Walking the wall in Spaghettiville: Spaghettiville, #1

By Neville Sherriff

Barnes said, 'This place might not be big, but it's sure stretched out.'

Polla grinned. 'A real spaghetti town ... it's strung out, and wherever you want to be is always at the other end. I just hope there're some saucy bits in between.'

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

Coburn Kenlin is still trying to come to terms with his divorce, as well as adjusting to the new environment he moved to. Gone are the big city ways and the material security provided by a high-paying position in an advertising company. In its place is rented accommodation in a tiny hamlet at the coast, from where he is struggling to make a living as a marketing consultant to businesses in the nearby town.

Added to these challenges is the looming visit of his teenage son for the school vacation, as relations between father and son have been virtually non-existent for some years. Unbeknown to Coburn is the fact that his own father, with whom he had himself suffered a similar situation, is about to make his appearance and unsettle what little routine and calm he enjoys.

Then there are the 2 bumbling private investigators in whose investigation he unwittingly becomes embroiled because of his growing affection for a pretty journalist on the local newspaper. And a story-telling painting adorning the wall of his home.

All these elements move the characters forward on a funny yet gentle journey of self discovery, coming of age, and ultimate reconciliation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neville Sherriff
• Release date: Jul 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393819912

Neville Sherriff

Neville Sherriff has been involved in marketing – specifically marketing communications – for most of his working life. As Dealer Marketing Manager for a large motor corporation, he was responsible for retail advertising, sales incentives, marketing programs, retail publicity & promotions for over 300 franchised dealerships. Neville's Nitty Gritty Marketing Series provides the Small and Medium Enterprise with practical, easy to grasp guides on making marketing more effective. With minimal theory, they are more of a how-to guide focusing on the many valuable tools available to entrepreneurs.

Book preview

1

It is late afternoon, a lazy Cape autumn afternoon. We can tell by the stretch of sunlight spilling over the top of the high wall surrounding the house. And, there's a hint of dust floating in the air – there where the bicycle lies flung down.

It lies on its side, its spinning rear wheel rotating slower and slower, its spokes licking idly at the long blades of grass till it ceases to move. Then, the wheel turns in the opposite direction, rolls back a few inches and is still.

The grass beside the pathway leading to the house needs mowing. That's the impression one gets when looking through the gate; the wall grants a mere peek at the double-storey house beyond its protective fringe. An old style thatch roof, the chimney red brick, the kind of column you'd expect to house a stork's nest. Everything, like the grass, appears old and in need of repair.

The young woman's shrill voice scratches at the serenity of the scene. 'Granma? Granma?' You can hear the exhaustion of her frantic cycle ride in her voice. But there's more than just breathlessness. Panic, fear – or a frail sound of hope? 'Granma?' It's a question begging an answer; this is no wild dash to bring good news.

Grandma is dying! Of course, that would explain the bicycle being flung carelessly down, rather than the girl cycling through the gate and up the path. It's wide enough, she could have done that easily.

Perhaps she was blinded by tears. Or, she was so frantic to get there the speed of her bicycle seemed like a leaden anchor to her desperation. Fling the thing down! Running is faster!

A phone call. Yes, there most likely had been a phone call. From the housekeeper. It was the kind of place that would have a housekeeper, no doubt as ancient as Granma. A 'maid', they would call her, a big black woman who'd been with the family for many years. She'd probably raised the girl's mother. 'Come quick! It's your gran ...'

There was no one else at home, Mom out shopping, Dad at work. No time to call, just grab the bike and dash like a maniac through the quiet village streets. Dad often tried to persuade Granma to give up the house, to move into the newly built retirement village in town. She could afford it, and Dad would help. All her friends were there, it had its own clinic and it was safe. Granma always refused, saying that Dad just wanted the house for himself.

Ah, but we know different! From where we stand, wishing we could see over the wall, we know the real reason for Gran's resistance to any move is Nanny, big black Nanny. What would become of her? She was too old to start with some other family. A lifetime of patiently looking after Gran's offspring, now Gran herself. No, Nanny deserved some loyalty in return. Besides, Gran loved Nanny.

