by John Hughes
Adrian tossed and turned all night, disturbed as he was about the evening’s events. Sue slept like a log.
They stayed in bed later than usual. The coach back to Kalamata wasn’t until midday so they had plenty of time to pack and get ready. They didn’t talk much, only about luggage and leaving, nothing at all about the events of the night before. Conversation was similarly sparse on the coach and at the airport as they checked in and killed time in the departure lounge.
Only on the plane, in mid-air and after a couple of gin and tonics, did they have a discussion. Adrian began, fumbling for words in a way that was out of character for him; or would be on any other topic.
“Sue, about last night.”
“Yes, Adrian.”
“I find it very difficult… to talk about… the bedroom department. As you know.”
“I do. But I’m glad you’re broaching the subject.”
“I… I’d had rather too much to drink.”
“You and me alike. We were both quite sozzled.”
“Yes, we were. I don’t remember everything, but I do remember that you, that you, very much took the initiative.”
“I did rather.”
“I think that was only right.”
“Well, Adrian, it was important to me that we should not bypass the opportunity to… to be close to each other, physically, at least once on this special occasion.”
“I understand. I know that is more important to you than it is to me. The… the…”
“The sexual?”
Adrian blushed. “Yes, that’s what we’re talking about.”
“That may be so, but you know that we’ve always said it’s not a key aspect of married life. It’s a side show, no more.”
“We have indeed, thank you.” He paused, struggling again to find words. Then with an enormous effort he suddenly found them. “Sue, it has always been something of an ordeal for me. The idea of… you know what… not to mention my strong feelings about the act being solely for procreation, and not for pleasure.”
“It’s never anything else with us,” said Sue. “Every time there is that hope.”
“I know, I know. But there in Greece, on holiday, it seemed to me that every evening when we returned to the apartment, if we had, you know, done it – it would have been purely for pleasure. I have a problem with that, as you know.”
“I do. My feeling is…”
“However…” Adrian interrupted her and closed his eyes as he came to what was clearly the peroration of his speech. “However, on the beach last night, doing what we did, how we did it, with you leaning against that rock like that.” His face took on a pained look. “That was the first time it didn’t seem to matter. It felt different. It was wrong to do it like, you know, from behind like that… sinful on various levels. But there was something about it, as if it was meant to be. I know I should feel guilty, but I don’t.”
“And because you don’t feel guilty, you feel… guilty?”
Adrian half smiled. “Something like that.”
Sue looked across at him, on the verge of saying something but holding back as if not sure whether to or not. “Adrian, there is something you need to know. It felt different because it was different. We not only did it from behind, you… oh dear, how do I put this. If we’re talking about the bedroom department, let’s say that you… came in through the back door, not the front.”
Adrian looked at her for a moment or two, puzzled by this allegory. Then as its significance struck home, his newly tanned face paled in an instant. His jaw dropped and he clutched the sides of his seat with claw like fists.
“I… I…” He looked her straight in the eyes. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, dear. It isn’t something you can easily be mistaken about.”
“Oh my Lord! That too is a sin.”
“Is it?”
“Genesis 13:13, 19:5-7, Leviticus 18:22, 20:13, Romans 1:27… I could go on.”
“A man with another man perhaps, but consensually between husband and wife within marriage, I don’t think so. Doesn’t Corinthians 7:5 cover it?”
“Hmmm.” Adrian appeared unconvinced. “Are you… are you okay?”
“A tad sore.”
“Oh, my Lord!” Adrian leaned forward and cupped his head in his hands. “What would the archdeacon say?”
“He will never know,” said Sue emphatically. “It’s none of his business. I have no intention of telling him, and I sincerely hope you don’t either.”
“I may have to confess.”
“No, Adrian, this is entirely between us. No one needs to know.”
Adrian shook his head. “Not for a man in my position.” He was becoming tearful. “And now I feel extremely guilty indeed… for having…”
She took his hand and held it tight within her own. “Adrian, it was a mistake… a drunken error. There was no intent there. You have nothing to feel guilty about. If anyone does it should be me for goading you on.”
“You should have stopped me, once…”
“I tried, but you weren’t listening.”
They slumped into another silence, both full of thoughts and mulling over what had been done and the things that had been said. The plane landed and they disembarked. As they waited at the luggage carousel, Adrian took Sue out of earshot of the other passengers.
“Sue, I’ve been trying very hard not to feel guilty… after what we talked about on the plane. You’re right, it wasn’t intentional, and if anything is to blame it was the alcohol. Neither of us was in control and we did something that could be construed as sinful if that were not so. I can reconcile myself to that. But… but… I still have a very strong sense of guilt.”
“Why?” asked Sue. “What then is it that makes you feel that way?”
Adrian turned away to avoid looking her directly in the eyes. “When we… when I was doing what I did…”
“Yes?’
“When I… did that to you. I… I… I…”
“What, Adrian? You what…?”
“I really enjoyed it.”
Sue took his head in her hands and turned him so that he had no choice but to stare her directly in the face. She smiled at him and kissed him gently on the lips. “So did I.”
As they pushed their luggage trolley into the arrivals lounge, Mr Rogers was there to meet them.
