Sixty Minutes

by Tony Salter

  When he and his mates used the term “dago”, it was usually in the context of lustful envy, an arms-length worship of the unobtainable. Sultry Spanish girls, white bikinis pinned onto firm, young flesh, taunting them with their sibilant esses. The best his gang could manage was a quick snog with some slapper from Solihull and a skinful of the local lager that they’d serve to anyone, even thirteen-year-olds.

  Sun, sea, alcohol and sexual frustration. It was a classic holiday combination and no-one was surprised when it led to violence from time to time. The local girls may have been unobtainable, but the boys were easy bait. They strutted about with puffed-out chests like trainee matadors but most of them didn’t have a clue how to look after themselves and usually ended up getting a good kicking.

  Jim and his mates always kept an eye out for the knives though. That was something different and a couple of them had been badly cut up one summer. Knives weren’t fair, but what could you expect from a bloody dago?

  They would always stay in this great flat in the middle of town with a balcony looking over the sea. Even as a kid, he’d known it was out of their league, but it was owned by one of the guys who came into the pub, and certain friends could borrow it for free.

  It was only later that Jim learnt that the flat’s owner wasn’t just one of the guys – Dave Vickers also owned their pub and a lot of other businesses in that part of Southwark. Once his dad was properly buried, and the funeral was out of the way, it was no surprise that Dave wanted someone else – someone who wasn’t Jim’s mother – behind the bar of the Beehive.

  She was looked after well enough – given a small flat and some cleaning work – but it wasn’t the same and money was tight until Jim was able to get a proper job. He could have worked for Dave – the offer was on the table – but he didn’t want to get involved. There was serious money and a glamorous lifestyle for a few but he’d seen what it was like to live life looking over your shoulder.

  No. The army had suited Jim just fine. It was a proper man’s job, and it got him out of the East End which was what he’d wanted. He sent money back to his mum, but otherwise he was free.

  It wasn’t only about escaping from home and not becoming his dad, though. As Jim thought back over those twenty years, he realised how much he’d belonged in the army. Even from the first, shitty day of basic training and induction he’d fitted the life, or rather the life had fitted him. He’d known it, and everyone around him had known it, too.

  Hassan

  No-one had actually expected Hassan to get a place at Oxford. Not Mr James, the teacher who’d pushed him to apply; not his pig of a father; not his loyal, but realistic, mother; not either of his sneering brothers; not any of the other three applicants at his school; not any of the mates he’d stupidly told; not, and least of all, Hassan himself.

  Oxford wasn’t the place for someone like him and so, as there’d been no possibility of getting in, it hadn’t seemed worth looking at the costs in too much detail. He had a rough idea of how expensive it would be, and it was definitely much more than they could afford.

  Hassan remembered how he’d looked at his father over the rim of his whisky tumbler and felt the warm glow in his stomach cooling.

  ‘I don’t know exactly, Dad,’ he said. ‘I never really thought I’d get in.’ He took another sip as though it might help. ‘It’s going to be a lot though. A hell of a lot.’

  ‘What are we talking here?’ said his father, sweeping his glass slowly in an expansive man-of-the-world arc. ‘Three, four thousand a year? And you can get a loan, right?’

  So, whisky could freeze at room temperature. He wasn’t surprised his father didn’t have a clue what it cost to go to Oxford, but he hadn’t expected him to be that far wrong.

  Hassan may not have had the exact details, but he knew it would cost much, much more and was certain his father would go apeshit when he found out. Despite what he felt about the self-centred old git, Hassan had enjoyed being the golden boy for a few brief hours. He took another sip of his whisky, hoping to stay in the moment a while longer.

  ‘Well?’ His dad’s tone was that of a headmaster or sergeant major. He didn’t like to be kept waiting and was hunching forward in his chair. ‘Come on boy! You must have some sort of idea?’

