The Wheeling Dipping Seagull
by
Brian Doswell
Maybe this is really two stories, I hope its one seen through two different sets of eyes?
ooooo = hers
and +++++ = his.
ooooo
I woke up at six o’clock to the sound of birdsong outside my open bedroom window. It had been a hot sultry night and even though I had slept on top of the bedclothes I felt sticky and in desperate need of a shower. Even in May, the Côte d’Azur can be oppressively hot. Sunlight dappled my bedroom wall and lit the full length mirror which reflected my naked body as I struggled to my feet. Not bad for forty, I thought, as I headed for the bathroom. I must do something with my hair this week.
Soft warm raindrops falling from the showerhead eased away the sloth of the night and I emerged feeling at least ten years younger than my real age. I have become a bit obsessive about age recently. Turning forty has proved to be more of a milestone than I would have ever imagined.
Firstly - I lost my job. I worked in the local travel agent’s for eleven years. It would be wrong to say that I loved my job and that I miss it terribly. In fact, after eleven years, I was bored to tears with the dreary people who wanted to buy the holiday of their dreams for ten euros each and blame me for not being able to deliver. I got the blame for airline strikes, hurricanes in the West Indies and building works on the Grand Canal in Venice, you name it! Miss it? Not a bit.
Secondly - I inherited a fortune. Well almost. In fact I inherited an apartment and a bit short of fifty thousand euros from my aunt. I suppose I was her favourite but then, as her only niece, that was sort of inevitable. She never married and nor have I, so we often shared a spinster’s view of the world over a cup of tea. She had a variety of boyfriends when she was young and some of her stories made amazing X-rated listening. One thing that we both agreed on was that somewhere after thirty you become past your sell-by date. All the right sort of men are suddenly married. All your best girl-friends are married or in long-term relationships. Your availability becomes a bit of a threat to their stability and invitations to their parties start to fade away, to be replaced by invitations to be their baby-sitter.
On reflection, work . . . sort of took over. I suppose that I let myself drift into a cosy routine running my office, calling in on my aging aunt and pottering around my own rented apartment. It is so easy to let your life slip away when there is no one else around to stop you. Suddenly ten years go by and you have not moved on one iota.
+++++
It was 10:30 on the morning of Wednesday 3rd May. I remember the time and date so precisely because that was when I saw her.
I don’t usually go to the beach much in the height of the summer. It’s far too busy and I’m really not that keen on the tourist crowds that spread themselves over the town like a big fluffy duvet. Very comforting, but you can’t breathe under it. On the other hand, either side of the tourist season, the beach is a great place to be and I try to go each day for a regular dose of physical exercise. I carry an idealistic picture in my mind of a long empty stretch of brilliant white crystalline sand with the water lapping lazily along the narrow ribbon of seaweed that marks the place where the land joins the sea. In my world the sun is always shining and, with the possible exception of the wheeling dipping seagulls, all is quiet and peaceful.
She was sitting in a circle with four or five other women and surrounded by a veritable palisade of bags, towels and inflatable toys. At least a dozen children played around the huddle and, much as I hate crowds, I was drawn to the way the children played together as a group. I smiled inwardly at the image of a besieged wagon train surrounded by whooping wild Indians. The children were really quite well behaved, not loud at all. There were no apparent tantrums nor were there any accidents needing instant doses of tender loving care. My little chicks have long since flown the nest and, as a retired widower, I can sit here on the beach on a Wednesday morning any time I want.
I found myself watching the women in the group. They were just out of earshot but I imagined a conversation, exchanging gossip the way we all do in such small friendly gatherings. She struck me as being especially animated and appeared to command the attention of her friends with extravagant gestures and occasional tossing of her long chestnut brown hair. I settled myself on the sand with my head angled so that while I might appear to be dozing, I could keep watching her.
ooooo
It was the middle of last week when I phoned an old friend to see what she was up to. The kids were off school and, with the sun shining, we decided on a trip to the beach. We met up with a couple of other mums on the way and ended up as half a dozen, surrounded by at least a dozen kids. I gather that if you get enough kids together in one pile they amuse each other and you can spend the morning nattering. It seemed to work although the nattering was solely about babies, wet wipes and the price of washing powder. I worked as hard as I know how to get their intellectual juices flowing but to no avail. These were my old friends who used to be ready to slay dragons and smash glass ceilings, now they barely managed to cope with recycling used plastic bags.
My eyes searched the beach for anything more interesting than a wet wipe, and that’s when I saw him. He was on his own. I guessed that he was a bit older than me but in pretty good shape, good tan, nice bum. Stretched out on a towel about ten meters away, he appeared to be snoozing. However, as I began to watch more closely, I became convinced that he was pretending to sleep but actually watching us. The more I looked, the more I became convinced that he was particularly watching me. One of auntie’s favourite lines came to mind, ‘Teeth and tits dear’, she used to say, ‘that’s what men like.’ I smiled a little more broadly and straightened my back in the hope that he would notice. None of my girl-friends did.
Something inside me wanted to go over and introduce myself to him. I had no idea what to say, but the idea lingered. Twice I almost did it. Twice my courage let me down. I almost got to my feet when he was up and running into the sea, as though he knew I was coming. Within minutes he was pounding up and down in the surf like a man possessed. If I could swim I might have gone in after him and contrived to literally bump into him, but I can’t, so I didn’t.
