Small Lives, Big World Read online

  SMALL LIVES,

  BIG WORLD

  A Collection of Short Stories from Near and Far

  R.M. GREEN

  Copyright © 2016 R. M. Green

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador

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  ISBN 9781785894145

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  This book is dedicated to Dominic and to the memory of Yelena;

  the very best of people.

  And for my mum, Pauline 1934-2015, a legend.

  Contents

  FOREWORD

  THE INTERVIEW

  TIME IS RELATIVE

  THE CHRISTMAS CARD

  THE AUTHOR

  THE DINNER DATE

  A GOOD TEACUP

  HARPER

  TRIO

  THE WEDDING PRESENT

  THE INTERPRETERS

  FOREWORD

  Having travelled extensively and lived in countries foreign to the land of my birth for the majority of my adult life, I have been fortunate enough to have experienced much. Although the environments and cultures may differ wildly, the commonality of the human condition is indeed, universal. That much is obvious. My stories are largely that; different ingredients with different flavours perhaps, but we all eat at the same table!

  The vast majority of us lead small, decent lives and all of us are confronted, now and again, with extraordinary situations. Some see us flourish, others see us fail, but I have noticed that our capacity for hope is the one thing that unites people of faith or of no faith when faced with adversity.

  It is my hope that these few stories reflect that.

  THE INTERVIEW

  The two men sat across the small waiting area studiously avoiding looking at each other directly but stealing glances every now and then, weighing each other up, judging each other, resenting each other, despising each other. A year ago, maybe more, they might have struck up a conversation, found mutual ground, solidarity in adversity and empathy. But now, like prize-fighters waiting for the bell for the last round, they were too wary, too exhausted, with too much at stake for friendship. It was horribly gladiatorial. One would triumph; one would limp from the field, vanquished. Both knew it. Had they both been in their twenties, it would all have seemed as a game; win some, lose some, c’est la vie and all that. But the wrong side of forty-five, this was, so they felt, their last chance. Only one of them would feel the joy. No, no longer the joy, merely intense relief. The other would be plunged once more into that bitter pit of failure, perhaps for the final time, never again to crawl out. The dry tongues behind clenched teeth articulated the same silent prayer, Please let it be me. Please let it be me.

  “If you would be so kind as to wait,” they said. “We will call you back in after our deliberations. Help yourselves to coffee from the machine. We’ll be with you as soon as possible. So kind.” That was almost thirty minutes ago. It was barbaric. White-collar torture. Slow death by polystyrene cup of decaffeinated sludge, three-year-old trade magazines and the excruciating tick of the white-faced clock on the wall.

  It was hot and suffocating and the fan in the corner was so weak that all it managed was to disturb the heavy air directly in front of it, offering no relief from the oppression of the August afternoon. Despite this, both men kept their suit jackets on; the slightly heavier set man, to hide the dark patches of sweat he knew would be forming soup plate-sized discs under his arms and spreading like a wet rash over his back, the other, more slender and hungry-looking, to cover up a recently acquired curry stain on his one good silk tie.

  Whoever they call in first, it’ll be to tell them the bad news. Get that out the way, then call in the winner. That’s how it goes, thought Peter.

  They will want to get the unpleasantness over first then get down to business, Graham mused.

