Surface Tension - Chapter 3

Chapter 3

“Bill, are you all right?” asks Liz.

            Bill scowls and turns. I watch her disappear round the corner towards the staff room. She's dressed in comfort clothes, ruck-sack in her hand.  She's carrying, almost dragging it, like a small animal that's been hunted and killed. As she rounds the corner it hits the wall bouncing off the side into her legs. Bill stumbles, pauses and turns looks at the bag like a recalcitrant child. She jerks it violently as if it's the bag’s fault. Her blank expression ruptures. She senses she's being watched. She flicks a glance at each of us. When she gets to me the glare freezes me, as if the bag and I are in cahoots together to wound and humiliate her. She turns and flees.

            Silence.

            “Someone to avoid today,” James says laconically. He receives an elbow to his stomach,” Ow! Hey that hurt.”

            “You watch what you’re saying.”  Mary grasps James’ sleeve. “Come on then, let's pick up from where we left off yesterday.”  She pulls him in the direction of the lifts. “And do us all a favour, think before you speak. You're on probation, so don’t go winding my friends up.”  She looks after Bill. James bows his head in contrition, managing a cocky wink in my direction. His goofy grin is back.

            Liz takes my arm, “I'm going to see Bill, that Okay?”

            Distractedly I nod. I've just registered something “You smell food cooking, kind of eggy smell?” It's not the first time I've noticed it.

            Liz looks blankly at me, “No.”

            “You sure?  Noticed it several times last couple of weeks.”

            Liz gently places a hand on my arm and looks me straight in the eyes. “Bill?”

            “Yeah, sure, you go. I'll open up.”

            It's ironic, I think of this place as a sanctuary, yet at this moment I'd rather be anywhere but here. As I migrate round the building I watch and listen, it's something to do, takes my mind off things.          

            We do better than most municipal libraries simply because we're a joint venture with the University. The Uni's been very successful in recruiting students (of many races and creeds). Demand's outstripped the campus accommodation and the students have been tipped into the town. There’ve been problems, tensions over property with a sudden burst in low rent accommodation where maintenance and quality of build aren’t the first concern, but for us it has been a boon.

            The University, strapped for cash, realised that it needed a bigger library. Public money wasn't available and it hadn't yet produced students who'd grown to be rich benefactors in the Victorian mould. No, another solution was needed, and as they looked at the student diaspora the obvious answer was to endow the town’s facilities with something extra. It's a perfect arranged marriage. We got a range of new facilities, they got space at a fraction of the cost of a new building.

            It's on one of my periodic work avoidance tours, (I'd got bored of pulling off statistics for some minor bureaucrat across at the town hall, something that we’ve been landed with as part of the new arrangements) that I stumble on Liz and Bill. They are sitting, heads bowed, at a desk tucked away from the main part of the library.   Bill's back's to me, I can't see her face. Liz’s hand is lightly, soothingly placed on Bill’s back.  They whisper.

            The intimacy of the situation hits me. I'm embarrassed knowing that even at this distance I'm intruding. And I'm jealous, so jealous of Liz. I want to be in her position, listening, comforting and knowing. Resentment comes like a paper cut, a short, sharp jab of pain. I should turn and slip away; that would be the right thing to do.

            I don't move.

            Bill's hunched, taut deliberately trying to pen herself in. Her arms are stiff beside her. She's sitting on her hands, betraying her need to control them. Liz says something. For a moment Bill stares directly at her. Liz doesn't  flinch. Bill’s head bows and her shoulders begin to tremble. Now her hands are released, they come up and clasp her face. Bill sobbs.

            I start. A door clicks open behind me.  I don't want to be caught spying. Spinning round I'm greeted with a startled 'oh'. Mary is bent double, looking shamefacedly up at me one foot propping open the door so it doesn't swing back whilst she picks up a tray.  The tray contains the remnants of lunch, a couple of plates stacked up stained with lasagne sauce or some kind of micro-wave meal.

            “Er, I’ve just been having lunch, I wasn’t expecting anyone here.”  Mary’s cheeks flush, changing to a colour that would match this mornings scarf.

            I step over to the door and hold it open with my arm, ensuring that my body shields Liz and Bill.

            “Well, there’s no need to feel guilty about lunch,”  I stare down the stairwell. “Though the basement does seem a strange place to have lunch. James with you?”

            “I like the, like the quiet down there, it’s just a change from the normal you know. And James, no… er… yes, he's been with me.”  She retrieves the tray and stands.

            “Is he still down there?”  I peer into the darkness, wondering why Mary had turned the light off.

