“Sure. Mum and Dad bought it for me last year.”
She hands over the camera; a Kodak Instamatic 50. At first glance it doesn’t look too dissimilar to a modern camera but rather than an LCD screen at the back, there’s a narrow window with a series of numbers running horizontal.
“Wow. It takes actual film,” I comment.
“Amazing isn’t it?” she responds. “Something so small can capture a moment and within five or six days you’ve got a permanent reminder.”
“Yeah, remarkable. We should take a selfie.”
“A what?”
“I’ll show you.”
I put my arm around her shoulder and hold the camera out in front of us. Without a screen to check, I can only hope both our faces are in frame as I press the shutter button. It results in a satisfying mechanical click.
“There we go. That’s probably the first ever selfie taken in Eastbourne.”
“We could have just asked one of my colleagues to take a photo. What if you’ve cut off the top of our heads?”
“Then we’ll have an amusing memory.”
“I’m not so sure I like selfies. If I want to see my own face, I can look in a mirror.”
“Trust me: they’ll catch on one day. Anyway, what do you fancy doing first?”
“I’d like to stretch my legs. Shall we take a stroll down to the pier?”
“Fine by me, but one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“Promise me you won’t sing.”
She giggles and takes my arm. As we wander away, I catch Colin’s parting glare from the coach window. Childish, but I grin back at him. Thirty feet of pavement later I admit to myself I didn’t grin just to annoy Colin but because of the young woman on my arm.
It would be fair to say Jan has been a godsend over the last few weeks, and not an unattractive godsend at that. Today, she looks positively radiant and I fear Colin isn’t the only one to have developed a bit of a crush. However, Colin has the distinct advantage of not living and working with Jan’s father. Having seen what George is capable of when riled, I don’t think it would be wise to act inappropriately with his beloved daughter.
We pass a manicured lawn with a clock tower in the centre. It’s only just gone ten, but the beach is already heaving with holidaymakers and day-trippers alike; as is the promenade. I’d guess we’re still years away from the era of cheap package holidays and budget flights, and it appears most of South-East England have chosen Eastbourne as their destination today. It’s a far cry from my last visit to a seaside town. I had to visit a client’s regional office along the coast in Bognor Regis and, despite my visit coinciding with the school summer holidays, the seafront appeared deserted.
“Fancy a paddle before the beach gets too busy?” Jan asks.
“You mean it’ll get busier?”
“Oh, it will.”
Paddling in the English Channel doesn’t feature on my bucket list but Jan seems keen.
“Yeah, sure.”
We head down the steps and navigate our way across the crowded expanse of shingle to the sandy ribbon of empty beach left behind by the retreating tide. Jan kicks off her sandals and places them in her bag whilst I wrestle with the laces on my trainers. I’m grateful I put on a brand new pair of socks this morning as Jan drops them, and my trainers, into her bottomless bag.
Once I’ve rolled my jeans up to the knees, we pad across the soft sand to the water.
“Will you hold my hand, Toby? I’m bound to trip over.”
“I know your game — you want to take me down with you.”
“You’re a fast learner,” she chuckles.
Hand in hand, we step forward until the first wave laps at our toes.
“Cocking hell,” I gasp. “That’s cold.”
My outburst sparks a chuckle from Jan.
“Sorry. Excuse my potty mouth.”
“Don’t apologise. I love your weird sayings.”
“Just as well.”
It’s a measure of how comfortable I’ve become in Jan’s company that the unedited, twenty-first century version of Toby Grant keeps speaking on behalf of the sixties version.
Inch by inch, we wade further in; stopping only when the water is up to our knees. Paddling becomes standing still.
“This is nice,” Jan coos. “There are certainly worse ways to spend a Saturday morning.”
If I were back home now, I’d be bingeing on a box set or lost in an online gaming world. The curtains would be drawn and my phone would be on hand so I could check for notifications or messages every five minutes.
That thought summons a question: if I could swap this precise moment for a moment back in my previous life, would I?
Would I swap the view of my flat-screen television for the view of a sea rippling with silver threads of sunlight? Would I swap the bluish glow of my phone screen with the warmth of the mid-morning sun on my face? Would I swap the feel of a controller for the softness of Jan’s hand in mine?
“Are you okay, Toby?”
It’s another question I can add to my list. I ponder that list for a moment before turning to Jan.
“You know, for the first time in a while I think I’m a fraction better than okay.”
“That’s a step in the right direction.”
“Yep,” I smile. “It is.”
I wouldn’t call it an epiphany as such but for the five minutes we stand and do nothing, I finally realise the merits of doing nothing. Not checking my phone, not thinking about checking my phone, not dwelling, not worrying, not stressing — literally banishing all the usual noise and wallowing in the nothingness.
I puff a long, satisfied sigh.
“Where shall we go next?” Jan asks.
“Shall we just walk and see where it takes us?”
“That sounds like a plan.”
