The Colour of Sunday Afternoons

by Robert Gollagher

  “Oh, shit!”

  She fired a second glance at the intruder. He seemed very placid and happy. Although he wasn’t exactly what you would call a terrifying figure, Jane still felt compelled to break into a scream, but she was so scared that it came out more like a cross between a moan and a squeak. “Auggg ... auggg ... auggghh!”

  The little man seemed pained by this reaction. He reached into his pocket, whipped out a small green pouch, and extracted something from inside it. He then held his hand up, ominously, toward Jane.

  Jane’s eyes widened as she looked frantically between the road in front of her and the diminutive maniac sitting beside her. “Wait! Put away the gun. You can have the car ... it’s a company car ... you can have it ... oh, shit!” Jane closed her eyes in ultimate terror as the madman began to flick his fingers at her.

  Strange, she thought. That wasn’t a gun.

  The most peculiar golden tinsel, tiny snowflakes of the stuff, was falling gently all around her in the car. It seemed to hang in the air and sparkle, a thousand tiny stars, each one twinkling with a colour different to the next. It was entrancing.

  “Rainbow Stars,” said the leprechaun, with a cheerful smile. “They never fail. You’ll feel better now.”

  The sickening realisation hit Jane that not only was she being carjacked, but the guy was a complete lunatic. Rainbow Stars? This was obviously the end. Her life flashed before her eyes; she tried to keep the car careening down the freeway without crashing. Then, suddenly, she felt possessed by a strange and overwhelming calm. It was the oddest thing. If she were ever hypnotised, she guessed, this is what it would feel like.

  “Now, Jane. Just keep driving. That’s right. Middle of the road. No swerving. Good!” The leprechaun was apparently relieved that all the screaming had stopped.

  Jane’s heart settled back to its normal eighty beats a minute. The car glided smoothly, no longer a menace to passing traffic. In fact, Jane couldn’t remember when driving had been more enjoyable. And, yes, there was a lunatic sitting next to her, but she no longer cared. Come to think of it, he reminded her of the elves at Sudbury Mall last Christmas. Jane giggled like a drunk, but she drove like a teetotaller.

  “Good, good, good. Now, Jane. My name is Shamus. Shamus Maguinty. We’ve never met before, but I’m your guardian angel, and I’m here to let you know something.”

  “You’re my guardian angel?” said Jane, dreamily. “Okay. Look at that nice blue car that’s passing us. Isn’t that a pretty one?”

  “Lovely. Now, listen carefully, because I’m not allowed to appear very often and not for very long. That’s the way being an angel works. Anyway, I have two mortals to look after, and you are one of them, and I’m here to tell you that your life is on fire.” The leprechaun scratched his cheek.

  “My ... life is on fire?”

  “Yes, your life is on fire. Now, I am going to help you put out the inferno and get back on track, before you burn out completely.” Shamus took in the landscape with an appreciative stare, his keen little blue eyes fixed, in turn, on the houses, the trees, the other cars, the sailboats on the adjacent large lake, and the cumulus clouds drifting serenely above it all. He made an expansive, sweeping gesture with his arm. “We don’t normally like to interfere in all this, but you and my other mortal are emergency cases. So, I’m here to help you out.”

  “That’s nice,” said Jane. She was driving just on the speed limit; the other cars were passing her easily.

  “Right. Now, when you snap out of it, you are going to remember that I’m your guardian angel, Shamus Maguinty. Okay?”

  “Guardian angel, uh huh.” It all seemed perfectly plausible to Jane, in her entranced state. Rainbow Stars are powerful things.

  “Good. And you’re going to believe that I am real.”

  “Okay. What a nice day it is today, don’t you think?”

  “And lastly, you’re going to realise that your life is on fire and do something about it. Okay? You got all that?”

  Jane looked over at the chubby leprechaun. “My life is on fire. Got it. Where can I get some of those Rainbow Stars?”

  Shamus pulled his watch out; it dangled on its little chain for a moment before he caught it. “Gotta go!” he said. “Damn! I’m on overtime. I mean, darn! If the boss finds out, there’ll be hell to pay, and you have no idea how literally I mean that!” The little fellow looked benevolently at Jane. “I’ll see you later. Remember what I said.”

