Neighbours by Rob Molan, dry sherry

David will sort it out when he drives up tomorrow to visit. I’ve given up trying to reason with June but she’ll have to listen to him.

Yesterday’s exchange was typical.

‘I need to have a snooze in the afternoon, otherwise I’m not myself.’ Even she must know a woman of my age needs her rest. ‘But I can’t get a wink if your kids are playing outside my bedroom window shouting and screaming.’ I’d been up from six in the morning and was dropping on my feet. I’ve woken up early every day since I lost my hubby.

The brassy mare glared at me. I’m sure she’s had botox injected into those bright red lips.

‘They have to get out of the flat and burn off energy, Kathy. I suppose you kept your son cooped up in the school holidays?’ The cheek of her. We usually sent David to a summer school to help develop his mind.

‘How will I hear my mobile if my son calls?’

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘I’m sure he’d call again.’ Did she think David had a lot of free time on his hands?

He’s a man of authority and she’ll not find it hard dismiss him when he speaks to her. It’s a pity he lives so far away.

 

I hate getting bad news in the morning. David has texted to say he won’t be travelling up now until next weekend. I know he has a strong sense of public duty and it’s hard for him to get away but I need him here.

I make myself a strong cup of coffee and settle down to watch a movie to try and take my mind off things. But the opening titles are just ending when I hear her shouting at the kids through the wall. As usual, her language is appalling.

‘Shut your faces you little sods and do what you’re bleeding told or else you’ll get a slap.’

I shouldn’t have to listen to this. We never spoke to David like that when he was their age.

I bang on the wall as hard I can with a shoe.

Shortly afterwards, there’s a knock on my front door. My arthritis is killing me and it takes me a minute to get there. I open up to find her on my doorstep.

‘What’s your problem?’ Her dark roots outnumber the blonde strands of her hair.

‘I can hear you in my bedroom. It’s not nice to listen to.’

‘You’re a mum and should remember what it’s like. My fella is working all the hours he can driving the cab so I’m left on my own with them most of the time.’

I raise my voice. ‘Nevertheless, I’d be grateful if you could give me some peace.’

‘Relax, they’re going out to their pals soon.’ She curls her bloated lip.

I slam the door on the impertinent bitch.  It’ll be the same tomorrow morning.

My life’s not been the same since that lot moved in. It’s a shame the nice family who lived there before had to relocate. They knew how to behave and dressed impeccably.

 

I used to hate it when David played his records in his bedroom. Whatever he listened to though the sound was not as bad as the racket next door.

My head is bumping and I’ve had enough. I drag myself up from the sofa, hobble across the hallway, and ring her doorbell. She doesn’t hear it above the booming sound reverberating inside and I press for a second time.

The music is turned down and I hear shouting.

‘Where’s the fire?’

The door opens. She’s wearing a ridiculously short, denim skirt and skimpy pink T shirt.

‘What is it now?’ She stinks of cigarettes.

‘The music’s too loud. You need to turn it down.’ I’m trying to be polite.

‘I like to have it on while I’m cleaning.’ She doesn’t look dressed for the task. ‘And it’s on number seven, not maximum volume.’

She’s impossible. I decide to call David that evening.

‘Darling, can’t you come up a bit earlier than you said? I urgently need your assistance.’

‘Sorry, Mum, but I’m taking on a new area tomorrow and need a few days to get my head round it. My boss is expecting early results.’

That’s the consequence of us encouraging him to aim high when he entered the world of work.

 

There isn’t a cloud in the sky and a nice breeze is blowing, and I decide to put my washing out. I fill the basket with items from the washing machine and limp into the garden only to find she’s hung her stuff on both of the lines reserved for the ground floor flats.

I’m not having this. I unpeg the items on one side: her smalls, kids’ things and two towels. I put them all in a neat pile on the bench and start to hang up my clothes.

‘Oi, what are you doing?’ she screeches, charging out from the block in her bare feet, wearing a revealing white bath robe. ‘How dare you touch my washing.’ She stops, puts her hands on her hips and eyeballs me.

‘I’m merely making room for my clothes on my washing line. You’ll catch your death standing there.’ I hope the neighbours are watching this.

