Christmas Eve on The Patch

 

The light was fading fast and, as if on cue, a few flakes of snow were beginning to fall as the removal lorry hoved into view at the end of the road. James and Emily were glad to see it; they were sitting in camping chairs in the front room of an unfurnished house while their two children thundered about above them in the empty house, fighting over who was going to get which room.

Moving to a new patch was a fact of life in the army and moving on Christmas Eve had been unavoidable. James, a Captain in the Royal Engineers, had been overseas on a peace keeping mission and it would have been unthinkable for Emily and the children to move alone. Being military and used to frequent changes of accommodation they had pared their belongings down to the bare essentials and it was not long before the removal lorry was empty and on its way and the house was full of boxes.

“Thank God” said Emily “We can unpack a few items and then relax for the night”.

James reminded her that they had, at least, to unpack the artificial Christmas tree and arrange the children’s presents underneath it, once the children had gone to bed. That reminded Emily that they also had to unpack their bedding. She could see a longer and busier evening ahead then she had at first imagined.

There was a click from the front door as the letter box opened and then closed.

“Oh, someone knows we are here” said James and went to pick up a small envelope that was lying in the hall. “It’s an invitation” he said, and he put it aside on a shelf in the hall.

“That’s nice, provided it is not for tonight” said Emily, laughing.

They finished unpacking for the evening and put on the kettle. Before sitting down to her mug of tea, Emily went into the hall to fetch the invitation and what she saw caused her to stop in her tracks.

“It is for tonight!” she cried and waved the invitation in James’ face as she came back into the kitchen.

“Can’t be” said James “That’s why I didn’t bother to read it properly”.

The invitation read:

Colonel and Mrs Glyn Jones

Request the presence of:

Captain and Mrs Gill

Station Commander’s Residence

Burma Square

Cocktail Party

Smart Casual

7:30pm for 8pm

“What?” James let out a frustrated expletive.

“We heard that” two voices said in unison from upstairs.

“We’re not going, surely” said Emily.

“No choice” said James “Can’t ignore an invitation like this, especially on a new posting”.

“But we have only just arrived” Emily pleaded.

“Yes, but he probably does not realise that; the rest of the company arrived last week” retorted James. “What time is it now?”

It was seven o’clock already. That gave them 45 mins to prepare as it never paid to arrive too early at these events. There ensued a frantic search in boxes and suitcases for a suit for James and a cocktail dress for Emily. They regretted packing their shoes away so well and not labelling the boxes. James rubbed his chin in frustration and then realised he had not shaved for two days. Another search ensued.

All this was accomplished in 30 minutes giving them time to breathe. Only one thing had been overlooked.

“The kids, what about the kids?” shouted Emily. They had forgotten about a baby sitter.

One advantage of being in the army was that, after a few years, you rarely ended up somewhere where there was not someone you knew. One frantic phone call later, at considerable expense, and the teenage daughter of someone they knew from a previous posting was at the door, boyfriend in tow and a half bottle of vodka protruding from her handbag. But this was an emergency.

A quick check on Google maps showed that Burma Square was only about 100 yards from their front door, it was a cul-de-sac which was also the end of their road, so they walked along to a secluded collection of five large, detached houses, all allocated to senior officers, arranged not in a square but in a semi-circle round a patch of grass with a large oak tree in the centre. There were large cars parked on the square and most houses had at least two cars parked in the long drive.

“When will you be a colonel, James?” asked Emily.

“Not soon enough” thought James.

One house in the middle of the row was larger than the rest and had a sign at the bottom of the drive indicating that it was, indeed, the Station Commander’s Residence. The house was lit up and shafts of light fell on the well groomed lawn at the front from a pair of large bay windows a set of French windows.

“Very nice” said James “And we’re not too early”.

“The Station Commander clearly has an eye for quality older cars” he continued “I have never seen one of these old Mark II Volvos in such good condition and that Triumph 2000 is a beauty”.

A uniformed non-commissioned soldier opened the door to them as they arrived, and they were shown into the large room. About thirty people were gathered, sipping drinks, nibbling canapés and hors d’oeuvres being served by uniformed young ladies. The hum of polite conversation drifted around the room.

A tall, distinguished man came over, presumably the host, greeted them and introduced them to his wife and then started making the rounds of the guests again.

“Strange” said James “I don’t recognise anyone here”.

“Why’s that strange?” asked Emily “We’ve only just arrived on the patch”.

“It’s strange because we already know people on the patch and a few colleagues came with me from our last posting” answered James, to which Emily just nodded.

