The Reunion (28 page)

“Shut up. Come on, let’s go.”

They drove to the shopping centre in silence, feeling the
tension. They’d resolved to change jobs and the café was the sole escape route
they had contemplated. “Well, here goes,” David said as they saw the bank ahead
of them.

“We’ll be fine,” Bridget replied without conviction.

‘
Your friendly bank
’ was written on a large banner
covering the full width of the window at the entrance. There were two life-sized
cardboard cut-outs by the door, a young man and woman with perfect white teeth
providing welcoming smiles. A real person who didn’t quite match the
friendliness of the cut-outs approached and informed them that they would have
to wait because they were early. They joined the expressionless customers seated
on the horse-shoe of chairs.

Finally the small business support team member of staff approached.
He led them to one of the open plan areas that had long since replaced proper
rooms where doors could be closed to ensure privacy.

David, a long-standing customer, had expected to see the
manager. Instead they got Peter Ridge, a brash young man who gave the
impression that customers weren’t to be trusted and his job was to get rid of them
as quickly as possible. David provided financial information with all the accuracy
that could be expected from an accountant and watched with frustration as Ridge
paid no more than lip service to what he said. Bridget contributed in an
attempt to generate enthusiasm, but the stony-faced young man gave no sign of
interest and no hint of what he thought about their vision. After thirty-nine
minutes of a meeting scheduled to last for forty, he spent exactly one minute summarising
the bank’s position. It was as they expected – they needed to be aware that any
loan for a business start-up had to be accompanied by at least twenty percent
of the clients’ own money plus collateral of at least fifty per cent.

As they were led out, Bridget asked if he would be recommending
approval of the loan. “I can’t say. You’ll hear from us within a week,” Ridge
said, his back to them as he set off towards the horse-shoe. “Mr and Mrs
Houghton? This way, please.”

Out on the high street they stopped at a café. It was
lunchtime and it was jam packed. Silently, enviously, they observed queues to
select food from the self-service shelves, queues to order coffee, and queues
to pay. Every table was taken and they huddled together sharing a bar stool by
the window.

David spoke. “We knew he’d ask for a contribution and collateral,
we didn’t need Ross to tell us.”

“I hated the guy. I’d rather have hostility than
indifference.”

David agreed. “Par for the course these days I’m afraid.”

“Collateral’s impossible for you what with Jane owning
half your house. But I could do it. I’m the sole owner of mine, the mortgage is
paid and I inherited a fair amount of money when my parents died.”

“I couldn’t let you fund it, it’s too risky.”

“You didn’t think it was risky when you were doing the
sums the other night.”

“I thought it was possible and I still do. You were the
one with the strongest doubt.”

“Well I’ve changed my mind. Or more to the point, what
the fuck! Let’s give it a go. We can’t lose all the money we put in, there’ll
be at least some customers. If the absolute worst comes to the worst we can shut
down and sublet the premises and I’m sure we’d be able to find jobs back in the
worlds of accounting and rip off art.”

“It’s still a heck of a lot of money we could lose. Easily
£100,000, perhaps more.”

“That would be terrible, but I have got that in savings. I
want to do it. Have your meeting with Mary and hand in your notice because
that’s what I’m going to do at the gallery this afternoon. Come on, finish your
£2.20 cappuccino which only costs about 16p to make while I finish my £3.20
avocado, pine nut, pea shoot and hummus sandwich which by your reckoning cost
them £1.60 to buy in.”

David sat in silence.

“No need to ponder, David. I’m serious, I’ve made up my
mind. If you don’t join me, I’ll just have to go it alone.”

David nodded in understanding if not in agreement.
Bridget chatted away at high speed as he walked her to the underground. It was
small talk, she was nervous. They said their goodbyes and he made his way to
the car park.

