Beer and Loafing in LS11

Toffee Tale, Part 2.

The snow had started again. Not proper snow falling in big, blissful flakes that you could catch and inspect individually, which layered the streets with a curvey carpet, but the disappointingly drippy stuff that made your clothes heavy and your temper dampened. Traffic was crawling and the pedestrians were moving with punctilious precision, arms outstretched, making sure they came into contact with none of their fellows. Nobody wanted to precipitate a collision. No one was taking any chances. It would have been nice to think that it was courtesy that dictated the delicate pace and the precise choreography of caution, an outbreak of common decency and good manners. But this was Whitley Bay. I'd visited enough times now to know how things were. Danger sometimes brings out the best in people, solidifies the social bonds. But in the North East it just meant you had to keep out of each others way or they would bring you down and step over you without giving you a second thought.

Abigail had parked the car in a small, secluded spot around the corner that only locals knew about. It was a triangular courtyard, created by the meeting of three rows of tall Victorian Streets, dark and forbidding but safe from passing opportunists. The entrance was an archway that led down the narrowest of alleys. We could only only just get our small car down the passage. When I say "we" I obviously mean Abigail. I didn't drive. It was a lifestyle choice but not one which Abigail was currently happy with. I had bought her the car however, a rather nippy, fiery red Fiesta, and she did appreciate that. For a few weeks after the purchase she seemed almost content with the arrangement. Then she decided that I should share in the joys of motoring, experience the freedom of four wheels, the exhilarating liberation which only the possession of a license to drive a petrol engined vehicle allowed. We had been through this before. I didn't want to learn to drive, ever. I had been adamant on this point before we married. I saw no reason to change my mind now. Abigail saw this as a campaign, and as usual had marshaled all her forces to win the war of attrition. Her mum, dad, sister, brother, brother-in-law all joined in with the fun.

About the only information I needed or wanted to know about the car was how to unlock the door. I'd felt almost heroic when I learned how to switch on the engine and the windscreen wipers, and here I was practicing that very skill. When I slammed the passenger door the icy slurry that had collected recently slithered down the windows and landed on the cobbles with an unsavory slop. I jammed the heating on full. Knowing Abigail may be a while I decided to fling a CD in the slot and settle down a bit of a snooze while I had chance. That was at twenty past two. The windows had a fresh coating of mushy ice by the time Abigail arrived at five to three. "Sorry I'm late, just couldn't get away." I said it was fine and mumbled something about the gloominess of the weather and the greyness of the skies. "Look," she said, "mum was in a bit of a state, you know how she gets. I couldn't just leave!" I never really understood why a twenty eight year old head of department in an inner city comprehensive couldn't just leave a fifty three year old small business woman who often got up at five in the morning and walked across town to open up shop on her own at six, who regularly shut up shop on her own and walked all the way home with the days takings in her bag. Both women seemed perfectly grown up and in control of their faculties, and it wasn't as if Abigail had lived at home for the past decade. But I knew better than to assume these simple facts had any bearing. I let it drop.

Abigail fiddled in her bag for a second. This was another ritual. The application of fresh lipstick apparently improved her driving abilities, no question. She pouted and pursed, smearing on the slightly rancid smelling substance, before grimacing like a chimp at the mirror in order to check she hadn't smudged her teeth. She noticed the tiniest, most inoffensive hair on her chin and rummaged for the tweezers. This could take another ten minutes. I suppressed a groan and the thought that it could easily have waited till we got home, and looked in the glove compartment for a book. "You could at least make an effort to talk to me, I am driving you know!" I did know. I didn't say. "How about some music?" I asked, hoping that she would be entertained by a song or two. "You're bloody useless, do you know that!" Again, I was party to that particular piece of information. She had taken pains to inform me on numerous occasions as to my depleted value.

The engine had been ticking over for a good half an hour so we were warm and ready for action. Abigail edged the car along the ginnel, signaled right, then spun us into the side street. At the end of this street we would rejoin the main road and have to stop at some traffic lights which were right outside the newsagents. Invariably the lights would be red and Abigail would writhe in her seat, ducking and bobbing, banging and waving at the passenger window in case she spied one of the parents in the shop. Somehow I always managed to be in the way. I had a knack I suppose of "making a better door than a window." Abigail would tut, then prod, sometimes shove, remonstrating that she couldn't see because I was a "bloody great lump" blocking her view. I took it in good spirit. I generally turned towards the shop and waved genially, not that I ever believed Geoff or Jean ever reciprocated the gesture as they were always busy serving customers. It made Abigail happy that I was doing what was expected, however. And that made me happy, somewhat.

