An Autumn Crush

by Milly Johnson

  ‘What the bloody hell?’ said Steve, leaping out of the car.

  ‘Oh hello, Steve. Did it go all right, love? I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. I daren’t leave the house in case they came back.’

  Steve didn’t answer the question, but rather posed one of his own. ‘In case who came back, Sarah? What happened to you?’

  Then young Dennis appeared in the background with a swollen bottom lip and a closed black eye.

  ‘Is this down to Artie Paget’s lad again?’

  Strong, quiet Sarah looked broken as her shoulders dropped.

  ‘Right,’ Steve said with a grim intake of breath.

  Juliet was just getting out of the car.

  ‘Stay in, love,’ said Steve through gritted teeth, marching back to the driver’s side.

  ‘Whatever you’re thinking, don’t do owt,’ begged Sarah.

  ‘I’m sorting it. Don’t you worry. Once and for all, this ends today,’ said Steve. He remembered the address Sarah had given him last time he was here. Anyway, it would have been easy to spot where Artie Paget lived. His house had a massive satellite dish perched on the wall and a vintage Jag parked outside it. And through the front window Steve could see the biggest TV in the world in the lounge.

  ‘Juliet, don’t get out of the car, sweetheart. Promise me you’ll just sit there. Remember you’re carrying a bairn,’ Steve said. And for once, Juliet Miller did as she was told.

  Steve hammered on Artie Paget’s door with his mighty fist. And he hammered again when there was no answer, though he knew someone was in the house.

  A cocky little kid with longish hair, and trainers that cost more than the entire contents of Steve’s mum’s house, came to the door. He looked about ten years old in stature, but had the hard eyes of a street-wise adult.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You must be Tommy,’ said Steve, keeping a tight rein on his anger – for now.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I want to talk to your dad.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Never mind what for, just ask him if he’ll please get out here now.’

  A couple of neighbours had appeared on doorsteps and a few curtains were twitching as Steve watched Tommy Paget move slowly back into the house and shut the door calmly behind him. Steve wasn’t in his most patient mood and when Artie Paget didn’t materialize straight away, his mallet fist and the door met again, even harder this time.

  Steve was just about to hammer on the door again when it opened and there, with his tan, banana-blond dyed hair and gold front teeth stood the wide and nasty Artie Paget. Steve knew his reputation as a big hard man because he lifted a few weights at the gym, smoked a fat cigar and swaggered around wearing a Crombie. Steve also knew that he was a joke to the real gangsters to whom he aspired. Artie Paget: father of the little scrote who no doubt had a lucrative sideline supplying poison to Christine Feast. Artie Paget: ringleader of the gang at school who had led the cheers of ‘Scruffy Steve’.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ snarled Artie.

  ‘I’m here about your lad, Tommy,’ said Steve, dispensing with formal introductions. ‘He’s upsetting some friends of mine with his “boyish antics”.’

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Scruffy Steve.’ Artie’s lips stretched into an unpleasant smile before withering back to a puckered moue. ‘Fuck off,’ he sneered and attempted to close the door, not expecting that the door would be kicked back open.

  ‘Like I said, it’s about your Tommy.’

  Tommy stood behind his dad, arms folded, head at a bolshie angle and an assured smirk playing on his boy-handsome face.

  ‘Fucking hell – Scruffy Steve trying to tell me what to do. How fucking funny is that? How’s your piss-head mum these days? Has she learned how to turn on a fucking bath tap yet?’ laughed Artie, as a tasty flood of childhood memories rushed back at him.

  ‘You’d better tell your lad to lay off bullying kids at school and smashing property which isn’t his,’ said Steve, his jaw tightening at the mention of his mother. But he kept the lid on his anger, for Sarah’s sake.

  ‘Or what? You going to kick his ass, Scruffy?’ mocked Artie.

  ‘Nope, I’m going to kick yours,’ said Steve, casually inspecting his fingernails.

  Artie Paget, aware that there were a lot of eyes on him, gave a cocksure little chuckle, put his hand in his trouser pocket and made to go back inside. Then, without warning, he twisted round and aimed his fist at Steve’s nose. His hand was dressed with a vicious line of brass knuckles that would have smashed Steve’s nose flat to his face had it made contact. But Steve had done a lot of boxing training in his time, as well as wrestling, and he could ‘move like a butterfly’ along with the best of them.

