Times and Places

by Keith Anthony

  Despite her love of trains, by the time her Eurostar arrived back in London, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, even she had had her fill of railways, at least for a while. She crossed London and took one further, much more familiar, train back out to the Chilterns and finally arrived home, where her mother and father greeted her with a mixture of delight and relief, hoping that their daughter had exhausted her travel bug for the foreseeable future.

  It felt good to be back again, in the beautiful Buckinghamshire countryside, in her family house, with those who loved her, especially after two months’ travelling amongst people for whom – interesting and sometimes interested though they could be – she had been an anonymous stranger. It also felt good to be back in her own bed, the one that had served her well throughout her entire life, except for term times when she had been studying dance in Bristol.

  It wasn’t, however, a great time of year to be looking for dance opportunities. Her agent recommended she apply for the cruise ships and reassured her that before too long the holiday camps would start recruiting fresh talent for their next summer season; he promised also to look out for any theatre or TV work. He sounded hopeful, but warned that she may need to be patient initially. So, Justine found a job in a local bookshop while she waited, but she also wrote to a nearby dance school asking if there were classes she could teach. After an interview with a slightly timorous principal – who had seemed the rather more nervous of the two – she was assigned lessons two evenings a week for the remainder of the Christmas term, another teacher having let the school down. Justine was an optimist: as she saw it, her professional career had begun, and she steadily built up both her hours and her confidence.

  Meanwhile, of course, there was Jones. She hadn’t called him the day she got back from her European tour, nor even that week, rather she waited until the Sunday, five days later. She wasn’t playing ‘hard to get’ games, she just wanted to settle in first and to re-find her home-legs, after her trip… but eventually the time came to make the call. Her name came up on his screen, so he knew who was dialling as soon as his phone rang.

  “Freds… Hi there!”

  “Hi there! I’m back!” She announced, half conscious that her nickname had not only stuck but been further nicked.

  “Hurrah! When do you want to meet?” Justine had been encouraged by the friendly “Hi there,” but the lack of any small talk surprised her and she briefly floundered at the directness of his question, so he answered it himself:

  “How about I come your way on Saturday… you can show me all your haunts and tell me about your tour? How was it by the way?”

  “It was great… but I’m pleased to be home. When can you get here?”

  They agreed he would come down at eleven o’clock and, before she knew it, the conversation was over.

  “Don’t worry… men don’t do phones,” her father reassured her, as he entered the room to find his daughter looking a bit confused by the whirlwind nature of the call. As she collected her cat, Tiger, into her arms and headed for the couch, she suspected her father was right, but she couldn’t help but be a little concerned. In fact, Jones had been every bit as pleased to hear from her as she had been to speak to him, but he had been a little scared too: he felt sure he had made a good impression in Ljubljana but, realising he now had to live up to that, he had decided to take his chances with her face to face, rather than risk fumbling around in conversation on the phone.

  And so, six days later, he arrived in Justine’s village for the very first time. He was half an hour early and felt illogically nervous about being spotted, either by her or by her parents, before he was supposed to have arrived – perhaps they were out and about ahead of his visit – and so he parked up in a hidden lay-by a couple of miles down the road. He got out and stretched his legs, walking up to a wooden gate in a hedge. Resting against it, he gazed out across a field which descended a quarter of a mile or so to woods below. From this vantage point, he could look clear over the trees and to the rolling hills beyond. Every now and then he heard a mewing and he wondered what it could be, then, to his right, he saw two red kites sailing high in the air, calling to each other. He watched them circling effortlessly for a few minutes, rusty red wings spread wide in the sunshine, until they were unexpectedly mobbed and chased off by a small murder of loudly cawing crows – persistent in their tormenting – leaving Jones to reflect how no life is perfect, no matter how blissful it might first appear. The calls of the birds grew ever fainter until they ceased entirely and an absolute silence was restored. Jones stayed there a while, leaning against the gate, until he gradually became aware of the distant drone of an aeroplane passing high above, as if reminding him to rejoin the world. He checked his watch – it was indeed time. Taking one last deep breath, he stood up straight again, strolled to his car, then drove the short distance back down the lane.

  Turning into the driveway Jones stopped and briefly applied the handbrake, looking at the picture box house before him. He himself had grown up in a very small town, but this was in a different league: how lucky Justine had been to enjoy her childhood here, but perhaps how harsh it must have then been to venture out into life from such an idyllic setting. Still, Justine had managed it, this beautiful house releasing her, as if on a long leash, far enough for her to reach the Balkans and Spain, before gently reeling her home again. He surveyed the scene for a moment longer and then slowly continued up the gravel drive, arriving a cool, but not too cool, ten minutes late.

  Meeting a girlfriend’s parents, especially when you’ve only known her a few hours, was beginning to feel increasingly daunting: was she even his girlfriend he wondered? He told himself not to worry: he was perfectly respectable, a graduate trainee in a major retail company, he had no need to be nervous… but he was a little nevertheless and he could even feel himself sweating. The prospect of looking hot and flustered only added to a vicious cycle of apprehension.