Now Gran is dying, perhaps already dead. We cannot see, but we hear the young girl's loud sob. It stretches, fills the air with such mournful sound that we know she arrived too late. She cries again, no wall high enough to keep the sound from floating to us. Then a whimper, and we know that Nanny has her arms around the girl, is comforting her the way she comforted the many children whose roots lay in that old house. Her large body envelops the girl, drawing the child into its soft folds. She sways her gently to and fro in a slow rhythm and begins singing, a flowing lyric that is part lullaby, part hymn. We move closer, but there is the wall, so we cannot hear whether Nanny is singing in Zulu or Xhosa or one of the many other African languages. It does not matter; we hear the sound and it soothes us. Nanny is there, Nanny will always be there.

Nanny is protected by the high wall.

*

Coburn Kenlin muttered 'Damn wall,' and stepped back from the painting.

At his desk a few yards away, Gustav Greer stopped writing and leaned back with a sigh. 'I should fire you, dear boy. I'm the client, remember? Yet you stand there, ignoring me while you stare at that painting. Always that painting. A whole gallery full of paintings, good paintings, big names that impress my clients, but no ... you ignore them like you ignore me. I've told you it's not even a very good painting. Believe me – I know about these things.'

Coburn smiled; he was used to Gustav's threats to dismiss his services. 'It's a beautiful painting, Gustav, it tells stories.' He perched awkwardly on the hard three-legged stool standing in front of the desk, one of Gustav's methods of discouraging unwelcome visitors from engaging him in unprofitable conversation for too long. Gustav automatically steered more serious buyers towards the comfortable lounge chairs in the alcove which also doubled as a coffee shop. Serious buyers weren't charged for their coffee or cake, casual browsers were flashed the sign indicating the charge. Gustav could tell which was which as soon as they walked through the door, and a successful art dealer had no need to be polite. And Gustav was pretty successful, especially when one considered his gallery was stuck away in a seaside resort with a permanent population of less than ten thousand. But, he had never had any intention of selling to the locals or the residents of the nearby town. He'd figured into his calculations that a good proportion of the permanent inhabitants was professional artists, some of them famous names. It was not a bad place for an established dealer and agent with the right marketing connections to set up a gallery. The village was quaint to boot, a lovely, easy-going place in which to live. Plenty of artists, some ordinary folk and writers who held no interest for Gustav, and one freelance marketing agent who called himself a communication consultant.

Gustav blinked at the marketing agent cum communication consultant. 'If the painting is so beautiful, then buy it. Rid my wall of the thing.'

'I can't afford it.'

Gustav had a way of making a dismissive snort sound like a death throttle. 'Dear boy, with what you charge you could buy out my gallery tomorrow. Come, look at what I need in this brochure and tell me your fee. Deduct for the text I wrote while you stared at that worthless painting.'

'How worthless?'

Gustav stared at Coburn across the top of his glasses. An art dealer look entered his eyes. 'It might not be very good, but it does attract attention – I'll grant it that.'

'How worthless, Gustav?'

'I cannot even recall buying it. One day I had a vacant spot on my wall, the next the painting was there. Very eerie.'

'How much?'

'I've held onto the thing despite numerous requests from clients to purchase it, wondering if it's owner might not step in here some day. Enough is enough, I think.'

'What is worthless worth, Gustav?'

'Mmm, on a flea market, on a good day, perhaps a thousand. Yes, at the right flea market, especially on a Saturday. Saturdays are good.'

A thousand rand? Holy shit! That meant the painting's true value was around five hundred. Which Coburn had as much chance of affording right then as buying out Gustav's gallery. 'I might scratch together five hundred. Maybe.'

Gustav raised his head, which was as close to a jerk as Coburn had witnessed on the big man. His gaze swivelled towards the painting as if seeing its true value for the first time. 'It tells him stories, he says. How many books can you buy for a thousand rand – how many stories can this interesting painting give you?' The spread of his arms and the transformation of the painting from 'worthless' to 'interesting' told Coburn the price would not drop below a thousand.

'They're short stories, Gustav – very short stories. I could make five-fifty. The thing doesn't even have a title.'

'Just give it a title, then. Summer House, something like that.'

'It's autumn, Gustav. Look at the angle of the sun, it's autumn.'

'Whatever.'

'Maybe six hundred?'

'A thousand.'

