The Reunion (5 page)

“I want to leave,” Sam uttered when there was a pause in
the conversation.

Declining Mrs Grainger’s offer of a cup of tea or coffee
and Mr Grainger’s additional option of something a little stiffer, David and
his son edged out the door with a promise that if help was needed they would
ask.

Back at home, Sunday stretched on endlessly for all three
of them. Rachel listened to music while plodding through French and Science
revision for school tests on Monday. Sam played Wii golf in between racing
through Maths and History homework that he found insultingly easy. David resumed
reading the newspaper without taking anything in. He shuddered at the thought
of Jane and Jim in bed together with reading the last thing on their minds.

Intermittently throughout the day he heard the children’s
phones ringing, Rachel letting her Lady Gaga tune go without answering and Sam
engaging in whispered dialogue after a brief Star Wars burst.

“Was it mum you were speaking to?” David asked Sam as
they were eating the leftover lamb that evening.

“Yes,” Sam admitted.

“Well you’re an idiot then,” Rachel attacked.

Sam didn’t rise to the bait and didn’t indicate what had
been said.

Monday, the first day back at work and at school for the
decimated family, brought new problems. As usual David needed to leave home
ahead of Rachel and Sam, but now there was no Jane to get the children on their
way. She’d always been on hand for last minute panics associated with making
packed lunches, signing school letters, and searching for PE kit. Rachel
assured him that she could take care of things and he was prepared to trust his
daughter, only countered by the packet of Marlboro Lights resting inside her
school bag.

Without enthusiasm David drove into the underground car
park of the concrete 1960s block that accommodated the complex web of local
authority services. He was an accountant in the social welfare department,
responsible for allocating funding to family members who had power of attorney
over older relatives residing in care homes. It didn’t take the words spoken by
Jane for him to acknowledge that he was a boring old fart as a result of doing
this work for far too many years. Over the last three or so he’d applied for
more interesting and higher paid positions. He’d answered internal adverts in
Hospital Capital Projects; Policing in the Community; Roads, Highways and
Transportation; and top of his list, Parks, Open Spaces and Countryside. In
each case he’d been short-listed and interviewed and had then received a near
identical rejection letter. It was frustrating and recently he had considered
giving up on the local authority and trying to move into the private sector. But
the seemingly endless recession made such a step difficult, plus the fact that
the longer he stayed where he was, the less sense it made to leave as his final
salary pension benefit accumulated. He did have a remote dream – to open an
arts café – but the likelihood of that was more improbable than Jane returning.

He was in a rut, tied to the local authority with the
evident futility of trying for internal promotion. By nature he was
conscientious and keen to succeed, but it was becoming impossible to please the
public who blamed him personally for the diminishing government funding
available to support the aged.

David nodded greetings to fellow employees in the lift as
they travelled in silence to the fourth floor. He got out and made his way to
his office. Perhaps his frustration with work had impacted on his relationship
with Jane; maybe it was his fault that she had left him.

He’d hoped for an easy day that first Monday, but he
didn’t get it. One of the junior staff had made promises to support more care
home places than there was funding for. It was David who was left to deal with
irate callers who had been offered assistance during a telephone conversation
only to see it rejected by letter. And it was David who was confronted by the
head of service accusing him of reckless decision making. When he explained
that it wasn’t his mistake, the allegation shifted to poor line management of
his team.

A little over six months ago he’d applied for the post of
head of service and after that debacle he decided he was done with seeking
promotion. He lost out to an external candidate with no experience in this
field. The staff newsletter issued the month after her appointment had profiled
Mary Dyer as the ‘high-flyer’ with a first class honours degree in Accounting
and Finance from the London School of Economics. She had been ‘snapped up’ by
Price Waterhouse Coopers, working first as an auditor and then in the
management consultancy division. Now, tired of the commercial sector, she wanted
‘to give something back to the community’. What the article failed to mention
was that she thought the local authority was rife with inefficiency and full of
lazy staff, and her new mission in life was to shake things up.

