by RJ Hunter
As he ran the disposable razor across his stubbly chin, Nick wondered if he would see the young nurse again. He tried to picture her smile in his mind's eye, but only succeeded in nicking himself, as his face broke into a broad grin, thinking about the porridge incident.
Nick was a twenty-eight year old 'mature' student, in his third-year, at Central Kensington College. He resided in Prince's House, a ghastly, monstrous tower block, situated right bang in the centre of the college. It was grey, drab and depressing, but Nick did have a choice - he didn't have to live there.
It had been six months since he had moved out of the matrimonial home. He was still very much on speaking terms with Sandra, his wife of five years. But, they had both changed during their married years, and had more or less, swapped roles.
Nick and Sandra had met through their work. This was during the mid-seventies, when both of them were employed by the Star Insurance Company. They were very committed to their jobs and were earning, what could be described as a decent living. The company however, was losing out to more aggressive rivals, and was eventually taken over by one of them. The inevitable changes occurred, and the company, although still retaining its name, changed its image dramatically.
During this time, Nick became increasingly despondent with the new cut and thrust policies the company was employing. He resented being pressurised into pestering regular clients to buy more insurance, while having to winkle out new ones by using dubious means. Sandra though, seemed to thrive in this new environment, and would think nothing of opening the telephone directory to literally cold call potential customers. She soon linked up with other like-minded employees, and chose to work by commission-only, as the rewards could be far higher. Nick refused to have anything to do with door-knocking, and came to the decision that aggressive selling wasn't for him.
The money they had both made before Nick's abrupt change of direction was still sufficient to pay a substantial deposit for a semi-detached house in the leafy suburb of Osterley in West London, with its magnificent park, a mere stone's throw away.
The couple's relationship at the end of the seventies was still very solid, and Sandra was in total agreement that Nick should try his hand at something else.
"I just want you to be happy," she said, reclining on the sofa, dressed in a designer-label dress, after making yet another kill in the corporate insurance market. "I can make more than enough to pay the mortgage, so you can just take some time off and see what you want to do."
She was an attractive woman, the same age as he, with confident, expressive brown eyes, and shoulder-length bottle-blonde hair, styled to make it look slightly tousled.
One day, after much deliberation, Nick decided to take Sandra up on her word.
"I've been offered a place at university." He exclaimed excitedly, showing her the envelope.
Sandra put down her wine and studied the letter in great detail.
"But it's for three years, and why archaeology?"
"Sandra, it's what we agreed," replied Nick, "It's something I've always wanted to study. I love anything to do with history."
Sandra took a sip of her red wine and lit a cigarette.
"Okay, you go ahead and do it Nick - if that's what you want. I just thought you would do something that led to a decent living, that's all?"
Nick started his course the same year in defiance of Sandra, who true to her word, took over the role of breadwinner. Since the Piccadilly Line went straight to South Kensington, Nick decided to become a commuting student, and for the time being, the arrangement seemed to work out.
Over the next few months, Nick noticed that Sandra even seemed to enjoy the fact that she now had a student for a husband. It was a good talking point and made her feel younger. She began to tease him about his newly-acquired bohemian look, what with the pixie boots and baggy sweaters.
"I expect he'll be wearing a donkey jacket soon and demonstrating at Trafalgar Square!" She remarked sarcastically to friends at a dinner party.
Craig, one of the guests, immediately took up the baiting.
"Don't start throwing flour bombs at Mrs. Thatcher will you, Nick? We mustn't bite the hand that feeds us!"
Bored, Nick got up to leave the table, it was then that he noticed the glance Sandra gave to Craig. It was the same glance she had once given him.
"Nick, come back, I'm sorry, but I find it all so amusing." Said Craig smirking. "But why all this culture stuff, I mean, where's it going to take you?"
Nick had disliked the smarmy Craig, since the old days at Star Insurance, and now felt his anger rising.
"We're not all hedonistic materialists like you Craig. There are other things important in life, besides money." Nick was just getting into a rhythm, when he was rudely interrupted by the giggling Sandra.