‘If you’d waited until after lunch you’d have had both lines to yourself. I’ll not forget this in a hurry.’ She gathers up her things and flounces off.

It’s nice to get one over her.

Back inside, I find I have a text from David.

‘Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. Should arrive around noon. x’

I can’t wait to see the look on that slapper’s face when he knocks on her door. He won’t take any nonsense. I think I’ll have a glass of dry sherry this evening to put me in the mood.

 

‘We should be there in about half an hour provided the traffic is clear.’ I’ve been nodding on and off during the journey.

It’s ever so kind of Neil to drive me there. I couldn’t take the train with the state of my legs and you never know who you’ll end up sitting beside.

I broke down crying after the phone call. The window was open, June was in the garden, heard me and stuck her head in.

‘Are you alright, Kathy? Is there anything I can do.’ I’d never heard her speak so nicely.

‘It’s my David; he’s in hospital. He’s hurt and I’m ever so worried. But I don’t think I’ll be able to visit him.’

‘That’s awful news for any mum to get. Which hospital is he in?’

‘It’s in London.’ It might as well have been the moon as far as I was concerned.

‘Look, I’ll see if my Neil can drive you down. It’s his day off.’ She disappeared before I could say anything.

Bless him, he agreed to do it and only asked for the cost of the petrol. It’s so ever good to have kind neighbours.

‘I hope you don’t mind me asking but how did David get his injuries.’

I hesitate at first but decide I owe him a reply.

‘A witness told the police he was putting a parking ticket on a car windscreen and an altercation broke out with the owner who punched him in the face. David fell back, banged his head and was left unconscious. I pray there’s no permanent damage.’ I wish David were more diplomatic. It would stand him in good stead climbing the managerial ladder in the transport industry.

‘I’m no fan of traffic wardens for obvious reasons but there’s no cause for such violence. I hope the police catch the thug.’

My mobile rings and I fish it out of my handbag.

‘Mrs Wallace?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m calling from North Middlesex hospital to tell you that your son, David, is doing well. There’s no long lasting damage and he’s sitting up in bed.’

‘Thank God. I’m on my way and should be there soon.’ Tears well up in my eyes.

‘See you soon then.’

I put the phone way.

‘Good news?’ asks Neil.

‘Yes! David’s going to be fine.’

‘Fantastic. He’ll be pleased to see you.’

When we pull up at the hospital entrance, Neil turns round. Despite the tattoos on his arms and the nose ring, he’s a handsome young man with deep blue eyes.

‘I’ll be parked over there,’ he says, pointing to his right. ‘Stay as long as you need to.’

‘I can’t thank you enough.’

‘And another thing. You’ll need some peace and quiet when you get back. I’ll have a quiet word with June. She’s a good girl but can be a bit boisterous at times.’

I suppose that might be a better solution. On reflection, David’s lack of tact might have made things worse.

About the author 

Rob started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had a few published in anthologies produced by small publishers. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. 

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The Family Plot

by Linda Norlander 

dry sherry 

 

Wasn’t he the one who had insisted they visit the family plot where Great Aunt Hester and Uncle Edgar rested in peace? On Halloween? Hadn’t he nattered on about it so long her ears hurt? So here they were, on their way and lost in the middle of nowhere.

The grating sound of a distant chainsaw rose and then faded away. At least someone was alive around here amid the scraggly woods and fallow fields. She sat, not talking, not looking at him and wondered—which way? Was it through the woods or up the brown and dying hills? Two roads and no map.

Three crows landed on the telephone wire bordering the highway. Crows were smart, smart in a way that humans were not. Maybe if she thought hard enough, they would read her mind and tell her which road to take.

The crows disappeared. She chose the road into the scrubby woods where the trees had shed their leaves and the empty, twisted branches were black etchings against the foamy sky. A faded wooden sign with an arrow pointed to a gravel road. She couldn’t read the writing on the sign but thought it looked familiar.

She turned onto the gravel road. It was hardly more than a track with weeds growing up in the middle. She pictured the cemetery just beyond the next rise. But when she reached the top of the road, it angled down and to the left. Maybe the cemetery was after the curve. Should she continue on this bumpy rutted track or turn around?

