Chapter Eight

Chapter 8

auth note: need intro & serious editing!

         It is, however, not Owen but Anthony.
          “Hello”, he starts, sounding as nervous as he looked a few weeks ago at the farm shop, and I suddenly remember being so very close to him when I literally bumped into him that Monday morning outside the Gazette, how I drank in the smell of his aftershave, felt the burning sensation of his hands resting, briefly, on mine, his eyes gazing into mine. “I hope I’m not interrupting or…”
          “No, not at all”, I smile and sit down on the bottom step, stretching my legs in front of me. “I was just listening to the radio, going through some paperwork.” I try to sound like a regular person, not one who has just had a major bust-up with the only person in her life with whom she is close, and suddenly I don’t feel much like talking. That feeling, however, is contradicted by the hammering in my chest.
          “I ehm… I hope you don’t mind me calling you this way,” which instantly raises a number of questions in my head.
          “No, I don’t mind… it’s just, I mean… How did you get my number?” I wonder if I’ve got a stalker on my hands, which is a turn of events I am definitely not looking forward to.
          “The farmer, I mean, Mr Knowles gave it to me… I mentioned you to him and he, well he looked you up in the phone book and… well, here I am, calling you”, he gives a nervous laugh and I laugh, too, feeling like rather foolish about the whole thing. Good, but foolish.
          “So, I was wondering if perhaps you would like to go out… for a drink… or ehm.. a meal, or the cinema… some time?”
          “I would love to”, smiling now like a little girl who has just been asked out to her first school dance. “But how about you and Molly join me, for a walk tomorrow?” I don’t want to tell him just yet that I am not quite ready to face a drinking establishment having to stick to soft drinks. I am supposed to be off the wagon from this very moment, and recalling my struggle over the past weeks, I know I will feel as though I am hanging onto the rear bumper, tooth and nail; it will be a long while before I am not yet out of the woods. Besides, I want to be able to prove to Anthony that I am not just a drunk but a person who is perhaps worth considering romantically – a sentiment which, given the circumstances, I can’t quite understand; I usually don’t give a flying fig about what people think.
          “A walk? Yeah, that sounds perfect. What time? Shall we come and pick you up?”
          “How about ten tomorrow morning? Then we can get a spot of lunch back here.”
          “Ah, well, that poses a slight problem. I’m on shift from nine til four tomorrow, well for the rest of the week in fact. But I could come over straight after work, pick you up around five?”
          “Sure, that’s fine, too. We could do the walk another time. I’ll check what’s on at the cinema and we’ll just take it from there.”
          “Great, see you tomorrow then,” I can detect a sense of excitement in his voice which is clearly mirrored in my own as I inwardly whoop for joy; I can’t remember the last time I had a date.

~~~*~~~

         Crawling into bed that night, I am not so sure a date is such a good idea. I am still shaken about my conversation with Owen, about his ultimatum, and about watching my career as a writer go down the proverbial pan, unless I do something about it, pronto. However, in the past months I have exhausted all avenues of trying to become inspired to write; embracing a new person into is perhaps the best thing that could happen to me. Besides, I don’t have a number where I can call him to cancel the date. Instead, I decide to make the most of the date, make tomorrow a fresh start and just take each day as it comes. Somehow I sense that Anthony may provide a rock in my life, even if most probably a temporary one; I cannot imagine that he would want to stick around very long, nobody rarely does.
         The following morning I spend sprucing up myself with a sense of excitement I haven’t known for years. First, I wash my hair followed by a long hot soak in my favourite milk and honey bubble bath. I shave my legs, paint my toe and fingernails, pluck my eyebrows and put out the perfect cinema outfit: a pair of jeans and a grey roll neck sweater.
         Outside, the sky is grey and dull, filled with dark, looming clouds and I decide not to chance a bike ride today. Instead, I write a letter to Laura and Peter, asking them to come and visit me for a pre-Christmas celebration, I smoke several cigarettes and, after lunch, have a quick nap on the sofa in front of the television.
