Sixty Minutes

by Tony Salter

  It was a good day to make an exception as he needed somewhere to sit and wait. Excitement and impatience weren’t good reasons to turn up earlier than planned so he crossed the road – threading his way between the stationary cars – and walked into the cafe on the other side. It looked a bit posh, but so did all the shops and restaurants and he suspected everywhere would be the same.

  Maybe not.

  Hassan realised his mistake as soon as he was inside. This must be the place where all the models and ex-models in London came to hang out together. He was the only man in the room and, on top of that, he was the only person who could remotely be described as ordinary. He stood out like a rotten apple.

  It wasn’t a matter of race or colour – the women came from everywhere under the sun – but, whether the cheeks, legs, arms and bare shoulders were porcelain, coffee-cream or dark chocolate there wasn’t a single blemish or imperfection to be found. And as for the way they were dressed … He could feel every smouldering eye turned on him and his clumsy feet threatened to betray him more than once. No point in making a scene and walking out. All he needed to do was to buy a coffee and sit down quietly in the corner.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘I – I – I’ll have a black coffee please,’ he said eventually. The girl behind the counter was just as beautiful as the customers and she smiled at him.

  ‘Bradford boy, eh?’ she said, her accent slipping seamlessly into familiar territory.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘That obvious is it?’

  She raised one eyebrow and grinned again.

  He laughed. ‘Stupid question I guess?’

  ‘ ’tis to a Bradford girl. Where ya from?’

  ‘Manningham. You?’

  ‘Toller. Just on Heaton Road. You down to see rellies?’

  ‘Yeah. Just for a couple of days. And I’ve always wanted to see the Natural History Museum.’

  ‘Oh.’ She didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm. ‘Well, whatever floats your boat. Look, it’s waitress service here, so grab a seat somewhere and I’ll bring your coffee over.’

  The place was jam-packed, but he managed to find a small table in the far corner. As he squeezed his way through the pushchairs and bags of shopping, he wondered – not for the first time – how his life had led him to be there. It wasn’t how things had been expected to turn out, that was for sure.

  After tucking his holdall under the chair – he’d read somewhere that London was rammed full of pickpockets and bag-snatchers – he sat upright, stiff as a Lego man, hands on the table in front of him, while he waited for his coffee. God, he wanted a piss so badly. Why did he need to have such a small bladder?

  It was hardly Hassan’s fault that he wasn’t good at sports. His brothers, Rafi and Omar were bigger and stronger even though he was the eldest and they had that mysterious eye-hand-foot-head co-ordination which he lacked. Add in asthma and weak eyes and, whatever his dad might have wanted, he was destined for geekdom.

  Luckily, the world of geeks celebrates other skills and Hassan was smart, a gene which must have slipped silently along the maternal line. Maybe not the smartest in his school but certainly up there with the best. He learnt quickly and remembered everything. When everyone around him was hunched forward, sucking the ends of their pens, neanderthal brows furrowed with the effort of remembering and regurgitating some pointless fact, Hassan had already finished the test and was passing the time sketching complicated graphics from memory.

  He would have swapped his brains and artistic sensitivity for other abilities in a heartbeat. To be bigger, stronger, less spotty and four-eyed, anything to help him fit in and be the boy everyone expected him to be. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t tried; he would never forget the long hours spent at the cricket nets, trembling in his oversized pads and gloves and watching the dark shape of his father pounding out of the sun towards the crease. The ball was on him before he saw it, and the heavy bat moved too slowly every time.

  For the first few years his Dad had responded to his feeble efforts with shouts of encouragement – ‘good swing’, ‘almost got that one’, ‘remember to lead with your elbow’ – and he had dutifully taken the tips onboard. As the years went by and his brothers grew, the language and mood changed and little-by-little, his father’s disappointment became dominant – ‘put a bit of bloody effort into it’, ‘what’s wrong with you?’, ‘why can’t you be more like your brothers?’. Hassan never stopped trying but, by the time he was thirteen, his father had stopped taking him along to the nets.