The evening was spent pleasantly drifting about between the others there, mainly couples,  but a few strange incidents made James and Emily swap notes on the walk home.

Emily started “I think the Colonel must have a sense of humour”.

“What makes you say that?” asked James.

“Well the dress code on the invitation didn’t mention that the party was retro” she replied “Some of those dresses were out of the ark. And the men’s suits! Those collars were like wings”.

James, who did not have much of an eye for these things, had not noticed but did comment on the food. “I must say I was not blown away by the nibbles; I thought cheese and grapes on cocktail sticks were a thing of the past”.

“Yes, especially served up stuck into an orange” said Emily “The kind of thing my parents used to laugh about from their youth”.

“I guess it all figures” concluded James “The cars in the drive and even a batman at the door, thought that had gone years back. Some poor private must have been convinced to give up his Christmas Eve.”

“Must’ve got some young female privates to serve the nibbles and drinks” added Emily.

“We’ll know next time” said James “If there is a next time”.

****

They arrived back at their new house, which was still standing. The baby sitter was paid and staggered off with her boyfriend. An empty half bottle of vodka was in the kitchen bin. After checking the kids, James and Emily went to bed, exhausted.

****

It was always polite in military circles to drop the host of a dinner or cocktail party a note of thanks. James wrote a note to the Colonel and his wife, thanking them for the invitation, complimenting the selection of drinks and—with a smile—the food.

“I’m sure that the kids could go up the road to deliver this” he suggested to Emily.

“Sure” she replied “It’s almost within sight and they don’t have to cross any roads. Provided they go straight there and straight back and” staring at the kids “don’t fight!”

The kids were wrapped up in coats and scarves and pointed in the right direction.

“Just look for the sign saying ‘Station Commander’s House’, it’s the biggest one in the middle of the row of houses, and pop this through the letter box”.

The kids took longer than expected, which worried Emily a bit,  but eventually the front door opened, and they came in to the kitchen where James and Emily were drinking coffee.

“What’s wrong?” said Emily, she could sense that something was up, the kids were both looking down at their feet.

“Mummy Daddy” the younger of the kids spluttered “We couldn’t find the house”.

“Don’t be silly” said Emily, “It’s just along the road, you couldn’t miss it”. That didn’t help much.

James asked “Did you see a sign saying Station Commander’s House?”

“No” said the older one “We looked and looked, honest”.

“OK, it’s not urgent; I’ll go up with it later” said James.

****

In fact, he did not go up to the house later. Tired out by finishing the unpacking and their late night the previous evening, the family settled down to watch TV, progressing from a series of kids’ programmes and films to more adult programmes and films once the kids had gone to bed before they all had an early night. It had not been their best Christmas but at least they were all together which was not always the case.

****

Boxing Day passed and James was required to call in at the base, a short drive away, and meet some of his new colleagues. He mentioned the cocktail party to a few of them but all he got was puzzled looks in return.

“Of course” he rationalised “None of them were there”.

The day was short as most officers wanted to be back with their families.

****

James pulled up at the new house and was just about to enter when he glanced along to the end of the road where he could see the top of the large oak tree in the centre of Burma Square. Instead of going towards the new house he decided to walk up to the square to see what, if any, problem the kids may have had finding the Station Commander’s House.

What he saw as he approached the cul-de-sac astonished him. The end of the road was closed by a barrier beyond which stood the five houses which formed Burma Square. The problem was, they were all abandoned and crumbling. Nobody had lived there for decades.

The man on the mountain

“PLEASE take him out for a while, he is driving me round the bend.”

It was Christmas Eve, and my wife was busy in the kitchen preparing for a large influx of family. I was supposed to be keeping the children occupied. This mainly involved suggesting that they may want to play in their rooms while I watched television. But our oldest son—although not very old—was a non-conformist and he would not stop pestering my wife for food and information about what was under the Christmas tree.

“OK, lad, I am going to take you up the mountain. Want to come?!”

Our son was always keen on physical exercise; he echoed my “up the mountain” with pleasure and his coat and scarf were on before I had left my seat.

The ‘mountain’ was, in fact, not a mountain. It was Arthur’s Seat and our house in the university halls of residence where we lived was in its shadow. Arthur’s seat is the edge of a massive volcano that erupted, where Edinburgh is now located, in the Carboniferous era. It is about 800 feet high and has several approaches. The view in one direction from the top across Edinburgh to Blackford Hill—another aspect of the rim of the volcano nearly three miles away—is excellent. In the other direction the Firth of Forth opens out into the North Sea.

