That was Then, but this is Now

There was, as the song by Prefab Sprout begins, a girl I used to know. Isn’t that how all the best stories start? A boy and a girl. Or a girl and a girl or…come on, if you haven’t got the picture by now you’ve really not been paying attention. Discrimination doesn’t live here anymore, as Cliff Richard may have once sung. Or not.

So, there was a girl I used to know. And this story starts at Christmas, because all of the best stori- oh, wait, I’ve done that bit elsewhere, forwards in time. Or was it backwards? It's difficult to remember sometimes. Anyway, it sort of starts at Christmas, but it also started a long time before. That’s the thing about time. We see it as a strict, linear progression from moment to moment, inexorably rushing towards our final destination. But what if, and you might need to bear with me here, what if it wasn’t?

So, it was Christmas. Or very nearly. Near enough to be able to panic about all of the things left to do, but still far enough away to be able to do something about it. Four days to go then. Cards had been written and posted, because that was what people still did back then and social media posts had been posted, signing off for a few days because that was what people did now. You can choose. If you choose to send Christmas cards, then turn to Page…do you remember those books? This isn’t one of them.

As I made my way through the town centre, sidestepping to avoid oncoming children and pensioners alike, I considered my options. Late-night shopping had been reasonably successful so far in that I’d managed to get in and out of a handful of shops without screaming at anyone and having only heard Wham’s Last Christmas three times. With an hour to go before closing time, I navigated the streets of my latter teen years on autopilot, not entirely sure where I wanted to go but certain that wherever I ended up would be fine.

To my left, up on the bandstand, the Salvation Army struck up, trombones, tubas and the occasional unnecessary triangle coming together to entertain the masses with an uplifting rendition of Good King Wenceslas. Surrounding stalls stood by resolute against the chill, manned by nondescript figures touting for business, while braziers burned gently beneath hot chestnuts and a poorly stacked line of as yet unsold Christmas trees seemed to sway in time to the music like a queue of drunks at closing time. If Michael Bublé had put in a sudden appearance and burst into song, nobody would have batted an eyelid. I smiled to myself, reminded of youthful indiscretions upon these very same cobbled streets, stolen kisses and furtive fumblings in the shadows of time.

I blinked twice to clear my vision as those shadows flitted and shifted like elusive ghosts and an unexpected chill crept across my shoulders. A memory stirred and looking up to the stars overhead, I was surprised and not a little excited to see the first few snowflakes begin to tumble erratically from…from the stars. This wasn’t right; there were no clouds overhead and no snow had been forecast. Everyone knew that it didn’t really snow at Christmas anymore. And the band played on.

I caught sight of an empty bench opposite the nearby pub and while both were tempting, I decided I would be better served spending a few minutes sitting outside watching the general hubbub pass me by than battling my way to a crowded bar. Besides, the two pints that I’d had earlier probably hadn’t worked their way out of my system yet and with the drive home awaiting, I was very much of the opinion that fate could manage very well without me doing anything to piss it off at the moment. Lowering myself onto the cold, metal seat, I piled my bags up beside me in a bid to ward off any randomers who might decide that they wanted to stop by for a chat. I mean, I’ll talk to most people, but right now, what I really wanted was…time. Backwards in time…

Just One of Those Things

The sun was high in the cloudless sky as the faintest of breezes whispered across the cricket ground, teasing the pages of newspapers at the boundary edge and hinting at the possibility of the weather closing in later in the evening.

Out in the middle, shimmering in the heat haze, our final two batters were seeing out the remainder of our innings as I finally removed my pads from my sweaty legs having recently cut, pulled, hoiked and edged my way to a not-particularly rapid half-century to take our team’s overall score past the 200 mark. I casually threw my pads into my kit bag before sitting back on the stone steps at the entrance to the old, wooden pavilion. Behind me, the club tea ladies busied themselves slicing fruit cake and filling glass jugs with weak squash as on the jukebox at the adjoining bar Roxette questioned a presumably flighty love interest on their abilities to do whatever it was that they did.

A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead, so, in search of something with which to dry myself, I rummaged among my previously discarded pads, gloves and box, hoping against hope that there would be a clean, soft and delightfully fragrant towel within. Discovering that no such towel was to be located, I picked out the only thing that was even remotely suitable for drying and while soft, the old pair of boxer shorts that had been in my bag for about three months were neither clean nor delightfully fragrant. Undeterred, I wiped them across my brow, pulling a face of disgust as I inhaled the pungent, stale smell from the black material.

