Forever Is Over

by Wade, Calvin

  Richie

  It was raining. Where Kelly lived on Wigan Road was a fairly busy main road, but thankfully not all that busy at 6am on a Saturday morning. It was almost three miles from my house to Kelly’s so I had set my alarm for five, stripped out of my pyjamas and into the designated speedos, but then added a T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms, trainers and a long winter’s coat (despite it being summer it was a cold morning) before heading off.

  There are two pubs within half a mile of Kelly’s house, “The Ropers Arms” and “The Windmill Inn”, I reached “The Windmill” first, so when I got there, I nipped round the side, took off all additional layers, put them into a plastic bag and from the plastic bag, I withdrew a lacy, white bra that I had stolen from the drawer next to my Mum’s bed. Worryingly, I had mistakenly gone to my Dad’s side first and there were condoms in his top drawer! Surely my Mum was too old to get pregnant and surely she was too old to be having sex with my Dad! The Speedos were an old pair of Jim’s. They were a bit small, but I took comfort in knowing this would make my sleeping anaconda underneath look bigger. I left the plastic bag at the side of the pub and headed up to Kelly’s, tying the bra around my left thigh as I went, at no point had Kelly stated it was to be worn on my chest.

  Within two minutes, I was there. I knew exactly where they lived and exactly which room was Kelly’s. I had spent many weekends in the last two years, walking past, hoping to co-incidentally bump into her, but had met with no success. The Watkinson’s house sloped down to the road, so I went up the stairs on her front path and then stood below the window of her bedroom, it was at the front of the house, which was good, if it had been around the back I may have had a dog or the police to contend with. Her curtains remained drawn, not a major shock given the time. I picked up a couple of small stones from the pathway and threw them at her window.

  I waited a minute but the curtains did not twitch. Second time around, I picked up a couple of bigger stones, but they were still small enough not to threaten the glass. I tossed them up gently but they still made a hefty sound when they rapped against the pane. This time, within twenty seconds, the curtains were pulled apart, the window was opened and Kelly looked out with ruffled hair and a fluffy pink dressing gown.

  “Good morning!” she croaked.

  I wished I was up there, in her bedroom, rather than stood on the wet grass, barefooted, making a fool of myself in the rain. I cleared my throat and began to sing. I sang “A Small Fruit Song” by Al Stewart, the song is probably about two minutes long, but the acoustic guitar covers about the first ninety seconds, which meant I only had to sing for thirty seconds. Good job for all concerned as I can’t sing. It was a cringeful rendition, but sometimes it’s the destination that counts, not the journey. Once I finished, Kelly shouted down,

  “Nice speedos, Richie! I haven’t a clue what the song was but I like the words! The singing wasn’t great but that doesn’t matter! Tomorrow, wear the bra where it should be worn, not around your leg, the sight of your nipples is too much for me at this time of the morning!”

  Did she mean she was disgusted or turned on? I wasn’t sure. I started to head back down her path thinking I would like to see Kelly Watkinson’s nipples any time of the day! I would like to see her nipples, her full breasts, her little tuft of blonde pubic hair (I visualised it as being blonde and well groomed!), her smooth, silky bottom, her vagina, I ached to see every inch of Kelly Watkinson’s body! I wasn’t standing there, making an idiot of myself just for a laugh! Just as I reached the bottom of the path, I noticed a taxi had pulled up and a fierce looking woman stepped out. My first thought was that she had missed her vocation in life, she should have been in Hollywood as she could definitely have stolen the lead for “Throw Momma From The Train”. She probably said her first thought which was directed at me with vengeful eyes,

  “Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing on my front path?”

  I could hear in the background Kelly’s window shutting and her curtains being drawn.

  “I came to see Jemma, but I couldn’t wake her!”

  Jemma had caused me no end of trouble over the previous two years, revenge was going to be sweet. I was more than happy to drop her in the shit!

  “Have you been here all night, shagging my daughter?”

  Why did everyone always think I had been shagging Jemma? Even Jemma!

  “No, I’ve just arrived.”