It proves to be a day of new experiences. Ironic really, in that all of those new experiences have been around forever but never registered on my leisure radar. I’ve never spent an hour rowing aimlessly around on a boating lake, or relaxed in a deckchair whilst listening to a brass band. I’ve never eaten candy floss whilst strolling around a model village, or tried my hand at a coconut shy. I’ve never eaten freshly cooked chips from a paper cone or chuckled at a Punch & Judy show.
And, I’ve never quite enjoyed one person’s company so much.
By four o’clock my feet ache from all the walking and my jaw from all the laughing. We pass a bench on the Grand Parade and take a ten minute breather.
“Are you having a good time?” Jan asks for the umpteenth time.
“Well, put it this way: on a scale of one to ten, I presumed today would be a two but it’s easily been a nine.”
“Oh, not a ten?”
“We’ve still got a couple of hours. Let’s see.”
She casts a thoughtful gaze out towards the beach and the sea beyond.
“I could stay here forever,” she sighs. “One day just isn’t enough.”
“You’d get bored.”
“I doubt it; I never get bored.”
“Ever? You said your job is boring.”
“My job is boring, but that doesn’t mean I have to be bored while I’m doing it. It’s a state of mind.”
“Okay, what if you had to sit on this bench for two hours every single day? Give it a week and you’d be bored witless.”
“No, I wouldn’t. I’d use my imagination, and I’d think about all the people who’ve sat here before me; their stories. Some sad, some happy. Some funny, some tragic.”
“I couldn’t do that. I’ve got a low boredom threshold.”
“Yet, I bet your previous life in America was really exciting?”
“Err, not especially.”
“Then the problem isn’t where you are — it’s you.”
“Meaning?”
“You can find pleasure in even the most mundane situation if you’re willing to look hard enough. Only lazy people get bored.”
&nbs
p; “Are you calling me lazy?”
“Not at all, but perhaps you just need to look a little harder, like you have today. I watched you at the bandstand earlier, and I’ve never seen anyone so engrossed by a brass band playing Colonel Bogey.”
“It’s a classic tune.”
She tries to stifle a grin. I don’t. We fall into a comfortable silence while I try to make sense of the woman next to me.
Without question, Jan has qualities which are both compelling and contrary. When I think of similarly aged women I’ve known over the years, they’re like a different species to my newfound friend. On the one hand she has this endearing child-like innocence yet on the other, there’s a wise, opinionated character lurking just beneath the surface. Then there’s her selfless, caring side. It pains me to admit it, but my generation tends to show we care by setting up activist groups on Facebook, creating online petitions, or sponsoring celebrities to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. We’ve become a generation of virtue signallers whereas here, people show they care with deeds and actions. Jan is the best example of that.
“You’re doing it again,” she giggles. “Drifting off into your own world.”
“Oh, sorry. I was just … never mind.”
Jan then points to a sign across the way.
“How about we round the day off with a boat trip to Beachy Head?”
“Sounds good.”
Half-an-hour later, we’re huddled close together at the back of a small boat pootling through the waters just off Beachy Head. I had no idea what Beachy Head was when I agreed to the trip, but I can’t deny the six-hundred foot chalk cliffs aren’t an impressive sight. Jan is equally impressed with the red and white striped lighthouse sited on a rocky outcrop just below the cliffs.
“Wouldn’t you just love to live in a lighthouse?”
“I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Oh, I have. Imagine the changing view from the window every day. A glistening sea and endless blue sky like today, and then a blanket of thunderous clouds and foamy whitecaps during a storm. Not even you could get bored with that.”
“True, but it’s not exactly handy for the shops, or a cinema.”
“Who needs a cinema when you have all this?”
She casts her arm outwards theatrically to make the point.
“It’s just beautiful,” she adds. “Don’t you think?”
Jan fixes me with eyes every bit as blue as the sky she described, and waits for my agreement. I open my mouth and the words fall out.
“I … I think you’re beautiful.”
My confession is met with silence — a long, awkward silence. If ever there was ever a moment I wish I could travel back in time, now would be it. I’d give anything to go back ten seconds and stop myself from ruining what has been a near-perfect day.
“Shit … sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
“You don’t know why because you didn’t mean it, or because you didn’t want me to know it?”
I get nothing from the tone of her voice. She might be offended, upset, or even flattered, but I fear disappointed is more likely. Time for some serious backtracking.
“I meant, you’re a beautiful person.”
“Beautiful in body, or spirit?”
“Err, um … both, I guess.”
“So, you do think I’m beautiful?”
I close my eyes and try to will myself out of the situation. Oddly, it doesn’t work, and I remain trapped in the tiny boat with nowhere to go.
“Well?”
“Look, Jan, I don’t want to make this any more awkward than it already is; for either us. Can we pretend …?”
“Toby?”
“Yes?”
“I’d like you to shut up now.”
“Charming,” I huff.
“I’d like you to shut up … and kiss me.”
With that statement, the day just became a ten.
32.
“Honestly, Alice,” I plead. “I really don’t mind.”
“I do. Gents should always sit in the front.”
“Will you two hurry up,” George complains from the driver’s seat. “We’re going to be late.”