Rolling down the window, she smelled the damp and decaying leaves. A slight breeze kissed her face. Oh, that was nice—the scent of winter to come. The moment ended quickly, however, when four more crows landed on a branch ahead of her.

She tapped the horn and the crows rose as one, flying up into the sky and forming a giant vee. They would show her the way.

The open window let in a cool mist. She touched the button to roll down the window on his side, then changed her mind. Lost in sickly woods with the sun setting, she didn’t feel like taking care of him. She’d done the caring for too long—feeding him, cleaning up after him—no, he didn’t need the cool mist.

She peered over at him for help, but he remained silent. He used to be the one to forge ahead. But she was the driver today. He could stay silent for all she cared. She took a deep breath, almost a gasp, and gripped the wheel so hard her fingers ached. In the woods, a crow cawed.

The path rose sharply. The mighty Cadillac’s rear slued back and forth as she pressed hard on the gas. The speedometer hovered at forty than swung over to fifty and fifty-five. The suspension screamed as she urged the car on.

The speedometer passed sixty, but what caught her eye in that second was the gas gauge. The needle of the gas gauge that should never go below half-full suddenly fell, and the red warning light blinked at her.  Oh god, the gas tank was empty, and she was lost.

The car hit a deep rut throwing her forward. The Cadillac that had sat for eons rusting out on concrete blocks in the decaying old barn almost stopped in time. Almost. Instead, it flew up, floated then slammed into the ground, careening down the hill. The world caved in on her.

When she opened her eyes, she was still in the car, buckled up with a lap belt, the same one she’d buckled years ago when they first bought the car. She felt light and airy as if the crash had rid her of the great weight of her body. He lay in the seat beside her, tipped over.

Crows were everywhere, perched on fence posts and on electric wires and headstones. At last, they had arrived at the family plot.

She stepped out of the car, nimble on her feet like a young woman. At the passenger door she took him out, his silent essence encased in a green urn.

With the crows watching she opened the cap to free him. The gray ashes and grit that he had become spilled onto the dewy grass of the family plot.

A woman in an ivory dress emerged from the woods. This must be Great Aunt Hester. Then Uncle Edgar joined her. More people appeared. Some came from behind the graves, some walked out of the little gray mausoleum.

She wasn’t afraid. The gas tank on the old Cadillac was full and he was at her feet, dust on her shoes. A crow landed on the hood of the car beckoning her. It was time to go.

 

 

Dearly Devoted

by Jane M Gibbs

dry sherry

Hospitals fill me with dread. A dread that first attacks my nose with the mingling of smells.  Here in A & E, we have alcohol and sickness as standard.  Cleaning fluids, bodily fluids, bodily odours, toilet odours. After all these years, my nostrils still haven’t acclimatised.  The dread then moves up to my eyes as I notice the tense security guards, eyeballing everyone.   Desperate smokers respiring outside the entrances.  The foyer filled with incongruous places of refreshments and treats (occasionally even the mystical song of a piano), and mobile intravenous drips clinging like unnatural shadows.  Buffered floors and fluorescent lighting that drains life from every face.  Long, harsh corridors animated with marching nurses and young doctors, stethoscopes draped round their shoulders, awkwardly merging with bewildered visitors and deflated patients.  Though often enough, these corridors are eerily abandoned, silent and watchful.

Yes, I dislike hospitals.  Yet here I am.  I could’ve moved on, but I chose to stay. Hopelessly devoted for twenty years come sixteenth of August.  Our China anniversary.  It doesn’t seem that long ago when I first saw your floppy black hair and pleading dark eyes begging for someone, anyone, to help you find that set of case-notes.  It seemed an appropriate task for the new girl and I was happy to volunteer.  Elated even, when I discovered the notes on the top shelf of typing backlog in the store room.  You were so relieved, I thought you might faint.  Next morning, when I found the little chocolate on my desk, I knew it was from you. The taste lingered on my tongue and even now I can summon it. 

We’ve both changed since those early days.  I’ve watched you rise from Junior to Consultant, observing every line that time has sketched onto your skin.  Your hair now more silver, than black.  Your jaw less defined, your neck more loose.  The intensity of your dark eyes, now lessened by the dark rims beneath them.  I remember you saying you’d not retire until you have a million in your bank.  I see you check your balance.  You’ve a way to go.  As long as you remain here, so will I.         

