Authors: R J Gould
David agreed but insisted that more research and outside
advice would be needed to make any dialogue about costs meaningful. Bridget
relented and suggested a consideration of name. Something that stood out. David
came up with a title straight away and Bridget declared ‘I love it!’
A Street Café Named Desire.
“I’ve got to be honest Bridget, it’s a name I’ve heard
before.”
“How come? Or do you just mean the play?”
“No, more than that. My uncle was thinking of opening an
arts café and he came up with it; well to be exact his business partner did. They
were all set to open near Kew Gardens when his friend announced he was off to
Russia to meet a woman he’d found on the internet. That’s a story in itself. This
guy was a French teacher at my uncle’s school. He’d never been married and
according to my uncle had never even been in a relationship. He was in his late
fifties and there he was deciding to travel across Europe to meet up with a
twenty-something woman. You can bet what she was after. I’ve got no idea what
happened, but I can’t imagine it ending in anything other than disaster. Anyway
the café idea had to be scrapped.”
“But would your uncle mind us pinching the name?”
“No. I’ve asked him, he’s fine with it.”
“Great. OK, back to planning then.”
“There’s a bit more to my uncle’s story. He was desperate
to get out of teaching and decided to have a go at writing a novel. You’d
expect high brow literary fiction from an English teacher at a girls’
independent school, but he wrote an erotic fantasy. ‘And you thought I was a
boring teacher’ it’s called. You might have heard of it, there was quite a bit
of publicity.”
“What’s his name?”
“Henry Derbyshire.”
“That does ring a bell. I think I saw him interviewed on
television.
David dropped two perfectly bronzed slices of toast into
the bread basket and sat down.
Bridget had a pad of paper in front of her, so far with nothing
more than the café name written down.
“What about location?” She wrote ‘location’. David’s
infatuation extended to being in love with her wild, looping writing.
Wherever they located, with the possible exception of the
Outer Hebrides, there would be competition. Our café they decided, (already
they were both using ‘our’), would charge premium prices so needed to be in an
affluent area, preferably where there was interest in the arts. Bridget
reckoned another factor might be to locate where the predominant politics was
left of centre to cater for customers who had a resentment of the café chains.
“That’s Muswell Hill all over,” she suggested. David
wasn’t convinced having witnessed the behaviour of local youths on the Saturday
night he’d stayed at her house. Nevertheless he agreed that Bridget should
investigate vacant premises.
They were chatting about what events the café might offer
when they heard the front door open. Rachel and Sam called out then came into
the kitchen. Bridget pulled down the Simpsons tee-shirt. Rather awkward hellos
were said before Sam explained that the Somerset House ice skating session had
been cancelled because Jim had a headache. A brief chat about the Billy Elliot
performance followed before the children, sensing their father’s embarrassment,
headed off upstairs.
“Bridget,” David asked. “Is it fair to say we’re in a
relationship?”
“That’s a reasonable assumption,” she mocked.
“Then we should let Rachel and Sam know, also your two. It’s
not as if there’s anything to hide.”
“I’m OK with that.”
“I’ll call them down then.” David stood then paused. “Jane
left four months ago, that isn’t much of a gap before starting a new
relationship is it? Do you think they, well particularly Rachel, will resent it?”
“I think they’ll be pleased you’re happy. What was your
relationship like in the months before Jane left?”
“In what way?”
“Were you sleeping with her?”
“No. Not for two or three months, even longer.”
“So that adds up to at least half a year of celibacy, you
poor thing.”
“Yes, but the kids wouldn’t know that would they?”
“They’re probably more astute than you think.”
“Maybe. I’ll get them downstairs.”
Bridget stood. “I’ll get dressed,” she said as she headed
out the door.
David followed her upstairs, providing a pleasant
reminder of the previous night. She went into his bedroom while he approached
Rachel’s room. Was choice of music a reflection of the listener’s state of mind?
He hoped so because the angry blasts of stadium rock that had emanated from her
bedroom since Jane had left had been replaced by the mellow chords of Coldplay.
He knocked and was told to wait. He heard some scurrying around and when the
door was finally opened he was greeted by a blast of cold air. Although the
window was open the smell of cigarette smoke hadn’t disappeared. He asked her
to come to the lounge in five minutes.
When he knocked on Sam’s door he got a similar
instruction to wait. Sam was sitting at the computer examining the pie charts
on screen. A parent’s sixth sense gave David the feeling that the current display
had not been what Sam was looking at ahead of his father’s visit. The request
to come to the lounge was acknowledged with a grunt.
David rushed back down, put the kettle on, opened a
packet of Jaffa Cakes and took out the mugs. By the time he brought the tea
things into the lounge the other three were in there, chatting away
comfortably.
As soon as David sat down Rachel fired a question. “Bridget,
here’s a question for you. What colour are these walls?”
Bridget played along with the pretence of thinking deeply
as she examined them. “I reckon they’re orange,” she finally announced.
“Nope, you’re wrong. Do you want to try again?”
“No, I’m happy for you to give me the correct answer.”
“You tell her, Sam.”
“No, I’m not playing.”
“OK, I’ll do it. The answer is burnt umber.”
“Yes I can see my mistake now. What an idiot for not
spotting it.”
Rachel liked her reply and the conversation drifted into
a description of the colours in Bridget’s house and that led to Bridget talking
about her background in art and the work she did at the gallery. They were
getting on very well while David and Sam sat in silence drinking tea and
munching Jaffa Cakes.
David brought the fringe meeting to an end. “There’s
something I need to tell you both,” he announced, surprised by the tremor in
his voice. “It’s about Bridget and me. We’ve grown very fond of each other and
want to spend lots of time together. So she’ll be staying here and sleeping in
the same bedroom as me. I’m sure you realise what I’m saying in terms of what
this means as adults, which of course is what we are.”
