Love at first sight

 Love at First Sight

 

When I look back it didn’t feel like a night that was going to be different from any other night out with the lads.

We had been at work all day and as was usual on a Friday night, we couldn’t wait to get into town and start drinking with something to eat later from the bacteria wagon parked at the end of the main street near the taxi rank. The burger van or bacteria wagon as it had come to be called after we all suffered a rather bad bout of food poisoning one night, which was never really proved to have come from there but it didn’t matter because the following day, one of us, and I can’t remember for the life of me which one of us it was, christened the Burger Bar the Bacteria Wagon. So from then on, that has always been its name.

With the wisdom that only comes from a group of young lads full to the brim, almost overflowing in fact, with pints of Lager, Red Bull and Vodka, Tequila slammers and flaming Sambuca, it had been decided, god knows how many years earlier that if a session had been partaken then the best thing to avoid a hangover the following morning, was to have a belly full of food before staggering home. For some, the food was fish and chips, others it was a burger with or without cheese, and chips, but for me, you could never beat the good old fashioned…yes you’ve guessed it…Doner Kebab with everything on. I think that it is the almost-perfect accompaniment to a stomach full of alcohol. It’s making my mouth water now just thinking about it. A pitta bread warmed on the griddle, slices of compressed lamb’s mince carved from the Elephant’s foot of sizzling meat dripping with fat, squashed flat and squeezed into the open pitta with lettuce, onions and tomatoes placed carefully on top and then drizzled in Greek yoghurt, topped off with red-hot chilli sauce.

It’s a work of art that rivals any of the top chef’s concoctions.

The problem for me was, for years I was so drunk when I had a Doner Kebab, I could never remember eating one and the only way I knew the following morning I had a Doner, was by the streams of fat, yoghurt and chilli sauce down my shirt and sometimes all over my shoes. It depended at what angle I was when I ate the thing. Straight up or leaning over, about to fall on my face, which I must admit I had done more times than I care to remember.

We, the lads, didn’t work together, we all had different jobs.

I was a tyre fitter by day. I hated it. During the winter it was too bloody cold with the doors always open to the tyre-fitting bays in all weather, even snowing. The summer was Ok though.

John was a joiner. John the Joiner we named him, or JJ.

Graham was a plumber. We called him Fibber, because, well, you know what’s coming. He always lied. Always. Didn’t matter what it was about. If his lips moved he was fibbing. Hence Fibber.

Paul worked at the local sweet factory. Doing something to do with making boiled sweets. His nickname was Paddy. Don’t ask me why, to this day I have no idea why he was called Paddy.

Mark sold metals. Aluminium, Steel, Copper…lengths of the stuff. If you needed an RSJ for your house, he was the guy to go and see. We called him Shrimp. That name came from me because when we were at school he was really small and Shrimp seemed like a good name at the time. Trouble is... people grow don’t they, and he actually turned out to be slightly taller than me. Hey Ho. Tough, the name stuck.

And me. Phil. No nickname for me. Not sure why.

That was us…the lads.

We were in our early to mid-twenties having the time of our lives on a Friday and Saturday night.

The trouble with being young, free and single is that over time, things change, like getting older for one, taking on responsibilities like a house and a car, not to mention meeting a girl and living together. And then there’s children. One by one all the lads joined the human rat race, mortgages, loans and yes…kids.

Time has a lot to answer for.

Well, when I said, everyone. That’s not strictly true. You see, there’s me. I bought a house with a mortgage, got the car and the car loan like the rest of them, but I never found a girl to settle down with. I had plenty of girlfriends but never wanted to make the commitment the other guys did. Why? Good question.

Let me explain.

The night was like any other Friday night as I said at the beginning, finished work, shit, shower and shave, best clobber on and into town on the number 6 bus with all the other lads and lasses out for the night. We all knew each other because we did the same thing every Friday and Saturday night, sounds a bit boring now, doing the same thing every weekend but back then it’s what we all lived for. If we didn’t get shit-faced at least one night, usually the both for me, it didn’t feel like a proper weekend without the sore head and double fried egg sandwich in the morning to settle your stomach, which by the way really does work. I should patent the idea and market the fried egg sandwich as the world’s best hangover cure.

When I got into town I would always meet the other guys in the Roman Bath’s pub at around 7pm depending on the bus. I was usually first, followed within five minutes or so by the rest of them. It was lagers all round, which were downed in a few minutes. After all, it was the first drink of the weekend after a long hard week at work.