"He's off to Hollywood Craig, that's where the culture's taking him. I expect he'll be the next Indiana Jones, and all that!" The whole table then erupted with laughter at Nick's expense.
The agreement initially was for Nick to take a room in the college's halls of residence and only return to the house at weekends. This seemed to work fine for the first month, but after a while, Nick began to see less and less of Sandra, as she reaped the rewards of her industrious activities. She now seemed happy to spend her free time out with friends or colleagues from work.
Nick had funded his course of study himself, but now, what with having to pay accommodation fees as well, his bank balance soon started to shrink at an alarming rate. The crunch really came when his car needed repair work that ran into several hundreds of pounds. This, he also paid for himself, rather than ask his wife for the money. Eventually, he decided to look for part-time work in Kensington, just to keep him afloat. He didn't want anything too exciting or difficult, but at the same time it had to be rewarding and worthwhile.
Looking through the pages of the Evening Standard, there seemed plenty of opportunities; bar work, waiting at tables, security, hotels, building sites. He telephoned a few, and on more than one occasion was shocked to learn just how low the hourly rate of pay was. There was one advertisement, however, that caught his attention, the hours were just right, and it was literally about half a mile from the college. Picking up the telephone, he was amazed to get an interview immediately.
Mr. Watts, the Head Porter was aged about sixty, thin and wiry with a full head of thick grey hair, some of which was tinged a dark yellow colour. This had been brought about by some thirty years of writing out portering rosters while sitting hunched over a desk, with his head being supported by the same hand that held his cigarette. In fact, the whole of Mr. Watts' small office was a shrine totally dedicated to smoking. The ceiling was almost a deep saffron, and was dotted with dark amber-coloured globules of nicotine that perfectly matched the yellow-streaked net curtains. On the orderly desk was a large, but spotlessly clean pub-type, glass ashtray, which contained a pipe, and a box of Swan Vesta matches. While at the other end, was another ashtray, this was a more battle-hardened veteran. Made of aluminium, it boasted 'Player's Navy Cut' proudly around its rim. It obviously hadn't been emptied for some time, judging by the twenty or so, assorted dog-ends nestling at its base.
Mr. Watts studied Nick's application form for some time, flicking from page to page in deep concentration. Eventually, he turned his swivel chair around to face him. His eyes, for such a heavy smoker were surprisingly clear and seemed a little out of place against his flushed and somewhat ruddy complexion.
"Student eh, ever done this sort of work before?"
"No, I haven't Mr. Watt's," replied Nick, trying to shake off his distinct middle class accent. "But, I'm a quick learner, and don't mind getting stuck in."
Mr. Watts then reached over and picked up the telephone. As he did so, Nick stared nonchalantly at some saucy postcards pinned to a board containing health and safety notices.
"Harry, do us a favour, and bring me along a cup of tea, with plenty of sugar!" Said Mr. Watts amiably to the voice on the other end of the
line. Then, returning to Nick, he picked up his pipe, lit it and sat back comfortably in his chair.
"We've had a few students here in the past, some good, others not so good. As long as you do your work, and turn up on time, I'll keep off your back. St. Mary Abbot's isn't a particularly busy hospital, the government cuts have seen to that, and I don't mind if you study when it's quiet." The Head Porter then paused, as if he was trying to weigh up whether he'd made the right decision or not. He took a few puffs from his pipe, before adding; "Can you start on Monday?"
"Yes, Mr. Watts, I can. Thank-you, I'll look forward to it."
"That's alright, son, you can call me, Reg from now on. I'll get someone to show you around the hospital." They both then stood up and shook hands. "Just a word of warning before you start."
"A word of warning?"
"I don't want to catch you in the pub across the road when you're on duty, and another thing - mind yourself with the girls."
"Girls, Mr. Watts?"
"Yes, girls. Some of my lads think they're Romeo's and chase after the young nurses. Being married doesn't seem to make the slightest bit of difference to most them either!"