It shouldn’t have been this way.  You should have saved me.  The paramedic reached me too late.  I know you tried.  I watched you.  And after, I watched you read my note.  It crushed you just as eagerly as your hand crushed it. 

But I can blow like a puff of air.  Enough to tickle the nape of your neck.  I can blow like a gentle breeze.  Enough to wake you from a nap. I can blow like an angry wind. Enough to make a crumpled piece of paper rise from the bin and land in front of you on your desk.  I know you have kept it.  I know you have felt me.  You will die on this job and when you do, you will see me.  I am waiting.

 

 

 

Symphony

by Dawn De Braal

  dry sherry

The lights in the concert hall lowered. The audience took their seats. Their tones hushed as the lone conductor walked onto the stage. He stepped up on to the platform, tapping his music stand with the baton to garner attention, he put his hands up. Instruments went to their mouths or into the playing position. Down came the baton, the cellos and violins and tympanies started to play building up to a crescendo. The conductor motioned for the woodwinds to join beckoning them with his one hand while the other kept the 6/8, time signature.  All eyes of the musicians’ split between the music on their stands and the man who held them in his hands. Wonderfully, he danced on the podium while the hand signals drew them out, or pushed them back down with his flat hand, brought up their volume and hushed them to silence. The musical interpretation of the piece held the audience captive. When it ended, the conductor bowed and then stepped off the stage to give the musicians their due. The crowd rose to their feet with a standing ovation

" Encore!”  the audience shouted. The conductor stood smiling at holding his hand out to his orchestra. Finally, someone tapped him on the shoulder to let him know they were requesting an encore. They spoke to him in sign language. No one expected the conductor, who brought out so much emotion in the music, to be deaf.

The Meaning of Friendship

by David Gower

dry sherry

I just need to finish off a couple of e-mails and then I can show you what to do. It might sound a bit slushy to you but it is comes from a lifetime’s experience. As I write you might see the real meaning of friendship to me.

Dearest Kate

It felt so strange and I thought it was only me but I heard on the radio this week that the biggest number of people looking for love is us – the baby boomers. It seems that we still have the thrill and excitement, the butterflies in the tummy and the nervousness of first meeting just as we did when we were teenagers.

I am so glad that you feel it too. I thought it was only me being silly and not accepting my age. I remember how when I thought anyone aged 40 was old and I always seemed to be going to funerals? I realise now that adults then had much harder lives and it was no wonder that they popped their clogs early. What an odd expression. No wonder foreigners find the English language a puzzle.

How kind you have been to me since we first knew that each other existed. I remember the day that I swiped your picture on my phone. My friend dared me to register on the website that was on TV. You would never believe how many strange characters we found. Someone even tried to tell me they had money and needed my bank details to get their fortune out of  their homeland. Another one told me I had won a lottery I had never entered. It made us wonder about who they were but when I saw your picture and read how you had described yourself I knew. It was like the adverts say ‘you were the one’. I told my friend that you looked like ‘the one’. How right I was since you replied to my first nervous message I have felt a special link between us. That is why you can have my details, that is why I trust you as a friend.

I feel that I know so much more about you and I am excited at the thought of meeting face to face although there is sadness that before we met up I have to go straight to Dad’s and arrange all the matters for the funeral and probate. It is lovely of you to offer to be with me but Dad was a very private man so it will be just me, the undertaker and the vicar. Dad was always a stiff upper lip chap and would want me to be the same.

I need someone like yourself at a time like this - your friendship and the kind words in your messages mean so much to me and you seem to understand my loss having become an ‘orphan’ just like me. We are both alone in the world now and how much I wish I could be with you this very minute.

My travel plans were almost ruined when my briefcase was taken with my cards but luckily my passport was at home safe and sound. I thought I could scrape enough to cover the air fare and accommodation on the trip from Sydney but the insurance says there will be a delay in paying me back and the bank says I left my pin numbers written down. I have no memory for all these codes and passwords. I had to be helped to log on to meet you by my friend. How sad is that? How glad I am that I never did any bank stuff on the phone, what if I had lost that too?

Having to budget for the funeral and other costs leaves me as they say embarrassed but I will have to manage as best I can until the estate is settled. The arrangements for the funeral cannot be changed at such short notice.

