Authors: R J Gould
The Reunion (18 page)
Chapter 22
It was approaching 11.00 pm and the ring took him by
surprise. Rachel had a key and no one else was expected at that hour of the day.
During the short walk from lounge to front door he’d deduced
that it would be Jane and he was plotting how to keep any conversation brief.
But it wasn’t her, it was a policeman and policewoman, the pair who had
interviewed him after his mugging. In between them was Rachel, propped up by
her escorts.
“Good evening, Mr Willoughby. We’ve brought your daughter
home,” the young woman said as she edged into the house, the snow on her jacket
and hat melting and dripping onto the floor as she stepped inside.
“This way,” a shocked David gestured. Sam was out his
room and on the landing peering through the wooden slats of the banister.
They led Rachel into the lounge where she slumped down
onto the couch.
“Did you just push me? Don’t you dare throw me down, I’m
fragile,” Rachel growled.
She noticed David. “Hi there, dad.”
She looked round the room. “Oh good, I’m home. But fuck
these bloody orange walls, they’ll make me be sick again.”
David turned to the two police officers who were standing
there dripping. “What happened?”
“Your daughter was staggering along the High Street with
her friend, barely able to stay standing and with the sort of lewd behaviour
that we don’t tolerate,” the policeman said.
His companion continued. “She was very close to being
arrested bearing in mind how aggressive she was when we started to ask
questions. It’s fortunate for her that her boyfriend was more cooperative. He
told us their names after your daughter had refused to, then he let us know
what the pair of them had had to drink. This young lady…”
Rachel butted in. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong. There’s
no law against drinking.”
“Be quiet Rachel,” David ordered, but curiosity got the
better of him. “Who’s this boyfriend of yours?”
“I’m not a kid, I can have a boyfriend. And if these
stupid idiots had left me alone then...”
“Quiet,” he snapped.
“There’s something I have to ask them. Mr and Mrs Police,
what colour are these walls?”
“Don’t be silly, Rachel.”
“It’s a reasonable question.”
“Rachel!”
The policewoman removed her hat. Her jet black hair was
in a tight bun. She used a handkerchief to wipe water off her brow before
continuing. “That’s good advice, Mr Willoughby, because if she carries on like
this we still have the option of pressing charges.”
Despite her comatose state Rachel sensed the potential
seriousness of the situation and at last fell silent.
The policeman, a middle aged I’ve-seen-it-all-before type
resigned to wasting his time with such incidents, indicated to his colleague
that they should head on. He spoke as they edged towards the door. “It’s a
great pity we’re distracted from more important duties by this sort of
behaviour. As my colleague has indicated, there will be no charges on this
occasion but,” now he looked down at Rachel, “if we catch Rachel in this state
again she’ll be in trouble.”
The policewoman looked across to David. He wondered
whether they had a standard script as she took over. “We have identified that
she’s a minor so you should be aware that the responsibility to look after her rests
with you, Mr Willoughby.”
“I can only offer my apologies. She told me she was
staying with her friend.” He looked down at Rachel who was staring ahead of her
with no sign of remorse. “Clearly that wasn’t the case.”
“Clearly not,” the policewoman responded with an accusing
tone.
As soon as the door closed he returned to Rachel. “What’s
been going on?” he asked.
“Not talking now,” she said as she tried to stand. She
failed first time round and dropped back onto the couch. She was more
successful at the second attempt and was commencing an unbalanced struggle
towards the door where Sam was standing.
“I’ll help her up dad,” he offered.
David watched his two children struggling up the stairs,
wishing Bridget or even Jane was there to support him with advice about how to
deal with this. As he sat there thinking things through, the sound of Rachel
vomiting in the bathroom was audible.
He decided to call Bridget. The phone rang for quite a
while before she answered. “Hello?”
“Hello Bridget, it’s me.”
“Hi, what do you want?” she mumbled.
“Just a chat.”
“A chat? Do you know what time it is?”
He looked at his watch, it was a little after midnight. “I
didn’t realise it was that late. I’ll call back tomorrow.”