Both suitably wrapped up we decided to take the path nearest the back gate of the halls up to the top. The path is narrow and in places the sides are steep. But our son, as ever, was fearless and ran on ahead of me. The day was dull and overcast and the nearer we got to the top the colder it became. A single low shaft of sunlight was dancing over the Firth of Forth but otherwise, night was beginning to fall.

“We had better just go to the top and come straight down” I said. It would not be easy to negotiate the path in the dark.

The rocky summit was in sight, but the path at this point disappears from view for the final hundred yards to the top. Out of the gloom and old man appeared coming down the path. He had clearly either been ahead of us but unseen or, as I thought more likely, had probably taken the path from the other side of Arthur’s Seat and was making his was down our side. Wearing a black duffel coat and a black woollen hat it was apparent that he had fairly unkempt white hair protruding from under the hat and also a white beard, similarly in need of a trim.

“Hello” he bellowed, “Lovely evening. I was just taking a look at the city. Lovely view.”

I said that was just taking our son out for a while to give his mother some peace while she prepared for Christmas. He smiled at our son.

“Well, Happy Christmas” he bellowed again and carried on down the path.

The opportunity was too good to miss, and I told my son that we had just seen Santa Claus and that he must have been having a look to see how he would deliver his presents that night.

“Really!” he shouted. “Wow, wait till I tell Mum.”

We walked on for a few steps to where the path disappeared before the summit. This was the last point from which the path was visible all the way to the road. We both turned round, expecting to see the old man making his way down.

But he was gone.

 -oOo-

Bosphorus belle

The bridges of the Bosphorus hung above us in the dark and the boat slowed down then halted. The rise and fall of the swell became nauseating as the boat bobbed at the mercy of the wakes of passing boats and we waited.

This was a hired excursion boat from Istanbul and we were out partying to celebrate the end of a conference. I had little time to have a drink or to speak to anyone. But several conversations ended by asking if I had met Esmanur and when I said ‘no’ I was told ‘don’t worry, she’ll be here soon’. I could not fathom what they meant, who she was or why it mattered. But now we had stopped.

A launch approached us in the dark, mainly visible by its fluorescent wake. The music continued, but everyone fell silent and watched the approaching vessel. ‘Here she is’ I heard. I guessed that this must be Esmanur.

Soon the launch was at our side where a ladder extended to the sea. Looking over the side with the others I could see a figure in a gown taking hold of the rungs, her feet being guided to the steps by a boatman, and then climbing to the deck. The boat disappeared in the darkness and a tall, slim woman of extraordinary beauty stepped on board. Clearly Turkish, she had the unique combination of a sallow European complexion, dark eyes, the aquiline nose of her Arabic ancestors and large dark, shining, eyes. Her head was framed by a mane of luxuriant black hair.

Everyone wanted to speak to her, brush cheeks in the customary manner and to invite her to sit with them. She declined, ignored and whispered to a young lady close to her. The lady pointed to me and Esmanur looked over. I was clearly being summoned; I obeyed and went to greet to her. Immediately the crowd parted and some people sitting nearby stood up and ushered us to their vacated table. We sat down.

‘Hello’ I said, ‘that was quite an entrance - were you late?’ She completely ignored my question and asked how I liked Istanbul. ‘Fine’ I said, ‘first time here’.
‘I have lived here all my life’ she replied, ‘what is it you do?’
I handed her my business card and she studied it intensely. ‘You could be helpful to me’ she said, and I agreed that I would be delighted, despite having no idea what she would want of me.

Looking at her closely I could see that, despite the extreme confidence, the expensive attire and the noticeable entrance, she was quite young. Only early twenties, I reckoned. ‘Are you part of the group that is here’ I asked, sweeping a finger round the others on the boat. ‘Yes’ she replied, ‘but not for long’. She had recently worked with them and had the experience she wanted. But now she was ready to move on. Our conversation faltered thereafter as a stream of people came up to greet her, and from their expressions, I gathered they hoped she would stay with them. I made to leave several times – mainly to find a drink – but each time I moved she reached over and tugged my sleeve, indicating that I should sit down and stay with her. ‘You are our guest, you should not have to fetch your own drinks.’ To whoever she was talking at the time, she whispered, glanced at me and within a few minutes I had a cold beer in my hand.

The night progressed, and I remained at her table, largely ignored but not allowed to leave. Bored, I tried to strike up a conversation with others around us but each time I was summoned back to speak to her. For a few minutes she would show an intense interest in what I was saying, then resume conversation with someone else in the queue of people who were vying for her attention.

