A Reason to Stay
By Claire Evans
Copyright 2011 Claire Evans
Smashwords Edition
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With thanks to Maisie for posing for the cover image.
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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A Reason to Stay
Contents:
Chapter One: The Morning After
Chapter Two: The Cost of Freedom
Chapter Three: Alcohol and Idealism
Chapter Four: The Journey Begins
Chapter Five: It’s Becoming a Habit
Chapter Six: Lions and Poodles and Beer, Oh My!
Chapter Seven: The Planning Begins for Earnest
Chapter Nine: What Do You Do in Your Kitchen?
Chapter Ten: The Cast Comes Off
Chapter Eleven: The Longest Night
Chapter Twelve: The Best Laid Plans
Chapter Thirteen: The Plot Thickens
Chapter Fourteen: All’s Well That Ends Well
Chapter Fifteen: Opening Night
Chapter Sixteen: Under Pressure
Chapter Seventeen: A Time to Act
Chapter Eighteen: You Never Can Have too Much Toothpaste
Chapter Nineteen: Why Can’t You Have Your Cake and Eat it Too?
Chapter Twenty: A Reason to Stay
Chapter Twenty-One: What Comes Around is Around
Chapter Twenty-Two: No Good Deed
Chapter Twenty-Three: Lucky in Cards
Chapter Twenty-Four: A Winner at Last
Chapter Twenty-Six: Not So Hairy Bikers
Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Pain in the Neck
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Chapter One: The Morning After
Stephen slammed his hand down hard on the clock radio next to his bed. It was seven thirty. It was not that he minded being woken at such an inhuman hour. He was, in fact, already awake due to the vast quantities of alcohol he had consumed the night before. It was more that the heightened senses with which his impending hangover had blessed him meant that the irritatingly chipper voices of Chris Moyles and Comedy Dave pounded against his head like a bludgeon. Smashing the radio was the nearest he could get to driving the unsuspecting D.J’s face into a brick wall and hissing in a menacing tone, “Not such a good morning now, is it?” without actually leaving his bed.
He rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, managing to bump into any objects that were not safely tucked away in drawers, such as chairs. Today was his thirtieth birthday. As he stared at himself in the mirror above the bathroom sink, he could see signs of age already beginning to show on his face. It was not a bad looking face, certainly. He was slim and his face had a very definite bone structure, sort of chiselled, and the cleft in his chin made him almost handsome. He had deep blue eyes and the shadow of a beard, where he had not yet shaved, gave the character of his face an extra dimension. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and leaned in towards the bathroom mirror in order to examine more closely the damage caused by the previous night’s revelries. To his horror, he saw considerably more forehead than he had remembered. Yes, his hairline was receding! He stared resignedly at the vast shining space that was his forehead before letting his hair fall back to cover it. So this was what it meant to be thirty: stuck in a dead-end job with neither the hope nor motivation for a promotion, and a forehead the size of Alaska.
“It’s great, Steve!” His friend Alison had told him last night, as she drunkenly hung around his neck, espousing the virtues of life in the third decade. “It’s just like being twenty only you’re earning decent money and you aren’t so insecure... Now’s the time to live!” Or at least that was the gist. It was all very well for Alison, however. She had spent her twenties productively, doing a law degree. She was now a top solicitor and could afford to enjoy herself.
Stephen’s degree was in performing arts. He was an ‘actor’. At least, technically he was a retail manager for one of the leading high-street chains. However, he was a fully paid-up member of Equity with two adverts and an educational video under his belt. He was just waiting for his big break. His first paid job had been while he was at university. He had seen an advert on the campus notice board: SPERM WANTED. It had been an educational video for schools. He and a group of other unsuspecting applicants had to put on white suits and rush at a group of women wearing yellow suits who were holding hands in a circle. One by one, they bounced off the impenetrable circle of women and fell to the ground, until eventually, one sperm (Stephen assumed it was the director’s son), broke their grip and forced his way to the centre. The second had been an advert for car insurance a year after he had graduated. It was one of those awful cheap adverts, which could make even the most talented actors look bad. The last was a radio advert for incontinence pants for men. He never talked about that one. That was it – his acting career thus far.
When he was twenty-three, he decided that he needed a temporary job. Something to tide him over until his big break came. He had seen an advert for section managers at a large chain store. His honours degree in performing arts qualified him for the position, and here he was, seven years later, officially ‘in retail’.