“No, it’s OK, I’m awake now. I’m all ears.”
“I’ve been on a cookery course.” He began to describe his
afternoon in meticulous detail.
Bridget interrupted when he’d reached the preparation of
the main course. “For god’s sake David, this is interesting but perhaps you could
tell me the rest when we meet up.”
“Yes, but there’s something else, Bridget.”
“Yes?”
“Rachel got brought home by the police this evening.” He
presented her with the list of things Rachel had done wrong. Lying about who
she was staying with. Not telling him about a boyfriend. Getting blind drunk. Resisting
police questioning. General aggression.
“So what have you done?”
“Nothing yet. She isn’t in a fit state to speak which is for
the best because I need to think through what to say. The problem is, I haven’t
got a clue. Any ideas?”
“I don’t think I have. For a start I don’t know Rachel
well enough to suggest what might work. Be open and tell her that at the very
least you expect honesty. Have you considered asking Jane to help?”
“No, maybe I should.”
“Think about it. I’ll call tomorrow evening to see how
you got on.”
“Oh, one more thing.”
“David it is a bit late, I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”
“I know. We don’t have to now, but I’d like to talk to
you about my café idea.”
“That list of yours keeps cropping up, doesn’t it?”
“You’ve got a good memory.”
“Hard to forget. Yes, I’m happy to talk about it. And I haven’t
forgotten the other things you wrote. To be truthful having you in bed with me
right now is a nice thought.”
“Sequentially it fits in after the café, but I think I could
cope with changing the order!”
“Well, let’s both have sweet dreams about the bed part. Mmmm,
mine is starting now. Night-night, David.”
Chapter 23
David checked on his daughter after he ended the call. She
was sprawled diagonally across the bed, fully dressed and snoring, her head
close to a bucket. A rancid streak of yellow-brown on the carpet around it
indicated that she had partially missed her target. He straightened her so her
head rested on the pillow and then covered her with the quilt like a dad
tucking in a little child. Only this child was now a young adult with actions
and thoughts that she kept to herself. He emptied the bucket down the toilet
and washed it in the sink before replacing it in Rachel’s bedroom just in case.
The next morning he left her to sleep off her hangover
having written a note.
Rachel,
Have to go to work early. I’m very disappointed by
your behaviour and I expect a full and truthful explanation tonight. Text me if
you want picking up after Fiddler. I’m assuming you are going to school at some
stage later.
Dad
He was glad to get out the house. He needed to plan what
to say to his daughter and whether to involve Jane. However busy he was at work
he’d make time to think things through.
As he drove to the local authority offices he was deep in
thought, the lack of concentration culminating in the scraping of his bumper on
a concrete column in the car park. He inspected the damage – now there were
identical striations on each side of his vehicle. In anger he lifted his leg
and gave the front tyre on the passenger side a kick. The resulting bounce back
of his foot was enough to set off the alarm on the neighbouring vehicle which
he recognised as Mary’s BMW. He fled.
There was a post-it from Mary on the corner of his
computer screen.
Please come to my office as soon as you read this
. Things
with Mary had got better following his staff review; the tone of her emails was
not as accusatory as in the past and there was less questioning of his
competence. He had responded by showing a little more enthusiasm to her
suggestions for departmental improvements despite a belief that much of what
she wanted was unworkable.
He entered her office in anticipation of criticism and
was surprised to be greeted by what was remarkably similar to a smile. He
considered the possibility that he was misinterpreting a sneer, scowl or snarl
but she held the facial posture and it continued to resemble a smile. This was
a first in all his contact with Mary and it made her look quite different. Almost
pleasant.