Fervent Turkish dancing had been underway since the start of the evening. At first a few women, then the men they persuaded to join them. The music got louder and the pressure on those seated to join became intense. Several times I was grabbed by the arms by a few women. But a glance from Esmanur, and they let me sit down again. I was grateful but remained unengaged in the conversation at the table. The only relief from the boredom was the occasional beer brought to me at Esmanur’s command.

I wanted to study her intensely, to see what hold she had over those around her. But my attempts to stare were noticed, if not be her, by one of those deep in conversation with her and I felt embarrassed. She was always animated, her hands waving and pointing. People were summoned to join her for a time, then they left – but always with a nod of assent from Esmanur. It seemed that no one could simply stand up and leave of their own volition; I certainly knew that; and felt trapped.

I was surveying the Martyr’s Bridge, beautifully light up, and wondering when we would turn and head back into Istanbul when I glanced over to look at Esmanur. She was gone and all the faces at the table were looking over my shoulder. Esmanur was dancing, taking in the last few orgasmic rounds of the dancing which was clearly coming to an end. The women were dancing trance-like, hands raised, and eyes shut with Esmanur dancing in the middle of them. Her hands were raised, breasts bobbing in time to the music and shards of hair plastered to her perspiring forehead. She stared at me intensely. Never taking her eyes off me, she made it clear that this performance was for me. I smiled, but she just kept staring and I was mesmerised.

She returned to the table and, separating me from the person to whom I was talking, sat next to me. Very close. I could feel the heat from her body, a sweet smell of perfume wafted from her and she leaned over, her hair touching my face and said: ‘I hope you enjoyed that’. Then she turned to continue conversations with the others at the table and I was ignored again.

I assumed that the point of my proximity to her would become apparent. But it never did. Another hour passed and at last, the boat bobbed back into the harbour in the shadow of Istanbul station and the party atmosphere on the boat subsided. The music stopped and the shutters on the bar clattered down as the boat glided to a halt at the jetty, the reversed propellers stirring up that unique faecal smell of Istanbul harbour.

The guests began to leave but, clearly, people wanted to make sure Esmanur disembarked safely so everyone offered her to go before them. She declined a few offers and then eventually stood to leave. I planned a few words of farewell and the hope I could be of help. Without looking at me she began to walk to the gangway. Before she reached it, she dug into her handbag for something and tossed it on the last table. She never looked back…and I never saw her again.

I waited for a few minutes until I saw some familiar faces from the conference and stood up to leave the boat with them. As I stepped on the gangway, the last thing I saw was my business card on the table.

Stabbing pain

He glanced up as he collected his bag from the scanner and saw her for the first time.

‘Beautiful’ he thought, and he watched the slim, dark haired girl - undoubtedly Spanish - walking towards the platforms of the RENFE High Speed Trains. They were both travelling from Barcelona Sants. He was going to Pamplona. He wondered where she was going as he followed her to the platform escalators.

He was too late taking his gaze off her. As she passed the barriers at the checking desk where the uniformed staff scanned your ticket, she turned to join the queue which was facing him. She saw him and indicated clearly that she had by fixing his gaze for a few seconds. ‘Oops’ he thought ‘need to be more careful’; he dropped his eyes to the floor and took his place in the queue...right behind her. By a series of ‘beeps’ the queue moved forward as tickets were checked and passengers made their way to the platforms. His was platform 3 and he was not sure whether to be pleased that she was heading that way too. He felt a bit embarrassed and, by this time, was wondering if she thought he was following her. He decided to stop and fumble with his bags, looking disinterested as she stepped on to the first of the long escalators to the platform many metres below. Once she was out of sight and several people had followed her he made his way to the escalator and descended. About half way down he looked ahead to see her step off the escalator. Instead of moving on to the next escalator she stepped sideways and turned to watch him approaching her. He wanted to walk back up the escalator, he felt uncomfortable. Much to his relief, with only a few feet of escalator to travel, she turned and walked to the second one. He did not step on himself. Instead, he watched over the side until she had reached the end and stepped off. Again, she did not move, she looked up and caught his gaze before moving down the platform and out of sight.

Disconcerted and feeling stupid for staring at her in the first place he reached the platform and asked the uniformed lady were the ‘Preferente’ seats were; she told him that they were at the other end of the platform. His heart sank as that was the direction the girl had walked in. He decided to wait until the train arrived and people had started boarding before moving along to his carriage. That way he was unlikely to encounter her.