As he brushed his teeth he contemplated the day ahead of him. He only had to go to work for four hours. It was, after all, Saturday, and his birthday. He would not have gone in at all had they not been expecting a delivery of new stock that morning. He could not expect the Saturday staff to use their initiative, it was quite beyond them. With an average age of fifteen, speaking in words of one syllable was beyond most of them.
Once, he had decided to put this to the test. There was a particularly gloomy looking girl of about seventeen who wandered the store with a sullen expression, not uttering a word. She had started her career in the flower shop in the front of the store but had been transferred to his department. He could only assume that this was because the flowers took one look at her and gave up the ghost immediately, which was clearly not good for business. So she was now with him, on men’s pyjamas. Generally, he was a cheerful sort of chap. Because this was just a stepping stone for him, he was very laid back with his staff, and as long as everything was done and he did not have to deal with any complaints, he could barely bring himself to care how it happened. However, there was something about this girl that just niggled him. She could not, or would not make eye-contact with him. He could say “Good Morning,” in his cheeriest manner, but to no avail. One day he had given her a crate of slippers to put out on the shelf. Not a difficult task. This was why the store could get away with employing child labour at £3.59 an hour to do it. She had left the crate on one side of the shop where he had given it to her and was taking one slipper at a time to the other side and placing it strategically on the designated shelf.
After watching this process with fascination for some twenty minutes, Stephen had decided to intercede and suggest she might be quicker carrying the whole crate and unpacking it when she got there. Taking his best managerial stance, he stepped into her path, waiting for her to stop and look at him. She did not. She walked into him. An angry grunting sound expelled from her as she looked up to determine what had blocked her path. Her expression would certainly have killed flowers, frightened dogs and made small children cry. Stephen, despite being made of slightly sterner stuff, was not prepared to be turned to stone by the glare of an angry teenager, and muttered, “Sorry,” before retreating to his management office to recover. On the whole, the staff looked upon him as a wise old owl, a sort of Methuselah of retail. He was, after all, nearly twice most of their ages. However, he still found confrontations such as this somewhat disconcerting.
When he arrived at work at eight thirty (the store opened at ten on a Saturday), he was hoping that the operations department would have already set up the counters for his new stock, as he had left instructions. It was a false hope. He should have learnt by now to never hope, and thus avoid disappointment. “Operations” was a self contained little unit with no specific management. They worked according to their own schedule and no-one else’s. As Stephen turned the corner towards his office with the intention of phoning them and demanding that they do what they were being paid for (his hangover was making him brave), he was greeted by Maggie, his assistant manager. She was thirty five, but looked younger. She had recently come back to work because her youngest child had started school. She took her job very seriously and, when she was in, wielded a power over the teenage staff that Stephen could only dream about.
“Morning, Maggie!” Stephen called across the store doing his best to ignore the pounding in his skull and be cheerful.
“Morning, Stephen.” She responded with her best retail smile, “Happy birthday.”
“Thank you.” He tried to sound courteous, despite his urge to say, “What’s happy about it? There’s a small continent where my hair used to be!” Instead he said, “What’s going on with Ops?”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Maggie exclaimed, clearly relieved that the social necessities were over and they could now discuss what was really important. “They’re still having the fifteen minute tea break that they started an hour and a half ago and will bring the counters when they’re ready!” She was clearly fuming. “I’ve been in since seven! I could have stayed in bed!”
“Right.” Stephen said, determinedly. He was having similar feelings regarding his bed and felt that he need not have broken his clock radio. He strode purposefully towards the staff canteen where the unsuspecting Ops men were sitting drinking tea. He was losing his hair and now there was someone to take it out on. Luckily for everyone, just at that moment, a rather spotty youth appeared on the horizon pushing a counter. He was pursued by a crinkled old man, with an orange tan that made him vaguely reminiscent of a walnut, carrying the counter’s extremities.
“This what ‘e wanted?” Walnut hollered at Maggie, as though Stephen were incapable of answering for himself. He was about to contradict this assumption when Maggie intervened.
“Yes, that’s it,” she said in her most charming voice, “thank you very much for your trouble.”
Walnut made a non-committal grunt and dropped the metal arms at her feet. Her response was obviously the correct one. Imagine how slow they would be if they had been offended. Stephen knew this, but still it grated at him. Somehow he would have felt much better had Maggie removed the pointed hair accessory that kept her hair tied very professionally off her face and stabbed Walnut in the eye with it.