"I understand, Mr. Watts."
"I hope so son, a big strong lad like you, just be careful, it's easy to get led astray here. I've got a grandson at university, who wanted to work here during the summer holidays. Not on your life, I told him, so you mark my words."
There was a loud knock at the door, and with that, Mr. Watts patted Nick on the shoulder and ushered him out of the office.
Nick was quite amazed at the sight which welcomed him, as he stepped out into the corridor. For standing in front of him was man of average height, and possibly of Mediterranean, or South American appearance. It was difficult to put an age to him, maybe it was the thick, black curly hair, stiff with gel, which made him look younger. He could have been in his forties, or even fifties, if one looked closer. The man had long, skinny legs, and was wearing the most unflattering tight, black leather jeans and cowboy boots. His light blue porter's shirt was undone to the waist, revealing a hairless chest, festooned with a an abundance of gold chains of every type and size. He couldn't be described as being overweight, but he was blessed with a magnificently rounded beer-belly that protruded proudly over the top of a thick belt. It seemed absurd to Nick, that a man so obviously vain, could flaunt an appendage like this with so much abandon.
"Nick, this is Roberto, or Colombian Bob, as he's sometimes called." Said the Head Porter, "He'll show you around the hospital."
Sally began to run the bath, she had already passed the vacuum cleaner over the main rooms and hallway, then had to mop the kitchen floor after Pepys, the dog had trampled in mud from the garden. It was a large house to keep clean and tidy, but usually Penny would help out, mostly at weekends when she could. Despite protestations from Laura and Lizzie, Sally flatly refused to have anyone in to help. To have a complete stranger going through all the rooms, touching things - William's things, was totally unthinkable.
"But, they wouldn't be a stranger for long, Sally. Come on, it's far too much for you to manage." Remarked Lizzie one day, trying to be helpful.
"Lizzie, I know you have my best intentions at heart, but I really don't mind doing the housework, and Penny has never complained. Besides, it keeps me from thinking about things."
However, that was back in the past, this was now, and Sally was selling the house. The estate agent had telephoned the day earlier to ask if he could bring over a prospective buyer. Two families had already viewed the house, and one of them seemed quite intent on taking things a step further, but Sally had heard no more.
Lizzie was due to come over later, but Sally didn't want her friend there at the same time as a possible buyer. Lizzie had made her views very clear that she was against the sale of the house. Perhaps she had been talking to Jonathan and Laura behind her back.
Sally sighed as she thought back to the row she'd had with her son. She thought about contacting him at the university, but no, she would do as Laura had suggested and let her try and talk some sense into him. Sometimes a mediator is quite useful in these type of matters.
Sally stood in the bathroom and looked along the shelf at the line of coloured bottles. After a few moments deliberation, she eventually picked one out, and gave it a sniff, before pouring some of the contents into the water. She gazed into the mirror, while waiting for the bath to fill, and wondered if the clothes she had chosen to wear were suitable. Sally then turned off the taps and went into the bedroom to get undressed.
She was just in the process of selecting a more appropriate outfit, when she was disturbed by the door bell ringing.
"Okay, I'm coming, please be patient!" She muttered under her breath, as it rang a second time, while she was hurrying to tie the sash on her dressing gown. She padded down to the front door in her bare feet, ready to vent her anger on whoever had so rudely interrupted her long-awaited soak. However, Sally's irritation disappeared immediately as a courier thrust a magnificent bouquet of flowers into her arms. Going back inside, she opened the attached envelope and beamed with pleasure as she read Jonathan's touching apology. Smiling, she put the flowers in a vase and went back upstairs to enjoy her bath. No sooner had she reached the top of the stairs, when the door bell rang again. This time it was another courier, who asked her to sign for a parcel.
Sally gasped as she unwrapped the huge box of expensive Belgian chocolates. What a silly boy you are Jonathan, she thought, as she stared at the mouth-watering sight in front of her. There were over two dozen chocolates in the box, and she wondered how on earth he could have possibly afforded them.
