by David Carter
She did have one little sulk. Gringo didn’t approve of that, though he didn’t think so much of it. She’d wanted to see him again on the Wednesday, but that was out of the question because Gringo was going away.
‘Where are you going?’ she’d asked, pouting like a teenager.
‘I’m driving up to see my mum and dad.’
‘Didn’t you think to tell me? Didn’t you think to ask me if I might like to come with you?’
‘It’s been arranged for ages. I didn’t think you’d want to come.’
Gringo didn’t like taking women to see his parents because they would inevitably see it as a precursor to marriage, and Gringo had no intention of getting married, and most certainly not to Maria Almeida. He was driving to Shropshire on the Tuesday and not coming back till Saturday afternoon.
He’d escorted Maria up to her apartment and hugged and kissed her in the doorway. She’d wanted to make a firm arrangement to meet the following Saturday, but he even put that off, saying he didn’t know what time he would be back. She was beginning to think he might be considering dumping her, now that he’d had what he wanted. All too often men were like that. It didn’t bear thinking about. It would be a very long week, so far as she was concerned.
That didn’t bother him at all. He liked to keep them guessing and on their toes. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that, and anyway, he wanted to write her a letter. There were one or two things he didn’t like, little issues he had, and the best way to address those was in writing. She might ignore or mishear a telephone call, but written down in black and white, that was another thing entirely. You can’t ignore a letter. In his mind he’d already begun composing his missive.
Melanie interrupted his thoughts as she approached his office. She was clutching another pile of papers and was in a hurry, but it wasn’t the paperwork that caught his eye, but the tight blouse that restricted her breasts. What a beautiful woman she was. She passed his door and saw him admiring her, and flashed him a come on smile, but still carried on by.
It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. That’s as maybe, but it’s better still to have loved and loved and loved. He was disappointed that she hadn’t rung. Perhaps he should ask her out again. She could only say no, but he didn’t fancy chasing her. If she wanted him she would make it known, that was for certain, and then there was that strange business with Richie Henderson. Gringo had still not been able to figure out how he knew her name, and he’d like to get to the bottom of that. Papers, papers and more papers. Get on with your work, boy, or you will still be here at midnight.
He enjoyed driving through the Shropshire villages. Somehow they seemed to belong to another time, a world of fifty years before. It was easy driving and it enabled him to work on his letter. In his mind he had almost finished it. One way or the other it would make for an interesting weekend ahead. Saturday, his treat day, he put more effort and planning into what went down on a Saturday than he ever did into managing the affairs of Dryden Engineering, but that was still four days away.
His parents were pleased to see him as they always were. They wanted to know all about his work and couldn’t wait to hear if there was any sign of grandchildren on the horizon. Gringo was an only child. It was down to him alone, or that strand of the Greene family would become extinct. We’re not bloody dinosaurs! He heard his old dad carping on. It had become one of his favourite expressions.
Though it didn’t seem like it, it had been almost a year since he’d seen them, and though he hated to admit it, they looked a lot older, especially pops who’d suddenly taken to doing everything at a snail’s pace.
After they’d gone to bed Gringo sat at the kitchen table, a large glass of red wine before him that dad had insisted in pouring before he went up, the crazy cat, Felix, mighty chuffed at having a young(ish) bloke in the house to play with, pulling and biting on the ends of his trousers.
Gringo took out the writing pad. He reached into his jacket for his silver fountain pen, shrugged his shoulders and began.
Dear Maria,
Just a short note to tell you that everything is fine at this end, and to advise you of my plans for the week ahead. I hope to be back in the big city by Saturday afternoon and by then I will most definitely be in the mood for the company of a beautiful woman, which is where you come in. Don’t make any plans for Saturday (and Sunday too if I have my way) I am booking you now, you are spoken for.
I thought we’d push the boat out and go out somewhere really nice for dinner, so get your hair done and put on your best dress or a smart suit, but most definitely NOT trousers of any kind. In case you hadn’t noticed, I wear the trousers in this relationship.
And while we are on the subject of clothing, put on some sexy underwear, none of that blue serge rubbish, and if you haven’t got any slinky stuff, then bloody well get some, and if you are really lucky, before the midnight hour, I shall carry out a full kit inspection, and woe betide anyone who does not pass muster.
I hope you have been behaving yourself in my absence, (you better had be!) and not going out with any strange men, that would not be advisable, and remember, you are not too big or too old to be put over my knee and given a thorough spanking, which is exactly what will happen if and when you misbehave.
I hope you have been thinking of me in my absence, as I have clearly been thinking about you. One word of advice, Maria: I strongly recommend you go to bed early on the Friday night and get plenty of beauty sleep, not that you need much beauty sleep particularly, but because I can guarantee that you will not be getting much sleep on the Saturday night, and that’s a fact.
You can most definitely say, in modern parlance, that you are on a promise this coming weekend, big time, and there will be no stopping either. So there we are, hopefully that will have given you something to think about, and look forward to.
I will pick you up at eight. Try and be ready.
