Inkcap; Gathering Mushrooms

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Boxie joined him on the train to the hospital a long eight weeks later. He’d lost track of the number of letters by now. Whenever he opened the drawer the coloured and battered sheets sprang out at him and the numerous postcards snarled themselves down the sides. There were a lot of French ones, with piles of text he had had to run through Babelfish and then not seen the point of, from her recent trip with someone called Matt. Andy hoped he was her brother, but she had never replied to his questions.

He had read them all enough times, but there was so much content that it was difficult to find any particular point again. She seemed to be interested in almost everything over the course of her many moods. There was one letter all about the merits of Rugby League over Union, which had required a bit of Googling before he could reply, then later one on pink paper about bird watching. It all meant that before leaving the house tonight he’d had to do rather a lot of reading up on what they’d already discussed.

At least he’d known there was going to be some dancing during Boxie’s ’surprise’, although being told exactly what kind would have been useful. She had told him which train to catch, but nothing on what to expect at the other end. As it was, he’d spent his lunch breaks that week memorising different steps and styles until he was fairly confident he could pull it off. The multi-pocketed black trousers remained in the wardrobe, and he settled for dark smart jeans and a shirt this time. He couldn’t imagine many situations where they wouldn’t be appropriate.

He had been on the train for forty minutes with no sign of her. She hadn’t said which stop she would be joining him at, and he still could not quite shake the paranoid feeling that she’d already walked past him and he hadn’t recognised her. He was looking out of the window at Stevenage when the brilliant red lips peeled away from his cheek.

‘It’s a pity it’s not a steam train.’ He said as she dropped into the grimy seat opposite him.

‘They’d been phased out by the fifties.’ She replied.

Her hair was jet black this time, tied up in a convoluted way and pressed against her forehead in flat waves. Her red and white polka dot dress was cinched at the waist and swept up over a tightly-controlled bosom to clasp around the pale skin of her neck. The thin black line of her tights was perfect down the back of her leg to chunky court shoes with a tiny red flower on the buckle. Her lips were the same scarlet of his dreams, and despite the large amount of colour she was removing from his cheek with a handkerchief were still remarkably neat.

‘So where are we going?’

‘You’ll see.’

This part of the hospital was older than the rest, with high Victorian windows, forbidding wooden doors and a black and white floor which rattled like gunshot under Boxie’s heels. At the far end of a long corridor an elderly man in a suit checked their tickets and gave Andy what he assumed was a disapproving look, but let them into the hall anyway.

Someone had gone to a lot of effort to suspend the banners on the high beamed ceiling, but no amount of decoration could have fully hidden the utilitarian feel of the room. A long table of teas and cakes ran down one side, and at the far end a band were playing music Andy felt he should recognise, but didn’t. The air smelt of wood polish and old people, which was unsurprising considering the number of them in the room, dancing slowly but with remarkably precision on the cross-hatched wooden floor.

‘I had no idea these sort of things still happened!’

‘What did you think older people did with their spare time?’

‘I don’t know; just watched TV I guess.’

‘If that’s all I had to look forward to when I’m getting on a bit I think I’d end it now. Shall we dance?’

‘Certainly, what had you in mind?’

‘The same as everyone else is doing seems the most sensible!’

He made a show of retying his shoelace at the side of the floor so he could watch the steps of the old people for long enough to pick up what was going on. It was one he’d memorised.

She fit easily into his grip and he counted them in with his breathing. She was easy to lead, which was unfortunate as the theory turned out to be difficult to put into practice. His weight didn’t end up where it should, and it took more concentration than he thought to move the correct foot without mouthing the beats. Still, they managed a few songs together with only a few near-miss collisions, before his addled brain began to fall behind schedule.

‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Lovely; thank you.’

The old ladies only had tea or juice, so he settled on the former and took it across to Boxie, who was already deep in conversation with two women.

‘It’s nice to see younger people here.’ Remarked the one of them. ‘I used to have a dress just like the one your young lady has got!’

‘I doubt you could get into it now.’ Her friend remarked.

‘I turned it into dish cloths years ago. It’s what happened to all my nice dresses once I got married.’

‘Oh right.’ He said, politely but without any real interest. He had no intention of spending their date reminiscing about the war.

‘This is Andy, by the way.’ Boxie said. ‘Mrs Roberts and Mrs Vickers.’

‘Are you here with your husbands?’ He asked.

‘Oh no, he’s been dead for years!’ Mrs Vickers said. ‘He caught a disease whilst he was out doing mission work in Africa.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He said.