  No, he hadn’t only been bullied by random racist goras. He was also a regular target for the big, strong and stupid from his own community. It seemed as though he had an invisible sign hanging above his head inviting people to pick him out especially. To pick on him especially.

  Unsurprisingly, his father was the worst bully of them all but, perversely, that didn’t stop a part of Hassan craving his approval.

  Everything had changed on the day the letter arrived.

  ‘Open it, Haso!’ his mother had been standing in front of him, her hands clasped to her chest and her whole body tensed. ‘Open it.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I wait until later? When Dad’s back.’

  ‘No. No. I’ve been looking at the bloody thing all day. It’s been sitting on the table glaring at me for hours. I’m not waiting any longer. Anyway, your father told you not to bother applying, so why wait for him?’

  It was the first time Hassan had heard his mother swear, and he was shocked enough to set aside any worries about what his dad might say. ‘OK,’ he mumbled, as he tore open the envelope. He could still remember unfolding the single sheet of paper and looking at it, eyes struggling to focus as he read it once, twice, three times.

  ‘Well? Well?’ His mother was beside herself with excitement.

  Hassan had handed her the letter silently, unable to trust his mouth with words. She’d looked at it for a few seconds before dropping it to the floor and enveloping him in an overwhelming maternal hug. She’d pulled her head back and kissed him on the forehead before squeezing him to her breast and whispering into his ear.

  He could feel her warm tears trickling down his neck as she spoke. ‘You did it. My clever little boy. You did it. I knew you would.’

  His father’s predictable flash of anger had been short-lived. Once he’d heard the results, all the ingrained negativity towards his eldest son seemed to vanish like a magician in a purple puff of smoke. Abracadabra! Alacazam! The world changed.

  ‘Oxford. Bloody Oxford. My son’s going to Oxford.’ He clapped Hassan on the shoulder so hard that he knocked him sideways into the wall. ‘I knew you’d do it,’ he went on. ‘I told you he would, didn’t I, Naira?’

  Hassan’s mother smiled and nodded, her eyes lowered, and Hassan could see it was another lie. His father had always said that university was a waste of time. He’d not gone himself and it hadn’t done him any harm, after all. An objective observer might have said that it depended on how highly you rated the role of Assistant Manager in an uncle’s small furniture shop, but it was unlikely that anyone would be bringing that point up any time soon. And if they did, it was almost certain that such critical words would have fallen on stony ground in any case. Luckily, Hassan was so overcome with his own euphoria that he didn’t care about his father’s crassness. He was only being his usual self.

  Thinking back, he couldn’t remember if his dad had actually bothered to congratulate him before he rushed out of the door to begin the weeks and months of bragging to friends and neighbours – the first moments in a vicarious victory campaign of puffed-up self-congratulation which hadn’t involved Hassan at all.

  ‘Come on boy. Time to celebrate.’ The bottle of Chivas Regal had sat between them on the table in the best room, two cut-crystal glasses flanking it like solid, chunky bodyguards.

  As Hassan sat opposite his father in one of the soft-cushioned, wing-backed armchairs, he looked at his glazed eyes and loose-jawed smile and susp
ected that there may have already been some “celebrating” going on during the afternoon’s victory tour. He sat without speaking as his father poured the whisky.

  ‘Two fingers for you …,’ his father said, lifting the tumbler up to the light as he measured out the golden liquid. ‘… And two for me.’ His fingers spread apart as he poured his own measure, and he chuckled at his own cleverness. He handed the smaller glass to Hassan and raised his own. ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ said Hassan as he touched his lips tentatively to the cold crystal. The heavy smoke of old peat bogs filled his nostrils, and he fought back the reflexive desire to cough and splutter as he took his first sip. Not as bad as he feared, the smell was worse than the bite, and he liked the way the whisky burned as it slipped down into his stomach. ‘Nice whisky.’ He did his best to affect a manly attitude as he put the half-empty glass down on the table.