He was still thrashing up and down in the water when the girls called time and started to pack up the truck-load of toys and towels that appear to be mandatory with kids on the beach. It took ages to gather everything while I stood idly by with my one towel and tube of sun cream. Eventually there was nothing left but sand and the troop headed for their cars. It was then that I noticed his towel carefully anchored with a large pebble at each corner. I’ve no idea why I casually picked up his towel and tossed it over my shoulder as I left the beach. There was no great master plan, no cunning plot, merely a silly impulse.
+++++
I have a pretty good suntan, but I know that lying still on the sand with the sun on my back for too long is daft; it was time for my swim. I had left everything save my towel in the car; there was nothing of value to guard. I swam, as I almost always do, for about ten minutes before turning back to the spot where my towel lay on the sand. When my wife was alive we would often stay in the water for ages, just enjoying the freedom of moving together in three dimensions. That was three, no, nearer four years ago. Since then, swimming has become a solo activity. Now my partners are the fluttering silver fish that scuttle to and fro in the shallow water and the seagulls. To be more precise, there is one large white seagull that I’m sure I recognise. It has a small black streak just above its left eye, a bit like a raised admonishing eyebrow, especially when it tilts its head towards me, a bit like my wife used to when she thought that I had over-stepped the mark. It’s probably just a coincidence but I aim for the same place on the beach each day and so, I’m sure, does the seagull. I sometimes think that being alone on the beach has made me more alert to the little things around me, things I never noticed when my wife was with me. Sometimes I talk to the seagull. The seagull just watches.
I swam back into the shallows and hauled myself up out of the water into the warm sunshine, keen to indulge myself with an invigorating scrub with my towel. Warm sandy towelling is almost as good as having your best friend scratch your back and I relish the moment as part of a long established ritual, but on that Wednesday morning, when I reached my spot, my towel had gone.
ooooo
That afternoon was agony. I sat on my kitchen stool looking at his towel neatly folded on the kitchen table. I felt really stupid. The only possibility was to return to the beach and apologise for being a complete idiot.
The next morning I was on the beach a little after nine, hair up nice and tidy and wearing my favourite floral bikini. I have had it for years but I only wear it on special occasions because it is a bit skimpier than I would normally like, especially at my age. I could not be sure if he would come or if I was anywhere close to where we had been yesterday. I could only wait. I settled down to read my book.
An hour or so later he arrived and spread a towel on the sand. He was further away than yesterday but I was sure that it was him. I waited for him to settle, rehearsing what I was going to say. He looked towards me and then away again. Did he recognise me? A cloud of butterflies churned inside my stomach, it was not too late to run away.
He seemed to be watching a seagull; more than that, he was actually talking to it. The seagull came and went a couple of times and then landed and strutted along the sand towards him. I always thought of birds as timid creatures, it was almost as though this one knew him. It pecked at some seaweed and tossed bits towards him, playing some sort of game. He was engrossed with the gull, so I decided to take the bull by the proverbial horns and introduce myself. Somehow it was easier to cross the distance between us while he was not watching.
+++++
I suppose that I am a creature of habit. I always have the same thing for breakfast and I always leave the house at ten for my morning swim. I know that this routine is nonsense but it helps me to get through an otherwise lonely day. By ten thirty I was in my usual spot, eager to enjoy a few minutes of sunshine before the toe in the water stuff. It seemed as though there were fewer people on the beach that day, in fact my nearest neighbour was at least ten metres away. She sat, leaning against a folding beach chair, engrossed in a book. I was almost certain that it was her. She was on her own and, without the company of yesterday around her there was no animated conversation or gestures. Her hair was different. I fiddled around with my towel, nailing it firmly to the sand with a selection of extra large pebbles before settling down to get the sun on my back. I looked again towards the woman but she did not look back. She must be someone else. ‘C’est la vie.’
My wheeling dipping seagull arrived on cue, landed a few metres away and walked awkwardly along the sand towards me while I lay with my head cradled in the soft pillow of my elbow, watching and wondering how close it would come. I tried to stay as still as possible so as not to scare the bird away, but I sensed that it was not frightened of me. I wondered if seagulls were smart enough to recognise people or, more specifically, if this one actually knew me. Some of the bolder gulls have been known to steal ice creams from the hands of bemused children, but this was not one of those. She, I’m sure it’s a she, pecked once or twice at a remnant of seaweed, and then flicked small twigs of driftwood at me while twisting her head, a jet black eye glowering beneath an arched eyebrow. Then, with a languid stretch of her wings, she leapt effortlessly into the air, swooped low over my head and was gone.
ooooo
I padded silently, barefoot on the sand which perhaps explains why he did not hear me approach. On the other hand, the wretched seagull was not about to risk my arrival and decided to take to the air. I did not realise just how big seagulls are until this one flew straight at me as though she was warning me off. I suppose I ducked as the bird flew low over my head.
He half sat up and then saw me standing or, more correctly, bending over him. In complete surprise, he somehow managed to collapse into my legs. I tried to move but only succeeded in standing on his hand and then I think I kicked his head before totally losing my balance. It only took an instant but we ended up in a pile on the sand in much closer contact than I had originally planned.