  ‘Yeah, I sort of know the big numbers,’ said Hassan. ‘I can get a loan, but it’s going to cost way more than you said. It’s nine grand a year just for the fees now.’ His father looked blankly at him and Hassan pressed on, keen to get it over with. ‘Then you’ve got accommodation, food, text books and everything else. The Oxford website said all of that would be another ten thousand at least.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Hassan’s father refilled his glass and leant back into his chair. The room was silent except for the clicking and whirring of mental cogs and wheels and Hassan shrunk into himself, waiting for the storm to break over him.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ repeated his father, each syllable filled the small room with outrage, but not with anger. ‘What do we pay our bloody taxes for?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Hassan in a soft voice.

  ‘Well, it’s not your bloody fault is it?’ said his father, the proud, paternalistic smile reappearing like sunshine from behind a cloud. ‘You don’t make the rules.’

  Something was going on, but Hassan couldn’t figure out what it was. ‘No, Dad. That’s for sure,’ he said, still waiting for the thunder and lightning.

  It had never struck. His father had kept on smiling. ‘Well I’ve told everyone you’re going now,’ he’d said. ‘So we’ll need to find a way. Find out what’s what and let me know tomorrow.’ Then he’d reached forward and clapped Hassan on the shoulder. ‘Now drink up. We can’t just sit in here all evening.’

  Having eventually received the proud paternal pat on the back; there was no doubt that he was now the golden child. It felt good, but Hassan’s own feelings and memories weren’t about to evaporate in a puff of magic smoke.

  Much to their shock and surprise, his brothers became the new targets. ‘Why don’t you study a bit harder, you boneheads? Look at what my Hassan has done. The first student from St. Michaels to get a place at Oxford. Ever. Do you hear that? Ever! If you two spent a bit less time playing cricket and chasing after girls, you might make something of your lives.’ At that point, whichever one was nearest would get a cuff around the ear and a meaningful look. ‘Like your brother has.’

  There was no doubt that his father had a special talent; how easy it must have been to live life that way, ignoring inconvenient truths, washing away memories that didn’t suit you, doing whatever you wanted and, most of all, always being right.

  Hassan tried his best to walk back to his table without brushing against any bare skin, although the cafe seemed to be getting more packed by the minute. He sat back in his chair and checked that his bag was still there. If that girl hadn’t been kind enough to let him go to the toilet before her, Hassan was convinced he would have wet himself. He was out of place in London. The rules were different and the last thing he wanted was to make a scene by pushing in front of someone. But there wasn’t enough room to wait outside the toilet and, every time he’d gone back to his table, another woman had magically materialised just as the door was opening.

  But the girl had been sweet and disaster averted. She’d given him a lovely look as she gestured for him to go ahead of her. Only a kid still – fifteen at most – but nearly a woman and, like so many girls of her age, her clothes, her posture, her every movement were conscious, practiced statements of that fact. She reminded Hassan of his little sister, but his sister would never advertise her charms in public like that. His father might be happy to show double standards where his own whisky drinking was concerned, but he wasn’t about to let his daughter shame the family.

  He watched the girl as she came out of the toilet and felt a sharp stab of anguish at the base of his throat as other lives, other futures flashed through his mind. If only he hadn’t been so stupid, so weak, everything
could have been different.

  The girl walked past his table and smiled at him again. It wasn’t a flirtatious, coquettish smile; it was as though she understood his pain and inner struggle and felt sympathy for him. Of course he was being an idiot, but for some reason that brief moment of human contact was important.

  She wasn’t Asian – there was too much milk in the coffee of her skin – and she wasn’t from anywhere in the Middle East as far as he could see. He watched her all the way back to her table. The girl she sat next to was a smaller copy – she must have been her sister – but the older woman with her back to him had long blonde hair hanging loose over her shoulders. If that was her mother, then the girl must be a mix of something. A beautiful mix.

