Awarded first prize in Cambridge Writers Short Story Competition 2014.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Oh, hullo. Is that Stew? It\u2019s Rog. Yeah, that\u2019s right, Rog. Rog Molesworth. Bit of a shock, eh? This voice from the spirit world? No, honestly, it\u2019s not a hoax call. Yeah, I know it\u2019s been a long time, mate. Too long. And it\u2019s all my<\/i> fault, sorry. I meant to stay in touch, but well, you know how it is \u2013 you put things off, life takes a funny turn, you hit a bad patch. Oh look, I won\u2019t bore you with the details. Anyway, I tried ringing Chaucer Road recently, but they said you\u2019d moved years ago. Well, what did I expect? Then last week I ran into Chip Hines. He\u2019d just knocked off. He\u2019s working in Smithfield, apparently. Some building site in the area. Anyway, he fishes out his little black book. He says, \u2018Stewart Penrose? That bugger? I saw him in the Greyhound, Walthamstow, just a few weeks ago.\u2019 And he stabs a finger at an entry in the book. \u2018As far as I know,\u2019 he says, \u2018that\u2019s still it.\u2019 So I write the number down on the back of my hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Yeah, I heard<\/i> you got married. Chip told me. Nice girl, he said. Rose or Rosemary or something? Oh, Rosina<\/i>, I\u2019m so sorry. I don\u2019t know why I misheard. I guess I was a bit flustered at the time. It was meeting Chip so unexpectedly and he does tend to speak \u2013 well, you know, in that mangled rush of his. So your wife is … ? Really? From Bologna? How nice. I love Bologna. Well, no, I\u2019ve never been. It\u2019s just that, well, it\u2019s a lovely name and I think I may have seen \u2013 though I\u2019m not quite sure about this \u2013 some photographs or paintings of it or something? At least … Gosh, I\u2019m wittering, aren\u2019t I?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Well, nothing much, mate. I\u2019ve not been too good, to be honest. Thing is, I lost my job at McBride\u2019s shortly after you left. Yeah, that\u2019s right, lost. No, it wasn\u2019t redundancy or anything like that. To be frank, I don\u2019t like talking about it. It was all down to \u2013 well, let\u2019s call it an incident. You remember Gary Buck? Big, fat-nosed Gary Buck? Yeah, of course you do. Well, Gary got it into his head that I was always looking at him. Yeah, can you believe it? I mean, looking<\/i> at him? Since when was it a crime to look at someone? In any case, it wasn\u2019t true. I hardly ever looked at him. I was always trying not<\/i> to look at him. Christ, if you wanted to look at someone, the last person you\u2019d want to look at is Gary Buck. I mean, a sixteen-stone Neanderthal with greasy hair and spots?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Anyway, eventually he went to management and complained about me. Not only was I looking at him, I was also making passes, apparently, by peeking at his schlong in the urinals. Ha, what a joke! The truth is, I never went near the urinals when he was there \u2013 he always stood in the middle and with his bulk it was hard to squeeze in. Anyway, Tony Shaw interviewed me and played it by the book. He said sexual harassment was a difficult thing to establish, but he had to take the complaint seriously and issue a warning. Well, that was fair enough, but it wasn\u2019t the end of the matter, of course. Word went round \u2013 you know what the place is like \u2013 and soon everyone was whispering and sniggering. Then Gary made a second complaint. And when I heard the news I went wild. We were queuing in the canteen at the time and he was just a few yards ahead of me. So I flew at him from behind, gripped him by the neck and punched his head repeatedly, like a maniac.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You\u2019re right, Stew. It\u2019s not like me. Not like me at all. We don\u2019t know ourselves, do we? We\u2019re an enigma mostly \u2013 we just learn a little more when we\u2019re pushed. What\u2019s that? Disaster? You can say that again. It was hell at the time and it\u2019s been hell ever since. They told me not to apply for a reference. I couldn\u2019t find work, didn\u2019t even want<\/i> work. For months I couldn\u2019t even bring myself to look for it. The one relief was that he didn\u2019t press charges, though don\u2019t ask me why, otherwise I\u2019d have a record.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eventually? Oh sure, eventually. Bits and pieces, temping work, you know. But nothing much. And nothing at all at the moment. As I say, I\u2019ve not been too good. I get a bit sunk at times. Well, totally sunk, to be frank. But fortunately I\u2019ve got this very understanding doctor. He knows just what I need. Well, his signature, I guess, for the most part.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No, I left Albert Road years ago. I\u2019ve had umpteen addresses since then. The thing is, I don\u2019t seem to be able to settle. The last place I stayed, the landlord and his wife lived on the premises. They were fine, but their teenage son took a dislike to me. He may have thought I was always looking at him. Perhaps I was. He was certainly easier on the eye than Gary Buck. Anyway, we shared this kitchen and one day at breakfast he said, \u2018I don\u2019t know why I sit here every morning staring at your creepy mug.\u2019 So I said, \u2018That\u2019s funny, I was just having the same thought. And yes, it\u2019s a mystery. But relax, there\u2019s a simple solution \u2013 I\u2019ll eat alone in future.\u2019 I have this knack, Stew, you may recall, of making people turn on me. What is<\/i> this knack? You probably know, but you\u2019ve never dropped a hint, have you? You\u2019ve never let on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That lot? Rarely see them. Bradford\u2019s a long way off, thank God. I sometimes stay with Tom in Glossop, but that\u2019s about the size of it where family\u2019s concerned. Tom\u2019s the best of the bunch, though we\u2019ve nothing in common and his prissy little wife Lynn, with her ruched curtains, her china cabinet and doilies, drives me to nose bleeds. As for their kids, words fail me. They\u2019re monsters, terrorists. They fight on the landing, tumble down the stairs and lie on the hall floor screaming. They slummock through the house looking bored and pinch the back of your neck as they pass. They trail in mud from the garden and never think to clear it up. Lynn runs around after them with a vacuum cleaner and a damp rag.