It was really kind of you – an act of friendship to offer to help out. I have to overcome my reluctance and accept. You must let me make it up to you when we meet. Do I sound forward? I do hope not but I am hopeful that we might start afresh together when I am back in the UK to settle. Our friendship means so much to me.

I am so looking forward to seeing you and starting life anew. I know you have estimated how much the flight and a hotel in Singapore for a couple of days should be and I will let you know when the transfer arrives safely.

What would I do without you having found someone so dear in such an unexpected way? You are a friend indeed.

Love from far away but with you soon

Tony

SEND

Dearest Andrew

It felt so strange and I thought it was only me but I heard on the radio this week that the biggest number of people looking for love is us – the baby boomers. It seems that we still have the thrill and excitement, the butterflies in the tummy and the nervousness of first meeting just as we did when we were teenagers.

You get the picture? Remember, never be greedy; once the money arrives close the account and start the next identity on your list.

The meaning of friendship in this line of work is money.

Size Matters

by Roger Noons

a dry sherry

‘Have I grown a second head?’ Richard said, as he walked into the kitchen. ‘Or has my face become comical, an extra moustache perhaps, ears suddenly become pointed?’

    His wife looked up from stirring gravy. ‘What?’

    ‘I’ve just walked into the hall and met our daughter, who looked at me, burst out laughing and ran upstairs. Not her normal reaction when I come home from work and ask her if she’s had a good day. Usually I get a scowl and a shrug.’

    ‘She had an experience on her way home from school.’

    ‘An experience?’

    ‘A man exposed himself in front of her.’

    ‘Oh!… but how does that explain why she laughed at me?’

    ‘Because darling, once she’d got over the shock, she stared at the man and told him it wasn’t as big as her Dad’s … and he ran away.’

    ‘Ah! How does she know … perhaps I left the bathroom door open sometime,’ he mused, almost to himself.’

    ‘I probably told her,’ Laura said.

    ‘You told her about my …’

    ‘It was no doubt during our birds and bees chats. Maybe I said you were bigger than most:—’

    ‘Bigger than … hang on a minute, how many have you seen?’

    After a deep sigh, she announced. ‘You’re the one who brought home magazines and hired  DVDs.’

    ‘Right. What do we do about the dirty old man?’

    ‘I rang the school and they said they would tell the police. Mind you, I think she dealt with it rather well and told her so. I probably wouldn’t have been that quick thinking. If he appears again I doubt he’ll flash Emily. Won’t want another reminder of his inadequacy.’

    ‘Yeah, right, well done Em. What’s for supper?’  

About the author

Roger is a regular Cafe Lit contributor.

What had he been up to?

Debbie Boitoult

 dry sherry

 

I read the letter again, why were his Solicitors writing to me?   It must be 5 years since I’ve seen him; in fact it is 5 years, it was at Susan’s funeral.   The last I heard was that he had sold the old house and moved into a Nursing Home.  

 

The letter said it would be to my advantage to contact Simon & Broadway, his Solicitors.   It’s worth a telephone call I suppose, perhaps he has left me all his worldly goods.

I was given an appointment the next morning so now I am at Simon & Broadway waiting to be shown into Mr Simons’ office.   Mr Simon sat behind his paper-littered desk.   He peered at me over his half-moon glasses.  

‘Good morning Mrs Heale.   Please take a seat.   I am very sorry for your loss; your brother-in-law was a client of ours for many years.’

‘Thank you, mind you I hadn’t seen him for many years.’ 

‘Oh I see, well I have his will here. He amended it recently.  I know that it was a very difficult time for him; he had to make some hard decisions.    At his age one tends to think that everything is settled and there would be no more surprises in life, but for him first the heartache then the delight.  It’s strange how things happen, isn’t it?’

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I nodded in agreement.

‘The terms of his will are very straight forward. The trust he set up will continue, by that I mean the arrangements of the monthly payment for Lucy.  His personal belongings come to you.   I think the Nursing Home have made arrangements for them to be stored until you collect them.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Oh I am so sorry, didn’t I make myself clear, the terms of the will are..........’

Interrupting him mid flow I asked, ‘Who is Lucy?’