“I’m at meetings most of the day, David,” Mary said
during the brief telephone conversation soon after he reached the office. “I
should be back by 4.00. We can sort out your over-generous promises then.”

“I’ve already told you, Mary. They were not my promises.”

“Well in that case we’ll sort out how you can better
control your reckless staff.”

4.00 turned out to be gone 5.00. She came in with a pile
of large folders of case notes and dumped them on his desk, then sat down in
the chair facing him.

Office gossip centred on what Mary wore. She was suspected
of possessing vast wardrobes housing an eclectic collection of clothes. Female
colleagues claimed she never wore the same outfit twice. Some of the men,
though not David amongst them, devised titles and sent out emails to inform
others of their choices. Today she was ‘Eastern European Peasant’ with flowing
skirt and brightly coloured layers of tee-shirt, blouse, cardigan and jacket.

As per usual his attempt to be friendly was instantly
quashed as she attacked him for wasting her valuable time. She then proceeded
to waste
his
time by plodding through each case at pedestrian pace.

“Mrs Thornton next. I can’t find the date when she was moved
out the hospital ward and into the convalescence unit. Do you have that
information?”

“No, it wasn’t my case.”

“And who advised that she should go into residential care
rather than back home?”

“I don’t know. I’ve already told you, it wasn’t my case.”

“Did we get involved in the discussion?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Have we had access to her financial records?”

“I expect so.”

And so it went on until 6.00 when David apologised for
terminating the meeting as he had to pick up Rachel. Mary gave him a look
rather like the one men have been giving working mothers for many years when
they’re faced with the need to juggle work and family. With reluctance she
agreed to delay further castigation until the next morning. She picked up her
pile of folders and left.

A disgruntled David shut down his computer. When he came
out his office Jabulani was waiting for him in the corridor.

“What’s going on? She’s been on the warpath all day.”

“Mary thinks we’re wasting money because we’re supporting
old people on low incomes.”

Jabulani had been working at the local authority for only
a few months, but had already developed a sound grasp of the office politics. “We
know she’s after a departmental deficit of zero and at last she’s found a way
of achieving it. No income and no expenditure.”

David appreciated his sense of humour and would have
moaned about his meeting with Mary if he’d had the time. “More tomorrow,
Jabulani. I’ve got to dash now to collect Rachel.”

He rushed down to the car park then made his way to
Rachel’s school. Turning on the radio, he was confronted by worsening financial
difficulties in the European Union; renewed civil war in an African state;
declining UK league table position for literacy and numeracy; and flood
warnings across West Yorkshire. He switched off.

Rachel had a good voice and loved drama. She’d been
selected to perform in the annual play since her first year at secondary
school. This year’s choice, Fiddler on the Roof, was ideal as it gave her the
opportunity to both sing and act. Rehearsals were on Mondays after school and
as usual on that Monday, David picked her up on the way back from work. Owing
to his meeting and the roads being even more congested than usual, he was late.
By the time he arrived dusk was descending and Rachel was sitting alone on a
low brick wall in front of the school gates. When she saw him approach she
dropped her cigarette, stamped on it and walked towards the car.

David decided not to complain. He hoped smoking might be
no more than an angry reaction to her mother’s decision and would soon cease.

He chose to be light and cheery. “Hello Rachel, sorry I’m
a bit late. Had a good day?”

“No. I’m fed up with the musical.”

“Rehearsals don’t always go well. That’s why you have
them, to iron things out.”

“Yeah, but I’m only in the chorus and I’m better than
some of the so-called stars who are acting like prima donnas.”

“Well maybe…”

“Maybe nothing.”

They sat in silence, progressing slowly through the rush
hour traffic.

Suddenly Rachel broke into song.

“
If I were a fucking bitch,

Yubby dibby dibby dibby dibby dibby dibby dum,

All day long I’d biddy biddy bum,

If I were a fucking bitch.”