  It was unusual. The final two candidates called to a decisive interview at the same time. They had explained that the factory was to shut down for two weeks for the summer holidays and that the management wanted to make a decision today. They were strong candidates and it was felt only fair to ask them both in as the divisional manager, Nigel, was only available this afternoon as he was going off to Crete that evening. So here they were, the select duo, the favoured pair, stewing in the stale, airless waiting area while their fate was being decided behind a white gloss-painted door. Peter had arrived while Graham was inside. Asked by the bored receptionist to make his way upstairs and take a seat, he had waited for fifteen minutes distractedly working on a crossword puzzle in the Metro newspaper. When Graham came out, Peter had stood up and his focus was on the young woman he recognised from his first interview a week before. He hardly noticed the other man who went over to the coffee machine, and with a brief handshake, the woman, whose name he had forgotten and who didn’t re-introduce herself, ushered him into the room with a, “Nice to see you again. This way please.” Twenty minutes or so later, Peter emerged, also headed for the coffee machine, poured himself a cup, resumed his seat and took up his paper once more. The two men were seated opposite each other separated by just a few feet of threadbare carpet and a chrome-framed table with a smoky glass top decorated with perfectly circular rings of long-dried coffee. The table was strewn with old magazines, a blue board marker missing its cap, several empty thimble-size pots of UHT milk, carelessly scattered torn sachets of sugar with a powdering of crystals and plastic stirrers, and, curiously enough, a desk calendar (showing the month of April 2013) in Japanese with a photograph of St Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow on it. So they sat, silent and mutually unacknowledged. And sat. And sat.

  A single rivulet of sweat meandered down Graham’s temple, slightly stinging his eye as he flicked unseeingly through Marketing Today, March 2014. Across the faded biscuit-brown carpet, Peter’s back was drenched in perspiration and he shifted forward in his chair then back again feeling the damp coolness against his skin, clammy and unpleasant. From over his copy of the Metro, his watery-brown eyes glanced surreptitiously for the hundredth time across the room as he contemplated his balding adversary; this crumpled nemesis in a blue M&S wool and polyester double-breasted suit. And suddenly, Peter wanted to cry. A sob of desperation welled up in his chest and he suppressed it just before it escaped his lips as a heart-wrenching keen. He felt sick. He coughed in an attempt to gain control over himself and looked quickly back to his paper as this drew the attention of the other man who darted a glance over at the sound. Graham ha
d nervously looked up as a reflex drew him to the source of the noise and only just avoided eye contact as the other man hurriedly threw his attention back to his newspaper.

  Graham was nauseous and swallowed repeatedly. His mouth was dry and in an effort to generate some saliva he set down the magazine on the cluttered table and picking up his cup, flicked his tongue inside to glean the last cold drop of brown liquid, biting into the polystyrene as he did so. Swallowing again, he contemplated the crooked indentation of his teeth on the cup, then, suddenly embarrassed by this juvenile display, he leant forward and without getting up, tossed the cup into the green metal wastepaper bin behind the door. The other man was still engrossed in the ten-times-read paper and Graham’s movement appeared to have gone unnoticed.

  Sitting back in his chair and self-consciously patting his jacket front which concealed the curry-stained tie, Graham slyly studied the man across the room in detail. Pale-skinned with a yellowish tinge, a heavy smoker no doubt. The man looked around fifty and had dark brown hair flecked with grey, cropped close to his round head. His eyes were the colour of dirty dishwater, washed out greyish-brown, and the whites were also tinged with yellow. He was clean-shaven but in the heat of the afternoon his jaw glistened with light sweat and showed the beginnings of stubble which gave him a slightly sordid appearance. His shirt was pale blue and Graham noticed it was darker around the edge of the collar. He felt rather pleased that he had chosen a white shirt on such a sweltering day, although again, was pricked by a stab of shame at his lamb madras-blotted tie. The suit, plain grey and although now a little creased, was obviously a very good one, and Graham couldn’t help but look at it with an envious yet spiteful gaze. He gained some cold comfort from the obvious sweat marks on the shirt; the unsuitability of the blue tie with rather loud yellow spots; and the inch of skin exposed between the cuffed trousers and the top of the grey socks as the man sat with his legs crossed at the ankles. His black Italian shoes were obviously new and looked like they must have pinched his swollen feet in this heat. Good! Graham thought uncharitably. Then he remembered the hole in his polished but well-worn C&A lace-ups and planted his feet more squarely on the carpet.

