by Paul Charles
Anyway, back to Mary. She apologised for not contacting me sooner and we arranged to meet later that evening. Conscious that it was my turn to stand the meal and equally conscious that she’d object to me doing so, I said I’d cook and invited her round to the flat.
Now my absolute favourite at that point was Safeway’s hamburgers, baked beans (Crosse & Blackwell, of course), fried eggs and chips. That was possibly the single biggest thing I enjoyed the most about being independent from my parents: the biggest, no-longer-living- with-them benefit was that I could eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. It’s not that I could even claim that I didn’t enjoy such meals with my parents, for if I asked my mother to cook me my favourite, she would have, and gladly. However, there were other times where I’d be faced with things that weren’t quite so appetising, say for instance cabbage, turnips, carrots, beetroot. I still haven’t figured out how people eat those things so willingly. Desserts were another example. Desserts are meant to be treats, right? Well then can you please tell me how anyone can sit down to a bowl of rhubarb? Agh! Even the thought of it turns my stomach.
Anyway, I’d prepared this meal (burgers, beans, egg and chips) so often that I was now an expert at it, which was all well and good but at the same time, it was hardly a meal to prepare for a girl you’d like to impress, and that didn’t change whether she was a friend or more. I could hardly place a plate of that in front of her and then go about building my favourite chip-and-baked-bean buttie now, could I? (Homemade chips are so brilliant though, aren’t they? If you get it right you can still taste the fullness of the potato and hardly any cooking oil. The chips you buy in fish and chip shops always taste secondhand to me. I tell you what, let me make you a chip-and-baked-bean buttie one time and I’ll guarantee you’ll soon see – and taste – what I’m on about. I could make chips that Alf Tupper, the Tough of the Track, would break the four-minute mile for!) The only problem was that any points I’d scored with Mary, if in fact I’d scored any points at all at this stage, would soon disappear as fast as the buttie vanished down my throat.
In the end I played safe, as opposed to Safeway (sorry…), and did her cod in butter sauce (courtesy of Birds Eye), boiled potatoes and peas, followed with Bakewell tart and custard. I didn’t mind the cod really; it was quite tasty, but the fact that I’d Bakewell tart for afters made it all okay for me.
What about poor Mary though?
She enjoyed it as well, she said, so there. I think as much as for the fact that I’d actually taken the time to prepare it. John, according to Mary, could hardly open a tin of baked beans, so there again! Yet still there were all these beautiful girls running around after him, saying he couldn’t do this and he couldn’t do that, and he’d jumbo ears, but you know what, they were still chasing him. He must have been doing something right.
After dinner we drank the wine she’d brought around and listened to Bob Dylan. She seemed to be taking a lot of solace in Dylan’s words. Have you ever listened to his words? I mean, really listened to his lyrics, and closely? Well, you should, because they are purely and simply nothing short of amazing. I’m continuously hearing something he says that is so simple, so logical, and wishing I’d thought of it. But I never did. Just listen to any of his songs and see if his lyrics don’t inspire you in the same way.
You could tell they were inspiring Mary; she was letting his lyrics wash right over her. I thought she was hoping they would heal her. And you know what, they probably were capable of starting the healing process; all she needed to do was let them in.
‘It’s just that I’d resolved to accept that it was over between me and John,’ she started, after I’d cleared the dishes away. ‘I thought that was a big point, a big conclusion to reach, a resolution, which I thought would bring me some peace.’
She stopped talking to take a drink from her wine glass. I had a feeling it might be because she was about to cry, so I gave her the time to dip back into Dylan’s music. Unfortunately, the song in question happened to be ‘It’s All Over Now Baby Blue’. No doubt it’s a classic, but undoubtedly that wasn’t the best moment for it to roll round.
But thankfully Mary didn’t seem to be dwelling on those hearts bared lyrics, choosing instead to take solace in the beauty of the melody. About halfway through the song, she started to talk again.