The weather wasn't as bad as I'd thought and we were making fairly good time, though the roads seemed fairly busy. Abigail had her driving look on; that meant it was safe to relax. I always made sure the car had plenty of suitable driving CD's, nothing too noisy, nothing that would make you want to thrash your head or do the pogo. I put REM on as I knew it caused Abigail the least offense. "Where have you hidden the sweets? You haven't put them in the boot, have you?" "They're here darling, just waiting for you to ask, that's all." I lifted the heavy paper bag in the air and comically shook it, "What would you like?" "Do I have to do everything?" She answered, "You have the bag, you're in charge. Bloody hell, for once do something for the relationship, or do I have to do everything!" While I considered the answer to that conundrum I shuffled the bag in my lap. According to my calculations I mostly shopped, mostly cooked, mostly cleaned and tidied, and mostly masturbated! Abigail really didn't get involved in any of the hands on stuff at all. I thought better of initiating a debate about my disagreement with her assessment and decided to keep it to myself for the duration of the journey at least. She was driving. I didn't want any mishaps.

I untwisted the paper bag and pulled it wide open. The sheer, sharp stink of sweeteners needled my eyes and prickled my tongue. My mouth filled unpleasantly. The smell was almost abrasive, dry and sandpapery on the back of my throat, like I was inhaling sherbert. I took out the first thing I saw, a pink half-moon mass of hardened doughy deliciousness molded into the shape of a shrimp. "Here you are love, I know you like these." I held it flat in my palm and she snatched it like she was scoring an illicit substance. Then I went back to inspect the goody bag. It was a riot of colour, gaudy pinks, lurid greens, hectic reds, livid purples, ghostly whites, and the oddly unnatural black and brown of licorice and toffee. Shapes too; snakes and bears, shrimps and nuggets, mushrooms, mice and bricks. A cornucopia of confectionery crap. Abigail seemed happy. She was at least quiet, except for the monotonous chewing followed by the momentous gulp as she swallowed it down. That was my cue to refuel her. As we went along, winding our way down the minor roads of North Yorkshire, our journey was punctuated by the rhythm of her mastication, followed by the beat of her hand on my thigh, her signal to set her up with another sweet.

This was nice, humming along to Daysleeper, watching the fields and hedges slip by, doing nothing but handing out candy on command. Somewhere South of Thirsk I felt the friendly thwack and I lifted out of the bag a banana flavoured toffee. I unwrapped it without being asked, noticing the swirl of ghastly yellow and the slightly cow pat smell, and the warm, claggy, squashiness of the thing, and handed it over. Abigail threw it in her mouth with unnerving accuracy and began to chew. Her movements did seem a little more laboured with this sweet. I didn't think much of it. I think I may have pointed out a windmill on the horizon and mentioned how ravishing it looked in the majestic January sunset. I believe I used some such foolish word, knowing she wasn't listening to me anyway, just to keep myself amused. Abigail never responded to any of my comments. She had her driving to consider. But something had made her flinch. I repeated how remarkable the glint of low January sun looked against the white stucco of the building. Abigail coughed. I realised were were slowing down. I hadn't really felt that the windmill was that interesting to be honest, I was merely making small talk to wile away the time, but I was rather gratified that Abigail had taken an interest. Then she coughed again, hard, wretched almost, and hit the brakes so that we screeched to an undignified stop in the lay by. "What's up, sweetheart?" I was genuinely concerned by now. Abigail's face had turned a furious red and she was gripping her jaw in a peculiar fashion. "Fucking tooth!" she managed to sputter, spitting something into her left palm. "Fucking filling." I could see that she had spat the banana toffee into her hand, and the swirl had become melded into the general mush . . . and then I saw what she was talking about. In the centre of the sticky, glistening, spittley sweet was a dull grey sharp object. Her filling.

