Authors: R J Gould
“Hello Jane. No I haven’t gone mad, but thanks for your
concern.”
“It’s ghastly, you’re ruining our lounge.”
“It’s not ‘ours’. You don’t live here, remember?”
“But I do own part of it. If we need to sell who’s going
to buy a house with an orange lounge?”
“Someone I know would,” David said, the hint not picked
up. “Anyway it’s not orange, it’s burnt umber.”
“Well it looks orange to me.” She watched him spread
colour on the previously Almond White wall. “We need to talk, David.”
“I’m rather busy.”
“It’s important.”
David didn’t want the roller to dry out or the remaining
paint in the tray to harden. But he had yet to escape the habit of doing what
Jane wanted when she wanted. He got off the ladder and wiped his hands across
his jeans, creating two uneven burnt umber stripes.
“Ridiculous,” Jane fumed as she led him into the kitchen
and switched on the cappuccino machine. “Coffee?”
“No thanks, I’ve just had tea.” Once again he resolved to
move things around as he watched her glide from cupboard to cupboard collecting
the necessaries. He would reduce the clinical neatness in the kitchen too.
They sat at the table. Jane took a deep breath then
began. “I’m here to talk about one thing, but before I begin I must comment on
Rachel’s appalling behaviour. She’s still refusing to speak to me. I think
you’re at least in part responsible, David.”
“Me? I don’t quite see how.”
“You could talk to her, she listens to you.”
“Jane, she’s your daughter as well as mine. It’s you
she’s angry with so it’s up to you to sort it out. I’m not getting involved.”
Jane frowned, she wasn’t used to resistance from her soon
to be ex-husband. “Well that isn’t why I’ve come over. Jim and I are planning a
holiday and we’d like to tie going away with getting married. We need to push
ahead sorting out finances and then the divorce.”
“Fine by me. I want to get moving too,” he said, based on
what he’d decided when lying in bed at Bridget’s house. That was over two weeks
ago. They had spoken several times since, but had yet to meet up again.
“Good,” Jane said with a degree of suspicion. “I’ve made
a list of what I think are our assets and my solicitor suggests we have a
fifty-fifty split.”
She handed him word processed sheets and David glanced at
what was written. There were appropriate sub-headings. Some of the items on the
list indicated an input from Jim or her solicitor because Jane had never shown
enough interest in financial matters to identify things like Cash ISAs, fixed
and variable rate savings accounts, government and corporate bonds, shares and
premium bonds. Jane’s contribution clearly kicked in with possessions in the
home. These were catalogued in intricate detail with estimates of values added
in a second column.
At the bottom of the sheet the house was dealt with. ‘T
o
be retained by David until children reach school leaving age and then either
sold and the price less any remaining mortgage split or David hands over a sum
equivalent to 50% of the value of the house as agreed by two independent estate
agents.’
David looked up. Jane spoke before he could comment. “Jim
thinks everything is covered but says you must add anything else we own. It’s
your responsibility to be honest about this.”
“I’m not quite sure what Jim has to do with it.”
“He’s my partner – we share things.”
David paused to contain rising anger and succeeded in
remaining detached. “There are a couple of things that come to mind. Who pays
the mortgage while I’m living here with the children? And do you intend to contribute
towards the children’s upbringing?”
“Not for Rachel the way she’s behaving.”
“Let’s assume that’s a short term issue.”
“I’ll need to speak to my solicitor about it. And Jim,
too.”
“Yes you do that. Actually this list isn’t very far
removed from the one I’ve been putting together with my solicitor. I’m
surprised you haven’t received it yet because I authorised him to send it a few
days ago.”
“You have a solicitor?”
“Yes.”
“I thought we could do this amicably, David.”
“But you have a solicitor so I need one too. It’s only
fair.”The expression on Jane’s face didn’t suggest fairness was high on
her list of considerations. “I’m sure you’ll get the letter soon, I want this
sorted as much as you do. Look, I must get going before the roller dries out. I
hope to get started on the bedroom today, too. Put the mug in the dishwasher on
your way out please.”