‘I thought the big point was me accepting that it was over. I thought that when I could accept that, I’d be fine, I’d be able to get over it. You see, up until we last spoke I’d harboured a thought that we might get together again. But the specialness of what John and I had has been ruined; we’d never be able to put it together again, not the way it was. So it was just going to be continued heartbreak. Now I think I’m grieving the loss of our love, and I never ever dreamt it would hurt as much as it did over the weekend.’
‘You shouldn’t be sitting in, moping about it,’ I offered, hoping to encourage her.
‘Well, I thought that too, but then I kept thinking that the last time I’d been out was at Tiger’s party and look what happened there.’
We both shared that thought for a moment and then she spoke again.
‘But I do enjoy being with you.’
It was spoken in not much more than a half-whisper, but I could tell that she meant it.
‘But I must be a bore to be with when I’m like this,’ she said, before smiling at me apologetically.
‘Not at all – anything but, in fact,’ I said.
I tried not to go too over the top; I mean, I didn’t want her to think I was so morbid that I enjoyed being around her when she was depressed.
‘I’m not usually like this. I’m usually much more fun. But I feel like I’m getting back on my feet again. I feel like I want to hang out with you and get to know you better. But I’m worried that I may just be on the rebound and I’d hate… well, I like you David, and I’d hate us to get together just because I’ve lost John, and then, because that was the basis of our relationship, for us to split up just because we hadn’t taken the time now to make sure things were healed before I move on. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes, that makes perfect sense,’ I replied.
‘I can’t believe how easy it is to talk to you. I was thinking about you last night and I was thinking all these things and then I suddenly got a violent shudder. I had this flash. What happens if he meets someone else while I’m taking my time to get over John? What happens if he meets someone else? And, I know that this might sound a bit weird, but I thought that by even having that thought, well, in a way that showed me I was getting over it; my instincts were starting to click in again. You know, it’s all fine lying around crying and feeling sorry for yourself, but equally, I might lose something special. That’s when I decided to ring you.’
‘I’m glad you did, Mary,’ I said. I was lying back, basking in my glory, feeling great and allowing myself to believe that there was a chance that this beautiful girl might be attracted to me and all this might not be as complicated as I’d feared.
‘You’re not seeing anyone else at the minute are you David?’
My glory fell down around my throat and nearly choked me.
Let’s consider this question, italics and all, for a moment or two: ‘You’re not seeing anyone at the moment?’ This in itself – and word for word – was perfectly correct. I wasn’t really seeing anyone at that moment. I’ve got a few friends, very few, as you’re already aware. I could have said, ‘One of my friends happens to be a girl. I see bands in clubs with this girl, and we occasionally (once, to be exact) wrestle each other until we get our rocks off. Oh, and by the way she’s also the same girl who stole your intended.’
That doesn’t sound anywhere near as good as my actual answer.
‘Well, you know I was kind of seeing Jean Kerr but she dumped me just after Tiger’s party.’
Now, not even the very closest examination of this answer will reveal a lie, a porky pie. And the reason is because it was the truth. Not the full truth, I’m
sure you’ll understand, but it’s also very important to note that there are no actual lies contained within those nineteen words.
‘Well, I wouldn’t blame you if you were, but all I can say is I’m glad you’re not,’ Mary Skeffington said.
And we both let it lie there.
But that wasn’t the end of the evening. No, not by a longshot. You see, I walked her home and we loitered on her doorstep up on the long, straight for as far as the eye could see, Gladstone Road. This was the third time I’d walked Mary home. We stood talking about this and that, nothing heavy. We weren’t resolving anything. Nor were we trying to. She didn’t invite me in for a coffee. I can’t abide the stuff anyway.
‘You’re freezing,’ she said.
‘Just a little,’ I lied.
‘Let me give you a hug,’ she said.
‘That would be nice.’ I said.
And so we hugged.
Tightly.
We were close and still looking into each other’s eyes. Both smiling. It was a shame to be so close to her lips and not be able to taste them. That’s what I thought. And I’d also like several other offences to be taken into consideration.
