SEASONS

By MARK BEWLEY

We follow four stories from the London streets, one for each Season of the year.
WINTER: Paul Cush is bored, but his son Jason keeps him busy. Sandra, his wife is drifting away, now she meets an unusual female.
SPRING: Samuel loves his walks, to escape his nagging wife. There he meets Sabastian, a charmimg youngman. But is he all he seems to be?
SUMMER: Stephen enjoys his solitude and stress free life. Then the freindly newsagent gives him a penknife that changes his life forever.
AUTUMN: Christopher likes the girls, but loves his big sister, who is obsessed with food. Then she tells him she's getting married.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookRix
• Release date: Apr 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9783743805156

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

WINTER; the diary of Paul Cush:

[But flesh with the life thereof, the blood thereof, thou shalt not eat. - Genesis 4 verse 3]

1 January. - Christmas has been and gone, a nice quiet one, just Jason, Sandra and me. It’s quite ironic really because when I became a father I thought that maybe with a baby Christmas would be fun… it wasn’t… It was boring, very boring in fact. Sandra bought me this diary for Christmas. If this year is anything like last year, I don’t think I will keep one anymore. Nothing interesting ever happens to me. As I remember, I wrote one line, or maybe one word on each entry of last year’s edition. I shall try to make things sound a little more exciting in this one, despite the fact that I’m not very good at that sort of thing.

On a more positive note, it must be said that Sandra does make a lovely spread- all the trimmings, even those little sausages wrapped in bacon. No half measures with Sandra. However, I do have one small complaint- my Christmas fare was a touch too big, looking like a giant’s dinner piled up, Brussel sprouts and roast potatoes rolling off the plate. I didn’t say anything to her; I just tried to eat it all quickly before she noticed. I got away with it, thank God. It was our first Christmas at home since we got married, so I suppose she was making an extra effort. 

Sandra’s parents joined us on Boxing Day- George is always good for a laugh. He told me the filthiest joke- I can’t even write it down. The government should ban it. 

After Boxing Day we entered that inevitable limbo phase of the holidays that exists between Christmas and New Year; leftover turkey, buffet food, alcohol that has entirely lost it appeal, and those visitors who you have successfully avoided throughout the year, and before you know it New Year’s Eve is here again and another wonderful year to look forward to...!

We stayed in last night. We haven’t been out on New Year’s Eve for about 4 years, before we were married. We prefer to stay in by ourselves now, just Sandra, Jason and me.

It rained all week, it was really quite mild. That’s British weather for you. Today, however the air seemed to be full of snow. But instead we had some wintry rain. I had planned to take Jason out if it had settled. Still never mind.

2 January. - The heavens absolutely opened up with snow today. It completely covered our pleasant and green land. That was after it had been drizzling all day- I didn’t think it would snow though.  Yet when I peeked out from our bedroom window on the way up to bed, the snow had actually settled; at least three inches all over. I’ll take Jason out tomorrow then back to work the day after. I do not want to go back to work.

4 January. - Back to the office today. I hate going back to work after a nice long break, especially Christmas. There was a big meeting this afternoon; we are going to be very busy for the next few months. As if I care. I hate this bloody job, so monotonous. I am getting sick of those stupid little umbrellas for posh drinks- how ridiculous is that?

I do hope something interesting happens this year.

10 January. - I’ve been very busy at work since the New Year so I haven’t had the time or energy for Jason, or my wife- or my diary. However, the day before I returned to work after the Christmas break I finally got the chance to play with Jason in the snow, and he absolutely loved it.

I wrapped him up in his big blue puffy winter coat, the one his grandmother bought him last winter (before he was born). He could hardly move. It doesn’t really matter at the moment as he can’t walk yet; he is only 11 months old after all. Although I must say he should be walking soon.

As I held him over our whitened garden, I two-stepped him in the white stuff as if he was jumping up and down himself. He giggled and giggled, and I almost dropped him because I was laughing so much. Then… guess what?  Yes, it started to drizzle- would you believe it. The snow was all gone by tea time, and then it turned into that horrible slushy stuff. I had to bring the poor little chap back indoors. He did not like that one bit; he cried and cried for ages.

Later in the evening I spied out of the window, as I often do, to check up on the weather and the goings on in our street, I caught sight of the old couple who live directly opposite us Lucy and Patrick slip over in the mushy stuff. He fell first bringing his wife tumbled on top of him. I sniggered to myself. I shouldn’t have done, so quickly I closed the curtains.

Oh well, at least Jason experienced the snow for the first time, even if only for a little while.

11 January. - The sun shone brightly today and was really quite warm. That was until about 4’oclock when it got dark and the frost set in.

This morning while I was eating breakfast, which consisted of tea and marmite on toast, I found myself recalling the day that Jason was born, almost a year ago now. I remember feeling so sick; my stomach was all over the place. Sandra was much calmer. 

As a matter of fact, she was at ease throughout her pregnancy. Some women make such a fuss. Sandra simply took it all in her stride. She’s the same with everything.