“Welcome home,” he said, shaking Adrian’s hand and pecking Sue on the cheek. They loaded their bags into the boot of his car and got in, Adrian and Sue in the back. As he drove off, Mr Rogers said: “Sue, you look terrific, positively blooming. You must have had a bloody great time.”
“Thank you,” said Sue, smiling, genuinely delighted to hear this. “Yes I did. A lovely time.”
“And how about you, vicar. Have you enjoyed yourself?”
“I have indeed. Thank you… yes.”
“Lucky bugger.”
Adrian froze. He stared ahead, eyes focused on the back of Mr Rogers’ head. How on earth did he… how could he possibly…
He felt his hand being squeezed reassuringly. He looked across at his wife who was still smiling. She winked at him. He unfroze. Of course… just Rogers being his politically incorrect self. A wave of relief flooded through him.
He squeezed Sue’s hand harder, smiled at her and winked back.
Rude Words
Liam hated visiting the care home. The thought of it filled him with dread every other Sunday morning as he drove down the M23 towards Burgess Hill… or Bugger’s Hole as Peggy, one of the other Sunday visitors he’d got to know, called it; and that was about right as far as he was concerned.
He parked in the visitors’ section of the car park and wandered towards the main entrance. The façade of the Victorian building – surely a workhouse in bygone days – appeared grimmer than usual on this damp, overcast Nov
ember day, surrounded as it was by a medley of trees in the last throws of shedding their leaves to reveal naked winter branches.
Sometimes Shirley came with him, but he knew she hated it even more than he did and he never minded if she offered an excuse, to clean the house or do the washing; anything. At Christmas and on Dad’s birthday the kids came along, usually under protest and for a short visit only. So more often than not Liam made the trip alone, stayed as long as he could bear, then drove home feeling guilty for finding it such an ordeal.
Dad had gone downhill rapidly after Mum died. At eighty-four he found himself living alone for the first time in his life. That was two years ago and his life had become chaotic for a while until they moved him into the home. His memory shot, he couldn’t remember anything from one minute to the next; where he lived, where the shops were and, if he drove anywhere, where he had parked the car. On one occasion, he’d driven in to town for a haircut (only to be told he’d had one a few days earlier) and afterwards spent an hour wandering around the multi-storey searching for his car. A security guard joined in and he couldn’t find it either. The car was reported as stolen and Dad had been given a lift home by the police. The next day it was found parked in a side street next to the multi-storey, where Dad had left it.
The car was sold now, so too the house and just about everything else apart from Dad’s clothes and a few other belongings, plus some mementos of childhood Liam and his sister, Ellen, had retrieved prior to the clearance; photos, some books, football programmes, games, that sort of thing.
The memory loss was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, Dad was happy; a lack of recall meant he couldn’t dwell on the quality of his life, or rather lack of it, and he had settled into an existence free from worry, anxiety and any responsibility whatsoever. A fool’s paradise if you like. On the other, it was incredibly frustrating for Liam, and others, trying to make conversation with someone who barely recognised his own son and who asked him the same question over and over again. In years gone by Dad had had a fantastic memory and his general knowledge was stunning. He’d travelled the world as an export sales manager and could quote facts and figures about any country you cared to name, plus a few you’d never even heard of. Which made this all the worse. Curiously, there were good days and bad days. There were moments of clarity, as if a fog had lifted from the landscape inside his head, which were a delight. But for the most part his retention period could be measured in minutes.
Being a Sunday, the most popular day for visiting, reception was manned. Most of the staff knew him by now and the overweight frump sitting at the desk nodded him in with the meagerest hint of a smile on her sour face. “He’s in his room,” she mumbled with profound indifference.
Dad was always in his room. As far as Liam could ascertain he only ever left it at mealtimes and for Sunday visits; the rest of the time he seemed to spend alone, flicking through newspapers that were weeks old, or magazines that were months old, or staring at the walls and ceiling with just his transistor radio on low for company. There was a television in the lounge but Liam knew Dad rarely went there, if ever; possibly he could not remember how to find it. A strange irony. For decades at home he had sat staring at the telly every evening, mindlessly watching anything that came on.
His was the last room at the end of a long, drab corridor that smelled of a combination of urine and damp, with just a hint of Febreze Spiced Apple. Whenever Liam walked down this corridor, the words of Carmen the Costa Coffee lady at work floated into his head. One Monday morning not so long ago, after a weekend spent celebrating a birthday with a nought in it, he had remarked as she prepared his Americano: “Sixty now, Carmen – officially old.” In her droll, acerbic Caribbean accent she had stung back with: “You ain’t old ‘til you’re drippin’ piss, my darlin’.”
Now he knew what she meant. The care home reeked of it.
Liam walked in without knocking and called cheerily: “Hi Dad, it’s me, Liam.” Then as an addendum: “… your son.”
Predictably, Dad was sitting in the only chair in the room, staring at the wall, listening to BBC Five Live. He looked at Liam vaguely with no hint of recognition, then stood up and held out his hand. Father and son had never done this, shaken hands, and indicated to Liam that Dad had no idea who had just walked into his room.