‘I’d really like to kiss you,’ I admitted, fearing the worst.
‘That would be nice,’ she said, and we kissed.
It was a great kiss. What can I tell you? It was passionate but not desperate; it was gentle but not wimpy. Her lips were full and soft and very kissable. We explored each other’s mouths for a while. But the nice thing about the kiss for me was that it was never a prelude to something else, to something more, something intimate. It was a kiss for a kiss’s sake, and those are the kind of kisses I absolutely adore and treasure the most.
At the end of the kiss we continued hugging and she rested her head on my shoulder. Eventually she whispered, ‘I’ve never enjoyed a moment as tender as that before. Thank you David.’
As I walked home I thought that was quite a magical thing for her to have said. Like, she didn’t say ‘You’re a better kisser than John.’ Maybe she meant that, maybe she didn’t; maybe she didn’t want to get drawn into it. Maybe she wanted to say something and that was the best she could come up with. Maybe she realised after the kiss that I wasn’t John and how much she missed being with him and having that kiss proved it to her for once and for all and that was just her way of letting me down easy.
Or, maybe she just said what was in her heart. Yes maybe that’s what she did. She said what was in her heart.
That’ll do for me.
Chapter Sixteen.
Jean Kerr was my next visitor. Honest. I’m not kidding.
The next day at work I received a very businesslike call from her.
‘I need to see you, it’s urgent. Can I come round tonight?’
My instincts told me to ask, ‘What’s this all about?’ My boss hovering in the background told me to get rid of the call.
‘Okay, tonight at eight, gotta go,’ I said, but she was already gone. I’m sure I heard her disconnect following the word ‘eight’.
Chronologically speaking, I realised the progression of my romantic life was definitely not in the correct order. First night should have been Mary: we’d kissed but hadn’t got physical. Second night should have been Miss Simpson: we’d got physical but hadn’t been intimate. Then the third night should have been Jean Kerr. We’d already been intimate, but I certainly didn’t want to be intimate with her again.
Is that cruel?
It’s not meant to be.
Fast-forward six hours and Jean Kerr is standing on my doorstep, not giving a fig about chronological order.
‘We need to speak,’ she just blurted out, still on the doorstep. ‘We need to get back together again.’
And with that she rushed past me into the bed-sitting room. I closed the door and followed her in.
‘I’m sorry, David. I was rash. I know I’ve hurt you. I know it wasn’t your fault. But it’s okay, we can make it better by getting back together again.’
Okay. My first instinct was to say, ‘Get real Jean. It was the happiest day in my life when you dumped me, if only because I couldn’t pick up the courage to dump you.’
Second instinct was to realise and accept that Jean Kerr was Jean Simpson’s best friend. I liked hanging out with Miss Simpson, and that’s putting it very mildly. So making an enemy out of Jean Kerr at this point wouldn’t have been the best idea. Yes, I’ll admit to it coming across as a bit scheming, but I was driven on by that image of Jean Simpson on top of me on the very red carpet, the very same carpet that now separated Jean Kerr and me.
Go with your second instinct, David.
‘Well Jean,’ I began cautiously. Please don’t forget I was swimming upstream here. ‘You kind of threw me. I mean, I was just helping the girl out of a bit of trouble. Then you went and got very mad at me. And I started to wonder why you got so mad at me. And the reason you got so mad at me is because you wanted so much more from me.’
Are you with me so far? Good, because I was struggling.
‘And that made me think about us, you know, and I thought that maybe we’d taken things a wee bit too fast, you know, in getting to know each other. I’m really a country boy at heart and I like… I need to take time to get to know a girl, and we didn’t really take that time, did we?’
‘No Pet, but we still managed to–’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ I said cutting her off at the pass, I really didn’t want to go there, ‘but, and I’m equally to blame here, but maybe that happened a wee bit too quickly as well.’
‘For heaven’s sake, David, I didn’t notice you objecting much!’
