The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene

by David Carter

  ‘You mean you don’t know it.’

  Gringo glanced across the table. She’d washed her hair again, that tell tale wispiness was back, just as it was on Thursday.

  ‘No, I mean I don’t have one.’

  ‘How can that be? Everyone has a star sign.’

  ‘I have such a horrible birthday. I try not to think about it.’

  ‘Christmas day?’

  ‘No, sometimes I wish it was.’

  ‘April Fool’s day?’

  ‘No. Not as bad as that.’

  ‘New Year’s day?’

  ‘Far worse than that.’

  ‘Then I’m stumped.’

  ‘You give in easy, don’t you?’

  ‘Not always. Come on, when is it?’

  ‘Feb twenty-nine, if you must know. I’m currently seven.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ said Gringo, and he began chortling.

  ‘It’s not that funny!’

  ‘It is. I’ve always wondered; when do you celebrate? What did you do as a kid?’

  ‘As a child I always had my presents on March the first. February 28 was clearly not my birthday, so the next day, logically, must be the right day. On March the first we never changed the calendars, and dad would rush out and buy his newspaper and cross out the date in heavy black ink, and change it to February 29He would show it to me and everyone else he met that day. His little girl would have a proper birthday and no freak of time would deny it. The one consolation was that when the real birthday came along every fourth year, they would go absolutely crazy over it, and I would do very well thank you. I suppose overall I was better off, though it didn’t seem that way at the time, especially at primary school when all the other kids had real birthdays. More often than not mine was only pretend.’

  ‘I know how you feel.’

  ‘So that’s why I said I don’t have a star sign, yes I know people say it should be Pisces, but I’ve never identified myself with that sign.’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Gringo loved to demonstrate his astrological expertise. He could often guess a girl’s star sign long before she told him, and driving to the date that evening he had become certain she was a Pisces.

  ‘Pisces, the twelfth sign of the zodiac, the fish, one of the four special mutable signs, ruled by Jupiter, also known as Mina, considered to be a feminine sign,’ and his mind went back to their interview. He recalled his exact thoughts at the time: she came across as one kind young woman, more than that, she was extremely feminine. Yes, Julie Cairncross was a Pisces all right, whether she accepted it or not.

  ‘You are a mine of information.’

  ‘A little hobby I follow.’

  ‘Hang on a second,’ she said, hurrying her words. ‘You said just now I know how you feel. What did you mean by that? How could you know?’

  Gringo dived into his inside pocket. Tugged out his wallet, fished out his driving licence, and placed it in front of her face. She glanced at the DOB. 2902, though she couldn’t read the year for his thumb was obscuring it.

  ‘No!’ she said, her mouth wide open, her tongue suddenly flicking over her top and bottom lip.

  Gringo nodded.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said, ‘I’ve never met another Feb twenty-niner before.’

  ‘Well you have now.’

  ‘So you must be four years older than me.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘You look all right for your age, don’t worry about that. So you must be thirty-four?’

  Gringo nodded and offered his hand across the table. She accepted it and he squeezed hers gently, before taking it to his lips and kissing.

  ‘Then you must be a Pisces too?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Gringo, ‘for sure.’

  ‘But you are not feminine.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Not often. What do you think?’

  ‘No, Gringo, I don’t think you are feminine at all, the charts got that one wrong.’

  ‘I wonder what the odds are of two Feb twenty-niners meeting in this way.’

  ‘I don’t know the odds about meeting, Gringo, but strictly on stats, its 366 to one times each other, which if I remember my maths correctly is 133956 to 1.’

  ‘How could you possibly remember that?’

  ‘I deal in figures, remember, I’ve always been fascinated by numbers, and recall looking at that calc once before.’

  ‘God, you’re weird.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  A nasal electronic voice, a cross between a demented duck and an embittered ewe, burst through the bar.

  Mister Gringo Greene, your table is now ready… I repeat… Mister Gringo Greene, your table is now ready.

  This was the part of the evening Gringo least liked, for if there was anyone in the house who knew him, they would be sure to come running, and in his life there was always someone he wouldn’t want to meet at that precise moment. They shared a look, emptied their glasses and made ready to move.

  Two people close by began sniggering.

  ‘What a stupid name,’ said the woman.

  Julie, all credit to her, turned and gave the woman a filthy look, more out of a spirit of fun than anything else. Gringo enjoyed and admired that hugely. She’d made sure that Gringo had seen it too; it was as if to say, if you look out for me, than I shall most certainly do the same for you.

  They took their seats in the restaurant and ordered food. Gringo bought the most expensive bottle of red wine he could find for the girl, a small reward for her spirit.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Come on Feb twenty-niner, if you can ask me all those intimate questions, I want the same answers from you.’

  Gringo smirked. This was a first.

  She was talking again.

  ‘What was it, Married? Single? Lovers? Children? Homosexual tendencies? Age? Family? Ambitions? Come along Gringo Greene, cough it up. I want to hear the lot.’

