Compliments, Cutlets and Candy.
Chapter One
The whole of the moon
That fateful
Saturday morning in Bristol was a prime example. It was April 11th, 1992, and all
the ingredients were there for the making of a perfect day. Saturday was, by some way, the highlight of his week,
and not only was the weather set fair, but it was spring, and spring that
fairest of all seasons, had always been his favourite time of the year. As usual, however,
there was something which wasn't quite right, and today it was the time. His watch told him It was 6-05 am,
and John Joseph Ryan had never been a man for daybreaks and dawns. He was a night owl; a party animal for whom early mornings were anathema.
He sat behind
the wheel of his car, grumbling, muttering and cursing under his breath as he
reflected on the unfairness of life. He was a few months short of his fiftieth birthday, and
time, which had once been his closest friend, was fast becoming an arch-enemy. There
was always so much to do, and so little time in which to do it. He groaned,
sighed, stretched, yawned and then lit his second cigarette of the day. He grimaced
at the realisation that another promised attempt to quit his nicotine addiction had once
more resulted in failure.
“Tomorrow,”
he whispered. There was always tomorrow, but deep down inside he was acutely
aware that his tomorrows never seemed to arrive. He turned the ignition key, switched on his radio and set off on his journey.
The early
morning traffic was light and his spirits slowly began to rise as he made good
progress through the leafy suburb of Redland. Redland always looked good, but
at this time of the year, the stately looking houses and tree lined avenues
were at their very best.
As he turned
into Coldharbour Road, the voices on the radio were already beginning to annoy him, as a succession of so called experts pompously paraded their egos and opinions as to how and why Neil Kinnock had contrived to snatch defeat
from the jaws of victory in that Thursday's General Election. The majority of
the speakers expressed surprise at the result, but not so Mr. Rupert
Murdoch. He was more than happy to let it be known to the world that he had personally
played a major role in the eventual outcome. He was boasting loudly about his
flagship newspaper, The Sun. He bragged about its banner headline, which brashly
screamed to the world that ‘It was the Sun wot won it’.
Barton smiled ruefully as he listened to the
discussion. He was not a political animal, and he felt a distinct sense of
relief as the talking finally ended and the music started. Shakespear’s Sister sang
the number one song in that week’s hit parade, Stay with me.
If this world is wearing thin
And you're thinking of escape
I'll go anywhere with you
Just wrap me up in chains
But if you try to go out alone
Don't think I'll understand
Stay with me
John Ryan attempted to sing along, but his efforts were hesitant and badly off key. He quickly
gave up, and conceded that he was far from fluent with either the lyrics or the
melody. The failure brought another frown to his face as he realised that with
each passing year, popular music was slowly leaving him behind.
He was soon
smiling again, however, as The Waterboys followed with The Whole of the Moon.
I pictured a rainbow
You held it in your hands
I had flashes
But you saw the plan
I wandered out in the world for years
While you just stayed in your room
I saw the crescent
You saw
the whole of the moon
This time, he was able to join in, and sing along loudly and
confidently, and this time he was both word and pitch perfect.
Coldharbour
Road had seamlessly become Kellaway Avenue, and the Golden Hill playing fields
of Bristol Grammar School loomed large to his left. Those ancient fields were
heavy with history and tradition, and the news that they were about to become
the site of a new Tesco supermarket had fuelled massive protests.
Ryan frowned at the thought of those famous
old pitches, the scenes of so many dramatic last minute tries and match saving
tackles, disappearing under a sea of concrete, but he was a realist. He was
well aware of the power of profit, and had already accepted the eventual and
inevitable outcome. Despite this, he still gave a token honk and a wave to the
handful of weary looking protestors who were already lining up outside of the entrance
gate, and he still felt a pang of guilt that he wasn’t standing alongside them.
Instead, he turned right and headed down the narrow track across Horfield
Common, which led to the Ardagh Bowls and Tennis Club. As he pulled into the
car park, The Waterboys were building up to the climax of the song.
Yes, you climbed on the ladder
With the wind in your sails
You came like a comet
Blazing your trail
Too high
Too far
Too soon
You saw the whole of the moon
The car came
gently to a halt just as the Waterboys were coming to the end of the song, and
he closed his eyes as he held the last, long, lingering note with them. The
third cigarette of the day reached his lips, almost before he had finished
singing, and then he switched off the engine, and sat back in his seat.
