Last Train to Gloryhole (33 page)

‘His grandad, for definite,’ Rhiannon told her. ‘Er - Trevor, I think his name is.’

‘Oh. I’m not sure I know any Trevor,’ replied Carmen, reading on.

‘’Course you do, Carmen,’ her friend retorted, sitting down beside her. ‘Trevor Paedo - they call him.’

‘Oh, ye-es, I remember him now,’ Carmen told her. ‘Trevor Paedo. Right dirty old sod, he was. With his oxo-trousers, and his greasy sideburns, and his long, creepy moustache - you could spot him coming a mile off.’

‘He’d be coming, all right,’ said Rhiannon, looking into her friend’s eyes. ‘Know what I mean?’

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ said Carmen. ‘The dirty old creep!’

‘Say, didn’t he used to live next-door to Chris up in Gloryhole?’ Rhiannon asked. I’m sure he did, you know. There’s another old bloke who’s living there now, I’ve heard. God, I hope he’s not one as well.’

‘Why? Are you planning on going up there again?’ Carmen asked, eyes wide. ‘Surely not.’

‘No!’ retorted Rhiannon sharply.

‘Are you thinking of getting back with Clicker, then? You do still like him, I know you do.’

‘His name’s Chris, Carmen! Not Clicker!’ bawled Rhiannon. ‘Don’t go calling him that horrible nick-name again, please. He’s not a dictaphone, you know.’

‘I never said he was,’ protested Carmen, clueless on the matter.

‘And he’s much nicer than Brian Flynn too, I found,’ Rhiannon added. ‘Talking of Chris, though, you know he damaged his leg badly, right? Although he’s just come back to school now. Well, did I tell you what happened in the Medical Room when I had to go there Monday morning?’ Carmen shook her head and waited to hear. ‘Well, I was just passing this big stool,’ Rhiannon told her.

‘Now
that
can be very painful,’ her friend replied, cringing noticeably.

‘Eh? Shut up a minute!’ Rhiannon told her. ‘And he went and pushed me right onto it.’

‘Onto what?’ Carmen asked, confused again.

‘The stool, of course!’ retorted Rhiannon angrily. ‘I just told you, didn’t I? Jesus! I mean, Chris used to be my boyfriend. He was my first, and everything.’

‘God, I wish I’d had a first,’ Carmen told her, rolling her bottom lip over her top one to illustrate how glum the predicament, and her statement about it, made her feel..

‘I know you’re just saying that out of empathy,’ said Rhiannon. She looked up into the air, recalling a particularly tender moment. ‘You know, one time he sent me two sweet, little ducks and a bunch of sixty red roses. Did I tell you?’

‘I don’t think so,’ her friend replied. ‘I’d have remembered that. Do you mean through the post?’

‘No - silly. On an e-card,’ Rhiannon told her. ‘And now - and now he’s trying to murder me whenever he sees me. What the heck am I going to do?’

‘Aw, come on, Rhi. It was only a push, remember,’ Carmen reminded her. ‘I wish some boy would push me over in the Medical Room.’ She looked up, alarmed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. That sounds awful, doesn’t it?
And
there’s a bed in there too. God, I’m making myself out to be a right -’

‘Push-over,’ said Rhiannon, smiling at her, knowing that her reply had just prevented her friend from coming out with a far more disgusting expression.

‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ replied Carmen. Both girls laughed at the foolishness of it.

‘Look - there he is now. There’s Chris,’ Rhiannon whispered, quickly looking down at her feet. ‘Ooh, if I had a stool now.’

‘Shall I go and get you one?’ Carmen asked, grinning.

‘Very funny,’ Rhiannon told her. ‘You know, I don’t think he can have recognised me with my new hair. Or perhaps doesn’t want to. Hey - where’s he going? Let’s follow him and watch where he goes, shall we?’

‘Er - no,’ Carmen told her firmly.

‘Why not?’ asked Rhiannon.

‘’Cause it looks like he’s off to the toilet, that’s why.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Rhiannon replied, giggling. ‘But listen - let’s see where he goes for his lunch, shall we? I bet you he goes to meet that Pippa again, and I bet you he shares his lunch-box with her.’

‘Ooh, what are you like?’ said Carmen, chortling. ‘Hey - listen. Salt and Pippa,’ she added.

‘Quite,’ replied Rhiannon, convinced she could think up a much funnier insult if she put her mind to it.

‘Rhiannon - can I ask you something?’ said Carmen.

‘Sure,’ her friend replied.

‘Please don’t think I’m being intrusive or anything, please don’t, but how many times did you two - I mean how many times was it, again, Rhi?’ enquired Carmen, grasping her friend’s arm to ease any pain there might be in the re-telling.