  “Look at my face,” said the ugly woman who was obviously Mrs. Watkinson, “does it look to you like I was born yesterday?”

  She didn’t. She looked like she was born around the same time as Queen Victoria. Her breath smelt disgusting. I kept expecting some green gas to ooze out when she spoke.

  “No, but I have just arrived!”

  “I don’t believe you!” she then smiled which probably damaged her looks still further as she had chipped, gold and black teeth mixed in with normal ones. I guess she had run out of money for the dentists half way through the job.

  “I hope you have been shagging her,” she continued, “about time something put a smile on that miserable bitches face! That ugly boyfriend doesn’t!”

  She looked at the bra around my thigh.

  “Is that her bra, is it? I bet she’s a kinky little minx, isn’t she? It runs in the family!” If a captured soldier had to have a kinky sex session with this woman during a time of conflict, I am sure the United Nations would go after Britain for committing war crimes. I decided not to continue the conversation, I just ran off towards “The Windmill” like a scolded cat. As I arrived back there, there was a stray mongrel sniffing around my clothes. It would have cocked its leg on them if I had arrived a second later. One down, thirteen to go. I spent the walk home wondering how that monster of a woman had managed to create perfection. Kelly was like a pre-Raphaelite model which was a miracle as her Mum looked like a Picasso. Life was strange, I thought, as I walked back with my Mum’s bra now being tested around my chest. Life was very strange indeed!

  Jemma

  Kelly never did re-arrange the date with Richie Billingham for the following month. She told me she had a right go at him and despite his protestations of innocence, she refused to take pity. I was relieved and life moved on.

  My “O” levels were largely unsurprisingly, convincingly failed and in June 1987, I left Ormskirk Grammar School with a “B” in “O” Level Art, a “C” in English Language, (Kelly said Vomit Breath would have got an “A” in “Foul Language”!) and a CSE Grade One in Biology. Despite the results, I somehow managed to fluke my way into a cashier’s job in the Middlelands Bank in Ormskirk, on the proviso that I re-took my Maths “O” level. I started in July and actually enjoyed the job, enjoyed the interaction with adults and even managed to put some proper effort in, when it came to studying for my Maths re-take. In November 1987, I passed my Maths “O” level with a “B”. It was an unusual feeling, feeling proud of myself and even stranger having other people, other than Kelly, feeling proud of me too. Everyone at work was delighted for me, in particular, Ray Walker, my “Branch Manager”, who had stayed back after work to tutor me on any areas of the Maths syllabus I did not understand. Ray even drove me to Hugh Baird College in Bootle the day I sat the exam.

  Ray was a kindhearted, gentle, educated man. He had started working at the Middlelands as a Graduate Management Trainee, two years earlier, having taken an Accountancy degree at Exeter University and prior to that he had been privately educated at Merchant Taylors school in Crosby. Two months before I started, Ray had been made “Branch Manager”, he was only twenty three at the time and became one of the youngest branch managers in the country. I was sure he would go on to bigger and better things, so his interest in me was flattering. Ray was almost seven years my senior, so initially I thought his interest in me must be purely work related, but as the months passed it became evident there was a romantic interest too. Ray spent more time with me than any of the other girls at work, called me into his office more, complimented me
more on my work performance and smiled at me in a way that indicated there was a place in his heart for me.

  One Friday night, just after my seventeenth birthday, everyone went for a drink into Ormskirk after work. We used to go to the “Bowlers” which suited our mixed age group more than some of the other pubs I typically frequented. I was also safe from “Vomit Breath” in there, as she called it a “Yuppie’s Wine Bar” and refused to go in. Ray and I ended up as the last two there as everyone else had partners and after a quick drink or two, had headed home to their husbands, wives and partners. Ray offered to walk me home, but we only made it fifty metres along before he wrestled me into the layby next to “A Passage To India”, cornered me against the wall, bumping my head slightly in the process and we had our first kiss. It was a Billy McGregor type kiss rather than a “Phantom Fucker” kiss, awkward and sloppy and hinting at a lack of experience on Ray’s part. I wasn’t concerned by this though, I was just delighted that someone of Ray’s intelligence, confidence and maturity was interested in me. I was sure with practice his kissing would get better.

