Dead In The Water - Chapter Two

Chapter 2

         I wake up the following morning with a throbbing hangover, feeling muzzy which isn’t surprising considering I drank two bottles of wine before going to bed. The fridge is empty and the bread has passed its sell by date so, wearily, I get into my old Beetle and head to the supermarket. Had the police stopped me en route in their clampdown on drink-drivers, then I am not entirely certain I would have passed the test. I thank my lucky stars that I managed to avoid drawing attention to myself.

         Supermarkets are one of my least favourite planets on the planet. The bright lights, the trolleys that won’t run straight, the fight for a parking space, the nagging wives, the screaming children, the checkout girl chewing gum, the bitter chill as you walk past the frozen food section, well in short, it’s more than I can bear. Which is why I try to do this only once every fortnight.

         And true to form, I pick the one trolley with wonky wheels, which I struggle to manoeuvre up and down the aisles. Soon my trolley is filled with all stables such as milk, juice, bread, toilet roll, margarine, tins of soup, bags of frozen vegetables and microwave dinners, six bottles of wine and washing detergent. I throw in a few multi packs of crisps and chocolate bars, and a pack of mini muffins for good measure.

         Surprisingly, the checkout girl is not chewing gum. In fact she is a rather nice looking man called, according to his nametag which he wears pinned to his blue polo shirt, Anthony. I watch his hands as he picks up my shopping items one by one and runs them across the scanner. I feel strangely aroused, just looking at his hands, and force myself to look elsewhere. I am unable, however, to divert my gaze for long, and for the next few, short minutes, I try and take in as much about him as I can. He looks to be a little younger than me, late thirties perhaps, with neatly trimmed, dark hair, a clean-shaven, smooth face and dark-brown eyes. He looks up at me, briefly, and smiles as though he knows I have been watching me. With that smile he has become my favourite checkout person and I make a mental note to seek him out in future shopping trips.

         The bill comes to just under fifty pounds and, after discovering I have little more than two quid in cash, I pay using my credit card, hoping the payment will go through. Contemplating the pathetic state of my finances is also more than I can bear.

         I head straight home to unpack my shopping, kicking myself that I didn’t go to the post office to pay some bills first. Now I can’t because the post office will be busy at this time of day and so my frozen food would be spoilt by the time I’d made it to the bank, and got to the front of the post office queue.

         No matter how long you live on your own, returning home to an empty house is always depressing. No one to kiss you hello, no child to rush into your arms, not even a cat acknowledging your arrival with a half-hearted meow before it turns to bask itself in the mid-morning sun. It’s depressing. Trust me.

         After emptying my shopping into their various intended places, I put the kettle on and make some toast. Just as the bread pops out of the toaster, I hear a loud thud! in the hallway, announcing the arrival of today’s post. I just manage to catch sight of the postman as he gets back into his red van and speeds up the driveway. On some days, a quick wave at the postman from my kitchen window is the only human interaction I have.

         My toast buttered, tea brewed, and with the day’s mail in hand, I head to the living room where I clear some space on the dining table to sit down to enjoy my breakfast and go through the post. I have always been known to be a noisy eater (and I slurp my tea, a habit I find intensely annoying in others) and so I crunch my way through the first slice of toast as I open a letter from the Writers’ Association, inviting me along to their annual convention. Alas, as a guest, not as a speaker which means I would have to pay for the ticket rather than receive payment for delivering a speech.

          The front page of the weekly local paper catches my eye: it is the appeal from the local animal rescue who, each month, feature an animal they are trying to re-home. This week it is a three-legged spaniel named Skippy although I don’t notice the missing leg until I read the caption underneath the photograph, which reads:

“Skippy, a four year-old cocker spaniel, has been with Park Farm Animal Rescue for almost five months. He was found in a box outside the rescue home, abandoned by his previous owner. Dogs like Skippy are particularly difficult to house because he has only three legs – we are not sure why the leg was removed – but he would make a wonderful companion, particularly to a family as spaniels are known to be child friendly dogs. If you would like to know more about Skippy, or any of the other forty animals currently at Park Farm, please call 557-9001.”

         I stare at his cute little face for a few minutes, smiling, and then quick-read the rest of the paper. It is peculiar really, that the quality of journalism in local papers is so poor; I have often wondered whether I should offer to write a weekly column, free of charge, perhaps just to increase the quality and, selfishly, to feel as though I am doing something worthwhile.

         Apart from that, today’s mail makes for depressing reading: two red letters (one for an outstanding electricity bill, and a final reminder for an unpaid telephone bill) and my bank statement. This I leave til the end. It’s not good news. Once I have paid off my bills, plus next week’s shopping, petrol and booze money, I will be left with the grand total of just five hundred pounds in my account. To life off til new money starts flowing in, you understand. It’s disheartening, but I resist the immediate temptation, which is to throw myself off the near-by cliff. The other temptation is to open a bottle of whiskey; I resist this also. For all of three hours, which I spend pacing the floor, digging a few potatoes in the garden, and rocking back on forth on the settee.

