Holiday

By PFH
- 365 reads
“It’s this warm weather; it brings them all out.”
The olive skinned shopkeeper says to John the policeman, his voice heavy with frustration. John ignores the shopkeeper and looks down at the sleeping man lying in the shop’s narrow doorway, watching his filth encrusted jacket rise and fall and concertina as he wheezes tunelessly.
“I said, it’s this warm weather; it brings them ALL out. You know, these people.”
The shopkeeper says again, gesturing at the man and more irritated than before. John thinks that he could tell the shop keeper that the warm weather has nothing to do with it. He could tell him that ‘these people’ – the drunk, the drugged and the deficient – are always here, even though he might not recognise them. He could explain how the man in the suit might just as likely be one as the unwashed man on the park bench and how it’s all in the look; eyes set slightly downwards as if struggling under an imagined weight. He could explain to the shopkeeper how he had learned to recognise the look and how it filled him with fear whenever he saw it, whether it be that of a tramp or a business man or his own unyielding reflection. But he says nothing.
“Isn’t there anything you can do . . . Sir.”
The shopkeeper says and John detects the familiar and loathsome tone of wheedling, begrudging respect that lazily covers a demand for action.
“I’ve radioed for the van. It’s on its way.”
John says, trying not to sigh too loudly.
“I know that sir. But isn’t there anything you can do? It’s my business.”
John looks at the man and then up to the sun until his hungover vision turns black, before turning to the shopkeeper.
“I can’t wake him. You don’t know how he’ll react. It’s . . . procedure.”
John says, knowing but not caring that it’s a lie. A younger, fitter less hungover policeman would have carefully woken the sleeping man and quietly led him out of the way to assess what to do next and would not require the assistance of other younger, fitter, less hungover policemen.
“OK sir”.
The shopkeeper says, seemingly happy with John’s explanation and he retreats back into the shop and John watches the speckled dome of his head bobbling about between the aisles, before leaning against the shop window and feeling it flex slightly under his weight. He looks out onto the high street, trying to ignore the sleeping man. It’s late morning and the hurried four four of people walking to work has been replaced by a looser rhythm as flip flopped feet brush against the warm pavement and bare legs, and arms and shoulders move along, all but devoid of purpose.
John watches red and blotchy skin, fat escaping from thin cheap fabrics, move along the grease marked pavement like a procession of vulgarity and he sighs as he’s filled with the familiar feeling of disappointment and fear. These are the people he’s meant to protect: Misshapen, ugly, idle and aggressive, who cackle and curse in stark angular voices and fight and fuck endlessly, but remain unable to take responsibility for either themselves or their lumpen offspring.
John looks at the silent police radio and then down at the still sleeping man. The high sun lights the man’s face and he looks oddly peaceful, sleeping and sweating slowly with his eyes closed to the ugliness. John thinks what it might have been that happened to the man that led him to be here, in filthy clothes, asleep in a shop doorway. Whether it was inevitable, a tragedy played out amidst dirt and white cider or whether it was simply down to misfortune. After a while John feels too anxious to look at the man or the high street so he looks up again to the blue, July sky stretching out endlessly and temptingly and pointlessly above him.
“Any news, Sir.”
The Shopkeeper says, his bald head peering out around the doorframe as he clings to it so not to get too close to the sleeping man.
“Not yet. It shouldn’t be long.”
John replies without looking down from the sky.
“Hmmmm.”
The Shopkeeper says with displeasure and returns into the shop.
Tomorrow will be the first day of John’s holiday. Two weeks in a static caravan near Hunstanton, the same as every July in the ten years since his divorce. Two weeks on his own; the days spent fishing or walking; the evenings drunk, sometimes in pubs if he could face other people, but more often, alone, deep within the caravan’s thin walls. For the first two or three years after the divorce, he had begged his ex wife if he could take Stephen and Jenny, the two twins, but there had always been some reason – a vile aunt’s birthday or a school trip – that meant they couldn’t go. Then, with a vindictive suddenness, along came Nigel, of the roll necks, golf club membership and Jaguar. Suddenly the twins were being taken away to Disney land, safaris and pale sanded resorts and John knew not to embarrass himself with the offer of a two week stay in a tinny caravan and the long since faded, thrifty glamour of the British seaside. And so John simply stopped asking.