I opened my eyes to discover that I was no longer alone and instantly tried to make it look as though I hadn’t just wiped my face with my own dirty shreddies.

The newcomer, who I had previously known well enough to nod a polite hello to, looked at me through the bluest of eyes, a mixture of curiosity, surprise and a hint of revulsion all channelled into one raised eyebrow beneath her short, blonde hair.

‘I hope they were clean…’ she smiled.

My cheeks flared what I hoped was a gentle pink but in reality I suspected that I looked positively puce.

‘Ah…er…so do I,’ I replied, awkwardly, wrinkling my nose at the memory of the smell and tossing the offending garment back into the darkest corner of my bag.

I floundered and scrabbled around mentally in search of a follow up comment to try and salvage the situation.

‘Could have been worse though…’

She frowned and I fancied that I could actually see her thought processes on exactly how it could have been worse written across her forehead.

‘Could it though?’ she asked, after what seemed like an eternity.

‘They…could have been… someone else’s?’ I winced, painfully aware of quite how badly this conversation seemed to be going.

An uncomfortable silence hung between us that was finally broken by the sound of her laughter.

I relaxed a little, relieved to have seemingly reduced my level of shame to somewhere in the region of mild embarrassment.

‘Melissa,’ she said with a smile, holding out her hand, which I shook gently before introducing myself, wondering whether or not I should have given my hand another wipe after the whole ‘pants debacle’.

As our innings ended, thirteen hot, sweaty cricketers and two slightly cooler, sweaty umpires made their way off the field and filed into the ramshackle clubhouse, queuing for tuna and cucumber sandwiches and picking at piles of grapes and melon in a bid to convince themselves that they were being healthy in direct contradiction to the amount of alcohol that would likely be consumed later that evening. After a brief chat with my teammates, I made my way back to Melissa where we made small talk over lemon drizzle cake and a couple of home-made sausage rolls that had already flaked pastry over my plate.

‘So,’ I asked, covering my mouth with my hand as a sudden thought made a break for freedom from my consciousness, ‘big cricket fan?’

She gave a small smile, which in turn became a short laugh as she looked coyly at the ground. I winced, internally as even with my appalling social skills I began to figure out where this might be heading.

‘Ah…I like it, but I’m not a huge fan. My dad used to play a bit but he’s swapped his googlies for runner beans these days.’

‘Well, I hope he had it done on the NHS,’ I joked and she was kind enough to laugh at my feeble attempt at humour.

It was my turn to look sheepish, my ego, while neither huge nor out of control, was still enjoying a gentle massaging.

‘I think I’ve seen you around the club quite a bit lately,’ I said in as casual a manner as I could manage, while my morals swooped down and perched upon my shoulders, my disappointment at the current situation not far behind as I knew how this should unfold. How it had to unfold.

Again, that demure smile, her eyes looking up at me from beneath her fringe. She opened her mouth to speak and then cast a glance over my shoulder at my captain, who had come to discuss the second innings of the game with me.

I grimaced an apology in Melissa’s direction and she gave me a disappointed smile that my inner voice was quite happy to point out to me was nothing like the disappointed smile I was going to draw from her later that evening. My heart sank as I reluctantly turned my attention back to the suddenly unimportant game of cricket.

The second innings was wrapped up within thirty of the scheduled forty-five overs and most of that time for me had been spent trying not to look as though I was peering through my sunglasses in the direction of the bar, where Melissa sat nursing a coke and chatting with Alf, a former player of the club who, now in his eighties, spent every Saturday afternoon telling everyone and anyone how cricket was much more difficult in ‘his day’ playing on uncovered pitches and using ancient equipment. To be fair to Alf, most of us felt that he had a point – the problem was that we’d heard that point repeated ad nauseum but still appreciated that we had an unspoken responsibility to accommodate Alf’s opinions and most of us were generally happy to see him on a weekly basis as a stark reminder of what awaited us in years to come. Somewhere at the back of our collective consciousness I imagine that we were treating him how we would hope to be treated in the autumnal days of our lives.

After a quick shower, timed so in a bid to avoid the attentions of ‘Grabby Ben’, who had a penchant for pinching, slapping or cupping whatever areas of flesh that he was able to find of his teammates, I dressed and packed away my kit before heading to the bar, keen to catch up with Melissa, the nervous excitement dulled by the certainty of what had to happen.

