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Adrian Brewer

Adrian Brewer is working on a collection of short stories and a novel detailing the triumphs and indignities of middle age. He was a journalist for 20 years, 18 of those on national newspapers,  before leaving London to farm in Sussex.

Email: abrew002@gold.ac.uk

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Ski Boot

He wore a ski boot to bed while she was in India. Just the left one on the first night, then both. In daylight, the boots sat, old and red and silver and huge, by the bed. Like Optimus Prime’s slippers. At night, after statins, teeth and bladder he pulled them on and winched tight each chromed fastening. Four clasps per boot, a workout right there. Stand, stamp, sit, stretch out, sleep. With luck.

        The boots caught in the duvet’s opening so he turned the white cotton sleeve through 180 degrees. His feet were soft and sweaty by mornings, and he breakfasted barefoot to harden them off. He tore the bottom sheet, bought an identical one. Bare mattress after that.

         Compression was why. Compression to reduce the swelling in his heel. He had sidled off to his GP the month before, the pain intrusive. A spur of bone —you could feel it—was growing, poking, boring into his Achilles’ tendon.  The locum,  a young man, pronounced: at James’ age, sixty, this was not uncommon, there was a procedure. 

        ——Shave the heel bone. He dried his hands with what seemed a very generous number of paper towels.

        ——An operation? asked James, when the wince had left his jaw.

        ——Yes an operation.

        ——No no no.

       No.

       No operation. The sighs. The looks. The frustration.  Out of the question. There might be physiotherapy, said the locum, eyeing the wall clock without any subtlety. James shook his head. A moment later he was back in the waiting room, among the man-sized Meccano shelves and stackable chairs, the can-do Nightingale vibe, clutching a sheaf of A4 exercises. 

        Which meant: ice packs from the freezer. Balletic barre-style elevation and extensions on the kitchen table, sofa back, loo cistern. Kneeling like a geisha gave relief. But mainly compression. Heaven knew why, somehow it helped.  He had high hopes of a full recovery while she was away, but no.

       In the ledger of household illness he had always been the debtor. Her column:  one  pre-cancerous mole and a dizzy spell after William was born. His: tonsillectomy, bad back, diverticulitis, stent, sciatica, rotator cuff, haemorrhoids. In debt, and self esteem was the currency.

        They were the same age. The same month, for God’s sake! He ran a marathon two weeks before their wedding — the Midnight Sun Run in Tromso. A very respectable marathon; his Best Man and three of the five ushers,  all sub 3:30.

        Michael, his BM, was still a runner. Mainly 10ks these days, but, chapeau, they  were all silver foxes now. Egil and Rod had gone over to the Lycra side, road bikes and Garmin. Miles, despite his name, was stationary, fat and happy. But you— he looked in the mirror —you lurch from doctor’s waiting room to outpatients to physio’s couch.

        No. No operation.

        Inger couldn’t understand. Her body cooperated, exalted. He’d seen her flowing  yoga at the sports centre, through the reinforced glass panel. In her zebra-print leggings. Before the pervert patrol pounced: Can I help you? We ask ‘husbands’ to wait in reception.

         Her body, unageing like Fonda or… or Bellucci. William had a son of his own now: people assumed Inger was JD’s mother, not grandma. And she blithely, genuinely unaware. Not a wrinkle, not a whisker; nothing too slack, nothing too stiff. How?

         No sun, no smiling, Egil would suggest carelessly, the big brother who had grown up surrounded by sister worshippers. Absolutely no bloody stress either, James wanted to interject. Life on a plate. But Egil was a modern man. And loyal, too.

         Fluke that he had found the ski-boot solution. Rummaging for car insurance details in the attic, he’d slipped on the boots the way you try on a hat you haven’t seen for a time. Straightaway he’d felt a pleasing therapeutic grip on his inflamed heel. He’d hummed as he dealt with the Audi, the boots snug under his desk.

        After that, clandestine snatched minutes, boot on. A shameful vice, like a hidden vodka bottle or Internet porn or Marlboro Lights. But no, no operation. Compression would have to do.