‘I shouldn’t be. I’ve quite enjoyed life without a husband. He never ate fish, you see, and I love a good piece of smoked cod on an evening. Not that it’s quite the same any more. They’ve taken all the colour out.’

‘At least he got home before he died.’ Mrs Vickers commented. ‘It cost me a fortune to have the body sent back, and it took weeks!’

‘Was he in Africa too?’ Boxie asked.

‘Oh no; he went out to India…’

Andy tried to bite back his impatience as the long story rattled on at the same speed as the tedious music. Boxie didn’t seem to have any association with the old women, so she must have introduced herself. If he could just find some way of bending the conversation around so one of them mentioned her real name…

Forty five minutes later he’d given up. Mrs Vickers was somewhere in the middle of another story, although he wasn’t sure how they’d moved on, and although Boxie was smiling and offering comments if she was even a fraction of how bored he was she must be itching to get free. It was a shame he couldn’t buzz her mobile.

‘Can I talk to you in private for a minute?’ He asked abruptly.

‘Excuse me.’ She said to the women, who pulled knowing faces at one another. ‘What is it?’

‘I just thought that things look to be wrapping up. I guess the old people don’t have the stamina they used to. Do you want to go somewhere we can talk better for a drink?’

There were certainly fewer people in the room, and those left had mainly fled to the dainty tables along the side to catch their breaths.

‘Sure.’

The crisp night air was refreshing after the stench of the elderly, and although Boxie didn’t shiver she easily took his proffered arm and kept in step with him along the road. She refused to set foot inside any of the pubs they passed.

‘I doubt that’s what young ladies did after dances in those days.’

‘Where did they go then?’

‘Home.’ She replied simply, then her lips curled impishly. ‘Or, if they were particularly wicked, somewhere unseen and overgrown.’

He bought a bottle of Martini from the off license as she stood outside, and they trailed about the streets for a while until they found a park. A gaggle of youths shouted at them for a bit as they sat on the damp swings, but eventually lost interest.

‘I used to do this when I was a kid.’ Andy commented. ‘Only with Lambrini. I’d only heard about Martinis in James Bond films. Do they shake or stir this one?’

‘It’s only vermouth.’ Boxie replied. ‘You have to mix it with gin or vodka to make an actual Martini.’

‘Why do they write it on the bottle then?’

‘It was the name of the family that made it.’

‘You know something about everything.’

‘About everything I talk about, yes. There seems little point otherwise.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Perfectly. I’m enjoying my vermouth.’ She stretched her legs out and leant back. ‘Besides, no one has deep and meaningful conversations on swings, do they? Let’s play a game! Name as many people as we can with double-barrelled names. You start. Go!’

They soon had to allow ‘van’ to be classed as double-barrelled, and after a heated debate over whether it was Mr Head or Mr Stewart Head anyone whose always used their middle name. The gentle rocking of the swing did little to steady the vermouth sloshing about Andy’s head.

‘It’s been years since I did this.’ He said. ‘I miss it. We should do it more often.’

‘Now that I can legally buy the alcohol, and don’t have to pretend to be sober before I go home I find some of the excitement goes out of it.’

‘Well, me and my girlfriend used to make it exciting in other ways.’ He replied with what he hoped was a coy smile.

‘Yeah, that could work.’ She looked around slowly, the flat black waves still pressed neatly to her head like a helmet. ‘How about those bushes over there?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Are you not?’

‘Well…’

‘Come on then!’

There was something not quite right about walking coolly over to the bushes and getting onto the floor together, but even in his heady state he had no complaints about the sex. It was unimaginative, certainly, text-book even, but the long-forgotten damp coldness of the ground was exhilarating pleasantly uncomfortable. The artificial light jabbed through the leaves and glimpsed over Boxie’s exposed skin. The moment he finished she climbed off him and slung the dress back on. He rejoined her on the swings.

‘More vermouth?’

‘Thanks. Do you reckon that’s what those old women used to get up to when they were young?’

‘I hope so. I don’t like to think of anyone missing out.’

‘There’s no reason we couldn’t do something like this more frequently.’

‘That’s not really true. I’m going to have a boyfriend soon.’

‘What?’

‘I’m going to have a boyfriend. There’s someone I like. He’s probably going to want to see me more often.’

‘But… What was that?’

‘Part of the evening.’ She replied with a casual shrug. ‘We’d already planned to go out tonight. It seemed pointless to ruin the plan.’