I suddenly felt very sad. Not for Jean Kerr, but for myself. I had suddenly remembered another saying on the boy/girl front: they say, and they did repeat this one a lot, they say that you never ever forget the first girl you make love to. Jean Kerr would, for the rest of my life, haunt me with that memory. Does that make me a cad? It does? Oh, in that case I won’t finish telling you exactly what I was thinking.
I smiled at Jean. I hope my smile suggested ‘You’ve got to forgive me for that one.’ But ‘gift horse’ and ‘mouth’ were two words that sprung from the darkest corners of my mind.
‘Guilty, Jean, guilty!’ I said, holding my hands up in surrender. ‘But the thing I’ve been thinking is that we didn’t go about our relationship properly. I thought that if I could turn back the clock I would go about things differently. I would certainly take things more slowly.’
‘But it’s just that we could be so super together!’ she said. ‘Everybody thinks you’re really nice for what you did for bloody Mary Skeffington. Even John said, no matter the troubles he and Mary were having he was glad someone had the bottle to stand up for her when everyone else was against her. Our Jean thinks you’re marvellous as well – she’s always going on about what great fun you are and what a gentleman you always are when it comes to… you know.’
Yes, I knew!
‘So, with you being so popular and all with my friends, Pet, I thought if we got back together we’d be a super couple and they’d all love us,’ Jean said, a hint of desperation creeping into her voice. I also noticed that she taken to using the word ‘super’ quite a bit, that being the very same word she’d not long since stated she loathed whenever her supervisor used it.
‘Jean, I now realise that in relationships it’s so important you take it slowly. I’m not very good company at the moment. I’m still getting over the shock of breaking up with you, but I really feel that we should be friends and leave it like that for now.’
‘For heaven’s sake, if I ever hear anyone say those fockin’ words again… “Let’s just be friends!”… I’ll fockin’ swing for them, I swear I will! What with this and my supervisor at work – I just can’t believe the way he treats me. It’s true, David. He acts like he doesn’t even see me. He just dishes out his orders to me and he always gives me all the complicated jobs and then gets on my case, just because I can’t co
mplete them for him. Why me? Why him? If it weren’t for him I’d be in his position; my career would be taking off! I’d be a lot more attractive to you.’
‘Jean, come on, it’s not you,’ I interrupted, ‘it’s me. I’ve just got to get through this part of my life and I think it’s probably going to be best if I’m just a friend. Of course, I don’t mean just a friend. But I do really think I’m going to be a better friend than I was boyfriend.’
I made her a cup of tea and she went on about her boss for a while and we generally talked around the houses a few times, and you know what? I don’t think she really was interested in getting back with me. I just think it would’ve made things a wee bit cosier in her mind, you know; her & me, John & Jean and John & Yoko, all being cosy together. It was a bit like that Gordon Lightfoot song that was popular at the time: ‘John loves Mary, does anyone love me?’ In this instance switch Jean Simpson for Mary and have Jean Kerr the voice in the song and you’ve got it down pat. But I wondered; could there even still be a little bit of truth in the original line, ‘John loves Mary’? Could that be the reason behind the farcical relationship he was having with Jean Simpson? Or was that, once again, just wishful thinking on my part?
Of course I walked Jean Kerr home. My poor corduroy shoes seemed to be pounding the silent Wimbledon streets a lot these recent nights. When we arrived at the flat, Jean Simpson and John Harrison were in and they invited me in for a tea.
That made Jean Kerr perk up and immediately announce, ‘I’ve forgiven David and we’ve made up! I mean, made up as friends, of course. We’ve decided that it’s best if we’re just good friends. Isn’t that right Pe… isn’t that right David?’
‘Yes,’ I said, raising my cup of tea, ‘to friends.’
They all joined in the toast and perhaps it was only my imagination but I could have sworn that Jean Simpson said ‘To friends!’ with a lot more volume and enthusiasm than the rest of us.