The beautiful high speed train glided in to the station and he made his way along the platform slowly against the tide of alighting passengers. With no sign of her he reached his carriage at the rear of the train, found his seat and sat down. She was nowhere to be seen and he sighed heavily, with relief. The train began to move, silently, from the station. He was looking out of the window as the train entered the long tunnel away from Barcelona Sants. The automatic sliding carriage door swished open. It was her.

She put her wheeled case in the luggage rack, checked her ticket, scanned the seat numbers and took her seat on the opposite side of the corridor. She was facing him and could see him clearly; as he could see her. He glanced at her a few times in quick succession, but she was not looking at him, she was flicking through messages on her mobile phone. She swiped left in large gestures as she deleted messages, occasionally stopping to read one in detail.

He realised that he was now staring at her and averted his gaze to look out the window at the passing Catalonian landscape and then drifted off to sleep.

After an hour he woke up and it took him a few minutes to recall where he was. He looked around and then saw her again. This time she was staring at him. He dared to hold her gaze for a few seconds and he imagined he saw a smile on her lips. He smiled back and considered going to speak to her, but his courage evaded him, she would probably leave the train before him and he realised – with a mixture of relief and disappointment – he would never see her again. But the few stations on the way passed and she remained on the train with only the final stop to go - Pamplona.

The approach to Pamplona was tedious, with the train stopping several times at deserted stations and then slowly trundling into the town. He waited until she got off the train –  pretending to take some time packing his shoulder bag. When she was on the platform, he followed to the single exit door which funnelled the passengers into the small ticket hall and through to the taxi rank. Several hundred people left the train, but most were being collected or just walked off into the town. He turned to the taxi rank, which was devoid of taxis, but not devoid of a single waiting passenger; the girl.

He slowly walked up behind her, hoping a taxi would come to take her before he reached the rank. No taxi came, and he had to take his place behind her. She turned as he approached and he quickly decided to speak, thinking it would be more natural. She was clearly aware of him.

‘No taxis; is it always like this?’.

‘No idea, first time here.’ She smiled but not very warmly.

At least she spoke English.

‘My first time too; got a conference at the university.’

She did not answer...and he was lost for further conversation.

A taxi arrived, and he briefly wondered if she would ask him to share, but no. She said something to the driver, got in and was off without even looking at him.

Now he was relieved; clearly, she had no interest in him and he had probably not made a very positive impression on her. A second taxi arrived, he said the name of his hotel – Blanca de Navarra – and they drove off.

Entering the lobby, he fished out his passport and presented it to the receptionist. He tried some of his elementary Spanish but she replied fluently in English. After a few minutes, a photocopy of his passport having been taken and his credit card swiped he turned to find the lifts. As he located them across the lobby one of the lifts opened and, to his surprise, the woman from the train came out and walked across the lobby in his direction. This time he was not going to miss the opportunity. ‘Hello - just what are the chances?’.

‘Very high, I’d say, given how few decent hotels there are here.’

She was curt and cold and clearly not impressed with Pamplona, or the hotel.

‘Oh, I don’t know, I saw quite a few on the web but this was near the conference.’ He replied. ‘You’re not going to the conference too, are you?’

She did not reply.

‘Well, I wonder if you’d like to have a drink later?’ The words were out before he had even thought about them.

‘Sure’ she said - to his surprise - ‘I’ll come to your room and pick you up’.

‘My room? I was thinking...OK then’ he was taken aback at her forward suggestion but the offer of coming to his room seemed too good to miss. After all, he thought, who knew what it might lead to.

‘What time’ he asked.

‘When I’m ready’ she replied.

She was not exactly warm or friendly, but she was in charge.

***

He unpacked, and his mind was on one thing only. The girl and the prospect of her coming to his room. He felt his breathing deepen and his heart rate accelerate. What should he wear, would he have time for a shower, or a drink at the bar? But he realised, in fact, he was stuck. Her vagueness about when she would come and his desire to see what this was leading to had got him trapped in his room – he dare not leave as he as sure she would not come back if she did not find him there.

***

After a few hours – during which he was beginning to wonder if she had been being sarcastic – he heard a knock. He peeked through the security hole, and there she was.

When he opened the door she asked if she could come in.

‘Of course’ he replied, turning and walking into the room ‘come in. I was wondering if you were going to come at all.’

She said nothing.

‘I wondered if you’d seen me at the station in Barcelona and on the train, but I guess you did. I thought maybe we could...’

He turned; she was close behind him. She gazed into his eyes, put an arm round his neck and, with her head to the side, drew him in for a kiss. He willingly cooperated and leant forward, holding her gaze. He did not see the knife which she thrust into his solar plexus and up into his heart.