Without saying a word we all left the pub one after another in a queue like the seven dwarves from Snow White. We knew exactly where we were going…It was the same every week. We could probably have done it with our eyes closed.

We never spent more than ten minutes in the first few pubs, ordering lagers, downing them as quickly as we could, in-between talking about work and pointing out the local talent, or sometimes, depending on how much beer had flowed, even going over to them and chatting to them. Some would just tell us to get lost straight away, while others would tap us up for a drink…then tell us to get lost, and some would even ask us to tag along, which didn’t happen very often to be honest…but sometimes our luck was in.

Anyway…Friday came and after a few of the regular pubs, we decided to take a detour down one of the city's many old and narrow back lanes, which I must admit I never knew existed, although one of the lads, and don’t ask who because I can’t remember, said they used to go down as a young boy, and if his beer-fuddled memory served him right, there was an old pub that his dad swore by. And would you adam-and-eve it, he was right. About fifty yards along the badly lit, cobbled lane there was a pub. It looked like something out of a Dickens novel with mustard coloured tiled walls, all the woodwork around the small opaque glass windows had yellowed with age and a rickety, old, half-rotten door with a cock-eyed, hand-written sign nailed to the door frame above saying The Glue Pot.

I can remember that none of us wanted to even go inside, let alone have a drink there. From what it looked like we were probably more likely to catch some horrible exotic disease from dirty glasses than catch a glimpse of some glamorous girls, but hey, we were lads out for a good time so in we went.

It was like we had gone back in time and the place was empty. Talk about lack of atmosphere, it couldn’t have been quieter if black-death had spent a week there, finished everyone off and then gone back for a second go. It was dead. There were battered, creaky, wooden tables and chairs scattered randomly about the place and the floor was covered in…yes you’ve guessed it…sawdust. The place was dimly lit with flickering candles on the tables, and on the walls were what looked like gas lights. I mean, come on. Gas lights.

We made a beeline for the bar as we always did, and one advantage of the place being like a morgue meant we could get served easily so, it being my round, I leant on the bar with paper-money in hand waiting for someone to serve me. After a few minutes, an old guy with more wrinkles on his face than a shrivelled scrotum wandered slowly out from a door at the other end of the bar.

I asked for five pints of lager and he looked at me as if I was speaking gibberish from the planet Mongo. It turned out the only drinks they had was bitter, mild, gin and whiskey, and I know we were out for a session, but five pints of gin or whisky was even beyond our powers of being able to stay standing long after most people should have been recovering in A&E because of blood poisoning from excessive alcohol consumption…so we all decided we would have a pint of bitter, which went against all our beliefs and then move on to the next pub as soon as we could. We all thought lager was a proper lads drink and bitter was only drunk by flat-cap, anorak wearing, weirdos who couldn’t take a man’s drink like lager.

Our somewhat forced, head-first dive into the unknown world of drinking bitter was something none of us would ever forget. Apart from tasting like it had been spilt on the floor, used to clean down the bar and the tables, and then to swill out the urinals, it was warm. WARM. It nearly made all of us sick…on the spot, but lads being lads after a quick discussion we all agreed. We had paid for it so we were going to drink it.

We sat down at one of the wobbly old tables and had to move around the room three or four times until we could find a table that wouldn’t topple over when we carefully placed our glasses on the table’s uneven top. Once we were happy with our seating arrangements we all began to relax and drink our swill while holding our noses at the same time to stop the taste from making us pour it onto the floor.

Then it happened.

She came out of the same door the old bloke with the scrotum face had come out of earlier. He had waddled side to side as he walked towards me, she seemed to glide as if she was floating on air, smiling at me as she moved along, either that or the sawdust on her side of the bar was so slippy she was sliding along …but I like to remember it as if she was floating.

I had never believed in love at first sight before seeing her. I always thought it was something men said in front of other people when they had their woman with them, you know, to make it sound romantic and to give points for later in the relationship when the woman says he doesn’t give her enough attention, or he’s always down the local boozer and comes home drunk. I never thought love, at first sight, was a real thing, but it was for me that night. The minute I saw her I felt a warm glow in my chest, and no…it wasn’t the warm bitter giving me acid reflux, it was her. She was beautiful. I mean so beautiful she took my breath away. She had straight, shimmering golden, shoulder-length hair, pale almost luminescent, floorless skin with a smile that makes your soul feel alive, and I could feel my chin had dropped as I couldn’t take my eyes off her. The lads soon noticed my eyes were fixed on something other than them and just as they all turned to look she disappeared around the corner of the bar.

