled it with water for him to quench his thirst.

  We stood with our own thoughts, the sound of the kettle boiling blocking out any embarrassing silence.

  ‘You sure you are okay, Eddie?’ asked Jennifer as the kettle cut out.

  ‘Yes I am,’ I stated again.

  ‘Sally’s gone?’ she asked.

  ‘Yep, she left a note,’ I said absent-mindedly.

  ‘And you are okay with that?’ she enquired slowly, as if choosing her words carefully.

  ‘The note’s there.’ I gestured toward the work surface in front of her. ‘It was a bit strange to receive it, though,’ I added.

  ‘You just left it there?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Jennifer replied hurriedly.

  ‘You can read it if you want,’ I suggested, happy to keep the conversation away from the reason Jennifer was here.

  ‘No, Eddie, I wouldn’t dream of it, it’s of a personal nature.’

  ‘It only states that she is seeing her brother about those bloody solar panels again. I don’t understand why that warranted a note.’

  ‘Sorry?’ she said, lifting a brewed teabag out of a cup w
ith a spoon.

  ‘She’s out all the time, but never leaves a note, so I don’t know why today is so special.’

  ‘May I?’ she asked, nodding toward the paper.

  ‘Sure.’

  Jennifer picked up the note, while still balancing the discarded teabag on the spoon. She read it quickly and dropped the teabag back into the cup with a splash, and uttered, ‘Shit’ as the scolding drink caught her fingers.

  It was my turn to ask if she was okay. She replied yes, but seemed suddenly flustered. She reread the note over and over and I sensed this had somehow, for reasons I did not understand, distracted her from confronting me about Cerys. She sipped at her tea repeatedly and thoughtfully, attempting to drain the hot liquid as quickly as possible, and made the excuse, through blowing over and slurping the tea, that one of her dogs had a grooming appointment as her eventual reason to make a hurried departure. She left the house, her mind obviously preoccupied – perhaps she had had a change of heart, I thought.

  I walked into the hallway, wishing I had had a change of heart myself at the beach and was now looking forward to the excitement of lying with another woman in a few short days. Instead, I felt lonelier than I had ever imagined it possible to be.

  Chapter 15

  In the Kitchen at Parties

  I spend a large proportion of my time in strangers’ gardens. Similar to dogs, I believe a garden reflects an image of its owners, their outlook on life. From the neat borders packed with colour-coordinated -consciousflowering blooms, to the towering leylandii surrounding a plot like a living prison wall, each gives an insight into a person. Invariably, those with majestic floral displays and swinging, solid wooden garden furniture tend to scrutinise their invoices, in some cases requesting an itemised breakdown of the costings before paying, normally in full, but begrudgingly to some extent. In the shaded gardens, where only the ridge tiles of the neighbouring house are visible and the borders are an arid, acid-filled wasteland, to secure eye contact with the owner is an achievement; to be invited inside an improbability.