  ‘Not on the table!’ his father had shouted, sending Hassan cowering back into the depths of the chair, before picking up the glass and sliding a coaster underneath. ‘Your mother will bloody kill me.’ He’d laughed and leant forward. ‘Now, how much is all of this going to cost?’

  As Hassan sat in that over-priced cafe in South Kensington, busting for a piss, he pictured his father’s arrogant leering face thrusting towards him and felt a twinge of guilt. Not guilt for letting his father down – although he most certainly had – but rather for the total absence of filial love which he felt when remembering him.

  Shuna

  ‘Tell us about the holiday, Mum,’ said Zoe as she scooped warm, chocolate-heavy gloops of melted marshmallow from her cup. Miraculously, she seemed to be stuck in perfect-daughter mode and Shuna smiled as she realised that Spike must be quite special.

  ‘Yes, Mum. Please.’ Anna was bouncing up and down in her chair with excitement and, with the cafe even more jam-packed than usual, Shuna had visions of macchiatos and lattes sent flying across all the neighbouring tables.

  ‘OK. But first you need to calm down and sit still,’ she said. ‘Nothing’s booked yet and I’m not sure we can afford it. We’ll pop into the travel agents in a minute and see what they’ve put together.’

  The look on her girls’ faces told its own story. Shuna knew well enough that they had little or no experience of ‘it’s a bit expensive’ or ‘not sure if we can afford it’ being followed by ‘sorry, we can’t’. If, or rather when, they left home to go to university, they would be in for a shock.

  ‘You always say that,’ said Zoe. ‘Tell us anyway.’

  ‘OK,’ said Shuna and her heart skipped double time as she looked across the table at the fresh, innocent eyes shining with excitement. ‘Well, first of all, you need to remember that this trip is mostly for your dad. It’s his fiftieth birthday surprise and we need to give him the best holiday we possibly can. Coping with me for the past six months must have been a nightmare and now I’m better I want to show him an amazing time.’

  The girls nodded in unison.

  Shuna suddenly felt tearful. ‘And it’s for both of you, too,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how I could have made it through everything without you to help cheer me up.’

  Both Zoe and Anna looked down at the table without replying. They were too young to know how to respond and Shuna couldn’t imagine that they felt they’d done such a great job of cheering her up in any case. Maybe they would all be able to have that conversation after a few years?

  She moved back to safer ground. ‘And you know your Dad’s always wanted you guys to see Africa?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Zoe. ‘I think he’s a bit weird about it. The way I see it, there’s no difference from you saying it’s important for us to see Holland, because you’re from South Africa.’

  ‘I’m not sure I agree, but I’ll leave him to explain … again. Anyway we have taken you to Holland. Twice.’

  ‘But Dad’s family’s from Jamaica and we’ve been there a hundred times,’ said Zoe. ‘That’s the same thing, but Africa’s different.’

  ‘A slight exaggeration maybe?’ said Shuna, trying not to laugh at her daughter’s persistence. ‘We’ve been to Kingston five times and you know full well why your Dad wants to take you to Africa. It’s about heritage and roots. Enough already!’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Zoe. ‘Just tell us about the holiday.’

  ‘I will, but calm down. I’ll get there. We’ve still got ten minutes and you need a little context.’

  Zoe drew a zip closed across her lips with thumb and forefinger and laid her hands on the table, one on top of the other.

  ‘I would love to have taken you all to South Africa,’ Shuna said, marvelling again at her new perfect changeling daughter, ‘but I can’t do that without going home and … I’m not ready to do that yet.’ She regretted mentioning South Africa before the thought had reached her mouth, but it was too late. The events of the last few months had left her fragile and vulnerable and it took very little to switch her from laughter to tears. She often didn’t know what set her off although, as far as her beloved Stellenbosch went, the reasons were clear.

  Shuna took a sip of her hot chocolate, not daring to try to speak while she battled with the surge of anger and grief. She then took three deep breaths, snorting out the fury. It was time for her to get a grip on her emotions and behave like an adult. Like a proper mother.