“Are you alright, Mary?” he enquired.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing in particular.” But there was a lot in
particular to note, a wide range of modifications to go with the smile. For a
start, Mary had transformed her hair. The soft curls had gone, replaced by a
severe asymmetrical cut, the hair on the left side brushing her shoulder while
on the right side it barely reached the bottom of an ear adorned by a dangling silver
earring. The previous uninteresting hair colour, a sort of mud brown, had been
enhanced by blond highlights. She would have used make-up in the past, but
nothing as noticeable as today’s deep red lipstick and black eye lashes. She
stood to greet him and David stepped back in amazement. She was wearing the same
maroon and lime green skirt and beige cardigan that Bridget had worn at the
cinema the previous Saturday. Was this a remarkable coincidence or was she
stalking him with a weird follow-up as a punishment for his harsh words at the
staff review?
He abandoned his usual pastime of guessing what name
colleagues had invented to describe her appearance. She looked plain good, very
good. He was so taken aback by her transformation that he had remained rooted on
the spot by the door.
Still smiling, she walked across to a low cupboard. “You don’t
have to wait for my permission to sit down. Would you like a coffee?”
Could it be possible that her voice had changed too? Softer,
slower, seductive. “Yes please,” he squeaked. If she had walked past him
outside of the work environment he would not have recognised her.
He sat and watched in silence as she prepared the drinks
with her back to him. David noted a very attractive shape. He’d never thought
of her in terms of her femininity before, she’d just been his unpleasant boss. Mary
set down two mugs, a milk jug, a cafetiere and a plate of chocolate biscuits on
the desk between them. She poured the coffee.
“Help yourself to biscuits.”
She looked at him solemnly. “I owe you an apology. I’ve
been obsessed with proving something since I started this job. I wanted
everyone to know I was in charge and intended to turn things around. Working
for the council is different to my experience of the private sector, but that
doesn’t make it worse here. My behaviour’s been poor and I’m sorry.”
She picked up a biscuit, broke it in half and took a
bite. David noted the chocolate smear on her upper lip and the lipstick smear
on the uneaten section of the biscuit – this meeting was inducing sexual thoughts
mixed with a sense of disloyalty to Bridget. Surely Mary couldn’t be aware of
his state of mind, but she had noticed something in his demeanour and was
smiling with intent.
“Good biscuits aren’t they,” she teased. “But back to
work as I know you’ve got loads to do. I hope you’re prepared to forget what’s happened
in the past and we can move on as a unified team.”
“Yes, I am,” David uttered as he struggled to eliminate
confused thoughts of both Mary and Bridget.
Back in his office he struggled to focus on work. Finally
accountancy replaced fantasy as he addressed the challenge of establishing
procedures to prevent future budget difficulties. Accountant’s habits die hard
and before long he was engrossed as he waded through spreadsheets. This focus came
to a sudden halt when he remembered that an altercation with Rachel loomed. He
had to plan how to deal with it. He must have been frowning when Jabulani
appeared and placed a small flyer on his desk.
“Oh dear, not a happy face. Another bad meeting I assume.”
“What?”
“With Mary.”
“No, she was fine. I don’t know what’s got into her,” (or
who, he contemplated), “but she’s completely different.”
“Long may it last. Then why such a gloomy face?”
“Oh, something to do with my daughter. She was brought
home drunk by the police last night.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m sure I’ll be able to sort it,” David replied, more
in hope than expectation.
“She’s sixteen, isn’t she?”
David nodded.
“Well at least I’ve got a few more years before I have
those sorts of worries with my children.”
David had lifted up the flyer. As he read the sheet
Jabulani announced: “You are to be an honoured guest at our first gig in
England.” He and his brother, both their wives, and three other Zimbabweans had
formed a band. They were called
Kanjani
and were performing at The
Duchess of Devonshire the night before New Year’s Eve.
“I’d love to come.”
“And will you be bringing your new woman?”
“She still isn’t quite my new woman, but we are getting
on well.”
“You must bring her, then she’ll be an even closer
friend.”
David smiled. “I certainly will.”
“Excellent. And how are you progressing with onion
layers? Have you stripped them all off yet?” Jabulani joked.
“Actually I think some layers are back on, I’m much
happier now. Tell me, what gave you the idea of using onions to explain
personality? It’s neat.”