  Ray was not a stereotypically handsome man but I found him attractive. He was very tall, over six feet, but was very slim, skinny even. A high jumper’s frame. He probably weighed less than ten stone. He was dark haired and freckled, his hair was curly too which helped cover up his ears as they protruded. I remember an old school friend of Ray’s once came into the Middleland and called Ray, “Plug”. I presumed the reason for this was because he bore an uncanny resemblance to the character in the Dandy. Luckily for Ray, it was not a nickname that had followed him into adulthood.

  Over the next twelve months, Ray and I grew closer. I always felt as though Ray enjoyed the fact that he thought he was dating an intellectual inferior, so he could lead and I could follow. He enjoyed the relationship being on a teacher and pupil type basis. He did teach me a lot, I had absolutely no understanding of politics or world affairs and I did became a better informed individual through Ray. Ray was a true blue Conservative, but from what he told me, I think my political views were moderate, SDP seemed like the right party for me.

  At work, Ray decided the relationship should be kept under wraps from our colleagues, as the bank tended to frown upon relationships between two staff members within the same branch. With the branch performing well in Regional tables, Ray did not want our relationship to be the cause of him moving on. I am sure a few of the staff guessed, but we remained colleagues only at work. For my part, I decided to keep Ray away from my house and, in particular, Vomit Breath. If he walked me home, I avoided inviting him in. If we were going out somewhere, like the cinema, I would watch out of Kelly’s window until he arrived and then run out down the path before he had an opportunity to make it to the door. I gave him a full briefing about Vomit Breath, so he knew she was a nasty piece of work, but in the early stages, I did not want him to see for himself. After six months of dating though, Ray decided he wanted to meet Vomit Breath “in the flesh” as “she can’t be all bad”. So, we agreed that one Saturday evening, Ray would come to our house and I would do something for our tea before heading out for a couple of drinks.

  There was plenty to like about Ray but he was a stubborn man, very opinionated and seldom admitted he was wrong. After his encounter with Vomit Breath that Saturday evening, he was quick to retract his statement that Vomit Breath “can’t be all bad”. He admitted people, or Vomit Breath anyway, could be “all bad”! Ray was very keen for a first visit, but not so keen for a second. After that first encounter, I stopped having to use Kelly’s room as a lookout point, Ray would just sit in his car and await my arrival. Once bitten, twice shy as they say!

  Richie

  By the thirteenth morning of standing outside Kelly’s bedroom window, I was pretty sure she had no romantic interest in me whatsoever and just wanted to get back at me for cancelling our date, puking on her sister’s hair and having sex with her sister (a charge I strongly deny), by humiliating me. On Morning Two, it was not Kelly that opened the curtains but Claire Northover and I had to perform “My Funny Valentine”, a Frank Sinatra classic, in a howling wind, pouring rain and an over-sized bra. Thank goodness it was another short song!

  On Morning Three, it was dry, but a pensioner up early to walk his dog, stopped on the pavement below me to check what on earth was going on and hear my rendition of U2’s MLK. I had deliberately incorporated my three shortest songs into the first three days, as I had deduced that my confidence would increase as the days progressed so needed to get a few short but sweet songs in first.

  Morning Four was another dry one, but I had my biggest audience to date - four (or five if a dog counts). The pensioner from the previous day had now brought his wife and Kelly had invited Jemma in to spectate. Having Jemma watch me was very unnerving. I liked to think Kelly was on my side and probably found my efforts a little charming but with Jemma watching, I could just feel the “what a dickhead!” vibes. I sang “Have I Told You Lately” and if Van Morrison had been watching, I am sure he would have dragged me off well before the second verse.

  On Morning Five, the rain was back, it was absolutely belting down. I had decided if Kelly had even a shred of decency, she would stop me even before I started singing and invite me in for a nice warm cup of tea. It didn’t happen, so I changed my Stevie Wonder song from “I Just Called To Say I Love You” to “For Once In My Life”. It was an attempt at irony that I am sure Kelly didn’t appreciate, but I was pretty sure now that, in contrast to the song I was singing, Kelly did not need me at all. I should have just told her where to go, there and then, as there was no-one else around, the pensioners were obviously put off by the bad weather and Kelly had not invited anyone else along to wallow in my misery.