This year, however, was different. John’s ex wife had called him suddenly in June saying that they wouldn’t be going on holiday this year due to Nigel experiencing some ‘temporary financial difficulties’. John hadn’t known what it meant but then he slowly realised that he was supposed to offer to take the twins, now fourteen years old, on holiday.
“Well . . . I could take them. I’m going to Hunstanton again.” John said reluctantly and with a slight embarrassment, surprised to find that, even after ten years, he still cared about what his ex – wife thought of him.
“Hunstanton?” His ex-wife said, pausing as if considering whether it was a safe holiday destination.
“Yes, you know, the caravan park with the outdoor pool.”
“I know. OK, they’ll go with you. They need a holiday this year.”
“OK . . . great.”
Great. Great. Great. John instantly knew that it would be anything but great and he had spent the last four weeks bracing himself for the disappointment, the boredom and the arguments. He had thought day and night about how long he could leave Stephen and Jenny alone and how drunk he could get without it becoming neglectful and he still didn’t know what would be acceptable. The only thing he had worked out was that the two weeks would be full of feelings of irritation, resentment and inadequacy. And just thinking about it scared him.
“Excuse me.”
John looks down from the sky to see a pretty, girl of about twenty with a round moon face standing in front of him.
“Yes?”
“Can I go into the shop?”
John points at the man in the shop and looks at the girl timidly.
Suddenly the shopkeeper’s head appears eagerly in the doorway.
“Yes, yes. Come in.”
The girl moves to step over the sleeping man and John sticks his arm out to stop her.
"What? I only want some fags. Fuck’s sake.”
The girl says and her face hardens into a pout as a rough aggression takes over her prettiness.
“I’m sorry. You can’t come in.” John says wearily.
“Fucking hell. I . . . ONLY . . . WANT . . . SOME . . . FAGS.”
The girl says, staring, unblinkingly.
“Marlboro? Benson? Rothmans? Ten or twenty? I’ll get them.”
The shopkeeper offers helpfully.
“No. I’m sorry, you’ll have to come back later.”
John says, trying to control both the girl and the shopkeeper.
“Fucking pig.” The girl shouts, with one hand on her hip and her head wobbling.
“Madam . . .”
John says and then pauses, suddenly noticing that a small crowd had gathered. He looks over the shaved heads, pulled back fringes, tattoos, sportswear and prams and hears the familiar coarse cackling and feels anxious and hungover and sick.
“Dad . . . oi Dad! Wake up! That’s my dad!”
A topless man shouts pointing at the sleeping man and the cackling increases. Somewhere a car overheats and horns beep and angry voices shout.
“I only want some fucking fags.” The girl says appealing to the crowd, her hand still on her hip.
“Come on, she only wants some fags.”
A fat girl in a too small, dirty white dress shouts. Her pig faced sharpening in indignation.
“Yeah . . . just let her get some fags.”
“Yeah . . . Yeah!”
The cackling and shouting and ugliness bear down on John and he freezes, caught between fear and indifference and a concern that the sleeping man might wake up. He looks at the crowd, cackling and shouting louder still and then thinks about the holiday and the disappointment and the boredom and arguments and he feels anxious and hungover and sick and his vision blurs and the window flexes again, more than before, and he worries that it might shatter and he’ll fall into the shop.
“Marlboro? Benson? Rothmans? Ten or twenty? I’ll get them.”
The shopkeeper says again and John turns to tell him not to and as he does he looks at the sleeping man. The sun still lights up his face and he still smiles but his jacket doesn’t seem to be moving. John crouches down so that his face hovers just above sleeping man’s and he suddenly feels overcome with a stillness and the noise and ugliness of the girl, the shopkeeper and the crowd and everything else retreats, so that it’s just him and the sleeping man bound by an unacknowledged connection.
John gingerly extends his hand to feel for the man’s pulse and he touches the man’s grimy, jaundiced skin but doesn’t flinch.
No beat.
“Oi. . . is he dead?”
“Fucking hell! He’s dead!”
A silence waits to be filled as the crowd seem unsure what to do next.
The July sky rises above John, always out of reach.
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