October 2012
Graham Butterfield slid one finger around the side of the glass; the amber liquid was slightly higher than his podgy digit.
'Don't you think you've had enough? It's not good for your liver, you know.' Pamela said.
'It's just one finger.' Graham protested, but, as he took a good swallow and the fiery liquid burned its way down his throat, his befuddled brain conveniently overlooked the other two 'just one fingers' he had already consumed tonight.
The news finished and the weather girl was almost as depressing, so he hit the button and the 32" wide-screen went black, rendering the gloomy room even gloomier. He walked through to the bedroom and flicked the light switch; it lit, buzzed and then, with a faint, 'pop' went out again. Failing to comprehend, his fingers flicked the switch up and down until his neurons, firing through treacle, finally solved the riddle.
'It would be much easier to sort it out in the morning.' Pamela said, but he still went through to the kitchen and fumbled in the cupboard under the boiler until he found a new bulb, then he clambered up onto the bed, where his left hand, holding the bulb, struggled to keep the fitting still so his other hand could twist the dead bulb out. He wobbled, his feet pistoning out to keep his balance, but the softness of the bed absorbed the movements and, in sickening slow motion, he fell sideways. The bed broke with a dull crack as he collapsed heavily down onto it.
'He lay motionless for a few moments trying to work out what to do, but eventually, he gave up. 'You're right, as always, Pamela,' he agreed, 'it'll be easier to sort out in the morning. Goodnight, my darling.'
'Love you.' Pamela said as he reached over and kissed the pillow where for most of his adult life her beautiful head had lain, then he tried to make himself comfortable on the oddly sloping mattress. He more fell unconscious than fell asleep, drifting off into the warm safety of dreams.
. . .
It was barely daylight when he awoke, muzzy and disorientated. In the night he had rolled down onto Pamela's side of the bed, but there was no warm body there to snuggle up to. His eyes welled up as he went through the same cruel re-realisation that he suffered each and every morning. He clambered out and surveyed the devastation that had been their bed all of their married life. 'I did say we should have replaced that bed years ago.' Pamela said, and Graham nodded obediently.
. . .
At 9 o'clock when Wayne Dickinson unlocked the huge glass entrance doors of Dreams Bedding Superstore, he was surprised to see the man waiting patiently, and all alone, outside.
'Good morning, Sir.' he chirruped, 'Up bright and early aren't we - didn't sleep too well, eh?'
Graham hated the patronising banter of salesmen with a passion, and his head was still coming to terms with the night before, so he just grunted, 'I need a new bed.'
Un-fazed, Wayne grinned and said, 'Then you've come to the right place! Come on in, Sir. Now, what exactly are you looking for?'
Graham scanned the enormous showroom; it was wall to wall beds . . . hundreds and hundreds of beds. He froze. He had always struggled with things like this; Pamela had always been there to do it for him. All he had ever had to do was walk around beside her making the right noises – agreeing with her when she said it was nice, agreeing with her when she said it was awful. His only useful contribution had been to occasionally give the casting vote when she had finally decided on two, but just couldn't quite make up her mind which to choose.
Now he was faced with an overwhelming choice and he was, quite simply, overwhelmed. 'I think I'll just have a look around by myself.' he mumbled, and thankfully the salesman backed off. 'The customer is always right, Sir!' he touched Graham's shoulder conspiratorially and said, 'Just give a holler if you need any help.'
In actual fact, it was not quite as bad as it had first looked. By the process of elimination, he found he could ignore all the single beds (he just couldn't face the thought of there not being a place in it for . . .) Then there were some which were quite simply too expensive – what kind of people could pay that much for a bed anyway, he thought - only bankers, no doubt! Discounting the ones that just looked too cheap and nasty - and the water bed – good God! – he had managed to reduce his choice to . . . about ten!
As he circled indecisively around the chosen few, Wayne reappeared and made him jump as he said, over his shoulder, 'Now that one,' pointing to a King size with a deep thick mattress, which was way up towards the top end of his price range, 'is a very good bed, one of our best sellers. Got one myself, in fact most of us here have got that one. It's got . . .' and he launched into an endless stream of salesman technical drivel about the special springs and the super-soft padding, which all went completely over Graham's head. Instead, he climbed up onto the left side of the bed, carefully keeping his shoes on the thick plastic protector strip. He lay on his back, which, in reality, he never did, but he would have felt stupid curling up in the foetal position in front of this idiot. Surprisingly, it was just as comfortable as the man had said. He pushed with his hands and bounced up and down a bit – the bed responded with a soft but firm resilience, which, like baby bear's bed, felt just right.
He tried out several of the others, just to make his selection more scientific, but he had already made his mind up. 'I'll take that one.' he said, 'How soon can you deliver?' Wayne asked for his postcode and consulted the computer, 'Afraid we're too late for today, Sir, so it'll have to be next Thursday now.'
Graham groaned and explained his urgency, without actually saying how the bed had been broken; instead, he met the salesman's inquisitive glance with a determined face. Wayne could think of several ways the bed might have got broken, but, looking at the old man in front of him, he was certain he could discount at least one of them. He picked up the phone and dialled the warehouse, where, after an interminable wait, he held a very matey conversation with Eric, the Godfather of deliveries, in which they discussed last night's football, Eric's new Suzuki and a girl called Sharon. Eventually, Wayne got to the point and, as he put the phone down he grinned and said, 'How does last drop this afternoon grab you?' It grabbed Graham very well, thank you, so he made his way home to straighten up the house a bit for when the men came.
