Authors: R J Gould
The Reunion (10 page)
“Rachel, have you been reading my stuff?”
“You read my action plan so why shouldn’t I read yours?” She
stood up. “Anyway, if you don’t want things read don’t leave them lying
around.”
She smiled, planted a kiss on his cheek. “I can’t wait to
read your long term plan.”
Chapter 11
David found the piece of paper with his short term
objectives on the small table in the hall next to the telephone. He must have
left it there when he’d called Bridget so Rachel could hardly be accused of
high level spying for spotting and reading it. However he was irritated Rachel
had done so, compounded by the fact that despite the worldly advice he had
provided, his list was no more analytical than her original one that he’d
insisted she revise.
Well aware of the banality of what he had so far written,
he nevertheless decided to push ahead with the setting of longer term
objectives. Writing the list would be meaningless, but at the very least an act
of defiance against the expectation of rational behaviour that comes with adulthood.
The exercise would also provide a time-killer ahead of News at Ten.
He sat at the kitchen table and immediately put down the
first point, having already decided to take a cookery course. He stared at the
sheet of paper with the single objective.
What next?
He made himself a cup of tea. He took the rubbish out.
Was that all?
He emptied the washing machine. He hung out the clothes
on the drier.
How creative could he be?
He took sausages out the freezer and put them in the
fridge as the first step in preparing tomorrow’s dinner.
Carrying out these mundane tasks brought about the
realisation that he had to confront the growing frustration at work now that he
was line managed by Mary. He had a tolerable job with a good pension, but in
his mid-forties a pension couldn’t be the main reason for staying on.
So how bold could he be because one thing had been on his
mind for ages and he would love to put it down?
A café.
He did so. And the mere writing acted as a catalyst,
moving him towards thinking about the steps needed to bring success.
Medium/Long term
1. Take a
cookery course
2. Quit my
job and pack in accountancy
3. Open an
arts café
Now that boldness was on the agenda his pulse raced at
the dare of what to write next. The Bridget statement.
He was finding it impossible to stop thinking about her,
lustfully last thing at night and slightly less lustfully during the day. Infatuation
had set in big time, perhaps it was a serious disorder. Was there such a thing
as Manic Obsession? In the past he would be inclined to write something like
‘develop a loving and long-lasting relationship with Bridget.’ But now, light-headed
with bravado, he wrote a rather more direct statement.
‘Have sex with Bridget.’
He smiled at this frivolity. Of course he sought much
more than that, but at least he couldn’t be faulted in terms of being well on
the way to setting a SMART objective. What he had written was Specific,
Measurable, Attainable (hopefully), and Relevant. Only Time was missing so he
randomly picked his birthday, 20
th
February.
4. Have sex
with Bridget by 20
th
February
Now in flat out happy-go-lucky mode he added a number
five for good measure.
5. Have more
sex with Bridget by the end of the first week of March
This sheet of paper must not be discovered by Rachel. He
folded it into a tight rectangle and placed it inside his brown coat pocket. He’d
take it to work and leave it there, locked in his filing cabinet. Or better
still, he’d word process and password protect the document and then shred the
hard copy.
~
Jabulani didn’t need reminding that the promise of being
taken to tea at the Ladurée Café in Harrods was imminent.
David now had a clear picture of Jabulani’s distressing
story. It had emerged bit by bit as their friendship developed. He had lived in
Harare, working at senior level as an accountant in Zimbabwe’s Ministry of
Agriculture and Rural Development. He was a true patriot, proud of his
country’s independence but dismayed as the government’s policies grew more
extreme. The massive economic problems of hyperinflation, unemployment and food
shortages were resulting in intense poverty. Encouraged by his brother, a
doctor, he signed up to a peaceful opposition coalition. Somehow the group
members’ details were being passed on to the government’s security forces
because intimidation began as soon as anyone joined. He lost his job in the
ministry and his wife, Jestina, lost hers as a teacher.