Whilst imagining this satisfying scenario, Stephen helped Maggie move the counter into position and attach all the necessary parts. When he came back to reality, he was face to face with his teenage workforce. It was nine o’clock and they needed instruction.
“I’m off to have some breakfast,” Maggie announced, as though this new influx of blank faces somehow served to replace her.
“Righto,” Stephen acknowledged, before turning to face his staff. “OK,” he spoke slowly, to ensure they completely understood. His head hurt too much for any confusion. “Over there are crates of new stock. This is the counter. See if you can get the stock onto the counter before we open. I’m going to check some paperwork.” Actually, he was going for a cup of coffee, it was his birthday after all, but still he needed to maintain appearances.
When he returned, feeling that the worst part of his hangover was over and things could really only improve now, he was stopped dead in his tracks. The counter, which should, by now contain a nice selection of checked boxer shorts and t-shirts, was staring at him. It was not empty; far from it. On the left there was a sheer pink feathered nightdress, next to which was a matching thong with pom-poms on. Stephen let out a roar that sounded like a wounded animal and fell to his knees in complete despair. The Saturday staff, who to their credit were busying themselves hanging floral camisoles on the other side of the counter, stopped abruptly. They edged around to get a better look at the fallen warrior. For a second, Stephen’s mouth simply opened and closed with no sound coming out, as he pointed weakly at the lingerie hanging before him. Then he exploded.
“What is wrong with you people?” the volume and angry tone of his voice actually frightened the teenagers, who moved a little closer together. “We are menswear!” he screamed. “Does that look like something a man would wear?” One of the girls opened her mouth to respond but then thought better of it. Stephen sighed. The explosion over, he felt a strange sense of calm come over him. “Put all this back in the crates.” He commanded. “I’ll go up to Lingerie, see if they’ve got ours.” He sighed again and mounted the escalator. He saw the lingerie manager before he reached the top of the stairs. She was up a ladder with a feather-duster, dusting the plus size bra mannequin. Stephen called up to her as he reached the foot of the ladder. “We’ve got your new lines, have you got ours?”
She looked down at him for a moment and then across at her own Saturday staff who were cheerily unpacking and hanging boxer shorts.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Her tone was that of exasperation rather than anger. Clearly, she had come to terms with the ineptitude of her staff, and an error such as this was her own fault for assuming too much of them. She put the duster down and began to descend the ladder, determined to take command of the situation. What she did not immediately realise was that her watch was caught in the fastening of the rather voluptuous mannequin’s bra clasp. As she moved, the model began to topple. In panic, she pulled her hand away, quickly grasping at the ladder for safety. The bra the model was sporting was a reinforced ‘total-support’ one, designed to give the best support to the fuller figure. As such, it was not prepared to relinquish its grip on the watch easily. It followed her hand as she pulled it away. The ladder swayed slightly under the added weight. Just as panic set in completely, her watch strap snapped. Stephen stepped forward and held the bottom of the ladder to steady it. The mannequin fell back in the opposite direction and steadied itself. She sighed a deep sigh of relief and started once more to descend the ladder. At that moment, as if Fate was having far too much fun to stop there, the mannequin toppled completely.
The last thing Stephen remembered was the mannequin, sporting its super-supportive bra, plummeting towards him. He remembered the huge breasts seeming bigger and bigger the closer they came to his face, then, it was dark.
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Chapter Two: The Cost of Freedom
When Stephen came to, he was in the store’s medical room. He was not alone. Pacing up and down on the other side of the room, wringing his hands and muttering something incomprehensible was the personnel manager. He was a ratty looking man of about forty-five and very whiny. His greying hair was definitely thinning. However, what he lacked on his head he more than made up for on his face. Protruding from his upper lip was a thick ginger moustache, which made him look rather like an Airedale Terrier. Stephen disliked him intensely. He was one of those men who, upon being given a little bit of power, took great pleasure in abusing it. He was the Hitler of Human Resources. He seemed to get his kicks from denying people holiday. It did not matter if you wanted a half day on a weekday morning to go to the dentist and you had ten people prepared to cover your shift. If you wanted the time as paid holiday, you could guarantee that your department would be understaffed.