‘Just three times,’ answered Rhiannon, taking off a shoe, and rubbing her heel. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’

‘Yes, you did,’ Carmen replied. ‘But carry on anyway.’

‘Well, in the woods was the last time,’ said Rhiannon, whispering, ‘And the time before that was in the old tunnel.’

‘Aah! God!’ uttered a shocked Carmen. ‘Say - doesn’t that tunnel run under the cemetery? You’ll go to hell if you’re not careful, Rhiannon. You will, you know.’

‘I hope not,’ her friend replied, pulling the newspaper over her head, and hiding her eternal shame momentarily.

‘But you said there was three, didn’t you?’ Carmen continued. ‘So - so what was the very first time then?’

‘I’m too ashamed to say,’ retorted Rhiannon.

‘Why?’ said Carmen. ‘It wasn’t in - it wasn’t in your bed, was it?’

Rhiannon took the paper from off her head, rolled it up into a semi-solid tube, and slapped her friend across the head with it. ‘Well, it was almost as bad,’ she told her.

‘Where?’ enquired Carmen.

‘It was about a hundred yards or so from my house.’

‘Nev-er!’ stammered her companion, shocked, and showing it. ‘Ooh look, Rhi! There he goes now!’ said Carmen, spying Chris’s sudden reappearence on the foot-path. ‘He’s going off to ‘C-Block.’ Oh, no! Isn’t that where Pippa registers? Well, that seals it, then. Come on - I’m sure he hasn’t seen us.’ Carmen jumped up and tugged at Rhiannon’s arm.

Rhiannon stood up and went with her, making as if to drag her feet. ‘Carmen - did I tell you I sent him a poem?’ she asked, as they ambled along the path together, arms clasped, and heads down and close together.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ her friend replied. ‘Oh, you mean an e-poem?’

‘No - the real thing,’ Rhiannon told her. ‘You see, I felt I needed to tell him how I really felt about the two of us. Only - only now I think I did a very silly thing, you know.’

‘What was that?’ enquired Carmen.

‘Well, I forgot to put it in an envelope,’ Rhiannon told her. ‘Think that’ll make any difference?’

‘I don’t see why,’ Carmen retorted. ‘I never worry if I don’t get an envelope with any of my birthday-cards or - or valentines even. After all, it’s the message that counts, isn’t it?’

‘Do you really think?’ Rhiannon asked her. ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right. You know, everyone says I’m always worrying too much.’

‘When I’m dead they won’t need a coffin. They can just throw me over the cemetery-wall.’

The landlord and his barmaid laughed at my comment, but one customer took exceptiom to it. ‘I work in Pant Cemetery, remember, Dyl,’ said Jack Matthews. ‘We have enough trouble with the crows dive-bombing us when we’re digging up new plots, without damn bodies flying through the air at us as well.’

‘But I only live across the road from it, Jack,’ I told him. ‘And funerals are so bloody expensive these days, aren’t they, what with the rocketing cost of petrol and everything. I tell you if I still have a gasp of breath left in my lungs on the day I go, then I’ll be sure to crawl my way over the road myself and just jump in.’

‘Talking about graves, you know, a couple of months back I came across a pair of young lovers in the long grass up on the hill where we’ve just dug the new ones,’ Jack told me. ‘Well, they were still in a state of undress, and it seemed like they had, sort of, fallen asleep from their - their affections, you know. Well, I shook the lad by the shoulder, you know, as you would, and when he tried to swing for me, I well nigh stabbed the young bugger with my pitch-fork.’

‘What’s the world coming to, eh?’ I said. ‘Shagging in our cemetery. The dirty buggers!’

‘Well, I reckon that
he
was. Skinny, curly-haired fella, he was. Them skunk eyes, you know. But the other one was - well, now don’t take it the wrong way, Dyl - the other one, I was thinking - the pretty young girl whose shame was barely covered by a couple of wreaths - might just have been your Rhiannon.’

‘Rhiannon!’ I stammered. ‘My Rhiannon! Naw! It can’t have been. Jack. Are you sure about this?’ I asked, my mouth wide open.

‘As I live and breathe, yes, I swear it was your Rhiannon,’ replied Jack. ‘Listen, Dyl - how the hell could I be mistaken? I’ve known your daughter all her life, haven’t I? Sorry, mate, ‘cause I can see you’re awfully disappointed. Say - you’ll have another one, won’t you, Dyl?’ he asked.

‘Daughter!’ I stammered.

‘Pint,’ he answered, grinning.

I smiled at my error, and nodded my approval. Jack placed the two empty glasses on the counter. ‘Fill me up. Buttercup,’ he told the barmaid with a smirk. ‘And less froth than the last time, if you don’t mind, Betty. You gorgeous creature, you.’