David had been looking down. Now he looked up to see
three smirking faces.
“We’re going out,” Bridget summarised.
“Well that was pretty obvious from this morning,” Rachel
said. “Cool, hopefully it’ll make dad a bit more cheerful.”
They carried on chatting, including brief mention of their
idea to open a café. The atmosphere was relaxed and David suggested going out
for a meal that evening to celebrate, all six of them. Bridget agreed and set
off home to inform Andy and Kay about the new man in her life.
Mornings in bed together were often spent with Bridget
questioning David about his past – his childhood, life with Jane, work and
friendships. She evaded satisfying his curiosity about her until early one
Sunday morning. It was still dark outside. He fired questions at her. What was
life like after Roland died? She’d mentioned failed relationships, but who before
him? How had she coped at school when she was regarded as such an outsider?
What made her come along to the all important reunion?
She was relaxed and for the first time since telling him
about Roland, was willing to chat about her past.
Turning up at the reunion was as unlikely a coincidence
for her as it had been for David. Like him she’d had virtually no contact with
her peers of twenty-five years ago and there were no wonderful reminiscences of
school life to entice her to come along. She’d been marginalised by the girls
and mocked by the boys with the result that by the time she reached young
adulthood, she was spending angst-ridden hours fretting about why this had been
the case.
She’d concluded that being a foreigner with an odd accent
didn’t help matters, even though in her case foreign only meant Scotland. She’d
arrived at secondary school late, at age twelve when her father had got a job
as a forensic scientist in Oxfordshire. She was perceived as an outsider, an
invader, and a threat to the firm friendships already in place. A forceful
culture of uniformity existed at the school, embracing dress sense, pop music
preferences, and indifference at least in public to academic success. Bridget
induced hostility because she was an independent thinker who enjoyed study, coupled
with an accent from a remote part of the isle.
Defiantly she played on the others’ antagonism by exaggerating
her Scottish brogue to the point of caricature. And she refused to be bullied
into concealing her interest in learning and most of all, her passion for art. She
received little protection from teachers who accepted the lethargy of her
fellow pupils as a worthwhile trade off against the threat of poor behaviour.
Bridget described occasions when her teachers had joined
pupils in taunting her for being so enthusiastic.
“Perhaps it’s time to give others the opportunity to
answer,” she recalled one of them suggesting and then being infuriated by Bridget’s
truthful response that no one else was bothered.
There was a notable exception, Miss Harris. Bridget was
fortunate to have the same art teacher for all six years of her time at the
school. Josephine, as she was allowed to call her when she reached the sixth
form, was by far the fondest memory and greatest inspiration during her time at
Henley High.
Josephine Harris had long since retired. Judging by the
Facebook group set up to inform about the reunion, she wouldn’t have been
invited even if still working at the school. Some bright spark had named the
group
Teachers Leave Us Kids Alone.
When new signatories enquired
whether teachers were invited they were informed ‘no way’. Comments indicated
that for some, little growing up had taken place over the past quarter of a
century. Ginny, who Bridget remembered with little affection, wrote ‘
pity no
teachers, would like to take the piss out of poncy Clive Rees like we did way
back then.’
It had been early September when out of the blue Bridget
received an email from Pru White. Friend was too strong a description, but Pru
had been a girl who Bridget did socialise with all those years ago. They shared
a keen interest in art and regularly trekked to galleries on Saturday
afternoons and during school holidays. They’d kept in touch through their art
college years, Bridget in London and Pru in Manchester. Nothing in particular
brought an end to their six monthly or so meetings, nothing more than the
general drift that is life. As the meetings waned letters replaced them with
enclosed photographs of ‘my wedding day’, ‘Andy aged three’, ‘holiday in
Corfu’. Pru’s life became increasingly stable and fulfilling – ‘everyone over
for my birthday’, ‘Sebastian’s christening’, ‘celebrating my promotion’ – while
Bridget’s was becoming ever more uncomfortable.
The invention of email was the excuse to shorten
communication, though even in her brief exchanges Pru was able to fit in ‘fabulous’,
‘enjoyable’ and ‘wonderful’. Bridget’s stock phrases were ‘career continuing to
go nowhere’, ‘still having marriage difficulties’, and ‘children getting more
of a handful’. There was a recurring statement at the end of messages from both
of them – ‘we
really
must meet up soon.’
But they hadn’t met for over fifteen years and
correspondence other than a Christmas card ceased after Bridget had sent a long
email describing, admittedly with the necessary protective omission, what had
happened to Roland. She got a curt reply.
Sorry to hear that, poor you. We
really must meet up soon.
Then the out of the blue message arrived from Pru,
informing her of the reunion. A flurry of communication followed with the plan
that they would both go. At the point of signing up Pru announced she had been
called to a conference in Prague. She couldn’t get out of it so Bridget was
left alone. Her first reaction was to drop the idea of attending even though
she’d already made plans for the children to stay with friends and she could
think of nothing else to occupy her weekend. Visits to Facebook strengthened
her belief that taking part would do no more than revive if not quite a
nightmare, hardly ecstatic bliss. However, at the very least it would be an
opportunity for a rare visit to her old home town. And it would be interesting
to see whether the people she’d once despised had improved.
“So I went along. And a good job too.” She turned and
gave David a platonic kiss on his cheek. “Fancy a coffee? I’ll make them and
bring them up.” She kept some things at his house now, including a shiny black
kimono with little sprigs of pink and yellow blossom. She put this on.
“To be honest,” she said when she got back, “all the boys
at school ignored me except one. His name was David and I was hoping he’d be
there.”
“Really? I didn’t know. I do remember defending you
against my friends who thought you were weird for wearing odd coloured socks
and doing ink drawings on the back of your hand.”