  As Artie Paget fell forward, Steve’s own fist came from below in an expertly executed uppercut. That punch had years of hurt and longing, frustration, pain and tears in it. They could hear Artie’s jawbone crack in Wakefield.

  Artie Paget lay on the floor, whimpering like a kid. He couldn’t come back from a punch like that, nor did he want to because he knew there would have been a lot more to come. Steve hadn’t even skipped a breath.

  ‘You . . . bastard!’ was all he managed, trying to claw back some dignity and with a series of snarling noises, but also not wanting to give Steve any more reason to hit him again. Blood oozed through his fingers.

  ‘And, do you know what, Paget, every time your Tommy even looks at Denny or his mam’s house, I’ll come back and bray you. Have you got that? Has it sunk in to your tiny brain? Because what I’m telling you is really simple. Sort your lad out, or I’ll sort you out. And I’ll keep on doing it until he stops.’

  Artie gave a reticent nod.

  ‘Is that a yes?’ pressed Steve.

  ‘I said yes, all right,’ growled Artie, spitting blood as he answered.

  ‘Good,’ said Steve, and smoothed down his black suit. ‘Thank you.’

  From the smattering of applause he got from a few neighbouring houses, he reckoned that Artie Paget wasn’t the most popular man on the estate. Steve pulled open the car door, threw himself in and clunked in the seat belt, all the time aware that Juliet was looking intensely at him.

  ‘What?’ he demanded.

  ‘You’re not all mouth at all, are you?’ she said, totally flabbergasted. ‘You really can handle yourself.’

  ‘Of course I can handle myself, woman. I’m a bloody wrestler.’

  ‘But I thought it was all fake fighting. I thought you were all softies really.’

  ‘Well, you thought wrong then, didn’t you?’ huffed Steve.

  He was one big ball of testosterone in a very smart black suit and he was going to use it to drive straight to the council Housing Offices right now and not leave them until someone made him a promise that Sarah and Denny would be shifted out of Ketherwood before autumn was out. Santa would be coming early for them this year.

  Chapter 66

  Dear Chas

  I am so sorry to be troubling you again, this really is the last time, but I wondered if you could tell me when Nick’s birthday was, so I can remember him. Hope you are well. I miss speaking to him so much.

  Floz

  Floz

  Nick’s birthday was April 14th.

  Chas

  When Floz got the mail from Chas she was confused. She was sure from past conversations she’d had with Nick that his birthday was ‘in the fall’. She recalled him sharing memories of a birthday in some beautiful gardens. She still had it tagged on to her bookmarks – Butchart Gardens in Victoria. It was about three hundred miles and a two-hour ferry trip from where he lived as a child. He said he hadn’t been allowed to chase squirrels, pick flowers or play in the dirt. ‘Not a paradise for a six-year-old expecting a cake and a party.’ She knew he had said that. And so she was almost certain that his birthday was in early October.

  Was it likely that Chas had got it wrong? Not very, if they had been best
friends from childhood. She Googled Nick Vermeer, his death date, his birth date and Mount Robson, but could find no mention of him at all. There was neither an online obituary, which she might have expected, nor an RIP page set up on Facebook for him by friends and family, or his ex-military buddies. She knew, by profession, he was a prominent engineer on oil rigs which might have brought up an entry – but nothing. There was not one word on the whole worldwide web about a man called Nick Vermeer.

  Chapter 67

  When the proposal came it was not at the top of the Eiffel Tower as Juliet had long fantasized about, but in the chip shop down the road, the day after Mrs Feast’s funeral.

  Juliet had suggested she and Steve walk into town and go to the pictures. She knew he loved the cinema and thought it might cheer him up. After the film they called in at a nearby pub for a couple of drinks – lemonade in Juliet’s case, a couple of double vodkas for Steve. They walked back too because it was a lovely crisp evening with a sky full of stars. Dried brown leaves were scuttling across the road, impatiently not waiting for the green man to signal that it was safe to do so. Opposite to the chip shop was a playing area, and some kids – out too late – were throwing sticks up at the chestnut trees there, trying to knock the conkers down. Steve’s arm came around Juliet and she savoured the feeling. They decided to call in at Cod Almighty, which was just around the corner from Blackberry Court.