My mouth didn’t want to work as I tried to talk about the vision of beauty I had just seen, expecting them to be on my side, but I should have known better, they were lads. Immediately they all went to the bar and tried to catch a glimpse of her, but she had gone. Scrotum-face came out to see what all the fuss was about and when the lads quizzed him about the woman he called through the door for someone to come out. I froze to my seat in expectation of seeing her again…only to be disappointed when a middle-aged woman almost as wrinkly as the other man appeared. The lads burst out laughing and began to take the piss out of me fancying older women, but I knew she had been there, behind the bar, so I went along with them until after ten minutes or so we finished our pints of floor cleaner and decided to head out to the next pub. Just as we all fell through the old wooden door to the dimly lit street outside, I told the lads I had left my wallet on the table and I would catch them up because I so wanted to see the beautiful, golden-haired goddess again. Didn’t work. They knew what I was up to and said they would meet me later in one of our usual pubs if I didn’t get lucky.

Back inside the Glue Pot, God only knows why it was called the Glue Pot, because the last thing you would want to happen to you was to get stuck inside, I slowly walked up to the bar and just as I was fiddling in my pocket for some money, she appeared on the other side. I stared into her electric blue eyes feeling with every shallow breath as if I had always known her. As if we were old acquaintances…but that was crazy, this was only the second time I’d seen her in the space of less than an hour…and only for a few seconds.

We gazed into each other’s eyes for what seemed an eternity, but in reality, was only a few seconds…but it felt so good, so amazing, so…normal. Suddenly she was pushed out of the way as scrotum-face barged his way past without saying a word and then disappeared around the end of the bar. That broke the ice and we both burst out laughing.

I ordered a drink. Whiskey with water this time, not the toilet-cleaning fluid I had drunk before and stood at the bar talking to her about nothing really, just small talk until I finally plucked up the courage and asked her name.

Emma. It was Emma. Emma Wright.

I told her my name. Phil. Philip Jackson.

As the evening moved on we sat together at one of the rickety old bar tables talking non-stop about everything and anything, although I did find it strange that she had never heard of most of the things that I spoke about, I didn’t care, I was just happy she was spending time with me.

A bell rang loudly through the pub from scrotum-face shaking a hand-held bell behind the bar and Emma stood up from her seat which by now was right up against mine. I stood up as well.

She had to go.

I didn’t want to leave but she said she had to clean up and he, scrotum-face, would get annoyed if she didn’t, so I’d better leave.

I asked if I could see her again, and she agreed with a smile that warmed my insides from the bottom of my feet to the top of my head. She made me feel so alive, so happy, as if electricity was surging through my body and every cell, every nerve ending, every atom was about to explode with excitement.

I wanted to give her something, a memento, but what? I didn’t have anything…wait…I had my bus ticket. I held it in my clenched fist and offered it to her as if it was something of great importance. She opened her hand I placed the ticket in her soft, lily-white hand and closed it around the ticket so she couldn’t see what it was. She opened her hand and smiled the most beautiful, gleaming smile I’d ever seen.

As I was about to leave I stood at the old wooden door to the outside and just watched as she walked around tidying up, not that there was anything to do, I think we must have been the only customers all night but I just couldn’t stop myself studying her every move.

She smiled again at me and waved her hand towards the door saying go, she would see me again.

So I left. Without a kiss. Not even a peck on the cheek.

It wasn’t too late to catch up with the lads, but I was so excited I just wandered around the city centre with a huge smile on my face watching all the other people enjoying their night out, although some had obviously had a skin-full and were either doing a technicolour yawn and blowing chunks all over the street or were using their mates as leaning posts to prop themselves up. I didn’t care, I was in another world. All I could think of was Emma with her electric-blue eyes and soul-warming smile. Bloomin’ lovely.

It only seemed five minutes and I found myself at home. I’d walked all the way and hadn’t bothered with a taxi, which isn’t like me…at all. She was turning my grey matter to mush…and I liked it.  

Now that’s what I call a Friday night.