  With that, he faded into green vapour and disappeared.

  Jane coughed. Gradually, her head cleared. Things seemed to return to normal. She looked around, suspiciously, but there was no sign of the strange intruder, other than a little residual green smoke. She fanned her hand a few times to disperse the emerald mist.

  I’ve got a guardian angel? she thought.

  But angel or no angel, she had to make her next appointment by six. Putting the whole thing out of her mind, Jane sank her foot onto the gas pedal. The company car accelerated down the freeway, mocking the speed limit sign which flashed by. Jane began to overtake cars again. Her pulse quickened, her breathing became a little more forced, and she focussed intently on the road.

  The faster she drove, the less time there seemed to be to get there.

  Chapter 4

  The long Monday had finally come to an end for Joe Mathews, but he wasn’t resting; squash is not a relaxing game. Joe ran hard across court. Stretching to reach the ball, he whipped his racquet around and made a good passing shot.

  His opponent, Paul Jamieson, backed up quickly but still had to watch in dismay as the ball bounced irretrievably behind him.

  Paul didn’t miss many shots, even for a beginner. He had quick reactions and a strong, athletic build. His dark-skinned good looks had helped his success as a television actor. “You got me there,” said Paul, walking back to his side of the court. “Good shot.”

  “Thanks,” said Joe. “Lucky shot, more like it.”

  From the deserted gallery above, their mutual friend, Susan Stryver, called out. “Not lucky. Good shot. That’s seven-three.”

  Joe looked up and smiled at her, grateful for the compliment. He knew he was arguably a better rep than Sue, who sold artificial heart valves for a surgical implant company, but there was no doubt at all that she was the better squash player, a fact she gleefully took every opportunity to remind him of.

  “Good to see you taking a risk on your shots,” Paul quipped.

  “I suppose,” Joe grumbled, bouncing the ball as he prepared to serve, “you’re going to try talking me into going skydiving. I’ve told you before – the answer’s no! I’d like to stay in one piece, if you don’t mind.”

  Paul shrugged. “It’s very safe. You’d love it.”

  “Why would I want,” said Joe, serving the ball high toward the back corner of Paul’s court-side, “to let someone pack my parachute who can’t even return my devilish loop serves?”

  As if on cue, the ball dropped like a magnet, straight into the corner, and died without a bounce. It was impossible to return.

  Paul rolled his eyes. “I skydive better than I play squash.”

  “Will you two stop bickering?” Sue demanded, half-seriously. “I’m waiting to play the winner, here. Less talk and more play.”

  The two men swapped sides of the court. Joe served the ball high, but this time Paul intercepted it before it reached the floor. A rally followed, with both players running frantically across the court to make shots, then scrambling repeatedly back to the centre ‘T’ to control the vital middle ground. Finally, Paul mishit the ball, sending it spinning harmlessly up into the wall, high above the red foul-line. The game had ended at nine points to three, an easy win for Joe. He walked over and patted his friend on the shoulder. “Thanks for the game, man.”

  “No problem.” Paul pulled open the court door, somewhat dejectedly, and began the walk upstairs to the gallery.

  A moment later, Sue appeared in the small doorway and stepped onto th
e court. “Okay, smarty,” she said to Joe. “Let’s see what you’re made of. I see you’ve been picking on helpless beginners again. Now you’re in trouble!”

  Sue’s blonde hair was tied in a no-nonsense ponytail. She wore the confident expression of someone who knew she was good. Sue had played squash since she was twelve, and eighteen years of practice made for a tough opponent, whichever way you looked at it.

  Joe decided to try psychological warfare. “When are you going to teach Alan to play? A bright young cardiology registrar should be able to swing a squash racquet. Or do you keep him too ... tired for sports?”

  “Very funny,” Sue replied, as she a hit a few warm-up shots. “You can talk, Casanova. When was the last time you had a date? Hmmm? I don’t recall you telling us any spicy stories, lately. Things a tad dull, are they? All work and no play makes ...”

  “Joe a dull boy. I know, I know.”