Alice eases into the rear seat of the car and shuts the door. I wouldn’t mind but I never called shotgun.
Reluctantly, I climb into the passenger’s seat next to George and glance over my shoulder towards Jan in the back. I’d much rather we were seated next to one another for the short drive to church.
We set off.
“How was Eastbourne?” George asks.
We arrived back at Nelson Close just before nine o’clock yesterday evening. With George and Alice at the British Legion Club, we had an empty house but, by that point, the early start and day’s exertions had taken their toll. We barely lasted an hour before admitting defeat. Jan crawled up to her room, and I floated back to the caravan, but not before a long goodnight kiss.
Now we have to act the role of forbidden sweethearts in a Shakespearian play.
“We had a great day, thanks.”
And we did. We really did.
My only disappointment came with Jan’s reluctance to continue our petting — as she called it — once we were back amongst her colleagues. She assured me it wasn’t because of embarrassment, but modesty. I couldn’t have cared less what her colleagues thought, but Jan didn’t want to be the subject of office gossip come Monday morning. These are different times, I guess. More prudish times too; in my limited experience.
Still, I savoured our first kiss all the way home. It made the journey almost bearable.
Judgemental colleagues were not Jan’s only concern, and she understandably insisted there would be no petting anywhere within a square mile of her parents. I agreed without question. I’ve only known Jan for three weeks and sense George and Alice see our relationship more like that of siblings, with me playing the big brother. If that is the case, it validates Father O’Connor’s theory I might be filling the hole Thomas left behind. It’s impossible not to feel a little guilty about that but I can at least allay his concerns now Project Kirby is dead and buried. Whether I like it or not, I’m not going anywhere; irrespective of whether my relationship with Jan develops into anything or not.
We pull up outside the church and get out of the car. My favourite priest is there to greet us.
“Lovely to see you all. Particularly you, young Toby.”
Father O'Connor delivers his handshake with a knowing smile.
“You too, Father.”
“How are you?”
“I’m … good.”
“Glad to hear it. We should have a quick catch-up after the service.”
“Yes, we probably should.”
I follow my surrogate family into the church to a pew mid-way along the aisle. George takes a seat first, followed by Alice and then Jan, leaving me to sit at the end. As hard as it is, I resist the urge to shuffle closer to Jan.
The organist strikes the first chord and the congregation, as one, get to their feet. We’re off.
Perhaps it’s Father O’Connor’s enthusiasm and wit, or because my mind is now open to believing the previously unbelievable, but the service doesn’t drag quite as long as it might. There’s also a wholesome element to the experience; akin to eating a salad for dinner. It’s not exactly thrilling but you feel better in yourself afterwards.
As the service draws to a close, and on Father O’Connor’s advice, I remain seated while the rest of the congregation head off to take Holy Communion. I have an inkling my non-Catholic status might be the reason he wants a chat but, having barely dipped a toe thus far, I don’t think I’m ready to jump into the lake of Catholicism just yet.
As Holy Communion ends, George, Alice, and Jan return to the pew. We’re afforded a few minutes of quiet reflection before a final blessing. The congregation then spill out onto the tarmacked area outside the church to chat amongst themselves. I hang back until the last parishioner passes Father O’Connor on the way out. With the chu
rch empty, I make my way towards the vestibule.
“Is now a good time, Father?”
“It’s always a good time. Come, let’s sit for a moment.”
We take to the nearest pew. The priest wastes no time in getting to the point.
“So, young man. You’re still here.”
“I am.”
“And how is your plan coming along?”
“There is no longer a plan.”
“Oh?”
“Gwen Kirby is alive because of my intervention and there’s nothing I can do to change that.”
“Which means?”
“It looks like I’m here for good.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“If you’d asked me a week or two ago, I’d have said … actually, I wouldn’t have said much due to the shock. I’ve had some low points in my life, Father, but two weeks ago I could have willingly stepped in front of a bus.”
He looks concerned.
“But now?”
“Every day gets a little easier, in no small part because of George, Alice, and Jan. I dread to think where I’d be now if I hadn’t met them.”
“With fear of repeating myself, they’re good people, which is why I had concerns about you integrating yourself into their family and then suddenly disappearing.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry now.”
“Worry comes with the job, and you haven’t answered my original question: how do you feel about being here for good?”
“It changes hour by hour. One minute I think it’ll be okay and the next, I remember all the people I’ll never see again.”
“And are you coping with that?”
“I’ll let you into a little secret, Father: this isn’t the first time I’ve had … challenges. I used to see a therapist because of mental health issues.”
“You don’t say,” he chuckles.
“I’m being serious.”
“Oh, right.”
“Anyway, she gave me a piece of advice about exercise, and how it can help to counter the negative effects of depression. Working with George has proven her point. And if I feel particularly low, I’ll go for a walk and try not to think about my friends and family. I have to keep telling myself that somewhere, the life I left behind is carrying on as usual and there’s an alternate version of me still there.”
Tuned Out Page 28