I was at work as usual on Saturday and couldn’t wait to get into town and go and see Emma, with or without the lads. Without them would be better, but I couldn’t just drop them, not straight away, it wouldn’t be fair, although I bet none of them would think twice about dropping me, or the rest of us if any one of them found a piece of skirt they fancied. No chance.

Saturday night came and I met the lads in town as usual at the Roman Baths and the first thing they all did was take the piss out of me for not meeting up again with them last night. They wanted to know what happened, where did I go, who did I meet, who was she, was she any good…you know, all the gory details but I didn’t spill the beans, I kept completely shtum. I didn’t want them turning up at the Glue Pot and spoiling everything, especially as I had only just met Emma. The last thing she needed was a  bunch of half-cut, lecherous, lager-louts leering at her over the bar…although come to think of it, I doubt if the lads would even want to go to the Glue Pot given that it doesn’t sell lager, only floor cleaning dishwater camouflaged as bitter that makes you want to heave.

I was right. There was no way on planet earth they were going to there again so I decided to fake a dodgy belly and leave them before scrotum-face rang the bell for last orders and closing time at the Glue Pot.

I had to see Emma again.

I had only been to the Glue Pot once but meeting Emma had made such an impact on me that its location had been time-stamped into my brain like adding GPS, date and time to a photo on your phone. Luckily the city centre is small and it’s easy to walk from one side to the other in fifteen to twenty minutes depending on how many beer tokens you’ve cashed in, which wasn’t many for me, so I made it to the street, lane, road whatever you want to call it in less than ten minutes.

But something was wrong.

Was it the right street? Of course it was. I would never forget where it was, how could I?

It was well lit with electric street lamps, but the last time I was down here it was dark and dingy with hardly any light. I wandered down the middle of the narrow road which was mostly tarmacked with occasional cobles embedded in the road here and there. The buildings didn’t look the same, they looked different, more modern somehow. The Glue Pot had been about fifty yards from the main road but now all I could see were apartments. What the hell was going on?

I shuffled up and down the street for at least an hour replaying the memory from the previous night over and over again in my befuddled brain before going back to the main road and trying every side-street for a mile around but I couldn’t find it.

The narrow, dingy, cobbled street and the Glue Pot that were so strong and vivid in my head had completely disappeared.

I went back into the city every night for three months trying to find the street where I met Emma at the Glue Pot but I never had any luck, that was until the local rag ran a series of old, antique pictures of the city centre and I couldn’t believe my eyes. There in front of me was a picture of the Glue Pot from 1848…and posing outside in glorious black and white was old scrotum face himself stood next to, yep you’ve guessed it, Emma.

I’m sure my jaw hit the floor and my eyes nearly popped out of my head. I couldn’t believe it…well you wouldn’t believe it would you…I mean, it’s not possible. How the hell could I have gone back in time just by walking down a street in the centre of the city?

 

‘Haha, Philip.’ Exclaimed Barry laughing out loud. ‘You nearly had me there. I nearly fell for it. Good story though.’ Barry was one of the care workers at the nursing home. He wasn’t one of the brightest sparks around but he had a good heart and was caring and friendly to all the residents and staff alike. ‘I’ve got to go now Philip. Some of us have work to do. I might call in and see you before I leave. Bye for now.’ He said closing the door after himself as he left Phil’s room.

‘That old Phil really had me going.’ Said Barry to Sharon. She was another of the care workers in the home and in the corridor just outside Phil’s room.

‘Why what’s he said?’ She asked. ‘You do know he’s really ill and probably doesn’t have long left?’

‘I know, but I like to chat to the residents, I think it helps them take their mind off being in here…besides they can have amazing stories to tell…especially old Phil. He must have worked for Jackanory going by his latest masterpiece.’

‘So…what’s he said?’ Asked Sharon again.

‘Oh…nothing. He just thinks he’s a time traveller or something. Anyway…gotta go. Byeeee.’ Said Barry walking off down the carpeted corridor squeaking as he walked in his plastic, rubber-soled work sandals.

Sharon opened the door to Phil’s room as slowly and as quietly as she could. She wanted to make sure he was alright after his encounter with Barry. Barry was a nice chap but he could be a bit overpowering, especially for some of the elderly and infirm residents.

Phil was snoring away, propped up on his bed with his pillows. Snoring is a good sign. One, he’s still alive and two, he’s comfortable enough to be able to drop off to sleep. She pulled the door closed and walked off down the corridor humming to herself as she went.