‘You can’t treat people like that!’

‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘Would you have refused if you’d known there was someone else I liked?’

‘Yes! Well, maybe. I don’t know! When were you planning on telling me about him?’

‘About a minute ago. That’s why I did.’

‘Is it this Matt guy you went to France with?’

‘No.’ She smiled at some private joke, no sign of regret.

‘Some other man you gave your P. O. Box number to then.’ He fought the urge to walk away. ‘What impressed you about him so much? Is his poetry better than mine? Got his own set of whittling blades? His dad owns a hair salon where you get get as many free dyes as you want?’

‘He knows who he is.’

‘Bollocks!’ He snorted. ‘He knows who he is? How would you know about that? One day you’re a goth, then a playgirl, then some creation out of a film. I’ve never known anyone as confused as you! Or do you have some sort of disorder and don’t realise what you’re doing? Do you remember the blonde bombshell look? Then tonight it’s like you’re living in the past. You don’t have a clue who you actually are!’

‘I have a very good idea.’ She replied, turning at last to face him. The pretty scarlet lips were pinched into a sneer. ‘Do you think you’re in any position to lecture me about identity?’

‘I know who I am! You don’t even have a name.’

‘A name doesn’t make a person. I have a personality; something you seem to be lacking.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘Oh really? From the moment you first put pen to paper you’ve completely thrown away any personality you might have had. Do you remember you told me that you took dancing lessons? So why couldn’t you tonight?’

‘It wasn’t one I was familiar with!’

‘You knew the steps fine. No doubt you bothered to look some of them up. But no dancer as experienced as you claimed to be would have such a lack of rhythm and grace as you demonstrated tonight.’

‘Everyone exaggerates a bit about those things.’

‘I can forgive a bit of bravado. But it’s not just that, is it? It’s every single thing about you. You told me that you loved listening to the elderly reminiscing about their lives. You couldn’t wait to get out of there tonight, ignoring how rude you were being to those poor women! You pick up and drop interests as soon as I say anything about them, to say nothing of the clothes. How many times have you worn those black combats since our last date?’

‘Plenty.’ He snapped. ‘And you’re some great bastion of constantness, are you?’

‘I haven’t said or done anything contradictory to my personality. I haven’t changed in any way to suit you, whilst you’ve been bending yourself around in circles. The way I look has nothing to do with the person I am.’

‘It’s lucky that you found a guy who so exactly shared your interests!’ Andy scoffed. ‘Of course, I’m sure he’s one of those many people who love rugby and metalwork and bokeh photography and pictures made out of shells!’

‘Sean’s nothing like that.’ She replied coldly. ‘He hardly shares any of my interests. He never has. He has known for a long time who he is and is perfectly happy to be that in spite of what anyone else thinks. He’s real. He won’t be led.’

‘So that’s it, is it? You won’t see me again?’

‘What’s the point? To have my own views and interests regurgitated back at me? It’s like dating a time-lapse mirror.’

She got to her feet, and he found himself grabbing her arm.

‘Boxie…’

‘You decided that Pob suited me better.’ She replied, and pulled herself away forcefully. ‘Goodbye, Andy. I hope you figure out who you are one day.’

She stalked out of the park, the neat black waves still frozen to her head and the handbag swinging by her calf. Andy sat on the swing again, finished the vermouth, then tried to figure out how to get home. He realised that she still had not kissed his lips.

**

Dear Pob,

I am sorry for writing to you again; I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. I wonder if you’ll even open this. After our last meeting, I’ve been doing a bit of thinking about what you said. I didn’t mean for it to appear that I was feigning interests to get closer to you. Everything you said was always of interest to me; that’s why I wanted to know more about it and engage with you. I’m sorry if that didn’t come across.

As to who I actually am, I have a pretty good idea. I’m a software developer who spends too much time looking at funny sites on the Internet at work. I like politically incorrect jokes, especially ones about babies, and web comics. I probably read too many of them, but I enjoy it. I tried to do my own once, but it wasn’t very good. I like House so much that I often watch the repeats. It’s never lupus. I want to have a dog one day, a spaniel probably, or a labrador, but I’m not allowed one in my flat at the moment. It’s not as interesting as who you are, but it’s all me.

I don’t know if things worked out with Sean, but in any case it’d be nice if you kept in touch. I always had a very good time with you, and even if you don’t want to meet me again I miss your letters.

Yours (and my own),

Andy

She never wrote back.