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Remember Brighton? Of course I do. How could I forget? It was a great day, every precious minute of it. The ice cream on the pier, the paddle in the sea, the open-top bus ride. You in your loud shorts, me in my panama. The thronged caf\u00e9s, the kids building castles, the gulls strutting the promenade, the red sundown. And yes, I do<\/i> go back; I go back often. And always alone, of course. I tread the same route, revisit everything. And when the time comes to eat I always go there<\/i>. You know, that<\/i> place. And honestly, it\u2019s a miracle. I mean, how many years since we ate there? And not a thing has changed. Even the waiter who served us \u2013 that little old guy with his hair parted in the middle? \u2013 he\u2019s still there. In fact he knows me well now and always greets me with the warmest smile. He says, \u2018Alone again, sir? Where\u2019s your friend?\u2019 And I say, \u2018Ah, who knows?\u2019 And he says, \u2018Same table, sir?\u2019 and I say, \u2018Yes, please.\u2019 And I order the same meal every time. Oh, sometimes he tries to lead me astray, to tempt me from the one true path. He says, \u2018There\u2019s a very nice special, sir,\u2019 and points to something on the menu. But I always wave the suggestion aside and he nods politely with \u2018Just as you wish, sir\u2019. And when I come to pay I always tip him generously. I\u2019m rather stingy in that department usually, but I make an exception for him<\/i>. He\u2019s essential to the visit, after all. A vital link, an institution. He\u2019s kin. He\u2019s family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The old crowd? Nah, scarcely catch a whiff. Meeting Chip was just a chance thing. I guess after \u2013 well, you know what \u2013 and then losing my job I couldn\u2019t face people and turned in on myself. Oh, sometimes I have a brainstorm and decide to join something. I took up weightlifting at the gym a while back, but almost immediately I sprained my back and was laid up for weeks. So I switched to Spanish at the language school, but eventually came to grief on the present subjunctive. Then I decided that I needed to be more creative and joined a life-drawing class. And all went well until I got rather too chummy with Dale, a member of the class who sometimes posed as a life model. And I\u2019m not sure I know what happened there. I just know that we seemed to get on splendidly at first \u2013 meeting for coffee in town, going for a swim at the pool, taking in a film now and again. Then one day, right out of the blue, he said, \u2018Look, I\u2019d be very glad if you\u2019d stop pestering me.\u2019 Yeah, don\u2019t ask, I haven\u2019t a clue. I\u2019ve reviewed all my actions, ransacked my memory, tried every which way to make out what he meant. Was it a case of looking<\/i> again? Anyway, I went right back into myself, snapped on the telly and sat there in front of it yanking cans from a six-pack. And that\u2019s where I\u2019ve been ever since. That\u2019s where I am now, in fact \u2013 in front of the telly. Oh sure, I know that \u2013<\/i> but then, drugs have their uses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Actually, speaking of the old crowd, I did see Kenny and Ange a while back. Yeah, just walked smack into them in Portobello Road. And what a pair, eh? They never change, do they? They\u2019re still in that top flat in Stepney and still not married. He punched me on the shoulder, she pinched my cheek. \u2018Good to see ya,\u2019 they said. So we reminisced and they asked after you. \u2018How\u2019s Stew?\u2019 they said. \u2018Dunno,\u2019 I said. \u2018I lost touch.\u2019 \u2018What?\u2019 said Kenny, holding up a pair of crossed fingers. \u2018And you were like that<\/i>.\u2019 \u2018Yeah,\u2019 said Ange. \u2018So close, we thought you must have a crush on each other.\u2019 And they laughed; and I<\/i> laughed; and we all three laughed and laughed. And when I got home that day I flung myself on the sofa and buried my head in a cushion and lay there for hours and hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hey, mate, sorry to offload. You don\u2019t want to hear all this, do you? I guess I\u2019m beginning to sound like Dorothy after the tenth shot of gin. No, not Garland \u2013 the other one, Parker … Oh look, never mind … Anyway, Stew, I just want to say one more thing before I go. It\u2019s about that other incident. You know, that<\/i> one. And what I want to say is this. I\u2019m sorry, I\u2019m truly sorry. It was embarrassing, it was maudlin, it was self-indulgent. I get like that, as you know, when I\u2019ve had too many. Which may be what I\u2019ve just had. I mean, I\u2019ve got a little Scotch right here in my hand and it\u2019s not the first. But then I needed a few before I could make this call. Anyway, I repeat, it was<\/i> embarrassing and I shouldn\u2019t have said it. But what I want you to know is this. You\u2019re the only person I\u2019ve ever said that to. I\u2019ve never said that<\/i> to anyone else. Ever. Nor, I think, will I ever say it to anyone again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Stew, are you still there? … Stew? …<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ah well, whatever the case, I guess it\u2019s time for me to go now. So, if you\u2019re still listening, it only remains to say that I hope you and Rosina will be very happy. Very, very happy. Honestly, I mean that \u2013 I mean that from the bottom of my heart. And I won\u2019t call again, I promise. Give my regards to Chip when you see him. He\u2019ll have all the details in his little black book, but please, I beg you not to bother. It\u2019s best if \u2013 Oh Christ, I\u2019m wittering again. Something is starting to interfere with my speech patterns. Look, I\u2019m going to ring off now and then drift into the bedroom and lie down. And after a while I\u2019ll roll into a foetus and keep perfectly still till dawn. Then I\u2019ll get up, move to the window, pull the cord and the blind will fly up … and I\u2019ll feed the cat, make myself breakfast, phone the surgery … and then …<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Stew? … Stew, for the last time, are you still there? …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"