THE COW

THE COW

You want to know what happened? I’ll tell you what happened. Bloody stupid police, that’s what happened. Tosspots. That do you?

Course not. All right, sorry. Holding my hands up. Okay? It’s just, even after all this time… Okay, where do you want me to start? Yeah, you’re right, the beginning’s often a good place. The full version, not the highlights. Some folk say I am cynical, some say I’m a sarcastic sod and if I come over like that, well, you’ll have to understand sometimes, cynicism and sarcasm are just

other ways of looking at the truth. Ready?

First off, we live in an ordinary semi-detached, the sort everyone still describes as new, even though it is well over twenty-years-old. An estate that was once spot-on is now a little rough round the edges, not every neighbour exactly house proud. You know the sort of place. Nice though, still nice and we keep ours lovely. Small gardens front and back, just the right size at my age and I keep them neat, not a daisy or dandelion to be seen.

Em – Emily, that’s the wife – she was in the kitchen getting breakfast, it was first thing in the morning you see, and I was in the dining room, back room, call it what you will. We were up early, going out for the day, that was the plan, day at the seaside. I pulled open the curtains and there it was on the lawn: a bloody great cow. God it was big, I never realised. You see them in fields when you’re driving down the motorway or wherever, but they’re just scenery, you don’t really take any notice and you only appreciate the size of when one is right in front you. I mean, it was outside the bloody window, a few feet away. I was gobsmacked. This was Runcorn and cows don’t belong, let alone on your back lawn, but there it was. Big black and white bugger, udders on it like a Spacehopper, standing on the lawn like it had every right, eating my grass. Carried on chewing when it lifted its head and saw me. Had a way of looking  as if it was expecting to see me. Not bothered by me. It was July, the sun was out and it was going to be a scorcher, you could tell that right off. We thought we’d nip to Llandudno: M56, A55, there in an hour. Then there’s this cow.

I shouted Em and she said what? and I said there’s a ruddy cow on the back lawn and she said, well whose is it? How the bloody hell am I supposed to know, I shouts back. I mean, a cow on the lawn and she doesn’t come running to look, she wants to know who owned it. I said come and see: it’s a cow.

“Are you sure?” she asked. I said, of course I’m bloody sure, it’s three feet away from  me, come and see. It’s a cow. And I could hear her rattling of cups and what have you. She wasn’t going to be put off what she was doing.

“How big is it?” she shouts. For crying out loud, I haven’t got my tape measure handy, I said. It’s big. Big. Just come and see and she come in then saying, now then what are you on about? I waved my hand like I was introducing the next act, sarcastic like I suppose. It proper shook her when she looked. She put the tea and toast down, to steady herself and she said: “It’s a cow.”

I said: “Getaway.“

And then she said: “Go and lock the back door.”

What? I said. Doors don’t mean anything to cows, they can’t open them. Not like it’s a bear, though to be honest I’ve no idea whether bears are any better equipped to deal with doors, but you see them in houses don’t you, on Youtube and You’ve Been Framed.

Well, how’d it get in the garden then? she said looking at the gate meaningfully, like it had clicked open the latch.  I suppose I hadn’t shut it properly the night  before and I could see the look on her face  so I went and locked the back door. We’d better ring the police, I said, and picked up the phone. I hesitated. Was it an emergency? I’d no idea, but we could hardly go for a run out and with a cow in the garden. So I dialled 999. I looked at Em and could see it has shaken her, shewas trembling. But I’d got over the shock of it and was at the stage where it just seemed crazy, proper daft, and when this woman’s voice asked me which emergency service I required I nearly said milkman. But I didn’t, I asked for the police and Em put on her special shouting-whisper voice: “And the fire brigade.” What do we want them for, I said, the bloody thing’s not on fire. They get cats from trees, she pointed out, like that qualified them for handling cows.

“Sergeant Dooley, Warrington Police,” said a voice.

Warrington? I thought. That’s miles away, I want a Runcorn policeman.

“Sergeant, my name is Tom Massey, I live at 34 Sycamore Drive, Runcorn and there’s a cow on my back lawn.”

“Postcode?”

What?

“Satnav, sir. So we can find you.”

I thought, a policeman from Runcorn would have bloody known how to find us without  a postcode. But I just said: “WA4 7QT.”

“Now then, do you mean a real cow, sir?”

“Yes, of course, I’m hardly likely to call you if someone had left a cuddly toy in the garden.”

“You’d be surprised, sir. We get all sorts. Now, whose cow is it?”

Not another one, I thought.

“I’m sorry I really have no idea. It’s just there. It hasn’t got a label round its neck like Paddington Bear.”

Had it? I looked again. No it hadn’t.

The sergeant was not convinced. You could tell in his experience, cows were never just there.

“So you don’t know who the cow belongs to?

“No.”

I could hear him sigh.

“Well, how big is it, sir?”

Ye Gods!

“I dunno, eight foot, nine, seven. Standard cow size, I suppose. I’m not Buffalo Bill. It’s a fully grown female cow.”

“All cows are female sir,” said the sergeant. “What is it doing?”
Doing? I thought. Doing?

“It’s yodelling, of course! What do you think it’s doing? It’s just standing there like cows do, chewing my grass.”

“Where precisely?”

Precisely?

“Between my chrysants and the roses,” I said.

“No, front or back?” asked the sergeant, sighing. I tell you, this fella spoke in sighs, like I was thick or something. “I need to ascertain if there’s any immediate danger to the public.”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s at the back,” I said.

“Do you know how it got there?’

“Nope. I drew back the curtains five minutes ago and it was just there.”

“And it’s not doing anything?”

“No, it’s enjoying the sunshine. No, hang on, it’s getting a deck chair out of the shed.”

“This isn’t a hoax is it?” asked the Sergeant, suspicious.

“No, it’s not a hoax. I’m fifty-five. Look I’m sorry if I’m sarky, but I am a bit old for practical jokes and you don’t seem to grasp the situation. There’s a fully grown cow here,” I said, getting all insistent. “Moo,” I added, though I can’t say as I know why.

“And you’ve no idea how it happens to be there, sir?” he said.

Coppers! Once they’ve got something in their head… Let go of it man, I thought. But it wasn’t what I said. I calmed down a bit and just said it  must have wandered in somehow.

“Right, sir,” he said with another sigh and I think he’d just run  out of questions. I mean, he must have taken some calls in  his time, but a renegade cow in Runcorn? It was like the front page of the Sunday Sport that time, when they reckon they’d found a double-decker bus at the North Pole. I bet he looked forward to telling his missus.

Then came the excuses. “Firstly, we are a bit shorthanded at the moment, but I shall alert the armed response team…”

I tell you, I was alarmed straight off. “You’re going to shoot it?”

“Not unless we have to, sir. But believe or not cows are the eighth most dangerous animal in the world, in terms of killing people. You’re more likely to be killed by a cow than a shark,” he added.

Well, I couldn’t argue with that, could I? We might not many cows in Runcorn, but we get even fewer bloody sharks.

A joke about  Knowsley Safari Park jumped into my head.  The one where a lion had escaped from Knowsley and was roaming around the council estate…  and the kids ate it. Well, a cow might not last long round here either.

Dooley said he’d do some checking around, see who’d lost a cow. “Someone must have and you sit tight. If the cow does anything you get straight back on to us,” he said.

“Does anything? Like what?”

“You know, anything untoward,” he said.

“Untoward? It’s a bleedin’ cow.”

I got another Dooley sigh, but I’d set my heart on Llandudno and I could tell the day had just been taken from me and he was getting to me an’ all.

“You’re not sending anyone?” I asked.

“There’s no-one I can send, not straightaway. Stay inside – and lock the door.”

Em was tugging at my arm all this time. “Fire brigade,” she whispered urgently.

“Sergeant!” I caught him just as he was putting the phone down.

“Yes, Mr Massey.”

“Do you think you had better call the fire brigade?”

I could tell this hadn’t occurred to him and he needed a minute to think. “I expect so. The lads wouldn’t want to miss out on this one.”

And that was where I made my mistake. Not the fire brigade – they were useful as it happened – I meant ringing the bloody police.

They’re not sending anyone, I told the wife. Not yet. Officers with rifles sometime. Oh, we don’t want them to kill it, she said getting concerned and I said, don’t worry, they’re checking whose it is, valuable things cows. Someone’ll miss it. Half a chance, people round will have it on the barbecue by teatime. Aye, she said, you’re right there.

Funny. We were due a day out and that was buggered and there was a cow ruining my garden, but what was really getting under my skin was speaking to a copper in Warrington. Why couldn’t I speak to someone in  Runcorn? Why’s everyone somewhere else nowadays?

We stared at the cow for a bit and it stared back at us, chewing grass and all nonchalant. Where we live is probably the same as a lot of places, back gardens all backing on to each other and surrounded by the houses. Our estate is next to another estate and there’s one the other way, all similar. There’s a huge chemical works up the road. There’s not much countryside round here and the nearest the kids ever get to a cow is when they go to McDonald’s.  Curtains were swishing and windows and back doors were being opened as everyone caught on to the cow; it wass like an alien from outer space had landed in their midst. There’s a bloody great cow in the Masseys’ garden, come and look!

There was a knock at the front door and Em scuttled along the hall and let in a community bobby, a plastic copper, young and fresh faced, wearing a hi-viz vest over his tunic, presumably in case anyone had trouble seeing him on a sunny July morning. He was Tim Shaw, he said, and he’d got a report of a cow, and he curled up the last word like a pig’s tail the way some people do at the end of a sentence, like he didn’t quite believe he was using the word. He probably thought it might be a wind-up  and didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

Clearly introductions were called for: CSO Shaw, cow; cow CSO Shaw, I said. “Tom!” said Em in that thin lipped away women have of bringing you to order.

“It’s big,” said Tim impressed. “Whose is it?”

We admitted we hadn’t got a clue and he said: “Are your doors locked?”

I realised then Sergeant Dooley hadn’t completely ruled me out being a nutter and had sent a CPSO along to check.

“Yes, but it has a key,” I said.

“Still best,” he said and I don’t know if he got the joke or not.

The phone rang. It was Marjorie next door to tell us there was a cow on our lawn.

“Tell her to check her doors are locked,” said Tim.

“It’s dead exciting,” said Marjorie and just then the cow twitched and straightened its tail, so that it rose like a car park barrier, though obviously not straight up and, I kid you not, the conversation stopped as we all watched great splodges of shit drop from tis arse and flies instantly turned up from nowhere.  You could see ‘em riding the updraft of methane and then landing on it like jump jets on an aircraft carrier.

Just then there was a dull rumble at the front of the house – it was a fire engine pulling up  and there were shouts and doors slamming and a knock at the front and Em came back with a trail of firemen, eight of them, all big boots and helmets, behind her. Helmets, I ask you. Sunny day in July and they’ve come to shift a cow and they needed helmets.

“They’ve come to have a look,” said Em.

Have a look? Not come to take it away then, I thought.  My heart sank.

I think she regretted mentioning the fire brigade now. They seemed to be on an outing. No doubt passing cars would be slowing down and drivers looking for signs of smoke.

The Chief Fire Officer, bloke called Smedley, introduced himself. “Whose cow is it?” he asked.

“We don’t know,” said CSO Shaw, and I thought, ay up, he wants to take over. It’s his bloody cow now.

“It’s a big bugger,” observed one of the firemen.

“Right, Danny,” said Smedley, all brisk and efficient, wanting to get the job done. “Risk assessment.”

The man – Danny – took out a notepad and pen.

It’s a cow and I reckoned you could be pretty certain of the risks, which were pretty much non-existent unless it forced its way into the house and rampaged around the kitchen looking for our supplies of clover. Or it could continue doing was it was doing now which was  eating the ruddy marigolds. The fireman began to write.