  He felt guilty. He didn’t really mean this chap any harm. It’s just that he stood between Graham and probably his last chance and he hated him for it. He hated himself for feeling so desperate and above all, he hated those kids inside, currently deciding his fate. The three of them all looked younger than his daughter: so confident and casual, so damn patronising, so necessary for his future. Pitiful. Grovelling and abasing himself, obsequiously humble, telling them whatever they wanted to hear. And for what? Thirty grand and private healthcare to do a job he had been doing before these kids were out of Pampers. How did I get to this? he asked himself morosely, self-pityingly. He knew the answer. Ten years ago he was a company director. He worked hard and enjoyed it mostly. But he drank a bit. Then Susan left him when Daisy went to university. She said she never really loved him and that now, without Daisy at home, she wanted more from life than ironing his shirts and rolling him into bed after another boozy dinner with customers. She was going back to university herself, as a mature student and to find her true self. Her true self! Bitch! Graham knew that she was carrying on with that bloke, Jim, from her amateur dramatics group. But he said nothing. He watched her go. The divorce was the easy bit. He got the house and the timeshare in Florida. She got the cash and the shares and the few antiques. He was earning a decent amount and soon he met Grace. It was his forty-fourth birthday; work laid on a surprise party to cheer him up and she was actually in the cake: a big-breasted, false blonde, over-the-hill stripper with stretch marks and protruding front teeth. They hit it off immediately. She, sitting heavily on his lap pouring Asti down his throat he, embarrassed but aroused and she could feel it.

  After that first meeting, when he got her number, they went out a few times. Dinner and drinks, a lot of drinks. They matched each other glass for glass, bitter memory for bitter memory. She moved in after his divorce. Her boy, Darren, was in the army and never contacted her. Darren’s father had left eighteen years before having tried his best to beat the foetus out of her. “Damaged goods, sweetie. That’s what I am,” she laughed as she threw back another glass. Vodka was their tipple. They were happy in their alcoholic stupor and Graham thought it would go on that way until he retired. Then he would sell the timeshare and buy a place in the sun outright, maybe there in Florida, maybe Spain, and they would live drunkenly ever after.

  Then Grace got ill: kidney failure. Dialysis three times a week. Graham realised how much he really loved her. He stopped drinking. He sold the timeshare and with the proceeds bought a dialysis machine. He took care of Grace and she cried because no one had ever cared for her that much. He lost his job. Too much time off work. That was four years ago. They had moved into a small flat. The money from the sale of the house helped them get by for a while but it was running low and no transplant was in sight. He had to get another job. He had been looking for over a year now. Sending his CV in to all and sundry. Interview after interview but at his age, they explained, even with senior executive experience, the opportunities are just not there. “So sorry.” Perhaps, if he were willing to retrain, to take a more junior position? So, it had come to this. Sitting in this black hole of Calcutta, dripping with sweat, wearing a stained tie and wishing the bloke opposite you, a perfect stranger, would drop dead so that he would be left clear to become the Thomas Electrical, Spares Division Sales Executive (South) reporting to the Spares Division Sales Manager (UK) who had more acne than skin on his face and who had called him ‘Gray’. He closed his eyes as another wave of nausea crashed over him. Then he thought of Grace and why he was doing this and it made it all bearable. Poor Gracie. He opened his eyes as the door suddenly opened and another young woman, this one, very attractive with an impressive Afro, wearing designer jeans flared at the bottom and a plain white cotton blouse which resembled a Russian peasant-smock stepped not entirely over the threshold. Both men jumped up. Both silently cursed their lack of control as they did so: too damn eager, too bloody desperate.

  “Mr Smithson, Mr Parsons, sorry to keep you,” said the woman addressing both yet looking at neither of them but with a sweet smile and a note of genuine contrition in her voice which had the softest of Jamaican accents. “We just need a few more minutes. We are waiting on a conference call with head office. Help yourselves to more coffee,” she said, nodding in the direction of the coffee machine in the corner in which was left nothing but bitter dregs. Then just as quickly as she had appeared, the woman disappeared and the white gloss-painted door was shut in their faces. Without acknowledging each other, both men resumed their seats.