  Before he was even fully out of the car, the front door opened and Justine’s father called across to him:

  “Jones… hello there, welcome! Come on in.” The greeting was so genuine that Jones’ nerves began to ease again.

  “Thank you Mr Fredricks.” He closed the car door and faked a casual confidence as he took his first steps towards the house.

  “Oh, Fergus, please.”

  “And you should call me Sylvie,” said Justine’s mother, appearing by her husband’s side.

  “Oh, Mrs Fredricks… Sylvie… hello. So nice to meet you both.”

  “Rubbish, I expect you’re scared stiff,” said Fergus, showing him inside, “but there’s no need!”

  Justine came down the stairs:

  “Hi.”

  “Freddie!” He exclaimed, overcome by happiness to see her again and not noticing the confused look thrown his way by her parents. With her beaming smile and shoulder length brown hair, it seemed to Jones that she hadn’t changed at all, but why should she have? It had, after all, only been a little over a month since they had seen each other, but somehow the anticipation of the moment meant it had felt much longer.

  She walked up to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  “You found us.”

  “Turrahhhh!” Jones mimicked a fanfare and held his arms open as if presenting himself to an audience. He immediately wondered whether this looked humorous or alarmingly mad to his hosts, but they were already moving off deeper into the house, leaving him and Justine in the hallway.

  “It’s good to see you again,” she said, before following her parents into the sitting room, and Jones silently reciprocated the comment with a smile. Fergus and Sylvie lingered with them twenty minutes or so: long enough to be polite and to provide a cup of tea, but hopefully not so long as to get in the way.

  “But why do you call Justine ‘Freddie’ Jones?” asked Sylvie, looking at him quizzically.

  “Yes, why do you do that?” joined in Ferg
us, also turning his way.

  The nerves came back under this joint interrogation, he missed the intonation in Sylvie’s question and was baffled as to how she and Fergus had come to the conclusion he called their daughter ‘Freddie Jones’. It took a painfully long moment, under the increasingly bemused gaze of the whole Fredricks family, for the syntax finally to fall into place in his head.

  “Oh, I’m sorry… well, er, how can I explain… ?” As he fumbled for his words, Justine came to the rescue:

  “After we had finished eating on the evening we met, Jones said ‘ready Freddie?’ to me and it seems the name has stuck…” There was a brief silence… “because of our surname!” Now it was Justine’s turn to feel awkward.

  “Perhaps you had to be there!” Jones added, taking his turn to rescue her, “but she was sometimes called Freddie at school too…”

  This was news to Fergus and he shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment:

  “And you being Caspar but calling yourself Jones!”

  “Casey!” Justine corrected her father, “named after a cat.” Jones noticeably winced.

  “Well, in any case Jones,” Fergus continued, “it’s lovely to meet you, and you are very welcome here.” Tiger, who had crept into the room, looked less persuaded as he lurked beneath the telephone table, from where he eyed up this new male rival for Justine’s affections.

  “Sorry,” apologised Jones to Justine a few minutes later, after her parents had slipped away, Sylvie insisting he didn’t leave that evening without saying goodbye.

  “What for?”

  “I’m not sure I made a good impression, I was thrown by the ‘Freddie Jones’ question.”

  “Relax, they loved you!”

  He seemed unconvinced and Tiger slouched out again disapprovingly, as if to confirm his doubts. Justine though was unworried. To her this had not been some major first meeting with her parents, their relationship was far too new for that. Jones was only here today because she happened to be living at home and anyway, she reassured him, it had gone well.

  “How can you tell?”

  “I just can… and Tiger liked you too,” she lied.

  “Tiger?” said Jones, the confusion descending again.

  “My cat!” she explained, with just a hint of exasperation. “Come on, it’s gorgeous out there, let me show you round.”

  11

  Mindelo – Monday 28th November 2016

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Mindelo, Cape Verde. The gangway can be found today on deck three, forward, port side.”

  Out on deck, the loud announcement jolted Fergus from his meditation.

  “It’s a short way into town, ladies and gentlemen, but it’s a beautiful walk. For those of you who prefer taxis, these are available on the quay side. The ship leaves at four o’clock this afternoon, not the seven o’clock previously scheduled. We therefore ask you to be back on board by three thirty.”

  Fergus grimaced at this reminder of the enforced ‘enhancement’ to their itinerary, which would curtail their visit.

  “We hope you have a wonderful day here in Mindelo, ladies and gentlemen, and look forward to welcoming you back on board later this afternoon.”

  From his vantage point on deck, it did indeed look an attractive walk into town, though in the end (to preserve energy in the heat) they were to take the taxi option. After the Azores, Mindelo seemed very African and – amidst the heat and dust, the colourful clothes, the women carrying baskets on their heads and the lush, tall palm trees – the feeling of being somewhere truly foreign struck them as they drove out of the docks and into town. They got out of the taxi in a small harbour area where some local fishermen were cleaning their catch, ready to sell at the nearby market. Fergus and Sylvie stood on the quayside surveying the scene with a mixture of wonder and vulnerability, aware that they were now a very long way from their green Chiltern home.