         You can’t know at the altar how you will fail each other. She had failed to decay. Failed to sour. His heart zig-zagged as he waited for her Arrival at Heathrow Terminal 2.  Who knew? was what they said nowadays. Who could have known?

 

//////////////

 

Hey! Look at you! Reunited at last. A fond farewell to her companions in the multi-storey car park. But the chat thinned as the two of them started the return journey. Leaving the airport for the M25 was always tricky, but she was quiet after that, too. At every red light he stole a glance at her; she looked beatifically straight ahead.  No animosity: she seemed pleased to see him, yet he forced the conversation. Blame the journey:  it was a long haul, was India.

          Their house was large, brick-built, cream-washed lintels. If there was a style it was Thirties Unimaginative. Thorny berberis grew thickly under all the ground floor windows, to discourage people from climbing in. Or out. She stood with her hands on her hips and took in the front aspect.

          ——Home, sweet home, she said.

          He paused at her side.

          ——Yep.

          They weren’t used to being apart, and so a little awkwardness now was understandable. In fact it quite turned him on.

          Later, in bed. He had cooked scallops and pancetta — well, bacon, really — deglazed with a sweet sherry, mashed potato, peas. Chablis. In their marriage there were clear signals and she’d responded. They lay now side by side. He felt the sweet narcotic warmth of routine seeping back into his bones.

          And she said:

          ——I want to live in an ashram.

          He lay still.

          ——For six months.

          She turned in to him, lifted herself onto one elbow to gauge his reaction.

          ——Back to India? he asked, the hope —faint— that she might only mean Wales or the West Country. She hoiked the duvet up the bed before answering. Cold air ran the length of his body, coldest where he was still damp.

          ——Yes, India.

          ——Okaaaay.

          He let the word stretch.

          Her explanation shed little light. It was a last-chance thing. It was a spiritual thing.  Not that he attempted to understand; he just forensically examined her words for rejection. He found none. So he looked again, turning her words over and over long after she’d nodded off.

          ——You could come with me, she’d said at one point.

          And that pissed him off, too.

          When he woke the next morning she was already padding about the bedroom in a long T-shirt. She’d parted the plaid curtains perhaps a foot, and was sorting through her suitcase. There was a small heap of washing, mute shades of rust and khaki, but next to it was a bigger pile, a shock of reds and oranges and greens, vivid even in the half light. Colours he’d never seen her wear.

          Feeling his gaze, she turned then held a length of saffron yellow material against her chest for approval. It seemed to him that the colour lit her up and she lit the colour. He’d never seen her in yellow. He smiled despite the cold pebble that had settled in his chest.

          ——Ooh, well if you’re awake, she said.

          And she pulled from the case a small bundle of tissue paper and offered it with both hands, palms upturned.

          He unrolled the whispering paper to reveal a pair of dark almost black leather sandals. Like flip-flops, though those two syllables were a huge injustice. The workmanship was exquisite — a sole of four or five layers of laminated leather, contoured for the foot, the straps supple and tooled in swirling patterns.

          ——Marvellous, he said, swinging out of bed and placing them on the floor. He disliked intrusion between his toes, but he forced the thong and stood. They both looked.

          ——With brown feet, she said.

          ——Yes, he said.

 

/////////////

 

Namaste, loser.

          Had he heard that somewhere or made it up himself? A line from a film? He’d Google it on the train. Not now, though. Now, he was determined to complete this Achilles’ heel stress test —  a stroll, but to London Bridge which was farther than Cannon Street, his usual station.  A light westerly breeze cleared the traffic fumes, tail lights glowed in the dusk. He slowed and gazed upstream. How he loved a bridge over the Thames. They both did.  Inger once told him: You leave your cares at one end and collect them at the other. He’d puke if anyone said that now, but back then…

         Back in the Eighties, back when they owned the future: Mind if my sister joins us tonight, his colleague Egil had asked. It wasn’t a question, and it didn’t need to be, she’d be just one more in a 30-strong group that Slinkied up and down the Fulham Road all weekend. Art School-ish, not Sloane Ranger; self-absorbed, loud, extrovert, annoying for outsiders.  But for each other, alive, hilarious, supportive.