  All of a sudden, the blonde woman turned and looked straight at him, protective eyes searching and accusing. He dropped his head and stared into his empty coffee cup, shoulders tensed as he waited for her to come over and say something. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he simply maintain a low profile and keep himself to himself like he’d meant to?

  Hassan forced himself to count to a thousand before he dared to lift his head and sneak a glance over to their table. The waitress from Bradford was standing there, putting empty cups onto a tray.

  The woman and the two girls were gone.

  Hassan looked at his watch. Not even twenty past even though it seemed like he’d been sitting there for ever. He still had time to kill, but he couldn’t stay in the cafe any longer and it was time to get changed. He’d finished his coffee and, if anything, the place was getting busier.

  As he stood up, his knees caught the table leg and the coffee cup clattered onto its side, rolling towards the edge. He caught it just in time, but he could tell that everyone was staring at him as he put it carefully back on the saucer. He was such a clumsy prat.

  He pulled on his jacket and squeezed through the press of women blocking the doorway, feeling the brush of breast and buttocks like his skin was on fire. As he stepped out into the street and the fresh air, his breath rushed out in a massive sigh of relief. Which way, left or right? He saw a bus stop further up the street and started walking towards it. There would be a map there.

  He hadn’t made it more than ten yards when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun round and stepped back, fists clenched.

  ‘Whoah. Take it easy, Bradford Boy!’ It was the waitress from the cafe. ‘You’re not in the King’s Arms at kicking out time.’

  ‘Sorry. You just made me jump.’

  ‘Well, you’re bloody twitchy if you ask me. You OK?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m fine. It’s not exactly like home here though. Is it?’

  ‘Right enough,’ the girl said. ‘Most folk round here’ve got more brass than brains but, to be fair, no-one’s going to walk up and twat you in the street on a Monday morning.’

  ‘I guess not,’ Hassan replied. ‘I’m probably just a bit hyped up.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About going to the museum,’ said Hassan, looking at his shoes.

  The girl raised one eyebrow. ‘How old are you?’ she said.

  ‘Twenty-six. Why?’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re old enough by now to be excited by other things? Rather than a bunch of old bones.’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ said Hassan.

  ‘Ah. Complicated is it?’ the girl said, showing her perfect teeth in a broad smile. ‘Well, if it’s so complicated, why don’t you tell me all about it over a drink or two?’

  ‘A drink? What?’ The day was getting stranger by the minute.

  ‘I get off shift at three. Meet me outside.’ The girl looked him in the eye and Hassan stood, shuffling his feet and wondering if it was some sort of joke.

  ‘OK. Three o’clock,’ he said at last. ‘Outside the cafe.’

  ‘Great. It’ll be good to catch up with someone from Bradistan,’ she said. ‘I’m Sally, by the way.’

  ‘Hassan,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  ‘Nice to meet you Hassan,’ she said, her fingertips cool against his moist palm. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  He was turning to go when she laughed. ‘God, I’m a bloody idiot some times.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I totally forgot why I came out after you,’ said Sally, slapping her hand on her forehead like a bad soap actress. ‘You forgot your bag.’

  Hassan saw that his blue holdall was on the ground by her feet. How could he have forgotten it? It was as though his brain wasn’t functioning. Half the neurones seemed to have taken the day off.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, picking it up. ‘Thanks very much. I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on.’

  ‘It’s bloody heavy for an overnight bag,’ Sally said. ‘You planning on staying a while?’

  ‘Probably not. Just got some pressies for my nephews.’

  ‘Oh. Shame,’ said Sally. ‘Anyway. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘At three,’ said Hassan. ‘And thanks for the bag. I’d be stuffed if I lost it.’

  He turned and walked away, feeling his heart racing. He needed to find somewhere quiet to pray. Everything was moving too fast, and it felt like the ropes and chains which tethered him to the real world were snapping one by one. Ten minutes of quiet prayer, even if it was just on a bit of grass somewhere, would help to tie him back down.