         I am woken up by the telephone ringing. Disoriented at first, I get up and clear my throat before I answer it.
          “Hello, Sonia Spooner”, I say still slightly sleepy but filled with cheerful anticipation.
          “Sonia, honey, it’s Owen.”
          “Oh, hi, honey – are you ok? I was a bit worried about you yesterday, you didn’t sound too good.”
          “Long story, let’s not go there right now. Listen, I want you to come down to London tomorrow. I’ve managed to set up two back-to-back meetings with a couple of publishers who might be willing to hear you out, you know, to see what ideas you have in the pipeline.’
          “But I’m not sure I’m ready for that, Owen, I mean, I’m only just getting my head together and well, I’ve not written anything yet.”
          “Any ideas forming in your head”, he asks hopefully.
          “A couple, yes, but I haven’t even started formulating them in my own head.”
          “Well, girl, you’ve got to get your thinking cap, your skates, whatever on. This may be your last chance.”
          “Right, ok, I get your drift. I’ll see what I can do”, I say as vague ideas flash through my head as I try to grab onto something I can pick up and run with. I feel clammy and sweaty, anxious and under pressure, and my next thought is of the one last bottle of wine waiting for me in the airing cupboard.
          “Good girl”, he says, followed by instructions of which train to catch, which hotel to meet him and a run-down of the days events, which clearly meant I would have to bring a change of clothes.
          “Right, see you tomorrow, then”, I say feeling less certain than I sound.
          “You’ll be fine, Sonia, just…”, there’s a loud sigh at the other end, “just do your best.”

         I hang up and am in a state of panic as I try to work out how to divide the next few precious hours before my ten-twenty a.m. train to Euston. I decide that by packing first, I will at least have one worry off my hands and can concentrate on formulating some of my thoughts and be as prepared as possible, given this sudden change of events. I curse Owen’s name as I rush up the stairs and start putting together an overnight bag. As I am packing, my eyes fall upon the outfit I so neatly laid out earlier and realise that I will have to cancel my date with Anthony. Oh well, I think, I will just have to ask him in for a cup of tea, explain the situation and send him on his merry way, for now.

         With my bag packed, I head for the kitchen where I put the kettle on and pour half a bag of M&M’s into a small bowl. I sit down in front of the laptop, flip it open and as it starts up, I say a silent prayer to whoever will listen, hoping my muse will pay me at least a brief visit.

         After an hour’s frantic typing, the phone rings once more and I am tempted not to answer it, for fear of having my precious train of thoughts interrupted. It’s not exactly a high-speed train, more of a slow-moving steam train, huffing and puffing its way up what seems like an endlessly steep hill. My concentration already broken, I decide to answer it.

          “Hello?” I say, a strong hint of annoyance in my voice. I check my watch; it’s four thirty already and Anthony is going to be here any minute now.
          “Hello, is that Miss Spooner?”
          “Yes?”
          “Oh hello, my name is Sister Mandy… From St Ursula’s Hospice.” Auntie Mildred, I think but with a terrible sense of foreboding I hold my breath, unable to speak.
          “I’m so very sorry to disturb you but I wondered if perhaps you could come and see us… as soon as possible.”
          “What, today?” I ask, shaking my head as I say it. So bloody typical of Auntie Mildred to spoil what has already turned out to be a roller coaster day.
          “Yes, I am afraid she has taken a turn for the worse”, says the friendly nurse. Worse? I think, I didn’t even know she was bad.
          “We don’t think she will make it through the night so we thought we should call you, give you a chance to come and say your goodbyes while you still can.”
         I feel the blood draining from my face, and I want to throw up.
          “I’ll be there in an hour”, I say and hang up. Shit. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, shit, bloody shit.

         My overnight bag lies on the passenger seat, my laptop and handbag in the foot well, as I lock up the house behind me and speed off to Weston Supermare, an hour’s drive south of Upper Tillington. In the rush, I forget to leave a note for Anthony.