"Oh, shit love, are you ok?" I said, genuinely feeling bad but not really experiencing the enormity. "Anything I can do?" "Do, you fucking idiot! Do! Don't you think you've done enough!" She was snarling through tears of pain, "What the fuck possessed you to give me a fucking toffee? I'm driving for fucks sake, can't you understand a simple request! Was the task just too much?" She was poking the offending matter in my face now, as if that was helping me to get a better grasp of my crime; "I asked you for a fucking sweet! . . . " "But, love, I gave you a . . . " She cut me off, "You gave me a toffee! Just look at what you've done! Do you think that was funny? Do you know how much pain I'm in! Fucking toffee you idiot!"

 Abigail turned away from me. Her lipstick was smeared, her cheeks were blotchy. "Don't . . come . . . anywhere . . . near me," she said, very quietly, breathing deep, gripping onto the steering wheel. She had placed the gnarly piece of toffee in the dip of the dashboard. "I'm going to drive now, " she whispered, "and I need you to shut up." Her face was blank but I could see the muscles in her jaw and cheeks dancing about. I could tell she was in pain. I thought it prudent to assent to her request for silence.

The rest of the journey went slowly. I fixed my gaze on the passenger window and made sure that the songs I sang to pass the time remained strictly in my head. When we got home it was dark. I put the kettle on and offered to make dinner. I gathered by the expression Abigail glanced at me that she would not be joining me for pasta. I spent the next few days eating and sleeping alone. Abigail went to her sisters till after the dentist had refilled the tooth. I wish I could say that Abigail had learned a lesson, but later that week she finished the bag of sweets, toffees and all.

First Rough Draft, again. In Word.

This is just not working as an attachment, so here it is straight.

Just a test. Written on my phone in the pub after a crappy day, a chapter from the novel. Well, a very rough first draft. As I said, just to see. Writing on the phone is such a faff, I won't be doing that in a hurry!

Luckily it was a winter trip to the in-laws. Abigail never liked driving in the dark which meant we could leave early, soon after lunch. The rigmarole of departing from Jean and Geoff was an exercise in histrionic excess, often taking more than an hour and a half to work it's way to the inevitable denouement, and I had become skilled at finding any old excuse to avoid the torment of sighing and crying and goodbyeing. Today's ruse was that I needed to pick up something for the journey from Holland and Barratts. Not that there was any great urgency in my desire for something organic, homeopathic, or simply healthy; Holland and Barratts simply happened to be the furthest place I could remember from the in-laws newsagents. I could justify a good half hour stroll and maybe twenty more minutes pondering my purchase. And if I dawdled and pretended I'd bumped into somebody I knew who simply had to collar me for a chat I could perhaps shave a whole blessed hour off the predictable performance. That suited me fine.

When I arrived at the Newsagents I was cold. There was snow on the rooftops from last nights blizzard, but the roads had been thoroughly melted by the traffic and the pavements had become slushy and slippery. My trousers were soaked halfway to my knees. The doorbell rang to announce my entry and the shop as always was too hot for comfort so that my glasses misted thickly the instant I stepped inside. I always used to wonder about the temperature of the place. It wasn't like Geoff to squander money on inessentials such as heat, and his own home was forbiddingly chilly, but then I began to notice his clientele; old, doddery, and wrapped in layers of tartan and tweed even on the most clement of days. They came to the shop for their fags and papers and stayed a bit longer to get themselves warm. They felt obliged to buy more than they intended to offset the time they spent in his establishment, and so the blistering hot radiators were a canny and calculated investment for Geoff.

I took my glasses off and wiped them on my jumper. They steamed up again almost immediately, but I'd managed to spot Abigail near the till and had waved almost cheerfully. The prospect of leaving soon always gladdened my heart. Abigail made no movement in my direction as I'd hoped and from what little I could make out through squinted eyes and steamed up spectacles she hadn't even noticed my arrival. This was fine by me as I was in no hurry to join the family drama so I decided just to loiter near the door until my presence was requested for the final hand-shake, hug and handover. As my glasses began to get clear I could make out some of the titles on the shelves that lined the wall to my right; I'd never realised before what a thriving subculture was dedicated to the pleasures of crochet. "Crochet World," "Crochet Weekly," "Crochet News," "Amateur Knitting and Crochet," "Hot Crochet Wives," . . . fair enough, I made the last one up, but I bet there's a market for the seedier side of the crochet set and I was surprised that Geoff wasn't supplying that niche. As I was scrutinizing the top shelf I heard Abigail's reedy little voice; "You're here then, finally?" "Lovely to see you too dear," I replied, with as much genuine affection as I could dissemble at such short notice.

