Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  “I’m sure you’re right,” he says, a little dismissively. “And for what it’s worth I wouldn’t worry too much about that depression nonsense. We all have days where we’re feeling a little blue.”

  “Yeah, I think you’ve just nailed this generation’s problem with mental health. It’s not like a cold, Father; you can’t just neck a couple of aspirin and wait for the pain to disappear.”

  “That’s not what I said but sometimes in life you’ve just got to roll up your sleeves and get on with it. Stiff upper lip, and all that.”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d say Father O’Connor is playing the same game of cliché bingo Dad so enjoyed.

  “We’ll have to agree to differ on that, but it looks like you’ve gained another parishioner.”

  “And welcome you are too. We should talk about bringing you into the faith some time.”

  “One step at a time. I’m still some way off adjusting to life here.”

  “Understood. Whenever you’re ready.”

  It feels like an appropriate time to end the conversation.

  “I’d better get going. They’re waiting for me out front.”

  We both get to our feet and Father O’Connor places his hand on my shoulder.

  “Don’t forget my door is always open, Toby.”

  “I won’t and thank you.”

  I rejoin the others outside and we file back into the car.

  “Everything okay, lad?” George asks as we set off.

  “It’s all good. Father O’Connor wanted to talk about my faith.”

  “I see.”

  Clearly a subject of little interest, he doesn’t expand on his answer and throws an unrelated question over his shoulder towards Alice. That conversation continues all the way back to Nelson Close.

  Sunday lunch turns out to be a ploughman’s lunch of crusty white bread, roasted ham, wedges of cheddar cheese, and an assortment of pickles. Alice suggests we eat in the garden.

  I’ve barely had a chance to stab my first pickled onion when George throws me a curveball.

  “Next Saturday, lad, I’ve got a little job for you.”

  “Err, okay.”

  “Mrs Bannerman cornered me outside the church and asked if I could sort out her leaky tap on Saturday morning.”

  “You want me to do it?”

  “It’s a ten minute job. Nowt to worry about.”

  “I’m sure it’s a ten-minute job for you, but I’m not a plumber.”

  “Not yet, but I’ll show you what to do.”

  “Right, and pardon me for asking but why can’t you fix Mrs Bannerman’s tap?”

  “Because I won’t be here. Me and the wife are off to see friends in Kent next weekend.”

  “Oh.”

  I swap a furtive glance with Jan. Her lip curls upwards for a fraction of a second.

  “Well, as long as you show me what to do, I’m sure I’ll manage.”

  “That’s the spirit, lad.”

  Decision made, the conversation turns to their trip and the best route to Whitstable. As neither Jan nor Alice possess a penis, George ignores them both and asks my opinion.

  “I’m not sure but I think you’d take the M25 and the M2.”

  He looks puzzled.

  “The M25? Never heard of it — you’ll have to show me on a map after lunch.”

  George’s confusion is likely because I’ve suggested they use a motorway which may not currently exist.

  “Scrub that. I think I’m getting muddled with a highway in America.”

  “I thought as much.”

  He returns his attention to a wedge of cheese the size of a small island.

  Once lunch is over, I help Jan clear the table while George and Alice continue planning their trip.

  “Do you think I’ll be okay?” I ask, as we head into the kitchen. “Fixing Mrs Bannerman’s tap.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine. Dad trusts you.”

  “Does he?”

  “I don’t think he’d be leaving you at home with his daughter if he didn’t.”

  “Fair point.”

  “Do you fancy going for a walk once we’ve washed up?”

  “That’d be nice. Anywhere in mind?”

  “How about Farthing Copse?”

  The claustrophobic copse wouldn’t be my first choice for an afternoon stroll, and it’s not exactly close either.

  “Isn’t that a couple of miles away?”

  “It is, but I’m sure Dad won’t mind us taking the car.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure.”

  We finish up and Jan heads upstairs to change into more appropriate attire while I nip to the caravan to change into jeans and a t-shirt. She knocks on the door a few minutes later; looking fabulous in denim shorts and a pink gingham blouse.

  “All set?” she smiles.

  “Absolutely.”

  Out on the driveway, Jan attempts to hand me the keys.

  “Why do I need those?”

  “I’m no expert, but I believe you need them to start the car.”

  “Wait … you want me to drive?”

  “Oh, I presumed you could.”

  “I can, but it’s your dad’s car so maybe it would be better if you took the wheel.”

  “I’d love to, but I don’t have a licence. Dad did give me a couple of lessons but he said it only confirmed his suspicions women shouldn’t drive.”

  “Course he did,” I huff. “I’d better take those keys then.”

  We get in and I adjust the seat. George’s Ford Cortina is better equipped than his van but the dashboard is still austere compared to my Ford Focus. A car is a car though, so it can’t be that different to drive.

  I slip the key into the ignition barrel and turn it. The engine coughs and whines but fails to start. I try again, with the same result.

  “I think you need to pull that lever,” Jan suggests.

  “What lever?”

  “That one … the choke, I think.”

  “What does it do?”

  “I don’t know. Dad said I needed to pull it out slowly while turning the key.”

