A love of two halves, p.3
A Love of Two Halves, page 3
‘Are you going to paint my dreams again?’
‘Maybe,’ she replied. ‘If they’re interesting enough.’
‘I’ll try my best. Right, let’s get the card out.’
‘All the lucky numbers?’
‘All the luckiest, each kissed three times, for luck.’
The programme began, and the cheery presenters started their patter, all upbeat like we’d all won. I suppose they get well paid, for that gig, so they’ve won the lottery already. No wonder they were so cheerful. The coloured balls whirred in the tombola, before the machine picked out one, then another, and another, until all seven were in a row, then rearranged by the TV special features guys into ascending order. We had two; only two.
‘Oh well, Mum, never mind.’
‘Indeed, never mind. One day you’ll be a famous painter. Or not famous, just successful.’
‘So will you, Mum.’
‘No, I think not. Opportunities have passed for me, I’m afraid.’
‘You could go for promotion then.’
‘Certainly not! Not after the last time,’ I paused, shuddered at the memory of the awkward pauses and clumsy mistakes of my last interview. I drank a big glug of wine, which was having a particularly dizzying effect after the long, dry period. ‘Humiliating. Then they promoted that lad who were about twelve.’
‘Even so, you should try. You’re smart.’
‘No way. Management’s not for me. There’s more chance of some millionaire moving in next door, falling madly in love with me and taking us all off to his mansion.’
‘No, there isn’t, Mum. There’s lots you could do.’
‘More drinks anyone?’ I asked, taking another big glug and getting myself up.
Danny claimed to be wide awake, and wanting to watch the telly, but I could see that his eyelids were drooping. If I suggested too soon that he should go to bed, he’d protest and it would all backfire. Maybe another twenty minutes, but no more cola. I brought back just the two glasses. It was lovely to be sipping wine again. Curled up next to my lovely girl, Danny starting to doze on the other side, we watched the talent show, and, with the calming, numbing sensation of the wine seeping into my body after weeks of laying off the booze, I felt good about the world again. The disappointment of yet another lottery loss well forgotten, and still thinking, late into the evening, more often than I’d expected to, about the tall, dark, handsome stranger, who wasn’t all that tall or handsome, at least in the Hollywood way. Though he was kind of cute, with his steady confidence, kind smile – and the way he looked at me, all wise but still yearning. Was he confident because he was successful, or successful because he was confident? Which way round did it work? Unless he wasn’t successful, just pretended to be, and was in debt. Men sometimes borrow silly amounts for a certain vehicle. Cars are their hairdos – it’s all about image. Of course, that sort of thing would never make a difference to me. It was always the personality and the values, for me.
Yet still, where would I find a man? I would want one, eventually, and probably not the type of lad who goes by bus or skateboard.
4
Imperfect, tense
I was there three weeks later, for the last game of the season. It was a lunchtime kick-off, and so an even earlier start 250 miles away, in leafy Surrey. The alarm went at 6 a.m., a high-pitched ringing, followed by Radio 4 starting itself on the backup. I had been very deeply asleep, in an intricate anxiety dream that involved becoming lost on assorted types of transport, and with each decision ending up further away from my destination. I became aware that I was in the middle of my absurdly large bed. For a few seconds I contemplated skipping the long drive north and the match, but I was too far away to hit any snooze button, so I forced myself awake. Also, before fully awakening, Karen’s kind face and blue-grey eyes appeared in my mind; incentive enough for 500 miles of driving. I felt a tiny thrill inside my soul that increased as I awoke; just the very chance of seeing her, I thought.
I had a coffee machine in my bedroom, as it was so far to the kitchen, but I was out of pods, and the water tank was nearly empty. Cursing at myself for such basic lack of planning, wearing nothing but pyjama shorts, I became even more awake as I made the long walk down the stairs, across part of the large hall, to the kitchen, feet becoming colder and colder with each step on the cold stone floor around the island (how did the fashion begin for kitchens that were the size of a swimming pool?). I topped up the water tank I had been carrying, then collected some coffee pods from their holder on the side. I was going to want more than one.