“The bedroom? Why, we only did it last year?”
“I think it needs a warmer colour than Apple White. I’ve
chosen Redcurrant Glory.”
“Red!”
“It’s more purple than red.”
With a shake of the head and a sigh Jane left.
David hadn’t decided on the bedroom colour and had no
intention of starting to decorate it that day. It just seemed like good fun to
wind Jane up. However, he painted with less enthusiasm now, the conversation
with Jane had depressed him. Although he’d tackled the financial separation
with gusto, the thought of the next step, divorce, filled him with trepidation.
Having applied the second coat he was left with a room
that was dark and perhaps overwhelming. Why had he done it? To be like Bridget?
To make him more attractive based on wall colour?
His confidence waned. The telephone conversations with
Bridget over the past two weeks had been friendly enough, but she’d declined
his suggestions for meeting, claiming children and work prevented any
socialising.
Later that afternoon, while checking his emails, he
clicked into a lastminute.com message that advertised secret theatre seat deals.
He took the risk and booked two tickets for the following Thursday.
Chicago
came
up. Next he called Bridget and asked if she’d like to come along to the show. She
agreed.
“It’s not high culture,” he apologised.
“I’m OK with low culture,” she replied.
“But what about no culture?”
They made their way towards the exit from the third row
in the stalls, their lastminute.com super seat at the Garrick Theatre.
“I enjoyed it, too. I needed a bit of escapism; it’s
cheered me up no end. Fancy a drink before we head back?”
“Not tonight, I don’t like getting home late when the
kids are alone. I’ve got a busy day at work tomorrow, too. I’m setting up an
exhibition for a new artist at the gallery.”
Bridget had an impressive knowledge of the geography of
Central London. With authoritative strides she led David through tiny lanes and
alleyways as they made their way to the underground. Kitts Yard gave David the
impression that they were in a time warp. It was a long passageway devoid of
cars, each side housing two-storey brick warehouses that had seen better days. Old
fashioned street lights provided a hazy yellowish glow. Remarkable such a place
existed just a stone’s throw away from the affluence and bustle of the West
End.
They walked in silence, comfortable with each other’s
company and content to soak up the atmosphere.
“You two. Stop!” growled a voice. They turned to see a
shape in the shadows, leaning against a dustbin that was overflowing and
surrounded by loose rubbish piled high. His hoodie dispelled the Victorian
ambiance.
Without the need for consultation, Bridget and David took
the sensible decision to continue walking with a quickened step, but the tall,
stocky man stepped out in front of them.
He stood close to David, blocking his path. “You ‘eard
me, I said stop,” he yelled, presenting David with an unpleasant combination of
stale beer and body odour. “I want your stuff.”
David was affronted that their peaceful walk had been
disturbed. Commendably, he had absolutely no fear of danger. “What stuff?” he
jibed.
“What d’you mean ‘what stuff’? All your stuff – yer money,
yer phone, yer cards,” the assailant screamed into David’s face. He turned to
Bridget with a slightly softer tone as if in deference to her femininity. “And
yours.”
“I’ve got a watch, would you like that, too? It’s good
quality. Sekonda,” David teased as he lifted up his wrist to exhibit a silver coloured
timepiece with a black leather strap. He glanced at Bridget who was looking at
him with incredulity.
“Don’t mess with me. Hand yer valuables over. Now!” His
voice had somehow increased in volume from the previous scream.
“There’s no need to shout.” David was enjoying this
fearless flippancy.
“What?” he shrieked as he grabbed David by the lapels.
“I said there’s no need to shout.”
David’s attitude was not welcomed by Bridget. “Let him
have what he wants and let’s go,” she suggested.
“I’m only advising him not to shout, Bridget.” David
turned to face the man, their noses touching. “It’s not good for your health.”
The attacker was somewhat taken aback by his victim’s
concern and their noses disengaged. David continued. “If you act like this
it’ll give you high blood pressure. Do you get heart palpitations?”
“Do I what?”
