Surface Tension - Chapter 16 Part 1

Bill slowed the car and swung it round a tight bend leading into a cul-de-sac. The subdued, sophisticated lighting immediately suggested this wasn't an ordinary neighbourhood. There were three houses to choose from, or more exactly three drives, as the houses were set back and screened by trees. Bill chose the drive on her left and manoeuvred the car past the iron gates. She edges up the drive when suddenly a large, bulky man steps in front of the car.

            “What the....” Bill stomps hard on the breaks.

Even though we’re moving cautiously the car slews across the drive scattering gravel. The bulky man doesn't flinch. He’s taken up a position in the centre of the road, it’s as if he expects that he'd do more damage to the car if it hit him than the other way round. He places a hand firmly on the bonnet and with a splutter the engine stops.

To Bill’s right there's a cough. She jumps and twists to find a moon-like face has materialised at her window, its features have been squished together, one fight to many. The moon-face bobs and a pale hand rises, doing small circular motions.

“What?”

“I think he wants you to wind the window down Bill.”

“Oh,” she cranks the window down, a sharp cut of cold air rushes into the warm, moist car.             “The McLelland...” Bill lets the words crystallise in the cold air, “Wake?”

            Moon-face pauses long enough to give us the ‘once over’, his broad flat nostrils flaring, puffing white air like a bull preparing to charge.

“Best that you park outside, no room here,” he grunts and points back up the drive.

“OK, thanks.”

He waits for Bill to wind the window up, steps back and watches whilst Bill fumbles to restart the car. She kicks it into reverse; wheels spin, more gravel squirts out.

As soon as we’re moving he walks round to join his colleague. They stand in the retreating pool of light from our head lamps both with arms folded across broad chests, legs apart.

            “Wouldn't be out of place in town on a Saturday night.”

            “Yeah, wedding and funeral security is a bit on the side,” I grin.

            “Right!” Bill dutifully backs the car out of the drive onto the road and almost into an oncoming Mercedes. She yanks the car sideways, to let it through. It sweeps past and up the drive.

            We park and clamber out, arming ourselves against the cold. We've had the heating pounding away so the cold slaps hard, my body convulses. Bill's the same. She wraps her coat tight round her

            “You know what?”

            “What Bill?”

            “That car that nearly hit us, the Merc?

“Yeah?”

“It's not come back.”

            “I've got a feeling some of the guests are more suited to this than we are.”

            “You think?” She pushes me playfully. I stumble on the kerb.

“Thanks.”

Bill stops and reaches out to me, “You ready for this?” she slides her arm through mine just as she did a week ago. We've come along way.

            We're changing countries. Smooth tarmac gives way to the crunch of gravel as we approach pass port control.  Neither of the heavies pay much attention to us as we walk past. The way is lit by tall electric lights meant to look like old fashioned gas lamps. They alternate between mature conifers some strewn with lifeless Christmas lights. Where there's a break and the soft light penetrates dark lawns disappear. As we walk a warm yellow glow grows emanating from beyond the tree lined curve. A car whispers past us swerving slightly as the driver see us late. The sudden movement sprays gravel into the air forcing us to jump onto the verge. The brittle, frosted grass gives way with a sigh.

            “Clearly we don’t drive the right kind of car.” My comment comes as we round the corner. In front is an impressive array of vehicles all from the exclusive end of the spectrum. The car that showered us has come to a rest; it’s another Merc, one of a clutch present. Carefully, a couple rise from the car. They take in their surroundings, pause and absorb another couple who have materialised outside of a Jag, air kisses at two paces and then they turn and head to the house.        

The house is a large-mock Georgian edifice, probably built sometime in the last 25 years. There are three tiers of windows; bright light emanates from the ground floor, whilst the middle layer is lit softly, reflected light and the odd lamp. The third floor’s in darkness.

            We gingerly approach the porch. Three steps rise to a square with four Doric columns at each corner. A large, heavy panelled door painted black stands ajar. We come to a standstill at the bottom of the steps.

            “We going to do this Bill?”

            She says nothing but slips her hand from my arm and takes hold of my hand squeezing it hard. She takes a step forward giving a gentle tug up the stairs. We reach the door. It gives reluctantly to my pressure.

            We step into a white marble hall. It's almost square; doors right and left which mirror the front door, except these are painted white. A white staircase spirals up from the back of the room. A single light hangs from the ceiling barely casting enough light. There is an Empire table to the left with an Ormolu clock ticking away on top.

            “Very minimalist.”

            “It's a style choice Tony.”

            “Not mine.”

There’s the low mumble of voices that seeps through the walls.      

There’s a rush of cold air, another couple step into the hall. A pale young girl, dressed black and white appears from under the staircase. The woman gives a shrug and sheds her coat, the man catches it. As the coat drops the woman takes two steps forward, her heels rap out percussively on the marble floor, two staccato shots ringing round the hall.  Wordlessly the girl receives the coat and begins to retreat back under the stairs. She catches sight of us and reluctantly turns as we struggle out of our coats. She receives our coats with resentment; compared to the other couple she doesn't like what she sees.

            There’s a flood of light and noise as the man opens the doors on the left. His partner glides through. He pauses, holding it open sufficiently long enough for Bill and me. We step through.