            “Yes, er, no, I mean no – he came up before me. He had to sort a few things out.”

            We have one of those pregnant pauses.

            “Can I come through?”

            I realise I'm blocking Mary's way, “Yeah sure.”

            Mary tries a fleeting look over my shoulder and I shuffle to my left, blocking the view of Liz and Bill, closing the door at the same time. I don't want to let Mary know I've been spying. I catch the door. It closes quietly so Liz and Bill aren’t disturbed.

            “I’d take those back to the kitchen before the goo hardens.”

            “Yes, good idea” Mary starts to retreat. I decide to go with her. I’m chewing over how to find out what Liz has been comforting Bill about. I glance at my watch.

            “My lunch,” I exclaim as we walk, “Let me take that.” I reach for the tray, “I’m off to the kitchen.”

            “You sure?” her cheeks are still pink.

            “Yeah,” I turn heading for the ‘Staff Only’ door, “And Mary,” I say half turning, half over my shoulder, “I'd prefer you use the staff room”  She reddens even more and scurries off towards the main desk.

            The staff room looks much like every staff room. There's the usual stack of mugs in the sink, a fridge hums in the corner, there’s a row of low seats which purport to be 'comfy' and there is a large table with plastic chairs round it. The one occupant is surrounded by books, a very large mug of coffee and he's eating a baguette.

            “Hello James, I thought you'd eaten.”

            “What me? No.”

            “But I've just seen Mary. She says you've had lunch together in the basement.”  I nod towards the tray I'm carrying as I place it in the sink

            James is momentarily perplexed. “Oh, that lunch, yeah, you know I'd forget. You know me, always hungry. Don't tell Mary will you, she thinks I eat too much. But I'm a growing boy plus the fact I need to keep my energy up for 'the struggle' you know.”  He grins.

            “Yeah,” I sigh, “but look I'd rather you weren't having a candle lit tête-a tête in the basement...

            “How'd you guess?

            “You better be joking James, we're not supposed to use that area. Health...”

            “And Safety, I know. We know. Be calm Tony.”

            “Oh fudge.”  I’m on my haunches staring in to the fridge. It has an  Arctic emptiness about it. It shouldn’t. My sandwiches should be there. Pivoting on the balls of my feet I turn and stand to face James.

            “You’ve not eaten my butties have you?”

            James swallows hard. If it's possible to swallow resentfully he manages it.           

            “No boss, of course not.”  There is a pleasingly indignant tone to his reply. “Anyway, you didn't have a bag with you this morning.”

            I remember. I've left them at home. Idiot. I pull open one of the fridge draws and a yoghurt roles towards me. “Black cherry, oh well nobody else seems to want it.”  I stand up, retrieve a tea spoon from the drainer and find a comfy spot leaning against the cupboards.

            “I'm glad you're here, I could do with a chat Tony”

            “Sure any time. This is weird,” I hold the pot up to the light. “It's all sparkly on my tongue, like lemonade.”  I look at the foil top I’ve discarded. “Ah, that explains it; three weeks out of date. Oh well, tastes pretty good to me.”   

            “Tony?”

            “Sorry James, you want a chat. Now?”

            “No I'd prefer somewhere after work. Less awkward, less chance of interruption.”  James' fidgets, he's made his sandwich wrapper into a tight ball, which he flicks from hand to hand.

            “Sounds important. Sure.”

            “You free tonight? Fancy a beer or something?  The Fleece, tonight at 8ish?” 

            I give an approving shrug. I’m intrigued, it's not often my staff come to me for paternal advice. “You’re on James.” I lob the empty yoghurt pot towards the bin. It rolls elegantly round the rim and falls on the floor. James stoops to pick it up as he drops his wrapper in the bin.

            “Are you sure you should have had that yoghurt?”

            “Constitution like an ox,” I say patting my stomach. A thought occurs. “You can do something for me James.”

            “Yes?”

            “Yes, some detective work. Bill’s naffed off with me at the moment. I need to know what’s wrong. She and Liz have been having 'hushed and intimate' conversations. You reckon you could do some digging for me?”

            “I'll try but I'm not a confidante”

            “No but, Mary is. Just a few well placed questions that's all. I think I'm persona non grata at the moment.”

            “OK, I'll try.” He shrugs and walks out leaving me to wash up.

 

The afternoon drifts by. I have this sense of anticipation which I can't articulate. It’s part hope, part dread and it is all summed up in Bill.