His brother, Farai, was a more active member, much braver
too, because he was out on the streets of the city demonstrating. Three times
over a couple of months he was taken in by the police, questioned and beaten. One
warm summer’s evening Jabulani and his family were invited round to his brother
for a meal. As they turned the corner into his street they stopped the car and
could do nothing but watch as Farai was led out handcuffed by four members of
the Central Intelligence Organisation. Jabulani gazed in helpless silence as
his brother was pushed into a sleek black SUV with tinted windows and driven
off. There was no option but to return home, it would be far too dangerous to
go to the CIO headquarters to enquire why he had been arrested.
Jabulani still had contacts within government departments.
This included a friend who worked at the Ministry of State Security, a
dissident who risked his life passing on information to foreign journalists. He
spent the next day pressing for news from him, finally to be informed that his
brother would not be released. He had been murdered on the night of his
capture. The contact advised Jabulani to flee and provided details of how to go
about it.
Jabulani was devastated but realised for the sake of his
family they had to leave. They gathered what possessions they could carry by
hand, including some gold jewellery he had had the sense to purchase over the
past three years as a hedge against the diving value of the currency. They set
off on an arduous and costly journey to England that took almost three months. They
arrived as asylum seekers and were amongst the few lucky ones to be granted
recognition as refugees. He reckoned his accountancy qualification had helped,
together with his knowledge of and passion for all things British which charmed
the immigration officials. This passion had been somewhat dampened by his
experiences since arrival, with endless forms to fill in and meetings to
attend, plus the formidable struggle to get decent accommodation and a suitable
job.
“I wouldn’t be proud to invite you to my home, my
friend.”
“Where do you live, Jabulani?”
“Queensbury. Do you know it?”
“Vaguely, I’ve driven through once or twice.”
“I think the queen would be embarrassed having her name
associated with it if she knew what it was like there.” Jabulani had a broad
grin as he said this, his smile was striking and infectious and David laughed.
“I’m sure she would. I bet it’s not cheap either.”
“It takes most of my salary to pay the rent. Jestina’s
income has to cover pretty well everything else.”
“She’s a teacher, isn’t she?”
“Yes, but she can’t teach here, her Zimbabwean
qualification doesn’t count and she’d have to retrain. So she works as a
learning mentor for refugees like us.” He paused. “David, I was going to ask
you, though I don’t wish to take a liberty. Would it be possible for my wife to
join us on Saturday?”
“Of course she can, that would be lovely.”
“And do you think my children could come, too?”
“Sure. Bring them as well.”
This reply was greeted with another beaming smile. “David
Willoughby, you’re a very good man, a very good man indeed.”
They made plans to meet outside Harrods at 3.00 pm that
Saturday.
~
It was the last day of October and autumn had set in with
a grey chilling mist hanging over the city. Knightsbridge was bursting with
affluent shoppers carrying designer label bags. The aged and infirm were in
grave danger as the insensitive shoppers pushed past in their race to the next
shop. There was a steady flow of customers in and out of Harrods.
Having agreed to include the children, David had scrapped
the idea of going to the rather sedate Ladurée Café. The plan now was to take
them to what he considered to be a more suitable choice, The Chocolate Bar.
Jabulani appeared at the exit to the underground station,
wife by his side and four young children behind them. The children had on matching
red fleeces with motifs on the right breast. The men shook hands before
Jabulani introduced his family.
“My wife, Jestina.” A handshake.
“My eldest, Chenzira.” A boy, about ten years old,
extended his hand and David shook it.
The process was repeated as Maiba, Rufaro and Sekayi were
introduced – in all, two boys and two girls. Now that he was standing close to them
David could examine the fleeces with their badges edged in blue and gold canons
below bold white lettering.
He must have looked aghast because Jabulani spoke with
concern. “What is it, my friend?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
“But yes, something is bothering you.”
“The fleeces, they’re Arsenal.”
“Yes, our team. The magic ones, they play the most
beautiful football in the world.”