         Half-drunk and depressed, I call Owen in his office later that afternoon.
          “Hello Honey”, he says cheerfully. “How’s it going? Got anything for me?”
          “How about, have you got anything for me?” I ask in what is probably garbled English.
          “Like what, Honey?”
          “Like royalties?” I pause as I sway in my drunkenness, then sit down on the stairs. No, actually, I lie down on the stairs.
          “You know those are quarterly payments, Sonia. It’s another six weeks before you’ll get anything. And even so, I don’t think it’s going to be worth jumping through hoops over.” I greet his response with stony, dejected silence. It is too much to take on board and I’m too drunk to come up with an action plan.
          “Oh my gosh”, I finally manage, followed by a muttered “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
          “Yeah, hence my question earlier, have you got anything for me? Are you working on anything?”
          “Got a few ideas”, I mumble, trying to piece together a lie.
          “Such as?”
          “Well, just… ideas…. at this point. I thought”, I pause to burp at this point, “I thought I could write a piece about dogs.”
          “Dogs!” Owen exclaims. I am not sure whether he is enraged or surprised; drunks lack the ability to tell the difference.
          “Yeah, you know, non-dog person goes and gets a dog.”
          “You’ve got a dog?” This time he definitely sounds astounded.
          “Nah…”, I giggle, “I can’t even look after myself, how do you suppose I can look after a four-legged person?” Owen doesn’t seem to find it funny.
          “Anything else?”
         I sigh heavily, then admit, “No, nothing. My mind is just a blank. I can’t seem to put a single coherent thought together.”
          “Perhaps if you didn’t drink so much…” He knows better than to finish the sentence.
          “Listen, I drink because I am depressed. I am depressed because I cannot write. I cannot write because I am drunk. How do you suppose I fix that, hmm?” I know that my answer lies somewhere within the statement I just made but I can’t get my head around it.
         Owen is silent for a long while. Or at least I think he is. Perhaps I drifted off and he has been talking to me, I am not sure.
          “Owen?” I ask quietly, not sure if he’s still on the other end of the line.
         He clears his throat and I can imagine him adjusting his tie in discomfort, shifting in his seat. I read him like a book.
          “Well, here’s the deal: an old chum of mine called me this lunchtime asking for someone to write a piece for the monthly Farmers’ Association publication.”
         I sit up, trying to concentrate. Farmers’ Association? I wonder.
          “Sheep.”
          “Pardon?”, I say in a high-pitched voice.
          “A comprehensive run-down on the history of the domesticated sheep, the different breeds et cetera. For a special feature.”
          “But I don’t know the first thing about…”
          “Pays four hundred for five thousand words.”
          “Five thousand words? About sheep?”
          “You heard it. Do a good job and there may be other features in the pipeline. And”, he pauses for effect, I suppose, “I’m only putting your name forward for this.”
         I sit motionless on the stairs, wondering, not for the first time, where did it all go wrong? Do I really have to stoop this low? In my hay-day I could get at least double that fee for half the word count.
          “Beggars can’t be choosers, Sonia. If you want to keep afloat, and I assume you do, you’ve got to start contemplating these sort of assignments.” I am too lost for word to come up with an intelligent response; a response of any kind, in fact.
          “So what do you say?”
         I feel like I am prostituting myself, I think, close to tears. “All right”, I say, almost inaudibly.
          “Great!” he exclaims cheerfully. “But here’s the deal, Sonia. You’ve got to clean up your act. No more boozing. I’m sending you to Scotland.”
         I don’t hear the rest of his sentence as I consider the prospect of a week or two in Scotland. I’ve not been there since going on a skiing trip to Aviemore with friends from University many, many moons ago.
          “Aberdeen to be precise. I think it’s an awe-inspiring place. Should get your creative juices flowing.” I like the sound of that, I think, wondering if I might be able to go on one of those famous whiskey trails I’ve read about.
          “For two nights”, he says.
          “Two nights?” I protest, “I was thinking more like two weeks.”
          “It’s all I can afford, honey. Consider it a treat from me, but please, get the job done, all right? I want to see a new, invigorated Sonia when you get back, bursting with energy and ideas.”
          “I’m glad you have so much faith in me, because I sure as heck don’t!” The most worrying aspect of it all is in fact that I have to give up the booze but I decide not to mention it in the hope that Owen might have forgotten about it already.
          “All right, so here’s the deal. You clean up your act, come off the wagon, get yourself into some kind of shape…” I look down at my expanding waistline and try to hide it under my green fleece. “And I’ll come and collect you a week on Saturday to take you to the airport.”
          “A week and a half? That’s all I’m getting? Do you realise…”
          “If you want to continue writing, and if you want to continue with me as your agent, then those are the rules. Anyway, I’m sure the boozing is not as bad as that, is it?”
         Recalling the two bottles of wine from last night and several tumblers full of whiskey earlier that morning, I decide not to lie to this dear person who has been my friend longer than most people.
          “It’s not good, Owen. But I’ll give it a try.”