+++++
I rolled over to follow the flight of the gull and found myself looking up into a towering female silhouette holding what I later came to realise was my lost towel. It was one of those moments when everything goes wrong. I had been totally absorbed in the seagull and completely unaware of anyone approaching silently, barefoot on the sand. In my moment of panic it was as though I had totally lost all concept of physical coordination. I tried to sit up but when I moved my hand to lever myself up, it landed on her foot, and so I moved it again, but now I was off-balance and I collapsed awkwardly against her naked leg. My face slid down the soft skin of her calf until it met the sand at her heel. I remember clearly the sweet perfume of suntan Factor 5 every centimetre of that slide.
In falling to my left, my right arm swung involuntarily up in the air at the precise instant that she bent over me. I swear that I had absolutely no idea of where her bikini top was at any time, but somehow my hand and the flimsy floral cloth connected. I continued to fall while she recoiled in surprise. The inevitable happened and the floral cloth parted company with a snapping sound that is now firmly embedded in my long term memory. The whole incident could not have taken more than a split second yet that very same memory retains a slow motion, frame-by-frame, record of each tiny instant.
She moved backwards to regain her balance and stood on my head which by now was virtually under her heel anyway. My face dug even deeper into the sharp gritty sand while she somehow managed to twist such that she fell on top of me. I flailed my arms again. I’m not sure if I was protecting myself or trying to save her fall but the end result was an embarrassing mess of arms and legs in an extremely intimate tangle.
If anything like that has ever happened to you, you will know that what follows is a long silence during which neither party moves, for fear of inadvertently touching the other, for fear of being misunderstood.
She was on top of me and obliged to make the first move which involved dragging her soft warm exposed breasts across my chest and sitting upright before moving any further. Fortunately the towel lay on the sand beside us and she was able to wrap it around her while struggling to her feet.
“Are you OK?”
ooooo
“I think so. How about you?”
We both started to apologise. I faltered, totally forgetting the string of witty comments I’d been rehearsing for the last hour, as I peeled my sun-oiled skin away from his. Only then did I realise that my bikini top was on the sand and not on me.
If I made a fuss I might lose the chance to strike up a conversation. This was the beach, topless sunbathing is very common around here. I had to pretend this was no big deal. Fortunately, I still had his towel in my hand. I held it up strategically while we swapped more inane comments. I explained about taking his towel by mistake and was about to offer it to him when I remembered why I was clutching it so tightly.
Quick decision: I handed him the towel and bent down to pick up my bikini top which I put back on as gracefully as I could in the circumstances.
I realised that he was watching me closely, which was what I wanted - wasn’t it? ‘Teeth and tits.’ echoed in my mind. I smiled and made just a bit more fuss than necessary as I adjusted myself into the bra cups, hoping that he would be the first to break the silence that had descended upon us.
+++++
“Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“You first.”
“No you.”
“I’m sorry”, she said again, “I took your towel home yesterday, by mistake, and came back this morning hoping to see you and return it.” She started to hand back the towel but then remembered why it was wrapped around her body.
I waved a hand, confident now that I had regained control of my errant limbs.
“No – please, keep it as long as you need.”
“There’s no need”, she said, bending to retrieve her bikini top. “Just give me a moment.”
Unashamed, she handed me the towel and replaced the flowery bikini top easing each breast into its cup with a practised hand.
I thanked her for returning the towel, it was a kind thought. It seemed obvious that the towel had been picked up with the palisade of bits and pieces, a simple mistake, no harm done.
What does one say at a time like that? “I was going to swim, would you care to join me?” God, I sounded so old-fashioned. Was that the best line that I could manage?
She nodded and we turned towards the water. Oddly, we both paused at the water’s edge and waved the obligatory testing toe at the surf before taking those silly knee-raising steps into the shallow water. I shall never understand why everybody does that when they know that they are going to get wet anyway.
ooooo
He said something about swimming and made a dash for sea. I followed him to the water’s edge but I don’t swim so I just stood there, kicking at the waves, while he plunged into the water. He called out to me and when I told him that I can’t swim, he immediately suggested that we go to the beach café for coffee instead.
I think that was when I realised that the butterflies had gone. I was back on my own ground, he did fancy me.
+++++
At knee depth, I dived forwards and started a brisk crawl into deeper water. After a few energetic strokes I looked over my shoulder only to see that she had stayed close to the shore line and was hugging her chest the way women sometimes do at the water’s edge. The action seemed strangely unnecessary considering her previous total exposure.
“Actually I can’t swim.” She mumbled the words as though she really did not want me to know, but I caught every syllable.
I made my way back to her side, “A coffee then; I must thank you for returning my towel.” At last I had managed to say something sensible.
She nodded, “Yes, I’d like that.” We turned to plod up the warm sand to gather our respective belongings. I picked up yesterday’s lost towel, eager to start the invigorating scrubbing process, but then I caught a hint of Factor 5 on the cloth and decided to save the moment. I used the other towel instead.
ooooo
We gathered our things and met at the top of the beach. I’m sure I saw him pressing the towel to his face as though he were breathing my perfume on the soft cloth. His car was parked just a few spaces from mine and we changed into shorts and t-shirts in our respective cars before meeting again on the pathway. I had worn my bikini instead of a bra and pants under my shorts and vest but now the catch on my bikini top was distinctly dodgy and I decided to leave it in the car; not my normal style but this was not a normal day.