          Their preferred pub, a vast mirrored Victorian temple to drink, was rammed. Friday-night rammed; atmosphere by Philip Morris, music by INXS.  Inger appeared at her brother’s side. She was wearing a shapeless mohair crewneck, pale jeans and a Sony Walkman on a long shoulder strap.

          ——Sweet,  said James, and turned back to the Harrods’  trainee, a glacially cool girl from Newbury, who had arranged herself against the wall.

          Five months later Inger returned. She’d cut her hair, was wearing a long, long Fendi overcoat and a 16inch leather mini skirt, spiky heels. Egil waved for her to come over. Will you look at that, James murmured, and banged his knee as he rose to offer her a seat.

          ——Sweet, she said, and swept past.

          How does someone go from a 16in mini skirt — which was still hanging in the wardrobe, by the way —  to a yellow sari and a bindi on their forehead? That was the great human mystery, never mind the quest for Inner Peace. He’d read that the body is constantly replacing cells, and that after 14 years it had renewed every last one and you were effectively a different person. So, ashram Inger was a Mark III, his bride twice removed. A stranger. Which made sense.

          He soldiered on. If he’d looked down and his ankles were on fire, he wouldn’t have been surprised, and this was only halfway.  A commuter brushed past him, positively bouncing on sprung heels, she seemed to go up as much as forward with each stride. O to have ankles like hers… He twisted to look for a black cab, the relief of an orange For Hire light.

          Three times they broke off their engagement. The first time because she didn’t want to hang out with the crowd so much, and they’d had such a row;  the second because she wouldn’t wear what he’d asked her to wear to a friend’s wedding — everyone’s wearing blue, that’s the joke, well it’s a cruel joke;  and the third,  just cold feet about their own wedding. In the secondhand bed they’d bought in Lots Road, they told each other they were very happy just to go on like this, living together, fuck their families, whose life was it anyway. They didn’t cancel the church.

          Stress test complete. Or abandoned, which was the same thing.  His office was still visible, at least the block that housed it.  Ridiculous. What to do? He couldn’t wear ski boots all the time. With a curse that made passers-by swerve away, he pulled out his iPhone and dialled the surgery. They’d still be there. Some NHS physiotherapy might help.

          Eventually a cab pulled up. He gingerly clambered in and they soon passed the bouncing commuter. In the end, they were married twice, in Norway and England. At lunch after the civil ceremony in Tromso, Inger’s father spoke. In every marriage there was a Lover and a Loved, and in a good marriage… pause, to wind up his daughters….  neither was sure who was which. Though James had a pretty good idea.

          Something else Axel told him earlier that week, chatting on the shore sipping aquavit in the late waxy sun, on folding chairs by the family cabin. Really relaxed except that this was father-in-law stress-testing son-in-law.

          ——In the early 20th century, said Axel,  many Norwegians sailed to the United States, looking for a better life. It was likely they would never see their families ever again, can you imagine the farewells? Heartbreaking.

          Axel paused to top them up.

          ——My grandfather was one of them. On the quayside, my great aunt presented him with a ball of wool like a football. Once he was aboard and had found a position on deck where he could see his sister and family, he tied the wool round his wrist and threw the ball back to her, so that she could pay out the wool as the liner headed for open sea.

          He mimed with his hands. 

          ——That way they could be connected for longer, until the end slipped through her fingers. This is what people did. The pain of separation, you see? Anyway, in the event Papa — he was known as Papa —  returned from America within 10 years. Moderately successful, but that’s not the point. When he disembarked in Trondheim, his sister was there to greet him. The first thing he gave her was… the ball of wool. He wound it in. We still have it. Which is why tomorrow you’ll see me tie a piece of this wool round Inger’s wrist.