Till then,
I still am,
Gringo Greene
XXX
He read the letter through three times. He was happy enough with his effort; he’d been working on it in his mind for a couple of days. It addressed some of the issues he had with her, subtly he thought, though she might think different. Once she’d received it the ball would be firmly in her court. It was quite simple, either she complied with his wishes, or he would give her the elbow. It would be interesting to see how the clever Miss Almeida responded.
Gringo emptied his glass. He pulled the cat from his trousers, opened his wallet and took out a first class stamp, fixed it to the envelope, and went outside to wander down the lane, to where an old Victorian post box still stood on the bend in the road. He tossed it in the box, and as he did so a picture of her receiving it flashed into his head, opening it, reading it, dry-mouthed and wide-eyed, while sitting at her kitchen table. In the darkness and silence and the keen Shropshire air he laughed aloud.
He could almost hear her response now. It would run along the lines of: What a bloody cheek! but after that he imagined that she would adore the letter. Perhaps he was letting vanity get the better of him. Nah! No chance. He had written similar letters before, and they’d invariably resulted in him getting exactly what he wanted. He was confident that Maria Almeida would be no different. She’d jump into line; they always did if they wanted him enough. Saturday would be great. Saturday would be his.
He hurried back to the cottage, stroked the cat into a purring frenzy, gulped down a paracetamol and went to bed, though he didn’t immediately fall asleep.
Women insisted in infiltrating his mind. Didn’t they always? Melanie naked on the bed. Maria astride him, as he expertly slipped her brassiere from her bronzed shoulders.
‘You’ve done that before!’
‘Once or twice.’
And then there was Glen, and that horrendous last date they had endured together, even now thinking of it made him shiver, if only he could rewrite past events, and that smart little t
hing in the accounts department, Rebecca something or other, the nineteen year old who’d been giving him the eye all week. Surely he could not have been imagining that. Rebecca with those painted on pink cord jeans. She should be more careful or she might bite off more than she could chew.
He tossed and turned and it was well after one before he finally fell asleep, and even then the slumber was lacking something.
Sad to say, poor Brenda didn’t rate a thought.
Fifteen
For all of Maria Almeida’s cleverness she had not learnt to drive, and not only that, she had never shown any interest in the art. She preferred being chauffeured everywhere, preferably by tall, dark and handsome men. Today she would have to jump the bus the five stuttering stops into town, into work.
Gringo hadn’t rung, she thought he might have done, and she hadn’t rung him, she couldn’t, because she didn’t know his number, oh yes, she’d tried his mobile, but it came back as no signal and that wasn’t unusual with him.
She stepped out of Telford Buildings at 8.22am. It was warm for the time of year, but drizzling. She heaved up her umbrella and stepped out toward the bus stop, happy that she’d chosen the thicker, grey trousers.
At 8.24am the postman cycled into the yard. Quite often it was a postess, or should that be postperson, who carted round their mail, but that day it was a thirty something man known to everyone as Eccles. That was his surname; no one locally knew his first name.
He collected a considerable bundle of mail from the bag slung beneath the handlebars and tapped on Mrs Bunce’s window. She was long retired and resided in the ground floor flat close by the front door. Every morning she waited by the window for Eccles or the postess, whose name she had yet to learn, to issue that friendly tap. It had become the highlight of her day. She would press the buzzer and the front door would spring open. All the residents preferred the arrangement because there were no separate mail boxes outside, and the idea that a huge bundle should be forced through the main door for all and sundry to rummage through was too hideous to contemplate. An odd couple had recently moved into one of the top flats and neither of them worked and consequently they were treated with the greatest of suspicion. She went to her door and opened up.
‘Morning, Eccles.’
‘Morning, Mrs Bunce,’ he said cheerily, handing her an electricity bill and the competition magazine that had come to rule her life.
‘Not such a nice day.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Eccles, as he hustled on his way through the flats about his business.
Four items found their way through Maria’s post box that morning. Her electricity bill, a clothing catalogue from Her Style Chic, an invitation from Amnesty International to send them yet more money, something she occasionally did, and a handwritten letter postmarked somewhere in rural Shropshire.
The letter tumbled down, revolving over and over, before falling on top of the skimpily dressed model on the front cover of the clothing cat, landing face upward, Gringo’s unique handwriting displaying Maria’s name and address to anyone who would care to glance down. It would remain there, quite undisturbed, for ten full hours.
It was just after half past six when Maria eased the door open, two bags of supermarket groceries pulling on her arms, her umbrella and handbag and fat evening newspaper adding to the cumbersome burden. She dumped the heavy plastic bags to one side and exhaled.
It had been a dire journey home. She wouldn’t have minded but it was only a mile or so. The bloody bus had been late and when it finally showed up it was packed. She had been the last one allowed on, something she put down to the broad smile she flashed at the youngish guy behind the wheel. He couldn’t resist her, or so she imagined, but she only found a seat for the last stop, and that she’d shared with a middle-aged man who hadn’t washed since the previous Christmas.
The rain had worsened and the wind had picked up making the brolly pretty useless, and now her grey slacks were spattered with damp patches. To top it all Mr Julip, her immediate superior, had been in a foul mood all day, You really will have to buck your ideas up, Miss Almeida, or you will never make the grade.
