Paula went out to see her mum after work last night. That's significant by the way. Her mum is like kryptonite to cordiality. She says that she's looking forward to seeing us both at Christmas. It sounded like a veiled threat. I can foresee scenes happening and hope I'm wrong.
Life continues apace. Tel's house on the market, a handful of viewers who he eyed suspiciously and reckoned were only there for "a bleedin' nose ointment, like". He's now hidden the best china and silver. He didn't really have much to begin with. He claims he heard drawers opening in the bedroom, but he also once claimed he heard footsteps in his back bedroom, and that turned out to be the radiator. There's normally a rational explanation when he suspects foul play.
No offers yet. The house they were interested in at Great Bardfield has been mysteriously taken off the market as well, so it's back to the drawing board and Great Notley/Rayne/Stisted/Gosfield are all under consideration. So is Halstead. Mrs Tel is conducting the searches as she clearly doesn't trust him to find their new abode on his own. He's happy to let her. She found the current bungalow they've happily lived in for the last thirty-odd years or so.
He ventured out for a few on Friday. They decided against Braintree this weekend as Mrs Tel felt unwell again and Tel has a head cold. We didn't go for a curry or chinese or Thai. Tel didn't fancy it and it is expensive for me at the moment, saving as we are for 2023. We won £750 on the horses so the bet pot has been boosted to over £1200, which means Christmas, as ever, will be on Ladbrokes.
We stood at the bar for a bit as the tables were full with people enjoying chicken and fish suppers, the odd pea rolling across the varnished wood and escaping onto the floor. The local has introduced two meals for £15 and the menu has been altered to accommodate the sort of bulk buy foodstuffs needed to flesh out the promotion. They are: fish'n'chips, chicken'n'chips with homemade coleslaw, half rack of ribs and chips with sweet or hot barbecue sauce, sausages and mash with onion gravy or for the veggies a cheese and tomato quiche with new potatoes and peas. You also get a choice of starter or pud. The puds were popular. They were also all chocolate, except for the lemon tart and that looked anaemic.
We shared a bowl of onion rings and a bowl of chips instead. After perusing the menu and deciding we didn't fancy anything. We drank beer and then brandy. Tel did his usual chatting-up of the barmaid, who encouraged him with strident humour and a laugh that sounded like hyenas on the job. Tel said "Ah'm sure she fancies me" in a sort of self-deprecating but nonetheless chuffed tone. I told him she was like that with everyone. He snickered and said "Not choo though eh mate?" but then looked suitably humbled when she laughed again at something one of the old boys who drink the IPA and sit permanently at the bar said to her. "See" I said, stretching a point. He just mumbled something about "stoopid".
We drank to excess as ever, partly out of boredom and partly to try and find the old comradeship we used to do unceasingly and which had since somehow escaped us. It ended in a sort of truce, a laugh at our current circumstances without actually touching on what is really affecting us. He never mentioned moving once. I asked him, as the third round of brandies were dispatched, why he wanted out and away and he smiled and half closed his eyes as though willing to betray some confidence, but then chickened out and just said "the wife wants ter be closer to Tone and Sandy, thass all".
Emboldened by the drink, I asked him if he actually wanted to go as well. He looked sad for a moment and I wondered if he'd react to this. But he just said "yeah, me'n'the missus are a job lot, aint we? Wot she wants is wot ah want, like". So I wished him well. And he said thanks, absently, and drank the dregs and went to the bar for two more, and the hyenas coupled once more as he was up at the bar and he came back self-consciously pleased and clutching two trebles with ice.
We shared a cab home. I dropped Tel first and he seemed surprised as mine is closer to the pub than his, but he never said anything and I paid. We dropped him at home and he got out, leaning at the window so I could smell his brandy breath, telling me we'd have to sort out next week as he'd probably be in Braintree from Friday. Then the cab reversed and I was away, waving at him from the back window, a slender wraith in YSL shirt and Levi's and his Lambretta coat, stood in silhouette at his gate. It felt like some sort of farewell, and I shivered as I wondered when we'd meet again. Then I told myself I was being daft and replied to the cab driver's comments about the World Cup.
Earlier, I'd enjoyed the Town on the Telly. Funny because usually I hate watching us on Sky. The build up, the comments from the pundits, the expectation of seeing a good performance and then the reality that, compared to Premier Leagues sides, we look once-paced and naive, all of this was banished by a sterling first 15 minutes when we attacked at will and Freddie scored with a low stooping header from a superb Harness headed pass.
The nerves came with the realisation that 1-0 with this team is a very tenuous lead indeed. Half-time saw me reaching for a beer. But the fear was unfounded. We scored again. Burgess played like Virgil Van Dyke. Even the usual Woolfie rick wasn't forthcoming. Sky thought Exeter should have had a penalty and replayed the incident over and over, but it still looked nothing. The final whistle brought an eruption of joy in this benighted corner of Lawford and a swift return to reality. If only Sheffield Wednesday and Plymouth could both lose later......
I got home at one thirty am. Paula's car in the drive. My key in the door, the hall light flicked on and I heard snoring from our bedroom. I had a nightcap, a large brandy, the last of my decent stuff from Tel. The bottle went in our bottle box for recycling. It seemed a shame to lob it; the most expensive bottle in the box. Then i removed my shoes and placed them neatly under the kitchen chair and scuffed the rug as I walked through the hall to switch off the light and then upstairs.
She lay on her side away from the door. I got undressed and climbed in and she stirred and leant over. "Alright?" she asked, half asleep, slits for eyes. Yes fine. How was your day? "Oh...OK but I'm not needed for tomorrow so we can go Christmas Shopping in the morning". Great. We will.
We cuddled for a bit and then she turned over again and that was it. And I lay in the dark, mind whirring, drink not doing any sort of soporific job on me. And as I lay, the worries and the fears surfaced slightly, like a Russian sub in the channel, and I suddenly felt very alone. Very alone.
And when I awoke at 9 this morning, she'd gone. A scribbled note on the kitchen table 'Sorry, they text me this morning so I've gone to work. Back at 4, P xx' and I sat and crushed the note in my right hand and sat and wondered and sat and the worries flooded in. And, in some parallel universe somewhere, someone said "He'll leave her or she's having an affair" and I heard them; indeed I saw them say it.
I don't think it's the latter. But I can't say if it's the former. Probably not. I'd look a right bastard if she'd not done anything, wouldn't I? So we carry on, bonhomie and stagnating accord. Possibly until one of us does something, possibly until one of us dies. Who knows? |  |
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