Copyright Oggbashan September 2014
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
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Long Holiday
As it was Monday morning, I got up early, washed, shaved, put on a business suit and sat down for a quick breakfast. I put the coffee mug and cereal bowl in the dishwasher and went to the front door to pick up my briefcase and laptop. They weren't in their usual place.
It hit me then. I was on holiday. I wasn't going to work. I wouldn't be going to work ever again. My holiday was four weeks of accumulated days I hadn't taken last year. Once those days have passed I will be retired, forever.
I went back to the kitchen, retrieved my mug, and made another cup of coffee.
What was I going to do? My work had been my life for the past ten years since my wife Rita had died. The last few months had been hectic as I completed that major project while training the youngster who would take over my role. I had been working at the office more than twelve hours a day and most weekends, coming home, grabbing a micro waved meal, and working online into the early hours.
Only the last few days had been quiet. Last Tuesday, the Board had accepted the successful completion of the task, congratulated me and the youngster, and all I had left to do was make my farewells.
I had several other roles that I had accumulated as part of my career but although I could pursue them, they weren't really important to me anymore. I should resign from them, announce my retirement, or just let them lapse. The contacts had been useful to me, to my company, and to those organisations, but as a former manager they were not really relevant. Why did I need to keep a string of letters after my name when I had no one who would be impressed by them?
I couldn't even go back to meet old colleagues. The whole company was relocating to a new site, chosen by me, two hundred miles away. Most of my contemporaries were retired, retiring, or moving for a few months work at the new location. They were buying homes to retire to at prices far lower than in London, or much grander.
I thought some of them were misguided. They would be leaving friends, family, and everything they knew, just to get a better house. Bill, for example, was moving from a small three bedroomed house to an eight bedroomed mansion standing in five acres of land. Why? His children had left home years ago. Bill and his wife would be rattling around in all that space and struggling to maintain the house and land.
Was I any better than Bill? I had a detached four-bedroomed house with a garage, an unused swimming pool, off-road parking for four cars, and just me, alone. We had tried but failed to have children. My only relations were in Australia. My brother had moved there forty years ago to join our uncle's business. That business had grown and now employed all the extended family because it was still family owned. But I couldn't fly to Australia. My ancient injuries made flying, even in business class, too uncomfortable for anything but an hour or so.
I had rewritten my will after Rita died. The family solicitors would arrange my funeral, sell everything I owned, and the balance after taxation would be split between my Australian nephews and nieces whom I had never seen except on Skype. They didn't need the money because they were all house owners, mortgage-free, and part owners of the family company. Even the youngest of them had more capital than I.
I finished the mug of coffee, went back to my bedroom and changed into the casual clothes that had been in the depths of my wardrobe for years.
I put on a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. I hung my suit back on its hanger. Would I wear any of those suits again?
I put cash and my credit card wallet in one pocket, my mobile phone in another, and set out to walk to the local Library. Perhaps I could join some community society? The Library should have a list. But which society? I didn't feel like a pensioner. I had been a senior manager on Friday. Technically I still was, for the next four weeks, but all that meant was that my bank account would be credited with my salary. After those four weeks it would be credited with my company pension and share dividends.
What did it matter? Even if I had no pension at all, my investments would provide enough for me to be financially comfortable for the rest of my life. But my pension was what? Four times the average national earnings for a family? I would be paying more tax on my pension than an average adult's earnings.
I walked to the Library. I could have driven and parked the car, paying the exorbitant parking charge levied by the cash poor local council, but why? I had time to walk. I had more time than I knew what to do with. Ten minutes later I was staring blankly at the Library's closed doors.
The Library does not open until ten o'clock. I looked at my watch. It was eight thirty. What could I do for an hour and a half? I couldn't go to the Museum. That was in the same building and had the same opening hours as the Library. I could go to the coffee shop across the road, but two cups of coffee was my normal morning limit.
There was a map to inform tourists on the Library wall with a large arrow pointing to the Tourist Information Office, which, of course, was in the same building as the Library and Museum, and didn't open until ten o'clock.
But there was a green area marked about two hundred yards away. It was a small park named after a Victorian benefactor. It seemed to have a pond or lake in it. I had never been there. Why would I? I had never had a dog to walk, never had children to bring to play on the outdoor toys, and if I wanted grass and flowers, my garden had enough. But I could spend at least a few minutes walking there and around it.
As I entered the park I could see a few bedraggled ducks sitting by the other side of the small pond, expectantly watching a mother sitting on a bench with a toddler in a pushchair beside her. Would she have bread? The toddler was sound asleep, so even if she had bread, she would wait until the toddler could see the ducks.
The path passed in front of the bench. As I walked I could see that my first impression was wrong. She wasn't a mother. Although well preserved and carefully dressed, she might be the child's grandmother or other retired relation.