             “Hey boss, it’s gone five you know – you going home?”  James’ curly mop of hair appears from behind a book shelf, his perma-grin still in place. “Night shift are in, Liz’s sorted them all out. See you at eight?”  He disappears, yanked back only for Mary’s face to appear. She says nothing, smiles and then is gone.

            I look down at the computer screen, its blue white light glowing. The words I’ve typed are tosh. I delete the file I've been working on.

            “Well that was a wasted afternoon,” I announce. I feel quite satisfied. That’s exactly what I intended.

 

The Fleece is the exact opposite of the previous night’s bar, no picture windows or plate glass doors; no ironic references to the past, its ambiance isn't glued to the walls. I heave the solid oak door open stumbling into a fug of warmth, beer and sweat. It's a smallish room, the bar runs down one side with a raised stage opposite.  A bench covered in stained velveteen runs round the walls broken only by a fire place. It's a huge Victorian edifice; heavy black wrought iron with floral patterns embossed in either side and below the mantle.  The fire fills the grate, ash spilling on to the hearth.  The room is crowded, packed with the rush and tumble of words. Some people stand, others sit on the bench or at the tables filling the floor. Heads are bent low, apple red cheeks burn, eyes are glossy and glowing and there is good humour swilling round the room.

            I force my way through looking for James. He's not here.  A couple by the fire get up. I mine “are you leaving?” and worm my way through dropping onto the stool, laying my coat over the seat next to me. I stretch out, kicking my legs nearly sending the person on the stool next to me flying.

            James is late but he still saunters across the crowded room. Seeing me he grins, stops and gestures to see if I need a drink. I nod  assent. He turns to the bar just as there is a small surge from the back of the room. On the stage two blokes appear one tuning a guitar whilst the other’s sorting out a violin.

            “Got you a pint of Premium.” He places a glass in front of me. “Sorry, you been here long?  Did we say 8, or 8:30?”  My watch says 8:45. James sighs onto the stool, his back to the entertainment.

            “Sorry, you don’t like this do you,” he indicates the two tuning up. “Midweek they usually have a folk gig. These guys are good. See ‘em on the marches often.”  I can feel it coming I'm about to be doused in politics. James grins enthusiastically and begins to talk at me. I get the full state of the nation bit, the huddled masses, the down trodden and the way it's all going to change. It's not that I don't care, I do but there are other ways, other means, other things. There's Bill. I want to know where things are at. I've gone from not giving a damn to building castles in the air. Something has happened and this could it be, our chance to change the world.

            It's bright, cold and crisp, Bill and me are wrapped up. She's laughing, grabbing the sleeve of my coat to keep her balance.   Her face is fresh and open, a red cap pushed back off her forehead with wisps of hair escaping. I’m looking straight into her eyes, bringing my arm round her for balance in case she stumbles again.   But we aren't alone. I begin to see other people. What seemed a vast open space owned by the two of us shrinks. We're part of a crowd. There are other faces, Jonah's there. 10 years ago or more, it’s a student union march, for the life of me I can’t remember why. Bill, me, Jonah, the others; we protested, we marched. It's what we did. We shouted, we chanted, we hurled obscenities and even the odd stone.

            I surface, James has stopped. For a moment I fear he's waiting for me to say something but then the band strikes up. My heart sinks, they’re terrible, folk pastiches of classic rock songs. However, James takes in the first few bars, nods as he recognises the song, smiles and then swivels back to me. He kicks off again. He's always worn his politics on his sleeve, it's one of the reasons I like him but there comes a point.

            “James, if you are going to harangue me feel free, but just understand - you're buying the drinks tonight.”  I tip my empty glass towards him. He gets the hint.

            I've moved on.  I’m not yet at the point where I want to think about what my legacy will be; whether I will leave an indelible mark on history or just be a grain of sand in the hourglass of time. I want something more immediate. I want to know what's up with Bill. James returns.

            “Before you start up James, you wanted to tell me something?”

            “Yeah.” It's almost as if he'd forgotten his purpose. Like an HGV struggling to get into gear as it climbs a steep hill, he lurches and grinds into action.

            “Sorry Tony, I find this difficult to say. You’ve really been good to me. I know you got me the job when the others wouldn’t have given me the time of day. And it is not like I don’t enjoy working in the library.”

            “But?”

            “Yeah, but...”

            “You've got another job.” A sudden flash of insight.

            “Yes, how'd you know.”

            “I guessed,” I shrug. “That's brilliant, well done.”  I doff my glass to him

            “You all right with it?” He's surprised and concerned.