  She was having fun, he could see that in her playful face, and so was he, which was exactly as he’d imagined it would be when he lay in his steaming bath not three hours before.

  ‘Okay, just this once. Married? Of course not, though my parents would dearly like me to take the plunge.’

  ‘Parents always do.’

  ‘Quite so. Single? yes, I most certainly am, and as for lovers, I think we will brush over that one.’

  ‘No we will not! I answered your questions fully and honestly and I expect you to do the same.’

  ‘Really?’

  Julie nodded vigorously.

  ‘All right then. I currently have three lovers.’

  He scrutinised her face, trying to see if she believed him. She clearly did. Her dainty mouth fell open.

  ‘I’m surprised you confessed to that.’

  ‘I never lie about such things,’ which was in itself a lie, ‘because if I did, you would be able to tell.’

  ‘Three lovers? Truly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m shocked, where do you find the time, and the energy?’

  He ignored her question.

  ‘And I’d like three more.’

  ‘Now you are having a laugh.’

  ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘Well if you are telling the truth, you amaze me.’

  ‘I do my best.’

  He refilled her glass. ‘Now, where were we?’

  ‘Children,’ she said.

  ‘Ah yes, maybe one day, but certainly not now, and as for the other thing you mentioned, I can honestly say I have never been attracted to a man.’ That was vaguely true, though he had been hugely attracted to Eddie Wishaw, just like everyone else, though never in a physical kind of way, or so he told himself.

  ‘I read a survey the other day,’ she said smirking, and cutting a tiny portion of meat. ‘It was a confidential works report that we mustn’t mention, the kind of thing that might trap dishonest people, it said that whenever anyone started a reply with I can honestly say, it almost al
ways meant they were about to lie.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘Carry on, Mister Greene.’

  ‘Age, you now know. Family, I have ageing parents who apparently still love one another. Neither has ever had another partner, so far as I know, either before marriage or after, which is quite an alien concept to me, and sadly I am an only child.’

  ‘Is it sad?’

  ‘Yes, I think it is.’

  ‘I was never close to my brother, so in effect I was an only child too.’

  ‘That’s not the same at all.’

  ‘You are probably right.’

  ‘And that just leaves ambitions. I’ve already told you of some of those.’

  ‘To accrue more lovers?’ she said; her face a picture of glee, it was just a pity, Gringo thought, that there wasn’t some colour in her large, but otherwise rather dead, grey eyes. Looking into her eyes was like watching a black and white telly, and who ever wanted to do that anymore?

  ‘Oh yes,’ he reaffirmed, ‘I have never been particularly career driven.’

  ‘But you are well paid?’

  ‘I get by.’

  ‘And you live alone?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Do you get lonely?’

  ‘No, not really, if I do, I go out and find some company.’

  ‘I get lonely,’ she said.

  Quite a brave thing to admit, he thought, especially to someone she had only just met.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Sometimes when I’m in the house by myself, when I turn off the TV and everything is quiet, the walls shriek at me.’

  ‘Shriek?’

  ‘Yes. Do you think I’m crazy?’

  ‘No, there’s a big difference between being alone, and being lonely. When you’re alone that silence can make you believe you are lonely, when you are not really.’

  ‘I wish that were true.’

  He smiled at her again and reached across and took her dainty hand and gave it a squeeze that she hugely appreciated.

  ‘Well, we must make sure that you are never lonely again.’

  She forced a smile back across the table.

  ‘If only.’

  ‘More wine?’

  ‘Please. Tell me all about your mum and dad.’

  So he began telling her about the Greene’s rural idyll, far away in their chocolate box Shropshire cottage on the edge of their quaint Shropshire village. By then Gringo and Julie were so easy in each other’s company the evening flashed by, and in what seemed like a matter of minutes, they were sitting together outside in his car. She had taken a taxi into town, expecting this exact eventuality.

  He didn’t start the engine, they weren’t in any hurry to go anywhere; they were still too busy chatting, intent on setting the world to rights. He turned toward her and placed his left hand on her right arm. She immediately fell silent and turned to look at him, a worried frown appearing on her face.

  He leant across and kissed her gently, a mere brushing of lips. She swallowed hard. Gringo kissed her again. Out of nothing she came alight. He tugged her towards him. She kept coming until she was firmly in his embrace, his hands and arms now totally around her, holding her tight, as if she belonged to him, as if the evening carried hidden meanings that neither of them could comprehend.

  They kissed again, as if they were on their honeymoon.

  Oh Jesus!

  Show me the way!

  When they finally came apart they sat in silence and stared into each other’s eyes.

  ‘I think I’d better take you home.’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘I live on the new Harcourt Estate.’

  Thirty-One

  The Harcourt Estate was much grander than it sounded and had been constructed over the previous five years. It consisted of mixed red brick buildings ranging from apartments right up to five bedroom detached houses.