‘I’m sorry Mrs Heale, I know very little about her, other than she is Belinda’s daughter.’

‘Who is Belinda?  My sister, his late wife was Susan.   I know he didn’t have any other family and I don’t think he married again.  So who is Belinda and why is he paying her daughter money?’

‘Once again I am very sorry I cannot tell you any more, it would be a breach of client confidentially.’

‘Surely as your client is dead that doesn’t count anymore.’

‘Well it does for certain things, however even if it didn’t I have no more information other than what I have already told you.     I know that your brother-in-law blamed himself for all the distress he caused Belinda, but he thought it best in the circumstances.’

I thanked him and left his office.  I sat in my car trying to make sense of it.   Who was Lucy and what was her connection to my late Brother-in-law?  He always was a womaniser.  He used to say that women fascinated him, but why he was paying this Lucy a monthly amount?  Perhaps she was his daughter with Belinda and he felt he should provide for her?   No that can’t be right; surely he was too old to have had an affair or start a new relationship.  

I went to the Nursing Home to collect his belongings, perhaps there would be a clue amongst them.  I asked the staff if they know anything about Lucy or Belinda, but there seemed to be a wall of silence.  I was told that they never interfere with their guests personal affairs, unless the individual was not capable of managing them for themselves.  They were quick to point out that prior to his death my Brother-in-law had been perfectly capable of organising his personal matters.  Apparently he had made his own arrangements for his funeral which had already taken place.  He wanted no fuss, just a private cremation.  The one thing they did tell me was he had wanted Lucy to be there, but he understood if it was not appropriate.  Apparently she did not attend. 

Amongst his belongings was a diary.  I sat in my kitchen flicking through the pages, there was an entry written the week before he moved into the Nursing Home.  

     ‘I could see the hurt in her eyes when I told her that I had sold the house.   I tried to explain that I couldn’t manage any more even with her help.   I had always known that Susan was my first love, but when Belinda came into my life I quickly grew to love her as well.  I explained that she was too young to be saddled with an old man like me.  I would be a burden to her, she needed to find someone younger.  I turned my back on her and walked away.    I know it broke both our hearts, but she deserved better than me.’

I realised that tears were running down my face as I read the words.  You silly old fool, what had you been up to?    Oh Belinda, he must have loved you so much if he was prepared to leave you rather than be a burden to you.    The diary fell off my lap.  As I picked it up I saw another entry on the back page.

                ‘Wonderful news, Lucy was born last night.   I know that I must never go to see her, but I’m sure she will be the image of her Mother.  I am determined that even if she grows up not knowing anything about me, I want to help make her life a happy one.  I want to make sure she never goes without.’

There was a telephone number written at the top of the page with the name Lucy next to it.   I picked up the telephone.  I needed to know the truth even if it was none of my business.

 A woman’s voice said,

 ‘Hello’.

‘Oh hello, it that Lucy?’ 

‘Who is this?   What do you want?’

I knew instantly that I had made a mistake calling.   Her voice was understandably suspicious.   I tried to explain who I was and why I was ringing.  

Hesitantly she said,  'Look I think it would be best if you come here and we talk face to face.   I think there are things that need sorting out.’

She gave me her address and an hour later I parked my car outside her house.   Perhaps at last I was going to find out what he had been up to.  

‘Hello, please come in.   I think we owe you an explanation.    We’re all sitting in the garden in the sunshine.  Come through I know Belinda and Lucy will be delighted to meet you.’

She guided me through the house towards the garden.

As soon as I saw them it was obvious that they were Mother and Daughter, they both had the same colour hair and the same facial features.

‘Lucy was born just after Belinda came to live with us.   We felt that he should know, even though he said that he wanted no contact. It turned out that he had his suspicions that Belinda was pregnant when he left her.   I think he felt guilty about what he had done because he insisted that he pay us a monthly allowance for Lucy.’

At last the mystery was solved.

Mother and Daughter stood side by side looking at me, before they raced off round the garden barking happily fighting over a brightly coloured ball.

The White Swan

Robin Wrigley 

dry sherry

For Erskine, the weekend’s partying left him with a hangover that he was still suffering today, Tuesday. Bourbon, Bintang beer and Jakarta’s climate did no man any favours.

