Writing for Fun
March 2015
Reunion - Pete Norman
The letterbox rattled and the newspaper dropped to the floor with a dull thump. Arthur groaned – the paperboy was far more reliable than any alarm clock could ever be and once he had been woken by the delivery each morning he could never return to sleep. He slid his feet into his slippers, pulled his dressing gown tight and staggered through to the kitchen, dropped a teabag into his favourite mug and flicked the switch on the kettle.
The newspaper was in a crumpled heap on the floor and he fitted it roughly back together again before dropping it onto the table. He carefully placed the steaming tea mug on a cork mat beside the paper. The headlines were as dire as ever: another suicide bomber had slaughtered dozens of innocents in an Iraqi marketplace, another paedophile had been jailed for a lifetime of unspeakable crimes, another newspaper hacker was giving evidence and the Hillsborough disaster enquiry was being resurrected yet again . . . Arthur allowed the depressing paper to slip from his fingers; what he really needed right now was a cup of tea.
He headed for the kitchen, but his favourite mug was not where it usually was on the draining board. Puzzled, he flicked the switch on the kettle, but it was already hot. He stood for a few moments trying to work out what was happening and then groaned again; he turned and grumbled his way back to the lounge. His tea mug was still there, exactly where he had left it, still piping hot . . . and in full view all the time. Arthur sank into his chair, dropped his elbows onto his knees and buried his face in his hands. A deep growl started in the pit of his stomach, shuddered its way up his chest and racked his body in violent convulsions as he sobbed out his frustration.
He could not carry on like this for a moment longer; every day seemed worse than the last. He had always told himself that only old people got dementia and he was still trying to convince himself that he was not old, although in truth in the last few months he was beginning to feel his advancing years like a lead weight on his back. Mary's face drifted across his mind, her beautiful face, framed by wispy blond locks, illuminated by her tender smile . . .
How long had it been since he had last seen Mary? It had to be at least . . . what, seven years? He needed to see her again, to draw warmth and comfort from the love of his life, the best friend he had ever had . . . but the journey would be long and difficult, it was half way across Europe and every day he seemed to be disintegrating mentally further and further. He had to make it before too long or else he would never be capable of making it at all, and if he stayed here then all too soon he would end up in some dismal nursing home, in an easy to wipe clean chair, dribbling down his shirt, surrounded by moaning geriatrics.
Slowly he pulled himself together. If he was going to make the journey at all he had to do it now – right now – while he still had the mental capacity to do so. He pulled out an old notebook and the stub of a pencil from the bureau drawer. It took him several phone calls and even more hours of meticulous concentration, recording in minute detail every stage of the journey in single paragraphs in the notebook – one paragraph to each page. By the time he had finished he had in front of him a detailed step by step guide that even his confused tomorrow self could not fail to comprehend and follow.
Fortunately, in his former life he had been quite tidy and thorough and it was only after a minimum of search that he managed to locate his passport, his small wheeled travel case and sufficient ID to satisfy even the most hostile official along the way.
The letterbox rattled and the newspaper thumped to the floor. Arthur woke with a sense of purpose he had not experienced for a very long time. After a light breakfast and a mug of decaffeinated tea he took hold of the handle of his suitcase, gave a last look around his tidy little flat and opened the door. He stood on the pavement, flipped over to the first page of his notebook and headed for the bus stop. The number 29 took him to the interchange in the centre of Chelmsford. Another page turned and he bought a ticket for the X30 bus to Stanstead Airport. The journey took a little over half an hour and he filled in the time gazing at the rolling hills and pastures of North Essex as they drifted past his window.
Another page turned and he dragged his little suitcase through to the Departures Lounge and headed for the TV screen. There he turned another page and ran his eye down the screen, searching for the 12.52 Lufthansa flight to Zurich. He realised that he had already travelled some way already, completely on his own, and he was precisely on schedule; he thought maybe he was entitled to feel a little smug with himself.
At the check-in desk he turned another page and presented his ticket for inspection and then followed the long straggling line of fellow passengers through the nightmare of the Customs Hall. More by herd instinct than design he gravitated towards the cafeteria. The smell of hot coffee set his stomach rumbling and he joined the queue. Another page turned and he was gratified to read in his own neat hand the instruction: Have a coffee and wait for the Gate to be listed.
There were only a few spaces in the large room but he managed to find a small table all to himself in the corner. He tugged out from his pocket an old novel, which he had read several times before but all but forgotten, and buried himself in his own secret world, checking the TV screen periodically until his flight finally appeared. He pulled his little case along endless corridors to Gate 5 and there he took a seat by the window which gave him a good view of the huge white Airbus connected to the covered ramp.
He was one of the first to arrive, but the other passengers quickly followed, until the line-up stretched back out of the door. He looked up from his book to see that an elderly couple, dressed quite smartly, appeared beside him. The man looked carefully around at the crowded room and then said, 'Excuse me, but would you mind if we joined you?'
Arthur smiled and moved into the vacant chair to his right, waving them to the two remaining. 'Be my guest.'
The man held out his hand, 'I am Henry and this is my wife, Caroline.'