We sat in the sunshine and ordered coffee. I ordered a croissant and then wished that I hadn’t when those inevitable loose flakes of pastry fell into my braless cleavage. I brushed some crumbs onto the floor and a seagull wandered by, grubbing at the debris. It looked like the one that I had just seen on the beach but then all seagulls look the same to me. It was just that this one was a little too close to my ankles and I suddenly felt as though it was more likely to peck at me rather than the pastry.
We chatted about all sorts of trivia and I began to genuinely like this man. He was indeed a few years older than me but he had a kind face and he really seemed to like me, which was a feeling that I was beginning to enjoy. I could feel my loneliness drifting away. I smiled as much as I could and twitched at my cotton vest. In my mind I could still hear auntie’s voice repeating, almost audibly, ‘Teeth and tits, Dear, teeth and tits’.
+++++
We changed in the privacy of our cars before meeting again on the nearby path. I remember rushing to be changed first so that she would not have to wait for me, and then going back to fold my lost towel neatly to preserve the Factor 5 for as long as possible.
We sat at a white marble top table in the sunshine outside a beach café. I ordered coffee and she asked for a croissant. I had one too. We did not talk much at first, just little inoffensive sparring questions. “Do you live nearby?” “Do you come here often?” Did I really say that? Flakes of golden brown pastry broke from her croissant and nestled enticingly between her breasts. I longed to brush them away and struggled to stop my gaze following them down into her t-shirt.
Her eyes flicked down to the wedding ring that I still wear. I pretended not to notice but answered her unspoken question anyway by explaining that I was widowed and that I lived alone just a few minutes outside the town. I wanted to tell her more but it was too much, too soon. She did not wear a ring nor did she volunteer her side of that coin. I did not ask, but I did gather that none of yesterday’s children were hers.
We sat together through an hour of rambling conversation, exchanging a multitude of trivia, titbits of information, nothing significant, nothing important, nothing that either of us might later regret. I loved the way her teeth sparkled when she smiled and her casual way of throwing her shoulders back that stretched the soft fabric of her t-shit across her nipples.
A waiter drifted by and asked if we would like the lunch menu. I said yes, perhaps too quickly, hoping to commit her to another hour with me. I was beginning to enjoy her company and found myself desperately wanting her to stay. She agreed, perhaps too quickly, and we both relaxed as if this was the start of our first deliberately intentional meeting, a sort of date, if people still use that expression.
We ordered salads with a pichet of chilled rosé. We drank the wine but neither of us finished our food; we were talking too much. Our conversation was still at a cocktail party level but it seemed more and more as though our voices were providing the medium for an intimate contact that we dared not otherwise attempt in public.
When the bill arrived we both reached for it at the same time, her hand landed on top of mine. There was just the slightest hint of unnecessary pressure in her fingers, not a familiar squeeze but enough to tell me that she was not about to run away. I used a salt cellar as a paper-weight to hold some notes on top of the bill in its little tin tray and we left.
ooooo
Coffee became lunch and by the time we had finished lunch we were chatting like old friends, it seemed so natural to reach for his hand as we strolled back along the path to the car park. I thanked him for lunch, I didn’t want the day to end there but my confidence was thin, I desperately needed some feedback from him. My fingers entwined with his, rubbing inadvertently against his wedding ring. I thought about his loss and instantly regretted having touched the gold band. I felt a stiffness in his fingers and our hands fell apart.
+++++
We walked slowly, side by side, with nowhere to go and in no hurry to get there. A few steps further along the sea front path her fingers linked into mine.
“Thank you for lunch”, her voice soft and feminine, her face half turned away from me as though she wanted to hide any sign of emotion. I squeezed the entwined fingers; it seemed an equally meaningful answer. Our hands stayed linked for a few more steps and then parted. Our conversation dried, maybe we did not need words, maybe just being together was enough.
A large white seagull sat on the wall that divided our path from the beach. It was as though she was waiting for me. When she saw us together she leapt majestically into the air and swooped repeatedly over us as we walked, slowly, wordlessly towards the car park, neither touching nor apart. I was sure that this was the same bird that had been with me on the sand and I looked for that raised, admonishing eyebrow. Was she actually following me around?
ooooo
The seagull reappeared, swooping in front of us as we walked, as though it was trying to shoo me away. When we got to my car the gull was there too. It dipped once more and he put his hand up to protect us from the beating wings. Sunlight reflected off the gold ring on his finger and I sensed this was the end of my adventure.
+++++
I knew it was a wasted gesture but at least I tried to scare away the persistent bird. I flailed an arm at the thing and it turned its head enough for me to see a pure white face; no quizzical eyebrow, no familiar markings, just another seaside pest.
For a brief instant our faces came close and I wondered?
She seemed to hesitate. Doubt clouded her eyes as she ducked into her car and started the engine. I watched her reverse out of the space and turn her car towards the exit.
I lifted my right arm to wave goodbye - right arm - right hand - no ring. I realised that I did not know her name. I needed to catch her before she left. I sprinted towards the exit where she was waiting for the automatic barrier to lift. Breathless, I banged a fist on the side of her car and she rolled down her window.