  It had proved a profitable development because it offered more than its competitors, and because of that, it had weathered the property downturn better than most. For a start, it was gated and secure, keeping the riff raff and hoi polloi firmly on the bad side of its black-barred fence. It came complete with its own health centre, spa and social club, which was a big hit with its generally younger generation of buyers.

  Gringo pulled up outside the main gates. Julie slipped the tiny remote from her bag and fired at the sensor. The gates swung slowly inward and Gringo drove through.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ he said, and he had been too, for there was nothing remotely like this back at the close.

  Julie’s townhouse was one of the smallest properties on the development, a tiny two up two down that was barely big enough for her and the tropical fish. The house came with a postage stamp garden, back and front, and a small drive that could just about accommodate two vehicles.

  She pointed out her home and asked Gringo to pull on the drive behind her pride and joy. He swung the car in and came to a halt an inch from her brand new Cayton Cerisa. Gringo jumped out and glanced at her car. It looked familiar, a silver and maroon edition, glinting under the streetlights.

  ‘I like your car,’ he lied.

  ‘The best car I’ve ever had,’ she gushed, pausing and ogling it one more time, before moving toward the house. In the next second she opened up and stepped inside and lit up the place. Gringo followed her in and closed the door.

  It reminded him of a dinky house. There was a tiny open plan sitting room that led to a breakfast bar, ultra modern kitchen beyond that with an equally tiny table and chairs pushed into the far corner. Halfway down the left wall was a black metal-framed spiral staircase, a narrow affair that would have made it impossible to take any furniture upstairs, other than flat packed items.

  ‘Coffee?’ she said, waving the cafetiere at him.

  ‘Sure, black.’

  He sat in the two seater settee, small but perfectly formed, a little like its owner, and watched her set the coffee in motion. Then she came through and put on some background music, classical he guessed, subdued piano, he wouldn’t have the first idea it was Chopin, and he didn’t really care, though he did notice that it was different to anything any of his other girlfriends ever played.

  ‘I’m just popping upstairs to freshen up,’ she said.

  Gringo didn’t reply, just smiled at her, as she ran in circles up the stairs like some giant rodent in an exercise machine. He stood and glanced at the fish swimming round and round and round and then at some photographs on the wall. Above the sound of the music he heard the loo being flushed, and then water running, and judging by the footsteps, she had gone into the front bedroom, her bedroom. He wondered what it might be like. A couple of minutes passed and then she was skipping round and round on her way back down.

  ‘I like your house,’ he said, out of something to say.

  There wasn’t a huge amount of gear in there, which was just as well, no ornaments or clutter of any kind, and what there was, was tiny, but quality.

  ‘It does me,’ she said, ‘I’m happy here, it’s warm and comfortable, and everything works, and most of all, we all feel safe here.’

  Who the we was she referred to, she didn’t clarify. She went back to the titchy kitchen and poured two small mugs and brought then through and set them down on the foot square table in front of him.

  ‘All right?’ she said, smiling down.

  ‘Yeah, great.’

  ‘Do you want anything to eat?’

  ‘Good God no. Just come and sit down,’ and he patted the cushion beside him. Julie came round and fell into the sofa, just about enough room for the two of them, which he liked, and evidently so did she. She’d refreshed her understated perfume, like everything else about her; it smelt exclusive, and expensive.

  They sat and talked and kissed and cuddled and talked and kissed for two full hours, so much so that she was beginning to wonder if this was how the evening would peter out, but something, some unseen signal that she certainly did not detect, fired him
into action, and he stood up and picked her up as if she were a favoured pet.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What do you think I’m doing?’

  ‘Put me down.’

  ‘Shut up,’ and by then he was setting his foot on the bottom metal step, and carefully manoeuvring her up the narrow metal staircase.

  She didn’t say another word.

  The small front room was indeed her bedroom, a queen size bed, a half tester displayed above, everything white and lacy and frilly and pristine clean and virginal. He set her gently on the bed and undressed her in silence.

  Ms Cairncross stared up through rigid eyes, a concerned but excited expression on her face. Her underwear was tiny and pink and flowery and he slipped it off as if it didn’t exist.

  He retreated to the foot of the bed, rarely taking his eyes from his prey, her porcelain body. He flipped open the wardrobe, removed a hanger, and neatly hung up his clothes as he slowly removed them one by one.

  Julie lay transfixed. She could wait a little longer. She had been waiting for him to come into her life for years. The instant he had entered her office she had known that he was the one. She couldn’t explain it, but she knew it to be true. The subsequent meeting tonight had merely served to confirm her judgment.

  How he had surprised her by asking her to dinner, she had almost blushed, her heart would have leapt into her head if that were possible, but ever mindful of the audio running, she had trodden the approved line, no fraternising under any circumstances, and that was the exact moment to issue her card.

  She recalled that gentle tap on his breast pocket, the card duly delivered. She’d never issued one before, not the special exclusive edition that she’d had especially printed out of town at her own expense, including that one crucial little amendment. You’d miss it if you didn’t know it was there, if you didn’t search for it, the after hours telephone number.