by Andy Jones
The pig of a boiler is unresponsive. I press buttons, fiddle with the controls, consult the manual. But nothing happens. And the absurdity of it makes me laugh again; today of all days, my boiler has died. I finish my wine in one gulp, pull a book down from the shelf and take myself to bed.
I spend Saturday afternoon cleaning Alex’s old mountain bike. I wish it were a more unpleasant job, but the truth is Al’s bike is disappointingly free from mud, grass, sand and deer shit. We bought our bikes as Christmas presents for each other almost two years ago. And we were going to cover so many miles; exploring the green spaces and hidden paths of our city, maybe even ride to Brighton. So much for ‘going to’; we took the bikes out that first weekend and maybe two or three times since, but we never got to Brighton, we didn’t even get out of South London. We even bought a backpack that doubled as a picnic hamper, but we never used it.
On eBay, a two-year-old Kona Fire Mountain can fetch around £200.
Which is a long way short of the £1,850 it’s going to take to replace the pig of a boiler, which, the plumber confirmed, is beyond repair. ‘Lucky it didn’t explode and take the ’ole ’ouse wiv it, luv.’
It crossed my mind to simply put up with it; that ten weeks of cold showers might toughen me up for my travels. But I figure there’s plenty of time for that on the actual travels, which is kind of the point, after all. And besides, I can hardly rent the place out with a broken boiler.
I called Winston about five minutes after the plumber left and told him I’ll take any additional shifts going; he asked if I could start at four tonight instead of seven, so that’s another eighteen pounds off the deficit.
Going by recently completed auctions, a pair of Technics 1210 MK3 decks can fetch up to £675.
You can get another £230 for a matching four-channel mixer.
A Marantz amplifier and a pair of Dali Zensor speakers could go for £200 and £100 respectively. But they could go for a lot less.
Since losing his records in Thailand, Alex had begun the process of rebuilding his collection, but even so he had fewer than a hundred pieces of round black plastic, which might, if I’m lucky, fetch £50. Perhaps, if I were to sell the discs one by one, or drag them around specialist shops, I could sell them for a few hundred pounds, but I don’t think I have the will or the energy.
A set of vintage Pioneer headphones might have gone for another £70 to £100, but Alex’s were smashed when he was struck by a car last October. The scanner he bought but never used might fetch ten quid, but there’s so much guilt attached to it, it’s not worth the headache.
And finally, an Xbox 360 in good condition with seven games might bring in £75.
All in, on a good day, that’s £1,530, and still a few hundred quid short of a new boiler plus installation.
A Leica M3 in good working condition can go for anywhere north of £500, maybe as much as the £800 Alex originally paid for it. I’d be back on track with a few hundred quid spare to spend on bikinis, food and maybe a couple of cinema tickets. I feel no conflict whatsoever about selling Alex’s bike, decks, discs and so on; I’ll never use them, plus we should have fixed the damn boiler while he was still around to take hot showers. So it’s poor old Al’s responsibility as much as mine. More than this, though, I feel lighter, as if these items, even stored out of sight in the shed, have been weighing me down. But I can’t let go of the camera. I love that Alex bought it on a stupid drunken impulse, and I’m sad that he never used it as much as he should. If I keep anything, I’ll keep this.
Cleaning Alex’s bike, pulling all of this stuff out of the shed and photographing it for eBay takes most of the day, and on top of last night’s three hour walk I am filthy with sweat, oil and cobwebs. Another example of woeful planning. The boiler won’t be fitted until next week, so I texted Henry:
Hey, you around? I could really use a hot shower . . .
The deliberate ellipsis adding some allure and intrigue. Or so I thought, but judging by Henry’s response, I was way off base:
Sorry, not home.
After a horrifically cold shower, I’m so wired that I almost pull on my trainers and go for a run, but then I’d only need another shower and end up jumping up and down on square one again. Instead, I move the eBay inventory into the spare room, clean the house, change the sheets, and – without acknowledging the fact or asking myself why – I put Al’s junk mail into a drawer and take down all pictures of him, except the one hanging in the hallway.