“Will you have dinner with me tonight? Somewhere up in the hills, away from these bloody seagulls.”
ooooo
“I’d love to.” I thought he’d never ask. “I’ll meet you here at 7:30, I know a smashing place ‘up in the hills’. Trust me, there’s not a seagull in sight, you’ll love it. And, you can call me Sylvie, if you tell me your name.”
+++++
“David.”
I watched her little Clio race away along the beach road. I had not dared hope for her answer and now, “I’d love to.” rang in my ears like sweet music.
I repeated the name Sylvie over and over, as I turned back towards my car, fighting down the urge to punch the air and yell something meaningless at the top of my voice. The car park was almost empty, my car sat alone and obvious in its space as though all of the other cars had sidled away from the one with the enormous white seagull-splat on the front windscreen.
I was polished up, car washed and parked at 7:15; too soon really. Too much time to wait and ponder on life - love - and all that stuff. She must be at least fifteen years younger than me; surely this was just going to be a pleasant evening and farewell. I glanced in the rear-view mirror at the grey wings in my hair, had I overdone the aftershave? Behind me in the reflected panorama, the wide expanse of blue Mediterranean Sea was masked by a brand-new, slow-running white splat on the rear window.
ooooo
All the available men in my world are either gay or divorced. David, nice name David, very biblical, a bit on the older side, but interesting, and seems to come without too much baggage. I’ve got most of the afternoon to pamper myself; I’ll start with a long lazy bath, and do my legs. Aunt Jen used to tell me that a girl should spend as much time on herself as she can, because if she doesn’t, no one else will. I’m sure she was right but then, I can’t really imagine anyone else wanting to do my legs anyway.
For me, hot foamy bathwater is always a bit soporific and I tend to drift off into dreamland when I get the chance. Actually, I get too many chances these days since I no longer have a job to go to. Today I fancy communing with Aunt Jen. What would she say to me if we were sitting together over a cup of tea? Head says, decide where you want to go before you start out, but that horse usually falls at the first fence. Heart says go with the flow - perhaps a bit too bold on the first date?
I must remember to do the other leg before I nod off.
Oh God, its half past six and I haven’t decided what to wear.
+++++
There’s a cloth in the boot, plenty of time to clean the back window before she arrives.
The cloth is as dry as dust and stiff as a board. I try the rear screen washer but it just spreads the white stuff further round. Now, it’s drying into great ridges that just won’t budge.
ooooo
My strappy floral print with the full floaty skirt will have to do, at least it’s ironed. Matching bra and pants, I always feel good in posh undies. Strappy sandals to match. Ready.
Aunt Jen always said a girl should arrive at least ten minutes late. If he’s still waiting it’s because he wants to. If he’s gone it saves you all the bother of deciding what to do about him later.
It’s only 7:45 - plenty of time.
+++++
Even with all of the windows open, it’s still warm in the car. I can feel my shirt sticking to the leather seat; so much for crisply ironed shirts on an evening like this. I can’t stop thinking about the events of the last two days. It was so kind of her to go out of her way to return my towel. All that business with her bikini was a bit embarrassing, but she didn’t seem to mind. And lunch. I can’t remember when I had lunch with such a fine pair of . . . .distractions.
Immediately I regret the thought. I have been out socially, in company, loads of times since my wife died, but this will be the first time with someone special. I’m not sure what it is about Sylvie but from the first sight of her hair, her manner, her style, I knew she would be special.
The dashboard clock ticks past the half hour. I did not expect her to be here on the dot. My wife was never ready on time, even when she started the day before. The car park is still fairly empty, except for a small gathering of seagulls pecking at crumbs blown in on the breeze. I’m becoming a bit of an expert on seagulls. Most of them seem to be like the cat that curiosity killed. They have to check everything that might be vaguely edible, especially the stubbed ends of filter tipped cigarettes. It amuses me how they pick things up and then toss their heads to throw it away when they could just leave things where they are. I look for my seagull with the eyebrow but the flock are too far away. I look down at the dashboard again barely a minute has passed. I look up and there is a seagull standing on the bonnet of the car. Its head is cocked to the right and a piercing black jewel of an eye glowers at me from beneath a single streaky black eyebrow.
ooooo
I ease my little green Clio out into the traffic and head for the beach car park. It’s going to be a warm evening, I can tell because I’m feeling sticky already. Did I remember a splash of deodorant? Did I do my underarms? Too late now, I’m really out of practice at this sort of thing. I’ve had the Clio for years. I flirted with the idea of trading it in for a new one with the help of Aunt Jen’s legacy but, when it came to the day, I couldn’t bear to part with her.
The entrance to the car park is off a small roundabout. There’s a barrier which pops up when you get close enough but you need to know where it is because the council gardeners have planted bushes all round it and it’s easy to hit the kerb stones, especially if you’re late and going a bit too quickly, which I’m certainly not.
I’ve been caught before so I was being extra careful when a large white bird launched itself out of the bushes and screeched like a banshee as it crossed in front of my windscreen. I swear I barely touched the kerb but the car lurched as I instinctively ducked, inside the car, to avoid the bird. It was there and gone in an instant. The barrier swung upwards and I drove over to where David was parked.