Yes Mr Julip.
She sniffed and could have sworn that stale aroma of sweat had followed her all the way home, infecting people like a virulent bug. She would have to take a shower, and sooner rather than later. She glanced down at the mail. A handwritten letter sat on the top displaying itself, begging to be seized and opened and read. That was unusual, anything handwritten. Her heart skipped a beat. It was from Gringo. It must be. She would recognise that overlarge scrawl anywhere. Why did he write in such hideously large letters? She had never seen script quite like it.
In that brief moment of glancing down and realising who it was from, several complete scenarios swept through her mind. Why was he writing? Was he dumping her? Or could it possibly be a proposal of marriage? That, surely, would be too much to hope for, for she would jump at the opportunity with open arms. Was something wrong? Perhaps with his parents? Was he not coming back? Would she not see him on the forthcoming weekend? She had already made considerable plans as to what she might wear; she had seen a delicious trouser suit in town, and she’d even thought of what they might eat together.
Her brow furrowed as she bent down and picked up the mail. She cursorily glanced at the other items before tossing them on the small table that was set just inside the door where she always left her keys. She slipped the letter into her slacks’ pocket, grabbed the groceries and went through to the kitchen where she poured herself a glass of cold, still apple juice from the fridge, and sat at the table in silence. She took the letter out and sniffed it. She imagined she detected the faintest scent of Gringo, that expensive aftershave that is always advertised on the television at Christmastime. She will not be able to resist. That was debateable. No it wasn’t, it was fact.
She held the letter between her thumb and forefinger. The envelope was of good quality, and she was sure there was more than one sheet of paper inside. That must mean it couldn’t possibly be a brief Thanks but no thanks letter, a Dear Joan letter as the Americans might say. She shivered. She so wanted not to be dumped. Not by Gringo. She’d lost count of the number of times English men had crapped on her from on high, usually after they had discovered everything there was to know about her. Gringo was different, wasn’t he? She prayed so, literally, quite often. Her bottom lip slowly extended. She probably was unaware it had done so. He’d used a first class stamp, that must mean something too, mustn’t it?
She set the letter down in front of her. If it was bad news, she simply didn’t want to know. If it was bad news she would pretend the letter had never arrived. Post was always going missing in Telford Buildings; no one would think it unusual. No, she wouldn’t open it. Not now, not until after she’d showered and eaten. Her mind was crammed with confused thoughts as she headed for the bathroom. Ten minutes later and she was back, wearing a wraparound white-towelled robe and nothing else.
She’d bought pasta for dinner. One of those packs of little parcels of pasta that contained green gunge that didn’t taste of anything much. She imagined it might do her some good, one of the five portions of fruit and vegetables every day, though by the time she had liberally sprinkled it with grated cheddar cheese, the calorie count had rocketed.
She tried to read the paper but failed dismally. She tried to do the crossword. Clue one: Political Party whose agenda favours the environment. Greens! Greene, Gringo bloody Greene. Oh Christ! She left half of the Delicious Pasta Parcels and pushed the dish to one side. She emptied the apple drink down her dry throat and picked up the envelope again.
It was time to pluck up courage. It was time to read.
She kissed the envelope and closed her eyes and said a little prayer. If she thought any more about it a tear would come, and Maria had long ago taught herself not to cry, not to become upset at some of the vile comments she had been forced to endure since she was a junior schoolgirl, quite different
to any of the others in her class. In adulthood Maria Almeida was slight and feminine and pretty, but still as tough as nails, or so she told herself. Christ, how she hated that school. It was true what people said: Life isn’t fair. Never has been, never will be.
She slipped her slim finger inside the corner of the envelope and began tearing it open. In the silence of the kitchen the sound of ripping paper was deafening. She took out the content. She had been right. There were two pages, folded twice, neatly and firmly, as if caringly done. Seemingly there was nothing slapdash about anything that Gringo Greene did.
She opened the pages and glared down.
Shropshire, Somewhere in the Countryside.
Twenty to Eleven at night.
Why couldn’t he write the name and address and a date like any normal human being?
Just a short note to tell you that everything is fine at this end, and to advise you of my plans for the week ahead. I hope to be back in the big city by Saturday afternoon and by then I will most definitely be in the mood for the company of a beautiful woman, which is where you come in.
Oh thank God! It wasn’t a See-you-later-Suzy, -See-you-never-again type letter. Her eyes retreated and read the line again.
The company of a beautiful woman… which is where you come in.
She read the line three times. What a wonderful line it was. He thinks I’m beautiful. Maria beamed. Deep down she knew she was beautiful, as most women do, but oddly, she had rarely been complimented on her beauty. More often they meant sexy, not beautiful, but what’s the difference? Sometimes it is hard to tell. Oh yes, men did find her attractive, and often said You are beautiful, you, as they attempted to coerce her into doing something she plainly did not wish to do, and why was it they were usually the most pig awful men, and often at the office Christmas party where the partners and seniors seemed to think that the juniors and trainees were open season.