Coburn glanced at the painting. It really wasn't all that good. Just a painting of an old house you couldn't see properly because of the high wall. And an old fashioned ladies bicycle lying on its side outside the gate. But why was the bicycle just dumped there? 'Seven hundred.'

'My dear Coburn ...'

'C'mon, Gustav! You didn't lay out a cent for the thing!'

'Nine hundred.' It was the closest thing to a sigh of boredom.

'I can't afford that – let someone else be entertained by its stupid stories.' As he finished speaking, it was as if a hand came to rest on his shoulder, making him turn so that the painting was once again in his line of sight. A slight, cold shiver passed down his back. 'Eight hundred.'

'Eight-fifty and I'll let you work it off. I owe you ... what, three hundred for the last job? This little task ...'. With a flick of his plump wrist he dismissed the document he'd been trying to discuss with Coburn. 'Surely not more than two hundred rand? It's a simple little brochure.'

Coburn felt his shoulders slump. There never had been, probably never would be, a simple or little brochure where Gustav was concerned. A page of text swelled to two when the first proof was shown. 'More adjectives, more adjectives!' was the usual battle-cry. Neither did Gustav believe in paying for copy changes, admonishing Coburn for not quoting correctly in the first place.

'That leaves three-fifty I owe you.' Damn, he'd most likely just agreed to do a job at half price – exactly what Gustav had had in mind before the bargaining began.

The dealer's wave implied endless trust and generosity. 'There'll be other work.'

Not at bloody half price, there won't!

His sales blood firmly pumping, Gustav heaved his impressive bulk out his chair. Coburn had to admit he was a fine figure of an art dealer. 'Come, I'll wrap it for you.'

Coburn eagerly left his hard stool, thinking that he had not even been afforded the comfort of the lounge chairs in the alcove during the negotiation. Neither had he been offered coffee on the house.

'The artist signed her name as Mary,' Gustav murmured, as if that somehow justified the price Coburn had just been charged.

'Just Mary? No second name?'

Gustav shook his head. 'I've never encountered any artist – amateur or otherwise – by that name.'

Coburn studied the painting one last time before Gustav removed it from its familiar place on the wall. While the expansive dealer went to the storeroom to wrap the painting, he read the copy intended for the latest brochure. Gustav's: distinctive art for those in the know. Gustav was slipping; just one adjective there.

Gustav waddled through the door, Summer House or Abandoned Bicycle held easily under one arm. All its stories were now concealed beneath brown paper wrapping. What did the serious buyers get? Foil wrapping? The brown paper was punishment for Coburn's having dared barter with Gustav Greer, purveyor of distinctive art to those in the know.

After being assured that Coburn had possession of the brochure text and understood the requirements, Gustav handed over the painting. 'May it bring you much joy,' he murmured, his eyes assuming for a brief moment a look of sorrow caused by the parting between Gustav's and what had once been a worthless painting.

The spring afternoon had turned unseasonably hot when Coburn stepped outside and placed his overpriced acquisition carefully on the ground before attempting to enter his ancient Land Rover. The door had a tendency to jam, causing one to jerk hard before being granted the honour of entry. He had no intention of losing his balance and destroying Mary's whatever.

The door opened first time with hardly a squeak. The gods were mocking him today. He positioned Autumn Bicycle carefully between the passenger seat and dashboard.

Gustav was watching from the open door of the gallery, a satisfied smile on his face. He stepped out and leaned his plump forearms on the Landy's windowsill, then straightened when he spotted the dust lying there. He patted his shirt sleeve with chubby fingers, grimacing when he observed the dust had been held in place by something resembling petrified grease.

'Sorry, I can't afford new wheels ... Don't charge my clients enough.'

Gustav let that one slide by. 'If only this mysterious Mary were here,' he began, 'she could tell you just what she had in mind with the painting. The wall, the bicycle – all the things that intrigue you so. Maybe it—'

His last words were drowned by the anguished clatter of the starter motor when Coburn let rip. 'It usually takes after a minute or two.' The noise and the gust of obnoxious fumes as the Land Rover spluttered into life drove Gustav back to the safety of his doorway. Coburn grinned at the fat man and waved a farewell. 'I'll let you know about the brochure tomorrow,' he called out above the din. With a lurch he and Landy and Bicycle Wall headed for home.