~~~*~~~

         It is almost six o’clock when I arrive at St Ursula’s. I run through the double swing doors, handbag almost dragging behind me, and I am acutely aware that I probably look a complete mess.
          “Ehm, I’m here… to see my aunt, Mildred Spooner? Someone rang me earlier?”
          “Ah yes, Miss Spooner, it was I on the phone earlier”, says the middle-aged Sister, leading me gently by the elbow down a corridor towards what I assume to be Auntie Mildred’s room. Sister Mandy proceeds to give me a quick recap of Mildred’s medical condition before she, as we arrive at the door, puts her left index finger to her lips.
          “She is sleeping, heavily sedated.”
         There was never much love lost between Auntie and myself; she openly resented me and having to look after me after my parents’ death, and as far I am concerned, she did everything possible to make my life difficult when I was growing up. It was with a sense of jubilation that I finally managed to convince her to move to a home, as far away from me as possible was the only thing on my mind at the time. After having left what was, after all, my parents’ house to go to University, I didn’t return to live there until Auntie had moved out.
         Seeing her there in the hospital bed, I wonder just how long it has been since I last saw her. Christmas, almost two years ago, I realise with a pang of guilt. I came to visit her in the home and we ended up having a blazing row because, once again, she criticised me for my choice of career. She made it abundantly clear that, as far as she was concerned, being a write wasn’t a proper job. It didn’t help that I had received yet another rejection letter from a publisher who had been considering a collection of my latest short stories.
         I pull a chair up and sit down next to her. Several minutes pass as I just sit there, uncomfortable to the core of my very being, until finally, I take her hand.
          “Auntie Mildred, it’s me”, I say, feeling foolish knowing that she probably can’t hear me. I stroke her wispy, thin hair and then place her hand in the clasp of my two. Unexpectedly, the skin on her hands is soft although it looks leathery and rough. Above us, the monitor is beeping, she has tubes in her right arm connected to a drip and, doped up to her eyeballs, she looks positively angelic.
         Nothing much seems to be happening and I feel the hours wasting by; it is half past ten in the evening when I approach the nurse at the front desk.
          “Excuse me, I am just going to get a couple of things in the car.”
          “Sure, just buzz and I will let you back in.”
          “Oh”, I say and stop myself in my stride, “am I allowed to use the mobile phone?”
         The nurse points to a large poster, which indicates otherwise and says, “there is a payphone just down that corridor by the cafeteria.”
         I nod, thank her and fetch my laptop from the car.
         After retrieving the few coins I have in my purse, I walk to the phone box and call Owen at home.
          “Weatherley”, says the female voice at the other end.
          “Mel?”
          “Yes”, the voice sounds hesitant.
          “It’s Sonia.”
          “Oh hello Sonia. How are you?”
          “Not good, my Auntie Mildred is quite unwell and I’ve been told not to expect her to last through the night.”
          “Oh I am very sorry”, even though she sounds less sincere than I had expected. Oh well, I think, not even I am really that upset, how can I expect someone who has never had the dubious pleasure of Auntie’s company to feel remotely touched.
          “Thanks”, I say anyway. “Listen, I am sorry to disturb you at home so late at night but is Owen home?”
         There is a pause at the other end, and she says “No, sorry, he’s not here.”
         Shit, I think. Of course Owen’s travelled ahead to London to make sure everything is ready and set up for the meetings. I am about to ask her if she has the telephone number for the hotel where he is staying, when Mel announces that Owen has in fact moved out.
          “We split up about three weeks ago. He is with his new girlfriend”, I hear her sniffing at the other end of the phone, then blowing her nose. I am at a loss for words.
          “Oh Mel…” I start but she interrupts me, dismissing my words of comfort before they have been spoken.
          “Let me get you her phone number”, she says.

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