The Reunion (9 page)

The traffic was moving again and David edged past a stationary
lorry on the middle lane with its warning lights flashing. While studying Maths
at university there had been a lecture on how traffic congestion occurred even
when there hadn’t been an accident. It was something to do with declining rates
of acceleration, he recalled. Partial differentiation was needed for the
calculation. He cast his mind back to the manic lecturer with wild ginger hair
and thick black plastic spectacle frames. He wrote formulae at great speed on a
blackboard covering the full width of the auditorium. He had a high pitched
squeaky voice that students imitated at the pub. David tried to remember the
maths but it was way beyond him now.

Once past the lorry the congestion ceased and soon he was
turning off the motorway and embarking on the last short stretch of journey. A
flutter of nervousness rose in his stomach as he pulled into the street with
its two lines of solid Edwardian houses. He stepped out of the car and picked
up the bunch of dusty pink roses he’d bought at the garage when filling up.

He rang the bell and heard the shuffling movement towards
the front door before it was opened. “Hello mother, some flowers,” he said with
an encouraging smile as he held them out in front of him.

She frowned as she took hold of them. “Flowers, what am I
going to do with them? You needn’t have bothered.”

Here we go again, David thought. He contemplated
snatching them back but instead maintained his attempt at warmth. “They’re to
cheer you up. Let’s get a vase.”

“No need to cheer me up, I’m not miserable,” she snapped
grumpily. Together they walked into the kitchen and then descended into a time
warp from his school days.

“Tea dear?”

“Yes please, mum.”

“Well you go into the lounge and I’ll bring it in.”

The two armchairs of thirty years ago were gone, replaced
by near clones, high wing-backed sage green dralon monstrosities with little
squares of matching fabric over the backs and arms. He peered round the room.
The sideboard was crammed with pictures of him and Charlotte as children and as
adults with their families. Unframed and leaning against an empty cut glass
vase was a copy of the photo from his summer holiday in Brittany, the one still
pinned to his fridge. Jane, Rachel and Sam with him – all smiles. His mother
entered carrying a tray with matching Royal Albert china teapot, milk jug, two
cups and saucers and a plate of biscuits. She noticed him looking at the
photograph.

“Lovely photo that.”

“Mother, I have to tell you something.”

“If it’s about Jane leaving you David, I already know.”

“How do you know?”

“Jane telephoned to tell me. The poor dear, she’s finding
it all rather difficult to cope with.”

“She’s finding it difficult! What about me? Don’t forget
it was her who…”

“I know what you’re going to say, David, but it takes two
to tango. She’s a lovely girl, I can understand how she feels.”

“You what!”

“No doubt she has her reasons. Let’s face it, you aren’t
the easiest person to live with.”

David was flabbergasted, speechless. He snatched a
digestive biscuit and shovelled half of it in, but his mouth was so dry he was
unable to swallow the fragments.

He stood. “Wug a munnet.”

“What?”

“Wait a minute!” he managed to enunciate, crumbs showering
out in front of him.

In the bathroom he spat out the remains into the sink,
cupped his hand to collect some water, and washed down the residue. With both
hands he gathered more water and threw it against his face. He looked in the
mirror, his face was red, red from choking and red with rage. He took four deep
breaths before returning to the lounge where his mother was calmly pouring tea.
She looked up and smiled.

“Perhaps Jane leaving will give you the opportunity to
make something of your life,” she suggested. “You can start afresh.”

Thoughts about how to respond raced through his mind. ‘Do
you realise that raising the children has been left to me?’ ‘Actually mother, I
do have an action plan – I’m seeing a wonderful woman on Wednesday.’ ‘You’re a
fine one to talk, you’ve had years and years to make a fresh start since the
death of your two-timing husband and you’ve done bugger all.’

He said none of these things and the conversation turned
to small talk about Rachel and Sam; Charlotte and her family; Mr and Mrs
Andrews, her next door neighbours to the left; and Mr and Mrs Gupta, the new
neighbours to her right.