Even if Mary were around there was no way he'd let her ruin his precious investment. Once he knew why the bicycle lay outside and what was behind the wall, there wouldn't be any stories left. And he intended getting his money's worth of tales.

*

The house Coburn rented was barely two kilometres from Gustav's, yet seemed much further because of the winding route and what lay along the way – four stop signs which caused his battered vehicle distress. Straight for five metres, Stop. Two hundred metres on, Stop. Sharp right at the caravan park – smell the sea ... it sure was pumping ozone – and after fifty metres, Stop. Straight on ... the Bagraims were there for the weekend, flying one of their stupid flags, a huge thing with a fish and a glass design on it. It had taken Coburn a while to figure out that old man Bagraim drank like a fish and was pretty proud of it. Sharp left at Kettleman's studio where a dip in the scarred road caused the short-wheel-base vehicle to bounce and sway, almost dislodging Bicycle House in the process.

One hundred metres, Stop. Sharp left at the next road (no Stop), down the hill towards the sea, past the other end of the caravan park, right again – no bump here – up the little hill to where the dolls' house stood on the ridge, turn right through the open gates which needed replacing and ... home. Stop.

As he stepped out the Land Rover a car sped past. Straight through the stop sign just beyond his house. It drove him crazy the way most people ignored that stop sign, though it was admittedly a stupid place to have erected it. One came round the corner from the other side, and there was this stop sign just ahead. To the left was an open piece of ground; intersecting with its right a short street leading down to the sea. Conclusion? The guy coming from down that way had an intersection on either side – let him stop. But it drove Coburn crazy.

No one came out to greet him as he carefully removed what he hoped would prove to be his pride and joy from the Land Rover. 'Bubcat? See what I bought us?' No white head popped through the open kitchen window. Damn cat was probably lying in the garden, rusting in the sea air. The neighbour peered through a window and waved. At least someone was around to acknowledge his existence.

There was a perilous moment as he balanced the painting under one arm while trying to open the front door. At least it was never locked; he'd lost the key within the first week after moving in and had not bothered to replace it. Now he was thankful for his inaction; the latch was all rusted, way beyond the helping hand of something like Q20. Champagne air, the locals called it, or at least that was how the thick sea haze was promoted to potential tourists. No mention of the need to gargle with rust remover afterwards. Or how it was a car and window-frame killer. He loved that air, the way it socked you in the face with ozone all day and lay snuggled up against the mountain in the afternoon. One could live with rusted cars and door locks in exchange for the beauty and aroma of the haze. Even the Bubcat was more relaxed since moving there, but perhaps it was because he was getting old. Twelve years ... a cat that age had a right to be laid-back.

The door opened with a light creak. The house smelled of Mr Min furniture polish when he made a crablike, sideways entrance, terrified dear Mary's pièce de résistance would catch and tear. His housekeeper, Ira, had been doing her thing again – the woman was having a love affair with Mr Min. A can a week, at least. Big and black like the Nanny in the painting's story – that was Ira. She didn't need a wall to protect her. No sir, Ira was her own protection. No one messed with Ira.

Once, hearing the hissing of the Mr Min can, he'd tried explaining the hole in the ozone layer. Ira had dismissed it as 'white people's bullshit' and double-dosed the dining-room table. Lord alone knew why; he never ate at the thing. When he had a meal at home he usually sat in a lounge chair with his plate balanced on a pouffe so he could watch TV at the same time. Ira had given him hell when she discovered gravy stains on the pouffe, so nowadays he slipped a table mat beneath his plate. One did not cross Ira. Not twice.

Ira scared the daylights out of the Bubcat, which pleased her no end ... the cat was white. Coburn did not dare tell her the Bubcat was scared of most things, including the dark. And Ira was dark, man, she was dark.

When Coburn had left Johannesburg after his divorce, he'd rented a flat in the neighbouring town just ten kilometres from where he now lived. It had been ideally situated, positioned along the coastal road with just the tarmac, a narrow grass verge and rocks separating it from the crashing waves. Great wallops of champagne air. A west view with spectacular sunsets. And a hideously high rental for a man recently divorced and starting up his own business.

'Places are cheaper out of town,' he was told. He had visited the hamlet before, during a holiday he and Claire had once spent in the area. They'd both considered it quaint but dull. Well, dull suited him now – especially affordable dull. And he preferred a house to a flat ... something about 'spreading himself' now that he was once again a single, functioning unit. Ergo, snap up one dolls' house at a reasonable rent.