The man looked decidedly nervous now, though. Stephen thought he was going to wear a hole in the carpet. Stephen knew that he could not possibly be concerned for his wellbeing, he was too self centred. Then the realisation hit him, the little rat was afraid he was going to sue! Stephen had no intention of suing anyone. He loathed the blame culture that society had adopted. He firmly believed that people should be allowed to make mistakes without having all their worldly possessions taken from them. However, there was something about this rodent, pacing and sweating profusely that really got Stephen’s goat. He would look directly at the floor in management meetings rather than have to look or smile at anyone. Stephen decided to make him suffer a while before returning to work.
“Oh... My head...” he groaned, pretending that he had just woken up. “Where am I? Who am I? What happened?”
Moustache stopped pacing abruptly, as though he had forgotten Stephen’s presence in the room and was surprised by the interruption to his thought process. He sniffed and twitched his moustache, making him appear more rat-like than ever. He then advanced briskly towards Stephen and seated himself next to the bed.
“Stephen. Hi. Paul Jessop, personnel. That was a nasty accident you had. Hope there’s no serious damage?”
“My neck hurts.” Stephen groaned, trying to sound weak “I think I might have whiplash.”
“WHIPLASH?” As he said it, Paul Jessop took a fast intake of breath, making him sound rather like a kettle boiling. Concussion he had been prepared for. He had a doctor waiting in the wings to disprove this claim. But whiplash! The ultimate unproveable injury! Why, he could be sued! The company would surely sack him if he could not make this go away. But what to do... what to do... “Whiplash...” he said again more slowly, rolling it out as though attempting to destroy it through over use of the word.
“Yes.” Stephen said firmly, raising his hand to his neck and then dropping it again abruptly. “Ow! My shoulder too! It’s definitely whiplash.”
Jessop produced a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Right.” He shifted uncomfortably in the seat briefly before rising and making a sharp dash for the door. Stephen smiled to himself. It had been worth being bombed by a plus size mannequin after all. He was just contemplating getting up and returning to the shop floor when the sweaty creature returned to the room. If he had had a fly swat Stephen would have used it squarely on the irritating little rodent’s forehead. Was it not bad enough that he had been knocked out after having to come to work on his birthday? Now he was being forced to suffer having this odious presence buzzing around him. He was smiling quietly at the image he now had in his head of Paul Jessop cowering in the shadow of a giant fly swatter when a cough brought him back to reality. Upon his return, Jessop held in his sweaty little hand a file.
“According to my records,” he began, looking squarely at the file, “you have been with us seven years.”
“That’s right...” Stephen frowned wondering where this was leading.
“In that time,” Jessop continued, either not hearing, or choosing to ignore the response, “you haven’t taken a single day of holiday.” Stephen barely controlled the urge to say That’s because it’s like getting blood out of a stone you little weasel! But instead looked expectantly to see what was coming next.
“According to my calculations,” Jessop continued, “combined with unpaid overtime and the working of customary holidays, you are owed eleven months and one week of paid leave.” Stephen stared in amazement. He was certainly not expecting this. “Factoring in bank holidays and religious festivals for this year as well, I think we can make it a nice even year.” Paul Jessop concluded.
Stephen looked incredulously at Jessop. He could not believe there was no catch to this.
“So, what exactly are you telling me?” he asked eventually.
“I’m telling you to take a year off.” As he spoke Jessop forced an awkward smile. “Fully paid of course, recuperate, travel, Hell, watch daytime T.V!” He laughed nervously. “I just need you to sign this disclaimer.” He thrust a piece of paper at Stephen. “You know, to say that your little mishap was no-one’s fault. Technical blurb, you know.”
Stephen raised his eyebrows. He looked from the sheet to the moustached Cheshire Cat grinning wildly at him. The longer he looked the more strained the grin became, until it began to look almost menacing, then desperate. Stephen took the paper, signed it and handed it back.
“Great!” Jessop leapt to his feet in a flurry of relief. “Fantastic! See you in a year!” He practically skipped out the door.
Stephen stared for a long time at the holiday confirmation he had been given in exchange for his silence. It was definitely real. A year. Fully paid. He carefully stood up and walked slowly towards the door. He was free.