Arthur shook his hand and nodded to the lady.
'I am off on to a rather tedious business meeting, but Caroline is going to spend some time in retail therapy in Zurich.' He smiled. 'Is yours business or pleasure?'
Arthur looked blank for a moment and then said, 'I am going to see Mary.'
Caroline slid her carry-on bag onto the floor beneath her chair and then leaned across her husband. 'Is Mary your sister?'
Arthur slowly shook his head, 'No, not my sister . . . she is . . . she is the best friend I've ever had.'
Caroline was overwhelmed by the emotion in his voice. 'And where does Mary live?'
Arthur's face again appeared devoid of comprehension, but then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his notebook. Page after page was flipped slowly over until he stopped and ran his finger along the line. 'Switzerland.' He gave her a vague smile and then looked back at the notes. '2143, Bahnhoffstrasse, Forch, Switzerland.'
'Do you visit her often?'
Arthur's eyes misted over. 'It must have been . . . more than four years since I last saw her.'
Henry looked at the frail old man and grimaced. He seemed more than a little confused. 'And you are travelling alone? That's a long way for . . .' his voice trailed off to an embarrassed silence, the words 'an old man like you' were left unspoken.
Arthur shook his head and pointed to his notebook, 'Oh, no, it's not a problem, I'm fine . . . you see, I've got it all written down in here. I only have to follow the notes.'
Caroline put a hand on her husband's arm, 'Henry, how far is this Forch from Zurich?'
Henry pulled out his mobile phone and began to peck at the screen with his fingers. After a moment he said, 'It's about thirteen miles . . .' He caught the flash of intense irritation in her eyes and quickly added, 'But it's not far off our route if that's what you mean.'
Caroline said, 'Arthur, a taxi that distance would be hideously expensive, even if you don't get seriously ripped off, which . . .' Her look clearly showed her fear that in his confused and vulnerable state being ripped off might well be the very least of his worries. She turned to Arthur. 'Henry is going to hire a car at Zurich, we can drop you off at the door; it will save you a fortune and will be much less stressful.'
Arthur was taken aback at their generosity, but for a moment the thought of any deviation from his carefully compiled notes seemed absolutely terrifying to him. However, the two faces staring back at him, awaiting his answer, were kind and understanding.
'I . . . that would be wonderful, thank you, but you must let me make some . . .'
Henry's hand came up, stopping him in mid-sentence. 'We would not hear of it, my dear friend. It will be our pleasure.' His smile was warm and effectively sealed the deal. 'And besides, we are going virtually past there in any event.'
His new found friends were seated a few rows behind him, which left him alone with his novel and his thoughts for the duration of the short flight.
When they cleared Immigration Arthur dutifully followed the couple through to the Hertz desk where Henry selected a rather expensive BMW. The car purred out of the airport car park and onto the main auto-route and Arthur settled himself in the luxury of the rear seat alone with his thoughts once more. What would he say to her? More worrying was what would she say to him? Would she say, 'Why have you left it so long?' Would she smother him in the warmth of her embrace or would she chide him for his stupidity?
Caroline broke into his reverie, 'Arthur, dear, we're just turning into Bahnhoffstrasse now.'
He peered out of the window at the unfamiliar buildings racing by, but then the car began to slow and stopped at a set of traffic lights. The shop beside his window had 1745 above the door. They were getting close. Arthur leaned forward between the two front seats, 'Look, I don't want to be a nuisance, you've been so very kind . . . but I've been sitting down for so long, I think I need to stretch my legs and compose myself a little before I get there. Do you mind if I walk the last bit?'
Caroline gave her husband a worried look, but Henry pulled up at the kerb just beyond the lights and retrieved his suitcase from the boot.
'Are you sure you'll be alright? It might still be quite a way down the road.'
Arthur shook his hand and smiled, 'Not a problem, walking is one of the few things I still can manage nowadays.'
Caroline gave him a fleeting kiss on the cheek and then watched anxiously as Arthur strode off, purposefully, the little wheels on his case rattling across the pavement slabs in his wake. 'I do hope we've done the right thing . . .'
However, Arthur knew it was the right thing. More than anything now he needed time on his own to sort out his thoughts and fears and prepare himself for the moment to come. As he walked the numbers rose steadily and in no time at all he was in the two thousands. He slowed his pace and his heart began to flutter in anticipation. He drew his notebook from his pocket to confirm the number, but how could he, even in his advanced state, forget that number? He was lost in a moment of unfamiliar lucidity, in which he also knew that it was exactly five years and twenty two days since he had last seem Mary and he was so excited at the thought of seeing her again.
2139 . . . 2141 . . . he stopped before the door and gazed at the number 2143 beside the entrance. He did not need the notebook to tell him he had finally arrived. He felt a swell of emotion surging through him as he pushed open the door. The entrance foyer was large and utilitarian and he felt a moment's panic, but relaxed when he saw, by the lift, the company logo on a small brass plaque . . . DIGNITAS.
He took a small photograph of his wife from his pocket and kissed it softly. 'My darling, Mary, it won't be long now.'