     He was expecting a client in from the field. Harry S. Duimyer was an unknown. The telex said he was an important senior construction engineer on the gas project in central Sumatra.

     Shortly after midday he heard the company car pull into the driveway in the office compound. Harry Duimyer was exactly what he had pictured when he read the telex: mid-fifties, heavy-set, tanned with greying hair under a baseball cap emblazoned with the company logo. He wore a white button-down collar, cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled half-way up his forearms. In his breast pocket was a passport behind three pens.  Half-way down a pair of khaki trousers, the left-hand leg was caught on the top of his light-tan work- boot, slightly caked with yellow mud.

     ‘Pleased to meet you sir. Come through and have some coffee.’ Erskine extended his hand which was firmly shaken. His guest didn’t smile. If anything he looked somewhat sad.

          In the office Erskine closed the door behind them. The maid had placed a silver tray with coffee, milk, sugar and a plate of homemade cookies on the teak table in the corner.

     ‘How’s it going out there in Sumatra, Harry? Erskine asked as they sat down.

     ‘As well as can be expected considering this year’s monsoons. My guess is that your guys will be a month behind schedule.’

     Harry took a sip of his coffee and reached for a cookie. ‘Damn fine cookies,’ he said, biting a biscuit and regarding the remainder in his hand.

     ‘Thank you, my maid Tina makes them – my wife’s recipe.’

     ‘Got your family with you?’ Harry asked.

     ‘No. Wife and the boys are back in the States. She didn’t like it here – got homesick.’

     ‘Too bad,’ Harry sympathised.

For the next hour they talked about the project, then, looking at his watch, Erskine said, ‘Heck Harry, you must be starving. The Hotel Indonesia will do us proud. What d’you say?’

     ‘You’re in charge, young feller. I could do with some decent chow and a cold beer after that site-canteen garbage.

     As Erskine drove the car out into the mid-week traffic, he tried to gauge his guest. He seemed a nice old boy, looking out at the city without comment, but he hated client entertainment duties, continually walking on egg-shells.

     ‘I admire your courage driving in this place, Erskine; I wouldn’t have the guts.’

     ‘Been doing it for some time. I have a driver, but when the journey is open-ended and parking’s not a problem I drive myself. I figure if I’m gonna die, it should be my doing and not some local driver.’ Erskine gave a wry grin, hoping to get a reaction from his passenger.

     Harry said simply, ‘Uh huh,’ and continued looking at the passing street scenes.

     He parked the car in the shade of a mango tree and they sauntered up the main pathway through the manicured gardens. The huge glass doors were opened by a brightly uniformed doorman who greeted them with a ceremonious bow. To the left of the main reception desk, in the air-conditioned lobby a Gamelan duo played two double rows of round, brass metalliphones, tapping in unison with small mallets, producing a sense of circular rhythm, peace and tranquillity,  a marked contrast after the noise of the traffic.

     Erskine stopped to allow Harry to watch and listen to the players.

     ‘Ain’t that just something else, Erskine?’

      Erskine’s attention was caught by the approach of a European couple coming towards them from the main foyer. The man was rather non-descript – Le Carre’s George Smiley perhaps, but the woman was quite stunning. Long, honey-blonde hair resting on tanned shoulders. She was wearing a plain, full-skirted white linen dress.

     Gliding through the muted colours of the hotel’s Javanese décor she had the appearance of a swan navigating a narrow passage of dark water.

     They were twenty feet away when Erskine touched Harry’s arm. He seemed mesmerised by the couple. ‘Listen Harry I just remembered the restaurant here is not that good on Tuesdays. I know a place that will be much better.’ They turned and walked back to the car park.

 Erskine started the engine when Harry put a hand on his left forearm.

     ‘D’you mind if I ask you a personal question young man?’ He was looking closely at Erskine.

     ‘Feel free,’ Erskine said.

     ‘You got woman problems?’ Erskine nodded. This old boy, hair growing in his ears, probably never been out of Texas before, didn’t miss a trick. ‘That blonde?’ he continued. Erskine nodded again.

     ‘One fine looking lady. Pity she looks spoken for.’

     Erskine reversed the car, made a U-turn and drove away.

Dry Sherry