“Anyone want tea?” said Em pleasantly, like she was glad of the company. “I’m just putting the kettle on,” she trilled. I thought, she’s beginning to enjoy herself.

“Wow,” said a young fireman, staring wide-eyed through the window at the cow. “I never realised they were so, so…” He struggled for the right word. I knew the feeling.

“Big,” I suggested.

“So full,” he said. “Do they smell?”

Oh, for heaven’s sake, I thought. But you can’t describe smells, just like you can’t describe taste and to be honest I didn’t know as I’d ever smelled a cow, never having been on a farm, but I wasn’t going to let some whippersnapper know that.

“It’s a farm animal,” I said and left hime to make his own mind up.

Em ferried in tea and toast and the firemen took off their helmets. Laid them right across our table, they did. Proper teak; only just bought it;  it was still shiny. They passed around cups of steaming tea. Fireman Danny had stopped writing; I  took a peek.

Small garden, BIG COW! he’d written, which was a fair assessment. Taxpayers would approve. I could see other neighbours in surrounding houses at their bedroom windows, pointing and laughing.

“They can pick up scents from five miles away and can hear low and high frequency sounds beyond human capability,” said one of the firemen. Smedley explained the bloke knew things about animals.

The telephone rang.

“Sergeant Dooley here Mr Massey. Have all the marksmen arrived yet?”

All the marksmen? I asked.

“They’ll come to you first, then they’ll deploy to surrounding houses,” he said.

Deploy, for God’s sake.

“How many? It’s only one cow. Unarmed. It’s not a bloody terrorist.”

“They come by mini-bus, so between six and ten.”

I began to feel sorry for the cow.

“What about a farmer with a dog or a piece of rope?”

“We’re having trouble locating him,” said Sergeant Dooley.

“What about someone with a tranquilliser gun?”

“We’re having trouble locating him, too. The Safari Park has put a call out.”

“Haven’t your men got anything to knock it out?” I said.

“Can’t use truncheons on a cow,” said Dooley, with humour in his voice.

It must be against the rules.

“Don’t worry, sir, I’m sure they’ll leave it, er,  very tranquil, if need be.”

If ever there were words to make your heart sink Sergeant Dooley was picking them like bloody big luscious strawberries.

“Well, it’s still pretty tranquil, Sergeant,” I protested. “It’s eaten my marigolds, but that’s the extent of enemy action.”

Police, councils, anyone with a bit of authority, they’ll make mountains out of molehills, Here was a molehill being made into bloody Everest.

There was another knock on the front door. Firm, it was, not hammering, but with some authority. Funny how the police can do that and Em was already on her way – God she was loving it – until she returned with three policemen each of ’em carrying a semi-automatic rifle. She disappeared into the kitchen. She doesn’t like guns.

The coppers looked just like these SWAT teams you see on the telly. They were steel-helmeted and wore all manner of protective clothing, bullet-proof most likely. Two – get this – wore ski masks. Ski-soddin’-masks! – like the IRA. Well, it was best the cow didn’t recognise them, there might be reprisals. And they’re big fellas you know. Even if they’re not that tall they are bulky with all the paraphernalia they’ve got attached to them. Made me realise it was getting ludicrous, getting out of hand – and it was getting crowded in our dining room. Everybody started shuffling round to make room, like a train at rush hour. And I’m not kidding about the vests. Tossers.

The situation was so daft I almost laughed. But it makes you nervous, having them there, all gunned-up and super-serious in your house

“I’ve come for a reccy, if I may sir,” said the boss and I think he was probably an Inspector.  I also reckon he was the biggest tosser of the lot. Inspector Tosser. Reccy indeed. The cow, bang outside the window and he wanted a reccy. Turned out he wanted to weigh up the area, the gardens, the houses for safe firing lines. He didn’t pay much attention to the cow. Must have seen them before.

“You’re not really going to just shoot it, are you?” I asked.

“Only if we have to, sir,” he replied and he had that manner about him, you know, that he was willing to do what a man has to do.

He turned to his men. “Right, you two, next door each side and spread the others out at these other houses,” and was pointed this way and that like Lee Marvin in the Dirty Dozen.

He turned to me and said: “You’re dead lucky. Big drug raid cancelled. The mark wasn’t in. So you’ve got the whole squad,” he explained.

Yeah, I was really lucky. I’d got police marksmen, the fire brigade and a plastic copper to protect me from a cow that was eating flowers and didn’t seem to care what was going on around it. However the poor thing had got into our garden she was surrounded and trapped.

“If it tries to make a break for it will be like the last bit in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” said one of the firemen with a grin.

It made me wince. “It’s a cow, not a wild animal,” I protested, loud enough for the Inspector to hear me, but no one paid much attention.

Outside the cow inched forward to be able to reach my asters.

“Quick, to your posts,” shouted the Inspector and a marksman who must have strayed into our hall dashed up our stairs without asking and there was a clatter as he knocked a picture off the wall. I wanted to go and see what damage he’d done, but I didn’t because that would have meant giving up my spec right in front of the window. Sod that, it was my house.

“I haven’t had the chance to tidy the back bedroom,” said Em, who had burrowed her way through the throng to get by my side.

I knew the marksman now in the back bedroom would be taking aim taking aim and I could see other helmet and rifles appear in bedroom windows in the adjoining houses. The cow just carried on chewing and it looked around but they don’t show any emotion do they, animals? Least of all cows. You can’t tell what’s in their heads.  There couldn’t have sensed any danger because she began to piss on my geraniums. It was like turning a tap full on,  a proper waterfall that lifted a geranium out of the ground.

“Wonder how much beef there is on that?” said one of the firemen behind me.

His mate, the one that knew things about animals, said: “They’re inquisitive and will investigate anything. They like solving problems. They’ve even been known to jump if they solve a problem. Celebrating sort of, like a cheer. Pleased with themselves.”

Well this one certainly had a problem to solve, I thought, being surrounded by eight or nine armed coppers all alerted to possible action by it having a pee and Em said, the cow had reminded her, she needed to go to the toilet.

I could see the helicopter approaching before I heard it.  A black dot in the sky getting bigger. You’ve got to be joking I thought and then I could hear the thrum of its engines and I just knew it was coming to our house.

“You’ve got to be fucking joking,” I said out loud.

“Tom!” said Em, because I don’t normally swear in the house.

“Well,” I said.

It got bigger and nearer making its dugga-dugga-dugga noise until it slowed down to  hover above our garden, curiously losing a lot of the din it had been making and we all stared up in the way you do at helicopters.  The police and their toys, eh. What were they planning to do, airlift it back to the herd? All eyes went back to the cow, which hadn’t been spooked by all the clamour and wasn’t bothered at all. All the neighbours were out now, even those who couldn’t see the cow  because of fences and whatnot were staring the helicopter and wondering what was going on and the kids were getting excited

“They could come in low, but wouldn’t want to frighten the cow,” said the CPSO. “It costs over a thousand pounds just to get that up in the air. It’ll have come from Chester,” he added.

A grand to look at a cow. And they they’re strapped for cash, budget cutbacks and all that. Bollocks.

Like I say, it didn’t bother the cow, it  just looked up as if it were trying to remember something, they have that sort of look about them. But then it went back to eating my grass, which was short enough as it was, I’d cut it only a few days ago. The helicopter dropped  vertically a few feet but in a sort of gentle easy way to get a better view. Pilot showing off.

“They’ll be filming. It’ll be on YouTube by dinnertime,” said the Fire Officer Smedley, nodding towards the helicopter.

The Inspector’s radio crackled. It was one of his men. “This is Oscar Romeo Six.”

“Come in Oscar Romeo Six,” said the Inspector.

“We have locked the back gate. Repeat we have locked the back gate,” said Oscar Romeo Six.

“Very good,” said the Inspector. He turned to  me: “You  didn’t shut your back gate last night, sir,” as if it amounted to an open invitation to farmyard animals everywhere.

Jesus, I thought, and they let these buggers have guns.

Yet still I found myself saying I was careless and I was sorry.

“Charlie One,” the Inspector spoke into the radio on his lapel. “You can get the traffic moving again.”

“You stopped the traffic?” I said and, yes, I was incredulous.

“Public safety, sir. If the cow had darted out of your open gate and into the road it might have caused an accident.”

Tosser, I thought. Not the cow.

“Now we have it trapped,” said the Inspector and he sounded victorious, narrowing his eyes like Clint Eastwood.

“It’s a Holstein Friesian,” said the fireman who knew about these things.

Em started to find a way through all the bodies to pick up cups and saucers. We never use saucers normally, unless there’s company.

“The most common cow in the world and the biggest milk producer. But they can be dangerous. On average they kill one person a year in the UK.”

He made it sound like a commitment.

“See,” said the Inspector.

I watched the CSO edge nearer the Inspector.  “How many rounds a minute do they fire?” he asked, looking at the gun.

But the Inspector wasn’t listening. You could see he was constantly assessing and reassessing the situation,  processing tiny pieces of data. What a tit.

The fireman making his risk assessment had written: “Armed police present. Cow to be killed by pigs?” He was smirking, quite pleased with himself and had followed the thought with a row of question marks.

There was no way out of my twenty foot by twelve foot garden for the cow. Although it had  started pulling chunks of privet from the hedge – no doubt all in the sights of half-a-dozen guns or more, it was unlikely to make a hole big enough for a quick escape. It would have to come out with its hands up soon or risk being gunned down. But then I realised, you know, just then, I didn’t want the cow shot. I mean definitely Everybody – everything – was getting under my skin. The situation was absurd. The garden’s only tiny but our dining room’s about half the size and there was about fifteen of us in there. I didn’t want to see her shot, not there, not anywhere and not because of the mess it’d make either.

The cow mooed then. Well, more of a bellow, starting deep and rising impressively  to a crescendo. It was very loud and I’ve got double glazing. It sounded desperate to me. Kids giggled and nudged each other.

Then the telephone rang.

“It’s got a name,” shouted Sergeant Dooley down the line.

“Pardon?” I shouted.

“It is called Ermintrude, you know, like on the Magic Roundabout,” said  Dooley.

“Oh good,” I said, “we’ll be able to reason it with it now. It might leave my roses alone.”

“There’s no need to be like that, sir,” Sgt Dooley chided me like a schoolteacher. “I know the situation must be tense, but we are doing our best. Point is I’ve found out who it belongs and he says someone stole it last night – it still happens out in the country apparently,” he said, saying it so he left the sentence open as if the countryside was another world entirely, and in a way, I suppose it is.

“They probably had second thoughts and dumped it, let it loose. You can’t drive round with a cow in the back of your van without it being noticed. It probably wandered off and ended up at your place, sir. The farmer will be there in an hour or two.”

“An hour or two! Where’s he coming from?

“Just outside Shrewsbury, sir.”

“Shrewsbury!” I repeated, “Bloody hell.”

“Precisely, sir,” said Sgt Dooley, as if he had located Satan himself.

“Shrewsbury?” questioned Em. “So it’s not even a Cheshire cow?”

Em had missed the expert fireman’s discourse on Fresians and he was now chatting to a mate. They agreed there was a far greater chance of being killed by the police than attacked by the cow and they should stay where they were. The molehill was mountainous and it getting out of hand, if you see what I mean. It was a cow – a cow! – though the closest personal experience I’d had of cattle was watching the one on Babe that kept  saying, “The way things are, are the way things are”.

I don’t think my cow, I mean the one on the lawn, would have subscribed to that philosophy, not right then, because she lifted her head and mooed, louder and real desperate-like.

The doorbell rang. Em gave me a look that said it was my turn but I was staying put. She bustled off and came back with a reporter who’d had a tip off, he said and a BBC North West cameraman, who had pulled up on the front at the same time, followed them in carrying his camera on his shoulder.