  I follow Jan’s instructions and the engine finally splutters into life. I hope the random lever is the extent of this car’s quirks.

  “Right. Here goes nothing.”

  Some minor gearbox crunching and excessive revving but I finally get the Cortina out of Nelson Close and on to the main road. Once I’m in fourth and we’re trundling along, I relax a little. There’s very little traffic on the roads; partly because there are far fewer cars around in this era but mainly because there’s nowhere to go on a Sunday afternoon as everything is closed. It’s just as well as the steering is heavy and erratic, and the brakes almost non-existent.

  “Did you know your parents were going away next weekend?” I ask.

  “I didn’t, no.”

  “Well, seeing as they’re not around, do you fancy doing something? Maybe we could go out for dinner?”

  “I’d love that.”

  “Great. Any particular style of food you prefer?”

  “Um, I don’t know. What do you like?”

  “I love an Indian. You can’t beat a good prawn Madras with Peshwari naan.”

  “I’ve never tried Indian food. I hear it’s really spicy.”

  “What, never? Not even a takeaway?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about Chinese?”

  “No.”

  “Thai?”

  “What’s Thai?”

  “Food … from Thailand.”

  “Good grief, no. Don’t they eat dogs?”

  I just about avoid crashing into a parked car.

  “Err, no. I was thinking along the lines of a green curry.”

  “Right,” she frowns. “Just so you know, the only foreign food Mum has ever served was Italian.”

  “I do like an Italian. What did you have?”

  “Tinned ravioli. Dad didn’t like it … said it was fascist foreign muck.”

  “
Yeah, tinned ravioli isn’t really representative of Italian cuisine.”

  “I wasn’t keen either.”

  “Noted. I’ll book us a table somewhere nice — trust me.”

  With no online reviews to reference, that task will be a matter of pot luck rather than judgement.

  We drive on and eventually turn into Farthing Lane which gives access to the copse.

  “Bloody hell,” I blurt.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Err, nothing.”

  Trees and dense foliage line both sides of the road as far as I can see. The last time I drove down Farthing Lane — in about fifty years’ time in real terms — the view featured hundreds of featureless modern houses; hemming in a small copse of maybe thirty acres. What I’m looking at now is the original copse before large swathes of it were sold-off to developers. It’s a jarring experience; seeing first-hand what we sacrificed by pushing the suburban boundary further into the greenbelt. I’m one of those who complains about a lack of housing but until now I’ve never considered the price we have to pay for it, and it’s a damn sight more than the overpriced properties I used to fawn over.

  “There’s a layby just around the bend,” Jan comments.

  “Uh? Oh, right.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I just wasn’t expecting the copse to be so … large.”

  “It’s one of my favourite places. There’s a glade at the far side which is beautiful this time of the year. So tranquil.”

  “Will you show me?”

  “Of course.”

  We round the bend and I ease the Cortina into the layby. I’m then faced with another new experience: locking a car with a key rather than simply pressing a button on a fob.

  Car eventually locked, we hop over a stile and make our way along the narrow path. We’ve barely covered a dozen steps when Jan grabs my hand and pulls me towards her.

  “I think we’re safe from prying eyes here,” she purrs.

  I don’t know exactly how many women I’ve kissed over the years but it must be north of twenty. Plenty of women and plenty of kissing but it’s never felt quite so natural as it does with Jan — not even with Gemma. An unromantic analogy but it’s like that rare occasion you try on a new pair of trousers and find they fit perfectly in every way.

  I’m beginning to suspect Jan might be perfect in every way.

  Our lips finally part and we continue on; birdsong and our own voices the only sounds breaking the peaceful silence.

  The path meanders through the copse for about a mile until we reach an area bathed in sunlight.

  “Here we are,” Jan announces. “Welcome to my favourite place.”

  She leads me to the trunk of a fallen oak tree which serves as a handy place to sit and soak up the scene.

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s like a little patch of heaven.”

  I’ve never been one for the great outdoors but even I can appreciate the lengths Mother Nature has gone to, ensuring every sense is well catered for. From the shards of sunlight bursting through the tree canopy to the sweet scent of honeysuckle in the still air, it’s no less glorious than anything I’ve experienced on my travels.

  “I know it’s not exactly the Grand Canyon,” Jan comments. “But I think it's just as inspiring.”

  “I love it. I really do.”

  “Good, because I brought this.”

  She delves into her bag and pulls out a tartan blanket.

  “Seeing as it’s just you, me, the trees, and the birds, I thought it would be nice just to lie down for a while and maybe have a cuddle.”

  “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.”

  And I can’t. Not now, not in the future, not at any moment in any time.

  Jan locates a patch of level ground and spreads the blanket out. We lie down on our backs next to each other; our hands locked together. It feels appropriate to say nothing and do nothing; just wallow in the bliss.

  “Can I ask you something?” Jan suddenly says, rolling onto her side.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you think you’ll go back?”

  “Back where?”

  “To America.”

  “Are you asking me if I will go back or I want to go back?”

  “Both, I suppose.”