          Axel leaned back. A formidable man, eyebrows like hawser, he clearly expected James to comment. James wasn’t unaffected by the story; it had stayed just the right side of saccharine, though 10 years wasn’t that long. The aquavit was ironing out any stubborn creases from the flight. Even so he panicked.

          ——What colour was the wool? he asked.

 

//////////

 

They didn’t mention the ashram again. Don’t read too much into that, he thought, it was often the way between them. But the omission was as bad. Worse, unworthy notions which his ego had stamped down for the first few days found their way to the surface, like radon gas in a Cornish cottage. India was after all home of the Kama Sutra. He reached out to his friends.

          ——It’ll be a lentil-fuelled shagfest. Stop her.

          ——That’s really helpful, Rod, thanks.

          And he went online. Ill-designed blogs opened like flowers on his screen to reveal the life-changing benefits of a spell in an ashram. Some were tragic and needy; others were taut, kick-ass and scary, often seeking to monetise the insights gleaned there. He formed the distinct impression one half of the yoga community fed on the other half. Gurus had bestowed spiritual names on some, which he found strangely sinister. You could come with me… How could he even spend six minutes with these people, let alone six months?

          ——They bang on about the soft power of Disney and Coca Cola —what about yoga? said Miles. Taking over the world.

          James’s whole essence was the opposite of yoga. Where it sought inner harmony, he cultivated tension.  Irritation, sarcasm, and keeping Andrew Runciman from stealing his team was what spun his chakras. He did his best work when he was tense, screwing down anxiety and exasperation and channelling that energy into the big maritime contracts he was paid to deliver.  Okay, it made him a difficult colleague, but he needed to feel tense. The same socially: he was, he felt, at his wittiest and most urbane if the room was full of point-scorers and name-droppers. The smarter the smart-aleck, the more he was on his game.

          ——Have you spoken with her about it? asked Mike.

          ——Of course! he lied. Of course I have.

          ——And?

          And nothing, for the conversation would be too much. He might be an all-round bastard, but when it came to Inger… Wasn’t it supposed to get easier as one aged,  not harder?  Now he was even more attentive. To be discarded now…

         That would be a disaster, he told himself on his way to the municipal pool. Aquatherapy. Not a drink but underwater aerobics or some such — a last-minute appointment, thanks to his GP. He was late arriving, of course, but he knew where to go because he had done lap training here before his rotator cuff.  Quickly he jinked right then left through the foot bath and onto the pool side, towel in hand. He ignored the water polo practice and headed for the group at the shallow end, with rising dismay. The “patients” were already in the pool, happily forcing through the water like harbour ferries.  A young physiotherapist with a half-sleeve of tattoos rhythmically called encouragement in a fine tenor voice. He noticed James, and grinned and waved.

           James just stared. He saw he was easily the youngest by 10 years, and the slimmest by 10 stone. Rage gathered in his stomach, plumed upwards. No way was this his cohort. What did it mean if he got into the water now?

          ——Do you want the hoist? asked the PT.

          ——I do not want the fucking hoist, said James, and  marched back to the changing room. There he sat in front of an open locker, beside his folded clothes. The chemicals in the air made his eyes water.  He thought of Inger, the weight of their history; he thought of his son William and the old man, Axel. He thought of his agonising walk across London Bridge. He lifted himself, hooked the towel round his neck and walked back onto the poolside.

          ——Sorry, he said and jumped in.

 

/////////

 

 On Wednesday evenings James and Inger did the grandparental thing and looked after their grandson JD while his mum and dad played tennis. The trains were bad and James missed William, by just minutes, which annoyed him. Such a noise met him as he swung open his front door, that for a second he was consumed by panic. In the drawing room the TV sound bar was cranked way up. Giant robots smashed each other into spare parts.  JD was only eight years old, yet he was a veteran of in-home entertainment systems. From the hallway, James could see Inger in the kitchen.

        ——Does he have to have the TV on that… James Daniel! Do you have to have the TV on so loud?

         Transfixed by the onscreen action, JD roly-poly’d across the carpet to the remote and lowered the volume without looking at the keypad or his grandpa. James paused to see where the movie had got to. Transformers. JD’s father had been an obsessive consumer of the folding toys and the cartoons. That was when James had first heard of Cybertron, home planet of sentient machines which could transform into vehicles at will.