. . .
He stood looking at the new bed, which was a fair bit bigger than the old one, and realised that he had allowed himself to be sweet-talked into buying a bed much too big for just himself. But from behind him came a faint hint of Jean Paul Gaultier and a whispered, 'It's not too big if you share it.' He spun around, but he was alone . . . totally alone.
. . .
Graham rummaged through his underwear drawer and, right at the back, was the unopened pack of black boxer shorts Suzanna had bought him for Father's Day. She had seen his Y fronts on the washing line and had said, 'Dad! If you're ever going to be courting again, you can't be seen dead in anything like those things!'
He slipped them on and stood in front of the mirror – he felt silly, like a schoolboy on his first date, except that this schoolboy's hair was turning from grey to white, the wrinkles were deepening on his face and the bulge above his waistband was getting more and more impressive. He put on his grey suit . . . then took it off again. He put on a pair of black jeans and a white T shirt . . . then took them off again. He finally settled on a pair of khaki chinos and a blue shirt. He studied the finished product in the mirror; a hazy face hovered over his shoulder and the sweet, familiar perfume lingered in his nostrils. 'You look just great, darling.' she whispered, but, as he spun around, there was nothing but plain magnolia behind him.
. . .
When he opened the door, Claire was standing on the doorstep looking stunning: petite with short blond hair and wearing a red lacy top with a flouncy black skirt. She held out a bottle of Merlot and said, 'Now, Graham, you've got to make sure I don't get tiddly!'
Graham poured them both a good glass, but he was also careful to put a bottle of sparkling water on the table as well (although Pamela would have told him to put in a jug). He mustn't get tiddly either, he had decided; it made you . . . well, men found it more difficult to . . . oh, bugger it, he just mustn't get tiddly tonight, even though his dry throat was screaming out for refreshment.
Pamela and Graham had known Claire and John for years and they had enjoyed many great holidays together; they had been very close friends. But then John had passed on only a few months before Pamela, except hers had been cervical and his had been prostate.
The meal went well, Graham was a good cook with a great imagination, but tonight he had settled for a beef bourguignon, because it was easy to prepare in advance, so he didn't have to spend precious time in the kitchen. The plates went back scraped clean and he returned with a third bottle of red. His first glass was still only half gone and by now, Claire had a fixed smile on her face. He held up the bottle to her and she held up her glass again, 'But I mustn't have any more after that, Graham . . . I'll get tiddly!' she giggled. He popped the cork.
'Isn't it amazing,' she said, her voice slurring markedly now, 'that it was a year ago tomorrow that . . .'
Graham fumbled and almost dropped the bottle; he had an appalling memory and Pamela had always berating him for forgetting appointments, birthdays and once, disastrously, an anniversary; and now he had forgotten the most important of them all. 'Oh, God!' escaped his lips.
'I still think of John every day.' she said, her eyes staring vacantly into a completely different window in the space/time continuum. There was a long, drawn out and embarrassing silence, throughout which Graham sat uncomfortably and sipped at his wine. Then, suddenly, Claire focussed on him once more and said, 'So, you've told me all about your new bed, aren't you going to show it to me?'
Graham's heart missed a beat; but then he studied her face and saw nothing hidden behind her fixed smile. He had no right to misinterpret what was most likely just polite curiosity. There was, truly, no fool like an old fool.
He led the way upstairs and Claire followed slowly, gripping the rail hard. As he stepped through the bedroom door, she said, 'Oh, Graham, it's huge!' She giggled, then tripped over the threshold strip. Graham desperately grabbed at her, but missed and she hit the ground hard. He crouched down beside her, 'Claire, are you alright?' She was silent, her eyes were closed and he panicked – she must be hurt badly, he should call an ambulance . . . then she snorted, her breathing was heavy but regular. He smiled, she had drunk the best part of two bottles! But what should he do with her, he couldn't just leave her laying on the floor.
Delicately, he reached beneath her and lifted her limp body up and onto the bed. As he stood up he saw that the hem of her skirt had ridden up to reveal an expanse of white thigh. Hurriedly he pulled the hem down, then pulled the duvet across her. He wondered whether he ought to put her into the recovery position, but that would probably wake her up, and then she would wonder what she was doing in his bed. He stood for a long time contemplating the situation, then he decided that if he stayed here and watched over her she would be safe. He sank down onto the floor in the corner, and after half an hour of total inactivity he drifted off into dreamless oblivion.
. . .
'Have you been there all night?'
His eyes snapped open, but, totally disorientated, he stared blankly up at her.
'I said, have you been there all night?' she repeated. He saw that daylight was streaming through the curtains and nodded uncertainly.
'I must have been tiddly last night; it's not good for your liver, you know.'
Graham mumbled, 'You fell over, so I put you on there, thought it would be more comfortable.'
'It is . . . in fact, it's the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in.' She patted the bed beside her, 'Why don't you join me?'
Graham was stunned. He blurted out, 'Move over, then - you're on the wrong side.'
Then he groaned and rammed his fist into his mouth. He had totally blown it. How could he have said something so crassly stupid?
But, to his surprise, Claire slid across to the other side of the bed, 'Of course I was,' she smiled, and then said, 'John always slept on that side too.'