Before I leave for work, I text Henry one last time.
Hey mister, you owe me a surprise. See you for the trivia round x
‘Awright, sweetheart, how’s the shower?’
‘Cold.’
‘Well, it agrees with you, Princess,’ says Winston. ‘Good to see you with a bit of colour in your cheeks.’
‘Charming.’
‘That reminds me, your fella was in last night. Didn’t stick around when he found you wosn’t ’ere, mind.’
‘Henry?’
‘Well, ’ow many you got, babes?’
‘Here?’
‘That cold water got to your ears, love? Yes; ’enry, ’ere. Hang on a mo, he left you something.’
Shit!
Winston disappears into the stock room and comes back dangling a plastic bag from one finger.
Inside the bag are two neatly gift-wrapped packages. The gift tag on the first reads: So you’ll know where you’ve been, and inside the spotty paper is a map of the world and a set of brightly coloured push pins. The second package – So you’ll know where you’re going – contains a pair of gaudy flip-flops. They’re the right size, and the soles are printed with raised arrows, all pointing forwards.
Double Shit!
Henry
Plenty More Whatsits In The Whatsit
Typical of a Saturday it’s quiet all day then overrun from four o’clock onwards. The Saturday night wig-out, Gus calls it, when all the clubbers, pubbers and hot-daters look into the mirror and don’t like what they see on top of the head staring back at them. My own head is overdue for a trim, but I don’t plan on doing anything more exciting that a fifteen-hundred-piece forest tonight, so I guess it doesn’t really matter.
‘Don’t seem yourself,’ says Gus.
‘I’m fine. Tired.’
Gus shrugs. If you say so.
‘How’s the er . . .?’ He raises his eyebrows, to indicate, I assume, my romantic involvement.
I shake my head.
Gus pats me on the shoulder. ‘Shit, man.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Plenty more whatsists in the whatsit,’ he says. ‘Knowhadimean.’
‘I know what you mean.’
My phone pings in my pocket. Again. It’s being pinging so often it sounds like a ship’s radar.
Ping.
Gus waggles a finger in his ear. ‘Either I’ve got tinnitus, or someone’s trying to get hold of someone.’
Ping
Hello . . .
. . .
I’m sorry.
. . .
Thank you for my flip-flops.
. . .
And my map.
. . .
I don’t want to fall out.
. . .
No one’s ever bought me flip-flops
. . .
Or a map, come to think of it.
. . .
I can explain.
. . .
Things are complicated.
. . .
Henry?
. . .
I’m not going to stop until you answer me or my battery runs out.
It’s fine.
Can we talk?
It’s fine. Maybe it’s for the best.
Don’t sulk, it doesn’t suit you.
. . .
Bogart didn’t sulk.
Debatable.
Johnny Stewart didn’t sulk.
Jimmy.
Ha! I knew that.
I believe you.
Meet me tonig
ht in the Duck?
This is surreal.
We can play Buckaroo.
Miss Goldman,
are you trying to seduce me?
‘Buckaroo’? WTF!
Sorry, got carried away.
See you tonight?
Do you think it’s a good idea?
Probably not.
Sure you’ll be there?
Clark Gable didn’t sulk.
See you at 8.00
Buckaroo!
Henry
Sweet
‘That her?’ asks Gus.
I nod.
‘Sorted?’
‘Yup.’
‘Sweet.’
Henry
Kind Of A Widow
We’re sitting at a table in the corner while Zoe takes her meal break – double bacon cheeseburger with fries and onion rings.
‘Where do you put it?’
‘I hardly eat during the week,’ she says. ‘Economizing for my . . . you know.’ She sticks her foot out from underneath the table and waggles a red flip-flop at me. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Did I say that? Thank you?’
‘Yeah, a few times.’
Zoe was in full flow when I arrived, pulling pints, opening bottles and collecting glasses. Watching her made me homesick, and I found myself wondering where I’ll go and what I’ll do after she climbs on a plane.