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Chapter Three: Alcohol and Idealism
Stephen spent the day wandering the streets. He was at a loss as to what to do. He was accustomed to a routine. He worked six days a week. He woke up, went to work, went home, ate, slept and started again. He had been wandering for four hours, when the pathetic damp mist that had been filling the air was replaced with an almighty flash of lightning, followed in close succession, by a roar of thunder. As the downpour became increasingly violent, Stephen was forced to admit defeat and return home. He opened the front door to his flat and was greeted by the squalid mess that was his kitchen. The way he had been feeling for the last few months, washing had just seemed like too much effort. Facing him was a sink full of dirty dishes. Since he had run out of plates about two months ago he had been eating out a lot recently, and judging by the state of his dishes it was a good thing. They seemed to be cultivating a new life form. As he took off his wet clothes and added them to the growing pile on the floor in front of the washing machine, he found himself wondering what his one word would be. The word that sums up what goes on in his kitchen, so those top T.V designers could design around him:
“Ebola.” I said. “Knowing that I cultivated disease in my kitchen the designers decided to burn my home to the ground and start again.”
By around seven o’clock, he was showered and dressed and on his second bottle of beer when he noticed his answer machine flashing. It was Alison. The message was brief.
“Hey Steve, it’s Ali, can you call me?” Her tone implied that she did not simply want a chat.
Stephen had been in love with Alison since they had first met as freshmen in the university bar. Even the sound of her voice on his answer machine made his heart quicken. She, however, was not interested in him ‘that way’. She was more interested in men that were cruel to her. It was Stephen’s job to pick up the pieces. He had lost track of the number of phone calls like this that he had received. He was the shoulder to cry on. She always left him with just enough hope that one day she would allow him to rescue her to keep him around. He was at her beck and call. In his more sober moments he realised this and swore to himself that the next time she phoned he would have a pressing engagement and be unable to meet her. However, all it took was the sound of her voice on his answer machine for him to lose all resolve and call her back immediately.
The mission that night became to get Alison hideously drunk in order that she might forget the huge argument she had just had with the latest man in her life. After two hours Alison was resting her face on the table looking sideways up at Stephen who had a curious expression on his face.
“What’s wrong with you?” She demanded. It was the first time that evening that the conversation had moved away from her and Stephen was momentarily taken aback.
“Have you ever wondered what it’s all for?” He asked eventually.
“What what’s all for?” she queried temporarily forgetting her latest crisis.
“You know,” he began, “life, work. I get up every day and go to the most pointless job on the planet. I fear a teenage girl too much to sack her, for God’s sake, and that’s my life! I wanna do something worthwhile... not change the world necessarily, but change my life... find myself, find my true calling!” As he finished this revelation he realised that Alison had lost all interest in what he was saying and was examining her cuticles.
“Why do you think he called me self obsessed?” she said suddenly. “I’m not self obsessed, I care about stuff. Do you think I’m self obsessed?”
Stephen stared at her a moment. She had not heard a word he had been saying. In that moment he realised something. He was not even a person to her. He was a sounding board. She would be just as happy with a Dictaphone.
“Come on.” He said calmly. “You’re drunk, I’m taking you home.” He paid the taxi in advance and bundled her into the back before walking home. He was three weeks behind on his rent, not because he could not afford it, but because recently he had been so apathetic to everything that he simply could not be bothered to pay it. He had a choice. He could either pay the rent with several months in advance and continue as things were, or he could do something. He decided to do something.
He arrived home with a new resolve. He scrubbed his flat from top to bottom until it looked like a show home. He wrote a cheque for the missed rent and stuck it to the fridge with a magnet shaped like an ice cream cone, along with a note for his landlord explaining that he no longer required the flat. He packed just enough things to fit in a back pack and the rest went into charity bags. He needed to travel light. He was going to travel the country, be a free spirit, grow a beard. Then a sudden realisation hit him. He collapsed on the sofa, his plans momentarily destroyed. He had no transport. He had a motorbike licence from when he had been going to Sixth Form College, but he had not been able to afford to keep the bike at university and did not need it for his current job, which was a ten minute walk from his flat. He did not want his adventure to be limited by a bus route. Free spirits did not ride buses to set destinations; they went where the wind took them. Then it hit him. He would buy a moped. He could go where he pleased (as long as he avoided motorways). He could not afford a proper bike, but he had saved enough for a moped. Decision made, he fell asleep on the sofa, a strange sense of contentment filling his soul.
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Chapter Four: The Journey Begins
Stephen’s secret fantasies of being a free spirit on a big Harley Davidson, bombing around the country and raising Hell, were soon shattered when he saw the prices in the dealership. Having spent almost the whole of the last decade working in retail, he did not have savings, as such. What he did not spend each month just stayed patiently in his bank account waiting to be needed. He had figured that the maximum amount he had to spend on a bike was £400 if he wanted to live comfortably until his next pay cheque arrived. When he informed the salesman of this a look of bleak disappointment engulfed him. He looked as if someone had just told him his puppy was dying.