‘It’s coming, Paul,’ she informed me out of the blue while I was watching a horror film on Television.   

‘What is?’ I asked, enthralled with my scary movie.

‘The baby you idiot! The baby is coming!’

Several minutes passed by before my slow brain registered what she was actually saying. I asked her a few more times to make sure. I won’t write here what she said when I asked her the third time. When I finally understood that my wife was about to give birth to my first child I became like a headless chicken, running around aimlessly; I was of no use what so ever.

‘Time the contractions!’ she yelled. I had something to do, anyway. I was still jittering as I pressed the start and stop button on my watch.

7 minutes…

5 minutes…

10 minutes…

2 minutes…

‘Bloody hell!’ More panic (from me).

‘Start the car, Paul!’

Funny the things you remember at times like that. Not only did I feel sick- which I remember clearly, but also on our journey to the hospital I remember passing a Rastafarian wearing dreadlocks that nearly reached the ground. He was pointing and shouting to the people who passed him on Gosswell road. I have no idea what he was yelling about. I can just see him now, his mass of roped locks flying about as he stood in front of the fish and chip shop.

I’ve never understood Rastafarians. Cousin Joseph is a Rastafarian, and I’ve never understood him. He was always into all that reggae stuff and his Jamaican, and African heritage. Not that I’m not, I’m proud of my mum. She told me all about back a yard, as she said and I took it all in. She told me the story of how she met my dad; the only Englishman who was kind to her.

I simply cannot understand reggae and all that Rasta stuff. Reggae just sounds upside down or backwards to me. That monotonous beat is so repetitive and irritating. And I can never remember the name of that man they believe in, some African king. Mum was quite the Christian and did not approve of her nephew’s weird and ‘wicked religion’.

I preferred the music dad listened to like ACDC, Iron Maiden, Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, and Jimmy Hendrix. Now that music sounds the right way around. I could relate to that. I tried to grow my hair once, but it just frizzes up into a big messy afro, and I had no intention of growing dreadlocks. No way.

When we arrived at the hospital Sandra was breathing like mad. I was sick in the car park, I couldn’t help it, I was about to became a father. Sandra was shouting at me. 

The dank maternity ward was like something from an old horror film; there was screaming and shouting coming from all directions. There were even cobwebs on the ceiling. I was expecting a hunchback to appear at any moment. I looked at Sandra. It was the first time I saw fear in her eyes; she was so pale, paler than usual. Fortunately, a disfigured auxiliary with a speech impediment was not who we met next. A very pleasant nurse led us into a white windowless room.

‘Wait here, someone will be along in a moment,’ she said and left us there in that strange room. Sandra began to unpack, while I paced around the room trying to relax. I failed. Sandra kept telling me to stop; I was making her nervous. We were not left alone for too long before someone arrived; a man.

‘Hello, I’m Simon… your mid-wife.’

I was a little surprised at this. I thought mid-wives were always women. Didn’t seem right to me; perhaps I’m too old fashioned.

That’s made me wonder; why aren’t male mid-wives called mid- husbands? They should be a woman, that’s why!

When he had left, I mentioned this to Sandra; she just said I was being stupid.

‘I’ve got more important things to worry about, Paul; breathe, breathe; puff, puff.’

She climbed onto the bed as people started to rush about, go out, come back in then go out again and return once again. My stomach was beginning to spin like a tumble dryer. I had to sit.

‘The head’s here,’ someone said. ‘Push, Mrs Cush.’

I felt sick again. I retched up liquid, as Sandra continued with her heavy breathing.

‘Are you OK, Mr Cush?’ asked Simon. I insisted that I was and turned to comfort Sandra by holding her hand. She almost tore mine off.

The occasion became more intense. I began to feel the pressure. To her credit, Sandra was very good, she did not scream once. She just got on with the job in hand. Me, on the other hand was in a real state. Everywhere was frantic. Then the mid-wife said, ‘OK, I think he’s ready… here he comes. One more push, Mrs Cush and we are there. Well done, Mrs Cush. That’s it. Good girl, Mrs Cush, nearly there. That’s it, keep going.  Here he is…’

‘…Oh my God,’ were the last words I managed to force out before everything went black. A buxom Scottish nurse standing over me is what I recall next.

‘And where did you get to, Mr Cush?’

‘I don’t know what happened there,’ was my weak reply.

‘You are a daddy, noo, Mr Cush. There he is, a canny wee lad.’

And he was canny too- with perfect brown skin; a suitable combination of Sandra and me.

While I held him in my arms I thought of mum and dad. They would have loved him so much. It’s such a shame they didn’t live to see him. I just cradled his tiny form in my arms and stared at him for ages; I could not believe I was a dad. And he was so small and delicate. I fiddled gently with those little hands, that button for a nose, and his little feet. I didn’t know whether to kiss him or eat him. He was, and still is so gorgeous. I looked down at Sandra and she returned to me a tired, weary brave smile. I leaned down and kissed her forehead. I was so proud of her.

