Bron-10

Continued from Chapter 9: Bron-9 | ABCtales

Chapter 10

“I say, Bron - there’s a guy stood on the traffic island - looking up at our windows.” Bron peered over Linda’s shoulder through the mottled, dusty glass. “O, DUW! It’s HIM!”

Night was beginning to fall, but there was no mistaking the bulky torso, the lightly balding pate.

“You know I went to that pub with the guys to see the rugby, that Saturday? I met this guy. Pestered me over and over for my phone number - never gave it him. But Geoff gave him HIS number; Ger must have called him up and he’s let on where I live. The sod.”

“Must be pretty smitten if he’s prepared to stand on that island, in the middle of all that traffic. Hmm … you could do a lot worse, looks-wise anyway…”

“He’s MARRIED, with three KIDS! He’s got a semi in Esher, a MORTGAGE! Says he’s prepared to give it all up, just to be by my side…”

“Yeah, they all say that. They never do, though. Probably best steer clear … But why did Geoff tell him … Ger  …where you live?”

“Ger’s into planes – works in the business. Geoff reckons he could be useful for the film…”

“The conniving, scheming little SOD! Sometimes I wish Lieutenant Hinds had crashed into the ocean and never been heard of again…Oh listen, he’s singing!”

Bron cocked her ear. “Myfanwy. Only it’s Bronwyn, not Myfanwy.”

“Doesn’t really fit the metre … keeps having to put an extra ‘nnnrrh’ in the middle… He’s singing something else now … Come Fly Away With Me.”

“Yeah, he’s got his own plane. Wants me to go up in it for a, a spin…”

“Oooh! That sounds fun! Don’t you want to, Bron?”

“Planes are all automatic now, aren’t they? Think what he’d get up to twenty miles up…”

“Mmm, yeah - probably want you to have a go on his joystick.”

“And he might try to all that loopity-loo stuff. Not sure my stomach could take it. Bad enough on the school trip to Dublin on the ferry – sick as a fuckin’ dog for days after.”

Ger had segued into ‘Rosie the Riveter’or rather, ‘Bronwyn the Riveter’.

“Oh SHIT! Geoff must have told him about Metalmasters.” Bron strode over to the window and threw up the sash. “Geraint Williams: Just FUCK off, or I’ll call the POLICE!”

“O, BRON. How can you be so CRUEL? The woman of my dreams!”

“You know where I work? That bastard Geoff tell you?”

“Of COURSE, my sweet. I will worship the very swarf as it drops warm and moist from your riveting-machine…”

“We don’t do riveting at Metalmasters. Just forming and finishing. And if you ever DARE turn up there, I’ll shove your dopey head under the BIG PRESS!”

“But BRON! We’re MADE for each other! Refugees from the Land of Our Fathers, alone in the Great Wen. A marriage formed in heaven…”

“You’re from fuckin’ TWICKENHAM! And anyway, you’re a Hwntw and I’m a Gog. So SOD OFF!”

The sash window crashed down. A taxi hooted at Ger as he reeled away towards Marble Arch.

To be continued in Chapter 11