On the way to work David was hit by a wave of emotion and
shed tears as he reflected on the generosity and optimism displayed by Bridget.
There was no going back now, they were going to do it. He wouldn’t let Bridget
put up the whole sum needed or provide all the collateral. He had savings too,
recently halved and theoretically put aside for Rachel and Sam’s university costs.
Nevertheless he would contribute as near to half as possible and then work his
socks off to make the café a success.

The meeting with Mary was at 3.30 pm. The conversation
wasn’t going to be easy; they were getting on well and he was about to let her
down.

She greeted him with a smile as he sat.

“I know you’ve called this meeting, but there’s something
I’d like to tell you first. You know me – always straight to the point. Well, I
handed in my notice today. I’ve been thinking about what to do for quite a
while. You’ve been a catalyst, what with our initial difficulties and how we
worked through them. I’m going to take some time out, travel a bit, then when I
get back possibly work in the charity sector. I’ve been self-centred, in fact
downright selfish, and now it’s time to put something back. And I mean put
something back. I remember saying that at my interview for here, but that was a
ploy to get the position.”

David took advantage of her reflective pause. “Mary,
there’s something you should know, too.”

“Hang on. One more thing before you say anything. There’s
someone working here who is perfectly suited to my job and deserves it. That’s
you.” Mary waited for David’s response. When it didn’t come she continued. “I’ve
put your name forward and Stuart is supportive, he wants you to apply.”

“Thanks for thinking of me Mary, but I won’t be…”

“There’s no need to answer now. You must be surprised by my
news to say the least.”

“It’s not that, it’s…”

“Go away and reflect, will you. I don’t want another word
until you’ve thought about it carefully.”

“But…”

“Not a word.”

“OK, I’ll pop back soon.”

Back in his office David accepted that he should be
considering the new situation. He began by writing a council versus café list.
He could itemise reasons to stay at his current workplace with ease – a likely
increase in salary, the pension provision, security, enhanced status. The
reasons for setting up a café were shrouded in mist – maybe enjoyable to run
(but a massive time commitment); maybe profitable (but the risk of huge
losses): maybe recognition as a patron of the arts (but the danger of no one
attracted to perform at his café and insufficient customers even if he did
manage to get entertainers in).

He left the list on his desk and walked back to Mary’s
office with a purposeful stride.

“I’m leaving, too,” he announced as he entered.

He told Mary about the café plan and to her credit she was
encouraging. The council would be looking for two new recruits.

Jabulani was standing outside David’s office on his
return. He knew David had decided to inform Mary that afternoon and was eager
to hear how it had gone.

“I’ve done it, Jabulani. And can you keep another
secret?”

“Tastes good too,” Rachel added having taken her first
mouthful.

“Let’s see if it’s as good as the one my tutor made,”
David said as he lifted his fork.

The telephone rang as fork reached mouth.

“Leave it dad, it’ll be a sales call.”

It drove David up the wall. Although he’d enrolled with
the telephone preference service to stop unsolicited sales calls, they kept
coming. Often they began with a statement about how pleasant the weather was
today in London despite incomprehensible accent and not quite proper use of
over-formal grammar suggesting they were calling from a faraway land.

David rested the fork on his plate and stood up. “I’ll
get it, it might be Bridget. She said she’d ring tonight,” He looked at the telephone
display. ‘Private Number’ was shown so it wouldn’t be Bridget as hers was
entered in the memory. But since he was there he felt obliged to answer it.

“Is that Mr Willoughby, Mr David Willoughby?” he was
asked by a man with a strong Indian accent.

“Yes it is, but I’m eating dinner and I’m not interested
in buying anything thank you.”

“This is important,” the man persevered.

Yes I bet, David thought. The need to upgrade your
computer virus protection; to consider a conservatory now summer was
approaching; to hand over bank account details to verify authenticity ahead of
carrying out some scam or other. I’m too polite, David reckoned as the man
rabbited on.

“Look, I’ve already told you I’m not interested.” He
replaced the receiver and sat down.

A minute later the phone rang again.