“Okay then.” he muttered resignedly. “This way, please Sir.”
Stephen followed the slimy young man with his greased back hair, and what appeared to be the beginnings of a goatee to a back area away from the showroom. He began to feel ashamed of his budget as he was being led away from public view into an area that seemed reserved for spotty teenagers and social misfits. The salesman took him to the darkest corner of the room. There stood a rickety looking moped. It looked as though it began its life working for a pizza delivery firm. It was a sort of orangey red and had a bumper sticker which read THINK BIKE.
“I think this is the best you’re gonna get for the money.” As the salesman spoke he lifted the seat revealing a storage compartment. “It’s got useful storage and I’ll chuck in a helmet for free, can’t say fairer than that.”
“Okay.” Stephen agreed. He had never been much for haggling and £350 for a bike and helmet seemed reasonable to him. He also got some money off for paying cash, because, the young man claimed, the till was empty and it saved him going to the bank.
All in all Stephen felt very pleased with himself. Of course he would have to avoid any major roads in case a wheel fell off, but what of it? He would get to experience the real England. The kind of England you do not get to see travelling at eighty miles per hour on a motorway. He did not even look at a map. He wanted his journey to be a complete adventure. He was just going to go to where-ever the wind took him, sleep under the stars – a real man – not someone who feared his teenage employees.
His moped made an unhealthy chugging sound whilst in motion and seemed to cough with the ferocity of a long term smoker every time it needed to move after pausing for any period. All in all, Stephen was feeling very self conscious. He was being laughed at by hoodies on street corners and making small children cry. He decided that as soon as he could he would get out of the city and into some country lanes where his only judges would be wild life and the occasional rambler. He was heading toward the countryside when he came upon a petrol station. He decided to stop and fill up as he had no idea when his next opportunity would be. Did they have petrol stations in the country? They must do presumably or how would they fuel tractors? As he entered the shop to pay for his fuel, he decided to buy some beer and sausage rolls for his first night under the stars. When he arrived at the checkout, the old man at the counter looked him up and down before rasping, “Got I.D?”
Stephen looked at him blankly for a moment and then said “Excuse me?”
The old man did not repeat himself. Instead he merely nodded towards the sign above the till point. It read UNDER 21? PLEASE DON’T BE OFFENDED IF WE ASK YOU FOR I.D. Underneath was some small print about licensing laws. Stephen did not look under twenty one. If anything, his decreasing hairline and five o’clock shadow made him look middle aged. But then, he assumed that if you were as old as this man (at a rough guess Stephen would have placed him at around two hundred), everyone looked young. He handed the old man his driver’s licence and smiled cordially.
“Well,” growled the old man “can’t blame me for asking; I ain’t never seen no-one over sixteen on one a they contraptions afore!” As he finished saying this he began what seemed to be a mixture of coughing and hysterical laughter which he was unable to stop. As he handed Stephen his change, there were tears in his eyes. He could not speak. He would stop briefly, look at the moped and the fit would begin again. Stephen hurried out feeling quite humiliated. He fitted his shopping into the seat. As he started the engine it made a loud bang before spluttering to life. Through the window he could see the old man sliding down his chair in complete hysterics.
Driving down the country lanes, Stephen felt himself becoming more and more angry. He found himself imagining how he could have responded, had he not been caught off guard. He saw himself quite calmly saying as he read the man’s name badge:
“Look, Methuselah is it? Look, Methuselah, at least I’m not working in a garage at the age of one thousand four hundred and ninety two.” He was already feeling much better as his imaginary self then took the UNDER 21? Sign and smashed it over the old man’s head quickly stopping the laughter. He awoke from his fantasy to a voice screaming at him.
“LOOK OUT!”
In the road, about ten feet in front of him was a small poodle type dog. It was wearing a pink neckerchief and had chosen the middle of the road as its toilet. It was clearly not going to be moved. Stephen had to swerve so abruptly that he lost his balance and both he and the bike skidded to the side of the road in a heap. Stephen was shaken and as he tried to remove his helmet the pain in his wrist told him it was broken.
