An Ocean Apart (23 page)

“Er, fried please,” David replied.

A ripple of laughter spread around the deli. The young man grinned at David.

“They all come fried, sir. That's about all we know how to treat an egg. Do you want it sunny side up or easy over?”

David smiled, embarrassed. “Er—sunny side up will do me fine.”

The young man went off whistling and clattered some pans out of sight behind the freezer display before returning to the counter. “Anything else?”

“Yes, a large black coffee.”

The young man worked like a trained cocktail barman, taking a Styrofoam cup from the dispenser and spinning it once in the air before pouring in coffee from a Cona pot. He snapped on a lid and, flicking open a brown paper bag, placed the cup carefully inside, just as a young, spotty-faced youth appeared from behind the freezer display, holding the roll wrapped in white greaseproof paper.

“Egg-and-bacon roll?”

“That's mine.” The deli-man snatched it from the minion's hand and placed it in the paper bag alongside the coffee.

“Right, that's three-eighty.”

David took his wallet from his back pocket and handed over a five-dollar bill. The young man rang it up on the till and gave him his change. “A dollar-twenty change. Enjoy, and have a nice day!”

“Thanks,” David said, his face breaking into a smile at the all-American cliché. “I think I might just do that.”

“Next?” the young man called out.

David turned away from the counter as the next customer moved forward to fill his place. He stopped and turned back to the young man. “I wonder if you could tell me how to get to the harbour?”

“Do you mean the marina?”

“Yeah, sorry, the marina.”

“Turn right out of here, take the first on the right—that's Pearl Street—and just keep walking. If you walk about three hundred and fifty yards, you'll get your feet wet, so stop at about three hundred.”

“Thanks,” David said, grinning at the young comic.

“No problem,” he said, and turned to the old man who had taken David's place. “Okay gramps, what's it to be today?”

David walked out of the deli into the sunlight with a smile on his face, his whole being lightened by the exchange. He decided not to indulge himself in the contents of his bag until he had reached the marina, so he took off at a brisk pace, following the young man's directions.

Pearl Street was like any other that he had seen in Leesport, a wide thoroughfare with secluded houses tucked away in their own grounds, separated from the sidewalk by fences. The road was criss-crossed with smaller streets leading off to rows of similar dwellings, yet, as he walked, he realized that the village was not in any way overbuilt, every so often coming across a grassed area on which there might be room for at least three more houses, this lending a healthy and clean openness to the surroundings.

The street eventually came to an end, opening out into a broad expanse of tarmac that led into the marina. David approached the small gatehouse at the entrance, and the old man who occupied it threw a cursory glance in his direction before looking away again. As there was no one else about, and heartened by the open friendliness shown towards him by the people in the deli, David decided to break the ice and engage the old man in conversation.

“Good morning.” He stood purposefully beside the man's window, holding his paper bag in one hand and shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun with the other as he looked out over the marina. “Lovely day.”

The man looked up and cocked his head to the side. “Sure is.” With that, he leaned forward to turn up the volume of a television that was hidden below the wide ledge of the window.

David felt his face prickle with embarrassment at this blatant shun, but was immediately overcome with a devilish urge to persevere with the conversation, a reaction that was as much a surprise to himself as it was to be of a further nuisance to the old man.

“Is that the Atlantic over there?” he asked, a light-hearted innocence to his voice as he stared out across the marina. “Seems very calm.”

The old man rose begrudgingly from his seat, realizing that he would have to respond before being left in peace again and, leaning out of his little window, jabbed a finger in the direction of the water. “That ain't the Atlantic—that's the Great South Bay.” The action of his finger now changed to an up-and-over motion. “Atlantic's further over, beyond Fire Island.”

David looked out to the long strip of land that lay about four miles across the bay. “Can you get over there?”

“Ferry goes from the marina every half-hour.”

The old man, feeling that he had said enough, turned away from the window and sat back down in front of his television, effectively terminating the conversation. David pulled a face at the nape of his bristly little neck to acknowledge his gracelessness and moved away from the gatehouse. He headed off parallel to the marina, alongside a small public garden secluded from the road by a hedge of wild dogrose which fell untamed over a heavy two-rail fence, as simply fashioned and as rustic as a nursery rhyme. Twenty yards farther on, the hedge formed an archway over an iron gate on which hung a small brass plaque bearing the inscription
THE LEESPORT RESIDENTS MEMORIAL GARDEN
. He pushed open the gate and walked in.

The lawns and flower-beds of the little garden were beautifully kept, laid out in circular sweeps around the centre-piece of a large concrete plinth on which an old grey naval howitzer perched, pointing its flaking barrel out towards the bay. Beside it, the Stars and Stripes fluttered in the sea breeze atop a tall white flagpole. David walked around the side of the gun to the far end of the garden and stood for a moment gazing into the brackish waters of the bay as they lapped lazily against the vertical wooden pilings that protected the garden from erosion. He stepped back and looked around for somewhere to sit and spied an old wooden bench tucked under the barrel of the gun. Taking the cup of coffee and roll out of the paper bag, he sat down to enjoy both his breakfast and the view across the marina. All was tranquillity that morning, save only for the plaintive scream of gulls overhead, and the sound of the steel hawser-lines clinking like cowbells against the masts of the swaying yachts drawn up tight against each other along the wooden walkways that divided off the moorings.

This is perfect, he thought to himself, this is bloody perfect.

He didn't particularly want to move from the garden, but glancing at his watch, he was surprised to find that he had been sitting there for over an hour and a half, and realized that he should be heading back to the house to see Richard. He jumped to his feet, throwing his breakfast wrappings into the litter-bin beside the bench and, making his way across to the gate and out into the street, he waved heartily as he passed his grumpy friend in the gatehouse before starting back up Pearl Street.

