The Queen's Margarine (28 page)

His own life seemed poised on a knife-edge as he wrestled with himself. One part of him was tempted to creep cravenly back to his room. He wasn't the type of bloke to pound on women's doors, or drag them rudely out of bed. Yet, if he didn't act incisively, for once, he'd lose this precious second chance – a chance, he knew, that would never come again. If things worked out between them, she might actually bear his child – a whole brood of children, even. He'd not only be a husband, he'd be a family-man – a fully paid-up member of the human race. He'd no longer feel inferior to those younger, keener colleagues who all had wives and kids; all earned higher commission; drove superior cars. With Stacey in his life, he could sell a million beds; sell beds to sleepaphobics, even sell them to the
dead
.

‘Yes, go for it!' he muttered, clenching both his fists and only hesitating a second longer before beating them against the door. The loud drumming noise was a shock to his whole system, yet a triumphant shock, bordering on euphoria. At last, he was acting like a champion, a hero. And his courage was paying off. He could hear movement from inside the room, footsteps approaching – closer – and, all at once, the door was flung open.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at?' yelled an outraged voice. A deep voice. A male voice. A voice like a tornado. And there, standing, arms akimbo, was Steve, the handyman – no longer in his soiled blue jeans, but naked save for a towel. And crouching on the bed behind him (a double bed, a lovers' bed) was Stacey, also naked, although half-covered by the duvet.

He turned and fled, each step he took ageing him a good five years, so that when he limped back into his room, he was a panting, breathless pensioner, a laughing-stock, a dotard. How could he have imagined that a young girl in the springtime of her life would choose to mate with winter – brave its thin, bare, cold embrace, when she already had hot summer to melt her into surrender? He saw their agile limbs entwined; their thrusting, youthful bodies coupling in abandon. Steve was rightly called a handyman – he'd be handy with his
cock
, of course. She had lied to
him; told him Steve was ‘leaving in a jiff '; pretended she was tired, desperate for her beauty sleep, when, in galling fact, she was desperate to be rid of him, so she could rush to her lithe lover.

He paced up and down the small, cramped room, beside himself with humiliation. How ever could he face her in the morning? Indeed, she was bound to be the one who'd cook his breakfast: more wishy-washy tea and beans; more charred and greasy lies.

Impulsively, he seized his case and started hurling in his things at random; tossing his dressing-gown and pyjamas on the top. Then, naked in the unheated room, he dressed with feverish haste; unable to endure the sight of his blubbery stomach and grizzled old-man's chest.

Grabbing his coat and suitcase, he dashed headlong down the stairs. Too bad if he woke the mother. For all he knew, she wasn't ill at all; maybe in bed with her
own
lover. And certainly Steve and Stacey wouldn't hear a thing. They'd be making too much noise themselves: whoops of passion, moans of desire, wild bellowings of lust.

He unbolted the front door, slammed it shut behind him and raced across the tarmac to his car. Accelerating away, he drove at perilous speed along the winding lane; hit the main road and hurtled on towards the M5 and home. His sole aim was to reach the safety of his flat; hole up there and hide his shame; never show his face again, or brave the mocking world.

As he turned on to the motorway, he pressed his foot down, hard; the breakneck pace reflected in his body: heart thwacking like a sledge-hammer; dizzy blood careering round his veins. Shadows formed and reformed; headlights dazzled, glared; the ghostly glow of distant towns diminished to a blur. Other cars were mere insubstantial shapes, to be overtaken, swallowed up. Nothing else existed but his own frantic sense of motion, as bridges, pylons, hazy landmarks went streaking, flashing past. Even the
road-signs
failed to register, until, suddenly, the words ‘West Bromwich, Walsall' struck him with such force he all but skidded to a halt.

Hardly aware what he was doing, he veered left off the motorway, scorched along the slip-road and on towards the roundabout, and there did a total turnaround, until he was no longer driving north but south. The squall and storm of emotions
churning through his mind had banished all clear thought; reduced rational decisions to so much airy moonshine. Since the moment he'd glimpsed Stacey naked on that double bed, he'd been acting on blind impulse; his usual common sense and caution thrown completely to the winds. Yet, strange as it might seem, it was the girl herself who had wrought this crucial change; made him see that he couldn't stay a moment longer landlocked in the Midlands; kowtowing to his customers; cringing to his boss; tied down by schedules, shackles. All that was in the past. No way was he returning to stagnation and surrender, servility, defeat, but now setting his sights on space and scope and freedom – yes, heading down to Cornwall and the last, storm-tumbled outcrop before the ocean stalked the shore; the very furthest limits of the land.

He allowed the shocked speedometer to hit the ninety-mark, as if it shared his own impatience for a new, untrammelled life. Yet, despite the whirlwind speed, his breathing and his heartbeat began gradually to slow, and his tense, angry grip loosened on the steering-wheel. Even his injured pride was fading in significance. Why fret and fume about one small indignity, when ahead was independence, a new start? However mortifying her methods, Stacey had released him – and before it was too late.

Already, he seemed to hear the brazen waves booming forth their message on the shore: that he could still find love, find purpose; that he wasn't just a piece of flotsam to be battered by the tide. And, overhead in the dark night sky, a flock of gulls went soaring up to a vaster, clearer realm – a more radiant sphere, bordering on infinity.

By dawn, he would reach Land's End. Food and sleep must wait, while he rushed straight out to walk the eager strand, feel the
sea-breeze
stroke his face, see the gulls for real – triumphant gulls, not crying in derision now, but screeching out a hymn of praise to the lonely but courageous man who had broken free.

At last.

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After Purple

Born of Woman

The Stillness The Dancing

Sin City

Devils, for a Change

Fifty-Minute Hour

Bird Inside

Michael, Michael

Breaking and Entering

Coupling

Second Skin

Lying

Dreams, Demons and Desire

Tread Softly

Virgin in the Gym and Other Stories

Laughter Class and Other Stories

The Biggest Female in the World and Other Stories

Little Marvel and Other Stories