Forty-two minutes on, when there was a lull in the
conversation, he stood and announced his departure.

“That’s a short visit. Still, I expect you’ve got more
important things to do than sit and chat with your old mother.”

He was close to saying ‘yes’ but instead reverted to one
of his old faithful excuses. “I’ve got to get back in time to collect Sam.”

On the slow traffic-congested drive home he tried to
lighten his mood by thinking about the forthcoming date with Bridget. Well
hardly a date. For all he knew she’d be as polite as last time, they’d talk
pleasantly, then that would be it. He remained downhearted despite listening to
Coldplay, Kaiser Chiefs and Decemberists on the long, long journey home.

David arrived early and sat near the entrance inside The
Greyhound at a scuffed table with initials crudely carved into the dark wooden
surface. The pub was a popular after work venue and was filled with young men
talking loudly, laughing and swigging from bottles of lager. Music videos were
blasting out from two giant wall mounted TV screens – conversation would not be
easy.

He struggled to fight off the negativity brought on by another
awful day at work. Mary wasn’t giving him enough time to implement the
expenditure reducing strategies established during their recent meetings. She
continued to blame him for insufficient control of his subordinates despite
having issued a policy directive urging managers to delegate more
responsibility to junior team members. As soon as he’d settled down with a mug
of coffee and a ginger nut biscuit, she had stormed in demanding the matter be
resolved immediately.

“What matter?” he’d asked.

“You don’t even know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“The Head of Finance has published a league table and our
department is bottom in terms of deviance from budget.”

She was free all evening and expected him to be available
to assist her in developing a cost cutting strategy. However long it took. There
was no way he was going to cancel Bridget. On informing Mary he had a family
commitment he couldn’t miss, he was subjected to a tirade of abuse centred on
his inability to set priorities.

While waiting for Bridget, David practiced his greeting smile.
He stopped when he noticed a group at the bar pointing at him and laughing. He
transformed his smile into an expression of deep thought with a frown and a
look up towards the ceiling. He then rested his elbow on the table and placed
his clenched fist on his forehead in a Socratic pose. He let out a long,
audible sigh.

“David, are you all right?”

Bugger, it was Bridget standing by his side staring down
at him with a look of concern.

“Hello, Bridget. I’m fine, just a hard day at work,” he
said as he reversed the facial contortions back towards the awkward welcoming
smile. “What would you like to drink?”

“I’ll have a...”

“No, not here!” he blurted out.

“Oh.”

“It’s too loud. Not that I have a problem with loudness,
but if we want to talk it won’t be any good.”

“OK, somewhere else is fine. Any ideas where?” Bridget
consented.

David reddened with embarrassment. He had planned to mark
the start of their meeting with easy going charm and had failed. “There’s a
Costa next door, unless you’re desperate for alcohol.”

“I’m not desperate, coffee’s fine.”

They swapped venue. David got the drinks, and things
moved ahead nicely when they started talking about the trauma of raising
teenagers. David outlined his concern about how things were changing for his
two now Jane had left and Bridget admitted that having to set off to work
before hers departed for school was something she worried about. She worked in
a gallery selling mid-priced contemporary art. When David questioned her about
what constituted mid-price, her reply of between £20,000 and £50,000 for a
painting made him gasp.

She smiled her beautiful smile. “And all I get is a
measly annual salary not much more than the cheapest painting I sell. Actually
a bonus too, so I shouldn’t grumble.”

She outlined why she’d ended up working at the gallery. After
school she’d gone on to college and obtained a History of Art degree. That’s
where she met her husband Roland, a sculptor who even as a student was
acquiring a considerable reputation. His work was taken on by a dealer in Old
Bond Street who was looking for new talent and by chance also for an additional
member of his sales team. Ahead of developing a long term career plan she
decided to take the job. So her first employment included selling her husband’s
works. A proper career never materialised, although she still had no idea what ‘proper’
constituted. She stayed on, even after Roland died.