As he slumped to the floor the last thing he heard was: ‘Oh I saw you.’

The old summerhouse – a Christmas story

Turning the key in the lock, the old man opened the door to the welcome warmth of the house, and closed the door on a cold Christmas Eve. He recalled the days when Midnight Mass really took place at midnight. But, to avoid drunken revellers joining in, for the last few decades it had taken place early in the evening. He also recalled Midnight Mass with his wife and their row of children, all glassy-eyed and dozing off, thinking of Santa Claus rather than the Saviour of the World. Now he was alone, his wife long dead and his children gone. Christmas Day was almost the only time a few of his children came to visit with their children, although he had long since stopped preparing Christmas dinner. He found this a hard time of year. When he was working, it was the one time he was guaranteed to be at home for any length of time. His wife had loved Christmas and the effort she put in on Christmas Day was enormous. He used to help, but he preferred to watch as she enlisted the children in small tasks such as decorating the cake and putting the final decorations on the tree. Now the house was empty and, apart from his memories, all he had to remind him at this time of year were cards sent to ‘Robert and Davina’ by people who had not bothered to update the lists on their computers when they printed out their labels. He always sighed at the thought but could not resist picking these cards off the mantlepiece and looking at them. The pain of missing her these twenty years was an experience of sadness at the loss but also gratitude for the pain of still longing to be with her.

He poured himself a glass of whisky and sat by the fireside, surveying the Christmas cards and recollecting Christmases past. The family had few traditions but any they had were related to Christmas. One tradition, developed after the children had mostly left home, was that he and his wife used to go out to the summerhouse and have a drink when the Christmas preparations were done. It did not matter how cold or how late, they took their drinks to the end of the long garden and sat for a while with the light on in the summerhouse and the doors closed. There was something special about sitting in the pitch-black garden with the warm glow from the summerhouse lighting up a small semi-circle of the lawn. Their habit amused the children who arrived late on Christmas Eve to see the light on at the end of the garden and the kitchen table laden with food.

Looking at his whisky he realised that he had forgotten to get a jug of water to dilute it. He went to the kitchen and ran the cold tap. Looking up at the kitchen window, down the garden into the dark night he saw something that took his mind off his whisky. The light on the summerhouse was on. ‘Impossible’ he thought. Since his wife died he had rarely used the summerhouse and not at all for at least a decade. She had loved the summerhouse and he had built it for her. Now it reminded him of her and it was too painful. Lately he stored things there such as garden tools he rarely used and, in doing so, he simply opened the door and threw them in. The old cane chairs were still there and a pile of old books, half-read by his wife, lay on a small table. The wood on the summerhouse was bleached and bent with the sun and the windows were opaque with spider webs.

‘Impossible’. This time he said it under his breath. He looked away and then looked again to ensure that it was not just a reflection. He turned off the kitchen light to see better and, without doubt, the summerhouse light was on. The grass around it was illuminated and he could see the frost was forming on the grass, glistening. He opened the back door and, breathing in the cold crisp air, he stepped out and walked carefully up the garden, towards the summerhouse. As he approached he was in no doubt that what he was seeing was real and moved closer. There was someone sitting there, which made his heart miss a beat, but he kept moving closer and then slowly opened the door.

She was older than he remembered, with greying hair and her face more wrinkled. She wore a long white dress that he did not remember, and which seemed poor protection against the cold. But she looked up and smiled and he knew it was her. The summerhouse was tidy, and the windows were crystal clear. One of the books was open on the table. ‘You’ve tidied up’, he said, and she smiled again. Sitting down on the wicker chair next to her he stared in disbelief. Tears began to roll down his cheeks and she reached out and took his hand. He truly believed he had never been happier.

****

Next morning the children and grandchildren began arriving, letting themselves into the house. The first to arrive shouted through the house to see if he was there but were not surprised to find the house empty. He always went back to the church for the Christmas morning Mass and then took a long walk in the local park. He preferred to return to a full house and pretend to be surprised that anyone had turned up rather than greeting them as they arrived. The morning went on and the families worked together to get food ready and prepare for Christmas Dinner. Still their father had not arrived, but they decided to open the champagne anyway. There was none in the house, but they knew it would be chilling outside in a box by the kitchen door. His son opened the door and the box was there. He took out a bottle and, glancing down the garden before closing the door, he noticed the summerhouse door was open.

****

That was where they found him, his hand outstretched and sitting motionless but smiling in the wicker chair. The place was dusty and full of tools and the other chair was piled high with junk. They did not notice that one of the books on the small table was open.

