This Is Going To Work

In Waiting For Godot, all the way through the play, every so often, one of the characters will say “let’s go”, and then the other will say “yes okay” – or words to that effect, but neither of them ever leave – they do it again and again. This is exactly how it’s been with Zachy moving into the cottage, only in reverse, because he’s been saying he would – move in - on a regular basis for about two months, but he never actually has. After the second time I stopped paying attention. Zachy has many wonderful qualities but military precision is not one of them. He does get there in the end though – you can always rely on him to do that, and so he did – finally – one evening, with so much luggage you would have thought he was going on a world cruise or something. I stood at the door of the cottage watching him take it in – at least three keyboards – big ones – four industrial sized suitcases – the kind they used in the forties and fifties: black, reinforced, hard bodied, with a lot of silver clips and straps. I think there's one place in the world left where they still make them, somewhere in Eastern Europe. They are very very impressive. Beautiful things. Not very practical though.

One of them in particular he can barely lift – it must weigh a ton. I’ve managed to keep quiet up till now but this one looks so heavy I can’t help myself, and I ask what’s in it. He stops for a second, swaying slightly, his face pale from the exertion – he doesn’t go red like other people, and says it’s essential books. He looks angry, but he isn’t at all – he’s just very passionate about the whole thing.

He’s also brought his girlfriend - Scheherazade – who is beautiful, exotic and lovely and I really like her, and I hope by now I’ve convinced her that I’m not about to pinch Zachy off her. It’s quite understandable, because Zach does get around, but not with me. Not now anyway. Although I love him, I don’t love him like that and I certainly don’t want to pinch him. I am okay for men at the moment.

Anyway, I think we have sorted that out now. I hope so. She’s never been to the country before – I think she grew up in London and Monte Carlo - and while Zach is taking all his mysterious luggage upstairs, we walk together in the garden where she exclaims over the baby rabbits. I don’t think she’s ever seen a wild one – and they’re all over the place here.

I leave them to it. Big smiles all round. As I drive back home, I’m listening to Sweet Jane – the live version – I think it’s my favourite summer song - and the sun is blinding – it’s so low in the sky I can hardly see anything but it doesn’t matter in the park, there’s almost no-one about. I am happy, and hopeful, and it’s a perfect summer’s evening and I think it might just work out.

The phone’s ringing as I open the front door and I get there just in time. It’s Marnie and she’s in tears:

“I think I might be cracking up”

“What’s happened?”

I sit down. In between sobs she tells me she’s fainted – almost fallen into the pool, and she doesn’t know why, except she’d had a few glasses of wine and been in the sun all lunchtime and she was just going to paint the gate, so perhaps it might have been that – and her back is really really hurting – she can hardly walk, but no, she hasn’t gone to the hospital – perhaps she will when she’s in England, and she just can’t bear it – the idea of being unable to do things, and maybe she’ll just jump off the ferry on the way to the airport on the main island. I say she mustn’t do that – Zach is cleaning her kitchen for her right now – what a waste it will be if she tops herself. Then she laughs as I hoped she would, and says actually she’s a bit concerned about Zach – he doesn’t seem to be very good at communication, and I tell her that I hope once they actually meet it will all be a lot easier. By the time I hang up an hour later, I’m exhausted – and I remember this is how it was every day for over a month when she was staying with me. This new plan must work – it has to.

Halfway through the next day, Zach phones me from the cottage to say he doesn’t know – he is going to try, he is still determined, but he isn’t sure if he can. Scheherazade has been bitten to pieces by something – bedbugs he reckons – and the place is full of shit – it’s squalid like he’s never seen before and he’s lived in some fucking squalid places – if I remember the Burton Street squat I will know what he’s talking about – and apart from the bedbugs there are mice – or rats - everywhere – there are droppings on the ceiling for fuck’s sake – how the fuck did they get on the ceiling? And you open a cookery book and the mice have eaten the inside, and there’s broken glass everywhere and it’s all much much worse than he could ever have imagined - – like Withnail And I, only not funny in the slightest.

I ask if he’d like to come and sleep at my house – perhaps see how he feels in the morning, after some rest, and that’s what we decide to do. While I’m waiting for them to arrive I look for pest controllers on the internet. Hopefully we can fix all this before Marnie comes back. If she makes it. As I pick up the phone again to begin calling around, I notice the wind’s picked up, then it begins to rain. I am still going to make this work. If I can.