“Died! I assumed you’d separated, I am sorry, how awful. How
long ago?” David asked.

“A little over five years.”

“What happened?”

“An accident, but I’d rather not talk about it. Perhaps
another time.”

“Of course, I understand,” David said with a degree of
sincerity, but with some concern that she might still be in a sorrowful state
following the death of her loved one. Maybe in permanent mourning like Queen
Victoria after Prince Albert died. It would have been better for his chances if
they had separated.

He was keen to pursue the questioning, appreciating the
need for great delicacy and sensitivity. “And what’s happened since then?”

“In what way?”

“Have you found a replacement?”

She smiled. “You make it sound like I’m on the lookout
for a new plumber or electrician. But I suppose I know what you’re getting at. Well
I’ve had the odd fling, some of them very odd, but nothing serious.”

“Good.”

“What’s good?”

David shuddered; his complete cock up at the beginning of
the meeting was in danger of being revived. He’d thought ‘good’ in relation to
his chances, but with no intention of stating it. “I mean it’s good of you to
tell me a little bit about yourself because last time we met it was all about
me.”

The conversation improved as they discussed art, music,
films and books. Both were avid cinema goers and they shared many
non-mainstream favourites.

David was thinking about how he could reach the next step,
another meeting, when Bridget glanced at her watch then stood. “I didn’t
realise the time. I’m going to have to leave, I promised the kids I wouldn’t be
late.”

He had to think fast. A film, a concert, a visit to an
art gallery? He was struck by inspiration. “Bridget, Thursday week is Guy
Fawkes Day and we’re going to have a few fireworks at home. Would you and your
children like to join us?”

“We usually go to the big event in the park,” she
replied.

“I’ve been trying to get my lot to do that for years, but
they won’t have it. They insist on a small display at home. We get snacky food
in like sausages. Why not join us for that, too.”

“We’re all vegetarians.”

“Then we’ll eat snacky veggie things, my kids won’t
mind.”

Bridget looked down at him and nodded. “OK, I’d love to. What
time would you like us there?”

David gave details of start time and address then Bridget
departed without the kiss he had hoped for.

The next morning at breakfast he announced the Guy Fawkes
plan to Rachel and Sam.

“But dad, we like the big event in the park,” Sam
complained.

“I know, but this once we’ll do it at home. Bridget’s
children prefer a quieter firework display.”

“How can you have a quiet firework display? What’s the
matter with them?” Rachel mocked.

“Scared of big rockets and all the people,” Sam added.

“No need to be like that. Be friendly, that’s all I ask.”

At the dinner table the jokes continued.

“I’ve got a great idea dad, we can get sparklers for
those kids,” Rachel started.

Sam joined in. “Yeah, but we’ll need to provide extra
thick gloves so they can hold them safely.”

David cleared away the half eaten plates of ravioli. Rachel
had opened up every parcel in search of tomato and Sam had cut the edges off
each envelope in the same way he removed the crusts from slices of bread. Once
he’d done that there wasn’t much left to eat. David was running out of ideas
for meals and decided a cookery course could be the first point if he was ever
going to bother with a medium/long term action plan.

Rachel reappeared and helped him stack the dishwasher. “How
was grandma when you said mum had left us?”

“She already knew, mum had told her.”

“But what did she think?”

“Well, I was disappointed. She implied it had to be as
much my fault as hers.”

“Ridiculous.” Rachel ran hot water over the cloth,
squeezed it, then began to wipe the table. “Are you going to divorce mum?”

“Yes, that’s what she wants and I can’t see the point of
fighting it. She and Jim are going to get married.”

Rachel now had her back to him as she wiped the work
surfaces. “Do you like this Bridget? Are you going out with her?”

“I am fond of her, but we’ve only just met.”

Rachel was on her hands and knees sweeping the floor with
the brush and pan. David had never seen such a display of cleaning from his
daughter. “You’ll let me know if things develop, won’t you? And who is
Jabulani?”