  ‘Fish and chips twice, two cartons of peas and two teacakes,’ said Juliet, who was properly hungry for the first time in ages.

  Steve inhaled and his stomach groaned appreciatively. He hadn’t eaten properly in days either, and so the vodkas he’d had in the pub had gone to his head, making him feel a bit spaced. That’s when he knew he’d had enough.

  He looked at Juliet and could hardly believe she was his. What a formidable force she was, even at school. His whole insides warmed up when he thought of her. God, she turned him on something rotten. His stamina with her was better than with others in his twenties. And when the sexual part had been satisfied, the cuddling up and falling asleep bit was just as wonderful. And the waking up and seeing her smile light up when he brought her a cup of tea. And the splashing about in the bath together, despite it being a bit of a squash – his legs wrapped around her, nuzzling into her neck. Talking to her, laughing with her, verbally sparring with her, physically sparring with her. He grinned and felt the time was right to say the words.

  ‘Juliet Miller, will you marry me?’

  At the same time, the shop assistant asked, ‘Do you want salt and vinegar on these?’

  Juliet froze, in fact everything seemed to freeze. Apart from Steve swaying slightly from the effect of the vodkas, the chip shop looked like a still-life. All that was missing was a bunch of grapes and a vase in the background. She was in such shock that she gave him the answer meant for the gob-smacked chip lady.

  ‘Er . . . no thanks,’ she said.

  ‘All right then,’ said Steve.

  ‘I meant to the salt and vinegar. What did you say just then, Steve?’ said Juliet. Had she really just heard what she thought she had? She felt a bit woozy.

  ‘I said, “Will you marry me?”

  ‘Oh,’ said Juliet. ‘I thought you did.’

  ‘Well?’ He stumbled against the counter.

  ‘How about asking me in the morning when you’re sober?’ said Juliet, gasping. It was too big a question to ask when she knew his head wasn’t totally clear.

  ‘Okay,’ he said.

  Steve paid for the take-out and they walked home in silence.

  The rest of the evening was a strange blur. Neither of them mentioned the proposal again, though Juliet’s head was playing it on a continuous loop. Neither of them could eat much of their fish and chips in the flat. Neither of them could talk much sense either. It was as if they were strangers on a first date. Steve even mentioned the weather at one point. When they went to bed, they kissed each other goodnight and both stared ahead into the dark, wondering what the morning would bring, not realizing the other was doing the same.

  Chapter 68

  When Juliet awoke, Steve had been awake for almost an hour, lying there, his arm around her head on the pillow. She opened her eyes, instantly remembered the proposal and gulped hard.

  ‘Morning,’ she yawned, not daring to look at him. Her nerves were already in shreds.

  ‘Morning,’ he answered.

  To say the silence that ensued was a bit awkward was akin to saying the sun was a bit hot. Both of them lying on their backs, staring at the lightbulb, hearts racing like whippets chasing a hare.

  ‘Do you remember what I said last night?’ Steve asked eventually.

  ‘Yes,’ said Juliet, the word more a breath than a voice.

  ‘Oh hell, I wish you hadn’t said that,’ groaned Steve.

  Floz was awoken by crashes in the lounge. She flew out of her room expecting to see the world’s most unsubtle burglar, but instead she found Steve cowering behind the sofa and Juliet missiling shoes at him.

  ‘Bastard!’ she was screaming.

  ‘Juliet, will you listen to me!’ Steve was bobbing his head up to try and explain and then escaping down to a position of safety as Juliet lobbed a court shoe in his direction.

  ‘What the heck is going on?’ cried Floz.

  ‘I’m so sorry for waking you, Floz, but this . . . this swine proposed to me and then took it back.’

  ‘Ow,’ said Steve as a large red Croc scored a bull’s-eye on his crown. ‘Floz, stop her. Just let me talk to you, Ju. I didn’t take it back. Juliet, give me ten seconds of ceasefire!’