          A shame, he thought as he watched now, that he couldn’t transform: love handles folding upwards to broaden his shoulders, belly fat falling away to reveal six pack and reinforce his quads. Heels… tcha.

         ——Say hello to Grandpa, he said turning towards the kitchen.

         ——“Hello to Grandpa.”

         James nodded with a tight smile. That was what passed for wit in the Year 3 playground. He was all for wit.

          In the kitchen, Inger was studying a pasta sauce recipe. A half-eaten pizza sat near the sink, and he took a bite, studied her chopping away, watched her not looking up. Studied the parting in her luxuriant blonde hair, the gilt clips that held it in place.  Why won’t she look up? Suddenly he was tired. He knew there could be no more dissembling: he should deal with the ashram crisis. It wasn’t even a crisis; it was a possibility. He made a sarcastic pirouette, ouch, to the spirits.

          ——Want one? He waved the gin bottle.

          ——Maybe later.

          He poured her one anyway.  One inch — two and half centimetres  — of Gordon’s gin, the juice of half a lemon, four cubes of ice, topped with Schweppes tonic, rind to garnish. In that order.

          ——Old school G&T. None of your novelty botanicals, he said.

          She didn’t take it, and he set it down too firmly, just avoiding the chopping board. He cleared his throat.

          ——Your ashram…

          ——My ashram?

          ——The ashram then. He took a swig of gin to pace things.

          ——Six months is a long time, he said.

          She put down the knife deliberately —  a relief, she had always insisted on very sharp knives — like someone who had been waiting for this. He was expecting  a rehearsal of the other night. His plan, formulated during that mouthful of pizza, was to negotiate her down to two months, one month, less. Dangle a holiday or some skiing. With her sisters, if necessary.

          ——I don’t want to live like this anymore, she said.

          Boom.  What? He felt nauseous. This was a line. They talked about crossing lines.

          ——Like what? Like, comfortably? he asked.

          She flashed him a fierce look.

          ——Well what? Be precise, Inger.

          ——I don’t want to lead a life such as this, she said. I don’t want this suffocating suburban life.  I don’t want to wear white and talk white at the tennis club. I don’t want to drive a car as big as a tank. I don’t want to spray the driveway with fucking Roundup.

          That was precise. And what really stung was that he’d always thought they were a bit, well, a lot cooler than the numpty neighbours with their associations and KerbWatch and…suffocating suburban lives.

          ——Do you want to leave? he asked, stopped himself adding the word Me. He braced his hips against the island.

          ——No! No. 

Her voice trailed off. A lie, he thought, but he said: 

         ——That’s good to hear.

          She stopped, her hands still and poised, and stared into the near. Looking for the words….

           ——I know you’re going to tell me not to go.

           ——Tell you…? Look, we’re getting older. You need to adjust, is all. Our worlds are bound to shrink.

           ——Maybe your world is shrinking faster than mine, she said tartly.

           She saw she had hurt him, and sagged, as if worn out. She continued:

           ——I want something else.

           ——I can be something else.

           ——No, James, I don’t think you can.

          Her gaze was direct, so certain of what she had just said. He had no words. Was this how the days would be?  He looked into her eyes and there was a flicker like a guttering candle, as if a door in the back of her head had opened and closed. She looked down at the kitchen work surface, at her handiwork.

          ——I’ll make you some freezer meals…

           He stayed up drinking, and fell asleep in his armchair. When he woke just after 5am, the sound bar was still switched on and he stopped its unsettling static hiss before kneeling to pull out the drawer beneath the TV.  Piling assorted photo albums to one side, he rummaged until he found the small cardboard box. He checked the contents then went upstairs.

          Inger was fast asleep. He opened the small box: in it a cake ornament of a bride and groom, still some icing on the base, and a short length of wool. He knelt by his wife and eased back the duvet. He took her wrist and knotted the wool round it in a bracelet.