  Morning Six was actually brilliant, the only day I really enjoyed. I sang The Beatles “When I’m 64”, at the time, I sang it because I liked it, we used to sing it in primary school, but now the fact I chose that song makes me feel incredibly sad. It was a bright, sunny morning, even at that early hour and once I finished Kelly smiled her beautiful smile in my direction. I skipped home that day and I even found time to shake the hand of the pensioner who had brought his dog out to watch once more. It was all downhill from there! On Morning Seven, the second Saturday, I imagine Kelly must have stopped out as he curtains never opened. She either slept through my rendition, heard it from bed or woke up elsewhere and laughed at my expense. I began by singing,

  “Something” by The Beatles, but when it was evident that I was performing to an audience of zero, I swopped over to “Unforgettable” by Nat King Cole. Once again, I sang this for its ironic value. The pensioner didn’t show up either. I was expecting an apology somehow, a phone call or a call at the door but it did not come. What was I supposed to do now? Keep on calling or just call it quits? I decided I would arrive on Morning Eight and if Kelly was still not there or could not be arsed getting out of bed again, then that was it, I was going to pack in.

  I won’t bore you with all the details from the following five mornings, Morning Eight to Morning Twelve, but needless to say, Kelly was back and I sang my love songs with an ever decreasing amount of gusto.

  I must also have lost my novelty value as far as the pensioner was concerned, as he had stopped attending.

  On Morning Thirteen, I sang “Songbird” the Christine McVie, Fleetwood Mac classic. Once again, I sang a song that’s lyrics were totally unsuitable for the circumstances, because by now I was utterly and completely pissed off with the whole thing. I just felt like I was making a complete fool of myself and when Kelly popped her head out the window after I’d finished, I was ready for her.

  “I’m looking forward to tomorrow, Richie! Just the final, naked performance and then I am happy to draw a line in the sand and go on that date with you!”

  “Piss off Kelly!”

  “Pardon?”

  It was starting to rain. Black clouds gathered together in an almighty huddle.

  “I’m not coming
back tomorrow, you can forget it. I’ve made myself look a complete arsehole for the last thirteen days and you’ve stripped me of any dignity that I used to have. There’s no way I am stripping off all my clothes too. You may think it’s worth putting me through this to pay me back for sleeping with your sister, but I have never slept with your stupid sister! I don’t even like your sister, she’s an arrogant bitch! The only reason I’ve allowed myself to look this stupid, Kelly Watkinson, is because I love you. I have wanted to go out with you for the last two years, but if you don’t feel the same, frankly I don’t give a shit any more! Find some other poor sod you can humiliate!”

  I took my mother’s bra off and threw it at her window, then I stormed down the path and back to “The Windmill” to collect my clothes. By now, it was really throwing it down and I arrived back at the side of the pub just in time to see that stray mongrel from the other day, cocking its leg up on my clothes. Bloody typical!

  By the time I was halfway up Prescot Road in my piss stinking clothes, I was completely soaked. Thunder came, followed by lightning, followed by my tears. I felt like jumping on someone’s roof, borrowing their TV aerial, strapping it to my back and seeing if one of those lightning bolts could come and finish me off. Why had I allowed myself to look so stupid? I hated myself for this and, for a short while, I hated Kelly just as much.

  I arrived home feeling cold and miserable. As I walked in, my Dad was sat in the kitchen, drinking a cup of tea and listening to Radio Two.

  “Good morning, son! Where have you been? Out trying to impress that girl again?”

  Bloody Caroline! Sometimes I thought I could trust her, but she had a big mouth!

  “That was the last time. I’ve made an idiot of myself, Dad.”

  My Dad took a sip of his tea.

  “Son, you’re not the first lad to make a fool of himself for a woman and you certainly won’t be the last! A little bird tells me she’s called Kelly. A very nice girl so I’m told, she certainly sounds very nice!”