thoughts and me.’
‘Pardon?’
‘
The Mower
’
s Song
by Andrew Marvell. How old are you?’
‘Ah… Nineteen.’
I’m nearly twice her age. I could be her father.
You stood with Yvonne in a cafeteria in Terminal One at Gatwick and watched Tommy argue with his wife. It was a quarter to midnight. There had been an announcement: the plane to Palma, Majorca had been delayed three hours.
‘That’s Irene’s plane,’ Yvonne said. ‘It’ll buy us some time.’
‘I should really be thinking about going,’ you said, remembering your essay on villeinage that had to be completed by nine o’clock the next morning.
‘We have to take Tommy back,’ Yvonne said.
‘Back where?’
‘To the prison. It’s an open prison, don’t worry. As long as he’s back before seven they’ll never know he’s been gone.’
‘Right.’
Yvonne could tell from your expression that aiding and abetting even the temporary escape of a prisoner was not something you’d planned on doing in your life. So she explained that Tommy was in for embezzlement, a victimless crime.
You asked about the purpose of this visit to Gatwick and Yvonne said that Irene, Tommy’s wife, was going to Spain to be with Tommy’s ex-partner. Tommy had to persuade her to stay, for the sake of the kids, hence the midnight rush to Gatwick.
‘The kids?’
‘They have two kids.’
Irene and Tommy came over to the coffee bar and Irene was introduced. She was a small, buxom woman with a knowing look to her eye, dressed scantily and brightly for the Spanish sun. Tommy asked Yvonne if he could have a word and left you and Irene alone. You bought her a coffee and she accepted one of your cigarettes.
‘I hear the plane’s delayed,’ you said.
‘Charters.’
‘Nightmare.’
‘So,’ she said, looking at you shrewdly, ‘are you and Yvonne…?’
‘No. No, I live in the bedsit under hers.’
When she drew on her cigarette small deep furrows appeared in her upper lip. She smoothed the lapels of her short-sleeved jacket, adjusted the lie of her cleavage, unclipped and reclipped an earring.
‘Ever been to Majorca, Stephen?’
‘Edward.’
‘Edward.’
‘No, but I’ve been to Barcelona.’
‘Never been to Barcelona. Las Palmas?’
‘Ah, the Canaries.’
‘
Las Islas Canarias
.’
‘Never been there.’
Tommy and Yvonne returned, Tommy unable to keep the smile off his face with news that the charter flight to Majorca had now been cancelled. Irene didn’t believe him and even when an announcement followed quickly she still insisted you accompanied her to the desk to confirm that this was so. It was as if your presence would thwart any dark plot by Tommy. The plane was indeed cancelled: there was an air traffic controllers’ strike in Franceaffecting most European flights. To your consternation tears began to brim in Irene’s eyes.
‘This is what happens to me, Edward. I can never be happy. Just when I think my life’s going OK, and finally I’m going to be happy, this sort of thing always happens to me.’
‘Maybe it’s fate,’ you said. ‘You never know. Think of the kids. Maybe you’re not meant to go.’
She ran a knuckle under each eye as she considered this, then she reached for your hand and squeezed it. You felt her long nails bite into your palm.
‘Thanks, Ed. Truly. Thanks.’
In the foyer of the Tudor Lodge hotel I stand with Juliana waiting for her taxi. I feel a form of panic stirring in me, like a skittish animal. I can’t let this girl go.
‘Juliana,’ I say, ‘If you come up to my room I can show you that poem.’
‘What poem?’
‘The Juliana poem.’
‘I’d better get back.’
‘I’d like to write a book about you. A book of your life.’
‘There’s my taxi.’
I want to kiss her but I realize I will have to stretch my neck and stand slightly on my toes to do so. I step towards her and she freezes. The Impossibility of Desire in the Poetry of… Juliana’s height suddenly makes me
‘Pardon?’
‘
The Mower
’
s Song
by Andrew Marvell. How old are you?’
‘Ah… Nineteen.’
I’m nearly twice her age. I could be her father.
You stood with Yvonne in a cafeteria in Terminal One at Gatwick and watched Tommy argue with his wife. It was a quarter to midnight. There had been an announcement: the plane to Palma, Majorca had been delayed three hours.
‘That’s Irene’s plane,’ Yvonne said. ‘It’ll buy us some time.’
‘I should really be thinking about going,’ you said, remembering your essay on villeinage that had to be completed by nine o’clock the next morning.
‘We have to take Tommy back,’ Yvonne said.
‘Back where?’
‘To the prison. It’s an open prison, don’t worry. As long as he’s back before seven they’ll never know he’s been gone.’
‘Right.’
Yvonne could tell from your expression that aiding and abetting even the temporary escape of a prisoner was not something you’d planned on doing in your life. So she explained that Tommy was in for embezzlement, a victimless crime.
You asked about the purpose of this visit to Gatwick and Yvonne said that Irene, Tommy’s wife, was going to Spain to be with Tommy’s ex-partner. Tommy had to persuade her to stay, for the sake of the kids, hence the midnight rush to Gatwick.
‘The kids?’
‘They have two kids.’
Irene and Tommy came over to the coffee bar and Irene was introduced. She was a small, buxom woman with a knowing look to her eye, dressed scantily and brightly for the Spanish sun. Tommy asked Yvonne if he could have a word and left you and Irene alone. You bought her a coffee and she accepted one of your cigarettes.
‘I hear the plane’s delayed,’ you said.
‘Charters.’
‘Nightmare.’
‘So,’ she said, looking at you shrewdly, ‘are you and Yvonne…?’
‘No. No, I live in the bedsit under hers.’
When she drew on her cigarette small deep furrows appeared in her upper lip. She smoothed the lapels of her short-sleeved jacket, adjusted the lie of her cleavage, unclipped and reclipped an earring.
‘Ever been to Majorca, Stephen?’
‘Edward.’
‘Edward.’
‘No, but I’ve been to Barcelona.’
‘Never been to Barcelona. Las Palmas?’
‘Ah, the Canaries.’
‘
Las Islas Canarias
.’
‘Never been there.’
Tommy and Yvonne returned, Tommy unable to keep the smile off his face with news that the charter flight to Majorca had now been cancelled. Irene didn’t believe him and even when an announcement followed quickly she still insisted you accompanied her to the desk to confirm that this was so. It was as if your presence would thwart any dark plot by Tommy. The plane was indeed cancelled: there was an air traffic controllers’ strike in Franceaffecting most European flights. To your consternation tears began to brim in Irene’s eyes.
‘This is what happens to me, Edward. I can never be happy. Just when I think my life’s going OK, and finally I’m going to be happy, this sort of thing always happens to me.’
‘Maybe it’s fate,’ you said. ‘You never know. Think of the kids. Maybe you’re not meant to go.’
She ran a knuckle under each eye as she considered this, then she reached for your hand and squeezed it. You felt her long nails bite into your palm.
‘Thanks, Ed. Truly. Thanks.’
In the foyer of the Tudor Lodge hotel I stand with Juliana waiting for her taxi. I feel a form of panic stirring in me, like a skittish animal. I can’t let this girl go.
‘Juliana,’ I say, ‘If you come up to my room I can show you that poem.’
‘What poem?’
‘The Juliana poem.’
‘I’d better get back.’
‘I’d like to write a book about you. A book of your life.’
‘There’s my taxi.’
I want to kiss her but I realize I will have to stretch my neck and stand slightly on my toes to do so. I step towards her and she freezes. The Impossibility of Desire in the Poetry of… Juliana’s height suddenly makes me
Similar Books