  The bus stop was quiet and the street map amazingly undamaged by paint, pen or Stanley knife. He wasn’t far from Hyde Park, and there were toilets there too. As he turned into Queen’s Gate he could feel the boiling tension inside him easing to a gentle simmer. One step at a time.

  Shuna

  The streets were strangely quiet; it was as though the gaggles of tourists with yellow umbrellas and selfie sticks had decided to take the morning off. If only London were always so peaceful.

  Shuna looked at the two girls striding ahead of her, holding hands and deep in animated chatter. For a moment, they looked like small children again, but they weren’t. It wouldn’t be long before they left the nest without a backwards glance. Less than five years perhaps, and those years would pass in a flash.

  What would she do then? Sit around in their lovely flat, waiting for Simon to come home? Maybe pop out for coffee with friends; take in an exhibition; go to yoga, the manicurist or whatever; always make sure that there was something delicious on the table for dinner. Growing up, that had been her mother’s life, and she’d always sworn it wouldn’t be hers. She would be different and never allow herself to be caught up in such hide-bound routines and single-minded bigotries.

  It was easy to say, but the danger was always that it was much, much easier to avoid the issue and enjoy the padded comfort of a privileged life.

  Thoughts of padded comfort made her shiver. The last two years had been a terrifying reminder of how fragile happiness can be. Like the smooth, hard surface of a blown eggshell, seemingly solid as marble, but ready to crack open at the flick of a fingernail.

  This holiday was important for them all. Shuna needed the time and space to prove to Zoe, Anna and Simon that she was ready and able to take back her role in the family – as mother, wife, lover, friend and equal partner. It was time.

  She’d recently dug out a diary written a couple of years earlier, during their last wonderful holiday in Sydney. It was full of plans and ideas for the next phase of her life, each plan backed up by neat columns of pros and cons. Reading it had been quite a shock. She’d thought she was fully recovered – back to herself again – but the diary might as well have been written by a different person.

  That was OK, though. She was moving in the right direction and, even though she’d lost nearly two years, there was still time. She’d start to work on those plans again, start to focus on the future again. Going back to university, taking on a part-time job, writing a best-selling novel. Something. Anything.

  Over the coming years, the girls might not think they needed her so much, but they still would. They would want the freedom to find their own way,
discover who they were and to make their own mistakes. Her job would be to let them believe they had that freedom and choice, while standing back and watching to make sure their mistakes weren’t too serious.

  Zoe was a beautiful girl, and the boys were already starting to swarm around her like locusts. Who was this boy Spike? As far as Shuna knew, Zoe’s friends were all decent enough, but there was often someone on the edge of these groups – a little older, a bit more exciting, more dangerous. Was Spike that boy?

  She couldn’t stop thinking about the young Asian man at Muriel’s. He had been so out of place in his cheap windcheater and generic jeans. When she’d looked over at him, he’d definitely been staring at Zoe, and with the most peculiar expression on his face. It was the kind of expression which Renaissance artists would always paint on the faces of the disciples when they were kneeling and looking up at Jesus. What was that all about?

  And then, when he’d seen her looking, he’d ducked his head as though caught in the middle of something. She’d watched him for a long while but he’d kept his head down and stared into his coffee cup. There was definitely something not quite right about him, but he was probably harmless enough.

  ‘Mum!’ shouted Anna. ‘Where are you going? It’s just there.’

  ‘I sometimes wonder if you listen to a word I say,’ said Shuna. ‘I only told you five minutes ago …’

  ‘… we’re going to the travel agents first.’ said Zoe. ‘See. I listen.’

  ‘And we’ll come back to the museum in about half an hour,’ said Shuna.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Anna. ‘I remember now.’

  Zoe looked down at her sister, shook her head and pressed her lips together in a world-weary frown. ‘Kids! What can you do?’ she said to Shuna, which earned her a hard punch on the arm.