Some children had gathered by a neighbour’s fence. The moo had shown the cow  had possibilities but needed a bit more stimulus so they started throwing stones at it.

“Stop that,” boomed a voice from the helicopter. “Someone get those children inside,”  ordered the same voice. Startled by the sudden authority from above and its all seeing eye, the children switched targets and started throwing stones at the helicopter.

“Shut yer face,” one shouted. Cheeky buggers, kids, nowadays. His mum rounded on him though.

“Gerrin ’ere. They’ve got guns,” she shouted.

The cow at last showed some concern. It was just as if she had taken her warning and figured: “Hang on, something’s not right here.”

She started walking round the garden and seemed nervous. Daft, but you know what I noticed?  Its ears, they’re not on top of their head, but sticking out the side, like Shrek’s. I’d never noticed that before. It had a blue tag with a number on it stapled to one. I hadn’t notice that either. I was surprised the helicopter didn’t spook her, but then perhaps to a cow overhead was just a place where sometimes noise came from and had nothing to do with them.

The cameraman thrutched and jostled his way through the room, his camera acting as a warning for firemen to get out of the way. He wanted a good shot through the window, which he began to open and the smell of warm air and warm cow wafted into the room. It wasn’t that bad. Seems daft, but it was the first time I’d smelled a cow. It look up then, at the room full of people staring at her and I started feeling sorry for her, proper I mean, sorry and curious. She’d been disturbed in the middle of the night, probably poked with a sharp stick or something, rounded up, shouted at, bundled, slapped, kicked – who knows – transported and set free in a  place where she shouldn’t rightly be with whirring overhead and people staring. Lots of  strange smells. Under those circumstances she seemed incredibly adaptable. The way things are, are the way things are.

Every now and then giving a great bellow, getting agitated. Bit startling at first but all the kids loved it like she might not need stoning after all.

“Get those fucking kids in,” said the Inspector Charlie One Tosser into his radio.

She mooed again, this time with even more urgency, as if in some pain, which I was sure now she actually was.

“Milking time been and gone and her udders are swollen and tight,” said our expert and I could see what he meant. They were like Katie Price’s tits, except not as big of course. Joke. She mooed again and again and it made me nervous just to see her. A look of concern came over Em’s face. She remembered what mastitis felt like.

I glanced up at the bedroom windows where the police marksmen made no attempt to hide themselves, but then, why should they?  The situation wasn’t getting out of hand, it had long since lost all sanity.

Inside our group of firemen, policemen, reporters and us continued to huddle around the window and stare at the cow. It was like being in a crowded lift. Did I get a sense of a catastrophe approaching? Only when  Inspector Tosser muttered: “Steady lads,” as if he was Rorke’s Drift and was waiting to see the whites of the Zulus’ eyes. CPSO Shaw stroked the rifle stock like a pet as it hung on the Inspector’s shoulder.

Em was talking to the reporter and the cameraman. Giving them the low-down, that’s what she likes to tell people now. I was giving them the low-down. The reporter just had enough elbow room to write.

Meanwhile Ermintrude’s pain was getting worse and she let out her feelings in a one long bellow, a moo with more oos than portholes on a ruddy ship. Neighbours who had not been able to see clearly appeared in new vantage points in the gardens of friends. There was a sense that something was about to happen.

I felt it. I hadn’t budged though. Centre window, I wasn’t going to give up the best spec in my own house. But I kept looking at the cow and thinking: you poor bugger. Then it came to me: why not go out and milk it? Can’t be that much to it. Hold a teat in turn and squeeze and when I thought that I also wondered what a cow would feel like. I don’t mind you knowing I had a sudden fancy to touch it, smell it, talk to it. Why not? Any farmer that bothered to call it Ermintrude would have talked to it. I didn’t think I was going to be the cow whisperer or anything like that. Suppose you think I’m mad, but why not? I didn’t know anything about cows and this might be my only chance to meet one.

The firemen and police were chatting, waiting for something to happen; bored, though not enough to climb back on their engine and trundle back to the station, I noticed. Had they nothing to do?  No practice towers to climb? No game of snooker to play? They were talking of football and holidays and Strictly Come Dancing. They weren’t going to take Ermintrude in hand and they weren’t going to leave either.

The reporters and Em had run out of things to say to each other and shared the view together and the BBC man said he was thinking of angles. Later he’d probably  go for a close up of the cow pat or something arty like they always do.  How did a cow manage to become news?

Question was, how could I get the bucket from under the sink without arousing suspicion and go outside without causing panic. Panic? Good God. It was a farm animal, used to human contact. But these humans weren’t used to animal contact.  I wasn’t used to them either, but that was before one turned up in my back garden.

Most important right now was how did I leave the house and execute my milking plan without being shot by the police? Stupid buggers that they were, they possessed guns and were pointing them right where I wanted to be, at the cow.

It was time to stop all this nonsense. The situation needed taking back in hand.

“Excuse me,” I said turning from the window and edging through the throng, “toilet.” I squeezed my way into the kitchen where Em had left tea cups piled up by the sink and unlocked the back door to venture outside, to say hello to the cow and to see if I could milk the bloody thing. Can’t be that much to it, I kept telling myself. Once I’d got the idea in my head it made more and more sense. It was obviously in discomfort and was making a noise now as if a gale had got into the pipes of a church organ.

I pulled the kitchen door to behind me, looked in the cupboard under the sink, got a red plastic bucket, removed a scrubbing brush and bottle of Flash and turned the key in the back door. I’d stepped into my own back garden and suddenly I felt free. That was how it felt, free, almost heroic because I realised I was the only one acting sensibly.

I could hear Em: “Tom!” she shouted in a panic. “He’s gone outside!” she screamed and I almost laughed. Nerves like.

I could see all these faces of surprise and concern at my window, as if I had suddenly fallen into a bear pit at the zoo.

Inspector Tosser was angry and waving for me to get back inside. I held up my bucket and smiled.  I saw Em’s face and I knew I’d be in for a bollocking off her, but I hoped she’d figure things out from the sight of the bucket.

I was close to the cow now. There was a smell of shit in the air.  There’s something healthier about it, not as bad as dog shit any road. Ermintrude wasn’t frightened. She was curious about me, maybe she thought relief was at hand. I could feel her warmth and do you know they’re covered in dead short hair, cows. I just thought it was black and white leather, but it’s hair very short and very tight and I felt stupid for not knowing such a simple thing like that. As if they were leather jackets on legs. I must have been giving off some kind of signal somehow, that I didn’t know what I was doing and I could see an edge come about her. Steady on girl, that was what I said, but she threw herself into a turn, her udders swinging heavy like a demolition ball.  She was ready to run, a one-cow stampede. Shit, and it was my fault, but she had nowhere to stampede to. So she stopped and took a second look at me and I wondered if the red bucket to a cow was like a red rag to a bull or was that just an old wives’ tale.

“Hello Ermintrude,” I said and I realised with delight I’d done the right thing. I think she sensed relief might be at hand. She wasn’t frightened any road.

I touched her on the nose and it was soft and damp, not that snotty and she didn’t flinch and I stepped back trying to decide how I’d get the bucket under her and she sort of threw her head upwards and gave a great foghorn of a bellow like a ship on the Mersey. The moo stopped just as if a radio had been switched off because suddenly and there was the crack from a gun being fired. Thinking about it it must have been the copper at Marjorie’s bedroom window.  There was echo as it ricocheted around the houses followed by a thick silence.

A red spot appeared on Ermintrude’s head. Exactly where I’d been stroking her. She crumpled.

“Move back,” came a tannoyed voice from above.

“What?” I said. I was in shock.

“Get out of the way,” shouted the Inspector’s voice from the back door. “It’s going to fall.” But she’d already fallen. It all happened in a second. I sort of staggered backward, into my border of flower stems and the cow – Ermintrude – dead before she hit the ground, sort of folded up heavily and crashed to the floor. Her eyes stared at me like she was asking why.

I’m not joking she look bewildered, betrayed. Or maybe it was just me thinking that.

“I didn’t do it,” I said to her, which was stupid because for one thing she was already dead and for another she wouldn’t have understood me anyway. But I told her again: “It wasn’t me. I’m sorry.” I’m not ashamed of it, there were tears in my eyes.

It wasn’t me Ermintrude, it was them. My senses returned and I was full of disgust and anger boiled up inside me and it turned to fury and burning tears.

I was aware of people pouring through my back door and neighbours appearing on the edge of my vision and them and their kids were silent, stunned.

“Why’d you shoot her?” I screamed and the little square of gardens, surrounded by houses was suddenly deathly quiet. Even the helicopter seemed muted.

“Why? Why’d do you do it? Why’d you shoot her?” I was probably ranting.

Em suddenly appeared at my side and said thank God I was all right and then the Inspector was in front of me.  He was angry, but you could tell he was making sure his anger trumped mine. “Sir, you were interfering with a police operation. What the hell did you think you were doing?”

I looked him in the eye. “Tosser,” I said.

I bet he already knew how his report would read. How one of his men reacted coolly and clinically, recognising a window of opportunity that opened up for him in a fraught situation when he believed a member of the public was under threat, possibly even saving his life. I reckon he’d already decided that and those were the words that were reported on the telly later and in the papers.

I began to shout and I was conscious of tears of my eyes, “It was a cow, for God’s sake. Her name was  Ermintrude. She just wanted milking.”

“It would still be alive if you hadn’t tried to play the hero.”

“Hero? Hero. I was going to milk it, not wrestle it to the floor. Stupid bloody copper. Stupid bloody copper, stupid bloody copper.” I was losing it.

Inspector Tosser had turned on his heels and was already making his way back inside, to stand down his men and to get the hell out of the there. Job done, operation over. Bet he hoped the lads in the ’copter didn’t give the video to the television people.

Overhead, the helicopter whirred away as if were trying to quickly put some distance between itself and what had gone on.

“Inspector, can we have a word,” said the reporter, notebook in one hand, his pen indicating the TV cameraman from the BBC made up the ‘we’. The Inspector spotted the telly camera and I could tell what he was thinking: did he get everything. Shit!

But then his manner changed to so-what-if-he-did. Maybe the film would show the cow was getting ready to attack a completely irrational man who only had a plastic bucket to defend himself with.

“You’ll be issued with a statement by the press office in due course,” said the Inspector.

“But we are all here in the same room,” pointed out the reporter.

“I’m sorry that’s the way things are dealt with.”

“I have you on film. I have it all on film. Aren’t you worried what ‘no comment’ might look like?” asked the TV cameraman.

“I’m sorry,” the Inspector said again as his men began to appear by the dining room door. “But we may be needed elsewhere urgently.”

“What, some hens escaped down the park have they?” Em suddenly demanded. It was unlike her, but she’d lost it too. “Better get down there and annihilate them quick. Go on, get out of our house. Take your stupid guns and get out. Out.”

Wow, I thought and she took a step forward and started pushing the Inspector towards the front door.  Wow. I was dead proud of her.

“What am I supposed to do with a dead cow?” I shouted up the hallway.

But the police were already clattering out of the front door. Their mini-bus was now the getaway vehicle,  engine running.

“Stupid, stupid bloody coppers,” I shouted. I still hadn’t got over it proper.

“We’ll get the cow round the front, ready for the farmer,” said Chief Fire Officer Smedley to me, his voice subdued and understanding. “Ropes and harnesses lads,” he shouted.

I’m not sure it was their duty but I was grateful. What was I going to do with a whopping great cow? Ermintrude’s owner would arrive soon and I’d have to explain everything. Somebody would. The firemen picked their helmets off the table and made their way out of the front door.

“C’mon lads, good practice for the county tug o’war,” said Smedley, leading the way. I could see Em give the top a quick once-over for scratches.

“A cow like that will be about 1,500lb,” said the knowledgeable fireman.