I glanced across at Jack’s eyes, watching the swaying, flowing movements of the girl’s hips as she moved away from him, and then the earnest pull of her lovely bare arms on the wooden handle as she filled our glasses right up, and could tell that, despite his wizened old looks and his gammy leg, ‘Digger’ desired her even more than the beer she was pouring out for him.

‘Thank God Betty didn’t hear that last comment I made,’ he said with a smile. ‘Look - I’m not really the pervert you think I am, you know Dyl,’ he told me. ‘I know you’ve never really forgiven me over the business of Anne Cillick, as is. She was in my class in secondary school, remember, mate. Sat across the aisle from me in class all year, she did, and right opposite me in all my Art lessons. Oh, those Art lessons, Dyl. Each one of them was a sort of once-a-week liaison, you know - a silent tryst - where we feasted solely on each other’s eyes, and stroked out all our mutual love on sugar-paper with wet, sticky paints that we mixed lovingly together in a shared finger-bowl.’

‘Little wonder she married an Art Teacher, then, Jack,’ I chipped in to lighten the tone.

Staring blankly out of the window, Jack seemed to ignore me completely. ‘Two years we carried on altogether, you know, Dyl,’ he reported to me proudly. Yes, he had plainly got it bad.

‘Yes. she told me about it,’ I said, accepting my new pint, and sipping its frothy peak.

‘Took my cherry, too, she did,’ he added, smiling. ‘What a girl! I was a late starter, you see.’

‘On my walk back we could always call in on her and get it back, if you like,’ I said, leading him back to the table we shared..’Your cherry, I mean.’

Jack sat down at his table again. ‘Say - did she take yours too, then?’ he asked, drinking from his pint-glass more deeply than before.

‘I wish she had,’ I replied, taking a seat across from him. ‘No, But I have to admit that Anne really was a very special girl. She had a whole host of unique qualities, so she did.’

‘Oh, do you mean that thing she did with the tip of her tongue?’ he asked, beginning to quiver.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I asked him. ‘I mean her - her smile, her lovely smile. And her milky-white teeth, and - and that slight fall in her bosom when she, you know, took off her bra. What a woman, eh, Jack?’

‘Aye, what a woman. Say, do you think we’ll ever get over her, old boy? You and me,’ asked Jack. I felt myself lost in thought for a moment. ‘Though I can see you probably won’t either, Dyl,’ he told me. ‘Women can have that effect, you know. Look at Helen, for instance.’

‘You mean Helen-the-milk, from Pant Villas? Christ, Jack. So it wasn;’t just me, then.’

‘Not her! No, the other one, Dyl,’ he said. ‘What was her name now? Oh, I know. Helen of Troy. Got taken away on a ship by her people’s enemies, she did, and it started off a bloody long war, remember.’ He looked over at the barmaid. ‘Christ, I bet she would have looked damn good pulling a pint, don’t you think? Anne Cillick, I’m talking about, Dyl.’

‘You know I’ve recently been giving it some thought, Jack, and I think there are just two types of women,’ I told him. ‘First there’s the girl who usually lives across the road, and who reminds you of your mother, but who you usually can’t tell reminds you, if you know what I mean. Yes, she’s so loving, and loyal, and she cooks a treat, that you’ll probably end up marrying the girl because you find she’s already inside your bones, you know, and it feels only right to do so.’

‘Yes, I got sucked in by that one too, Dyl.’ Jack cut in.

‘Aye. And then there’s the girl that lives over the fence next-door, and who sits on her lounger with as little on as that girl you always see in
‘The Sun,’
and who you find you desire simply because
you
happen to be a man and
she
happens to be a girl. I mean, because of what you can get from her, you know. What you figure you need in that very special moment, so to speak. The dusky, dirty girl who feels just what you feel, and who would as likely quote verses from
The New Testament
as suggest you ever put on a condom.’

Jack laughed at this and said, ‘And Anne is the second type, right? Was the second, I mean.’

‘Do you think?’ I asked him. ‘No, Jack. I wouldn’t say that. I happen to think Anne could be both women at different times of the week, you know. She was - how’d you say? - versatile.’

‘You know, I like that word about her,’ Jack continued, smiling into thin air. The beer had clearly got to him already, I could tell. He looked across at me and said, ‘Dyl - did you ever wonder how on earth Anne got to be - got to be -’

‘Saved?’ I asked him, my eye-balls suddenly drifting left, then right, as my brain tried to fathom out what had made me speak that word.

‘Aye,’ he retorted. ‘Saved. Not in the religious sense, of course.’

‘Saved,’ I said again, contemplating the strange sanctity of the word I uttered, and wondering why on earth I hadn’t said
‘spared’
instead, as I had done countless times before in bar-room discussions and family chats up and down the valley, and as I knew full well the whole world and his wife would most likely describe it. ‘Saved,’ I said again, ‘from the disaster that killed all those children - those little departed friends of hers and mine.’