by Louth Nick
“Dad, who are you shouting at?”
Ken’s comprehensive list of expletives was followed by: “Go to bed, Bethany.”
“But we can’t sleep. Mum’s on the phone. And Little Tosser’s wet the bed again.”
The groan beyond the front door was one of total defeat. As Ken slouched away, defeated by the weight of family demands, Astrid again asked me not to call the police. Instead, we talked for two delightful hours, and drained the best part of half a bottle of brandy. At 3am I shepherded a giggly Astrid her up to Brian’s old room. I drew the curtains and said a gentle goodnight.
“Mr Jones.”
“Please, call me Bernard.”
“You have been so kind. You are a real gentleman. Thank you.” She leaned forward, and though I went for a cheek she moved her face and kissed me gently on the lips. I was surprised that it was I who pulled back first.
“My brave knight in armour,” she murmured. For five very long seconds we stared into each other’s eyes. I knew then what could happen but must not.
“Sleep well,” I said and left.
Friday 22nd December: Rendezvous with destiny
6.30am: Awoke, and unable to get back to sleep. Went into the den. For the sake of distraction, trawled some financial websites. Read some rather dull stock market reports covering Tokyo, Taipei and Seoul. Companies I’d never heard of, results I didn’t care about, and the odd profit-warning, hitting investors whose faces I would never see. The one face I could not banish, as I turned away from the screen was one with the finest cheekbones, a perfect smile and dazzling brown eyes, wide with trust. Asleep just a few short steps away.
8am: Tried to focus on the paper. Vodafone is bidding $13bn for some Indian cell phone company. Why are these mobile phone groups so desperate to keep expanding? After Mannesman and the billions of write-offs, you would think that they would have learned the lesson. For shareholders at least, bigger is not necessarily better, especially when a bidding war is likely to result in overpayment. As someone with a cordial dislike for mobile phones, investing in the damn things has been one of few money-losing vices that I have not experienced.
Oh God. I hear Eunice reversing into the drive. My heart has started to pound wildly.
“Have a good time, dear?”
Seeing her face, I knew she had not.
“That awful Angharad, remind me not to stay with her again. Just because she’s remarried some bloody Yankee banker at Morgan Stanley she thinks she’s better than anyone else.” She stopped, hearing the sound of the power shower. “Is Jem here?”
“No dear, there was a bit of a to-do next door last night and Astrid, you know, the au pair, came here seeking asylum.”
“Bernard, I know full well who Astrid is.” Eunice’s eyes were as cold as stone. “So she stayed here?”
“Only in Brian’s room, dear,” I squeaked.
“…On the one night in the last 18 months when I did not.” She sniffed deeply, as if to detect in the air of the house some scent of mischief or pleasure, some dab of dalliance. Unable to meet her gaze, I made Eunice some coffee and told her Astrid’s tale.
“So you see, I could hardly turf her out, could I?”
At that moment Astrid came down stairs, tousled hair cascading over the bathrobe. Eunice changed completely, clucking and fussing and sympathising: “Poor thing… How horrible for you…We never liked him you know…let’s get this bloodstained robe washed.” After taking her upstairs to find something wearable among Jem’s clothes, Eunice returned to me, sympathy face switched off.
“I’ll just say this, Bernard. You have probably been very gallant. But if you have been in any way unfaithful to me with that young lady, I shall kill you. Do you understand?”
Christmas Eve: Joining up the Dots
Went round to collect Dot for Christmas. While crawling back round the M25, I again tried to persuade her to diversify her BAE shares, this time through a selective, lurid and beautifully spun tale about Al Yamamah kickbacks. Alastair Campbell would have been proud of me.
“So you see, I’m not convinced that BAE is a very ethical place to have your money, Mum. Guns, bombs, bribes, all that stuff.”
“But they make Spitfires don’t they?”
“No, Mum. No-one makes Spitfires any more.”
“So why am I saving my old saucepans?”
“I didn’t know you were.”
“I’ve got a cupboard full, but the War Office has never come for them. Well, if that’s their attitude, let’s get rid of them then, the shares and the saucepans. Sell the lot.”
Lord be praised! She’s finally seen sense.
8pm: Escape the family hubbub and Channel Five repeats downstairs, and climb up into the tranquillity of the loft. The model railway is well under repair; a diorama of new track and gravel is being laid, with small painted figures helping with the lifting and bedding. Standing on the stool I open the skylight and cool night air floods the room. Somewhere in the distance an owl hoots.
Astrid got her possessions back easily enough. Eunice went straight round to see Lisa O’Riordan the moment she returned from the health spa. Ken had clearly wasted his money. The calm and relaxation of Lisa’s detox and aromatherapy sessions evaporated like snow on the slopes of an erupting volcano. Long after Eunice returned with Astrid’s suitcase and rucksack, I could still hear yelling and the sporadic mortar fire of mugs and cups ricocheting around the O’Riordan kitchen while a shame-faced Ken remained in the conservatory, resolutely glued to Sky Sports and its coverage of women’s bowls.
Ignoring Eunice’s scowl, I took Astrid to the station rather than have her limited finances strained by a taxi fare. Couldn’t let her leave on her own after such a terrifying experience. I carried her bags through to a desolate and windswept platform, the first stage of a long journey that would take her via friends in London back to Copenhagen for the New Year.
“I’m sorry that your short experience of Britain has been so awful,” I said.
“Don’t apologise. Not everyone here is like Mr O’Riordan,” she said, as the wind blew her rich chestnut hair across her face. “There have been some very good experiences too.” She smiled and flicked her scarf gently across my chest, a curiously intimate gesture.
The train arrived and I helped her on with the bags.
“Goodbye then, Astrid.”
She turned and gave me a big hug. “Thank you for what you did last night when I was upset and needed help. You were strong for me. And thank you, too, for what didn’t happen. Then you were strong for both of us. That makes Bernard Jones a rare and special man.”
The doors closed and with agonising slowness the train pulled away. I watched Astrid waving through the window. The last thing I saw was her blowing me a kiss. As I turned back to the platform, a gust of wind sent crisp packets and chocolate wrappers spinning in eddies, Coke cans rattling in the gutters. I turned up my collar through habit, but felt no chill. A radiating warmth coursed through me, spilling into an uncontrollable grin. Even at 63, it’s not too late to find out what you’re made of. Even nicer to be agreeably surprised.
I think I’ve earned a chocolate digestive.