“Dead weight?” asked a colleague, ever so dry.

Something must have shown on my face, because he looked at me and said, “Sorry, sir.”

“Not my cow,” I said.

Some children had appeared at the back gate, “Ay, mister, can we look at your dead cow?” they shouted and were too eager to wait for a reply. They grouped around the cow.

“It smells,” one complained.

“Look at the size of its nips,” said another.

“I’ll kick it,” said a one boy and he did and then he kicked it again.

“Oy, stop that!” I shouted, disgusted, but really, what did it matter?

The firemen let the children watch while they worked.

The TV cameraman duly filmed the scene. He got his cowpat shot, but the humour had gone and it wasn’t used. I watched his report at lunchtime. It’s strange seeing your own house on  the telly. There was a few seconds of Em wagging her finger in the Inspector’s face. The reporter and the CPSO watched the firemen from the back gate. Me and Em watched from the window.

“Oh Tom,’ she said, “I thought it was going to kill you.”

“It just wanted milking,  Em. It was in pain.”

“Well, its out of its misery now, Tom.”

“It wasn’t in misery, it just needed milking.”

“All right, it wasn’t me that shot it,” she said.

“Well they didn’t have to kill it. There was no need.”

“I know,” she said, going into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“There was no need,” I said. Talk about exasperated.

I watched the cow being dragged towards the gate, a trail of bloody left dark smears on the lawn, it wasn’t pumping out or anything. The firemen had rolled it on its back to get it through the gate, like removal men manoeuvring an awkward sofa. Ermintrude’s head fell to the side. Daft bugger me, I told her I was sorry, silently like, to myself  but I meant it too. Why couldn’t I have stopped it from happening?

Em came back into the room.

“I’ll just nip to the shop,” she said, rolling her eyes. “We’re out of milk.”

 

 

LUCY, OH LUCY MY (LATEST) LOVE

LUCY, OH LUCY MY (LATEST) LOVE

LUCY was there again today, outside my house, just walking by, all nonchalant, doing nothing to attract my attention but getting the full whack of it anyway. You know the kind of thing – eyes spinning, popping out of my head, heart suddenly ten times as big and pounding loudly., Ba-dum, Ba-dum, Ba-dum.

And she knew all right, oh she knew.

After a while, when my heart had stopped playing the kettledrums, Lucy walked back the other way and, of course, I had waited, kept watch. She caught sight of me then looking at her through the window and I could tell she understood what was on my mind. A connection made. I suppose I have something of a, er, reputation.

I didn’t look away. Rule Number One: Never – ever – look away. How are you ever going to get your own way if you can’t even look them in the face?

Brazen it out. Keep looking. This is me and I want you. She was beautiful. So what if my tongue was hanging out. Hey, it was a hot day.

As it happened I saw her once more that day and I was in a more objective frame of mind. I’d say her hair was auburn and her eyes so dark they were sad, but she had a long legged elegance that came easy to her. I mean, not trained and practised. I’d say she was a three, just maybe four, definitely a three. I ought to be a good judge of these things by now. Yes, a three.

She was obviously taller than me, but I don’t mind that at all. It gives a relationship an edge, a challenge.

I kept looking. “Hey Lucy, I’m Jack. Jack the Lad, Jack-Be-Nimble Jack-Be-Damned-Quick. Get it?”

Yep, there she was again. I have a sixth sense for these things and saw her giving a little theatrical pause by the gate. Deliberate? Of course it was. She was pretending something had momentarily caught her attention. Oh, look, what’s that on the floor there?” It would give me a few seconds to see her and her a few more for her to see if I had seen her. It was a message and I made sure my response bounced right back at her, it would be rude otherwise.  So I twitched the curtains an inch of two, no eye contact but just enough to let her know: I am here.

It couldn’t go on like this though, could it? My heart had begun to that thumping business inside my chest again, like there was only one thing I could do to set it free. Let me out, it was saying. Either let me out or do something about it.

I had felt the same about Susie and she was a two and Jess – oh my Jess, my love, my only four. There have been others, ones, twos and threes, enough for me to lose count but not enough for me to forget any of them, and that’s that way it should be. I’m nothing if not gallant, And now there was Lucy.  Lucy, oh Lucy.

I was beginning to act like Tom. When he sees a woman he fancies he emits a low growl, as if he’s a dog. In the pub, when faced with the barmaid’s cleavage, he actually whimpers. I’ve heard him, she has too. God know what she made of that.

We’ll be at the pub tonight. Every Friday, never miss.

Oh, I nearly forgot, it’s all fixed, Lucy knows. I’ll meet her by the War Memorial. I always meet my women by the War Memorial. It’s a small village: shop, pub, houses, park, war memorial. Lucy lives close by and I’ll be there. If she can’t make it, there’s always tomorrow.

“C’mon Jack let me put your lead on,” says, Tom. “It’s pub night!”

I know, Tom, I know.

“Good boy Jack, you kept still while I did it.”

Yes Tom, I did. Can we go now? Can we?

“You seem a bit tense boy.”

You wouldn’t believe it Tom. Can we get going? The bar maid’s cleavage is waiting.

“I don’t know if I’d better nip you to the vet’s.”

What! The vet’s! Not now man, not now. Look here, see, I am doing that little excited dance you like. You know, the Jack Russell foxtrot, you call it.

“That’s more like it Jack. You had me worried for a moment. C’mon then, let’s get going.”

And we go.

We’re just going into the pub and Tom sees someone he knows.

“Hi Len,” says, “how’s your Susie?”

“Should be next week, then we’ll know. Can’t figure it out mate,” says Len,

“Susie being a Great Dane and all and they’re nearly all bitches round here, save for your Jack, but he’s just a titch.”

Steady on, Len.

Ahh Susie, Susie,  my only four. But this is no time for reminiscing and I don’t like the way this conversation is going, so I give a tug on the lead and in we go. I know the form by now: Tom drops the lead, I slip under the table and Tom goes to the bar to order and ogle. Except I don’t go under the table. I go outside again. I’ll be back before he knows it.

It all goes to plan, except the bit where it didn’t all go to plan.

Lucy was there and I’m back under the table and I am keeping my head down and Tom has climbed out of the barmaid’s cleavage and is about to sit down. Dogs have a sixth sense for natural disasters and ghosts and when all hell is about to let loose, especially when they’re the cause of it.

Right then Lucy came into the room, as beautiful a red setter as you’ll ever see, but she’s on a lead and being pulled by a bloke, who is upset, red faced and I’ve got a funny feeling about it.

I jump up at Tom’s knee. C’mon Tom, time to go. Drink up.

“Where is he?” shouts the bloke, and it all goes quiet. He’s scanning the room.

Tom, last chance mate.

Too late. The bloke clocks me. “There he is!” and the words sort of explode out of his mouth.

Uh-ho.

“What’s up?” asks Tom.

“Your Jack, that’s what. I’ve just watched him and Lucy mating.”

Tom looked at Lucy and hardly needed to have said anything. “He’s tiny,” he scoffed. That’s it Tom give me some support. “And he’s left his ladder at home.” Steady on Tom, no need to take the mick.

“Yes but he was on the ruddy third step of the war memorial!”

I’ve been telling you all along she was a three, haven’t I. I was dead right, bang on.

Then there’s a big cheer in the bar. Hey, I’m a hero. And they are all laughing and calling my name. Apart from one bloke and I can see he’s figuring things out, doing some calculations and it wouldn’t be long now before he worked out Susie’s height made her a four.

C’mon Tom. Definitely time we left.

THE FITTERBIT

THE FITTERBIT

    You know how it is. You get dumped by your boyfriend, lose your job and are then told you’re a  fatty and at risk of diabetes or heart disease unless you lose weight drastically. So much for comfort eating; doesn’t bring you much comfort does it? Or maybe you don’t know how it is; maybe you are not that unfortunate, though I am not saying I was unlucky –  I had brought it all on myself.

I admit I am not the easiest person to get on with. Alright, if you want the whole, unpleasant, truth, I am not – was not – a nice person. Looking back as far as I can see with my mind’s eye, I never have been. I wasn’t exactly a bully at school, but all my classmates steered clear of me which made me come on a bit strong when I got lonely. Then they avoided me even more. They had operated social distance policy around me long before a similar idea had ever occurred to Boris Johnson. Despite having all the right parts being in good working order, it took me two years after leaving school to get a boyfriend. When I did, I thought, right mate, you’re going nowhere else and I told him straight what would happen if he so much as looked at another girl, yet he still dared do it. Men, eh? Well, I am sure he must have more than looked at her because I caught them in bed together. Angry? I think I may have broken his arm, but he was asking for it, right?

The same day – same ruddy day – I got called into the office at work, a beauty parlour. The boss said she could forgive me not being beautiful – cheek! – but I could at least smile and be pleasant to the customers and hadn’t she warned me about it before? I said I hadn’t come across a customer yet that was worth smiling at. That was when she handed me my P45. I think I may have broken her nose.

It all gave me quite a turn and I had a dizzy spell that worried me so off I went to the doctor’s. He was one of these modern GPs who strongly recommended a non-Mars Bar low-cake high-lettuce diet and some healthy exercise.

He said: “You’re obese.”

“No,” I said like a fool, “O’Brien.”

“I mean you are obese, too fat, overweight, roly-poly,” he said, labouring the point I think you’ll agree.

I may have broken his computer.

Sorry. I’m getting into my story and I haven’t even introduced myself yet. I am Miriam, nicknamed Miz by everyone, but it’s not short for Miriam it’s short for Mizmogs on account of me being short on smiles and good humour. I got labelled in primary and it stuck. In high school I was second from bottom in a like-ability poll. It was hurtful: I felt as if I was  UK in the Eurovision Song Contest. The only person I beat was Snide Evans and he was the maths teacher.

But back to my story. I’ve been depressed, sort of, most of my life, certainly long before I knew what depression was.  But this triple whammy – boyfriend, job, doctor –  was a bit too much to bear and I kicked myself leaving the surgery for not telling the Doc about my not sleeping and let him give me some pills, the heavy stuff because oblivion seemed inviting right then and on the way back I was mulling over alternatives… the river (too cold), a bridge (too messy), carbon monoxide (asthma)… and I was driving on automatic pilot. We’ve all caught ourselves making the right moves without thinking about it because your mind is off on its own somewhere doing something else entirely and I’d turned into Johnson Street before I realised where I was and it suddenly registered I had just driven past a jeweller’s shop  I’d never seen before.

Odd. I thought I knew every shop in town but I’d never seen this one before. There and then I made my mind up. I quickly pulled over and the car behind basted its horn and made me realise I’m a better driver when I am not fully conscious of what I’m doing. I got out and walked back to the shop. The sight of the jeweller’s suggested a fitbit might be what I needed. Get one of them I figured and I’d have a choice: live or the other thing – and the other thing always seemed involve discomfort of one kind or another.

An old-fashioned bell over the door jangled as I entered and behind the counter was the jeweller.  He looked very homely in a Bagpuss sort of way and in  his hand he held, amazingly, a fitbit. Some things are meant to be, I thought.

“It’s the last one,” he said, without looking up. “It’s exactly what you need.”

Was he being sarky?  I gave him a long look and thought about poking him in the eye, but he just slid the fitbit across the counter encouragingly. “Try it on, you’ll never take it off,” he said.

So I did and immediately the prospect of a new slimmer, healthier, happier Miriam conjured itself up in my mind.  The jeweller smiled knowingly. I handed over £60 figuring if I was careful and looked after it I could use it for a couple of weeks then return it, say it wasn’t working properly and get my money back.  I walked out of the shop wearing it. His bell jangled. I remember thinking that’s really cheery that, and when I got outside I decided I’d test out the fitbit straight away. I walked straight past my car and went home. I could come back for it later, but if I had slashed my wrists between times then the fact it was on double yellows would be someone’s problem.