  The relentless ticking from the white-faced clock, the pathetic whine of the useless fan and the odd residual burble from the coffee machine were, once again, the main soundtrack to this purgatorial scene. The window was open but the air was too still to provide any relief to the leaden atmosphere and even the dull hum of distant traffic seemed to add to the oppression. From behind the door a phone rang twice and faint and indistinct murmurings could be heard from within.

  Can’t be much longer now. God, I could do with a fag, thought Peter to himself as he strained to hear, in vain, the muffled voices on the other side of the door.

  The diffused light of the sun, broken up by the skeletal shadows cast by the metal window frame, flooded the room yet somehow did not make it brighter. It was a lazy, yellow light that made the pale green walls look more like the colour of freshly spewed baby food than anything else. Peter felt his stomach churn and tried to calm himself by focusing on the man opposite him who was sitting erect with his head leant back and his eyes closed. Although he had spent a good deal of time observing the man, Peter couldn’t remember what colour his eyes were. Blue, perhaps. He looked down at his sleeve and removed an invisible piece of lint. He liked this suit: grey light wool, tailor-made for him when he was
at Bradley’s Far East Office in Hong Kong. He sighed. So long ago. He looked back across at the other man and contemptuously dismissed his cheap blue suit, but remarked to himself that the burnt-crimson silk tie did, indeed, look very fine. The man was sweating much less than he was and although his bald forehead, surrounded with thin sandy hair, was pricked with beads of perspiration, he seemed altogether less wrung out than Peter felt.

  Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Peter gave up trying to decipher the voices behind the door and wondered if he would really do what he was contemplating if this job didn’t work out. It didn’t bear thinking about. He was fifty-three. Fifteen years ago he was head of purchasing for Bradley’s, a large importer of cheap household electronics made in the Far East. He had a small but plush office in Hong Kong, a company penthouse, a maid, a generous expat salary and a somewhat carefree lifestyle. He was what the papers used to call ‘a confirmed bachelor’ and in fact, he preferred this term to openly coming out as gay. He was discreet and monogamous, and his partner, an Australian flight attendant called Stanley who worked for Cathay Pacific, was the love of his life. Then in the space of three weeks, it all came crashing down. Bradley’s sold out to a Chinese conglomerate and Peter was given a generous pay off but only three weeks to clear out of his apartment. When Stanley heard that the penthouse and expat lifestyle were to be taken away, leaving just Peter, he requested a change of route from the airline and walked out. Peter returned to Britain hurt, confused and alone.

  He had been away from Britain for too long. All his old contacts had moved on. He knew no one and England seemed an alien country to him. He had his generous redundancy so he rented rooms in Chelsea and set about looking for a job. He was not wealthy enough to retire and he needed to work for his own sanity. Stanley had broken his heart and he knew that if he couldn’t throw himself into work, he would go under. For three years he tried everything and all the time he grew older and even less employable. The last time he saw the recruitment consultant, he had been told that it might be best for him to set his targets lower and to look for something part-time. The DIY places are always looking for mature, reliable staff. Why not try there? That had almost killed him. He developed an ulcer and was on sleeping pills prescribed by an overworked and disinterested GP. So now, he was faced with the choice of taking his dwindling savings and eking out his early old age in a grotty flat in Battersea, or taking any job that came along. This one was his last chance. After hundreds of rejections, Peter had no self-respect left. If he didn’t get this, he was not going to sacrifice the very last shred of his dignity and rot in a bedsit. He had made up his mind. This time, if he lost out again, he would check into the best room in the Grosvenor Hotel with a full bottle of Jonny Walker Blue Label, an equally full bottle of sleeping pills and after a luxurious shower, he would sit in his Chinese silk dressing gown with Stravinsky on the CD player. After a meal of caviar followed by half a dozen oysters and Dover sole, Peter would wash down the entire bottle of pills with the whisky and sod the lot of them.