+++++
My pulse raced when I saw the Clio come round the bushes by the entrance. So what if it was almost eight o’clock, she had come. “How like a woman driver to cut diagonally across the empty lanes of parking spaces towards me.” I could forgive her anything but I couldn’t help noticing how the whole car leaned to the left.
“Sylvie,” I spoke her name for the first time, “Do you know that you have a flat tyre?”
We stood together, side by side, looking at the wheel, as if our combined gaze would, by some magic, repair the problem and re-inflate the tyre.
“You must have a spare in the boot.” I looked again at the age of the car and decided the question was not as daft as it sounded. If there was a spare tyre, it was probably as flat as this one.
“Of course. I think so.” Sylvie moved to the back of the car and opened the boot.
Wheel changing is a strictly male pursuit and my Sir Galahad act was a welcome chance to return the lost towel favour. The spare wheel and a full set of tools sat in the specially designed space under the carpet. It seemed so easy, change the wheel now before the sun goes down, and all will be well when we get back to the car park later on.
I spun the first three wheel nuts off with the simple elegance of a race-car pit crew. The fourth was a little more reluctant. The fifth one would not budge. I even tried jumping on the wrench but the stupid thing resisted every effort.
I have a few tools in the boot of my car and a can of oil. A splash of two of oil should loosen the nut and – job done.
Sylvie watched as I laboured. An uneasy silence settled over us as her car resisted my struggles. I could sense her guilty feeling and laughed about the whole thing.
“There’s always one that sticks.” It was intended to be a light-hearted, reassuring aside, but as I turned my head to smile at her, my hand slipped off the wrench and hit the concrete, leaving a fair chunk of skin on the ground. It hurt like hell, but I smiled like a true Sir Galahad should. It was the streak of blood that I wiped across the front of my shirt that really annoyed me. Moreover, I brushed my hair out of my eyes when I stood up and managed to implant a streak of war paint across my forehead.
Sylvie groped inside her car for a box of tissues and started tearing them off by the handful. I wrapped a pile around the grazed knuckle and continued the forced smile. She spat on one folded tissue and wiped my brow. It was a delightfully intimate moment, the pain went away immediately.
Oddly enough the force of the action had been enough to move the wrench and the last nut began to loosen. Changing the wheel was now a simple matter. The élan of pit crew returned and, in a few minutes, the Clio was back on four wheels. I carefully packed the tool-kit away in the boot and wiped the blood and oil off my hands with another wedge of fragrant tissues.
“David, I’m so sorry to have caused all this trouble. Thank you so much for helping me.” She took my injured hand in hers and the softness of her touch felt like magic. I could have stayed there, holding her hand, for hours. Our eyes met, locked across the blood stained tissue while she reached out and slammed the boot lid closed.
ooooo
I felt so foolish. I must have hit the kerb harder than I thought. If only that seagull had not frightened me, I’m sure I would have been OK.
David is such a sweetie. Lots of men I know would have made some rude comment about ‘women drivers’. He just rolled up his sleeves and got on with it. I could see he was struggling with the wheel nuts but there was no way I could help him. Men can be a bit tricky when they are being macho and I did not really know him well enough to interfere. He was grunting a lot and I wanted to say something encouraging but when I leaned forward his hand slipped off the tool thing and whacked onto the floor. If it had been me I’m sure I would have said something a bit rude but David just smiled as the blood poured from his grazed knuckle.
Suddenly I was on my home ground, Florence Nightingale, fully equipped with a box of tissues and a heart full of tender loving care. I think that he took more notice of the tissues than the TLC.
Somehow he managed to smear blood and oil across his forehead. I pulled out another tissue and wet it with my tongue before wiping the stain off his face. His eyes softened and I felt a real maternal urge well up inside. I half hoped he would cry so I could cuddle him and kiss it all better.
Macho man won out. David finished changing the wheel accompanied by lots of sage advice about where to get the tyre repaired and the wisdom of doing it as soon as the garages opened in the morning, as if I didn’t realise the importance of having a spare tyre. When my Clio was back on her little feet, David packed the bits back into the boot making sure that every piece went back into its proper little hole. I suppose all boys like the game of fitting the blocks into the spaces. I think now that I might have still felt a bit guilty but when he finished, I slammed the boot closed without looking.
That might have gone unnoticed but I managed to catch the hem of my dress in the damn thing and when I turned around the tearing sound rent the air as loud and unmistakable as could be. The side seam of the skirt simply unravelled from the hem to the waist.
I tried to clutch the material together but somehow that never works the way you think it will. Every handful caught on one side, merely pulled away from the other. Honestly it was never my intention for David to enjoy the sight of my best Victoria’s Secret panties, especially in daylight and in the car park. I could not begin to think what might be going through his mind. We had hardly met each other and there was almost nothing left of me that he had not seen.
+++++
The ripping noise was like gunfire. I turned back towards her, to see Sylvie frantically pulling at her dress that had stuck in the closed boot lid. Her face was the colour of beetroot but her legs were beautiful. We needed to find the car key to unlock the boot and free the trapped cloth. Sylvie wanted to look for the key but of course she could not move very far without tearing more of the material. She must have had the key to open the boot to find the spare wheel. It had to be somewhere nearby. The more she struggled, the more the dress came apart. I have to admit, the desire to stand back and enjoy the scene was truly difficult to resist but that would have been really unfair.
