A Page in Your Diary by Keith A Pearson

Author:Keith A Pearson [Pearson, Keith A]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inchgate Publishing
Published: 2020-08-06T20:00:00+00:00

22.

Carol and I once enjoyed a three-week luxury cruise around The Caribbean. A week before we set sail, the cruise company sent us final confirmation of our itinerary, outlining the various ports of call and timings. Next to each of the port names, it said: a day at leisure. It meant we were free to come and go as we pleased and do whatever we wanted.

I’ve just spent a day at leisure, or an afternoon at least, as a tourist in 1988.

Embracing the madness, I toured the sights of my youth: our former family home, my old school, the outdoor swimming baths, and the shop where I used to buy games for my Atari console. Sadly, it wasn’t how I remembered it. There were still plenty of games to browse, but they were nearly all for home computers. I had a brief chat with the bloke behind the counter, and he told me consoles like the Atari were old hat. I resisted the temptation to say Sega, Nintendo, and Sony would soon prove him wrong.

The highlight of my sight-seeing proved to be a little cafe by the station; the one Jackie and I used to frequent on rainy days. The lunchtime rush had passed by the time I got there, so I almost had the place to myself. I chose a table by the window and ordered what we always ordered: a milkshake and a plate of chips, although I had no one to share them with. I then spent an hour playing the fruit machine and burned through a tenner trying to win the five quid jackpot. I could have spent a hundred quid, and it would have still been worth it for the memories.

Now it’s nearly seven o’clock, and I’m lying on my bed having just feasted on bacon roly-poly, mashed potato, and spring greens. Sylvia deserves a Michelin star or two.

There’s a knock at my door.

I roll off the bed like a walrus and open it.

“I’m ready,” Jeremy says nervously.

I look him up and down. The lad has no concept of casual.

“You might want to undo your top button,” I suggest.

“Oh, okay.”

The loosening of his collar helps, but there’s not much I can do about his patterned V-neck sweater or brown Harrington jacket. He looks more sixty-two than twenty-two.

“Shall we make a move then?”

Jeremy nods. His eyes disagree.

We say goodbye to Sylvia, and she shoots me a look just as we’re about to depart, enforcing her earlier point about taking care of Jeremy.

Ahead of schedule, we stroll along Cline Road with Jeremy remaining typically silent.

“You okay, lad?”

“A bit nervous.”

“You’ll be fine. We’re just having a few drinks and a chat.”

“But what if I don’t know what to say, or I say something stupid?”

“No one is going to judge you, Jeremy.”

“People do judge, though, don’t they? I had it all the way through college and university.”

“Did any of those people know you?”

“Not really.”

“Then, who are they to judge you?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Listen, I don’t want to sound like your Dad …”

“Thank heavens,” he snorts, a slight edge to his tone.

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