  The sun was hot – African hot – and this added to the disorientation they were both feeling. They realised how unprepared they were: they had brought no tourist books and the only map they carried was the very basic one provided free by the ship. In summary, they were wandering blind and Sylvie had a nagging feeling that they stood out and would make easy pickings for those looking to prey on bumbling tourists, although they were never to encounter any serious trouble. One market seller did try extremely hard to sell them tacky souvenirs and, as Fergus was drawn ever deeper into conversation with him, it became increasingly awkward not to make a purchase. Sylvie finally managed to pull her husband away and they escaped up the road until, a few moments later, the trader came running after them, presenting her with a cheap bracelet.

  “A gift, to remember Mindelo,” he smiled.

  She dug in her pocket to find some coins, but he wouldn’t take them, instead he turned and ran back to his work. Sylvie felt ashamed, would it have been such a bad thing – she wondered – had Fergus spent some insignificant sum at his stall? She looked around and surveyed the wealthy tourists haggling hard over pittances that meant nothing to them but a great deal to the traders. She had been no better, overly concerned at the prospect of being ripped off, even for an amount she wouldn’t have noticed. And, in the end, it had been the trader who had given to her, teaching her a lesson into the bargain.

  Their faith in people was quickly tested again when an elderly local man came up to them in a park and cornered them in conversation, speaking remarkably beautiful English. They wondered what the scam might be and how they could get out of it, but again there proved to be none. It seemed he only wanted to practise his language skills, which he did at length and rather charmingly, while Fergus and Sylvie waited for him to pause long enough to give them an opportunity to leave without causing offence.

  “Do you think we are too cautious?” Sylvie asked, after they finally broke away. “I mean, first the trader and now this man… he could have been really interesting to talk to, had we been trusting enough to do so.”

  “I think you do have to be a bit street-wise,” Fergus replied after some consideration, “as long as you are polite and respectful, which we were.”

  They had been, but both were left feeling they had missed an opportunity to get to know a local man, who appeared to have an old and kindly soul.

  “Still, Fergus, I hope we didn’t hurt him.”

  They wandered around a couple of squares, one in particular was abundant with exotic greenery and surrounded by paint box bright coloured buildings of reds and blues and yellows – it was beginning to feel good to be out of the European gloom and wandering somewhere so warm and tropical. They also spent their customary few minutes in a simple church, before leisurely making their way back to the port on foot. Their map showed a beach just a little beyond and so they walked that extra half mile to see what it was like, quite an investment in energy when it was so hot, but it proved worth the effort.

  The sand was white and fine, while the sea was a deep turquoise, such as you might see in an advert for a desert island holiday, or perhaps an expensive cocktail. Every now and then, a fish would jump clear out of the water, as if to see what was going on, before splashing back beneath the surface just a moment later. They both took off their shoes and socks and paddled up to their knees at the water’s edge. Fleetingly Fergus felt angry at the cruise line: had they been staying all afternoon, as scheduled, he would have gone back to the cabin for his swimming things, but, alas, there was no time for that. Summoning up everything he had learned from his mindfulness training, he forced himself to observe his annoyance and then to put it aside. This worked surprisingly well and, instead of feeling cantankerous, he was able to enjoy a special moment, paddling off a tropical beach, hand in hand with his wife.

  They had liked Mindelo and, despite their initial nervousness, had encountered no problems at all, but it still felt reassuring to be safely back in the familiarity of the ship later that afte
rnoon. They sat on deck at the stern as it sailed away, passing dramatic, completely desolate islands, mountains of rock rising sheer from the mid Atlantic waters. Whoever had named Cape Verde – much like whoever had named Greenland – had not been too worried about descriptive accuracy, but nevertheless the scenery was impressive. Half way up a steep cliff on a large, barren peninsula there appeared to be a white chapel – they marvelled at how it could have been built on such a rock face, but also wondered how anybody was ever able to worship there.

  After two or three hours relaxing on deck watching the rugged landscape pass and then recede into the distance, Sylvie retreated to the cabin to shower and change, with Fergus following thirty minutes later. On leaving the lift and turning the corner from the landing into the corridor he, almost but not quite literally, bumped into Mrs Huffington and her zimmer frame.

  “Why Fergus, you should be more careful!” She teased him.

  “I’m sorry Mrs Huffington, I hope I didn’t frighten you.”

  “Oh, it takes much more than that to frighten me Fergus, when I was in Malaya with Lawrence we…” and she launched into a story about the years she had spent living in the Far East, but Fergus’ mind was elsewhere, reminded of another collision, which had occurred at another blind corner, more than ten years previously.

  “… so don’t ask me Fergus if I’m frightened, the Huffingtons are made of sterner stuff than that!” She looked him keenly in the eye.