In the end she stood close to the boot lid clutching the cloth around her while I searched for the key. It was nowhere. I honestly looked everywhere, inside, outside, underneath and in every pocket. The key had disappeared.
ooooo
I have to say that David is a real gent. I knew that he was desperately close to bursting into laughter but he managed to keep a straight face while he crawled around the car park looking for the key while I could only stand and watch.
I had the key in my hand when I opened the boot to get the spare tyre out. I searched the depths of my memory . . . .
- Key in hand.
- Key in lock.
- Key back in handbag.
- Handbag in boot.
- Oh shit!
“David, I think I know where the key is.”
+++++
I could just about hear her voice from under the car. I tried hard to avoid the sharp edges of the exhaust pipe as I slid out from under the Clio.
“Thank goodness, where is it?”
Her face turned towards the locked boot, she did not need to say the words.
I stayed where I was, spread out in the dust on the concrete surface of the car park, collapsed in uncontrollable fits of laughter. The whole thing had such a total air of farce about it; no script writer could have planned such total mayhem. I suppose she had expected me to be cross and when I wasn’t, she relaxed and saw the funny side of it too.
Our first thought was to bundle her into my car, go back to her apartment to fetch a spare key but, her door key was on the same key-ring. Not our best idea. The only solution was for her to slip out of what was left of her dress and hide in my car while I tried to take the back seat out of the Clio and retrieve her handbag from inside the car.
If I had been a real gentleman I would have turned my back while she made the dash to my car, but then, it was all a bit too late to change the pattern of our brief relationship. I have to say that matching underwear, as skimpy as that, looks so much better on a real body than it does in shop windows.
Fortunately the Clio is built to come apart if required. A screwdriver and bit of a yank on the rear headrests and the seat back folded down revealing the handbag, exactly as promised. I pushed the seat back into place and strolled over to my car. There was no point in being coy. I slid into my seat and passed Sylvie her handbag. It seemed pretty obvious that we were going nowhere tonight, me in my oily, blood-stained clothes and Sylvie in almost no clothes at all.
“I suggest that I retrieve what’s left of your dress. We drive in convoy to your place. You get something else to wear and then we go and get a pizza.”
ooooo
“Why don’t we pick up a pizza on the way to my place, and stay there.”
+++++
Feeling like a schoolboy about to lose his virginity, I drove diagonally across the neatly painted lines of the car park towards the exit barrier where a seagull sat, perched on the red and white striped barrier. Unafraid of the car, the bird simply paraded up and down the length of the barrier, its head tilted at an angle. The machine swallowed my parking ticket but the barrier refused to open.
I opened the car window and keyed the help button on the pillar beside the barrier. A tired metallic voice asked if we needed help.
I explained.
The voice suggested that I give the barrier a push, “. . . because it sometimes sticks.”
I got out of the car and pushed the barrier as directed. As if by magic, it moved and the seagull squawked as it hopped off the pole onto an adjacent bush. I swear, the damn bird was laughing at me.
ooooo
I would like to say I felt safe in the confines of my own little Clio but there was virtually no way I could keep the remnants of my dress around my body and drive at the same time. The strappy top still hung from my shoulders but the rest of my dress insisted on falling apart in every direction. Hey ho! It was too late now, I’d stepped over the line, I’d invited David to my place, knowing I was about to arrive there in my underwear. Somehow the thought began to excite me as I followed his car across the car park to the barrier.
I waved to him in the hope that he would see me in his rear-view mirror but the back window of his car was so dirty I suppose he couldn’t see out at all.
It occurred to me that he did not know where I lived so at some point I would have to overtake his car and take the lead. He seemed to be waiting ages for the barrier to open and I was about to get out to tell him about me leading when he leapt out of his car and attacked the seagull that was sitting on the barrier. He had seemed such a nice guy, could I have been mistaken, was he really the violent type?
+++++
I pulled in on the side of the road to wait for Sylvie’s car to emerge from the car park. I occurred to me that I had no idea where she lived but, as we planned to pick up a pizza on the way, we could sort that out when we stopped. I checked my rear-view mirror but the window was still smeared with seagull splat, so I could see nothing at all. I did see my own oil-smeared face in the glass. I looked like a mechanic after a hard day in the garage. I couldn’t resist the temptation to scrub at the greasy smear on my forehead and while scrubbing, from the corner of my eye, I noticed a green flash pass me at a hundred miles per hour. Like a fool, I gunned my throttle intending to catch her and stalled the engine. By the time I restarted the engine she was gone, and I had no idea where.
There are five pizza places in town. It can’t be that difficult. I would do a slow tour of each one and our paths would be bound to cross somewhere along the way. I’d know that green colour anywhere.
ooooo
I can’t imagine where I missed him. As I drove round the bushes beside the car-park exit, the road was empty. How could he do this to me? Perhaps he thought I was too forward. After all, I had wound my near-naked sun-oiled body all over him on the beach and then virtually stripped off in the car-park. I guess I could forgive him for thinking that I was verging on desperate. I drove round the block twice but there was no sign of his car. I was certain that I knew what I was looking for, it was a silver grey Mercedes, or it might have been an Audi. But it was definitely silver and covered in seagull splat.