The old man who had shouted the warning at him came running over. He was wearing khaki coloured trousers and a white shirt with a pink pin stripe. His neckerchief matched the dog’s.
“Bloody teenagers!” He was screaming. “You could have killed my dog!” But when he saw Stephen he stopped. He looked at him for a moment. A slight air of recognition seemed to come over him. Then he clutched his chest, his face contorted and he collapsed on the floor.
***~~~***
Chapter Five: It’s Becoming a Habit
When Stephen came to he was in the hospital. He could vaguely recall feeling extremely light headed, but everything else was a blur. Sitting on the chair next to his bed was a rather robust looking woman of about forty-five. She was not fat, but was certainly solid, her cheeks had the very ruddy glow of someone who had been recently exercising, but it was clear that this woman had been sitting watching him for a while. It was possible that in her younger days her hair was red, but now it was prematurely grey, a colour she had allowed it to remain with the air of one who had far more important things to concern her than her appearance.
She had been watching Stephen intensely and when he opened his eyes she moved in even closer, her gaze becoming more concentrated.
“How are you feeling?” she asked eventually, when she was certain that Stephen was awake.
“Not too bad considering that this is the second time in two days that I’ve been unconscious!” Stephen responded taking the glass of water that she offered him.
“My name’s Rose Bryant.” the woman continued. “I found you and James, lucky for you I did my shopping late this week.”
“Thank you” Stephen said, still unsure what to make of this stranger. “Um... how is, er, James?”
“Oh he’ll be fine silly old fool. I expect he only had the attack to bring everyone’s attention back to him! I bet it was that damn ridiculous dog of his that caused the whole thing! I mean really, you may as well have a rabbit, same size and they’re less trouble!”
Stephen laughed. He had decided that he liked this woman.
“Can I see him?” he asked.
“Soon as the doctor says you’re good to go I’ll take you to him.” Rose assured him “He’s only down the hall.”
The doctor informed Stephen that his wrist would be in a cast for six weeks and then require a support for a further two weeks after that, which somewhat delayed his plans to be a free spirit travelling the country. He followed Rose down the corridor with the air of a lost child being taken to safety. His plans shattered, he was now at a loss as to what to do from one moment to the next.
They arrived in James’ room to find him clutching a well loved pocket edition of the complete dramatic works of Oscar Wilde. His focus seemed to be completely absorbed in the text, so much so that he did not appear to notice their arrival, or chose to ignore it.
“James!” Rose barked sharply. “This is the young man your ridiculous excuse for a pet nearly killed!”
The old man looked up disdainfully from his book. His eyes moved slowly from Rose to Stephen and then back again. Eventually, after what seemed to Stephen like an eternity, he spoke.
“Madam, Sir Percival is neither ridiculous, nor a pet. He is my faithful companion.” He then returned to his reading as though they were both invisible. Rose’s cheeks became redder than ever and she stepped forward with the forceful air of a parent about to discipline an unruly child.
Despite not knowing her for very long, Stephen sensed that what she was about to do would not be good for a man who had recently suffered a heart attack, no matter how minor. It was for this reason he intervened.
“I see you’re reading Wilde.” He said in his most casual voice. “Dorian Grey has got to be one of my all time favourite books, it’s so dark.”
“I am not reading for pleasure.” was the disdainful response, “Although, I believe that the man was pure creative genius. This is research. I was directing the drama society in The Importance of Being Earnest, but I suppose it will have to be cancelled now. The doctor has practically forbidden me from any stress on pain of death. It’s not so much for myself, you understand, but for Sir Percival, who would take care of him if I were to... pass? And there’s no-one else remotely qualified to direct...” here the monologue seemed to trail off into silence. Rose leaned in towards Stephen and whispered confidentially:
“James used to work in the theatre. Lighting or something.”
Stephen looked at the old man. Despite his arrogance and rudeness, there was something helpless, almost pathetic about him, which Stephen found strangely endearing.
“Perhaps I could help?” he suggested. “It looks like I’m going to be hanging around here for at least two months until my wrist is healed.”
“You?” the response was cutting. “And what makes you think you know the faintest thing about theatre? That’s the trouble with young people today, think that everything is easy.”
Stephen said something next that he would never have thought to hear himself say:
“Well, I do have a degree in drama, and have worked as a professional actor.”
“Really?” James seemed shocked into relative silence “How fortuitous.”