“I support Spurs.”
“Then may the Lord forgive you.”
David looked away from the badges to the faces, first the
youngsters then up towards the adults. All were smiling broadly. “Very funny,”
he retorted. “Well, I hope you lose today!”
He led them into Harrods and towards the Chocolate Bar.
The children devoured chocolate drinks and chocolate
cakes while the adults had coffee and tastes of what the children had chosen. Conversation
was light, centred on the huge differences in lifestyle between London and
Harare. There was much laughter, occasionally broken by sadness as Jabulani and
Jestina recalled what they had left behind in their beloved country. Being in
the company of this optimistic, closely knit family was uplifting. It was only
after they had said their goodbyes that David was overcome by a wave of
despondency with the realisation that his own family had disintegrated.
Chapter 12
Thursday 5 November.
Bridget, Kay and Andy were due to arrive around 5.30 for
the veggie snack, to be followed by the firework display. David had bought the
fireworks the previous weekend and planned to take some of the afternoon off to
pop into Waitrose to get the food. He’d decided it was only fair for all of
them to refrain from meat and had searched on line for hours to find appetising
ready-mades, or at the very least easy to prepare dishes.
To simplify the shopping expedition he’d made a list. French
bread. Couscous. Marinated tofu. Hummus. Various cheeses (make sure
vegetarian). Pitta bread. Olives. Dolmades. Dried apricots. Mixed nuts. Tortilla
crisps. Salsa dip. Fruit. Ice cream. Yoghurt.
A little after 3.00, as he was putting on his coat to
leave the office, Dorothy approached.
“David, a teacher from Sam’s school has telephoned. There’s
been an accident, nothing to get worried about, but Sam is in A&E having his
leg looked at.”
David’s first thought was of the effect this might have
on Bridget’s visit, but concern for Sam wasn’t far behind.
“OK Dorothy. I’d better get going.”
“I hope he’s OK,” she added as he strode out the department’s
entrance. He looked behind to wave an acknowledgement unaware Mary was about to
pass him. She kept her balance as they collided, but the coffee she was
carrying tipped over her tailored brown jacket.
“Look where you’re going for god’s sake.”
“Sorry Mary. At least it’s brown.”
“At least what’s brown?”
“Your jacket, when it’s dry you’ll hardly be able to see a
mark.”
She looked furious.
David continued. “I was joking. I’ll pay for the dry
cleaning of course, it was completely my fault.”
“Yes, it was.”
“I’ve already said it was.” Her look of disdain remained
ferocious, but David was learning how to cope with her tirades and gave her a
defiant look.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “I have some cases I
need to go through with you.”
“Sorry, can’t now Mary. My son’s in A&E.”
David didn’t wait to see or hear a reaction.
He drove to the hospital deep in thought, plotting how
the evening’s rendezvous would be able to go ahead whatever Sam’s condition. When
he arrived at the casualty department, Sam was in the waiting room wearing his
shiny navy blue track suit and one trainer, the other foot bare. A teacher
wearing similar sports gear was by his side. Both were reading tattered Top
Gear magazines.
Sam looked up and smiled as he approached. “Hi, dad.”
The teacher stood. “Hello, Mr Willoughby, thank you for
getting here so quickly. We were playing football and Sam went over heavily
when he was tackled. His leg swelled up quite a bit. We put an ice pack on but
thought it best to have it checked out.”
“Sorry, dad,” Sam added.
“OK Sam, it’s not your fault. Does it hurt a lot?”
“Not really, but my leg’s got bigger.” He pulled up his
trouser leg. “Look.”
“What did the doctor say?”
The teacher took over. “We’ve been here for over an hour.
A nurse had a preliminary look, but we’re still waiting for a doctor. Apparently
there’s been a coach crash and they’re busy dealing with that.”
“Well now I’m here there’s no need for you to stay, Mr…”
“Barnes, Noel Barnes.”
“You might as well head off, Noel. Thanks for bringing
him.”