My stomach rumbled reminding me that I was hungry. I remembered the pizza idea and it occurred to me that there are only five pizza places in town. It can’t be that difficult. I would do a slow tour of each one and our paths would be bound to cross somewhere along the way. I’d know that silver grey colour anywhere.
+++++
The three most popular pizza shops are all on the same ‘down-town’ end of the beach road. One is in the centre of town and the last one is out by the junction of the dual carriageway. The round trip takes seven minutes, I know I’ve done it four times already without a sign of a green Clio anywhere. I did get a passing glimpse of a green Clio on the opposite lane of the dual carriageway but it was gone too quickly to be sure if it was her.
I guess she has given up on me. She must be thinking that I’m too old for her. Not her type, perhaps? Perhaps she thinks it’s my fault that her clothes get ripped off every time I meet her.
It’s past nine o’clock and I’m getting hungry. I cruise slowly along the beach road aware that the “working girls” who hang out on the strip are beginning to arrive for their evening shift. I have passed some of them three times now and I dare not do it again in case I get arrested for kerb-crawling.
I stop at my favourite pizza place and order a medium Hawaiian with extra pineapple. It is a sticky topping but I like the fruity chunks.
I wait by the open door while the pizza cooks, hoping to spot the Clio, reluctant to give up on the evening but resigned to eating alone.
The pizza man calls out my name and I pay at the desk before carrying the box to my car. I’m starving and the warm smell of pineapple juice is too much to resist. I set the open box on the passenger seat and tuck into the first slice. Stringy cheese clings to my chin and I wipe it off with the back of my hand. There’s a handkerchief in my trouser pocket but it’s difficult to extract while sitting in the car. I twist round to give myself more room and a chunk of pineapple slides off the pizza onto my shirt front, and I really don’t care. I scrape it off and shovel it into my mouth ignoring the dribble of juice that stays on my cheek.
ooooo
I stop on the beach road outside my favourite pizza shop and do the best I can to restore the tattered remains of my dress before getting out of my car. It’s getting late and I’m grateful that the light is fading, I don’t want to be confused with the young girls who work the streets around here, getting arrested for soliciting would be the last straw after the evening so far.
I love the rich tomato topping on pizza. It reminds me of warm sunny days on the beaches in Italy. I order anchovy with extra tomato and wait in a quiet booth for it to be ready. I keep my arms folded across my chest to keep my dress together and I manage quite well until it’s time to pay and then I don’t have enough hands to cope with everything at once. The spotty youth at the cash desk gives me too much change but I reckon he is just paying for the side show and exit the shop as quickly as I can.
I’m carrying the hot pizza box towards my car when I spot a dirty silver grey Mercedes parked three in front of my Clio. How come I didn’t see it when I arrived? It has to be the same car; how many Mercedes are there in town, covered in seagull splat?
The pizza box is beginning to burn my hand but I’m determined to see if it is David who is sitting the car so I walk along the road and knock on the window. The window glass is a bit steamy but as it rolls down I see a face I barely recognise. It is David but he’s covered in some kind of goo.
He says my name in a kind, questioning way as though he didn’t expect it to be me. I nod, “David I’m so glad I found you. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
The window is now fully open and I lean forward, that same old maternal feeling is urging me to wipe the cheese strings from his chin. I reach towards him and my steaming hot, freshly cooked, anchovy and extra tomato pizza slides out of its box through the open window and into his lap.
+++++
The knock on the window scares me but I have my answer ready, “Honestly officer I’m just eating pizza. I have no idea who these young ladies are. I’m leaving right now.”
I look through the misted glass and realise it’s a female shape. I quickly rehearse a slightly different answer but as I roll the window down I see its Sylvie. She is smiling and I’m happy. I’ve no idea how we missed each other and I was prepared for her to be mad with me but she seems glad to see me. I start to say how pleased I am that we have found each other again when she tips a steaming hot pizza into my lap.
ooooo
“Oh my God!” is not the most constructive thing to say when your world turns upside down but I can’t think of anything better.
David is scrabbling at the red-hot tomato paste that is soaking into his trousers and clearly not about to listen to my apology. A gust of wind is tugging at the last shreds of my dress and I realise that my minimal lace panties are on show to the public – again. I panic and dash round to the passenger side of his car, wrench the door open and slide into the passenger seat in one fluid movement.
I’m in mid apology before I realise that warm chunks of pineapple are oozing up between my thighs.
+++++
“I’m sorry;”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
The look on Sylvie’s face is amazing as she realises she is sitting on, or should that be in, my pizza. It comes to mind that I can’t imagine a better topping and I can’t stop myself from laughing, and she laughs too. I can see that she wants to help scrape up the anchovy and tomato resting in my lap but her hands stop short of the exact location. The heat in my lap is fading and I know I’ll survive.
“Is your car locked?” I ask. She nods.
“OK, so we leave it there and go to my place, we both need a bath.”
Sylvie nods again.
I start the car and ease out into the traffic. Sylvie says nothing but her hand touches my arm and slowly slides down onto my thigh, her delicately manicured fingertips burrow into tomato paste.
There’s not a sign of a seagull anywhere.
Impressum
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 16.03.2010
Alle Rechte vorbehalten