He felt a
profound relief that both the car park and the Common were deserted. He wasn’t
in the mood for idle gossip, casual conversations or false bonhomie with total strangers.
Today, he could well do without them. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette, blew several
smoke rings, and then tossed the gold coloured Benson and Hedges packet on to
his passenger seat. There it lay along with a growing pile of empty packets and
a whole week’s supply of Sporting Life newspapers. Craning his neck, he glanced
into his rear view mirror and studied the sole reason for his being up at this
ungodly hour. The shiny black Labrador puppy calmly returned his gaze, tilted
her head to one side, and then he heard her tail thumping furiously against the
upholstery. His mood lightened, his icy heart melted, and he smiled for the
first time that day.
The puppy
tumbled clumsily and somewhat inelegantly from the rear seat and was soon
rolling in the damp, recently mown grass. Barton left her to her own devices
and headed for the heart of the Common. Here, he stood and watched the sun
creeping into view over the Purdown hills. It truly was one of those near
perfect early spring mornings. The breeze was soft and so gentle that it barely
disturbed the newly formed blossom, which was hanging proudly from the boughs.
The sky was a faultless blue for as far as the eye could see, and the sound of
birdsong was everywhere. From time to time he caught a glimpse of a single bird
on the wing, but it was the invisible chorus that commanded his attention; the
wall of sound that was pouring from the trees and the bushes. He had never
listened closely to the dawn chorus before, but now he closed his eyes and
marvelled at the variety of cheeps, chirps, warbles, trills and whistles he
could hear. There were so many different sounds and so many different species.
He felt just a little bit inadequate that he was unable to identify a single
one of them.
Annie could
have identified them all. He pictured her standing there with the palm of her
hand raised, demanding silence. Five feet five inches of fiery red headed,
Irish stubbornness and determination. Her head was on one side; her eyes
closed, lost in deep concentration. Eventually she would have smiled that
smile; the smile of triumph; the smile that always followed the moment of
victory after a heated discussion or an argument. Yes, Annie would have been
able to name them all.
‘Blackbird…
Bullfinch… Chaffinch… Thrush… Dunnock… Wren… Robin.’ Annie was a walking,
talking human encyclopaedia with regard to birds. But Annie wasn’t there, and now
he felt that all too familiar pang of frustration and irritation. He and Annie never did
anything together these days. Right now she was at home, tucked up in the
marital bed, alternately sleeping or dozing fitfully as she waited for his
return.
Once upon a
time they had been the golden couple; the envy of the neighbourhood. Theirs had
been the first names on every party invitation list, but somehow they had lost
their way. Somewhere deep in the past they had started to drift apart. He knew
precisely when it had all started to go wrong, but had always been loath to
admit to it.
‘When the sex stops, love flies out of the
window’. He recalled his mother’s cautionary advice on the day of his
wedding.
Dear old Mum! Her advice had always been
rather basic, but crammed full of wisdom. Wisdom almost certainly derived from bitter,
personal experience. He should have listened, he should have taken heed, but
still he felt sympathy for Annie. Hard though he had tried, he had been unable
to make her dreams come true. All she had ever wanted was to be a good mother.
Fate had decreed otherwise, and they had remained childless.
“Shannon!
Shannon! Shannon! Shannon!” The voice interrupted his thoughts. It was
female and each cry increased in both volume and urgency. The rising sun was
low in the sky, and he was forced to shield his eyes from the glare. He quickly
picked out the slightly obese yellow Labrador lumbering slowly towards him. The
dog looked friendly enough, tail wagging, and tongue lolling. He leant forward
to greet it.
“Steady on
old girl.”
Onwards and upwards
“Happy
birthday to you,” she sang quietly as she studied her reflection, but then she
frowned as she remembered that her mother was throwing a party that night to
celebrate the occasion. A party at her mother’s house invariably meant the
introduction of a wholly unsuitable, predatory male to the table. Her mother
had a mission in life to find a suitable partner for her daughter. Her mother
was many things, but she wasn’t a good matchmaker.
Placing her
hands on her hips, she stood motionless, intently studying her image. She was
naked and fresh from the shower. She
held the pose for upwards of 10 seconds, and then swivelled slowly, almost
imperceptibly, first one way and then another. It was a well-practiced routine,
which enabled her to view her body closely from almost every conceivable angle.