Encountered briefly

Stepping
off the Heathow Express, he made his way to the concourse and strode to Terminal 3. It was June and this was the sixth of his monthly visits that year to Hong Kong to check up on various business interests and ensure that his retirement funding was safe. Terminal 3 was like a second home and he moved towards the front door instinctively and confidently. He did not see her.

Past security and through the perfume vending shops and caviar counters, he wound his way through the causal travellers to the Cathay Pacific lounges and waited by the lift. She was some way behind, watching him carefully, deliberately holding back making sure he could not see her.

****

The boarding call for Cathay Pacific CX250 went out in the airport but she was already at the gate, waiting. Passengers started arriving and she moved to the furthest corner of the area near the gate, watching. The queue of economy passengers was beginning to grow, her queue, but she was in no hurry to join. She watched the corridor leading to the gate and soon spotted what she knew to be the first and business class passengers arriving - suits, smart luggage and attitude. After a few minutes she saw him, striding down to the gate, relaxed - probably quite drunk - and heading to the short queue of priority passengers. The boarding staff were looking intently at computer screens, swiping themselves in and out of the glass door leading to the gangway waiting for the cabin crew to declare the plane ready for boarding. The call came to start boarding and the priority queue began to move. When he had boarded, she moved to the end of the queue of economy passengers.

****

At the end of the gangway he showed the smiling Chinese lady his boarding pass, stepped on to the plane and turned left. Settling down, he sipped some champagne, flicked trough the various magazines and checked the selection of films on the TV set. His mind was far from anything that was going on behind him.

****

She stepped on to the plane and turned right.

****

The twelve-hour flight was punctuated by dinner, drinks and films for both of them. He thumbed through some documents and checked a few details on his laptop. The week ahead was as familiar to him as having breakfast. Always the same. Same hotel, same colleagues to meet, same restaurants and then the inane expats who knew he'd be in town eager to see him for a drink and tell him about how wonderful life was in Hong Kong. Truth is, they were bored stiff. He knew that but he played up to them; they had contacts and contacts were everything in Hong Kong. And then there was her. He always thought about her when he was travelling because he was usually leaving her or returning to her and either way, memories were evoked. Anticipation and reflection are two sides of the same coin and his life was spent flipping that coin. Casually turning the page of the in-flight sales magazine he decided not to buy anything...there was always next time.

****

She hardly slept. Between films and trying to read she stared forward at the curtain separating the economy and premium sections of the plane. She knew he was there and had to overcome the temptation to go through and see him. She wasn't ready and she knew he wasn't either. She thought about him and realised this was his life. She too knew about the two sides of the coin, except that she was not flipping it. Instead, she felt flipped. She looked back to what she had left that morning and fretted over the details of locking the house, cancelling the newspapers and packing. She drifted off to sleep, could not be roused for breakfast and only woke when one of the cabin crew asked her to fasten her seat belt for landing. This unnerved her as she wanted to be well prepared for landing. Instead she had a book to pack, shoes to put on and a passport to locate.

****

'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Hong Kong International Airport'.

****

The seat belt sign went off and he was up and ready to leave immediately. A few minutes wait and then the smiling Chinese lady bade him good morning and he stepped on to the gangway. He was in the airport in seconds and heading to passport control; today the flight had docked at the 'low' gates so he only had to walk a few hundred yards to the gates where his Hong Kong frequent visitor barcode would let him through in seconds.

****

She was panicking, the economy passengers could not leave until the business class passengers were off and the curtain - which had been closed at landing - remained closed. She was not near the front either. Eventually she left the plane and she started running towards passport control. There was no sign of him. The passport queue was growing and she joined it and snaked her way to the booth.

Finally, she was in the baggage hall but he was already through. She had no bags to collect so she ran to the customs gate and though into the main. airport. And then she saw him.

****

Leaving the customs hall, he scanned the crowd at the barrier and slowed down until he saw her. A well attired and beautiful young Chinese girl ran to the end of the barrier and when he reached her she flung her arms round him and they kissed.

They walked out into the main hall, he with his arm round her, talking animatedly, and then they stopped. He pulled her towards him, cradled her head in his left hand and pushed her hair back out of her face and kissed her affectionately on the forehead and then on the lips.

'Hello darling' the familiar voice at his shoulder said. He let go of the girl and looked round.

'Who is she?' said the girl. He did not answer.

'I'm his wife' the woman replied for him. 'You're always telling me I should come with you on your business trips' she said to him 'so I thought I'd come and surprise you. Looks like I did.'

The story continued…but the marriage did not.