'Lots more travelling,' he was told. Coburn was still new enough in town to be amused at the thought of ten kilometres being considered worthy of the description 'travelling'. Even for the Landy it was a breeze, hardly more than a splutter or two. He enjoyed living out there, somewhat removed from the town bustle.

The painting was taken on a brief tour of the house, starting with a rejection of the downstairs guest room. No sense in hanging around a room all day with no one to look at you. Then up the stairs, those broad wooden stairs that thumped madly whether you wore high heels, beach thongs or went barefooted. Not that Coburn ever traversed them in high heels; that sound emanated from guests who did not overnight in the downstairs room. Even the Bubcat made those stairs thump like he was some pregnant Rottweiler bitch.

Top of the stairs and ... Stop. There was no sign needed; the tuck of the cove and beyond it the expanse of the larger bay brought one to an automatic halt. When he had been shown the house he'd thumped up those stairs, glanced at the view and asked the estate agent where to sign. A man could live with a view like that. Even a recently divorced man could wake up in the morning, look at that view, and feel good about himself. Autumn haze, summer breeze or winter tempest – it was a view you could not easily ignore. It was the house.

There was an upstairs lounge made casual by Coburn's meagre furnishings: four mismatched easy chairs slashed at the ends by the grumpy ranting of an aging Bubcat; a sofa he'd picked up cheaply at a local auction; a cane bar which only he could man because of its inclination to lean to the left ever since the fridge had been removed. He'd sworn the fridge was his, but Claire insisted it was a gift from her father. A gift to her. When Claire insisted upon something, Claire won. Especially since the divorce.

The only other furnishing of significance was a bleached shaggy carpet, chosen for its off-white colour because it matched the Bubcat's fur after a day in the garden hiding from big birds.

Dear Mary seemed to like the lounge for she almost joined the Ira-swept wood floor. Coburn steadied his grip and showed her the bedroom. Like the lounge, that, too, was blessed with a sea view, stretching way to day's end in the west.

Sadly, there was no negotiation; he decided the bedroom was not the proper place to display his painting. Bedrooms were for sleeping and the other things recently divorced men did when their hormones got jumpy and luck favoured them. At several hundred rand, dear Mary's contribution to the art world was going to work damn hard – and that meant being positioned where he could stare at it for protracted periods.

The study where he worked in between staring at the wall was actually an alcove separated from the lounge by a ceiling-high bookcase which bore evidence of once having had a backing board of sorts, till its architect most likely realised the stupid thing cut off the alcove's sea view. The result was a see-through bookcase where only someone without a desire to watch the sea could stack it full of books. Coburn frequently reminded himself he'd taken the house because of the view, not because of any specific practical features. Still, one could stack books – provided they weren't taller than six inches – on the lower two shelves as well as the top two. He planned on buying a ladder one of these days.

At least there was a wall in front of his computer, printer and sundry electronic equipment, and that was where the story-telling painting would hang. A thirty degree shift of blank look from the computer screen to the wall was all a story opportunity required. And it was protected; sun-block material and heavy drapes hung on the alcove's north-facing side which opened via a sliding door onto a sun deck and a view of a low mountain range. Those mountains gave him almost as much pleasure as watching the sea. All in all, if one ignored some of the house's more impractical features, it was a fine place in which to build a new life.

He took great care in planning the painting's hanging, going to the trouble of measuring the wall from all angles before attacking it with hammer and hanger. 'The Mother of all picture hangings,' he muttered, thinking the result looked good. Till, unlike Baghdad, it fell.

He caught it a split second before it smashed down on his Hewlett-Packard laser printer. The hanging was resumed with a little more caution and a lot less aggression. Finally it looked right. He removed his hands from the painting as the ultimate test. Everything appeared as it should.

