Simon's Choice (24 page)

“Had you been drinking?” Simon grinned.

Steve grinned back. “No, surprisingly. And it wasn’t no hallucinatory wotsit either. I really did hear him walk up the stairs. I was just looking around for something to clobber an intruder with. ‘Ere, that were quick. Is that our tucker then?” he added as the delivery guy walked in. Simon handed him a tenner.

“So did you ever hear anything again? Thanks – shall I get plates?” Simon took his food.

“Nah.” Steve replied to both questions. “That was it. Don’t need a plate, mate – waste of good cardboard and polystyrene. Let’s have a butcher’s at yours then. At least there’s mayonnaise on it. Do you want some salt?”

“I’m fine. Thanks. What time does the thing start then?” Simon took the plastic fork provided and attacked his potato.

“Seven p.m., though he probably won’t actually start until half-seven. Be down here for seven if you want a seat, though. Three quid on the door and you get a hot dog and chips supper thrown in. Porridge can come for free.” Steve lobbed a flaccid piece of kebab at the dog. “Here, you bottomless pit, have a bit of donner meat.”

Simon watched Steve share his lamb donner meat
(hold the salad)
with a delighted Porridge. Living in the pub was bad for both his health and the dog’s. Giving up on the crossword, he folded his newspaper and tucked his pen in his inside jacket pocket. The movement created a slight chinking noise.

* * *

Gordon Underwood -
International Clairvoyant based in Mythlroyd
- stood resplendent before his audience in a pink shirt, the buttons straining against his belly. Already, after only a few minutes, he was in full flow.

“He was a drinker on this side wasn’t he, love? I’m not saying he was an alcoholic or anything, but he loved a drop. He’s telling me to tell you to have one for him. What or who is John? John … James … John Smith! That’s it. He liked a pint of John Smith’s. Well, he’s telling me to tell you that he misses his John Smith’s but he doesn’t miss you. Oh no, dear. Don’t look upset, he doesn’t miss you because he’s
with you
. He’s by your side right now, Lovey. No, other side. Did you do some washing up this morning? He’s telling me to tell you to be careful with that ring. You nearly lost it? Yes, well he was with you. Oh, and he says he likes your new hairdo. You’ve not had it done? He says you’ve had it done since he passed and he liked it. I’m sorry, love, he’s stepping back now. I’ve somebody else coming forward. Does the letter M mean anything to anybody in this area of the pub? No, it’s definitely over here. M or N ….”

Simon sipped his pint at the bar. Gordon rattled off further random details and names, the pub crowd gasping and cooing each time a pellet from his scattergun pronouncements found a willing mark.

The pub was packed, with standing room only. Recently bereaved siblings, sons, fathers, mothers – people who were never previously customers in The Whippet - lined the walls. Great gangs of women in their sixties huddled around the tables, sipping half-pints of lager and lime whilst pontificating loudly about Geoffs, Bernards, Ians and Dereks.

A large group of youngsters in their very early twenties giggled over their drinks, the boys drinking strong lager, the girls nursing vodka and cokes. They rolled their eyes and whispered, the show of cool disbelief belied by their intense concentration each time a new name, letter or number was thrown into the melting pot of post-life data. Their youthful cynicism seemed fragile amongst the deluge of potentially pertinent information. Could it be Gran? Was Granddad watching? Could Gordon have muddled an ‘S’ with an ‘F’? Is there somebody out there, somebody watching over
me
?

Simon drained the last inch of his pint. Too polite to distract attention from the entertainment, and too concerned with causing offence, he was trapped until there was a break in the proceedings. Top Gear reruns were looking increasingly tempting. Gordon Underwood was a fraud.

Despite the delight of the audience, Simon was unmoved. He had come to the event with his mind open and found it now firmly closed. A little research during his lunch break had provided the necessary foundations for an educated overview of the evening. Simon always did his homework. Cold reading, the technique of high observation, analysis of body language and an understanding of probability was most definitely at play here.

“I’ve got an ‘R’ here. An ‘R’ for someone in this side of the room. No, more over here …” Gordon pointed specifically at a group of women in their late sixties. Simon smiled into his pint. Cold Reading 101. The most likely letter to be claimed by women in their sixties was the letter ‘R’. Wikipedia was so useful.

“Robert, maybe Rodney?”

