This left only a paper trail and George rummaged around in a cupboard and brought out his paper shredder. It was one of a number of retirement gifts given him by his colleagues at Putney & District. George was a firm believer in not leaving documents laying around that could potentially be embarrassing to council or damaging to taxpayers or citizens' groups and the joke around town hall was that if George was retiring, the shredder could be retired too.
He had stacks of papers connected to his writing; research material, notes and quotes from interviews, failed and abandoned chapters, scrawled notes to himself on beer mats, or the backs of envelopes, printed drafts with handwritten comments in the margins, minutes from the meetings of his editorial advisory committee, some of which were stained with curry, and all of these he shredded and consigned to the recycle bin.
That left him with a flash drive that contained 73 documents, a gazillion words and somewhere in this ragtag collection had been a novel trying to get out. George marveled that something so small could contain so much and he could have just smashed it or chucked into one of the big black rubbish bins at the end of his street. But rather than confine it to landfill to be picked over by swarms of scavenging birds he decided to afford it a more dignified farewell. It would be nice to have company, he thought. He picked up the phone.
"Hiyer, it's George, what's up?"
Across the street, Catherine Mallory Jones was thumbing through the classifieds in the local paper.
"Nothing much, flat hunting, or at least going through the motions. I told Steed I wouldn't move in with him until we are married. I think he may propose to me. How do you like that? I'm little Miss Respectable all a sudden."
"I think that's nice," said George. "I have this image of a white wedding in a country church with a Norman spire, surrounded by a graveyard, all dandelions and tilting gravestones. Will there be bells? I love church bells."
"Yes, bells, of course. And confetti, and…."
"Catherine?"
"What?"
"Fancy a trip to the seaside?"
"Mmm… I might. Where did you have in mind? The Azores is nice. Western Samoa, maybe? I hear Martinique is beautiful at this time of the year."
"Brighton."
"Brighton?"
"Yes, there's something I have to do there. And I want you to come with me. I'll buy lunch. I know this little place... "
"When did you want to do this?"
"Tomorrow."
And so, on a bright wintry Monday morning that shone with promise, George Aloysius Brown and Catherine Mallory Jones set off together for Brighton where they used to go as children on summer holidays with their parents, stepping gingerly over the pebbly beach to paddle in the briny sea. They caught a train from Victoria Station selecting seats with a table in front of them where they settled in side-by-side.
"Remind me again, why we're doing this?" Catherine said, sipping her latte.
"There's something I've got to do. I'm starting a new chapter in my life. It's time to get rid of the past."
"What's in your past to get rid of?"
"I'll tell you when we get there."
At Clapham Junction, south of the river, the train picked up speed, clattering past gasworks and self-storage warehouses, past lines of corrugated sheds with rusty roofs, past vegetable beds in the back gardens of council houses before popping out of a tunnel at Wandsworth Common, an oasis of park land in the heart of industrial London. They could see a man walking his dog and in the distance the lacey pattern of trees in winter.
Catherine studied George's reflection in the window as if seeing him for the first time; pink cheeks, honest twinkling eyes, ears a little too big for a face that is still unlined at 55, thinking, "It's been an extraordinary year since we met."
He glanced up from his paper and caught her looking at him.
Catherine blushed, not meaning to stare.
"Don't you think it's weird that we didn't meet until the last day of class?" she asked.
"Not really, I thought you were a bit aloof, one of the privileges of youth and beauty, I suppose. Also you told Wanda you write poetry. That pretty well excluded me from the conversation."
Catherine grinned.
"She wound you up, didn't she? Saying you should write pornography. She was having a go. But you took her on. After that I saw you in a whole different light."
"It's a weakness. I like making people laugh."
"You make me laugh. Your book made me laugh."
"Thank you, ma'am, very kind, I'm sure." George tipped his bowler hat in her direction with exaggerated politeness.
Outside their window, Croydon went by, then Balcombe, then everywhere else, country stations dressed with hanging flower baskets, flashing by too fast to read their names.
"George?" Catherine lowered her voice. "We did okay, didn't we? I mean we're both published writers."
"Well, you are. You're in the bookstores. I have to be downloaded."
Catherine laughed, changing the subject.
"I remember going to Brighton as a kid, don't you? I remember candy floss and melting ice cream. The sea was always freezing cold. I hated going in, but mummy bribed me by buying me a bucket and spade and she held my hand as together we jumped over the waves. After that, I didn't mind too much. Anyway, the beach was too stony to build proper sandcastles."
"What I remember was the Punch and Judy show in a tent with red striped awning."
"Puppets, right?"
"Yes a fixture at the English seaside since Victorian times? Wouldn't be allowed now, mind you, far too violent for young impressionable minds."
"More violent than today's video games?"
George chuckled.
"Less so, probably."
"Then what was the problem?"
"Well, Mr. Punch was a villain who bashed his wife with a big stick, wacked their baby when she asked him to babysit, clobbered the policeman who came to investigate, and then laid out all the corpses so he could count 'em. A doctor arrives and Punch whacks him too."
"And this was funny?"
"Of course. As kids we howled with laughter. We knew it was only a puppet show. The more bashing went on the louder we laughed. At one point Judy grabs the stick and bashes Mr. Punch. They have a real set-to before the police arrive."
"A domestic. Police hate domestics."
