Meanwhile Gardens by Charles Caselton Page B

prepared grooves at the base of the man’s neck. The table was now in place.
    “Bit modest isn’t he?” Johnson sniffed. “I was expecting something more fully frontal.”
    “But it’s not for you is it Johnson?”
    Johnson hummed and hawed, certain if Ollie knew they were for someone else he would raise the price, “Weeeell...”
    Ollie took out his ever-present notepad and pen.
    “Is this more what you had in mind?” He quickly sketched an upside down man in the crab position. “I could make apair of mainly decorative tables which, by making the stomach really flat, you could put a mug on – ”
    “It’s a cup and saucer in this house.”
    “ – but perhaps little else, or,” Ollie gestured to the table he had just assembled, “I could make them bigger, more of the coffee table size – ”
    “Hmmmmm,” Johnson examined Ollie’s sketch. “Let’s go for the decorative tables for the time being but,” Johnson took Ollie’s pen and drew in a more bulging crotch, “make them more like this ok?”
    Johnson looked at the rain pouring down outside and gave an oversized sigh. “Such a shame the weather’s so foul. I was hoping to go for my exercise.”
    Ollie knew this was a cue for a compliment. Johnson looked at him with big eyes, waiting.
    “I thought you looked well Johnson.”
    Johnson smiled. “Well I’ve been going for regular aerobic exercise, what we in Hampstead call, – ” he paused then whispered conspiratorially, “ – blow-jogs.”
    Ollie hadn’t heard the term before but the words were self-explanatory. Just in case he had missed the meaning Johnson explained, “Everybody’s at it this time of day. All the City boys and dealers come back from work, jog up to the Heath and – ”
    “I get it. I get it.”
    “There must be a lot of spouses mystified as to why their partners are still as unfit as they were before. It’s taken over from walking the dog as the favourite excuse and not a moment too soon. There’s nothing more offputting than having someone go down on you only to have Fido come sniffing round….”
    Unwilling to hear any more of the sex lives of Hampstead denizens Ollie got up, “I have to go Johnson. I’ll let you know about the tables.”

    By nine o’clock Rion was ready to move out. Water had started trickling over the high first step about half an hour before. In the flickering candlelight she could see several large pools on the chamber floor – several large pools getting larger, she realised unhappily.
    It was time for action.
    Wriggling out of the snug sleeping bag Rion was surprised at how cold it was. With her throat beginning to burn and her limbs feeling suddenly heavy, Rion struggled into her black and white checked trousers, pulled on her fleece and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
    The first disappointment was finding her trainers, an island of shoe in one of the large pools beneath the bed. She shivered. There could be nothing worse than squeezing cold feet into already wet sneakers.
    Rion felt she was starring in her own Gothic horror film as the guttering candle threw uncomfortable shapes over the ceiling and walls. She grabbed the pencil-torch from the shelf, pulled on her white pac-a-mac and drew back the now sodden, heavy pink blanket from the doorway. The accompanying breeze blew out the already sputtering candles.
    Switching on the torch Rion was dismayed to find its weak beam barely pierced the darkness. “Here we go Rion,” she said to herself, strengthened by the sound of her own voice. “Think of Blondin, think of crossing – ” the next word came surprisingly naturally as Rion took her first step into the pool that had once been the little clearing, “the Niagara,” she said miserably, feeling the cold water slosh into her shoes and around her feet.
    To keep the demons away Rion began to whistle and thensing one of her favourite songs. It was a chirpy number by Candi Staton that always lifted her spirits, but this