As Sally went back upstairs, a definite aroma drifted under her nostrils. It was unmistakably scent, like a man's aftershave lotion. It certainly wasn't anything she would ever wear, it was far too masculine, but at the same time it was overpoweringly sweet and sickly. She thought she had smelt it earlier, and subconsciously thought it must have come from one of the couriers, but no, that was absurd. Perhaps it had just drifted in from outside?
For some unknown reason she went towards Penny's room, but when she reached the door, she realised how late it was getting, and decided to go back to the bathroom. It was now going to be a very quick dip, rather than the lovely, long soak she had planned for herself.
Twenty minutes later the estate agent arrived, exactly on time as usual.
"Hello, Mrs.Peddlescoombe, it's nice to see you again." Stewart Marsh was a pleasant young man, in his early twenties, and always cheerful and polite. Sally had even thought he would make an ideal partner for Laura, but she had since discovered that the fresh-faced trainee was already married.
"Please come straight through," smiled Sally, as she held the front door open.
"May I introduce, Mr. Frank Gant." Said Stewart, in a pleasant, but business-like manner.
Sally stepped back, her eyes locked onto Frank's. She swallowed hard and couldn't quite get her breath. She stumbled back into a small table in the hallway, almost knocking it over.
"Hello, Sally, it's wonderful to see you again, and after so long." Said Frank, moving forward to offer a gold-embellished hand. "I must say, you look great - the years have been kind to you."
Sally stopped dead in her tracks, her mind unable to fathom what was happening. Again she found herself inhaling the sweet, sickly aroma of Frank's aftershave lotion. It was exactly like the smell she had detected earlier.
"What do you want?" She asked, her voice mirroring her terror.
"I've come to view your house. I'm very interested in buying it." Frank replied, with a cool air about him, giving Sally a smile that immediately disarmed her.
"Is everything okay here, Mrs. Peddlescoombe?" Asked Stewart, seeing Sally's discomfort. "Perhaps, we ought to come back another time?"
It was Frank who replied for Sally.
"Mrs. Peddlescoombe and I used to know each other many, many years ago. It's just the shock of seeing me again. That's right isn
't it, Sally?"
Looking first to Frank's grinning face, then back to Stewart, Sally suddenly felt foolish, like Frank was mocking her, intimidating her. She didn't want to come across as weak and timid, and willed herself to stand her ground, besides, Frank wouldn't do anything with Stewart there.
"It's fine, Mr. Marsh. I'm sorry, I've had a lot on my mind lately." Replied Sally, sounding more confident.
Frank smiled at her again, then turned to Stewart.
"Listen, as Mrs. Peddlescoombe and I are such old friends, would you mind giving us five minutes alone?"
Stewart looked across at Sally, who hesitated for a moment, before nodding.
"Yes, very well, I'll go and wait out the front."
"That's a good chap, Stewart. I'll recommend you highly when we get back to your office to complete the deal."
A wide grin appeared on the young man's face as he obeyed Frank's request, and headed outside.
Sally was now very nervous again, and moved away from Frank.
"I still don't understand. Did you know I lived here?" She asked, trying to sound more brave than she was.
"Sally, please relax. No, I didn't know you lived here, it's just a coincidence." He lied convincingly. "I've not come here to do you any harm. I'm just interested in seeing, and possibly buying your house. That's all. So there's really no need to be afraid."
Sally eyed him warily. He looked very dashing in his dark grey business suit, open-neck white shirt and suntan. She could see when he smiled at her why she had taken a fancy to him all those years ago.
"I'm sorry Frank. I'm just not good with surprises, especially not this type." She replied tensely. "You said some very horrible things Frank. It was a long time ago, but it did scare me, and still does."
"That's totally understandable," he reasoned, gazing at her with his steely blue eyes. "I didn't mean to spook you out. "Look Sally, I've changed. I'm not the same man I was. I'm sorry about the things I said. It was done in the heat of the moment."