Today was not a good day.
“Your son,” Liam repeated.
Dad nodded. “If you say so.”
This would have been hurtful had something similar not happened a dozen times before. “Of course I am,” said Liam brightly. “How are you, Dad?”
“Fine.”
“Everything alright?”
“Fine.” He glanced around the room. “Have you been here before?”
“Many times, Dad.” Liam pointed to the digital clock on the shelf above the bed. “Nearly twelve… do you fancy some lunch?”
“I don’t mind.”
“Come on, let’s head off to the dining room, shall we?”
“Alright. Do you know the way?”
“I do.”
“You’ve been here before then.”
“I have indeed. Come on, I’ll lead the way.”
“I’ll get my coat.”
“No need, it’s only down the corridor. We’re not going outside. Unless you’d like to go somewhere… the pub maybe, or the fish and chip restaurant in town?”
“I don’t mind.”
“Well let’s keep it simple and eat here, shall we?” It was Liam’s preference. He found it stressful taking his dad out for lunch. It took an age, and ordering was complicated when Dad couldn’t remember what he’d chosen from one minute to the next. In the care home Dad ate anything that was put in front of him, but anywhere else he became overtly fussy and particular; the meat was tough, the vegetables undercooked, the gravy runny, the custard lumpy… “not like your mother used to make”.
The dining room was busy. Liam recognised some of the other visitors and smiled and nodded at a few. He saw Peggy, fussing over her mother, and gave her a wave and mouthed Hello. She rolled her eyes, mouthed back Bugger’s Hole and grinned. Some visitors were absorbed in their elderly folk and engaged in conversation or helping them with their meals; others seemed indifferent, eager to be distracted by anything that wasn’t to do with an ageing relative. Liam wondered how he came across to others; probably somewhere in the middle ground between the two.
It was a canteen arrangement; you took a tray and moved along the serving area and watched dollops of this and lumps of that gradually filling your plate. There was a choice of roast beef or pork, as always on a Sunday. Liam chose pork and Dad beef. You could help yourself to gravy, mustard, apple sauce or horseradish, if you could find room. Just before the end was another sour faced woman who could have been the slimmer, older sister of the woman at reception.
“Do you want stuffing?’ she declared, a serving spoon containing a congealed mess hovering uninvitingly in the space between them.
No, but you do, thought Liam. Then out loud he said: “Ordinarily I would say yes, but not today, thank you all the same.”
“Please yourself.”
They made their way across the dining room and set their trays down on a table by the window. The view was of an orchard of apple trees with fruit rotting on the boughs or as windfalls on the overgrown grass beneath. In one corner, on a narrow terrace, stood a swing seat with the cushions removed, undulating slightly with the gentle breeze, and beyond the trees, next to a disintegrating wooden fence, a rusty Zimmer frame lay on its side, as if abandoned on the very spot where its owner had expired. It had been there as long as Liam had been coming here.
Dad was hungry. He tucked into his meal with gusto, which made Liam wonder when he had last eaten; he’d been looking thinner recently. This was not the most expensive of care homes; it was all he and Ellen could afford. The amount resulting from the house sale ha
d proven disappointing and it was plain from the conditions that you got what you paid for. So if they skimped on meals he wouldn’t have been at all surprised. He’d queried things on a couple of occasions and been given assurances by the manager, Mr Castellani, that the establishment prided itself on high standards of governance and that his father was in the very best of hands. There was nothing more he could do, but it added to his sense of guilt, and encouraged him to remember to buy a lottery ticket every Friday on his way home from work.
“Enjoying that, Dad?”
“Hmmm.”
“Did you have any breakfast this morning?” Dad shook his head. “Why not – weren’t you hungry, or wasn’t there any?” Dad shrugged. “Which was it?”
Dad shook his head, which meant: “I can’t remember.”
“Okay.” Liam picked at his meal but it really was highly unappealing and he wished now that he’d insisted on going to the pub. He watched Dad tucking in, so tried again and managed a roast potato… or it might have been a parsnip.
Dad put down his knife and fork and took a sip of water, his hand shaking slightly. “How’s Marie?”
“Marie?”
“Your wife.”
“You mean Shirley. Marie was my first girlfriend when I was at college forty years ago.”
“If you say so.”
“Shirley is fine thanks. So are the kids.”
“Kids?”
“Robin and Sam.”
“Boys, that’s nice.”
“Sam is a girl. Samantha.” This was a continuing disappointment to Liam, that Rob and Sam’s grandfather didn’t even recall their existence, let alone their names. “Rob is twenty-nine, Sam twenty-seven,” he added as a reminder.
“Thank you.” He shovelled a greasy forkful of beef into his mouth then sat back and gazed out of the window vacantly as he chewed. “And Clara?”
Liam sighed. Dad hadn’t asked about her for a while and he’d hoped she had dropped out of his memory for good. Clara was Dad’s sister, Liam’s aunt; dead fifteen years from cancer. Not wanting to upset or confuse his father any more than necessary, he said: “As well as can be expected.” Dad looked perplexed. Perhaps he remembered more than Liam imagined. Had it been a mistake to lie? More guilt piling up.