It took half an hour to extract ourselves from Alf’s reminisces of days gone by, which we both listened to politely, making what we hoped were appropriate noises at the right moments and nodding sagely when the conversation became more serious, in particular when Alf would recall former players who had long since departed on their awfully big adventures.

With the sun sinking slowly behind the nets on the far side of the pitch, we stole away from the crowd and wandered slowly off towards the side of the ground opposite the clubhouse, where a small bank of grass rose up towards a narrow stream that had run dry due to the current high temperatures. Amid more small talk, we sat down on the grass and watched the beginnings of the usual Saturday night drunken shenanigans involving Vodka Pete, The One-Balled Womble and Stairway to Kevin, so-called because after every game he played he would inevitably be found passed out on the stairs by his wife the following morning.

It was Melissa who broached the elephant in the room. Or technically outside the room and on the field of play, but you get the idea.

‘So…your girlfriend didn’t come to watch this week then?’ she asked, tentatively and with a tone of apprehension not quite hidden in her voice.

I puffed out a long, drawn-out breath and turned to look at her, tilting my head slightly to the side. She avoided my gaze for a moment.

‘No,’ I replied, slowly and quietly. ‘Out with friends, I think.’

She nodded.

‘You don’t sound very sure,’ she frowned, laying back on the slope before propping herself up on one elbow.

‘I’m not, if I’m honest. I’ve got my doubts. But…’

I picked at the grass between my legs, my tired heart having been given an absolute pummelling of late by indecision, insouciance and infidelity. I began to doubt my own sanity and my values. This moment, right here, felt good and full of fire and right. It felt new and exciting and a million miles from the tortured self-doubt and the pain that I’d been experiencing for weeks. No, for the whole of my life. It would be the easiest thing in the world right now to lay down here and betray the person who I thought I was, who I wanted to be. The easiest thing. And the most difficult.

‘I wasn’t not mentioning her,’ I began, wanting to be understood as I always did. Wanting to make things right.

Melissa reached out and put her hand on my arm. Her touch was cool and soft against my skin. I looked into her eyes, then down to her lips, sweet and tempting, mesmerising and bewitching.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘But it’s not just on you. I could have mentioned her at any time, couldn’t I?’

I shrugged, not grumpily more in resignation. Our eyes met again and I saw compassion and understanding along with my determination to be a better person reflected back at me.

‘Timing’s never really been my strong point…’ she smiled. ‘Thank you, for…not doing what you want to do. And what I want you to do.’

I wanted to take her hands in mine. I wanted to lose myself in her eyes and in her scent. I wanted to kiss her and find that time had slowed so that I could hold eternity in an hour.

But time had other ideas. And it began to rain. Forwards in time…

Why Does It Always Rain On Me? 

It was raining. No surprises there, obviously, in England. But it was raining and I was getting married. In about six hours and twenty-one minutes. I checked my suit, for the umpteenth time, gave my shoes another quick polish and looked in on my so-called best man, who was supposed to have woken me an hour ago and instead was not-so-quietly snoring in my spare room.

Looking at my watch, I considered breakfast. With a long day ahead, I wanted to load up early but needed to consider the inevitable nerves that would accompany the ceremony and, of course, the dreaded speech. Making a decision, I scribbled a note and left it on the lounge coffee table and took the short walk into town beneath a large golf umbrella.

Bacon, as has often been the case, was the solution to an as yet unposed problem and after collecting a baguette overflowing with pink, salty goodness, I decided to stroll down to the church at the bottom of town where I would be making my vows later that afternoon. Locating a free, but somewhat soggy bench, I sat down to enjoy my breakfast, umbrella cradled in one elbow as I casually perused the nearby lichen-covered gravestones.

About to have my very own ‘Ed Milliband with a bacon sandwich’ moment, I suddenly became aware that someone was sat next to me on the bench where previously there had been no-one. Without looking around, I already knew who was there.

‘I didn’t have you down as a churchgoer,’ said Melissa, her voice, like velvet, draping itself over the empty years since we’d last seen each other.

I grinned as a globule of ketchup dripped from my sandwich and ran down my thumb.

‘Not big on religion, to be honest,’ I replied. ‘I prefer my faith to be a little more centred on reality.’

‘Fair. I’m not sure the evangelicals would hold you in high esteem though…’

‘Well, fortunately they’re few and far between in the leafy suburbs. Apart from the Tories.’