"Wait. The best part was the crocodile. It sneaks up on Mr. Punch, who doesn't see it coming until all the kids start yelling. We yelled 'crocodile' 'til we were blue in the face, so Mr. Punch wouldn't get eaten. There's other characters too, a clown, a ghost, the hangman…."
"The hangman.....! Don't tell me Punch gets his comeuppance."
"Not exactly. They bring the gibbet in, but once again Mr. Punch wins the day."
"How so?"
"He persuades the hangman to put his own head in the noose."
Catherine laughed and clutched at his arm.
"Are you making this up?"
"All true."
"And this happened on the beach?"
"Used to. Punch and Judy went the way of the saucy seaside postcard. Politically incorrect, I suppose. Now, apparently, kids as young as eleven entertain themselves by rioting and looting."
They had arrived at Preston Park, the train slowing, close to the end of the line.
Catherine closed her eyes and slipped her hand into his until the train pulled slowly into the station.
Lunch was at a little French bistro and they were sipping the last of the wine when George called for the bill.
"No dessert, there's something I have to do and then we've got a train to catch," he told the waiter.
"Haven't you heard?" he replied, flicking at some breadcrumbs with a white linen napkin. "There's no trains out of Brighton, not 'til tomorrow, anyway."
"Why? What's up?" George asked. "Is there a strike, or something?"
The waiter approached their table and placed the bill precisely between them.
"A freight train derailed
an hour ago blocking the tracks in both directions. Where do you want to go?"
"London."
"They're supposed to be bringing in some buses. Or you can take a coach to Victoria Station. But I heard there's a queue a mile long."
Catherine was the first to react.
"Excuse me." She grabbed her phone and went outside.
"What was that all about?" George asked when she got back.
"I made a phone call, just in case we can't get out of here. I booked us a room at the Palace Hotel."
"Us?"
"Yes, us. You and me. Together. We got the last room, or so they told me."
Catherine looked at George and giggled.
"You can sleep on the floor, if you would feel more comfortable. Relax, we'll figure something out."
George didn't know what he was feeling. As wonderful a prospect as it may be to spend the night with Catherine, he hadn't felt so apprehensive since a girl he liked at school invited him to a dance.
"George, don't worry about it, okay? You'll be fine. We're not Punch and Judy. Nobody is going to get hurt. We'll have a couple of drinks, a nice dinner. And we'll go back to London in the morning. It's no big deal."
She started laughing.
"What's so funny?"
"You are. Jeezus, George, I don't normally have this much trouble having a sleepover."
The hotel clerk looked at them as if there had been a mistake.
"What name is the reservation under?" he asked, George thought a little testily.
"Brown," said Jones.
"Jones," said Brown.
They both answered at the same time.
"I see," the clerk said. "Mr. and Mrs. Jones is it, or perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Brown? Just the one night, is it? I have a room with twin beds and a sea view…"
By this time, Catherine had heard enough. She smiled sweetly at the desk clerk and raised her voice slightly for the benefit of the people queuing behind.
"We want a double bed. And a mirrored ceiling."
"I beg your pardon, madam," the clerk said, now visibly flustered.
"Mirrors," said Catherine. "We need a double bed and a mirrored ceiling."
George suddenly saw the absurdity of it. This was fun. A day at the seaside with someone he loved, ending in an improbable adventure.
"Darling!" he suddenly interrupted her, taking her arm. "Did you remember the whip?
"Of course, darling, it's in with the handcuffs."
"And what about the…." He leaned towards her as if whispering in her ear."
"Yes! Yes!" she let out a loud theatrical moan.
The clerk hurriedly pushed a key in their direction. It was six inches long, made of brass tied to a red satin heart.
"Room 408, the Honeymoon Suite," he said. "No extra charge. Enjoy your stay."
The famous seaside promenade, which on summer weekends is packed with holidaymakers, was almost deserted the following morning as George, a spring in his step, marched the length of Brighton Pier with only the company of recreational fishermen bundled up against the wind. He passed the fish and chip shops, the postcard sellers, the purveyors of tattoos, all shuttered and barred. He paused to admire the merry-go-round and all the prancing horses as still as statues, hearing again from his childhood the ghostly music of the whirligig. At the end of the pier was a helter-skelter and a sign that said, 'From the top, on a clear day, you can see the Isle of Wight.' And here he stopped to carry out his mission. A cold mist was blowing in from the sea. George reached into his pocket for the flash drive, which felt lighter than a pebble in his hand, and he hurled it without ceremony into the gloom. He listened hoping to hear a splash, but heard nothing, only the taunting screech of gulls. It was done. Nobody knew. Nobody saw.
But one person saw it all. Catherine Mallory Jones, sitting alone at a widow table in the breakfast room of the Palace Hotel across from the Pier, knew what it was George Aloysius Brown had buried at sea. She watched him, a tiny, lonely figure silhouetted by the pale light of dawn. And at that moment she would say that she loved him, a good and simple man. And George in his loneliness felt the love. He was happy and carefree in a way he hadn't been for years. She watched him doff his bowler hat to the clouds and twirl his rolled up umbrella as he strode towards the shore. She saw him stop on the boardwalk and do his Charlie Chaplin jig, kicking out his legs and clicking his heels. Then the mist rolled in and she could see him no more.
THE END
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About the Author:
Award winning journalist Alan Daniels was a daily newspaper reporter and editor in London, Sydney, Hong Kong and Vancouver. Married with children, he is currently working on his second novel.
Connect with me online at:
http://spankthenovel.com
Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown Page 23