“Roger, Brenda! Wasn’t your Dad’s brother called Roger? The one that was in the army?” And Gordon was off. His breathless repartee bolstered by that useful military titbit.

A couple in a corner of the pub, ruthlessly milked by the fraudulent medium earlier, comforted each other, tears drying on their cheeks.
Brother and sister
, thought Simon. Even to the uninitiated, their body language and desperate searching faces had clearly marked them as grieving from the moment they had entered the pub. Quietly waiting for the act to begin, they whispered together and ordered only soft drinks. Their features were clearly those of siblings, and their tracksuits and myriad tattoos indicated their background.

Gordon did a number on them, reducing the grieving pair to crowd-pleasing tears within minutes. The ‘International Medium’ (Gordon felt entitled to the title, having once performed a reading for a bemused German couple by a poolside in Torremolinos) quickly identified the object of their grief. He held the entire room in captivated silence as he claimed knowledge of, and transmitted messages from, their deceased father. The crowd could barely hold back applause. When he discovered the man had “passed” from cancer, Gordon earnestly urged the young man of the pair to look after the watch his father had given him, suggesting he should fix what was broken on it, and wear it despite its not being fashionable. This incredible moment of illumination met with more gasps and some tears throughout the crowd.

Simon viewed the proceedings with distaste. The watch. How many men pass a watch onto their sons? How many men have an old watch languishing in a drawer – the strap broken, the battery long since leeched? Even if the father himself had not passed it on, it was likely a piece of jewelry such as this would find its way into a grieving son’s hands. Gordon Underwood was no link to the dead. He was a callous showman. A PT Barnum of grief.

“I’ve got an ‘S’ over here. No right here at the bar. No, love, it’s not a Sam and it’s most definitely over here. You, sir? I’m being told ‘S’. It’s definitely you.”

Simon, facing the bar, had his back to the entertainment. He turned slowly. A hundred expectant faces looked at him rapturously. The slick little man nodded encouragement at Simon.

“It’s an ‘S’, sir. Do you know an S who has passed recently? I’m not sure who I have with me, but they are quite persistent. I can’t quite understand what I’m being told. This ‘S’ must have passed very recently. I’m being shown it flickering, coming in and out of focus … it’s quite odd, Sir. You’ll have to help me out, Sir. The ‘S’ seems pink. I get the feeling it’s pink. I know this is going to seem a little odd, Sir, but go with it. I’m seeing a castle as well. A pink one. Do try to think - it’s definitely for you, Sir.”

“It’s not me.”

The crowd groaned. The man wasn’t going to play the game.

“Could it be a Sandra?” an exuberant woman shouted, her cheeks reddened with copious rosé. “Sally?”

“It’s not me.” Simon spoke firmly. He stood, prodding Porridge with his toe.

“Sarah,” the barmaid, unaware of the name of Simon’s daughter, shouted excitedly. “Could that be it?”

“It’s not Sarah.” Simon felt himself color and panic as the lager he had drunk began to rise into his throat. He elbowed fellow drinkers out of the way, a chorus of
‘Oooh’
s and
‘What’s with ‘im?’
s accompanying his hurried departure.

He stumbled out onto the street, Porridge trotting by his side, delighted at the unscheduled walk. Simon steadied himself a moment, the nausea dissipating as quickly as it had begun.

He reached for his phone and called the hospice, his heart beating wildly in his chest. “I’m phoning to check on Sarah. Is she okay?”

“Yes, she is sleeping peacefully,” he was assured.

“Could you please check?” he insisted.

“Certainly, Dr. Bailey.”

Simon could hear the footsteps as whoever had answered his call strode purposefully to Sarah’s room. The door opened with a click. There was a moment’s silence.

“Yes, she is fast asleep, Dr. Bailey. Your wife too.”

Simon breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you, nurse. Thank you very much for checking for me.”

“You are most welcome.”

* * *

The evening was mild and it was not quite dusk. Simon and Porridge headed away from the pub and the village and walked towards the lights of the town below them.

At length Simon came to the limestone bridge that crossed the murky waters of the industrial river Calder. The flow beneath bubbled ominously, polluted foam formed on the banks. Simon perched on the edge of the wide stone bridge and let his legs dangle over the waterway. Porridge lay beside him, watching.