Within twenty minutes, I was setting off. I loved the satisfying crunch of the broad tyres as they moved over the gravel drive, and the efficient whirr of the automatic gate as it slid open. These were among my top-five favourite sounds, other than music; the others were the joyous yell of the home crowd as a goal went in, the swish of skis on a freshly groomed piste and I suppose I should add birdsong. I have my sensitive side.
As I drove through the narrow country lanes, at 7 a.m. in the morning, past the farmyards and the gated communities, the mansions and country hotels tucked behind mature oak and beech trees just coming into leaf, I wondered if there were any other Leeds United supporters ahead of me in the same lane, worrying about the traffic, the first-team line-up and whether the popular manager would avoid getting fired in the close season. The M1 was clear, until near the stadium again, when a bit of match day traffic built up. I had the same decision to make, I reflected as the engine hummed and I crawled along in the queue; but I was making it consciously this time, without help from Maggie the satnav. Should I proceed straight on towards the stadium car park, or head over the bridge to the quiet street, near the footbridge to the ground, a free space on the pavement, perhaps parking, once more, out of familiarity, close to the house of the enigmatic, friendly young mum with the talented daughter? I recalled the promise I had made to call in, with a view to discussing the young girl’s work and her prospects. Would they hold me to that promise, or had they forgotten it? Would they consider me intrusive for knocking on the door, or neglectful for not doing so, having raised their hopes? I preferred the risk of finding out, to not finding out.
On the slip road, I noted a black bit of plastic, seemingly just a bag, but, as the nearside front wheel hit it, there was a bit of impact, and a quiet thumping sound I did not like the sound of. But the car behaved itself as I found my way to the same street, glancing indiscreetly, but not too often, I judged, at the house of the family I had briefly encountered three weeks before. There was no sign of anyone in the tiny front yard, so I headed on to the ground, in time for kick-off.
It was early May, but grey and bitter. There was high cloud, little wind and the air was tasteless. I buttoned up my winter coat as I walked down the short street, not bothering with the northern English habit of defying the cold with shirt sleeves or going topless, a tendency that seemed to increase in proportion with the girth of the men keen to display their torsos; not that there were any such exhibitionists on display that chilly midday. As I turned the corner, to a larger street, I was joined by other fans, some in coats, some in white replica home-team shirts; couples, families, groups of three or four or ten; and then more of them as we crossed the bridge and proceeded down the main road. Most groups were quite subdued, murmuring, chatting; just one was slightly beery, chanting the hymnal club anthem ‘Marching on Together’. The English need a drink before they sing. The small groups combined to form a larger throng as we neared the stadium, joined by others from side streets. All were heading in the same direction, as though by gravity: from Holbeck to the north, Wortley to the west, Beeston to the east and south. I was reminded of the flocks of egrets heading to their roosting place in the Pantanal in Brazil; just a few small knots of birds in late afternoon, growing to bigger and bigger flocks as dusk fell; from miles around, heading to the same area, until tens of thousands created a premature dusk as they flew in close formation above, before settling in a handful of trees that became more white than green. And they chattered, chattered, chattered away until it was quite dark.
I wondered how, amid this crowd – the ground would be nearly full, for the last game of the season – there was probably no one I could call on as a friend, with whom to have a drink and chat about the game. The one schoolfriend I had contact with was Jeremy Baird, who delighted in sharing the same surname as one of the star players of the day, but who was mocked by the rough lads for his ‘posh’ first name. I marvelled, then and since, at the ingenuity that teenage children will deploy to invent a pretext with which to exclude and taunt a blameless peer, for the satisfaction of making their waking life an utter misery. Jeremy and I at least had each other, but then of course we were teased for being a gay couple. He had been a sports fan of the nerdy variety: remembering dates, names, scores, players. We had been to a few games together, standing on the terraces. He was pleased when, after two decades without meeting, I contacted him on social media, but always had a reason for not attending a game with me: he lived in Lancashire now, had young children, cost was too much (he bristled when I offered to pay), didn’t like the way the game had changed and so on. I had given up inviting him, though he did come to the cricket once. All my other friends were from various parts of the south – London, Surrey, Uruguay and so on. My colleague Tony the Chelsea fan accompanied me once, which was heroic of him, and he pretended to support the home side, at least for ninety minutes, but I could see the effort it took. To return the gesture, I accompanied him to Stamford Bridge – for a European tie, so I could support the English club.
