Give It Time

By Matthew Laxton

City boy James dreams his way through life until he meets the lovely Rita and things can never be the same again

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9780244571986

Book preview

Give It Time

Give It Time

James was dreaming.  He ran through a very busy market that was taking place in a middle-eastern country.  Three heavily-bearded men with murder in their eyes were chasing him through narrow alleyways festooned with makeshift market stalls.  As he emerged from a covered alleyway, he was blinded by bright sunlight and tripped over a small earthenware pot.  As he picked himself up he found himself out to sea in a small fishing boat being pelted by heavy rain.  Within one minute the clouds cleared and the sun broke through.  James leaned back and let the sun beat down on his ruddy face.

James woke up.

For a few seconds James was utterly confused until he realised that a woman's voice was speaking.

... moderate winds continuing into the afternoon, temperature around sixty five degrees.  Mild weather continuing for the rest of the week.

The alarm clock that automatically switched on the radio beside his bed had been invading his dreams again.  He contemplated changing the radio channel to a music-dominated station but realised that he was too tired to be bothered.  This level of alteration would require access to the buttons on the other side of the clock and he could never remember which button did what.  To clear space and get to the buttons he would have to move some piles of books and magazines and his main to-do pile of opened post.  He pressed a button on the top of the clock and the weather forecast disappeared.  He wondered what sort of program he had heard in his sleep to be inspired to dream about being chased through a middle-eastern market.  He should not have been surprised as similar things had happened before with memorable dreams featuring skiing, piloting a hovercraft and chatting with Nicole Kidman, although not all at the same time.

'Nicole Kidman, wonder what she's up to,' thought James and imagined taking the antipodean actress for tea and a bun at a café he knew well in town.  For some reason he thought that Nicole would like that.

Sounds of James' mother clanking saucepans around in the kitchen shattered this pleasant fantasy.  He knew that his mother was trying to be helpful as a backup alarm clock but the fact was that she never did anything requiring a saucepan before eleven o'clock, unless there was a sudden leak in the roof.  James managed to raise himself to a sitting position and felt a light-headed sensation that was becoming more and more familiar.  He made a more and more familiar mental note to join a gym and to start cycling to work before shuffling along the corridor to the bathroom, describing a familiar gyratory motion as he negotiated the laundry basket and affiliated piles of dirty washing and an overused bookcase, overflowing with copies of electronics and computer magazines.

It was in the morning that James was most glad that he did not have a partner.  He looked in the mirror and marvelled at the shape that his hair had managed to form during the night.  He estimated his ratio of bad hair days to be over ninety per cent but on this night the hair Gods had really outdone themselves.  Whilst the hair on the right hand side of his head was plastered to his scalp, the accompanying left hand side's shape made his head look like some sort of fiendish device used to clear mines on the D-day beaches.  He contemplated splashing water on the abomination but resigned himself to the fact that only proper shampooing would work.  When he was much younger, James had experimented with using bad hair as the basis for extreme hairstyles.  He had found that although he only spent an average eight hours creating a default hairstyle, it took much more time to disappear and never looked any good.

He looked again in the mirror again.

'Not too bad for thirty-four,' he said to himself, flexing his right arm upwards to set the muscle.  His unruly hair was blond and reached to his neck in a style unpopular for the times.  He was of medium height at five foot ten and seemed to be considered good-looking by members of the opposite sex although lack of self-confidence meant that he would never fully ascribe to this view himself. 

The sounds of pots clattering echoed up to him again and he sighed and shaved and showered.

Finally, said Linda Hendrick, James' mother, as her son entered their kitchen.  I've made you some toast.

Ta.

James moved some clean washing and squeezed himself into his usual chair, in front of the washing machine, and looked at his mother; a short and plump lady of seventy-two years of age who wore a flowery dress with bare arms, veins standing out on her forearms as she cut bread from a loaf.

You want jam or marmite? asked Linda.

James thought about this important decision.  He liked jam but felt a pang of need for a healthier lifestyle.  One of each, I reckon.

You never could make up your mind, said Linda, shaking her head.  Just like your father.

But was he, on balance, more of a marmite man?

Linda considered this, obviously taking the question quite seriously.  James grinned.

Are you taking the piss? said Linda.

James' grin broadened and he held up a thumb and index finger in a pincer gesture to indicate; 'a little bit'.  His mother swatted him on the head with an oven glove.

I've done your sandwiches, said Linda.

Oh mum, you don't have to do that.  There are shops, you know.

Yeah right, three quid for a couple of bits of bread and the thinnest bit of salami you've ever seen in your life.

James had to agree but there was something mildly humiliating about having his lunch made for him by his mother at his age.

What did Dad eat? said James.

Oh for God's sake, what's brought this on?

"What d'ya mean 'this'?