As I took a stool at the bar, Zoe apologized, leaned across the counter and kissed me, inciting a loud chorus of woofs and jeers from the Duck’s patrons. Zoe talked in headlines – ‘I shouted at an author’; ‘I handed in my notice’; ‘My boiler packed up’ – as she moved from one end of the bar to the other, taking orders and serving drinks. But this is the first opportunity we’ve had to talk properly.
‘I bought my ticket,’ she says, looking at me from under her fringe, waiting to see how I’ll react. ‘Thailand.’
‘You must be excited.’
‘Have you been?’
I shake my head. ‘I haven’t been anywhere, really. France a couple of times. Amsterdam. That’s about it.’
‘Guess I can put a pin in my map now,’ she says.
‘When are you going?’
‘Fifteenth of September. Terminal Five, 10.55 a.m.’
‘So that’s . . .?’
‘Ten weeks. Ten weeks today.’
Ten more Saturday nights and then it’s over. I knew from the outset that this . . . thing . . . was running out from the moment it started, but this official deadline hits me like a rejection. It feels like we’re just getting started – we are just getting started – but now the calendar has been marked with a hard ‘X’.
Zoe looks down at her flip-flops, goes to say thank you again then stops herself.
I kick my foot against hers. ‘I’m happy for you,’ I say. ‘Not happy about it, exactly, but . . . well, I’m happy for you.’
‘If it’s any consolation, it’s kind of thrown me, too.’
I show Zoe my thumb and forefinger, the tips maybe a centimetre apart: A little.
Zoe smiles, makes the same shape with her own fingers and kisses them against mine.
‘It’s just something I have to do,’ she says.
‘I know. I mean, I don’t know what it is you’ve got going on, Zo, but I’m okay with it. We’ve all got . . . you know, stuff.’
Zoe nods, smiles. ‘Stuff.’ She seems conflicted about whether or not to say more, seems deeply deeply sad, all of a sudden. She scoops an ice cube out of her glass and bites down on it and winces.
‘You should get that looked at,’ I say.
Zoe shakes her head. ‘It’s fine. Just . . . cold, you know.’
Winston is pacing between the tables, microphone in hand, working his way through the sports round. As he passes our table he covers the mic with his hand and says to Zoe, ‘Ten minutes, Princess.’ He tips me a wink and asks the assembled quizzers, ‘Which British boxer dumped Cassius Clay on ‘is backside?’
‘Henry Cooper,’ I whisper.
‘Oh yeah, you like a bit of . . .’ Zoe holds up her fists.
‘My dad was a professional fighter,’ I say.
‘No way!’
I nod. ‘Clive “Big Boots” Smith. Twenty-five wins, thirteen losses and one no contest. Named his son after . . .’
‘Henry Cooper?’
‘You get the bonus point,’ I say, and lean across the table and kiss Zoe.
‘Big Boots?’
‘It’s an Elvis song, my dad used to look a little like him. Like Elvis.’
Zoe makes a big show of examining my face. ‘You missed out there,’ she says.
I nod. ‘Take after my mum.’
Zoe laughs. ‘God, I hope that’s a joke.’
‘Mum was a stunner. She’s a hairdresser.’
‘Is that where you learnt to cut hair?’
I nod. ‘Her place is called Love and Die.’
‘Funny.’
‘Except it’s spelled D-I-E. As in love and death.’
Zoe pulls a face that’s hard to read. ‘Oh, right, that’s a bit . . . dark?’
‘It was a misunderstanding with the signwriter,’ I tell her, nervous and excited to be talking about home, no matter how obliquely.
Zoe is looking at me as if she’s trying to decide whether or not I’m making this up. ‘Dark,’ she says again.
‘Well,’ I say, placing my hands flat on the table. ‘You said I never told you anything about me, so . . . now you know something about me, don’t you.’
Zoe places her hands on top of mine; her fingernails and the creases in her knuckles are black with dirt.
‘So no hot water?’ I say, trying to change tack.
‘God, do I . . .?’ Zoe dips her head towards her armpit.