“Well there we are then.” Rose jumped in hastily before James said anything insulting. “It’s decided, the show will go on. I’ve got a room above the pub that no-one uses,” she added to Stephen. “You can stay there. James can give you his notes and ideas and you can do the practical stuff. Couldn’t have worked out better.”
“No, quite, I must confess. Come and see me tomorrow, dear boy and we will discuss a plan of campaign. I am for the moment quite fatigued.” With that James lay back and shut his eyes, making it clear that any further attempts at conversation would be futile.
***~~~***
Chapter Six: Lions and Poodles and Beer, Oh My!
Rose led Stephen to a clapped-out looking Land Rover in the hospital car park. Originally, it must have been a handsome shade of burgundy, but with age it had faded to a rather pathetic pink. There was rust along the under carriage which suggested that the bottom may fall through at any second and the back number plate hung at a jaunty angle. In spite of all this, Stephen concluded that it was considerably more road worthy that his moped. As he approached it from the rear, a high pitched yap began to sound from the boot. After a short initial hesitation he approached and peered in at the culprit. It was Sir Percival. He was not trying to guard the vehicle. Indeed, no self respecting criminal would waste their time on it. He was just so thrilled at the prospect of company that he felt the need to shout. His whole body wagged in unison with his tail and Stephen smiled in spite of himself. All was forgiven.
“We’re dropping him off at the garage.” Rose informed him. “Bob’s gunna take him ‘til James is out of hospital. I’d have him at the pub except that Charlie wouldn’t like it.” She unlocked the passenger side door for Stephen before rounding the front of the car and letting herself in. “You can check the damage on your bike at the same time.” The car started smoothly, much to Stephen’s surprise. However, the noise of the engine seemed to have an effect on Sir Percival who began a strange and incessant whine. It did not sound like any noise Stephen had heard before and he turned to see if the animal was in some sort of distress.
“He always makes that noise when we’re driving,” Rose said reassuringly, “just ignore him.” She turned on the radio which was playing some rock anthem from the 1980s, for which Sir Percival could quite easily have been the original recording artist.
The garage was not at all what Stephen had imagined. It was an old redbrick water mill next to a stream, still with its water wheel on the side. There was a sort of make-shift yard around the back, where an area of mud had been gravelled over. There were engine parts and old tyres around. A big double door had been fitted to the back of the mill, which looked totally out of place. Clearly, this led to the main garage area, but it was closed. Sitting on a chair outside this big double door was a youth of approximately fifteen. He wore big baggy jeans, with baseball boots and a jumper with the hood pulled up. His floppy fringe fell over his eyes, obscuring part of his face. He was playing on a hand held game. Stephen was cautious. This was better than any guard dog in his opinion. However, upon hearing their approach the youth looked up from his game to acknowledge them.
“Bob’s nipped out to get summut for that rust bucket you brought in. You can leave Percy with me.” Stephen had been leading the small dog, who clearly disliked the texture of the gravel, as he had been gingerly stepping around and dragging back. However, on hearing this boy’s voice he ran forward to greet him. Stephen released the lead instinctively to avoid the humiliation of being brought to the floor by a poodle.
“Hiya Percy!” the boy exclaimed, obviously equally as pleased to see the dog.
“Tell Bob I’ll be round later with Charlie and we can all go out for a walk.” Rose instructed the boy as they started back towards the car.
“Will do!” he called after them.
“The future of my bike doesn’t sound very promising.” Stephen observed glumly as they drove away.
“Ah, don’t worry,” Rose reassured him cheerily, “Bob’s a mechanical genius. It’s in good hands.” Stephen nodded but felt less than optimistic. Rose turned down a narrow country lane. The car rattled so much that Stephen feared the gear box would fall out. Then they were in a pub car park. The sign read THE RED LION. The picture that hung above the sign however looked more like the red mongoose.
“That sign’s interesting...” Stephen began tactfully “where did you get that?”
“Good isn’t it?” Rose said enthusiastically. “My daughter Chloe designed it. You’ll meet her now.” They entered the pub through a back door and Rose led him straight upstairs to the living quarters. “That’s my room,” she pointed as they passed rooms on either side of them. “There’s the bathroom, the living area, that’s Chloe’s room, (stay out of there, she’s very private) and this is where you’ll be staying.” She pushed the door open to reveal a lovely, if somewhat dated, guest bedroom. It was furnished in Victorian Pine farm cottage furniture and had a huge window looking out on the miles of country side that lay beyond the pub.