Finally, clearly satisfied, she smiled and nodded self approvingly. All those
long hours at the gym had paid dividends. She looked good and she felt good. More
importantly, she felt strong again. The previous 12 months had been a long and
difficult period in her life, but now Jack Maxwell was finally out of her bed,
out of her house, and almost completely out of both her heart and her head.
“Onwards and upwards”, she whispered, and then
giggled as she opened the nearest of the range of built in white wardrobes
which covered the entire length of one wall. Maxwell at his very best, had been
a master craftsman, and he had proven to be a class act when free from his
demons. This room was the product of his finest moments, and there were
reminders of him everywhere.
She studied
the range of colour co-ordinated accessories hanging in the first of the wardrobes.
They were arranged in perfect order; everything was totally symmetrical, for
she was a perfectionist. There were six available colours; red, green, black,
yellow, blue, and pink.
"Eeny, meeny, miny, moe", she worked
her way along the line, jabbing and pointing with her left index finger. The age
old rhyme selected pink as the winning shade, but she frowned and hesitated,
before reaching out instead for red.
“A woman’s
prerogative”, she whispered, and then promptly changed her mind again and chose
blue.
Turning
again to the mirror, she painstakingly brushed her dark, shoulder length hair,
before braiding it expertly into a single plait, which she then carefully arranged
to fall casually over her left shoulder. She dressed quickly, scorning any underwear
or make-up, with the exception of a hurried application of Clarin’s to her
face. She then turned her back to the mirror, and peered first over her left
shoulder, and then the right as she meticulously studied her rear. With both
hands she patted her buttocks three times as a sign of satisfaction.
The large
yellow Labrador who had been lying on the floor at the foot of the bed, had been
watching her every move. The dog seemed to understand that now was its time. It
stirred, rose, stretched and then lumbered eagerly over to her, clearly anxious
to receive its collar and lead.
“Good girl.
Shannon,” she stooped and lovingly smoothed the dog. Shannon had been Jack’s pet,
but he had turned his back on the dog, just as he had abandoned everyone else
in his troubled life.
Shakespear’s Sister was singing Stay with me, as she switched off the
radio, and attached the soft pink lead to the matching, studded collar.
“Come on girl,
let’s rock; let’s go, let’s get lucky.”
There was a
spring in both of their steps, as mistress and dog set off on the short 2
minute walk to Horfield Common.
The brisk
walk along Maple Road led them to the lower entrance to the Common, and upon
arrival she hesitated only briefly before deciding to walk in a clockwise
direction. Together the two of them set off up the gentle slope which led to
the car park. She always enjoyed the solitude of her early, Saturday morning
start. She preferred the silence and the peace that dawn always provided, but
as she turned into the car park, she was both surprised and just a little
disappointed to find a car parked there. It felt almost like an invasion of her
privacy, an attack on her personal space. The disappointment was quickly
replaced by inquisitiveness. The gleaming powder blue car was not only a top of
the range Mercedes, but was also a sparkling, brand new model. The bonnet was
warm to her touch, and she knew the owner wasn’t far away. She looked around
surreptitiously and then stole a furtive glance into the passenger window. She
pursed her lips and whistled quietly.
“Every
picture tells a story,” she whispered.
It took but
a minute to find the owner. There he was, standing in one of her favourite
spots, lost in thought, staring towards Purdown and watching the sun-rise. His
black Labrador puppy was happily playing at his side. The stranger looked
remarkably unremarkable. Everything about him screamed ‘Mr Average’. He was
average height, and average build, with average good looks. He was not
unattractive, and was smartly, but inexpensively dressed. She came to the conclusion that he was probably
just the wrong side of 50.
“The man
from C and A,” she whispered, and then giggled and snorted.
“This way Shannon,” she turned on her heel and
retraced her steps, now walking anti clockwise. This way she would be guaranteed
to meet the mysterious stranger head on.
He was still
there when she reached the bottom corner, still in the same spot, still
watching the rising sun.
“Go say
hello,” she released Shannon from her leash, and the dog set off towards the
stranger.
“Shannon!
Shannon! Shannon! Shannon!” She took a
deep breath, and then trotted off in pursuit. “It’s Watson to the rescue,” she
giggled and snorted. as she ran. Something told her that this was going to be fun.
well i am sure that many a romance has been started by an irresistable sweet natured
ReplyDeletelab :)