  ‘It’s OK, Mum,’ said Zoe. ‘We can find out more when we get to the travel agents. And stop saying how much the holiday’s for us and Dad. It’s for all of us.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Shuna said. ‘And we’re going to have an amazing time.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Anyway, we have to boogie. Anyone need the loo?’

  ‘You took your time,’ said Shuna.

  ‘Sorry. It wasn’t my fault.’ Zoe rolled her eyes up and backwards over her right shoulder.

  ‘What?’ said Shuna. ‘Are you having a chocolate fit?’

  ‘Mum. Don’t be so lame,’ said Zoe repeating the gesture. ‘Look behind me, but don’t stare. D’you see that guy over there? The one who looks like he should be somewhere else?’

  Shuna looked across the room and nodded her head.

  ‘Well, I’ve been watching him since we came in. He’s been trying to get to the loo for twenty minutes, but every time he gets up, someone beats him to it. So, every time he goes back to his table, sits down to wait and then the same thing happens again. It was quite funny for a while but then, when I walked up right in front of him, I actually thought he might wet himself. So I let him go first.’

  ‘That was very kind and thoughtful,’ said Shuna. ‘Wonders will never cease.’

  Anna laughed, but Zoe appeared less impressed. ‘You could give me a break sometimes, you know,’ she said stomping towards the door. ‘Come on. I thought we were in a hurry to get to the museum.’

  Dan

  The trials and tribulations of his Swedish heroine would never lift these books to stand alongside the Russians who’d been Dan’s lifelong companions, but there was no shortage of twists and turns. He was actually finding he needed to leaf back and forth to double-check plot points all the time. He might be tired and old, but it wasn’t only that; the books were damn complicated. Sophisticated even?

  The other frustration was that, because it was a trilogy, and because he was sitting on a bench in a London museum, he couldn’t go back to his bookshelves to check on people and plot twists from the first two volumes.

  Dan slid the bookmark into place and laid the book down beside him, noting absent mindedly the deep patina of the wooden bench. He could imagine the rich, chocolate Heart-of-Darkness mahogany receiving its daily polishings for the past century and a half – with the exception perhaps of a handful of war years – and glowing with pleasure every time.

  Perhaps Dostoevsky had sat on this very bench when he came to London for the Great Exhibition? Wouldn’t that be something?

  He took off his glasses and placed them on the Swedish girl’s naked and tattooed bac
k. He was tired and his stomach hurt with a twisting, unforgiving ache which did nothing to help his headache. He’d taken some Vicodin a while ago. How long? Was he due some more?

  Rachel wouldn’t be along until twelve. The prospect of sitting alone on the hard bench, with or without Fyodor’s ghost, wasn’t thrilling, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to move.

  He knew perfectly well he wasn’t due any more painkillers, but he needed something to distract him from the pain and the book wasn’t enough.

  He felt a presence next to him and his wish was magically realised.

  ‘Enjoying that?’

  The girl was not more than twenty, long dark hair framing a pretty face and honest eyes. Spanish, if he had to guess, although the accent was a bit of a giveaway and he might have to concede he was cheating a little.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘More than I expected, actually.’

  ‘I’ve just finished the first one. Can’t wait to know what’s going to happen.’

  ‘Well …’ he flinched as he saw the look of mock terror on her face.

  ‘… don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to tell you. I only wanted to say you won’t be disappointed.’

  She took her hands from her ears and laughed. ‘It’s OK. I didn’t think you would, but just in case …’

  Her open, smiling face and lisping accent took Dan back to another person, time and place … a lifetime ago. A time of sunshine and simple pleasures.

  ‘I’m Dan,’ he said, reaching out his hand. ‘Dan Bukowski.’

  ‘Ramona. Pleased to meet you, Dan.’

  ‘Spanish?’

  ‘Yes. But I’ve been in London for two years now.’

  ‘Doing what?