-o0o-

The thirty-second

JET lag was setting in but he had been told not to give in to it. He turned left out of the Holiday Inn on to Nathan Road and walked towards the harbour.

His wife was up in the room, snoring, unconscious.

In less than a minute the sweat was trickling down into the small of his back. It was his first time in Hong Kong. His eyes felt like there were grains of sand in them. Boarding the BA flight at Heathrow had seemed like the start an adventure; now he was already dreading the flight home.

The pavements were thronged and the massive TV billboards at the end of Peking Road were flashing bright light and booming out adverts.

'Hello'..'hello sir'...'you from England?'

He turned towards the person greeting him. A small Indian man was smiling at him and offering him a card.

'Copy watch? Copy Handbag for your wife?'.

'Tell you what, I've just arrived, I'm very jet-lagged and tired and my wife is sleeping. I'll just take a card if that's OK and I'll come and see you tomorrow'. He took the card and walked on unsure if he meant what he said or not – jet lag was leading to confusion and he just needed some space.

'Very good price sir, very cheap.' 'Copy Rolex.'

'Are you still here?' I thought I said I'd see you tomorrow. I have your card so I can easily find you.' He held up the card to look at it and it was snatched back.

'I can show you. Now. Copy watch sir.'

'OK - show me one. But I'm not buying tonight.'

He expected that the man would roll up a sleeve or produce one from a pocket. Instead the man raised his hand up and waved. Two more Indian men appeared and the man was off, waving his card and calling 'Copy watch' at the next western passer-by.

'So, you want copy watch, sir?' One of the Indian men said.

'Er, no!' I just asked to see one but I'm OK now, I'll just go back to my hotel,' He could see the entrance to the Holiday Inn from where they were standing.

'Come with us, we show you copy watch sir'.

'But I don't...' he had no choice, with one of the Indian men at either side of him he was too tired to resist being led off the main drag, into an alley and up a flight of steps. The metal door at the top yielded to the two sharp taps from the man in front and he was led into a small stuffy room filled with other Indian men and a few local Chinese.

The door closed behind him and he knew now there would be no escape without a purchase.

'What do you want sir?'

'Well, nothing really. I just asked to look at a copy Rolex. I don't know if I want to buy.'

'We give you very good price.'

'I'm not promising to buy, I have no money with me'.

'You can use credit card sir'

'I don't have that either...'. but he petered out realising that the bulge in his breast pocket was obviously a wallet.

'No way! I'm not handing over my credit card.'

'No need to sir, we take you down to ATM to get cash. One at corner of street.'

'Fuck this' he thought 'why did I get in this mess?'

'So, here is copy Rolex, very good.' and he was shown a watch.

He had no idea what a Rolex looked like but this looked like a nice watch with a crown logo on the dial and a small magnifier over the date. The seller turned over the watch to show the exhibition back. Glass showing the mechanism – the sure sign of a fake. But they knew he had no idea what he was doing and he was quite impressed.

'OK, how much?'

'Twelve thousand Hong Kong'

'Fucking what?'

'Is cheap, sir.'

'It's not far off a thousand pounds, bloody hell.'

'It's cheap. Rolex costs many thousands.'

'This one costs many thousands. Bloody hell, I had no intention of spending that much on anything.'

It was like they were just ignoring him.

‘I’m going now?' he tried to be assertive.

They really were ignoring him, just carrying on sorting out watches and texting on their phones.

'Can I at least sit down?' The heat and humidity were really crushing him and he felt nauseous. He looked round the room. No free seats and nobody was offering him one.

'Twelve thousand Hong Kong, you have cash?'

'No, I don't.' At least that offered him a way out of the room.

'OK, come with us.' and he followed two men down the steps, with one behind him.

He considered making a run at the foot of the stairs but the two men in front stood very close to him and the one behind stayed within a step away. In any case, his legs felt like jelly.

There was nobody at the HSBC ATM and he meekly inserted his card and entered his PIN. He was pushed aside and the rest was done by one of the men who took out twelve thousand Hong Kong dollars, put it in his pocket and handed over the watch.

He was standing alone within a second.

‘At least they’re honest.’ he thought, ironically, as he retrieved his card from the ATM.

Dejected but glad to be free he returned to the hotel and got into bed with his wife.

Next morning, he was awake before her, thinking about the previous night.

She rustled slightly as she woke and asked him the time.

'Eight thirty.' he glanced at his new watch.

'And what's the date? I've lost track already.’

He glanced at his watch again, 'It's the thirty-second of July'

'Bastards.' he thought, and flung the watch across the room.

-o0o-