            I'm not sure what to expect. There’s a spasm of fear. I get this Wild West picture of the room going quiet and everyone staring at is, accusing us, condemning us because they know we are interlopers, aliens.

            It's not like that.

            We enter a crowded, monochrome room. Nobody even turns to acknowledge us.

            We stand at the edge watching and listening to the weave and bob of conversation. Sometimes a single voice rises above the rest, words crash and break only for the general flow to reassert itself. There are knots of people, some seated, most standing. Most are static, yet there is a current that washes around, propelling some round the room.

            The room is large. Big picture windows run round two sides, the night and cold pressing at them, wanting to break in. As with the hall there are few features to speak of except the two chandeliers that hang at either end of the room. There are alcoves on the windowless internal walls. They're bereft of occupants too.

            Bill leans into me. I feel her rise on her toes so that she is close to my ear, her warm breath on my neck, it prickles with pleasure.

            “Can you taste the duty? It feels as if they're here 'cos they have to be, doesn’t it?”

            There’s a ripple, the people part to allow a woman through. She's wearing a black trouser suit which makes her ash blonde hair cut to the nape of her neck stand out. She moves with poise but very deliberately, stopping to say a few words to certain people, some of whom reach out and gently hold her arm in a gesture of comfort, but these are distractions, she's working her way deliberately towards us. My throat tightens. Bill leans in again:

            “The bereaved spouse. Put on your mournful look.”

            She arrives softly in front of us and extends her arm to me. The sleeve of the jacket rides up to reveal a simple gold band watch. Her fingers are long and precisely manicured. She's prepared well for today. From a distance her face seemed youthfully smooth, but close up it's an effect, the result of makeup and other artificial actions. Her hands betray her; they are older than she looks.

            “Alex McClelland,” she says, extending her hand. Her accent betrays no Scottish heritage whatsoever. “Thank you for coming. I've been so touched and grateful that so many people have been able to come and honour Sandy.” The 'so' is emphasised implying that she's neither 'touched' or 'grateful'. “I most apologise, so many faces are new to me. Did you know Sandy through work?” She's still gripping my hand. It's a robust grip for one so delicate. I'm feeling a little uncomfortable. Her stare is pretty unrelenting too. Bill reads my discomfort and rescues me.

            “No Mrs McClelland...”

            “Please call my Alex,” she interrupts, her tone says this is the last thing she wants.

            “...it was through the club. We only recently joined but we found Mr Mc…, Sandy to be so generous. It was through my husband’s work. I know it sounds trivial but we felt it right to pay our respects, even though we were only getting to know Sandy.”

            “Your husband?

            “Jonah Hill”

            Mrs McClelland pauses, trying to recollect something. She’s still  got my hand.

            “So, you worked with my husband?”

            “Yes, er no, no,” Oh, this is going to be difficult.  “I'm not Bill's husband,” I blurt and as the words congeal I realise how odd they sound. Mrs McClelland’s face clouds, registering confusion for a moment, she lets out a small ‘oh’ as she tries to work things out. “Friend through the club,” I add. It doesn’t help.

            She drops my hand, and turning to Bill: “But didn’t you say…?” She leaves the question hanging in the air.

            “Tony is a work colleague Mrs McClelland…”

            “Oh.” She's not sure where to look. “Well that's good.” I can't imagine what she's thinking. But then again I probably can, and that's the problem. “Well thank you, both for coming. Sandy would have been touched.” Her focus moves, we're no longer important. With a polite nod she backs away from us and moves on to the next couple whom she greets with a careful embrace.

            We stand marooned amongst a sea of dark suits. No one comes to us, no one registers us, people flow round and, in one case, through us but no one choose to make contact with us. The consolation is that it's Bill next to me.

            “That was odd.”

            Bill shrugs, “Inevitable really, don’t worry. It’s not as if we’ll see her ever again.” She squeezes my hand.

“So what do we do Bill?”

            She looks up at me, her round face clear and fresh.  She looks relaxed, confidant in all the ways that I don’t. Her brown eyes are soft and encouraging.

            “Let’s give this an hour Tony,” she takes my wrist in her hand and reads my watch. “An hour hey? See what we find and then go. Yeah?” She places her month close to mine, “Think of the money, Tony. That’s why we’re here.” She catches apprehensiveness in eyes. “Don’t worry Tony. Don’t worry.”

            And she's gone. I track her through the crowd until she disappears. I try to stand nonchalantly giving the air of someone who's waiting purposefully and certainly not someone who's left high and dry and out of place. I try and make contact but it doesn't work. No one wants to make small talk with me and when some does pause I find all the words have dried up.

            Marooned.

            Rescue comes, the St Bernard with the brandy barrel.

A waitress dressed uncomfortably in a man’s white shirt, (which I assume has been borrowed from a boyfriend), a well worn black skirt finishing above the knee, black tights and scuffed black flats, appears carrying a gold tray with glasses of red and white wine. She also carries an expression that suggests that she wished she'd finished about an hour ago. Robotically she pushes the tray vaguely in my direction, says nothing and waits. I take a glass. She moves on.

            “If she did it any more perfunctorily I think the drinks would be left on the side don’t you?” The voice surprises me; it’s warm and gentle, someone who's actually interested in a response. “You look as lost as I feel.”                       

            The voice steps into view. I don’t recognise the face. It's familiar but I can’t find the name associated with it. My brain cycles through the options, but nothing.