‘No, no, your nails,’ I say.
Zoe laces her fingers in between mine. ‘Right . . . I was cleaning my . . .’ She squeezes my hands hard, as if bracing herself. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m . . . I’m just going to tell you.’
I nod: Okay.
‘I’m . . . I’m kind of a widow.’
Zoe watches my expression while this heavy revelation finds its level between us. I open my mouth to speak, realize I have no words and instead take a long drink.
‘My last boyfriend died.’
‘Zoe . . .’
She nods slowly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know a better way in . . .’
‘Are you okay?’
Zoe nods slowly. ‘Most of the time. Sometimes, like yesterday, not so much. And . . . the house, it was our house, you know, mine and Alex’s. That’s . . .’ she begins to cry quietly, ‘. . . was, that was his name.’
‘Zo, I don’t know what to say.’
‘I’m sorry, Henry. I . . . I’ll understand if you want out.’
I feel confused, conflicted, guilty, sad, relieved and guilty all over again. If I’d known any of this from the outset I would never have followed Zoe here all those weeks ago. But at the same time, I’m glad that I did. If nothing else comes of this, I’ve never been surer that April was the wrong person. I loved April, but she never made me feel the way I feel right now with Zoe.
I shake my head. ‘I don’t want out.’
Zoe wipes her eyes, takes hold of my hands again and whispers: ‘Good.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘Last October,’ Zoe says. ‘He was hit by a car.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
We’re quiet for a while.
I tap my foot against Zoe’s flip-flop. ‘Is that why you’re . . .’
Zoe nods. ‘Partly. Mostly.’ She sniffs, unlaces one hand and wipes at the tears on her cheeks. ‘So now you know my deep dark secret,’ she says. ‘I should have told you sooner, but . . .’
The words ‘deep dark secret’ have lodged up against my conscience, itchy and insistent.
‘You alright, Duchess?’ Winston places a hand on Zoe’s shoulder. ‘What’s going on?’ he says, narrowing his eyes at me.
/> ‘Winnie,’ Zoe says, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. ‘Sorry, just been a . . . been a funny day.’
‘This one givin’ you grief?’ he says.
Zoe laughs. ‘It’s the other way round, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s alright then,’ says Winston. ‘Way it should be.’
Zoe closes her mouth and screws her eyes tight, but a fresh pulse of tears pushes through and rolls down her cheeks.
‘What number lies opposite the six on a dart board?’ says Winston into the mic.
‘Eleven,’ I say under my breath. Winston turns to me and raises his eyebrows. ‘Grew up in a pub,’ I say.
Zoe looks up at me. ‘Full of surprises,’ she says, and with that brief lapse in concentration, all her held-back tears burst free.
Winston puts his hand over the microphone. ‘Listen, sweetheart, maybe you should finish early tonight.’
Zoe shakes her head, alarmed. ‘Winnie, I’m fine.’
‘Are you heck as like. Take yourself off—’
‘Honestly, I’m—’
‘You’ll get paid,’ Winston says, ruffling Zoe’s hair. ‘But, strewth almighty, weeping barmaids is bad for business, babes. Now finish your burger and do one.’
Zoe nods, mutters a quiet thank you.
‘And you look after her, capisce?’ Winston takes his hand from the mic and walks back into the centre of the bar. ‘In 1996, whose ear did Mike Tyson partially bite off?’
‘How are you doing?’ I ask Zoe.
She blows her fringe out of her eyes and blows her nose noisily into a napkin. ‘Better.’ She pushes her food to one side, takes hold of my hand and smiles.
‘My place or mine?’ she says.
Henry
Kind Of A Dentist
‘It’s the day we moved in,’ Zoe says.
The picture hangs halfway up the stairs, Zoe and her former boyfriend, Alex. Zoe laughing – snorting, I imagine – at something muttered from her man. Over the course of four trips up and down the stairs, I’ve had ample opportunity to take in the details: the stacked boxes, his arm around her waist, the precarious champagne bottle. They make a good-looking couple. They look happy.