  “Going back isn’t that easy — in fact, I’d say it’s almost an impossibility. As for whether I want to go back; I’m finding myself less and less inclined as each day goes by.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, I like being here because this is where you are.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “Does that mean we might … I mean, I’m not talking about marriage or anything, but maybe we might have something, together?”

  I roll onto my side so I’m facing her.

  “Something?”

  “Yes, something. I don’t want to get ahead of ourselves but I really like spending time with you, Toby and, if I’m honest, I’m getting bored on this shelf.”

  “Ahh, yes,” I chuckle. "Your mother’s fabled shelf.”

  “She really likes you.”

  “Does she?”

  “Yes and, although he’d never admit it, I think Dad has developed a soft spot for you too.”

  “Are you saying they’d approve if we … you know … got together?”

  “I think they would. I’m not suggesting we go home and announce we’re an item, but if we did I’m sure we’d have their blessing.”

  “That’s good to know. And in the meantime, we just take it day by day?”

  “Exactly. I’m sure fate played a hand in our meeting so let’s let fate decide where we end up.”

  “I like your thinking.”

  We share another kiss and I lie back with Jan’s head resting on my chest. If contentment were a colour, I’d be basking in a light of the warmest orange. It’s a place I could happily while away the rest of the afternoon. Whatever time passes, I’m oblivious and I don’t much care.

  In amongst the periods of calm quiet, we chat about all manner of subjects: our respective ambitions, likes and dislikes, religion — where I’m surprised to learn Jan isn’t quite the devout Catholic I presumed her to be — and my specialist subject: the future.

  We settle into a spell of reflective silence when Jan asks the question every man dreads.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Oh, nothing much — just wondering if it’s possible to travel back in time and build a new life in a world I don’t quite understand, with a woman I’ve only known for three weeks.

  “Nothing really. Just stuff.”

  “Come on. Specifically?”

  “I’d love to but a gentleman never tells.”

  “Oh, you’re a gentleman are you?” she says playfully. “That’s a shame.”

  “Is it? Why?”

  “While we’ve been lying here, I’ve been thinking about the weekend. Dinner would be lovely but, seeing as the house will be empty, I thought we could make the most of it. Seize the opportunity: as they say.”

  “I like the sound of that. What did you have in mind?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Err, yes. I really do.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “That’s a pity,” she grins. “Because a lady never tells.”

  She then leans in and whispers in my ear.

  “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  SIX WEEKS LATER ...

  33.

  The long summer days are over. Autumn is here, and so am I.

  Today — the first Sunday in September — is not only my ninety-fourth day here but also a landmark day. It felt appropriate to start it by visiting the exact place my journey began. I guess you could call it a final act of closure.

  Like the darker evenings and cooler nights, acceptance has arrived.

  As I pass through the gates to Gostrey Park, I glance at my
watch. It’s not an expensive or flash watch, and it can’t tell me anything other than the time, but it’s immeasurably more valuable than my iWatch because it was a gift from the woman I’ve fallen in love with.

  At three minutes past eight, I suspect that woman is just waking up. For Jan, too, it’s a landmark day.

  I amble along the path which leads to the north side of the park. There’s a slight chill in the air and the early morning mist hasn’t yet cleared; the sun just a blurry orb in an opaque sky. That sun is the only consistent feature in the life I had and the one I now lead. Everything is different — I am different.

  There was a time I would avoid walking anywhere but, as I no longer own a car, I’ve walked more in the last ninety-four days than I did in the previous ninety-four weeks of my former life. But it isn’t just the amount of walking which is markedly different now. Here, I’m not plugged-in to my phone wherever I go, so I’m immersed in my environment rather than a Spotify playlist or podcast.

  It’s been a difficult transition but I’ve finally stopped patting my pocket. I never thought I’d say it but being liberated from technology has enriched my life no end. If somebody wants to talk to me, they’ll come and do it face to face but only if there’s something worth saying. If I want to take a photo, I’ll ensure it’s a photo worth taking and I’ll treasure it. If I need to get somewhere, I’ll take the time to appreciate my surroundings as I stroll. Even the consumption of music is a revelation. I visited a record store with Jan and we spent hours poring over undiscovered albums. We took a few of those albums home and played them over and over until every word, every note, and every beat had been absorbed. Music here is not a throwaway commodity to be skimmed once and deleted.

  All in all, this is an era where people appreciate and value what they have, rather than fret about what they don’t. Possessions and memories are treasured, and people are treasured — alas, not equally. The ‘good old days’ I used to hear people preaching about aren’t, in reality, quite so good for some.

  The sexism, racism, and homophobia I’ve experienced has been off-the-scale shocking, and it’s inescapable. It’s in the pubs, in the shops, in the home, on the street; it’s like an epidemic of prejudice. One evening, while watching television, a show called Till Death Us Do Part came on. Within the first ten minutes the odious main character worked his way through the bigot’s dictionary; labelling other characters as ‘wogs’, ‘coons’, and ‘poofs’. I simply couldn’t comprehend why the BBC were airing such a programme at all; let alone in a prime time slot. I had to get up and leave the room for fear I’d put my fist through the screen if I watched another second.