She laughed as the rain got a little heavier. As I offered her the opportunity to take shelter with me beneath my umbrella, I considered for a moment the possibility that some all-powerful deity had just given us a little nudge closer together.

It had been about six years since we’d last seen each other but we instantly relaxed into our…I want to say friendship, but I’m not sure that it was ever quite that, certainly never more but absolutely never less. We’d never quite managed to get our timing right and it seemed as though that trend was set to continue.

I’d heard somewhere that she’d gone off to University in Bath or Bristol, somewhere beginning with a B, but the exact details escaped me. She’d gone to study law and had excelled, while I had stagnated somewhat, working through failed relationships, at least until this current one, obviously, struggling to make ends meet in retail and still scratching around in the local cricket club’s 2nd XI. All things considered though, I was reasonably content with my lot and I pondered on how keen we are to judge what’s successful and what is not in each other’s lives.

I looked at Melissa, covered from the elements and the early morning light and I saw something in her eyes that spoke of pain and uncertainty.

‘You’re looking well,’ I opined, hoping to avoid her actually asking what I was doing outside the church at 7.30 in the morning before cautiously adding, ‘You always look well.’

She flashed that coy smile that I adored and my heart skipped a beat.

‘So do you,’ she replied and I instantly felt worse, as though I was about to relive that day on the cricket ground that I’d never quite been able to let go of.

‘Bit older, bit fatter,’ I joked. ‘Not much wiser…’

‘Ah, wisdom’s overrated. Much more fun to stay ignorant and keep making mistakes.’

‘I sometimes feel like that’s all I ever do,’ I sighed. ‘And it’s all I was ever meant to do.’

‘Blimey, you’re a ray of sunshine, aren’t you? What’s a girl got to do to get a smile around here.’

Which of course, coaxed a smile from me, one that just didn’t quite reach my eyes.

‘How’s the world of law?’ I asked. ‘You busy…lawyering…all the time?’

My question drew a proper laugh, which I never realised how much I needed to hear.

‘Long days, long meetings and soul-crushingly dull people.’

‘Relatable,’ I replied. ‘Sounds a bit like retail, just better paid I expect. Still, there must be some benefits to it. Is there some suave, senior partner who’s treating you like a queen? Whisking you away to sun-kissed beaches and all-night parties?’

Melissa looked away with a wry smile on her face as an elderly woman shuffled past walking a West Highland Terrier dressed in a tartan coat. The dog, that is, not the woman

‘Not really me, all-night parties. Still, it looks like you’ve found your queen?’

My heart lurched again. For a moment I wondered how she knew and then I remembered the announcement that my fiancée had insisted we put in the local paper.

‘It’s ok,’ she continued, chewing thoughtfully on her bottom lip. ‘I’m pleased for you. And it’s my own stupid fault for not keeping a closer eye on you. Always thought you’d make someone happy…’

It was my turn to look away, unable to hide the regret that was writ large upon my face.

‘…just hoped it would be me. Got my timing wrong again.’

I was lost for words, floundering in a sea of mixed emotions. I opened my mouth to reply, but nothing came out. The silence between us felt like a divide of a million miles and ten thousand years.

‘What do you believe in?’ I finally asked.

‘Nothing,’ came the swift response. A bit too quickly for me to think that she was anything but angry at me.

So many thoughts filled my mind, so much that I wanted to say. I wanted to explain how I’d ended up here. I wanted her to know how she made me feel, how life wasn’t fair, had never been fair to me. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry that it was never the right time for us and that I was sure that she’d find happiness but all of the words in the universe suddenly seemed meagre and incapable of accurately expressing what I felt right now.

‘What do you believe in?’ she asked, her voice laden with sadness.

‘I believe…that there are versions of us out there somewhere where we did get our timing right. Where I get to treat you like a queen every day and where we get to make each other happy. Where we got this right six years ago and we’ve not had to spend a day apart ever since then and where we live until we’re old and incontinent and sick of the sight of each other but still tremble when our hands touch. That’s what I believe.’

‘Nice idea. But I don’t believe in fairy tales.’

I shrugged, feeling that despite her assurances that I was very much to blame and I couldn’t bring myself to protest. Those words falling short again.

‘Fairy tales is all I’ve got.’

She stood and let the rain fall upon her face to hide her tears.

‘Then I hope you live happily ever after.’

And then she was gone.