FM Stories Chapter 3

The thing about U2, especially the ‘Joshua Tree’, I thought as a drove through the two-hour traffic jam outside Gatwick. With the volume turned up on my flash Samsung CD player, was that you could tie yourself up in Bono’s lyrics. Some made no sense at all, while others were crystal clear with their strength of clarity. Those were the lyrics you had to think about. That was often when Bono was being his most enigmatic and was fooling you into believing you’d got him sussed. Which was how life was, I had come to realise. One minute you had it all in place and the next you were flailing around helplessly.

Ever since my visit to Scunthorpe, my life had jogged on quite nicely. The trick was to keep things simple. And I had done that to great effect. Until now. Now there were big complications coming at me from all sides. The biggest one was Ian Gunstone. Ian was just out of the clinic, sober for the first time in months. I had rung him to invite myself. I felt protective towards him; five years ago I had driven him away from the clinic after his initial treatment. He cried for most of the journey and it was only when he’d settled back in the armchair in his sitting room and I had made him a hot drink that he opened up and talked about his addiction.

I arrived at his mock Tudor mansion and braced myself for the shock of what I felt was inevitable. To my surprise, Ian seemed to be remarkably stable. He showed me into the lounge and closed the door. I noticed the faded carpet, the thin curtains and the tablecloth which was not quite large enough to cover the dinning table. I thought the battered leather chesterfield sofa and the high backed chair to the side of the fireplace looked homely and comfortable. Other than the flat screen Television and the sound system there was nothing modern in the room. But I observed to, in the first swift glance, that everything was clean. The furniture was well polished; the shabby paintwork and the mottled tiles of the hearth were spotless. His books stood neatly, row by row on the bookcase, only a small pile of magazines.

On the mantel shelf stood two shinning candlesticks, one at each end. A small travelling clock stood dead centre and on each side stood a photograph. One showed Ian Gunstone’s father looking stern. His right hand rested on the shoulder of his wife’s sitting on an ornately carved chair in front of him. Ian’s mother, I presumed, looked meek and submissive. Her hair parted in the middle. Her eyes were downcast. Her hands folded in the centre of her lap. A fine aspidistra at the side of the couple seemed to display far more vitality than the sitters. I was just about to pick up the other silver-framed photograph when Ian came in with our drinks.

“Feel free” he said, when I put it back guiltily “I’m totally biased, of course,” he went on, “but I think they’re beautiful.”

I looked at the two little girls, dressed in what looked like their best party frocks. Their blonde hair was long and fine and I had to admit they did indeed look beautiful. “How old are they?”

“In the photo?”

“Yes”

“Two and four.”

“And now?”

He set down our coffee on the table and picked up another picture. “This was taken of the three of us last Christmas. Donna’s twelve and Abigail’s ten.”

I took the photograph from him. I studied it closely, paying particular attention to the taller of the two girls.

“I would have never of recognised them now, do you see them often?”

“Not really,” He replied shrugging his shoulders, “Since that bitch re-married to that reality show pop star she conveniently packed them off to boarding school.”

“I’m sorry.” I replied, sympathetically.

He picked up his coffee, walked over to the open window and stared outside.

“How’s you’re family doing?” He asked.

“Fine, mate. Sophie is her usual energetic self and the kids are growing up fast. Oh, I almost forgot, she sends her love”

“Ah the kids, remind us?”

“Ian, Christian, he is now 9 and Isabella is 6, but you wouldn’t remember her.”

“Ah Christian, I remember. They grow up fast.” He garbled, drifting off into the distance.

I felt depressed. The room felt cold and depressing. A deep sense of melancholy clouded over our conversation. I needed air. I wanted freedom and the touch of the wind on my face to wake me.

“Ian come on let’s get out of here. I drove past a park on my way here. I’m in need of a walk.”

We marched through the park gates. The rain had eased off, but a strong cold June wind was gusting, sending leaves and a rogue crisp packet skittering as we strode past the swings and slides. We followed the path towards the duck pond. The park was almost deserted, just a couple walking the floppy-eared Springer spaniel and with the park benches overlooking the pond, I chose one directly beneath a large oak tree, so that, should it start to rain again, we would have a degree of shelter.

He sat down beside me and lit up a cigarette. “I almost died; my heart failed us a few times.” He opened up. “I just had enough, I had had enough of everything, you know.”

I looked at him; his heavy eyes stared across the pond. I didn’t know what to say.

“I rang my sister to say.” He continued, taking a long draw on his cigarette. “I am going to run a bath. I think she might have had a clue. I don’t know if it was a plea for help. And I said, ‘look, I am in the bath and I will always love you’, or something like that, and put down the phone. I laid in the bath and just felt myself dropping off and I remember just getting ready, like dozing off and then the police burst in. About six police dragged us out of the bath.”

“You’re lucky mate, lucky to be still here.”

“You know, I was drinking 30 cans of Special Brew every day.” He edged back towards me and his empty, drained eyes met mine.

“But you’re back with us now, Ian. Back where you belong.” I reassured him, hoping my words were having an effect.

“I remember my last drunk, which I can, well I sort of can, getting fed with a spoon cause I had the shakes that bad,” He rubbed his fingers together, “I vowed to us, that I’m never going back there again.”

“I’ve got a confession to make,” I said, interpreting his thoughts.

“A confession,” Ian repeated, “That sounds ominous. What have you done?”

“I’ve accepted the manager’s job of a second division team in England ,” I whispered and waited for the inevitable response.

“Bloody Hell, you’re kidding. England!”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Oh, I can the see headlines now, they will laugh at you.” He shook his head in disbelief.

“They might”

“You will be the butt of everyone’s jokes.”

“I will be.

“They will crucify you.”

“Let them, let them have their moment. At the end of the day, it’s none of their business.”

I waited for him to calm down. A flock of wild geese flew in formation overhead. The lead bird rotated to the back taking advantage of the protection of the flock, as a new goose took over the task of piloting the group. It provided a welcomed distraction.

“Ian, I want to make you an offer. I want you to come to England and join me.”

He collapsed backwards and roared with laughter, “My God, Soon Keong what kind of mug do you take us for!”

Driving home later that evening, I realised that for all my reasoning of the situation, I was taking an almighty risk. Was it worth it? The question ricocheted around my mind, haunting my concentration.

As I headed south, with each mile that I put between me and London, my confidence grew. By the time I reached Pease Pottage Services on the A27 I had to stop and get something to drink. I emerged from the toilets and joined a queue for a much needed mug of coffee. I felt like a parent who needed to guide his child. Ian was an independent spirit and he symbolised the man I could have become. I never thought of myself as a saviour, but perhaps I had given him a lifeline to purge the disappointments of the past.

As I sat in the busy service station, surrounded by a coach party of raucous pensioners on their way home after a day out, I finally accepted that my time in England, for the moment, had come to its natural conclusion.