  But Juliet was in no mood to listen and launched a boot grenade at him. ‘You’re not husband material anyway. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last—’

  Floz threw herself at Juliet as she picked up a five-inch stiletto.

  ‘Whoa!’ she screamed. ‘You’ll kill him!’

  ‘Good,’ snapped Juliet.

  ‘Ju, please, listen,’ said Steve, holding up a white tissue of surrender.

  ‘Stop before you hurt the baby,’ Floz insisted, not letting Juliet’s arms go. Juliet was huffing from her exertions but Floz’s words sank in. Yes, her baby was hearing this; she needed to calm down.

  ‘You’ve got ten seconds, knobhead,’ said Juliet, mouthing the last word so that her baby didn’t hear it.

  Steve’s head and shoulders dared to pop up.

  ‘I didn’t want you to remember that I’d proposed . . .’ He saw Juliet’s lip curl back over her teeth again so he continued quickly, ‘Because I shouldn’t have done it in a bloody fish and chip shop. I hoped you’d have forgotten ONLY so I could have taken you out somewhere nice today and done it properly, by a river or over a glass of champagne, on bended knee and holding a ring out – not in front of a woman asking us if we wanted salt and vinegar on our frigging cod!’

  Juliet swallowed. ‘Oh,’ was all she managed to answer.

  ‘That’s what I meant,’ said Steve. He stood up as Juliet’s grip on the shoe loosened and it fell from her hand.

  ‘Well?’ said Floz, arms folded. ‘The man deserves an apology.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Juliet. She felt her insides turn to mush. She’d read about men who exhibited this level of tenderness in works of fiction, but never thought she would have been the recipient of it herself. She felt humbled yet again by Steve’s respectful and loving ways.

  ‘Juliet, I know we’ve only just started going out together but we’ve known each other all our lives. I want the baby to be born to Mr and Mrs Feast . . .’

  ‘Oh, Steve.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t work out, divorce is easy enough these—’

  Floz held up her hand. ‘Shhh! Quit whilst you’re ahead, Steven.’

  Steve took Floz’s advice and didn’t finish his sentence but started a fresh one. ‘I just want to marry you, Ju. And I want to marry you soon.’

  ‘I don’t need champagne or fancy settings, Steve. This will do very nicely, thank
you,’ said Juliet, who couldn’t imagine that the addition of a bottle of fizz or a big moon outside the window could make her feel any more gooey and melted inside than she did at that moment.

  Steve held his arms out and Juliet drifted into them.

  ‘We’ll go ring picking after work, okay with you?’

  Floz grabbed her coat and brolly and left the flat to give them some privacy. Her brain felt crowded and at bursting-point. The clouds were heavy and grey but the breeze was too high to raise her umbrella. It didn’t matter. She wanted the rising wind to blow through her and drag away all her thoughts – every single one of them. A brisk autumn walk in the rain was exactly what she needed.

  October

  ‘Youth is like spring, an over-praised season more remarkable for biting winds than genial breezes. Autumn is the mellower season, and what we lose in flowers we more than gain in fruits.’

  Samuel Butler

  Chapter 69

  Guy was determined to get it right this time. This celebratory feast the night after the official engagement – i.e. not the one in the chip shop – was going to knock everyone’s socks off, especially Floz’s. His mum and dad’s kitchen floor almost needed reinforcing from the amount of food he was going to cook that evening. He would make the Queen’s Christmas dinner look like a McDonald’s Happy Meal.

  Perry and Grainne were still in a state of rapture with a grandchild on the way and the news that morning that Juliet and Steve were getting married on her birthday – 5 November. They did worry that it was all a bit fast, but then reminded themselves that they had met and married within four months. The local vicar at Maltstone, the Reverend Glossop – otherwise known as the Reverend Gossip for his propensity to chatter quite a lot – had a cancellation on that day. It was either that or 4 March, and seeing that was the anniversary of Juliet’s first wedding – well, that was a bit of a no-no. Everyone agreed that as a wedding date, as well as a birth date, Bonfire Night seemed to suit Juliet down to the ground.