          “Great, that’s my girl. Now, I’m going to send you some research material but I suggest you make your way to your local library and perhaps search the internet, too. Call me every couple of days to let me know how you are getting on, all right?”
         Feeling like I am being reprimanded in the nicest possible way, I blush at the thought of Owen having to look after me like this; for the first time in ages, I am ashamed.
          “Like I said, I will give it a try.”
          “Great. The plane tickets will be in the post along with the reading material, and details of your accommodation of course.”
         After exchanging reassurances, we hang up and I sit on the stairs for a long while, thinking nothing but Sheep!

~~~*~~~

         Begrudgingly, I put away my newly acquired bottles of Chilean red wine – the airing cupboard seems an apt place – as I cannot bring myself to pour them down the drain. The remainder of the Jack Daniels, however, I pour down the toilet, and with each drop that gushes out I want to weep. I take a sniff of the empty bottle and throw it in the bin.

         I recall years ago, when I was at school, a sports day was held to raise money for a new school library. It was decided that for every circuit a student ran around the athletic track, the teachers would pay ten pence. I have never been much of an athlete, certainly not a natural, but I joined in all the games, such as throwing hoops over glass bottles, knocking old beer cans down with tennis balls, and I even participated in some of the races. For each event in which I took part, Aunt Mildred obligingly paid ten pence. At the end of the afternoon, all the money was counted. And it wasn’t just money from the sports day itself, but also sponsorship money from local businesses, proceeds from sales on the various stalls selling drinks, home baked cakes and pies, sweets and crisps. The previous evening, the school choir had performed a big concert, attended by all the children and their parents, plus a number of people from the surrounding villages.

         When all the money was totted up, I was aghast to hear that it totalled only just over five hundred pounds; to build an extension on the library would cost thousands and I realised that I would never see the new library in my lifetime. So at five pm when everyone was heading home, I put on my running shoes and returned to the running track and here I stayed, doing lap after lap until well after sunset, earning ten pence per circuit. Sometimes I jogged but mostly I walked for it wasn’t long until I could feel the blisters pounding on my heels and on the balls of my feet.

         Some people stayed for a short while, cheering me on, but soon there were only a couple of teachers and Aunt Mildred left. She tried several times to convince me to stop, even saying she would pay a fiver just so we could go home, but I just kept going. I don’t know what possessed me, to be honest, except for the burning desire to do good.

         I think it was shortly after eight pm when a photographer and a camera crew turned up, took pictures, filmed and asked me a couple of questions, walking alongside me. They didn’t stay for long and I thought no more of it.

         It was almost ten pm before, exhausted, I finally gave up. I had lost count of how many times I had done a full circuit around the track but I didn’t care; I had made my point.

         Aunt Mildred drove us home and put the TV on as I was brushing my teeth. Shortly before the news bulletin was finished, I heard Aunt Mildred calling me to come quickly.

         I stared, open mouthed in astonishment, as I realised I had made the national news. I felt an overpowering sense of pride at seeing myself on television, hearing my name being mentioned, but apart from that I didn’t take much on board. I headed up to my bedroom and collapsed on the bed, falling asleep without changing into my nightclothes.

         At Assembly the next morning, I was asked to join the headmaster at the front. I blushed and tried to hide behind my book, but soon the other children were pulling me by the arm, dragging me up to standing position.

          “I would like to thank Sonia”, said the Headmaster, placing his hand around my shoulder in a tight grip, “for her incredible achievement yesterday. For those of you who don’t know it, Sonia did almost two hundred and fifty laps of the athletics track after most of you had already returned to the comforts of your living rooms. The twenty five pounds she thereby earned towards the extension of the library is no reflection of the incredible effort and sheer determination that she put into this.”

         I looked around and saw several of the teachers nodding and smiling, and my form teacher Mrs Walton, wiping a tear from her eye. At least, I like to think that that is what she was doing.

          “Thanks to Sonia”, the headmaster continued, “our plight has been heard right around the country and I have this morning had a telephone call from our local MP who says he is going to take our appeal to the Education Secretary.” This was followed by outbursts of “ah’s” and “ooh’s” around the auditorium, but when he proceeded to say that an anonymous benefactor had decided to donate five thousand pounds, the entire school erupted in an ear-deafening cheer and applause.
         I was just pleased we were going to get the library extension.

         So, you see, I have a steely willpower and determination, and anyone who sets me a challenge had better prepare himself. I realise I have sunk further and further in self-pity, being cooped up in this old house full of haunting memories, and Owen, bless him, has opened my eyes. If I want my circumstances to change, then I need to change. I want to change. I thank my lucky stars for having such a perspicacious agent, open up the airing cupboard and retrieve a bottle. The challenge can start tomorrow, I decide.