The Bubcat seemed to disagree when he sauntered in with hardly a thump of the stairs, taking up position a safe distance from the wall as if to imply he had little faith in his master's practical skills. The animal had good reason for scepticism; a cupboard door Coburn once had supposedly repaired subsequently collapsed onto him when he had been merely an innocent passer-by. There were many other incidents where the Bubcat had been the recipient of bashes and bangs when things fell on him, but in those cases he'd played an active role in their cause. The cupboard door, however, he remembered. Coburn plus hammer in hand meant trouble – a classic case of conditioning. So he sat back out of harm's way, resting his impressive gut on Ira's clean floor while he studied the newcomer with a look of disdain. Coburn knew it was feigned; remove a watchful eye and the cat would be on the desk and clambering on top of the computer for a good sniff.

'One scratch, Bubcat – just one scratch and it's kitty-heaven time. You read me?' The cat's response to the warning was a hedonistic licking of balls and arse; he was accustomed to regular threats of his being put down. Yeah, yeah, big deal.

'Jeez, but you're an uncouth animal!'

Which pretty much summed up the way Claire had felt about the cat. She got their kid, Coburn the cat. It troubled him how relieved he had felt about that. Not about gaining custody of the Bubcat (though he knew the animal would be happier with him) but at how rapidly he had agreed Donovan should remain with Claire. He'd somehow never been able to get through to the kid, and for a man who was supposed to be an expert on communication that wasn't saying much. No wonder his son had grown up a momma's boy.

Donovan had come along just as Coburn was made a director of Holmes & Horwood, an up and coming advertising agency where he specialised in the development of retail communications. 'I'll be able to ease off a bit now,' he had promised Claire. It had not worked out that way.

Perhaps therein lay the cause of his poor relationship with his son – maybe he'd been too willing to leave Claire in charge of the boy's upbringing all those years. He was a selfish man, he was prepared to admit that. Since the divorce he'd flown to Johannesburg once to see his son, and felt no differently afterwards.

Anyway, all the theorising about his relationship, or lack of one with Donovan, had absolutely nothing to do with his divorce from Claire. Correction: Claire's divorce from him. It was the women who had everything to do with that – his women.

'Another one of your boyish traits, I suppose. Just how many such games have you played, Coburn?' She had not even sounded bitter. Nor surprised. It made it easier for him to stare blankly out the window to where birds still sang and the golden afternoon light gently hugged the ground. There'd been a time when Claire found his boyishness attractive – romantic she had said. The way he always found something amusing in even the most simple of events or things. He liked laughing at the world, especially himself. Life was a game, wasn't it? Trouble was, he'd played too hard and forgotten there were rules to some games. Why, for Christ sake? Not once – not then and not now – had a woman given him more satisfaction than Claire. There'd been more excitement, more thrills and spills perhaps, but that only lasted till the sweat dried.

Even that day, with the birds singing away as if what had happened to his life didn't count, with the fading sun being gentle when what was happening inside that house was anything but tender, Coburn had believed it would work out. He was just a little boy, Claire had said so herself – surely she would get over it once sufficient punishment was meted out? And he would grow up now – little boys scared witless aged in leaps and bounds. Didn't they?

The punishment was severe – he still thought so. No discussion, just a divorce lawyer's notice soon afterwards and an empty house when he rushed home. Empty except for material things. And the Bubcat, of course; the cat was by association with its master equally guilty of betrayal.

A wild dash to her parents' home, Claire's obvious choice of sanctuary, where George and Adelle Amick, usually on Coburn's side during past familial squabbles, appeared awkward and ill at ease. 'She won't see you,' Adelle told him. 'Give her a few days, dear. I'll talk to her, she'll calm down with time.'

He had accepted the situation with a sad nod. 'Okay, Adelle.' It had always been first names between them; she and George had been more friends than in-laws. 'Still, there's—'

The woman's hand silenced him. 'No, Coburn, I don't want to know the details or explanations. Not this time. I ... Sorry, but this is between the two of you.'

Yet she had tried, he knew that. Adelle had a way of bullying Claire into submission when she considered her daughter out of line, though without success this time. And, there'd been that strange telephone call when Adelle reported on the lack of progress, giving a vague, indirect hint that she'd pulled out all the stops on this one, that she knew all too well what her daughter was going through but that even her willingness to share the experience had failed to change Claire's mind. Holy shit – had dear old doddering George once been caught with his dick on the desk? Despite his sombre mood, Coburn had smiled at the vision of George Amick, quite out of things these days and usually subservient to both Adelle and Claire, humping some voluptuous secretary on a boardroom table, his trousers crumpled round his ankles. Had the woman taken one look and squealed, 'By George!'?