As I moved towards the tills I could make out Jean at the business end, fussing and fretting with a package on the counter top, and Abigail holding court with a group of garrulous grannies on my side. Abigail didn't pause for breath, just carried on her monologue about the state of art education in this country, how it wasn't valued or taken sufficiently seriously by the powers that be, and what she's do about it if she were in charge. The old ladies didn't appear to be listening. Each one seemed to be gabbling away at a tangent to the main conversation, chipping in bits of information which could only have made sense to a very restricted audience of close family. This did not deter Abigail. Nothing could deter Abigail from sharing her thoughtful and reasonable conclusions about the world of education.

I smiled at Jean; "you look busy?" She looked up at me, flustered by trying to wrap what was evidently one of Abigail's precious paintings in brown paper and parcel tape. The picture was predominantly blue and green and I couldn't work out the design, all swirly and girly, but it was obvious that the wrapping paper was far too small to cover the thing. I didn't want to get into the whys and wherefores of this peculiar activity right at this particular moment, so I said "look at the time; shame we can't stay any longer but if we want to be home before dark . . . " I let the obvious conclusion hang in the air, unspoken.

Abigail gave me a look that could have curdled milk; "I'm talking!"

"Hadn't noticed, dear. Sorry, dear, only saying that we need to get a shimmy on soon, you know, while it's still light." I'm sure I had a fixed smirk on my face. After four years of marriage I'd become pretty adept at concealing my feelings about what Abigail was "talking" about, she had such a limited range of conversation, generally straying no further than family, work, and most stultifying of all, our relationship. So very little these days caused me to raise an eyebrow, furrow a forehead, or screw up my nose; I betrayed not the slightest annoyance, nor the most fleeting hint of disapproval over what Abigail thought or did not think. It really wasn't worth the aggravation. Anything for an easy life, like my dad always said.

Just then the back room door opened and Geoff emerged. He always appeared from the back room disoriented and dithery, as if he'd almost been caught doing something of dubious decency and was attempting to make up an excuse on the spot. "Oh, hello there Phil . . . just, err . . . just counting up the weeks takings . . . not a bad week, all things considered." Anything with the queens face on was hard core porn for Geoff, he found the monarchs image almost inflammatory. I smiled and said "great, glad to hear it," then turned to Abigail and reiterated, "but we really do need to be getting a move on, you know what Abi's like about driving in the dark!" This was a low move, recruiting the father into my scheme to get his daughter on the road, but it was a trick that generally paid off. Geoff scurried over to the sweet shelves, picked up a small tin shovel, and began to open jars and scoop mounds of multi-coloured, miraculously mis-shapen objects into a large paper bag, "to keep you going on the journey."

I never understood what Geoff thought would happen if Abigail ever left without her bag of talismanic treats and had to manage for a whole hour and a half without a sugar rush, but this little ritual signaled the finale of the family drama so I was relieved to see him cracking on with the task. Geoff survived three heart attacks and had to have a shunt fitted a couple of years ago. The doctors warned him to change his diet, cut down on cake and confectionery especially. A chocolate eclair could have been a murder weapon, a Malteser may have been the means of manslaughter, and a couple of Werthers originals could have been the death of him, but here he was piling high the lethal calories for his beloved daughter to stuff her face with all the way home. He simply did not see the contradiction. His consciousness was occluded.

Finally Geoff heaved the swag of sweeties towards me and said, "they are to share, so don't let Abi have them all . . . you know what she's like!" Yes, I did know what she was like and I knew that even had I cared to I wouldn't have stood a chance. I didn't want to disabuse Geoff of his fond delusion about his daughters dietary habits and I was conscious that we would have been there forever if I dared question his family in front of him. "Look, why not give me the car keys, " I said to Abigail, "and I'll go and turn the engine over; it's perishing out there. You can say goodbye properly and then come out to a nice warm car." I lunged at Geoff's hand before there was any time to remonstrate, shook manfully and briefly, then went to give Jean the most perfunctory of pecks. Unfortunately she'd leaned forward over the counter and as I turned my chin caught her nose and she flinched. That could have been awkward but I just said, "careful, you'll take someones eye out with that," and made like it was a jolly time we were all having and held my hand out to Abigail. "Keys darling? Right see you all soon, it's been lovely, bye." I took the keys, beamed at the grinning grannies, then made for the door.