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On Saturday 6 May, theDaily Trumpet’s lead headline read that Skipton couple Myfanwy and Des Gooding were retiring after thirty-three years of dedicated pick-pocketing throughout the whole of North Yorkshire. We did of course mean ‘litter-picking’. This unfortunately had an embarrassing impact on the words that followed: ‘both Les and Myfanny said there was more of a skill to doing it than most people realised and they’ve even held lessons in the village hall’. They have, of course, only held a course on picking up litter and not on thieving from people. TheDaily Trumpethas made a substandard donation to the local community fund in Mr and Mrs Gooding’s names.
Chapter 11
Chris came back early from work and dropped his bag down by the door as per usual and Polly held herself back from saying anything. It was a symbol that nothing had changed, and never would. And when he asked her if she’d had a ‘Good day?’ she replied that it had been fine. There was no point in telling him that she was now unemployed because she’d flung a cup of coffee in her boss’s face, and risk Chris lifting a line from the Jeremy Twatson book of sayings by asking her if she’d got PMT.
‘Weather forecast is good for tomorrow.’ Chris said, kicking off his work boots. She wouldn’t be picking them up and putting them neatly with the other shoes again and that thought came with a joyous spark of relief.
‘Sunshine until about two,’ he went on.
‘Great.’ Though it wouldn’t matter, she thought. The beige sack couldn’t look good in snow, rain or a blistering heatwave.
‘Cuppa?’ Chris said, not waiting for her answer, but getting two mugs out. Polly couldn’t remember the last time he’d put on the kettle.
She looked at his back as he stood waiting for it to boil and she was hit by a wave of sadness from left field. She hoped he wouldn’t be hurt. She hoped he’d miss her enough to realise his mistakes and not carry them forward to a new relationship. His ego would be bruised and he’d have to learn how to operate a duster, but he’d live.
‘You don’t take sugar, do you?’ he asked. After eight years he still wasn’t sure. That dried up any internal tears of sympathy for him fast. It was pathetic, their whole relationship had been pathetic, a disaster, and if she hadn’t put so much effort in trying to keep it from sinking, it would have drowned and died years before it had.
Her tea was watery with way too much milk in it when he brought it over to the table.
‘Should be a good day, I’m looking forward to it,’ said Chris. He blew out his cheeks. ‘Thirty years, can you imagine being with someone for all that time?’
‘It would be lovely to be with someone for all that time and still want to marry them all over again,’ Polly replied.
‘Some people just rub along in their own way, don’t they?’
‘Yes,’ she answered, wondering if he meant Camay and Ward, or did he think that’s what they were doing,rubbing along, living their separate lives under one roof and it was an adequate arrangement?
‘Camay said your dress is nice,’ Chris went on.
Polly didn’t say that it would be an ideal dress to wear if she tumbled out of a plane because she’d be assured of a safe landing.
‘So what are your plans for tonight then?’ she asked him after a pretend sip of tea. It was awful, like milky witch pee.
‘Couple of drinks with Jabba and a takeaway probably.’ His shoulders rippled with a shiver. ‘It’s cold in here.’ He got upto switch on the central heating and give the rooms a blast of warmth. He must have been frozen solid to do such a thing. He never usually had it on unless there were icicles hanging from the picture rails.
‘We could do with a holiday, don’t you think? Somewhere hot like Greece or Italy.’
Polly swallowed. What had brought this on? Could some psychic part of him sense what was about to happen and had slammed into reverse thrust?
‘Remember that lovely Greek island we went to once, where the cats were all over the place and you were buying tins of tuna for them?’ He laughed and Polly recalled that he didn’t laugh at the time. He said she was barking. He’d moaned all the way through those ten days that it was too hot, too expensive, too full of schoolkids in the hotel pool, too many fish in the sea, too many towels reserving sunbeds, too many olives in his salad, too many Greeks.
‘Yes,’ she said, pushing out a polite smile.
‘Anyway, I suppose I’d better get my stuff together,’ said Chris, exiting his rose-coloured memories with a loaded sigh, and she wondered what it was loaded with.
Half an hour later he came down the stairs hefting a holdall with his suit carrier over his arm.
‘Ward’s on his way to pick me up so I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ he said, smiling at her, and she remembered when that smile used to turn on a light inside her. ‘Break a leg.’
‘Break a leg?’ she questioned.
‘Or whatever it is you’re supposed to say to bridesmaids,’ he replied awkwardly.
She was sure it wasn’t that. ‘Hope you have a good time tonight.’
‘Cheers.’
A car pipped outside. He stepped towards her and kissed her cheek and she smelt his aftershave but it no longer did to her what it used to, like his smile.