Steps taken 1,100 it said when I reached my front door.

Blood pressure 220/135 (high), it went on.

Heartbeat 180pm (high).

Weight: 15st 8lb (high).

That last figure got me. How would it know? I hadn’t told it. Amazing what these gadgets can do nowadays.

Now, I’d heard when you bought a fitbit you tended to do the right things by it, try and please it and improve on the numbers by taking the steps it wants you to take. I didn’t want to feel I was letting it down I walked back for my car and found I’d take the total over 2,000 already.

That night, I ran up and down the stairs a few times and when I’d recovered I drew the curtains and jogged on the spot until I was exhausted and in need of a burger and cuppa, but I forewent the burger. By bedtime the day’s count was 3,205 steps. Hey, that’s not bad, I said to myself and when I woke up I glanced at the fitbit on my wrist and it flashed a Good Morning message as if it has been waiting for me to open my eyes. I might have thought it a very clever had I not been thinking I was sure I took the thing off before getting into bed and put it on the stand next to my bed. Mustn’t have done.

The day seemed keen for me to join it and I was just as eager. The sun was streaming through the window and there was probably some birds singing as well. I showered and went to my favourite room in the house: the kitchen. The idea of a challenge had set itself solidly in my brain so I had sweetener in my tea instead of sugar and toast covered in that plastic spread that says it tastes like butter, but if butter ever found out it would sue. I had numbers to beat. The challenge was everything!

I went for another long walk, well, I hadn’t any work to go to had I? I power-walked when there was no one around to see me. The strange thing about walking in the countryside is that people you pass invariably smile and say hello. I had no idea why, but if you met the same people in the street they wouldn’t give you a second glance and that has always been good enough for me. ‘Good morning,’ they’d chirp happily like a jeweller’s doorbell and I was mystified. I didn’t know them, so why were they speaking to me?

That night I pressed the button for my results:

Steps 5,600

BP 200/105 (high)

Heart 167 (high)

Weight: 15-3 (high) It may be high fitbit, but, wow!

Smiles 0.

Smiles!? What the… I stared at the screen in disbelief. How could.. I mean what… That’s not…

It preyed on my mind the rest of the evening. I heated a couple of meat and potato pies for my meal, but was so preoccupied with the fitbit’s message I could  only manage one.

You may think I was being silly and superstitious but I didn’t take the fitbit off my wrist when I climbed into bed for fear that when I woke up it would magically be back on there. I was still bewildered when I lay down to go to sleep that night. Surely…

Good Morning said my fitbit the next day and off we went. It didn’t really say it, there was just a message on the screen. There’s a canal nearby and off along the towpath we went, Fitbit and I. I even took a  bottle of water. Good Morning said my fellow walkers, ‘Good morning,’ I said, begrudgingly at first, but really when you get the hang of it, being polite is not that bad. When the next one came along I experimented with a smile and the one after that I actually spoke first. Good morning!

The good mornings turned to good afternoons and I found a pub for lunch and picked up a menu. Call me stupid if you like but as I wondered what I should have chips with I glanced almost nervously at my wrist, as if to seek approval. The word on the screen was: No. No what? Just No, in capitals. NO. So I sat in the fresh air with my soda water and salad and walked home.

That night I checked my readings:

Steps 10,574

BP 190/97

Heart: 150

Weight: 15-5

Smiles: 26

Pleasant Rating: 14.

My God! What else did it know? This was spooky, not right at all, yet it never crossed my mind to take the fitbit back to the jewellery shop. Even so it’s one thing telling me my weight and counting my smiles,  but gauging how nice I had been was sinister – and it had been stingy with my score! I fell asleep thinking about it: 14, out of what? I had to assume it was 100 and the next day my walks were full of ‘Good mornings,’ and ‘afternoons’ and I even passed the time of day with people who wanted to talk a little; I waved to folk on the narrowboats chugging past and I didn’t think anglers sitting there hour after hour in their camouflage suits were stupid at all. Of course not.

At the pub a man about my own age, not bad looking in a Chris Hemsworth sort of way and, therefore, way out of my league, asked if he could share my table. I nearly said sod off, go and find your own table, but instead we started chatting. I was quite proud of my new skill. I’d never really chatted to anyone before. No-one’s ever wanted to chat to me. It’s good, isn’t it?

That night by steps had gone over 12,000.

BP: 160/90;

Heart: 121.

Weight: 15-2.

Smiles 45.

Pleasant Rating: 52. Hey, Fitbit was beginning to like me.

I didn’t take it of my wrist again that night and the next day I made my way to same pub and found myself waiting in case Chris Hemsworth turned up again. He did and he smiled and I smiled back and I shoved up on my seat and he sat down next to me and he didn’t mind at all that the outside of our thighs were touching. It was as all as natural as anything. He said something funny and I laughed. Then I said something funny and he made a polite chuckle and I made a note to sharpen up on my sense of humour. His name wasn’t Chris though, it was Danny.

I said, ‘I’m Miz.”

And he said: “Is that because you’re not married yet.’

I thought, steady on girl, don’t fall off your seat.

“Not miss, or even Ms,  but Miz, short for misery. I’m actually Miriam, Miriam Obese, I mean O’Brien.”

“I’ll call you Miriam,” he said and smiled. I smiled back. In fact, thinking about improving my fitbit count, I gave him two smiles. He asked me what I did for a living and I told him. We got on well. Two hours and three alcohol and sugar free drinks passed. We got on really well. We both said we’d try and do it again the following day.

This time I ran to the pub. I ran knowing all the time Danny wouldn’t be there because nice things don’t keep happening to a mizmogs. I rejoiced when he was and Fitbit clocked up the smiles.

We sat with our legs touching. My thigh was getting used to it. He said it was interesting that I’d worked in a beautician’s because he was a hairdresser and was opening a new shop and maybe we should get together.

“Gerroffwithyer”, I said.

“A partnership,” he said, and I’m sure my thigh got warmer at that very moment. Something was going on down there at any rate.

While my mind can sometimes go AWOL, it can also get flustered. This was me, Mizmogs, fat and friendless sitting here with Danny Hemsworth and he was saying things that had two meanings. I was still overweight. Was I still clinically obese?”

“I can get down to 11 stone,” I blurted and saw the puzzled look on his face. “Just saying.”

“Have a think, call me.”

“But I haven’t got your number,” I said stupidly

“I’m going to give it you now.”

Ooooh, I thought.

“Where is it, the shop?” I asked.

He said – and get this: “In Johnson Street”

I looked up into his eyes sharply. He sensed my surprise, or unease.

“An empty building, used to be a jewellers years and years ago. Do you know it?”

I shook my head. No, no, no. Well, actually yes. It might have closed down years ago but I went in it last week.

It was a hot day, but I swear I shivered and all the way home, little tremors up and down my spine.  I couldn’t Danny’s words out of my mind. I went by way of Johnson Street wanting to see a jewellery shop, but somehow knowing it wouldn’t be there and it it wasn’t. The window was whitewashed and bore a sign: OPENING SOON: LOVE IS IN THE HAIR.

That made me laugh. I glanced at my wrist. Fitbit was still there, but it said nothing. What was I expecting? That it would say: Go for it, call him?   I couldn’t help it, I had to check the numbers there and then.

Steps: 10,940 – down a bit but I hadn’t got home yet.

BP: 143/85 (near normal)

Heart: 89 (getting there)

Weight: 15-0

Smiles 67 – I grinned and it clocked up another, 68.

Pleasant Rating 87 – Woo-hoo! Then a new statistic flashed up.

FR: 91.

FR? What the hell was that? I flicked through the menu, tapping its tiny button for all I was worth. It would be there somewhere.

“Come on, come on, come on…”

Yes, there it was: FR – Fanciability Rating.

I let it sink in a moment, that a fitbit was weighing me up as if I was a sex object.

Well, good for it! It’s just men that are not supposed to do that, or at least not tell you about it but I know they do. I think you’ll find high-tech electronic gadgets can do and say as they please. I know I was getting fitter inside and out. I sensed it. People were getting to like me when previously even my boyfriend only liked me because I told him to. Men do not find me attractive: it’s been a rule of my life.

Unless… unless… Nah. Never. No way. Surely? But… maybe…  I took my mobile out of my  pocket and started to dial.

 

THE AWAY MATCH 

THE AWAY MATCH 

Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day, teach a man to fish and he’ll store maggots in the fridge and surprise you with the wormery to adorn your back garden.

He’ll talk to you about wagglers and bottom feeders and concoct horrid things called boilies in the kitchen and he’ll tell you how he wrestled with a carp for half-an-hour before holding it his arms triumphant and I wouldn’t be an angler’s wife if I didn’t try to remember when we last wrestled and he had held me, sated and victorious.

He’ll disappear Saturdays and Sundays and weeknights in summer and he’ll cart more clobber towards some distant river bank than explorers used to take on an expedition to Africa.

Most ludicrous of all will be his choice of clothing, namely a camouflage jacket and trousers.

“Do you think the fish are watching for you, you daft bugger?” I asked Dan as he set out one morning better dressed for a mission in Afghanistan than a morning at a fishery just up the road. Maybe wildlife has evolved more quickly than I imagined and tench now have periscopes or set lookouts, like meerkats.

“I’m after pike today,” he said, as if that explained anything at all. In case you didn’t know, pike are the thugs of freshwater. They make piranha look like angel fish.

“Oh, do be careful,” I said. Sarcasm may be the lowest form of wit, but it was still over Dan’s head.

Maggots in the fridge? They are not loose, you understand and the cold their delays their pupation.

Dan was not just smitten with fishing, he was devoured by it. I have heard of golf widows, but those poor dears at least live in a civilised household and the worst they have to endure is a pair of Rupert Bear trousers in the wardrobe. Besides most women would get themselves down to the club and play a round. Faced with every weekend to myself that is what I decided to do. Not take up golf, but play around.

In a way it was Dan’s fault. He set things in motion by asking me to pop to the All In Tackle Shop and pick up a pint of maggots. A pint? Apparently so.  I was about to ask how he expected me to carry a glassful of wriggling maggots home when he handed me a plastic box with a fastened down lid and air holes for the little darlings. If only the inventor of Tupperware could see how he had changed the world for the better.

Dan has been fishing for eight years of the ten we have been married and to be fair he has always kept his tackle in good order, if you see what I mean. I’m not the fastidious sort, but ask him to pick up the Hoover… well, don’t get me started.

Dan, I have to tell you because it’s important, is a matchman. That is, he contests angling matches and matches are when a lot of anglers compete against each other to see which one is the luckiest.

Anyway, when I entered the All In clutching my little plastic box, I wasn’t entirely an innocent in the ways of Dan’s world and there he was – not Dan – but Derek, master of the All In, successful businessman and a fine example to angling manhood he was too. Still is, come to that, credit where it’s due.

Good looks, half-decent body. Well, at least not as much paunch as Dan. That’s the thing with the sport of angling, it leaves its competitors in a worse state physically than when they started. Nicotine is its performance enhancing drug of choice. Dan saw sense and gave up, but a lot of anglers do smoke. It can get boring, Dan admitted.  Then why not take up something exotic and exciting, like dominoes or snail racing? He’d given up and was a little overweight. He reckoned it was his age, but that didn’t account for where his sense of humour had gone. He used to be a right laugh. All those weekends spent on the riverbank pretending you weren’t there takes a heavy toll. Maybe All In Derek worked out. He could get away with wearing a white T-shirt that his bore the slogan: Anglers Like It All In.  So, cheeky too. He was about forty, which made him eight years or so older than me and Dan.