Rachel stood. “I’ll go and he won’t call back after I’ve
finished with him.” She lifted the receiver. “You are a disgrace, can’t you
take a hint and get lost. Goodbye.”

“Well done for not swearing,” David remarked as Rachel
sat down.

The phone rang again. “I’m not having this,” David
uttered as he stood. He lifted the receiver and put it on speakerphone so that
the children could witness his assertiveness.

“Now listen will you. I insist on knowing who you
represent and what your telephone number is. And then I want to speak to your
supervisor.”

“I am truly sorry to disturb you, Mr Willoughby, but we really
do need your help here.”

“My help? What are you talking about?”

“It’s your mother.”

Mr Gupta, his mother’s neighbour, well actually no longer
his mother’s neighbour, went on to describe the circumstances of her death. Mrs
Willoughby hadn’t put out her dustbins on Tuesday night for early Wednesday
morning collection, a very unusual omission. Then the Wednesday milk was left
ungathered outside her front door and when another pint sat there all day
Thursday he decided to investigate. He was a key holder in case of emergencies
and that is what this turned out to be because he found her dead, stretched out
on the floor of her lounge in nightwear and dressing gown. He’d called the
police and the body had been removed to the mortuary, but now it was time to
hand over to her family. He had tried to contact Charlotte several times, but
it was on answerphone. He’d then rummaged through drawers in search of David’s
number and fortunately had found her address book.

This information was relayed to the whole family via
speakerphone and when David had ended the conversation with an apology for
their initial rudeness, the three of them sat in shocked silence.

There was little time for reflection and no time for
conversation because Charlotte called. She had picked up Mr Gupta’s five
increasingly desperate messages. They arranged to meet at their mother’s house
the following mid-morning.

David, Rachel and Sam sat in the lounge talking about the
last time they had seen her. There was guilt that they hadn’t visited since
Christmas and that on that occasion they had been bored, impatient and
sarcastic when they should have been warm and caring. The children wanted to
help, but it was agreed that they’d go to school the next day rather than join
David in Birmingham. If necessary they could stay over at friends.

When he met Charlotte the following morning there was a
rare show of emotion as he and his sister hugged.

“Mind you, she was a bitch and a half,” Charlotte said in
between tears. “But she was still our mum.”

David nodded. He felt the loss, a disconnect, but not as
much grief as he considered worthy.

They wandered from room to room looking at possessions one
would expect for an old-fashioned woman in her late sixties who had made little
effort to move on since her husband had died. Little had been replaced in the
twenty years since then, only a flat screen television and a digital phone
hinted of a twenty-first century existence. She possessed no computer, no
mobile phone, no DVD or CD player.

“It’s all quite sad,” Charlotte remarked as they entered
her bedroom with its tea stained candlewick bedspread, shag pile carpet and
beige velour curtains, all striking in their ugliness. “There’s nothing I’d
even want as a keepsake.”

“No, probably not,” David agreed. “Her life’s possessions
are going to end up either at the Salvation Army if they’ll accept any of it,
or in plastic bags on a skip.”

They sat in the kitchen drinking lowest grade instant
coffee from cups and saucers used by their mother all those years ago when they
were youngsters. “Do you think our kids will feel the same about us?” Charlotte
wondered.

“Who knows? I hope not though I haven’t got a stack of
ipads, nintendos and Wiis for them to inherit. I suppose it’s just the money we
leave that will count.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Talking of money, this house should
fetch a fair old packet. I’m assuming she’ll have split things fifty-fifty. Mind
you, you always were her favourite so maybe I’ll get nothing except the
bedspread.”

“Well if she’s left that to me I’ll be generous and let
you have it.”

“Very funny. We’ll need to see her solicitor, won’t we? I
know who he is, I’ll give him a call. I vaguely know the local vicar too. I’ll
speak to him about the funeral.”

“Maybe we should see the will first in case she’s given
any funeral instructions, a preference for burial or cremation and things like
that.”