Her grey hair just showed underneath her wide-brimmed hat. As I came nearer, she lifted her face to see who was coming. I recognised her.
It had been many years but she had been one of Rita's friends. What was her name? She gave me a faint, fleeting smile. That smile, weak though it was, triggered my memory. She was Maureen.
Years ago Maureen had been one of Rita's wider group of friends. They had been acquaintances who had grown apart long before Rita died. Maureen's interests had been her children and her friends had children of similar ages. Rita had said a couple of times that she thought Maureen's brain was wasted on rearing children. At the university together but studying different disciplines, Maureen had been the high flyer, achieving a First, to Rita's stolid competence and a 2.1.
Maureen had graduated when pregnant. She took a decade out for child rearing before she started a career far below her talents. I was surprised that I had remembered even that much about Maureen. She must have made a bigger impact on me than I thought.
I had no idea what she had done in the last ten years. At least I could greet her. She might want to talk, and finding out what she had been doing might pass the time until the Library opened. I didn't really want to know. Why would I? What interest did I have in the activities of someone who had been a distant friend of my wife years ago?
"Hello Maureen, how are you?" I said as I reached the bench.
"Hello Paul," She replied. "I wondered if you'd remember me."
"It has been years," I said, "but I remembered your smile,"
I had obviously said the wrong thing. Her face looked sad.
"At present I haven't got much to smile about, Paul," She said.
"Why not?" I asked. She had moved slightly as an invitation to sit beside her.
"It's my own fault. My daughter Helen had to take her daughter Stephanie for a dental check up. Helen's car is being serviced, so she walked round and borrowed mine.
James..." Maureen pointed at the pushchair, "was asleep when Helen arrived, so I said I would walk him to the park. Stephanie's appointment was only ten minutes long and there's nothing wrong with her teeth, so I expected them to meet me here in about a quarter of an hour.
That should have been half an hour ago. Stupidly I left my handbag in the car when Helen drove off. It has my new mobile phone, my purse, and my house keys in it. I had my old mobile phone in my skirt pocket. Helen rang ten minutes ago, but my old mobile's battery died in the middle of the call. She had said she was delayed by an accident, but I don't know whether she was in the accident, or delayed by traffic because of someone else's accident. I'm worried."
I produced my mobile phone from my pocket.
"Here you are," I said. "Ring Helen."
"You're sure?"
"Of course."
Maureen took her hat off and put it on the bench.
I walked a few yards away while she rang her daughter. The conversation didn't last long. When Maureen switched my phone off, I came back and sat down again.
"Well?" I asked. "Is she OK?"
"Yes, but I'm not. There was an accident right in front of Helen. She wasn't involved in it but the Police want her as a witness because the accident is serious. The road is blocked and she can't leave until the Police have taken her statement. Who knows how long that might be?"
"All you can do is wait. I'll stay with you. You could ring Helen from time to time to check what is happening."
"You'll stay, Paul? Shouldn't you be doing something else?"
"I'm on holiday," I said abruptly.
"Holiday? You? You never have a holiday, Paul. Rita used to complain that getting you to stop working at weekends was like pulling teeth."
"I am on holiday," I insisted. "A very long one. At the end of it, I retire. I've left work for ever."
"I don't believe it," Maureen said looking sharply at me. "What will you do? You lived for work."
"I know. That's why I'm here. I was wasting time waiting for the Library to open at ten o'clock."
I glanced at my watch. Not yet nine o'clock. At least another hour to wait.
"So you can stay with me. Thank you, Paul. That would be a help. If James wakes up he'll be a handful. He'll be thirsty, probably hungry because he didn't eat much of his breakfast, and fractious because his Mum isn't here. And I can't get him a drink or anything to eat. I can't get into my house..."
"...and your money is in your handbag, in your car with Helen?"
"Yes, Paul. It is. There might be a drinking fountain in the Park, but it probably doesn't work."
"Drink and food for James is another problem I could solve. I may be unused to small children but I do have cash in my pocket. There is a refreshment kiosk over there..." I pointed at it.
"But it doesn't open until..."
"...ten o'clock?" I finished.
"Exactly."
We laughed. I explained why I was going to the library. Maureen talked about her children as parents. I was surprised how well we were getting on together. It seemed as if we were old friends meeting after a long break, catching up with news. But we had never been old friends. She had been one of Rita's acquaintances and we had never exchanged more than a few words when passing in the street.
We were talking freely and enjoying each other's company. Maureen smiled more perhaps because she knew Helen was only a witness to the accident, and that I could help if James woke up. I felt comfortable with Maureen. When I sat down on the bench there had been a couple of feet between us. I hadn't moved. Maureen had begun to rock James' pushchair when he wriggled in his sleep. Now her skirted leg was touching my jeans. I didn't know why, but that closeness was reassuring.