He was checking his phone, but he quickly put it down. His face broke into a broad smile when he saw me and it said he liked what he saw. Some men can look at you that way. So you know. It’s a knack they should take on Britain’s Got Talent. I asked for Dan’s maggots and pushed the little box across the counter and his hand brushed mine as he prised off the lid. Was that deliberate? I could feel a flush coming to my face and he asked me who the maggots were for and I told him and he said how he knew Dan and thought he was a good angler and then he asked my name, straight out like that, and I said Heather and he said hello Heather, are you lucky Heather? I felt all schoolgirlish inside. Like there was a giggle trapped in my tummy. I’m still breathless just thinking of that first meeting.

“Lucky in love and money.” I replied. Don’t know why I said that because I don’t know that I’ve been that lucky in either.

“What else is there?” asked Derek.

He asked what I did with myself when Dan was fishing and he managed to make it sound so intimate all the silliness drained out of me and I pulled myself together and prepared to leave, giving him a smile in response because I didn’t know what to say.

“There’s no charge for the maggots,” said Derek. “Tell Dan to put it down as sponsorship.”

He picked up his mobile then, working it with his thumbs.

No charge for the maggots? A girl knows when a man is coming on to her.

“Free maggots, eh?” said Dan with the joy of saving a quid or two. “I’ll send you again next week.” Which is what he did. He made a list and I discovered I was only eager to run along with it. The week had passed in its usual humdrum fashion, a normal week by anyone’s standards, except ours was built around angling matches, the preparation for, the participation in and the reporting of. Hey ho.

Derek flashed a smile that this time said he was surprised to see me but all the happier for it. I passed him the list and he gathered the items together, putting them on the counter along with an airholed plastic box.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Red maggot,” he said. “For Dan,” he explained just in case I thought they might be for me. And, in a way, I knew they were.

Red maggot? This was getting serious.

A sensible married woman would have stopped it there and firmly said thanks very much but you cannot woo me with your live bait and left the shop head held high. But I didn’t, of course. I stopped at the door as if I had suddenly thought of something, turned and said: “What do you suggest I get Dan for his birthday?” Something passed between us in that moment and it made the course of events that followed inevitable. There was no hesitation: “Has he got a bivouac?” Derek asked.

Had he? I’d no idea what one was.

“A sort-of tent,” Derek explained. “I’ve got all sorts in the showroom upstairs, bivouacs, tents, camp beds, mattresses… Come back about three, I close the shop then and I’ll be happy to show you what I’ve got.”

I’d taken the bait and  was being reeled it.

It was on a blow-up mattress under a canopy that we consummated our affair and then he showed me what a bivouac was for. Really! Who says romance is dead? I have to admit there is something exhilarating about committing adultery while the world was going about its business outside. Shoppers were going home; cars and vans and lorries revved and braked and tooted; kids shouted. I could see the tops of people’s heads as a double-decker bus trundled past. I was in a different world, but there were things I needed to know.

“Where’s your wife?” I asked.

“Pat? She goes to see her sister on Saturdays.”

Actually, that was all I needed to know.

“She’ll be home in an hour or so. Had you better be getting back for Dan?”

Derek was right. Time to be going.

“See anything that takes your fancy?” he asked. There was that cheekiness again, maybe with a hint of business-is-business, which I didn’t mind.

“Perhaps you need to consider things, take a second look round, say next Saturday?”

“Perhaps I’d better.”

“When is Dan’s birthday by the way?”

“May 12th.”

Said Derek: “But it’s only February.”

For a while our lives fell into a rhythm. I’d say bye to Dan, Derek would say bye to Pat; Dan would begin his sedentary quest for Great White Barbel or Killer Gudgeon or something, I’d get some housework done and Derek would keep the town’s anglers supplied with wriggly maggots with one hand while simultaneously running his empire on his mobile with his other. By three he’d close for the day and by three fifteen we’d be well and truly bivouacked. Pat would be home by six and Derek would be there to welcome her, while I would have the kettle on for my returning hero and he’d tell me all about his match. Yawn. And yawn I had every excuse to do.

I’d met Pat briefly in the shop. Derek introduced me. It was the right thing to do  tactically and it had gone smoothly enough: I don’t think I coloured up or looked guilty or behaved oddly. We talked as Derek took a call on his mobile. She was the nervous type who gabbled her words, but she was attractive and I was left understanding why Derek looked elsewhere and at the same time wondering why he’d the need. Variety, I suppose; the spice of bedtime and so on. I didn’t fool myself I was special. It was an important meeting of wives because it showed I could get away with the deception at both ends. Derek had met Dan on some riverbank and made a point of being friendly and said he thought Dan had seemed alarmed at the interruption, but there was nothing in his behaviour that suggested he had any inclination Derek and I were, well, lovers. It’s a funny word that. I was happier seeing Derek as my fancy man and me being his bit of stuff. Lovers suggests something deeper than the mutual attraction that manifested itself in our Saturday sessions, which were now part my weekly routine, like the trip to Lidl. Lovers is very much a Waitrose word, don’t you think?

It couldn’t go on like that, of course and it was Derek who made it better still.

A good businessman was Derek – he’d sold me a bivouac for £200 full price for a start – but he had steadily increased Dan’s sponsorship so that he was ‘on the team’ whatever that meant. It seemed to please Dan and it comforted my conscience that he was also benefiting from my exertions.

“It’s the Irish Championships soon. I’m entering the team, which means Dan will be away for five days,” said Derek spreading five fingers before my face. “Do you think you can do without him?”

The showroom had lost its novelty for me. I’d tried on the hats and the camouflage gear and even waders and they had all in turn done their bit to enhance our Saturdays, but the thought of five consecutive days without the comfort of some decent bed springs under my bum was not at all appealing.

“I thought we could go away. To a hotel.” said Derek, answering the question before I could ask it.

He was reeling me in again.

“What about Dan?”

“I’d rather he went fishing,” said Derek.

“Ha-ha. I mean what do I tell him?”

“Tell him you’re going away with Pat and her sister for a few days,” said Derek.

“Why, is she going away?”
“Certainly is.”

“Yippee,” I said.

“Happy?” he said.

“Not half,” I said.

“Fancy popping the waders on again?” he said.

Dan was delighted when Derek rang and told him about the Irish trip. Five days of good fishing and even better Guinness, what more could any man want? Well, that would depend on the man, of course.

He was surprised when I said I told him if he was going away I would be, too. I felt I had to take that line. The what’s-sauce-for-the-goose-is-sauce-for-the-gander tactic always puts a man on the defensive. You don’t have to be stroppy, just resolved and it ensures a quick submission.  Some marriages need that. Ours was strong and didn’t, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Either way, he was happy for me to go and told me to have a good time. He even gave me a kiss. Steady on!

Actually it  was sweet and I felt a pang of remorse, but not for nothing is pang a short sharp word and the feeling was there and gone. My weekly showroom trysts were becoming stale and a hotel break could come not a moment too soon for me and I tingled with excitement, as if I was being sprinkled with glitter.

“Where are you going by the way?”
Ah.

Good question.

An hour earlier I was looking irresistible in thigh waders. They bore a logo all anglers are familiar with, Shakespeare.

“Stratford-upon-Avon,” I said.

“Right,” said Dan as if mulling it over.  He well knew my cultural boundaries excluded anything remotely classical. A Tudor romp always gets me while Shakespeare hadn’t written a decent sex scene in four hundred years. Against that it’s lovely part of the country and I do like history and atmosphere, as long as I don’t have to think too hard about it. I remember going with Dan to York once and while he went to the races I wandered off shopping and got lost in its quaint twisted streets. “You should see it,” I told him when I eventually found my way back to the hotel, “it’s a proper shambles.” He laughed at me.

It’s a warm feeling being laughed at by someone you love. But that was then. This was now.

“Hmm, nice place,” he said after a few moments mulling. “You’ll enjoy it.”

Phew. A potentially tricky conversation avoided. All’s well that ends well, I thought. Sorry William

The day came when Dan jumped eagerly into the car and he was off to catch a Ryanair cheapie to Dublin. He had held me briefly and puckered up and sniffled at the same time. I wasn’t risking catching anything that would ruin the next few days. He looked peaky. Was that a cold sore coming on his top lip? Urrggghh. I offered him my cheek and he leaned forward, applied some apathetic suction, jumped into the car and was away. I waved. He didn’t wave back, but I didn’t mind. Already, I was glittering all over, sparkling and sparking with anticipation.

“Where are we going?” I asked Derek as we hit the motorway.

“Hang on,” he said, pressing the buttons on his phone as quickly as a Chinese salesman uses an abacus. He stared at the screen and, seeming satisfied, placed the phone on its dashboard holder. It was still switched on, of course, and stared back at him. I’m not used to getting these thoughts but there’s something pet like about a mobile phone, as if was anticipating a call as much as its owner. I wanted to switch it of

“The Cotswolds via Stratford. I thought you should at least pay a visit since you told    Dan that’s where you were going,” said Dan and I looked across at jaw-jutting handsome profile.

“Good thinking Romeo,” I said.

“We can wander around, take in the sights. Have a nice time.”

“And the entertainment tonight…?”

“As you like it,” said Derek and he pressed his right floor and accelerated to a throaty roar.

If you can imagine a staircase and the top step bore the word ‘sublime’ and the next one ‘pleasurable’ and the one after ‘enjoyable’ you can see how we spent the next three days and where we were heading. It was getting steeper. I wanted to go home before we reached the fourth step, ‘agreeable’. I did not want my love affair to be agreeable. In fact I did not know whether I wanted a love affair at all any longer. My glitter was gone, my sparkle spent. A once-a-week bonk is one thing, but you have to serious about a bloke to spend time with him. I wasn’t serious about Derek. Or his mobile.

I was sat up in bed waiting for him to come out of the bathroom and I just knew when he did he would be his mobile. He was the sort who kept in touch with his world through his Samsung. Fair enough he had a business still to run but it isn’t just irritating when your partner is checking his bank account when you have just rung room service, it’s a proper mood changer. We couldn’t do anything without he checked his mobile before and after. I drew the line at during. He’d sometimes suck in his cheeks and raise his eyebrows as he looked at the screen and I am sure the figures were causing him physical pain.

As he suggested we’d done the sights – Shakespeare’s birthplace, Anne Wotsit’s cottage – and I got him to take a photo of me outside both so I could send them to Dan. I don’t know who Thomas Nash was but I posed in front of his house as well because I felt my lie needed plumping up a little, like a sagging cushion and anyway our heritage is so wonderful, isn’t it?  Whoever Thomas Nash was no other country’s got him, have they? I had not sent him any updates for a couple of days, though Dan had sent me a smiley picture of himself with fish infested water in the background. How did he look now? Dan-ish, I suppose; very agreeable. Were it not for that cold sore that had come out into a big splodge at the corner of his mouth I might have even fancied him.

Derek emerged from the en-suite and, yes, his mobile was in his hand. He looked perplexed, furrowed brow and all that. Particularly nasty numbers, I assumed.

“What’s up?” I asked. I didn’t really care.

“Something’s wrong,” he said, unhelpfully.

“Meaning?” I was getting interested.

“Some money’s gone out of my account. In Ireland,” he explained. “I’m here and Pat’s in Llandudno – she’s sent me a photo of herself on the pier – so who’s spending my money in Ireland?”

“Let’s look at the photo?” I said, feeling the first nibbles of suspicion.

Derek stroked the screen until he reached a photo of a smiling Pat. That was Llandudno in the background sure enough, Snowdonia in the distance, the bustle of the pier immediately behind her, but it was something up front which grabbed my attention. Very up front.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“Pardon?” he said.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“Meaning?”

“Bugger,” I explained.

“Well, why didn’t you say?” retorted Derek.

I zoomed in on Pat’s face. How well she looked, how happy and glowing, you might say. Glittery almost.

“There,” I said, and held his phone out to show him.

“What?”
“The cold sore,” I said and had already picked up my own phone.