“Does your heart thump when you’re robbing people? You know
you could have a stroke if you’re not careful. And that’s not to mention the
potential damage to your vocal chords, too...”
The last thing David heard before he hit the floor was
‘don’t you take the piss with me.’ He was vaguely aware of his jacket being
opened and things taken out, then being rolled onto his stomach and his wallet
lifted from the back pocket of his trousers. As he regained a sense of the now,
he saw Bridget surrender her handbag to the man. They both looked down at
David.
“Scumbag,” the man spat, before giving David a light-hearted
farewell kick to the ribs and heading off.
Bridget was left kneeling down by his side. David was all
set to tell her what a cheek it was being called a scumbag by a man who was one
hell of a scumbag himself. He wanted to make light of the whole incident, to
jump up and head off to the underground in the hope the thief hadn’t taken
their tickets. It was a disappointment to discover he was unable to sit, let
alone jump up, and he couldn’t speak.
Two observations flashed through his mind ahead of
passing out.
This was the second time in their relatively short time
together that Bridget had seen him punched and floored.
And this punch was substantially more forceful than the
one Ben Carpenter had dispensed at the reunion.
~
David regained consciousness as the ambulance was pulling
up at the hospital. He was lying on a bed and the left side of his face was
excruciatingly painful, a dull thud running from his temple through his ear and
down to his chin. He lifted his hand to his face and traced a bandage wrapped up
and around his head. It was fastened with a bow. Realisation that he must look
ridiculous brought back the memory of what had happened. He lifted his head to
see if Bridget was still with him.
“Best to keep your head still, sir.” He glanced sideways
to the blur of a powder blue uniform. “We’re all set to get you out.”
“Gigget?” he enquired, now concerned for her well-being.
His flippancy had put her in danger, too.
“Yes, I’m here David. Everything’s OK.”
“Garldy, I gug look rigigulus.”
“No, you look fine.”
David was impressed with Bridget’s language skills. However
he wasn’t sure whether he was glad she was with him or not. It wasn’t going to
do much for his I-am-a-cool-man-who-you-want-to-have-a-relationship-with image.
By now the door was open and he was being stretchered off
the vehicle. He looked up to a modern, attractive high rise with lots of glass
and very little concrete visible.
“Gare ar gee?”
“Pardon sir?” the paramedic asked.
“University College Hospital, David.” Bridget’s
interpretation skills again impressed him, but aware that he sounded absurd, he
decided not to test them further.
The A&E reception was immaculately designed and
maintained. The staff were impeccably dressed, polite and efficient. What a
pity about the patients. Being late evening in Central London, the place was
heaving with patients who were either drunk or drugged or both. Judging by
appearances, they had over done it to the extent of inflicting self-harm or
subjecting others to their uncontrolled aggression. Two policemen were on guard,
twice having to intervene to break up fights in the short period before David
was seen.
A nurse assessed the severity of the damage and
commissioned an X-ray.
“Good news,” she said when she returned a short while later.
She held the X-ray aloft. “The doctor says it’s a dislocation, not a fracture.”
“Guy is gat getter?”
“Exactly,” answered the uncomprehending nurse. “The
doctor will be in to see you soon.”
The next half hour was not pleasant. He was given two
injections to numb the pain and then had to sit up while a doctor juggled with
his face, using his thumbs to push David’s cheeks this way and that. He was
told that this was to get his face back to the right shape. Then on went another
bandage with the bow on top.
At this point Bridget was called in for the discussion
about next steps. A prescription was issued to provide anti-inflammatories and
muscle relaxants. He was then presented with an eating and drinking regime of
liquids and blended soft foods for the next two weeks. Even yawning and
sneezing were covered. The doctor, a stout bearded fellow with a Scottish
accent, simulated a yawn to demonstrate how David would need to support his jaw
with his hands to prevent over stretching. And there was Bridget witnessing all
this demeaning dialogue. Are they going to cover pooing and farting next, David
wondered?
But that was it. The doctor stood. “Well I’m finished. I’d
better tackle some of the lovelies waiting out there.”