The game that early afternoon was dull. How much carbon dioxide had I emitted from my beautiful sports car in return for such meagre entertainment? Then again, the journey was equally polluting irrespective of the game’s quality. I thought about buying an electric car again. I walked back up the main road, past the queues for the taxis, and over the bridge, into the streets of tightly packed houses.
As I turned the corner into the street where the car was parked, there she was, the cute mum. My heartbeat quickened when she glanced up. I looked into her blue-grey eyes, and there was that look again, radiant and full of inquiry. The sun emerged, and shone brilliantly; I felt it upon my shoulders and saw it light up her face. Actually, it probably only did so in my imagination. The day was still overcast.
Her look changed from apparent pleasure at greeting me to one of concern and guilt as she noticed, before I had, that the front nearside tyre was soft. It wasn’t vandalism, she promised.
‘That’s fine, that’s fine!’ I assured her, ‘I felt I hit something as I came off the motorway – thought it was just a plastic bag so I hadn’t swerved to avoid it.’ I was secretly glad at the pretext to stay for another hour or so. ‘Yes, there it is, embedded in the tyre – bit of sharp plastic, probably a chunk off a rear bumper or an industrial part or something.’
I was hoping to be invited in for a cup of tea while we waited for the repair van. I had been wealthy enough for long enough to have people do stuff for me, and I was unused to getting my hands dirty. She then astonished me by offering to help me change the wheel herself. ‘We could be waiting ages for them,’ she reasoned. ‘Might as well get started.’ She informed me that she used to help her older brother, a qualified car mechanic, do all manner of repairs. I noted her use of the imperfect tense, and a wistful, pained note in her voice.
5
The perfect stranger
I wasn’t sure if I would see him, or that car, again, but I had checked when the next home game would be, when he said he would visit. I had awoken early that Saturday morning, by the noise of next door’s vacuum cleaner. Rita was very tidy, but did she have to start cleaning before breakfast? As I awoke, I was on the edge of the bed, and misjudged how near I was, almost falling out as I got myself up. I looked at the clock; it was only 6.15 a.m. I nipped downstairs to make myself a quick cuppa and I brought it back up. The children had still been asleep and I had a quiet half hour, during which time I treated myself to a long fantasy about George, and whether he liked me, and whether he would visit.
Bronte was spending the day with me, rather than seeing friends. It was chilly, and we were indoors. She had a large pad of A3-sized blank paper, some charcoal and some coloured pencils.
‘What are you going to draw?’ I asked.
‘A woman lost. She’s in the desert, but there are loads of criss-crossing paths, and she has to find the right one. She keeps asking for water but she’s only got some wine that makes her thirsty.’
‘That’s my dream again,’ I said.
‘I know.’ It was always the same, her two-word reply. She would have thought it strange to discover that there were mums whose teenage daughters did not guess their dreams and draw them. I sat and watched, mildly dazzled. She never seemed to mind if I watched or if I did not, and was just wrapped in her own creative zone while she painted or drew. I said I had to get up and tidy the window boxes.
She teased me, of course. ‘Two hours past kick-off. Wonder who’ll be coming up the street?’
He turned the corner, and marched briskly to his car. He returned my look; that look again. I trembled inside. He removed his football scarf, rolled it up neatly and stuffed it in his coat pocket. ‘Hello again!’ he said.
‘Hello there. Can’t stay away!’ I replied.
‘Still got all four wheels?’ he quipped, cheerfully.