The main street of Leesport was now filled with cars and bicycles, the sidewalks bustling with shoppers. As he weaved his way through them, David had the thought that he should buy Carrie a small token for her kindness in feeding “the invisible man” over the past few days. He caught sight of a flower shop on the opposite side of the street, and quickly crossing over the road, he entered in.

Half a minute later he reappeared, clutching a huge bunch of carnations in his arms while at the same time attempting to stuff the change from his purchase into his wallet. He took a couple of paces and half a dozen coins fell from his hand and clinked onto the sidewalk, rolling off in different directions. Swearing quietly to himself, he bent down to pick them up.

The last to be retrieved was a quarter which had rolled into the edge of the sidewalk, nestling under a flower-box attached to the wall of the next-door shop. Having recovered it, he straightened up to find himself facing a window display board covered with small white cards. He glanced up at the name. It was Helping Hands, the small employment agency that he had seen on arrival in Leesport.

As he turned to walk away, his eyes swept with casual interest across the job cards on the notice-board. He stopped in his tracks. Something had registered. He took a pace back and bent down to read the card in the bottom left-hand corner.

TEMPORARY HANDYMAN REQUIRED

for general garden work

experience preferred but not necessary

apply within

He stood up slowly, his eyes transfixed on the card, then stepped back from the window, his mind whirring with thoughts and ideas. Then suddenly, reason took over and he shook his head derisively at such an impractical thought. He walked away from the shop, but almost immediately came to a halt once more, and a young woman, who had been pushing a pram along the sidewalk behind him, bumped it heavily into the backs of his legs.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” she said, holding up a hand in apology.

David jumped aside to clear her path. “No, it's me who should apologize,” he said, smiling at her. “Just having a moment of indecision.”

The young mother laughed. “Yep, I just had one of those in the supermarket, but I put it down to postnatal syndrome.”

David raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, well, I'm afraid I don't think that I could use that excuse.”

The young woman pulled down the corners of her mouth and looked at him out of the side of her eyes in mock contemplation of this suggestion. “No—maybe not. But hey, I just thought, well, it's a beautiful day, why not go for it!—you should maybe do the same!”

Beaming a smile at him, she gave the pram a hefty push and continued on her way. For a moment David remained where he was, watching after her. She was right, he thought to himself, what the hell, and, turning briskly on his heel, he headed back to the shop and pushed open the door.

Although the office was only sparsely furnished with a sofa and coffee-table, two desks and a filing cabinet, David was immediately struck by the way in which it had been decorated, the soft pink of the walls picked out in the patterned loose covers of the sofa and in part of the zig-zag design of the fitted-carpet. One of the desks was occupied by a young girl, a pair of huge round spectacles balanced precariously on the end of her snub nose, whose fingers moved like lightning across the keyboard of her computer. At the other sat a large smooth-faced man of about sixty dressed in a brightly coloured loose-fitting shirt, its collar turned up to protect his neck from the two heavy gold-link chains from which were suspended a pen and a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. His thick grey hair was combed back across his head, held immaculately in place by glistening quantities of styling-gel. As David entered, they both looked round in his direction, and the man jumped lightly to his feet and came around his desk to greet him.

“Hi, I'm Clive Hanley,” he said, holding out his hand to David. “Can I be of assistance?”

David shook his hand. “Well, er, it was only an inquiry, really, about one of the cards in your window?”

Clive smiled at him. “Certainly, of course. Now what would you be particularly interested in?”

“The handyman.”

“Okay—so—you want a handyman, is that right?”

“No—I was wondering about getting a job myself.”

Clive paused, furrowing his brow, and looked David up and down. “I see…”

“Maybe I should explain a bit,” David said, realizing that the man seemed a little non-plussed by his request. “It's just that I'm just over here from Scotland staying—”

“Scotland!” Clive interjected with a flourish. “I
love
Scotland! It's just so …
barren!
”

David waited for him to continue with his eulogy, but that seemingly was all he had to say on the subject of Scotland.

“Yes, well,” David continued, “as I was saying, I'm over here staying with friends, and—well, I'm just hanging about the house at the minute, getting under everybody's feet, so I came out for a walk and just happened to see your sign in the window. I do have some experience, and well, it does say temporary.”

“Right, okay,” Clive said slowly, nodding his head. “Let's think about this for a minute. How long do you expect to be over here? You see, I would really need at least a month's commitment before I can put you on my books, otherwise it's just not fair to my clients.”

David bit at his lip for a moment before replying. “Yeah, that should be all right,” he said, taking instant decisions on his future as he went along.

Clive clapped his hands together conclusively. “Well, let's take some details, shall we? Come and sit down on the sofa, and I'll go get a form from my desk. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks,” David said, holding up a hand, “I've just had one.”

While Clive rummaged around in the drawers of his desk, David walked over to the sofa and sat down, casting a look around the office once more. Clive noticed this as he approached him, form in hand and, plumping himself down on the sofa next to him, he joined David in his appraisal of the décor.

“Not what one would expect of an employment agency, is it? I mean, I was quite happy with the yellow walls and green linoleum that were here already, but my friend insisted on doing the whole place up. He said that I couldn't possibly work in a place that didn't inspire me. Of course, I think he's done a wonderful job, but I sometimes wonder if it's not just a little bit like a beauty salon!”

With a laugh, he pushed himself forward to the front of the sofa and put the form on the coffee-table in front of him, then, placing his spectacles on the tip of his nose, he pulled his pen from its holder around his neck.

“Okay! Let's get started. Your name is?”

“David Corstorphine. C-o-r-s-t-o-r-p-h-i-n-e.”

“And your address?”

David thought for a moment. “Uh, well, right at this very minute, it's Fifty-two North Harlens—but I think that I might be looking around for somewhere else to stay.”