18 January. - Over the last few weeks, I have noticed a distance growing between Sandra and me, though I’m not sure why. At first I thought maybe it was since Jason was born, that he had taken up all her affections. But I don’t think it’s that. I have as much involvement with Jason as she does, if not more. Then I put it down to her job… or her ‘career’. But no; she only works in the afternoons now. 

I cannot ignore the fact that she always arrives home from after me, hours after I have collected Jason from her mothers’. When she does finally get home she goes straight upstairs, comes down again, pecks Jason and me on the cheek, and declares: ‘I’ll eat out- don’t worry about me.’  And she’s gone. If I ever ask her where she is going, all I get is ‘out for a drink with friends from work.’

So, we sit- just Jason and me, eating our dinner. I eat a Dona kebab or fish and chips. After dinner, I put our son upstairs to bed, or he goes to sleep on my chest, while lazily I watch children’s television or a stupid soap while my mind is spinning with thoughts and visions: where is my wife? What is my wife doing? Who is she with?

20 January. - Same old crap at work. I didn’t see Sandra until gone 9 o’clock tonight. When I went to collect Jason from his grandparents after work Brenda asked me if I would like to have tea with them; I said yes. It didn’t take long before the subject of Sandra’s recent behaviour came into our conversation.

‘I think I’m partly to blame,’ I told her. ‘I think she’s getting fed up with me. I am quite boring.’

‘No, Paul? I don’t think you’re at all to blame. You have done nothing wrong. She could do a lot worse, a lot worse. You are a good man, Paul.’

Brenda is such a good old-fashioned person, a solid down-to-earth type. I think my mum would have certainly approved of her.

‘I don’t know what she’s up to, really I don’t,’ commented George, while bouncing Jason on his knee, then returned to chuckling with his grandson as he was before contributing to the conversation. Brenda rose from her chair.

‘Well I suppose I’ll have to have a little chat with my daughter, won’t I? More tea, Paul?’

‘Yes please, Brenda.’

When Brenda had disappeared into the kitchen George came over to the dining area, peered into the kitchen doorway, faced me again and whispered. ‘Got another joke for you, mate.’

‘It’s not another dirty one is it, George? -there is a baby in the room, you know,’ I protested.

‘Well…mm…’ he mumbled. He smiled with that cheeky grin of his and continued with his joke: ‘Why do women have legs?’

‘I don’t like the sound of this one, George…I don’t know, why do woman have legs?’ With reluctance I played along, I always do. He opened his mouth to deliver the punch line. He couldn’t do it. He started to laugh before he could end the joke. Within seconds he was choking with laughter and dropped down on the floor. His wife reappeared in the midst of all this with a fresh pot of tea, in time to witness her husband splayed all over the carpet.

‘What the hell are you doing, you silly old fool? I vacuumed in there this morning.’

‘I’m playing with my grandson,’ George insisted, tears rolling down his cheek and grabbing hold of Jason in a gentle rugby tackle. His grandson let out a loud giggle.

‘You’ll do yourself a mischief one day, you will. You’re too old to be rolling about all over the floor, George.’

I tried not to laugh, but lost the fight. Brenda looked at me; she looked at her husband, he looked at Jason- we all descended into hysterics. Brenda tried to find a chair but missed, tumbling to the floor. I put out a hand to help her up- but struck my head against the corner of the dining table on my way down, joining my mother-in-law on the carpet.     

‘Ouch!’ I responded. We all ended up with tears pouring from our eyes. Not Jason; babies don’t laugh with tears. After drinking one more cup of Brenda’s delicious tea, Jason and I went home. My eyes were stinging from the excessive laughter. My head is throbbing as I write.  

My son and me arrived to an empty, cold, unwelcome house; Sandra was not home. After putting Jason to bed I sojourned into the kitchen, made myself a cup of hot coffee, sat and waited. I’m not certain how long I sat there staring at my coffee turning cold but I fell to sleep at the table. 

My face in a puddle of drool is what I remember next, so I got a cloth from the sink to clean myself. I thought I’d set off to bed. 

This is when I realized that all the lights were out except the ones in the kitchen. I now knew that my wife had come home, and gone straight to bed without waking me. I suppose she didn’t want to disturb me…She didn’t think I was worried...?

I went upstairs.      

I entered the bedroom. Sandra lay curled up in the shape of a foetus in the middle of the bed sleeping like a rock, oblivious to the world. I managed to squeeze in on my side of the bed, half hanging off, trying to write in my diary by the light of the lamp at the side of the bed.

21 January. - Sandra didn’t say a single word about last night, so neither did I. Obviously she was quite happy to leave her husband sleeping in his own saliva.

I don’t want to write this in my diary, really. But I am going to…I’ve been thinking this and have tried to put such a thought out of my mind. It will not stop spinning around in my head. I want it to go away. Now I’m going to write it down. I hope to God it’s not true: I don’t want to write this…I do not…here it is:  

I think my wife is having an affair!

CHAPTER 2

22 January. - As I write this I am watching my beautiful wife as she sleeps. She looks so peaceful, breathing slowly, her soft lips turned up into a small smile. What