All these questions about your father.

'All these questions'?  Two questions.  James did not want to upset his mother and softened his tone.  I just wonder what he was like.

Linda shrugged and contemplated the kitchen.  He used to sit there, just like you're sitting now.  Never could sit straight.  We almost never used to go out to eat but I used to dread him putting his feet up on a restaurant chair sometime.  She sighed heavily and smiled to herself.  He used to like his food, used to pack it away but he never put on weight, same as you.

James sat silently and looked askance at his mother and patted his stomach that was getting rounder by the week.

Fish and chips were his favourite.  Used to go up to that chippy in York Way, it's still there, I swear he'd've been in there every night were it not for me.  She shook her head.

James' father had been killed in a car crash when James was eight years old.  

James got to his feet and gave his mother a hug.

Oh get on with ya, said Linda, swatting her son with the oven glove again.  And don't forget your sandwiches.

James left the house and walked down Camden Park Road to the main street where he joined several people waiting at the bus stop.  A constant stream of traffic struggled its way down the hill towards the centre of Camden and the fumes stuck at the back of James' throat.  He had grown up in his house and never lived anywhere else and fantasised about how it would be to live in an environment with fresh air. 

James caught sight of a woman that he had seen before but to whom he had never dared to speak.  She was around James' age and very attractive with long blond hair in a ponytail.  The woman was dressed on this dry and warm September morning in a typical office grey suit of skirt and jacket and a shimmering white blouse.  James positioned himself near her and stole glances at the woman as he pretended to look at his phone and tried to think of something he could say that would seem cool and interesting.  He discounted the weather and started thinking of topical news stories.  He decided to chance his arm on the latest blunder by the newly elected President of the United States, Donald Trump, but at the last minute his confidence deserted him and he decided to resort to a bland comment about the possibility of rain.

Looks like it's going to hold off, said the girl, before James could say anything.

James was thrown.  Women never spoke to him and it was almost as if her words had been inside his head already before she uttered them.

Yes, he said.

There was a moment of silence that felt like a yawning chasm to James.

What about old Donald Trump, eh? he said.

What?

Trump, the President.

What has the leader of the western world done now?

The girl spoke with a refined and intelligent tone that terrified James.  

Oh, the usual, I think.  But I happened to see a video of him elbowing some other leaders out of the way at a photo shoot.

The girl laughed and James found himself joining in.

Marvellous, she said.  Did you see his wife, what's her name, Ivana, refusing to take his hand?

This statement presented James with a dilemma.  He knew that the girl was wrong and Ivana was Donald Trump's first wife but should he correct her?  If he corrected her he would seem intelligent but it would cast a disharmonious note on the conversation, which had been going well up to that point.  Would she feel respected if he corrected her or would she feel that he was a know-it-all nerd.

Yes, I've seen that one, said James and hated himself.

Oh, where is the fucking bus, said the girl.  

James glanced at his watch although he knew that he had plenty of time.  His mother was paranoid about him getting to work on time and, in previous years, getting him to school on time.  She had managed to get him out the door with a good twenty minutes margin today.

There's supposed to have been one about four minutes ago.

As if they had heard, two buses appeared over the hill, soon joined by a third all bearing the same identifier.

Fuck me, I hate it when that happens, said James.  You wait half an hour and then three turn up at once.

The girl nodded and they all got onto the first bus, which was very crowded.  James was forced to stand and to his dismay, ended up too far away from the girl to carry on their conversation.  He turned to look at her as he got off ten minutes later but she was engrossed in her telephone.

Forty minutes later James walked up the street towards his destination, Spectrum Networks; a small company specialising in network installations.  In this part of Finchley modern concrete buildings muscled out fifties houses and shops and towered over ornamental trees planted to give an impression of avenue.

James felt depression descend over him as he swiped his security card, keyed in a six-digit code and opened the door to his workplace.  It was not the work that depressed him so much but the general sense of neglect of the physical work space.  James had worked at the same company for some time and remembered how excited he had been when they had moved from their old ramshackle office to the current site.  How new, clean and shiny everything had been those first days.  Pristine, clean, light blue carpeting everywhere that looked like it had never been washed in its short life.  From time to time, projects were delivered to customers in Germany and the Netherlands and James was always astounded by how clean everything seemed to be in those hard-floored temples of efficiency.  Of course, the good old British carpet did dull the sound but it was just as well, given the level of bedlam in the average good old British office.  

Twenty-four people worked alongside James at Spectrum Network's office in Finchley and there was a smaller affiliate in Manchester.  Most had joined the company after him but one or two he had known for more than ten years.  One of the longer-serving employees appeared from the workshop; a woman called Jenny Stone.

Hi, James, said Jenny, smiling warmly.

Hi, all right?

