A lovely day it was yesterday. The sun peeked and was warm in the bits where the wind didn't blow. Waiting at Manningtree railway for the 11.55 into Ipswich with the multitudes dressed for the cold, I watched a lone Kestrel flit and hover over the fields near the station, wheeling ever higher and then stop dead in the air, head bent to mouse or vole scurrying. I felt for the mouse or vole. I was that fatalistic creature on Friday.
But more anon. Yesterday was freedom, a train journey past the glinting Stour and the woods and fields, past Jimmy's Farm where the young cows gambolled and ran and the horses munched on nosebags, and the announcer on the train said in bucolic tones "Noo approochen Ipswitch, change 'ere fer lions ter Cambridge'n'Bury Sin Edmunds'n Felixstoow" in that inbred Norfolk dialect that brings to mind medieval village idiots and singing postmen.
The pub was packed but the beers flowed in a fashion. The queue went round the bar. I got mortal. The first few didn't touch the sides. After that, my bowels relaxed and then expanded. The toilets were comfortingly Narnia-esque to reach and smelt when you entered. Nothing had changed. Yet a great deal had at home.
If you weren't there, take no heed. A game of one team trying and succeeding to stifle the other, brief forays into dangerous positions but then the crosses and final passes weren't quite good enough, a frustrating 0-0 with KMac applauding the North at the end. I coughed back my hoarseness and lit my umpteenth ciggie outside Planet Blue as the wind stirred the scraps of hot dog and burger into brief animation. The Pompey fans were twots on the way home. Still, you've read all that already.
The train back home dropped me at Manningtree at five-thirty and the Station Bar was still accepting drinkers, so I had a last pint and a scotch chaser and thought, rather with the air of one preparing to enter the dock of the Old Bailey, that it might be an idea to head home rather than detour to the hostelries in Manningtree. Tel would've insisted on the detour; Man United v Tottenham on the telly, drink, possibly a bowl of chips to enliven the soused palate before dinner. I sighed. He was probably doing that this very moment in Marbella. I walked home via the country route, past Lawford Church, the shadows lengthening and the birds twittering in their night roosts.
Paula was coming home at six-thirty. Yes, she came home eventually. Her mum had a chat with her and convinced her to. She arrived at mine at three on Friday afternoon, just as I'd finished my 'working from home', which had been half-hearted. I'd convinced my employer that I had what I described as 'probably just a head cold, but...". I did this by the simple expedient of looking as rough as I could and speaking through my nose. Bingo. WFH as they put on the Zoom message they sent at 7.30am that morning. In truth, there wasn't much I could do at home anyway, so it was nearly a day off.
I heard the key in the lock and sat back from the laptop expectantly. She breezed in, Morrisons management uniform creased at the back of the knees and the midriff. She dropped her (expensive; I know 'cos I bought it) Coach handbag and keys and rushed towards me. I stiffened, expecting blows to the head. She kissed me, passionately. She'd been crying. I stood and kissed her in return.
Just as the kisses were leading me to bedroom antics, the familiar small cold hand in mine somehow leading me upstairs, she stopped and looked at me with cool eyes. "Need ter talk" she whispered. I nodded. We sat in the kitchen to do this. The lounge was too comfortable.
She said her bit. I won't bore you with details. I said mine. Again, details aren't necessary. We groped for common ground. We found it, littered like no-man's land in the Great War, covered with barbs and long-dead bodies and the odd shell fragments. She wanted to have our child. She wanted a new home to live in, one which didn't share memories of ex-wives or mothers living twenty-minute drives away. She wanted to nest. I wanted to wait, to enjoy the here and now. She agreed (sort of) on this point. She wanted to get married to me, was prepared to wait until after then. But only until after then. She wanted us to keep trying for the baby, but was taking the pill again "for now". "I can't wait for you to make up yer mind for ever" she said. I didn't answer this. It hung in the air like a bad fart and then dissipated to god knows where. Probably to re-introduce itself in the weeks and months to come.
It was in this semblance of a cease-fire that we retired to bed at ten, carrying a bottle of champagne I'd saved for better moods and two glasses. We hardly ate the sausage and mash I'd prepared. It didn't seem right for the sensations in the house. It was a passionate night, tinged with the anti-climax of a big row which never happened.
She woke me at six for a morning bout, sleep rubbed from eyes and slight stale smell eradicated from nostrils. She showered after with me. I marvelled at the generous teardrop-shapes of her breasts and her firm buttocks. Again. Then she dressed and was gone. I donned my dressing gown when I heard her reverse out and the car noise receded. Unlocked the patio doors and stood, smoking, in bare feet, conscious that the dressing gown gaped very indecently at the upper leg and groin. Still, any neighbours up would've needed magnifying glasses by then.
And through it all? Well. It's certainly a ceasefire. There's still something that troubles me, something indefinable and easily placated, but something which doesn't leave, is persistent and gnawing. I looked forward to my day of freedom. I wished Tel was back. Then I didn't. Then I checked my phone and was astonished to find it blank. Forgot to charge it. Charging it bought insistent beeps and whistles. He'd tried to call me last night, three times. Two texts, one which just said "Hi mate need2 talkeyer" and another which, more irritated, just said "ansa yer foneffs". A voice message, garbled and strangely distant, received at 11.30pm. He sounded drunk. "Orlright son, ovvious yer shaggin', jus' wanted ter say 'ave yer done the bets yet? Liverpool, Brennford, Forest, Sunlan, Colch'ster an' Swindon all ter win. 'Ave a twenty on the lot. I'll speak yer tomorra, need to sort our Cheltnum bets fer nex' week". It stopped as quickly as it started, I followed orders. We won £1600.
As with most ceasefires, it's the uncertainty which vibrates. She's back at work until five today. She was humming "Wonderful Day" this morning. She looked happier than I've seen her in a while. Perhaps her mum said all the home truths I should've said? And where the hell did she hear 'Wonderful Day'? It's from Seven Brides and she normally hates musicals. Another mystery. Add it to the pile. Things might be getting a bit better.
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