“Stop that! Now!” David ordered and Rachel reverted to
humming the Fiddler on the Roof melody until they reached home. On arrival she
got out the car without speaking, opened the front door, walked past Sam and
marched upstairs.

“What’s up with her?” Sam asked.

“Just upset about mum,” David replied. “How was school?”

“Fine. Me and Adrian have made up. Dad, you know that car
I told you about on Saturday, I’d really like it. Have you had time to decide?I promise if I get it I won’t ask for anything else for Christmas.”

“There’s over three months to go before Christmas.”

“I know. What about lending me the money and giving me
money as my Christmas present and I can pay it straight back?”

“Let me think it over, Sam. I’m going to make dinner now.
Have you got homework to do?”

“Yeah, some. What are we eating?”

“Pasta. Is that OK?”

“I suppose so. Your cooking isn’t bad, it’s just that mum’s
is much better.”

“You keep telling me that! I’m doing my best.”

“Sorry.” And with that Sam turned and headed upstairs.

David was left to make a Spaghetti Bolognese with little
chance of it being a popular choice since Rachel wasn’t keen on cooked tomatoes
and Sam had already given his verdict. An hour later as they sat in silence
eating, David wondered how he could cope. There was so much that needed doing –
fitting in shopping for food around work, extending the range of what he could
cook, helping the two of them with homework, being a chauffeur, handling
discipline – generally everything associated with a single parent bringing up
two teenage children.

However, he now had something competing for his
attention. He undressed then lay in bed thinking rather obsessively about the
slow dance with Bridget. Having relieved his erection he planned how to
manipulate a further meeting with her. Infatuation had kicked in big time after
one short meeting. Lust, love, friendship, acquaintance, any of these would do,
but lust was top of his wish list. Lying in bed unable to sleep he wondered whether
he had ever had such an intense feeling for Jane, even during their early years
together. Maybe Jane knew something was missing all along and had found it at
last with Jim.

One thing was clear, he had to see Bridget again. In
devising a strategy to engineer this he mulled over the fact that she had
acquired all sorts of information about him, but he knew very little about her
beyond name. Why had she come to the reunion? She’d mentioned having children,
but how many and how old were they? Since she had children, did that mean she
was married? He’d noted the absence of a wedding ring. Where did she live? And
work? It was highly likely she had a husband she was devoted to, as he was to
her. With five adorable children they lived blissfully in a dreamy thatched
cottage which Bridget took great delight in returning to at the end of the day,
having toiled selflessly in a job she was passionate about. Probably a charity
supporting the nation’s or the world’s most needy.

The thought that he might never see Bridget again filled
him with despair. Angst waned then resurfaced with renewed intensity as he lay
restless in bed. There was no point even trying to sleep. He put on the bedside
light and made himself a cup of tea which he drank with one of the complimentary
custard creams.

For a foolhardy instant he contemplated knocking on
Bridget’s bedroom door there and then. But then what? ‘I’m making tea, care to
join me?’ ‘I was making tea but there aren’t any milk cartons. Do you have one
I could borrow?’ ‘I know we’ve only just met, well as adults, but I’ve fallen
helplessly in love and want to spend the night with you.’

No, not a sensible idea barging in at 2.49 am however
good an excuse he could think up. Instead he’d make sure he was up early the
next morning in case she was one of the first to have breakfast. He’d hover
outside the dining room until she appeared then pretend it was a coincidence
they had arrived together. With the plan established he returned to bed and set
his mobile for a 7.30 am alarm call. Still he couldn’t relax. Besotted with
thoughts of Bridget, he rehearsed the conversation. ‘What a coincidence being
down at the same time for breakfast.’ ‘Shall we sit together?’ ‘If you give me
your phone number I’ll call and we can reminisce about this awful reunion.’ ‘Let’s
not wait another twenty-five years before we meet up again.’ ‘Do you by any
chance live in a thatched cottage?’