At 6pm on the dot, Phil was brought his Sunday dinner as usual. He always looked forward to his Sunday roast but he felt tired, much more tired than usual and could only manage a few mouthfuls before he let his knife and fork fall onto his plate with a clatter. He pushed the plate away on his bedside tray almost knocking over his cup of tea. The lady who brought the dinners was right outside his room and heard the clattering from his room so she popped her head around the door.

‘Is everything alright?’ She asked quietly.

No answer.

She tip-toed into his room and stood next to the side of his bed. She was an ancillary worker, not a carer, but she could still tell when something wasn’t right, so she scooped up his plate, tea mug and cutlery and quickly left the room after pushing the Emergency Button by the side of his bed. In only a few seconds a female nurse appeared down the corridor.

‘He doesn’t look good.’ She said to the nurse pointing at Phil’s door.

‘I’ll check.’ Said the nurse pushing open the door and walking in.

It was obvious Phil was not in good shape so the doctor was called for.

After the doctor arrived and a few on-the-spot tests were done it was decided that Phil had entered his end-of-life transition and his family should be called along with a holy man of whatever religion Phil specified when he became a resident all those years ago.

Phil had no family, no brothers or sisters, no one, and the doctor had a huge smile on his face when checking his records for his religion. In big bold letters, it read JEDI…CALL YODA IN AN EMERGENCY

‘I’ll stay with him.’ Came a voice from the open door. ‘I mean it must be awful to have no one, and to die alone. I don’t mind honestly I don’t.’ Said the young lady. Her name was Sarah and she was a new carer to the home.

‘That’s fine…Sarah.’ Said the doctor reading her ID badge. ‘Use the intercom by the side of the bed if anything changes or you need help.’

‘I will. Thank you.’ She said pulling the soft chair closer to the bed and sitting down.

That night Sarah kept watch over Phil as he slept, periodically leaning over her chair to see if he was suffering in any way. He wasn’t but his breathing was getting more and more shallow by the hour and his complexion was turning a dull grey which upset her as she’d never witnessed a man die, or anyone come to that.

The early hours of the morning soon approached and the room became much cooler as you would expect. Sarah made sure Phil was covered with his blankets just leaving his head exposed and wrapped another blanket around herself as she sat in the chair with her legs off the floor and curled beneath her. She rested her head on the back of the chair and in no time she drifted off into a sound, comforting sleep.

‘Phil…Phil…it’s me.’

Phil’s eyes slowly opened, with his eyelids flickering as he tried to see in the dark. At first, he could see nothing but gradually the image of a woman at the end of his bed came into focus which also began to illuminate the room, dimly at first, until after a few seconds the room was as bright as if the sunlight was shining through the window.

It was Emma.

Tears flooded Phil’s eyes as he focused on her beauty. She was just as he remembered her all those years ago…and her smile…her smile was enough to warm the very substance of his soul. He sat up in bed and for a moment, just a fleeting moment in time he felt young again…he felt alive. He stretched out his hand towards Emma and she took his hand in hers. Her hand felt soft and warm…it was really her.

She came and stood next to him where she took his head in her hands and she kissed him, the type of kiss that if you close your eyes it feels as if your souls intertwine and nothing else in the universe matters because love is what matters…nothing else.

She pulled back slightly from the kiss so Phil could see her electric blue eyes looking into his.

‘It’s time…time to go.’ She whispered.

‘W…wi…will we be together?’ Stuttered Phil.

‘Forever.’ She replied kissing him again.

The sun-like light that surrounded her body began to dim, more and more until…gone. It was dark again.

There was a knock on the door and in came a lady with a cup of tea.

‘Do you want any breakfasts me luv?’ She whispered to Sarah curled up in the chair, who had a huge yawn and stretched her arms in the air.

‘Err…err…’ She replied looking at Phil.

He was sat up in bed with no covers over him, pink, blushing cheeks and a huge grin on his life-battered face…but there were no signs of life.

Sarah jumped out of the chair and lifted his hand trying to find a pulse…but he was gone. She pressed the Emergency Button although the emergency was obviously over…he had passed away while she slept.

The tea-lady left and as she waited for the nurse she noticed Phil’s left hand was clenched in a fist. Why? Looking around as a naughty child does when they do something they’re not supposed to, she gently opened his hand and something fell on the floor.

Sarah picked it up.

It was a bus ticket from over 60 years ago.