‘Yup,’ I replied. ‘Checked on them every half hour. Now I’ll just kick the tyres to… Oh. That doesn’t look right. Front nearside is flat.’ I stared down at the item. He did too. ‘There hasn’t been any trouble here, any vandalism. I’m sure I would have heard!’ I felt vaguely guilty, and crouched down to inspect the damage. He explained that he thought he had hit something as he left the motorway. Sure enough, there was a bit of hard plastic stuck in the tyre.
‘I’ll help you fix it,’ I suggested, and he looked amazed. He was all for calling the breakdown van, which to me was like calling them to switch your headlights on. It had always been a matter of pride for Kevin and me that we could fix just about anything, except some of the electronics, and I was only wearing a sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms, so I didn’t need to change. ‘I haven’t done this model before; it’ll be fun!’ I said.
‘No, I’ll do it!’ he protested. ‘I’m sure I can work out how. I did it for my dad once. Years ago, mind…’
He wandered around to the boot and opened it. It was a classic car; not a very old vintage but not brand new, and it had the old-style jack and spare. I stood beside him, quite close, looking in. It amused me that I located all the spare parts before him.
‘I really don’t mind helping! It’s easier with two,’ I said.
‘Well… If you’re absolutely sure?’ he said, as he pulled out the spare, bouncing it pleasingly on the pavement as a test.
‘Absolutely!’ I assured him.
‘Whoops!’ he said. The tyre’s second bounce was at an unexpected angle, and he almost lost his balance as he stepped to his left to catch it, just about staying upright, maintaining a semblance of dignity, and laughing a little to himself. His slight clumsiness made him appear more normal, and quite endearing. Steadying the wheel, he managed to place it carefully on its side. Then he placed the jack, correct way up, to be fair, under the side of the car near the wheel arch. Immediately, he started turning the handle around, vigorously.
‘Stop!’ I said, giggling a little. ‘You have to loosen the wheel bolts first, or there’s no resistance!’ It was reassuring to learn that he wasn’t in control of everything, that there was stuff I could do that he couldn’t.
‘Of course, of course!’ he muttered, reversing the direction of the turns on the jack’s handle to lower the car back down. He looked up at me. He might have been irritated at my little smile of triumph, and showed a bit of wounded pride that a girl was better than him at mechanics, but instead he just returned a gaze of kindness and admiration. I felt the flicker of desire again and he seemed to notice as he looked down.
I knew what to do to remove the nuts, but I lacked a little strength as I pulled down on the spanner. He placed his hand firmly close to mine, touching it briefly, and I felt a thrill run down my wrist, upper arm, shoulder, and then heart and lungs, as we both pushed down hard until the bolt began to yield.
‘Sorry, I’m not hurting, am I?’ he asked, as part of his hand pinched mine with the downward push. He was taking great care to avoid placing his body next to mine, which was considerate. I admired his restraint but I felt a little bit disappointed at the same time…
‘Not at all,’ I replied, and between us we removed the nut.
There were four more. When the new wheel was in place, and the nuts tightened onto the bolts, he fretted whether they were on securely.
‘I’ll show you where the nearest garage is in Beeston,’ I said. ‘Just drive at thirty ’til you get there, be on the safe side. Run by a bloke called Alan. They’ll check it for you.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. He appeared a little warm, sweating a little with exertion, despite the chilly air. He had removed his coat to change the wheel, placing it on top of the car after carefully transferring his smartphone to his back trouser pocket.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ I asked. I pointed with my head towards the door, as if there’d be some doubt as to where I’d fetch the drink from.
‘A glass of water will do fine,’ he replied. He rolled up the sleeves of his casual, white cotton top, and dabbed a little perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand.
I went inside and returned with the glass. ‘There you are.’ I wanted to invite him in – wanted to wash his shirt, make his tea, massage his shoulder and neck. These thoughts just sprang up out of nowhere. I tried to push them back, deep into my subconscious; then again, perhaps he wanted these things too.