“What about it?”
“At the right side of her mouth.”

“So?”
I held out the photo of Dan, zoomed in. Derek looked. I brought the two phones together, as if the photographs were kissing.

He said: “You mean…”

“I do.”

“What?”

“Your wife and my husband know each other rather well.”

“Oh.”

“It seems they are swapping and sharing… things.”

“Can you get cold sores like that?”

“Oh, definitely.”

“I mean, where they touched, if they kissed?”
“Why not?”

Derek had no answer.
“Look,” I began to explore my theory as I went along. “Llandudno is on the way to Holyhead and the ferry to Dublin. How long would a detour for a photo take? Pat’s away, Dan’s away; Dan is always out Saturday afternoons, so is Pat. He was alarmed when you

approached him, and half the time Dan’s tackle looks as if it hasn’t been used. I should have given it a closer inspection.”

“Well, what’s he been doing with my maggots?” said Derek, stupidly.

“Oh well, that’s what matters most,” I said, in that needling way we women have when men are being dim. Derek was struggling with the duplicity of a man to whom he had donated maggots in all good faith.

“How the hell do I know what’s he done with your sodding maggots. Given them the birds, most likely. Who cares?”

There I was – Dan’s wife – naked as nature and Derek had intended trying to gauge how calamitous my calamity was, while Derek’s mind was juddering forward like a slow computer until eventually the full reality revealed itself.

“Bugger,” he said.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said.

“You know what this means?”

Well, not yet, I hadn’t gone deep enough into my own thoughts for meanings. I was still grappling with my husband of ten years betraying me, with the woman I had told him I was going away with. The woman I had told him in a text message only five minutes ago sends her regards.

Her regards. She was providing him with a bit more than her regards. The two-faced, lying little…

No wonder she was all nervy when we met; no wonder Dan had been reluctant to go and get his own ruddy maggots from  Derek.

Meanings didn’t matter. Explanations were another thing. Oh, God.

“It means,” Derek insisted, “I am sponsoring your husband to have an affair with my wife and I am subsidising her fling with your husband while I am paying for you to keep me happy and I am paying for me to give you the time of your life.”

“All In,” I noted, sourly.

“That’s exactly it,” he agreed. “I am even paying for a relief manager to keep going the business that’s paying for us to all cheat on each other with each other.”

He let that sink in.

“They’re drinking champagne you know, Pat and Dan. That’s what’s been charged to my account. She must have given them the wrong card by mistake. Room service champagne, fifty-five ruddy quid a bottle. Two bottles. They’re having a really good time.”

“And you haven’t?”

“Yeah, but he’s with my wife.”

For heaven’s sake!

It was all over, of course, between us I mean, and between Pat and Dan. Not all over in other ways. We had all got that to face and live with. We had futures to decide, important stuff like that, stuff that leads to the drumbeats in EastEnders.

It was clear there were no innocent parties, but some were more guilty than others. Dan Juan had begun his affair first, for instance. Git. Pat was probably a veteran of Saturday afternoon romps. I bet Dan wasn’t her first and if she’d stuck to what she knew we’d all be in the clear still. Stupid cow. Derek had financed the whole shebang, which was making him mightily aggrieved. If he was noble, then he’d never mentioned it and that would suit everyone else. If he went on about it, which he probably would, he’d risk being reminded about his priorities. Loser.

There was no moral high ground, only ground less low than the rest and I was determined to occupy a patch of it.

“We should leave now and get home before them,” I said. I reckoned it was far better being the one of the sofa with a glass of wine and wielding a face like an axe than the one coming through the front door to face the axe and without the wine.

So that’s what we did and I was home, unpacked, and half-way through my second glass when I heard Dan stashing his gear in the garage and his key in the door. He shuffled into the lounge.

What really annoyed me, really really annoyed me was that I was as guilty as he was. Well, not quite, but there wasn’t much room for manoeuvre.

“Hello, Daniel.” I reserve his full name for rows and serious conversations.

“Hello, Heather.”

There was a lot of static in the air and I was reminded again of EastEnders. I was so tense if he’d have said, “We need to talk,” I’d would have laughed hysterically.

But he didn’t. He poured himself a glass of wine and sat down.

“Pat gone home?” I asked. It was best we acknowledge the situation.

“To Derek,” said Paul.

Touché.

Suddenly all the things I wanted to ask, all the things I needed to know, didn’t matter. He would only ask the same questions of me and I didn’t want to talk about Derek and me no more than he wanted to talk about Pat and him. I still loved Dan you see and I was surprised because I was also sure he loved me, too.

“One thing.”

“Yes.”

“How’d you know?” asked Dan.

“Matching bloody cold sores.”

He looked crestfallen, like the villain in an episode of Columbo when informed about the subtle clue that led to his downfall.

“Can we say we’re sorry and start again? Kiss and make up.”

“You can say you’re sorry, but I’m not kissing you until your cold sore’s gone.”

He looked miffed, but said nothing. I didn’t say I was never kissing him again. He’d have spotted that.

“I’m sorry,” I said. Where’d that come from? I shouldn’t have apologised first, but I had.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as if I cleared the way for him.

“So you bloody well should be,” I said.

That’s better girl.

“And the guilt. It’s been bothering me all week,” he said.

“All week, ay? As long as that? Must have been hard swallowing that champagne.”

“I just wanted… she made me feel… what I mean is I… it wasn’t, it wasn’t…”

“I know Dan. Whatever it is you are blathering on about I probably feel the same.”

“I have made a right mess.”

“So much for lucky Heather,” I said in a sorry-for-myself voice that got under his skin.

“I hurt, too,” said Dan, in his you’re-not-the-only-one voice.

“We are all losers,” I said.

Dan seemed to consider this observation for a long time.

“Well, not exactly,” he said. And he reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope and handed it to me.

I reached inside and extracted a single piece of paper, about eight inches long, four high and of a satisfying feel of a certain quality and that spoke to my fingertips: cheque.

“I won,” said Dan his smiles was so wide he winced as the pain pinched his cold sore.

“I bloody won the championship.”

Five thousand pounds.

I smiled, too. A whoopee smile. And, I thought, Pat had even bought the champagne.    Oh, that was lovely. But that brought back images of the two of them together, celebrating, naked, in bed, laughing, touching… It should have been me.

It should have been me!

“It’s the Scottish Championships next week,” said Paul. “Fancy a little break. We both could do with one.”

How’d he figure that?

“I’d love it,” I said and snuggled up to the cheque. I also put my head on Dan’s shoulder.

“I’ll need to practice,” he said.

“Of course.”

“There’s just one thing,” he said.

“What’s that.”
“You couldn’t get me some maggots, could you? Well I can’t go and see Derek can I?”

SPIRITUS SANKTUS

SPIRITUS SANKTUS

“I wish you were dead!”

“Well, I wish you were dead!”

Eric said it first and his wife copied him. It was so irritating when she mimicked him. She always did it. It was as if they were children.

“You don’t half get on my nerves.”

“And you get on mine!”

See?

It was dangerous to row while driving, but they rowed everywhere else so it didn’t seem to matter. Their neighbours winced, but they knew what she was like. Her temper. That love affair. Oh, why did he take her back? Because they were a good partnership, that’s why.

Yet here they were on their way to a seance, wishing each other dead. You have to laugh. Well, you might if you weren’t so flaming bloody-well stinking angry, so angry you’re full of it and if you didn’t scream you might explode and drive straight off the road.

“Aaaarrggghhh,” he screamed.

“Aaaarrggghhh,” screamed his wife and Eric thought, bloody hell she even copies my screams.

That was when he saw the oncoming lorry, lights ablaze, narrow road, tight bend and instinct told him instantly it was too big for his  Vauxhall Corsa to argue with.

He swung the wheel to his left and the car tore through a hedge and bumped crazily down hill.

“Aaaaarrggghhh,” said his wife. She doesn’t half go on thought Eric.

He could see moonlight glistening on water below. A lake? A river? Hardly mattered because it might simply be wet, cold and deep when the car hit it any second. He had to bail out. “Jump,” he shouted, opening the door and tumbling out.

But Doris, his wife, didn’t hear or was concussed because she made not a move. She didn’t copy me, thought Eric.  He saw the car bounce and bobble into a lake with enough momentum and slope under its wheels to seemingly drive itself further out into the water, before sinking with bubbles and a hiss of steam that disappeared into the cold night air.

“Bloody hell,” he said.

It had all happened so quickly, the argument, the screams, the lorry, the crash. Seconds, that’s all.

He sat up and knew he should rush into the water, smash a window to let the water in, wrest open the car door and drag his wife to safety.

Quickly.

But hang on, he thought, I’ll just see if she gets out herself first. No point in dashing about in a panic. Might do the wrong thing entirely. Best give her time to make her own way out.

Eric glanced behind him. At the top of the embankment the road was quiet and dark. No halted lorry, no lorry driver searching madly. Mustn’t have even seen us, he thought. Or scarpered.

By now the water showed no signs of ever having been invaded. Best give her another minute, Eric thought. He patted his pocket and found his mobile. Should call an ambulance. But there’s nothing wrong with me, he said to himself. He’d better check. He confirmed he was indeed, miraculously, all right. No obvious bumps or scratches. Hardly a mark on his clothes. Phew, he thought, that could have been nasty.

Not me, he scolded himself, check for Doris. Oh yes, Doris. Better get a fire engine too, something would have to drag the car out and he didn’t fancy paying for a tow truck. That would mean searchlights and the police,  divers and onlookers.

Give her another few moments, eh?

He was generous with his timing, but eventually he knew he had to move.

“You left me Doris,” he said aloud laying the blame squarely where it belonged and listened for her riposte.  Nope, nothing. Time to get going.

They’d been on their way to seance. That’s what they did, conduct seances and talk with the dead who wanted to talk to the living. Except you can’t, of course, but as long as people thought they could that was all that mattered.

“Is there anyone here called Mark?”

“Does the name Pauline mean anything to anyone.”

“I’m getting the name Valerie.”

Hocus-bloody-pocus

It never ceased to amaze Eric how people accepted he and Doris were able to talk to the dead in the first place and even if that was believable how they could accept that as soon as you died you forgot what your second name was.

No medium ever speculated on surnames. You daren’t. You had to work with John or Jennifer and eventually everyone would be convinced the hereafter was in the room with them.

It was the best job Eric had ever had. True, it was mostly evening work, but you weren’t outside in all weathers. Apart from tonight obviously. Usually you had plenty of free time during the day.

They were a partnership Mr and Mrs Medium: We’ll Bring Out Your Dead. Hell of a slogan, Eric thought, but Doris didn’t like it.

They were good but if he didn’t get a move on soon, phone a taxi or thumb a lift, he’d be late and Eric was a stickler for punctuality. Obviously Doris hadn’t made it and he’d just have to soldier on alone.

After five minutes there didn’t seem much point in wading in but he waited ten, just in case of air pockets or something and then he scrambled up the bank, taking a last look back. Nothing. Ahh, well.

“You’ve left me for good this time, Doris,” he reiterated. No one listened, no one replied.

A taxi picked him up at a pub just around the bend. He’d even had time for a quick one, just to restore his equilibrium. Good God, he needed it after he what he’d just been through. But wait. His neighbours. Tomorrow they’d want to know where she was.

He’d look distraught as he told them. “Another man. Again. Looks like she’s left me for good this time.”

It wasn’t the perfect crime because it wasn’t really a crime at all.

Now he was on his way to a solo career and at the hall there was a good crowd, which cheered him up greatly.

He explained his wife had been taken ill and tried to look preoccupied as if something else might be troubling him, which, fair enough, it was. That was a nice car and he’d only just filled the bloody tank.