Chapter 28

There is a bridge in France, in the centre of a small but busy town, which spans the River Dronne. The water of the river is so clear even the least nimble eyed can watch the abundant spotted trout that nibble the weeds beneath. The tributary flows from the mountains of the
Massif Central
, its crystal clear gurgle meandering for miles before tranquilly passing under this ancient stone crossing.

It was sitting on this bridge, side by side with Simon, that Melissa, tanned, happy and brimful with youth and optimism, had told Simon that she was pregnant.

“I’ve got something to tell you.” Melissa stretched a leg, appreciating the way her recent tan looked against the sparkling water beneath.

“You bought those boots.” Simon grinned. “I know. I saw them in the wardrobe before we left home.”

“No. Well, yes. I did buy them, but I think you're going to forgive me.” Melissa rested her head on her husbands shoulder. “It’s more important than that.”

Simon put his arm around Melissa. “I didn’t mind about the boots anyway, silly. We’re not poor students anymore.” Simon let go of Melissa and stretched luxuriantly. “I’m not sure I want to know what it is, actually. Is it, for instance, going to make me any more happy than I am right now?”

“Infinitely.”

“Not possible. Right now, I’m the happiest man alive. I’m in France, I’m with a simply gorgeous woman, and I’m watching the fattest fish I’ve ever seen swim underneath me. I’m satiated.”

“No, you’re not.” Melissa turned to Simon and placed her hand gently on his chin so that she guided his gaze to hers. “What would complete your life?”

Simon glanced down, watching a small trout nudge the banks of the stream. He looked back at his wife. “No – you’re not...? Melissa?”

Melissa smiled. “I think you'd better get used to being called ‘Daddy’.”

“But how? I thought – Oh, my God, Melissa, this is wonderful! It’s happened? How long? How far?” Simon placed his hand on his wife’s stomach. “It’s actually, finally, happened?”

Melissa put her hand over Simon’s. “It’s happened. There’s a little Bailey in me. No medical interference necessary. Are you happy?”

“Happy?” Simon shook his head. “Melissa, there’s no man on this earth who is happier than I am right now.” Simon swung his legs back over the bridge wall so that he was facing the road. “I got through med school, and frankly there were times I didn’t think I would. I’ve got a beautiful, funny, clever wife, I have an outrageously badly behaved puppy whom I love despite the fact he chewed my stethoscope to bits, and now I’m going to have a little baby girl.”

“Girl! It might be a boy.”

Simon grinned. “It might. But I think it’s a little girl.”

“What if it’s a boy?” Melissa leaned against Simon. “What if we have a little Simon?”

Simon pulled Melissa closer to him, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. “Clearly a miniature Simon can only be a good thing. But I think it’s a little girl.”

“Why do you want a girl so much, Sime? I’d love a girl too, but I don’t care if it’s a boy. You’ve always wanted a girl. Why? Aren’t men supposed to want a boy to play football with and teach pint drinking to?”

Simon chuckled. “If it’s a boy and he likes football, we’ll have to put him up for adoption.”

Melissa whacked him playfully. “He might be gay.”

“It’s a she. It’s a little girl.” Simon pressed his hand ever so gently against Melissa’s stomach. “She’s a she.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Why so keen on a girl?”

Simon paused for a moment. “I’d be pleased with a boy. All I care about is that they’re healthy, but, I dunno, I’ve always wanted a little girl, a little girl to teach to ride a bike. A pink bike with tassels on the handlebars. A little girl to protect - which reminds me – you do realize that if it’s a girl she’s not allowed out with boys until she’s at least thirty, don’t you?”

Melissa snorted. “Poor thing. I almost hope it’s a boy. Though, I’d like a little girl, too. Better clothes. And we can go shopping when she’s older.”

“Melissa, you’d still be shopping if you gave birth to a ferret.”

“You have a point.” Melissa grinned. “We’d better get a baby name book, then.” She held onto Simon as she clambered back over the bridge wall to face the road. “Or are we already decided?”

“We decided ages ago, didn’t we? You do realize this means you can’t drink anymore? Well, the occasional glass of wine is fine. You’ll be on driving duty for nine months. Excellent. We’ll have to decorate the back bedroom. Do you think your mum will let us have that little antique rocking horse? You’d better stop going to the gym – though swimming is good, yes, keep swimming. How long have you known? Oh, shit, Melissa, this is amazing. We’re going to be parents. I’m going to be a daddy. I’m a daddy. Wow.”