  “That’s what I keep telling him,” said Paul, merrily, from the seats above. “He looks straight past all the attractive women. Too busy looking in that diary of his. From what I’ve heard, he even ignores the advances of Dr Tyson – a pretty foxy lady, so they say.”

  “Oooooh!” said Sue. “Who is Dr Tyson? You never told me about her, Joe. I’m impressed. Well, well, well.”

  Joe refused to dignify these comments with a reply. He tried to concentrate on the ball, as he and Sue lobbed warm-up shots to each other. Sue had begun to put topspin on the ball; it was bouncing back to Joe at more and more alarming speeds.

  “By the way,” said Sue, “are you still getting those chest pains?” She stopped and looked over at Joe, letting the ball fly past her.

  “Who, me? Chest pains? Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I thought so. I’ll get Alan to make an appointment for you. Look, Joe, you need a stress test, half an hour on the treadmill with all the wires hooked up. People drop dead on squash courts, you know. I’ve never met anyone so stubborn.” Sue shook her head. She knew it wasn’t that bad, now, but if Joe kept up the breakneck pace of his life, in another ten years it might be. Her boyfriend, Alan, had often told her stories of busy executives cut down in their middle age by heart attacks or strokes. Working in a cardiology department, he saw it all.

  “All right, all right. I’ll get it checked, okay? But I’m not about to drop dead, just yet. In fact, I feel so confident tonight, you can serve first. Do your worst.”

  “Well, if you insist.” With the practised art of a champion, Sue tossed the ball and hit it, spinning it across the court to begin the first rally. After a couple of shots to draw Joe up to the front of the court, she smashed the ball hard, sending it speeding past him. “One-love. What was that about confidence?”

  Joe let out a heavy sigh. “Bet you can’t do that twice,” he said, not very convincingly. Susan Stryver was going to win, yet again.

  Jane Hamilton was not a big coffee drinker. In fact, she preferred tea. Sitting in Harold’s Cafe, a quiet suburban restaurant not far from her home, she looked across the table at her closest friends, Lilly and Bill. They often met here, at the end of a working day. This particular Monday night, after wrestling with the dour Chief Pharmacist at City Hospital, and – of course – after the absurd experience of a madman, claiming to be her guardian angel, materialising in her car, Jane needed to unwind more than ever. The waiter brought a big pot of tea to the table. Jane poured it for her friends.

  Lilly Hibbard wore a perpetually impish expression. She was a warm, caring person, a young schoolteacher. “Thanks, Jane.”

  Bill Keating was an advertising executive. Jane often thought him uncharacteristically dull and conservative for someone in his creative field. Married, with two young children, one of whom was named after Jane, he was a friend from her college days. Bill was looking hangdog, with droopy eyelids; he rested his head wearily on one hand. “Thanks, Jane,” he murmured.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Bill!” Lilly exclaimed. “Perk up! You look about as happy as a beached whale. Come on. It’s not that bad.” She threw her hands up in exasperation. Lilly Hibbard was never one for understatement.

  Jane winced. She wished Lilly could be a little more subtle. She knew, however, that was like wishing the Rock of Gibraltar could be a little less heavy.

  “It’s Leslie,” said Bill, morosely. “She says I’m spending too much time at work. Little Janie will be starting school soon, and Stevie’s in that lovable four-year-old stage. I’m missing it all! I think Leslie’s right.”

  Lilly rested a hand on Bill’s arm. “Now, it’s not that bad. You just need to organise a little more spare time, is all.”

  “Well, I will have a little more time, once the Johnson account is completed. It’s only another two weeks.” He smiled a sickly smile.

  “Attaboy!” Lilly declared, as if she were praising a Cocker Spaniel for fetching the Daily News. “Now, Janey. What’s new in your neck of the woods? You can tell your Aunt Lilly all – especially the juicy bits.”

  “Aunt Lilly? You’re the same age I am!”

  “Well, Jane, you know what I mean. Spill the beans.”

  “Not much to tell,” said Jane, “unless you’re interested in computers and customers. I did close a couple of important deals today. Oh! I nearly forgot. Christina told me I’m going to be promoted. To Deputy State Manager, no less.”