His solo debut went well. With no-one to play off with nudges and codes, secret coughs and signs, he still managed to reunite a woman with her husband, ‘dead these two years’ and a younger woman with her mother who had conked out from a heart attack. She had cried she was so grateful. He was able to pass on a message from a granddad to his granddaughter and even reassured a tearful old man his Border Collie was waiting patiently for him, ball at his feet.

To round the evening off out came a ouija board and Eric felt so pleased with himself he agreed to lead a seance. A table was cleared, an upturned glass found and six of them, including Eric, each put a forefinger on its bottom. The room fell silent out of respect for the dead.

This was the easy bit for Eric, guiding the glass without appearing to do so. It worked every time and off it set, almost, he thought casually, as if it was possessed.

It made a dash for the first letter H, it glided swiftly to the E, then forwards to the L and then the P, and Eric realised its movement had nothing to do with him. His finger was just a passenger. H-E-L-P. There was a murmur around the table, the participants looked at each other. There was drama in the room. The glass was off again, this time to the I, then A and M.

I AM, but it was already gliding across the board to the next world. Eric couldn’t tell who was steering the glass, but it was such a subtle thing how would he know. T, then R back to the A and two Ps, a reverse to the E and the D. A short pause between words – almost as if it needed to catch its breath – and it was off once more at terrific speed and Eric felt an irrational rising fear in his chest as the glass spelled out HELP. I AM TRAPPED IN THE CAR IN THE LAKE. Utter silence, but no-one could take their tear eyes away or drag their finger off the glass. Not even Eric, who could feel sweat on his forehead and around his neck; fear rose and tightened in his chest. He tried to push the glass away from the letters he knew were coming next . But the glass had made up its mind,

Y-O-U    L-E-F-T    M-E    E-R-I-C.

JEFFREY’S DEATH

JEFFREY’S DEATH

JEFFREY Cooper heard the knock – a real three-bang rasper – and opened his front door to look upon a figure hooded in a black shroud, the gaping hole at the front being so dark he could make out no facial features at all.

“Good evening,” said a voice from within the hood, a rasping voice that matched the way its owner knocked on doors, though Jeffrey could not see any movement where his mouth ought to be. “I am the Grim Reaper. Death to you, if you see what I mean.”

“Oh, hell,” said Jeff and his face fell. “I’ve been half-expecting you.”

“Oh, dear,” said the Grim Reaper, “have you not been well?”

He sounded as sympathetic as a vampire when a young maiden complains of neck ache.

“No,” admitted Jeffrey, “not really.” He was a bit whiny, was Jeffrey, but then like he said, he had not been well.

“Can I come in?” said the Grim Reaper. If a bag of rusty nails could speak then it would have the Grim Reaper’s voice.

“I suppose you’d better,” said Jeffrey and he quickly glanced up and down the street to see if his neighbours were watching. They weren’t. There were a few people out and about, busy, as people tend to be on Christmas Eve, and no-one was paying Jeffrey or his visitor any attention. Perhaps their umbrellas were obscuring the view. Cars passed by, their drivers’ focus in the constant drizzle directly on the car in front, their minds set on getting home or doing their last minute shopping. No-one glanced in their direction. Jeffrey stood aside to let the Grim Reaper pass. “Where’s your scythe?” he asked.

“Don’t ask,” said the Reaper, grimly.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” asked Jeffrey, when they reached the front room. He was unsure how to address his guest.  Grim Reaper? Death? It was the same thing really but people can be so funny about names and Jeffrey figured this was one visitor he shouldn’t upset. It wasn’t every day Death came knocking at your door. In fact, there was usually only one day Death came knocking at your door and Jeffrey had already decided his best bet now – his only bet now – was to play for time. Be polite and play for time. This was not just the eleventh hour, it was the fifty-ninth minute of the eleventh hour.

“I’m dying for a cuppa,” said Death and he chuckled mirthlessly at his own joke, as a robot might.  He sank into the leather settee, which he stroked with a skeletal hand. “I remember this cow,” he said, and then: “I remember them all. I’m not wistful, I’m just saying, that’s all. I’ll remember you, too.”

“Thanks,” said Jeffrey and went to make the tea.

He could have course have run away, bolted out of the back door and left the Grim Reaper sat in the front room twiddling his thumbs, but he had a feeling it would be useless. That wherever he ran to Death would already be there waiting.

He took in the tea on a tray. The living room was bright and cheerful with decorations and the Christmas tree in the corner twinkled with lights.

“Sugar?” he asked.

“Six,” said Death. “What the hell, make it ten or twelve. It’s not as if you’ll be needing it, or that it’ll do me any harm, is it?”

Jeffrey emptied the sugar bowl into the cup.

“It’s Christmas Day tomorrow,” said Jeffrey, thinking a change of subject might be just the thing to perk up the conversation. There was protest in his voice, too. Jeffrey loved Christmas and he did not want to be deprived of it. His wife Becky loved Christmas also. It was all planned. Their families were coming round. Wine would be drunk, food eaten, games played. It would be jolly, like Christmas was meant to be. But not if he wasn’t there. All a bit of a dampener really.

“I know, I know, death can be such a nuisance,” said the Grim Reaper. “I don’t do Christmas. Every day is the same to me. I don’t actually do time. It doesn’t exist as far as I’m concerned, though I know it is important to you. Three score years and ten and all that. How old are you Jeff?”

“Fifty five,” gulped Jeffrey and this time he could not keep the feeling he was being hard done by out of his voice. He had a present for his wife. She’d  have a present for him. They had presents for everyone. It was all organised.  Jeffrey was getting better too, everyone thought so. He fought the sudden urge to say it wasn’t fair. Instead, he took a deep breath. “So where’s your scythe, then?”

“You won’t believe it,” said the Reaper. “They’ve taken it off me. After 200,000 years, give or take. Just like that. Guess why?”

Jeffrey shrugged that he’d no idea.

“Go on Jeff,” urged the Grim Reaper. “Guess.”

Jeffrey mumbled he couldn’t imagine why.

“Health and ruddy safety.”

Death was right, Jeffrey couldn’t believe it.

“I said you wouldn’t believe it. 200,000 of your years and not a single accident. Then someone thinks I’ll start cutting people in half, like a demented magician. As if it mattered if I did and I was daft enough to say that, so then they got the idea I might actually start lopping heads off willy-nilly – and you can imagine the fuss that would cause. People getting to wherever their going years earlier than they ought: they whinge enough when a plane’s overbooked.

“I pointed out, people expect to see a scythe. Like Moses and his staff or Ken Dodd and his tickling stick. It’s a symbol.  I’m known for it. And to be honest it gives me a bit of status. I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t. A bit of respect. I’m not adverse to a bit of respect. But they insisted.

“Changes, always changes, nowadays.

“You know what they had me doing the other day, Jeff? I’ll tell you what they had me doing the other day…”  Jeffrey had the feeling Death was now just getting into his stride “…only a bloody customer relations course.

“What’s it matter? I said, all my customers are as good as dead when I meet them.”

Jeffrey  swallowed heavily. He’d drunk his tea, but his throat was dry. As good as dead…

“Do you know what they call it?,” went on the Reaper. “I’ll tell you what they call it, they call it D-Q-I. Stands for Death Quality Initiative.

“First thing they said to me: If you see someone you know, say hello, smile and call them by their name. That’s the first and the daftest. I mean, how can I know anyone? It’s not as if we could have gone out for a drink, is it Jeff? Not that I wouldn’t want to if we met under different circumstances. I’m sure you’re a nice bloke. But the thing is with me there are no different circumstances.

“Take every chance to develop your personality, they said. They missed the point, I haven’t got a personality. People like jokes, so do not be afraid to joke. Smile and show a sense of humour. I’m smiling now, I’m like a demented Cheshire cat under here. Can you tell?”

Jeffrey looked hard but he could still not make out any features. He felt a little dizzy. He sat down on the sofa, literally a few inches from Death. He began to feel tired. He really must play for time, he told himself.

“But they are very big on a sense of humour. It’s all about improving the death experience, they said, as if  it’s a ruddy theme park. People don’t want an  experience, they want to get it over with, I said. But they took no notice, said I didn’t have a choicer, so I’m giving it a go. How am I doing?”

Jeffrey said: “You’re not so grim, but you are very cynical.”

Or at least he meant to say it, and wasn’t sure if he had. The words had formed in his mind slowly, like having a great thought  just before you go to sleep, in time to see the wisdom of the thing but then it is lost forever as you fall asleep. Jeffrey was extremely tired, he was soaking up weariness like a sponge. But Death hadn’t finished yet.

“…reassure people they said. People want to know it’s all right to die, they said, and I said, all right to die? All right to die? People hate it! And do you know who I’ve got to go and see next week? I’ll tell you who I’ve got to go and see, only an empowerment and lifestyle coach, whatever that is. I nearly exploded, lifestyle, I said, lifestyle? Me? And now they are saying I’m being difficult and…”

Jeffrey’s eyes had closed without any effort on his part.

“Paperwork! They’re saying I have to provide, an evidence based structure…”

But  Jeffrey had already felt himself moving upwards, not floating, not rising, just moving and not towards the ceiling but towards a brilliant white light and he was engulfed by a feeling of love and an overwhelming sense of well being. He realised, with a little jolt of surprise, he was now dead and that it didn’t matter. Effortlessly he entered a long tunnel and the light was growing ever nearer and brighter but it didn’t hurt his eyes and in front him a world began to take shape. As he came into the light and out of it again he entered a beautiful garden of flowers and butterflies and birds, a stream burbled in the distance. There were wisps of clouds but he knew instantly they weren’t ever going to turn to rain. The sun was strong bit not overpowering and somewhere there was laughter and music and it was all so, so welcoming and then he heard a familiar voice. He recognised it instantly. It was like a bag of rusty nails.

“Paperwork! I haven’t done the paperwork!” Jeffrey looked up and a figure in a black-brown shroud loomed in front of him, blocking his view of the garden and countryside.

“Your time isn’t yet Jeff, you must return.”

“But…” said Jeffrey.

“Sorry. Well, actually I can’t feel regret, but you know what I mean. Off you go.”

“But this place, it’s so…”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s not for you. Go, same way as you came. Mind your head in   the tunnel.”

Jeffrey, dead, felt more aggrieved the Jeffrey who had just been alive. “So what was all that about?” he demanded.

“Well, they did tell me to work on my sense of humour,” said Death and chuckled as if he reached the punchline.

“A joke! A bloody joke?” exploded Jeffrey. In heaven or not, whether all was love and light or not, whether he had a sense of eternal belonging or not and that all his troubles were worldly and irrelevant, he was bloody furious. He knew he was on the verge of a rant and that it would contain all his earthly expletives, some of them twice. But instead he felt himself being gently tugged backwards towards the tunnel which he somehow knew would be there and as he looked at Death in the face he could swear he saw a shadow of a grin under the hood, as if someone had drawn a smile in black chalk on a blackboard.

“I thought I’d lost you,” said Becky, kissing Jeff again and rubbing a tear from a happy eye. She kissed him once more.

“If I hadn’t come home when I did, if the ambulance hadn’t been quick…” she squeezed his hand. “Well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“I know,” said Jeffrey as he wondered at the power of the mind to hallucinate in moments of great stress, but he could not deny he felt a great comfort now that wasn’t there before and that was not just down to being alive and being with the woman he loved.

Christmas Day in hospital was still Christmas Day and Jeffrey’s room was filled with friends and relations and it was obvious some wine had been drunk, but there joy as well as jollity around the bed. He lived and they loved him.

Soon everyone had to go and let him rest and Becky, too, kissing him once more – twice, three times – said bye. “I don’t want to go,” she said. Five times she said it before, at last, closing the door and Jeffrey was able to shut his eyes.

They flicked open as Becky’s face suddenly re-appeared around the edge of the door again. “By the way,” she asked, “who had the last of the sugar?”