It was a sickness, he was sure, this way he had of finding something absurd in almost every situation. Claire had been wrong: it was not boyishness but a form of escapism.

For six months he moped round the city, going through the motions at work, drinking himself into a stupor at night and once even trying to exploit the cause of the stressful situation. The lady in question had been willing, but that was about the only element so inclined. Coburn had limped home with more than just his tail dangling between his legs.

He lost weight, as did the Bubcat. Most nights he arrived home so late and so drunk he forgot to feed the animal. In desperation his pet took to catching birds, which was a dire act considering the Bubcat had always been nervous around them, especially those bigger than a waxbill or sunbird. It was work to which he was not accustomed, and he really had no natural talent for it. He also suffered the indignity of being whacked across the head by the neighbour's broom when he tried and failed to take a young robin nesting next door.

It was a sorry time for the two lonely males. The divorce came through just as the two senior partners at Holmes & Horwood had a long and rather direct chat to their waning star of retail communications. The drinking, the missed appointments, some inexcusably rude comments made to important clients.

He had gazed steadily from one man to the other and, feeling awfully weary and sorry for himself, had made another inexcusably rude comment: 'Fuck you.'

The response from the two partners wasn't quite as direct, but what it amounted to in simple terms was: 'Fuck you, too.'

It seemed strange to arrive home in a rented Fiat instead of the comfort and caché of the company's BMW 525i. So strange that he didn't pour a drink. Instead he fed the Bubcat, muttering about how he'd stuffed up. Stuffed up his marriage, stuffed up his career – stuffed up his whole life. The realisation that the cat didn't give a damn – as long as there was food in his bowl with which to stuff himself – made Coburn even more morose.

Even now, almost two years after slinking into the quiet backwaters like some lost stray hoping for a second chance, Coburn could not be sure just when he'd made the decision to pull up stakes. Perhaps it had been that same night, mere hours after the senior partners at Holmes & Horwood had responded to his inexcusably rude comment with one of their own. Perhaps it was only early the next morning, drained of self-pity, that he realised he had to save himself by fleeing. No, not fleeing; just getting away from everything which could remind him of the old Coburn Kenlin. Starting over – that was it, a far more positive way for a man about to turn forty to regard the move. He'd had enough of the city anyway. That was what he told himself, and what he told Claire.

It provided the first meaningful conversation between them since the divorce. 'It's a radical move,' she said in the safety of Adelle Amick's lounge.

Radical? What the hell did she call her move to divorce him – a necessary measure? One indiscretion (that she knew about) and zip – cut the marital bond with the sharpest scissors she could find. What was that if not radical? She had wanted him removed from her life, hadn't she? Here he was about to remove himself a thousand miles from her immediate physical presence, and she considered it radical. Bloody hell!

Fortunately, these questions had come to him only after he left Claire, so that he was able to respond in the fashion of a man come to terms with the altered circumstances of his life. 'It's not radical, not really ... dropping out has become quite fashionable these days.' He gave a half-hearted laugh.

'But ... what will you do? In a small town of all places?'

'I'll find something. They have to do advertising of some sorts in small towns. I plan to take it easy for a few months, then start a consultancy. I'll see.'

'You'd give up everything you've worked for at the company to go live in a holiday resort?'

He ducked that one, muttering something about needing new challenges. 'It's not as if I'll be living in the sticks ... Well, not really. There's a thriving community there apart from the seasonal tourist influx.'

Though he'd waited for further expressions of concern about his welfare, Claire had merely given a shrug of disbelief before turning the conversation to the matter of the house. 'I'll pay you out your share, of course. Mom and Dad will help. It'll take a while, though ... You'll be all right till then? Financially?'

In rands and cents terms he would be just fine, he assured her, granting her a further opportunity to enquire as to other aspects of his welfare. She chose to pass.

It was getting easier now, having survived his second winter in what was certainly not the sticks but was also very much removed from what could be described as a vibrant metropolis. It had been rough at the start, especially before his mind became occupied with setting up his communication consultancy. Thoughts of Claire had occupied most of his waking day, but life became easier once he made friends and the business got going. It was okay now; he was settled in his house, the business was so-so, the Bubcat