  “Really?” said Lilly.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Hey, that’s great,” said Bill, cheered up a little by the news.

  “And ... what about the juicy bits?” Lilly was more interested in pulling Jane’s leg about her boring love life than in talking about work.

  Jane shrugged. “That’s about as juicy as it gets. Actually, I’m pretty happy about this promotion. It’s just ... I’m feeling a little tired, lately, and this irritable bowel thing just won’t go away. You know, that thing my doctor was telling me about, the stress thing.”

  “Hmmm.” Lilly deflated. This wasn’t exactly her idea of juicy gossip. “Didn’t the tablets help?”

  “Not really. I tried the spasmolytics. They were supposed to stop the gut cramps. But they didn’t work. The doctor said I could think about taking stronger ones, if I wanted to. Benzodiazepines, I think he called them.”

  “Tranquillisers!” Lilly yelped. “My girl, you are not taking tranquillisers, no matter what. I’ll let all your tires down first. I’ll dig up all the flowers I put in your garden. I’ll make you stay home and not go to work! No friend of mine is going on tranquillisers.”

  “You don’t want to start popping pills,” Bill added. “It’s not worth it, Jane. One or two of my colleagues have gone down that road. One of them ended up quitting work. Bad news. Better to slow down. Take a holiday. You’ve got to take care of yourself.”

  “I know,” said Jane. “I won’t let my doctor prescribe them for me, anyway, but this gut thing ... it feels like there’s a knot in my stomach all day long. I guess it’s stress, but I don’t understand why. My job’s going well. I’m making great progress! I’m being promoted. I don’t get it.”

  “I do,” said Lilly. “There’s more to life than work! That’s the whole point.”

  Lilly was cut short by the sound of Jane’s mobile phone ringing.

  Jane fished in her handbag for the phone, and answered the call. After whispering seriously for a few seconds, she looked apologetically at her friends. “Sorry guys. That was Christina. She needs me to fax her some papers from home. I’ve gotta go.”

  Jane left before Lilly and Bill could complain.

  “That’s one mixed-up girl,” said Lilly.

  “Uh huh,” said Bill. “Sure is.”

  It was 1:00 am when Joe finally got to bed. It had been a long day, but he was pleased about getting Dr Jefferson to chair the Zemtril conference. So pleased, in fact, he was almost able to forget the whipping Sue had given him on the squash court. Lying in the darkness, Joe looked across his bed to the red digits of his clock radio. He reached over and check
ed the alarm was switched on, then reflected on the day.

  The boys in the jazz band wouldn’t be happy if he got the promotion that Kerryn said he might have a shot at. It was hard enough to find time to play as it was. After a promotion it might be impossible.

  Joe thought back to the long conversations he’d had with his father, before the old man passed on. He remembered the time his father had told him of his love for painting, in the years prior to his rise as a successful banker. Joe had even seen a few of his dad’s paintings, dusty in the attic of the family home. They were landscapes, many of them lush in the colours of sunsets and sunrises. That he had neglected his talent and given up something so special was a matter of great sorrow; this had been a surprising admission from a father who normally kept his feelings to himself. Joe supposed, in the end, that the old man simply felt it was important for his son to know. The digits on the clock changed. Another minute went by. It was 1:06 am.

  Joe propped his arms behind his head and thought about the strange leprechaun he had seen for the first time that very day. For some reason, it all seemed perfectly normal. He had a guardian angel, named Shamus, who wore a cheap leprechaun suit. So what? Meeting the little guy hadn’t made any difference to Joe’s life, except perhaps for that odd warning about his life being on fire. And what was that supposed to mean? Joe knew he was a little overworked, and he did get the occasional chest pain, but things weren’t that bad. He put the matter out of his mind, and fell asleep.

  Across town, in her charming home, Jane was relaxing in bed, listening to the wind which rustled the leaves of the tiny tree by her bedroom window. Lilly had planted the tree for her. It was a Ficus, a hardy breed which stood some chance of surviving the neglect with which Jane usually treated her unfortunate plants. She closed her book, Sense and Sensibility, by Jane Austen, and reached out to switch off the lamp.