            “Why wouldn't I be?”

            “I just thought...”

            “No, it's good. What is it?”

            He's off talking about it, wide eyed and enthusiastic. We come full circle, it all relates back to the cause. It is all so sweetly naive.    He stops talking, leans back and listens to the music. Has he forgotten about his part of the deal?  I don't want to appear too keen but I just can't blurt out the question: 'What about Bill?”  The song finishes. There is a ripple of applause. James looks at me. This is it. I draw breath.

            “Fancy another?”  He swipes my glass and is off to the bar.

            “Excuse me”

            I look up. Standing in front of me is a woman. She's vaguely familiar. She leans forward to make herself heard.

            “You were in the Jazz Player last night with a friend, so was I. You’re the first person I’ve ever seen from that type of place in here, I thought I was unique.”

            It clicks, she was with the two men who took our seats when Bill stormed off last night.

            “That's right. You were with two guys. Friends?”

             “No. Cling-on’s. Work. I hate it but it's what you’ve got to do at times. Business. This is pleasure”  She sticks out her hand for me to shake. “Ellen.” 

            I go to stand, forgetting how tight the space is. Climbing out of my seat my sleeve catches an empty beer glass. It rolls on it its side and heads towards the edge of the table. I lunge for it and my knee catches the underside of the table hard.

            For the second time I witness a chain reaction, a clear demonstration of cause and effect. This time I'm the catalyst.

            The table tips precariously as I grasp for the glass. Ellen, shocked, jumps back to avoid it hitting her. She collides with person behind, who, full pint in hand is propelled into the next person who gets doused. Shocked, he jumps back dropping his drink and shunting the person behind. And so it goes - a tremor across the room. Finally, my table topples and the glass I'd tried to rescue smashes on the floor. The whole bar erupts in applause.

            “Don’t worry, he’s with me,” says James cheerily to the bar and then to me, “Look who I’ve found.”  Mary is standing next to him and in her wake is a member of the bar staff dust pan in hand. I get up, having been splayed across the fallen table, righting it as I stand and give a general apology to the room.

            “Ellen, are you Okay?”  I reach out to her and catch he forearm. She  smirks but before she can say anything a man ghosts up to her and takes her by the other arm.

            “You OK?  Look, I’ve just got a message on the mobile, I need to go. Come with me?”  She nods acquiescence and turns to go. Fleetingly she looks back, smiles, and then she is absorbed into the crowd.

            “Whoa, how to win friends and impress people Tony. Your chat up lines need improving. Anything I can do let me know.”

            “James, shut up. Here, Mary have my seat, I think I'm safer standing.

            James and Mary huddle, ignoring me. They share each other’s sentences, the words roll out and round, they loop and join, touching and melting into one and then breaking apart. I'm on the outside. I want to talk about Bill, I want to know where she's at, what's going on. I  conjure her up, she's at my side. I can taste her perfume and it brings a smile to my face.

            “James, Mary I think it is about time I called it a night. Is there anything else you need to pass on tonight?”  I’m fishing.

            “We'll come too,” says Mary.

            James gives me a blank look as he helps Mary into her jacket. We weave across the floor. The door scrapes and grunts opens and as we step outside we're slapped hard by the cold.

            “I’m this way” I say pointing down the street, simply to maintain some kind of conversation just in case it acts as a prompt.

            “Yeah sure,” replies James, “Thanks Tony, I really am grateful.”  He takes Mary by the gloved hand and they start off in the opposite direction. He then stops and turns.

            “Thanks Tony, thanks for everything, really.”  He cocks his head, “There's this too.”   He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an envelope. Mary swats him.

            “You mean you’re only giving this to Tony now. I told Bill you'd pass it on. James,” she rolls her eyes. “Sorry Tony, I thought he'd tell you first. Bill would've come but, after all the stuff, it didn't seem right. She told me to say thank you she'll fill you in tomorrow. She needs to talk but I think she needs some space too.”

            James hands me the envelope, wheels away from me and places a kiss on Mary’s cheek. They walk off hurriedly, heads bent towards each other gripping hands to insulate themselves against the cold.

            For me, it could be the tropics. I slip the envelope carefully into my inside jacket. I let Mary's words reverberate. The bitterness of the night doesn't matter.

            “Mary, James, one thing – what was all that about the basement today. What we’re you doing?”  I shout after them. James starts to answer but Mary jabs him hard and yells something about explaining it tomorrow, it’s too cold to stand and talk. And she’s right. For the second time this day I find myself not caring; I’ve got what I wanted.