All the better for seeing you, my lovely.

Jenny's spoke occasionally with a Welsh turn of phrase that stemmed from living for a few years in Chepstow although she claimed to have been born in Bristol.  Despite this upbringing James felt that there was something vaguely Grecian about her looks.  She was an attractive woman, in her mid-thirties with a body that testified to her regular visits to aerobic classes of various types.

James smiled and contemplated Jenny's long black hair that reached halfway down her back, wondering if she had bad hair days.  He liked Jenny and, contrary to most of the women he knew, felt relaxed around her.

Anything interesting at the weekend? he said.

Is that an invitation? said Jenny, her smile broadening.

Anything interesting last weekend? clarified James.

I know, I'm only teasing.  My sister is visiting so we went and had a curry and a bit much to drink.  Some blokes from Portugal were chatted us up in the pub.  How 'bout you?

Jenny gave James a look that suggested that she regretted saying what she had said and James wondered why.  Perhaps she did not want to appear loose or that she had a drinking problem.

Sounds more fun than mine.  James thought of his dismal evenings over the last couple of days; one in front of the television and the other in the local pub.  He paused before deciding that he dared to ask.  What happened to Derek?  Derek was, as far as James knew, Jenny's boyfriend.

Jenny laughed a bit too much and glanced around herself.  Broke up three months ago.  I thought everyone knew everything here.

James smiled thinly, trying to disguise his delight.  Sorry to hear that, he lied.  Better get in – got Robert's meeting.

Jenny nodded and, brandishing some papers she held in her hand, vanished through the door into her wing of the office.  James turned left and walked into the larger of Spectrum's two meeting rooms where his boss, Robert Henderson, was about to start the weekly meeting with the field teams.

Robert nodded to James as he wandered in.  Morning, said Robert.  Couple of minutes if you want to grab a coffee.

James waved his hand as if to say no and then thought better of it and walked quickly through the offices to Spectrum’s kitchen and lounge area.  At the coffee machine, two of his colleagues were talking football.

We were shocking, said Big John.

Shocking, agreed Little John.

Shocking, echoed Big John.  Especially defence, that mutt Koshelny and that bloke - what is it – Nacho?

Nacho, said Little John.

Johns, said James.

Morning James, said Big John.

James, said Little John.

Big John Anderson and Little John McHale had worked at Spectrum for two years.  The two Johns always worked together and went out to the pub together and went to the football together.  Their close association had started talk of a romantic attachment but appearances of Big John's huge buxom Swedish girlfriend and Little John's wife and four children at social events had assuaged such rumours.

All right, gentlemen? said James.

Are we all right, John? said Big John, a monster of a forty-five year old man who stood over six foot eight, broad in the shoulders.

Are we, John? said Little John.  Known as Little at Spectrum mostly because of John Anderson’s stature. John McHale was also over six feet tall.  James, at five-eight, felt dwarfed by comparison.

I take it the football did not end well? said James, wondering if he should have tried to change the subject and if he should try to wipe the ill-advised smile from his own face in some manner approaching normality.

Thankfully the arrival of a fourth colleague saved him.

What about old Donald Trump, eh?  What a lovely man? said Clive Rockingham, James' best friend ever since high school and one of the few at Spectrum that had worked there longer than James had.  Clive was an inch or two shorter than James with a shock of spiky blond hair and a permanently lively expression.  Habitually he wore white Spectrum sweatshirts and stonewashed blue jeans to work.

The two Johns looked at Clive as if he were an alien.

Donald Trump? said Big John.  Who gives a toss?

Clive looked at James and seemed at a loss as to what to say.

Did you see him elbowing the prime minister of Austria? said James.

Clive nodded, laughing.

E'll bomb us before e's done, said Big John.

James laughed until he could see that Big John was entirely serious.

Long as 'e gets rid of those Muslim bastards I don't care who 'e elbows, said Big John.

Well, I agree with you there, said Clive.

James looked at his friend.

Who cares about fucking Austria?  Fucking fascists, said Big John.

Fascists, said Little John.

James was beginning to feel a slight sensation of panic.

We'd better get in there, said Clive, looking at his phone.

James sat next to Clive in the meeting as Robert laid out the plans for the week and some practical information.

Did you know Jenny is single? said James, in a hushed tone and without turning his head.  James knew from past experience that even the easy-going Robert expected full attention during his briefings.

Clive nodded and James saw the movement out of the corner of his eye.

Why didn't you say? said James as the meeting wound up and the two of them headed for the workshop to requisition what they needed for the week.

Why would Jenny's domestic situation be important?

Well, you never know.

There was a pause before Clive spoke in a doubtful tone. You and Jenny? he said

James did not know what he should say.

Why not? James piped up finally.

Clive looked at him.  "Can we get the gear organised,